Genre: Bittersweet porn
Rating & Warnings: NC-17, explicit sex
Prompt & Prompter: madder_rose : Jack/Dead Torchwood Agent ghost porn. "I will always love you"
Summary: It wasn’t a good day for Jack. It seemed like every corner he turned there was another dead Torchwood agent waiting there for him: irritated, disoriented by their surroundings, touching things they shouldn’t be touching, wanting a pound of his flesh.
It started that morning at seven am, when Ianto had apparently walked into the kitchenette and found “a strange man” standing in front of the espresso machine, rubbing his chin irritably. “And what,” the man had said, at least according to Ianto’s report, “was wrong with the percolator, exactly?” before promptly vanishing into a wisp of smoke with a sound like a guttering candle.
Together in Jack’s office, Ianto as white as a sheet and clutching his mug between his hands like a bloody talisman, they watched and rewatched and rewatched the security footage until finally Jack threw up his hands and said, “Yep, that’s Alex.”
“Alex Hopkins?” Ianto asked, and there was pause where he normally would have taken a thoughtful sip of coffee, except he seemed to have forgotten he was holding one, “As in your predecessor? As in the former leader of Torchwood Three? As in the former leader of Torchwood Three who killed himself?”
Which was right about when Owen stormed in, fuming, “There is some fucking bird in a bustle cutting into my Weevil.”
It wasn’t a good day for Jack. It seemed like every corner he turned there was another dead Torchwood agent waiting there for him: irritated, disoriented by their surroundings, touching things they shouldn’t be touching, wanting a pound of his flesh. Tosh, with Louis P. (died 1983, friendly fire) peering over her shoulder curiously and asking all sorts of obnoxious questions, had checked the monitors and found that there were no rift anomalies that even slightly resembled what they’d seen at the hospital with Tommy. If anything, actually, things were more quiet than usual.
They’d just have to stick it out. Jack, for his part, massaged his temples and tried to ignore the sight of blond, wet-mouthed William Montgomery (died January 1941, in an air raid) eyeing up Gwen’s ass.
Lunch found Jack at his desk, pointedly trying to ignore a crisp, disbelieving speech from Emily Holyrod about how he couldn’t possibly be running Torchwood Cardiff when Ianto, looking just as harassed, materialized at the door with a lunch of waxpaper-wrapped sandwiches. He handed one to Jack and took a seat on the edge of the desk, for once completely unmindful of the fact that he’d nudged a stack of “outgoing” forms with his thigh.
With a mouthful of bread and meat, he announced, quite casually, (in hindsight too casually), “Some up-the-duff Italian woman was looking for you in the archives.”
Jack, thinking fast, rounded the desk, abandoning his half-eaten sandwich in favour of situating himself between Ianto’s knees, running his hands up Ianto’s thighs. The exasperated look he received in reply, he knew, would last only so long as he remained standing. So he dropped to his knees.
It wasn’t long until Ianto’s hands were in his hair, Ianto’s hips were bucking needy underneath him, Ianto’s cock was pushing thick and heavy and frantic into his mouth. When he made to look up, catch Ianto’s eye, moan theatrically, that way that always made him gasp, he made the very disheartening discovery that Ianto wasn’t paying attention to him at all. He was staring at the office’s door.
“I’m interrupting,” someone said from behind Jack’s head, and oh God he knew that voice. Pulling up on Ianto with a wet slurp, he turned. In the doorway, Seamus McConville (died 1968, poisonous gas, non-terrestrial), black-haired and black-eyed and wearing the same mod skinny tie and tight suit as always.
Jack thought Ianto’d zip up and make himself scarce, but instead he remained leaning on the edge of the desk, cock red and shiny with Jack’s spit and jutting defiantly out of the zip of his trousers. Seamus’ face was sad, tight, betrayed, and if Jack was aroused before, the feeling had vanished at this too-stark reminder of how his immortality shaped his relationships.
And then Ianto said, “No you’re not. Come here,” and extended a hand.
It came back like riding a bike, touching Seamus, drawing out those lilting Waterford whines with his hands and tongue. He knelt between them, always stroking one and sucking the other, alternating with enthusiasm, dragging lines of saliva from cockhead to cockhead. He didn’t compare, he wasn’t so analytical as that, falling instead into sensation, the sounds of them moaning, their hands (Ianto’s calluses, Seamus’ long bony fingers) running through his hair, cupping, turning his face. The smell of them both: heady, Ianto so familiar and comfortable, Seamus some relived memory, like a vivid fantastic dream. He dropped back on his heels, watching them kiss above him, watching Ianto’s pink tongue darting and curling, shy, exploring, Seamus responding with teeth (always the teeth with Seamus). He rolled Seamus’ balls in his fingers, licked Ianto from root to tip with the flat of his tongue, groaned at the sight of Seamus sucking a red mark into Ianto’s neck, just below the turn of his jaw.
Ianto came first, quite by surprise, shooting a streak across Jack’s half-turned cheek. Seamus, helpful, ran his fingers through it, catching drips, and let Jack suck them clean while Ianto palmed his cock. With Ianto’s come on his tongue Jack turned to Seamus, taking him in deep, sucking hard and closing his eyes and thinking over and over and over I miss you, I miss you, I miss you, until Seamus shuddered and came and disappeared, leaving only Ianto’s taste to linger in Jack’s mouth.
Ianto must have guided him down to the floor, because he was lying on his back and Ianto was panting, expression far away as he hiked up Jack’s shirts and stroked him until he came across his own abdomen with a lonely bitten back cry.
By the time they caught their breath, Ianto had settled into the crook of Jack’s shoulder, was carefully tracing his hand across the clean parts of Jack’s skin.
“Thank you,” Jack said, and meant it more than he ever had before (and Ianto had done some pretty damn fantastic things in his short time as Jack’s lover).
When he replied, Ianto’s voice was slightly awkward, like he didn’t want a fuss, “You seemed like you needed it. I needed it. There was no way I was getting half a blowjob on a day like this.”
Jack smiled at the ceiling, at that, reaching up to twine his fingers in Ianto’s hair. His heart ached, like a hole had been punched in his chest, such a human feeling. “I love you all,” he admitted, breathless, because he just couldn’t bear to keep it in, “I love you always.”
Title: As You Wish
Genre: Sexy Fluff
Rating & Warnings: R
Prompt & Prompter: cen_sceal : Ianto/Jack/Tosh, because they have a biweekly fluff fest to deal with Monster Of The Week.
Summary: Jack groans aloud. “Ianto, what did we agree? We never let Tosh pick.”
“Don’t blame me,” Ianto says pre-emptively as Jack squishes onto his end of the couch, bullying Ianto over until he’s practically in Tosh’s lap, “I let her pick.”
Tosh, smiling mischievously, pokes an arm out from under their shared blanket, pointing the DVD remote at the telly and hitting “play” with purpose.
Jack groans aloud. “Ianto, what did we agree? We never let Tosh pick.” The screen goes dark and then lights up again to the opening titles of The Princess Bride. “I don’t think she even realizes that they kept making movies after 1989.”
“Jack, c’mon,” Ianto replies, “Be fair. She was shot with those... spiny things.”
“They gave me a rash,” Tosh agrees, sounding terribly put upon. “I couldn’t wear anything that showed skin until Thursday.”
Jack has no answer to that, sinking back into the couch in a sulk. “Those were the worst two days of my life,” he admits, at last. Ianto can feel Tosh’s shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
As they settle into the lush scenery and long-since-memorized dialogue, Tosh throws her arm smugly around Ianto’s shoulders and leans her head against his, settling with a contented sigh. On the coffee table, the three of them tangle their bare feet together, Jack’s long toes and Tosh’s low arches and Ianto’s perpetually cold everything.
Hidden by the covers, a hand snakes high into Ianto’s lap: Jack’s, big and bold. He laughs in surprise when his fingers brush Tosh’s, already cupping Ianto’s dick sneakily. “Is this a kissing book?” Jack quotes, hopeful. Tosh slaps him upside the head.
Title: White Lies
Rating & Warnings: R
Prompt & Prompter: iceshade & count_to_seven : Jack/Ianto, Jack likes to cuddle.
Summary: “I’m your boss,” Jack replies matter-of-factly, taking the opportunity of Ianto’s return to position to nuzzle his nose against his neck lazily, “I set your schedule, remember?”
“Well I really ought to—” Ianto says, struggling halfway to a sitting position before he’s interrupted by Jack’s hand clapping him across the chest.
“No you don’t. There is absolutely nothing you need to do today,” Jack corrects him sleepily, words slurred by his face smooshed against the mattress. He’s lying on his belly, naked, blankets tangled up somewhere around his knees. From his position propped up on his elbows, Ianto can see the rise of his tanned arsecheeks.
(“I don’t use salon beds,” he’d said, quite offended, “I sunbathe naked on the millennium centre roof.” And Ianto still couldn’t tell if he was bluffing about it or not.)
“And how do you know that?” Ianto retorts, but he’s already sinking back into his pillow, boneless, warm, well-fucked.
“I’m your boss,” Jack replies matter-of-factly, taking the opportunity of Ianto’s return to position to nuzzle his nose against his neck lazily, “I set your schedule, remember?”
Ianto laughs, Jack’s arm stretches across his body to grasp his shoulder. “You have no concept of my schedule, Jack.” Right about now, he would normally be compiling suspicious news reports and 999 calls, that sort of thing. In ten minutes, feeding Myfanwy. In twelve, ordering new office supplies (he has begun to suspect that Tosh has a secret hoard of mechanical pencils secreted away somewhere off-site). In twenty, cleaning up Owen’s latest mess before he arrives that morning and complains about the smell.
“Of course I do. Item one, make coffee. Item two, look handsome at morning meeting. Item three, bend over suggestively to pick up a pen.” His feet draw up and down Ianto’s, rubbing them affectionately as he talks.
“Oh, let me guess, item four, bent over the boss’ desk? Do you think my life is a porn movie?” His voice sounds cross but his fingers are toying through Jack’s hair, soft, mussed, pre-product. Jack laughs. “I dread the day you have to train my replacement.”
Jack’s body stiffens, but only slightly, soon settling against him again. Ianto can feel his heartbeat through his skin. “Well I don’t. Dread it, I mean.”
Okay, maybe Ianto started it, but that’s a low blow. He’s about to say so when Jack adds, smiling, “I mean, obviously it’s just never going to happen since you’re irreplaceable and all.”
Title: Over Easy
Genre: Dysfunctional Fluff
Rating & Warnings: R
Prompt & Prompter: _lullabelle_ : Gwen/Owen, something uncomfortably romantic.
Summary: Tossing her tangled hair out of her face, she turns to find Owen standing with a tray in his hands: plate, food, steam, glass of juice. All it needs is a bloody carnation in a tiny vase and it’ll be a full B&B romantic breakfast.
Gwen peels her eyes open, the familiar smell of fried rashers, eggs, burnt toast overtaking her senses. God damn but does her vag hurt. The joints of her legs aren’t feeling too hot either.
She sits up like a shot, suddenly aware of her surroundings, the grey morning sun beating down through the full-length windows that line the wall. Tossing her tangled hair out of her face, she turns to find Owen standing with a tray in his hands: plate, food, steam, glass of juice. All it needs is a bloody carnation in a tiny vase and it’ll be a full B&B romantic breakfast.
“I slept here?” she groans, trying to remember how last night went. Oh, there’s the headache. So she’s hung over. She rubs her face.
“Yeah, sorry,” Owen says, perching on the edge of the bed. “I think we both passed out. Breakfast?” He holds out the tray to her in offering.
She doesn’t know if it’s guilt or the food or the hangover that makes her nearly vomit at the sight of it, the eggs that telltale brown of an unclean flattop. She lurches in the bed.
“You made me breakfast in bed,” she accuses, remembering belatedly to pull the blankets up and cover her tits. She’s got a hickey just above her left nipple. Nice.
This is definitely outside the parameters of... whatever this is. This is Rhys-territory, and oh, isn’t that funny (sad) that it only starts to violate her relationship when food is involved?
“Well no,” Owen replies, injured, “I walked up the bloody street to that place on the corner to buy a take-away. Jesus, if you’re going to be like that I’ll just eat it myself then shall I?” Peevish, he sets the tray down between them, spears a rasher, and stuffs it into his mouth, chewing grotesquely.
It’s bloody ridiculous, is what it is. She snatches a triangle of toast. Glowers at him as she eats it.
So it goes.
Title: Flesh Wound
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Owen
Rating & Warnings: R
Prompt & Prompter: durayan : Jack/Ianto, Ianto rescuing Jack from...whatever stupid you want Jack to experience. Love strong!Ianto. Love Jack when he's wrong-footed.
Summary: “Because,” Jack replies, and there it goes, he’s raising his voice now, it’s echoing off the med-bay tiles, “You do stupid foolhardy things like taking a bullet for your boss who can’t die.”
“Yeah, well, I guess adrenaline overrides logic,” Ianto says, not in much of a mood to defend himself. He hisses at the sensation of Owen suturing. Jack squeezes his hand.
“That’s not... that’s not an excuse. You know I can just shrug these things off. You can’t. I need to be able to trust you to...” Jack trails off, averting his eyes. He doesn’t want to have this conversation in front of Owen.
It doesn’t matter, really, when Owen’s doctoring he gets so single-minded he pretty much can’t perceive anything but the task at hand. It’s a relief, actually. Ianto thinks he may get injured more often.
“Never be a hero?” Ianto puts in helpfully, bitter-voiced. “That shot would have killed you, Jack. This is a graze. I’m fine. Gwen trusted me to work in the field, why can’t you?” He flinches. Owen’s tugging a suture tight, and he wishes he wouldn’t because fresh concern consumes Jack’s features at his expression and with it fresh anger, fresh patronizing talk.
“Because,” Jack replies, and there it goes, he’s raising his voice now, it’s echoing off the med-bay tiles, “You do stupid foolhardy things like taking a bullet for your boss who can’t die.”
“Oh, and what do you call provoking those delegates to violence because of some perceived insult to my ‘honour’?” He can’t move, mid-procedure as he is, but if he could he’d be grabbing Jack by both shoulders and bloody shaking him right now. He hears the snip of scissors, feels Owen tying him off. “How about you take a minute, stuff your balls back in your pants, and exercise some self reflection?”
“Alright,” Owen says mindlessly, seemingly totally unaware of the fight going on right under his nose, “Come back to me in the next week or so and we’ll figure out when those need to come out. You’re going to have one wicked scar, mate.” He pats Ianto on his good shoulder, shoves an opened bottle of water and two pills into his hands, and skulks out, off in search of a stiff drink, maybe, or Gwen for a good row. His two ways of winding down from a bad day in the field.
Ianto takes the pills and a mouthful of water, glowering at Jack over the shape of the bottle.
“I was worried about you,” Jack admits under Ianto’s glare, finally, his voice rough and chastised.
Ianto sets down the water bottle and pulls him into a tight, brief hug. “I know,” he says, “So was I.”
Author's Notes: For Valentines, a whole pile of Whoniverse ficlets celebrating love in its many, many (sometimes dysfunctional) forms. Written in reply to prompts on my journal.
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Read my Doctor Who Valentines Sweets Here.