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Story: Ecstasy
Author: Melinda Kitty![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
melindakitty
Beta:ophymirage
Characters: Captain Jack Harkness, Captain John Hart, Ianto Jones
Rated: Teenish for flirtatious slash, polyamory, evil music, implied drug use, Barcelonan chocolate liqueur, and Jack in a.. well, why spoil it?
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did this kind of thing would be canon and fangirls like me wouldn't need to write fanfic.
Spoilers: AU, Faithful!Verse. The promised story behind "What Goes Around..."
Summary: Foraibhinn's ficathon, your delectation, and Faithful's back-history. Prompts: tease, dance, truth
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Like everything else I write, this wasn't supposed to be this long. I and O had entirely too much fun dressing* Jack, John, and Ianto, and I had entirely too much fun with the rotating POV. [*Again I say, the horrible, horrible things I'm forced to do as Junior Researcher. Mel: "Go forth and find me pics of hot men in gorgeous Goth clothing, so we know what the boys should look like." Me: "Sir, yes SIR!" -O]
Again, this and the two sequel chapters (the second of which will pretty much be pure porn and the third of which may be part-porn, depending) are what I consider necessary backfill, which is part of the reason why the John/Ianto pr0n that is Chapter 18 is not written yet. I needed this first. I think I know how it ends, but endings -- like everything else in my fic -- are subject to change without notice.
Enjoy the gratuitously cracky, semi-smutty first chapter.
Few things are more fun than starting with the theme of "tease".
"'Vaunt!
- Devil tyne -
fore'ermae;
Daunt - sinsyne thence,
Ta'en as a dint,
Angelique?"
(Theatre of Tragedy)
(In which Ianto plans a night away, Jack needs a night out, and John wants a night on the town.)
It's happening again. The first time, Ianto ignores it. He's had a few too many. He probably wandered away from the pub on his own. Maybe he just had a normal blackout, like any other normal eighteen-year-old who doesn't know his completely normal limits. (Though he does know his limits. He's always known his limits. Boy like him can't go out without knowing his limits or he risks grievous bodily harm.) The second time is worse. No alcohol. Dead sober. One minute, he's walking back to the dorm after a late evening studying (and yes, he was actually STUDYING) in the library. The next, he wakes up alone in his bed in the student dorms with no memory of five hours of time. ("Distressing" doesn't even begin to cover it.) And last night...
After the debacle at the museum with Stacey, he stopped the night walks. (Too many eyes watching him.) Community service and UCL during the day. Back to the dorm and pretend to sleep at night. The judge was kind enough to let him off easy -- only shoplifting instead of the B&E mark he should have had -- so Ianto felt he owed him the time and the good-faith effort to pretend to be normal. But last night the walls of that little closet of a dorm room closed in on him and he just had to get out...
Not thinking about it. Not thinking. He thinks too much. Worries too much. Needs to relax. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything. (Just because he hasn't found it yet doesn't mean it doesn't exist.)
When Spider passes him the card with the address for the next rave, he nearly faints with relief. Weird though it may sound, sometimes that crowd is the safest place. He's never lost time at a rave. And when he wakes in his bed, sometimes he's not alone. He'll go tonight. Have a few, but not too many. Enjoy the contact high of that many people indulging in that many substances. Lose himself in the music and the freedom of dancing like no one cares.
Maybe then he can pretend he's not losing his mind.
It's happening again. The call from Yvonne wakes Jack about three in the morning. And, stupid him, he actually answers it. She spends the next two hours chewing his ass about how he needs to keep a better eye on the Jones kid, how the boy is becoming a nuisance, and how pissed she is that Jack saddled her with him in the first place. (So sue him; Torchwood 3 were losing their minds trying to avoid the kid. It's like Jones had some kind of radar that allowed him to home in on Rift activity. They couldn't keep RetConning a kid his age without doing major cognitive damage and DAMMIT London's a big city. Surely the overstuffed bureaucrats and bean-counting paper-pushers of Torchwood 1 could avoid one gangly teenager?)
So now it's his problem. Again. Jones used to make Alex nuts (well, before Alex himself went completely over the edge) -- the boy was too smart, too wily, too able to get into places he shouldn't. Now, thanks to that ugly incident New Year's Eve two years ago, Jack's inherited Torchwood 3, a new crew, and the same old problem: Without resorting to RetCon and without revealing the existence of any branch of Torchwood, how do you deal with a genius teenager who keeps finding Rift spikes and alien activity by accident?
It's a long-ass drive from Cardiff. And traffic is terrible. If Jack were smart, he'd have taken the train like a normal person, but he's not a normal person and Suzie outfitted the SUV with too many cool gadgets, gizmos, and emergency supplies for him to resist. (Besides, how would you like to explain what those little tablets and what that funny powder are to Security, especially rent-a-cops who don't have the clearance to know about Torchwood? Even if it is theoretically America's problem and America's war, 9/11 wasn't even a year ago, and every trigger-finger of law enforcement is still set to Extra Twitchy.)
On the plus side, he'll get to dust off the club wear wise-ass Owen gave him for Christmas last year. (Love the mesh-shirt/men's-corset combo; the new medic has dead sexy taste for such a defiantly-straight guy. And the look on his face when Jack offered to model it for him privately was worth the two weeks of coaxing and reassurance it took before Owen stopped freaking out every time he and Jack were alone in a room together.)
As he pulls into the hidey-hole Yvonne arranged for the SUV (parking in London is hell), Jack makes a key decision. If lying is no longer an option, maybe the best bet is to tell the truth. Lay out Torchwood as a possibility for a new career for the kid. (As soon as he graduates, anyway.)
After all, what eighteen-year-old DOESN'T want to be a secret agent?
It's happening again! Ooh! Just what John needs. He's developed such a taste for the early twenty-first century crowd on Earth. Booze. Sex. Drugs. Loud music that actually has quite a danceable beat. Lots of pretty things to play with. (And it's fun as Hell to show these kids exactly what kind of body mods are possible in the fifty-first century.) Just the kind of shore-leave he deserves after pulling off the most incredibly brilliant caper of all Time. (Pun intended.)
First things first: he swings by the nicest hotel money can buy and reserves a suite. (With any kind of luck, whoever he brings here will have an appreciation for the finer things.) Then he hops the Tube back to Camden Town.
Even in a nineteenth-century infantry coat, seventeenth century boots and a pair of skin-tight velvet trousers he picked up in 1969, he is STILL not the strangest denizen of the London Underground. In fact, an American couple -- fifties, flabby, flushed, and in matching Disneyland jumpers, no less -- grin at him. ("Nice pants," says the overfed hubby.) He poses just long enough for the husband to convince his wife to sit beside him. ("Ooh. Let's get a local in the picture, Carol.") As soon as the stupid bastard raises the camera to his eye, John snogs the shit out of dear Carol, who seems to be getting into it about the time her enraged husband pulls John off of her.
And Camden Town is the next stop. With a rude gesture to the husband and a blown kiss farewell to Carol (who gives him a shy little wave in reply), John ducks off the train. Chuckles all the way up the stairs.
That's London 2002 -- always good for a laugh.
Happily, it doesn't take more than fifteen minutes of wandering UCL campus looking obvious before one of his favourite shags -- lovely little mostly-legal thing named Kim -- sidles up to him with a card bearing the address of tonight's party. ("Rave," the symbiont thinks they're called. Changes from generation to generation and a bloke can't always keep track over the centuries, even with a little help from his implanted partner-in-crime.)
Kim has to stand tiptoe to murmur in his ear. "Will you be there, Adam?"
"Wouldn't miss it." He snogs her a good one in gratitude for the invite. Uses a bit of deep tonguing to remind her of that lovely encounter (let's see, it'd be about two months back on her personal timeline) and in memory of the one they'll have about seven months from now (give or take -- he's shaky on the date and the symbiont can't be arsed to look it up, worthless little worm, but John does remember the night with Kim being quite the fun time.) If no one else shaggable appears tonight, she'll do nicely as a present to himself.
"Why d'you call me 'Adam'?" he says when they part.
Grinning, she tugs the braided lapel of his crimson infantry coat. "Adam Ant, only sexier." She presses that lovely length of flesh (nicely clad in layers of slashed black cotton and corduroy) against him another time. "And much more dangerous."
"And blond," he reminds her. "And we all know blonds have more fun." If one has to be a random pop idol, he could do worse than Adam Ant. (Some of that boy's songs are actually quite catchy in a British, androgynous, defiantly-angsty sort of way.) He cups Kim's lovely arse with both hands. (Hard to find through the modern-day bustle, but well worth the effort.) "So are you going to be Goody Two Shoes tonight, or will I get to see more of you?"
"Mmm." She brushes his lips with hers, smearing worse that heavy black shellac that Goth girls of this era consider lipstick. "Be your usual bad self and maybe you'll get to Stand and Deliver." And she slips out of his arms to continue passing out the invites.
God, he loves the twenty-first century. Hospitality par excellence.
At least here he's safe. The warehouse thrums with music by the time Ianto arrives. (Trance in the main room. Looks -- and sounds -- like they've sectioned off the back half of the warehouse for the Industrial crowd.) The place is already packed. A sweet-harsh haze drifts over and through the crowd: cloves and Russian fags and the omnipresent bite of pot. (Even if he doesn't take anything, it won't be too long before he'll have a decent contact high.) And most of the faces are familiar. Though not all close friends, these people are at least a known quantity. He can relax a bit. Unwind. Forget in a good way.
He's got his "armour" on, starting with a bit of smoky eyes and the long-sleeved shirt with all the D-rings up the front. (He loves the fit, but it does take about ten minutes to get into and almost as long to get out of.) Couple that with the front-lacing leather trousers, stomping boots, and the message should be clear: he's not going to leave with anyone who isn't worth the good half an hour it'll take to get him out of these clothes.
Kim sidles up to him. She's decked out in her full display, complete with dyed dreads, enough makeup to supply the West End for a week, bustled side-buckling skirt, and a lovely lace-trimmed bodice that shows off her assets nicely while still leaving something to the imagination. (Her taste in Neo-Victorian costume was one of the things that decided him that he liked her.) She hands him a jewelled flask, which he accepts. Probably absinthe laced with X, but he's in a mood for a little added happiness in his alcohol. He sips it slowly. Tries not to pull a face at the anise flavour. Sips it again.
Grinning, Kim also takes a pull. Insinuates herself into his arms. (Not that he fights her much.) Rocks with him to the steady thrum of music.
"Drat this creature of
memories
ill,
Foolhardy and fey I may be, yet him I
shall quell."
And for a few minutes, Ianto pretends to be -- if not happy -- at least content. Here, he's not the weird one. Here, he's not alone. Here, he's just one of the crowd. And as he moves with Kim, he muses that -- depending on how the evening goes -- she may prove the kind-hearted distraction he needs. (Judging by her outfit, he'll have plenty of time to decide if that's what he wants before either of them will be naked enough for it to matter.)
When the song ends, he gives Kim a one-armed hug that says neither "yes" nor "no". Accepts one last sip from the flask. Moves farther into the crowd. Rolls the mouthful of laced absinthe on his tongue. Enjoys the slow slide into contentment as the constant surging of the music seems to sync itself to the silent throb of his pulse.
Neil brushes against him. Grinds against his hip, eyes intense. Boy doesn't know when to take "no" for an answer. Ianto patiently endures the caress down his chest (Neil's already well gone on X and likely something more), turns his head to avoid the kiss as politely as he can. (Someday the boy will respect his wish to pass for straight.) Neil's laugh drifts across his ear. "When you're ready to tell the truth, I'll be waiting."
(Yeah, Neil. That'll happen.) But the X must be kicking in, because the grope actually feels a little better than it should. Not good -- Ianto has a façade to maintain.
He extracts himself from Neil's grasp and wades deeper into the crowd.
At least here he's safe. Jack watches from his spot across the street. Not more than five minutes ago, Jones slipped through the doors to the rave. Ironically, though this gathering isn't exactly legal in any sense of the word, this is one of the safer crowds the kid could've chosen; even if a full-scale multi-temporal invasion lands, Yvonne likely won't bother to RetCon this place. (Most of the people here would chalk up anything weird to a hallucination.)
And, worse comes to worst, Jack can always recruit the meth-heads in the back room, who -- if the overlapping bass that echoes off the neighbouring building is any indication -- are working themselves into a frenzy of violence set to music. Jones is safe inside, but getting in after him may be an issue. (His Torchwood credentials are unlikely to do him any good against the formidable bouncer who guards the door with his even scarier female counterpart -- Jack would truly hate to have her kick any part of his body in those six inch steel stiletto heels.) Moreover, the DJs inside have cranked the music to eleven, which means that even if Jack manages to get in and even if he can find Jones in this crowd without benefit of his usual gadgets and gizmos (he's already obvious enough as it is), actually being able to talk to the kid without anyone overhearing the shouting may become an issue.
Jack jogs across the street toward the thundering warehouse. Makes his way to the end of the queue. And as he walks, the kids are split about half and half between those who giggle at him and those who give him the skunk-eye.
Weird as it may sound, now that he's not the only one who's over- or under-dressed for the occasion, he has a momentary attack of self-consciousness: Has he actually become too old for a crowd like this?
He settles into place behind a pretty but hard-eyed girl in head-to-toe vinyl (love the hooded cape) and a guy who -- though clearly the girl's escort for the evening -- has lined his eyes in the heavy kohl of an Egyptian god and looks utterly at ease in a beautifully-tooled leather corset over what Jack thinks is referred to as a utilikilt. (One can only hope he's not going regimental in weather like this.)
"Evening," he says to them.
The girl takes a sullen drag on a black cigarette. The boy turns away to hide his laugh.
"No way Bob's letting you in," says the girl through a cloud of fragrant smoke.
When in doubt, turn on the aw-shucks charm. "Why not?" He wraps the leather duster tightly around himself, the lapels up as proof against the cold.
The girl's eyes, flashing and startlingly light in the midst of so much eye-liner, narrow. "Because you scream 'I'm undercover and I didn't do me fuckin' research 'fore I went out'." The North London accent gets more pronounced as she speaks. She takes another drag, giving him a look like his presence is ruining the taste of her fag.
The boy throws him an embarrassed look. Tugs the girl's arm in warning.
"You think I'm a cop?" This could definitely be an issue. Too many people to risk RetCon. He's going to have to talk his way in somehow.
"You can quit the fake American accent -- we ain't having none of that shite," says the girl. "And yeah, if you're not one of London's Finest, then I'm Billie fucking Piper."
The boy shoots him another apologetic look. "It's the corset, mate. Dead giveaway."
It's uncomfortable too. Much as he's always appreciated the sado-masochistic aesthetics -- he's as human as the next guy -- Jack never could understand how women stood having their insides squished like this. He opens his coat (Oh! Wow! Cold air on nipples is a bad thing!) enough to glance down at the torture device that's strapped around his body from hips to mid-chest. (Which is also nearly impossible to tighten correctly all by one's self.)
"It's upside-down," says the boy in answer to the silent question. "The point goes up. Draws the eyes up toward your chest. The flat seam should follow your hip line. Show the girls what a nice arse you have."
He doesn't have to fake the blush. (God, he really is too old for this. Last time he messed with corsets on a regular basis, women usually wore them and the point always faced down.) "My girlfriend -- she bought this for me. She said she'd meet me here, but..."
"So you a cop or what?" The girl's hostility hasn't abated even slightly.
"I am not a cop," he assures her. Telling the truth makes it easier; John -- who, along with everything else, did happen to be the most effective liar Jack ever knew -- always maintained that the most convincing lies were ninety percent truth. "I'm an airman. Captain. But I'm on leave and she said..." He lets his actual discomfort show a little. "If the other guys ever saw me like this..."
The boy laughs in pained sympathy. "Talked into it by a girl."
He latches on to the male solidarity. "Pretty much, yeah." He looks bleakly at the doors, which are much closer than they were a minute ago. "I am so screwed."
"Poor sod." The boy's eyes sparkle with amusement. He gives the girl a quick kiss and ducks out of line.
The girl does not soften. "You're not going to help him?"
"Hush." A bit of male pride shows in the boy's body language. "I'll meet you inside, love." He beckons to Jack. "C'mon, Captain Corset. We'll fix you right up."
What follows next can only be described as one of the stranger experiences of Jack's life. The boy ("Name's Salem.") ducks into an alley. Helps Jack strip off the corset. ("Poor bastard. November in London's a bitch, innit?") Fix the sleeves on the mesh shirt. ("No, mate, you push your thumb through the fabric below the seam. Yeah. Like that. Makes it look like fingerless gloves.") He has to admit that point-upwards is oddly more comfortable and much more sexy -- his nipples just peek over the edge of the vinyl -- but he can't stand being laced quite as tightly as Salem can pull. ("No worries. Corset virgins usually need some time before they get to like tight lacing.") Salem even digs a full makeup kit out of the sporran on his utilitkilt. ("You've got nice eyes, Captain, but Egyptian kohl will just make you look squinty. A bit of eye-liner on the upper lids -- that's right, don't blink. A bit of colour to accentuate the mouth -- God, I'd KILL to have lips like yours.")
Though rushed, the ritual has the curious feel of donning war paint. By the end of it, Jack feels stronger. Sexier. More settled. And much of the unease that'd been dogging him since he first donned this costume abates. (Especially after Salem pronounces him assembled enough to put his overcoat back on. Chilly though it may be, the leather does help cut the occasional gust of biting wind.)
"Voila!" Salem stows the kit back in his sporran. Buckles it soundly. Grins at Jack. "If I bent that way, I'd shag you."
He cups the boy's cheek. "Thank you."
With a smile, Salem steps back away from the touch. "I said IF I bent that way, Captain Corset." He jerks his head. "If Vervaine isn't still pissed as hell, we should be back to the queue just in time."
Smiling, he follows the boy.
"For what it's worth, sir," Salem says quietly. "Though I'm sure you have to pass for straight because the Yank military are a bunch of homophobic bastards, in this crowd you can admit it was a boy stood you up and not a girl."
He nearly misses a step in his surprise. "What?'
"We're all freaks here, Captain Corset," Salem assures him as they hustle toward the girl (who doesn't look any happier to see him than when he left). "No one's going to throw you out for swinging the other way."
And if the boy did swing both ways, Jack would kiss him for being a wonderful human being. As it is, he gives him a brief but heartfelt smile. "She's lucky to have you."
"Vervaine?" Salem chuckles as they approach his glaring girlfriend. "She's a bit rough around the edges, but she's all right."
"Who's this, then?" The bouncer cuts in before Vervaine can retort.
"Let him in, Bob," says Salem. "He's a Yank on leave from up Berkshire way."
"Welford man, is he?" Bob the Bouncer chuckles. "Different kind of flying you'll do in here, Captain."
Bob's female counterpart digs a mobile out of her hip-bag. "Let's see that ensemble, luv." Salem holds Jack's coat obligingly as he strikes a suitably moody pose. The female bouncer snaps a quick pic of him. Shows it to Bob, who nods his approval.
Bob fixes him with a penetrating look. "Off you go, sir. Have a time, but if you start any trouble, that pic'll go straight to your C.O."
"And don't think we can't find his e-mail." The female bouncer tucks the mobile back in her hip-bag. "Wouldn't want him to have to come get you, lipstick and all."
Jack does his best to look chastened -- actually, come to think of it he'd really rather NOT explain this one to Owen -- smiles his gratitude, and enters what promises to be one of the best parties he's been to in quite some time.
At least here he's safe. No Time Agency breathing down his neck. (Pathetic excuse though they may be for law enforcement and much as John's sure they're about to go the way of the Dodo, he has no desire to jeopardize his paycheck this close to retirement.) Once all interested parties received their merchandise and he got his due compensation for his excessive brilliance in carrying off the caper, John jumped back six months from the last drop-off point. (Never hurts to cover his tracks by confusing his time signature a little more.)
Now he's rich, he's set for future clients, he's made his name, and he's got great prospects. He'll be fine, even when the Time Agency implodes under the weight of its own obsolescence and corruption. (Kind of disappointing, though, considering that the corruption was one of the main reasons he joined.) And, to make his night even better, here comes Kim, cutting through the crowd like the deliciously ruthless little thing she is.
Sometimes happiness is as simple as an armful of lace and velvet and leather. (Some things never go out of style, and she does wear all those buckles well. Fun to think of how long it'd take to tease her out of them.) It doesn't take much more than an open-mouthed kiss to convince him to give her one good turn round the dance floor. Girl always was light on her feet. When she offers him that handy jewelled flask, he drains it dry. Lets the mix of alcohol and Ecstasy blur the rough edges off the world around him.
At her pretty pout, he offers her his own flask (from his own private stash, no less.)
Kim's eyes go wide with delight. "What's in it this time?"
He bends over her, hand at her waist to keep her pressed against him, and says in a conspiratorial murmur (or as close to a murmur as one can get while the music's roaring at one hundred twenty decibels,) "A taste of Barcelona."
(Of course, she doesn't need to know he means the planet and not the country.)
Kim pulls a face. "It's not port, is it?"
He gives her his best Affronted Look. "Sacrilege." He traces one finger along her cheek and to the point of one of those adorable fake fangs. "I know you don't drink... wine."
Laughing, she kisses him. Sniffs at the flask. Her eyes widen. (That's right, Little Miss, your species only THINKS it knows how to brew chocolate liqueur.) She gulps it greedily.
Chuckling with the buzz of a good head of absinthe and the imminent warm fuzziness of Ecstasy, he rescues the flask before Little Miss Chocoholic can drink it all. (She'll regret it in a minute when the effects kick in. Sugar rush has nothing on this stuff.)
"Save some for your friends," he says.
He's seen cats lick cream from their chops with less greedy enthusiasm. "What else is in it?" she says.
"Upper," he replies. "Compatible with X and pot. Warn people to go easy on the booze for an hour afterwards. No acid and NO heroin."
The first razor-edge of fear creeps in her eyes. "It won't kill them, will it?"
"Kimmy, Kimmy, Kimmy," he scolds. "I'm hurt you'd think I might ever do anything to hurt our pretty little friends." He screws the cap back on his flask (genuine bootleg item he got from a genuine bootlegger.) "No, mixing drugs with this won't kill anyone, it'll just give them a killer case of the runs. Who wants to trip out while stuck on the crapper?"
Laughing, she snogs him again. He hands her the flask of Barcelonan chocolate liqueur and she trots off to share her prize with her lovely playmates. John pockets her empty jewelled flask as a souvenir. If he's feeling half so good when he gets back home to the fifty-first century as he does now, maybe he'll even refill Kimmy's flask and return it.
"Look into the mirror of your soul
Love and hate are one in all
Sacrifice turns to revenge and believe me
You will see the face who will say
I love you...
I'll kill you...
But I love you forever..."
Whistling a happy tune that has nothing to do with the Enigma track that's playing, John has a look round at his prospects.
He really shouldn't be here, should he? That man's been tailing Ianto for a while now. Tall, dark, and handsome in a way he thought disappeared with Cary Grant and Clark Gable. (Movie idol. He's gorgeous as a movie idol.) And though the ensemble the man is wearing only accentuates his beautiful lines and toned form, Ianto's sure that if he were a bit less floaty, he'd be able to pinpoint why this guy doesn't belong here.
The man manoeuvres his way through the crowd as though the party scene is familiar and comfortable territory. Smiles his hello.
Ianto beats him to the first word. "Why are you following me?" It's hard to be hostile when one's feeling so mellow, but he does his best.
Surprise turns to a charming smile (Ohhhhhhhh. Pretty. Don't be so pretty. Surely there's some smarminess beneath that easy confidence?)
The man extends a hand. "Captain Jack Harkness."
He struggles through the pleasant fuzz for some hard edge. He can't even find fault with the Captain's costume. The man reeks of authority, yet he's picture perfect from the beautifully-tailored vinyl corset to those pettable corduroy trousers. Edible from head to toe. He's also fifteen years too old (at least) to be in with this crowd. A walking contradiction and DAMN him for having such a gorgeous sparkle to those eyes.
He takes the Captain's hand without offering his own name. "Good to meet you, Captain Harkness." He pulls back his hand as quickly as he reasonably can. "Sorry. I have to go."
The Captain actually catches his arm when he turns. "Look, I'm sorry to have to be blunt like this, but I really need to talk to you."
He gives his best chilly smile. "Then you should really talk to someone else, sir," he says, clearly and firmly. "I don't do boys."
He pulls out of the Captain's grip and lets the crowd envelop him.
He shouldn't be here, should he? Just as Jack has almost recovered from being dismissed by his teenage would-be charge, he spots none other than his psychotic ex, bumping and grinding with a group of black-clad, streaky-haired kids. (The shameless bastard. Though in a weird sort of way that crimson coat fits right in here)
And what really ticks Jack off is that his ex looks up, smiles, and then completely ignores him. (They are sooooo going to have words before Jack leaves London. Who knows what mayhem that criminal has been up to?)
A pretty, round-faced girl in blue, purple, and black dreadlocks steps in front of him, moving sinuously to the beat. "You're new here."
He smiles, putting in a bit of the Harkness sparkle. "You must be the welcome wagon."
She smiles, closed-mouthed, in a way that doesn't reach her eyes. "Actually, I'm Kim."
Ouch. Shut down twice in five minutes. This is starting to be bad for his ego. When Kim offers him a flask, he takes it. Sniffs a bit. Oh God! Barcelonan chocolate liqueur! It's been ages since he tasted...! (And he is seriously going to have to KILL John if he's spreading stuff like this around with no regard for the timeline.)
But, of course -- being only human -- he can't resist a good long drink. It tastes even better than he remembers. Hits his veins like thick, rich laughter in liquid form. Sets him grinning in spite of himself.
"Good, isn't it?" Kim takes her flask back. Blocks his path, moving to the music with far more sinuous grace than he might expect from someone in a corseted bodice. "So how do you know Ianto?"
"Who?" he says. (When in doubt, play dumb.)
"Ianto," she repeats. "The boy you've been shadowing ever since he showed up. If you're looking for company, I should warn you not to get your hopes up; half the boys here are praying for the day Ianto decides to switch."
Oh man, she thinks he wants to lay the kid. "It's not like that."
She has the most alarming and yet arousing way of moving with him. "Then what is it like?"
Okay, when in doubt, retreat to a little bit of truth. "I'm here to offer him a job." At the disbelieving eyebrow Kim raises, he says, "Something he's already very good at."
Kim takes another hit from her flask. "Keeping to himself and refusing chat-up lines?"
He just can't refuse when she offers him another sip. (Who knows when he'll get another taste of this?) "That too."
The girl leans closer. "Ianto is a little weird -- which should tell you something, coming from me -- but he's always been a sweet guy and a perfect gentleman." She flashes what Jack guesses are fake fangs. (Though they fit her teeth so well it has to be a professional job.) "Hurt him," Kim continues, "and you answer to me and my friends."
She weaves her way back into the crowd. "Enjoy the rave, Captain Corset."
He shouldn't be here, should he? Of all the raves in all the years in all the cities on all the planets, Jack just HAD to pick this one. Pisses John off and comes perilously close to harshing his well-deserved mellow. Well, nothing is quite so satisfying as watching Kimmy dress down his heartless ex. (That's right, Jack, this is my sandbox, these are my toys, and in case you're too old and decrepit to hear it properly, that happens to be my music playing.)
Well, sometimes it's his music. He'll claim it when Sisters of Mercy are on.
He pulls the three girls closest to him even closer. Uses the beat as a thin excuse to rub and grind to the music. Makes sure Jack gets an eyeful before John turns his back on him a second time.
The only way this could be better is if he could steal whatever trick Jack's after right out from under his nose.
Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend his night. At least Ianto's finally put enough distance between himself and that Captain fellow. Strange guy. (And he is NOT thinking of the sparkling flirt of those blue, blue eyes or the way that unkempt fringe dipped so perfectly over the Captain's forehead. It's not fair for the man to bear such a strong resemblance to the man who's appeared in Ianto's dreams since he was a child.)
Someone runs a reassuring hand down his back. The touch feels good. His hands brush the velvet of someone's bodice. Anonymous, but familiar. These people are good. He begins to loosen up again. The crowd is in a good mood tonight, made all the better by a bit of camaraderie, a bit more booze, and a little chemical enhancement. Dancing feels good. People feel good. The world feels better and better by the second.
Then he sees the man in the red coat and is lost.
Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend his night. If life were fair, Jack would be able to enjoy every body that brushes against his. Every stray hand that caresses the vinyl corset. Every set of fingertips that stroke the corduroy of his trousers. Every beat of the music that envelops him. Even those two sips of Barcelonan liqueur were too much, but it's hard to resent the happiness that seems to make the music into a living, smiling thing. Every cheer and shout and this haze of smoke only feel more and more like home. These people want to find bliss. Want to wrap themselves in it. And so does he.
As he relaxes, the young people around him move closer. Hands wander over his arms. Shoulders. Tease the top edge of the corset. Whisper along the bottom edge. Smiling, a girl turns his head. Molds herself to his body. Kisses him. Teases his nipples through the mesh shirt. Turns him toward her partner, a boy with lovely deep eyes and skin as dark as the girl's. He goes willingly into the boy's embrace. Tastes spices and the quiet offer of sex. Someone suckles his fingers. He gasps in pleasure at the startling nip of teeth at his wrist. Lips tease the back of his neck. Hands. Mouths. All around Jack is the press of willing flesh. The trust of strangers. The safety of anonymity. The bliss of being worshipped to the constant beat of deafening music.
If Jack didn't need to find the Jones kid, this would be as close to Heaven as he's been since he left his own time.
Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend his night. There's no shortage of pretty and willing playmates in this group, but John learned long ago to listen whenever that sixth sense he describes as "lust-dar" goes off. Anytime, anywhere his senses catch a whiff of someone looking his way with conscious intent to bed, he finds he can't concentrate on anything else.
There. The pretty little Goth boy over there. (Not that "Goth" exactly narrows it down in this crowd.) Round cherubic face. Pale eyes that seem to shift colour in what little light there is. Good build. Kinky plethora of D-rings down the front of that nicely-tailored shirt. From the glimpses he gets as the crowd moves, the boy has tight trousers over good strong legs. All the better to strip off slowly. (Yummy, yummy, yummy.)
He can feel as well as see that flush of passionate recognition. That moment when the pretty thing says to himself, "YOU!"
And who is John to resist so delicious an invitation?
The Seven Deadly Sins are often the most effective start. John grinds closer to the girl in front of him. (Always start with Lust.)
The boy watches in stolen glances.
John teases the girl's mouth, eyes on the boy. (A little Envy for you, you pretty thing?)
The boy misses a beat. Stumbles. Turns away, though even from here, John can see the tension in his shoulders is from conflicted desire. (He does so love being right.)
He caresses the girls farewell. Lets the music move him closer and closer. Savours the stray touches that greet him as he sidles closer to his prey. (They might want me, gorgeous, but I only have eyes for you.)
The sweet kid is trying so hard not to look. Not to notice. Not to want. But even a blind man would feel that sweet conflict -- the burning need beneath the thin veneer of cool disinterest. (Poor repressed little thing.)
He indulges in a bit of Vanity. Flashes the left side of the asymmetrical tee. Even with the jacket on, when John angles just right his left nipple peeks over the top edge of the shirt.
The boy must've seen it too, judging by the blush. "I... I... I'm not into boys."
"Good," John says. "I'm not a boy."
Now for some Sloth. Brush past slowly. Slowly. Slow look. No touch. No rush. All the time in the world. Move in sync with the music. Let the boy find the rhythm. Encourage those thoughts with a look, but never invade his space. (You come to me, my lovely, or you don't come at all.)
Then leave him hot and bothered and unfinished on the dance floor.
This just isn't fair. Ianto watches the man dance sinuously away. He should just stop LOOKING at him. Like the Captain, this man is older than the rest of the crowd. Should be a turnoff, but instead Ianto just wants to reach out to him. To follow him. (To f-- No... Can't think that.)
Though still slowly gyrating away, the man casts a steaming-hot look over his shoulder. (Come here, you lovely thing.) And though it's not the first time someone's given Ianto a bedroom-eyed look, it is a new experience to want every one of the silent suggestions in those eyes.
It pisses him off, the arrogance. As if Ianto would ruin everything he's built for one quick frot on a dance floor. But oh, one quick frot is not all the man in the red coat is offering. He has the quiet, patient calm of a man who knows what he's doing and is very, very good at it.
Hungry. He's starved for the touch. He's been so good for so long. Is it really so wrong to want...?
Another smouldering look. Ianto's insides turn to mush. Suddenly the buzz in his veins is from a very different high. This one isn't fooled by anything. Sees him for what he is. Wants him just as he is. No need to hide or pretend. And though the man in the red coat is not the first to call him on his desires, it is the first time Ianto's ever wanted someone to lay him bare in every sense of the word, and that desire scares the hell out of him.
He follows the man. (He'll just have a quick dance. A quick dance never hurt anyone.)
"Tomorrow is hard to find
And it seems like twenty five years of
Promises and give me more
Scenes of a hand-me-down in
Dresses heard before..."
The man turns to him when Ianto finally draws close. Again, no touches. No invasion of space. But even so, it's like the man's hands can send heat and want straight into him even without touching him. Like he knows how Ianto's wired and how to exploit it. Even as the man in the red coat moves them off the dance floor, the subtle seduction feeds so perfectly into Ianto's mellow high that he doesn't really see the point of resisting. (This one might be worth getting undressed for.)
"First and last and always:
Til the end of time..."
Ianto reaches out. Strokes the gorgeous gimp of the coat. (My God, it almost feels real.) Loses himself in deep eyes that seem to have seen all the wonders of the universe.
(Teach me what you know.)
"First and last and always:
Mine."
A gentle hand at his waist. Chaste but full of so many possibilities. Testing. (Do you want this, pretty boy?) The man circles slowly behind him, a warm, patient presence. They move in perfect sync. He wants him. And Ianto should just move away. Get out the glare again, turn, and make the man back the fuck off.
He has the sense that if he told him to stop, the man would. But instead, he takes a step back. Moves into the beautiful stranger's arms. Lets the man in the red coat wrap himself around him. Savours the rush of heat from that first heady contact.
Why this one? Why now? He must be insane. But the man has the most heavenly aftershave -- cinnamon and woodsmoke and spices -- a nonverbal promise of what's to come if he consents. Ianto's whole body tightens sweetly, anticipating, as the man moves them both into the shadows that ring the dance floor.
Lips brush his neck. He arches into the touch in spite of himself.
"You really are gorgeous, aren't you?" says that voice in his ear, clear above the rush and thunder of bass. Slow, sure hands run up his chest. "Shall I stop, my lovely?"
Ianto turns in the man's arms and answers him with a kiss.
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jackxianto, torchwoodslash
Author: Melinda Kitty
melindakitty Beta:
ophymirage Characters: Captain Jack Harkness, Captain John Hart, Ianto Jones
Rated: Teenish for flirtatious slash, polyamory, evil music, implied drug use, Barcelonan chocolate liqueur, and Jack in a.. well, why spoil it?
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did this kind of thing would be canon and fangirls like me wouldn't need to write fanfic.
Spoilers: AU, Faithful!Verse. The promised story behind "What Goes Around..."
Summary: For
aibhinn's ficathon, your delectation, and Faithful's back-history. Prompts: tease, dance, truthAUTHOR'S NOTE:
Like everything else I write, this wasn't supposed to be this long. I and O had entirely too much fun dressing* Jack, John, and Ianto, and I had entirely too much fun with the rotating POV. [*Again I say, the horrible, horrible things I'm forced to do as Junior Researcher. Mel: "Go forth and find me pics of hot men in gorgeous Goth clothing, so we know what the boys should look like." Me: "Sir, yes SIR!" -O]
Again, this and the two sequel chapters (the second of which will pretty much be pure porn and the third of which may be part-porn, depending) are what I consider necessary backfill, which is part of the reason why the John/Ianto pr0n that is Chapter 18 is not written yet. I needed this first. I think I know how it ends, but endings -- like everything else in my fic -- are subject to change without notice.
Enjoy the gratuitously cracky, semi-smutty first chapter.
Few things are more fun than starting with the theme of "tease".
"'Vaunt!
- Devil tyne -
fore'ermae;
Daunt - sinsyne thence,
Ta'en as a dint,
Angelique?"
(Theatre of Tragedy)
(In which Ianto plans a night away, Jack needs a night out, and John wants a night on the town.)
It's happening again. The first time, Ianto ignores it. He's had a few too many. He probably wandered away from the pub on his own. Maybe he just had a normal blackout, like any other normal eighteen-year-old who doesn't know his completely normal limits. (Though he does know his limits. He's always known his limits. Boy like him can't go out without knowing his limits or he risks grievous bodily harm.) The second time is worse. No alcohol. Dead sober. One minute, he's walking back to the dorm after a late evening studying (and yes, he was actually STUDYING) in the library. The next, he wakes up alone in his bed in the student dorms with no memory of five hours of time. ("Distressing" doesn't even begin to cover it.) And last night...
After the debacle at the museum with Stacey, he stopped the night walks. (Too many eyes watching him.) Community service and UCL during the day. Back to the dorm and pretend to sleep at night. The judge was kind enough to let him off easy -- only shoplifting instead of the B&E mark he should have had -- so Ianto felt he owed him the time and the good-faith effort to pretend to be normal. But last night the walls of that little closet of a dorm room closed in on him and he just had to get out...
Not thinking about it. Not thinking. He thinks too much. Worries too much. Needs to relax. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything. (Just because he hasn't found it yet doesn't mean it doesn't exist.)
When Spider passes him the card with the address for the next rave, he nearly faints with relief. Weird though it may sound, sometimes that crowd is the safest place. He's never lost time at a rave. And when he wakes in his bed, sometimes he's not alone. He'll go tonight. Have a few, but not too many. Enjoy the contact high of that many people indulging in that many substances. Lose himself in the music and the freedom of dancing like no one cares.
Maybe then he can pretend he's not losing his mind.
It's happening again. The call from Yvonne wakes Jack about three in the morning. And, stupid him, he actually answers it. She spends the next two hours chewing his ass about how he needs to keep a better eye on the Jones kid, how the boy is becoming a nuisance, and how pissed she is that Jack saddled her with him in the first place. (So sue him; Torchwood 3 were losing their minds trying to avoid the kid. It's like Jones had some kind of radar that allowed him to home in on Rift activity. They couldn't keep RetConning a kid his age without doing major cognitive damage and DAMMIT London's a big city. Surely the overstuffed bureaucrats and bean-counting paper-pushers of Torchwood 1 could avoid one gangly teenager?)
So now it's his problem. Again. Jones used to make Alex nuts (well, before Alex himself went completely over the edge) -- the boy was too smart, too wily, too able to get into places he shouldn't. Now, thanks to that ugly incident New Year's Eve two years ago, Jack's inherited Torchwood 3, a new crew, and the same old problem: Without resorting to RetCon and without revealing the existence of any branch of Torchwood, how do you deal with a genius teenager who keeps finding Rift spikes and alien activity by accident?
It's a long-ass drive from Cardiff. And traffic is terrible. If Jack were smart, he'd have taken the train like a normal person, but he's not a normal person and Suzie outfitted the SUV with too many cool gadgets, gizmos, and emergency supplies for him to resist. (Besides, how would you like to explain what those little tablets and what that funny powder are to Security, especially rent-a-cops who don't have the clearance to know about Torchwood? Even if it is theoretically America's problem and America's war, 9/11 wasn't even a year ago, and every trigger-finger of law enforcement is still set to Extra Twitchy.)
On the plus side, he'll get to dust off the club wear wise-ass Owen gave him for Christmas last year. (Love the mesh-shirt/men's-corset combo; the new medic has dead sexy taste for such a defiantly-straight guy. And the look on his face when Jack offered to model it for him privately was worth the two weeks of coaxing and reassurance it took before Owen stopped freaking out every time he and Jack were alone in a room together.)
As he pulls into the hidey-hole Yvonne arranged for the SUV (parking in London is hell), Jack makes a key decision. If lying is no longer an option, maybe the best bet is to tell the truth. Lay out Torchwood as a possibility for a new career for the kid. (As soon as he graduates, anyway.)
After all, what eighteen-year-old DOESN'T want to be a secret agent?
It's happening again! Ooh! Just what John needs. He's developed such a taste for the early twenty-first century crowd on Earth. Booze. Sex. Drugs. Loud music that actually has quite a danceable beat. Lots of pretty things to play with. (And it's fun as Hell to show these kids exactly what kind of body mods are possible in the fifty-first century.) Just the kind of shore-leave he deserves after pulling off the most incredibly brilliant caper of all Time. (Pun intended.)
First things first: he swings by the nicest hotel money can buy and reserves a suite. (With any kind of luck, whoever he brings here will have an appreciation for the finer things.) Then he hops the Tube back to Camden Town.
Even in a nineteenth-century infantry coat, seventeenth century boots and a pair of skin-tight velvet trousers he picked up in 1969, he is STILL not the strangest denizen of the London Underground. In fact, an American couple -- fifties, flabby, flushed, and in matching Disneyland jumpers, no less -- grin at him. ("Nice pants," says the overfed hubby.) He poses just long enough for the husband to convince his wife to sit beside him. ("Ooh. Let's get a local in the picture, Carol.") As soon as the stupid bastard raises the camera to his eye, John snogs the shit out of dear Carol, who seems to be getting into it about the time her enraged husband pulls John off of her.
And Camden Town is the next stop. With a rude gesture to the husband and a blown kiss farewell to Carol (who gives him a shy little wave in reply), John ducks off the train. Chuckles all the way up the stairs.
That's London 2002 -- always good for a laugh.
Happily, it doesn't take more than fifteen minutes of wandering UCL campus looking obvious before one of his favourite shags -- lovely little mostly-legal thing named Kim -- sidles up to him with a card bearing the address of tonight's party. ("Rave," the symbiont thinks they're called. Changes from generation to generation and a bloke can't always keep track over the centuries, even with a little help from his implanted partner-in-crime.)
Kim has to stand tiptoe to murmur in his ear. "Will you be there, Adam?"
"Wouldn't miss it." He snogs her a good one in gratitude for the invite. Uses a bit of deep tonguing to remind her of that lovely encounter (let's see, it'd be about two months back on her personal timeline) and in memory of the one they'll have about seven months from now (give or take -- he's shaky on the date and the symbiont can't be arsed to look it up, worthless little worm, but John does remember the night with Kim being quite the fun time.) If no one else shaggable appears tonight, she'll do nicely as a present to himself.
"Why d'you call me 'Adam'?" he says when they part.
Grinning, she tugs the braided lapel of his crimson infantry coat. "Adam Ant, only sexier." She presses that lovely length of flesh (nicely clad in layers of slashed black cotton and corduroy) against him another time. "And much more dangerous."
"And blond," he reminds her. "And we all know blonds have more fun." If one has to be a random pop idol, he could do worse than Adam Ant. (Some of that boy's songs are actually quite catchy in a British, androgynous, defiantly-angsty sort of way.) He cups Kim's lovely arse with both hands. (Hard to find through the modern-day bustle, but well worth the effort.) "So are you going to be Goody Two Shoes tonight, or will I get to see more of you?"
"Mmm." She brushes his lips with hers, smearing worse that heavy black shellac that Goth girls of this era consider lipstick. "Be your usual bad self and maybe you'll get to Stand and Deliver." And she slips out of his arms to continue passing out the invites.
God, he loves the twenty-first century. Hospitality par excellence.
At least here he's safe. The warehouse thrums with music by the time Ianto arrives. (Trance in the main room. Looks -- and sounds -- like they've sectioned off the back half of the warehouse for the Industrial crowd.) The place is already packed. A sweet-harsh haze drifts over and through the crowd: cloves and Russian fags and the omnipresent bite of pot. (Even if he doesn't take anything, it won't be too long before he'll have a decent contact high.) And most of the faces are familiar. Though not all close friends, these people are at least a known quantity. He can relax a bit. Unwind. Forget in a good way.
He's got his "armour" on, starting with a bit of smoky eyes and the long-sleeved shirt with all the D-rings up the front. (He loves the fit, but it does take about ten minutes to get into and almost as long to get out of.) Couple that with the front-lacing leather trousers, stomping boots, and the message should be clear: he's not going to leave with anyone who isn't worth the good half an hour it'll take to get him out of these clothes.
Kim sidles up to him. She's decked out in her full display, complete with dyed dreads, enough makeup to supply the West End for a week, bustled side-buckling skirt, and a lovely lace-trimmed bodice that shows off her assets nicely while still leaving something to the imagination. (Her taste in Neo-Victorian costume was one of the things that decided him that he liked her.) She hands him a jewelled flask, which he accepts. Probably absinthe laced with X, but he's in a mood for a little added happiness in his alcohol. He sips it slowly. Tries not to pull a face at the anise flavour. Sips it again.
Grinning, Kim also takes a pull. Insinuates herself into his arms. (Not that he fights her much.) Rocks with him to the steady thrum of music.
"Drat this creature of
memories
ill,
Foolhardy and fey I may be, yet him I
shall quell."
And for a few minutes, Ianto pretends to be -- if not happy -- at least content. Here, he's not the weird one. Here, he's not alone. Here, he's just one of the crowd. And as he moves with Kim, he muses that -- depending on how the evening goes -- she may prove the kind-hearted distraction he needs. (Judging by her outfit, he'll have plenty of time to decide if that's what he wants before either of them will be naked enough for it to matter.)
When the song ends, he gives Kim a one-armed hug that says neither "yes" nor "no". Accepts one last sip from the flask. Moves farther into the crowd. Rolls the mouthful of laced absinthe on his tongue. Enjoys the slow slide into contentment as the constant surging of the music seems to sync itself to the silent throb of his pulse.
Neil brushes against him. Grinds against his hip, eyes intense. Boy doesn't know when to take "no" for an answer. Ianto patiently endures the caress down his chest (Neil's already well gone on X and likely something more), turns his head to avoid the kiss as politely as he can. (Someday the boy will respect his wish to pass for straight.) Neil's laugh drifts across his ear. "When you're ready to tell the truth, I'll be waiting."
(Yeah, Neil. That'll happen.) But the X must be kicking in, because the grope actually feels a little better than it should. Not good -- Ianto has a façade to maintain.
He extracts himself from Neil's grasp and wades deeper into the crowd.
At least here he's safe. Jack watches from his spot across the street. Not more than five minutes ago, Jones slipped through the doors to the rave. Ironically, though this gathering isn't exactly legal in any sense of the word, this is one of the safer crowds the kid could've chosen; even if a full-scale multi-temporal invasion lands, Yvonne likely won't bother to RetCon this place. (Most of the people here would chalk up anything weird to a hallucination.)
And, worse comes to worst, Jack can always recruit the meth-heads in the back room, who -- if the overlapping bass that echoes off the neighbouring building is any indication -- are working themselves into a frenzy of violence set to music. Jones is safe inside, but getting in after him may be an issue. (His Torchwood credentials are unlikely to do him any good against the formidable bouncer who guards the door with his even scarier female counterpart -- Jack would truly hate to have her kick any part of his body in those six inch steel stiletto heels.) Moreover, the DJs inside have cranked the music to eleven, which means that even if Jack manages to get in and even if he can find Jones in this crowd without benefit of his usual gadgets and gizmos (he's already obvious enough as it is), actually being able to talk to the kid without anyone overhearing the shouting may become an issue.
Jack jogs across the street toward the thundering warehouse. Makes his way to the end of the queue. And as he walks, the kids are split about half and half between those who giggle at him and those who give him the skunk-eye.
Weird as it may sound, now that he's not the only one who's over- or under-dressed for the occasion, he has a momentary attack of self-consciousness: Has he actually become too old for a crowd like this?
He settles into place behind a pretty but hard-eyed girl in head-to-toe vinyl (love the hooded cape) and a guy who -- though clearly the girl's escort for the evening -- has lined his eyes in the heavy kohl of an Egyptian god and looks utterly at ease in a beautifully-tooled leather corset over what Jack thinks is referred to as a utilikilt. (One can only hope he's not going regimental in weather like this.)
"Evening," he says to them.
The girl takes a sullen drag on a black cigarette. The boy turns away to hide his laugh.
"No way Bob's letting you in," says the girl through a cloud of fragrant smoke.
When in doubt, turn on the aw-shucks charm. "Why not?" He wraps the leather duster tightly around himself, the lapels up as proof against the cold.
The girl's eyes, flashing and startlingly light in the midst of so much eye-liner, narrow. "Because you scream 'I'm undercover and I didn't do me fuckin' research 'fore I went out'." The North London accent gets more pronounced as she speaks. She takes another drag, giving him a look like his presence is ruining the taste of her fag.
The boy throws him an embarrassed look. Tugs the girl's arm in warning.
"You think I'm a cop?" This could definitely be an issue. Too many people to risk RetCon. He's going to have to talk his way in somehow.
"You can quit the fake American accent -- we ain't having none of that shite," says the girl. "And yeah, if you're not one of London's Finest, then I'm Billie fucking Piper."
The boy shoots him another apologetic look. "It's the corset, mate. Dead giveaway."
It's uncomfortable too. Much as he's always appreciated the sado-masochistic aesthetics -- he's as human as the next guy -- Jack never could understand how women stood having their insides squished like this. He opens his coat (Oh! Wow! Cold air on nipples is a bad thing!) enough to glance down at the torture device that's strapped around his body from hips to mid-chest. (Which is also nearly impossible to tighten correctly all by one's self.)
"It's upside-down," says the boy in answer to the silent question. "The point goes up. Draws the eyes up toward your chest. The flat seam should follow your hip line. Show the girls what a nice arse you have."
He doesn't have to fake the blush. (God, he really is too old for this. Last time he messed with corsets on a regular basis, women usually wore them and the point always faced down.) "My girlfriend -- she bought this for me. She said she'd meet me here, but..."
"So you a cop or what?" The girl's hostility hasn't abated even slightly.
"I am not a cop," he assures her. Telling the truth makes it easier; John -- who, along with everything else, did happen to be the most effective liar Jack ever knew -- always maintained that the most convincing lies were ninety percent truth. "I'm an airman. Captain. But I'm on leave and she said..." He lets his actual discomfort show a little. "If the other guys ever saw me like this..."
The boy laughs in pained sympathy. "Talked into it by a girl."
He latches on to the male solidarity. "Pretty much, yeah." He looks bleakly at the doors, which are much closer than they were a minute ago. "I am so screwed."
"Poor sod." The boy's eyes sparkle with amusement. He gives the girl a quick kiss and ducks out of line.
The girl does not soften. "You're not going to help him?"
"Hush." A bit of male pride shows in the boy's body language. "I'll meet you inside, love." He beckons to Jack. "C'mon, Captain Corset. We'll fix you right up."
What follows next can only be described as one of the stranger experiences of Jack's life. The boy ("Name's Salem.") ducks into an alley. Helps Jack strip off the corset. ("Poor bastard. November in London's a bitch, innit?") Fix the sleeves on the mesh shirt. ("No, mate, you push your thumb through the fabric below the seam. Yeah. Like that. Makes it look like fingerless gloves.") He has to admit that point-upwards is oddly more comfortable and much more sexy -- his nipples just peek over the edge of the vinyl -- but he can't stand being laced quite as tightly as Salem can pull. ("No worries. Corset virgins usually need some time before they get to like tight lacing.") Salem even digs a full makeup kit out of the sporran on his utilitkilt. ("You've got nice eyes, Captain, but Egyptian kohl will just make you look squinty. A bit of eye-liner on the upper lids -- that's right, don't blink. A bit of colour to accentuate the mouth -- God, I'd KILL to have lips like yours.")
Though rushed, the ritual has the curious feel of donning war paint. By the end of it, Jack feels stronger. Sexier. More settled. And much of the unease that'd been dogging him since he first donned this costume abates. (Especially after Salem pronounces him assembled enough to put his overcoat back on. Chilly though it may be, the leather does help cut the occasional gust of biting wind.)
"Voila!" Salem stows the kit back in his sporran. Buckles it soundly. Grins at Jack. "If I bent that way, I'd shag you."
He cups the boy's cheek. "Thank you."
With a smile, Salem steps back away from the touch. "I said IF I bent that way, Captain Corset." He jerks his head. "If Vervaine isn't still pissed as hell, we should be back to the queue just in time."
Smiling, he follows the boy.
"For what it's worth, sir," Salem says quietly. "Though I'm sure you have to pass for straight because the Yank military are a bunch of homophobic bastards, in this crowd you can admit it was a boy stood you up and not a girl."
He nearly misses a step in his surprise. "What?'
"We're all freaks here, Captain Corset," Salem assures him as they hustle toward the girl (who doesn't look any happier to see him than when he left). "No one's going to throw you out for swinging the other way."
And if the boy did swing both ways, Jack would kiss him for being a wonderful human being. As it is, he gives him a brief but heartfelt smile. "She's lucky to have you."
"Vervaine?" Salem chuckles as they approach his glaring girlfriend. "She's a bit rough around the edges, but she's all right."
"Who's this, then?" The bouncer cuts in before Vervaine can retort.
"Let him in, Bob," says Salem. "He's a Yank on leave from up Berkshire way."
"Welford man, is he?" Bob the Bouncer chuckles. "Different kind of flying you'll do in here, Captain."
Bob's female counterpart digs a mobile out of her hip-bag. "Let's see that ensemble, luv." Salem holds Jack's coat obligingly as he strikes a suitably moody pose. The female bouncer snaps a quick pic of him. Shows it to Bob, who nods his approval.
Bob fixes him with a penetrating look. "Off you go, sir. Have a time, but if you start any trouble, that pic'll go straight to your C.O."
"And don't think we can't find his e-mail." The female bouncer tucks the mobile back in her hip-bag. "Wouldn't want him to have to come get you, lipstick and all."
Jack does his best to look chastened -- actually, come to think of it he'd really rather NOT explain this one to Owen -- smiles his gratitude, and enters what promises to be one of the best parties he's been to in quite some time.
At least here he's safe. No Time Agency breathing down his neck. (Pathetic excuse though they may be for law enforcement and much as John's sure they're about to go the way of the Dodo, he has no desire to jeopardize his paycheck this close to retirement.) Once all interested parties received their merchandise and he got his due compensation for his excessive brilliance in carrying off the caper, John jumped back six months from the last drop-off point. (Never hurts to cover his tracks by confusing his time signature a little more.)
Now he's rich, he's set for future clients, he's made his name, and he's got great prospects. He'll be fine, even when the Time Agency implodes under the weight of its own obsolescence and corruption. (Kind of disappointing, though, considering that the corruption was one of the main reasons he joined.) And, to make his night even better, here comes Kim, cutting through the crowd like the deliciously ruthless little thing she is.
Sometimes happiness is as simple as an armful of lace and velvet and leather. (Some things never go out of style, and she does wear all those buckles well. Fun to think of how long it'd take to tease her out of them.) It doesn't take much more than an open-mouthed kiss to convince him to give her one good turn round the dance floor. Girl always was light on her feet. When she offers him that handy jewelled flask, he drains it dry. Lets the mix of alcohol and Ecstasy blur the rough edges off the world around him.
At her pretty pout, he offers her his own flask (from his own private stash, no less.)
Kim's eyes go wide with delight. "What's in it this time?"
He bends over her, hand at her waist to keep her pressed against him, and says in a conspiratorial murmur (or as close to a murmur as one can get while the music's roaring at one hundred twenty decibels,) "A taste of Barcelona."
(Of course, she doesn't need to know he means the planet and not the country.)
Kim pulls a face. "It's not port, is it?"
He gives her his best Affronted Look. "Sacrilege." He traces one finger along her cheek and to the point of one of those adorable fake fangs. "I know you don't drink... wine."
Laughing, she kisses him. Sniffs at the flask. Her eyes widen. (That's right, Little Miss, your species only THINKS it knows how to brew chocolate liqueur.) She gulps it greedily.
Chuckling with the buzz of a good head of absinthe and the imminent warm fuzziness of Ecstasy, he rescues the flask before Little Miss Chocoholic can drink it all. (She'll regret it in a minute when the effects kick in. Sugar rush has nothing on this stuff.)
"Save some for your friends," he says.
He's seen cats lick cream from their chops with less greedy enthusiasm. "What else is in it?" she says.
"Upper," he replies. "Compatible with X and pot. Warn people to go easy on the booze for an hour afterwards. No acid and NO heroin."
The first razor-edge of fear creeps in her eyes. "It won't kill them, will it?"
"Kimmy, Kimmy, Kimmy," he scolds. "I'm hurt you'd think I might ever do anything to hurt our pretty little friends." He screws the cap back on his flask (genuine bootleg item he got from a genuine bootlegger.) "No, mixing drugs with this won't kill anyone, it'll just give them a killer case of the runs. Who wants to trip out while stuck on the crapper?"
Laughing, she snogs him again. He hands her the flask of Barcelonan chocolate liqueur and she trots off to share her prize with her lovely playmates. John pockets her empty jewelled flask as a souvenir. If he's feeling half so good when he gets back home to the fifty-first century as he does now, maybe he'll even refill Kimmy's flask and return it.
"Look into the mirror of your soul
Love and hate are one in all
Sacrifice turns to revenge and believe me
You will see the face who will say
I love you...
I'll kill you...
But I love you forever..."
Whistling a happy tune that has nothing to do with the Enigma track that's playing, John has a look round at his prospects.
He really shouldn't be here, should he? That man's been tailing Ianto for a while now. Tall, dark, and handsome in a way he thought disappeared with Cary Grant and Clark Gable. (Movie idol. He's gorgeous as a movie idol.) And though the ensemble the man is wearing only accentuates his beautiful lines and toned form, Ianto's sure that if he were a bit less floaty, he'd be able to pinpoint why this guy doesn't belong here.
The man manoeuvres his way through the crowd as though the party scene is familiar and comfortable territory. Smiles his hello.
Ianto beats him to the first word. "Why are you following me?" It's hard to be hostile when one's feeling so mellow, but he does his best.
Surprise turns to a charming smile (Ohhhhhhhh. Pretty. Don't be so pretty. Surely there's some smarminess beneath that easy confidence?)
The man extends a hand. "Captain Jack Harkness."
He struggles through the pleasant fuzz for some hard edge. He can't even find fault with the Captain's costume. The man reeks of authority, yet he's picture perfect from the beautifully-tailored vinyl corset to those pettable corduroy trousers. Edible from head to toe. He's also fifteen years too old (at least) to be in with this crowd. A walking contradiction and DAMN him for having such a gorgeous sparkle to those eyes.
He takes the Captain's hand without offering his own name. "Good to meet you, Captain Harkness." He pulls back his hand as quickly as he reasonably can. "Sorry. I have to go."
The Captain actually catches his arm when he turns. "Look, I'm sorry to have to be blunt like this, but I really need to talk to you."
He gives his best chilly smile. "Then you should really talk to someone else, sir," he says, clearly and firmly. "I don't do boys."
He pulls out of the Captain's grip and lets the crowd envelop him.
He shouldn't be here, should he? Just as Jack has almost recovered from being dismissed by his teenage would-be charge, he spots none other than his psychotic ex, bumping and grinding with a group of black-clad, streaky-haired kids. (The shameless bastard. Though in a weird sort of way that crimson coat fits right in here)
And what really ticks Jack off is that his ex looks up, smiles, and then completely ignores him. (They are sooooo going to have words before Jack leaves London. Who knows what mayhem that criminal has been up to?)
A pretty, round-faced girl in blue, purple, and black dreadlocks steps in front of him, moving sinuously to the beat. "You're new here."
He smiles, putting in a bit of the Harkness sparkle. "You must be the welcome wagon."
She smiles, closed-mouthed, in a way that doesn't reach her eyes. "Actually, I'm Kim."
Ouch. Shut down twice in five minutes. This is starting to be bad for his ego. When Kim offers him a flask, he takes it. Sniffs a bit. Oh God! Barcelonan chocolate liqueur! It's been ages since he tasted...! (And he is seriously going to have to KILL John if he's spreading stuff like this around with no regard for the timeline.)
But, of course -- being only human -- he can't resist a good long drink. It tastes even better than he remembers. Hits his veins like thick, rich laughter in liquid form. Sets him grinning in spite of himself.
"Good, isn't it?" Kim takes her flask back. Blocks his path, moving to the music with far more sinuous grace than he might expect from someone in a corseted bodice. "So how do you know Ianto?"
"Who?" he says. (When in doubt, play dumb.)
"Ianto," she repeats. "The boy you've been shadowing ever since he showed up. If you're looking for company, I should warn you not to get your hopes up; half the boys here are praying for the day Ianto decides to switch."
Oh man, she thinks he wants to lay the kid. "It's not like that."
She has the most alarming and yet arousing way of moving with him. "Then what is it like?"
Okay, when in doubt, retreat to a little bit of truth. "I'm here to offer him a job." At the disbelieving eyebrow Kim raises, he says, "Something he's already very good at."
Kim takes another hit from her flask. "Keeping to himself and refusing chat-up lines?"
He just can't refuse when she offers him another sip. (Who knows when he'll get another taste of this?) "That too."
The girl leans closer. "Ianto is a little weird -- which should tell you something, coming from me -- but he's always been a sweet guy and a perfect gentleman." She flashes what Jack guesses are fake fangs. (Though they fit her teeth so well it has to be a professional job.) "Hurt him," Kim continues, "and you answer to me and my friends."
She weaves her way back into the crowd. "Enjoy the rave, Captain Corset."
He shouldn't be here, should he? Of all the raves in all the years in all the cities on all the planets, Jack just HAD to pick this one. Pisses John off and comes perilously close to harshing his well-deserved mellow. Well, nothing is quite so satisfying as watching Kimmy dress down his heartless ex. (That's right, Jack, this is my sandbox, these are my toys, and in case you're too old and decrepit to hear it properly, that happens to be my music playing.)
Well, sometimes it's his music. He'll claim it when Sisters of Mercy are on.
He pulls the three girls closest to him even closer. Uses the beat as a thin excuse to rub and grind to the music. Makes sure Jack gets an eyeful before John turns his back on him a second time.
The only way this could be better is if he could steal whatever trick Jack's after right out from under his nose.
Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend his night. At least Ianto's finally put enough distance between himself and that Captain fellow. Strange guy. (And he is NOT thinking of the sparkling flirt of those blue, blue eyes or the way that unkempt fringe dipped so perfectly over the Captain's forehead. It's not fair for the man to bear such a strong resemblance to the man who's appeared in Ianto's dreams since he was a child.)
Someone runs a reassuring hand down his back. The touch feels good. His hands brush the velvet of someone's bodice. Anonymous, but familiar. These people are good. He begins to loosen up again. The crowd is in a good mood tonight, made all the better by a bit of camaraderie, a bit more booze, and a little chemical enhancement. Dancing feels good. People feel good. The world feels better and better by the second.
Then he sees the man in the red coat and is lost.
Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend his night. If life were fair, Jack would be able to enjoy every body that brushes against his. Every stray hand that caresses the vinyl corset. Every set of fingertips that stroke the corduroy of his trousers. Every beat of the music that envelops him. Even those two sips of Barcelonan liqueur were too much, but it's hard to resent the happiness that seems to make the music into a living, smiling thing. Every cheer and shout and this haze of smoke only feel more and more like home. These people want to find bliss. Want to wrap themselves in it. And so does he.
As he relaxes, the young people around him move closer. Hands wander over his arms. Shoulders. Tease the top edge of the corset. Whisper along the bottom edge. Smiling, a girl turns his head. Molds herself to his body. Kisses him. Teases his nipples through the mesh shirt. Turns him toward her partner, a boy with lovely deep eyes and skin as dark as the girl's. He goes willingly into the boy's embrace. Tastes spices and the quiet offer of sex. Someone suckles his fingers. He gasps in pleasure at the startling nip of teeth at his wrist. Lips tease the back of his neck. Hands. Mouths. All around Jack is the press of willing flesh. The trust of strangers. The safety of anonymity. The bliss of being worshipped to the constant beat of deafening music.
If Jack didn't need to find the Jones kid, this would be as close to Heaven as he's been since he left his own time.
Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend his night. There's no shortage of pretty and willing playmates in this group, but John learned long ago to listen whenever that sixth sense he describes as "lust-dar" goes off. Anytime, anywhere his senses catch a whiff of someone looking his way with conscious intent to bed, he finds he can't concentrate on anything else.
There. The pretty little Goth boy over there. (Not that "Goth" exactly narrows it down in this crowd.) Round cherubic face. Pale eyes that seem to shift colour in what little light there is. Good build. Kinky plethora of D-rings down the front of that nicely-tailored shirt. From the glimpses he gets as the crowd moves, the boy has tight trousers over good strong legs. All the better to strip off slowly. (Yummy, yummy, yummy.)
He can feel as well as see that flush of passionate recognition. That moment when the pretty thing says to himself, "YOU!"
And who is John to resist so delicious an invitation?
The Seven Deadly Sins are often the most effective start. John grinds closer to the girl in front of him. (Always start with Lust.)
The boy watches in stolen glances.
John teases the girl's mouth, eyes on the boy. (A little Envy for you, you pretty thing?)
The boy misses a beat. Stumbles. Turns away, though even from here, John can see the tension in his shoulders is from conflicted desire. (He does so love being right.)
He caresses the girls farewell. Lets the music move him closer and closer. Savours the stray touches that greet him as he sidles closer to his prey. (They might want me, gorgeous, but I only have eyes for you.)
The sweet kid is trying so hard not to look. Not to notice. Not to want. But even a blind man would feel that sweet conflict -- the burning need beneath the thin veneer of cool disinterest. (Poor repressed little thing.)
He indulges in a bit of Vanity. Flashes the left side of the asymmetrical tee. Even with the jacket on, when John angles just right his left nipple peeks over the top edge of the shirt.
The boy must've seen it too, judging by the blush. "I... I... I'm not into boys."
"Good," John says. "I'm not a boy."
Now for some Sloth. Brush past slowly. Slowly. Slow look. No touch. No rush. All the time in the world. Move in sync with the music. Let the boy find the rhythm. Encourage those thoughts with a look, but never invade his space. (You come to me, my lovely, or you don't come at all.)
Then leave him hot and bothered and unfinished on the dance floor.
This just isn't fair. Ianto watches the man dance sinuously away. He should just stop LOOKING at him. Like the Captain, this man is older than the rest of the crowd. Should be a turnoff, but instead Ianto just wants to reach out to him. To follow him. (To f-- No... Can't think that.)
Though still slowly gyrating away, the man casts a steaming-hot look over his shoulder. (Come here, you lovely thing.) And though it's not the first time someone's given Ianto a bedroom-eyed look, it is a new experience to want every one of the silent suggestions in those eyes.
It pisses him off, the arrogance. As if Ianto would ruin everything he's built for one quick frot on a dance floor. But oh, one quick frot is not all the man in the red coat is offering. He has the quiet, patient calm of a man who knows what he's doing and is very, very good at it.
Hungry. He's starved for the touch. He's been so good for so long. Is it really so wrong to want...?
Another smouldering look. Ianto's insides turn to mush. Suddenly the buzz in his veins is from a very different high. This one isn't fooled by anything. Sees him for what he is. Wants him just as he is. No need to hide or pretend. And though the man in the red coat is not the first to call him on his desires, it is the first time Ianto's ever wanted someone to lay him bare in every sense of the word, and that desire scares the hell out of him.
He follows the man. (He'll just have a quick dance. A quick dance never hurt anyone.)
"Tomorrow is hard to find
And it seems like twenty five years of
Promises and give me more
Scenes of a hand-me-down in
Dresses heard before..."
The man turns to him when Ianto finally draws close. Again, no touches. No invasion of space. But even so, it's like the man's hands can send heat and want straight into him even without touching him. Like he knows how Ianto's wired and how to exploit it. Even as the man in the red coat moves them off the dance floor, the subtle seduction feeds so perfectly into Ianto's mellow high that he doesn't really see the point of resisting. (This one might be worth getting undressed for.)
"First and last and always:
Til the end of time..."
Ianto reaches out. Strokes the gorgeous gimp of the coat. (My God, it almost feels real.) Loses himself in deep eyes that seem to have seen all the wonders of the universe.
(Teach me what you know.)
"First and last and always:
Mine."
A gentle hand at his waist. Chaste but full of so many possibilities. Testing. (Do you want this, pretty boy?) The man circles slowly behind him, a warm, patient presence. They move in perfect sync. He wants him. And Ianto should just move away. Get out the glare again, turn, and make the man back the fuck off.
He has the sense that if he told him to stop, the man would. But instead, he takes a step back. Moves into the beautiful stranger's arms. Lets the man in the red coat wrap himself around him. Savours the rush of heat from that first heady contact.
Why this one? Why now? He must be insane. But the man has the most heavenly aftershave -- cinnamon and woodsmoke and spices -- a nonverbal promise of what's to come if he consents. Ianto's whole body tightens sweetly, anticipating, as the man moves them both into the shadows that ring the dance floor.
Lips brush his neck. He arches into the touch in spite of himself.
"You really are gorgeous, aren't you?" says that voice in his ear, clear above the rush and thunder of bass. Slow, sure hands run up his chest. "Shall I stop, my lovely?"
Ianto turns in the man's arms and answers him with a kiss.
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