Fic, Ecstasy, Chapter 2/5: "Dance"

[loveslashangst]

Story: Ecstasy
Author: Melinda Kitty melindakitty
Beta: ophymirage
Characters: Captain Jack Harkness, Captain John Hart, Ianto Jones
Rated: Very VERY Adult for slash, first times, Therinian lube, decadent hotels, and some HAWT John/Ianto weevil-hunting. Or whatever metaphor you'd like to use. We're easy.
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, truth

Beta's Note:
Ophymirage sez, "Mel and I would like to apologize for the delay in posting. Actually, that delay was mostly my fault, as we went through three beta drafts, and every time I reached a certain point I had to, um, stop thinking about grammar and retire for a while. Which slowed us down a bit, rather."

MelindaKitty sez, "No, srsly. She did. Even made me wait for a bit until she was ready to come back. That is when I KNEW this was Made of Win. It may piss off the Janto shippers for a little bit, but y'all will love me more in the next chappie."

"We move like cagey tigers
Oh, we couldn't get closer than this
The way we walk, the way we talk
The way we stalk, the way we kiss
We slip through the streets while everyone sleeps
Gettin' bigger and sleeker and wider and brighter
We bite and scratch and scream all night
Let's go and throw all the songs we know
Into the sea, you and me...

"...We should have each other to tea, huh?
We should have each other with cream
Then curl up by the fire and sleep for a while
It's the grooviest thing, it's the perfect dream..."
(The Cure)

(In which Ianto plans his first dance, Jack needs a second dance, and John wants to dance for the rest of his life.)



Lips brush Ianto's 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.

This just isn't fair. Jack only took his eyes off the kid for a minute. He could swear it was only a minute. (And if the girl rocking sweetly against him doesn't take her hand off his crotch, he might just ruin these very nice trousers.)

Much as he adores the touches, the kisses, and just generally being worshipped, he really can't afford this. Jack works his way back out of the crowd, which turns its attention to a new idol. Dammit. He shouldn't regret turning away. He shouldn't regret leaving.

He should've been more professional in the first place, but "professional" usually doesn't involve tight Gothic clothing, a hypnotic beat, and a raging hard-on. (Oh, it's like a taste of the very best of home after a century of repression and want.)

Grimly, Jack scans the crowd for his missing quarry.

This just isn't fair. It's too easy. Too good. The kid is a FANTASTIC kisser, all need and want and barely repressed desperation. Like the proverbial dam breaking, once his pretty little Goth boy gives in, he makes a helluvan armful. Hungry kisses in greedy bites. John chuckles in spite of himself -- he was right about this one.

When the kid finally comes up for air, John holds him, the boy's arms tight against his chest, hands fisted in his coat. Both of them are a bit breathless. And even in the near-dark of the shadows, he can see the conflict in the boy's eyes. (Think I'll call you "Byron", my lovely -- a poet's sensibilities, a lovely face that hides a knowing heart, just a hint of angst to make you interesting.)

He cups the boy's face in his hands. Kisses his "Byron" as tenderly as he can. The lovely creature begins to tremble in his arms. But he doesn't pull away. Doesn't tense. Instead, he kisses back with all the intensity of a drowning man gasping for his last breath of air. (Thought you had to hide, didn't you? Not with me, darling. Never with me.)

And that's pretty much the moment when John realizes what he's found. Not just repressed. Not just hungry. Some of Byron's sweet shyness comes from inexperience. Moreover, even an idiot can tell this one's been hurt, poor baby, and is looking for someone to love him all better.

Lucky for him, John is very good at loving people all better. (He seems to recall that first tryst with Kim involving more than a little sexual healing.) And now that he knows what he knows, how can he in good conscience abandon his Byron to the ravening crowd? Hunter though John may be, there are true predators here, as in any large gathering, and this sweet boy is too tempting a morsel to leave for them.

Nothing heals the soul quite so nicely as a generous lover.

He will follow him to the ends of the earth. The man in the red coat -- infantry coat, though the man acts more like a commander. Maybe a Musketeer? The man in the red coat drapes a slightly possessive arm around Ianto's shoulder. A giddy freedom that has nothing to do with the drugs surges in his veins. (Aramis. The man's like a modern-day Aramis -- the allure of an easy smile, and he definitely has all the unchaste thoughts one might expect from a thoroughly defrocked seminary student.)

He's going to go home with this "Aramis." Damn the consequences. The trust is such an alien sentiment. Perhaps he should be more suspicious of it, but some sixth sense he can't put into words will not let him withdraw from this beautiful stranger.

The November air is a chilly tonic in his veins, like well-iced champagne -- bubbly and intoxicating all in one. Aramis shifts his arm to Ianto's waist. It may be a mistake, but it feels too good to object. As soon as they're a block from the rave, Ianto slips his own arm around Aramis's slender waist. Looks to him for approval.

Aramis's grin flashes in the dim.

They walk in silence for another block before the high begins to wear off. (God, he doesn't even know Aramis's real name.)

"Where are we going?" Ianto says.

Another flash of a grin. "The Landmark."

He must've misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"The Landmark Hotel, Marylebone, London, England," Aramis says. His accent's odd. Not quite American, but not British either. Hard to place except as "not from here".

And he's just named one of the poshest spots Ianto can think of. He's been by the hotel before -- lovely old palatial spot from the Age Of Steam. But he's sure it costs a bomb to reserve even the cheapest room. (If it's not at least three hundred quid per, Ianto would be amazed.)

Not that he's one to question good fortune, but... "Em. Can you afford it, sir?"

Aramis sweeps him into a rather heady embrace. Snogs him soundly. "Darling, you have no idea how long I've been looking forward to a night like this."

The kiss. The smell of him. Firelight and spices and over it all in the cinnamon. Warm in the cold. And he's solid and alive and not a dream at all and Ianto's carefully-crafted yes-I'm-straight façade will be utterly destroyed before this night is through.

That thought really should bother him more than it does.

But if Aramis can afford a luxury room in a luxury hotel, why are they heading for Camden Town Station?

Time to find out who he's stepped out with. "I know a shortcut to Marylebone."

"Do you?" Aramis looks intrigued. Appraising. There's a finely-tuned mind behind those grey eyes, dark in the dim, and Ianto has the sense that Aramis is evaluating him every bit as much as Ianto's judging him.

He nods. "I go to school near here."

"UCL?" Aramis says.

He nods again. "Tube won't be open this time of night, and even if it were, the ride's longer than if we just walk."

Aramis pulls him close. The FEEL of him. Toned. Lithe. Stronger than his light build would seem to indicate. "Warmer, though."

Ianto's eyes droop closed in pleasure at the kiss. Aramis's hands drift slowly up his back. He shivers in ways that have nothing to do with the blast of frigid air as the wind assaults them again. In Aramis's arms, he could be safe and warm.

He chases the kiss. Teases Aramis's lips with his. Pulls him in. And the more he seeks what he wants, the more Aramis hums with pleasure.

"If you want warm," Ianto teases. "We could always run."

Aramis pulls back, smiling. Cocks an eyebrow. "Think you can keep up?"

"That won't be the issue." His brain is already mapping several possible routes through Regent's Park. "How are you at scaling fences?"

Aramis snorts disdain. "Darling, you have no idea what I'm capable of."

"Good." He smiles in spite of himself, thinking of the narrow bridge by the Boating Lake, just before the Outer Circle. "When I lose you, you won't be such a bother to find."

"Was that a challenge?" But Aramis sounds amused, not annoyed.

He brushes Aramis's lips with his, then takes off at a dead run. (Catch me if you can.)

And much to his pleasure, not only does he hear pounding feet hard on his heels, but the Capatin's delighted laugh ricochets off the buildings.

He will follow him to the ends of the earth. Jack will have to; when Yvonne finds out he lost the kid because he was letting himself get felt up at a rave...

Oh, he is SO going to leave this part out of his report.

You'd think it'd be impossible for him to find anyone in this crowd, but Kim is distinctive even among all the velvet and leather and buckles and oh dear God please say that that boy's spikes are all externally-fixed and not implanted.

Physical touch seems to be more acceptable in this crowd than in most twenty-first century situations, so he dares a chaste caress at Kim's waist. She turns in his arms. Her smile fades quickly once she recognizes him.

"Kim," he says by way of greeting.

"Captain Corset," she replies, though she never misses a beat of her dance.

"Who did he leave with?" Much as he'd love to finesse this one, if Jones is in danger, the sooner Jack knows about it, the quicker he can ride to the kid's rescue. (Why the hell did he let him out of his sight?)

"I'm not sure how that's any of your affair," she says. She doesn't ask who he's talking about, though.

He lets her see a hint of the sheer weight of his responsibility in his eyes. "Is Ianto Jones in danger?"

She stiffens a little, but the lazy insolence leaves her look. "Adam's never hurt anyone. Everyone says he's a generous host and a fantastic lay."

He pulls her close. Loosens up a little. Turns on the charm now that they're getting somewhere. "Who's Adam?"

"That's not his real name," Kim says. "Don't know his real name; he never tells it. But it's the coat. The red coat, like some sort of Cavalier or something."

Oh God. There's no way the Fates could be that cruel. "Blond?"

Kim nods.

"Slightly shorter than me? Slighter build too?"

Kim nods more vigorously.

"My age or a little older?" He is going to fucking KILL John.

"You know him, then?" Even as she's batting those lovely eyes at him to feign innocence, he can tell Kim's trying to put two and two together.

He fakes the half-grin. "We go back, Adam and me." He cuts her off before she can quiz him further. "Where's he staying this time?" She'll probably lie to him, but at least it'll give him a place to start.

"Got a taste for the posh life," says Kim. "Likes nice hotels. Somewhere on the Tube, usually. Makes it easy to get home the next morning." She smiles. "Always the gentleman is our Adam."

"Which hotel, Kim?"

Her eyes are veiled. "Try the Academy."

"The Academy Hotel?" But it fits John's pattern -- finish a con, skip back in time, get drunk, find company, have a fantastic shag, return home in time to pretend he still works for the Time Agency. (Good times. Sometimes he almost believes he doesn't miss them.)

"The Academy Hotel." Kim dares him with a look to call her a liar.

He gives her a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."

Now to figure out what the hell became of his overcoat, get back to the SUV, and track down an anomalous time signature.

He will follow him to the ends of the earth. God, just when he thought he'd had the best high of the evening, John's lovely little Goth boy leads him on this merry chase through Camden and onto the wilder paths of Regent's Park. "Byron" ducks through gates and over fences with no regard whatsoever for restricted areas or private property.

And he'd be lapping his lovely boy if it weren't for the hard-on.

It's not just the thrill of the run. The chill of the air. The way he has to keep Byron constantly in his sights lest he duck or dodge in directions John hadn't anticipated. It's that Byron is a hunter, like him. Perhaps not blooded and certainly not a born assassin (though that well-suppressed rage could be useful), but he understands the thrill of the chase. (Heart racing. Blood pumping. Darling, how did you know what does it for me?)

Byron KNOWS this place. Not just the main drags and easy thoroughfares but also the wild spots where no one will see their passage. And he doesn't pause even for a moment. Oh no. Not even to catch his breath. (Athletic thing, isn't he?) It's as though Byron's got their whole flight plan mapped out in his head.

(Note to self: Whoever this brilliant young man is, don't underestimate him.)

He catches Byron on the little footbridge past the lake. Spins him into his arms. Kisses him until they're both a different kind of breathless. And Byron is flushed and warm and smells of the promise of sex. They snog rather shamelessly for what feels both a blissful eternity and not nearly long enough.

"N-n-nearly there." Byron has the most adorable stammer.

John rubs a little more insistently against him. "Yes, darling. Me too."

With a half-laugh, Byron kisses him and scrambles off into the dark.

It's been a long time since John was this determined to catch anyone when it didn't involve money, a contract, or vendetta. Whoever this boy is, he intrigues the shit out of him, which is a decidedly new sensation. (Usually, it's just enough that his partners are pretty and willing.) And though John hasn't yet gotten the pleasant lay he was originally looking for, this will be a night he'll remember. (You will be a fixed point in my personal timeline, my lovely, by which I will reckon "before" or "after".)

Byron is out of breath by the time they dodge back onto proper streets ("Melcombe", the symbiont seems to think this is, though it's a bit fuzzy about whether it's "Street" or "Place".) The final few blocks are an easy jog, more for show than for any real competition. John has the sense that as much as Byron is passing his tests, so is he passing some as-yet-unspoken requirements.

Of course, after-hours entry can be annoying even at the poshest places. (Worst thing about having this much implanted tech is the ambient radiation. Destroys the charge on these primitive magnetic card keys every time, which means that even when he's a legitimate guest who paid in cash, he still has to pick the damn lock.)

Fortunately it's nothing that can't be fixed by a little electro-magnetic tinkering from his Vortex Manipulator.

And though he tries to be subtle and pretend he uses the completely-useless key-card to gain entry, he knows Byron doesn't miss that cheat from tech that hasn't been invented yet. (God, you turn me on, you brilliant thing.)

He stows the key-card with a flourish and pulls Byron inside the lobby.

He's really doing this. Ianto's heart hammers in his chest. The run was an odd kind of relief. Work off some of the tension. Work off some of the high so he's thinking clearly. Work out how much he can rely on this man whose name he doesn't even know.

"Aramis" wasn't kidding when he said he could keep up. No matter how Ianto tried to lose him, he followed every turn. And the kiss on the bridge...

It's all he can do not to grin like an idiot at the thought.

And of course, they snog and grind against each other like shameless newlyweds in the lift. The beautiful man's body has become familiar to him, even in so short a time. Now each embrace feels more and more like home. He can trust this stranger. He WANTS to trust this stranger. Whoever Aramis is, he's seen and done amazing things and, if Ianto is good enough, maybe he'll get to share some of them with him.

The lift dings. The doors open. Aramis laces his fingers with Ianto's. Pulls him gently into the hall. Leads him down toward a sumptuous doorway. Slides the key card into the door as a cover for whatever weird thing he's doing with that wrist-strap of his.

The door opens.

Oh God, he's doing this. He's really doing this. He can't back out now. He's followed a gorgeous stranger to his gorgeous room in a gorgeous hotel and my GOD if his father could see the way this room is apportioned. (Floor-to-ceiling draperies. Genuine period antiques to complete the illusion of Victorian opulence.)

Aramis sheds his coat with an easy shrug. Folds it lovingly. Lays it on a sumptuous chair.

"It's beautiful," Ianto says.

"Should be at eighteen hundred per." Aramis heads for a stand. Against all possible logic, there's a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of fresh ice. Beside it is a table with two champagne flutes. (Did Aramis call ahead to the hotel while they were ducking through bushes and sprinting across pitches?)

"I... I meant the coat, sir." He accepts the brimming flute when Aramis offers it to him. Sips in a way that's sure to only put an exclamation point on how nervous he looks. "How did you come by it?"

Aramis sips his own flute. Rolls the champagne in his mouth, which only draws attention to those gorgeous cheekbones. Swallows slowly, enjoying every drop. Slides an arm around Ianto's waist. "Now why would you want to know about my coat?"

He can't seem to turn off his brain. "It's made from fabric that, if not actual stock from the nineteenth century, is a fairly flawless reproduction. Gimp's right too. Are you a soldier, sir?"

"I love it when you call me 'sir'." Aramis kisses him deeply. Recovers his easy smile. "And no, my lovely, I'm not a soldier. The coat belonged to one, though. He gave it to me after I saved his life."

"You saved someone's life?" Surprised. He shouldn't sound surprised. Aramis might take offense. "I mean..."

"I've saved many people's lives." Aramis's mouth is so close he can feel the heat of it. (Oh yes, please.) "Even if they don't always know it." The man makes him ache to taste him in every sense of the word. "Shall I save you tonight, my lovely?"

(Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yesyesyesyes!) "C-c-could do, yeah."

Aramis pulls back, chuckling. "You, darling, are patently adorable." He runs the fingertips of one hand in ever-increasing spirals across Ianto's back. Encourages him to take another sip of champagne. "So what else have you noticed about me?"

(Stop talking. Just stop talking and be happy that you're about to get what promises to be a five-star shag.) Ianto actually enjoys the champagne this time. "Erm. Your boots?"

A cautious appraisal. (And oh please don't stop doing that with your fingers.) "My boots?"

"Th-they-- they're either a fantastic forgery or you have a friend who's a vampire." (Please, please, please stop making stupid jokes and just get naked. No one wants to hear such nonsense.)

Aramis cocks his head, amused and intrigued. "A vampire? Why, darling? How old d'you think they are?"

He gulps another swallow, too quickly this time. OW! Champagne up the nose bloody STINGS. He turns away. Chokes. Sputters. Aramis pats him on the back, sympathetic. Ianto takes another sip, if only to prove that he IS in fact capable of drinking fine champagne without looking like a complete arse. "F-four hundred years, give or take?" he says. The champagne tastes good, clear and cold and dry. "Or maybe you're some kind of time traveller."

Aramis goes very still. Smiles. Kisses him gently. "Music," he says. "I think a little music is called for here." Though it's undoubtedly meant to seem like magic, Aramis does something with that odd wrist strap again.

An introspective melody begins to churn to a sensual beat. (Dead Can Dance, unless he's mistaken -- several of his friends favour this as nonverbal foreplay.) Ianto bolts the rest of his glass. Burps loudly. "Oh. Sorry. I'm sorry."

Chuckling, Aramis refills the glass and his own. "More slowly this time, darling." He tips the glass up to Ianto's lips. "Taste it. Roll it on your tongue. A bit of bite. A bit of dry. A bit of effervescence."

Only Aramis could make champagne a borderline pornographic experience. (Not that he's complaining.) He rolls the mouthful on his tongue. Enjoys it.

Aramis watches him, eyes warm and suggestive. "Better?"

"Much, ta." He keeps his eyes on the flute as the bubbles trace their ways up the sides. "I'm sorry, sir -- I always talk rubbish when I'm nervous."

Aramis tips Ianto's chin up. "Nervous, I believe, but rubbish?" An oddly affectionate kiss. "Never, darling."

(Whoever you are, I love you for that.)

After another swallow for courage, Ianto sets his glass down. Begins to loosen the first of the D-ring straps at his throat.

Aramis watches him over the rim of his flute. "You look like a condemned man fitting himself for a noose."

Blunt, but the quip releases tension he hadn't even been aware of. "I... I just know that you... That we..."

Aramis sets his glass down beside Ianto's. Moves close. "Just kiss me for a minute."

And he does. Familiar. This is familiar. He can do this. That cinnamon scent drifts around him again, awakening all his senses. (It's really not fair for a man to smell this good.) Tension drains out of his body. Aramis's mouth is soft and hard in turns. The man leads him. Teases him. Gives. Takes. Generous and open. Possessive and demanding. Hot as hell and as much a contradiction as everything else about him.

When Ianto reaches again for the D-rings, it's not out of obligation, but because he's pretty sure if they keep this up much longer, he'll come without any further prompting. Smiling around the kiss, Aramis begins to loosen the fastenings at the bottom of the shirt. Ianto works down, Aramis works up, and they meet in the middle.

"Just like Christmas," Aramis says, grinning.

(For me too.) He fumbles at his wrists to undo the last straps. Eyes warm, Aramis slides it down his arms. Over his wrists and fingers. Smooth hands caress him. Drift over his bare skin. Tweak at his nipples, oddly playful.

Trembling, he reaches for the hem of Aramis's shirt. Pulls upwards. Aramis tosses it aside. (Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. Too gorgeous for words.) Strong, toned arms. Perfect chest. When he runs a trembling finger down, Aramis's belly contracts into an exquisitely-defined array of abs.

"I keep in shape." Aramis's blue-grey eyes twinkle.

Before he can reply, Aramis sinks to his knees. Ianto nearly faints with a rush of desire and anticipation.

"These are the rules." Aramis kisses his way up his abdomen. "No one comes to me against their will." The man nibbles his way along his ribcage. "I'm on holiday and want to enjoy myself." Smooth licks with that soft tongue. "If at any point you're done playing, you're free to leave and I'll seek company elsewhere." A soft kiss at his solar plexus. "No questions." A nip at his belly. "No doubts." He is going to die of pleasure. "No second guesses." Strong hands at the backs of his thighs keep him upright or he'd collapse like a folding chair.

"Whatever you ask for," Aramis continues, "if it's in my power to grant, I will, but we part at dawn." Aramis looks up at him, fingertip tracing the top edge of his trousers. "I can only give you one night."

A prompt. That was a prompt for his consent. Now he just needs to be able to remember how to speak.

"Is that acceptable to you, my lovely?" Aramis asks.

"Yes." If Aramis keeps this up, he won't even make it to naked before he comes.
(Please let him be able to hold out.) As it is, he bites his lip to keep from panting. Fumbles at Aramis's bare shoulders for some kind of handhold. "Yes, please. Yes."

He loses his ability to breathe right when Aramis begins to unlace his trousers. One...
Painstaking... Eyelet... At... A... Time... Aramis covers his belly with searing kisses. (Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, he's doing this. He's really doing this.)

Aramis dips his tongue at his navel. Tastes. Savours with the same patient enjoyment he gave the champagne. (We have all night if you want.) Caresses slowly down the backs of his legs.

(Stop please don't stop. Stop please don't stop don't know how much more I can...)

Aramis unlaces and unbuckles Ianto's boots, caressing his lower belly with mouth and that expressive tongue. Ianto clings to him. Catches his fingers in that lovely wave of blond hair. Manages to hold it together until Aramis has his boots off.

But when Aramis caresses the bare arch of his foot, his body has had all it can take. He comes, shuddering, hands fisting in Aramis's hair, cock still trapped under leather.

(Someone please kill me right now.)

"I'm sorry," he manages when he's able to speak again. "I'm so sorry. I..."

Aramis chuckles knowingly. "Foot fetish?"

Now this gorgeous stranger thinks he's a freak. Fan-fucking-tastic. "No. I just-- I'm sorry, sir. I'm really sorry."

Aramis's eyes are equal parts grey and warm blue. "How old are you, darling?"

Think. He has to think. Think and stand. Standing would be good. Have to not collapse even as the warm buzz of afterglow seeps through every fibre of his being. (Aramis could have had anyone and he chose you. Now, after having it handed to you, you go and fuck this up too.) He swallows hard. "Eigh-- eighteen. I mean, I'm old enough."

Aramis resumes his casual caress of Ianto's instep. "I'm your first man, aren't I?"

Shit, he just came too soon and now this beautiful stranger's going to send him packing with a pat on the head, an ice lolly, and a note for his mum. "I'm old enough."

"No one ever said you weren't," Aramis assures him smoothly. "Now tell the truth, darling. Am I your first?"

It is impossible to lie to this guy. He nods mutely.

Aramis shrugs. "Then I wouldn't worry." He stands, eyes deep. One eloquent hand caresses Ianto's now-soft crotch. "Happens to the best of us. Young man like you should recover in a few minutes."

And it's a good thing Aramis's already holding him, or he might've collapsed with relief. (This might actually still be happening.) Aramis's mouth is hot and hungry at his shoulder. He begins to relax into the touch. (He could use a tissue or three to clean up the mess down below, but other than that, he now feels oddly better.)

Hot breath whispers past his ear. "Of course I still want you, you lovely thing."

He clings to this amazing stranger. Snogs him hard and deep.

Humming his pleasure, Aramis kisses his way back down Ianto's chest. Peels him out of the leather trousers. Slides them over his hips. Worships him with a dozen little kisses and caresses. Slides his pants down carefully. And to his utter delight (and genuine startlement) laps him clean, beginning at one hip, moving to the other, and suckling gently at his still-soft cock.

It feels so good his knees buckle. Aramis catches him. Eases him gracefully to the bed. Strips him the rest of the way. Smiling, he draws Ianto's glans into his mouth. Rolls him on his tongue.

He writhes. Curses. Begs for more. Gasps as the pleasure rolls him again. "Aramis!"

The man very reluctantly pulls away. "I'm sorry?"

Shit, he's making a mess of everything. "I'm sorry. I don't know your name."

Lucky for him the beautiful stranger is smiling. "Did you just call me 'Aramis'?"

Maybe he's not completely lost. "Erm. Yes?"

Aramis laughs, delighted. "As in the third Musketeer? The broken-hearted man of letters? Self-styled religious man?"

"Erm. Yes?" Thank god the man seems to take it as the compliment he intended.

Aramis's look deepens into something that goes beyond amusement. "You really are a sweet boy, aren't you, darling?"

The patronizing edge to the affection pricks his ego. He rolls them over so he's on top. Grabs Aramis's wrists. Pins him to the bed. "I'm not a boy."

Aramis grins. "And thank God for that."

He's really doing this. Jack sits in the SUV, staring at the readings on the device in his hand. No doubt about it, John is on the fifth floor of the Landmark Hotel. No way to be sure Jones is up there too, but everything would seem to point to it.

He should go kick in the door. He should take the sonic blaster (or "squareness gun" as Rose so quaintly termed it) and blast a quadrangular hole in the hotel room wall. He should seize poor Ianto from whatever depraved pleasures his ex can inflict. (And, having been on both the giving AND receiving end of such depraved pleasures, Jack knows what he's talking about.)

And he will ride to Jones's rescue... just...in a minute...

John's probably shagging the boy within an inch of his sanity. (Oh, those were the days.) Even as Jack struggles to remain detached, his body remembers. Remembers John. Remembers being loved. Remembers belonging to someone. Psychopath though his ex may be, there's nothing false about the depth of John's sincerity when it comes to expressing his emotions.

(I should never have left you, honey.)

He banishes that thought before it can fester. John's probably giving Jones the shag of his life, and Jack -- his self-styled protector -- can't bring himself to intervene. The problem is that Kim is right about John; as much trouble as that lunatic has caused him personally, Jack can't think of a single lover who ever went away with anything other than a smile and a really amazing story to tell.

And after all the shit that Jones has been through, doesn't he deserve to be happy, even if only for a few hours?

Jack lives for the few hours of happiness he gets. This curse of life means that stolen bits of happiness are the only thing keeping him sane. And knowing Jones is safe makes him happy. He cares about the boy. Always has. The boy's like him -- the victim of a bizarre gift. Unable to control it. Unable to stop it. Thrust into dangerous situations because of it. Jones deserves to be safe and protected. (And loved.) And though John will never be "safe", God help anyone who earns his vengeance.

(God, I miss you, honey. I should never have left you. We were mad and reckless and you constantly pissed me off, but you were also the best friend and lover I've ever had. Partner in crime in every sense of the phrase.)

So what about Jones? He's just the kind of person John would fall for -- bright, funny, sweet, educated, pretty, and more than a little morally flexible.

Shit, the corset is strangling him. His duty is strangling him. His sense of honour is strangling him. This whole damn place and backwards era are strangling him. Irrationally, he misses the Victorian and Edwardian eras, where he could be the oddity. The conversation piece. The guilty pleasure that even the straightest-laced could enjoy.

Now his experiences in the rave have taught him he's not even that strange anymore. He blended right in. And even in this outrageous guise, he felt more normal than he has in decades.

What if Ianto blends just as smoothly into John's world?

Crazy. That's crazy. But for one brief moment Jack considers letting the kid go. If he and his psychopath of an ex are as much alike as it galls him to think they are, then John may see the same things in that brilliant, sweet, shy boy that Jack does. (And so pretty. Not until tonight did he realize Jones has such beautiful, soulful eyes.)

Dammit, stop thinking that. Okay, if he lets John take Jones, it solves his problem -- Ianto will be out of Yvonne's hair. Would it be so wrong to let him go?

(Yes, oh yes. Please don't take Ianto from me. The one thing...)

And he steps on that thought right away and kills it. He's known about Ianto Jones since the kid first got on Torchwood 3's radar six years ago. He's been Jones's self-appointed protector as soon as he found out that his boss had no problem RetConning a teenager. He's fought for Jones's right to live as normal a life as he can because he himself knows his own chance for a normal life ended when Torchwood recruited him.

But what if "normal" isn't what Ianto wants?

No. This is insane. Even if Jones has a fetish for all the weirdness that is John's home time, there's no way Jack can abandon an eighteen-year-old primitive to the Machiavellian madness that is Serenissima’s society. Have to keep in mind that John is the SANE one of his family. The WHITE sheep. The do-gooder. And his homeworld...?

Jack shudders to think of Serenissima. Okay, he can't abandon the kid to that. He just can't. So he does the only thing he can do.

He calls Yvonne to plead for the life of Ianto Jones.

He's really doing this. John's gorgeous boy is stripping him bare. The night just got exponentially better. And if Byron's a bit uncertain one minute and almost overwhelming the next, John can forgive him. (One thing's for sure -- Byron's a fast learner. Good thing John's got the body mods or he'd come in his pants too.)

He doesn't even have to help the kid when he bends to take off John's boots. (That's a first.) This kid is either a history junkie or he has some kind of background with historical costume. Either way it's the weirdest turn-on John's discovered since his heartless ex made household cleansers into aphrodisiacs.

Byron bends over his hips. Darts a lick across his glans. John moans approval. Byron draws him deeply. Moves with surprising confidence. (Okay, maybe NOT such a virgin after all.) Works him with skill all out of proportion to his age. (Oh, GOD, darling! Yes! Do that!)

He stops the kid before he can come, though. Pulls him up and into his arms. Snogs him with a sincerity he doesn't have to fake. Presses him back to the mattress. He loves all of his conquests, but this boy both delights and terrifies him. Too young. Too gorgeous. Too perceptive. Too risky. Too smart for his own good.

And for all he's writhing beneath him, John can feel that conflict rising again, the tension in Byron's muscles. When he pulls back a little to reassure him, his pretty little Goth misunderstands. Turns over, no doubt expecting to be unceremoniously mounted.

John (mentally swearing a blue streak at whatever bastard convinced Byron that all men are brutes) caresses down his back instead, savouring every millimetre of that beautiful white skin. (Pretty as a girl's, for all that the kid is built like a distance runner.)

Byron turns uncertain and slightly wounded eyes to him. "D-don't you want...?"

"To fuck you senseless?" John supplies. He nods slowly. "We'll get there, darling, but I think you deserve a little better treatment than just a simple grab and thrust."

Uncertainty wars with curiosity in those pretty pale eyes. "What... What do I deserve?"

John strokes downward. Ghosts his fingers over the lovely cleft of Byron's arse. Waits for him to relax. Slips his hand lower. Caresses up from the base of Byron's sac. Up along the sensitive skin of the perineum. Teasing. Testing. Waiting.

Byron doesn't disappoint. Presses into the touch, breathless. Rests on his forearms, hands clasped. Parts his knees a little. Turns startled eyes to him.

He smiles slowly and lazily. Strokes upwards. Lingers. Traces the sensitive skin right at the edge of the opening.

Byron bows his head, panting.

"Turn over, darling," John murmurs.

It's perfect, just perfect. Ianto's heart is pounding again as he rolls onto his back. Aramis kisses him deeply, that wonderful hand back between his legs. Stroking down from his sac. Caressing the sensitive places. Teasing.

"I'm going to bring you again," says Aramis quietly. "To help you relax."

Again, he can't have heard him right. "You're going to what?"

"Bring you," says Aramis as though it's the simplest thing in the world. (Who IS this guy?) "Make you come again. You're too tense right now -- I'd be afraid of hurting you." Aramis rummages something out of the drawer in the bedside table. Kisses him. Slips his hand low again.

A soft, smooth little thing slips inside him. He gasps as wave upon wave of heat and pleasure radiate outward, as though his groin is the sounding board of some greater instrument. He writhes. Moans. (Oh, GOD, that's good!)

"Therinian Lubricant," Aramis says by way of explanation. "My personal favourite."

And just as Ianto thinks he might come again just from the flood of hot bliss, Aramis's searing mouth descends upon his cock. Draws him deep. Deeper. Pulls desperate, incoherent sounds from him.

A fingertip teases lower. Lower. Brushes the opening. When he looks down, Aramis silently asks permission.

He nods as vigorously as he can.

The first finger slips inside. He cries out. Thrusts up into Aramis's hot, hot mouth. Loses his voice to pleasure. Aramis moves his finger expertly. Finds just the right spot. Ianto begs. Sobs. And hard as he moves in that wet heat, Aramis takes everything easily. One finger becomes two. Two fingers become three. He catches Aramis's head in his hands. Thrusts harder still. Aramis hums his pleasure. Fucks harder and deeper with his hand. (Yes! Yes! Yes! Never knew you could...!)

He lets go of Aramis's hair -- if he pulls too much harder he might rip out handfuls. Instead, he tangles his hands in the duvet. Rocks harder and harder onto Aramis's hand. Thrusts up again and again into Aramis's mouth. (Just the right suction, GOD he's in heaven!)

Ianto comes screaming.

Aramis drinks him down. Takes him higher and higher with a few more expert strokes of his hand. Stars dance across Ianto's vision. He surrenders to pleasure, dazed and awed.

(So this is what it's meant to be like...)

Aramis gives him one more parting lick. Ianto trembles violently with the most fantastic aftershocks. Aramis stretches out beside him. Gathers him into his arms. Strokes his hair as Ianto clings to him and tries to remember how to breathe. (I love you. I love you. I love you for this. Thank you for this.)

"Better?" Aramis asks softly.

His voice still doesn't work for shit, so he nods instead. Kisses Aramis with a gratitude that defies words. And suddenly the tears spill over. His body seems to go haywire, shuddering as if he's exhausted, yet he feels giddy with relief. Soon, he's a weeping mess.

And Aramis kisses him. Holds him. Croons reassurance. Lets him just feel and be and eventually recover.

(Whoever you are, I love you madly for this.)

"It's all right, darling," Aramis murmurs. "You're safe."

"It's perfect, just perfect," Jack insists.

"It is NOT perfect, Jack," says Yvonne's irritated voice in the earpiece. (Good thing the woman never sleeps so he didn't annoy her with the late-night call.) "I can't just leave him."

"Who said anything about leaving him?" Yvonne is being surprisingly resistant to his charm.

"You did," says the annoyed voice. "You want me to just -- what? -- forget he ever existed?"

"I want you to let him self-destruct a little." Jack shifts, annoyed both at the convenient lie and the length of this conversation. (Make me sit here much longer, Yvonne, and my other arse cheek will fall asleep. Sexy or not, I am REALLY starting to hate this corset.) "Jones is attracted to temporal anomalies, but he's also almost an adult. Let him be your unwitting bloodhound. Use him to find alien tech and major events."

"What if he sees us, Jack? I thought you had a hard-on for the kid that prevents you from RetConning him like you should."

Jack refuses to rise to the bait. "So he sees you. So what? Let him. He'll rationalize it at first like every normal person does. See what he thinks was there. But sooner or later he'll have to learn how to deal with what he is."

"And what is he, Jack?"

(One of the most amazing people I've encountered in almost two centuries of living.) "He's an exception to the rules. So choose your time. Choose your team. Show yourselves to him when you feel he's ready. The kid is brilliant, Yvonne, and he's kidding himself if he thinks he can pass for normal. Ignore him for now. Either he'll blend back into society and you won't have to worry about him, or he'll seek you out and you'll recruit him."

"There are no openings for Ianto Jones in Torchwood 1."

Jack chuckles. "A boy with a genius IQ, a photographic memory, perfect sense of direction, and a sixth sense for temporal anomalies? Yeah, he'd be a real burden." (And God is it going to kill me to lose him.)

Another long pause. "You'll have to do something for me, Captain Harkness."

He knew this was coming; Yvonne is all about the Devil's Bargain. "I'm listening."

"You go back to Cardiff and stay there until I call you."

It takes him a minute to realize how lightly he's getting off. "That's all?"

"Or you keep being nosy and I kill the kid."

No-brainer there. "Cardiff it is." She's up to something, though. "For how long?"

"Until I call you." The voice has gone cold again. "Don't piss me off, Jack. Immortality can be a really fucking long time when you piss me off."

Again, he refuses to rise to the bait. "I would never try to piss you off, Yvonne."

There is a tense moment where he waits, breathless, for her reply.

"Then we have a deal," Yvonne says at last. "Your boy gets to live."

He collapses back against the seat back in relief. "Thank you, Yvonne."

She hangs up on him, petulant to the last. But he's not bothered, because now all he needs is the sonic blaster and the chance to talk to Jones. Maybe his solution isn't the best one, but at least Ianto will have the chance to be something other than Torchwood's pawn.

If only those two evil bitches had extended him the same courtesy.

It's perfect, just perfect. John's dear sweet little virgin shivers in his arms, settling into the afterglow of what was quite probably his first full-body orgasm. (God, he's good.) Byron is exquisite not only in his exuberance, but in the mute wonder he shows afterward, when pleasure has robbed him of his voice.

He kisses away Byron's tears. Rolls the last tastes of his lover on his tongue. It's been a long time since he enjoyed sex this much. (And they haven't even gotten to the best part yet.)

After a bit of a rest to recover his composure, Byron seeks his mouth. Kisses him with a beautiful combination of joy, gratitude, and a bit of rekindling lust.

He smiles at the greedy little hedonist he's had the good fortune to lure to his bed. "Ready for round two, are we?"

Byron answers him by curling strong fingers around his cock. Stroking him. He even adds a delicious little twist at the end. (Naughty, naughty thing! Ohhhhh. You've done this before, my love!)

He snags a pillow or two for Byron to lean on. "On your knees, darling."

Byron obeys, shivering again with a mix of anticipation and a little fear. John caresses up his back. Down again. Takes his place behind the beautiful boy. Parts his knees gently.

"Slow to start, my love," he assures him. "Deeper as you can take it."

He guides his cock to the entrance. Presses forward gently. Slips just the head inside.

Byron moans. Before John can ask if he's all right, his lovely boy presses back. Draws him much deeper. (Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Hot and slick and ready.)

John shifts gently, testing. Byron meets him halfway. Moves with him. Parts his knees a little more. (And aren't you gorgeous?) Byron moans and curses and grips him so sweetly it's all John can do to hold back. (Not yet, darling. Don't want to come in you yet.)

He nudges Byron's knees a little farther apart with his own. Slides under a bit more. Pulls Byron up and onto his lap. Wraps his arms around him to hold him in place. Presses his lover to his chest. (Mine, lover. You're mine.) Waits for Byron to signal his readiness by moving on him. Thrusts up as Byron grinds down.

"Open your eyes, darling," he says softly.

A ripple of tension runs through his lovely boy when Byron obeys. On the wall at the foot of the bed is a rather splendidly-framed mirror. In it, Byron moves in his arms, gorgeous and debauched. Knees wide. Exquisitely impaled on his cock.

He spreads his hand low on Byron's groin. "What do you see, my lovely?"

Byron looks down and away, self-conscious. "Nothing worth looking at."

He may well have to kill whoever hurt this gorgeous creature. John moves, gently at first, then more deeply. (Do you feel that, darling? THAT is how much I want you.) Byron's face clears of everything but desire. Wonder. Pleasure.

"Look again," John says. "That is a gorgeous young man in the arms of someone who wants him."

"It's... it's just me." But the eyes in the reflection lock with his.

John curls a hand around Byron's cock, which exceeds all expectation by beginning to harden. (Ah, to be eighteen again.) He slows his thrusts. Strokes that gorgeous cock in time with each. Moves faster. Harder.

Byron sobs. Reaches behind him. Catches John's hips. Encourages him.

"Nipples, darling."

Byron reaches shaking hands up. Rolls his own nipples between fingers and thumbs.

"Pinch," John prompts. "Pull."

Byron's internal muscles ripple as he obeys. John shags him a little harder still.

"Look again," John says. Byron obeys without hesitation. "That is beauty." He chuckles. "I could fuck that beautiful creature all night and never get tired."

"I... I..." Byron's stammer dissolves in a wordless cry of pleasure. "I wouldn't mind."

He catches Byron's right hand. Slides it low to cup his lover's balls.

"Roll them, darling," he purrs. "Slowly."

Byron shudders, his internal muscles tightening sweetly on John's cock.

It's all he can do to stay in control. He seizes Byron's left hand. Curls it around that lovely cock of his. "A little twist at the end if you like, darling. Like what you did with me."

He punctuates every slide of Byron's hand with an upward thrust. Rocks him hard. Harder. And his beautiful lover catches the rhythm. Makes a noise of pleasure deep in his throat. Sighs. Whispers. Watches himself and John moving together in the mirror.

Byron is just as gorgeous on the inside -- hot and tight, his internal muscles rippling along John's cock. He takes Byron's hips in both hands. Thrusts up and in. Faster. Harder. Holds him close, one hand low at his belly. Savours the sweat between them.

"Please," Byron whispers. "Please."

He offers Byron the fingers of his right hand. Watches in the mirror as his lover draws them deep. Suckles them. Rolls them on his tongue. Thrusts up into his own fist and down onto John's cock.

Perfection. Absolute perfection. Breathless, John obeys an impulse he's never had.

"John," he murmurs. "My name is John Hart."

"Ianto," Byron gasps around his fingers. "Ianto Jones."

"Ianto." The name tastes good in his mouth. "Well," he says as he continues to build up to what promises to be one of the best orgasms he's ever had, "I feel it only fair to warn you, my gorgeous boy, that I come more than once."

"What?"

"I come twice." And this one promises to be soon. Shivers of ecstasy are already running through him. "Quirk of my biology." He kisses. Licks. Sighs a breath across Ianto's ear. "Look at yourself, Ianto Jones."

Ianto's eyes are deep in the mirror's reflection. Confident. Passionate. Hungry. All the things that make John just want to claim him more. He buries himself as deep as he'll go with every stroke. Byron's eyes go wide with surprise. Close in pleasure. And all the while, that beautiful hand strokes that even more beautiful cock.

"This," he murmurs in Ianto's ear. "Is what it looks like to be beautifully fucked."

Ianto tips his head back. Seeks his lips. And that beautiful kiss is what brings him. He pulls away just long enough to grab Ianto's hips. Thrusts up. Cries out as pleasure consumes him.

Ianto's hand moves fitfully. Jets of come spill across the duvet.

He feels a strange calm. For one moment of bliss, Ianto surrenders completely as John holds him. Presses his hips to Ianto's. Fills him. Breathes in time with him. Revels in this perfect moment. (John may well have spoilt him for anyone else.)

John gently pulls his head back. Kisses him deeply. Holds him tight, arms fierce around him. "Beautiful... So beautiful..."

(I love you for this. John, I love you for this.)

"You said..." Ianto swallows hard. "...come twice?" Might be the death of him, but what a way to go.

John chuckles, breath warm across his ear. "Greedy."

"Apparently," he says, though he can't bring himself to feel even a modicum of guilt. "Can you?"

John presses up to show him how much he can. (Wow. This guy really isn't normal.) "How do you want it this time, my love?"

"You've watched me," his voice is calmer now. He's calmer now. His whole body thrums with pleasure and joy and anticipation. "I want to watch you."

John presses a kiss behind his ear. "As you wish, my lovely."

John slides out from underneath him. Turns him gently onto his back. Slides a pillow under his arse. Pulls his hips up. Wraps his legs around his waist. Angles a still-very-hard cock just right. Slides in again.

Ianto moans. Smiles. Wraps his legs tighter. (Oh, it's even better now!) John slides against him. Within him. Smiles down at him, eyes sparkling with dark lust. Takes him with sure strokes.

"Do you like what you see?" John asks with a devilish half-smirk.

From those slender shoulders down that perfect chest to the abs that flex with every stroke to those perfect hips, rocking him so sweetly he swears he could go on all night. Every inch of John is perfect. Beautiful. Better than he could've dreamed. "Yes."

"Good." John moves faster. Harder. Pulls Ianto's legs up and out. Rocks him onto his back, his ankles at John's shoulders. Angles deeper. Waits a moment for him to nod his enthusiastic consent. Fucks him in earnest, every thrust of his hips sending shocks of pure pleasure through him.

It's even better the second time. Rougher, yet John slides even more smoothly inside. Ianto can take more of that exquisite cock. (Deeper. Yes, please. Let me feel it all!)

He builds. Builds. Builds more. "John." The name tastes good in his mouth. "John."

John bends over him. Savages his mouth. He kisses back, matching John's intensity. Catches John's hips. Encourages every thrust.

"Ianto." It begins as a whisper.

He calls John's name in reply.

A low, throaty moan. "Ianto."

Closer. Closer. He might well lose consciousness this time. "John."

And then John murmurs it again and again, Ianto's name interspersed with curses and prayers and exultations. And he can feel this beautiful man's pleasure, building to the near-pain of need. He cries out his own pleasure, uncaring about anything but needing. Being needed. Wanting. Being wanted.

Shudders grip them both. He claws John's back. Snogs him so savagely that for a moment he swears he might taste blood.

John plants both palms on the mattress. Arches down and into him once more, deeper than ever. Comes with a deep cry of pleasure. Ianto writhes in ecstasy. Clings to his hips. Revels in the bliss of John bringing them both.

"YES!"

His body appears to have turned to mush. He can't do much but collapse, boneless, as John withdraws. Flops down beside him, panting. Pulls him into his arms. Wraps his whole body around him, Ianto's back to his chest. He snuggles into the possessive embrace, a hum of pleasure soothing the back of his somewhat abused throat.

For a long time, there is only music and the sound of their breathing.

"Ianto," John says at last. "Lovely Ianto Jones. You were right, darling -- I am a time traveller." He kisses Ianto's temple. "I have only tonight here, in this time and place. After then, my love, I'm afraid I really must leave."

It hurts to think about. "So you said."

"No, darling." John kisses his temple. Pulls him closer. "Don't misunderstand me. I've changed my mind; when I go, I want you to come with me."

"What?" He holds his breath, hoping he heard what he thought he heard.

"Come with me," says John. "Be with me. I don't want to leave you behind."

He wraps John's arms tighter around him, warm and giddy and happy at the thought that he might get to keep this amazing man. "Where are we going?"

Tension releases in John's body. "Serenissima, for a start."

"La Serenissima?" He wracks his pleasure-drunk brain for the reference. "You mean Venice?"

"Serenissima," John corrects. "Where I'm from."

He smiles in spite of himself. "You're taking me home?"

John pauses for a moment. And for a moment, Ianto holds his breath.

"Yes," John says, nuzzling closer. "Yes, Ianto, I am." He wraps even more of his body around Ianto's, possessive in the good and warming kind of way. "Yes, my love, I am -- if you'll let me." John nibbles his earlobe, sending shivers of delight through him. "Will you let me?"

The sweet glow in the pit of his stomach can only be happiness. "I will."

Across the room, the doorknob disappears in a square beam of blue light.

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Link to previous Faithful!Verse stories

Crossposted to jackxianto, torchwoodslash