Fic, FAITHFUL, Ch. 34/60: The Constant Craving

[loveslashangst]

Story: Faithful
Author: The sick-as-a-frickin’-dog loveslashangst
Beta: the nigh-immobile ophymirage
Characters: Ianto Jones, Captain Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Captain John Hart, Rhys Williams, Janet the Weevil, Bradwyn Kapo, & a cast of (literally) thousands.
Rated: Adult for slash, canon bisexuality, non-gratuitous drug use, language, violence, and lots and lots of sex (various pairings and kinds.)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Torchwood 3 would be a much more crack-tastic place.
Spoilers: If you haven't seen the first two series of Torchwood, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon, especially when it pisses me off. (There is no Children of Earth in this series.)
Summary: AU. OT3 ZOMG! Jack/John Hart/Ianto. Captain Hart is back in town. The Weevils are acting weird. It might be the end of the world. Let the crack-tastic smut ensue.

Okay, so here's the dealio...

It’s official – I’m completely insane. I’m working a crazy job for ridiculously low pay in a part of town where gunfire is fairly normal with kids no one else wants to teach. My coordinating teacher is completely nuts (and has now tendered her resignation). The staff are certifiable. The facilities are laughably outdated. My curriculum is beyond… anyway. The point is the job is nuts, and I LOVE IT. That said, having a Real Job hasn’t left a lot of time for me to come back to my other true love. (Though I’m grateful to O for giving us all a lovely bit of extra smut to savour in the meantime and will also be putting the final touches on part 4 of the x-over in another few days.)

But I have to go back to our boys for a bit. Jack needs to talk.

And to new fen and veterans – THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE! I’m even more strapped for time than before, so I doubt I’ll have much time before Halloween to reply. If I don’t, please don’t take it personally. I read everything and love all the interactions, even if I’m a bum.

On with the show...

“See the stone set in your eyes
See the thorn twist in your side
I wait for you

Sleight of hand and twist of fate
On a bed of nails [he] makes me wait
And I wait without you…

With or without you
With or without you
I can’t live
With or without you

And you give yourself away
And you give yourself away
And you give
And you give
And you give yourself away

My hands are tied
My body bruised, [he’s] got me with
Nothing to win and
Nothing left to lose…”
(U2)

(In which Ianto rues the day, John won’t join in any reindeer games, and Jack has a long soliloquy.)




“Let me guess,” says John. “You’ve been talking to Jack.”

Ianto turns away. Fuck. Trying not to cry only makes him cry harder.

“Ifan?” John’s behind him somewhere. Probably still tethered to that nightmare of a console.

He can’t make his mouth work. When Jack gets back from his fool’s errand (and he will, even if the Weevils tear him apart first), Jack’s going to kill him. And Jack should kill him. He hopes Jack kills him. He deserves it.

“Ianto?” John’s moving. The slither of metal on metal. (The creepy cables that go from his wrist…)

“What?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so harsh, but they… together… why does it always come back to them together and…

“Ianto.” A brush of fingertips across his cheek. He flinches. “Honey, look at me.”

John reaches out with gentle hands. Touches his shoulder. His face. Soft, yet insistent. And in spite of himself, he lets John pull him in close. John reassures him. John is gentle with him. John loves him. John is barking mad and a con-man and together he and Ianto murdered Rhys and Gwen.

“So dramatic.” John kisses him. Slowly. Tenderly. Reassures him with mouth on mouth. “Poor darling, what’s Jack done now?”

The full weight of it hits him. Pain knocks the air from him. He’s alone. No Tosh. No Owen. No Suzie. No Gwen. Not even Rhys. "Jack said… not to…" He struggles for air. “And now Gwen…”

John brushes the tears from his eyes. Chuckles at him. "I kissed Gwen with lethal lip gloss, left her for dead in a maze of containers, and threw her mobile six rows over," he says. "She still came back. Even if I shot that woman point-blank in the head, I wouldn’t be surprised if she pulled a Jack and healed right before my eyes.”

"Goddammit, John!" He shoves him. "This isn't a fucking joke!"

John shrugs, irritatingly amiable. "Who's joking?"

“She’s dead!” Rage. Anger. He can hardly see straight because of it. "And we killed her!”

“Doubtful.” John pulls back from him. Settles into the pilot’s chair. Hisses, flinching, as the two undamaged cables re-connect those weird port things in the back of his neck to the ship. "And you have definitely been around Jack too much if you’re this Dramatic."

“God DAMN you, can’t you take anything seriously?” Everything. He’s traded everything for this arrogant…

"You didn't kill her, Eye-Candy." The most irritating thing about John is his damned calm. "I don't think you could if you tried. That’s my point. And even if you did, now she's dead. And if she's dead, she's dead far away from us." John kisses his wrist, then turns back to the console. "In all seriousness, my advice is to worry about your own skin now; grieve for hers later."

“You don’t even care.”

“Right now, I don’t have the luxury of caring, darling. There’s a difference.” John is doing pilot-ish things. Scanning displays. Operating controls so quickly and effectively that Ianto barely has time to register or perceive them. "Of far greater concern to me than whether one human being on Earth is alive, is when and where the fuck we are, how we get back to when and where the fuck we want to be, and how damaged this jury-rigged flying antique really is."

"I gave Gwen--"

John's eyes are on the screens. "You acted decisively."

His heart keens. "I heard her --"

"You did what you thought was right," John says. "You were wrong. Welcome to adulthood."

What is it about John that makes a man want to shag him one minute, slug him the next, and shoot him the third? "Stop trying to make me feel better."

John shrugs again. "Have it your way. You're a worthless murdering bastard who turned his last friend and co-worker, as well as her husband, into extra-crispy bacon."

Ianto decks him.

John smiles up at him, amused and dabbing at his bloodied lip. "There's just no pleasing some people."

His voice is harsh in his throat. "Shut up."

John grins. "That's the spirit."

And for a few moments, there is only John’s movements at the console. The hum of the ship. The sense of things being slowly righted.

"Jack is furious at me," he says at last.

"Jack will get over it."

He shakes his head. "Not this time."

John turns to him. "Oh for fuck-- Ifan, did you MEAN to kill W.P.C. Cartwright?"

He manages an anaemic glare. "Don't call her that!'

"Sorry." Though the glint in John's eyes says he's not. He enunciates slowly. "Did you mean to kill Gwen?"

He stares.

"No, you didn't," John says, "because you haven't a malicious bone in your body. Passive aggressive, yes, but that's not the same thing. You’ve never been jealous enough to be really homicidal."

John dismisses a display. Pulls up another. Keeps concentrating, intense. "Jack loves you,” he says. “So he's being an arse to you because that's what he does." A bitter chuckle. "I should know. He suckered me into playing his reindeer games." John's hands slide down the console. He dismisses another virtual screen. "Till I learnt this simple truth: the key is not to play. Jack's a secret bottom, and will love you the more if you push back at him. Fight him."

“That’s what she did.” The realization does little to comfort him. “That’s why he loved Gwen.”

"No, that’s why he wanted to fuck Gwen.” John continues mucking about, a graceful and slightly bewildering ballet. "And he really only wanted to fuck her because he never got to before she married that shaggable lump of Welsh rarebit."

He honestly has no response to that.

"How bad is it?” he says at last, fumbling to fill the silence.

"Bad.” John sighs. "We're misplaced in time and space. Sad to admit, but I'll need Jack's help. Emo drama queen though he is. Jack’s also an ex-Time Agent who travelled with the Doctor. Any man who did maintenance on Time Lord tech should be able to get us out of this mess."

His stomach sinks. "You need me to go talk to him."

"I'm sorry." And to his surprise, John sounds in earnest. "I need to stay with the controls here. Poor little worm is still half-fried and recovering. My lower back feels like I've had cables ripped out -- funny thing, that -- and the nanogenes are still working overtime to repair the internal damage that comes of having been console-whipped. Oh, and we’re also completely lost in a damaged ship."

“How damaged?” It’s a strange comfort to return to inanimate things that can be analyzed and fixed without soul-searching or questions of loyalty.

“One engine completely fried. That’s why we were spinning.” John glances at him. “Darling, I do need your help, but not with this.”

Ianto looks toward the hallway where Jack went. “The Weevils will have torn him apart.”

“Jack won’t have made it that far,” says John. “Guarantee it. He’s in a hallway somewhere, bawling his eyes out where he thinks no one can see.”

He can’t picture that. “You sound so sure.”

“Trust the man who’s wet-jacked into the surveillance system.” John gestures elaborately. A virtual screen appears. On it, Jack sits in a hallway, head on his arms, shoulders heaving.

“Jack always defaults to tears when the blood of innocents is involved,” John says. “Has to be a fucking martyr about the whole business, because of course it’s ALL about him. Never mind that your and Gwen’s actions were your own.” John’s face is unreadable in the glare from the displays. “But Jack can’t function without someone to clean up his messes.” His blue-grey gaze neither warms nor cools. “It’s why he loves you.”

“He doesn’t love me.” It’s a burning in his chest, a breathless wave of panic.

“Bullshit. If he didn’t love you, he’d have killed you and moved on.” John sighs. “We’re not so different when push comes to shove. It’s why the annoying prat could be a damn fine leader if he pulled his head out of his own arse long enough to really lead instead of indulging in Drama.” John shakes himself with another mercurial shift in emotions. “I have a ship to fix. Go talk to him, darling.”

He wavers. “I d-don’t know what to say.”

“Ply him with that adorable stammer,” John almost smiles. “You know where all of his buttons are -- press them until you find the Jack that both of us love.”

He reaches instinctively for his tie. Flinches as he realizes it's still spongy with blood.

"Ianto." John's gaze is level and reassuring. "If you can make me submit to you without violence or restraints, you can do this. Ignore the barking and bluster. That's just Jack being rightly scared that you'll fall so madly for me that you'll leave him. Everyone leaves him. Or dies. Or both. You made the right call based on the information you had at the time. So. Ignore the baits. Remember that push has come to shove. Shove Jack -- up against a wall, if needed -- and, knowing Jack, it will be -- then fuck his brains out."

He stares. "I don’t think he’ll want--"

"He always wants," John says. "Especially when it can distract him from other emotions. And especially when it’s you. He loves you, though the stupid bastard is awfully stingy with the words. And I know you love him too, because you wouldn’t be nearly this self-indulgently miserable if you didn’t.”

Again, he wishes he knew what to feel. John raises an eyebrow, a playful challenge. He bends to kiss John again. Savours the sweet motion of mouth on mouth. Tastes him deeply.

"Never get tired of that," John says as he pulls away. His eyes harden. "Go fix it, my love. It's what you do best."

Ianto squares his shoulders and goes to find Jack.

************

Jack wishes for death. It’s not the first time. He doubts it’ll be the last. Yearning for death has become a familiar part of his existence -- he’s longed for it. Needed it. Lusted after it, even. And not the endless tease of false-death he’s endured during all these centuries, but the real death. Sleep. The Undiscovered Country. An end to pain and suffering and struggle and loss.

Especially loss. He should be used to loss by now. Even before Rose, when he was still human, loss was a part of his life. It was inevitable. Don’t love or you’ll lose. Don’t get too used to happiness, because it always ends. Don’t need someone too much, or they’ll betray you.

Ianto. Gwen. He brought them both into this madness, and they both chased him down, wouldn’t let well enough alone. Ianto with his secrets and lies. Gwen with her faithless steadfastness. And in the end both of them chose the other man. Both of them.

The decking is cold under his ass. The wall is hard and unforgiving at his back. Cold. Sterile. He can channel that. Remember a time when his only laugh was bitter and cruel. When there was all fuck and no love. He was the strong right arm of Torchwood, and that arm had claws.

God, he’d thought he could save Gwen. Just save her for a little while. He’s long since abandoned any hope of a normal life -- creatures like him don’t get to have normal, as the Doctor tried to tell him time and again. Creatures like him get stolen moments when the world isn’t completely horrible and heartless, then long stretches of surviving, of not being dead, before the next moment of happiness comes. And it’s so beautiful and heartbreaking that he hates the thought of it. The thought of happiness, his own or others’, burns a brand into his heart, because it’s all so temporary.

It’s really hard not to hate Rose at times like this. She turned him into this thing. Gave him this curse. Then she left, with her lover, who also turned his back on him.

Damn them both, he’d thought they loved him too.

Gwen married Rhys. And even as Jack danced in Ianto’s arms, he couldn’t stop looking at her. Thinking of her. The one who got away. Gwen had Rose’s liveliness, her spark, her irrational passion. She infuriated him, inflamed him, and sometimes gave him the taste of humanity he thought he’d lost.

He would have liked to be godfather to her children. To watch them and their descendents, through time. To have some link of blood, because he’ll have to wait generations before he’ll have the chance to claim his own.

And she married Rhys. Plain, ordinary Rhys. The simple life. The human life. The bliss that is denial. After seeing all the wonders Jack had to show her, she retreated, cowardly, to the very thing he told her to hang on to. But he didn’t mean it, any more than he wanted her to fight. He really wanted her to choose him.

Ianto did her in. Betrayed them all. He wants to hate the boy, but can’t. That hurts most of all -- it’d be easier if he could just find a weapon and end him, but isn’t that the very thing Ianto accused him of? Ending people?

He ends others, and is neverending himself. The universe has a vicious and dark sense of humour. Or maybe it’s balance? He doubts he’ll ever live long enough to turn philosopher.

“Jack?”

He doesn’t look up at Ianto’s voice. “Go the fuck away.”

There is an awkward pause. He waits. Ianto will retreat in another moment -- the boy learnt a long time ago when to leave him alone.

“No.”

He lifts his eyes in spite of himself, expecting to see a nervous Ianto, fidgeting and fluttering as he does right before he flees. Instead, he sees resolve. Strength. An unflinching stare.

Ianto holds out an uncompromising hand. “Get up, sir.”

He stares at the hand as though it’s grown out of thin air. Stares at Ianto.

“I never meant to hurt anyone,” says Ianto. “And neither did you. And neither did John. Now get up.”

And for a moment, he’s sorely tempted to grab the hand. To crumble into emotions. To let Ianto hold and soothe him as he’s always done. But the threat of weakness only serves to piss him off.

He glares at the offending hand. “I don’t need your fucking pity.”

“Good.” The hand lashes out. Grabs him by the lapel. Hauls him to his feet. “You’re not getting any.”

He fights. Struggles. Ianto ducks every punch. Blocks every blow. There’s no anger. Nothing to fight against. Just that cool calm, as though Ianto’s already seen the choreography to this dance, and is just walking through his part.

But when the boy slams him against the wall, it knocks the breath from him for reasons that go beyond flesh impacting metal. Ianto has him by both lapels, forearms pressing his chest. Face so close he can taste each warm puff of breath. And though Ianto’s breathing faster, Jack himself is gasping for air.

Ianto leans in. Closer. Closer. This rare lover who asks for so little, yet gives him so much. And Jack swears that even if Ianto’s lying, even if it was a conspiracy, he could forgive him anything. Maybe even Gwen.

Ianto’s kiss is hard. Unyielding. So unlike him. From the first moment he offered, Ianto’s been willing. Easy. Accommodating. Maybe even convenient. He certainly hasn’t complained in more than a cursory way. And he’s never taken control like this.

It’s very difficult to maintain an appropriate level of angst when his lover is making him this hot.

Ianto’s mouth savages his. He fights back. Kisses. Bites. Clings to this young man who’s his match for size and strength. It’s so easy to underestimate him, to forget the steel underneath the silk, but the truth is Ianto’s every bit as much of a survivor as Jack himself. (Perhaps more so -- he’s not immortal.)

He can’t just let the boy win, especially considering that John probably put Ianto up to this. Maybe. Though maybe not. There’s none of Ianto’s usual hesitation here. No tease of should-I-shouldn’t-I. That’s been the aphrodisiac until now -- the thought of corrupting an otherwise innocent soul. The man who has him pinned to the wall now is no innocent. No. This man knows what he wants, and will not relent until he gets it.

He has to give Ianto credit -- just when he thinks they’ve done everything there is to do, Ianto rewrites the rule book.

So he throws himself into the kiss. Ianto is pungent with the cinnamon spice of John’s pheromones. Jack breathes deeply. Feels his own pheromones surge in response. Deliberately unleashes them because he knows he can. Savours the bite and the grind of body against body. Ianto’s cock is hard at his hip, his eyes feral and wanting. They’re both sleeping with the enemy, he supposes, and he’s not talking about John.

“What is it about you?” he says at last.

“No idea.” Ianto snogs him harder. “But whatever it is, I think it’s safe to say it’s your fault.”

Laughing in spite of himself, he reaches for Ianto’s belt. Happily, Ianto also reaches for his.

“Pitch or catch?” he says. Not a very elegant phrase, but Jack doesn’t really see the point of delaying the inevitable.

“Catch,” says Ianto.

“Really?” Ianto’s hot and hard through his trousers. It’s making Jack hotter by the second. (He really should be annoyed that Ianto knows him this well, but the boy’s too damn good in bed to stay mad at him for long.) “Would’ve thought you were in the mood to be dominant.”

“I can top from the bottom.” Ianto’s strong fingers slip into his boxers. Tease. Almost tickle. And now Ianto’s grinning as his breath shudders.

“Arrogant little--“

“Pot kettle,” says Ianto, and drops to his knees.

Hot. Ianto’s mouth is always so hot. It’s enough to have him near fainting with need. And for the first time, he holds back nothing. He can thrust. Hold Ianto by the back of his head. Take pleasure in his mouth. Let go of any dregs of inhibition even as Ianto’s lips curve into a smile around him. Freedom. Pleasure. Ianto breathes with him. Moves with him. Takes everything he gives.

Just when he thinks he can’t stand any more, Ianto firmly pushes him back. Stands. Lowers his own trousers over that delicious arse. Slips the Therinian tablet inside. Warms himself up with a few thrusts of his fingers. Braces one forearm on the wall. Looks back over his shoulder, a heated invitation.

Jack pulls Ianto’s hand away. Lines himself up. Slides inside with one long, sweet shove that draws a groan from both of them. Bites the back of Ianto’s neck. Fucks slowly. Ianto’s tight. Hot. Willing. So willing. Strong. He may be submitting, but there’s an undercurrent to it. A reminder that this is a gift. A privilege even. Jack works himself still deeper, careful to find that angle that he knows Ianto loves best.

Ianto moans. Presses back against him. Meets him at the crest of each thrust.

He nips at Ianto’s shoulder. Reaches around. Ianto’s cock is hot, silken steel in his hand. Ianto gasps. Bites his lip.

“No,” Jack says. “You’re always so restrained. This time, let me hear you.”

Ianto’s hand brushes his away. He takes his own cock as Jack thrusts harder. Faster. Every time, he angles down just a bit. A bit more. The heat increases. An almost literal burning. And Ianto’s gasping. Moaning. Cursing even. And every expletive from that too-mannerly mouth arouses Jack that much more.

He pulls Ianto backwards a step or two. Ianto leans forward, still bracing against the wall with one arm, his other hand moving faster and faster on his own cock. The angle’s perfect now. Faster. Faster. Need drives him, and to his delight, his lover is strong enough to take each thrust. To open wider and wider to him. He digs his fingers into Ianto’s hips, loving the way he can change the tone and the rhythm of his lover’s cries. An extra twist. A fast double-stroke. Rock him up onto the balls of his feet. Slower thrusts until the pleasure has Ianto’s knees shaking. Fuck him faster and bite again as that sweet heat tightens around him.

Ianto’s gasping a litany of “yes”. His hand moves faster and faster. A slight stuttering. “OhGodJackI’mgonna!” And then the guttural cry of a man coming without restraint, without regret, without apology or hedging. Just pleasure.

He savours the last few strokes. Ianto’s relaxed now. Wide open for him. Welcoming him. And the smell of his lover’s pleasure (now spattering the wall) is the final piece, the thing he needs to drive him over the edge. He comes hard, shuddering inside him.

The moment of post-orgasmic stillness is his favourite piece of time. It’s a constant, and yet completely unique, with every lover. Every shag is different, with its own flavour and rhythm and mood. This one has the feeling of change. Something is different between him and Ianto. That should scare him, but instead he feels a moment of “Oh, thank God.”

“Mmmm?” says Ianto, and Jack realizes he must’ve said the words out loud.

He considers for a moment, then makes a decision he knows will change things. “I said, ‘Oh, thank God.’”

“What for?” Usually, Ianto would be quick with the handkerchiefs, anxious to clear away the mess and restore them to their former neatness. Now he seems to be revelling in the aftermath -- Jack’s cock still buried in him, the spatters of his semen on the wall, even his own trousers awkwardly piled at his ankles. It’s another weird turn-on to see Ianto so relaxed and beautifully mussed.

Tenderness. He always feels protective about Ianto, but doesn’t usually succumb to tenderness for him. “For you,” he says. He wraps his arms around Ianto’s chest, hugging him from behind. “Thank God for you.”

Ianto sighs, relief and acceptance of a gift. “And for you too, sir.”

“When are you ever going to stop calling me ‘sir’?”

Ianto kisses him over his shoulder. “Never.”

Even though the angle is awkward as hell, they neck for a while, him still buried in Ianto, Ianto still braced against the wall. It’s heaven to let himself have this. To feel himself slowly soften. Finally slip free. When he does, Ianto turns. Pulls him close. Snogs him so thoroughly and completely that he feels a sort of giddy release.

Ianto loves him. He loves Ianto. Everything else is just details.

He reaches down. Ianto’s still soft, but he moans enticingly when Jack’s fingers encircle his foreskin. He strokes Ianto gently, mindful that the boy’s just come pretty hard. Watches his face, loving the play of that blush as it makes pretty patterns in the perfect white of Ianto’s skin. He’s had many lovers in his time, but there’s always been something about Ianto. He was supposed to have been convenient, just another easy fuck, but instead…

“What… are your intentions, sir?” Ianto manages. His eyes are deep, unflinching. Jack loves that look. It’s a new look -- one he’s learning will usually precede his getting fucked. He blesses John for bringing this out in Ianto, and hopes that the days of the very polite butler-y shag are over.

But he just grins in answer to Ianto’s question, and wanks him a little faster.

“Left jacket pocket,” says Ianto, breathless.

When he reaches, the familiar packet crinkles under his fingers. He grins around Ianto’s kiss as he withdraws it.

Ianto takes it from him. Pops out one of the tablets. “On your knees, please, sir.”

“Really?”

Ianto’s look brooks no argument. It’s just as well -- he’s never that steady on his feet after a good come anyway. He slips the tablet inside himself. Sinks to the floor. Makes to take off his coat.

Ianto’s hands stop his. Turn him around. Push him to all fours. Ianto drapes the tails of the coat carefully, framing Jack’s arse. Just imagining the view is enough to make Jack’s cock twitch.

“Knees wider.” He never really appreciated the warm resonance of Ianto’s voice before. Now it feels like every word is shuddering through him.

Jack does him one better. He presses his cheek to the decking. Spreads his own arse cheeks. Grins at Ianto’s intake of breath at the blunt invitation.

Again, Ianto brushes his hands aside. Those strong hands on his hips are heaven, especially through the coarse wool of his coat. He doesn’t dare breathe as Ianto shifts forward. The silken head brushes his entrance. Teases. Taunts. Then one long slide and Ianto’s inside him. He moans. Ianto pulls back. Teases again. Has him backing up. Thrusts deep. All the way deep. He spreads himself as wide as he can.

Ianto curls his hands under Jack’s shoulders. Slides in and up, pulling him back onto that delicious cock. Jack gasps. Cries out as Ianto circles. He was planning to toy with his lover, but he hadn’t counted on -- Oh God YES!

It’s a gorgeous fuck. Ianto’s hands at his shoulders. Moving to his hips. Sliding up and under his shirt to pinch at his nipples. Ianto’s knees press his wider, opening him.

“John’s watching.” Ianto’s voice is calm and cool, even as he has Jack whimpering in pleasure.

The thought of John spying on them is embarrassingly hot. “Is he?”

“I’m fucking you where I know he can see.”

He has the sudden image of John in the pilot’s chair, jeans undone, beautiful cock in his hand. Cheeks flushed and stroking himself. Again, it’s ridiculously arousing.

“I like to fuck you in front of him.”

This is a Ianto he’s never met. Kinky. Dark. Just a touch masterful. He’s had tastes of this, but Ianto’s always kept his deepest desires neatly concealed beneath the immaculate wool of his suits.

“I love it when you fuck me in front of each other.”

He’s swiftly losing the capacity for words. Ianto’s short-circuiting him with a combination of gorgeous cock fucking him hard, fingers twisting at his nipples, a strong body covering his, and the thought of yet more voyeuristic three-way sex with John.

“When we get back, I’m going to let John fuck me over the console.”

He shudders hard at the thought. Ianto beats him to it, reaching for Jack’s cock before he has a chance. Ianto pulls him roughly. Almost too roughly -- so perfect!

“I can’t wait to know what it’ll feel like to have him use every mod on me.”

He tries to speak, but the words come out as one incoherent moan.

“He’ll be fucking me on your come.”

God, please don’t let this end.

“I’m holding it inside me.” A hard nip at his ear. “I can still feel it.”

He’s gasping for air as that white-hot cock threatens to split him in two.

Ianto stops at the end of a stroke, hot and pulsing inside him.

“The lube hasn’t worn off either,” Ianto whispers. “I need to be fucked again, just to scratch the itch.”

“Ianto…” His voice is hoarse. Strange. Don’t stop. God, he needs Ianto to keep...

“I’ll be your slut,” says Ianto calmly. “But first, you have to be mine.”

“Yes!”

The hand withdraws from his nipple. From his cock. When he reaches for his own cock, Ianto catches his wrist.

“No,” he says. “I want you to feel it when I come in you.”

“I will.” He loves this cold-voiced Ianto more than he has words for.

“Tell me.” And Ianto starts to move again. Hard thrusts. Hard. Thrusts. Hips. Slapping. (He keeps forgetting the boy is this strong.) Rocking. Forward. (He has to brace against the floor or Ianto will have him on his stomach.) Hot. Cock. Oh. Heaven.

He manages to force out the words. Tells Ianto how much he needs it. How much he wants it. Confesses every configuration he’s fantasized about for the three of them. And it seems to only make Ianto determined to fuck him harder.

Ianto knocks him flat. Laces his fingers with Jack’s. Presses his knees apart just enough. Too hot and yet perfectly steaming beneath all these clothes. Ianto pounds down into him so fast and hard that Jack’s cry becomes a long, sustained moan that builds up and up into a scream. Ianto arches into him, every millimetre buried and pulsing as hot jets of come surge into him.

And even though he’s bruised and pinned and his cock is throbbing and unfinished, it’s probably the best sex he and Ianto have ever had.

Ianto shudders a few more thrusts. Pulls out slowly, panting. Collapses to the decking beside him, flat on his back.

He reaches out with a shaking hand. “I love you.”

Ianto catches his hand with shaking ones. Presses it to his heaving chest. “Love you… too, sir,” he manages.

And for a few moments, all is right with the universe.

“We can’t stay here forever.” That’s his Ianto -- ever practical. “John needs your help.”

“I’m sure he does.” He slowly rolls to one elbow. Watches Ianto begin to tuck himself back into his clothing. Accepts the proffered handkerchief. “Judging by the last readings I saw, we're two weeks closer to our planetfall than we thought. That’s the good news.”

“And the bad news?” Ianto arches his back to pull pants and trousers up.

“We're out of time by about 1800 years." This was definitely a better idea than letting Brad savage him a few times.

Ianto sits up. Brushes his shirt smooth. "Which direction?"

He may be rusty, but the stars were definitely not familiar. "Backwards is my guess. Lucky us."

Ianto finishes tucking in his shirt and cinching his belt. "Where does that leave us?"

He mops himself up. Begins to straighten his clothes. "The Roman Empire is in full swing right about now. They're still debating whether Christianity is some kind of pop phenomenon."

There is a companionable silence as both of them finish righting themselves. He keeps his internal muscles knotted tightly, remembering Ianto’s kinky suggestion. (Just because they’re lost in time and maybe marooned is no reason to miss out on a fantastic three-way.)

“Can you fix it?” For the first time since Ianto cornered him, he hears uncertainty in that melodious baritone. “Sir?”

He nods. “I think so.”

“Good.” The smile softens Ianto’s face and warms his eyes. “Let’s go.”

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Link to previous Faithful!Verse stories

Crossposted to jackxianto, torchwoodslash, guns_n_poodles