Fic, FAITHFUL, Ch. 37/60: The First Ten

[loveslashangst]

Story: Faithful
Author: The Don’t-Look-At-Me-I-Had-A-Finished-Draft-A-Week-Ago loveslashangst
Beta: the finally-finished-with-finals 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 the boys (and girls), though if they saw what I write, they might wish I did.
Spoilers: Everything up to Children of Earth is fair game. But there IS no CoE. Hear us, Oh-SF-Dork-Who-Won’t-Admit-He-Messed-Up? NO CHILDREN OF EARTH! That said, the prologue to this takes place just after “Countrycide” and the rest of this is post S2. (Sorry, Owen and Tosh.)
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...

Toronto was good for me. I made lots of good connections and see it as a turning point. Not perfect, but the cast loved the script and I’ll be entering the Austin competition in June. Will also be writing a House spec, writing a 12-episode web-series, and the pilot for at least one of our original concepts. The husband is being a really cool writing partner and my boss loves me. My students just kicked ass in the latest Psychology project and I have new sets of hands to help me at school, so work is improving.

We’re also mid-bankruptcy, which is why you haven’t heard from me in FAR too long. Looking for a nice townhouse to move to, but it’ll mean moving out of the city, so that has its upside and its downside.

So even as parts of my life are going really well, other parts kinda suck.

Oh, and I love this fic and (of course) my fen. That is all.

(O sez: we’re pretending that it’s not been almost two months (*cries*) since any fic went up. LA LA LA LA, WE CAN’T HEAR YOU!)

On with the show...

“Here's how to be an agreeable chap
Love me and leave me in luxury's lap
Hop when I holler, skip when I snap
When I say, "do it," jump to it

“Send out for scotch, call me a cab
Cut me a rose, make my tea with the petals
Just hang around, pick up the tab
Never out think me, just mink me
Polar bear rug me, don't bug me
New Thunderbird me, you heard me
I'm getting hungry, peel me a grape”
(Diana Krall)

(In which Ianto is petulant, Jack is unapologetic, and John is the surprising voice of reason.)



Jack kisses John again. “I love getting you there.”

“I know.” John stretches stiffened joints and smiles. “Food. Food would be good.”

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

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s perfectly fine.”

“It’s not fine -- I WATCHED you make it, remember? It’s a bunch of... cobbled together... stuff.”

“Um, John. That’s what replicators do; they cobble together stuff. Anyway, it can’t be as bad as when I saw you helping--”

John’s voice interrupts Jack with sharp words and harsh consonants. Another language.

“Yeah, well, it still put me off my feed for a week. And you know me...”

“You’ll eat anything.” John snorts. “Don’t I know it.”

Each sentence hammers at Ianto’s skull. He groans, recognizing the opening salvos of The Jack and John Show. Knowing the two of them, the odd couple routine could go on for days. His shoulders inch upward toward his ears, though he knows there’s no getting rid of them now that they’ve started.

The door to the room hisses open. (Hisses? Where is he? Bedclothes have the lingering scent of Jack. Old. Something else strange. Not used in a while?)

“... still can’t believe you jettisoned ALL the supplies.” John has the too-cool-to-be-petulant whine down perfectly.

Ianto wonders if snoring pointedly would make them go away.

“We needed to make more room for the Weevils.” The light switches on. Blinding. Painful.

Moaning, Ianto throws an arm over his eyes to shield them from the unwelcome influx of photons.

“Is it possible for you to make this trip even more miserable than you already have, Jack?” says John.

Ianto rolls onto his stomach. Fumbles for another pillow. Pulls it firmly over his head and ears. It almost blocks out the light. (Going to kill you both.)

“It’s all protein.” Even muffled through the pillow, Jack sounds his usual cheerfully-unapologetic self. “And I still don’t get you being squeamish. Where did you think we’d get it from?”

Unless Ianto’s even less awake than he thought, John says something scathing in a language he doesn’t recognize.

Jack answers (in the same tongue, no less) with that smug tone that never fails to annoy the shit out of Ianto -- a sort of gleeful defiance that knows if he smiles prettily enough for long enough, he’ll be forgiven.

And the even-more-annoying thing is: Jack’s usually right.

Ianto fumbles for something to throw at them. Finds another something square-ish and pillow-y. Pitches it in what he estimates is the right direction. “Sleeping.” He flops onto his back and hugs the pillow over his eyes.

Then the smell hits him. God have mercy, small wonder John was bitching. The smell crawls up his sinuses like a burrowing worm. Not enough to be inedible, just enough that his stomach battens down in preparation for a long, slow grind. He groans into his pillow.

“It lives,” says Jack. The side of the bed dips under the weight of one lover. The smell intensifies tenfold with proximity -- an edible-but-still-nauseating reek. Ianto doesn’t need to look to imagine Jack, perched there with his tray of God Only Knows What.

“And it’s surly,” says John. He’s farther over, and it takes a moment for the bed to shift in such a way that Ianto presumes means his other lover is crawling toward him. If he weren’t still feeling a bit tired and hung over (all the more irritating because he hasn’t actually had anything to drink), the thought would make his heart race, but right about now, he’s strongly considering telling them AND their tray to sod off.

“Iaaaaaaan-tohhhhhhh.” He HATES that tone from Jack -- from amused to condescending sing-song in one stroke. “Look at me, honey.”

“I. Am. Sleeping,” he says firmly into his pillow.

“No, you’re not,” says John. “And you’re hungry. Probably thirsty too. Didn’t want to leave you for too much longer or your blood sugar would bottom out more than it already has.”

“You’re not a doctor,” he huffs, “and I’m sleeping.”

“He’s ticklish on the right side, at the base of the rib cage,” Jack says to John.

“Don’t,” Ianto warns.

John slides beneath the covers next to him. How the man manages to be both chaste and erotic at the same time is beyond him, but he has the sudden urge to shag him or cuddle him or both. “I need to feed you,” says John.

“I need to sleep.”

The weight of John’s head on his shoulder. A gentle breath across his ear. And to his irritation, the sensations caused by that slight stirring of air are wired straight to his cock.

John snuggles a bit closer.

Jack moans softly.

John drapes an arm over Ianto’s chest. “Shut up, Jack.” The low murmur manages to promise painful torture to Jack and pleasure to him at the same time. “Ifan, darling,” says John. “It’ll be even worse cold.”

“If you’re worried about it going to waste...” He is NOT going to let John persuade him. Even as John nibbles his earlobe, Ianto defiantly presses his pillow harder over his eyes. “You and Jack could always start without me.”

Jack moans again, this time in anticipation.

“Shut UP, Jack.” There’s a harder edge to this murmur. John’s (lovely) hand runs down his chest, flat-palmed. The touch is annoyingly arousing. (But not the skin-on-skin he’d like. Is he still clothed?) His traitorous body remembers a bit too vividly what John is capable of doing to it. John’s hand catches the edge of the covers. Slides them down. And to Ianto’s further annoyance, he doesn’t seem to be able to resist.

Might as well give up and hope for a longer nap later. (His stomach lets him know that food would also be a good thing.) He peeks out from under his pillow.

John’s smile is warm and inviting.

He lets his lover kiss him, but insists, “Tired.”

“Not surprising.” The hand continues to travel downward, suggestively innocent, taking the covers with it. “We’ve scarcely given you a chance to breathe,” John continues. “But we love you, darling, and we worry.” John’s hand fists in the covers at Ianto’s hip. (Still-covered hip. Want to feel that hand on his bare skin.) A shiver runs through him. He kisses John, more seekingly this time.

And as he presses John back to the bed, he has another moment of disorientation. He feels clothed? And John appears to be starkers. He glances back at Jack, who is similarly naked. Then glances down at himself and is annoyed all over again.

“I know what you’re thinking,” says John. “I had a similar moment of ‘oh-my-god-what-the-fuck-sheepies’. However, Jack deemed it necessary for you to sleep.”

“You dressed me in children’s pyjamas and put me to bed?” He is going to kill Jack. Several times. And make it hurt.

Jack is trying and failing to control his mirth. “Well, technically they’re not children’s pyjamas. I was actually kind of surprised at how well they fit--”

“Jack,” he cuts him off. “Don’t be a dick.”

John snorts.

“Okay,” he amends. “Don’t be more of a dick than you already are. Please reassure me that this--“ he plucks at the soft, pale blue flannel with its obscenely pastoral pattern of puffy sheep “-- is not a turn-on.”

“Or some weird slander against Welshmen,” John adds.

“Or that,” he agrees.

Jack is trying to look serious. “It’s not a turn-on.” His handsome face crumples into a fit of the giggles. “But you ARE very fetching--“

“Shut up, Jack.” To his pleasure, John joins him on the refrain

Jack, being Jack, has to have his stupid fit of sophomoric hysterics. He and John shoot Jack poisonous looks as John helps him out of the juvenile pyjamas. The action is not the least bit erotic, which is good, because entwining flannel and foreplay in his subconscious might scar him for life.

Once the offending garments are removed and tossed into a handy bin through a panel in the wall, Ianto feels a little less hostile. (Hard to be hostile with a sympathetic John running more and more suggestive hands over his bare skin.) He snogs his lover deeply, pointedly ignoring Jack’s residual giggles. He pulls John back onto the bed. Surrenders happily when John’s kiss grows a bit more dominant. Delights in the way John’s skin warms beneath his hands.

“That’s very pretty,” says Jack, serious in spite of one more fit of choked-off snickering.

“Too bad you don’t get any,” says John. His mouth is the most addictive thing in the universe. Ianto could just lay here forever and kiss him. John presses against him, a sensuous line of muscles. (Yes, my love, I wouldn’t mind another go.) And all the better for flaunting it in Jack’s face.

Though his traitorous stomach ruins the barb by growling.

“I can fix that, you know,” says Jack.

John pulls back a little, palpably reluctant. “You really do need to eat something, my love,” he says. “If I tried to shag you right now, you might faint again.”

And though he’s not exactly greying out like he was before, the dull ache at the back of his skull means John’s right. With one more kiss to indicate his regret, he slides up to sitting. John sits too, legs crossed, covers draped over his lap. (Probably more to protect sensitive bits from hot food than to hide his arousal.)

Jack hands Ianto the tray. He tucks in, knowing that his body won’t thank him for turning down a meal, even one that would have been rejected as inedible by the UCL cafeteria. He also pointedly ignores John’s attempts to help feed him, as being literally spoon-fed after waking up in footie pyjamas would just be too much.

“So at the risk of disparaging my charms,” he says around a mouthful of what might -- with a little imagination -- pass for bangers and mash, “Why are you two naked?”

John smirks. “Originally was Jack’s idea. Saves wear and tear on the uniforms.”

He wishes he were more surprised, but that does sound like Jack’s brand of convenient logic. “So does everyone subscribe to this anti-clothing policy in the fifty-first?”

“Nope,” says Jack. “Though I could never figure why. Climate and weather controls work. It’s more comfortable...”

“Less sanitary,” Ianto says, swallowing hard against an unexpected spicing combination of curry and old socks. He reaches for a glass of some disturbingly blue fluid, reassured by John’s nod that it is, in fact, potable. The stuff is clear and clean and slightly sweet, like Lucozade without all the sugar and artificial stuff. “Don’t think I’d fancy having everyone’s arse-prints all over the ship. Not to mention the feet.”

“Ship’s self-cleaning,” says Jack. “And even more so in our time. This one’s only late twenty-second century.”

He tries not to be too pointedly curious, though Jack seldom mentions anything from his home time.

“And because I know you want to ask,” says John, “Jack was considered quite the unrepentant slut, even by the 51st’s standards. Me as well, though I blame most of that on him.”

Ianto manages the last of the -- pudding? (His mouth posits it might be sticky toffee with most of the flavour removed, but it’s only vaguely sweet.) His bladder and bowels have caught up with him, and as he hands the tray back to Jack, he looks around. Can’t seem to spot any likely doors around here. “Where’s the loo?”

Chuckling, his immature hyena of a lover passes his hand over the right spot on the wall.

John walks him through a quick tutorial of “How to use the bathroom on an alien ship”. (Lots of buttons and odd devices and things that seem weird until you use them, but are honestly quite practical.) John nips at his shoulder, watching their reflections in the mirror, then leaves him to shower, shave and tend to his needs. Shouldn’t be a turn-on, really. He should be slightly queasy from the questionable food. Exhausted from the minimal nap. Annoyed from the teasing and flirting and assumption that he has nothing better to do with his time than bottom for the most dangerous pair since Yvonne Hartman paraded the Doctor through Torchwood Tower.

Instead, he rushes a little in his toilette, because the thought of Jack’s hands on him, of John’s kisses, of the three of them...

He smiles around the weird gizmo that passes for a toothbrush. Wipes the steam from the glass to look at his reflection. Passable. Not cover-boy perfect, but at least he no longer looks muzzy and half-asleep.

When he comes back into the bedroom, Jack and John are kneeling face-to-face on the bed, exchanging deep, fierce kisses. The untrained eye might be fooled into thinking this was a fight for dominance, but he knows his captains well enough to recognize when they’re playing their new favourite game.

He should be jealous at being left out. Instead, he finds it ridiculously hot. He watches for what feels like a lifetime, enjoying the view, and imagining himself in the place of one or the other of his lovers. (Or between them, ideally.)

John smiles at him around the kiss, eyes wicked. “I think our Ifan wants to see how long we can keep this up.”

Jack bites at him roughly. “You know me, honey. I can keep it up all night.”

And this time it’s Ianto who moans.

His lovers’ chuckle is muffled by their kiss. They put on more of a show, each trying to outdo the other. (He’s either very lucky or very dead.)

Eventually, John pins Jack to the bed. “I win. Again. And I’m taking my reward. Now.”

It’s both unnerving and arousing to hear one’s self described in those terms. He finds himself shifting his weight from foot to foot, wishing for something to fidget with.

Jack kisses John once more, half-bite with strong lips. They grin at each other. Then, as if responding to some signal only they can hear, both rise from the bed. Head toward him. His stomach is fluttering, his palms going hot and cold with a mix of trepidation and anticipation.

John embraces him with sensuous ferocity. Not unlike being snogged by some barely-tamed animal, though -- like so much with John -- it’s impossible to resist. He gets so caught up in the feel of John’s mouth and tongue on his that he’s only half-cognizant of Jack busying himself at another wall panel. Not sure what the series of hisses and clicks are, but here’s hoping it won’t be too scary.

Then John turns him in his arms and kiss-nips his shoulder as Jack turns to the -- wait. Where’s the bed gone?

Jack’s poking at some kind of construction. Framework. Padding. Handles. Too oddly-shaped to be regular furniture. And he’s not sure what it’s made from. It resembles some kind of... weird...

“I suppose this is shagging furniture?” The moment he says the words, the whole scenario seems frighteningly (and arousingly) real to him.

Jack’s grin softens to a reassuring smile. “Never did understand the hang-up about admitting that beds aren’t always the most accommodating surfaces for a decent fuck.”

He tenses in spite of himself. John’s fantastic assault on his shoulder slows. Becomes more reassuring kisses. There’s a nonverbal question to the way John’s holding him, though he can feel the offer in the anticipation-tension in John’s body.

“We will give you whatever you ask for,” John murmurs. “So the question is: what are you asking for?”

He hates it when the words dry up like this. His mouth is dry and slightly sour with nerves. It’s not that he doesn’t want this. He really, really does. But...

“Darling, I would never hurt you,” says John. “Though I would love to take you to the ragged edge and back again.”

“Trust me, honey.” Jack pulls him gently from John’s arms. Kisses him. “You’re gonna love this.” Jack turns him ‘round so he’s looking at John in all his naked splendour.

“I know.” And he does.

John moves forward. Takes Ianto’s hand. Places it on John’s dick. It shifts beneath his hand. Hard. Curving. Textured. Warm. Cool. John’s gaze is steady. “The first twenty are a test. Even Jack couldn’t make it through all of them the first time.”

“Too painful?” This should terrify him, but instead his heart’s beating fast and furiously, the blood singing in his ears.

“Too good.” Jack’s breath brushes softly against his ear. “Too fantastic. Too perfect. He was the best I ever had. Still is too.” A warm mouth lips gently at his earlobe. “With one very notable exception.”

John grins. “Smooth talker. The first twenty mods are to test the parameters of your senses. What feels good. What feels better. Where every pleasure spot is.”

He’s blushing like an adolescent. “And after the first twenty mods?”

John brings Ianto’s palm up to his lips. Kisses it seekingly. “I become whatever you enjoyed the most. Tailor-made. Different for everyone.”

His own cock seems to think this is a fantastic idea, which scares the hell out of him. And turns him on. And leaves him as terrified and aroused as he was the night he and John first met.

And just like that night, he’ll be damned if he’s going to talk himself out of this.

John pulls him from Jack’s arms and into his. Kisses him, lips hard and soft in turns. Trails teasing fingers first up, then down his back. Necks with him sweetly until he’s leaning into every kiss, shivering happily at every feather-light touch.

“Tell you what, darling,” John murmurs. “I’ll give you the first ten. Let you really enjoy.” The bare skin of John’s back is warm and smooth beneath his hands. “Then give you a bit of a breather,” John continues, “before continuing on to the next ten.”

“Sounds like fun.” He wishes he were as confident as he sounds.

“It will be,” says John. “You’ll come like a wild thing. I’ll shag you unconscious. I’ll come like a madman. A good time will be had by all.”

“I get to watch?” says Jack softly.

He throws Jack a quick smile over his shoulder. “If you want.”

“I would.”

John walks him, slowly but surely, over to the furniture configuration Jack’s called up. Soft, padded (gelled?) surfaces to kneel on. Supports for his chest and belly. Convenient handles to hold. And he has to admit that the whole assembly is oddly reassuring and comfortable. (Is it his imagination, or is this a kissing-cousin of the stuff in Jack’s mattress?) And it places him just perfectly for John to slide behind him.

“Oooj,” says John softly.

“Sorry?”

“The stuff you’re resting on.” And though John’s hot and wanting behind him, it’s Jack’s eyes he sees as John leans over him. “It’ll support you.” A tease of breath across his ear. “Adapt to you.” Confident hands, gentle along his ribs. “Be what you need.” His eyes fall closed -- the dark is too seductive. Too perfect. The familiar spice of John’s pheromones envelopes his senses. (Going to be either very good or the death of me.) He waits, trembling with excitement for whatever John...

John’s knees press the insides of his. Spread his legs slowly. His heart pounds, almost stuttering in anticipation. At first, he hopes for the Therinian lube, then just wants to feel John without the added distraction of the aphrodisiac. (He’s aphrodisiac enough.) Soft slickness. Warm and gentle, something slips inside him. Finger? No. Smoother. More slender and prehensile than fingers. Gentle caresses. His breath catches. His eyes open.

Jack is leaning against the wall, facing him. Watching him. Them. Spellbound. John brushes gentle kisses along the back of his neck. Strokes one hand low across his belly. Jack’s gaze heats up. And the wonderment of that first internal caress. Prehensile, yes. Oh God, yes! His own breath is loud in his ears.

John’s warm chuckle promises so much more. “One,” says John. “Length. All right, my love?”

He nods, grips firm in his hands. He honestly wasn’t prepared for how good it really feels. Not human, and yet not alien. Something different, sliding past all the sweetest spots. John sighs with him, a deep exhale as he relaxes into John’s touch, trusting. John moves with him. Inside him. Strokes gently. Deeply. More deeply. Right to the edge of what he can take.

The phallus inside him thickens. Moves within him in ways a normal cock just can’t. Touches. Curves. Widens. Stretches him. He shudders beneath John. Opens his knees wider, loving the beautiful slide of his lover. Relaxes more. He needs John. Wants him. And is all the more determined to make this last. (His pride won’t let him succumb to pleasure sooner than Jack did, which means he has at least eighteen more shifts to go.)

“Two,” says John. “Width. Ready for three?”

He lets the sigh of pleasure be his reply.

Chuckling, John goes back to kissing his shoulder. The phallus shifts again. Sensitive edges, like talented tongues. More friction every time John pulls back. Sweet, soft shock of each flange as it slides in. (Flanges. Many flanges. Oh God, he knows this one: this is the one John used on Jack in the...) Each stroke brings him higher. Higher. John’s hands on his hips. Knees pressing his still wider. Perfect. He lets the first real moan escape his lips. John is strong and confident behind him. And across the room, Jack’s perfect blue eyes are more intense than anything he’s ever seen.

Jack loves to watch another man fuck him. The thought goes straight to his groin and that point of bliss where John’s body is joined with his. (Watching. He’s getting off on Jack watching. He wants to show him, to make Jack see, to turn that blue gaze white-hot with want.) After a lifetime of keeping secrets, closing the door, muffling his cries, worrying that someone might hear.

“Go ahead, darling,” John says. “Don’t hold back.”

He cries out. Gasps. John slows. Lets him feel this new texture. His hands tighten on the handles. His body goes rigid with pleasure. John works him perfectly, as if his lover has already memorized his body. John builds him. Builds him. And the pleasure breaks over him. John wrings it out of him. He comes with one broken, grateful moan, shuddering against the weird gel of the furniture.

“Three.” John inhales slowly, as if savouring their mingled scents. “You are so gorgeous when you come, Ifan.”

He would stutter out thanks, if he weren’t still shivering with aftershocks.

John peppers the nape of his neck. “Mmmm. Let’s do you again.” His cock shifts again. Soft fingers touch him everywhere at once inside. Caressing with every thrust. Teasing every time John pulls back. John’s rhythm slows. Splendid torture. Making sure he feels every little sensation. He loses what little coherence he had. “Please...”

“Four.” John pulls his head up slightly. Leans forward, adjusting something that extends and supports Ianto’s chin. “Keep your eyes on Jack, you lovely slut.”

When he looks, Jack’s eyes are hooded, his fingers playing lightly over his own swollen cock. He smiles at Jack. Jack exhales all at once. His fingers move faster. He smiles back, cheeks flushed below the tanned skin.

“Five,” John whispers.

The phallus is now like a bundle of... wires? More slender than before. Smooth and each with a mind of its own. Disturbing, and yet still... He starts at the faint, almost electrical strokes of dozens of... things. So many. So much at once. Faint zaps get stronger. Make him shiver and twitch. Intensify. He’s almost ready to ask John to stop when the zaps become a steady tingling. The tingling grows stronger. Stronger. Deeper. Pleasure shakes him again. John’s alive with electric current and touching everywhere at once. Hips firmly pressed against Ianto’s arse. One hand low at Ianto’s groin, the other across his ribcage. Mouth caressing. Biting. Nibbling. Licking at his shoulder. Humming his pleasure even as Ianto moans again. He succumbs to panting. Shudders hard, loving the alien sensations of an energy that both shorts him out and brings him to life.

“Swiss army cock,” he murmurs.

John pauses. “What?”

“Never mind.” Don’t let him stop. Please.

Chuckling, John worries his earlobe with a hot, hot mouth. “Wise-arses get topped more thoroughly.”

“I suppose it has a spork attachment?”

“No spork,” says John. “But six is the anteater.”

“What?” And it doesn’t help that Jack has stopped wanking in favour of smirking again.

But oh dear God in Heaven, when John shifts again, Ianto cries out in startled pleasure. Whatever John’s got, it’s almost like feeling two separate cockheads, moving in him at once. John holds still against him, hips against his arse. And inside, the heads press up and right. Press up and left. Right. Left. Like twin pistons, and each hitting deeper and deeper. The orgasm shudders through him. He’s glad to have the furniture to lean on/over. Coming too hard. Shaking. Couldn’t stand if he tried. The handles are reassuring in his hands

“Liked that, did we?” John murmurs. “Always popular with the ladies. And speaking of such, see what you make of this.”

Fullness. Swelling within him. God, it’s so good. Bulges. One here. One there. Swelling and decreasing in turn. Testing spots inside, one after the other. Finding the best ones. Playing on each in just the right order. Just the right intensity. John knows him. Loves him. Was seriously not kidding when he said he was going to fuck Ianto unconscious. But he’s not going to give in. He’s gasping and begging for more, but not about to beg for John to allow him to finish. No. Have to keep going.

“Seven,” he pants. “More. Please.”

“Greedy,” John teases. And the merciless bastard shifts again. Starts moving again. Smooth sliding in. A clingy texture pulling out. Better. Oh God, better with every stroke. And slow. Sweet smooth rush on the upstroke. Slow, sensuous torture as John pulls back. Ianto calls out, encouraging his lover. Curses in spite of himself, earning a warm chuckle. John takes his time, letting him feel every bit of that weird-yet-wonderful cock as he moves. All the tension from the last orgasm drains. He’s grinning like an idiot. Everything is sensitized. Everything feels fantastic. And he doesn’t want it to end.

“Eight. Good. Relaxing right on schedule,” John purrs. “Now to spice it up a little. Jack?”

He glances over at Jack, who is stroking himself leisurely with one hand. Jack’s mouth is slack, eyes deep and slightly feral. Jack reaches with his other hand. Presses some control someplace.

The supporting oooj shifts under him. Tilts his torso to more of an upright kneel. John’s hands are hard on his hips, pressing him more tightly to the furniture. He couldn’t move away even if he wished. (Which he doesn’t.) He’s immobilized. The delicious shock of teeth on the back of his neck, a gentle warning bite.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move,” says John.

Shivering with anticipation, he manages, “Yes, Captain.”

“Nine,” John whispers, then bites his shoulder fiercely.

John’s gorgeous cock shifts again. Something smooth and slippery, tapering from root to almost non-existent head. Strong suction. Inside. Cupping his prostate. He yelps, startled. (It can’t be. John wouldn’t use the Hentai on him?) The alien sensation is almost too much again. Then it’s not enough. Too much and not enough. Don’t stop. Stop don’t. Sensations lightning through him, sharp and perfect as John’s teeth at his neck. He loses control of his mouth, panting and cursing and begging. Begging John to go on. Begging John to stop. To do more. To let him come again.

The bite eases as suddenly as it started. Hard fingers in his hair. Pulling his head back. John arches Ianto’s back, exposing his cock to the cooler air. Neck bared. Cock naked. Arse full of John. He loves this moment of adrenaline-fueled submission. John could hurt him (kill him) if he wished. His heart beats hard (and happily) at the thought.

“Jack,” John says, quietly but firmly. “Come here and suck this boy off while I fuck him.”

A hot mouth encloses his cock. He looks down. Jack smiles up at him. Draws him deeper. Sucks harder, matching the internal suction. So close. So very close. No, please not yet. Can’t give in yet. Don’t want to. He’s crying out. Moaning. Loving Jack’s talented tongue, even as he hates him for bringing him closer and closer.

Gentle fingers tease his balls. Knead ever so gently. He’s babbling now. Welsh. Begging them to finish him. To let him come. To never stop.

John claps a hard hand over his mouth.

“The tenth one theoretically shouldn’t work on you,” John says, “Being that you’re not female. But since we’ve established that you’re a perfectly responsive little bottom, I’m curious to see what this does.” The hand releases his mouth.

“You were saying,” John mumurs.

Deep and smooth and curved. John’s hips grind against his arse. Faster. Faster. The sweet slap of flesh on flesh. Jack’s mouth enveloping him. Drawing him deep. Bobbing fast to match John’s strokes.

Ianto can hardly draw breath between the cries John is fucking out of him. But he can hear every one of John’s moans. Grunts. And then a long litany of filth as John promises to fuck him raw. To fuck him senseless. To fuck him so hard and so deep he won’t be able to sit for days. To let Jack have him when he’s done. To fuck Jack while Jack’s fucking him. To use him like the slut he is.

And punctuating everything is the steadily increasing slap of John’s hips against his. The sting sharpens as the sweat builds between them.

“Beg for me to let you come,” says John’s icy voice in his ear. A hard hand at his shoulder.

And he does. Begs for Jack. Begs for John. Tries to move with him.

“Hands on Jack’s head,” John commands. “Use his mouth.”

He obeys. Pulls Jack harder and harder onto his cock. Jack sucks him down. Holds him high on the backs of his thighs. Devours him like a starving man.

“Jack, don’t let him come until I tell you.”

Jack hums obedience. A sudden, startling tug at his balls. He gasps, not sure if it’s pain or pleasure.

Jack pulls off him. Looks up to John. The cooler air is a shock on his sensitized cock. Jack’s hot hands tighten at the backs of his thighs, kneading just below his buttocks.

“Let it GO,” says John in his ear. “All that damn pride. I know what I’m doing to you. What he’s doing to you. Show us how much you like this. Scream for us. We’re not going to let you come until you do.”

He moans, surrendering and pleading at the same time.

“Louder,” says that merciless voice.

He shouts. Curses. Screams, almost choking on pleasure.

Jack darts a lick to the head of his cock, his eyes still on John. John keeps thrusting, his hand hard at Ianto’s shoulder. Adrenaline and endorphins and the fantastic feel of being fucked by a man who kills as easily as he...

“Please please please please!”

After what feels like an eternity, John says breathlessly, “Now.”

Jack inhales him. Draws him so deep he screams again. John’s grip loosens. His hand slides down. Frames Ianto’s hips. Jack’s mouth. John’s cock. Mouth. Cock. Hot. Hotter. Wet. Wetter. Hard. Bottomless. Thrusting deeper.

“Please!” he shouts. “Please, Captain, please!”

And John builds him. Higher. Higher. Harder. Right to the ragged edge of pain. He’s not going to survive. He doesn’t want it to end. Please, please, please. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!

He comes in a mad explosion. Jack swallows him down, pulling him hard into his mouth. With an animal roar, John comes, a sweet gush of liquid heat. John sinks his teeth into the spot where neck meets shoulder, dizzying pain heightening the bliss of orgasm.

He’s panting. Shivering with aftershocks. Every nerve in his body fires randomly. Jack’s still suckling, more affectionate than anything. Loath to surrender Ianto’s cock. John is swearing a blue streak between each gasp for breath. Arms encircle him. Pull him close. John holds him briefly. Withdraws gently.

The furniture shifts beneath him again. Flat surface. John lays him down. Coaxes him onto his back. Jack licks him clean, humming his satisfaction. Slow, savouring swipes of that beautifully-textured tongue. Usually, Ianto would push him away so he could recover, but this time everything is so fantastically perfect that he finds himself savouring every over-stimulated sensation that Jack can gently pull from him.

John stretches out beside him, the lithe embodiment of smugness. “All right, darling?”

He is, though damned if his mouth will form the words. He manages an uncoordinated nod and indulges the urge to grin goofily as John trails fingertips down his chest. “Not... unconscious... yet.”

John grins. “Very true, darling, and you’re halfway there. So what say we up the odds?”

“Already... cheated.” He draws a deep breath and focuses. “Blowjob was not part of the test.”

John chuckles. “What fun would it be to play fair?” He kisses Ianto’s temple. “Even so, my love, you are worth every word of your reputation.”

He looks pointedly at Jack.

Jack shrugs. “Still waters run deep.” Jack snuggles close. “And John’s right -- you are dead gorgeous when you come.”

He kisses Jack a little, loving the smooth-rough texture of Jack’s tongue. “Did you enjoy it? Watching us?”

“Yeah.” Jack kisses him deeply. Thrusts that beautiful (and still unsatisfied) erection a little against his thigh. “Made me want to do what you suggested earlier.”

“What’s that?” Though he suspects he already knows.

“Fuck you on John’s come.”

He and John both shiver pleasantly at the thought. John’s breath is warm and suggestive at his ear. “What do you say, my love?”

If he’s honest, he’s had more than a bit of rough trade. “I’d like to, but...”

He can feel John nod and move behind him. Within moments, a golden cloud envelopes him.

“Internals only,” John says to the nanogenes, then to Ianto, “Love bites suit you, darling.”

He smiles at the thought. Wouldn’t have thought he’d enjoy being marked this much. He waits for the nanogenes to clear up the internal abrasions. Fantastic sex always leaves a mark, but he’d rather be in top condition if he’s going to let Jack take a turn and still have anything left to give John. (Not going to lose to Jack when it comes to the ability to bottom for a kinkily-endowed lover.)

The strange blood-fizzing sensation dissipates as the golden cloud seeps out of him and back into its subdermal container.

“Ready?” John says softly.

He nods, not quite trusting his voice.

The furniture shifts again. Back to the sort of reverse-chair configuration he’d started with. The one that lets him kneel, gives him handles and leaves his lover free access to his arse.

Jack kneels behind him. Frames his hips with his hands. Ianto slides his knees wide, still feeling the good kind of stretched.

Jack slides twin thumbs between his buttocks. Brushes the already-sensitized opening. Pulls his buttocks wide, exposing him. Waits, kneading ever so slightly with fingers.

And Ianto waits too, breathless and wanting. After a moment, he realizes Jack’s waiting for John’s command. He looks back over his shoulder to John.

“Please, Captain,” Jack says. “I promise to save some for you.”

Apparently that was the right response. John smiles, a slow intense smile that turns his eyes darker. He nods to Jack.

Jack’s cock presses. Presses into him. No Therinian. Ianto has a moment of panic. They never go completely bareback. He at least needs a...

Then the fullness of Jack’s cock sliding home. He moans, in bliss. God, so thick. So much of him. So hot and alive. And Jack slides smoothly. He’s perfectly slick enough. It’s lovely. So lovely. He rocks back to meet each of Jack’s thrusts. Loves the wet sound of his lover moving inside him. It’s smooth and deep and so good that within moments he’s moaning like the slut John named him. The fuck with his other lover left him relaxed. Happy. More than ready for this leisurely shag.

Jack builds them both, though Ianto can tell already that Jack will finish without him. He doesn’t mind, as he doesn’t think he could survive much longer if Jack made him come the way John did. He loves the slide of Jack. The feel of their hips impacting. The way Jack angles down in just the right way. The tension building in Jack’s muscles. The promise of a really fantastic orgasm.

Jack’s moaning. Panting. Taking what he needs. What Ianto wants to give him.

He surrenders again. (So glad to be able to give in to you.) Relaxes completely into the bliss of being fucked. Tightens around Jack a little as Jack gets closer and closer to bliss. Jack’s close. So close. Ianto tightens around him with each deep thrust. Loves the happy moans and groans and pants. Tries to time it just right so he’s stroking Jack as Jack’s stroking him.

He rubs his filling cock against the furniture as Jack doubles his tempo, fucking harder and faster as he builds to his orgasm. Jack’s panting out curses, the most gorgeous sound he’s ever heard, because Jack wants him and loves him and John’s going to fuck him next and he can’t wait and there will be two kinds of come in him and he’s never had that.

Jack comes. Thrusts deep. Fills him. He shivers a sympathetic nerve-orgasm. Frots a little against the oooj.

And when he looks, it’s John who’s now watching them with hungry eyes. Jack withdraws slowly. Ianto hums his pleasure at the sensation as Jack slips free.

The furniture shifts beneath him. Jack dismounts, unsteady. John seizes first one of Ianto’s wrists, then the other. Claps each in a metal bracelet. The bracelets magnetize to each other, binding his hands together. John brushes a hand past the head of the furniture. A panel appears. Without warning, Ianto’s arms are dragged toward it. His hands are bound above his head, the bracelets sticking to the panel at the top of the furniture.

And now John is bending over him, that predatory smile returning.

He stretches up, kissing John. Parts his knees so John can drape himself over him.

“Ready for round two?” John murmurs.

“Yes, please.”

Previous | Next



Link to previous Faithful!Verse stories

Crossposted to jackxianto, torchwoodslash, guns_n_poodles