Four fics from the kinkmeme.
Also, this icon is the shit. Thanks, throwthebones.
So cruentum and nancybrown de anoned their touchyerwood kinkmeme things, so I figured goose-->gander again. La la la. They are largely as they appeared on the meme, which means that they probably have issues that I would have ironed out on a real fic, but bah.
Jack/Ianto; Ianto gains weight, just this side of plump, and Jack gets off on it
The worst part is that now his trouser waists fold over his belt on the sides, just a little. Love handles, whatever, they ruin the cut of his suits, and he wouldn't care, but something about seeing the wrinkled waistbands makes him a little sad.
He makes changes. He watches his food intake (beer and whiskey intake, too; they don't call it a beer gut for nothing), and he starts to exercise, which is, all being told, easier said than done. Because the last thing he wants to do at the end of a sixteen-hour day is throw on some old clothes and run about the neighbourhood, or even worse, go to a gym filled with perfect bodies, perfect because they have time and energy to work out instead of saving the universe from aliens day in and day out.
And another thing, he thinks, is the supreme irony that in a job as stressful as his, and which involves as much punching and shooting as his, he doesn't naturally stay slim. Because while there's occasional running, there's a lot more punching and other immobile things like sedentary and yet adrenaline-filled hacking and the like, the lifting of bodies. He's good at lifting bodies. He's got that heavy-muscled upper build that bricklayers or miners get where there's slabs of muscle under a layer of fat.
Bah.
Ianto folds his trousers and stands in front of the mirror. Without clothes it's easier for everything to smooth out. He sucks in his gut and holds it, then blows out and distends his belly so that it's larger than it is normally. Like a "it could look like this" way. There's no disguising the love handles. They round above his hips just enough that he wonders why anyone would call them love handles.
Okay, this is being fattist, isn't it? Ianto doesn't mind extra weight on other people. In fact he's been to the doctor recently, he was in the exam room and used the chart to calculate his BMI whilst waiting, so he knows about heights and weights and bone structure etc, etc. His first girlfriend had been plump, and he had to admit that he likes rounded curves on a woman. His mates call it other things, most of them just this side of crude, but he's got a soft spot for large breasts and hips and the dimples in the flesh above the buttocks in the back when a woman has weight on her. He gets it, he really does.
It's that it's him, not someone else. It doesn't fit with his image as suave, svelte secret agent. International man of mystery. He wants to be Connery circa 1965, not Connery 1995.
Still, it's inevitable, isn't it? Metabolism slows, sedentary life, poor eating, too much alcohol. God he's not a doctor and he knows what Owen would say to him. If Owen were still alive, he'd still be skinny as a bean pole and drinking like a fish. Bastard.
And then there's Jack. Jack's built, not like a rippling abs-man, but a damn sight thinner than Ianto at this point, and Ianto is sure that if he ever walks in on him in the loo when he's on the scale he'll have to shoot him in the head and retcon him to keep him from saying something about Ianto's weight. So he locks the door.
This time though, for whatever reason, Jack opens the door without the slightest issue (Ianto makes a note to check for jimmy screwdrivers in the vicinity later) and catches him. "Oh, is this what you do when the door is locked? I thought you were wanking, or looking at something sexy."
Ianto rolls his eyes. "What could I be looking at that I would want to hide from you? Certainly not porn."
Jack shrugs and considers. "Brochures for the priesthood? That's kind of sexy, though, all those men living together." He tilts his head. "Unless you were actually serious about being called by God, in which case I'd want to scan you for those Braxxaxxaxax parasites again."
Ianto steps off the scale and kicks it to the back of the space between the sink and the toilet. "I told you, I'm clean. No aural hallucinations."
Jack leans against the doorway, arms crossed. He's shed his clothes, he had the moment he'd walked though Ianto's door (Ianto's, he argues, is a clothes-free zone, regardless of what he is doing), and Ianto washes his face with a damp flannel, peeking at Jack's trim waist behind him in the mirror. His face is a mask of something, and Ianto wonders what his arse looks like from behind. He isn't worried, not really; he has a fabulous arse.
He does, however, have gray hair at his temples. Bollocks.
Jack doesn't say anything until they lie down in bed fifteen minutes later and Ianto finishes setting the alarm (if he leaves for work an hour early, he can jog there, and shower and change in the locker room. That will be his exercise in a day looking to be filled with filing, processing, and possibly a takeaway lunch squeezed into the crammed mayhem.). Jack's body plasters itself to his own, some sort of parasite seeking to feed from his energy or something, leg thrown over his knees, right arm over his chest, left arm trapped under his body.
"You know," Jack says, "when you were younger, years ago," he starts, "You had longer hair, and it was darker." Ianto's eyes cut to the window and the generous sliver of moon seeping through the clouds. "You were thinner, lighter." Jack stops then. Fingers tangle in Ianto's chest hair and tug, then slide up to his chin to turn his face so that he is forced to look into his eyes. "Gaunt and hungry." His eyes get too close to focus on when he presses his lips in for a kiss, a kiss that is in itself quite hungry, too.
"People change," Jack says, his hand leaving Ianto's throat and sliding down to ride the slight curve of Ianto's stomach, over to the side to map out the extra weight there. "It suits you, you know."
Ianto snorts, then grunts when Jack grabs onto the flesh there and holds it. It feels exposed, naked, that Jack would recognise it, point it out, as if he is marking it with a magic marker as a blemish, something imperfect. He doesn't point to all of Jack's physical imperfections and hold them up to the light...not that there are many, but still, it's not done.
"It's hot," Jack says, "that you're hard," he pauses so that he can grab Ianto's betraying cock and the bicep of one arm, still quite muscled (carrying bodies, of course). "And soft." Jack squeezes again but slips under the covers so that he can kiss his way down Ianto's chest to his stomach and bite at the fat there. Jack's hand on his cock is pulsing a beat out and pulling at his foreskin, and he gasps, his own hands reaching for Jack's hair, anything else he can touch--a shoulder, the shell of an ear, Jack's lips when he turns his head to suck Ianto's thumb into his mouth.
"Jack-"
"I don't say gorgeous to unman you, Ianto," Jack whispers, just loud enough that the words could trail up from under the covers and into his ear. "But it's true, because it's..." The hand reaches down and cups his balls and Ianto fairly shoots up in the bed from the hips, giving Jack access to his thighs and arse when he grasps a knee and bends it, propping Ianto's legs up so that he can spread them. Ianto can't see him under the covers in the dark, but Jack's hands knead the soft flesh of his inner thigh, spread his arse and then he licks the skin from arse to balls. Ianto runs his own fingers over Jack's hair, but that's all he can reach until Jack grabs one of his hands and covers it, his mouth still sucking Ianto's balls. He forces Ianto's hand up and over his belly, presses his fingers into the flesh there, soft, but if he presses further in, he can feel the hard plane of muscle there. Jack slides up over the hands, pressing them into Ianto with his own weight.
"Hey, we still fit, right?"
Ianto lets Jack press his face into the hollow of his neck, his legs working to settle into the curve of Ianto's spread legs. His own cock brushes Jack's and he grunts, pressing up with as much of his body as he can get to leave the bed.
"I don't think a little weight is going to prevent that," Ianto says as dryly as he can manage when Jack has taken them both in his hands and is working them together, a little rough and dry this way but god, he's not opposed to a little pain. Jack's one free hand props him up so that he's not completely resting on Ianto, and his mouth leaves Ianto's neck finally and licks its way up the jaw. Ianto isn't ready to claim that he's just going to lie here like a lump, so he tries to lift Jack off the bed as much as he can (not completely altruistic on his part), and with his hands he finds Jack's arse, his back and the curve of it, the dimples above Jack's arse that he can punch between thumb and finger.
"Speaking of weight," he says, and Jack squeezes his cock. "You seem to have some-ugnf."
Jack laughs. "Get over it, Jones," he says, slipping away to make a return visit down Ianto front so that he can slide his mouth down on Ianto's cock in one stroke. Ianto barely has time to register the tongue on the underside when Jack's mouth pulls away. He's going to talk in the middle of sex. It's an infuriating habit. "But if you have a problem with it, we could always jog to work together tomorrow." Jack is halfway down on Ianto's cock when he pulls off again. "Of course, that would mean that we should just go to sleep, since we have to get up so early-"
"Jack."
Jack chuckles. "Or we could just work out now."
END
Gwen/Jack; she pays him back for turning her on during gun training
It's late and he's tired as fuck, mostly because that group of alien smugglers had made him run from one place to another, fetching bits and bobs or they'd blow Tosh's brains out. He likes Tosh's brains where they are, so he and Gwen and Ianto had been playing with GPS all day, trying to track down "a bucket of chyme" and "three burnt fishsticks" while Owen had traced Tosh's mobile and shot all three of the aliens in the head.
Everyone's gone home, Owen's administered a healthy dose of sedatives to Tosh and carted her back to his for a night on the sofa (if he has any class he'll take the sofa) and Gwen and Ianto have disappeared, and he's all alone. He's exhausted. Sure, he'd told Gwen last week that he didn't sleep, but that had been a little bit of truth and a lot of exaggeration. Just the thought of a warm shower and a long lie-in for the next four hours makes him want to fall down on the spot, but well, anything worth having is worth waiting for, or so he tells himself when he watches Ianto's ass in those trousers make its way across the Hub.
He's got the braces down and the shirt unbuttoned and kicked his discarded shoes under his desk for the next morning when he realises that something is behind him in the room, and then something very familiar makes contact with his skull, and he pauses.
"Don't move," says a soft voice. Gwen. Doesn't even bother do disguise it, but she's not disguising the barrel of the gun she's got pressed to the back of his head, either, so this could be any number of things.
It's obviously not a stick up.
"Gwen" he says, leaning back into the barrel of the gun. She's not going to shoot him, but then again, this isn't safety 101.
She cocks the hammer, which is pointless, but a nice aural gesture. "I've been thinking about our training last week."
"Have you?" He smiles, even if she can't see it, she'll hear it. "I hope it was useful."
"Mmmm." One hand snakes to his front, laying itself flat on his belly. "Was it here? Lower?" The hand follows the suggestion so that it's just below his belt, warm and small on his front. "You position all your employees that way? Or just the ladies?" The hand inches down to cover the lump of his hard cock. Always ready for action in danger or sex, that one. The palm grinds into it, and the cloth of trousers and shorts is a frustrating barrier.
He remembers that he's supposed to be saying something. Gwen isn't going to shoot him, he knows that, even as he's aware that this is something she'd only ever bring herself to do since she knows about his immortality. If she didn't know, she'd never imagine holding a gun to his head. Not for this.
"Just you," he lies, and he has the tapes to screw himself, locked on a secure server, his wriststrap, actually, but he doesn't think further on that because her hand finally unflattens and curves around his cock, pressing so that she can feel it jump for her a little, grinding so hard that she could pull the foreskin around a little even through the cloth.
The gun trails down the back of his neck and into the collar, making a little crescent from one side of his neck to the other before slipping over the lip of his collar and down between his shoulder blades. Gwen's voice is hoarse and he's having trouble breathing because he wants to come in her hand, in her cunt, in her mouth. He senses that none of those things is going to happen here.
"I'm not yours, Jack," Gwen says, her fringe tickling the shell of his ear as she stands on her tiptoes to whisper. It's a precarious position, the tiptoes. He could turn right now and catch her off balance, thrust his hand in her jeans and bring them both, while that barrel imprints itself on his chest, his forehead, his temple. She'd let him, maybe, she'd curse him out and come on his fingers until they were coated, and then he'd suck them off, maybe wipe them on the barrel of her gun and suck that off. She'd like that.
"I know," he says to her and to his own inner porno. But this time he's telling the truth outside and lying inside, and Gwen's gun leaves his body; now that it's not flush with his flesh, he's worried even more what it might do, now that his skin can't pinpoint its location exactly.
Gwen's hand leaves his cock and travels up his chest to his throat and jaw, and he knows that she's stabilising his neck so that he can't look back at her. All this is planned; they're facing the one wall in his office that isn't reflective. "And I never will be," she finishes for him. He wants to see her eyes, so that he can see what she's hiding, what she's really trying to say, what she doesn't want to say to him so much that she uses a firearm to say it for her. He closes his eyes, because maybe he can hear it in the darkness.
But her hand rounds his throat and slips off, his sense of her nearness recedes and by the time he's brought himself to open his eyes and turn, just a little, to see his reflection in the glass to his left, she's not there.
He can still feel the bruise of her point on the back of his head.
END
Jack/Ianto; necrophilia
Ianto has a list. It's long and has never been written on paper, it's not that kind of list. The kind of list it would ever be wise to let someone see. The kind of list that sometimes in place of words uses his emotions, sensations, unquantifiable and describable. The list is private to him too, things that he doesn't want to ever confront beyond the flashes of them that appear behind his eyes like a flipbook of sensations and images when he thumbs through the imaginary pages.
It's not the list he's really thinking about right now as he thrusts forward and closes his eyes, grabbing on to Jack's hair for better purchase. Jack's tight and soft in unsuspecting places, really. But the sound of fucking also sounds like the scritch of a pen checking something off on a list.
It's warm and giving and Jack has no choice really, but to stay still, with his head immobile. His eyes are open, and while they don't blink. His hands move when Ianto thrusts too hard for a second, he might have taken him by surprise, but that's doubtful. Ianto's cock is hard and he opens his eyes to roam the planes of Jack's form, smooth skin cooler than it normally would be, ankles in restraints. Toes almost curling a little. His hair is bristly under Ianto's fingers, in the places where it isn't damp and sticky. The silver of the ankle restraints, fashioned from old cyber conversion units, isn't lost in meaning or prettiness.
Ianto's slows his pace because he doesn't want to be finished yet. If he looks up he can see the blinking monitors of Owen's computers, grinding on and on, like he's doing right now in some ways, never stopping or caring, just doing a job, much like he is not right here. This isn't a job, not this part.
Jack doesn't squeeze around his cock, not like he would if he had more control of himself, but every once in a while his back curves, as if Ianto is hitting the right place at the right time. In any other way it might be interesting from a medical standpoint, like a little puppetry with his dick, but it's warm and tight and some part of him recognises that he has to come quickly before he remembers who he is and what he's doing.
He picks up his pace again, and coming is just a thing now, the last edge to grasp to pull himself up the ledge, and he thrusts as far in as he can get, hands in Jack's hair and all the way in, pressing so hard he's probably bruising the flesh that he's slamming into for the last time.
Ianto pulls out and lets his softening cock fall, hang in front of him, bloody and covered in other things. Jack's face is still a mask of shock, unsurprisingly. His fingers twitch again in the restraints, and his body relaxes from its back arching, nerves still jumping a bit, synapses snapping and firing in his brainpan.
Ianto smiles and pats Jack's face by the temple, watches the battered gray matter leak out of the hole he's drilled in the skull at the crown. "As always," he murmurs, "a fantastic shag, Captain."
Jack's foot jerks in the metal ring, but it's the dance of a dead man. For now.
END
Rhys/Gwen; what were they using the text-contacts for?
Rhys sipped his drink and looked out over the bar. The pickings were slim, but not bad. Rather like going to the grocers and finding they only had three different kinds of veg, but it was all really good veg that you liked. Left table was a redhead with huge tits blossoming from her sweater, nipples at attention. Back table reading a book was a brunette with a pair of legs and a set of what he and Daffyd called DSL--Dick Sucking Lips (Kind of thing you said to your mates and kept to yourself at home, that.).
And then there was the one close enough to him that he could smell her CK One and wondered if anyone actually worse CK One anymore. Guess so.
His wedding band burned in his pocket, but he couldn't very well wear it for this.
The girl next to him was fit, and blonde and giving him the eye. He liked the fall of her hair and the way her lipstick matched her blouse: red and red, like Gwen's favorite top. Jesus, Gwen's favorite top made him hard just thinking about it.
THAT ONE. WITH THE EYES_
Rhys blinked and stared at his fingers as he tapped them twice on the counter.
Chatting her up was fairly easy, actually. She was in a very good mood, and she wanted to run her hands through his hair and get him to sing some for her in his Northern accent. It was the accent-drove the ladies wild. His own was typing messages right to his skull.
SHE'S GORGEOUS. MAKES ME THINK OF TIT FUCKING_
"Do you want to get out of here?" he asked the blonde, and she hopped off the stool in the overeager dance of, 'I'm about to get lucky' that he usually saw right before he and Gwen found a quiet nook somewhere to do a private lapdance in the middle of the day.
He'd chosen the pub because of the fact that the toilets had locking doors, and when she followed him in, he thought about the whole thing he was about to do, and whether or not he was being smart. Rhys looked in the mirror over the sink as he locked the door, and the blonde giggled and turned him a little bit to kiss his mouth. She tasted like Brains and crisps and that was okay. He could feel himself getting hard, especially when he blinked in the mirror and was rewarded with,
RIGHT NOW I'M FINGERING MYSELF. TWO FINGERS. I USED THAT GEL_
Ooooooh, the itching gel they'd discovered by accident.
OPEN HER BLOUSE_
The buttons were tiny-were they even meant to open? But they gave and he could kiss his way down her neck, his hands working up under the underwire of her bra. Her fingers prized the button of his jeans and she laughed again, something throaty and full of promise, something he didn't care to listen to because he was trying to imagine what Gwen's voice would sound like when she said
OPEN YOUR EYES_
He did, and let his eyes roam her face, her blue eyes, and the pulse thumping in her neck. His cock was hard when she grabbed it, long nails brushing the skin of his belly, her mouth on his neck. He tugged at her skirt and then her pants.
LOOK DOWN_
The knickers were red and lacy-she'd expected a shag tonight. Well, he figured as he blinked repeatedly, trying to get his conspirator to prompt him as he lifted her onto the edge of the sink, she was going to get one.
CONDOM_ appeared a second before her fingers appeared with the foil package winking in the dim light, WATCH HER DO IT_ tilted his head down to take in her gleaming nails and her long fingers rolling it over his cock.
The prompts in front of his eyes became her face, then, when he entered her-wet, physically wet, not cyber wet-when he felt the warmness of her, and then YOU'RE HUGE_ and HARDER_ and LOOK AT HER FACE_ so that she could see the eyes fluttering closed when he thrust into her, her backside rolling back on the sink edge when he forced himself, and her hands pressed into the small of his back, his shoulder, digging, pressing, plastering themselves to him like Gwen was plastered to his eyes.
IS SHE MOANING_ One blink for yes.
I'M SO CLOSE_
He closed his eyes and thought of the way she writhed under him on the bed, or in his lap, little hip swivels and tight cunt. That red top, her breasts in her bra, the push-up one that made her tits fairly fall out, the way they rose and fell with every shift of her body, every breath.
LOOK DOWN_ revealed his cock working in and out, rubber curl of the coloured condom pressed into his hair, gleam of her wetness glossing the red even redder, like candy shine. Her gasps are came faster and more frequent, something that he couldn't transmit, even though he tried to blink it when he looked in the mirror over her shoulder, at her arse as it rocked back and forth with his thrusts.
MAKE ME COME_
He closed his eyes and kissed her ear. She smelled like perfume and AquaNet. One of his hands slipped down to finger her clit, just for good measure, and her legs wrapped around this hips, pulling, so they were pressed together and just ground out the last few thrusts, in the blackness of his vision just the blueness of Gwen's words SO GOOD_ and XVKF;LKVFVN_
That was his girl.
They sat there for a moment she groaned into his shoulder. "You're a catch," she murmured. "I'm married. Sorry."
He thought about telling her, but it didn't work both ways. Instead he just looked at the mirror and wiggled his bare ring finger.
:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD_
"Thought you hated the smilies," Rhys murmured to himself as he pulled out and began to tuck himself back into his trousers.
The girl--'Tracey, I'm Tracey.' He remembered--smiled lazily and pulled some wipes from her purse, holding one out to him. "I love smilies," she told him.
Rhys took the wipe and jammed it down his trousers, then tossed it in the bin. Moments later he was unlocking the toilet door and gesturing her out.
COME HOME_
Rhys paused and looked in the mirror of the toilet one last time, at his face, red with exertion, flushed with post-shagging bliss. He mouthed the words to his image and paused, just in case she hadn't caught it.
I LOVE YOU TOO.
END
So cruentum and nancybrown de anoned their touchyerwood kinkmeme things, so I figured goose-->gander again. La la la. They are largely as they appeared on the meme, which means that they probably have issues that I would have ironed out on a real fic, but bah.
Jack/Ianto; Ianto gains weight, just this side of plump, and Jack gets off on it
The worst part is that now his trouser waists fold over his belt on the sides, just a little. Love handles, whatever, they ruin the cut of his suits, and he wouldn't care, but something about seeing the wrinkled waistbands makes him a little sad.
He makes changes. He watches his food intake (beer and whiskey intake, too; they don't call it a beer gut for nothing), and he starts to exercise, which is, all being told, easier said than done. Because the last thing he wants to do at the end of a sixteen-hour day is throw on some old clothes and run about the neighbourhood, or even worse, go to a gym filled with perfect bodies, perfect because they have time and energy to work out instead of saving the universe from aliens day in and day out.
And another thing, he thinks, is the supreme irony that in a job as stressful as his, and which involves as much punching and shooting as his, he doesn't naturally stay slim. Because while there's occasional running, there's a lot more punching and other immobile things like sedentary and yet adrenaline-filled hacking and the like, the lifting of bodies. He's good at lifting bodies. He's got that heavy-muscled upper build that bricklayers or miners get where there's slabs of muscle under a layer of fat.
Bah.
Ianto folds his trousers and stands in front of the mirror. Without clothes it's easier for everything to smooth out. He sucks in his gut and holds it, then blows out and distends his belly so that it's larger than it is normally. Like a "it could look like this" way. There's no disguising the love handles. They round above his hips just enough that he wonders why anyone would call them love handles.
Okay, this is being fattist, isn't it? Ianto doesn't mind extra weight on other people. In fact he's been to the doctor recently, he was in the exam room and used the chart to calculate his BMI whilst waiting, so he knows about heights and weights and bone structure etc, etc. His first girlfriend had been plump, and he had to admit that he likes rounded curves on a woman. His mates call it other things, most of them just this side of crude, but he's got a soft spot for large breasts and hips and the dimples in the flesh above the buttocks in the back when a woman has weight on her. He gets it, he really does.
It's that it's him, not someone else. It doesn't fit with his image as suave, svelte secret agent. International man of mystery. He wants to be Connery circa 1965, not Connery 1995.
Still, it's inevitable, isn't it? Metabolism slows, sedentary life, poor eating, too much alcohol. God he's not a doctor and he knows what Owen would say to him. If Owen were still alive, he'd still be skinny as a bean pole and drinking like a fish. Bastard.
And then there's Jack. Jack's built, not like a rippling abs-man, but a damn sight thinner than Ianto at this point, and Ianto is sure that if he ever walks in on him in the loo when he's on the scale he'll have to shoot him in the head and retcon him to keep him from saying something about Ianto's weight. So he locks the door.
This time though, for whatever reason, Jack opens the door without the slightest issue (Ianto makes a note to check for jimmy screwdrivers in the vicinity later) and catches him. "Oh, is this what you do when the door is locked? I thought you were wanking, or looking at something sexy."
Ianto rolls his eyes. "What could I be looking at that I would want to hide from you? Certainly not porn."
Jack shrugs and considers. "Brochures for the priesthood? That's kind of sexy, though, all those men living together." He tilts his head. "Unless you were actually serious about being called by God, in which case I'd want to scan you for those Braxxaxxaxax parasites again."
Ianto steps off the scale and kicks it to the back of the space between the sink and the toilet. "I told you, I'm clean. No aural hallucinations."
Jack leans against the doorway, arms crossed. He's shed his clothes, he had the moment he'd walked though Ianto's door (Ianto's, he argues, is a clothes-free zone, regardless of what he is doing), and Ianto washes his face with a damp flannel, peeking at Jack's trim waist behind him in the mirror. His face is a mask of something, and Ianto wonders what his arse looks like from behind. He isn't worried, not really; he has a fabulous arse.
He does, however, have gray hair at his temples. Bollocks.
Jack doesn't say anything until they lie down in bed fifteen minutes later and Ianto finishes setting the alarm (if he leaves for work an hour early, he can jog there, and shower and change in the locker room. That will be his exercise in a day looking to be filled with filing, processing, and possibly a takeaway lunch squeezed into the crammed mayhem.). Jack's body plasters itself to his own, some sort of parasite seeking to feed from his energy or something, leg thrown over his knees, right arm over his chest, left arm trapped under his body.
"You know," Jack says, "when you were younger, years ago," he starts, "You had longer hair, and it was darker." Ianto's eyes cut to the window and the generous sliver of moon seeping through the clouds. "You were thinner, lighter." Jack stops then. Fingers tangle in Ianto's chest hair and tug, then slide up to his chin to turn his face so that he is forced to look into his eyes. "Gaunt and hungry." His eyes get too close to focus on when he presses his lips in for a kiss, a kiss that is in itself quite hungry, too.
"People change," Jack says, his hand leaving Ianto's throat and sliding down to ride the slight curve of Ianto's stomach, over to the side to map out the extra weight there. "It suits you, you know."
Ianto snorts, then grunts when Jack grabs onto the flesh there and holds it. It feels exposed, naked, that Jack would recognise it, point it out, as if he is marking it with a magic marker as a blemish, something imperfect. He doesn't point to all of Jack's physical imperfections and hold them up to the light...not that there are many, but still, it's not done.
"It's hot," Jack says, "that you're hard," he pauses so that he can grab Ianto's betraying cock and the bicep of one arm, still quite muscled (carrying bodies, of course). "And soft." Jack squeezes again but slips under the covers so that he can kiss his way down Ianto's chest to his stomach and bite at the fat there. Jack's hand on his cock is pulsing a beat out and pulling at his foreskin, and he gasps, his own hands reaching for Jack's hair, anything else he can touch--a shoulder, the shell of an ear, Jack's lips when he turns his head to suck Ianto's thumb into his mouth.
"Jack-"
"I don't say gorgeous to unman you, Ianto," Jack whispers, just loud enough that the words could trail up from under the covers and into his ear. "But it's true, because it's..." The hand reaches down and cups his balls and Ianto fairly shoots up in the bed from the hips, giving Jack access to his thighs and arse when he grasps a knee and bends it, propping Ianto's legs up so that he can spread them. Ianto can't see him under the covers in the dark, but Jack's hands knead the soft flesh of his inner thigh, spread his arse and then he licks the skin from arse to balls. Ianto runs his own fingers over Jack's hair, but that's all he can reach until Jack grabs one of his hands and covers it, his mouth still sucking Ianto's balls. He forces Ianto's hand up and over his belly, presses his fingers into the flesh there, soft, but if he presses further in, he can feel the hard plane of muscle there. Jack slides up over the hands, pressing them into Ianto with his own weight.
"Hey, we still fit, right?"
Ianto lets Jack press his face into the hollow of his neck, his legs working to settle into the curve of Ianto's spread legs. His own cock brushes Jack's and he grunts, pressing up with as much of his body as he can get to leave the bed.
"I don't think a little weight is going to prevent that," Ianto says as dryly as he can manage when Jack has taken them both in his hands and is working them together, a little rough and dry this way but god, he's not opposed to a little pain. Jack's one free hand props him up so that he's not completely resting on Ianto, and his mouth leaves Ianto's neck finally and licks its way up the jaw. Ianto isn't ready to claim that he's just going to lie here like a lump, so he tries to lift Jack off the bed as much as he can (not completely altruistic on his part), and with his hands he finds Jack's arse, his back and the curve of it, the dimples above Jack's arse that he can punch between thumb and finger.
"Speaking of weight," he says, and Jack squeezes his cock. "You seem to have some-ugnf."
Jack laughs. "Get over it, Jones," he says, slipping away to make a return visit down Ianto front so that he can slide his mouth down on Ianto's cock in one stroke. Ianto barely has time to register the tongue on the underside when Jack's mouth pulls away. He's going to talk in the middle of sex. It's an infuriating habit. "But if you have a problem with it, we could always jog to work together tomorrow." Jack is halfway down on Ianto's cock when he pulls off again. "Of course, that would mean that we should just go to sleep, since we have to get up so early-"
"Jack."
Jack chuckles. "Or we could just work out now."
END
Gwen/Jack; she pays him back for turning her on during gun training
It's late and he's tired as fuck, mostly because that group of alien smugglers had made him run from one place to another, fetching bits and bobs or they'd blow Tosh's brains out. He likes Tosh's brains where they are, so he and Gwen and Ianto had been playing with GPS all day, trying to track down "a bucket of chyme" and "three burnt fishsticks" while Owen had traced Tosh's mobile and shot all three of the aliens in the head.
Everyone's gone home, Owen's administered a healthy dose of sedatives to Tosh and carted her back to his for a night on the sofa (if he has any class he'll take the sofa) and Gwen and Ianto have disappeared, and he's all alone. He's exhausted. Sure, he'd told Gwen last week that he didn't sleep, but that had been a little bit of truth and a lot of exaggeration. Just the thought of a warm shower and a long lie-in for the next four hours makes him want to fall down on the spot, but well, anything worth having is worth waiting for, or so he tells himself when he watches Ianto's ass in those trousers make its way across the Hub.
He's got the braces down and the shirt unbuttoned and kicked his discarded shoes under his desk for the next morning when he realises that something is behind him in the room, and then something very familiar makes contact with his skull, and he pauses.
"Don't move," says a soft voice. Gwen. Doesn't even bother do disguise it, but she's not disguising the barrel of the gun she's got pressed to the back of his head, either, so this could be any number of things.
It's obviously not a stick up.
"Gwen" he says, leaning back into the barrel of the gun. She's not going to shoot him, but then again, this isn't safety 101.
She cocks the hammer, which is pointless, but a nice aural gesture. "I've been thinking about our training last week."
"Have you?" He smiles, even if she can't see it, she'll hear it. "I hope it was useful."
"Mmmm." One hand snakes to his front, laying itself flat on his belly. "Was it here? Lower?" The hand follows the suggestion so that it's just below his belt, warm and small on his front. "You position all your employees that way? Or just the ladies?" The hand inches down to cover the lump of his hard cock. Always ready for action in danger or sex, that one. The palm grinds into it, and the cloth of trousers and shorts is a frustrating barrier.
He remembers that he's supposed to be saying something. Gwen isn't going to shoot him, he knows that, even as he's aware that this is something she'd only ever bring herself to do since she knows about his immortality. If she didn't know, she'd never imagine holding a gun to his head. Not for this.
"Just you," he lies, and he has the tapes to screw himself, locked on a secure server, his wriststrap, actually, but he doesn't think further on that because her hand finally unflattens and curves around his cock, pressing so that she can feel it jump for her a little, grinding so hard that she could pull the foreskin around a little even through the cloth.
The gun trails down the back of his neck and into the collar, making a little crescent from one side of his neck to the other before slipping over the lip of his collar and down between his shoulder blades. Gwen's voice is hoarse and he's having trouble breathing because he wants to come in her hand, in her cunt, in her mouth. He senses that none of those things is going to happen here.
"I'm not yours, Jack," Gwen says, her fringe tickling the shell of his ear as she stands on her tiptoes to whisper. It's a precarious position, the tiptoes. He could turn right now and catch her off balance, thrust his hand in her jeans and bring them both, while that barrel imprints itself on his chest, his forehead, his temple. She'd let him, maybe, she'd curse him out and come on his fingers until they were coated, and then he'd suck them off, maybe wipe them on the barrel of her gun and suck that off. She'd like that.
"I know," he says to her and to his own inner porno. But this time he's telling the truth outside and lying inside, and Gwen's gun leaves his body; now that it's not flush with his flesh, he's worried even more what it might do, now that his skin can't pinpoint its location exactly.
Gwen's hand leaves his cock and travels up his chest to his throat and jaw, and he knows that she's stabilising his neck so that he can't look back at her. All this is planned; they're facing the one wall in his office that isn't reflective. "And I never will be," she finishes for him. He wants to see her eyes, so that he can see what she's hiding, what she's really trying to say, what she doesn't want to say to him so much that she uses a firearm to say it for her. He closes his eyes, because maybe he can hear it in the darkness.
But her hand rounds his throat and slips off, his sense of her nearness recedes and by the time he's brought himself to open his eyes and turn, just a little, to see his reflection in the glass to his left, she's not there.
He can still feel the bruise of her point on the back of his head.
END
Jack/Ianto; necrophilia
Ianto has a list. It's long and has never been written on paper, it's not that kind of list. The kind of list it would ever be wise to let someone see. The kind of list that sometimes in place of words uses his emotions, sensations, unquantifiable and describable. The list is private to him too, things that he doesn't want to ever confront beyond the flashes of them that appear behind his eyes like a flipbook of sensations and images when he thumbs through the imaginary pages.
It's not the list he's really thinking about right now as he thrusts forward and closes his eyes, grabbing on to Jack's hair for better purchase. Jack's tight and soft in unsuspecting places, really. But the sound of fucking also sounds like the scritch of a pen checking something off on a list.
It's warm and giving and Jack has no choice really, but to stay still, with his head immobile. His eyes are open, and while they don't blink. His hands move when Ianto thrusts too hard for a second, he might have taken him by surprise, but that's doubtful. Ianto's cock is hard and he opens his eyes to roam the planes of Jack's form, smooth skin cooler than it normally would be, ankles in restraints. Toes almost curling a little. His hair is bristly under Ianto's fingers, in the places where it isn't damp and sticky. The silver of the ankle restraints, fashioned from old cyber conversion units, isn't lost in meaning or prettiness.
Ianto's slows his pace because he doesn't want to be finished yet. If he looks up he can see the blinking monitors of Owen's computers, grinding on and on, like he's doing right now in some ways, never stopping or caring, just doing a job, much like he is not right here. This isn't a job, not this part.
Jack doesn't squeeze around his cock, not like he would if he had more control of himself, but every once in a while his back curves, as if Ianto is hitting the right place at the right time. In any other way it might be interesting from a medical standpoint, like a little puppetry with his dick, but it's warm and tight and some part of him recognises that he has to come quickly before he remembers who he is and what he's doing.
He picks up his pace again, and coming is just a thing now, the last edge to grasp to pull himself up the ledge, and he thrusts as far in as he can get, hands in Jack's hair and all the way in, pressing so hard he's probably bruising the flesh that he's slamming into for the last time.
Ianto pulls out and lets his softening cock fall, hang in front of him, bloody and covered in other things. Jack's face is still a mask of shock, unsurprisingly. His fingers twitch again in the restraints, and his body relaxes from its back arching, nerves still jumping a bit, synapses snapping and firing in his brainpan.
Ianto smiles and pats Jack's face by the temple, watches the battered gray matter leak out of the hole he's drilled in the skull at the crown. "As always," he murmurs, "a fantastic shag, Captain."
Jack's foot jerks in the metal ring, but it's the dance of a dead man. For now.
END
Rhys/Gwen; what were they using the text-contacts for?
Rhys sipped his drink and looked out over the bar. The pickings were slim, but not bad. Rather like going to the grocers and finding they only had three different kinds of veg, but it was all really good veg that you liked. Left table was a redhead with huge tits blossoming from her sweater, nipples at attention. Back table reading a book was a brunette with a pair of legs and a set of what he and Daffyd called DSL--Dick Sucking Lips (Kind of thing you said to your mates and kept to yourself at home, that.).
And then there was the one close enough to him that he could smell her CK One and wondered if anyone actually worse CK One anymore. Guess so.
His wedding band burned in his pocket, but he couldn't very well wear it for this.
The girl next to him was fit, and blonde and giving him the eye. He liked the fall of her hair and the way her lipstick matched her blouse: red and red, like Gwen's favorite top. Jesus, Gwen's favorite top made him hard just thinking about it.
THAT ONE. WITH THE EYES_
Rhys blinked and stared at his fingers as he tapped them twice on the counter.
Chatting her up was fairly easy, actually. She was in a very good mood, and she wanted to run her hands through his hair and get him to sing some for her in his Northern accent. It was the accent-drove the ladies wild. His own was typing messages right to his skull.
SHE'S GORGEOUS. MAKES ME THINK OF TIT FUCKING_
"Do you want to get out of here?" he asked the blonde, and she hopped off the stool in the overeager dance of, 'I'm about to get lucky' that he usually saw right before he and Gwen found a quiet nook somewhere to do a private lapdance in the middle of the day.
He'd chosen the pub because of the fact that the toilets had locking doors, and when she followed him in, he thought about the whole thing he was about to do, and whether or not he was being smart. Rhys looked in the mirror over the sink as he locked the door, and the blonde giggled and turned him a little bit to kiss his mouth. She tasted like Brains and crisps and that was okay. He could feel himself getting hard, especially when he blinked in the mirror and was rewarded with,
RIGHT NOW I'M FINGERING MYSELF. TWO FINGERS. I USED THAT GEL_
Ooooooh, the itching gel they'd discovered by accident.
OPEN HER BLOUSE_
The buttons were tiny-were they even meant to open? But they gave and he could kiss his way down her neck, his hands working up under the underwire of her bra. Her fingers prized the button of his jeans and she laughed again, something throaty and full of promise, something he didn't care to listen to because he was trying to imagine what Gwen's voice would sound like when she said
OPEN YOUR EYES_
He did, and let his eyes roam her face, her blue eyes, and the pulse thumping in her neck. His cock was hard when she grabbed it, long nails brushing the skin of his belly, her mouth on his neck. He tugged at her skirt and then her pants.
LOOK DOWN_
The knickers were red and lacy-she'd expected a shag tonight. Well, he figured as he blinked repeatedly, trying to get his conspirator to prompt him as he lifted her onto the edge of the sink, she was going to get one.
CONDOM_ appeared a second before her fingers appeared with the foil package winking in the dim light, WATCH HER DO IT_ tilted his head down to take in her gleaming nails and her long fingers rolling it over his cock.
The prompts in front of his eyes became her face, then, when he entered her-wet, physically wet, not cyber wet-when he felt the warmness of her, and then YOU'RE HUGE_ and HARDER_ and LOOK AT HER FACE_ so that she could see the eyes fluttering closed when he thrust into her, her backside rolling back on the sink edge when he forced himself, and her hands pressed into the small of his back, his shoulder, digging, pressing, plastering themselves to him like Gwen was plastered to his eyes.
IS SHE MOANING_ One blink for yes.
I'M SO CLOSE_
He closed his eyes and thought of the way she writhed under him on the bed, or in his lap, little hip swivels and tight cunt. That red top, her breasts in her bra, the push-up one that made her tits fairly fall out, the way they rose and fell with every shift of her body, every breath.
LOOK DOWN_ revealed his cock working in and out, rubber curl of the coloured condom pressed into his hair, gleam of her wetness glossing the red even redder, like candy shine. Her gasps are came faster and more frequent, something that he couldn't transmit, even though he tried to blink it when he looked in the mirror over her shoulder, at her arse as it rocked back and forth with his thrusts.
MAKE ME COME_
He closed his eyes and kissed her ear. She smelled like perfume and AquaNet. One of his hands slipped down to finger her clit, just for good measure, and her legs wrapped around this hips, pulling, so they were pressed together and just ground out the last few thrusts, in the blackness of his vision just the blueness of Gwen's words SO GOOD_ and XVKF;LKVFVN_
That was his girl.
They sat there for a moment she groaned into his shoulder. "You're a catch," she murmured. "I'm married. Sorry."
He thought about telling her, but it didn't work both ways. Instead he just looked at the mirror and wiggled his bare ring finger.
:DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD_
"Thought you hated the smilies," Rhys murmured to himself as he pulled out and began to tuck himself back into his trousers.
The girl--'Tracey, I'm Tracey.' He remembered--smiled lazily and pulled some wipes from her purse, holding one out to him. "I love smilies," she told him.
Rhys took the wipe and jammed it down his trousers, then tossed it in the bin. Moments later he was unlocking the toilet door and gesturing her out.
COME HOME_
Rhys paused and looked in the mirror of the toilet one last time, at his face, red with exertion, flushed with post-shagging bliss. He mouthed the words to his image and paused, just in case she hadn't caught it.
I LOVE YOU TOO.
END