Unfinished reject fic
I just can't be arsed to finish it, and I'm tired, and so I'm dumping it here.
Remember these guys?
Well. Okay. Someone, I think neifile7 decided that they were aliens called Xtraxozzzians. Anyway, I was gonna write porn, but I just. Whatevs.
JACK GETS LAID
They can't live in our air. They would combust and then possibly explode, if the gas pouches in their bellies were inflated. At least, that was what my records tell me on the manipulator. These little dudes should be running about like flaming comets.
And yet, they're doing a dance routine on the telly.
Ianto looks over my shoulder, says something unrepeatable about the English, and walks away, banging pots in the kitchen even though he's making a frozen pizza in the oven. He thinks I don't listen.
I've been around, both literally and figuratively (although what that even means when you think about figurative 'around-ness' is rather oblique), but there are some things I haven't yet done (not for lack of trying, sometimes), and even I know that Xtraxozzzians have always been off the menu. Once some enterprising aliens had jerry-rigged sensation suits so that the few curious humans, Qags (Qags are always curious, seriously. Nom) and Xtraxozzzians could get it on in relative safety, but there had been sweating, and fingernails to accompany the mind-blowing orgasm, and suits had been torn and then, then everything sort of went explodey.
Still, that bears thinking about. Mind blowing orgasm.
I don't know if you have ever had a mind blowing orgasm. A lot of people have said that they have had one, and let's get that literal interpretation out of the way right now. I am talking about the ultimate height of pleasure, when you feel like you're coming out at the seams, and your skin seems to disappear and, depending on what you're fucking-or being fucked by-everything sensate and, well, good is concentrated in one part of you, or sometimes all of you until if you didn't come, or scream, or move you might cry.
Sometimes you do cry. Sometimes you think you're a hummingbird. Look, man, what part of mind-blowing do we not get here?
Now I treat orgasm and sex like the old adage: 'In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king', and I always assume I'm not the one who can see. This means that there is always another lay, always another orgasm, always another thing to feel, taste, whatever you want to tick off in the box. This could quickly turn into dissatisfaction, or a feeling that the grass is greener on the other side, to use another adage, so it's a delicate balance. John's like that-always looking and always walking away from everything because he thinks, he believes that there's a better fuck, an ultimate fuck.
I don't think there's an ultimate fuck. But there's certainly a different one. Oh, and mind-blowing orgasms.
Ianto swears when the pizza pan clatters to the floor and I decide it's time to go do something. Besides, I really can't dwell on the images going through my head. Wenlock the mascot does a little turn on the screen and they clap their hands in unison.
Uh huh. Right. Keep on dancing, boys. I'll see you later.
***
Look, I say to Ianto, if they're aliens, then we should have a look, right? I mean, seriously, they shouldn’t even be here, and even worse, when did they get here? Torchwood is supposed to be on top of this shit.
I might have actually said "on top of" and Ianto might have rolled his eyes. This is one of those times I pretend not to see.
So it's only appropriate that I make the drive to London and make sure that they're okay, and also see what the hell is going on. They shouldn't be here. If any Xtraxozzzians have ever fallen through the Rift before, surely they'd have burnt out in the first five minutes, and if they came here in a ship, their sensors would have told them the whole planet is a big ol' ball of 'WARNING YOU WILL DIE'.
If they have been here a while, then they must have some sort of adaptive technique, and if the government has known about them, then Torchwood is about to get egg on its face. Ianto doesn't even like egg on my collar, so I can't imagine what this will do to his occasionally compulsive cleanliness.
The trip to London is smooth, lots of traffic, and I don't bother with the lights, because sometimes you just have to get in the car and drive. Once I took the Chula ship through an asteroid belt that took me three days to cross, and I barely had time to piss, let alone sleep, my hands had to be in the controls so much, so a trip across the country in stop and go traffic isn't actually a test of patience.
So I spend the time sorting through the CDs everyone has left in the SUV over the years and which Ianto has thoughtfully collected in a zippered case instead of pitching, like a little monument to the bodies that aren't here anymore: Suzie's blip-hop, Owen's The Hives albums, Tosh's…whatever this is, it's in Japanese, and so is the writing on the disk.
This is totally not my Davy Jones. Seriously.
Back to the impending mind-blowing orgasm. I say impending, because, well, really. I could change it to probable, but the first rule in Having Sex With Everything But the Doctor (Yet) is that you have to believe you're going to get laid. Not hope. Believe. Clap your hands a few times and say, 'I believe in fucking', look into a mirror and say 'I'm sexy enough, I'm smart enough, and goddammit, creatures want to bang me,' whatever you need to do, but do it, and you are eighty…ninety percent there.
Decades on earth have made me more tongue in cheek than I used to be. The sentiment is true, though.
***
Remember these guys?
Well. Okay. Someone, I think neifile7 decided that they were aliens called Xtraxozzzians. Anyway, I was gonna write porn, but I just. Whatevs.
JACK GETS LAID
They can't live in our air. They would combust and then possibly explode, if the gas pouches in their bellies were inflated. At least, that was what my records tell me on the manipulator. These little dudes should be running about like flaming comets.
And yet, they're doing a dance routine on the telly.
Ianto looks over my shoulder, says something unrepeatable about the English, and walks away, banging pots in the kitchen even though he's making a frozen pizza in the oven. He thinks I don't listen.
I've been around, both literally and figuratively (although what that even means when you think about figurative 'around-ness' is rather oblique), but there are some things I haven't yet done (not for lack of trying, sometimes), and even I know that Xtraxozzzians have always been off the menu. Once some enterprising aliens had jerry-rigged sensation suits so that the few curious humans, Qags (Qags are always curious, seriously. Nom) and Xtraxozzzians could get it on in relative safety, but there had been sweating, and fingernails to accompany the mind-blowing orgasm, and suits had been torn and then, then everything sort of went explodey.
Still, that bears thinking about. Mind blowing orgasm.
I don't know if you have ever had a mind blowing orgasm. A lot of people have said that they have had one, and let's get that literal interpretation out of the way right now. I am talking about the ultimate height of pleasure, when you feel like you're coming out at the seams, and your skin seems to disappear and, depending on what you're fucking-or being fucked by-everything sensate and, well, good is concentrated in one part of you, or sometimes all of you until if you didn't come, or scream, or move you might cry.
Sometimes you do cry. Sometimes you think you're a hummingbird. Look, man, what part of mind-blowing do we not get here?
Now I treat orgasm and sex like the old adage: 'In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king', and I always assume I'm not the one who can see. This means that there is always another lay, always another orgasm, always another thing to feel, taste, whatever you want to tick off in the box. This could quickly turn into dissatisfaction, or a feeling that the grass is greener on the other side, to use another adage, so it's a delicate balance. John's like that-always looking and always walking away from everything because he thinks, he believes that there's a better fuck, an ultimate fuck.
I don't think there's an ultimate fuck. But there's certainly a different one. Oh, and mind-blowing orgasms.
Ianto swears when the pizza pan clatters to the floor and I decide it's time to go do something. Besides, I really can't dwell on the images going through my head. Wenlock the mascot does a little turn on the screen and they clap their hands in unison.
Uh huh. Right. Keep on dancing, boys. I'll see you later.
***
Look, I say to Ianto, if they're aliens, then we should have a look, right? I mean, seriously, they shouldn’t even be here, and even worse, when did they get here? Torchwood is supposed to be on top of this shit.
I might have actually said "on top of" and Ianto might have rolled his eyes. This is one of those times I pretend not to see.
So it's only appropriate that I make the drive to London and make sure that they're okay, and also see what the hell is going on. They shouldn't be here. If any Xtraxozzzians have ever fallen through the Rift before, surely they'd have burnt out in the first five minutes, and if they came here in a ship, their sensors would have told them the whole planet is a big ol' ball of 'WARNING YOU WILL DIE'.
If they have been here a while, then they must have some sort of adaptive technique, and if the government has known about them, then Torchwood is about to get egg on its face. Ianto doesn't even like egg on my collar, so I can't imagine what this will do to his occasionally compulsive cleanliness.
The trip to London is smooth, lots of traffic, and I don't bother with the lights, because sometimes you just have to get in the car and drive. Once I took the Chula ship through an asteroid belt that took me three days to cross, and I barely had time to piss, let alone sleep, my hands had to be in the controls so much, so a trip across the country in stop and go traffic isn't actually a test of patience.
So I spend the time sorting through the CDs everyone has left in the SUV over the years and which Ianto has thoughtfully collected in a zippered case instead of pitching, like a little monument to the bodies that aren't here anymore: Suzie's blip-hop, Owen's The Hives albums, Tosh's…whatever this is, it's in Japanese, and so is the writing on the disk.
This is totally not my Davy Jones. Seriously.
Back to the impending mind-blowing orgasm. I say impending, because, well, really. I could change it to probable, but the first rule in Having Sex With Everything But the Doctor (Yet) is that you have to believe you're going to get laid. Not hope. Believe. Clap your hands a few times and say, 'I believe in fucking', look into a mirror and say 'I'm sexy enough, I'm smart enough, and goddammit, creatures want to bang me,' whatever you need to do, but do it, and you are eighty…ninety percent there.
Decades on earth have made me more tongue in cheek than I used to be. The sentiment is true, though.
***