Fic: Start Small and Build (The First Rule of Good Drama), NC-17, Team
Title: Start Small and Build (The First Rule of Good Drama)
Characters: Team--all
Rating: NC-17 for sexxors
Wordcount: 994
Author's Notes: Written utilising the whoverse_las prompt 1.5, Trust Issues. Section headers from Nickel Creek's "Somebody More Like You", for which apparently I am over-fond to the point of maudlinism.
#I wish you all the best of luck (at finding somebody more like you)#
If one were looking to imbue the events of life with metaphor, they might argue that Toshiko Sato's life began with the whimper of her mother's close-mouthed orgasm and ended with the bang of her former saviour's omission. On the other hand, it hadn't been an omission per se, but a gentle lie that began when Gwen asked, 'Who's Gray?' and Jack said, 'It's nothing.' Nothing has two syllables, and so does the thing lodged in Toshiko's gut.
She'd thought that she'd feel sad about different things. She thought she'd have more moxie at the end, more energy to-maybe jot down a few things that she should pass on to humanity. All she can think of is the recipe for the miserable spotted dick she made last Sunday.
She has time to regret the mess she's leaving Ianto, the ruby waterfall down the stairs, and she would worry about the wreck she has made flailing about Owen's lab except that it's no worse than anything Owen's done to his lab before, and also, Owen is mist in the power plant, ions and molecules, essence. More and less himself. Science isn't comforting when discussing the dead. She wishes someone had told her that earlier.
She wouldn't have listened, but at least she'd have the comfort of the revelation feeling familiar.
I hope you finally find someone (someone that you trust) and give him everything.
Owen doesn't like when birds give him the eye first. Because birds always have plans that mean something more than the fast hard-fucking that he wants to give them. They want Sunday afternoon in front of the telly and flowers in a bowl in the centre of the table. His Sundays are and will always be taken.
He used to like brunettes, and when she smiles at him, he stares at her hair, the waves of it styled carefully. He could take her home, dress her up and fuck her from behind, he could bite back a name whilst doing it, but what would be the point? He could make her put on the dress. She would ooh, and then she'd ask him what he was doing the next day.
Getting in a plane and flying himself aimlessly across the sky, he thinks, wishing he had a pilot's license. That way he could try to fall into her trapdoor in the universe and show her what a real man should be.
#I didn't hear you say you're sorry (The fault must be mine)#
Ianto shoves three fingers in Jack's mouth, and the man shuts up. Finally. Most of the time, he just can't take the things that come out of Jack's mouth when he's fucking him. Jack's fingers scrabble on the wall, but the grout is ancient and the tiles are seamless, so his hands just slip down the slick surface. There are many things one can use to compare to hands (shoes, dicks, etc), but what these things mean to him is much more than just a simple common noun.
'Who...are...you?' he asks between thrusts. Jack's hole is wet and open; what has started as something tight and lovely is now lax and sloppy. Ianto understands the puerile attraction of the donkey punch now. He pulls on the reins of Jack's hair and is rewarded with a vise around his cock.
Jack turns his head to the side, eyes wide and wild like a bucking thing. His tongue pushes against Ianto's hand with every thrust; he wants to say something, Ianto can tell, he really does.
Ianto rams his cock as deep as it will go and mirrors it with his fingers.
#You said you'd love me always, truly (I must have changed)#
Rhys hands her the salad bowl with a smile, and she wonders what he's so goddamn happy about.
'Every last lorry is out of the shop,' he says, tucking his serviette into his shirtfront. Do none of the men in her life know proper table manners? Not that she has room to talk. There's already salad cream on her shirtfront.
'That's good,' she says noncommittally. The salad cream looks like something else she got on her shirt yesterday, and in her head she hears Owen's chuckled, Such a sloppy eater, Gwennie., and feels his fingers across her lips.
There's a disconnect between her brain and heart that didn't used to be there, she thinks. It had been only a month or three ago when she'd been teaching her teammates how to be compassionate, and now here she was, dirty-fucking in the car, his stink on her hair, his-well.
Gwen pushes her salad away and knocks her water glass. Rhys reaches out to steady it, and his own glass tips and spills, water pouring down the table and into his lap.
Rhys curses and reaches into the dispenser for another serviette. "Sloppy eater, me," he jokes.
#You came out of nowhere, made me smile (Then tore me in two)#
Suzie adjusts her umbrella and smiles at the man walking ahead of her. If he turns and sees her then she'll stop, go back, and try elsewhere.
She believes in destiny. She doesn't believe in a lot of things--God, for instance, or the afterlife, or that margarine is better for her than butter. But she does believe in destiny. Because destiny is using the random events of life to fashion meaning as a tool to trick the mind. A means to connect dots. A means to create a painting. Stare at anything long enough and it gains meaning and shape, not because it's there, but because we want it to be there.
She doesn't know his name (she will learn it later), but he doesn't turn, not here, not in the alley. He doesn't turn, but even from behind, when she plunges the knife into his back, he looks like her father.
END
Characters: Team--all
Rating: NC-17 for sexxors
Wordcount: 994
Author's Notes: Written utilising the whoverse_las prompt 1.5, Trust Issues. Section headers from Nickel Creek's "Somebody More Like You", for which apparently I am over-fond to the point of maudlinism.
#I wish you all the best of luck (at finding somebody more like you)#
If one were looking to imbue the events of life with metaphor, they might argue that Toshiko Sato's life began with the whimper of her mother's close-mouthed orgasm and ended with the bang of her former saviour's omission. On the other hand, it hadn't been an omission per se, but a gentle lie that began when Gwen asked, 'Who's Gray?' and Jack said, 'It's nothing.' Nothing has two syllables, and so does the thing lodged in Toshiko's gut.
She'd thought that she'd feel sad about different things. She thought she'd have more moxie at the end, more energy to-maybe jot down a few things that she should pass on to humanity. All she can think of is the recipe for the miserable spotted dick she made last Sunday.
She has time to regret the mess she's leaving Ianto, the ruby waterfall down the stairs, and she would worry about the wreck she has made flailing about Owen's lab except that it's no worse than anything Owen's done to his lab before, and also, Owen is mist in the power plant, ions and molecules, essence. More and less himself. Science isn't comforting when discussing the dead. She wishes someone had told her that earlier.
She wouldn't have listened, but at least she'd have the comfort of the revelation feeling familiar.
I hope you finally find someone (someone that you trust) and give him everything.
Owen doesn't like when birds give him the eye first. Because birds always have plans that mean something more than the fast hard-fucking that he wants to give them. They want Sunday afternoon in front of the telly and flowers in a bowl in the centre of the table. His Sundays are and will always be taken.
He used to like brunettes, and when she smiles at him, he stares at her hair, the waves of it styled carefully. He could take her home, dress her up and fuck her from behind, he could bite back a name whilst doing it, but what would be the point? He could make her put on the dress. She would ooh, and then she'd ask him what he was doing the next day.
Getting in a plane and flying himself aimlessly across the sky, he thinks, wishing he had a pilot's license. That way he could try to fall into her trapdoor in the universe and show her what a real man should be.
#I didn't hear you say you're sorry (The fault must be mine)#
Ianto shoves three fingers in Jack's mouth, and the man shuts up. Finally. Most of the time, he just can't take the things that come out of Jack's mouth when he's fucking him. Jack's fingers scrabble on the wall, but the grout is ancient and the tiles are seamless, so his hands just slip down the slick surface. There are many things one can use to compare to hands (shoes, dicks, etc), but what these things mean to him is much more than just a simple common noun.
'Who...are...you?' he asks between thrusts. Jack's hole is wet and open; what has started as something tight and lovely is now lax and sloppy. Ianto understands the puerile attraction of the donkey punch now. He pulls on the reins of Jack's hair and is rewarded with a vise around his cock.
Jack turns his head to the side, eyes wide and wild like a bucking thing. His tongue pushes against Ianto's hand with every thrust; he wants to say something, Ianto can tell, he really does.
Ianto rams his cock as deep as it will go and mirrors it with his fingers.
#You said you'd love me always, truly (I must have changed)#
Rhys hands her the salad bowl with a smile, and she wonders what he's so goddamn happy about.
'Every last lorry is out of the shop,' he says, tucking his serviette into his shirtfront. Do none of the men in her life know proper table manners? Not that she has room to talk. There's already salad cream on her shirtfront.
'That's good,' she says noncommittally. The salad cream looks like something else she got on her shirt yesterday, and in her head she hears Owen's chuckled, Such a sloppy eater, Gwennie., and feels his fingers across her lips.
There's a disconnect between her brain and heart that didn't used to be there, she thinks. It had been only a month or three ago when she'd been teaching her teammates how to be compassionate, and now here she was, dirty-fucking in the car, his stink on her hair, his-well.
Gwen pushes her salad away and knocks her water glass. Rhys reaches out to steady it, and his own glass tips and spills, water pouring down the table and into his lap.
Rhys curses and reaches into the dispenser for another serviette. "Sloppy eater, me," he jokes.
#You came out of nowhere, made me smile (Then tore me in two)#
Suzie adjusts her umbrella and smiles at the man walking ahead of her. If he turns and sees her then she'll stop, go back, and try elsewhere.
She believes in destiny. She doesn't believe in a lot of things--God, for instance, or the afterlife, or that margarine is better for her than butter. But she does believe in destiny. Because destiny is using the random events of life to fashion meaning as a tool to trick the mind. A means to connect dots. A means to create a painting. Stare at anything long enough and it gains meaning and shape, not because it's there, but because we want it to be there.
She doesn't know his name (she will learn it later), but he doesn't turn, not here, not in the alley. He doesn't turn, but even from behind, when she plunges the knife into his back, he looks like her father.
END