Fic: Doppelganger - Interlude III, "Kisses for Scraped Knees" [WIP 14/?]
Title: Doppelganger: Interlude III, "Kisses for Scraped Knees"
Author: heddychaa
Pairings: John/Ianto, Jack/Ianto, Jack/Alonso, Mickey/Martha, other canon relationships
Rating: NC-17 this chapter!
Genre: Timey-wimey Post-CoE eventual fix-it
Disclaimer: "Doctor Who" and "Torchwood", including characters, concepts, and events, belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russel T Davies and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Summary: Ianto Jones is searching for someone, and he's willing to risk and give anything if it brings him just one step closer. After materializing on an alternate Earth, the first person he happens upon is the smug and decidedly untrustworthy Captain John Hart, Time Agent. Hart seems to know what's going on in this world, and also knows more about Ianto himself than he's letting on, but most importantly he promises to take Ianto to Torchwood in London where he can continue his desperate search. However, when Hart's vortex manipulator takes them a crucial few months into the future, Ianto finds himself depending on him for much more than just directions . . . but at what cost?
A/N: Thank you _lullabelle_ for being my beta / emotional support for all this crazy nonsense.
Interlude III: Kisses for Scraped Knees
Alonso stretches his body out languidly. In the red-orange light of the ship’s cabin, he looks lithe and otherworldly, his body smooth and lean. Jack’s eyes rove over him, lingering on his kneecaps, his jutting hipbones, the gunshot scar on his belly, his collarbones, his throat. Alonso smiles under his gaze, coy and boyish, and arches his hips in invitation. Jack climbs astride him, hunkering down, laughing into his mouth as they kiss.
It’s been two months since he died, since he came clean about his immortality, since they got drunk and hashed out their respective issues about the Doctor. He feels Alonso’s legs drawing up on either side of him, those lovely knobby knees that seem as though they should be covered in plasters all the time knocking into Jack’s hips, enclosing him in a triangle. Alonso’s kiss is warm and familiar, now, and it feels friendly, playful. Even with Jack atop him, pinning his shoulders, kissing him thoroughly, Jack can feel the way Alonso smiles against his mouth, against his lips. Alonso hides nothing, is uncomplicated, is a boy.
Jack’s getting on in years, at this point, so maybe everyone is a boy by comparison, now, but Alonso is more than most, thanks to the vein of innocence that runs through him like gold in stone: the fact that he keeps no dark secrets, that he hides no shame, that he harbours no tragedy in his past. Sometimes Jack resents him for it, maybe even hates him, but not right now. He feels Alonso’s greedy timid hands on both their cocks, stroking them together, binding them together in one fist. He lets out a low groan that comes from somewhere animal deep inside of him, a sound that makes Alonso’s breath hitch, because he’s quiet during sex, never theatrical, expressing himself only with the occasional laugh or huff of breath or that tiny unharnessed grunt that means he’s tipping over the edge.
Now, though, there’s just uneven breathing and Jack’s own moaning, muffled by Alonso’s mouth. Jack feels Alonso’s shoulder muscles working beneath his palms, hears his hand fumbling around beside the bed. When the errant arm returns, it is with their bottle of lube, which he taps Jack on the collarbone with wordlessly, insistently. And yes, there’s that coy, crooked smile, even as Jack’s got his tongue probing into Alonso’s mouth, even as his hips are bucking down on Alonso’s possessively.
“Alright, stop wasting time,” Alonso says with a smile in his voice when Jack comes up for air, still tapping him with the lube as though he’s keeping time. Jack sits up, tut-tutting and snatching the bottle from Alonso’s hands.
“Is this how you talk to all the boys?” Jack jokes, opening the bottle with the left side of his grin. Alonso squirms underneath him at the sight, stretching out his arms right down to his fingers. Jack makes a show of dripping it onto the fingers of his right hand from a height in a long stream, eyebrows up.
He leans in, his expression softening to something a bit more serious, the thumb of his left hand rubbing along Alonso’s hipbone, his lips trailing kisses up Alonso’s neck, including that ticklish place that makes him squirm and snicker. He reaches down with his right hand, eliciting a relieved sigh from Alonso, and his forefinger, exploratory, circles, slides into him gently. Alonso’s breath rushes past his ear, his hips rising upward exquisitely.
One of Alonso’s hands, shaky, a little distracted, finds Jack’s cock, strokes it forcefully with callused fingers, as if to urge Jack’s rhythm faster. Jack keeps the pace he’s set, though, stroking slow and easy, his mouth finding Alonso’s earlobe, now, drawing it into his mouth with a gentle suck.
“I hate it when you touch my, ah, ears,” Alonso complains, but his tone is good natured, his head shrugging and twisting on his neck in an attempt to escape. Jack gives him a gentle warning nip at the top rim of said ear, drawing it out with a little tug.
“You forget who’s on top?” Jack asks conversationally, working in a second finger as he does. He’s rewarded by a little smiling hiss from Alonso beneath him, a firm tug up his cock that makes him groan. A flush of red colours Alonso’s cheeks and ears at the sound, and he smiles with hooded eyes, watching Jack’s expression through his lashes. He feels Alonso’s thumb press against the slit at the top of his cock, smudging the precum pooled there out and over the sensitive skin of its head in a circle. Alonso twists his wrist, his hand running down the length of Jack’s shaft in a deliciously slow rotating motion.
Alonso’s breathing is quick, now, coming in sharp little hitches, his chest jerking full of air. His hand on Jack’s cock moves erratically, the pressure uneven, his concentration broken. His hips lift from the mattress with each stroke Jack’s fingers press into his prostate, his mouth parting so that Jack can see his tongue behind his teeth, and that’s when Jack realizes he wants him - no, needs him - now.
“Now,” he says, aloud, and slips his fingers free. Alonso shudders, sighs. Jack has to pry his fingers away from his cock. He brings Alonso’s hand up to his mouth, drawing those fingers, that thumb stained with precum, up into his mouth, sucking the salty taste free. Alonso looks on with dazed interest as though the hand belongs to someone else, his face still flushed red. Jack slips his left arm under Alonso’s neck to prop himself up on, so that they are face-to-face, draws his nose up along Alonso’s hot cheek. Alonso lets out a breathy little chuckle, mindlessly flirtatious. Jack pushes a kiss down on his mouth as he presses himself inside, groaning into his mouth.
They stay close to each other, Alonso reaching up with clutching hands, fingers scraping at Jack’s shoulders and back, Jack’s forehead touching Alonso’s, their noses running alongside each other. He sets an achingly slow pace, not because he’s worried about hurting Alonso, but because he doesn’t want it to end, whatever this is, this sense that they are melded together, formless. It’s close and it’s quiet, with Alonso’s hands on his back and Alonso’s legs wrapped around his hips, with Alonso making no noise but the little hitches in his breath when Jack pushes in deep. The whole time, Alonso watches him with dark eyes, lips parted, and between them Jack can feel their two hearts thrumming together in their chests quick and urgent, out of sync.
Nearly, now. He feels his heart throbbing in his chest, so aware of his own organs-you have to be when you’ve felt them not working-feels his sac tightening up, feels all the muscles in his body tensing up, all his tendons drawing short. He gathers Alonso close, tight in his arms, with a shudder and a groan.
“Jack,” Alonso gasps out, and Jack sees him bite his lower lip a little, and that tips him over and his body convulses three times in staccato. He doesn’t cry out a name because he’s afraid of using the wrong one.
He finishes Alonso off with his right hand as he’s going slack, timing the strokes to his own spent panting. Alonso lets out that tell-tale grunt and then Jack feels his cock twitch in his hand, feels semen scattering over his fingers, hitting his belly. Alonso smiles.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed when Alonso finally speaks up. Awhile, he guesses, because his breathing is even, his voice steady and clear, not that breathy sex-voice, nor the playful tone he uses during foreplay.
“Pretty good for a centenarian,” he says. He reaches over, across the narrow width of the bunk between them, to stroke Jack’s cheek with the backs of his knuckles. Jack doesn’t correct him about his age-how could he ever explain Gray, explain spending nearly a thousand years buried alive? How could he do that to someone like Alonso, make him imagine a horror like that when he’s so unsullied by this ugly universe?
“Well, you know, I work out,” he says instead, and flashes him a grin.
“All those years,” Alonso muses aloud, and Jack knows where he’s going with this, and suddenly he realizes he’s not afraid of it anymore. “All those years living on Earth and now you’re out here with me.”
He expects Alonso to ask “What happened? Who died? What did you do? Why did you leave? What are you running from?” He’s waiting for an accusation, almost wants one. “Why did you kill your grandson, Jack?” “Why did you let Ianto Jones die, Jack?” “Why did you almost trade the entire Earth for your lover, Jack?” “Why did you abandon your responsibilities, Jack?” “How far do you think you can run, Jack?” “Do you think the Doctor’s approval makes this okay, Jack?”
Alonso rolls onto his side, props himself up on one elbow. “Are you ready to go back?” he asks. In his eyes there’s only invitation.
Go to Chapter 11: "We're All Mad Here"
View the Masterlist for full chapter list and complete header info.
Author: heddychaa
Pairings: John/Ianto, Jack/Ianto, Jack/Alonso, Mickey/Martha, other canon relationships
Rating: NC-17 this chapter!
Genre: Timey-wimey Post-CoE eventual fix-it
Disclaimer: "Doctor Who" and "Torchwood", including characters, concepts, and events, belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russel T Davies and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Summary: Ianto Jones is searching for someone, and he's willing to risk and give anything if it brings him just one step closer. After materializing on an alternate Earth, the first person he happens upon is the smug and decidedly untrustworthy Captain John Hart, Time Agent. Hart seems to know what's going on in this world, and also knows more about Ianto himself than he's letting on, but most importantly he promises to take Ianto to Torchwood in London where he can continue his desperate search. However, when Hart's vortex manipulator takes them a crucial few months into the future, Ianto finds himself depending on him for much more than just directions . . . but at what cost?
A/N: Thank you _lullabelle_ for being my beta / emotional support for all this crazy nonsense.
Interlude III: Kisses for Scraped Knees
Alonso stretches his body out languidly. In the red-orange light of the ship’s cabin, he looks lithe and otherworldly, his body smooth and lean. Jack’s eyes rove over him, lingering on his kneecaps, his jutting hipbones, the gunshot scar on his belly, his collarbones, his throat. Alonso smiles under his gaze, coy and boyish, and arches his hips in invitation. Jack climbs astride him, hunkering down, laughing into his mouth as they kiss.
It’s been two months since he died, since he came clean about his immortality, since they got drunk and hashed out their respective issues about the Doctor. He feels Alonso’s legs drawing up on either side of him, those lovely knobby knees that seem as though they should be covered in plasters all the time knocking into Jack’s hips, enclosing him in a triangle. Alonso’s kiss is warm and familiar, now, and it feels friendly, playful. Even with Jack atop him, pinning his shoulders, kissing him thoroughly, Jack can feel the way Alonso smiles against his mouth, against his lips. Alonso hides nothing, is uncomplicated, is a boy.
Jack’s getting on in years, at this point, so maybe everyone is a boy by comparison, now, but Alonso is more than most, thanks to the vein of innocence that runs through him like gold in stone: the fact that he keeps no dark secrets, that he hides no shame, that he harbours no tragedy in his past. Sometimes Jack resents him for it, maybe even hates him, but not right now. He feels Alonso’s greedy timid hands on both their cocks, stroking them together, binding them together in one fist. He lets out a low groan that comes from somewhere animal deep inside of him, a sound that makes Alonso’s breath hitch, because he’s quiet during sex, never theatrical, expressing himself only with the occasional laugh or huff of breath or that tiny unharnessed grunt that means he’s tipping over the edge.
Now, though, there’s just uneven breathing and Jack’s own moaning, muffled by Alonso’s mouth. Jack feels Alonso’s shoulder muscles working beneath his palms, hears his hand fumbling around beside the bed. When the errant arm returns, it is with their bottle of lube, which he taps Jack on the collarbone with wordlessly, insistently. And yes, there’s that coy, crooked smile, even as Jack’s got his tongue probing into Alonso’s mouth, even as his hips are bucking down on Alonso’s possessively.
“Alright, stop wasting time,” Alonso says with a smile in his voice when Jack comes up for air, still tapping him with the lube as though he’s keeping time. Jack sits up, tut-tutting and snatching the bottle from Alonso’s hands.
“Is this how you talk to all the boys?” Jack jokes, opening the bottle with the left side of his grin. Alonso squirms underneath him at the sight, stretching out his arms right down to his fingers. Jack makes a show of dripping it onto the fingers of his right hand from a height in a long stream, eyebrows up.
He leans in, his expression softening to something a bit more serious, the thumb of his left hand rubbing along Alonso’s hipbone, his lips trailing kisses up Alonso’s neck, including that ticklish place that makes him squirm and snicker. He reaches down with his right hand, eliciting a relieved sigh from Alonso, and his forefinger, exploratory, circles, slides into him gently. Alonso’s breath rushes past his ear, his hips rising upward exquisitely.
One of Alonso’s hands, shaky, a little distracted, finds Jack’s cock, strokes it forcefully with callused fingers, as if to urge Jack’s rhythm faster. Jack keeps the pace he’s set, though, stroking slow and easy, his mouth finding Alonso’s earlobe, now, drawing it into his mouth with a gentle suck.
“I hate it when you touch my, ah, ears,” Alonso complains, but his tone is good natured, his head shrugging and twisting on his neck in an attempt to escape. Jack gives him a gentle warning nip at the top rim of said ear, drawing it out with a little tug.
“You forget who’s on top?” Jack asks conversationally, working in a second finger as he does. He’s rewarded by a little smiling hiss from Alonso beneath him, a firm tug up his cock that makes him groan. A flush of red colours Alonso’s cheeks and ears at the sound, and he smiles with hooded eyes, watching Jack’s expression through his lashes. He feels Alonso’s thumb press against the slit at the top of his cock, smudging the precum pooled there out and over the sensitive skin of its head in a circle. Alonso twists his wrist, his hand running down the length of Jack’s shaft in a deliciously slow rotating motion.
Alonso’s breathing is quick, now, coming in sharp little hitches, his chest jerking full of air. His hand on Jack’s cock moves erratically, the pressure uneven, his concentration broken. His hips lift from the mattress with each stroke Jack’s fingers press into his prostate, his mouth parting so that Jack can see his tongue behind his teeth, and that’s when Jack realizes he wants him - no, needs him - now.
“Now,” he says, aloud, and slips his fingers free. Alonso shudders, sighs. Jack has to pry his fingers away from his cock. He brings Alonso’s hand up to his mouth, drawing those fingers, that thumb stained with precum, up into his mouth, sucking the salty taste free. Alonso looks on with dazed interest as though the hand belongs to someone else, his face still flushed red. Jack slips his left arm under Alonso’s neck to prop himself up on, so that they are face-to-face, draws his nose up along Alonso’s hot cheek. Alonso lets out a breathy little chuckle, mindlessly flirtatious. Jack pushes a kiss down on his mouth as he presses himself inside, groaning into his mouth.
They stay close to each other, Alonso reaching up with clutching hands, fingers scraping at Jack’s shoulders and back, Jack’s forehead touching Alonso’s, their noses running alongside each other. He sets an achingly slow pace, not because he’s worried about hurting Alonso, but because he doesn’t want it to end, whatever this is, this sense that they are melded together, formless. It’s close and it’s quiet, with Alonso’s hands on his back and Alonso’s legs wrapped around his hips, with Alonso making no noise but the little hitches in his breath when Jack pushes in deep. The whole time, Alonso watches him with dark eyes, lips parted, and between them Jack can feel their two hearts thrumming together in their chests quick and urgent, out of sync.
Nearly, now. He feels his heart throbbing in his chest, so aware of his own organs-you have to be when you’ve felt them not working-feels his sac tightening up, feels all the muscles in his body tensing up, all his tendons drawing short. He gathers Alonso close, tight in his arms, with a shudder and a groan.
“Jack,” Alonso gasps out, and Jack sees him bite his lower lip a little, and that tips him over and his body convulses three times in staccato. He doesn’t cry out a name because he’s afraid of using the wrong one.
He finishes Alonso off with his right hand as he’s going slack, timing the strokes to his own spent panting. Alonso lets out that tell-tale grunt and then Jack feels his cock twitch in his hand, feels semen scattering over his fingers, hitting his belly. Alonso smiles.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed when Alonso finally speaks up. Awhile, he guesses, because his breathing is even, his voice steady and clear, not that breathy sex-voice, nor the playful tone he uses during foreplay.
“Pretty good for a centenarian,” he says. He reaches over, across the narrow width of the bunk between them, to stroke Jack’s cheek with the backs of his knuckles. Jack doesn’t correct him about his age-how could he ever explain Gray, explain spending nearly a thousand years buried alive? How could he do that to someone like Alonso, make him imagine a horror like that when he’s so unsullied by this ugly universe?
“Well, you know, I work out,” he says instead, and flashes him a grin.
“All those years,” Alonso muses aloud, and Jack knows where he’s going with this, and suddenly he realizes he’s not afraid of it anymore. “All those years living on Earth and now you’re out here with me.”
He expects Alonso to ask “What happened? Who died? What did you do? Why did you leave? What are you running from?” He’s waiting for an accusation, almost wants one. “Why did you kill your grandson, Jack?” “Why did you let Ianto Jones die, Jack?” “Why did you almost trade the entire Earth for your lover, Jack?” “Why did you abandon your responsibilities, Jack?” “How far do you think you can run, Jack?” “Do you think the Doctor’s approval makes this okay, Jack?”
Alonso rolls onto his side, props himself up on one elbow. “Are you ready to go back?” he asks. In his eyes there’s only invitation.
Go to Chapter 11: "We're All Mad Here"
View the Masterlist for full chapter list and complete header info.