Advent '10 Fic: You're a Mean One
Title: You're a Mean One
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Rhys/Gwen, Ianto, John
Rating: R
Genre: Crackfic
Wordcount: ~1242
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house not a creature was... oh that's a lie, you know there was "stirring": it's Torchwood, after all.
A/N: OMG happy Christmas eve-eve! Advent fic 23, this one for nikki_b1, who requested... well, I'm not even going to say. Just know that I wrote this fic exactly to the prompt I was given. LITERALLY to the prompt I was given. I make no apologies for what I have created, here. Be sure to pop by tomorrow for some SERIOUS Christmas eve J/I romance to round out the month! Thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories!
You’re a Mean One
“I’ve been so naughty, Santa!” Rhys heard Gwen slur from the bed, and then, just like that, one leg shot up into the air, a pair of red lacy knickers dangling from her toes.
“You’re sick!” he laughed, tumbling toward her anyway, “Is nothing sacred to you?”
To which she replied, husky, half-laughing, a bit too drunk for proper deadpan, “If only you still had your beard on!”
He fell on top of her in bed, happy to be dispensing with the long play at pretending to still have his balance. Her legs came around him, trapping his hips between her thighs, and then she was rolling them both over in the bed until she came out on top, straddling him and pulling at his big belt buckle and laughing into his mouth.
“We can’t!” he gasped between kisses, but was giving in, his hips rising to her and his body arching. “I’m too drunk!”
“Shut up, you are not!” she retorted, sharp little fingers digging into his chest as she fumbled with the oversized gold buttons of the suit that went pop! pop! pop!
She ran the butts of her palms up his bare chest, rough and urgent, and he closed his eyes and tried desperately to think of unsexy things.
“But Ianto!” he protested, “He’ll hear us won’t we?”
She bent to nip his neck. “He’s passed out, expect he won’t be hearing much of anything until noon tomorrow.”
Which was true: Rhys himself had been the one to find a spare blanket to toss over him right where he lay, sprawled out on their couch less his trousers, and then leave a tall glass of water and a couple Panadol within arm’s reach for the morning. They’d let Jack, too impatient for the cab wait, walk home, but Ianto was in no state, and neither of them quite trusted Jack to carry a dead weight like that all the way back to the Plass without some kind of serious injury.
He tilted his head up and kissed her, and she tasted of rum and cinnamon, warm and spicy. She caught his wrists in her hands, pushed him back, stared down at him longingly and said,
“Did you hear that?”
Just like that every muscle in her body went tense and her head perked up like a meerkat’s and a look of utter seriousness came over her face.
That time they both heard it, a crash from the living room.
At that, Gwen launched herself from the bed, stumbling bare-arsed for her gun in the dresser. She careened drunkenly sideways when she reached it, using the handle on the topmost drawer to keep from hitting the floor.
“You can’t go out there like that!” Rhys protested, sitting up and reaching for the cricket bat under the bed. Okay, maybe it was overkill in a household with six guns, but he hadn’t known about that when he’d first bought and stored it. “You’re pissed, Gwen, and you haven’t even got any pants on! I can do this. I can handle this.” He showed her the cricket bat, making what he hoped was a serious face. It didn’t exactly inspire any expression of confidence in her, but oh well. He crept out the door before she could voice a protest. He tried not to think too hard on why she wanted to be out there first with a gun.
The first thing he saw as he reached the living room was Ianto Jones missing from the couch, leaving only the balled-up blanket in his wake. Rhys’ heart, thumping with adrenaline, skipped a bit in relief, realising the noise could very well just be an exceptionally drunk Ianto stumbling around in the unfamiliar living room in the dark. Hell, Rhys lived here and was known, on occasion, to trip over the coffee table when he had a bender.
But of course, that would have been logical, sensible even.
Because there, crouched as if to climb into the chimney, was a man in a festive red jacket, gold buttons down the chest, and it could have been Santa except he was skinny and grimy and wearing denims and oh, armed to the teeth.
Something in Rhys snapped at the sight, as if two and a half years and an entire city’s ill feelings of BLOODY TORCHWOOD! had built up pressure and were now popping like champagne.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” he roared, and why was it even when he was yelling there was a friendliness in his voice, like there was an unspoken ‘mate’ dangling on the end there?
The stranger turned from shoving something into the fireplace and stood up straight. With him out of the way, Rhys could see it was a large, velour Santa bag, the one Rhys had used not four hours ago to hand out gag gifts. And it was squirming.
The stranger shifted his stance so that he blocked Rhys’ view of the sack. “Oh, um,” he said, and he had the voice of a charmer and oh god that strap on his wrist- “Santa Claus?”
Rhys lifted the cricket bat over his head, tightening his fingers around the handle menacingly. “Nice try, mate,” he growled, and the stranger just raised an eyebrow.
“I hope you’re not thinking of threatening me with that... thing,” he said, “Because maybe you haven’t noticed but I’m armed. With guns.”
Which was a good point.
“Just tell me who you are and what you’re doing here,” Rhys insisted, trying his best not to look rattled.
“Captain John Hart,” the stranger said, putting a haughty emphasis on ‘Captain’.
“Now the second part,” Rhys prompted, fiercely. What was taking Gwen and the gun? Behind Hart’s legs, the red bag thrashed.
“Spreading some holiday cheer?” Hart tried with a shrug.
“Oh yeah? To who?” Rhys challenged. Hart just grinned at him and then stepped out of the way to reveal the bag, which he gave an experimental kick.
“Myself, mostly. I just didn’t realize the... mechanics of trying to shove something up a chimney. It seems so much easier when he does it on the telly.”
“When who does-wait, just what the hell is in the bag?” Rhys shook his head, trying to stay on point. The cricket bat was starting to weigh on him. But then, Hart didn’t seem all that dangerous, despite the guns strapped to every spare inch of him and the wicked smile.
“Spoil everything, why don’t you,” Hart sulked, but then crouched beside the bag to pull on the golden drawstring cinching it shut.
As soon as he did so, Ianto Jones’ flushed, drunken head popped out of the opening, the sock stuffed in his mouth probably the only thing keeping him from howling and thrashing like a cat. His hair was sticking up in all directions, and all red like that with the big fat sock plugging his face, he looked a little like a roasted Christmas pig.
“What the hell? But why the hell?” Rhys stammered, alternating between horror and hysteria.
“I don’t know,” John said, rolling his eyes, “Haven’t you ever just gotten completely blitzed on an alien hallucinogenic and decided to try something you saw on an animated programme?”
Ianto rolled his eyes.
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Rhys/Gwen, Ianto, John
Rating: R
Genre: Crackfic
Wordcount: ~1242
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies, Steven Moffat, and the BBC.
Summary: T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house not a creature was... oh that's a lie, you know there was "stirring": it's Torchwood, after all.
A/N: OMG happy Christmas eve-eve! Advent fic 23, this one for nikki_b1, who requested... well, I'm not even going to say. Just know that I wrote this fic exactly to the prompt I was given. LITERALLY to the prompt I was given. I make no apologies for what I have created, here. Be sure to pop by tomorrow for some SERIOUS Christmas eve J/I romance to round out the month! Thank you to azn_jack_fiend, _lullabelle_, and count_to_seven for the support and beta for all of this month's stories!
You’re a Mean One
“I’ve been so naughty, Santa!” Rhys heard Gwen slur from the bed, and then, just like that, one leg shot up into the air, a pair of red lacy knickers dangling from her toes.
“You’re sick!” he laughed, tumbling toward her anyway, “Is nothing sacred to you?”
To which she replied, husky, half-laughing, a bit too drunk for proper deadpan, “If only you still had your beard on!”
He fell on top of her in bed, happy to be dispensing with the long play at pretending to still have his balance. Her legs came around him, trapping his hips between her thighs, and then she was rolling them both over in the bed until she came out on top, straddling him and pulling at his big belt buckle and laughing into his mouth.
“We can’t!” he gasped between kisses, but was giving in, his hips rising to her and his body arching. “I’m too drunk!”
“Shut up, you are not!” she retorted, sharp little fingers digging into his chest as she fumbled with the oversized gold buttons of the suit that went pop! pop! pop!
She ran the butts of her palms up his bare chest, rough and urgent, and he closed his eyes and tried desperately to think of unsexy things.
“But Ianto!” he protested, “He’ll hear us won’t we?”
She bent to nip his neck. “He’s passed out, expect he won’t be hearing much of anything until noon tomorrow.”
Which was true: Rhys himself had been the one to find a spare blanket to toss over him right where he lay, sprawled out on their couch less his trousers, and then leave a tall glass of water and a couple Panadol within arm’s reach for the morning. They’d let Jack, too impatient for the cab wait, walk home, but Ianto was in no state, and neither of them quite trusted Jack to carry a dead weight like that all the way back to the Plass without some kind of serious injury.
He tilted his head up and kissed her, and she tasted of rum and cinnamon, warm and spicy. She caught his wrists in her hands, pushed him back, stared down at him longingly and said,
“Did you hear that?”
Just like that every muscle in her body went tense and her head perked up like a meerkat’s and a look of utter seriousness came over her face.
That time they both heard it, a crash from the living room.
At that, Gwen launched herself from the bed, stumbling bare-arsed for her gun in the dresser. She careened drunkenly sideways when she reached it, using the handle on the topmost drawer to keep from hitting the floor.
“You can’t go out there like that!” Rhys protested, sitting up and reaching for the cricket bat under the bed. Okay, maybe it was overkill in a household with six guns, but he hadn’t known about that when he’d first bought and stored it. “You’re pissed, Gwen, and you haven’t even got any pants on! I can do this. I can handle this.” He showed her the cricket bat, making what he hoped was a serious face. It didn’t exactly inspire any expression of confidence in her, but oh well. He crept out the door before she could voice a protest. He tried not to think too hard on why she wanted to be out there first with a gun.
The first thing he saw as he reached the living room was Ianto Jones missing from the couch, leaving only the balled-up blanket in his wake. Rhys’ heart, thumping with adrenaline, skipped a bit in relief, realising the noise could very well just be an exceptionally drunk Ianto stumbling around in the unfamiliar living room in the dark. Hell, Rhys lived here and was known, on occasion, to trip over the coffee table when he had a bender.
But of course, that would have been logical, sensible even.
Because there, crouched as if to climb into the chimney, was a man in a festive red jacket, gold buttons down the chest, and it could have been Santa except he was skinny and grimy and wearing denims and oh, armed to the teeth.
Something in Rhys snapped at the sight, as if two and a half years and an entire city’s ill feelings of BLOODY TORCHWOOD! had built up pressure and were now popping like champagne.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” he roared, and why was it even when he was yelling there was a friendliness in his voice, like there was an unspoken ‘mate’ dangling on the end there?
The stranger turned from shoving something into the fireplace and stood up straight. With him out of the way, Rhys could see it was a large, velour Santa bag, the one Rhys had used not four hours ago to hand out gag gifts. And it was squirming.
The stranger shifted his stance so that he blocked Rhys’ view of the sack. “Oh, um,” he said, and he had the voice of a charmer and oh god that strap on his wrist- “Santa Claus?”
Rhys lifted the cricket bat over his head, tightening his fingers around the handle menacingly. “Nice try, mate,” he growled, and the stranger just raised an eyebrow.
“I hope you’re not thinking of threatening me with that... thing,” he said, “Because maybe you haven’t noticed but I’m armed. With guns.”
Which was a good point.
“Just tell me who you are and what you’re doing here,” Rhys insisted, trying his best not to look rattled.
“Captain John Hart,” the stranger said, putting a haughty emphasis on ‘Captain’.
“Now the second part,” Rhys prompted, fiercely. What was taking Gwen and the gun? Behind Hart’s legs, the red bag thrashed.
“Spreading some holiday cheer?” Hart tried with a shrug.
“Oh yeah? To who?” Rhys challenged. Hart just grinned at him and then stepped out of the way to reveal the bag, which he gave an experimental kick.
“Myself, mostly. I just didn’t realize the... mechanics of trying to shove something up a chimney. It seems so much easier when he does it on the telly.”
“When who does-wait, just what the hell is in the bag?” Rhys shook his head, trying to stay on point. The cricket bat was starting to weigh on him. But then, Hart didn’t seem all that dangerous, despite the guns strapped to every spare inch of him and the wicked smile.
“Spoil everything, why don’t you,” Hart sulked, but then crouched beside the bag to pull on the golden drawstring cinching it shut.
As soon as he did so, Ianto Jones’ flushed, drunken head popped out of the opening, the sock stuffed in his mouth probably the only thing keeping him from howling and thrashing like a cat. His hair was sticking up in all directions, and all red like that with the big fat sock plugging his face, he looked a little like a roasted Christmas pig.
“What the hell? But why the hell?” Rhys stammered, alternating between horror and hysteria.
“I don’t know,” John said, rolling his eyes, “Haven’t you ever just gotten completely blitzed on an alien hallucinogenic and decided to try something you saw on an animated programme?”
Ianto rolled his eyes.