TW Fic: Maidens Call It Love-in-Idleness
Title: Maidens Call It Love-in-Idleness
Author: nancybrown
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack, Ianto, Tosh, Owen, Suzie, Gwen
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Owen/Suzie, Owen/Gwen, Tosh (solo/fantasy)
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3000
Warnings: [cut and ribbed for your pleasure]consent issues both consistent with trope and also straddling the dubcon/noncon border, seriously creepy and unrealistic D/s dynamics (F/m and M/f), implied sex with alien worms
Summary: Torchwood Cardiff doesn't get exposed to sex pollen. Torchwood Cardiff exploits sex pollen mercilessly.
AN: Written for Trope Bingo square: sex pollen
AN2: I'm not sure if I'm proud of this one, or horrified.
***
There are three little-known truths about the amoraso plant:
- It is native to Earth.
- It developed more or less naturally, as much as these things did by then, somewhere around the forty-third century.
- It was accidentally transplanted to the twentieth century by seeds clinging to a heavy skirt worn by someone who travelled via blue police box from one adventure in the future to another in the past.
Jack has regretfully been unable to identify the particular companion who caused the amoraso to develop twice in Earth's history. If he ever sorts out who she is, or was, or will be, he'd like to send her flowers. He considers that doing so may in fact be the provenance of this particular time loop, but typically by the point he's having these thoughts, he's far too wound up in sexual frenzy to give a good God damn.
***
"We keep this one locked up," Suzie tells him, unashamed as she opens the safe. Owen doesn't believe half the shit she says, but he'll nod along if it means getting to fuck her again tonight. And yesterday, she did introduce him to that fucking amazing spray. The amazing fucking spray would be a better name, he reckons. Anyway.
Jack's out, somewhere with someone, and Suzie isn't interrupted as she takes out one dried petal from the jar before resealing it and hiding her subterfuge. She orders him to open his mouth. When Owen hesitates, she shoves his shoulder hard until he buckles to his knees.
"Bitch," he says, but he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue like some prat waiting for the priest to come round with the Communion wafers. Suzie grabs his hair painfully, and places the petal on his tongue, shutting his mouth with a hard chuck of his chin with her gloved fist.
The taste is unpleasant, but not worse than other things he's eaten. It's dusty. Sour sugar, if that's possible, fills his mouth as the petal dissolves. He swallows reflexively. "This is stupid," he tries to say, but his mouth is full of sweet, and his blood is full of sparkle, and he can't move, can't think. The smell of Suzie's skin engulfs him, as his eyes grow bigger, taking her in. She's fully dressed, and he's sweating in his clothes, and all he can think about is that he can smell how wet her cunt is.
They don't even make it out of the storage room before they fuck the first time. Suzie is liquid fire engulfing him, dragging the lips of her pussy along the length of him before impaling herself. He can't control his own movements, can't control anything with his hands wrenched over his head and his body overtaken by the need to thrust, to come.
When he finishes, Owen's a little regretful that it's over so quickly, until the rush of fresh need swells his cock again. Suzie pushes him ungently towards a messy but otherwise unused room of the nearby archives, not letting him touch her. Owen whines in his throat, trying to take love bites against her fragrant skin, wanting to run his fingers through each curl. Suzie yanks his wrist, cuffing him to the wall, and makes Owen jerk himself off with his free hand before she restrains that as well.
"I could leave you like this," she breathes, kneeling close enough to him that the words ghost over his dick. He's hard again, fuck. He'll die of priapism if she doesn't suck him off now. Instead, Suzie retrieves some accessories she's stowed here already. He can't make them out with his vision blurred by desire. His skin blazes with want of her. Even the touch of the cuffs is pleasurable, though he wants to feel Suzie, wants her writhing on his cock again, wants her fingers shoved deep in his arse.
Maybe she's reading his mind. She's holding up, inspecting, and discarding several phallic-looking objects that he knows for a fact are going to invade his arsehole before she's satisfied. He sees the slimy grey skin of an unknown creature undulate in her hand, thick as a man's hand and pulsating, and his mouth goes dry in fear even as he imagines how something so vile will feel slithering inside, how he'll look with it hanging half out of his body.
Owen lets out a moan, thrusting his hips to get at least the friction of his dick bumping against his belly.
He wants to yank Suzie's curly hair, force a mouthful of petals down her throat, then make her beg for him as he delicately teases her clit without bringing her off, refusing her release until she's broken and sobbing. There are any number of items he could push inside her with the aid of a speculum, cranking her wider and wider as she's tied into the stirrups, squealing at every intrusion but too enraptured by the amoraso's effects to complain. Every cold glass bottle, tumescent vegetable, or even squirming alien appendage she forces into him tonight, Owen will remember, and reciprocate. He pictures Suzie's sweat-soaked face as his latex-gloved hands squish more surgical jelly into her vagina while his thumb strokes her clitoris. He'll coax the bottle, or the parsnip, or the fat alien worm into her warm, wet darkness. She'll come instantly, hating him. Then he'll have to choose her task before he lets her come again: does he make her suck him off, or does he sodomise her? He'll have to work on that problem.
God, he's so hard right now.
Suzie says, "Be a good boy and I'll be nice. But we both know you can't be good."
"Fuck you," he spits, but it's less an insult and more a plea.
The first spank makes Owen scream. By the fifth, he's coming all over himself like a fucking kid creaming his pants. By the seventh, he's gasping and begging her to let him fuck her. By morning, Owen is bruised on almost every inch of skin that's covered by his clothes. (Suzie is always careful that way.) And no matter how much he cajoles and threatens after, she refuses to give him the code to open that particular safe.
Eight months later, and Jack is out somewhere, with someone. Owen leads Gwen into the storage room, her eyes covered with a blindfold. He can feel her pulse racing in her wrist: anticipation, concern, fear. She shrieks through the orgasms he gives her, but she doesn't trust him. The uncertainty has him hard, has her nipples poking sharp peaks through the thin fabric of her blouse.
Owen grabs her hair. "Open your mouth," he orders.
***
Owen normally handles the horticulture, but although he oversaw the refit of the old boardroom, he's been too busy otherwise. The amoraso only blooms one night per year, and it's Tosh's luck that the flower likes to bloom around Valentine's Day. She tells herself that she wants to collect the pollen for their stores. That her scientific curiosity is piqued by the prospect of what the flower is and does. That she misses Jack, and this strange plant is a link to his equally strange history.
She gives herself a few other excuses, but the others don't even ask. Gwen's got plans with Rhys, Owen's going out to find a willing body for the evening, and Ianto intends to drink enough to blot out the last year or so of his love life. Tosh takes the overnight watch without a single objection. As soon as the door closes behind the last one to leave, she slips off her shoes and carries them up the stairs to Owen's new greenhouse.
It'll be tonight. The garish heliotrope outer petals are nudging apart. Tosh sits in the folding chair set up by the table they use as a workbench. She opens a notebook and describes in brief detail the condition of the room, the time and date. She has a jar. She has gloves.
As she sits and watches, the obscenely pink flower uncurls, revealing a far more tender pink within. Blood pink, she thinks, the pink of sensitive flesh gone wet and swollen with desire. The core is the same heart's brown as her nipples, one of which she starts stroking under her bra. The greenhouse fills with a scent, not exactly sweet, but enticing. Rich. Promising.
The lace of her suspender belt provides a sensual friction when her hand traces the smooth skin of her upper thighs. Her knickers are already soaked through, as she remembers her first surprising sight of Mary's body spread open for her. Tosh's fingers were curious, and her mouth. Now she spreads her own legs wantonly, exposing herself to anyone watching over the CCTV, or coming back into the Hub to retrieve a forgotten scarf. Under her skirt, she feels the slick wet of her vulva. She's long used to this, to finding the perfect place at her own clit, and one deft finger shoved inside her vagina to press outward. Her mouth hangs slack, breathing in the amoraso's aroma. It's so good, this experienced rub and stroke, the familiar rhythm of her hands from every night that rocks her to sleep. Lovers have been few and far between, and the last one was an alien criminal with an amazing tongue, but she knows her own body best, knows the right pinch to her breast, arches at the perfect circle drawn with her own fingertip against sensitive nerves.
Even their missing boss, veteran of a thousand beds and twice that number of back alleys, always said wanking is sex with the person who loves you most.
Without meaning to, Toshiko stops masturbating long enough to drag her own wet fingers into her mouth, and moan at the flavour. She can't help but reach out to take a few precious grains of pollen onto her forefinger. Instead of licking it off, she presses the powdery substance against her own needy flesh. Effervescent sparks shoot through her, like her labia are bathing in soda water, a million small pinpoints of sensation on skin already achingly close to release.
Toshiko can hear her own moaning gasps, no more able to stop herself from crying out than she can restrain her own thrashes on the unwieldy metal chair. Her hand is hot and cold, like menthol, like the best mouth that has ever tongued her. It doesn't take long for her to come, eyes locked on a stray garden tool Owen left, and she brings herself off again a minute later with the fantasy of him shoving the handle inside her as he kisses her.
The edge taken off her arousal, Tosh quickly dons the gloves, and she collects as much of the pollen into her glass jar as she can get. She seals the lid, affixing the label with shaking fingers. Tosh wonders how many of the jars of pollen have labels written in hands that smell as earthy as hers. In the morning, she will come back to collect the drooping petals, dry them carefully, then run for the loo before her fingers plunge back into her knickers.
If she doesn't make it, if she falls to her knees first, hand shoved furiously up the skirt she plans to wear tomorrow, they'll know. They'll watch. Gwen's eyes will get big as she pulls a shocked hand against her mouth. Ianto will pretend to look away, but he'll keep his gaze coming back to her creamy thighs, as the fabric rises just enough to see her pubic hair. Owen will stare, his eyes dark and wanting, making crude comments in a river of filthy words as Tosh jerks and cries. If she closes her eyes and just moans, "Please," one of them will break the paralysis, will push her on to her back, will force her knees apart roughly. Hot, demanding lips will suckle against her clit until she screams. She'll keep her eyes tightly shut to ensure she never, ever knows for certain who.
The jar is sealed. Job complete, Tosh sets the gloves aside.
The trowel's handle is too rough, but it's precisely what she needs.
***
"Trust me," Jack says, and he fingerpaints three characters into the skin on Ianto's back.
He's not sure he trusts Jack. Jack was gone and Jack is back. Jack's full of lies and contradictions and impossibilities. Jack is definitely going to break his heart one of these days. So no. Trust isn't a big component to their relationship, except that Ianto does trust Jack to ensure they both have an amazing time in bed.
Ianto's been horny all day, waiting to get Jack alone. For once, despite the lull, Jack wasn't up for even a quick snog in his office. "Wait," he said, in order and promise, so Ianto waited. The Rift is supposed to be quiet for two more days, and they all have leave pending the typical run of disasters. Jack is here with him, and appears to have no other plans for the unexpected break than to crack open a precious jar of dust.
"It tickles," Ianto says to fill the air, waiting for Jack to do something. Instead of replying, Jack drags a hot, wet tongue over the letters he's written. That's more like it. Ianto wriggles happily, trying to indicate he's got better places for Jack to write his name with his tongue.
"Lean back," Jack says, a moan in his voice. Ianto turns his head, and he's met with a hot, dirty kiss, the kind he likes best when stolen in the corridors whilst the others are just out of sight.
He's struck with a vision, a memory of something that hasn't been yet: standing in the corridor leading down to the gun range, listening to the other three working at their stations and laughing and talking, oblivious to the fact that Jack has Ianto pressed against the wall and is sucking him off with deep pulls. The ragged draw in his breath alerts him to the warm, sparkly feeling penetrating every inch of his skin, like he's bathing in bubbly gold.
"Jack?"
"Like it?"
"Yeah."
He's barely ready when Jack fucks into him, but the burn shoots through in a kind of pleasure that he normally eschews: pain that feels good. Like when Jack dripped scorching wax into him. Like when he bound Ianto's arms so high and tight that his shoulders went white-hot. Like every time he's taken Ianto to the edge of agony, only to break through into pleasure so raw it scarred.
Ianto can do nothing more than claw at the blankets beneath him, and buck back into Jack as he huffs, body trapped between the desire to crawl away from the huge intrusion, and the desperate need for more. He's rock hard, whining and desperate to get off as he hears and feels Jack's orgasm slamming into him with loud groans. "Please," he says into the pillow, and he's met with a kiss to the back of his neck as gentle as the sex was rough.
"Sorry. Hits me hard." Jack draws a soothing hand over Ianto's bicep, which only serves to show Ianto how fucking erotic the skin over his arm really is. Jack kisses him, and they tussle, rolling easily into a new position with Ianto straddling Jack's hips. Jack squirms eagerly beneath him, his hands (oh God, his hands are so hot and firm) guiding Ianto's cock towards his arse. Ianto hesitates long enough to remember to pump a quick handful of lube into his palm, and somehow doesn't come as he coats himself.
Jack is slick and tight, but it's the heat Ianto can't get his thoughts past. Hot leather glove soaked in oil, wanking him slowly, yes, oh God, they've done that. Jack urges him to go faster, mewling in his own desire even though he just got off. Ianto complies, rutting and moaning and taking his own pleasure as hard and fast as he can. Sex with Jack can be exhausting, leaving them both covered in sweat and come, breaking away to drink cool gulps of water before falling on one another again, but this is far beyond even that. Ianto feels the first spurt of his climax coating himself, and the sheer fluid rush sends blood roaring in his ears, tears a roar from his ragged throat as he crests a second time without pausing.
The white flickers in his eyes have only just started to fade when he figures out Jack is ready to go again, and that this is going to be their night, turnabout and fucking each other until they can't move. He can feel the arousal still pulsing through his veins. He wants to jerk off, wants to take Jack's dick into his mouth, settles for sliding wetly against the scratchy sheets as Jack pushes him onto his stomach again and uses his own come to lubricate his way back into Ianto's body with a guttural, "Oh fuck."
"This stuff is amazing," Ianto manages to say half an hour later, panting through his latest orgasm.
"You're telling me."
They rest together, Jack needing some water, Ianto knowing if they don't slow down, this is going to kill him. "This is the advanced lesson, then?" Ianto asks, swiping Jack's half-empty bottle from him and finishing it.
"Lesson of what?"
"The Captain Jack Harkness Sexual Adventures Curriculum, now fuelled by alien sex pollen. How have your previous students handled this class?"
Jack shrugs. He takes the empty bottle back, setting it on the bedside table. "Dunno. I never tried this particular plan before. Usually, someone's dosing me and having their way with me. I don't mind, but this sounded like a better time." He grins at Ianto, a fond mixture of playfulness and lascivious intent. "You're having fun, yeah?"
Ianto blinks at him curiously. "Yeah."
Jack opens the little jar again, and dips one finger into the silvery powder. Ianto grabs his wrist, brings the finger to his own mouth, and sucks at the sweet-salty pollen before he kisses Jack again and again and again.
The Rift stays quiet for four days.
***
Then there's the time a bit of amoraso pollen "accidentally" gets dumped into the coffee filter while Rhys is there and Martha's visiting. The team doesn't talk about that incident. Ever. Neither does Martha, but she does smile widely when she thinks back on it later, and she's reminded of that skirt she wore during one toe-curling visit to the forty-third century.
***
The End
***
Author: nancybrown
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack, Ianto, Tosh, Owen, Suzie, Gwen
Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Owen/Suzie, Owen/Gwen, Tosh (solo/fantasy)
Rating: NC-17
Words: 3000
Warnings: [cut and ribbed for your pleasure]consent issues both consistent with trope and also straddling the dubcon/noncon border, seriously creepy and unrealistic D/s dynamics (F/m and M/f), implied sex with alien worms
Summary: Torchwood Cardiff doesn't get exposed to sex pollen. Torchwood Cardiff exploits sex pollen mercilessly.
AN: Written for Trope Bingo square: sex pollen
AN2: I'm not sure if I'm proud of this one, or horrified.
***
There are three little-known truths about the amoraso plant:
- It is native to Earth.
- It developed more or less naturally, as much as these things did by then, somewhere around the forty-third century.
- It was accidentally transplanted to the twentieth century by seeds clinging to a heavy skirt worn by someone who travelled via blue police box from one adventure in the future to another in the past.
Jack has regretfully been unable to identify the particular companion who caused the amoraso to develop twice in Earth's history. If he ever sorts out who she is, or was, or will be, he'd like to send her flowers. He considers that doing so may in fact be the provenance of this particular time loop, but typically by the point he's having these thoughts, he's far too wound up in sexual frenzy to give a good God damn.
***
"We keep this one locked up," Suzie tells him, unashamed as she opens the safe. Owen doesn't believe half the shit she says, but he'll nod along if it means getting to fuck her again tonight. And yesterday, she did introduce him to that fucking amazing spray. The amazing fucking spray would be a better name, he reckons. Anyway.
Jack's out, somewhere with someone, and Suzie isn't interrupted as she takes out one dried petal from the jar before resealing it and hiding her subterfuge. She orders him to open his mouth. When Owen hesitates, she shoves his shoulder hard until he buckles to his knees.
"Bitch," he says, but he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue like some prat waiting for the priest to come round with the Communion wafers. Suzie grabs his hair painfully, and places the petal on his tongue, shutting his mouth with a hard chuck of his chin with her gloved fist.
The taste is unpleasant, but not worse than other things he's eaten. It's dusty. Sour sugar, if that's possible, fills his mouth as the petal dissolves. He swallows reflexively. "This is stupid," he tries to say, but his mouth is full of sweet, and his blood is full of sparkle, and he can't move, can't think. The smell of Suzie's skin engulfs him, as his eyes grow bigger, taking her in. She's fully dressed, and he's sweating in his clothes, and all he can think about is that he can smell how wet her cunt is.
They don't even make it out of the storage room before they fuck the first time. Suzie is liquid fire engulfing him, dragging the lips of her pussy along the length of him before impaling herself. He can't control his own movements, can't control anything with his hands wrenched over his head and his body overtaken by the need to thrust, to come.
When he finishes, Owen's a little regretful that it's over so quickly, until the rush of fresh need swells his cock again. Suzie pushes him ungently towards a messy but otherwise unused room of the nearby archives, not letting him touch her. Owen whines in his throat, trying to take love bites against her fragrant skin, wanting to run his fingers through each curl. Suzie yanks his wrist, cuffing him to the wall, and makes Owen jerk himself off with his free hand before she restrains that as well.
"I could leave you like this," she breathes, kneeling close enough to him that the words ghost over his dick. He's hard again, fuck. He'll die of priapism if she doesn't suck him off now. Instead, Suzie retrieves some accessories she's stowed here already. He can't make them out with his vision blurred by desire. His skin blazes with want of her. Even the touch of the cuffs is pleasurable, though he wants to feel Suzie, wants her writhing on his cock again, wants her fingers shoved deep in his arse.
Maybe she's reading his mind. She's holding up, inspecting, and discarding several phallic-looking objects that he knows for a fact are going to invade his arsehole before she's satisfied. He sees the slimy grey skin of an unknown creature undulate in her hand, thick as a man's hand and pulsating, and his mouth goes dry in fear even as he imagines how something so vile will feel slithering inside, how he'll look with it hanging half out of his body.
Owen lets out a moan, thrusting his hips to get at least the friction of his dick bumping against his belly.
He wants to yank Suzie's curly hair, force a mouthful of petals down her throat, then make her beg for him as he delicately teases her clit without bringing her off, refusing her release until she's broken and sobbing. There are any number of items he could push inside her with the aid of a speculum, cranking her wider and wider as she's tied into the stirrups, squealing at every intrusion but too enraptured by the amoraso's effects to complain. Every cold glass bottle, tumescent vegetable, or even squirming alien appendage she forces into him tonight, Owen will remember, and reciprocate. He pictures Suzie's sweat-soaked face as his latex-gloved hands squish more surgical jelly into her vagina while his thumb strokes her clitoris. He'll coax the bottle, or the parsnip, or the fat alien worm into her warm, wet darkness. She'll come instantly, hating him. Then he'll have to choose her task before he lets her come again: does he make her suck him off, or does he sodomise her? He'll have to work on that problem.
God, he's so hard right now.
Suzie says, "Be a good boy and I'll be nice. But we both know you can't be good."
"Fuck you," he spits, but it's less an insult and more a plea.
The first spank makes Owen scream. By the fifth, he's coming all over himself like a fucking kid creaming his pants. By the seventh, he's gasping and begging her to let him fuck her. By morning, Owen is bruised on almost every inch of skin that's covered by his clothes. (Suzie is always careful that way.) And no matter how much he cajoles and threatens after, she refuses to give him the code to open that particular safe.
Eight months later, and Jack is out somewhere, with someone. Owen leads Gwen into the storage room, her eyes covered with a blindfold. He can feel her pulse racing in her wrist: anticipation, concern, fear. She shrieks through the orgasms he gives her, but she doesn't trust him. The uncertainty has him hard, has her nipples poking sharp peaks through the thin fabric of her blouse.
Owen grabs her hair. "Open your mouth," he orders.
***
Owen normally handles the horticulture, but although he oversaw the refit of the old boardroom, he's been too busy otherwise. The amoraso only blooms one night per year, and it's Tosh's luck that the flower likes to bloom around Valentine's Day. She tells herself that she wants to collect the pollen for their stores. That her scientific curiosity is piqued by the prospect of what the flower is and does. That she misses Jack, and this strange plant is a link to his equally strange history.
She gives herself a few other excuses, but the others don't even ask. Gwen's got plans with Rhys, Owen's going out to find a willing body for the evening, and Ianto intends to drink enough to blot out the last year or so of his love life. Tosh takes the overnight watch without a single objection. As soon as the door closes behind the last one to leave, she slips off her shoes and carries them up the stairs to Owen's new greenhouse.
It'll be tonight. The garish heliotrope outer petals are nudging apart. Tosh sits in the folding chair set up by the table they use as a workbench. She opens a notebook and describes in brief detail the condition of the room, the time and date. She has a jar. She has gloves.
As she sits and watches, the obscenely pink flower uncurls, revealing a far more tender pink within. Blood pink, she thinks, the pink of sensitive flesh gone wet and swollen with desire. The core is the same heart's brown as her nipples, one of which she starts stroking under her bra. The greenhouse fills with a scent, not exactly sweet, but enticing. Rich. Promising.
The lace of her suspender belt provides a sensual friction when her hand traces the smooth skin of her upper thighs. Her knickers are already soaked through, as she remembers her first surprising sight of Mary's body spread open for her. Tosh's fingers were curious, and her mouth. Now she spreads her own legs wantonly, exposing herself to anyone watching over the CCTV, or coming back into the Hub to retrieve a forgotten scarf. Under her skirt, she feels the slick wet of her vulva. She's long used to this, to finding the perfect place at her own clit, and one deft finger shoved inside her vagina to press outward. Her mouth hangs slack, breathing in the amoraso's aroma. It's so good, this experienced rub and stroke, the familiar rhythm of her hands from every night that rocks her to sleep. Lovers have been few and far between, and the last one was an alien criminal with an amazing tongue, but she knows her own body best, knows the right pinch to her breast, arches at the perfect circle drawn with her own fingertip against sensitive nerves.
Even their missing boss, veteran of a thousand beds and twice that number of back alleys, always said wanking is sex with the person who loves you most.
Without meaning to, Toshiko stops masturbating long enough to drag her own wet fingers into her mouth, and moan at the flavour. She can't help but reach out to take a few precious grains of pollen onto her forefinger. Instead of licking it off, she presses the powdery substance against her own needy flesh. Effervescent sparks shoot through her, like her labia are bathing in soda water, a million small pinpoints of sensation on skin already achingly close to release.
Toshiko can hear her own moaning gasps, no more able to stop herself from crying out than she can restrain her own thrashes on the unwieldy metal chair. Her hand is hot and cold, like menthol, like the best mouth that has ever tongued her. It doesn't take long for her to come, eyes locked on a stray garden tool Owen left, and she brings herself off again a minute later with the fantasy of him shoving the handle inside her as he kisses her.
The edge taken off her arousal, Tosh quickly dons the gloves, and she collects as much of the pollen into her glass jar as she can get. She seals the lid, affixing the label with shaking fingers. Tosh wonders how many of the jars of pollen have labels written in hands that smell as earthy as hers. In the morning, she will come back to collect the drooping petals, dry them carefully, then run for the loo before her fingers plunge back into her knickers.
If she doesn't make it, if she falls to her knees first, hand shoved furiously up the skirt she plans to wear tomorrow, they'll know. They'll watch. Gwen's eyes will get big as she pulls a shocked hand against her mouth. Ianto will pretend to look away, but he'll keep his gaze coming back to her creamy thighs, as the fabric rises just enough to see her pubic hair. Owen will stare, his eyes dark and wanting, making crude comments in a river of filthy words as Tosh jerks and cries. If she closes her eyes and just moans, "Please," one of them will break the paralysis, will push her on to her back, will force her knees apart roughly. Hot, demanding lips will suckle against her clit until she screams. She'll keep her eyes tightly shut to ensure she never, ever knows for certain who.
The jar is sealed. Job complete, Tosh sets the gloves aside.
The trowel's handle is too rough, but it's precisely what she needs.
***
"Trust me," Jack says, and he fingerpaints three characters into the skin on Ianto's back.
He's not sure he trusts Jack. Jack was gone and Jack is back. Jack's full of lies and contradictions and impossibilities. Jack is definitely going to break his heart one of these days. So no. Trust isn't a big component to their relationship, except that Ianto does trust Jack to ensure they both have an amazing time in bed.
Ianto's been horny all day, waiting to get Jack alone. For once, despite the lull, Jack wasn't up for even a quick snog in his office. "Wait," he said, in order and promise, so Ianto waited. The Rift is supposed to be quiet for two more days, and they all have leave pending the typical run of disasters. Jack is here with him, and appears to have no other plans for the unexpected break than to crack open a precious jar of dust.
"It tickles," Ianto says to fill the air, waiting for Jack to do something. Instead of replying, Jack drags a hot, wet tongue over the letters he's written. That's more like it. Ianto wriggles happily, trying to indicate he's got better places for Jack to write his name with his tongue.
"Lean back," Jack says, a moan in his voice. Ianto turns his head, and he's met with a hot, dirty kiss, the kind he likes best when stolen in the corridors whilst the others are just out of sight.
He's struck with a vision, a memory of something that hasn't been yet: standing in the corridor leading down to the gun range, listening to the other three working at their stations and laughing and talking, oblivious to the fact that Jack has Ianto pressed against the wall and is sucking him off with deep pulls. The ragged draw in his breath alerts him to the warm, sparkly feeling penetrating every inch of his skin, like he's bathing in bubbly gold.
"Jack?"
"Like it?"
"Yeah."
He's barely ready when Jack fucks into him, but the burn shoots through in a kind of pleasure that he normally eschews: pain that feels good. Like when Jack dripped scorching wax into him. Like when he bound Ianto's arms so high and tight that his shoulders went white-hot. Like every time he's taken Ianto to the edge of agony, only to break through into pleasure so raw it scarred.
Ianto can do nothing more than claw at the blankets beneath him, and buck back into Jack as he huffs, body trapped between the desire to crawl away from the huge intrusion, and the desperate need for more. He's rock hard, whining and desperate to get off as he hears and feels Jack's orgasm slamming into him with loud groans. "Please," he says into the pillow, and he's met with a kiss to the back of his neck as gentle as the sex was rough.
"Sorry. Hits me hard." Jack draws a soothing hand over Ianto's bicep, which only serves to show Ianto how fucking erotic the skin over his arm really is. Jack kisses him, and they tussle, rolling easily into a new position with Ianto straddling Jack's hips. Jack squirms eagerly beneath him, his hands (oh God, his hands are so hot and firm) guiding Ianto's cock towards his arse. Ianto hesitates long enough to remember to pump a quick handful of lube into his palm, and somehow doesn't come as he coats himself.
Jack is slick and tight, but it's the heat Ianto can't get his thoughts past. Hot leather glove soaked in oil, wanking him slowly, yes, oh God, they've done that. Jack urges him to go faster, mewling in his own desire even though he just got off. Ianto complies, rutting and moaning and taking his own pleasure as hard and fast as he can. Sex with Jack can be exhausting, leaving them both covered in sweat and come, breaking away to drink cool gulps of water before falling on one another again, but this is far beyond even that. Ianto feels the first spurt of his climax coating himself, and the sheer fluid rush sends blood roaring in his ears, tears a roar from his ragged throat as he crests a second time without pausing.
The white flickers in his eyes have only just started to fade when he figures out Jack is ready to go again, and that this is going to be their night, turnabout and fucking each other until they can't move. He can feel the arousal still pulsing through his veins. He wants to jerk off, wants to take Jack's dick into his mouth, settles for sliding wetly against the scratchy sheets as Jack pushes him onto his stomach again and uses his own come to lubricate his way back into Ianto's body with a guttural, "Oh fuck."
"This stuff is amazing," Ianto manages to say half an hour later, panting through his latest orgasm.
"You're telling me."
They rest together, Jack needing some water, Ianto knowing if they don't slow down, this is going to kill him. "This is the advanced lesson, then?" Ianto asks, swiping Jack's half-empty bottle from him and finishing it.
"Lesson of what?"
"The Captain Jack Harkness Sexual Adventures Curriculum, now fuelled by alien sex pollen. How have your previous students handled this class?"
Jack shrugs. He takes the empty bottle back, setting it on the bedside table. "Dunno. I never tried this particular plan before. Usually, someone's dosing me and having their way with me. I don't mind, but this sounded like a better time." He grins at Ianto, a fond mixture of playfulness and lascivious intent. "You're having fun, yeah?"
Ianto blinks at him curiously. "Yeah."
Jack opens the little jar again, and dips one finger into the silvery powder. Ianto grabs his wrist, brings the finger to his own mouth, and sucks at the sweet-salty pollen before he kisses Jack again and again and again.
The Rift stays quiet for four days.
***
Then there's the time a bit of amoraso pollen "accidentally" gets dumped into the coffee filter while Rhys is there and Martha's visiting. The team doesn't talk about that incident. Ever. Neither does Martha, but she does smile widely when she thinks back on it later, and she's reminded of that skirt she wore during one toe-curling visit to the forty-third century.
***
The End
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