A Maddening Addiction, Extended Cut.
Title: A Maddening Addiction
Author: Hegemony
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Ianto/Toshiko, Using the prompt 'Kismet' (the turkish, hindu, and arabic word for 'fate')
Wordcount: 1204
Spoilers: Through TW 1x13
Warning: Some BDSM elements. Experimental Writing Style, with major reworking on several scenes from the original cut.
Disclaimer: This wouldn't have been 'fanfic' if I owned the characters, now would it?
The three of them are quite the triangle: good coffee, the world’s best scotch, well-oiled guns. Philosophy and science and adventure and sex laced the bitter edge of searing betrayal. (He pulls Toshiko’s panties, lacy, skimpy and white, down her open thighs and begs her to keep her heels on while he fucks her with his fingers and tongue. She’s short without them, and he likes being made to earn his opportunities to get her off while Ianto watches.)
They are string theory at work, an amazing interoffice romance. Gwen and Owen may be raw and new and desperate to keep things clandestine, but they've been relying on each other since Suzie broke their hearts, through Lisa, Estelle, Mary. Jack doesn’t see how keeping it clandestine is worth the effort. (Ianto looks brilliant with salvaged cyber-alloy metal restraints framing his wrists, keeping his legs spread. They're heavy, he says, but they're like Lisa, in a way, keeping him mindful of his responsibilities to beautiful things that need to be looked after. Toshiko watches from the corner as Jack lets wet fingers and a cane remind Ianto of his loyalties. She smiles at the two of them, Ianto embarrassingly naked and Jack fully clothed as if he’s just stepped in from a cold winter’s day. Ianto begs desperately for release, or at least reprieve, but it's not about orgasm or relief, anyway. It's about retribution, repenting. Jack's not the catholic church, but he figures it's better to convert Ianto's pain than it is to shoot him in the head. Toshiko's eyes gleam with understanding. She's his failsafe, she softens and centers Jack's blows and takes the acid out of his words.)
There’s memories, delicate memories carved into their skin, places where they know how to touch from what feels like years of experience. (Jack’s bed is too small and weak for the three of them, but the hard concrete of the floor feels right, just cold and unforgiving enough. It feels like they're animals in a cage, here in the space underneath Jack’s office after they've closed the manhole. When Ianto slides into Jack, and Tosh uses Mary’s strap-on to slide into him, it’s sheer perfection between the three of them. The room turns electric, and they can't stop moving, skin to skin against each other. When Ianto and Jack are spent, they turn their attentions on Tosh, kissing, licking, sucking, breathing all over her until she’s screaming and begging to come.)
There are absences, and moments of distrust, regret and moments of overburdening curiosity, but those are things that should be expected, given the circumstances. Their lives may be lived in each other's pockets, but they don't demand secrets for pillow talk. (Jack’s wedged between the two of them in Ianto’s bed, big enough for two but a little small for three. They’re a tangle of limbs, still connected. He’s still inside her, and Ianto’s still inside him. It’s easygoing, Ianto purrs happily like there isn't a care in the world, like they won't have to save Cardiff from their own mistakes tomorrow . And Jack grins, softly as he claws his toes into Tosh’s leg and stirs inside her again. She gasps, and both he and Ianto chuckle. She makes the best noises and faces when she’s surprised and aroused. “Who are you?” She asks, and Ianto says that Jack is theirs. Theirs for the taking.)
It makes sense that he’d miss them while he’s away, Jack supposes. He hopes things won't be so fractured that they become irreparable. (“I’m going to marry her one day, Jack,” Ianto insists, softly while Tosh is in the bathroom. They’re spooned together, so close Jack gives up searching for where he ends and Ianto begins. Ianto speaks wistful and low like he's in love, his face in the crook of Jack's neck. “I’m going to marry the both of you, one day. I want to be with you both for as long as I can. I don’t care anymore. I don't care what it'll look like.”)
He misses their unwavering support, even when they oppose his judgment. Torchwood’s not a democracy, it’s a constantly toppled dictatorship. (She speaks to him in Latin while she rides him hard, finally ditching the quiet girl routine to spread herself thick between the both of them. The bedsheet she’d been wearing for a toga since they’d went to Gwen’s party is cinched up around her thighs, a pretty little burlesque show for him to watch while she turns and takes Ianto into her mouth. It’s always the quiet ones, Jack thinks to himself, and grabs her hips to thrust in counterpoint. If she wants to be Venus, they’ll make her into Venus. They'll fashion Ianto into Amor and Jack into Jove himself. Jack wonders if this is how they’ve always lured their lovers in, quiet words and intense eyes. His world goes white and he doesn’t care, anymore. They have him, now, and he has them.)
He misses their unwavering cycle of love, as much as they abuse each other. He misses supporting them through times they can’t imagine getting through alone. (Tosh cries in his arms, shaking and raw, the night he sends Mary off to die. She calls him selfish and barbaric, and insinuates he wants to keep her to himself like a toy in a drawer. He catches her tears in his mouth, drinks them while she sniffles and holds him close. He listens and tells her, in no uncertain terms, that she means more to him than that, that Ianto and her are far from toys. He wraps her hand in his as it wraps into Ianto’s because they all know the brilliant pain of lost love as it cuts through skin and tears through bone. They stroke and touch themselves in different corners, but they all come together as a loud, sobbing majority in a dark and emotional room. Jack wonders if this part of them can ever grow up.)
They know each other, the three of them, their own inner circle and it’s a bit like fate, in that way. They call it ‘Kismet’, an inside joke that not even Owen or Gwen can understand, at least not yet. It’s funny how words like ‘fate’ and ‘sex’ always lump themselves into one in Jack’s life. (Later, when he’s on his knees submitting for the both of them, they write the Arabic script on his thighs and back and touch, lick, torture him and tell him this is permanent. He smiles under his breath as he bends over and lets them hear him beg and struggles to ooze through the cracks between them. His toes curl and he rests his head on Ianto’s shoulder as their fingers and mouths pull him apart, eat him alive. Permanent doesn't even begin to describe it. Permanent is like the graffiti they've written on his skin to lick off and for him to feel in the days afterward, what they have is everlasting. That’s different. His mind goes blank when he gets pulled over Ianto’s jean clad knee, and Tosh’s tongue slips inside him.)
Kismet. It’s a fitting name. It’s a maddening addiction. (He screams aloud in ecstacy and the sound echoes lonely through the TARDIS. He misses hearing their screams, too.)
Author: Hegemony
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Ianto/Toshiko, Using the prompt 'Kismet' (the turkish, hindu, and arabic word for 'fate')
Wordcount: 1204
Spoilers: Through TW 1x13
Warning: Some BDSM elements. Experimental Writing Style, with major reworking on several scenes from the original cut.
Disclaimer: This wouldn't have been 'fanfic' if I owned the characters, now would it?
The three of them are quite the triangle: good coffee, the world’s best scotch, well-oiled guns. Philosophy and science and adventure and sex laced the bitter edge of searing betrayal. (He pulls Toshiko’s panties, lacy, skimpy and white, down her open thighs and begs her to keep her heels on while he fucks her with his fingers and tongue. She’s short without them, and he likes being made to earn his opportunities to get her off while Ianto watches.)
They are string theory at work, an amazing interoffice romance. Gwen and Owen may be raw and new and desperate to keep things clandestine, but they've been relying on each other since Suzie broke their hearts, through Lisa, Estelle, Mary. Jack doesn’t see how keeping it clandestine is worth the effort. (Ianto looks brilliant with salvaged cyber-alloy metal restraints framing his wrists, keeping his legs spread. They're heavy, he says, but they're like Lisa, in a way, keeping him mindful of his responsibilities to beautiful things that need to be looked after. Toshiko watches from the corner as Jack lets wet fingers and a cane remind Ianto of his loyalties. She smiles at the two of them, Ianto embarrassingly naked and Jack fully clothed as if he’s just stepped in from a cold winter’s day. Ianto begs desperately for release, or at least reprieve, but it's not about orgasm or relief, anyway. It's about retribution, repenting. Jack's not the catholic church, but he figures it's better to convert Ianto's pain than it is to shoot him in the head. Toshiko's eyes gleam with understanding. She's his failsafe, she softens and centers Jack's blows and takes the acid out of his words.)
There’s memories, delicate memories carved into their skin, places where they know how to touch from what feels like years of experience. (Jack’s bed is too small and weak for the three of them, but the hard concrete of the floor feels right, just cold and unforgiving enough. It feels like they're animals in a cage, here in the space underneath Jack’s office after they've closed the manhole. When Ianto slides into Jack, and Tosh uses Mary’s strap-on to slide into him, it’s sheer perfection between the three of them. The room turns electric, and they can't stop moving, skin to skin against each other. When Ianto and Jack are spent, they turn their attentions on Tosh, kissing, licking, sucking, breathing all over her until she’s screaming and begging to come.)
There are absences, and moments of distrust, regret and moments of overburdening curiosity, but those are things that should be expected, given the circumstances. Their lives may be lived in each other's pockets, but they don't demand secrets for pillow talk. (Jack’s wedged between the two of them in Ianto’s bed, big enough for two but a little small for three. They’re a tangle of limbs, still connected. He’s still inside her, and Ianto’s still inside him. It’s easygoing, Ianto purrs happily like there isn't a care in the world, like they won't have to save Cardiff from their own mistakes tomorrow . And Jack grins, softly as he claws his toes into Tosh’s leg and stirs inside her again. She gasps, and both he and Ianto chuckle. She makes the best noises and faces when she’s surprised and aroused. “Who are you?” She asks, and Ianto says that Jack is theirs. Theirs for the taking.)
It makes sense that he’d miss them while he’s away, Jack supposes. He hopes things won't be so fractured that they become irreparable. (“I’m going to marry her one day, Jack,” Ianto insists, softly while Tosh is in the bathroom. They’re spooned together, so close Jack gives up searching for where he ends and Ianto begins. Ianto speaks wistful and low like he's in love, his face in the crook of Jack's neck. “I’m going to marry the both of you, one day. I want to be with you both for as long as I can. I don’t care anymore. I don't care what it'll look like.”)
He misses their unwavering support, even when they oppose his judgment. Torchwood’s not a democracy, it’s a constantly toppled dictatorship. (She speaks to him in Latin while she rides him hard, finally ditching the quiet girl routine to spread herself thick between the both of them. The bedsheet she’d been wearing for a toga since they’d went to Gwen’s party is cinched up around her thighs, a pretty little burlesque show for him to watch while she turns and takes Ianto into her mouth. It’s always the quiet ones, Jack thinks to himself, and grabs her hips to thrust in counterpoint. If she wants to be Venus, they’ll make her into Venus. They'll fashion Ianto into Amor and Jack into Jove himself. Jack wonders if this is how they’ve always lured their lovers in, quiet words and intense eyes. His world goes white and he doesn’t care, anymore. They have him, now, and he has them.)
He misses their unwavering cycle of love, as much as they abuse each other. He misses supporting them through times they can’t imagine getting through alone. (Tosh cries in his arms, shaking and raw, the night he sends Mary off to die. She calls him selfish and barbaric, and insinuates he wants to keep her to himself like a toy in a drawer. He catches her tears in his mouth, drinks them while she sniffles and holds him close. He listens and tells her, in no uncertain terms, that she means more to him than that, that Ianto and her are far from toys. He wraps her hand in his as it wraps into Ianto’s because they all know the brilliant pain of lost love as it cuts through skin and tears through bone. They stroke and touch themselves in different corners, but they all come together as a loud, sobbing majority in a dark and emotional room. Jack wonders if this part of them can ever grow up.)
They know each other, the three of them, their own inner circle and it’s a bit like fate, in that way. They call it ‘Kismet’, an inside joke that not even Owen or Gwen can understand, at least not yet. It’s funny how words like ‘fate’ and ‘sex’ always lump themselves into one in Jack’s life. (Later, when he’s on his knees submitting for the both of them, they write the Arabic script on his thighs and back and touch, lick, torture him and tell him this is permanent. He smiles under his breath as he bends over and lets them hear him beg and struggles to ooze through the cracks between them. His toes curl and he rests his head on Ianto’s shoulder as their fingers and mouths pull him apart, eat him alive. Permanent doesn't even begin to describe it. Permanent is like the graffiti they've written on his skin to lick off and for him to feel in the days afterward, what they have is everlasting. That’s different. His mind goes blank when he gets pulled over Ianto’s jean clad knee, and Tosh’s tongue slips inside him.)
Kismet. It’s a fitting name. It’s a maddening addiction. (He screams aloud in ecstacy and the sound echoes lonely through the TARDIS. He misses hearing their screams, too.)