It'll End in Tears #15: "Trial By Ordeal"
Title: "Trial By Ordeal"
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Overall: Ianto/Andy, Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ianto/Andy, with occasional guest cameos.
Rating: Series ranges from relatively safe to hard NC-17. This installment is in the R to NC-17 range for smut, kink (humiliation, D/s) and language.
Notes/Summary: Part #15 of the " It'll End In Tears" cluster, and #13 on the un_love_you prompt table. Thanks to sanginmychains for giving this the sweet, sweet beta-fu.
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Also, a friend snuck another IEIT companion piece out into the wild over at constable_jones. You can read resourceress's brilliant piece, "A Taste For It" here.
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And now, #15:
Andy jogs through the car park and glares at his watch. It’s Thursday night, and he’s verging on late after Temple bumped him up in the rotation at the last minute. As it stands, he can probably still make it, but only if the parking in Ianto’s neighborhood isn’t terrible. Unfortunately, that’s a real possibility.
He has never been late. He refuses to be late. Andy has no idea what Ianto would do to him if he was, and he has no desire to find out. Instead, he slides into his driver’s seat and starts the engine almost in the same movement as putting his car into gear. He turns the radio off as he pulls onto the street and tries to clear his head and prepare. Neither Jack nor Ianto have texted him with special instructions, so he’s got no idea what’s on tap this week. There are still four more sessions with Jack involved according to the contract, though, so it was a safe bet he’d be involved.
Jack. Now there was an interesting problem.
For someone Andy professionally loathes, Jack has actually turned out to be sufficiently complicated to interest him a little as a human being. He hadn’t expected the man to look out for him, for one. That Jack would see fit to give him a second chance and then stop him from fucking it up spoke volumes, though they were volumes he didn’t quite understand. Their antipathy was clearly mutual on some levels. Still, it was out of respect for Jack’s willingness to set it aside that Andy had returned the favor Tuesday. Whatever they thought of one another as individuals, their aims were congruent. That was enough.
He dares a peek at his dash console clock and swears viciously under his breath. Eleven minutes and I’m still trying to get through the bloody City Centre. Andy nails the accelerator and does a bit of driving that, under any other circumstances, he might consider unbecoming of a police constable.
It’s sheer luck that he finds a spot on the street a quarter block away from Ianto’s building. He takes to the pavement at something that is almost but not quite a dead run, and clambers up the steps to Ianto’s door with only a minute or two to spare.
“You’re punctual tonight,” Jack says with a smirk as he answers the door before Andy even has a chance to knock.
“Worked late,” he pants. “Sorry.”
Jack gives him a curious look and then vanishes into the kitchen, leaving the door wide open for Andy to enter. “You might want to take a chance to get cleaned up. I think Ianto’s planning on getting you dirty.”
“Yeah?” Andy asks, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t point out that Ianto almost always seems to delight in getting Andy filthy enough that he has to shower afterward, or that any time he arrives in his uniform, he usually has to bring a change of clothes.
“Yep,” Jack says, reappearing with a glass of water. “Go on. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
The path to Ianto’s bathroom is familiar, and stripping off there is almost second nature these days. He closes the door behind him and checks himself over in the mirror. It’s no wonder Jack suggested he clean up. He’s sweaty and disheveled. He’s just about to put his foot on the toilet to untie his shoe when the bathroom light goes out. He turns to check the switch, but someone grabs his wrist and pins him hard against the wall with his arm twisted viciously behind his back.
“Hello, fucktoy,” Ianto growls as he nuzzles Andy’s neck. There’s a cruel edge to his voice, and it’s doubly terrifying in the dark. “Did you miss me?”
“Yes sir,” he replies, pressing his eyes closed. His heart is beating so hard he can almost feel it against the tile.
“Badly enough you came running. Isn’t that right?” He twists Andy’s arm a little and the pain is instant and urgent.
“Yes sir,” Andy gasps.
Ianto grabs a fistful of hair and wrenches Andy’s head back. “I want to hurt you. I want to show you what a fucking whore you are. I’m going to make you feel it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes sir. Oh please sir.”
Ianto shoves him down to the floor and he lands hard on his hands and knees. “Strip. Put your clothes in the tub. Don’t get up. Don’t talk.”
Andy swallows his reply and begins working out of his clothes. It’s hard to fold things in the dark, or without kneeling, but he tries. Ianto likes things tidy, and more than anything he wants to please Ianto. When he finishes, he waits on all fours facing Ianto, palms flat on the bathroom floor, naked save for the bracelet. He hears Ianto crouch down next to him and feels a finger press against his lips.
“Go on, fucktoy. Suck it. Get it nice and wet.”
Andy lets the finger pass his lips and does as he’s told, caressing it with his tongue and bobbing his head along its length. Ianto tastes of nothing at all but clean skin, but Andy savors it until Ianto takes his hand away and shoves Andy’s face down against the tile. A second later, Ianto’s pushing roughly into him with that same finger. His spit isn’t as smooth as proper lube, but it feels good, and Andy makes a little sound of pleasure in his throat and Ianto stops dead, his finger still inside.
“Did I tell you to speak?” Ianto asks, twitching his finger almost imperceptibly, then slipping it in and out, making circles inside him.
“No sir,” Andy moans into the tile. He knows he shouldn’t be enjoying this, but Ianto won’t quit moving his finger, doing things that make Andy want to writhe under his hand and come all over the tile.
“But you want to, don’t you? You want to be fucked. You want to be fucked while I make you scream. You want everyone to hear what a filthy fucking slut you are.”
“Oh yes. Oh god yes,” Andy answers as Ianto’s hand works him harder, bringing him closer, grazing that spot that makes him do exactly what Ianto describes.
“Well too fucking bad,” Ianto hisses and takes his finger away, leaving Andy empty and aching with his arse in the air and his face against the floor. Andy hears him stand and walk over to the sink, where he washes his hands.
Without a word, Ianto steps out into the hall and closes the door behind him.
Andy wants to cry. He wants to scream. He can’t believe he’s made such a simple mistake. He feels wretched. He feels low. Worthless.
He holds his position.
There’s no guarantee that Ianto will come back for him. He’s given Andy no instructions. There’s no known payoff, no precedent. It’s just Andy, face down on cold lino, waiting.
He holds and waits and hopes.
There’s no sound elsewhere in the flat. He’s getting cold, and his arms and neck are starting to hurt. It’s hard to tell the passing of time in the dark. He thinks about counting, but there’s no way that he can be sure he’s not counting too fast or two slow to keep time. The idea of time makes him anxious.
He waits.
It hurts, and his fingers and feet start to tingle painfully, falling asleep a little bit at a time. He wants to move so badly, but he doesn’t trust himself to so much as twitch a finger in case one movement turns into a stretch, or sitting up, or getting up and walking out.
God, what he wouldn’t give to stand right now.
Eventually, the door opens. Andy holds his position and hopes, prays that it’s not Ianto come to tell him to get up and get the hell out of his bathroom.
The lights flick on and a pair of battered brown military boots step into view. Andy can faintly smell coffee, and he hears the creak of wood as Jack leans against the cupboard.
“You know this little stunt isn’t going to get you laid, right?” Jack asks, disdain evident in his voice.
Andy neither moves nor speaks. He simply breathes and waits, ignoring the way his body screams at him to move, and the way his professional dignity (well, what’s left of it) rails at him for humiliating himself like this in front of Torchwood’s captain. Neither of these things is of consequence at the moment. Jack can say what he likes. Andy isn’t moving until Ianto tells him to.
“You know, we never did finish that conversation on Tuesday. It was going to be a good discussion, too. I was going to enjoy calling you a worthless, cowardly sack of shit.”
Andy inhales and exhales, focusing on the way his breath feels in his mouth. Jack’s boots remain stubbornly in sight, but he refuses to acknowledge them, even when Jack nudges his shoulder with one.
“Hey, I’m talking to you here. Get up. Go home.”
Andy doesn’t budge.
“Fine. Be that way.”
A thin, splattering stream of lukewarm coffee hits his cheek, and it takes Andy a second to realize that Jack is pouring his drink out on him. The chuckle above him is anything but friendly.
“Enjoy the coffee, jackass,” Jack says as he turns the light out and closes the door behind him.
It’s easy, after Jack leaves, to wait. He wants to attribute it to rivalry, but that’s not quite the case. It’s more that Jack has given him an opportunity to test his own resolve. He’s proud of his effort. He is loyal. He is doing his penance. He will not be moved. Instead, he waits, hair plastered down, with the side of his face in a puddle of cold, black coffee.
He can’t feel his fingers.
Andy feels the footsteps through the floor before the door opens again. The bathroom lights are almost blinding, but he doesn’t need to identify the feet that approach him to know hands that reach down to glide over his shoulders and his back and his arse.
“Are you sorry?” Ianto asks, petting him lightly, wiping the still damp hair away from Andy’s forehead. The question is a heavy one, and somehow Andy gets the idea that Ianto means something more than just the moaning from earlier.
“Yes sir,” he answers hoarsely, unable to mask the pain in his voice. “I’m sorry. I'm so, so sorry, sir.”
“Why should I forgive you?” The edge in Ianto’s voice is missing now, replaced with warmth and affection.
Andy trembles as if to sob. “I…I don’t know, sir.” His chest aches inside. His hands hurt. His whole being hurts.
“Yes you do,” he urges with terrible gentleness. “Tell me.”
“Because, um,” Andy stammers, uncertain. “Because I’m yours, sir. Yours completely, and no one else’s.” And it’s true. He wants to be Ianto’s. To be owned and used, cared for how and when Ianto sees fit, and broken over and over again. Even if it means Jack, or staying on this floor forever, or having to tell Travis that he’s fucking a man and that it’s fantastic, goddamn it, and he can piss off.
“Good boy,” Ianto tells him, and helps him up onto his knees. He takes Andy’s hand - the one with the bracelet - and kisses the palm. They rest like this together for a moment before Ianto stands.
“There’s a mop in the hall. Clean this mess up, then clean yourself up. We’ll be in the bedroom when you finish. Don’t dress. You can put your clothes in the cupboard for now.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” Andy replies, feeling dizzy as the blood in his body goes back into his fingers and toes where it belongs and Ianto moves toward the door.
“Oh, Andy?”
He looks up. “Yes sir?”
“Tonight that bracelet I gave you isn’t for your wrist.”
“Yes sir.” He feels a little giddy about that. “I’ll see to it, sir.”
“Good boy, Andy.”
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Prev (Pt #14) (Warnings: Smut & language.)
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Next (Pt #16) (Warnings: Smut & language.)
---
.
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Overall: Ianto/Andy, Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ianto/Andy, with occasional guest cameos.
Rating: Series ranges from relatively safe to hard NC-17. This installment is in the R to NC-17 range for smut, kink (humiliation, D/s) and language.
Notes/Summary: Part #15 of the " It'll End In Tears" cluster, and #13 on the un_love_you prompt table. Thanks to sanginmychains for giving this the sweet, sweet beta-fu.
---
Also, a friend snuck another IEIT companion piece out into the wild over at constable_jones. You can read resourceress's brilliant piece, "A Taste For It" here.
---
And now, #15:
Andy jogs through the car park and glares at his watch. It’s Thursday night, and he’s verging on late after Temple bumped him up in the rotation at the last minute. As it stands, he can probably still make it, but only if the parking in Ianto’s neighborhood isn’t terrible. Unfortunately, that’s a real possibility.
He has never been late. He refuses to be late. Andy has no idea what Ianto would do to him if he was, and he has no desire to find out. Instead, he slides into his driver’s seat and starts the engine almost in the same movement as putting his car into gear. He turns the radio off as he pulls onto the street and tries to clear his head and prepare. Neither Jack nor Ianto have texted him with special instructions, so he’s got no idea what’s on tap this week. There are still four more sessions with Jack involved according to the contract, though, so it was a safe bet he’d be involved.
Jack. Now there was an interesting problem.
For someone Andy professionally loathes, Jack has actually turned out to be sufficiently complicated to interest him a little as a human being. He hadn’t expected the man to look out for him, for one. That Jack would see fit to give him a second chance and then stop him from fucking it up spoke volumes, though they were volumes he didn’t quite understand. Their antipathy was clearly mutual on some levels. Still, it was out of respect for Jack’s willingness to set it aside that Andy had returned the favor Tuesday. Whatever they thought of one another as individuals, their aims were congruent. That was enough.
He dares a peek at his dash console clock and swears viciously under his breath. Eleven minutes and I’m still trying to get through the bloody City Centre. Andy nails the accelerator and does a bit of driving that, under any other circumstances, he might consider unbecoming of a police constable.
It’s sheer luck that he finds a spot on the street a quarter block away from Ianto’s building. He takes to the pavement at something that is almost but not quite a dead run, and clambers up the steps to Ianto’s door with only a minute or two to spare.
“You’re punctual tonight,” Jack says with a smirk as he answers the door before Andy even has a chance to knock.
“Worked late,” he pants. “Sorry.”
Jack gives him a curious look and then vanishes into the kitchen, leaving the door wide open for Andy to enter. “You might want to take a chance to get cleaned up. I think Ianto’s planning on getting you dirty.”
“Yeah?” Andy asks, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t point out that Ianto almost always seems to delight in getting Andy filthy enough that he has to shower afterward, or that any time he arrives in his uniform, he usually has to bring a change of clothes.
“Yep,” Jack says, reappearing with a glass of water. “Go on. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
The path to Ianto’s bathroom is familiar, and stripping off there is almost second nature these days. He closes the door behind him and checks himself over in the mirror. It’s no wonder Jack suggested he clean up. He’s sweaty and disheveled. He’s just about to put his foot on the toilet to untie his shoe when the bathroom light goes out. He turns to check the switch, but someone grabs his wrist and pins him hard against the wall with his arm twisted viciously behind his back.
“Hello, fucktoy,” Ianto growls as he nuzzles Andy’s neck. There’s a cruel edge to his voice, and it’s doubly terrifying in the dark. “Did you miss me?”
“Yes sir,” he replies, pressing his eyes closed. His heart is beating so hard he can almost feel it against the tile.
“Badly enough you came running. Isn’t that right?” He twists Andy’s arm a little and the pain is instant and urgent.
“Yes sir,” Andy gasps.
Ianto grabs a fistful of hair and wrenches Andy’s head back. “I want to hurt you. I want to show you what a fucking whore you are. I’m going to make you feel it. Do you understand me?”
“Yes sir. Oh please sir.”
Ianto shoves him down to the floor and he lands hard on his hands and knees. “Strip. Put your clothes in the tub. Don’t get up. Don’t talk.”
Andy swallows his reply and begins working out of his clothes. It’s hard to fold things in the dark, or without kneeling, but he tries. Ianto likes things tidy, and more than anything he wants to please Ianto. When he finishes, he waits on all fours facing Ianto, palms flat on the bathroom floor, naked save for the bracelet. He hears Ianto crouch down next to him and feels a finger press against his lips.
“Go on, fucktoy. Suck it. Get it nice and wet.”
Andy lets the finger pass his lips and does as he’s told, caressing it with his tongue and bobbing his head along its length. Ianto tastes of nothing at all but clean skin, but Andy savors it until Ianto takes his hand away and shoves Andy’s face down against the tile. A second later, Ianto’s pushing roughly into him with that same finger. His spit isn’t as smooth as proper lube, but it feels good, and Andy makes a little sound of pleasure in his throat and Ianto stops dead, his finger still inside.
“Did I tell you to speak?” Ianto asks, twitching his finger almost imperceptibly, then slipping it in and out, making circles inside him.
“No sir,” Andy moans into the tile. He knows he shouldn’t be enjoying this, but Ianto won’t quit moving his finger, doing things that make Andy want to writhe under his hand and come all over the tile.
“But you want to, don’t you? You want to be fucked. You want to be fucked while I make you scream. You want everyone to hear what a filthy fucking slut you are.”
“Oh yes. Oh god yes,” Andy answers as Ianto’s hand works him harder, bringing him closer, grazing that spot that makes him do exactly what Ianto describes.
“Well too fucking bad,” Ianto hisses and takes his finger away, leaving Andy empty and aching with his arse in the air and his face against the floor. Andy hears him stand and walk over to the sink, where he washes his hands.
Without a word, Ianto steps out into the hall and closes the door behind him.
Andy wants to cry. He wants to scream. He can’t believe he’s made such a simple mistake. He feels wretched. He feels low. Worthless.
He holds his position.
There’s no guarantee that Ianto will come back for him. He’s given Andy no instructions. There’s no known payoff, no precedent. It’s just Andy, face down on cold lino, waiting.
He holds and waits and hopes.
There’s no sound elsewhere in the flat. He’s getting cold, and his arms and neck are starting to hurt. It’s hard to tell the passing of time in the dark. He thinks about counting, but there’s no way that he can be sure he’s not counting too fast or two slow to keep time. The idea of time makes him anxious.
He waits.
It hurts, and his fingers and feet start to tingle painfully, falling asleep a little bit at a time. He wants to move so badly, but he doesn’t trust himself to so much as twitch a finger in case one movement turns into a stretch, or sitting up, or getting up and walking out.
God, what he wouldn’t give to stand right now.
Eventually, the door opens. Andy holds his position and hopes, prays that it’s not Ianto come to tell him to get up and get the hell out of his bathroom.
The lights flick on and a pair of battered brown military boots step into view. Andy can faintly smell coffee, and he hears the creak of wood as Jack leans against the cupboard.
“You know this little stunt isn’t going to get you laid, right?” Jack asks, disdain evident in his voice.
Andy neither moves nor speaks. He simply breathes and waits, ignoring the way his body screams at him to move, and the way his professional dignity (well, what’s left of it) rails at him for humiliating himself like this in front of Torchwood’s captain. Neither of these things is of consequence at the moment. Jack can say what he likes. Andy isn’t moving until Ianto tells him to.
“You know, we never did finish that conversation on Tuesday. It was going to be a good discussion, too. I was going to enjoy calling you a worthless, cowardly sack of shit.”
Andy inhales and exhales, focusing on the way his breath feels in his mouth. Jack’s boots remain stubbornly in sight, but he refuses to acknowledge them, even when Jack nudges his shoulder with one.
“Hey, I’m talking to you here. Get up. Go home.”
Andy doesn’t budge.
“Fine. Be that way.”
A thin, splattering stream of lukewarm coffee hits his cheek, and it takes Andy a second to realize that Jack is pouring his drink out on him. The chuckle above him is anything but friendly.
“Enjoy the coffee, jackass,” Jack says as he turns the light out and closes the door behind him.
It’s easy, after Jack leaves, to wait. He wants to attribute it to rivalry, but that’s not quite the case. It’s more that Jack has given him an opportunity to test his own resolve. He’s proud of his effort. He is loyal. He is doing his penance. He will not be moved. Instead, he waits, hair plastered down, with the side of his face in a puddle of cold, black coffee.
He can’t feel his fingers.
Andy feels the footsteps through the floor before the door opens again. The bathroom lights are almost blinding, but he doesn’t need to identify the feet that approach him to know hands that reach down to glide over his shoulders and his back and his arse.
“Are you sorry?” Ianto asks, petting him lightly, wiping the still damp hair away from Andy’s forehead. The question is a heavy one, and somehow Andy gets the idea that Ianto means something more than just the moaning from earlier.
“Yes sir,” he answers hoarsely, unable to mask the pain in his voice. “I’m sorry. I'm so, so sorry, sir.”
“Why should I forgive you?” The edge in Ianto’s voice is missing now, replaced with warmth and affection.
Andy trembles as if to sob. “I…I don’t know, sir.” His chest aches inside. His hands hurt. His whole being hurts.
“Yes you do,” he urges with terrible gentleness. “Tell me.”
“Because, um,” Andy stammers, uncertain. “Because I’m yours, sir. Yours completely, and no one else’s.” And it’s true. He wants to be Ianto’s. To be owned and used, cared for how and when Ianto sees fit, and broken over and over again. Even if it means Jack, or staying on this floor forever, or having to tell Travis that he’s fucking a man and that it’s fantastic, goddamn it, and he can piss off.
“Good boy,” Ianto tells him, and helps him up onto his knees. He takes Andy’s hand - the one with the bracelet - and kisses the palm. They rest like this together for a moment before Ianto stands.
“There’s a mop in the hall. Clean this mess up, then clean yourself up. We’ll be in the bedroom when you finish. Don’t dress. You can put your clothes in the cupboard for now.”
“Yes sir. Thank you sir,” Andy replies, feeling dizzy as the blood in his body goes back into his fingers and toes where it belongs and Ianto moves toward the door.
“Oh, Andy?”
He looks up. “Yes sir?”
“Tonight that bracelet I gave you isn’t for your wrist.”
“Yes sir.” He feels a little giddy about that. “I’ll see to it, sir.”
“Good boy, Andy.”
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Prev (Pt #14) (Warnings: Smut & language.)
-
Next (Pt #16) (Warnings: Smut & language.)
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