Warning: Quite a few of the following made even my brain go mushy from WTF. Read at your own risk. *toggles her brain's o_O switch with no results* I think I broke it.
ETA: Maybe some day I'll understand why LJ rejects Notepad texts. LJ, why the hate, man?
Title: By Any Other Name
Fandom: Torchwood RPF
Rating: M for, well, you know. PR0N.
Spoilers: References to TW CoE.
Pairing: John Barrowman/Gareth David-Lloyd/Scott Gill
Summary: Jack and Ianto just want to have a quiet lie-in, but someone's at the door and someone else is in bed with them.
Author's Notes: Written for touchyerwood for this prompt: "JB/GDL/SG, John's not letting "his Ianto" go..."
Silence hangs heavily in the posh hotel room.
There is no sign of life from the tangled mass of sheets on the bed.
Buzz buzz buzz. BUZZZZZ.
A groan, and finally a dark head makes its way into the sunlight streaming in from the windows. “Door,” the man says, squinting in the brightness. “Ianto, someone’s at the door.”
“I heard,” comes the curt reply. A second dark head slides out from under the covers, this time at the foot of the bed. Ianto rubs his reddened eyes and yawns. “Should I, or will you?”
“D’you really want everyone to be blinded by my full glory?” the first man says with a filthy smile. Ianto sighs and shakes his head, then carefully untangles himself as the doorbell buzzes for the umpteenth time and pads to the door in bare feet.
On the other side of the door is a uniformed teenager whose eyes go wide at the sight of the rumpled and obviously satisfied occupant who answers the door (and who is wearing nothing but a pair of very thin boxers). “V-v-valet, sir” he stutters, unable to tear his eyes away from Ianto’s crotch. “Your clothes—uh, I have your clothes here, sir. One suit, one coat, dried and pressed like you requested.”
Ianto thanks the boy and accepts two folded sets of dry-cleaned laundry. Before he can go back inside, the boy blurts out, “Uh, sir? Can I ask—that coat, where’d you get it? It’s a very nice coat, sir.”
Ianto pauses. “It’s not mine, that’s his,” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the bed. “But I’ll be sure to give the owner your compliments.”
And then he slams the door shut in the boy’s face. Not to be rude or anything, but Ianto never really wanted to leave the bed in the first place.
“Jack, clothes are here.” Ianto drapes the now-clean clothes on the back of an empty chair. “Should I see if they got the stains off?”
“Nah, that can wait.” Jack is by now sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard and looking very pleased with himself. He holds out his arms wide and grins. “Can’t you tell I’m ready for round two?”
“Round five, you mean,” grumbles a muffled third voice. The sheets rustle before a third dark-haired man peeks out. “I’ve been keeping count, John, you promised you’d get to me once you were finished with Gareth last night. Bloody wanker.”
“Now, Scott, no sulking.” Jack/John leans over and pecks his partner on the cheek. “Ianto’s been dead for months, you can understand a little getting-to-know-you-again sex, can’t you?”
“I’ll show you ‘getting to know you again’ after you’re done sleeping on the sofa,” Scott growls before he lunges, rolling on top of John and pinning him down with half-starved lips and hands.
Ianto/Gareth slowly backs away from the bed while the pair is thus distracted, ready to sneak off and call Gemma as if none of the previous night has happened; but just as he’s slipping his shoes on, John turns his head and frowns. “Ianto, don’t go yet. Please,” he calls, patting the far side of the bed with an arm that he just manages to wrestle from beneath Scott. “Join us. Scott, you don’t mind, right?”
“Would it matter if I did?” Scott huffs as Gareth crawls back under the sheets and spoons up behind a willing John. But he doesn’t exactly protest either when Gareth reaches around John and strokes Scott lovingly, even as Gareth guides his own cock with his other hand against John and presses exactly where John likes it.
Twelve minutes and fourteen seconds later (John always insists that they time their sessions with a real stopwatch), when Scott yells John and at the same time John cries out Ianto, Gareth wonders how this would rate on a scale of messed-up-ness from one to ten. Maybe a nine, or quite possibly a twenty-six.
But the sex is so good that it makes Gareth forget his own name, sometimes, so he supposes it doesn’t really matter in the end.
Title: Crucio Ipse
Fandom: Torchwood, Harry Potter
Rating: M for, well, you know. PR0N.
Pairing: Jack Harkness/Barty Crouch, Jr.
Summary: Barty Crouch likes to torture. He also likes to watch.
Author’s Notes: Written for touchyerwood for this prompt: “Jack/Barty Crouch Jr., torture.”
"Make him talk," Lord Voldemort had said. "I don't care what you do, I want to know why this Muggle won't die. Succeed, and you shall be the most favored of all my followers."
Barty Crouch (the second of that name) had tried to please his Lord, oh, how he had tried. He'd tortured the Muggle for days, applying the Cruciatus curse as often as eight or nine times an hour and always marveling that the man seemed mentally untouched by his spells. Physically untouched, however, this strange man was not: there is only so much pain a human body can take before it simply gives out, and this man’s limit seemed to be at the two-hour mark as that was usually the point when he died.
But before five minutes could pass, the man would always revive, gasping and flailing like a fish out of water on the floor of the filthy dungeon where they kept him.
Even after two weeks of continuous torture, the man refused to talk, but Barty didn’t feel that the sessions were completely wasted. Barty learned something new every time he put the man under the Cruciatus: how the man would bite his lip to keep from crying out, so hard that he often drew blood that trickled down his chin and mixed with the dirt on his face to form mud; how the man’s eyes blazed with an inner strength and fury that didn’t seem human at times, a light that faded into a dull burning during the moments of pause between spells; how the man could writhe on the floor like one possessed, grinding against the floor with naught but threadbare cloth separating his skin from the packed dirt beneath him while Barty watched him perform this perverted dance of the seven veils and kept a hand on each of his wands, one outside his robes and one under them.
But of course their relationship couldn’t last. The man eventually escaped, through a combination of a sleeping guard and a key left too close to his door (Barty would convince himself later that neither of these things had been his fault, nor had they been on purpose). And of course Lord Voldemort was out of his mind with rage at losing this potential solution to his quest for immortality. He was so furious that he put Barty under the Cruciatus for three or four spells at a stretch in front of the entire group of Death Eaters he’d been recruited with as punishment. Bellatrix laughed, Amycus and Alecto applauded, Severus merely stared and made no sign that he cared one way or the other.
Barty didn’t mind, not really. All he had to do was close his eyes and think of the man who made torture beautiful to behold; and then his screams were no longer of pain, but of something else entirely.
Title: Kissed Connections
Fandom: Torchwood RPF
Rating: M for, well, you know. PR0N.
Pairing: Russell T. Davies/John Barrowman
Summary: Airport bathrooms just aren't made like they used to be.
Author’s Notes: Written for touchyerwood for this prompt: “RTD/JB, kisses in LA.”
The stalls of the men’s restrooms in LAX are always so cramped, especially when two people are in the same stall at once, but Russell supposed it doesn’t matter so long as the place is as deserted as it seems to be today. The cramped part is actually a bonus, as it forces him even tighter against his partner, their two bodies sandwiched tightly by stainless steel dividers and door.
Lips mash against warm flesh, hands crawl under shirts and beneath trousers to find sensitive patches of skin hidden by unassuming travel-suits. “You’re such a fucking tease, Russ,” moans the other man, bending his head to lick Russell’s neck.
Russell chuckles fondly. “I only learned from the best,” he retorts, his hands already working their way to the other man’s pants and entangling themselves in the buckle of the tight belt—
The speaker above their heads crackle. British Airways Flight 473 to Cardiff is departing, a stewardess announces. Would passenger Barrowman, Mister J. Barrowman, please report to gate K-53...
“Damn. I’d better go.” John kisses Russell one more time before shifting himself around Russell’s body (cock pressing against hard cock for one brilliant moment) and letting himself out of their stall. “Say hello to the FOX people for me.”
“Will do.” Russell blows a kiss and waggles his fingers at John, who laughs. “Send that gorgeous Scott my love, too.”
“Consider it done.” And with a flash of that sexy shit-eating smile of his, John is gone.
Russell wanders over to the mirror, straightens out his hair, and checks his watch. Two hours left until his rendezvous with the FOX network planners. If he runs, he might still be able to catch the next shuttle to the hotel.
And that would give him plenty of time for a cold shower.
Title: Pollen Makes Me Sneeze (and Come)
Rating: M for, well, you know. PR0N.
Spoilers: None, really, but takes place after TW Season 2.
Pairing: Jack/Ianto/SEX-VOYEUR ALIENS
Summary: Jack and Ianto go out to take care of a small alien encounter with the Jogorn, but for once Jack wasn't exactly prepared for what they wanted him to do.
Author’s Notes: Written for touchyerwood for this prompt: “Jack/Ianto, aliens-made-them-do-it (alien sex pollen, alien tech, alien aphrodisiac, voyeuristic aliens kidnap them, whatever).”
“Spaceship just landed in Bute Park. Small, no weapons, probably some tourists who got lost,” Jack had said with the confidence of one who has seen it all before. “Gwen, finish your lunch. Ianto and I’ll take care of it, we should be back within the hour.”
Ianto would have agreed with Jack’s assessment had they not stepped out of the SUV in a deserted corner of the park to find themselves surrounded by short and squat green creatures in silver spacesuits with eyes the size of dinner plates and six tentacles per body. As there were at least two dozen of these—things present, that made for quite a few limbs waving about in the air.
“Why, hello there!” Jack said, beaming at the aliens while motioning for Ianto to get behind him. “I’m Captain Jack Harkness. And you all are?”
“WE ARE—THE JOGORN,” boomed the alien who is obviously the leader of the group with an impressively loud voice for one so small. “WE COME—IN PEACE. ALL—WE ASK—IS THAT—YOU COME—FOR US.”
“Doesn’t he mean ‘come with us’?” Ianto asked Jack under his breath.
“NO—FOOLISH CREATURE.” Apparently these aliens had very sharp hearing as well. “WE ASK—THAT YOU—COME FOR US.”
Ianto was about to retort with some well-formed snark about learning the language better before coming to visit, but he stopped with his mouth still hanging open when the full meaning of the words hit him in the face.
“Uh, look here,” Jack cut in, taking advantage of Ianto’s stunned state to regain control of the situation. “If you’re not aware, you’re standing on the planet Earth. We’re humans, and humans don’t exactly orgasm on command—”
“WE ARE AWARE—OF THIS DEFICIENCY—CAPTAIN. THEREFORE—WE OFFER YOU—A SOLUTION.” And before either Jack or Ianto could protest, the leader whips out some sort of nozzle that connects to a tube leading from his body and sprays the two men with a yellowish powder from head to foot. Jack had been unfortunate enough to be about to reply when the alien sprayed, and therefore some of the powder got into his mouth as well.
“What—yech! What the hell—what is this stuff?” Jack spat, gagging on the foul taste of the powder. Ianto was attempting to brush the powder off his suit and his exposed hands, but the powder only sank through cloth and skin to be absorbed and disappear as if it had never been there.
“THIS—IS THE POLLEN—OF A LOVE FLOWER—FROM OUR HOME,” the Jogorn leader intoned. “IT ALLOWS US—AS JOGORN—TO COPULATE—AT WILL. IT IS—ESPECIALLY POTENT—WHEN INGESTED—CAPTAIN.”
Ianto saw Jack’s jaw go slack, his pupils dilate, his hands clench and unclench at his side, and was about to ask whether Jack is all right when the pollen kicked in for him too.
There was a sudden heady feeling as all the blood in Ianto’s body changed direction and sped down towards his crotch. Ianto didn’t know if he even remembered how to breathe anymore, but he found that breathing wasn’t as important as some other needs of his. A pounding mantra began to drum in his head, a steady chant of fuck fuck fuck I need to fuck, and from the look in Jack’s eyes something similar was happening to the captain as well.
Though, from the urgency with which Ianto was thrown to the ground in a flying tackle, the chants might have been a little more insistent in Jack’s case.
“Ianto, fuck, I need you,” Jack growled, clawing at Ianto’s tie and shirt. Buttons flew until Ianto’s clavicle was bared, and Jack immediately set his teeth to the skin and bone. Ianto bucked, grinding his hips against Jack and crying out as Jack licked and bit, fully aware that the aliens had crowded around in a tight circle to watch them.
Jack’s fingers were clumsier than usual as he worked off Ianto’s trousers, but Ianto could easily blame it on the effects of the pollen in his system. While Jack worked on his legs, Ianto wriggled out of his undershirt, casting it aside and easily shucking off Jack’s coat. Jack would only move his arms slightly when Ianto took the coat, never breaking the full-body contact between himself and Ianto underneath.
Ianto barely had time to pull off Jack’s pants before Jack was panting and moaning, squeezing himself and already rock-hard. That pollen really was as strong as the Jogorn had claimed, Ianto mused as he licked his fingers and quickly prepped Jack for what was to come. He was tempted to ask if the aliens carried any lube with them, but decided against it. Whatever it was these little green men used, he and Jack really didn’t need any more help than they already had.
Jack yelled with delight as Ianto finally pushed himself in, both of them pumping against each other faster than they had ever done. Ianto could see out of the corner of his eyes that the aliens had coiled the shortest of their tentacles with the other five and were now rocking back and forth, crooning and stroking themselves without ever letting their huge eyes leave the two nearly-naked humans penetrating each other in front of them.
Ianto half-wanted to ask if Jack had noticed, any of it, but he was pretty sure that Jack was in no state to pay attention to anything else.
Not two minutes later, Jack screamed and Ianto groaned, and both came nearly simultaneously. The aliens took about five seconds longer to join them, the whole group exhaling in a collective sigh as a sticky yellow stuff (the same color as the pollen they’d sprayed) dribbled out of their smallest tentacle and stained the grass golden.
For a long time, a sleepy silence hung in the air, broken only by the gasping and heavy breathing of the two men on the ground. “Fuck, that was—good,” Jack murmured, eyes fluttering closed. “Do it again? Please?”
“Not now,” Ianto mumbled back, barely able to keep his eyes open himself. There was the nearby crunching of tires on gravel and the sound of a car door opening and closing, but Ianto was too tired from their ordeal to see who was approaching them, not even caring that both he and Jack were half-naked in the middle of Bute Park—
“If you just wanted some private alone-time with each other,” Gwen’s voice tsked from above their heads, “all you had to do was ask, you know.”
Jack and Ianto leapt to their feets in record time and nearly fell over each other, as tangled up in each other’s body as they were. There was no spaceship, no aliens, not even a trace of the yellow cum the Jogorn had left behind. It was only Jack, shirtless with pants hanging on only by his ankles, and Ianto with no shirt or pants at all, just a tie dangling uselessly from his neck as the only shred of decency he had left.
“It wasn’t our fault!” Ianto protested.
“Aliens made us do it!” Jack added, sounding completely unconvincing. “They had pollen, they sprayed us with some really powerful sex pollen! No, seriously!”
Gwen just rolled her eyes and took both men by the arms with a sigh. “Pull the other one, boys. Now come on, time to get home and clean you two up...”
As Gwen frog-marched her coworkers back to their SUV, she didn’t notice the two dozen pairs of plate-sized eyes in the surrounding bushes, their gaze fixed unblinkingly at her cleavage.
Title: Seeing Ghosts
Fandom: Torchwood, Doctor Who
Rating: M for, well, you know. PR0N. Also, lots of angst.
Spoilers: Set during DW's Year That Never Was.
Pairing: Owen Harper/Tom Milligan, Tom Milligan/Martha Jones
Summary: Tom Milligan has always been haunted by ghosts.
Author’s Notes: Written for touchyerwood for this prompt: “Owen/Tom Milligan, set during the year that never was.”
Tom first meets Owen at a party hosted by a mutual friend in Soho, but they had seen each other before, Owen as a weedy ghost haunting the hospital library while Tom was busy researching case histories in the early morning hours. However, this is the first time Tom had ever learned the ghost’s name.
“Tom, I’d like you to meet Owen Harper, one of the youngest graduates from my alma mater,” the friend shouts over beat-heavy music as he brings them closer together. “Owen, this is Tom Milligan, covers for me at NHS.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Tom says, reaching out and shaking Owen’s hand.
“Likewise.” Owen gives a curt nod and a firm squeeze before the two men brush past each other, continuing onwards into the crowd of other strangers dancing and drinking around them without so much as a backwards glance.
Tom thinks nothing more of their meeting, two men of the same profession with a momentary collision of paths at a party neither would remember weeks or months later. But then Harold Saxon is elected, the Toclafane descend, and the two of them meet once again—this time, as survivors.
Tom is fresh from the massacre of London, somehow dodging the Toclafane who round the people into refugee and slave camps, as the sole doctor to survive of the entire NHS staff and one of a handful of physicians left in the entire British Isles. Owen had just returned from the Himalayas, somehow managing the trek of thousands of miles across Eurasia and the unforgiving ocean, as the only person left alive out of his four-man special operations team and special enough to be declared a wanted fugitive by Saxon’s regime. When they shake hands this time around, Tom with a scraggly beard that is longer than he’d like and Owen with a jagged cut across one cheek that would eventually scar, they grasp each other’s hands as tightly as if the world is ending (which, for all intents and purposes, it is).
Owen isn’t much of a talker, but Tom doesn’t need to hear it to know that the younger man had suffered greatly in this time of massive devastation. Tom doesn’t question when Owen wakes himself screaming from some horrific nightmare and then insists on keeping watch for the rest of the night. Tom averts his eyes when Owen fights to save everyone they come across, even when they both know it’s too late; and when Owen fails to revive a beautiful young Asian girl left half-decapitated by the Toclafane, Tom is there to hold Owen while he sobs out of frustration.
That night, Owen doesn’t have to tell Tom the whole story as they lie side-by-side in the shelter of an abandoned farmhouse (Owen had at first vehemently protested the prospect of hiding in the countryside, until Tom had pointed out that the Toclafane rarely venture beyond the more-populated cities), but he does.
Owen describes the brave Gwen, gunned down and disintegrated in the first Toclafane invasion. He smiles when he mentions the fiery Ianto, who allowed himself to be captured and taken to Saxon’s Nepalese command center before blowing the whole complex up with himself as the bomb. And when he gets to Toshiko, gentle Toshiko who protected Owen until the very last moment and was sliced to pieces before she’d reveal where she had hidden the last of the Toclafane's targets, Owen Harper breaks down and cries shamelessly in Tom’s arms.
“What’s the bloody point of being a doctor?” Owen asks Tom, his voice cracking. “We’re supposed to save people, that’s what we promised when we made that stupid oath. And now we’re stuck watching everyone else die, and we can’t do a thing to change it! What’re we supposed to do?”
Tom doesn’t know how to answer, so instead he pulls Owen closer and kisses him until Owen’s shaking subsides. Afterwards, while the earth rumbles beneath them and the starless sky flares above them with the reflected light of burning cities, they fuck each other mercilessly and as forcefully as they can, just to remind themselves that they are still alive and able to feel something even if nearly everyone else isn’t as lucky.
Several days later, Tom is scavenging for supplies in the nearest village (as deserted and ghost-filled as every other town they’ve passed so far) and still feeling sore everywhere below his waist when he's caught off-guard by a rogue Toclafane, who decides to give chase and pin him in an alleyway with no escape. With razor-sharp blades whirring inches from his neck, Tom is sure he's as good as dead until Owen appears in the opening of the alley.
“Oi, scrappy!” Owen yells, waving a salvaged cricket bat over his head. “Come and get me, you filthy little bastard, and I’ll show you how we play it in England!”
The Toclafane spins away from Tom and races toward Owen, who swings the bat behind him and soundly slams the metal sphere into the opposite wall of the alley with a resounding crash. But the creature rebounds, slightly dented from the impact, and slashes Owen across the abdomen before zooming away drunkenly, no doubt to the nearest command center to be repaired.
Owen goes down in a spray of blood, and Tom is already there by his side, trying not to look at the exposed organs that have been cleanly cut through as he desperately tries to close the wound with his bare hands. Even if there were any working operating rooms in London, keeping Owen alive for longer than a few minutes would be a miracle.
Owen seems to realize this, as he moves his hand over Tom’s and shakes his head. “Nicked my descending aorta, and my intestines aren’t whole enough to feed a cat,” he says, more cheerful than any dying man should be. “Don’t waste your time.”
Tom’s vision blurs, and he wills the tears to go away without betraying him. They don’t listen. “I should’ve died,” is all Tom can manage.
“Nah. Wasn’t your time, not yet.” Owen looks up, towards the sky filled with a smoky haze that blocks out the sun, and smiles through bloody lips. “You’ll know. I promise, when it comes, you’ll know.”
“Owen,” Tom says, but Owen was already gone.
Tom had heard the saying that blind men were prophets, but he wasn't sure if the same could be said of the dying. Still, Owen's last words stick with him, long after he'd buried Owen in a nameless grave in the country (Owen would've hated it but laughed anyway), through months of living through hell while organizing a ragtag if not futile resistance against Saxon's regime with the other straggling survivors left in England. Those words are what he remembers the clearest as he hides in a ramshackle refugee house and watches the famous Martha Jones stand alone against Harold Saxon himself.
Owen was right, Tom realizes. He wasn't meant to die, not then, not at that moment. His destiny was to live, at least until he could sacrifice himself for someone with a bigger job to do. Someone like Martha Jones and her secret to ending Saxon once and for all.
As he dashes out of the building and throws himself between Saxon's alien weapon and Martha, Tom fancies that Owen is standing in the shadows outside the circle of Saxon's armed guards, leaning against a wall and waiting for him. But, Tom decides moments before he is struck by a lethal golden blast of energy, it was probably just another one of his many ghosts.
Six months and a whole lifetime later, Tom is sitting between two of the pillars on the Raold Dahl Plass and waiting for his new girlfriend to arrive when he sees Owen again. The other man is shrugging on a leather jacket as he exits a dingy Tourist’s Center and crosses the plaza towards the carpark, a scowl etched into his now-scarless face and hands stuffed into pockets viciously.
Owen glances around the Plass aimlessly until his gaze falls on Tom. Their eyes meet—
—the sky is dark again, clouded with smoke and filled with the screams of the innocent being slaughtered by the Toclafane, but whenever Tom kisses Owen all of that disappears and it’s just the two of them—
—but Owen looks away, disinterested, and continues the long walk to his car.
“Hey there, love.” Martha pecks Tom on the cheek and peers over his shoulder to see who he’s watching. “Someone you know?”
“No, not really.” Tom puts his arm around Martha’s shoulders and watches Owen meander off the Plass. "Just seeing ghosts."
Title: Warm and Fuzzy Feeling
Rating: M for, well, you know. PR0N.
Spoilers: None, but be warned that this story may forever taint your childhood. (LOL lookie, I said "taint.")
Pairing: Jack/beanie babies (multiple!)
Summary: One morning, Jack is late for work. Ianto is not best pleased.
Author’s Notes: Written for touchyerwood for this prompt: “Jack/Ianto, BEANIE BABIES.”
It’s the best time he’s had since he stopped carousing around the universe and decided to stay on alienless Earth. Fur as soft as silk caresses his skin, tentacles coil around his hardening cock, and Jack couldn’t be any happier.
“Oh, yes,” he moans, jerking his hips and pushing his head down against the carpeted floor, “yes yes that’s it, right there, more, again, yes—”
The fur and the tentacles are more than happy to oblige.
Seconds later, he comes all over the floor with an excited shriek. A few moments after that, there are footsteps outside his room, the door opens, and a bright merciless light burns his eyes after so long of being in the dark.
“Jack Harkness, if you don’t get dressed and clean this mess up in five minutes or less,” Ianto says from the doorway, “I swear to God, you’re living on instant decaf for the rest of your immortal life. And no, the order you do it in is not optional.” And then he slams the door shut.
Jack pushes himself on his elbows so that he’s sitting up in Ianto’s walk-in closet before looking down. A stuffed octopus is wrapped strategically around his leaking cock, while a limp cat and an otter have slid down his bare chest to join their mate.
Jack grins. “Best. Four-way. Ever,” he declares.
Downstairs, Ianto hits speed-dial and waits for someone on the other side to answer. “Hey Gwen. Yeah, it’s me,” he says into his mobile. “Listen, Jack and I’ll be a little late this morning...”
Pause. Ianto sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why? Because Jack found my Beanie Babies collection, that’s why.”