Heather (heddychaa) wrote in hauldyourwhist,

Fic: Prudence Never Pays

Title: Prudence Never Pays
Author: heddychaa & count_to_seven
Characters: Ianto/Jack/John
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Wordcount: ~6000
Warnings/Contains: Borderline dub-con, fisting, gunplay, humiliation, DP, triggering language, light bondage
Disclaimer: Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies and the BBC.
Summary: Jack’s return forces Ianto’s hand in confessing what he truly wants from their relationship (and how a certain unwanted visitor from Jack’s past could help provide it).
A/N: This fic is the result of a lot of back and forth enabling. Seriously, the two of us are soooo bad for each other. Or maybe good, IDK. Totally OTT, but come on, it’s porn. No buildup. Wall-to-wall porn. Takes place directly after the events of “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang”. Beta-d by the fabulous kel_reiley, azn_jack_fiend, and better_late24.

Prudence Never Pays

His face is flushed red hot. He feels dizzy, fevered, every muscle in his body tense enough to hurt. The metal of the shipping container’s floor is cold and hard under his bare hands and knees, and his elbows and wrists ache from keeping his body weight propped up. Even with control of his body, the setting, John Hart’s presence, make him feel claustrophobic. He can’t imagine how this was for Gwen. John kneels behind him, fully dressed still, with his fingers digging into Ianto’s arsecheeks as eight distinct points and his bony thumbs spreading Ianto’s hole from either side. Jack sits sprawled against the wall at Ianto’s head like some sort of lounging emperor, one hand petting Ianto’s hair absently and the other stuffed deep into his mouth, wrenching his jaw open and making him gag.


Wiping his hand across his mouth, Ianto wonders if Jack is aware that his 51st century concept of dental hygiene really should include mouthwash. The fact that he has had to shift his legs to accommodate his growing interest in even an unwashed Jack doesn’t go unnoticed by the team, but nobody makes anything of it; time is of the essence unless they wish to encounter their previous selves.

Hotel keycards distributed, Tosh and Gwen stumble towards the stairs while Owen, with one last knowing look, strolls towards the bar. Jack wordlessly heads for the elevator and Ianto dithers, questioning yet not, certain that his insecurity and rather incapacitating hard-on are best disguised by his staying put beside the large potted plant.


Oh, Ianto certainly is.


Ianto lets out a muffled, drool-y moan, high and needy, as John’s tongue dips, fluttering, wet, inside him. The barrel of Jack’s Webley, sticky with Ianto’s spit, strokes flat over his temple in reply.

“Seen and not heard,” Jack warns him coldly. His fingers thrust deeper in illustration, getting tangled around Ianto’s tongue. Ianto sucks on them with numb lips, closing his eyes in submission with the blissful Yes, Sir unsaid.

John’s tongue withdraws, his chuckle gusting cold across Ianto’s skin. “I see why you like him,” he says, casually, over Ianto’s head. “Hell, I think I’m starting to like him. The flavoured lube was pretty inspired. Is it you or him who likes--” a flat swipe of the tongue that makes Ianto’s cock jerk “--strawberry kiwi?”

“Me,” Jack replies, his tone impatient, “I like it. S’tropical.”

“Right,” John says. He thrusts three fingers into Ianto’s opened hole without warning, knuckles sliding easily. Ianto bites down on Jack’s hand in surprise. It earns him a warning smack along the cheekbone with the butt of Jack’s gun. The strike doesn’t split the skin, but it leaves him with a sharp throbbing pain that reverberates through the bone. It follows his heartbeat, a tight thread tying together the sensations in his cheek and cock.


Perched upon the edge of the expensive yet still gaudily ugly hotel room duvet, Ianto listens to Jack scrub his hands and resists the assault of his desperation -- His hands. Not clean. His mouth. Jack. Jack. -- while simultaneously attempting to come up with an opening salvo.

Jack emerges, flannel between his fingers, and somehow -- come here often? -- Ianto manages to cough up, “So. Hart. He was an... acquaintance of yours?”

The sigh is tired and Ianto is immediately shamed. “I don’t mean to...”

The flannel drops to the floor and Jack moves to sit beside him. “We were partnered together. At the Agency. Time loop, sex drive, yadda yadda yadda... he misunderstood.”

Feeling suddenly cold and in need of a barrier, Ianto stumbles to his feet and is in the process of mumbling an excuse about needing to check with the front about who-cares-what when an iron grip slaps against his wrist.

“No. That’s... not fair,” Jack says, seemingly chiding himself, and pats the bed for Ianto to sit again. “We were partnered together, but it wasn’t... well, it was just sex, but it was... intense. We didn’t hold anything back. We gave each other everything. We had to. Had. Past tense. You understand?”

Okay, so maybe Ianto understands. But he wants more than that.


“How much you think he can fit?” John asks, feigning ignorance of Jack’s brief show of violence. His fingers slide down deep and then withdraw, crooking and stretching. Ianto thinks he’s maybe two minutes away from crying in frustration. His balls fucking ache and John just continues on, oblivious, “Because I was thinking. Might feel nice to get both our cocks in him. You know, like we did with that bloke on that mission to Klom. What was his name again?”

“We never asked,” Jack grits back. He pulls his hand free of Ianto’s mouth with a wet pop and replaces it quickly with the barrel of his gun. It’s cold and hard against the tops of Ianto’s teeth. He fears, briefly, for his dental bills. Jack wipes his hand on Ianto’s cheek, leaving a cold smear of spit.

Suck,” he orders.

Though the metal is cool against his tongue, Ianto feels his face flushing warm and tries desperately to appear casually disaffected while his brain screams Slut. Whore. Shameless. And when Jack thrusts the gun back deep enough to choke on, he realizes, teary-eyed, that he should probably have checked that it wasn’t loaded before he agreed to this.

And then Jack is saying, “All of it. Yeah, oh fuck, yeah,” and the gun is gliding back and forth in Ianto’s mouth and John’s wicked tongue is back, thrusting now, and all Ianto can do is suck and moan and arch his arse back and ignore the insistent sensation of his dripping neglected cock, cinched by a wickedly tight ring (“So you don’t come before I say,” Jack’d said, “I want you to give up everything to me”).


The hotel room’s fluorescent bulbs seem to burn brighter as his disembodied-feeling fingers fumble with Jack’s trousers. He’s not gasping, but close to, and Jack’s fisted grip in his overgrown hair is pulling him, encouraging, asking for what they both need and can’t yet vocalize.

The taste of Jack’s cock is something he thought he’d forgotten but he finds himself exhaling with happy re-acquaintance around the familiar skin, causing Jack to jerk forward. He gags a bit -- this skill will take time to return -- but slides his hands reassuringly up Jack’s thighs to pull him in again, revelling in Jack’s half-swallowed moans.

Within minutes, Ianto’s jaw is aching, Jack is collapsing, and the room is unforgivingly bright with Ianto’s confession.

I want more. I want.


He hears a zipper: is Jack finally getting himself out? He’s done nothing much so far beyond palming himself through his trousers imperiously as he’d watched Ianto undress and then lower himself to his knees. And then he’d said “Eyes down,” and that had been pretty much it, really. Ianto wants to suck his cock. Or rather, have his face fucked. Yeah, that. His whole body jolts when he feels John behind him nuzzle deeper, closer, fingers and tongue together, now.

Jack slides the gun from his mouth and Ianto involuntarily shifts forward, fumbling desperately to have it back -- God he wants it in his mouth -- before John issues a harsh reprimand and yanks him back into position. He lets out a dejected little moan that turns into something strangled and fearful and maybe embarrassingly high-pitched when John’s lube-chilly fingers thrust into him again. He can’t quite tell, exactly, what John’s up to (and he certainly isn’t a considerate enough shag to give Ianto fair warning) but it’s starting to feel crowded back there. Stretched.

The pressure is surpassing bearable, getting more and more intense every second, every inch, and swallowing his own spit is the only thing Ianto can think to do to keep himself quiet. He can feel Jack’s gaze burning, judging. This is Jack’s gift. Ianto needs to take it.

John is grunting and mumbling to himself. “Oh, yeah. That’s my second-hand Rosie.” Ianto doesn’t know or care what that even means, doesn’t even have time to ponder it, because now John laughs and shakes the sweat off his head like a dog, spattering drops of it across Ianto's back. He asks Jack, “So this is what you prefer to me?” The hand moves swifter, sharper, and Ianto gasps. “Of course, I wouldn’t want me either, if I had this to...”

Ianto’s nails scrabble against the floor, elbows shuddering loose their weight. He lets it happen, gives himself permission, is bucking, pulling away, stuck fast, remaining still. He tosses his head back in exquisite agitation, catches sight of Jack’s face, Jack’s stiff jaw and dark, enthralled eyes.

Something about that has him clenching involuntarily against John’s hand, the wide blade of John’s palm stretching him taut. He is not sure whether to be proud of himself for being so worthy or batshit terrified as to whether he can handle what’s about to happen here. John mumbles something unintelligible while Jack’s breathing becomes all the more audible, assuring Ianto that his own gasps will be masked. Inside him, John’s fist curls, tightening to a point, and Ianto closes his eyes and tries to be swallowed up by the hum of some inner mantra: I asked. I needed. I am worthy.

There’s a further push and suddenly everything, everything, is there.

The slick press of John’s inner wrist against the very top of Ianto’s perineum, fist angled up, sends feelings through him so intense he can’t even name them as pleasure or pain. His whole body feels anxious somehow, every muscle twitching so urgently he can’t ignore any of it. He feels ready to jump out of his skin. He tries to focus on the sound of Jack breathing, calm and controlled, but sharp, through his nose.

John groans, and it isn’t as seductive as he might think. “Eye Candy... I’d -- ah -- say your ass was designed for this but for -- oh -- the amount of effort... I’m not... oh yeah, that’s pretty.”

He loves this, being able to give himself up like this, letting go of all the stiffness he carries in his body, his need to monitor and control his surroundings and instead just revel in having his body used, not having and not even wanting a say in what that might mean. And so he stares down at the shadowed corners and scratched, dim suggestions of rough use on the shipping container’s floor and lets himself be blissfully caught between the spiraling sensations of heat John is offering and the cold apprehension of Jack’s belt buckle releasing a tell-tale clack, two powerful men tugging him back and forth like the plaything he is.

“Stay where you are,” Jack says, and it’s only then that Ianto realizes he’d half-risen in some desperate bid to help Jack undress. Which is a little bit ridiculous, what with John Hart wrist-fucking-deep in his arse. Oh God, what is he doing? “Can do my own shoelaces, thanks. Not missing this show for the world. Remind me never to take you for granted.”

“I’ll put it in your organizer, shall I?” Ianto quips through his teeth. John twists his wrist suddenly, making him grunt.

“I’m sorry, is this not enough for you?” John taunts. Ianto can actually feel him flexing his hand, knuckles stretching, testing the pressure of Ianto’s clenching muscles. “I don’t think it’s enough for him, Jack. Any man who’s still capable of being pithy isn’t getting fucked hard enough, I always say.” John sounds genuinely annoyed, the hand that braces Ianto’s hip gathering him in roughly. Ianto squeezes his eyes shut. There’s a threat lingering in there somewhere, but what the hell more can they do?

“Actually, it’s me who always says that. About you.” Jack’s voice is suddenly very close and Ianto realizes he must be crouched at his shoulder. “Still holds true, though. You wanna see what it takes to shut him up?” Ianto can picture the toothy grin that accompanies it.

I could suck your cock, Ianto wants to say, mouth watering at the thought, and then Jack is looping the wide strap of his belt, warm supple leather, around his wrists. Tightening it so that they come together, pulse point to pulse point, the edges of the leather biting into his skin. The change in position makes him lose balance, his body lurching forward. He has a brief flash of John’s fist being torn out of him without warning, of bashing his chin against the metal floor, biting his tongue-- but then Jack catches him round the chest, keeping him upright. It’s almost intimate, almost supportive, almost kind and sweet and everything they used to be, before Jack left.

“See?” Jack whispers into his ear too quiet for John to hear, “You’re absolutely helpless without me. That’s why I like you. That’s what I want.”

Ianto moans, a sort of pathetic, wanting sound, his balls tightening, and tries to turn his head for a kiss, but Jack’s already gone. He can hear his bare footsteps padding over to stand beside John. Ianto imagines him with his arms crossed, watching with casual disinterest like Ianto’s a car he’s thinking of buying, but he needs convincing.

John’s fist begins to move again, stretching and twisting and slowly, slowly, withdrawing. It makes Ianto hiss. He realizes he doesn’t want this -- this pressure, this extremism, this desperation, this fullness, this pain -- to end. He actually sobs aloud when John pulls free at last, too far gone with arousal to be embarrassed or disgusted by the wet squelch of lube.

Jack’s hand touches his thigh reassuringly, not stroking or grabbing, just... present. He realizes he’s gasping for air, his muscles spasming.


Jack is doing up his trousers and reaching for the telephone, presumably to call the others and check that they are settling in, while Ianto remains knelt on the carpet at the edge of the bed. He stares in awe for a moment before something bursts, something held in check with all the willpower of the last three years that had evaporated in the previous ten minutes.

“I’m not done.” Ianto spits it out, bites his lip, keeps his eyes trained to the floor. “You. You.” He palms his own neglected erection and then looks up, caught by Jack’s almost comical expression of confusion.

“You left us. You left me. Knowing, knowing...” His voice is raising and he can’t control it. Somehow this makes him press his palm harder against himself. “You knew what I needed. What I wanted. What...”

Ianto’s vision blurs and he begins to see spots. He hasn’t been this enraged since school, since being pushed around and tugged at and used by bullies who didn’t have to hide their homelives and wore their happy families on their sleeve. He feels Jack’s cold fingers on his face but can’t see beyond his rage as he shouts, “If you’re going to fuck off to outer space, at least give me the courtesy of an intergalactic orgy with your ex-wife-husband-whogivesa-”

Jack’s fingers dig and jerk Ianto’s head up to face his cold stare. “So you’re jealous,” he accuses, voice full of derision. “Do you have any idea what you’re even asking for, here? Do you?”

“Yeah,” Ianto bites back, “to be treated like your equal. To be treated like I...” am a part of your life “...can handle all your shit.”

Jack moves away, back tense and shoulders rigid lines. “If that’s.” He stops, fiddles with his wrist strap, looks over his shoulder. His eyes are no longer cold, just tired. Resigned. “If that’s what you want.”

Ianto stares up at him, as defiant as a child, and Jack turns away again. The slap of the manipulator’s leather means that someone has won.


“Should we turn ‘im over?” John’s voice echoes tinnily in Ianto’s head. He can feel the reddened tips of his ears and cock, but even the floor that had felt so harsh moments before seems insubstantial beneath his hands. Jack’s answer is muffled and the mutual chuckle from the men behind him does nothing to center his focus.

Jack’s casual touch becomes a grip and Ianto is swallowed up by the delirious sensation that he is covered in hands, hands everywhere, palming and stroking and lifting, and the ground is shifting, the ceiling presenting itself with two toothy grins in profile. Together they lay him down on his back, cold metal along the entire length of his bare body, and somebody’s hand -- Jack’s? John’s? -- runs down his face soothingly, possessively. He tries to suck on the fingers when they glide over the corner of his mouth. Someone laughs, at that. Then they’ve turned away and a frank discussion which clearly concerns him is taking place, but Ianto can’t seem to focus on the words. His attempt to vocalize his frustration comes out as a needy moan, desperate to his own ears, and he lifts his bound hands in both supplication and demand. If he could just get his used mouth to form the words properly, he’d shout it. Fuck me. Use me. Now. Now.

“Hey.” Jack snaps his fingers, and just like that his hand in front of Ianto’s face comes sharply into focus. “Hey.”

Ianto manages a smile, which he hopes looks a little less drugged than he feels.

“There he is,” Jack says fondly, and helps him to sit up. He gets a rush of blood to the head, but Jack’s hand is there between his shoulder blades, warm, steadying him. He starts to put his bound hands into his lap, but Jack slaps them away in a sudden flash of cruelty. “No touching until I say. Keep them on your chest.” So he holds them to himself like he’s embracing something to his heart. His cock, at the close call, throbs almost painfully. He needs to come. He doesn’t care how.

“You’re gonna like this,” Jack says.

They get into position gracelessly, especially with Ianto’s mind moving at half speed and his hands immobilized and no proper explanation from Jack forthcoming, but eventually the pair of them are lying on the floor, Jack’s chest pressing against Ianto’s back, Jack’s chin tucked onto Ianto’s shoulder cheek-to-cheek, Jack’s hand on Ianto’s hip, Jack’s legs tangled in Ianto’s. Jack’s thick cock glides slickly through the lube smeared over Ianto’s arse.

He holds his hands to his chest and closes his eyes, mouthing ‘Please please please’ and curling his fingers into tight fists.

“I think he wants to say something,” John’s voice echoes, pleased and dangerous. Ianto opens his eyes and his figure, lean and white and naked, pupils two dark points, swims into focus above them.

Jack thrusts artlessly, cock glancing up between Ianto’s arsecheeks. “Oh?” he asks up to John. His voice is thick, with a furious, toothy edge in it. Ianto hasn’t heard him speak like that since... a warning palm comes to Ianto’s throat, half-crushing his Adam’s apple. He feels the cold shock of the barrel of the Webley touching his side in warning. “Speak,” Jack commands.

As if Ianto were a dog.

Glowering up at John, he finds his voice. “Fuck me already,” he snarls, “Go on!” I fucking dare you.

“Mm, so bossy. So mouthy,” John says. He fists his cock slowly, the head emerging from and then slipping back into his foreskin. “Ready to teach him a lesson... Jack?”

Of course it isn’t his real name, Ianto thinks to himself, briefly, and then Jack takes him by the hips and thrusts, sheathing himself deep in Ianto’s arse in one sharp stroke. The suddenness of it makes him yelp, back arching, and even after John’s fist, Jack’s cock feels huge inside him. Jack’s forearm crushes across his body, pulling him down, gathering him close, restrictive. Clutched in one of Jack’s hands, the muzzle of the Webley traces the shape of Ianto’s far nipple; the other claps over his mouth.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this,” Jack says into his neck, and Ianto can only respond with a whistling pant through his nostrils, Jack’s fingers digging reflexively into his cheek. He moans wetly into Jack’s palm as Jack’s cock withdraws and then fills him again. He can’t take this anymore. He can’t--

John’s fingers are inside him again, two of them alongside Jack’s cock, stretching him slowly, teasingly. One hand clasps Ianto’s ankle, bending his leg back to expose him, and then his legs are jerked apart and John is leaning in, licking his belly button, nipping at his paunch, kissing the line of his ribcage. His cock pulses almost painfully, the ring mercilessly tight, and he begs “Please!” into Jack’s hand but all that comes out is a muffled whimper.

He must be lifting his hips, though, because John’s eyes skirt downward greedily, leering, to his cock. “That must hurt,” he mocks, pouting, and leans down over it and -- Ianto thinks, Ianto hopes, Ianto wants needs demands -- blows on it softly. His breath cools the puddle of precome built up in the slit. It’s torture.

Jack’s cock is pushed deep inside him, barely moving, and John’s fingers, crushed though they are, somehow manage to find Ianto’s prostate, and Ianto can do nothing but wail into Jack’s tight palm, thrashing his head uselessly against Jack’s grip.

“Oh, that’s--” John exclaims, impressed, “Oh, and it’s only going to get better. Oh.”

It’s not until John’s fingers slip free and his lubeslick hand grabs Ianto by the other knee that Ianto realizes what’s about to happen here. What John meant by ‘it’s only going to get better’. He squeezes his eyes shut, legs flexing, ankles propped up on John’s bony shoulders, wincing pre-emptively as John’s cockhead touches his hole, just above where Jack is moving laboured and slow.

It’s too much. This is too much. He can’t-- he can’t do this, he can’t. He whines into Jack’s hand, a drawn-out, smothered “no.” His hands curl into fists so tight they vibrate.

Jack turns his head so that his lips brush Ianto’s ear. “I won’t let him hurt you,” he promises in a husky whisper, “You can do this. You want this. You asked for this.”

“Haha, ‘he was asking for it’!” John crows, crass, “Why, did somebody go out unchaperoned in a short skirt?”

Ianto realizes, right then, that he possibly hates John, and, what’s more, it’s entirely fucking justified. He opens his eyes and stares up, willing his disgust to show through his compromised position.

“Aw look,” John says, “I made him mad! Do you know what’ll make you even madder, beautiful?”

Ianto huffs into Jack’s hand: I don’t know, you continuing to fucking talk?

“Not even a little bit curious?” John continues when an arbitrary time has passed without Ianto replying (because he can’t, fuck it, Jack). “I’ll just show you then, shall I?”

Ianto’s devil-may-care I’d like to see you try attitude, though, quickly dissolves into a hysterical No, no, no!

Because John’s hand is reaching for his cock ring, deft little fingers working away at the snaps holding it in place, and John’s cock is pressing inside him right alongside Jack’s and how the fuck is that even possible, seriously, and Ianto is groaning, arching, struggling against Jack’s arms pulling him down, John’s body pushing him down, both of their cocks moving inside him at different angles, different paces, Jack shoved deep as John slips nearly free. And he just can’t-- he comes hard to the sound of John’s smug laughter echoing all around him, several hot, thick shots that coat his own heaving chest and convulsing belly.

“Didn’t even need to touch you,” John brags, when what he means is I win.

But it’s not John Ianto’s worried about, not now, not as Jack’s Webley marks a slow trail through his come, dragging from his softening cock up to his throat. He hasn’t said anything, hasn’t done anything, he’s perfectly still except for the almost mechanical pumping of his hips, but Ianto can feel the disappointment radiating off of him in waves.

For the first time in what seems like forever, Jack’s grip on his mouth loosens, moving to Ianto’s jaw instead. “Open,” he growls, digging his fingers into Ianto’s cheeks and forcing his jaw down. He shoves the barrel of the Webley deep into Ianto’s mouth, choking him on it. It’s bitter with come and sour with gun oil and it makes Ianto’s eyes water. He gags loudly but Jack doesn’t seem to care. “Clean it.”

Jack won’t let him close his mouth to suck on it, so instead he curls his tongue around it obediently instead, wiggling and hooking around all the sharp little nooks and crannies in the metal and tasting, swallowing his own come. All he cares about is making Jack happy, satisfying Jack, being what Jack wants him to be, and then John groans at the sight of it, cock stuttering in Ianto’s body, and all he feels is humiliated and exposed, revealing himself like this, because this isn’t for John’s benefit or John’s pleasure or John’s anything.

“This is all your fault,” Jack murmurs, using the gun to toy carelessly with Ianto’s lower lip. A gob of drool escapes down his chin. Jack is barely moving inside Ianto, holding himself and Ianto’s jaw rigid. “I gave you one order, Ianto. One. Simple. Order.”

John’s movement above them is tertiary, white noise and white hands stroking a pasty, insubstantial body that has nothing to do with the wet breath of Jack whispering into Ianto’s ear as he slowly begins to move again: “You don’t like him, do you? That’s okay, neither do I, honestly. It just makes the decision I’m about to make a pretty obvious one. Obvious, but not easy, but it’s for the best, you understand?”

Ianto nods.

“Sorry, John,” Jack says aloud, past Ianto’s ear. “But you’re going to have to forget your dreams of filling this tight ass with come, at least for today.”

John’s answering expression isn’t disappointed in the least: in fact, it’s a predatory smile.

“His face,” Jack elaborates, although it clearly isn’t necessary for him to say so.

“Oh, goodie,” John replies and, taking cock in hand, pulls himself free of Ianto’s arse at last. Ianto can’t stop himself from moaning aloud at that last relieved pop, the sound garbled by Jack’s gun on his lips. John smirks. “You know, the minute I saw you, Eye-Candy, I was thinking about how pretty you’d look with come all over your face, those sweet lips of yours, that little snub nose...”

Ianto’s face fills with heat. He doesn’t know if he’s more ashamed of the way John’s talking or the fact that it’s making him blush.

“Enough talking,” Jack orders, through his teeth, “Get on with it already.”

John scoffs as he extricates himself from Ianto’s legs. They fall, numb and useless, to the floor on either side of him when he stands. “Hold on a minute, would you? I’m not like this one--” and he casts his eyes down on Ianto’s body, quirking an eyebrow as he pumps his cock “--I don’t pop like a bloody champagne bottle if someone so much as -- ah -- looks at me.”

Ianto can’t even stand it, what he’s being subjected to right now. John is climbing onto his body, now, straddling his chest. That long, crooked cock is right in his face. He attempts to turn his head, but when Jack’s grip on his jaw holds him in place, he settles for closing his eyes.

“Oh no you don’t,” Jack says, and the gun that was resting against his mouth jabs the underside of his jaw forcefully. “Open your eyes. I want you to see what’s coming to you.”

In that moment, he hates Jack, too. But he opens his eyes, watching with dread as John cheerfully wanks himself, all the same.

John’s chin drops to his chest with a grunt and a husky, muttered “yeah, yeah.” Jack’s free hand fists itself in Ianto’s hair and yanks, pulling his head back and to the side so that his jaw and cheek are turned up. His scalp stings and his arse hurts and his chest is sticky and Jack isn’t even finished yet and he just wants it all to be over.

“I know this isn’t what you want,” Jack says, “But it’s what you deserve. Now open your mouth. Don’t make me open it for you.”

Even though he expects it, has his mouth obediently open and one eye winced half-shut in expectation, his head still held in position by Jack’s punishing grip in his hair, John’s orgasm still takes Ianto by surprise. The first shot of come hits him on the cheek, streaking across his eyelid and up to his eyebrow, and then John groans low and feral and Ianto feels more of it hit his chin in three of four quick spurts, thick drops landing on his lips and falling into his open mouth.

“Swallow,” Jack orders, twisting his hand and tearing at Ianto’s scalp again. Compulsively, Ianto does as he’s told. It’s sticky all the way down, coating his throat. There’s still a salty film of it on his tongue like cough syrup. “All of it, Ianto,” Jack reminds him.

John grunts with effort, “Oh, that is nice.” His come is stuck in Ianto’s eyelashes, dripping down his cheek, following the line of his jaw to his throat. He’s covered in it. He hears one last stroke from John, that skin-on-skin slap, and he doesn’t know why he does it, to redeem himself in Jack’s eyes, maybe, or maybe he likes this, being humiliated and debased like this, and by someone he despises, but he sticks his tongue out as if he’s catching snowflakes. One last rope of John’s come, thin and lethargic, hits his tongue point blank in the centre. “Yeah, hold it there, let it drip off your tongue a little. Like that, just like that,” John directs him appreciatively, “Let me look at you, yeah. Oh, you are the most perfect kind of slut imaginable.”

But he isn’t doing any of this for John.

There. He hears Jack’s gasp, feels Jack’s smile against his ear. “Don’t listen to John. We both know you failed beautifully,” he murmurs, hips hitching upward and voice breaking ever-so-slightly as he comes, his cock pulsing deep in Ianto’s arse. He bites Ianto on the jaw, taunting, “How’s that taste? Could have had everything you ever wanted but you just... never quite measure up, do you? Swallow.”

Ianto swallows. Someone has won.


Together, the pair of them help Ianto up onto his knees again. Now that the adrenaline and endorphins have washed from his system, leaving him an exhausted shell, he begins to really feel the aches running through every part of his body: his knees and arms and arse and shoulders and cheek and scalp, all sore, all throbbing, all hot with pain. He winces as Jack’s cooling come dribbles down his inner thighs.

A few feet away John is already half-dressed, stooped over in the process of pulling his boots up his calves.

Jack, in less of a hurry, kneels in front of Ianto and drapes his coat around Ianto’s body, smoothing it over his shoulders affectionately. It’s itchy and coarse against his naked back and chest, but warm. He retreats into the collar, watching John over Jack’s shoulder with wary, shell-shocked eyes.

“Your wrists,” Jack prompts him, gently, and the tone in his voice suggests it isn’t the first time he’s said it. Ianto blinks back into focus, holding them up. The leather of Jack’s belt has rubbed his skin raw in places. Jack kisses each of his hands in turn, lips covering Ianto’s knuckles, and then turns to gingerly undoing the clasp.

“You know what would be even better?” John asks out of the blue. The sound of his voice makes Ianto shrink. The leather soles of his boots slap against the metal floor of the container and then Ianto finds himself staring directly at the stained denim over his knees. John’s hand twists itself in Ianto’s hair, hard enough that he can’t quite swallow a yelp. “I think we should tie his ankles together, too. Leave him here for someone to find tomorrow morning, naked and trussed up and covered in our come, what do you say?”

Ianto shudders at the thought, closing his eyes in panic. No, no.

As he’s cowering, he feels the tightness of the belt around his wrists suddenly give and then slip away. He tries to rub the feeling back into his wrists, feeling scared and wounded and small.

“I say,” Jack says, and although his voice is calm, Ianto can hear the cold in it that means he’s angry, on the edge of violence, “It’s time for you to go, John.”

“What?” John protests, a bit of hysteria tinging his voice. Ianto realizes just how petulant, just how weak and immature he is, in the face of Jack. “Oh, excuse me. I always forget that about you Jack, you use people for sex and then when you’re bored... well, we’re disposable, aren’t we? Well don’t bother calling me when your new toy gets all dried up.”

The air around them charges with electricity, Jack shielding Ianto with his body, and then John is gone. Ianto opens his eyes.

“He’ll be back,” Jack assures him, and cups the clean half of Ianto’s face in his big hand. “That is, y’know, if you want. After a night like that he won’t be able to resist.”

Which sounds, actually, a lot like ‘Thank you,’ to Ianto’s ears.

“You’re welcome, Sir,” Ianto says, coyly.

Jack winces, suddenly uncomfortable. “Really, Ianto, can we just... I thought we went over this. Can we just... drop the ‘Sir’? Maybe?”

“What if I like it?” Ianto counters, trying very hard not to smirk or snicker, “Sir?”

It takes Jack a moment. It always seems to take Jack a moment.

Half of his mouth quirks in a knowing smile, briefly betraying him. As quick as it came, it vanishes, replaced by something cold and imperious. He grabs Ianto by the hair, again (though this time, Ianto notes, the bit of scruff at the base of his skull where his scalp isn’t quite so tender), and tugs his head back.

“Well then,” he says, practically purring, leaning into Ianto’s upturned face and sloppily kissing at the come on his chin, “You have a lot of nerve asking anything of me--” when I just gave you what you wanted “--when you’re such a mess. Maybe next time you’ll think to be prepared, huh? Have a nice big plug ready for me to use, keep my come in your ass where it belongs. You understand?”

Ianto doesn’t say anything, just blinks up at him demurely.

There it is, that twitch of a smile again. “You can speak,” he growls, although he can’t keep the enthusiasm out of his voice.

“Yes, Sir,” Ianto says.
Tags: fanfic, ianto jones, jack/ianto/john, nc-17, one-shot
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