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sariagrayTitle: Just a Window From the Room We're Bound To
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto/Gwen
Word Count: ~900
Rating: R
Spoilers:Takes place post S2, but no real spoilers
Warnings:Sex.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood, its characters, or its environs, nor do I receive any monetary gain.
Beta:analineblue <3
Summary: Sometimes, Gwen fancies herself an anthropologist.
Author's Note: This fic woke me up last night. Seriously. I had to get out of bed and write it. Title and quote come from “Blame It on the Tetons” by Modest Mouse.
Just a Window From the Room We're Bound To
Everyone's a building burning
with no one to put the fire out.
Standing at the window looking out,
waiting for time to burn us down.
Everyone's an ocean drowning
with no one really to show how.
She lay between them, eyes heavy-lidded and half-closed, a blank canvass from which they both could take what they would. Ianto was soft and meticulous, pressing his fingers against her skin like detailed brush strokes, the down of a dove, the curvature of a cloud, while Jack was bold and brash, his touch like frantically flung pots of paint. They both made her feel existential and real, important and yet inconsequential to what was really happening around her.
Her eyelids fluttered fully closed and a hand grazed the inside of her thigh, almost as though it were an accident, as though this whole thing was an accident, rather than some carefully orchestrated plot that had taken days to contrive in all its fullness.
She used to wonder, on the rare quiet mornings when she would get to the hub before Owen and Toshiko dragged their weary bodies in, how these two very different people managed to dance around each other with such ease. She’d watch them as they forgot that she was still there, their inattention to her presence occurring in noticeable increments. (Now Ianto’s hand grasped a mug, now Jack’s feet shuffled to the side, now their heads were bent together, now Ianto was laughing softly, now Jack was pressing his mouth to Ianto’s neck.)
Surprisingly, she found her own gradual disappearance, her easy fade into the background, enjoyable. It was like an expedition, a strange safari, and she’d had the appropriate camouflage that afforded her with an opportunity to watch this strange mating dance. Maybe that was it; she wasn’t the canvass they painted in their egotistic peacock showmanship, but the uncommon music to which they swayed.
A mouth found its way to the open plane of skin below her bellybutton, and she was sure it was Jack’s, almost positive, but she stubbornly refused to open her eyes. Dissatisfied with sight, with sound, she wanted to distinguish them by the ways they felt, tasted, smelled. Another mouth, gentler, mapped the low curve of her breast as hands trailed down her ribs.
They moved well together on the field, in the hub, and here, too, on the soft white cotton of Ianto’s bed. She was pleased, when she walked into the room, to discover that he was as much of a traditionalist as she expected. Still, it seemed that Jack’s presence had seeped through the tiny cracks, found its way into the flat, preened in the mound of pillows and the intricate lighting. Or maybe Ianto was a secret hedonist. It wouldn’t really surprise her.
It felt, now, as though she were floating above herself and watching, even though her eyes were still tightly shut. She could see them as she felt them, their economical movements, practiced despite having never granted themselves the opportunity before tonight. Or so they’d said, something about trust and nothing serious and she found herself nodding before she even really considered what she was agreeing to. It felt almost as honorable and serious as if they were asking her to personally officiate their wedding.
There had been no ceremony, though, at all. Just a bottle of wine that she’d brought over and they’d both politely drunk from. It was still sitting, half-finished and completely neglected, on Ianto’s coffee table with three red-marred glasses.
She still wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work, even now with Jack’s tongue dipping into her and making her hips move without her brain’s permission. It was definitely Jack now, because she could hear a soft, unmuffled groan to her right that was too low in pitch to have come from Jack.
His hands were gone from her body, and so was his mouth, and she wondered what he was doing until he hissed and stuttered a bit, and she was almost tempted to laugh. She’d worn her best bra and panties, the ones that did absolutely nothing productive except cover her with sheer black lace, and then realized as she removed her top that it really didn’t matter much. She wasn’t there to seduce them, and they weren’t really seducing her, either.
Not that she had any complaints – she wasn’t being ill-used; it was more like an initiation into their odd, esoteric cult. She’d had her fill of the coffee, and had followed the leader, and now she had made it to the final phase. It was a really, really nice phase, too.
Through a tunnel, she heard herself gasp and then she rushed back into herself, finally occupying the same space as her body. They both shifted, the bed dipping and rising like the surface of the sea, and she felt them pause before they switched places. It dragged a bit, the stillness, and she wished she had requested a blindfold – the temptation to open her eyes was almost unbearable. She sighed and peered between her lashes and then smiled.
Caught mid-movement, all awkward limbs, they’d stopped to kiss each other, one of Jack’s hands bracing Ianto against the mattress. She could barely make them out in the darkness of the room, but the moon was bright enough that she could distinguish their general shape. They pulled away and Jack turned to her, grinning, and winked.
She grinned back and fluttered her hands in a vague, impatient gesture. Ianto caught the movement as he turned his head and laughed. It’d been so long since she heard that sound and she took a deep breath to keep from startling. Jack, though, seemed completely unfazed by it; she wondered what that meant and closed her eyes and willed herself to float again.
The End
Author:
sariagrayCharacters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto/Gwen
Word Count: ~900
Rating: R
Spoilers:Takes place post S2, but no real spoilers
Warnings:Sex.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood, its characters, or its environs, nor do I receive any monetary gain.
Beta:
analineblue <3 Summary: Sometimes, Gwen fancies herself an anthropologist.
Author's Note: This fic woke me up last night. Seriously. I had to get out of bed and write it. Title and quote come from “Blame It on the Tetons” by Modest Mouse.
Everyone's a building burning
with no one to put the fire out.
Standing at the window looking out,
waiting for time to burn us down.
Everyone's an ocean drowning
with no one really to show how.
She lay between them, eyes heavy-lidded and half-closed, a blank canvass from which they both could take what they would. Ianto was soft and meticulous, pressing his fingers against her skin like detailed brush strokes, the down of a dove, the curvature of a cloud, while Jack was bold and brash, his touch like frantically flung pots of paint. They both made her feel existential and real, important and yet inconsequential to what was really happening around her.
Her eyelids fluttered fully closed and a hand grazed the inside of her thigh, almost as though it were an accident, as though this whole thing was an accident, rather than some carefully orchestrated plot that had taken days to contrive in all its fullness.
She used to wonder, on the rare quiet mornings when she would get to the hub before Owen and Toshiko dragged their weary bodies in, how these two very different people managed to dance around each other with such ease. She’d watch them as they forgot that she was still there, their inattention to her presence occurring in noticeable increments. (Now Ianto’s hand grasped a mug, now Jack’s feet shuffled to the side, now their heads were bent together, now Ianto was laughing softly, now Jack was pressing his mouth to Ianto’s neck.)
Surprisingly, she found her own gradual disappearance, her easy fade into the background, enjoyable. It was like an expedition, a strange safari, and she’d had the appropriate camouflage that afforded her with an opportunity to watch this strange mating dance. Maybe that was it; she wasn’t the canvass they painted in their egotistic peacock showmanship, but the uncommon music to which they swayed.
A mouth found its way to the open plane of skin below her bellybutton, and she was sure it was Jack’s, almost positive, but she stubbornly refused to open her eyes. Dissatisfied with sight, with sound, she wanted to distinguish them by the ways they felt, tasted, smelled. Another mouth, gentler, mapped the low curve of her breast as hands trailed down her ribs.
They moved well together on the field, in the hub, and here, too, on the soft white cotton of Ianto’s bed. She was pleased, when she walked into the room, to discover that he was as much of a traditionalist as she expected. Still, it seemed that Jack’s presence had seeped through the tiny cracks, found its way into the flat, preened in the mound of pillows and the intricate lighting. Or maybe Ianto was a secret hedonist. It wouldn’t really surprise her.
It felt, now, as though she were floating above herself and watching, even though her eyes were still tightly shut. She could see them as she felt them, their economical movements, practiced despite having never granted themselves the opportunity before tonight. Or so they’d said, something about trust and nothing serious and she found herself nodding before she even really considered what she was agreeing to. It felt almost as honorable and serious as if they were asking her to personally officiate their wedding.
There had been no ceremony, though, at all. Just a bottle of wine that she’d brought over and they’d both politely drunk from. It was still sitting, half-finished and completely neglected, on Ianto’s coffee table with three red-marred glasses.
She still wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work, even now with Jack’s tongue dipping into her and making her hips move without her brain’s permission. It was definitely Jack now, because she could hear a soft, unmuffled groan to her right that was too low in pitch to have come from Jack.
His hands were gone from her body, and so was his mouth, and she wondered what he was doing until he hissed and stuttered a bit, and she was almost tempted to laugh. She’d worn her best bra and panties, the ones that did absolutely nothing productive except cover her with sheer black lace, and then realized as she removed her top that it really didn’t matter much. She wasn’t there to seduce them, and they weren’t really seducing her, either.
Not that she had any complaints – she wasn’t being ill-used; it was more like an initiation into their odd, esoteric cult. She’d had her fill of the coffee, and had followed the leader, and now she had made it to the final phase. It was a really, really nice phase, too.
Through a tunnel, she heard herself gasp and then she rushed back into herself, finally occupying the same space as her body. They both shifted, the bed dipping and rising like the surface of the sea, and she felt them pause before they switched places. It dragged a bit, the stillness, and she wished she had requested a blindfold – the temptation to open her eyes was almost unbearable. She sighed and peered between her lashes and then smiled.
Caught mid-movement, all awkward limbs, they’d stopped to kiss each other, one of Jack’s hands bracing Ianto against the mattress. She could barely make them out in the darkness of the room, but the moon was bright enough that she could distinguish their general shape. They pulled away and Jack turned to her, grinning, and winked.
She grinned back and fluttered her hands in a vague, impatient gesture. Ianto caught the movement as he turned his head and laughed. It’d been so long since she heard that sound and she took a deep breath to keep from startling. Jack, though, seemed completely unfazed by it; she wondered what that meant and closed her eyes and willed herself to float again.
The End
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-09-30 08:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 01:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-30 10:26 pm (UTC)jk
I still <3 you though.
My fave threesome. I love the floaty feel of this fic. Moreso than the sexytiems. You are awesome.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 01:34 am (UTC)I'm glad you liked this! :D I had...no idea what I was doing. It was like being possessed, a little bit. <3 :D
no subject
Date: 2011-09-30 11:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 01:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 01:55 am (UTC)This was a strange little piece, and I mean that in the best-est possible way!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 02:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 02:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 02:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 03:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 03:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 11:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 03:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 11:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 10:43 am (UTC)Lovely. And yeah, I think inevitable. This happened, at some stage this happened.
I think the line about Ianto laughed was my favourite.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 11:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 05:28 pm (UTC)I love the way you porned here - really sensory! And the description of Ianto's room. Everything is perfect!!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 11:26 pm (UTC)Ahem. Weird esoteric sex cult initiations are the best kinds of initiations. And thank you! :D
no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 05:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 11:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 07:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-01 11:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-02 11:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-02 03:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-04 10:49 pm (UTC)Great!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-05 12:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-05 09:08 pm (UTC)