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‘ It’s okay, I’m here. ‘
Stale water leaks into his lungs, a cough rattling the body he has not the energy to move from the still pool within the main area of what was once Torchwood Three. It’s dead now. Everything is dead now.
Everyone is dead.
“Jack?”
He’d killed them all, hadn’t he? Alex, Suzie, Tosh, Owen, Gwen, Ianto, Gray. It’s all his fault. He deserves this hell. He can’t move, he shouldn’t move. This is his punishment. His retribution.
The sound of footsteps echoes against the walls of the desolate underground base, and the weakest of whimpers escapes lips that have not moved in years he cannot count as he struggles to turn his head toward the sound.
‘ You-- ‘ a breath chokes him. This isn’t possible. No. ‘ I-- ‘
“Jack!”
‘ You what , Jack? ‘ The sneer looking down on him twists his stomach. ‘ You killed me? ‘ The figure crouches down, a hand taking Jack’s chin and forcing his gaze up. It hurts. He doesn’t remember Ianto’s touch ever hurting him before. Not in this way. ‘ You killed all of us. But don’t think you’re allowed to forget. ‘
The laugh that follows sends a chill straight to his core. It’s dangerous. Dark.
“Wake up, Jack, please.”
‘ An eternity of just the two of us, Jack. ‘ A second hand finds the back of his head, and he finds he does not possess the strength to fight as he’s forced beneath the water’s surface. ‘ You don’t get to run from what you’ve done. ‘
He cannot escape the laughter echoing deep within his ears as though coming from his own mind.
And his body does what it can, struggling beneath an iron-clad and determined grip. It burns like a fire spreading beneath his skin, a panic bubbling within his gut until it overwhelms every inch of him. A strangled cry bursts through lips so desperately fighting to stay clamped against the dirty water, and his lungs flood. All at once, everything explodes into a bright white light.
Then there is nothing.
“Jack, I’ve got you.”
‘ I’m here, and I forgive you. ‘
A loud gasp is torn from his chest as though it is from death which he returns. There had been no real water, it had been nothing but a nightmare, and yet, his lungs pull in the oxygen they somehow still feel deprived of. Sweat gleams against skin only just illuminated by a sliver of light shining through the curtains from a streetlamp just outside the bedroom’s window. Wide and wild eyes dart around a room he does not recognise instantaneously. This isn’t the hub; the mattress beneath him is far too soft to be the cot upon which he sleeps on a normal basis. Yet, there is a weight around his middle that feels familiar. It is strong and somehow gentle simultaneously, a hand spanning along his ribs and holding his body close against another.
Ianto Jones.
“Jack?” That voice, careful and slow. Jack knows, immediately, that he is home. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Jack responds quickly, head nodding along as he attempts to shake the lingering remnants of a hellish sleep. “Always.”
His lips form the shape of a smile, though unseen by the man whose lap he’s currently occupying, and Jack swears he can feel doubt radiating from the other man. It is a doubt well earned, for it was only earlier that day that the immortal man had been sent to a dimension he isn’t sure wasn’t actually Hell.
Lap . Wait. Body twisting within Ianto’s arms, the time is finally taken to assess where it is he’s found himself. When he’d given in to sleep, it was his back on which he’d lain with Ianto’s body settled halfway atop his torso and head resting against his heart. At some point, Ianto had sat upright and manoeuvred him into his own lap, a position not unlike the one Jack often finds himself after a tryst with death.
Ianto Jones. Always right here.
And so it seems Ianto takes Jack’s willingness to move as permission to readjust, the older man so malleable when it comes to the tenderness of his lover. It is rare that they find themselves in the inverse of their usual sleeping arrangements. But, within the quiet bubble of Ianto’s small flat, as Jack ensures the soft and steady beating of Ianto’s heart fills his ear, he feels safe. A feeling he has only just admitted to himself he craves.
“Bad dream?” Ianto’s voice pulls him back into the moment, his chin lifting and gaze drifting back to his boyfriend, taking in the concern etched into that young and beautiful face. The way his brow wrinkles with worry suits him in a way Jack cannot describe. Maybe it’s because so rarely is that look saved for a man who cannot stay dead. What need is there for anyone to concern themselves with him when death is not as butter-fingered with, literally, anyone else? But, the young man who he--
“A memory, actually.” Only bits and pieces of his time in hell remain within his mind. Shooting Gwen through the heart. Walking in on Ianto in the arms of another. The look upon his lover’s face as he growled his malicious intentions. Dying over and over and over again. The fear settling within his very core at the idea of an eternity stuck in a place like that. A breath is taken, and his fingers tighten against Ianto’s side, the arm draped across the other man pulling his own body firmer against that of one beneath him.
As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he does not miss the way Ianto’s face glows under the light slipping into the room; it highlights a bone structure that somehow is both soft and striking; it reflects within the light blue of those eyes. This man truly is a work of art.
“It’s okay, Ianto, go back to sleep,” Jack urges softly, holding Ianto’s, still doubtful, gaze until the other man simply nods. Tender fingers find his face, a thumb stroking his cheek with the utmost care and adoration, he knows, until Jack’s head returns to where it had once settled upon Ianto’s chest.
‘ I’m here, and I forgive you. ‘
Jack also remembers the appearance of an angel bathed in golden light. A handsome angel in a well-tailored suit stepping through and taking him by the hands, lifting him to feet that had not held his weight in years. An angel who’d kissed him on the lips and forgiven him-- saved him . Ianto Jones had walked through hell and pulled Jack into the light. His hero. His saviour.
Religion has never played a part in the life of Jack Harkness, nor even in the short life of Javic Piotr Thane. When the entirety of the Universe is at a reachable length, there is somehow no room for the existence of one omniscient being to rule them all. Jack can search for forgiveness his entire life, and oh, how he has, but never has he been able to find it. His transgressions are simply too many and too great. Not even he has found a way to forgive himself.
And then there was Ianto Jones.
Like the creation of light as the Christian Bible describes, Ianto appeared in the darkness and changed Jack’s life as he would forever know it. Not only within the hell dimension, but the moment he’d taken a stick to a weevil’s head and saved Jack from a violent death at its claws. From day one, Ianto had been his protector, a guardian angel he hadn’t realised he needed. And so willingly had the young Welshman stepped into that role. He’d seen Jack the instant they met, offering to take care of him in a way no one else ever had. Even in the most simplest of manners.
What Jack hadn’t been expecting was the shift from guardian angel to saviour. The Saviour, if you will, for only one had ever filled this role for Jack Harkness. One man had taken his face in hand and uttered the words he’d been seeking his entire life.
‘ I forgive you. ‘
How could he not be in love with Ianto Jones?
And that’s it, isn’t it? The one intrusive realisation he’s been running from for so long. Unlike any deity in existence, this man is mortal. Ianto will live the life-span of an average human being--if not less , if Jack’s destructive magnetism has anything to say about it.
His eyes drop to where the warmth of Ianto’s skin radiates against his fingertips, trailing his touch lightly along his boyfriend’s side as a quiet sigh empties his lungs. The rise and fall of Ianto’s chest has not yet evened out, and it is as if Jack can feel the way the other man’s thoughts reel. He may not be able to read the mind of the man he truly does love, but Ianto finds a way to be transparent, even in his silence. There is worry within the way he holds Jack.
In a quiet moment after the day’s events, Gwen had taken him aside and disclosed the effect his disappearance had on Torchwood’s youngest agent. There is a flutter within his own heart, and a sinking feeling within his stomach, as he remembers the description of Ianto’s broken expression. It had been he who’d realised Jack’s sentencing, who’d sacrificed himself to absolve an immortal man of sin in the hopes that it would save him an eternity of suffering.
Truly, it had been suffering. But, above all--the pain and the deaths and the crippling loneliness--it is the moment Ianto looked Jack in the eye and shattered the illusion that was his love for him that speaks to him the most. It is what he cannot shake, what now haunts his nightmares. His hell is a fear he’d not known had taken up residence within the deepest crevices of his soul: that Ianto Jones could never love him.
And if hell is an eternity of knowing that the heart of the young man holding him so lovingly is, in fact, cold to Jack, then he cannot deny that his heaven is right here within this very moment. It is in a flat neither man claims as home, but is deemed more welcoming on nights following the darkest of Torchwood business than the bunker within the depths of the hub. It is the way Ianto’s heart beats with a sturdy rhythm against Jack’s ear, reassuring him that life still flows through this mortal man’s veins. It is strong and protective arms wrapped around him as careful and gentle hands draw him close in the wake of nearly-missed tragedy.
Ianto found him and everything had been okay. His faith, it seems, is not misplaced.
This newly acknowledged feeling settles within his core and for one fleeting moment, he isn’t afraid of what it means. And he takes this unprecedented freedom, using it instead to turn his head and allow lips to find skin, softly kissing wherever it is upon Ianto’s chest he can reach.
A shiver weaves between each vertebrae along his spine as fingers thread through his hair, brushing against his scalp in the most enticing of ways. It is far from a sexual touch, but there is an intimacy of a different kind within it. It is an act of comfort and soothing. It is Ianto’s way of acknowledging Jack's lips giving silent thanks against his skin with his own unspoken ‘ I’m here. ‘
His head lifts from where it’s bowed and his gaze is met with that of the other man; where concern once wrinkled youthful features now sits only the softest of smiles. Jack could swear the light framing Ianto’s face glows golden, as it had when hands found his own and lifted him from blackened water. All at once, he understands the pull to a single deity, the unrelenting urge to praise that one being who provides so much good, and he simply follows his need to worship in the only way Jack Harkness can.
A hand finds the mattress beside Ianto’s head and pushes his body up, hovering mere inches above the other man as his chest expands with a deep inhale before he dips to take those perfect lips with his own. It is slow and chaste to start, simply enjoying the way Ianto’s breath tickles his skin and the fingertips that ghost along the back of his neck as the kiss is melted into.
Only when he feels the flutter of Ianto’s eyelashes closing does a hand journey down the length of the younger man’s body, finding the inside of his knee and urging legs to part so his own body can kneel between them.
“Jack…” and already, he can hear the questions lacing Ianto’s tone: ‘ What are you doing? ‘ at this sudden and palpable want emanating from Jack; ‘ Are you sure you don’t want to sleep? ‘ knowing, surely, even an immortal man would battle exhaustion after a day that spanned years.
“ Don’t ,” he simply instructs as his quiet response. And it does its job, Ianto shifting beneath him without another word, allowing room for the, surprisingly, humble servant he’s unknowingly made out of Jack. Knees find the bed, and the cotton material of boxers made to hug a man’s form tight is now all that separates their bodies from one another.
What was interrupted by Ianto’s voice is continued once again, Jack’s hand finding home upon the Welshman’s cheek as his tongue swipes across the lower of his lover’s lips and so easily do they part for him. So indulgent is the taste of Ianto Jones, even the lingering mint of his toothpaste proving much sweeter than wine provided by any church outside this bedroom.
From beneath him, arms snake around his waist and fingers wander the length of his spine and back up again, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. It is impossible to control the sharp inhale he takes at the sensations even the most innocent of touches can elicit. This crumbling of his walls is temporary, he knows, but the flood that has followed is unlike anything he’s ever felt. What washes over him is both emotional and physical alike, and he is unable to determine where love ends and lust begins, although he finds that one ignites the other in an indescribable way.
And, oh, how fitting it is that the unholiest of acts is how Jack Harkness worships.
Thumb hooks beneath chin, and Ianto’s head is tilted with care, kisses starting their journey from lips to jaw to throat as sensitive skin is claimed by lips, tongue, and teeth working in well-practiced tandem. The sound of soft gasps, slipping through a mouth unable to fully close, has want coursing hot through his veins, giving life to what begins to be the undeniable truth of his intentions as the material of his underwear grows tight against him.
In an act of what he knows to be purely selfish, he deviates from the path meant to take him down the length of Ianto’s body, and, instead, returns to his lips. Hips lower, pressing firmly against those upon the bed and are met with an equal eagerness; fingers, once simply resting along his spine, now curl and nails grasp at his skin. The silence within the bedroom is broken by a soft moan pulled from his throat as Ianto’s own desire grows as equally obvious.
As much as Jack could stay right here all night--the two of them grinding against each other as though they were love-sick teenagers desperate for each other in the back seat of a car and getting off on friction, alone--and still feel though his cup runneth over, this night is not for him . Pulling away from the other man leaves an empty feeling deep within his core, and yet he cannot help the way he is endeared by Ianto’s lips chasing the broken kiss. His hands wander over his lover’s chest, fingertips following the contours of muscles that ripple beneath the fairest of skin with each shuddering breath he takes at Jack’s touch.
When his own gaze lifts to catch the eyes of his angel, he’s met with crystalline blue clouding over with lust before he watches as Ianto appreciates, with a tantalising slowness, the body before him. There is a certain awe that touches every feature of Ianto’s face, and what baffles the immortal man, even to this day, is how someone such as Ianto Jones can remain surprised that he is the one to lay claim to Jack Harkness--
It is surely he who should feel so lucky that someone so good could find him worthy of love.
One hand settles upon Ianto’s hip as the other spans along his jaw, thumb brushing lightly along the younger man’s lower lip. Oh, the stuttering of his heartbeat as those eyes flutter shut and the most tender of kisses is pressed to the pad of his thumb. Yes, as long as he is allowed moments as perfect as this, he is the luckiest man in the Universe. The only person who can claim to have reached true Nirvana and not speak a single untruth.
A deep breath falls from the smile overtaking his own expression, and he finds he cannot wait any longer to feel the entirety of Ianto’s body against his own. Shifting back, his fingers move to tease at skin hidden beneath the waistband of what remains in Jack’s way, the hips his hand once held in place now lifting-- begging for his attention. And who is he to deny any commandments given to him this night? It is with the cooperation of Ianto’s legs that he’s able to smoothly pull the boxer-briefs away from the other man, and Jack cannot help the way breath catches within his throat at the sight of Ianto Jones in all of his glory.
Lips quirk as the offending garment is tossed aside, and his hand lowers to take Ianto within its grasp, moving slowly along his length as he urges it to harden. The noise dragged from his boyfriend’s lips is the sweetest sound he’s ever heard, though it is strained through gritted teeth as he knows Ianto struggles to keep control of his body’s reactions when Jack’s work is just beginning.
And so Jack takes the opportunity to remove his hand, pride swelling within his chest at the quiet whine he receives in return, as he climbs from the bed, only momentarily, to disrobe completely and pull a small bottle stashed away in the drawer of Ianto’s nightstand. The hunger within the younger man’s gaze is nearly palpable, his own eyes shifting to catch the way Ianto looks over him. An eyebrow lifts at the way he lingers first upon a physique Jack ensures is desirable to all who look, and belongs to only one, and then the promise of what is to come.
Of course, he will not want for long as Jack cannot keep himself from him. And finally, as two erections burn hot against one another, Jack finding his rightful place upon his knees between the legs of a man so deserving of his unspoken worship, he can taste what moans are breathed into his kiss and relish in a tingling heat of nails digging into his back. So desperate were they both for the feeling of skin burning against skin that neither man can keep hips still, for they crave the dizzying sensation of an intimate touch finally allowed.
For now, his own cock is ignored in favour of his lover’s, his hand finding it once again as his body lowers and lips kiss praises across his skin. From collarbone to sternum, and wandering west until he takes a nipple he can feel impatiently await the acknowledgment of his mouth. And as his tongue swirls around it, his teeth taking it between them and tugging gently, Ianto’s fingers tangle within his hair and grip at the roots. It sends something akin to fire searing over his skin and setting his core alight, a hum of pleasure vibrating against Ianto’s skin before he shifts to treat the other in the same fashion.
The journey down Ianto’s body is slow and methodical; each caress, whether it be by tongue, teeth, or lips, another lyric in this wordless hymn he creates. His hand does not cease in the way it works along a pulsing erection, what leaks from its tip allowing for smooth and sensual strokes. The rhythm underlying his psalm is far from steady, for Jack takes enjoyment in the way a stray brush of his thumb over the head of Ianto’s cock sees hips bucking ever so slightly, and the gentlest of twists causing lungs to drag in a shuddering breath.
God, the way Ianto’s whine, as Jack must take his hand away to shift further back along the bed, has him smiling into the course hair indicating the nearing end of his exploration.
“ Jesus, Ja--” blasphemous words give way to moans as Jack takes Ianto into his mouth, slowly working his way along a cock only to be described as perfect, until there is nowhere left to go and he must pull back slowly, his tongue sliding along its underside. With the slightest lift of his gaze, he can enjoy the way Ianto’s head cants back, lips parting and unable to stifle the increasing volume of his pleasure. Fingers still grasp so desperately at Jack’s hair and it only serves to urge him further, head bobbing with increasing fervour as hips push Ianto into his throat. His own noises resonate around what fills him so wholly and as the minutes pass, he knows the way Ianto’s erection throbs with the threat of completion. Recognises how his panting breaths become vocal.
And so he pulls away fully, indulging in the salty taste of Ianto Jones with a swipe of his tongue, and nipping lightly at the most sensitive of skin along an inner thigh, a whimper from above him following.
Ianto’s chest heaves, sweat beginning to glisten over his skin, and once again Jack is struck by the way he seems to emanate light, even under the dark of night. A moment must be taken to admire the way his boyfriend is undone by his touch, both men locking eyes and a surge of warmth radiating through his body until it touches his every nerve ending.
In the quiet that comes with the forcing back of Ianto’s nearing orgasm, the near-painful pulsating of his own erection can no longer be ignored. He needs Ianto’s touch as though it contains the power of absolution in its purest form. Pushing himself up, a surge of desire is ignited as cock brushes against cock and Jack must take Ianto’s lips with his own to stifle the sound of his cry. And as he always does, Ianto takes this as his cue to finally give attention to Jack’s begging arousal.
Kisses turn messy as his focus is solely on the expert way one hand works along his length, and the other massages his balls with an awe-inspiring dexterity. It is only when his body begins to rock in a way he almost cannot control that Jack forces himself away from Ianto’s gracious hands and instead, back upon his knees.
The bottle he’d retrieved earlier is taken in hand once again, a small amount poured into his palm before he works it along his own length, a smile finding his features as he notices the way Ianto watches him with a lip caught between his teeth. When he knows himself to be sufficiently prepared, still-coated fingers tease at his boyfriend’s entrance before slipping only one inside him. Ianto’s back arches away from the bed, a strangled cry seemingly catching within his throat as his eyes squeeze shut. It is a sight Jack will never tire of: the Welshman writhing at his touch.
“ Jack, please--” his begging is cut off as a second finger joins in, scissoring within and stretching him in preparation to take Jack’s member, and instead he makes the most undignified of noises. Without hair to grasp, hands find Jack’s thighs and nails claw at his skin, sure to leave crescent shaped marks in their wake. And, oh, how the pain that comes with this vice-like grip is a pleasure he cannot begin to explain.
Finally, Jack allows his body to fall forward, his free hand finding purchase against the mattress beside Ianto’s head. Fingers do not stop pushing in and out of the other man until they’re pulled away to take his own cock in hand and guide it to where his fingers had been only seconds ago. A lingering kiss is stolen from Ianto’s lips, mere inches allowed between them as Jack touches the tip of his erection to the other man.
And though he pushes into Ianto with a careful slowness, there is a blinding white light that fills his vision as he feels the warm tightness of Ianto Jones around him. A euphoric cry is torn from his throat as he fills his lover completely, and it mixes with the loud, erotic groans as Ianto adjusts to his length.
“ Fuck!” Ianto’s vulgar exclamation joins the chorus of blissful vocalisations and Jack can only imagine to be the sound of angels. A heavenly host of his own making, singing hymns dedicated to one man alone. He is slow and careful as he takes Ianto’s leg in hand and pushes it until it bends and thigh rests against chest, only then allowing the push and pull of his hips.
Movements start slow, his hips driving his himself in until he is taken in fully--then pulling out near completely, kissing the other man deeply, anchoring himself, as he pushes in once again. A hand takes his ass in its clasp, fingers squeezing and urging Jack’s hips to thrust harder as the other wraps around his torso and nails drag along his spine. It is permission granted to do with Ianto as he will, signalling his readiness for a less than gentle treatment.
And so he does.
With each push into his boyfriend, his hips drive deeper and thrust with an increased fervour. It is not long before the room is filled with the sounds of both grunts and moans alike, along with the sound of skin hitting skin. The hand not holding his weight finds the back of Ianto’s head, fingers tangling within the dark hair and pulling him up, away from the pillow as his tongue explores within their kiss. Neither man cares as their lips begin to miss their mark, for the building sensations within their cores pull their focus and it is before long that Jack can only press his forehead to that of the man beneath him.
Jack denies himself the release his body begs for, it is not yet his time, instead allowing Ianto’s head to fall back onto the bed, and a hand to find his awaiting erection. It throbs within his hold, warm and thick and ready for him to work along its length. His thrusts remain hard and deep, his hand tantalisingly slow in contrast as it urges Ianto to his edge.
“Jack,” Ianto warns of his impending orgasm, in case Jack wants to pull back and keep him from it. But, this is not about edging or denial, his cock is a sacrifice he gives so willingly to the pleasure of his saviour. This is his offering. And so he does not stop, thrusting his himself as deeply as Ianto’s body will allow. “ Ja-- fu-- ah!”
Warmth spills over Jack’s hand as it slows in its strokes, moving languidly to allow Ianto to ride out the waves of his orgasm, his body shuddering beneath Jack’s and moans beginning to quiet. Already, Jack misses the sound.
But, arms do not fall away from the immortal man, Ianto holding fast as he encourages Jack to continue on. And finally, Jack frees himself. Only a few minutes pass, plunging himself deep with every fervent thrust and Ianto’s fingers wandering over his ass, finding his entrance and teasing around it in the cheekiest of ways, before the build up within him explodes into a white-hot sensation washing through and penetrating him to the core of his being.
What escapes his lips is far less coherent than the almost words that Ianto had cried. His hand drops away from Ianto’s body and instead clutches at the sheets as a second wave of pleasure parts his lips and arches his back. His hips are unable to stop their rocking once Ianto is filled with his release, each thrust slower and more shallow than the one before.
Until everything stills.
Their breathing slows in tandem, chests heaving as Jack holds Ianto’s gaze and nearly drowns in the blissful admiration reflecting back at him. His own lips spread into the most loving of smiles as he slips out of his boyfriend, admiring the way his face contorts with a final moment of pleasure and his arms are simply slung around Jack’s body. There isn’t a work of art that can compare to Ianto Jones in the aftermath of sex.
There is not a sight as glorious, or a vision as beautiful. He is everything . No part of Jack can think of anyone more deserving of the songs of worship that laced Jack’s touch upon his skin.
Jack lowers himself down beside the man he-- the man he loves . And as Ianto turns his head to look to him, fingers trail along the curve of his jaw.
“Ianto Jones,” Jack repeats a sentiment spoken aloud as he came to awareness with Ianto’s hands in how own, earlier that day, “my hero.”
“I couldn’t lose you.”
A beat of silence passes as Jack can do nothing but look at Ianto with the overwhelming love he finds he is still too afraid to voice. He hopes he knows, prays he can sense it in the way he touches him. A part of him is sure he can, believes that Ianto can feel his love for Jack is returned.
And before he pulls Ianto to him, before he attempts to convince him that they can clean themselves in the morning. Before he drifts off into a sleep he knows will be more peaceful now that he has made peace with what has become his saving grace. Before the day Ianto Jones walked through hell and absolved Jack Harkness of his sins finally comes to an end, he leans forward and a final, chaste kiss punctuates his confession.
Amen.