It'll End in Tears #23: "More Than One Bad Idea In Any Given Week"

[invisible_lift]

Title: "More Than One Bad Idea In Any Given Week"
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Overall: Ianto/Andy, Jack/Ianto, Jack/Ianto/Andy, with occasional guest cameos.
Rating: Series ranges from relatively safe to hard NC-17. This installment is in the NC-17 range for language and smut.
Notes/Summary: Part #23 of the "It'll End In Tears" cluster. However, I'm doing the prompt table equivalent of taking a Mulligan and taking advantage of those lovely Author's Choice prompts I've got sitting around. Don't worry, though. We'll be back to the given prompts with #24. Thanks to sanginmychains, demotu, and resourceress for giving this the sweet, sweet beta-fu.



Andy isn’t necessarily complaining at being sprawled on the edge his sofa, just shy of falling-down pissed with a girl whose name is still a little unclear (Emma? Emily?), but it’s Trav who dragged him out to go drinking, and Trav who introduced them, and like all things Trav-related, Andy is expecting it to go pear-shaped at some point. He thinks briefly of the time Trav set him up with a girl who turned out to be a prostitute, or the time where the girl Trav had got him talking to turned out to have a hulking, angry, drunken boyfriend.

Were he sober enough to really consider the issue, it would definitely give him pause.

So far, the worst he can say is that he’s pretty sure he remembers her slagging off the Smiths. He’s drunk, though, so he could be wrong. Plus, her knickers are on his floor, and she’s got her hand in his jeans, and it seems entirely the wrong sort of moment to ask about that kind of thing, or to try and bring her around to why Morrissey is one of the greatest poets of their time. That and Trav’s involvement aside, on a scale from 1 to 10, this rates somewhere near fucking fantastic. He wishes he’d stopped drinking a little earlier in the evening. She’s gorgeous and he’d like to be able to pay her a little more attention.

Somehow, mostly without his involvement, she gets him naked from the waist down and starts sucking him off. His fingers tangle in her hair, and he thinks about all the times he’s fucked on sofas, and how good this is going to be because in spite of the Trav factor, he’s not quite so drunk he can’t get hard. He is, in fact, damn pleased about the growing hard-on she’s humming and sucking into shape. He can see one of her hands working between her legs, and suddenly he wants to suck her fingers clean while he fucks her, painted fake nails and all.

“Condom,” he slurs, and reaches over for his jacket. She gives him a slow final suck, licks him to his tip, and then pulls her shirt off over her head to reveal a lacy black bra and a pair of tits he can only adequately describe as brilliant. He tears the packet open with his teeth and reaches down to put the rubber on while she gets up to kneel on the cushions expectantly. He tosses his own t-shirt to the floor and pushes the tiny green skirt she’s still wearing up around her waist.

It takes a little bit of doing, what with them both being pissed, but after a couple of false starts, Andy manages to pull her down onto his lap. It’s awkward at first, but he adjusts his knees and clutches onto the fabric around her waist and rocks up into her in earnest.

Thanks to the amnesia, he’s got no idea how long it’s been, but if the way this feels is any indication, ‘too long’ probably covers it pretty well. She cants her hips just right and boom, there they are, moving in tandem and mostly balanced. He undoes her bra and she slides it off so that he can lick and suck at her nipples as she rocks against him. She’s making the most incredible noises for him, and fuck if she’s not wet enough that he’s going to need a shower after this. When he tries a bit of teeth, he feels her tighten around him in a little flutter, and she digs her nails into his shoulders. Andy mumbles happy nonsense into her chest and shifts her down onto the cushions to get a better angle.

He winds up helping her onto her side and slips a leg between hers. It’s deep but tight, and she can reach down and play with herself while he has her, and Christ that’s hot. Not nearly enough girls in his life have done that. He feels the tips of her fingernails graze his cock every couple of thrusts, and he’s pretty sure that if he died right here and now that he’d die happy.

He tries to wait for her, but he’s too drunk to pace himself properly, and the way her fingers slip against him pushes him over the brink before he can slow down. His orgasm hits him like a truckful of stars and leaves him shaking, hands dug into her skirt as if it’s the only thing between him and death when he finishes with a final, grateful thrust.

For a fraction of a breath, everything stops. Everything is clear, and everything is significant, and just for a second he can feel his brain reaching for something familiar –

She shifts impatiently beneath him, and Andy mumbles an apology as he reaches down to hold the condom so he can pull out. He notices her fingers still between her legs, and slips off the sofa guiltily to join in. She scoots closer to the edge of the sofa to give him better access as he pushes a couple of fingers inside her. She moves her hand into his hair, and he bows his head in between her legs.

Her cunt tastes of latex and condom lube, but he moans against her anyway as he sucks and flicks his tongue at her clit. He’s astonished at the way she tilts and grinds against his face, urging him on. He’s never had a girl who will flat out use him like this, and he’s surprised to discover he likes it. She actually pulls his hair and shouts when she comes, and it occurs to him that he could go for a hell of a lot more of that kind of treatment. He imagines her slapping him across the face, or tying him down.

Instead, she gets up to use the toilet.

When she doesn’t come right back out again, Andy gets up to dispose of his condom in the kitchen bin and washes his hands in the sink. He briefly contemplates putting the kettle on, but decides against it. Anxious, he goes back into the front room to put on his shorts and stare out the window.

She’s pulled her skirt down and has her bra back on when she emerges.

“Would you like a coffee?” he asks, his expression hopeful as she reaches down for her t-shirt.

“Nah,” Emma (or Emily) says as she tucks her knickers into her handbag.

“You could stay if you like.”

She gives him a condescending half-smile. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” He watches her leave and then sinks down on his couch. After a minute he pulls his knees up to his chest and wonders what the hell it is that he’s doing wrong.

# # #

“You look like shit, mate,” Trav says as Andy climbs into the uniform car with a groan. It’s Andy’s first day back since he woke up missing a hell of a lot of time, and it’s obvious that last night’s blow-out was a bad idea.

Really, Andy’s mostly just grateful not to be on foot. He wants to drink his coffee, and to try and survive his hangover in relative peace. Whether or not Andy can do that in the same car as Trav is questionable, but he supposes it’s better to be stuck with the man who got him into this state than someone who’d ask questions.

“You’re the antichrist, Derrick Travis. The bloody antichrist.”

Trav takes the second coffee from his hands. “You know you don’t mean that. That’s just the hangover talking.”

Andy fumbles in his pocket for a packet of paracetamol. “May I remind you who was buying the drinks last night?”

“Consider it a charitable donation.”

“Right.” He bites the corner of the wrapper and tears it open. “Also, before you ask, the answers are yes, also yes, like a stallion, no, and she put them in her purse.” Andy pushes the pills out of the foil and swallows them with a grimace.

“Her purse?” Trav asks through his egg sandwich. “Nice.”

Andy rolls his eyes.

“Anyway, you needed a constitutional after two weeks off. Can’t have you going soft on us. Well, softer than you were going at any rate. I see you got over that asinine bracelet thing.” Trav crinkles up the wrapper from his breakfast and stuffs it into his pocket.

Baffled, Andy furrows his brow. “Bracelet?” That weird sense of clarity overtakes him again, and he touches his wrist without thinking. An irrational flash of panic makes his already acid stomach clench.

“Yeah, little leather thing, like you’d get at a fair. If you were twelve. And a girl.”

“I don’t remember it,” Andy replies, mystified by the mix of fear and sadness the words inspire in him. He thinks about the t-shirt in his laundry and the magazines and wonders if this might be another clue, but he’s definitely not bringing that stuff up if Trav thinks a bracelet is –

“It’s queeny,” Trav tells him, matter-of-factly. “You know, kinda hoyw.”

The word surprises him. “Hoyw.”

“Yeah, like gay. Airy fairy shit.”

Andy wants to throw up. He’s scared and ashamed and he wonders if Trav knows he’s been –

“Oi.” Trav elbows him. “You listening or what?”

“What? No. Miles away.” The words feel overly familiar, just like Trav eating in the car and him feeling sick. It’s like one big echo. “Did I tell you where I got it? The bracelet, I mean,” Andy asks. He hopes he doesn’t sound too anxious.

Travis snorts. “Right, like I’d say if you did. I’ll bet you’d just go out and get yourself another one.”

“Nah,” Andy says with a smirk. “I’d get two and leave one in your jacket as a little gift for your sensitivity in this, my time of difficulty.”

“Fuck off, you poof.”

“You wish I was a poof,” Andy retorts, and then gestures at the keys in the ignition. “So are we going to sit here all day nursing my hangover, or what? The streets aren’t patrolling themselves.”

“True enough.”

They bump knuckles and Trav starts the car.

# # #

That night, Andy picks up a take-away Chinese and sits down at his table with his new notebook. He writes out everything he can remember about the talk with Trav, which isn’t much. He writes out everything he can remember about what was going on in his head with the girl as well, not because he’s altogether keen to remember it, but because of that moment where something felt like it was trying to scratch its way up to the surface of his brain. He imagines the problem as one of those big jigsaws, except that he hasn’t got the picture on the box to go by, and he’s picking out all the edge pieces.

He’s got a t-shirt, some weird magazines, and a memory of a narrow leather bracelet that he thinks might have been some sort of gift. There are things missing from his flat, and there’s the way they found him out in the park, fucked and drugged.

He taps his pencil eraser against the page. There’s more. He knows there’s more. He just needs to work it out somehow. And then it dawns on him.

There’s one other person he might have called sometime over the past three months if things had got weird. Maybe not weird in bed, but weird in general, and even if he didn’t tell her specifics about what was happening, she might remember something from a conversation they’d had, and that might give him something else to go on. He picks up his mobile and scrolls down until he finds her name.

“Yeah, Gwen? Andy. No, no, I’m not working. Listen, do you have time for a coffee? At Forte’s? Great. See you then.”

He snaps his mobile shut and grins. Brilliant.

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Prev (Pt #22) (Warnings: language, smut, and kink [masturbation, imagined D/s])
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Next (Pt #24) (Warnings: language, mainly.)