Author's Note:
This is a work of fiction, and not my usual. It is completely tongue-in-cheek, at least until the end. There are references to multiple addictions in these drabbles. Please heed the following tags: sex, drugs, gambling, dom/sub. No offense is meant and I hope none will be taken. I hope you will read it as it was meant to be read: with a laugh, a smile, a slightly uncomfortable frown, perhaps a sad sigh, and maybe an occasional "Awww!"
II.
Of course Jack was addicted to sex. Had been for years, decades even. There had been times when he'd managed fine, other times when he'd struggled both physically and mentally, disgust and shame almost overwhelming during his nightly visits to the local clubs and parks. But it had been a long time since those dark lows, and when he'd taken over Torchwood, so much of his energy had been directed toward basic survival that he hadn't had much time for anything more than occasional sex for much needed release.
Which wasn't to say that he suddenly became celibate, but sex didn't consume him, night and day, as it had at other points in his life. Now, however, he felt the old urges and desires beginning to return. Torchwood still sucked the life out of him most days, but ever since he'd fallen on top of and hired Ianto Jones, Jack had been hard for him. Literally.
What was strange was that Ianto had picked up on it immediately, expertly deflected it, and somehow got Jack to talk about it without judging him whatsoever—about his attraction to almost everyone he'd met, his struggles with needing so much sex, his numerous kinks, even his burning desire for Ianto. And Ianto had counseled him through it, without condemning him, rejecting him, or—unfortunately—touching him even once.
Jack wondered if the young man had gone through his own struggles with sex and was passing on what he'd learned, or if he was really that intuitive and should be a professional therapist instead of a secret agent slash personal assistant. And while he appreciated it at times, there were other times when Jack wanted nothing more than to shut the man up by taking Ianto's cock in his mouth until the Welshman shouted his name and came hard on his tongue.
He thought about ending their curious but calming conversations, about going out on the pull again every night, coming in sore and exhausted the next day, full of shame and hatred. And then he thought about Ianto Jones in a pin-stripe suit and that silken voice talking him down from the ledge, and he knew he needed Ianto more than he needed empty, anonymous sex.
Though maybe if he played things right, he could tumble his sex therapist into bed and solve all his problems at once.