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!"

I.

"Move, move, move!" Ianto shouted in his face, spit flying everywhere and mingling with Jack's sweat. "Pick up those feet and run, dammit!"

It was worse than being in the army. Both times. Ianto Jones was a taskmaster of the worst sort, pushing Jack harder than he'd ever been pushed. And he'd lived through two World Wars, not to mention over a hundred years of Torchwood. Which was after he'd traveled across the galaxy, visiting dozens of planets over the course of several years, two of which had been spent in a mind-numbing time loop with John Hart.

Yet Ianto Jones, personal trainer, was nothing compared to his weapons instructor in the Time Agency. Or Emily Holroyd of Torchwood Three. Or his platoon leader in boot camp. Or the two guys who'd been about to execute him that time on—

"Come on, you fucking nancy, lift those knees like your life depends on it!"

Which it clearly didn't. Sometimes Jack wanted to accidentally kill himself to get out of another workout, but he was fairly sure Ianto would be standing over him, still shouting, when he revived. Hell, he'd probably have a bucket of ice water ready to dump on Jack to wake him up faster, and then he'd put Jack right back on the treadmill, or the elliptical, or the weight machines, shouting obscenities the entire time.

When Jack had found Ianto working out in the small exercise room in the Hub late one night, he'd thought it was the hottest thing he'd ever seen. So he'd joined him. And he'd been so out of shape compared to Ianto that he'd asked Ianto to help him out, thinking it was a good way to spend more time with the attractive Welshman, and Jack was pretty sure there would be sex. Eventually.

And he'd been right, there had had sex, and quickly, but as great as the sex was, sometimes he wondered if it was worth the brutal workouts. He didn't need to be in gold medal shape, he only needed to be able to run down aliens a few times a week. And he didn't need mind-blowing sex every day, he just wanted a good shag now and—

No, strike that. He needed the sex, which meant he needed the exercise, which meant he needed Ianto Jones.

He just hoped he survived another workout.