Pairing: Jack/Ianto, Ianto/OFC
Summary: They're changing, both of them, together.
Notes: This started out with me wanting to write some quick jealous!Jack fic but then it morphed into some kind of early season two extravaganza. And then fodian, that minx, brought some sexy sexy pornspiration and all of a sudden it was 6021 words. Situated sometime around 02.03/02.04 but no spoilers. Thoughts/comments are love.
It starts like this:
“I’m going out, Ianto. Can you lock up?”
Ianto barely looks up from his magazine. “Certainly, Jack.”
He’s slowly lost his taste for the word “Sir” since he and Jack started having sex. There is a certain way that Ianto can fit enough respect into “Jack” that it’s a good enough honorific on its own.
Jack stops. Ianto’s knows he’s not hesitating for any other reason so he looks up in time to see Jack smile at him fondly.
“I’ll see you later.”
Ianto smiles back. “Yes, Jack.” Jack leaves, his coat almost catching in the door. Ianto goes back to his magazine and idly wonders what he might do on a night without Jack.
As it turns out, Ianto goes out too. He doesn’t want or need to get drunk, but he does want to stretch out and feel young. Being wrapped up in silk and wool, starched and servile, makes Ianto feel old. Being with Jack helps. Ianto can feed off the crackling energy that Jack gives off and let it bring him back down to the level where he is a human being instead of one of the pillars of an institution. Jack’s not always around though. He comes and goes as he pleases, so Ianto has to find other means.
Wearing jeans and a t-shirt, Ianto could be anyone walking into the dark pulse of a nightclub he knows Jack will never end up at. Jack much prefers sitting and being sociable and charming to dancing when he goes out. Ianto likes that too, likes it with Jack especially, but there’s something about a club that makes his blood hum pleasantly.
He decides he can have one beer to set the mood of youth. Ianto buys his beer and sips it while he watches the heavy crowd. Everyone is sweaty and beautiful, almost glittering as they dance under the flashing lights. People touch and get touched, and no one minds. Ianto swallows and feels something inside of himself which is usually never at ease settle.
At first, all Ianto can see is the blur of flesh that makes up the crowd. He is out of practice at looking at people without using his analytical Torchwood lenses. It takes a few moments to stop looking for possible alien anomalies and instead look at breasts and pelvises and prominent cheekbones. The something inside of him is strangely unsatisfied by the uniform attractiveness of the people here and it tells him, Keep looking. So he drinks his beer and surveys.
There is a girl, anomalous but not alien. She’s wearing a pale, butter yellow blouse and jeans, heels. Ianto thinks she looks like she works a low-level position in an office building. No one ever notices her, but she fits in because that’s what offices are like. She probably likes to go out, but feels uncomfortable wearing anything other than the kind of clothes she might wear to work.
Ianto smiles. She is familiar to him. He puts down his empty beer bottle and walks towards her. When the girl sees him coming she grips her drink hard, terrified but trying not to show it.
“Would you like to dance?” Ianto asks when he’s close enough. He can see she’s maybe a year or two younger than him. Her hair is brown, painstakingly straight.
“I—Me?” She glances around, as if he’s made eye contact with the wrong girl. Ianto laughs and touches her bare forearm lightly. For a second she looks like she might bolt, but then her face sets into determination. She drinks some more of her drink, sets the glass down on a table carefully and lets Ianto take her hand.
A very familiar sight indeed.
As it turns out, her name is Mabyn. Ianto asks her on the way to the dance floor. She is obviously wary, but covering it well. When Ianto smiles at her, Mabyn smiles back and loops her arms around his neck. Putting his hands on her hips completes the connection. A song starts playing. It sounds like maybe it’s a Daft Punk song, and together, they fall into the same rhythm as everyone else.
They get through five songs before Mabyn pulls away, just a little. Her face is flushed and sweet looking.
“Would you like a drink?” She asks in the same combination of shyness and courage that Ianto knows Jack loves. Ianto kind of likes it too.
“Just one.” He decides to humour her. He orders a rum and coke and she gets a long island iced tea, obviously deciding that Ianto is safe enough for her to forego sobriety. They move to sit at a table to drink their drinks. Mabyn fidgets with the straw in her drink, courage ebbing a little.
“What do you do?” Ianto asks.
“Oh, I work in an office. I’m an intern.” Ianto knows “Intern” is just a term for all the worst jobs rolled into one neat, terrible package.
“Not very exciting, is it?”
“I do what I have to.”
Pleasure fires up in Ianto’s belly at that and he makes the snap decision to seduce this girl. Before he was just being nice to a stranger, but now it’s morphing into want. Mabyn is a pretty girl, a little unremarkable, maybe, but who can really know these things?
“What about you, Ianto?”
Ianto uses his best oh-it’s-boring-you-wouldn’t-like-it voice. “I work for an agency that collects artifacts.”
Mabyn tucks some hair behind her ear. The lobe is pierced twice, tiny gems in both holes.
Ianto shrugs, takes a large swallow of his drink. “It has its perks.” Thinking of Jack, he almost smirks. He pauses, and then finishes his drink. “What else do you do?”
He only means it as a lighthearted way to make conversation, but Mabyn isn’t receptive. She looks at his empty glass, then at his face. In three quick swallows she finishes her drink, and then stands. She takes his hand. Hers is cool from the glass, and smooth. Ianto knows she has perfect nails without looking.
“Come on,” Mabyn tugs on his hand, “let’s go dance.”
Ianto stands up but reverses the tug, bringing Mabyn close to his chest. He cups her hip but maintains a gentle grip. She looks up at him, blushing but holding his gaze steadily.
“I can think of something better,” Ianto says, low and promising. Mabyn blushes harder but accepts Ianto’s kiss and responds, her hands gripping his biceps. He kisses her sweet and easy, feeling powerful.
“Okay,” she whispers against his mouth. It sends a frisson down Ianto’s spine. She pulls away, collecting her coat and Ianto’s sweater from a chair, following Ianto through the crowd.
Outside it’s cool put not cold. Ianto zips up his sweater and starts towards his flat, confident Mabyn is behind him. He can hear her heels tapping off the sidewalk behind his left shoulder. At no point during the three block walk does Mabyn ask where they are going. Her explicit trust fires the feeling inside of Ianto more.
At his door he unlocks and lets Mabyn enter first. Inside of his flat is warm and still after being left alone for eighteen hours. He takes Mabyn’s coat and watches her creep into his dark living room, exploring the cautious way a new pet might. When Ianto catches up to her she’s fingering the photographs on the shelf beside his telly. There are a few pictures of Ianto’s Mam and Da, several of Lisa and one of Ianto and Tosh, both of them lightly flushed with liquor and smiling. Unfortunately, Ianto doesn’t have a picture of Jack to watch over all of the other pictures.
Mabyn doesn’t say anything, just smiles softly at Ianto and tilts her head up to kiss him. He winds his fingers into her dry, ruler-straight hair and presses close. Mabyn makes a sweet, little noise when Ianto’s tongue touches her lip.
“Upstairs,” he whispers into her mouth, warm hands guiding her through the deep dark.
Ianto’s bedroom is clean, sparse and done in shades of white and navy blue. Nothing he owns is out of place. Ianto even had the foresight to make the bed this morning. The only things in the room that have anything to do with Jack are Jack’s lightly thumbed copy of The English Patient on the bedside table and Ianto himself.
Mabyn doesn’t know about Jack, and obviously doesn’t care, pressing her mouth to his throat and her hands under his shirt. Ianto sighs and strokes her hair before lifting his arms to let his shirt come off. They kiss again, deeper and longer. Ianto starts undoing the buttons on the butter yellow blouse without needing to see them. When his fingers touch the soft skin of her stomach Mabyn inhales and he has to look.
Her skin is the same white Welsh shade as his own, faintly blue in the light. Her bra is plain white but obviously expensive. Ianto finds out her underwear match both in colour and quality.
The room is quiet except for the sound of their mouths moving together and the sound of zippers. It feels right this way, soft and sweet, a gift for a shy girl. Naked, Mabyn lets her eyes fall away from Ianto until he turns her chin with his hand.
“Lovely,” he insists, backing her onto his bed. Ianto is eager to explore and he does. He leaves spit shiny trails over her breasts and belly, smiling at her noises and movements. Her belly button is pierced, with a little butterfly charm. Ianto fingers it as he presses his tongue to her clit.
She moans, low, calling out for God. Ianto groans at the taste of her. This girl is the first person Ianto has slept with besides Jack since Lisa. Licking gently, fingers stroking Mabyn’s belly, Ianto can remember a time he was in her position. He can remember receiving the quiet, speculative attention and trying so hard to let go.
Mabyn shivers, touching the back of his neck and Ianto moves up her body again, wanting more. He plays with her nipple and slips fingers inside of her, sharing the taste on his tongue with her. Ianto could keep making comparisons but he doesn’t want to, not here in the dark.
Jack is always. This is right now.
In the morning Ianto is relaxed and glad he has woken up early enough to shower before he goes to work. It’s barely six-thirty and Ianto is already out and almost done shaving. He grins at his reflection, leaning down to splash water on his face. There is a pretty girl sleeping naked in his bed, and he’s not going to be late for work. When he straightens back up, he can see Mabyn’s reflection, pale skin, mussed hair and his t-shirt. She comes without being beckoned, and presses a condom into his hand.
She says, “Please,” and Ianto can’t resist.
Ianto’s not going to be late for work, but he’s cutting it close. It’s almost eight, but Ianto has to drive Mabyn home and she lives past the Plass. He’ll have to double back but he doesn’t really mind. Aside from the customary car noises it’s quiet, but far from uncomfortable. Mabyn is smiling out the passenger side even as she points out her flat.
She goes, giving Ianto a kiss and her quiet thanks. Ianto watches until she’s safely inside before driving away. He has coffee to make and a world to keep safe, but it is nice to feel normal for a while.
Ianto gets to work at three minutes after eight. He’s still earlier than everyone else. Even the lights in Jack’s office are dim, no sign that Jack has emerged from his room yet. That’s okay, Ianto has chores to do anyways.
Gwen and Tosh come in one right after the other at eleven after as Ianto’s climbing down from the pterodactyl’s nest. They are cheery, talking about the not-so-terrible weather as they wave to Ianto. Six minutes later, Owen is not so chipper.
“Coffee,” he grumbles on his way past. Ianto rolls his eyes and the lights in Jack’s office flick on. Ianto makes coffee, but Owen gets his second last and Ianto puts it on the very corner of the desk, far away from Owen’s shaky hangover fingers.
Jack always gets his last, but it’s not in any way a slight on Ianto’s part.
The door is open and Ianto can see Jack sitting at his desk, copying notes from rumpled golden pages into a notebook. With his head bent in concentration, Jack is keeping Torchwood history alive in long, precise strokes. Ianto finds the dedication sexy.
Without looking up Jack says, “Owen, I need you to get me some files out the morgue.” Jack puts down his pen, pulling more old papers towards him. “The Destroljik case #69875…”
Case files have seven digit codes assigned to them. Jack stops because he’s finally looked up to see Ianto standing there with his coffee. Jack’s looking at him like he’s never seen Ianto before in his life.
“Good morning, Jack.” There’s not quite a question mark after ‘Jack’, but it’s close. Ianto sets Jack’s coffee in front of him and Jack’s eyes narrow for just a moment. But then his face smoothes out and he smiles.
“Mornin’, Ianto…How are you?”
“Well, Jack. Yourself?”
“Just dandy.” By this time Jack’s smile is tight. It falters and Jack lets it go.
Suddenly, it’s awkward. Ianto smiles tightly too, and backs away quickly. Jack watches him, inscrutable. At the door Ianto turns away, frowning, wondering what kind of charade just took place. Jack should know better than to try and fake it in front of Ianto.
Ianto always knows. He used to make his living here faking it.
By lunchtime, Jack is stormy and shut up in his office. The rest of the team share glances but nothing is forthcoming. Gwen tries to be subtle and convey that Ianto should go fix whatever is wrong just by using those big eyes of hers. Ianto copies her expression, and Owen laughs when he sees Ianto’s mimicry and Gwen’s accompanying scowl. If something’s wrong Jack can either come out with it or get over it.
The Rift is quiet, letting them simmer under Jack’s anger. Ianto minds the Office, makes coffee, feeds the weevils and when he has time he stares up at Jack’s office. If Jack had a bad night maybe Ianto can press it out of him. Ianto cleans a containment cell just in case it’s something more Torchwood happening.
Owen is the first to leave. At a quarter past five he’s packed up, leather jacket on, standing as close to Jack’s office as he dares. His face is full of sour courage, the kind that says, “I’m fully intent on doing exactly what I want unless you say ‘No’ loud enough.” Ianto watches him clench his fists once before hollering in the direction of Jack’s office:
“Alright, Harkness, I’m goin’ home. Nothing to do here!” Owen leaves out the just try and stop me, but Ianto thinks it’s plenty loud. All the same, Owen might as well have just dug a hole in the ground and yelled into it for all the response he gets. Owen’s hands go loose and he saunters out, confident he’s not actually breaking any rules because Jack didn’t stop him.
Tosh and Gwen take their cue from Owen and slink out too, all of their cheer for Ianto from this morning turned into uneasy smiles and Gwen’s mutter about the immortal and their moods.
Ianto waits ten minutes, staring out the window of the Tourist Office, watching people walking outside. Then he turns the sign in the window to Closed and locks the door before heading back down to the Hub. Now that the people are leaving, Myfanwy is bedding down for the night, the rustling in her nest under the sound of the ventilation. The light in Jack’s office is on and the doors are still closed. Ianto takes his time getting to Jack’s office.
True to Jack form the doors aren’t actually locked, just sealed with bad vibes. Ianto knocks gently, knuckles on wood, to announce himself and to gather luck before opening the door to slip inside. Jack is sitting at his desk and there is not a paper in sight. The multitude of objects that rest on Jack’s desk have been grouped according to size and colour, Ianto notes.
Jack’s forearms are crossed on his desk and he’s looking at Ianto. His smirk and dark eyes would be welcome if there wasn’t cruelty in the darkness. Ianto looks at Jack from across the room, and the moment stretches long. He doesn’t know what to say to smooth the anger out of Jack.
Ianto’s not even sure why Jack’s so angry.
“Did you have fun?” Jack asks, snapping the moment in two.
“What?” Ianto hasn’t laughed all day.
Steepling his fingers, Jack considers Ianto for a moment. He tilts his head up and takes a slow breath before speaking.
“Your one-night stand. Was it fun?”
Ianto swallows heavily and leans back on the door. The smirk on Jack’s face recedes and he’s left looking more hurt than anything else. Ianto searches Jack’s face, unsure of what to look for. He puts his clammy hands into his trouser pockets.
“How did you know?”
For half a second Jack looks offended but it’s gone almost as fast as it comes. Ianto sees it anyways.
“I can smell her on you.” The cold smirk comes back.
Before he can help himself, Ianto laughs. Of course Jack can smell Mabyn on him. The man can taste the hormones in the bloody rain. Ianto forgets about Jack’s more animal side sometimes.
“Her pussy, Ianto. It’s all over you. Her mouth, her skin, her perfume.” Jack levels his gaze at Ianto’s. “So…Was it good for you?”
Ianto thinks he should say something witty about how acute Jack’s senses are, or maybe even just step forward until he can touch Jack.
Instead, Ianto says, “Fuck you.”
Mabyn doesn’t deserve Jack’s degradation, Ianto knows. She needs the kind of gentleness and warmth Ianto used to cling to, and Ianto won’t let Jack taint that.
The air in Jack’s office turns thick with emotional electricity. Ianto can feel Jack’s anger pressing hot up against his face, so close to being smothering. His fingers rub together restlessly in his pockets and he can’t stare Jack down. He wants out.
“Get out,” Jack growls.
Ianto turns on his heels and leaves Jack in his stifling office. The air outside is downright frigid in comparison. As Ianto walks to his car he can’t help thinking, Jack, you bastard. And the thought lingers as he drives by Mabyn’s house on his way home, glad because he did do the right thing for her, Jack be damned.
Jack be fucking damned.
When Ianto gets home he sits at his kitchen table and leans down to put his head on the cool wood. None of the lights in his flat are on, letting the darkness from outside creep in.
Whatever he and Jack have, it’s not built on sexual fidelity. It’s always been this way. Loyalty is important, but that’s part of the Torchwood contract anyways. Ianto thinks that maybe he loves Jack, and he knows Jack cares but Ianto never even thought to ask Jack for monogamy. He didn’t want to demand beyond his station and Jack didn’t make any promises. Ianto’s greedy, but he’s not stupid.
Fortunately, he never had to ask for more because Jack was always willing to give, receive and everything in between. Taking other lovers seemed like it would be too exhausting, given the kind of life Ianto leads.
Ianto doesn’t care what Jack does when he goes out. Jack can fuck whoever he wants however many times he wants as long as Ianto gets his little slice of time. Inside of this slice of time Ianto knows Jack makes a point of telling Ianto after he’s been with someone else. All Ianto ever does is say, “Alright,” playing with Jack’s braces, ready for Jack’s kiss. Honestly, he thinks Jack cares more about it.
He had meant to extend Jack the same courtesy this morning. Jack was going to get a confession with his coffee. But…Ianto smirks down at his knees, Jack hadn’t needed any clues.
There’s something vaguely sexy about the fact that Jack knows his smell. The fact that Jack is probably immersed in Ianto’s smell any time he’s around and knows the minute differences in it is enormously sexy.
The sexiness isn’t nearly enough to forgive Jack his behavior though. Ianto refuses to cater to a jealous Jack, not when this is the one time they can be equal.
Sighing, Ianto lifts his head. The kitchen is almost fully dark and Ianto feels worn out even though it’s hardly seven. He decides, split second, that he’s going to eat, shower and then go to sleep. Fighting with someone you care about is just as normal as a one-night stand with someone you really don’t care about. But normality is taxing, and Ianto is tired from a day of skulking around in the liminal space between it and Torchwood.
Ianto wakes up more tired than when he went to sleep. His night was a tangle of blurry apparitions: Mabyn, Jack, himself. The three of them had come together in surprising and sometimes violent combinations. Standing in the shower scrubbing heavy hands over his face Ianto can’t forget the possessiveness of Jack’s eyes or the way Ianto had to hold Mabyn close to protect her. He especially remembers the warring uncertainty and desire he could feel in Mabyn through her fine, white skin.
For the seconds while Ianto rinses his hair he wishes for the nights when he used to dream about just being eaten by some unimaginable monster. Those were simpler times.
He gets to work early and does the chores. Then he leans against the desk in the Tourist Office, eyes half closed until Tosh comes in. They yawn at each other and Tosh waits with him, drawing hearts on a post-it until Owen saunters in.
“Coffee time!” Owen crows, rubbing his hands together.
Ianto opens the door to the Hub, nudging Tosh along gently in front of him.
“Good pull?” He asks Owen.
Owen grins, so huge his lips threaten to disappear. “Bloody fantastic pull, Ianto. Blonde, huge tits,” he holds his hands in front of his chest to demonstrate. Tosh snorts as Ianto branches off into the kitchen. He gets to the coffee machine, and then backtracks to look out at Jack’s office.
The lights are on and the door is open. Ianto almost smiles, not that anyone can see.
Any sort of good mood garnered by that brief moment of what at first appeared to be compromise is easily crushed by Jack’s smothering presence. The first few hours of all Torchwood work days are usually simply the time for tying up loose ends. There is no need for Jack to hover around, oozing smarmy charm and smiling at everyone but Ianto.
He doesn’t even drink the coffee Ianto makes for him. Ianto finds that a little offensive. But he makes himself drink Jack’s coffee, in full view of Jack, both to be spiteful and to cut down on waste. Jack’s mouth twitches at the sight of his mug in Ianto’s hand.
They both spend the rest of the day on the offense. Jack is snide, cutting in whenever Ianto opens his mouth. To retaliate Ianto stops anticipating Jack’s needs, becoming a cool ghost unaware of Jack. Ianto does a good job. Jack misses out on two coffees and a muffin, his hands twitching every time Ianto passes by.
At lunchtime Ianto is sitting at Tosh’s desk waiting for her to finish fixing Jack’s computer so they can go out to eat. He’s drawing rows of small, neat stars on a post-it to decorate her monitor when Jack comes up behind him.
Jack lets one hand fall onto the back of Tosh’s chair, the other on the desk. Ianto is stuck between Jack and the tower of Tosh’s computer. He looks at Jack, going for unreadable, paused between one star and the next. The look on Jack’s face is the work-friendly echo of last night.
“Ianto, I’m going to need you to skip lunch and clean up the Archive. ‘I’ is a disaster.”
There is no doubt the ‘I’ section is where Jack has been for the past twenty minutes. Ianto is horrified at the thought of what Jack could have done.
“Don’t worry,” Jack smiles, all teeth just like a shark, “I’ll take Tosh out for you. No problem.”
Ianto pulls a glaring face but Jack lets him slide away. Faintly, he can hear Tosh asking after him and Jack’s rumbling, charming laugh in reply. The back of Ianto’s neck prickles with anger and embarrassment as he heads into the darkness of the Archive.
At four-thirty Ianto emerges, dusty from hours of sorting papers. It turns out Jack had tromped through both ‘I’ and ‘J’, dragging files from both all around. Even though he’s not supposed to Ianto is angry enough to lock the Archives. Coming up into the Hub Ianto resolves to keep them locked until this is all over.
Tosh, Owen and Gwen aren’t around to see Ianto wolf down a bagel, nearly choking himself in the process.
Jack is in his office, copying history. It’s still sexy. Ianto hates that he notices. Slapping his hands down on Jack’s desk hard enough to startle the man behind it helps.
“We need to talk.”
“Do we?” Jack settles his hands on top of the papers casually but the eagerness on his face is obvious.
“Yes. Come to mine after work. Eight.” Ianto turns quick before this fight happens in the middle of Torchwood.
He completely misses the look on Jack’s face.
It’s seven-fifty and Ianto feels sharp and reckless. He thinks he’s ready for Jack to walk through the door but he’s also terrified of what could happen. Something could go wrong and this could be it.
But Ianto knows he’s right about this. Jack doesn’t get to be a possessive bully if Ianto doesn’t. It’s only fair. Still, Ianto takes off his tie to make breathing easier. He sits down at the kitchen table and covers his eyes with one hand. Drawing deep breaths, Ianto wills his courage up. He shouldn’t bend to Jack, he won’t bend. No.
Jack knocks once before letting himself in. Ianto checks, and Jack is five minutes early. He watches Jack take off his shoes and his greatcoat. In the doorway to Ianto’s kitchen Jack is imposing, taking up too much space. Ianto looks up at Jack, feeling his frustration well up at the sight of Jack’s appraising glance.
“You don’t own me, Jack.” It’s a good start, Ianto thinks, if the way Jack’s face turns dark is any indication.
“I don’t? I think you’re wrong here. All of you are mine.”
Ianto stands to face Jack, anger sweeping through him like hot wind. “Not me. Not like this.”
Jack just arches his eyebrow, hands on his hips, incredulous.
“We never made any rules for this, this…whatever it is,” Ianto’s voice is escalating, slowly, with power. “So you can’t bounce between pretending like it doesn’t matter when it’s you, and having it matter when it’s me!”
Jack crosses his arms, growling, “It does matter when it’s you.”
“Why, Jack? Because you can’t fucking die? I can, so I have to be a good boy for you until the day I go?”
“And then you can move on to someone else. Another sweet, blinking trophy in your bed in awe of Immortal Jack. So insignificant. A speck in your time.”
Ianto comes to stand close to Jack, unwilling to be put off by Jack’s stature. He’s angry, feeling much larger than his physical self, willing to weather the fire in Jack’s eyes. They’re almost toe-to-toe.
“Is that what you think, Ianto?” Jack asks. “You’re a trophy? Something to put on a high shelf and forget, let it get covered in dust? Huh. That’s not how I see it. I see it as having to watch someone—you run around, getting shot at and clawed and god knows what else and knowing that eventually, for whatever reason, you won’t be there any more. Somehow, this has to be okay for me.
“So, if I want to have you close while I can, then that’s what I’m going to goddamn do, get it?”
Jack spits it out like it burns him but Ianto stops because he can see the fear in Jack’s eyes behind the anger. Christ, Jack is afraid of the end of them. Jack watches Ianto watching him.
Ianto meets Jack’s kiss halfway. Jack pulls him close, greedy fingers spanning Ianto’s flanks while Ianto grips his biceps. He’s not angry any more, not really. Now he just wants with a fierceness that brings his heart into his throat and threatens to choke him. Dizzy, Ianto thinks, Jack is afraid for you. Keep him, keep him.
Jack tries to cling when Ianto pulls away but Ianto pushes his hands off long enough to grab his discarded tie off the table. He circles around behind Jack, pulling first one hand back and then the other. Jack lays his wrists together without being asked. Hurriedly, Ianto binds Jack’s wrists together in a simple knot.
He comes back around and they kiss again, quick and biting. Ianto presses into Jack, rubbing against the straight of his body, arms over Jack’s shoulders. He sucks on Jack’s tongue the way he knows Jack likes and Jack makes a harsh noise, jerking his mouth away from Ianto’s.
“Sit down.” It’s a command, but not a Torchwood command. Here, Jack is Ianto’s, maybe. He doesn’t know yet. Ianto sits in the chair he had pulled out from the table and Jack falls to his knees, muscling in between Ianto’s thighs. He looks up at Ianto, wanting and expectant.
“God, Jack…” It’s almost a whine.
As soon as Ianto unzips his trousers Jack is there, nuzzling his nose and mouth in between the two sides of the zipper. Ianto moans, holding the fabric apart, letting Jack breathe hot against him.
“Is it good?” Ianto asks, looking down on Jack’s eager mouth and tied hands.
“It’s you. It’s just you,” Jack groans, mouthing Ianto’s cock.
God, it’s fucking hot that Jack knows him like this. Ianto admits it to himself, pushing himself up into Jack’s face. With the way Jack is Ianto doesn’t think anyone else can ever know him this intimately.
He wonders if Jack can hear his heartbeat.
Jack licks at the fabric of Ianto’s underwear impatiently, “Gimme.”
Laughing, Ianto gives Jack what he wants, pulling his cock out and almost getting his fingers swallowed in the process. He trails those moist fingers across Jack’s cheek to thread through the thick hair above the nape of his neck. His head is heavy and Ianto lets it drop back, faintly wishing they were in the living room or the bedroom. But anything, everything is fine with Jack, Jack wrapped around him like this.
Jack sucks him slow and hard, pulling back to lick whenever Ianto’s fingers tighten in his hair. He’s moaning in between heaving breaths, making more noise than Ianto. Ianto doesn’t think he can draw in enough air to make that much noise. He looks up at the shadows on the ceiling and prays to God silently, fervently. The muscles in his belly clench as Jack’s tongue presses flat against his cock.
“Jack, I…” Ianto’s not sure what to say. Maybe there is nothing to say to Jack right now. This isn’t just sex, this is worship on Jack’s part, his penance for the sins of wrath and envy. Two out of seven isn’t bad, and Ianto’s not really counting lust.
From his knees, mouth spread wide, Jack does his best to smile. It’s positively filthy. Ianto arches up hard and groans.
“Let me—Let me do this.”
And Jack, Jack just licks him once before letting his mouth go slack. Ianto winds both hands into Jack’s stiff hair and pushes into the heat of Jack’s mouth. He has to squeeze his eyes closed and dig his left heel into the linoleum to try and keep control. Fucking Jack’s mouth offers the kind of power that makes Ianto’s own mouth drop open.
It feels amazing, the pleasure drawing him in the same way Jack’s mouth does. The sucking sounds of them coming together, Jack’s breath, the scuffing of his knees, Ianto’s breathless whimpers, they all press into Ianto. Jack is so warm, mouth, scalp, the heat from his body and Ianto’s skin is tingling under his work clothes. Ianto feels vibrant and alive.
He wants to be gentle, tries to be careful with Jack’s mouth because this is a gift. But he can’t. He has to press and to take because Ianto is guilty of the same sins as Jack but he never knew it before.
“Jack,” Ianto calls out, loud in the quiet kitchen. Around him, Jack moans, vibrations passing into the skin of Ianto’s cock and finding harmony with the motion of his taut muscles. Making a helpless noise Ianto tries to hold off, not looking at his cock slipping wet into Jack.
He can’t, can’t, can’t. This should last forever so that Ianto doesn’t have to depend on memory. Nothing can compare to the sweltering reality of this and Ianto’s afraid to lose it. But…he just can’t wait. Ianto moans long and low and comes, arching up harder than he should. He keeps his eyes shut because seeing himself come into Jack’s mouth would be too much, he knows.
Jack lets him go after a long moment and Ianto hears the heavy swallow. He struggles to catch his breath as he tucks himself back into his underwear. It’s not worth it to zip up his trousers though.
“Ianto.” Jack’s voice is rough, scraped raw by Ianto. Ianto hears him shuffling for a second and then one of Jack’s hands finds Ianto’s knee. He makes himself look.
Jack’s mouth is shiny and bruised, beautiful. The look on his face is dark, but more open than it has looked in the past two days or perhaps ever. Ianto can see the want in his eyes and the satisfaction. But he can also see a measure of uncertainty in the curve of Jack’s mouth. It occurs to him that Jack had worried about this too. He wanted everything to work out the same way Ianto did.
Ianto slides off the kitchen chair and onto his knees between Jack’s. Jack embraces him, cherry red tie in a stretched-out knot sliding down his left arm. Letting his own arms go around Jack’s shoulders Ianto leans into Jack. He can feel the thrum of Jack’s body and Jack leans in too.
He could say something, maybe should say something. His bed is sixteen stairs away. They could stumble their way up there and Ianto could let Jack do whatever he wants to. They will probably make it there eventually. For now though, Ianto presses against Jack and breathes him in.
Ianto knows Jack’s smell. It’s sharp, spicy, underlined with salt and something a little metallic, like gunpowder maybe. This is Jack, the Jack he knows. He doesn’t know the smell the way Jack knows his, but on some level knowing is just that: knowing, nothing more or less. Breathing deep, smiling into the warm skin of Jack’s neck and rubbing his back Ianto loves this knowledge. He wants to hold it close, away from prying fingers and curious mouths, only his to savour and to remember always.
Ianto and Jack, maybe they’re not so different after all.