More fic~
Title: Forever
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Warnings: slightly-graphic mentions of sex, probably NSFW
Spoilers: vague spoilers for S01E04, Cyberwoman and S2E12, Fragments
Rating: R
Genre: established relationship, stream-of-consciousness, part angst, part fluff
Word Count: ~1,260
Summary: Ianto was never like this with Lisa.
Notes: I really don't know where this came from today. XD; Just a random bit of inspiration, that hopefully didn't turn out too sappy. ;) Basically Ianto's rambling thoughts on Jack, and their relationship.
(x-posted to jackxianto)
Ianto was never like this with Lisa.
He pants. Groans. Lets out filthy little expletives here and there against Jack’s collarbone, his jaw, his chest. He bites his lip until he draws blood, and then he comes, over and over and over again, in pulsing waves of brilliance that honestly make him wonder how he ever managed to live and breathe without this.
It wasn’t like this, before, Lisa.
Well, of course it wasn’t, a voice somewhere in his brain tells him with just a hint of sarcasm, as Jack buries himself further and further inside Ianto, and Ianto’s balls tighten with Jack’s every thrust--of course it wasn’t like this, because that would be anatomically impossible, among other things.
Jack has turned him into someone else.
And at first Ianto thought he hated him for it.
Hated himself, for putting on his best suit to track down a dinosaur, of all things--grasping--and then he hated Jack, and hated himself even more because the damn suit had worked.
Jack had turned him into something else and now, half the time Ianto barely remembers who he was before this.
He begs, shamelessly, and then he makes Jack beg--pushes Jack onto his knees, shoves his cock down Jack’s throat, and loves every second of it, because Jack is really, really good at this, sucking and licking and swallowing and humming, to the point where Ianto feels sometimes like Jack is sucking out his very soul, whatever’s left of it.
He gets himself off on CCTV footage of Jack sitting at his desk bent over paperwork. Shoves his hand down into his pants and tugs at his erection as he watches Jack frown, pick up the phone, set it down again, scribble his signature onto a stack of papers, Jack’s hand making that deliberate swipe over and over and over--god.
He wonders if he should be concerned, wonders if these Jack-induced changes are permanent, and if they are, if that would be good, or a very, very bad thing.
He wasn’t like this with Lisa.
It’s this, more than his betrayal, more than what he’d been found hiding deep in the depths of the hub--it’s this that Ianto considers his biggest secret.
He loved Lisa. Sure he did.
Not quite as selflessly as he loves Jack though.
He would’ve given his life to protect Lisa, but not for the reasons they thought. He’d risked everything, but mostly…mostly he just didn’t want to let her go. What she went through must have been torture. He’d felt it every day she was there, down below the hub, moaning in pain. He was keeping her alive for himself, and it hurt like hell, knowing that.
Jack knew. He could see it in Jack’s eyes that night-he knew.
He knew, and still… still…
Jack had changed Ianto. Every single day, in little ways, changed him. Ianto would put his life on the line for Jack in a heartbeat over and over again because his heart wouldn’t allow him to have it any other way, no matter how many times he reminded himself that it wasn’t necessary, that Jack would come back.
For Jack, Ianto’s heart had grown.
Sometimes, late at night, after they’d fucked for hours and hours, Jack would talk to him. Tell him things, stories from another time. Ianto listened with undivided attention, cataloging everything, holding everything as close to his heart as he could, so that later, on other nights, the ones where Jack would clam up, cold and unreachable, Ianto could remember them and relate them back to Jack to remind him of all the lives he’d lived, all the life he still had ahead of him.
He knows it won’t end well.
That one day he’ll be gone, another wave in Jack’s endless, undulating sea of losses.
He worries sometimes, what Jack will do without him. It feels silly, like Jack’s ego rubbing off on him, but that’s not it, not really. It’s just that he can feel their connection, somewhere deep in the core of who he is, and he just knows. Jack can’t find this anywhere else.
It’s a complex puzzle, the path to Jack’s heart. So many moving parts, everything fitted and slotted together perfectly. He’s found it though, and honestly, if he could, he’d pass along the information so that someone else could find it too, once he’s gone, but he knows it’s not that easy.
He loves Jack. Loves him with every fiber of himself, every molecule, every pulse, every brainwave. Jack has changed him, made him better, made him whole, and Jack has broken him too, over and over again, but it doesn’t matter.
Ianto knows he can’t ever be everything.
He can be a lot of it though. The best parts, maybe--the most fun. He can be the brightness, the happiness in Jack’s eyes, the joy.
Ianto was never like this with Lisa. Not with anyone. Not men, not women, just Jack.
He pants and moans and writhes and laughs and fucks and is everything he can be for Jack, and he doesn’t ever for a second forget that Jack knows. Who he was before this, and who he’ll be at the end.
Because really, Ianto wanted to be changed. Had been waiting for this, maybe for his entire life.
Ever since that first night in the cold, with the weevil, when Jack had seemed so alone. He wasn’t, of course, not really, but in the darkness, when it was just them, it had seemed that way.
And Ianto had decided then and there that he wanted to be something different, something better. For Lisa, to help her, but no, not for Lisa, not really. For this man standing in front of him.
To become someone who could take away some of the loneliness in Jack’s eyes.
Ianto was a firm believer in taking life as it came. At walking through doors when they opened. But Ianto had never wanted anything as badly as he’d wanted Jack.
It was for Lisa, at first, of course it was, but… When Ianto looked at Jack he felt like Jack was seeing through him, sometimes, peeling back all the layers, laying him bare. He hadn’t even realized how badly he’d wanted someone to see him, to really, really see him until that night with Lisa when everything went wrong, and the bodies, and the blood, and Jack dying, and waking up drowning in Jack’s mouth.
It had been appalling, and disgusting, and the biggest thrill of his life.
Ianto didn’t really believe in fate, but somehow, he believed in Jack, believed that he’d landed here at Jack’s side for a reason, for a purpose.
And so he’d stayed, and it had hurt, and it had been wonderful, and the sex--the sex had been amazing, and dirty and so many other that things Ianto had never ever thought he’d want, or feel.
He’d stayed, and he was here now, in Jack’s arms, coming apart again, and again, and again and he loved it, would stay forever, if he could.
He hoped he could.
He hoped it was long, the time that they had. He hoped it stretched on for days and months and years and lifetimes--with Jack, anything felt possible.
He couldn’t think of it as finite, wouldn’t.
He couldn’t think of them as finite, like he couldn’t think of Jack as finite--Jack, stretching across time and space, forever. That’s how they would be, how he’d chosen to live.
Forever.
***
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Warnings: slightly-graphic mentions of sex, probably NSFW
Spoilers: vague spoilers for S01E04, Cyberwoman and S2E12, Fragments
Rating: R
Genre: established relationship, stream-of-consciousness, part angst, part fluff
Word Count: ~1,260
Summary: Ianto was never like this with Lisa.
Notes: I really don't know where this came from today. XD; Just a random bit of inspiration, that hopefully didn't turn out too sappy. ;) Basically Ianto's rambling thoughts on Jack, and their relationship.
(x-posted to jackxianto)
Ianto was never like this with Lisa.
He pants. Groans. Lets out filthy little expletives here and there against Jack’s collarbone, his jaw, his chest. He bites his lip until he draws blood, and then he comes, over and over and over again, in pulsing waves of brilliance that honestly make him wonder how he ever managed to live and breathe without this.
It wasn’t like this, before, Lisa.
Well, of course it wasn’t, a voice somewhere in his brain tells him with just a hint of sarcasm, as Jack buries himself further and further inside Ianto, and Ianto’s balls tighten with Jack’s every thrust--of course it wasn’t like this, because that would be anatomically impossible, among other things.
Jack has turned him into someone else.
And at first Ianto thought he hated him for it.
Hated himself, for putting on his best suit to track down a dinosaur, of all things--grasping--and then he hated Jack, and hated himself even more because the damn suit had worked.
Jack had turned him into something else and now, half the time Ianto barely remembers who he was before this.
He begs, shamelessly, and then he makes Jack beg--pushes Jack onto his knees, shoves his cock down Jack’s throat, and loves every second of it, because Jack is really, really good at this, sucking and licking and swallowing and humming, to the point where Ianto feels sometimes like Jack is sucking out his very soul, whatever’s left of it.
He gets himself off on CCTV footage of Jack sitting at his desk bent over paperwork. Shoves his hand down into his pants and tugs at his erection as he watches Jack frown, pick up the phone, set it down again, scribble his signature onto a stack of papers, Jack’s hand making that deliberate swipe over and over and over--god.
He wonders if he should be concerned, wonders if these Jack-induced changes are permanent, and if they are, if that would be good, or a very, very bad thing.
He wasn’t like this with Lisa.
It’s this, more than his betrayal, more than what he’d been found hiding deep in the depths of the hub--it’s this that Ianto considers his biggest secret.
He loved Lisa. Sure he did.
Not quite as selflessly as he loves Jack though.
He would’ve given his life to protect Lisa, but not for the reasons they thought. He’d risked everything, but mostly…mostly he just didn’t want to let her go. What she went through must have been torture. He’d felt it every day she was there, down below the hub, moaning in pain. He was keeping her alive for himself, and it hurt like hell, knowing that.
Jack knew. He could see it in Jack’s eyes that night-he knew.
He knew, and still… still…
Jack had changed Ianto. Every single day, in little ways, changed him. Ianto would put his life on the line for Jack in a heartbeat over and over again because his heart wouldn’t allow him to have it any other way, no matter how many times he reminded himself that it wasn’t necessary, that Jack would come back.
For Jack, Ianto’s heart had grown.
Sometimes, late at night, after they’d fucked for hours and hours, Jack would talk to him. Tell him things, stories from another time. Ianto listened with undivided attention, cataloging everything, holding everything as close to his heart as he could, so that later, on other nights, the ones where Jack would clam up, cold and unreachable, Ianto could remember them and relate them back to Jack to remind him of all the lives he’d lived, all the life he still had ahead of him.
He knows it won’t end well.
That one day he’ll be gone, another wave in Jack’s endless, undulating sea of losses.
He worries sometimes, what Jack will do without him. It feels silly, like Jack’s ego rubbing off on him, but that’s not it, not really. It’s just that he can feel their connection, somewhere deep in the core of who he is, and he just knows. Jack can’t find this anywhere else.
It’s a complex puzzle, the path to Jack’s heart. So many moving parts, everything fitted and slotted together perfectly. He’s found it though, and honestly, if he could, he’d pass along the information so that someone else could find it too, once he’s gone, but he knows it’s not that easy.
He loves Jack. Loves him with every fiber of himself, every molecule, every pulse, every brainwave. Jack has changed him, made him better, made him whole, and Jack has broken him too, over and over again, but it doesn’t matter.
Ianto knows he can’t ever be everything.
He can be a lot of it though. The best parts, maybe--the most fun. He can be the brightness, the happiness in Jack’s eyes, the joy.
Ianto was never like this with Lisa. Not with anyone. Not men, not women, just Jack.
He pants and moans and writhes and laughs and fucks and is everything he can be for Jack, and he doesn’t ever for a second forget that Jack knows. Who he was before this, and who he’ll be at the end.
Because really, Ianto wanted to be changed. Had been waiting for this, maybe for his entire life.
Ever since that first night in the cold, with the weevil, when Jack had seemed so alone. He wasn’t, of course, not really, but in the darkness, when it was just them, it had seemed that way.
And Ianto had decided then and there that he wanted to be something different, something better. For Lisa, to help her, but no, not for Lisa, not really. For this man standing in front of him.
To become someone who could take away some of the loneliness in Jack’s eyes.
Ianto was a firm believer in taking life as it came. At walking through doors when they opened. But Ianto had never wanted anything as badly as he’d wanted Jack.
It was for Lisa, at first, of course it was, but… When Ianto looked at Jack he felt like Jack was seeing through him, sometimes, peeling back all the layers, laying him bare. He hadn’t even realized how badly he’d wanted someone to see him, to really, really see him until that night with Lisa when everything went wrong, and the bodies, and the blood, and Jack dying, and waking up drowning in Jack’s mouth.
It had been appalling, and disgusting, and the biggest thrill of his life.
Ianto didn’t really believe in fate, but somehow, he believed in Jack, believed that he’d landed here at Jack’s side for a reason, for a purpose.
And so he’d stayed, and it had hurt, and it had been wonderful, and the sex--the sex had been amazing, and dirty and so many other that things Ianto had never ever thought he’d want, or feel.
He’d stayed, and he was here now, in Jack’s arms, coming apart again, and again, and again and he loved it, would stay forever, if he could.
He hoped he could.
He hoped it was long, the time that they had. He hoped it stretched on for days and months and years and lifetimes--with Jack, anything felt possible.
He couldn’t think of it as finite, wouldn’t.
He couldn’t think of them as finite, like he couldn’t think of Jack as finite--Jack, stretching across time and space, forever. That’s how they would be, how he’d chosen to live.
Forever.
***