[Fic] A Start
Title: A Start
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Ianto
Warnings/Spoilers: no spoilers, warnings for fairly graphic sex, and language; takes places pre-S1
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1,670
Summary: Maybe Ianto wants to let go. Maybe he's never let go before, not really, and maybe he figures it's about bloody time.
Notes: So, um. I don't usually do this? (Which sounds suspiciously like what Ianto says at one point? >_>) But yeah, I don't really know where this came from. It suddenly occurred to me this afternoon that I'd never really written anything pre-S1 for them though, and... This was the result. *chews nails* I hope it's okay? ;)
(x-posted to jackxianto, torch_wood)
It starts.
Not slow and halting and awkward and sweet like things usually start for Ianto, but hard and fast and out of control quickly, with Jack’s dick heavy on his tongue and bruises on his knees, and Jack's voice whispering filthy nonsense in his ear, things that shouldn't mean anything at all, but that make Ianto's heart swell with pride, make his chest ache with wanting it so bad, and so much.
Problem is, he's not sure what exactly he wants, anymore. Jack's approval is nice, sure. But sometimes he thinks that maybe he just wants Jack, wants all of him, wants to know all of Jack's secrets, to hear about every place Jack's ever been, every lover he's had, every experience that's made him who he is, but then he remembers that if he actually got this, Jack would likely ask him for something in return.
And then Ianto remembers who he is, remembers that under his skin and muscles and bones he's just hollow, empty, filled with nothing at all. Just air, and fluid and desire, really. He remembers that he's boring. A cliché. Remembers that he has secrets, with a capital "s". That there are betrayals waiting to happen all around him, just below the surface. He remembers that he's broken.
At the same time though, he's not so broken, not with Jack.
Because Ianto has seen sides of Jack that no one else has seen, not like this, or at least not lately. He reminds himself of this, rationalizes it this way, when he presses his fingers in deep, twisting and nudging like he knows what he's doing, like he's got some kind of talent for this, a sixth sense, maybe.
And when Jack groans, when he whimpers against the sheets, and especially when he begs, when he whispers, when his breath comes ragged and quick against Ianto's ear, Ianto thinks maybe he can do anything; it's an ego trip the likes of which he's never experienced.
Fuck me, Jack breathes, now, and his lips are a little wet, like he's actually salivating at the thought of Ianto filling him up, pressing into him and pounding away into oblivion, until Ianto can't remember anymore why he ever thought this might be a bad idea, and, well... When he takes all of that into account, Ianto figures he must be doing something right.
He has no idea what he wants, but he knows he wants this, needs it, maybe. Needs to watch Jack lose control in front of him, because it stirs something deep inside of him, because it makes him question everything, every fiber of his being. He starts to think that maybe there's something there after all, something inside of him that isn't gone yet, and that maybe that something wants this, wants more, wants Jack. Wants Jack's hand between his thighs, wants those cool fingers against his heated flesh, against his hammering pulse. Maybe Ianto wants to let go. Maybe he's never let go before, not really, and maybe he figures it's about bloody time.
And Jack is so eager, it's a bit too easy to convince himself how much he wants this, a bit too easy for him to throw his head back one day, against a row of tall metal file cabinets in the Archives--a bit too easy to abandon any sense of self-preservation he ever had, simply because with Jack's hand down his pants and Jack's finger dragging across his lips, he just can't help it. He's useless.
As if it matters if he gasps or groans or bloody screams Jack's name down here, Ianto thinks, as Jack presses two fingers to his lips, and Ianto tries to resist the urge to pull them into his mouth, to roll his tongue over the pads of those well-used fingers. It's chaos, too easy, and impossible at the same time, and Ianto tries, he really, really tries to stop all the blood in his body from heading south the second their hips slot together.
He struggles admirably with the rock hard erection jutting against Jack's thigh. He tries desperately to find that friction -- just a tiny bit is all he needs -- but fails, tries to come on command, even, before Jack's hand has a chance to-- But god, Jack is sliding his zipper free, and taking him in his hand, and Ianto has to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut tight, hissing at the contact.
A second later, Ianto allows his eyes to drift down and the image -- pre-come dripping shamelessly over Jack's fingers, down in between his knuckles -- is so bloody brilliant, so perfect, he's a little appalled by his reaction.
Jack brings a slick finger to Ianto's mouth, and without even thinking Ianto's tongue darts out. The bitter taste sends a jolt straight to his groin. He groans and swears he doesn't recognize his own voice.
He has no idea what he's doing, what he wants, but when Jack's hand grips his base, and Jack smiles, just a little, fondly, maybe even a little tenderly, Ianto's heart aches with it, and he thinks maybe this is it.
And he's so hard it hurts, but Jack is nuzzling his nose against Ianto's cheek, and then he presses their foreheads together and Ianto is so close, but he just swallows, and closes his eyes, and breathes Jack in -- Jack, his boss, his -- And he tells himself this is okay, that it's what he came here for, that it's part of the deal, all of this is...
And then Jack's lips close around his cock, and Jack's got one hand cupping his balls, and the other steadying Ianto's hips, in anticipation. Ianto jerks up involuntarily, and can feel Jack smile around him.
Suddenly, Ianto wants everything to slow down, which is a little ridiculous at this point, but he does, because he wants to replay this in slow motion, wants to feel Jack's perfect lips closing around his throbbing cock again and again and again. But he can't because Jack checks have hollowed out beautifully and he's sucking, long and slow, and his tongue-- God, Jack's tongue is practically dancing against his tip, tiny little flicks send Ianto to the edge and back over and over... Ianto wishes he could hold onto this too, but it's all he can take, really.
He thinks he should be a little more polite, that he should give Jack a little warning, maybe, but the force of his orgasm overwhelms him, and it's really all he can do not to buck his release hard against Jack's throat.
He shudders, stutters it through to the end and then watches Jack wipe his lips with the back of his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If he wasn't so completely spent, he's sure that the image would have set him hard and aching all over again.
This could be a problem, Ianto thinks, one of monumental proportions, really, as he slumps to the floor, his knees still shaking a little. He pulls himself together quickly, but not without effort. It's like he's moving through taffy, thick and viscous, as he reaches down to pull up his trousers.
Jack is leaning back against the small desk in front of him, and in another life, Ianto would have been annoyed at the creases Jack's arse is inevitably making in the folders, at the bends and folds of the loose field reports neatly stacked in rows under Jack's careless hands.
In this life though, where he's just experienced the most brain-cell-obliterating orgasm he could ever even imagine at the hands (and mouth) of his boss, well. The paperwork hardly seems to matter.
Ianto rubs his hand over his face once, twice, before he stands, and forces himself to look Jack straight in the face. It's difficult, and as soon as he does, he can't help but imagine those lips tugging back and forth down his cock with skill and precision and with such enthusiasm it really should be criminal. His dick stirs in his trousers, ridiculously. He closes his eyes, and lets out a breath.
Somewhere buried deep in his subconscious, an image of Lisa emerges. He should be burning with guilt.
"Sorry," Ianto says, trying to inject confidence, and maybe a little indifference into his words, and failing. "I don't usually..." And words fail him altogether now, as he realizes he can't possibly end that sentence in any sort of dignified manner.
Jack just nods, looking a little amused. "Yeah, I can see that."
Ianto flushes. He's not burning with guilt at all.
"So how long's it been?"
"A while," Ianto says, hoping he sounds aloof. Not angry at Jack for seeing right through him. Normal.
Jack, sensing something, maybe, tries for kindness. "No shame in that," he says, offering a smile. "Does wonders for my ego, that's for sure."
Ianto rolls his eyes.
"I mean, for a second there," he goes on, "I thought you were going to lift off into space."
Jack chuckles, and Ianto tries not to wince too much.
"Yeah, well," he says, eloquently.
And then, with a raised eyebrow and a quick I'll-leave-you-to-it pat on the shoulder, Jack turns to head for the stairs.
And Ianto should be relieved that he's leaving, that he's allowing Ianto to pull the rest of himself back together alone, that he hasn't walked off with every last bit of Ianto's dignity, just most of it, but he's not.
All he can think of is the horrible, crushing absence of an ache that Jack has left behind.
It feels like the point of no return, really. As if what just happened had been an irreversible action -- an explosion of sorts, maybe -- setting things in motion.
This feels like a horribly melodramatic thought, too, because it had been a fucking blow job for god's sake, but. Well.
Everything has to start somewhere.
And right now, this really feels like somewhere.
***
Pairing/Characters: Jack/Ianto
Warnings/Spoilers: no spoilers, warnings for fairly graphic sex, and language; takes places pre-S1
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1,670
Summary: Maybe Ianto wants to let go. Maybe he's never let go before, not really, and maybe he figures it's about bloody time.
Notes: So, um. I don't usually do this? (Which sounds suspiciously like what Ianto says at one point? >_>) But yeah, I don't really know where this came from. It suddenly occurred to me this afternoon that I'd never really written anything pre-S1 for them though, and... This was the result. *chews nails* I hope it's okay? ;)
(x-posted to jackxianto, torch_wood)
It starts.
Not slow and halting and awkward and sweet like things usually start for Ianto, but hard and fast and out of control quickly, with Jack’s dick heavy on his tongue and bruises on his knees, and Jack's voice whispering filthy nonsense in his ear, things that shouldn't mean anything at all, but that make Ianto's heart swell with pride, make his chest ache with wanting it so bad, and so much.
Problem is, he's not sure what exactly he wants, anymore. Jack's approval is nice, sure. But sometimes he thinks that maybe he just wants Jack, wants all of him, wants to know all of Jack's secrets, to hear about every place Jack's ever been, every lover he's had, every experience that's made him who he is, but then he remembers that if he actually got this, Jack would likely ask him for something in return.
And then Ianto remembers who he is, remembers that under his skin and muscles and bones he's just hollow, empty, filled with nothing at all. Just air, and fluid and desire, really. He remembers that he's boring. A cliché. Remembers that he has secrets, with a capital "s". That there are betrayals waiting to happen all around him, just below the surface. He remembers that he's broken.
At the same time though, he's not so broken, not with Jack.
Because Ianto has seen sides of Jack that no one else has seen, not like this, or at least not lately. He reminds himself of this, rationalizes it this way, when he presses his fingers in deep, twisting and nudging like he knows what he's doing, like he's got some kind of talent for this, a sixth sense, maybe.
And when Jack groans, when he whimpers against the sheets, and especially when he begs, when he whispers, when his breath comes ragged and quick against Ianto's ear, Ianto thinks maybe he can do anything; it's an ego trip the likes of which he's never experienced.
Fuck me, Jack breathes, now, and his lips are a little wet, like he's actually salivating at the thought of Ianto filling him up, pressing into him and pounding away into oblivion, until Ianto can't remember anymore why he ever thought this might be a bad idea, and, well... When he takes all of that into account, Ianto figures he must be doing something right.
He has no idea what he wants, but he knows he wants this, needs it, maybe. Needs to watch Jack lose control in front of him, because it stirs something deep inside of him, because it makes him question everything, every fiber of his being. He starts to think that maybe there's something there after all, something inside of him that isn't gone yet, and that maybe that something wants this, wants more, wants Jack. Wants Jack's hand between his thighs, wants those cool fingers against his heated flesh, against his hammering pulse. Maybe Ianto wants to let go. Maybe he's never let go before, not really, and maybe he figures it's about bloody time.
And Jack is so eager, it's a bit too easy to convince himself how much he wants this, a bit too easy for him to throw his head back one day, against a row of tall metal file cabinets in the Archives--a bit too easy to abandon any sense of self-preservation he ever had, simply because with Jack's hand down his pants and Jack's finger dragging across his lips, he just can't help it. He's useless.
As if it matters if he gasps or groans or bloody screams Jack's name down here, Ianto thinks, as Jack presses two fingers to his lips, and Ianto tries to resist the urge to pull them into his mouth, to roll his tongue over the pads of those well-used fingers. It's chaos, too easy, and impossible at the same time, and Ianto tries, he really, really tries to stop all the blood in his body from heading south the second their hips slot together.
He struggles admirably with the rock hard erection jutting against Jack's thigh. He tries desperately to find that friction -- just a tiny bit is all he needs -- but fails, tries to come on command, even, before Jack's hand has a chance to-- But god, Jack is sliding his zipper free, and taking him in his hand, and Ianto has to bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut tight, hissing at the contact.
A second later, Ianto allows his eyes to drift down and the image -- pre-come dripping shamelessly over Jack's fingers, down in between his knuckles -- is so bloody brilliant, so perfect, he's a little appalled by his reaction.
Jack brings a slick finger to Ianto's mouth, and without even thinking Ianto's tongue darts out. The bitter taste sends a jolt straight to his groin. He groans and swears he doesn't recognize his own voice.
He has no idea what he's doing, what he wants, but when Jack's hand grips his base, and Jack smiles, just a little, fondly, maybe even a little tenderly, Ianto's heart aches with it, and he thinks maybe this is it.
And he's so hard it hurts, but Jack is nuzzling his nose against Ianto's cheek, and then he presses their foreheads together and Ianto is so close, but he just swallows, and closes his eyes, and breathes Jack in -- Jack, his boss, his -- And he tells himself this is okay, that it's what he came here for, that it's part of the deal, all of this is...
And then Jack's lips close around his cock, and Jack's got one hand cupping his balls, and the other steadying Ianto's hips, in anticipation. Ianto jerks up involuntarily, and can feel Jack smile around him.
Suddenly, Ianto wants everything to slow down, which is a little ridiculous at this point, but he does, because he wants to replay this in slow motion, wants to feel Jack's perfect lips closing around his throbbing cock again and again and again. But he can't because Jack checks have hollowed out beautifully and he's sucking, long and slow, and his tongue-- God, Jack's tongue is practically dancing against his tip, tiny little flicks send Ianto to the edge and back over and over... Ianto wishes he could hold onto this too, but it's all he can take, really.
He thinks he should be a little more polite, that he should give Jack a little warning, maybe, but the force of his orgasm overwhelms him, and it's really all he can do not to buck his release hard against Jack's throat.
He shudders, stutters it through to the end and then watches Jack wipe his lips with the back of his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If he wasn't so completely spent, he's sure that the image would have set him hard and aching all over again.
This could be a problem, Ianto thinks, one of monumental proportions, really, as he slumps to the floor, his knees still shaking a little. He pulls himself together quickly, but not without effort. It's like he's moving through taffy, thick and viscous, as he reaches down to pull up his trousers.
Jack is leaning back against the small desk in front of him, and in another life, Ianto would have been annoyed at the creases Jack's arse is inevitably making in the folders, at the bends and folds of the loose field reports neatly stacked in rows under Jack's careless hands.
In this life though, where he's just experienced the most brain-cell-obliterating orgasm he could ever even imagine at the hands (and mouth) of his boss, well. The paperwork hardly seems to matter.
Ianto rubs his hand over his face once, twice, before he stands, and forces himself to look Jack straight in the face. It's difficult, and as soon as he does, he can't help but imagine those lips tugging back and forth down his cock with skill and precision and with such enthusiasm it really should be criminal. His dick stirs in his trousers, ridiculously. He closes his eyes, and lets out a breath.
Somewhere buried deep in his subconscious, an image of Lisa emerges. He should be burning with guilt.
"Sorry," Ianto says, trying to inject confidence, and maybe a little indifference into his words, and failing. "I don't usually..." And words fail him altogether now, as he realizes he can't possibly end that sentence in any sort of dignified manner.
Jack just nods, looking a little amused. "Yeah, I can see that."
Ianto flushes. He's not burning with guilt at all.
"So how long's it been?"
"A while," Ianto says, hoping he sounds aloof. Not angry at Jack for seeing right through him. Normal.
Jack, sensing something, maybe, tries for kindness. "No shame in that," he says, offering a smile. "Does wonders for my ego, that's for sure."
Ianto rolls his eyes.
"I mean, for a second there," he goes on, "I thought you were going to lift off into space."
Jack chuckles, and Ianto tries not to wince too much.
"Yeah, well," he says, eloquently.
And then, with a raised eyebrow and a quick I'll-leave-you-to-it pat on the shoulder, Jack turns to head for the stairs.
And Ianto should be relieved that he's leaving, that he's allowing Ianto to pull the rest of himself back together alone, that he hasn't walked off with every last bit of Ianto's dignity, just most of it, but he's not.
All he can think of is the horrible, crushing absence of an ache that Jack has left behind.
It feels like the point of no return, really. As if what just happened had been an irreversible action -- an explosion of sorts, maybe -- setting things in motion.
This feels like a horribly melodramatic thought, too, because it had been a fucking blow job for god's sake, but. Well.
Everything has to start somewhere.
And right now, this really feels like somewhere.
***