FIC: Waking Memory
Title: Waking Memory
Author: blue_fjords
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1500
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Written for the "long-lost love" square on my schmoop_bingo card. Also, has "sleepy times" but that's not the focus. Pure PWP, y'all.
He’s splurging on the full-body memory immersion this time. He’s got the money. He’s been Lord Jack for about a dozen years now - Lord Jack of Krypton, and he’s the only one on this hunk of rock to get the joke. It’s the time of year (well, they say lunar movements here) that most reminds Jack of August in Wales, though the heat waves that shimmy across the golden grasses in his meadow far outstrip the hottest day on the black of Cardiff’s streets.
The pod-like memory machine is carted to his villa by a purple-skinned alien with five heads and seven arms. Jack has no idea what species it is. Maybe he did at one time, but it’s been awhile since he’s had to interact with many off-worlders and sometimes knowledge just slips away. The unimportant stuff, anyway, and Jack grins, imagining the reaction he’d get if he told his alien delivery-boy that his identity was not important. Seven arms and five mouths. That’s not a fight he’d mind losing. Maybe some other time.
He has to take a pill before disrobing and climbing into the machine. The alien has turned its faces away, granting a modicum of privacy. Jack settles down into the pod and pleasantly warm liquid flows over him, around him. He closes his eyes and breathes it in.
***
He blinks his eyes in Cardiff, Wales, Earth, on an August night in the early 21st century. A moan is immediately ripped from his throat as Ianto hits his prostate. He can feel the slick slide of Ianto pulling partway out, and then slamming in again, and again, and again, his breath ragged and hot on Jack’s neck and his fingers in a vise-like grip on Jack’s hips. The memory begins to white-out around the edges as his vision goes, but his body also remembers the release, the euphoria, the sound of a name rumbling up and out of his throat.
He blinks again, and takes a shaky breath. They’re in Ianto’s bedroom, on Ianto’s bed, Ianto’s sweaty sheets tangled at their feet. The windows are wide open, letting in a breeze that is only slightly cooler than it was under the sun and letting out their grunts and moans. Moonlight paints everything in a shade of mad shadows; a chair piled with laundry becomes Welsh sheep (one is winking at him, or is that a black sock?), the pictures and knick-knacks on Ianto’s bureau become pieces in a check-mated game of chess.
Ianto is still hard inside him, fully sheathed and unmoving, waiting for him to catch his breath. Ianto’s lips nuzzle his neck, his tongue darting out to lave away at the sweat prickling Jack’s skin. What had they done that day? Jack can feel the memory of pain in his muscles, a memory specific to this memory, and Ianto’s hands, when he lifts them from his hips and splays them across his stomach and chest, are scraped along the knuckles. Jack runs a finger lightly over the scrapes, and Ianto grunts.
“Sorry,” Jack murmurs, and raises first one hand then the other to his lips to ghost a kiss across the bruised flesh. Ianto grunts again, and takes up a slower rhythm inside him, barely moving at all, and Jack remembers the connection he felt whenever he was full of Ianto.
He remembers more now, the slow drag of Ianto’s cock inside him triggering the memory. He knows what night this is. He entwines his fingers with Ianto’s over his stomach and pushes gently back. He’s rewarded with a guttural moan, and Ianto’s mouth latching firmly onto his neck, sucking. His cock perks up a bit, as if to say it had been awhile waiting for this. And it had.
“I’ll always come back,” he says, his voice loud in the stifling heat of the room. The rhythm stutters, then starts.
“Because I’m the hero,” he adds, belaboring his point. Ianto’s mouth disconnects from his neck with a loud pop.
“What the hell does that make me, then?” Ianto asks, his Welsh accent thick, betraying his annoyance.
“You’re the long-lost love,” Jack says grandly. Ianto stops completely inside him. Jack glances down at his own cock. It’s getting discouraged.
“Not that long-lost,” Ianto mumbles finally. The rhythm is taken up again, faster this time, a little more erratic. A ghost of a smile flitters across Jack’s face at the easy acceptance of ‘love.’
He remembers about the 'long-lost' part, though. He doesn’t say anything now. There’s another night, and a whiskey bottle, and a diary that’s had some pages ripped out. But this night isn’t for meditation on memory. It’s for the memory.
Ianto is making breathy moans and grunts, and Jack smiles wide, hoping the neighbors are enjoying the soundtrack. He flexes and tightens around Ianto’s cock, and Ianto loses his strict control and comes with a shout. Jack’s cock twitches at the sensation, and Jack lowers one of Ianto’s hands to wrap his fingers around it. Ianto mumbles something into his neck.
“Come again?” Jack asks with a smirk. Ianto raises his chin and rests it on Jack’s shoulder. He turns his face and runs his tongue over the shell of Jack’s ear. His cock leaps in their combined grip.
“I said, ‘Fuck me.’ But you’ll forgive me if I fall asleep. Long day, you know.”
His memory is hazy about what happens next. He can be forgiven. He remembers other times he cleaned Ianto, times when it was almost an art form, when changing positions was graceful and hot, but this time he blinks and when he opens his eyes, he’s running his tongue along the rim of Ianto’s arsehole, then pulling away to slide a lubed finger inside. Ianto gives a sleepy little moan, and Jack has to blink back unexpected tears, a bit choked up at the level of trust Ianto has given him, more genuinely than before, to allow him to do this when he’s vulnerable. Jack slides another finger inside and runs his other hand up and down the expanse of Ianto’s back. It’s gotten broader since he was gone. He’d noticed, of course, but this is the first time he’s seeing it naked since he got back.
Ianto yawns into his pillow and Jack stops.
“Am I boring you?” he asks, eyebrows raised. Ianto doesn’t even open his eyes.
“Said I was tired. Get on with it.”
Jack snorts, but pulls his fingers out and lubes up his cock. It’s moved from half-hard to mostly-hard, and when he eases into Ianto, it perks fully up. Jack wipes his hand on the sheet and brings both of his arms around Ianto’s chest. This part of the memory is particularly vivid. Ianto is a heavy weight in his arms. His skin is sweat-slick and completely plastered to Jack, even the very smallest of movements sending sparks all along Jack’s body. The room is filled with the scent of sex and sweat and just a hint of salt from the outside air. Ianto is breathing heavy, half-asleep, little snores punctuated with breathy moans as Jack moves inside him. Jack stares at Ianto’s ear and presses even closer to nibble at the pink lobe. His cock is encased in Ianto, and the nerve endings send tingling pulses into him. He can’t remember how long he stays like that, but the air has grown noticeably cooler by the time he brings his arms down to grip Ianto’s hips. He pulls out and thrusts in, grunting with exertion as he thrusts in several times more, trying to teeter on the edge for as long as possible before the friction tips him over. The memory fades out again, but not before he remembers something he thought he had forgotten - Ianto rolling onto his back and giving him a sleepy smile and open-mouthed kiss.
***
He has the full-body immersion memory machine for three days. It’s been one thousand years since he’d last set foot on Earth. There’s a lot of memories he wants to go over, so many people he doesn’t want to forget. Alice’s tiny hand in his large one, the proud tilt of Harriet’s chin, Alex hunched over an artifact; Gwen’s wide grin, Gwen’s wedding day, Gwen running through a park with her kids; the single tear on Toshiko’s cheek when she stood outside a UNIT prison, Owen up to his elbows in Gavork innards; Lucia’s smile, Rose’s laugh, Estelle’s flashing eyes. So many. But it’s August, to him at least, and he’ll indulge himself this time.
When his eyes blink open next, it’s night again and his nostrils are filled with the scent of trees and greenery. There’s a movement out of the corner of his eyes, an ugly boiler suit, and he hears unmistakable growls. Ianto is at his side, and his suit smells of cologne and foiled plans. He’s tensed and ready to dart forward, and Jack smiles, remembering how Ianto decries the stains he gets into his suit from this evening, post-weevil retrieval.
Ianto glances over at him. “Ready, Jack?” he whispers.
Jack nods, and sinks deeper into the memory.
Author: blue_fjords
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1500
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Written for the "long-lost love" square on my schmoop_bingo card. Also, has "sleepy times" but that's not the focus. Pure PWP, y'all.
He’s splurging on the full-body memory immersion this time. He’s got the money. He’s been Lord Jack for about a dozen years now - Lord Jack of Krypton, and he’s the only one on this hunk of rock to get the joke. It’s the time of year (well, they say lunar movements here) that most reminds Jack of August in Wales, though the heat waves that shimmy across the golden grasses in his meadow far outstrip the hottest day on the black of Cardiff’s streets.
The pod-like memory machine is carted to his villa by a purple-skinned alien with five heads and seven arms. Jack has no idea what species it is. Maybe he did at one time, but it’s been awhile since he’s had to interact with many off-worlders and sometimes knowledge just slips away. The unimportant stuff, anyway, and Jack grins, imagining the reaction he’d get if he told his alien delivery-boy that his identity was not important. Seven arms and five mouths. That’s not a fight he’d mind losing. Maybe some other time.
He has to take a pill before disrobing and climbing into the machine. The alien has turned its faces away, granting a modicum of privacy. Jack settles down into the pod and pleasantly warm liquid flows over him, around him. He closes his eyes and breathes it in.
***
He blinks his eyes in Cardiff, Wales, Earth, on an August night in the early 21st century. A moan is immediately ripped from his throat as Ianto hits his prostate. He can feel the slick slide of Ianto pulling partway out, and then slamming in again, and again, and again, his breath ragged and hot on Jack’s neck and his fingers in a vise-like grip on Jack’s hips. The memory begins to white-out around the edges as his vision goes, but his body also remembers the release, the euphoria, the sound of a name rumbling up and out of his throat.
He blinks again, and takes a shaky breath. They’re in Ianto’s bedroom, on Ianto’s bed, Ianto’s sweaty sheets tangled at their feet. The windows are wide open, letting in a breeze that is only slightly cooler than it was under the sun and letting out their grunts and moans. Moonlight paints everything in a shade of mad shadows; a chair piled with laundry becomes Welsh sheep (one is winking at him, or is that a black sock?), the pictures and knick-knacks on Ianto’s bureau become pieces in a check-mated game of chess.
Ianto is still hard inside him, fully sheathed and unmoving, waiting for him to catch his breath. Ianto’s lips nuzzle his neck, his tongue darting out to lave away at the sweat prickling Jack’s skin. What had they done that day? Jack can feel the memory of pain in his muscles, a memory specific to this memory, and Ianto’s hands, when he lifts them from his hips and splays them across his stomach and chest, are scraped along the knuckles. Jack runs a finger lightly over the scrapes, and Ianto grunts.
“Sorry,” Jack murmurs, and raises first one hand then the other to his lips to ghost a kiss across the bruised flesh. Ianto grunts again, and takes up a slower rhythm inside him, barely moving at all, and Jack remembers the connection he felt whenever he was full of Ianto.
He remembers more now, the slow drag of Ianto’s cock inside him triggering the memory. He knows what night this is. He entwines his fingers with Ianto’s over his stomach and pushes gently back. He’s rewarded with a guttural moan, and Ianto’s mouth latching firmly onto his neck, sucking. His cock perks up a bit, as if to say it had been awhile waiting for this. And it had.
“I’ll always come back,” he says, his voice loud in the stifling heat of the room. The rhythm stutters, then starts.
“Because I’m the hero,” he adds, belaboring his point. Ianto’s mouth disconnects from his neck with a loud pop.
“What the hell does that make me, then?” Ianto asks, his Welsh accent thick, betraying his annoyance.
“You’re the long-lost love,” Jack says grandly. Ianto stops completely inside him. Jack glances down at his own cock. It’s getting discouraged.
“Not that long-lost,” Ianto mumbles finally. The rhythm is taken up again, faster this time, a little more erratic. A ghost of a smile flitters across Jack’s face at the easy acceptance of ‘love.’
He remembers about the 'long-lost' part, though. He doesn’t say anything now. There’s another night, and a whiskey bottle, and a diary that’s had some pages ripped out. But this night isn’t for meditation on memory. It’s for the memory.
Ianto is making breathy moans and grunts, and Jack smiles wide, hoping the neighbors are enjoying the soundtrack. He flexes and tightens around Ianto’s cock, and Ianto loses his strict control and comes with a shout. Jack’s cock twitches at the sensation, and Jack lowers one of Ianto’s hands to wrap his fingers around it. Ianto mumbles something into his neck.
“Come again?” Jack asks with a smirk. Ianto raises his chin and rests it on Jack’s shoulder. He turns his face and runs his tongue over the shell of Jack’s ear. His cock leaps in their combined grip.
“I said, ‘Fuck me.’ But you’ll forgive me if I fall asleep. Long day, you know.”
His memory is hazy about what happens next. He can be forgiven. He remembers other times he cleaned Ianto, times when it was almost an art form, when changing positions was graceful and hot, but this time he blinks and when he opens his eyes, he’s running his tongue along the rim of Ianto’s arsehole, then pulling away to slide a lubed finger inside. Ianto gives a sleepy little moan, and Jack has to blink back unexpected tears, a bit choked up at the level of trust Ianto has given him, more genuinely than before, to allow him to do this when he’s vulnerable. Jack slides another finger inside and runs his other hand up and down the expanse of Ianto’s back. It’s gotten broader since he was gone. He’d noticed, of course, but this is the first time he’s seeing it naked since he got back.
Ianto yawns into his pillow and Jack stops.
“Am I boring you?” he asks, eyebrows raised. Ianto doesn’t even open his eyes.
“Said I was tired. Get on with it.”
Jack snorts, but pulls his fingers out and lubes up his cock. It’s moved from half-hard to mostly-hard, and when he eases into Ianto, it perks fully up. Jack wipes his hand on the sheet and brings both of his arms around Ianto’s chest. This part of the memory is particularly vivid. Ianto is a heavy weight in his arms. His skin is sweat-slick and completely plastered to Jack, even the very smallest of movements sending sparks all along Jack’s body. The room is filled with the scent of sex and sweat and just a hint of salt from the outside air. Ianto is breathing heavy, half-asleep, little snores punctuated with breathy moans as Jack moves inside him. Jack stares at Ianto’s ear and presses even closer to nibble at the pink lobe. His cock is encased in Ianto, and the nerve endings send tingling pulses into him. He can’t remember how long he stays like that, but the air has grown noticeably cooler by the time he brings his arms down to grip Ianto’s hips. He pulls out and thrusts in, grunting with exertion as he thrusts in several times more, trying to teeter on the edge for as long as possible before the friction tips him over. The memory fades out again, but not before he remembers something he thought he had forgotten - Ianto rolling onto his back and giving him a sleepy smile and open-mouthed kiss.
***
He has the full-body immersion memory machine for three days. It’s been one thousand years since he’d last set foot on Earth. There’s a lot of memories he wants to go over, so many people he doesn’t want to forget. Alice’s tiny hand in his large one, the proud tilt of Harriet’s chin, Alex hunched over an artifact; Gwen’s wide grin, Gwen’s wedding day, Gwen running through a park with her kids; the single tear on Toshiko’s cheek when she stood outside a UNIT prison, Owen up to his elbows in Gavork innards; Lucia’s smile, Rose’s laugh, Estelle’s flashing eyes. So many. But it’s August, to him at least, and he’ll indulge himself this time.
When his eyes blink open next, it’s night again and his nostrils are filled with the scent of trees and greenery. There’s a movement out of the corner of his eyes, an ugly boiler suit, and he hears unmistakable growls. Ianto is at his side, and his suit smells of cologne and foiled plans. He’s tensed and ready to dart forward, and Jack smiles, remembering how Ianto decries the stains he gets into his suit from this evening, post-weevil retrieval.
Ianto glances over at him. “Ready, Jack?” he whispers.
Jack nods, and sinks deeper into the memory.