TW fic: Playing On My Mind
Damn it feels good to be a gangster. Wait, wait. I meant it feels good to be writing again. Even if this was challenging on several levels. But challenge is good, right?
Title: Playing On My Mind
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/girl!Ianto
Word Count: 2532
Summary: Ianto's change is unfortunate. More unfortunately, it's messing with Jack's head
Notes: Spoilers for Almost Perfect. Thanks to snglesrvngfrend for beta, and more importantly, putting up with me while I did this. Title is from "I Want Your Sex" by George Michael (Yes. Yessssss!).
Jack’s down in his quarters, half-dressed, when he starts smelling coffee. Ianto’s coffee, dark, rich and complex. It's early, much too early for Gwen to even think of showing up, and if that's Ianto's coffee up there, then it must mean Ianto's up there brewing it. He might even be in one of his better (tighter) suits today, and that's temptation enough to get Jack climbing the ladder, leaving his shirt unbuttoned and his braces down.
He figures they'll have a quick coffee, and then it shouldn't be too hard to coax Ianto down into Jack's room, into the bed Jack hasn’t yet made. He’d like to spread Ianto over the ruffled covers, kiss the sour coffee taste out of his mouth and suck him until he shakes.
Jack’s so busy imagining the taste of shivers that he’s almost in the kitchenette before he realizes that it’s not Ianto’s back he’s staring at, but the tight shoulders and long torso of a woman. He stops short of her, caught between pulling out his gun and his smile. The compromise seems to be clearing his throat.
The woman turns around, hands half-raised, hovering in front of her fantastic chest. She looks nervous, but almost smiles. She’s also beyond gorgeous.
Helpless against his own charm, Jack’s cocked out a hip and smiling his best before he can even think of his gun. “Hello there.”
Her smile gets more solid, and she makes a move forward and then abandons it, eyes flicking over Jack’s face. Jack’s finger brushes his holster and her face falls.
“You…You don’t know who I am?” The woman lowers her hands and rubs them over her too-tight skirt.
“No. I don’t. I’m sorry,” Jack says, and he feels surprisingly apologetic for some reason. He changes out his best smile for one closer to home, softer and friendlier.
This charm must work, because suddenly the woman’s on him, clinging, her thumbs digging into the fleshy ditches of Jack’s elbow and her soft pink mouth moving over his. There’s no tentative and gentle start, no brushing of mouths, just pressure and the rush of tasting Ianto’s coffee on a woman’s tongue.
Jack does the reasonable thing, which to is kiss her back. It’s been a while since he’s kissed a woman, but it feels good, familiar. He licks into her mouth and tangles his fingers in her long hair, cool waves brushing his palms and drawing his breath out. The woman makes a soft noise when he tugs gently on her hair and tilts her mouth further into his. But she’s holding her hips back from his, precious inches that mean Jack’s wasting his friction on the air. A hand on the base of her spine fails to coax her forward and she pulls her mouth away instead.
He almost groans, but she darts back in to kiss him with her shining lips once more, quick and careful.
“Jack,” she says, clipped and shy, like her voice is unnatural.
“Mm?”
“It’s me.” She leans into him, barely.
It’s hard to look away from her mouth, but Jack does, looking into her pretty, pleading eyes instead. “Who’s ‘me’?”
“Ianto,” the woman says, and stifles Jack’s startled laugh with her mouth.
This time the kiss is even more than the last one. It’s dirty-hot, thumbs pressed into his jaws and a wet tongue across his lip and in, demanding and hungry, exactly the way Ianto does when he wants something.
Jack rips his mouth away, and presses the heel of his hand against the front of his trousers. He’s confused and hard, watching the woman still in his arm watch him, her eyes bright.
“Jesus,” Jack says, breathless. “Ianto.”
*
It’s a shock of course. Genderswap at Torchwood isn’t uncommon, but this isn’t normal genderswap. Ianto’s not himself as a woman, he’s just a woman. Not one any of them know, but a very beautiful one nonetheless.
Jack tries to be good, he really does. It’s not just Ianto’s honour at stake, it’s also this random woman’s. He thinks thoughts that would be allowed on the ThoughtScreen at a Brickkorian flumsao game, clean and respectable. But that leads to thinking about the boundaries of what would be allowed, and then the thoughts that shouldn’t be come pouring in.
Ianto, reaching for something on a high shelf, body drawn in long curving lines, his skirt flirting with the tops of his thighs.
Ianto, sucking Jack’s cock, going slow because his mouth is smaller, tighter.
Ianto and Gwen, half-undressed, kissing, sucking on each other’s pink nipples.
Balancing above Jack, sweet candy-coloured cunt almost close enough to touch with his tongue.
The smell of him, the particular shape of his nipples, the dark bristly-soft shield of pubic hair, the sounds this new Ianto might make when Jack touches his pretty body.
Ianto Jones, reinvented and completely obscene.
It’s half-nine, and Jack’s scooted so close to his desk the edge might be denting his ribs.
*
Ianto holds out well the first day, but Jack’s not the slightest bit surprised when Ianto doesn’t show up to work the next morning. He thinks about leaving Ianto to his gender angst, but then he starts thinking about all the surfaces to fuck on in Ianto’s flat and he can’t leave it alone.
So instead he leaves Gwen alone and drives to Ianto’s. The pair of high heels in the middle of the front hall is startling against the masculine neatness of everything else, one close to the closet, tipped on its side, the other bisecting the careful line of the shoes Ianto wore as a man. But aside from that, Ianto’s entryway looks the same, no pink sparkles or mountain of pillows.
There’s a blouse abandoned on the kitchen counter, like for some reason Ianto couldn’t get it off fast enough. The phrase Dirty Girl shoots to the forefront of Jack’s mind and brings with it the image of Ianto leaning on Jack’s desk, his skirt hiked up to his waist, fingers in his plush mouth and pushing the lace of his panties to the side.
In Jack’s mind, Ianto spreads his legs and holds his cunt open so Jack can see it clench. It’s wet, tight-looking and strangely hypnotic. Ianto pulls his fingers out of his mouth and undoes the first button on his blouse.
“I want you to fuck me,” Ianto murmurs, and Jack almost trips over Ianto’s couch.
Righting himself, Jack mutters, “It’s too early for this.” Too early to nearly get killed by a piece of furniture, too early to have lost all the blood in his brain, too early for most everything except Ianto’s well-deserved freak out.
Jack takes three deep breaths before he goes to the bedroom, and then he’s too caught up in trying to make Ianto feel better to think about anything he shouldn’t.
*
Predictably enough, Ianto gets better. Jack gets worse. He’s always been quick to think of sex, but after a few days with Ianto wobbling around on very high heels and bending over to pick up papers and things to bin, looking so deliciously self-conscious at every turn Jack’s ready to climb the waterfall.
Their encounter in the Tourist Office is really, seriously too much. First Ianto touches his own breast, rubbing it hard enough Jack’d like to smack his hand away, show him the better, pleasure-filled way, tease him with a circling thumb. And then Ianto gives him just enough so he imagines those wonderful breasts full of milk, a swollen dark nipple brushing his mouth, the ache of waiting for a taste.
The sharp sting of the rubber band on his ear is a welcome distraction.
*
Also predictably enough, Ianto fixes everything. That’s fairly normal. Jack’s much more excited about getting to fuck him. Finally.
Ianto’s tall for a woman and solid with muscle, but they’re the muscles of someone who does something silly like yogilates, so it’s not hard for Jack to curl his hands under Ianto’s bum and push him up the cool moonlight-crossed plane of the wall in his front hall. Jack expects Ianto to complain-don’t manhandle me- and insist on being let down, but all he does is sigh out hot breath into Jack’s mouth and wrap those long legs around Jack’s hips.
Even though the front of his trousers and the thin cotton of Ianto’s Gwen-bought, no nonsense underwear Jack can feel how warm he is. When he pushes forward, mind racing ahead of them and up the stairs, Ianto says, “Yes,” helplessly, and his thighs clench around Jack’s belt to hold them close.
That almost does Jack in. It’s Ianto and it’s not, familiar and unfamiliar enough to have him pushing hard to almost molecularly bond Ianto’s back with the drywall. He wants to have Ianto just like this, up against the wall, perfectly manicured nails in Jack’s hair, his plush mouth open for Jack’s tongue and his cunt wet around Jack’s cock. Fuck him in his stolen housewife’s dress, surrounded by Ianto’s six pairs of Italian dress shoes and his one pair of heels, all lined up beside the door.
Jack rips his mouth off Ianto’s to taste the sweet perfume on his pulse, touching the warm elastic and creeping damp of his panties. Ianto tilts his head back against the wall, eyes closed to Jack and the world, his mouth open and dark.
He says, “Oh,” very quietly, and Jack knows that face.
*
Jack’s last encounter with a woman was a while in the past. His wants ebb and flow like the tide, out and in, men and women. It’s been stuck low beyond either of those marks for a while, just lapping at Ianto, which is sometimes the easiest and most convenient option.
But Jack can’t complain, not when Ianto does the occasional gender bending magic trick, giving him hot slick through the condom and firm tits to mouth and nip. He’s the best of two of many worlds in one awe-inspiring fuck of a package.
Ianto’s whimpering, nails sharp against Jack’s biceps, doing his best to follow each of Jack’s thrusts. His eyes are shut and his hair is messy, sticking to his throat and collarbones, moving in time with his breath.
He’s amazing, looking wrecked like that and unable to keep quiet. The rush of, “Fuck me, Jack, fuck me,” drives straight to Jack’s core, grabbing him by the balls and twisting sparking heat out of his belly.
“Let me,” Jack gasps, “Let me come inside you.”
It’s stupid. Jack can’t get or give anything, but condoms are a good principle, symbolic of boundaries. But they’ve already jumped so many boundaries, and there’s only tonight to see Ianto holding himself open, strong soft woman’s muscles pushing out the dripping white gleam.
“Do it,” Ianto moans, two fingers rubbing tight circles on his clit, bumping the base of Jack’s cock. He moans again when Jack pulls out, but his fingers don’t stop and neither do his hips, humping against the stale, still air until Jack can fumble the condom off and push back inside.
Ianto’s drenched and fire-hot enough inside to make Jack lose his rhythm. He stutter-fucks, eyes closed, brain already bleeding down his spine and through his cock into Ianto, enough hot spurts that Jack briefly forgets everything horrible that’s ever happened to him.
Coming like this is the best kind of home Jack knows.
He holds himself up on shaky arms until Ianto comes, clinging tight around his cock. Surely his cunt is drinking back Jack’s come, swallowing it like a ravenous mouth. That thought makes Jack shiver, looking down on Ianto’s flushed, blissed-out face, the spread of his smile, seeing it in a different light.
*
Hours later the bedroom is tar-black, smells like sex, and is quiet except for rustling sheets and breath. Ianto’s tired. Jack knows this, and he should know better, but dawn is coming and it will take Ianto’s tight, fun woman’s body with it. So he’s still going, rocking slowly into the heat of Ianto’s come-slick cunt, curled around and holding Ianto’s top leg over his hip. He wishes it wasn’t the dead of night, just so he could see used pink stretch of flesh, fucked-wet and begging for tongue.
Poor Ianto, he must be hurting after all this time.
But if he is, Ianto doesn’t let on, eating at Jack’s mouth with lazy hunger, his fingers pushing down against himself rhythmically. Jack lets his fingers slide over the smooth crest of Ianto’s hipbone and through the soaked curls between Ianto’s thighs, hoping for another orgasm, just one more.
“Ianto,” he whispers, voice ruined from the last round -Ianto riding him, their voices arcing to the ceiling-, burying his face in the sweat-stiff hair behind Ianto’s ear, “You’re gonna be so sore tomorrow.”
“Uh, uh,” Ianto grunts, his calf pulling tighter behind Jack’s knee, rolling his pelvis back into Jack. His fingers are tangled with Jack’s, guiding them over the bump of his clit so hard that even that must burn.
“Shh, shh. I’ll wake you up with my mouth on your cock. You’ve missed that, right?” Ianto’s hips jerk when Jack says, ‘cock,’ and he mewls, the noise stifled by the pillow where Ianto’s turned into it.
Jack kisses Ianto’s neck once, sucks gently like he will when Ianto’s cock is back. His mouth feels empty, longing for the firm-soft feel of Ianto’s cock and his male taste. He spent so much time licking Ianto out tonight that eventually all he could taste was his own spit, but the flavour he got wasn’t quite as good as Ianto’s cock.
“Oh, fuck, Jack,” Ianto says raggedly, his body starting to strain. His thighs are trembling, like this orgasm might shatter him right apart, break him from the inside out, until there’s only the shaking echo of his voice in the air. Jack’s never heard his name said like that. He knows the words, can see them coming from a different mouth, but they’re new all over again.
“Come on.” Jack’s pushing as hard as he can, heart hammering in his chest, clenched teeth pressed to the curve of Ianto’s skull. His fingers are cramping. “Come on come on c’mon, good girl.”
Ianto cries out, hoarse and loud enough for the neighbors to surely hear. He breaks, and takes Jack right along with him. For a third orgasm, it’s better than Jack could imagine, drawing him dry and limp.
But not limp enough so he can’t run gentle, curious fingers over Ianto, dipping inside and coming out coated in warm spunk. He leaves a trail up Ianto’s belly and across his breasts, selfish marks for no one to see.
“Quit,” Ianto whispers tiredly. He huffs happily when Jack nuzzles his ear though, and doesn’t resist the arms Jack wraps around him in lieu of the covers that are on the floor and too far away.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jack whispers back, fond, kissing Ianto’s ear, his temple, letting his breath fall to Ianto’s pattern.
“Me too,” Ianto murmurs, smiling, but not at Jack or anything in particular, and then he closes his eyes.
Title: Playing On My Mind
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/girl!Ianto
Word Count: 2532
Summary: Ianto's change is unfortunate. More unfortunately, it's messing with Jack's head
Notes: Spoilers for Almost Perfect. Thanks to snglesrvngfrend for beta, and more importantly, putting up with me while I did this. Title is from "I Want Your Sex" by George Michael (Yes. Yessssss!).
Jack’s down in his quarters, half-dressed, when he starts smelling coffee. Ianto’s coffee, dark, rich and complex. It's early, much too early for Gwen to even think of showing up, and if that's Ianto's coffee up there, then it must mean Ianto's up there brewing it. He might even be in one of his better (tighter) suits today, and that's temptation enough to get Jack climbing the ladder, leaving his shirt unbuttoned and his braces down.
He figures they'll have a quick coffee, and then it shouldn't be too hard to coax Ianto down into Jack's room, into the bed Jack hasn’t yet made. He’d like to spread Ianto over the ruffled covers, kiss the sour coffee taste out of his mouth and suck him until he shakes.
Jack’s so busy imagining the taste of shivers that he’s almost in the kitchenette before he realizes that it’s not Ianto’s back he’s staring at, but the tight shoulders and long torso of a woman. He stops short of her, caught between pulling out his gun and his smile. The compromise seems to be clearing his throat.
The woman turns around, hands half-raised, hovering in front of her fantastic chest. She looks nervous, but almost smiles. She’s also beyond gorgeous.
Helpless against his own charm, Jack’s cocked out a hip and smiling his best before he can even think of his gun. “Hello there.”
Her smile gets more solid, and she makes a move forward and then abandons it, eyes flicking over Jack’s face. Jack’s finger brushes his holster and her face falls.
“You…You don’t know who I am?” The woman lowers her hands and rubs them over her too-tight skirt.
“No. I don’t. I’m sorry,” Jack says, and he feels surprisingly apologetic for some reason. He changes out his best smile for one closer to home, softer and friendlier.
This charm must work, because suddenly the woman’s on him, clinging, her thumbs digging into the fleshy ditches of Jack’s elbow and her soft pink mouth moving over his. There’s no tentative and gentle start, no brushing of mouths, just pressure and the rush of tasting Ianto’s coffee on a woman’s tongue.
Jack does the reasonable thing, which to is kiss her back. It’s been a while since he’s kissed a woman, but it feels good, familiar. He licks into her mouth and tangles his fingers in her long hair, cool waves brushing his palms and drawing his breath out. The woman makes a soft noise when he tugs gently on her hair and tilts her mouth further into his. But she’s holding her hips back from his, precious inches that mean Jack’s wasting his friction on the air. A hand on the base of her spine fails to coax her forward and she pulls her mouth away instead.
He almost groans, but she darts back in to kiss him with her shining lips once more, quick and careful.
“Jack,” she says, clipped and shy, like her voice is unnatural.
“Mm?”
“It’s me.” She leans into him, barely.
It’s hard to look away from her mouth, but Jack does, looking into her pretty, pleading eyes instead. “Who’s ‘me’?”
“Ianto,” the woman says, and stifles Jack’s startled laugh with her mouth.
This time the kiss is even more than the last one. It’s dirty-hot, thumbs pressed into his jaws and a wet tongue across his lip and in, demanding and hungry, exactly the way Ianto does when he wants something.
Jack rips his mouth away, and presses the heel of his hand against the front of his trousers. He’s confused and hard, watching the woman still in his arm watch him, her eyes bright.
“Jesus,” Jack says, breathless. “Ianto.”
*
It’s a shock of course. Genderswap at Torchwood isn’t uncommon, but this isn’t normal genderswap. Ianto’s not himself as a woman, he’s just a woman. Not one any of them know, but a very beautiful one nonetheless.
Jack tries to be good, he really does. It’s not just Ianto’s honour at stake, it’s also this random woman’s. He thinks thoughts that would be allowed on the ThoughtScreen at a Brickkorian flumsao game, clean and respectable. But that leads to thinking about the boundaries of what would be allowed, and then the thoughts that shouldn’t be come pouring in.
Ianto, reaching for something on a high shelf, body drawn in long curving lines, his skirt flirting with the tops of his thighs.
Ianto, sucking Jack’s cock, going slow because his mouth is smaller, tighter.
Ianto and Gwen, half-undressed, kissing, sucking on each other’s pink nipples.
Balancing above Jack, sweet candy-coloured cunt almost close enough to touch with his tongue.
The smell of him, the particular shape of his nipples, the dark bristly-soft shield of pubic hair, the sounds this new Ianto might make when Jack touches his pretty body.
Ianto Jones, reinvented and completely obscene.
It’s half-nine, and Jack’s scooted so close to his desk the edge might be denting his ribs.
*
Ianto holds out well the first day, but Jack’s not the slightest bit surprised when Ianto doesn’t show up to work the next morning. He thinks about leaving Ianto to his gender angst, but then he starts thinking about all the surfaces to fuck on in Ianto’s flat and he can’t leave it alone.
So instead he leaves Gwen alone and drives to Ianto’s. The pair of high heels in the middle of the front hall is startling against the masculine neatness of everything else, one close to the closet, tipped on its side, the other bisecting the careful line of the shoes Ianto wore as a man. But aside from that, Ianto’s entryway looks the same, no pink sparkles or mountain of pillows.
There’s a blouse abandoned on the kitchen counter, like for some reason Ianto couldn’t get it off fast enough. The phrase Dirty Girl shoots to the forefront of Jack’s mind and brings with it the image of Ianto leaning on Jack’s desk, his skirt hiked up to his waist, fingers in his plush mouth and pushing the lace of his panties to the side.
In Jack’s mind, Ianto spreads his legs and holds his cunt open so Jack can see it clench. It’s wet, tight-looking and strangely hypnotic. Ianto pulls his fingers out of his mouth and undoes the first button on his blouse.
“I want you to fuck me,” Ianto murmurs, and Jack almost trips over Ianto’s couch.
Righting himself, Jack mutters, “It’s too early for this.” Too early to nearly get killed by a piece of furniture, too early to have lost all the blood in his brain, too early for most everything except Ianto’s well-deserved freak out.
Jack takes three deep breaths before he goes to the bedroom, and then he’s too caught up in trying to make Ianto feel better to think about anything he shouldn’t.
*
Predictably enough, Ianto gets better. Jack gets worse. He’s always been quick to think of sex, but after a few days with Ianto wobbling around on very high heels and bending over to pick up papers and things to bin, looking so deliciously self-conscious at every turn Jack’s ready to climb the waterfall.
Their encounter in the Tourist Office is really, seriously too much. First Ianto touches his own breast, rubbing it hard enough Jack’d like to smack his hand away, show him the better, pleasure-filled way, tease him with a circling thumb. And then Ianto gives him just enough so he imagines those wonderful breasts full of milk, a swollen dark nipple brushing his mouth, the ache of waiting for a taste.
The sharp sting of the rubber band on his ear is a welcome distraction.
*
Also predictably enough, Ianto fixes everything. That’s fairly normal. Jack’s much more excited about getting to fuck him. Finally.
Ianto’s tall for a woman and solid with muscle, but they’re the muscles of someone who does something silly like yogilates, so it’s not hard for Jack to curl his hands under Ianto’s bum and push him up the cool moonlight-crossed plane of the wall in his front hall. Jack expects Ianto to complain-don’t manhandle me- and insist on being let down, but all he does is sigh out hot breath into Jack’s mouth and wrap those long legs around Jack’s hips.
Even though the front of his trousers and the thin cotton of Ianto’s Gwen-bought, no nonsense underwear Jack can feel how warm he is. When he pushes forward, mind racing ahead of them and up the stairs, Ianto says, “Yes,” helplessly, and his thighs clench around Jack’s belt to hold them close.
That almost does Jack in. It’s Ianto and it’s not, familiar and unfamiliar enough to have him pushing hard to almost molecularly bond Ianto’s back with the drywall. He wants to have Ianto just like this, up against the wall, perfectly manicured nails in Jack’s hair, his plush mouth open for Jack’s tongue and his cunt wet around Jack’s cock. Fuck him in his stolen housewife’s dress, surrounded by Ianto’s six pairs of Italian dress shoes and his one pair of heels, all lined up beside the door.
Jack rips his mouth off Ianto’s to taste the sweet perfume on his pulse, touching the warm elastic and creeping damp of his panties. Ianto tilts his head back against the wall, eyes closed to Jack and the world, his mouth open and dark.
He says, “Oh,” very quietly, and Jack knows that face.
*
Jack’s last encounter with a woman was a while in the past. His wants ebb and flow like the tide, out and in, men and women. It’s been stuck low beyond either of those marks for a while, just lapping at Ianto, which is sometimes the easiest and most convenient option.
But Jack can’t complain, not when Ianto does the occasional gender bending magic trick, giving him hot slick through the condom and firm tits to mouth and nip. He’s the best of two of many worlds in one awe-inspiring fuck of a package.
Ianto’s whimpering, nails sharp against Jack’s biceps, doing his best to follow each of Jack’s thrusts. His eyes are shut and his hair is messy, sticking to his throat and collarbones, moving in time with his breath.
He’s amazing, looking wrecked like that and unable to keep quiet. The rush of, “Fuck me, Jack, fuck me,” drives straight to Jack’s core, grabbing him by the balls and twisting sparking heat out of his belly.
“Let me,” Jack gasps, “Let me come inside you.”
It’s stupid. Jack can’t get or give anything, but condoms are a good principle, symbolic of boundaries. But they’ve already jumped so many boundaries, and there’s only tonight to see Ianto holding himself open, strong soft woman’s muscles pushing out the dripping white gleam.
“Do it,” Ianto moans, two fingers rubbing tight circles on his clit, bumping the base of Jack’s cock. He moans again when Jack pulls out, but his fingers don’t stop and neither do his hips, humping against the stale, still air until Jack can fumble the condom off and push back inside.
Ianto’s drenched and fire-hot enough inside to make Jack lose his rhythm. He stutter-fucks, eyes closed, brain already bleeding down his spine and through his cock into Ianto, enough hot spurts that Jack briefly forgets everything horrible that’s ever happened to him.
Coming like this is the best kind of home Jack knows.
He holds himself up on shaky arms until Ianto comes, clinging tight around his cock. Surely his cunt is drinking back Jack’s come, swallowing it like a ravenous mouth. That thought makes Jack shiver, looking down on Ianto’s flushed, blissed-out face, the spread of his smile, seeing it in a different light.
*
Hours later the bedroom is tar-black, smells like sex, and is quiet except for rustling sheets and breath. Ianto’s tired. Jack knows this, and he should know better, but dawn is coming and it will take Ianto’s tight, fun woman’s body with it. So he’s still going, rocking slowly into the heat of Ianto’s come-slick cunt, curled around and holding Ianto’s top leg over his hip. He wishes it wasn’t the dead of night, just so he could see used pink stretch of flesh, fucked-wet and begging for tongue.
Poor Ianto, he must be hurting after all this time.
But if he is, Ianto doesn’t let on, eating at Jack’s mouth with lazy hunger, his fingers pushing down against himself rhythmically. Jack lets his fingers slide over the smooth crest of Ianto’s hipbone and through the soaked curls between Ianto’s thighs, hoping for another orgasm, just one more.
“Ianto,” he whispers, voice ruined from the last round -Ianto riding him, their voices arcing to the ceiling-, burying his face in the sweat-stiff hair behind Ianto’s ear, “You’re gonna be so sore tomorrow.”
“Uh, uh,” Ianto grunts, his calf pulling tighter behind Jack’s knee, rolling his pelvis back into Jack. His fingers are tangled with Jack’s, guiding them over the bump of his clit so hard that even that must burn.
“Shh, shh. I’ll wake you up with my mouth on your cock. You’ve missed that, right?” Ianto’s hips jerk when Jack says, ‘cock,’ and he mewls, the noise stifled by the pillow where Ianto’s turned into it.
Jack kisses Ianto’s neck once, sucks gently like he will when Ianto’s cock is back. His mouth feels empty, longing for the firm-soft feel of Ianto’s cock and his male taste. He spent so much time licking Ianto out tonight that eventually all he could taste was his own spit, but the flavour he got wasn’t quite as good as Ianto’s cock.
“Oh, fuck, Jack,” Ianto says raggedly, his body starting to strain. His thighs are trembling, like this orgasm might shatter him right apart, break him from the inside out, until there’s only the shaking echo of his voice in the air. Jack’s never heard his name said like that. He knows the words, can see them coming from a different mouth, but they’re new all over again.
“Come on.” Jack’s pushing as hard as he can, heart hammering in his chest, clenched teeth pressed to the curve of Ianto’s skull. His fingers are cramping. “Come on come on c’mon, good girl.”
Ianto cries out, hoarse and loud enough for the neighbors to surely hear. He breaks, and takes Jack right along with him. For a third orgasm, it’s better than Jack could imagine, drawing him dry and limp.
But not limp enough so he can’t run gentle, curious fingers over Ianto, dipping inside and coming out coated in warm spunk. He leaves a trail up Ianto’s belly and across his breasts, selfish marks for no one to see.
“Quit,” Ianto whispers tiredly. He huffs happily when Jack nuzzles his ear though, and doesn’t resist the arms Jack wraps around him in lieu of the covers that are on the floor and too far away.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jack whispers back, fond, kissing Ianto’s ear, his temple, letting his breath fall to Ianto’s pattern.
“Me too,” Ianto murmurs, smiling, but not at Jack or anything in particular, and then he closes his eyes.