FIC: Cocoa Vanilla
What? Two new things in a week? I know, I was surprised too!
Title: Cocoa Vanilla
Author: phaetonschariot
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R
Kink_bingo square: vanilla kink
Summary: This was never in the game plan.
Irrelevant minutiae: Interestingly, before artificial vanilla essence became popular, vanilla was actually considered to be a very indulgent flavour. The real thing is supposedly a lot different and far superior, quite the opposite of its reputation as a blank/default/boring taste.
1
Originally, Jack had assumed the stopwatch was a convenient ploy - a lead-in, rather, because it had happened to be to hand and Ianto was hesitant to come out and say, "Would it help to shag me senseless a couple of times?" Jack would've, if it was him, but they were still so finicky about these things in this time period, euphemisms everywhere that sometimes he still lost track of so that every so often he'd find himself in the middle of a conversation that didn't make any sense. And it had seemed like the sort of thing Ianto would resort to, or, Ianto seemed like the sort to resort to it, which wasn't quite the same thing.
As it turned out, Jack had been wrong. The stopwatch had featured heavily and Ianto was very forthcoming about what he wanted.
And if he wasn't wrong now, Ianto knew that all internet activity was monitored, and that the logs were easily accessible on Jack's computer. It would certainly explain why he'd suddenly started surfing YouPorn in the office, which couldn't have been triggered by those first few fantastic orgasms because Ianto was a planner. It just didn't fit. At the moment it seemed like Ianto was planning on working through the entire spectrum of kinky fetish porn, according to his search history and the few scattered evenings he'd lingered behind after one or the other of them had started in with searing looks during the day, blatant eye-fucking hastily interrupted whenever it looked like someone might catch them at it. At a rate of once a week, twice a week, it would probably take a while, but Jack had the time. Whether Ianto did was another matter entirely; every time he went into the field brought him a little closer to his Torchwood-imposed expiration date.
It was probably why the sex was so intense, why Ianto turned goal-oriented as soon as they were alone, "Rim me, I want to feel your tongue" and "Do you have any handcuffs?" and "Don't come on my face unless I deep-throat you, I want to get this right." It was probably why Jack kept letting it happen, some kind of wretched sympathy that came from fore-knowledge, because otherwise he thought he'd feel used. He was free and easy, but he had an ego - he wanted people to want him, not view him as their own personal interactive sex toy.
So he watched Ianto click through the search results for e-stim and wondered what sex toys he could repurpose or improvise and whether any particular brand of detergent was better at getting come stains out of fabric.
1.5
Hanging, starving, rotting, Jack had a lot of time to think, and when he finished he had a lot of time to start over and think again. He thought about his team a lot, and by the end he wasn't really sure how accurate any of his memories were, anymore.
2
The first time they're alone together Jack asks Ianto out. An instant later Ianto's awkward reaction tells him he's misstepped, this was never in the game plan, and he almost panics - "No wait, forget it, let's just fuck, you can put a cock ring on and I'll milk you and put it in your coffee, first one of the morning." He could keep him forever like that, there's so much they haven't tried yet, he could be the first one to shove a whole fist inside him, give him a swing for his birthday, ben wa balls and beads and nipple clamps. It'd be romantic.
But Ianto says yes and Jack's stomach flips over in relief so strong he thinks his knees will give out under him. He's glad when they separate; right now he hardly recognizes himself and thoughts are twisting in his head muttering conspiracy theories about timelines and parallel universes and what he'd see if he looked at himself in the mirror.
It's far more likely that he's just completely fucked up now because he's tied himself up in knots with these idealized images as the strongest threads. It's probably not even Ianto he wants, just someone who looks like him, who's sarcastic and fantastic in bed but wants Jack back.
He wouldn't even know where to start looking for that Ianto though, so when John's gone he books a table for two at an Indian place, a decision borne of process of elimination after he rules out the too casual (sports bars, family restaurants, anywhere they order a lot of lunch from), the too high-pressure (expensive and exclusive places that cater to the few high rolling tourists who come to Cardiff, or locals who already know their evening out isn't likely to be an unmitigated disaster and thus won't have to pretend to dismiss a meal at a place that doesn't print prices on the menu as no big deal in an attempt to pretend the whole thing never happened), anything one of them doesn't like (Ianto has something against Italian, and Jack's off seafood this decade) and the half dozen-odd places he didn't blindly pick out of a hat. He scouts the place ahead of time to make sure they'll be able to sit somewhere quiet, and if all else fails he can just ask a lot of questions about what happened while he was gone. It'd save reading the reports.
But when they get there Ianto has anecdotes about eating Indian food in India on a trip to the Himalayas and he squashes down thoughts of the Master. It hasn't been so long since he dated that he doesn't remember that conversation is usually more successful than post-traumatic stress reactions when attempting to woo someone into bed. He trades anecdotes back, instead, and at some point Ianto stretches out his right leg so that it's pressing against Jack's, joined at a place just above their ankles.
It seems that the further through the meal they get, the slower they eat; it's possible that Ianto is matching his pace out of politeness, or that restaurants just serve way more food than he's used to eating in a sitting (they sometimes tend towards grabbing snacks throughout the day when things are busy, and he imagines they have been lately, which he'd feel a little more guilty about except that he refuses to considering how long he'd had to wait for the Doctor), but Jack just wants to draw things out because he's not sure what happens next. He doesn't regret going, he doesn't, but he's prepared for a bit of groveling to convince everyone else of that, and he has no idea what that means for him and Ianto in the meantime.
Finally Ianto sets his fork down and gives him a steady look across the table - frank, actually, it's very frank. "So traditionally after dinner comes a show, I think." His leg presses a little more closely against Jack's. "Or I invite you back for coffee."
It's pretty clearly sex, either way, when he would have expected Ianto to need more groveling, what with the complexities of their relationship. But Ianto has never made demands of him, has he? Apart from kinky ones, which are superficial really, not requiring him to actually give anything of himself. He'd shut down things with Gwen because she wanted things from him she should have been getting from her boyfriend - fiance - but Ianto's offer had been… well, an offer. "Would it help to shag me senseless a few times?" he'd translated it once, but he'd never actually thought about why he'd phrased it that way. The timing, he thinks, had not been a coincidence.
"My choice, is it?" he asks, testing the words out to see how they taste.
Ianto's smile is just a small quirk of the lips. "What do you want?" From the way he rubs his foot against the inside of Jack's calf, and the tone of his voice, a foot-job under the table is probably not necessarily off the menu.
He's not interested in the more exotic fare right now, though. He takes a swallow of beer - no need to stay constantly hydrated, now - and looks steadily back. He's been everywhere and done everything, and tonight he's going to have this beautiful creature sprawled out under him with absolutely nothing to distract from mapping his heart onto pale skin with his fingers and tongue. No hiding behind games or keeping their distance with toys and props-- "Just you."
This entry was originally posted at http://keieeeye.dreamwidth.org/188951.html. Feel free to comment there instead because LJ is a poo.
Title: Cocoa Vanilla
Author: phaetonschariot
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R
Kink_bingo square: vanilla kink
Summary: This was never in the game plan.
Irrelevant minutiae: Interestingly, before artificial vanilla essence became popular, vanilla was actually considered to be a very indulgent flavour. The real thing is supposedly a lot different and far superior, quite the opposite of its reputation as a blank/default/boring taste.
1
Originally, Jack had assumed the stopwatch was a convenient ploy - a lead-in, rather, because it had happened to be to hand and Ianto was hesitant to come out and say, "Would it help to shag me senseless a couple of times?" Jack would've, if it was him, but they were still so finicky about these things in this time period, euphemisms everywhere that sometimes he still lost track of so that every so often he'd find himself in the middle of a conversation that didn't make any sense. And it had seemed like the sort of thing Ianto would resort to, or, Ianto seemed like the sort to resort to it, which wasn't quite the same thing.
As it turned out, Jack had been wrong. The stopwatch had featured heavily and Ianto was very forthcoming about what he wanted.
And if he wasn't wrong now, Ianto knew that all internet activity was monitored, and that the logs were easily accessible on Jack's computer. It would certainly explain why he'd suddenly started surfing YouPorn in the office, which couldn't have been triggered by those first few fantastic orgasms because Ianto was a planner. It just didn't fit. At the moment it seemed like Ianto was planning on working through the entire spectrum of kinky fetish porn, according to his search history and the few scattered evenings he'd lingered behind after one or the other of them had started in with searing looks during the day, blatant eye-fucking hastily interrupted whenever it looked like someone might catch them at it. At a rate of once a week, twice a week, it would probably take a while, but Jack had the time. Whether Ianto did was another matter entirely; every time he went into the field brought him a little closer to his Torchwood-imposed expiration date.
It was probably why the sex was so intense, why Ianto turned goal-oriented as soon as they were alone, "Rim me, I want to feel your tongue" and "Do you have any handcuffs?" and "Don't come on my face unless I deep-throat you, I want to get this right." It was probably why Jack kept letting it happen, some kind of wretched sympathy that came from fore-knowledge, because otherwise he thought he'd feel used. He was free and easy, but he had an ego - he wanted people to want him, not view him as their own personal interactive sex toy.
So he watched Ianto click through the search results for e-stim and wondered what sex toys he could repurpose or improvise and whether any particular brand of detergent was better at getting come stains out of fabric.
1.5
Hanging, starving, rotting, Jack had a lot of time to think, and when he finished he had a lot of time to start over and think again. He thought about his team a lot, and by the end he wasn't really sure how accurate any of his memories were, anymore.
2
The first time they're alone together Jack asks Ianto out. An instant later Ianto's awkward reaction tells him he's misstepped, this was never in the game plan, and he almost panics - "No wait, forget it, let's just fuck, you can put a cock ring on and I'll milk you and put it in your coffee, first one of the morning." He could keep him forever like that, there's so much they haven't tried yet, he could be the first one to shove a whole fist inside him, give him a swing for his birthday, ben wa balls and beads and nipple clamps. It'd be romantic.
But Ianto says yes and Jack's stomach flips over in relief so strong he thinks his knees will give out under him. He's glad when they separate; right now he hardly recognizes himself and thoughts are twisting in his head muttering conspiracy theories about timelines and parallel universes and what he'd see if he looked at himself in the mirror.
It's far more likely that he's just completely fucked up now because he's tied himself up in knots with these idealized images as the strongest threads. It's probably not even Ianto he wants, just someone who looks like him, who's sarcastic and fantastic in bed but wants Jack back.
He wouldn't even know where to start looking for that Ianto though, so when John's gone he books a table for two at an Indian place, a decision borne of process of elimination after he rules out the too casual (sports bars, family restaurants, anywhere they order a lot of lunch from), the too high-pressure (expensive and exclusive places that cater to the few high rolling tourists who come to Cardiff, or locals who already know their evening out isn't likely to be an unmitigated disaster and thus won't have to pretend to dismiss a meal at a place that doesn't print prices on the menu as no big deal in an attempt to pretend the whole thing never happened), anything one of them doesn't like (Ianto has something against Italian, and Jack's off seafood this decade) and the half dozen-odd places he didn't blindly pick out of a hat. He scouts the place ahead of time to make sure they'll be able to sit somewhere quiet, and if all else fails he can just ask a lot of questions about what happened while he was gone. It'd save reading the reports.
But when they get there Ianto has anecdotes about eating Indian food in India on a trip to the Himalayas and he squashes down thoughts of the Master. It hasn't been so long since he dated that he doesn't remember that conversation is usually more successful than post-traumatic stress reactions when attempting to woo someone into bed. He trades anecdotes back, instead, and at some point Ianto stretches out his right leg so that it's pressing against Jack's, joined at a place just above their ankles.
It seems that the further through the meal they get, the slower they eat; it's possible that Ianto is matching his pace out of politeness, or that restaurants just serve way more food than he's used to eating in a sitting (they sometimes tend towards grabbing snacks throughout the day when things are busy, and he imagines they have been lately, which he'd feel a little more guilty about except that he refuses to considering how long he'd had to wait for the Doctor), but Jack just wants to draw things out because he's not sure what happens next. He doesn't regret going, he doesn't, but he's prepared for a bit of groveling to convince everyone else of that, and he has no idea what that means for him and Ianto in the meantime.
Finally Ianto sets his fork down and gives him a steady look across the table - frank, actually, it's very frank. "So traditionally after dinner comes a show, I think." His leg presses a little more closely against Jack's. "Or I invite you back for coffee."
It's pretty clearly sex, either way, when he would have expected Ianto to need more groveling, what with the complexities of their relationship. But Ianto has never made demands of him, has he? Apart from kinky ones, which are superficial really, not requiring him to actually give anything of himself. He'd shut down things with Gwen because she wanted things from him she should have been getting from her boyfriend - fiance - but Ianto's offer had been… well, an offer. "Would it help to shag me senseless a few times?" he'd translated it once, but he'd never actually thought about why he'd phrased it that way. The timing, he thinks, had not been a coincidence.
"My choice, is it?" he asks, testing the words out to see how they taste.
Ianto's smile is just a small quirk of the lips. "What do you want?" From the way he rubs his foot against the inside of Jack's calf, and the tone of his voice, a foot-job under the table is probably not necessarily off the menu.
He's not interested in the more exotic fare right now, though. He takes a swallow of beer - no need to stay constantly hydrated, now - and looks steadily back. He's been everywhere and done everything, and tonight he's going to have this beautiful creature sprawled out under him with absolutely nothing to distract from mapping his heart onto pale skin with his fingers and tongue. No hiding behind games or keeping their distance with toys and props-- "Just you."
This entry was originally posted at http://keieeeye.dreamwidth.org/188951.html. Feel free to comment there instead because LJ is a poo.