Season in Skin (Jack/Ianto; R)
THANK YOU to every person who has left a comment on my fics, I'll reply to them within the next couple of days when I've caught up on this challenge.
Title: Season in Skin
Author: etharei
Rating: R
Timeline: ambiguous
Spoilers: none
Summary: Summer is inside him.
Author's Notes: Posting this one first because the fic for Day #6 kind of... grew. A more , er, metaphorical take on the prompt.
Disclaimer: Torchwood and all the characters and situations featured therein are the property of Russell T. Davies, the BBC and their affiliates. I’m only borrowing them for purely non-profit, recreational purposes.
Written for: horizonssing, Day #7.
Till I'm wheezing like a bus stop
Running up the stairs, gonna meet you on the rooftop
- SUMMER IN THE CITY, The Lovin' Spoonfuls
Season in Skin
by Etharei
Almost there, Ianto thinks, maybe gasps. “Jack.” His thighs are aching from the effort of gripping Jack’s hips, muscles in his jaw are tellingly sore, he can feel the beginnings of bruises on his wrists; and he’s very ready to skewer Jack with that alien spear weapon if Jack stops now. “Oh God, yes.” Summer is inside him, spreading out from Jack’s flesh; a buzzing heat all over his skin, rushing blood like distant Bay-water under a seasonal shower, unblinking rich blueness above, the singular point of penetrating golden heat.
Fingers, Jack’s, delving between them, and Ianto emits a wordless cry, a sudden flash storm. A sure grip, sweaty and frantic, Jack and his come now, Ianto, come with me.
Rolling pleasure looms, raw, a sweet pressure ripening. Crashes. A shout that would have echoed off the ceiling is swallowed instead by the moist heat of Jack’s mouth. White heat washes through and out; wetness spurts and spatters between them, meeting with sweat and saliva, juices of their labors.
Jack comes down, his weight comfortable and familiar, an anchor for Ianto’s spectacularly scattered senses. Fingers brush back strands of hair clinging to Ianto’s face. Ianto manages to tilt his head to one side in order to see Jack’s face, and smiles down fondly.
“That was... wow,” murmurs Jack.
Ianto can only agree. “We may have broken our record.”
He can see Jack’s eyebrows moving. “Stopwatch and feather, in the Information Center?”
“Handcuffs and psychic gel, interrogation room.”
The bright crescent moon of Jack’s beaming smile. “Oh, yeah.”
“Still feel like going up for a bit?” asks Ianto, in careful casualness. No mention of rooftops, days of heavy decisions, avoidable human casualties; intensive questioning is not how Ianto learns about Jack.
Jack’s fingers trail down to the tip of Ianto’s nose, hop to the line of Ianto’s upper lip, thumb brushing the light stubble over his chin. “Not tonight."
Title: Season in Skin
Author: etharei
Rating: R
Timeline: ambiguous
Spoilers: none
Summary: Summer is inside him.
Author's Notes: Posting this one first because the fic for Day #6 kind of... grew. A more , er, metaphorical take on the prompt.
Disclaimer: Torchwood and all the characters and situations featured therein are the property of Russell T. Davies, the BBC and their affiliates. I’m only borrowing them for purely non-profit, recreational purposes.
Written for: horizonssing, Day #7.
Till I'm wheezing like a bus stop
Running up the stairs, gonna meet you on the rooftop
- SUMMER IN THE CITY, The Lovin' Spoonfuls
Season in Skin
by Etharei
Almost there, Ianto thinks, maybe gasps. “Jack.” His thighs are aching from the effort of gripping Jack’s hips, muscles in his jaw are tellingly sore, he can feel the beginnings of bruises on his wrists; and he’s very ready to skewer Jack with that alien spear weapon if Jack stops now. “Oh God, yes.” Summer is inside him, spreading out from Jack’s flesh; a buzzing heat all over his skin, rushing blood like distant Bay-water under a seasonal shower, unblinking rich blueness above, the singular point of penetrating golden heat.
Fingers, Jack’s, delving between them, and Ianto emits a wordless cry, a sudden flash storm. A sure grip, sweaty and frantic, Jack and his come now, Ianto, come with me.
Rolling pleasure looms, raw, a sweet pressure ripening. Crashes. A shout that would have echoed off the ceiling is swallowed instead by the moist heat of Jack’s mouth. White heat washes through and out; wetness spurts and spatters between them, meeting with sweat and saliva, juices of their labors.
Jack comes down, his weight comfortable and familiar, an anchor for Ianto’s spectacularly scattered senses. Fingers brush back strands of hair clinging to Ianto’s face. Ianto manages to tilt his head to one side in order to see Jack’s face, and smiles down fondly.
“That was... wow,” murmurs Jack.
Ianto can only agree. “We may have broken our record.”
He can see Jack’s eyebrows moving. “Stopwatch and feather, in the Information Center?”
“Handcuffs and psychic gel, interrogation room.”
The bright crescent moon of Jack’s beaming smile. “Oh, yeah.”
“Still feel like going up for a bit?” asks Ianto, in careful casualness. No mention of rooftops, days of heavy decisions, avoidable human casualties; intensive questioning is not how Ianto learns about Jack.
Jack’s fingers trail down to the tip of Ianto’s nose, hop to the line of Ianto’s upper lip, thumb brushing the light stubble over his chin. “Not tonight."