The Opportunity To Serve
Title: The Opportunity To Serve
For: Porn Battle #4: drunk!sex
Wordcount: ~900
Rating: R
Summary: Jack enjoys watching Ianto come a little undone.
Original: Here
Ianto's mouth is soft when he's been drinking. He relaxes, just that extra fraction, and the narrow hard edge disappears.
Not to misread Jack, he likes the sharp side, the mischievous grin that promises such riches for Captain Jack Harkness. But it's nice, once in a while, to see the line fade, to see the blue in his eyes go vivid and the slow way he blinks. It's why they came out tonight, because Ianto's been overworking, jittering right along the edge of a bad place that none of them want to go. Jack feels himself slipping too, so he needs to know they're all right. It's good to see the mischief fade off into real youth, and Jack doesn't mind drinking water while Ianto orders pints. He's done enough drinking for a few lifetimes.
Ianto's head nods a little, in time to the music in the pub, and Jack summons the barman to pay for the tab as Ianto drains the last of his glass. When Ianto stands he stumbles and Jack catches him, lets him steady himself with one hand on Jack's belly.
"Going home?" he asks, the slur more a thickening of his accent than any real uncoordination. Sometimes Jack wonders if he should take as much pleasures as he does in watching Ianto come undone, but Ianto doesn't seem to mind. He is a charm: a coupling of restraint and remarkable lack of shame. Ianto would do well in Jack's own time.
"Going home," Jack agrees, guiding him to the door. They could walk back to the Hub, but he'd rather have a real bed tonight, and he manages to flag down a cab with Ianto shyly holding his other hand.
"Hi," Ianto says to the driver, as Jack's getting the door open. Jack can't blame him. The guy's cute. "This is my boyfriend."
The driver cocks an eyebrow at Jack in the rearview mirror once they're in. Ianto noses at Jack's jaw, smiling, and his hand smooths up Jack's thigh as Jack tells the driver where to take them. It's oddly innocent, the indecency of it. Jack turns enough to kiss him, and that's the other wonderful thing about Ianto's soft mouth. It yields, warm and accommodating, lovely to kiss.
In front of Ianto's building, Jack hands a bill that's much too big to the driver, disentangles himself from Ianto, and hauls him out. It takes Ianto a half-dozen tries to get the door open, but Jack can be patient, especially with his arms full of pliable, overly-affectionate Welshman.
Inside, Ianto turns to give him a proper kiss but Jack walks him backwards until he tumbles onto the sofa, laughing. He abruptly stops when Jack drops to his knees.
It's really a shame Ianto didn't wear the suit tonight, Jack thinks, as he slides Ianto's belt out of its buckle, tugs down the zip on his jeans. As much as Jack loves his arse in those jeans, he has a thing for sucking the cock of a man still mostly dressed in a business suit. He's learned to adjust his tastes to this time and this place, and Jack's always been one to get a thrill from the transgressive. Running his hands up a pair of chalk-stripe wool trousers seems almost illegally good, somehow.
Not that he minds the casual-wear, because it's still Ianto after all. Ianto, slouched low on the sofa, head tipped back, one hand stroking through Jack's hair as he sucks Ianto's cock. The noises he makes, little moans and grunts and murmurs, are pleased -- approving noises even, because Ianto is naturally a bit aggressive, a little dominant. He hides it well most of the time -- has to, Jack supposes -- but when he's willing to relax into it, once in a while, Jack appreciates the opportunity to serve. And he loves to be on his knees more than he's often willing to admit, in an age where kneeling looks like powerlessness.
He wonders, pulling back to lick slow and easy up the length of Ianto's cock, if one can be drunk by proxy. He feels dizzy and cold -- but free, like he's shed a shell.
"Come up, Jack," Ianto mumbles, tipping his head to one side and opening his eyes. He beckons, a curl of fingers. Jack stands instead, pulls Ianto up off the sofa and against him.
"Can we go to bed?" he asks. There's a hint of entreaty, as if it's a special present. He slides a hand down Ianto's hip and strokes his cock, slowly. Ianto moans and leans into him. He mutters something into Jack's neck, unintelligible.
"Hmm?" Jack hums, working Ianto's shirt up his chest.
"Why tonight?" Ianto asks, raising his head. His eyes are a little unfocused and he's smiling, endorphin-high, but the question means something. He's fumbling to explain, and Jack can almost see the words rising and fading in his head. "You like this. Sometimes."
"This?" Jack asks.
"I don't know...going out. Like...something. I don't know." Ianto stumbles over his words, trying to convey something, and Jack is only half-sure he understands. "Why now?"
Jack tilts his head.
"Why not?" he asks.
Ianto's reaction is slowed, but when he does pick up the thread of conversation he looks satisfied, and he takes Jack's hand and pulls him towards the bedroom.
After so many years, this is still where Jack is...happiest, perhaps, most at home, in someone's arms, in someone's bed. Naked, sweating, rising to meet the thrust of Ianto's hips. Ianto bent over him, forehead against his shoulder, gasping. Other people in other times and places, but here it's Ianto and it's good.
And when Ianto raises his head to kiss him, his mouth is so soft.
For: Porn Battle #4: drunk!sex
Wordcount: ~900
Rating: R
Summary: Jack enjoys watching Ianto come a little undone.
Original: Here
Ianto's mouth is soft when he's been drinking. He relaxes, just that extra fraction, and the narrow hard edge disappears.
Not to misread Jack, he likes the sharp side, the mischievous grin that promises such riches for Captain Jack Harkness. But it's nice, once in a while, to see the line fade, to see the blue in his eyes go vivid and the slow way he blinks. It's why they came out tonight, because Ianto's been overworking, jittering right along the edge of a bad place that none of them want to go. Jack feels himself slipping too, so he needs to know they're all right. It's good to see the mischief fade off into real youth, and Jack doesn't mind drinking water while Ianto orders pints. He's done enough drinking for a few lifetimes.
Ianto's head nods a little, in time to the music in the pub, and Jack summons the barman to pay for the tab as Ianto drains the last of his glass. When Ianto stands he stumbles and Jack catches him, lets him steady himself with one hand on Jack's belly.
"Going home?" he asks, the slur more a thickening of his accent than any real uncoordination. Sometimes Jack wonders if he should take as much pleasures as he does in watching Ianto come undone, but Ianto doesn't seem to mind. He is a charm: a coupling of restraint and remarkable lack of shame. Ianto would do well in Jack's own time.
"Going home," Jack agrees, guiding him to the door. They could walk back to the Hub, but he'd rather have a real bed tonight, and he manages to flag down a cab with Ianto shyly holding his other hand.
"Hi," Ianto says to the driver, as Jack's getting the door open. Jack can't blame him. The guy's cute. "This is my boyfriend."
The driver cocks an eyebrow at Jack in the rearview mirror once they're in. Ianto noses at Jack's jaw, smiling, and his hand smooths up Jack's thigh as Jack tells the driver where to take them. It's oddly innocent, the indecency of it. Jack turns enough to kiss him, and that's the other wonderful thing about Ianto's soft mouth. It yields, warm and accommodating, lovely to kiss.
In front of Ianto's building, Jack hands a bill that's much too big to the driver, disentangles himself from Ianto, and hauls him out. It takes Ianto a half-dozen tries to get the door open, but Jack can be patient, especially with his arms full of pliable, overly-affectionate Welshman.
Inside, Ianto turns to give him a proper kiss but Jack walks him backwards until he tumbles onto the sofa, laughing. He abruptly stops when Jack drops to his knees.
It's really a shame Ianto didn't wear the suit tonight, Jack thinks, as he slides Ianto's belt out of its buckle, tugs down the zip on his jeans. As much as Jack loves his arse in those jeans, he has a thing for sucking the cock of a man still mostly dressed in a business suit. He's learned to adjust his tastes to this time and this place, and Jack's always been one to get a thrill from the transgressive. Running his hands up a pair of chalk-stripe wool trousers seems almost illegally good, somehow.
Not that he minds the casual-wear, because it's still Ianto after all. Ianto, slouched low on the sofa, head tipped back, one hand stroking through Jack's hair as he sucks Ianto's cock. The noises he makes, little moans and grunts and murmurs, are pleased -- approving noises even, because Ianto is naturally a bit aggressive, a little dominant. He hides it well most of the time -- has to, Jack supposes -- but when he's willing to relax into it, once in a while, Jack appreciates the opportunity to serve. And he loves to be on his knees more than he's often willing to admit, in an age where kneeling looks like powerlessness.
He wonders, pulling back to lick slow and easy up the length of Ianto's cock, if one can be drunk by proxy. He feels dizzy and cold -- but free, like he's shed a shell.
"Come up, Jack," Ianto mumbles, tipping his head to one side and opening his eyes. He beckons, a curl of fingers. Jack stands instead, pulls Ianto up off the sofa and against him.
"Can we go to bed?" he asks. There's a hint of entreaty, as if it's a special present. He slides a hand down Ianto's hip and strokes his cock, slowly. Ianto moans and leans into him. He mutters something into Jack's neck, unintelligible.
"Hmm?" Jack hums, working Ianto's shirt up his chest.
"Why tonight?" Ianto asks, raising his head. His eyes are a little unfocused and he's smiling, endorphin-high, but the question means something. He's fumbling to explain, and Jack can almost see the words rising and fading in his head. "You like this. Sometimes."
"This?" Jack asks.
"I don't know...going out. Like...something. I don't know." Ianto stumbles over his words, trying to convey something, and Jack is only half-sure he understands. "Why now?"
Jack tilts his head.
"Why not?" he asks.
Ianto's reaction is slowed, but when he does pick up the thread of conversation he looks satisfied, and he takes Jack's hand and pulls him towards the bedroom.
After so many years, this is still where Jack is...happiest, perhaps, most at home, in someone's arms, in someone's bed. Naked, sweating, rising to meet the thrust of Ianto's hips. Ianto bent over him, forehead against his shoulder, gasping. Other people in other times and places, but here it's Ianto and it's good.
And when Ianto raises his head to kiss him, his mouth is so soft.