Fic: Furthermore, Selfless and Generous with his Time [One-Shot]
Title: Furthermore, Selfless and Generous with his Time
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Ianto/Gwen
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content
Genre: PWP
Wordcount: ~1381
Contains: Oral sex.
Disclaimer: Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Summary: Gwen gives Ianto his quarterly review. It's overwhelmingly positive.
A/N: Oh man, it's a Tuesday so that must mean it's time for some het! (Yeah, I dunno either). From an anonymous prompt on touchyerwood: "Ianto/Gwen, oral sex". So yeah! That! _lullabelle_ and azn_jack_fiend beta-d it. Thanks, ladies!
Furthermore, Selfless and Generous with his Time
Ianto Jones is attentive to the needs of others.
If anyone ever asked her to sum him up in one sentence for one of those personality assessment things that would be it. Maybe she would add “sometimes to his own detriment”, depending on the day.
But not today, she decides as she watches, with a detached sort of fondness, Ianto kneel in front of her and glide his palms up the inside of her thighs, parting them as he goes. It’s almost worshipful, the way he does it, with his head bent, but she tries not to think about that.
And then his trembling breath rushes cold across the damp fabric of her knickers and she doesn’t think anything at all.
When her hips lift to meet him, needy already, she feels his hands there, gently pushing her down again. Holding her down. His hands are soft, she notices, but he has callouses on his fingertips, from the filing, maybe. He’s stronger than she expects.
She’d been surprised when he’d put his hands around her waist, picked her up perfectly gentlemanly and set her down again, sitting on the edge of the table
Ianto Jones exceeds all expectations.
She bites her knuckle when he presses his open mouth against her mound, when she feels the softness of his lips through the fabric, closing into a kiss. His hands glide down over her hipbones, down the front of her pelvis, across the tops of her thighs. He touches the backs of her knees with gentle fingers, strokes the backs of her bare calves. All the while, he kisses and nuzzles at her inner thighs. So close, never there.
She gives a thwarted little whine and he presses a smile into her thigh. His hands squeeze her calves, rubbing up and down affectionately, and then lift her legs to hook them over his shoulders. Oh.
The silence, the sound of the two of them breathing, the ambient Hub-sounds, are a tiny bit off-putting. It feels intimate, church-like. So she says, “Ianto, you--”
He turns his eyes on her (his earnest, shameless eyes) and the words die in her mouth. She doesn’t even remember where that sentence was going. Nowhere? That cute snub nose is burrowed in the royal purple cotton of her knickers. Waiting.
“Nevermind,” she stammers.
He nods, that same nod as if she’d asked him for a refill on her coffee, and then he is pulling the crotch of her knickers aside, holding it in place with his thumb as he finally finally! flutters that quick tongue of his across her clit. She gnaws on her lip, trying to hold back a moan. It doesn’t work. She relents. The high sound of it doesn’t even sound like it could come from her. Ianto likes it: through half-lidded eyes she can see his hips twitching. She pictures his erection straining at his trousers.
His tongue draws light, wet strokes following the line of her slit, teasing and shallow, skirting around her clit mischievously.
She groans, “Oh God!” and hears an answering growl, hungry and masculine, rumbling up from his chest. She uses her legs to draw him closer. He braces himself with a hand reached around to the back of her thigh, fingers curling toward her arse.
Pulled forward, his tongue slips into her cunt with an insolent flicker and then darts out again just as fast, toying across the opening. Dips in again.
Ianto Jones takes direction well and responds positively to feedback.
She wishes they were on the floor together, or in his bed, with him lying on his back, head angled up to fuck her with his tongue, grabbing handfuls of her arse while she bobs her head down over that thick cock of his, nose pointed to his balls.
But then, it isn’t so bad, sitting up on this table with her ankles hooked around the back of his neck, looking down at his cheeks pressed to her thighs and his nose nestled in her pubic hair and his eyelids and the black checks of his eyelashes.
A firm stroke of his tongue and she’s crying out meaninglessly; when he stretches it to a point and flicks it up and over her clit over and over again, her hands fly for his head, clutching up fists of his hair to keep him close, keep him where she wants him.
He moans against her, then, the vibration of the sound sinking into her skin, and she realizes that he has one hand in the fly of his trousers. She can hear his hand on his cock, that skin-on-skin sound of his palm working the shaft.
Ianto Jones approaches challenges with creativity and savoir faire.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she sobs to the ceiling, because now he has slipped two fingers in under his chin and inside her, stretching her minutely, and he is pulling and pushing them, he is crooking them expertly. He is fucking her with his fingers in time to the pumps of his fist over his cock. She twists and tugs at his hair, scraping her nails on his scalp. Is he laughing? Are those his shoulders shaking under her knees?
The tip of his tongue flicks against the underside of her clit, relentless, and she is pushing her hips up, forward.
“Mm,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough that she can feel his breath tickling her, “You’re so damn wet.” He bites off the ‘T’ like he can’t even stand it, what he’s saying, what he’s feeling, what she’s making him feel, like it’s all just too much, in all the right ways.
And when he says it, he looks up at her, like he wants her approval. It’s that gaze, honest, questioning, that pushes her over the edge. Her body arches and every muscle seems to simultaneously tighten and snap, from her fists in his hair to her curling toes to her spasming cunt tightening around his fingers.
All the while, his tongue circles her oversensitive clit, teasing around it until the sensation nearly edges pain and her hands twitch and he’s bringing her off again, nuzzling into her gratefully while she cries out, high and loud and past embarrassment.
“Say my name,” he gasps, resting his cheek on her thigh, “Please.” He’s close, too, his lips shiny and his pupils huge and dark and his cheeks flustered pink. The rhythm of his hand on his cock is erratic.
She touches his lower lip with her thumb, rubbing across it, molding it. He draws it into his mouth, closing his lips and sucking on it, leaning his cheek against her palm. Like a cat wanting petting. “Ianto,” she moans, soft, reverent, like a gift, “Ianto.”
He flinches when he comes, pulling his mouth from her thumb and exhaling a relieved little “Ah!” She strokes his head, watching his body shudder, shoulders hunched.
Ianto Jones is punctual.
He’s quick to stand, after, pushing a last little kiss onto the inside of her thigh before he does. He tucks himself and zips his trousers without comment, and then takes her by the waist again, helping her back to her feet. He supports her without laughing when her knees give out at first.
They break apart, at last, saying nothing. Gwen because she’s not sure she can form proper sentences just now, and Ianto, well, for the usual reasons he stays quiet, she supposes. He looks bewildered, standing there stock still and unsure of what to do with his hands, blushing or maybe just flushed with exertion, and his hair-- oh, his hair, bless-- sticking up at odd angles.
So she reaches up and smooths his hair back into place, unabashedly licking her fingers to tame the cowlick popping up at the crown of his head.
When she’s finished, he steps back with a polite bob of his head. He gives her one of his shy, guarded smiles.
“Thank... thank you,” he says.
Gwen Cooper is attentive to the needs of others.
Author: heddychaa
Characters: Ianto/Gwen
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content
Genre: PWP
Wordcount: ~1381
Contains: Oral sex.
Disclaimer: Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Summary: Gwen gives Ianto his quarterly review. It's overwhelmingly positive.
A/N: Oh man, it's a Tuesday so that must mean it's time for some het! (Yeah, I dunno either). From an anonymous prompt on touchyerwood: "Ianto/Gwen, oral sex". So yeah! That! _lullabelle_ and azn_jack_fiend beta-d it. Thanks, ladies!
Furthermore, Selfless and Generous with his Time
Ianto Jones is attentive to the needs of others.
If anyone ever asked her to sum him up in one sentence for one of those personality assessment things that would be it. Maybe she would add “sometimes to his own detriment”, depending on the day.
But not today, she decides as she watches, with a detached sort of fondness, Ianto kneel in front of her and glide his palms up the inside of her thighs, parting them as he goes. It’s almost worshipful, the way he does it, with his head bent, but she tries not to think about that.
And then his trembling breath rushes cold across the damp fabric of her knickers and she doesn’t think anything at all.
When her hips lift to meet him, needy already, she feels his hands there, gently pushing her down again. Holding her down. His hands are soft, she notices, but he has callouses on his fingertips, from the filing, maybe. He’s stronger than she expects.
She’d been surprised when he’d put his hands around her waist, picked her up perfectly gentlemanly and set her down again, sitting on the edge of the table
Ianto Jones exceeds all expectations.
She bites her knuckle when he presses his open mouth against her mound, when she feels the softness of his lips through the fabric, closing into a kiss. His hands glide down over her hipbones, down the front of her pelvis, across the tops of her thighs. He touches the backs of her knees with gentle fingers, strokes the backs of her bare calves. All the while, he kisses and nuzzles at her inner thighs. So close, never there.
She gives a thwarted little whine and he presses a smile into her thigh. His hands squeeze her calves, rubbing up and down affectionately, and then lift her legs to hook them over his shoulders. Oh.
The silence, the sound of the two of them breathing, the ambient Hub-sounds, are a tiny bit off-putting. It feels intimate, church-like. So she says, “Ianto, you--”
He turns his eyes on her (his earnest, shameless eyes) and the words die in her mouth. She doesn’t even remember where that sentence was going. Nowhere? That cute snub nose is burrowed in the royal purple cotton of her knickers. Waiting.
“Nevermind,” she stammers.
He nods, that same nod as if she’d asked him for a refill on her coffee, and then he is pulling the crotch of her knickers aside, holding it in place with his thumb as he finally finally! flutters that quick tongue of his across her clit. She gnaws on her lip, trying to hold back a moan. It doesn’t work. She relents. The high sound of it doesn’t even sound like it could come from her. Ianto likes it: through half-lidded eyes she can see his hips twitching. She pictures his erection straining at his trousers.
His tongue draws light, wet strokes following the line of her slit, teasing and shallow, skirting around her clit mischievously.
She groans, “Oh God!” and hears an answering growl, hungry and masculine, rumbling up from his chest. She uses her legs to draw him closer. He braces himself with a hand reached around to the back of her thigh, fingers curling toward her arse.
Pulled forward, his tongue slips into her cunt with an insolent flicker and then darts out again just as fast, toying across the opening. Dips in again.
Ianto Jones takes direction well and responds positively to feedback.
She wishes they were on the floor together, or in his bed, with him lying on his back, head angled up to fuck her with his tongue, grabbing handfuls of her arse while she bobs her head down over that thick cock of his, nose pointed to his balls.
But then, it isn’t so bad, sitting up on this table with her ankles hooked around the back of his neck, looking down at his cheeks pressed to her thighs and his nose nestled in her pubic hair and his eyelids and the black checks of his eyelashes.
A firm stroke of his tongue and she’s crying out meaninglessly; when he stretches it to a point and flicks it up and over her clit over and over again, her hands fly for his head, clutching up fists of his hair to keep him close, keep him where she wants him.
He moans against her, then, the vibration of the sound sinking into her skin, and she realizes that he has one hand in the fly of his trousers. She can hear his hand on his cock, that skin-on-skin sound of his palm working the shaft.
Ianto Jones approaches challenges with creativity and savoir faire.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she sobs to the ceiling, because now he has slipped two fingers in under his chin and inside her, stretching her minutely, and he is pulling and pushing them, he is crooking them expertly. He is fucking her with his fingers in time to the pumps of his fist over his cock. She twists and tugs at his hair, scraping her nails on his scalp. Is he laughing? Are those his shoulders shaking under her knees?
The tip of his tongue flicks against the underside of her clit, relentless, and she is pushing her hips up, forward.
“Mm,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough that she can feel his breath tickling her, “You’re so damn wet.” He bites off the ‘T’ like he can’t even stand it, what he’s saying, what he’s feeling, what she’s making him feel, like it’s all just too much, in all the right ways.
And when he says it, he looks up at her, like he wants her approval. It’s that gaze, honest, questioning, that pushes her over the edge. Her body arches and every muscle seems to simultaneously tighten and snap, from her fists in his hair to her curling toes to her spasming cunt tightening around his fingers.
All the while, his tongue circles her oversensitive clit, teasing around it until the sensation nearly edges pain and her hands twitch and he’s bringing her off again, nuzzling into her gratefully while she cries out, high and loud and past embarrassment.
“Say my name,” he gasps, resting his cheek on her thigh, “Please.” He’s close, too, his lips shiny and his pupils huge and dark and his cheeks flustered pink. The rhythm of his hand on his cock is erratic.
She touches his lower lip with her thumb, rubbing across it, molding it. He draws it into his mouth, closing his lips and sucking on it, leaning his cheek against her palm. Like a cat wanting petting. “Ianto,” she moans, soft, reverent, like a gift, “Ianto.”
He flinches when he comes, pulling his mouth from her thumb and exhaling a relieved little “Ah!” She strokes his head, watching his body shudder, shoulders hunched.
Ianto Jones is punctual.
He’s quick to stand, after, pushing a last little kiss onto the inside of her thigh before he does. He tucks himself and zips his trousers without comment, and then takes her by the waist again, helping her back to her feet. He supports her without laughing when her knees give out at first.
They break apart, at last, saying nothing. Gwen because she’s not sure she can form proper sentences just now, and Ianto, well, for the usual reasons he stays quiet, she supposes. He looks bewildered, standing there stock still and unsure of what to do with his hands, blushing or maybe just flushed with exertion, and his hair-- oh, his hair, bless-- sticking up at odd angles.
So she reaches up and smooths his hair back into place, unabashedly licking her fingers to tame the cowlick popping up at the crown of his head.
When she’s finished, he steps back with a polite bob of his head. He gives her one of his shy, guarded smiles.
“Thank... thank you,” he says.
Gwen Cooper is attentive to the needs of others.