Clouds and Rain
Title: Clouds and Rain
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R, possibly verging on light NC-17 for semi-graphic sex.
Notes/Summary: In which Ianto thinks too much about the weather, and Jack states the obvious. Written for the July 22 prompt at horizonssing.
I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its heats;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.
Except from, "I See the Boys of Summer" by Dylan Thomas
It is not ‘at least a hundred degrees’ on the Plass, no matter what Jack says. For one, that would mean that the Bay would be boiling. And really, shouldn’t a man who’d loathed Yvonne Hartman the way Jack did glory in using the metric system? It’s thirty-eight out there, and Jack bloody well knows it.
Jack moans beneath him, and Ianto shifts his fingers in deeper.
Normal people do not bother with the weather at moments like this. They occupy themselves with the taste of salt on skin, or dig their fingernails into one another and babble filthy gibberish. Fahrenheit to Centigrade conversions? He must be going mad, probably from the heat outside. Which, disbelief aside, appears to be perfectly natural.
Ianto frees his fingers and lines himself up. Jack is radiating, even in the clammy cool of the Hub. The heat of his skin defies logic in the same way the weather does. It’s out of place under the ground, or in the cold and the wet that suits Cardiff far better than today's paint-blistering sun. Ianto buries himself in Jack’s warmth with a groan.
Here, like this, the heat outside (and the cool inside) ceases to matter for a little while. They’re their own weather pattern, a storm building slowly out of disparities in pressure and changes of temperature. He tries to remember the Taoist euphemism he read once in some Chinese period novel, but it eludes him. Of course it does. He’s busy, after all.
Afterward, in Jack’s arms, Ianto contemplates taking him to task again over the temperature. He’s looking for the right words to tease when the Hub rattles around them. Thunder.
“Sounds like a storm coming in,” Jack says as he looks up at the ceiling.
Ianto just smiles.
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R, possibly verging on light NC-17 for semi-graphic sex.
Notes/Summary: In which Ianto thinks too much about the weather, and Jack states the obvious. Written for the July 22 prompt at horizonssing.
I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its heats;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.
Except from, "I See the Boys of Summer" by Dylan Thomas
It is not ‘at least a hundred degrees’ on the Plass, no matter what Jack says. For one, that would mean that the Bay would be boiling. And really, shouldn’t a man who’d loathed Yvonne Hartman the way Jack did glory in using the metric system? It’s thirty-eight out there, and Jack bloody well knows it.
Jack moans beneath him, and Ianto shifts his fingers in deeper.
Normal people do not bother with the weather at moments like this. They occupy themselves with the taste of salt on skin, or dig their fingernails into one another and babble filthy gibberish. Fahrenheit to Centigrade conversions? He must be going mad, probably from the heat outside. Which, disbelief aside, appears to be perfectly natural.
Ianto frees his fingers and lines himself up. Jack is radiating, even in the clammy cool of the Hub. The heat of his skin defies logic in the same way the weather does. It’s out of place under the ground, or in the cold and the wet that suits Cardiff far better than today's paint-blistering sun. Ianto buries himself in Jack’s warmth with a groan.
Here, like this, the heat outside (and the cool inside) ceases to matter for a little while. They’re their own weather pattern, a storm building slowly out of disparities in pressure and changes of temperature. He tries to remember the Taoist euphemism he read once in some Chinese period novel, but it eludes him. Of course it does. He’s busy, after all.
Afterward, in Jack’s arms, Ianto contemplates taking him to task again over the temperature. He’s looking for the right words to tease when the Hub rattles around them. Thunder.
“Sounds like a storm coming in,” Jack says as he looks up at the ceiling.
Ianto just smiles.