Boxathon Fic- Simon Amstell/Ianto Jones
Author:
llassah
Fandom: Torchwood/RPF
Pairing: Ianto Jones/Simon Amstell
Rating: NC-17
Length: 2100 words
Prompt: 257- Simon is doing stand-up in Cardiff and runs into a Weevil-hunting Ianto
He’s a pretty boy. Too pretty for this alleyway, really, but the Weevils are generally undiscriminating when it comes to prettiness, and being out in the open isn’t…healthy when you have a pulse. It is, in a way, quite advanced of them- generous, even- not to judge by appearances, but really when mauling and eating is the objective-
Ianto decides to stop thinking.
The boy’s a little shorter than him, and not really a boy. More a man, but he’s lanky, all limbs and awkward angles, curly hair and a wide mouth. Since Jack, really anyone under a century is still a child. He stops thinking about Jack, too.
“Listen, I really don’t earn enough to be worth mugging, and anyway, my money’s at the hotel.”
“Mugging?”
“You pulled me into an alleyway and put a hand over my mouth. Generally that’s a prelude to something both traumatic and financially damaging.”
He’s too distracted to feel embarrassed; too busy looking for the weevil, listening for its lumbering, padding walk. “Sorry, I- it’s dangerous out there. Lots of…muggers. The occasional chav. The Ospreys had an away match here and, well. Not a pretty sight.”
The sad thing is, all these things are true. The man looks at him with narrowed eyes. It may be true, but it isn’t believable. “This has to be the weirdest seduction attempt I’ve ever experienced,” he says. Ianto looks at him, puts a hand up.
“Ssh, not now.”
Nice though the thought is. Very nice, in fact. There are worse things to be pressed up against than a bemused and (possibly) willing man. The weevil’s back- he can hear it breathing, just to the right of the entrance to the alleyway. He shifts, getting ready to move.
“Is that a gun in your pocket- oh god, most times that line’s a joke. Who are you?” the man whispers, voice no more than a breath. Ianto steps back, again gesturing to the man- who looks weirdly familiar- to be still and quiet, and draws out the tranquilizer gun.
In the end, it’s pathetically easy. Owen’s driving the van (he introduced pterodactyl into their scissors, paper, stone game to determine who gets to drive, the bastard) and the weevil’s knocked out, bundled into the van and on its way too quickly for the guy he’s left in the alley to make himself known to the rest of the team. The part of his mind that isn’t currently entertaining idly lustful thoughts knows this is a Very Bad Thing.
“I think I might need a drink,” he says, leaning against the brick wall where Ianto left him. There’s a pill in the inside pocket of his waistcoat that decides him, and he jerks his head in the direction of the nearest bar, a bit of a dive, but cheap whisky generally makes up for it. Of course the man follows.
“What’s your name?”
“Simon. You’re Ianto.”
“True.”
“Either that, or Gwen, which…wouldn’t surprise me all that much, actually. You’re possibly the weirdest person I’ve met, and you look so normal.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, any time. See- you’re going for the super agent image. Strong and silent.”
He just nods. Simon shakes his head, muttering. Irritating people shouldn’t be as fun as it is, but god he’s had a day, and passing on a few of the petty annoyances and obstacles aliens and time anomalies seem to bring is one of his few pleasures. He doesn’t think about how bare that makes things sound. Not much, anyway, because Simon’s a little ahead, and his arse looks a right treat in jeans, and he’s wearing his lucky waistcoat. Primed for seduction, really. The Hen and Drainpipe’s down a flight of steps, wrought iron railings rusting around the top of the stairs. It looks…well, it’s a shithole. Complete dive- on Tuesday night, there’s an illegal ferret fight club, and he suspects the ferrets are actually aliens- where turning a blind eye is all the barman seems to do.
“Here’s the place. Or we could go straight to your hotel room, save a bit of money.”
No point in that game- the accidentally brushing hands, the significant looks. It ends with a shag, and Ianto’s generally a patient man, but he’s seizing hours, not days.
“You really have no idea who I am- I mean, god, that sounds arrogant. Sorry, I mean, I’m a comedian, and while I don’t know if you own a television…”
He doesn’t, actually. Owen blew it up. Alien, apparently. It was broadcasting a Simply Red concert at the time it blew up- was blown up. Mick Hucknall is on their surveillance list (Owen had a bad experience necking to one of their songs, so he might be a little biased). “I don’t watch television. Besides, I don’t reckon they show you on S pedwar ec- S4C- anyway.”
“I wish I knew you were joking.”
He smiles thinly. “Well, do you want sex or not?”
Simon looks down the steps, sees the paint peeling off the door of the pub, the bouncer standing there, half shadowed, looks back at Ianto. “Do I have to sign a release form?”
“No- well, for certain positions. You’re at the St. David’s, yes?”
“How did you-”
Lucky guess. “It’s my business to know.”
They start walking back to the docks- it’s a fair way. It’s nice- companionable. Simon’s cheerfully baffled by the whole thing, and doesn’t seem to believe in unnecessary talking, which is…pleasant. They bump shoulders sometimes, walking in step, dodging the occasional group of ratarsed students, and despondent rugby fans- the Ospreys are having a run of bad games, which if you ask Ianto is due to their poor scrum training, and overemphasis on passing, which is good out on the field, but rugby isn’t just about getting from one end to the other, and pushing back the other team is-
Gwen doesn’t generally ask any more.
The silence only starts getting tense outside his door, as Simon fumbles with the keycard, looks up at him where he leans, trying to keep his face impassive. They stand there, just watching each other, wary.
“Simon, I-”
Simon just looks at him as he leans over, puts a hand over his. “Yes?” he breathes.
“It goes the other way up,” Ianto tells him, voice barely above a whisper. Their hands are still touching, frozen there. He kisses him, pulling him close with one hand, using the other to correct the keycard. They’re still kissing as they stumble into the room, toeing off their shoes, tripping over Simon’s suitcase and onto the bed. Simon chews spearmint gum, wears cologne and uses Ariel washing powder, and really really likes it when Ianto grips the back of his neck. Ianto likes the way Simon’s lips are slightly chapped, and how his tongue feels running over his bottom lip. He compares him to Jack, because really, what else is he meant to do? Impossible not to, and Jack likes it when Ianto kisses other men, anyway. Likes watching.
If Ianto’s completely honest with himself, Jack’s fairly irrelevant. God he’d hate that- Ianto, you didn’t even try getting laid by telling them how miserable you were without me? Of course, you know I wouldn’t wanna give them performance anxiety-
“You know, I hate to interrupt, you looked like you were having a really good think, but you’re not doing my fragile ego any good, staring into space like that. Tears of a clown and all that. I only pretend to be this well adjusted.”
“How well adjusted?” Ianto asks absently, ignoring the answer in favour of thoroughly exploring the space where t shirt meets neck. He turns on the bedside light, noting its dimness- he’s bruised, a little; soft lighting is better. Simon’s looking at him, cast a little into shadows. He kisses him, manoeuvring them so he’s over Simon, kisses him some more, hands skimming over cotton and denim. He likes this part, the part where he isn’t younger and infinitely more foolish, the part where Jack’s breath doesn’t ghost over his neck, the part where he doesn’t have to beg. It’s not necessarily simpler, this way, but...power. He has more power to take, this way. Simon’s breath’s a little ragged, hand grasping Ianto’s hip, tight. From here the rest is logical. They sit up, he pulls Simon’s t shirt off, a series of routine actions that rarely change with the zipless fuck. Still. Simon’s hands, undoing his buttons with deft movements, slipping his jacket off, then his waistcoat, his tie, his shirt, with something that would be deference if he didn’t have such heat in his eyes, that is new. He wonders, fleetingly, if this is how Jack feels. Simon looks at his gun, eyebrow raised, then puts it on the bedside table, carefully.
“Lie back,” he murmurs. Ianto obeys, keeping his arms by his sides, waiting patiently, then he remembers that this is sex, not an interrogation or a power game. Allowing himself to react feels unnatural at first, then the moans, gasps, half-voiced begging becomes more real than silence. Simon’s got a clever mouth, is inventive but not unkind, biting just enough for the thrill, not enough for pain. He spends an age licking Ianto’s collarbone, keeping his attention above the waist until he feels as if he could come without a hand on his cock.
(Jack talked him into orgasm once; whispered ‘good boy’ then left him leaning against the wall, shaking, as if nothing had happened. He’d reciprocated a week later, tied his hands, worked him up so he strained and snarled, something inhuman, old and wild in his eyes. He’d whispered ‘good boy’, too, walked off, too. He hadn’t let Jack come, though. Jack had taken him out for dinner after that, wary respect dictating his courtesy, his chivalry. Their game was a lot more fun after that. Jack knew about consequences, then.)
He twines his fingers through Simon’s hair, stroking down the back of his neck, to his upper back, tracing the line where the skin went from dry, powdery almost, to softer, more supple skin, circling the first vertebra, learning him. It feels like forever, this lazy exploration that segues into kissing, into shimmying out of trousers and jeans, toeing off socks. Simon’s fingers trace his scars, the times he was too slow to dodge, innocent of what caused them. “Don’t ask,” he cautions.
He doesn’t; he rolls onto his back, sprawled, with his forearm covering his arm, says “take me now, you mysterious stud,” and by some miracle, doesn’t laugh.
Ianto rolls his eyes. “God, I don’t half pick the twp ones,” but the invitation’s there, and he’s only human. He gets the lube and condoms from Simon’s pocket, ignoring his raised eyebrow, directs him with touches to his shoulder, his hips, until he’s there, laid out on his front, pillow supporting his hips, skin with a soft glow against black hair and white, slim-hipped and waiting. He begs well, writhes under Ianto’s touch, presses his arse up eagerly as Ianto twists one, then two fingers inside him, patient to the point of cruelty. Ianto takes his fingers out, rolls on the condom with hands that shake a little, steadies himself on Simon’s hip, presses in slowly but relentlessly, slipping back into control.
“Please” becomes a continuous prayer as Ianto loses himself in the heat of him, heat and pressure, connection, a rhythm that carries them both into orgasm, into freefall then slumping, listening to their hearts beating and their breathing evening out. Simon winces as they roll apart, but smiles lazily at him. “That was fun,” he says, voice a little husky. Ianto smirks, ties off the condom and throws it unerringly into the wastepaper basket. “You like being frighteningly competent,” he observes, then. Ianto just shrugs, gets a flannel and cleans them both off. “Also, what does twp mean?”
“It’s an old welsh word for someone who asks too many questions when they’re meant to be basking in the post coital glow.”
Simon laughs, pulls him close as they burrow under the covers. They lie forehead to forehead as he strokes lazy circles on Simon’s hip. He watches him fall asleep, listening to his pulse slow, his breathing patterns change. He lets sleep take him under as he mimics those patterns. He doesn’t miss Jack.
The clock on the bedside table says 4:00. Simon’s sleeping, still, peaceful. He gets him a glass of water, for the morning, moving silently, with more stealth than he allows people to see. It’s safer like that. Competence scares people. Such a pretty boy. Too pretty for this hotel room, those white sheets, the faint light of the sunrise through the windows that makes his skin blush faintly. Or pretty enough. Pretty enough for this, and no more. He smiles, a little, picks up his gun from the table, dresses quickly. There’s a little white pill in the inside pocket of his lucky waistcoat.
[Notes: Ospreys- Swansea based rugby team . I don’t know if they overemphasise passing. They might, but I haven’t watched one of their matches in a while.
S4C- Welsh language channel (ess pedwar ec in Welsh)
Twp- welsh for someone a little simple
The Hen and Drainpipe does not, to my knowledge, exist.]
llassah
Fandom: Torchwood/RPF
Pairing: Ianto Jones/Simon Amstell
Rating: NC-17
Length: 2100 words
Prompt: 257- Simon is doing stand-up in Cardiff and runs into a Weevil-hunting Ianto
He’s a pretty boy. Too pretty for this alleyway, really, but the Weevils are generally undiscriminating when it comes to prettiness, and being out in the open isn’t…healthy when you have a pulse. It is, in a way, quite advanced of them- generous, even- not to judge by appearances, but really when mauling and eating is the objective-
Ianto decides to stop thinking.
The boy’s a little shorter than him, and not really a boy. More a man, but he’s lanky, all limbs and awkward angles, curly hair and a wide mouth. Since Jack, really anyone under a century is still a child. He stops thinking about Jack, too.
“Listen, I really don’t earn enough to be worth mugging, and anyway, my money’s at the hotel.”
“Mugging?”
“You pulled me into an alleyway and put a hand over my mouth. Generally that’s a prelude to something both traumatic and financially damaging.”
He’s too distracted to feel embarrassed; too busy looking for the weevil, listening for its lumbering, padding walk. “Sorry, I- it’s dangerous out there. Lots of…muggers. The occasional chav. The Ospreys had an away match here and, well. Not a pretty sight.”
The sad thing is, all these things are true. The man looks at him with narrowed eyes. It may be true, but it isn’t believable. “This has to be the weirdest seduction attempt I’ve ever experienced,” he says. Ianto looks at him, puts a hand up.
“Ssh, not now.”
Nice though the thought is. Very nice, in fact. There are worse things to be pressed up against than a bemused and (possibly) willing man. The weevil’s back- he can hear it breathing, just to the right of the entrance to the alleyway. He shifts, getting ready to move.
“Is that a gun in your pocket- oh god, most times that line’s a joke. Who are you?” the man whispers, voice no more than a breath. Ianto steps back, again gesturing to the man- who looks weirdly familiar- to be still and quiet, and draws out the tranquilizer gun.
In the end, it’s pathetically easy. Owen’s driving the van (he introduced pterodactyl into their scissors, paper, stone game to determine who gets to drive, the bastard) and the weevil’s knocked out, bundled into the van and on its way too quickly for the guy he’s left in the alley to make himself known to the rest of the team. The part of his mind that isn’t currently entertaining idly lustful thoughts knows this is a Very Bad Thing.
“I think I might need a drink,” he says, leaning against the brick wall where Ianto left him. There’s a pill in the inside pocket of his waistcoat that decides him, and he jerks his head in the direction of the nearest bar, a bit of a dive, but cheap whisky generally makes up for it. Of course the man follows.
“What’s your name?”
“Simon. You’re Ianto.”
“True.”
“Either that, or Gwen, which…wouldn’t surprise me all that much, actually. You’re possibly the weirdest person I’ve met, and you look so normal.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, any time. See- you’re going for the super agent image. Strong and silent.”
He just nods. Simon shakes his head, muttering. Irritating people shouldn’t be as fun as it is, but god he’s had a day, and passing on a few of the petty annoyances and obstacles aliens and time anomalies seem to bring is one of his few pleasures. He doesn’t think about how bare that makes things sound. Not much, anyway, because Simon’s a little ahead, and his arse looks a right treat in jeans, and he’s wearing his lucky waistcoat. Primed for seduction, really. The Hen and Drainpipe’s down a flight of steps, wrought iron railings rusting around the top of the stairs. It looks…well, it’s a shithole. Complete dive- on Tuesday night, there’s an illegal ferret fight club, and he suspects the ferrets are actually aliens- where turning a blind eye is all the barman seems to do.
“Here’s the place. Or we could go straight to your hotel room, save a bit of money.”
No point in that game- the accidentally brushing hands, the significant looks. It ends with a shag, and Ianto’s generally a patient man, but he’s seizing hours, not days.
“You really have no idea who I am- I mean, god, that sounds arrogant. Sorry, I mean, I’m a comedian, and while I don’t know if you own a television…”
He doesn’t, actually. Owen blew it up. Alien, apparently. It was broadcasting a Simply Red concert at the time it blew up- was blown up. Mick Hucknall is on their surveillance list (Owen had a bad experience necking to one of their songs, so he might be a little biased). “I don’t watch television. Besides, I don’t reckon they show you on S pedwar ec- S4C- anyway.”
“I wish I knew you were joking.”
He smiles thinly. “Well, do you want sex or not?”
Simon looks down the steps, sees the paint peeling off the door of the pub, the bouncer standing there, half shadowed, looks back at Ianto. “Do I have to sign a release form?”
“No- well, for certain positions. You’re at the St. David’s, yes?”
“How did you-”
Lucky guess. “It’s my business to know.”
They start walking back to the docks- it’s a fair way. It’s nice- companionable. Simon’s cheerfully baffled by the whole thing, and doesn’t seem to believe in unnecessary talking, which is…pleasant. They bump shoulders sometimes, walking in step, dodging the occasional group of ratarsed students, and despondent rugby fans- the Ospreys are having a run of bad games, which if you ask Ianto is due to their poor scrum training, and overemphasis on passing, which is good out on the field, but rugby isn’t just about getting from one end to the other, and pushing back the other team is-
Gwen doesn’t generally ask any more.
The silence only starts getting tense outside his door, as Simon fumbles with the keycard, looks up at him where he leans, trying to keep his face impassive. They stand there, just watching each other, wary.
“Simon, I-”
Simon just looks at him as he leans over, puts a hand over his. “Yes?” he breathes.
“It goes the other way up,” Ianto tells him, voice barely above a whisper. Their hands are still touching, frozen there. He kisses him, pulling him close with one hand, using the other to correct the keycard. They’re still kissing as they stumble into the room, toeing off their shoes, tripping over Simon’s suitcase and onto the bed. Simon chews spearmint gum, wears cologne and uses Ariel washing powder, and really really likes it when Ianto grips the back of his neck. Ianto likes the way Simon’s lips are slightly chapped, and how his tongue feels running over his bottom lip. He compares him to Jack, because really, what else is he meant to do? Impossible not to, and Jack likes it when Ianto kisses other men, anyway. Likes watching.
If Ianto’s completely honest with himself, Jack’s fairly irrelevant. God he’d hate that- Ianto, you didn’t even try getting laid by telling them how miserable you were without me? Of course, you know I wouldn’t wanna give them performance anxiety-
“You know, I hate to interrupt, you looked like you were having a really good think, but you’re not doing my fragile ego any good, staring into space like that. Tears of a clown and all that. I only pretend to be this well adjusted.”
“How well adjusted?” Ianto asks absently, ignoring the answer in favour of thoroughly exploring the space where t shirt meets neck. He turns on the bedside light, noting its dimness- he’s bruised, a little; soft lighting is better. Simon’s looking at him, cast a little into shadows. He kisses him, manoeuvring them so he’s over Simon, kisses him some more, hands skimming over cotton and denim. He likes this part, the part where he isn’t younger and infinitely more foolish, the part where Jack’s breath doesn’t ghost over his neck, the part where he doesn’t have to beg. It’s not necessarily simpler, this way, but...power. He has more power to take, this way. Simon’s breath’s a little ragged, hand grasping Ianto’s hip, tight. From here the rest is logical. They sit up, he pulls Simon’s t shirt off, a series of routine actions that rarely change with the zipless fuck. Still. Simon’s hands, undoing his buttons with deft movements, slipping his jacket off, then his waistcoat, his tie, his shirt, with something that would be deference if he didn’t have such heat in his eyes, that is new. He wonders, fleetingly, if this is how Jack feels. Simon looks at his gun, eyebrow raised, then puts it on the bedside table, carefully.
“Lie back,” he murmurs. Ianto obeys, keeping his arms by his sides, waiting patiently, then he remembers that this is sex, not an interrogation or a power game. Allowing himself to react feels unnatural at first, then the moans, gasps, half-voiced begging becomes more real than silence. Simon’s got a clever mouth, is inventive but not unkind, biting just enough for the thrill, not enough for pain. He spends an age licking Ianto’s collarbone, keeping his attention above the waist until he feels as if he could come without a hand on his cock.
(Jack talked him into orgasm once; whispered ‘good boy’ then left him leaning against the wall, shaking, as if nothing had happened. He’d reciprocated a week later, tied his hands, worked him up so he strained and snarled, something inhuman, old and wild in his eyes. He’d whispered ‘good boy’, too, walked off, too. He hadn’t let Jack come, though. Jack had taken him out for dinner after that, wary respect dictating his courtesy, his chivalry. Their game was a lot more fun after that. Jack knew about consequences, then.)
He twines his fingers through Simon’s hair, stroking down the back of his neck, to his upper back, tracing the line where the skin went from dry, powdery almost, to softer, more supple skin, circling the first vertebra, learning him. It feels like forever, this lazy exploration that segues into kissing, into shimmying out of trousers and jeans, toeing off socks. Simon’s fingers trace his scars, the times he was too slow to dodge, innocent of what caused them. “Don’t ask,” he cautions.
He doesn’t; he rolls onto his back, sprawled, with his forearm covering his arm, says “take me now, you mysterious stud,” and by some miracle, doesn’t laugh.
Ianto rolls his eyes. “God, I don’t half pick the twp ones,” but the invitation’s there, and he’s only human. He gets the lube and condoms from Simon’s pocket, ignoring his raised eyebrow, directs him with touches to his shoulder, his hips, until he’s there, laid out on his front, pillow supporting his hips, skin with a soft glow against black hair and white, slim-hipped and waiting. He begs well, writhes under Ianto’s touch, presses his arse up eagerly as Ianto twists one, then two fingers inside him, patient to the point of cruelty. Ianto takes his fingers out, rolls on the condom with hands that shake a little, steadies himself on Simon’s hip, presses in slowly but relentlessly, slipping back into control.
“Please” becomes a continuous prayer as Ianto loses himself in the heat of him, heat and pressure, connection, a rhythm that carries them both into orgasm, into freefall then slumping, listening to their hearts beating and their breathing evening out. Simon winces as they roll apart, but smiles lazily at him. “That was fun,” he says, voice a little husky. Ianto smirks, ties off the condom and throws it unerringly into the wastepaper basket. “You like being frighteningly competent,” he observes, then. Ianto just shrugs, gets a flannel and cleans them both off. “Also, what does twp mean?”
“It’s an old welsh word for someone who asks too many questions when they’re meant to be basking in the post coital glow.”
Simon laughs, pulls him close as they burrow under the covers. They lie forehead to forehead as he strokes lazy circles on Simon’s hip. He watches him fall asleep, listening to his pulse slow, his breathing patterns change. He lets sleep take him under as he mimics those patterns. He doesn’t miss Jack.
The clock on the bedside table says 4:00. Simon’s sleeping, still, peaceful. He gets him a glass of water, for the morning, moving silently, with more stealth than he allows people to see. It’s safer like that. Competence scares people. Such a pretty boy. Too pretty for this hotel room, those white sheets, the faint light of the sunrise through the windows that makes his skin blush faintly. Or pretty enough. Pretty enough for this, and no more. He smiles, a little, picks up his gun from the table, dresses quickly. There’s a little white pill in the inside pocket of his lucky waistcoat.
[Notes: Ospreys- Swansea based rugby team . I don’t know if they overemphasise passing. They might, but I haven’t watched one of their matches in a while.
S4C- Welsh language channel (ess pedwar ec in Welsh)
Twp- welsh for someone a little simple
The Hen and Drainpipe does not, to my knowledge, exist.]