Torchwood fiction: Cinephile
Title: Cinephile
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Summary: The dark of the cinema is special for Ianto
Notes: This takes its cue from 02.10 From Out of the Rain but isn't spoilery at all. Really, I was just captivated by the way Ianto looked like he was going to cream his trousers in the beginning of the episode. griggharris provided me with both caps of said Ianto and a quick read-through of this and I am grateful for it. eta: kita0610 helped make things smooth at the last moment, so, smooches <33
Ianto likes theatres. He likes the charming, old-fashioned beauty that comes with red velvet and dark wood. Theatres remind him a little of his childhood but the nostalgia is less important than the warm sexiness that permeates an old theatre. It tells of dates since passed, of the sweet connection of hands and mouths. A theatre is the perfect meeting place of public and private, dark and quiet but full of strangers.
Ianto finds the idea of this cross-over thrilling. He remembers his own dates full of nervous, thick arousal and he misses the feeling. When he tells Jack about it, Jack grins and calls him kinky. There is an undeniable note of pride in his voice and he looks very pleased when he cups Ianto’s face to kiss him.
After, Ianto asks, “Well, can we go then?”
Jack is already undoing the buttons on Ianto’s shirt, shaking his head at any protests, even though they’re in Jack’s office and Owen hasn’t quite left for the night yet. Ianto knows Owen knows and that he doesn’t seem to mind them. But Ianto likes to at least pretend he has dignity around the rest of the team. Jack only undoes four buttons though, just enough to slide one of his hands inside to press his palm to Ianto’s breastbone.
He doesn’t ask Ianto what’s playing. Jack knows that it doesn’t matter. He just looks at Ianto, calm and a little bit tender, and says, “Of course.”
*
Ianto lets Jack take his hand when they enter the theatre and he lets Jack steer them through the stale, warm dark, towards the seats back at the far left, away from the three other patrons who have come to see Last Year in Marienbad, which Ianto has never seen but has heard about.
“I saw this when it came out,” Jack murmurs as they settle.
“When was that?” The screen flickers to life, unsteady for a few moments before finding itself. A black and white image appears on the screen. It’s a slow, wandering shot of the sculpted and well-decorated ceiling of a mansion. The music is shrill, cacophonous, almost drowning out the voice-over of a man muttering in French.
“1961.” Jack’s breath hits Ianto’s jaw line, he’s that close.
“Did you see it in France?”
“Naturellement,” Jack’s voice slips down into a low purr and Ianto swallows because he’s never heard Jack speak French. Prexacopillian, yes. French, never. This warmth and want must be how Jack feels when he hears Ianto’s snippets of Welsh.
“I’m glad,” Ianto says softly, wishing he could think of something more biting or witty to say instead of breathless agreement. He might have shown too much and garnered a bit of a disadvantage if after this Jack can simply counter his Welsh with French. If that starts happening at Torchwood they’ll never get any work done.
Jack’s hand cups his kneecap and Ianto starts to not care about who speaks what. The theatre is dim and flickering, quiet except for the murmuring voice-over, Jack is close by and Ianto thinks he might get what he wants.
*
It’s fifty-two minutes into the film (if one can even call this thing a proper film, what with the lack of plot and character development) and Ianto’s mouth is pleasantly swollen from the snogging. He and Jack never get to kiss like this, long and slow, a normal part of the darkened public sphere. More often than not kissing is the spring board to sex, a sign saying Yes, now is a good time for this.
Ianto never gets to lick deep into Jack’s mouth, tasting the faint mint of him. He doesn’t remember the last time he got to relax and skim his fingers over the smooth skin of Jack’s cheeks or suck on his lip. But here, in the dark of the cinema it’s easy and right to do these things, even if they do have to work around the arm rest.
He can see Jack only in glimpses whenever he opens his eyes, pulling away to catch his breath or because the sound of French dialogue is distracting and intriguing. Jack’s eyes and teeth are the only bright parts of him here. The rest of his face is washed grey in the classic tones of French cinema. But he’s so warm, unlike celluloid, his mouth against one of Ianto’s cheeks, his fingers on the other, guiding Ianto back.
“Ici, Ianto. Ma bouche est ta maison,” he whispers. My mouth is your home. It’s soft and seductive, the same as the press of his palm on Ianto’s belly, keeping him together and pulling him apart simultaneously.
Ianto whimpers, turning to find Jack’s mouth again, tasting the heat. He feels Jack’s fingers slip under his t-shirt and circle his navel, playing. Jack’s hands are gentle, the one on Ianto’s neck holding him still while the one on his belly draws shivers.
“Jack.” It’s barely an exhale as Jack easily pops the button on Ianto’s jeans, the zip parting as Jack eases his hand inside to cup Ianto. They both make pleased noises when they get skin-to-skin but it’s Jack who says, “Easy,” stroking slow.
On the screen a man has a women pinned against a pillar in a courtyard and she begs to be left alone but her heart is not into it. Ianto tries to watch, rolling his hips into Jack’s fist. Watching the film should probably be at least a little part of the experience.
Jack squeezes Ianto’s cock once, to draw his attention. “Ianto,” he coaxes, “stop watching this silly thing. Pay attention to this.” Another squeeze.
Ianto whines, just a little, trying to keep quiet. He spreads his legs apart and grips both the arm rest and a handful of the greatcoat. Jack kisses him sloppily and then lets his mouth drag to Ianto’s ear.
“That’s the thing, Ianto: you’re the show, not this French mindfuck of a film. I’m here to watch you get off on this. I don’t care about what’s going on on screen. I care about watching you lose control in my hands and having to keep so quiet because there are two old women and an exchange student nearby.” Jack’s voice is the same way it sounds when he speaks French, intimate and rumbling. Ianto squirms, caught between pushing Jack away and begging for more.
“It’s okay,” Jack soothes. He brushes Ianto’s cheek with his unoccupied fingers. “I know it’s intense, and you feel damn dirty. But that’s so good, so wonderful.” He pauses to rub his fingers over the head of Ianto’s cock, listening to Ianto’s stuttering inhale. Ianto arches up, encouraging the stroking to resume and Jack does, faster than before, whispering bits of sweetness in a language Ianto doesn’t understand.
Jack kisses Ianto, light and undemanding, and Ianto shifts and strains inside of his own skin. He feels like he could burst, being indulged by Jack like this. They've never done one of Ianto's kinks before, but Jack looks like he's enjoying himself, his mouth smiling and warm above Ianto.
Ianto’s own mouth is opening and closing, swallowing back his moans with little success. He’s shaking, stretching out his legs as much as is possible in this small theatre, twisting in Jack’s hands.
“Oh, oh, Jack--”
“Shh.” Jack slips his hand over Ianto’s mouth, gentle pressure. Ianto looks at him, eyes drowsy with pleasure but still questioning. His breath is coming in quick puffs against Jack’s palm, and he swallows loudly. Jack smiles at Ianto, shushes him again to make the point and nuzzles his cheek.
Ianto manages to shove his cock into Jack’s fist at a good angle, and it feels like his spine is on fire, spreading warmth all through his belly. Jack’s lips brush his ear again and he whimpers, not audible beyond the flesh covering his mouth.
“That’s it,” Jack murmurs, stroking the right counterpoint to Ianto’s hips, and hard. “So hot. Wish I could fuck you, right here, right now.” Ianto bucks up and Jack says, “You’re doing amazing.”
With that as a blessing Ianto comes, trembling. He finds himself pressing his tongue to Jack’s palm for the contact. Somehow, insanely, Jack tastes like the butter that comes on popcorn. This theatre doesn’t even sell popcorn.
He finally slumps in his seat, watching Jack wipe come off his jeans. Jack licks his fingers, eyes sparking as he sucks on his own index finger. His hand on Ianto’s mouth slips down to cup Ianto’s chin instead, holding him still. They kiss and Ianto licks eagerly at the taste of himself, wanting to drink it out of Jack.
On the screen, it looks like a woman in a feathery white gown just got shot, but Ianto doesn’t know and doesn’t care.
*
Jack sees that Ianto gets home, and even goes so far as to climb into bed with him when they get there although he’s still fully dressed. Ianto doesn’t mind, pulling one of Jack’s sock-clad feet between his own bare ones and playing with a button on the greatcoat.
“Was it good for you?” Jack asks, teasing. Ianto can hardly see him at all without the light from a screen.
Ianto nods and then realizes perhaps Jack can’t see him either. He skims his hands inside of Jack’s coat, rubbing over Jack’s ribs, pulling Jack half on top of him. “Yes.”
For a moment things are indecisive. Jack is deciding whether to stay or go, hesitating on his elbows above Ianto. Ianto rubs his hip against Jack’s, his fingers slipping between shirt buttons, trying to help. And amazingly it works, Jack whispering, “Bien,” as he leans down for a kiss.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Summary: The dark of the cinema is special for Ianto
Notes: This takes its cue from 02.10 From Out of the Rain but isn't spoilery at all. Really, I was just captivated by the way Ianto looked like he was going to cream his trousers in the beginning of the episode. griggharris provided me with both caps of said Ianto and a quick read-through of this and I am grateful for it. eta: kita0610 helped make things smooth at the last moment, so, smooches <33
Ianto likes theatres. He likes the charming, old-fashioned beauty that comes with red velvet and dark wood. Theatres remind him a little of his childhood but the nostalgia is less important than the warm sexiness that permeates an old theatre. It tells of dates since passed, of the sweet connection of hands and mouths. A theatre is the perfect meeting place of public and private, dark and quiet but full of strangers.
Ianto finds the idea of this cross-over thrilling. He remembers his own dates full of nervous, thick arousal and he misses the feeling. When he tells Jack about it, Jack grins and calls him kinky. There is an undeniable note of pride in his voice and he looks very pleased when he cups Ianto’s face to kiss him.
After, Ianto asks, “Well, can we go then?”
Jack is already undoing the buttons on Ianto’s shirt, shaking his head at any protests, even though they’re in Jack’s office and Owen hasn’t quite left for the night yet. Ianto knows Owen knows and that he doesn’t seem to mind them. But Ianto likes to at least pretend he has dignity around the rest of the team. Jack only undoes four buttons though, just enough to slide one of his hands inside to press his palm to Ianto’s breastbone.
He doesn’t ask Ianto what’s playing. Jack knows that it doesn’t matter. He just looks at Ianto, calm and a little bit tender, and says, “Of course.”
*
Ianto lets Jack take his hand when they enter the theatre and he lets Jack steer them through the stale, warm dark, towards the seats back at the far left, away from the three other patrons who have come to see Last Year in Marienbad, which Ianto has never seen but has heard about.
“I saw this when it came out,” Jack murmurs as they settle.
“When was that?” The screen flickers to life, unsteady for a few moments before finding itself. A black and white image appears on the screen. It’s a slow, wandering shot of the sculpted and well-decorated ceiling of a mansion. The music is shrill, cacophonous, almost drowning out the voice-over of a man muttering in French.
“1961.” Jack’s breath hits Ianto’s jaw line, he’s that close.
“Did you see it in France?”
“Naturellement,” Jack’s voice slips down into a low purr and Ianto swallows because he’s never heard Jack speak French. Prexacopillian, yes. French, never. This warmth and want must be how Jack feels when he hears Ianto’s snippets of Welsh.
“I’m glad,” Ianto says softly, wishing he could think of something more biting or witty to say instead of breathless agreement. He might have shown too much and garnered a bit of a disadvantage if after this Jack can simply counter his Welsh with French. If that starts happening at Torchwood they’ll never get any work done.
Jack’s hand cups his kneecap and Ianto starts to not care about who speaks what. The theatre is dim and flickering, quiet except for the murmuring voice-over, Jack is close by and Ianto thinks he might get what he wants.
*
It’s fifty-two minutes into the film (if one can even call this thing a proper film, what with the lack of plot and character development) and Ianto’s mouth is pleasantly swollen from the snogging. He and Jack never get to kiss like this, long and slow, a normal part of the darkened public sphere. More often than not kissing is the spring board to sex, a sign saying Yes, now is a good time for this.
Ianto never gets to lick deep into Jack’s mouth, tasting the faint mint of him. He doesn’t remember the last time he got to relax and skim his fingers over the smooth skin of Jack’s cheeks or suck on his lip. But here, in the dark of the cinema it’s easy and right to do these things, even if they do have to work around the arm rest.
He can see Jack only in glimpses whenever he opens his eyes, pulling away to catch his breath or because the sound of French dialogue is distracting and intriguing. Jack’s eyes and teeth are the only bright parts of him here. The rest of his face is washed grey in the classic tones of French cinema. But he’s so warm, unlike celluloid, his mouth against one of Ianto’s cheeks, his fingers on the other, guiding Ianto back.
“Ici, Ianto. Ma bouche est ta maison,” he whispers. My mouth is your home. It’s soft and seductive, the same as the press of his palm on Ianto’s belly, keeping him together and pulling him apart simultaneously.
Ianto whimpers, turning to find Jack’s mouth again, tasting the heat. He feels Jack’s fingers slip under his t-shirt and circle his navel, playing. Jack’s hands are gentle, the one on Ianto’s neck holding him still while the one on his belly draws shivers.
“Jack.” It’s barely an exhale as Jack easily pops the button on Ianto’s jeans, the zip parting as Jack eases his hand inside to cup Ianto. They both make pleased noises when they get skin-to-skin but it’s Jack who says, “Easy,” stroking slow.
On the screen a man has a women pinned against a pillar in a courtyard and she begs to be left alone but her heart is not into it. Ianto tries to watch, rolling his hips into Jack’s fist. Watching the film should probably be at least a little part of the experience.
Jack squeezes Ianto’s cock once, to draw his attention. “Ianto,” he coaxes, “stop watching this silly thing. Pay attention to this.” Another squeeze.
Ianto whines, just a little, trying to keep quiet. He spreads his legs apart and grips both the arm rest and a handful of the greatcoat. Jack kisses him sloppily and then lets his mouth drag to Ianto’s ear.
“That’s the thing, Ianto: you’re the show, not this French mindfuck of a film. I’m here to watch you get off on this. I don’t care about what’s going on on screen. I care about watching you lose control in my hands and having to keep so quiet because there are two old women and an exchange student nearby.” Jack’s voice is the same way it sounds when he speaks French, intimate and rumbling. Ianto squirms, caught between pushing Jack away and begging for more.
“It’s okay,” Jack soothes. He brushes Ianto’s cheek with his unoccupied fingers. “I know it’s intense, and you feel damn dirty. But that’s so good, so wonderful.” He pauses to rub his fingers over the head of Ianto’s cock, listening to Ianto’s stuttering inhale. Ianto arches up, encouraging the stroking to resume and Jack does, faster than before, whispering bits of sweetness in a language Ianto doesn’t understand.
Jack kisses Ianto, light and undemanding, and Ianto shifts and strains inside of his own skin. He feels like he could burst, being indulged by Jack like this. They've never done one of Ianto's kinks before, but Jack looks like he's enjoying himself, his mouth smiling and warm above Ianto.
Ianto’s own mouth is opening and closing, swallowing back his moans with little success. He’s shaking, stretching out his legs as much as is possible in this small theatre, twisting in Jack’s hands.
“Oh, oh, Jack--”
“Shh.” Jack slips his hand over Ianto’s mouth, gentle pressure. Ianto looks at him, eyes drowsy with pleasure but still questioning. His breath is coming in quick puffs against Jack’s palm, and he swallows loudly. Jack smiles at Ianto, shushes him again to make the point and nuzzles his cheek.
Ianto manages to shove his cock into Jack’s fist at a good angle, and it feels like his spine is on fire, spreading warmth all through his belly. Jack’s lips brush his ear again and he whimpers, not audible beyond the flesh covering his mouth.
“That’s it,” Jack murmurs, stroking the right counterpoint to Ianto’s hips, and hard. “So hot. Wish I could fuck you, right here, right now.” Ianto bucks up and Jack says, “You’re doing amazing.”
With that as a blessing Ianto comes, trembling. He finds himself pressing his tongue to Jack’s palm for the contact. Somehow, insanely, Jack tastes like the butter that comes on popcorn. This theatre doesn’t even sell popcorn.
He finally slumps in his seat, watching Jack wipe come off his jeans. Jack licks his fingers, eyes sparking as he sucks on his own index finger. His hand on Ianto’s mouth slips down to cup Ianto’s chin instead, holding him still. They kiss and Ianto licks eagerly at the taste of himself, wanting to drink it out of Jack.
On the screen, it looks like a woman in a feathery white gown just got shot, but Ianto doesn’t know and doesn’t care.
*
Jack sees that Ianto gets home, and even goes so far as to climb into bed with him when they get there although he’s still fully dressed. Ianto doesn’t mind, pulling one of Jack’s sock-clad feet between his own bare ones and playing with a button on the greatcoat.
“Was it good for you?” Jack asks, teasing. Ianto can hardly see him at all without the light from a screen.
Ianto nods and then realizes perhaps Jack can’t see him either. He skims his hands inside of Jack’s coat, rubbing over Jack’s ribs, pulling Jack half on top of him. “Yes.”
For a moment things are indecisive. Jack is deciding whether to stay or go, hesitating on his elbows above Ianto. Ianto rubs his hip against Jack’s, his fingers slipping between shirt buttons, trying to help. And amazingly it works, Jack whispering, “Bien,” as he leans down for a kiss.