Fic - Home Sweet Hell #5
Title: Home Sweet Hell #5
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Setting: During and around Random Shoes
Previously...
For writers_choice 4th annual open challenge - prompt #11, on the floor; and smut_69 - prompt #4, lube
My Jack/Ianto Smut Table
Home Sweet Hell #5
It isn't so much a kiss as a branding, fierce and hot. Claiming him, marking him. There is violence in his hands too, as his fingers wrench at Jack's tie, and fasten round his throat. Jack is too shocked to respond immediately, but it doesn't take him long to catch on. Thrusting forward, Jack has him rocking but unflinching, and it's easier now to wrestle him out of his heavy coat.
In a frenzy of teeth and tongues and nails, they lurch through the archway into the narrow corridor, no light, no air between them. Biting, scratching, bruisingly careening from wall to wall, they almost make it to the bedroom until the laws of physics win out and they crash to the floor. The force of the impact and the weight of Jack's body knock the breath from Ianto's lungs, but he'll be damned if he's going to let Jack gain any advantage. Fighting for oxygen, he summons up the energy to buck. They roll and pin and roll again, boots scraping shins, cotton tearing. Somehow he is freed from his shirt, he has Jack's braces down and has clawed his way through the layers of clothing to his flesh.
There is a moment's pause, no longer, in their struggles and he swears he can make out tears glistening in Jack's eyes but that only makes him harder. A beat, maybe two, and then they are straining, pushing, once more. All hard muscles, hard cocks driving against fabric; hot breath and gasps into each other's mouths, hot flesh sticking to and rubbing against flesh. And nothing else matters anymore, not really, not for frantic, crazy minutes.
But then it begins to matter, and matter very much, that as wild as they are, their erections are still caged and confined. They allow each other to tug at buttons and zips, to wrench trousers down sufficiently to release themselves, but he slaps away Jack's hand as he tries to grasp him, stroke him; and he doesn't let himself reach for Jack. It would all be over way too abruptly if permission were granted, the state they are in.
Their tussles are more rhythmic now, though; moving together, nose to nose, mouth to mouth, eyes wide and staring. Up and down, hands locked around each other's necks. Grinding and grating, body hair and skin prickling and chafing, cocks and balls in danger of numbing as the pressure intensifies. Before this worst can happen, Jack parts his thighs just enough to let Ianto slip his cock between them, then clamps them shut. It doesn't seem possible, but in this position Ianto can thrust, a slow leak of semen providing some meagre lubrication. He lowers one hand, digs his fingers into the flesh of Jack' s buttocks to aid his movements; Jack's right hand has moved down too, clutching him even tighter, teeth scraping his lips, his own erection crushed between their bellies.
He can feel Jack's balls tightening with every thrust; his own are dangerously hard. With a supreme effort of will he pulls out from between the thighs and wraps his fist around both of their cocks, sliding and stretching skin for the final few seconds. They are rocking together now, not battling, and when they come it is with breathless "ohs" and tightly closed eyes; no yelling, no triumphalism, just mutual gratification and release.
Months, years, of tension and exhaustion finally overwhelm him and he flops, limp and almost useless now, onto his back. The anger and frustration he has borne for so long lift, drifting and dissipating like harmless clouds. He hears Jack panting as he sinks down beside him, but he cannot make sense of his words. "…hate me?" "Don't…" "still." It's all a jumble. His imagination floats upwards, looks down on them lying there together, torsos sticky with sweat and semen, trousers around their knees in undignified disarray. It's a glorious, ridiculous sight and he would laugh, but he doesn't have the energy. Instead, his bruised right hand slowly and painfully crawls the two inches necessary to reach Jack's left palm, fingers twining round fingers, and gently squeezes a wordless reassurance as he slides into blackness.
***
On to #6
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Setting: During and around Random Shoes
Previously...
For writers_choice 4th annual open challenge - prompt #11, on the floor; and smut_69 - prompt #4, lube
My Jack/Ianto Smut Table
Home Sweet Hell #5
It isn't so much a kiss as a branding, fierce and hot. Claiming him, marking him. There is violence in his hands too, as his fingers wrench at Jack's tie, and fasten round his throat. Jack is too shocked to respond immediately, but it doesn't take him long to catch on. Thrusting forward, Jack has him rocking but unflinching, and it's easier now to wrestle him out of his heavy coat.
In a frenzy of teeth and tongues and nails, they lurch through the archway into the narrow corridor, no light, no air between them. Biting, scratching, bruisingly careening from wall to wall, they almost make it to the bedroom until the laws of physics win out and they crash to the floor. The force of the impact and the weight of Jack's body knock the breath from Ianto's lungs, but he'll be damned if he's going to let Jack gain any advantage. Fighting for oxygen, he summons up the energy to buck. They roll and pin and roll again, boots scraping shins, cotton tearing. Somehow he is freed from his shirt, he has Jack's braces down and has clawed his way through the layers of clothing to his flesh.
There is a moment's pause, no longer, in their struggles and he swears he can make out tears glistening in Jack's eyes but that only makes him harder. A beat, maybe two, and then they are straining, pushing, once more. All hard muscles, hard cocks driving against fabric; hot breath and gasps into each other's mouths, hot flesh sticking to and rubbing against flesh. And nothing else matters anymore, not really, not for frantic, crazy minutes.
But then it begins to matter, and matter very much, that as wild as they are, their erections are still caged and confined. They allow each other to tug at buttons and zips, to wrench trousers down sufficiently to release themselves, but he slaps away Jack's hand as he tries to grasp him, stroke him; and he doesn't let himself reach for Jack. It would all be over way too abruptly if permission were granted, the state they are in.
Their tussles are more rhythmic now, though; moving together, nose to nose, mouth to mouth, eyes wide and staring. Up and down, hands locked around each other's necks. Grinding and grating, body hair and skin prickling and chafing, cocks and balls in danger of numbing as the pressure intensifies. Before this worst can happen, Jack parts his thighs just enough to let Ianto slip his cock between them, then clamps them shut. It doesn't seem possible, but in this position Ianto can thrust, a slow leak of semen providing some meagre lubrication. He lowers one hand, digs his fingers into the flesh of Jack' s buttocks to aid his movements; Jack's right hand has moved down too, clutching him even tighter, teeth scraping his lips, his own erection crushed between their bellies.
He can feel Jack's balls tightening with every thrust; his own are dangerously hard. With a supreme effort of will he pulls out from between the thighs and wraps his fist around both of their cocks, sliding and stretching skin for the final few seconds. They are rocking together now, not battling, and when they come it is with breathless "ohs" and tightly closed eyes; no yelling, no triumphalism, just mutual gratification and release.
Months, years, of tension and exhaustion finally overwhelm him and he flops, limp and almost useless now, onto his back. The anger and frustration he has borne for so long lift, drifting and dissipating like harmless clouds. He hears Jack panting as he sinks down beside him, but he cannot make sense of his words. "…hate me?" "Don't…" "still." It's all a jumble. His imagination floats upwards, looks down on them lying there together, torsos sticky with sweat and semen, trousers around their knees in undignified disarray. It's a glorious, ridiculous sight and he would laugh, but he doesn't have the energy. Instead, his bruised right hand slowly and painfully crawls the two inches necessary to reach Jack's left palm, fingers twining round fingers, and gently squeezes a wordless reassurance as he slides into blackness.
***
On to #6