(Torchwood) Shooting The Messenger
Title: Shooting The Messenger
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Owen/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4260
Notes: Voyeurism
Summary: Jack gives the orders, Ianto obeys, and Owen thinks that maybe everyone has lost their minds, himself included.
“So, I would like to go down on you, if you don’t mind.”
Owen just sort of stares, because what else is there to do? ‘That came out of nowhere’ seems like a bit of an understatement, doesn’t even begin to describe how little Owen was expecting it. Not helping that Ianto made a point of rolling his eyes as he spoke, made a point of using that same bored, monotone voice he used earlier that morning to say, “Yes, Owen, I love it when you leave dismembered Glorax toes on the floor for me to clean up. Makes my day so much more exciting.”
“Bwuh?” Owen manages, which sums up his thoughts quite nicely.
Ianto breathes out sharply through his nose, sounding irritated, and fixes Owen with one of his more condescending glares. “I would like to suck you off,” he says.
Still using that annoying ‘Owen is too dumb to recognise sarcasm without additional audio clues’ tone.
Well, that’s enough to push him past confusion and into pissed off.
“Yeah, real funny,” he snaps, trying not to fidget on the spot as Ianto refuses to stop staring at him. “Now, if you don’t mind, some of us have more important things to do than make the coffee.”
Not that he does, but he’s sure he can find some grotesque looking alien corpse to hunch over until Ianto stops being insane.
And should he be reporting this? Because they, the team, have a history of acting out of character right before the shit hits the fan, and wouldn’t it be just his luck that a sex-starved alien would use Ianto to proposition him.
Except that Ianto takes a step forward, a step closer. And Owen refuses to take an answering step back, and he really doesn’t like that so close he feels like he has to look up to see Ianto’s eyes. Not much, just enough to get him feeling even more soundly fucked off.
“It’s not a joke,” Ianto says evenly, and Owen couldn’t even hear the sarcasm in that, but he knows it must be there.
He snorts, smirks a little, because it is a joke, and he’s in on it, not falling for it, and crosses his arms. Tilts his head ever-so slightly sideways without moving backwards so he can stare back at Ianto more comfortably.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he replies, careful to keep the smirk on his lips even if his voice sounds rough and agitated.
So Ianto’s being controlled by some sex-crazed alien? Fine, Owen can probably have a bit of fun teasing him, just as soon as he can get Ianto to turn his attention elsewhere, and where the hell are the others when he needs them?
“It’s not a joke,” Ianto repeats again, and there’s a mirrored anger in his voice now, a touch of impatience. “I would like-”
Stops, lips in a thin line, and when he directs his focus to a point just to the left of Owen’s face it almost feels like a physical relief, like Owen can breathe again.
Until Ianto grinds out, “I would quite like your cock in my mouth.”
Breathing’s overrated anyway.
Owen’s back in “Bwuh?” territory, and Ianto just closes his eyes briefly, goes back to staring to the wall behind Owen.
Quick, instinctive assessment, looking for symptoms, but Ianto’s breathing only the slightest bit harder than usual, and there’s maybe a hint of a flush, just on his ears, but he doesn’t look sick or anything.
Owen opens and closes his mouth a few times, because there should be a million jokes there, yet it doesn’t feel funny at all.
He almost preferred the sarcasm.
Except. Except.
Owen frowns and snatches his com-link from the nearest table, slides it over his ear and hits the button, and, yeah, that’s Jack’s soft laughter on the other end
Not being controlled by a sex-crazed alien, then. Being controlled by the sex-crazed alien.
“Hysterical, Jack, absolutely hysterical,” Owen growls.
He can practically hear the grin in Jack’s voice. “‘Hysterical’ isn’t the first word that springs to mind, actually.”
One of the lewder shades of grin, then.
“Well, if you’re done trying to involve me in your little sex games, I can get back to work then.”
Jack just laughs again, quiet yet sharp, and Ianto rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue slightly, and Owen still hasn’t decided if he’s going to just punch him in the face but those condescending little noises aren’t helping his case.
Fine then. It’s all a big joke, and Owen’s just a big joke, and that’s how Ianto wants to play it? Fine, and Owen just lets himself fall right into Default Mode: swagger. Always the quickest way to wind Ianto up.
“So, you that boring then? Can’t get Jack off on your own?”
Leaning back just slightly, arms still crossed, letting his mouth stretch into a grin, and, yeah, there it is. That brief flicker where Ianto almost turns to glare, has to concentrate to keep his eyes fixed on the wall, and his lips pinch into that thin line again.
“Oh, he does just fine,” Jacks says with a laugh and a whole lot of assured implication that Owen doesn’t want to think too hard on, or at all. “He’s especially good at following orders.”
“And that’s what this is?” Owen scoffs against his better judgement, glaring at Ianto because it’s more satisfying that glaring at the nearby security camera. “Give the tea boy orders to offer himself up like a cheap whore?”
He doesn’t say the word ‘pathetic’, doesn’t need to, because Ianto’s eyes just flare with it, and he glances back at Owen just in time to see the raised eyebrow, the wide smirk.
It looks like it’s taking every ounce of discipline Ianto has not to just drive his fist into Owen’s stomach.
Good, much easier to deal with.
“Should I be warning Gwen and Tosh? Should I be warning the Weevil?”
Oh yeah, Ianto’s pissed. Much, much better.
“Does he even get a say in it, Jack?” Careful now to keep his voice light, to keep sounding so morbidly amused by the whole thing. “Is he even allowed to say ‘no’?”
Another laugh, directly in his ear, and why does Owen suddenly feel like he’s walking on a tightrope?
“You really think I could, or would want to, make him do anything he didn’t enjoy?”
Owen scoffs again, only it kind of rattles in his throat, because Ianto’s face is suddenly very carefully blank.
“He’s very good at following orders,” Jack purrs, and Owen feels like his footing is slipping, even if he’s not moving. “And that’s the beauty of orders. Sometimes it’s easier to do something because you’re told to, rather than because you want to.”
Shit, oh shit, and that flush to Ianto’s ears is becoming more pronounced.
“You can see it, can’t you?” Jack whispers, and Ianto flinches, fuck, shivers just noticeably enough that, yes, it’s suddenly all Owen can see.
He’s not going to look down, not looking down, and how are they still so damned close, and he can feel Ianto’s body heat.
Well. Well, fuck.
“Get down on your knees,” Jack murmurs, and for one blind and terrifying moment Owen thinks Jack’s talking to him.
Right up until Ianto swallows thickly and sinks to the floor.
He can hear Jack’s soft little exhale of pleased laughter, and Ianto’s head is lowered and Owen can’t see his face, and he thinks he might just be starting to panic.
“Do I need to order you to stay where you are?” Jack asks softly, and he still sounds amused and maybe just the slightest bit serious.
“Fuck off,” Owen hisses, but he doesn’t move, just stares down at the top of Ianto’s head, and he knows his own eyes are unnaturally wide.
“I think you need to get him in the mood,” Jack says with a hint of affection, and Owen almost shudders, feels the quiver in his muscles like a jolt of electricity as Ianto glances up as far as his chest before he thinks better of it.
And, oh, shock of heat as Ianto leans forward those scant few millimetres, and Owen maybe grunts or something because Jack’s laughing again, and Ianto’s open mouth presses against the fabric of his crotch.
Oh, oh, oh, oh shit, and when did Owen’s feet turn to lead?
Soft, pliable heat, and Ianto’s mouthing at him, fucking nuzzling, only it’s almost methodical, and it’s far, far too good.
Everyone’s always said Owen’s led around by his dick, but he didn’t think it would betray him like this.
But it is, because Ianto’s tracing the shape of it, nudging and nosing at it, mouth closed now, and Owen can see the clench to his jaw and why the fuck is he even watching? Why isn’t he running from the room, screaming if necessary, and why can he hear Jack smiling even though he can barely hear him breathing?
Open mouth again, and Owen has to hold back a noise that could be the first step of a major freak out, or maybe just a surprised gasp, because he’s definitely filling under the attention, and Ianto tilts his head just so, lips framing the base of his cock. Rubbing, and sucking at the material, and Owen wishes he was wearing jeans (or a radiation suit) so maybe it wouldn’t feel quite so fucking intense, and is maybe a little glad that he isn’t. Glad with the same part of him that Ianto’s now scraping his teeth against just slightly, just enough that Owen can feel it, and Owen’s trying not to look but, shit, damp patch of fabric and flashes of Ianto’s tongue and he’s never been so frustrated and impressed by how damn diligent Ianto is in everything he does.
“Told you he’s good,” Jack murmurs, and Owen jerks slightly, away from Ianto’s mouth, towards it, he doesn’t know. Either way, Ianto just follows him, leaning his weight into it a little more, keeping a steady, damn-near careful pace, running his nose and lips continually over the length of Owen’s cock, letting his jaw move over Owen’s thigh.
“Fuck off,” Owen snaps again, only his voice sounds thinner, a little more desperate. And Ianto doesn’t pause or even hesitate, but his rhythm catches, rhythm and his breath, and Owen realises distractedly that it’s another shiver, and that it feels really good when Ianto’s mouth is right there.
Jack’s laughing again, and then he’s not, and his voice is a little deeper and there’s no room for argument when he says, “Only with your mouth.”
And Owen opens his eyes, which apparently closed without his permission, just in time to see Ianto’s hands drop back to his sides and, yeah, he really should have walked away by now and he really shouldn’t be staring at Ianto’s hands as they ball into fists, fingers curling and uncurling reflexively, nails scraping restlessly at his own thighs. And he really shouldn’t be thinking about those hands on him, and he can hear Jack smiling again, somehow.
“I really don’t think that’s going to be enough, Ianto,” Jack breathes, and Owen watches Ianto’s face and the way he still hasn’t opened his eyes. “I think Owen might want more.”
And Owen could object to that, or something, anything, except Ianto shudders, just once, lets his forehead rest lightly against Owen’s stomach, mouth pressed to the fabric over the hollow of Owen’s hip.
Nods once, tightly, shit, obediently, and Owen swallows, feels like he can’t swallow enough, and wishes Ianto would just look at him, because that would be all he needs to break this weird tension. To get his feet under him and run the fuck away.
Only Ianto doesn’t, just ducks down ever so slightly, pressing his face into Owen’s crotch, teeth and tongue worrying at his fly, and Owen can feel the exact moment he flips up the zipper.
He’s lost his mind. Owen’s lost his mind, and so has Ianto and this is so insane, even for them, and he can feel Ianto’s breath on him, so much warmer through the gap in the material as Ianto eases the zip down with his teeth, and Owen’s holding his breath, actually holding his breath, waiting for the next touch.
That doesn’t come.
Owen glances down, watches the way Ianto’s eyes are flickering, clearly not sure where to look, and Owen can see how damp his lips are, the more pronounced flush to his cheeks.
Ianto doesn’t move, and Owen has no idea what’s going on, beyond the fact that his cock is beginning to ache for the attention, and he almost wishes Jack would say something just so he doesn’t have to hear the silence echoing off the walls, but it’s Ianto who speaks.
“I can’t use my hands,” he murmurs, voice quiet and deep, gaze settling on Owen’s knees.
Owen stares down at him, unsure of how he’s supposed to respond.
“I can’t use my hands,” Ianto says again, and he sounds like he’s trying to sound firm and confident but his voice is too ragged.
And Owen nods, no idea why, and then his fingers are moving to the button at the top of his fly, slipping it free before thought can catch up to him.
Jack makes a soft sound, something that could be bemusement or approval or just Jack’s usual indecency and, well, there goes plausible deniability. Because Owen realises that he just gave Ianto permission to continue. He just gave Ianto an invitation.
It’s like being hot and cold at the same time, that’s the only way he can think of it, that rush of heat that smothers him, almost chokes him, even while ice-cold lightning claws at his spine. Realisation, humiliation, somehow everything managing to slide even more out of his control, and Owen’s hands freeze on his trousers, and Ianto’s still staring at his knees.
Owen’s never exactly liked giving up control, no matter the circumstances, and it’s almost instinct to kick out against anything that resembles authority, and he knows that about himself, doesn’t really care enough to do anything about it. But he’s panting slightly now, and everything’s so fucking still, and he knows that flare of annoyance that burns in his chest, recognises the way it warps into defiance and arrogance and challenge, and he already knows he’s going to regret it and that he can’t stop himself.
His thumbs hook under the waistband of his boxers, roughly shoving them and his trousers halfway down his thighs, and he hears himself growl, “Just fucking do it already.”
Which probably wasn’t all that wise, but Ianto’s eyes snap up, wide and shocked and fucking staring at Owen’s cock, and if he wasn’t so pissed off and begrudgingly turned on Owen might just be embarrassed, or might find the way Ianto looks exactly like the proverbial deer-in-headlights amusing instead of feeling himself throb for it.
“Ianto,” Jack says quietly in his ear, and the playfulness is still there but it’s harder to make out. “He just gave you an order.”
Owen’s breath catches in his throat, awkward rattling gasp, and Ianto doesn’t even hesitate, and Owen didn’t realise how cold the room is until Ianto’s mouth surrounds him, God, like a fucking furnace. Hot, damp, and restless, tongue pressing flat against the underside of Owen’s cock for a long moment as Ianto shifts a little on his heels, and then he’s pulling back, lips closing around the head, licking at the slit, pushing against the yielding flesh, and Owen feels himself exhale shakily, hands fisting at his sides. There’s no time to get used to it, not that he probably ever could, because Ianto’s moving again, practically rocking forward, taking more in and, shit, sucking hard enough that Owen has to bite back the noises that are trying to crawl up his throat.
It’s rough, annoyingly confident, just the right side of painful but so damn close to that line that Owen can’t focus, like everything he is comes down to Ianto’s cheeks hollowing around him. Like it’s just another way they argue, another fight, and Owen pushed Ianto, so this is Ianto pushing back. And that makes sense, somewhere in the back of Owen’s mind, but he can’t even begin to think of a way to take back control, can’t even think to be annoyed, and Ianto moves over him, lips dragging up and down the length of him, suction and heat never relenting.
“You have a lot of work to do today, Ianto,” Jack says, only the sound of it seems to echo all around him, and it doesn’t make sense to Owen, the words don’t make sense, the conversational tone doesn’t make sense. “No time for slacking. So, you can use your hands on yourself.”
Ianto makes a noise in the back of his throat, low and guttural hum, and Owen hisses, cants his hips as it vibrates around him, sharp shock of sensation.
“And you better hope you finish before Owen.”
Owen knows that tone and, yeah, Jack is such a bastard, and Owen fucking loves him in that moment.
Ianto jerks slightly as Owen’s hand settles on the back of his head, the barest hint of teeth dragging over his flesh, and, yeah, Owen’s going to just embrace it, hot hard shudder as he finds his smirk again, and, yeah, Ianto’s going to fucking suffer for the rest of the day.
He rolls his hips forward, sure and steady, hand resting against Ianto’s hair, not pushing but not allowing Ianto to back away. And he doesn’t, because Ianto can’t step back from an argument any more than Owen can, and it’s so much easier to think of this as a fight, and Ianto swallows, slow, careful, tongue pressing up against him, lips tight around him, muscles working and breathing out through his nose.
Owen glances down, sees Ianto’s closed eyes, eyelids fluttering slightly as he frowns, mouth stretched, and Owen almost feels dizzy, seeing himself moving deeper between Ianto’s lips. Then he’s looking further, down to Ianto’s hand in his lap, palm rubbing between his legs in tight little circles, and Owen’s fingers tighten in Ianto’s hair.
The next roll of his hips is rougher, sharper, and, shit, Ianto just takes it, opening his mouth to it, and Owen distantly knows that trying to rush through is pretty much the exact opposite of what he usually goes for, but there’s only one crazed thought in his head.
He doesn’t care what it might say about him; there’s no way Ianto’s coming first.
He rocks forward, feeling that heat taking him in, and this time he nudges Ianto’s head forward, tugging at his hair, and Ianto makes another noise, only it’s softer, higher, something closer to a whine, and hearing that muffled by his own cock suddenly feels like the hottest thing in the world. Ianto won’t break, Ianto won’t complain, and Ianto is the one that started it all, the one who set the pace as fast, hard and everything Owen needs. It’s nothing like the cursory blow jobs of one-night-stands before they rush to the fucking and the hollow exchange of mobile numbers, nothing like older and more guarded memories of something more gentle and loving. It feels like Ianto isn’t trying to impress him, and maybe he isn’t even trying to impress Jack. Maybe he just wants to do this, and the idea that Ianto might like having someone like Owen fuck his mouth makes the snap of his hips a little more ragged, makes him twist a little more harshly at Ianto’s hair.
He’s falling deeper and deeper into it, and Owen doesn’t even care.
He’s burning up, and his legs don’t want to support him, but he can’t stop, nothing could make him stop rocking his hips, thrusting his cock between pliant lips, and Ianto shifts more onto his knees, rising up a little, pressing into it, and the new angle makes Owen’s head roll back, throat working, panting for air. He has to look down, has to see, no matter how much he just wants to close his eyes and just feel. Ianto’s eyes are still closed, frown of concentration still there, and his hand keeps kneading desperately between his legs, moving over the fabric of his suit trousers, and Owen can feel the way every little sound Ianto makes, thrumming across Owen’s cock like the best kind of tease, is coupled with Ianto’s fingers curling around himself, and no matter how rough Owen feels he’s being, it’s nothing to the way Ianto’s squeezing at himself.
Shit, Ianto likes it, and Owen can’t help the way his mind seems to shiver around that idea, the way his thoughts get caught up in it. Wondering if Ianto prefers to be the one taking it, or whether he likes to be the one standing, the one losing control, the one feeling the head of his cock scraping over the roof of someone’s mouth, and Owen growls and Ianto’s mouth is so fucking wet. Wondering if, maybe, Ianto likes to be kept on edge, maybe he likes to be pinned down, and it seems wrong that anyone could even do that, because Owen knows how much damage Ianto can do when he’s backed into a corner. But maybe he needs it like that, needs it to be rough, needs to be forced down, needs to have that pleasure forced upon him, and Owen’s shivering now, constant and fierce, he needs so fucking much it hurts. Flashes of Ianto struggling, the arch of his hips, an image of Ianto on his hands and knees, and Owen’s head’s swimming and he aches, balls tightening, both hands now on Ianto’s head, tugging at his hair. And Ianto’s making this noise that could almost be words except it’s too muffled, too raw, and Owen feels like he’s been punched in the spine, almost stumbling, white-hot rush as he comes thick and hard, feeling Ianto swallowing awkwardly around him, everything blurring and crashing over him and he barely feels himself slip from Ianto’s mouth as his knees finally give in and he sinks to the floor.
He feels numb, like even his ears and hair are frozen, like he doesn’t quite exist in his own body, and then his hands slide from Ianto’s head and land awkwardly on his thighs and his heart remembers to beat again. And he’s buzzing, vibrating with adrenaline but still not quite able to move, and he’s not thinking when he glances at Ianto’s face.
Ianto’s eyes are a little glazed, and his jaw is set and tilted up, teeth gritted and, oh shit, there’s this thin trail of come, Owen’s come, from the corner of his mouth to his chin that is so fucking wrong and Owen licks his lips and stares. And there’s this odd wave of cold that washes over him, which he thinks is maybe realisation and definitely not guilt, as he glances down and sees Ianto’s hands at his sides, fingers clawing just slightly against the floor, and the really obvious tenting of his trousers.
So he should be feeling victorious, or at least smug, except he can’t really feel anything beyond ridiculously sensitised, aftershocks still rippling through him, and he’s reaching forward as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to roughly squeeze the shape of Ianto’s cock through his suit and hiss, “Just fucking come already.”
He might not ever get tired of seeing Ianto shudder like that.
Ianto sucks in a sharp breath, eyes clamping shut, and Owen can feel the heat of him against his palm, can feel every jerk and twitch as Ianto slumps forward, can feel Ianto’s hips thrust up against his hand and the rush of moisture as Ianto’s forehead presses against Owen’s shoulder, and so close he can hear the catch to Ianto’s breathing, the thin almost-whimper, and his breath is hot, damp and too much as it huffs out over Owen’s neck.
It feels like it takes forever for Owen to remember how to move, the both of them suspended there, both panting harshly and leaning against each other, and he can only find the energy to pull his hand away from Ianto, but suddenly it’s like someone flipped a switch. Ianto’s shifting away, jerkily pulling himself up, and doing a vaguely impressive job of pretending he’s steady on his feet when he’s clearly not. Owen watches as Ianto produces a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping agitatedly at his chin, and just like that the normal Ianto’s back, the fussy, prissy, Owen-hating Ianto, who’s very carefully not looking anywhere even remotely in Owen’s direction as he haltingly walks away towards the safety of his beloved kitchen.
Owen just sits there for a long moment, thinking idly about Retcon and blackmail possibilities and going home to shower forever and how long it’ll take before he needs to jerk off and if he’ll hate himself for it. Standing is embarrassingly difficult, with his trousers still around his thighs and his knees still feeling unsteady, but he manages without stumbling too much.
“Jack,” he says clearly, and his voice sounds uncomfortably loud but he doesn’t care, hands tugging his clothes back into place, and he wonders if Ianto is listening. “Have I mentioned lately that I hate you?”
“No, you haven’t,” Jack replies, confident as ever. “And no, you don’t.”
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Owen/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4260
Notes: Voyeurism
Summary: Jack gives the orders, Ianto obeys, and Owen thinks that maybe everyone has lost their minds, himself included.
“So, I would like to go down on you, if you don’t mind.”
Owen just sort of stares, because what else is there to do? ‘That came out of nowhere’ seems like a bit of an understatement, doesn’t even begin to describe how little Owen was expecting it. Not helping that Ianto made a point of rolling his eyes as he spoke, made a point of using that same bored, monotone voice he used earlier that morning to say, “Yes, Owen, I love it when you leave dismembered Glorax toes on the floor for me to clean up. Makes my day so much more exciting.”
“Bwuh?” Owen manages, which sums up his thoughts quite nicely.
Ianto breathes out sharply through his nose, sounding irritated, and fixes Owen with one of his more condescending glares. “I would like to suck you off,” he says.
Still using that annoying ‘Owen is too dumb to recognise sarcasm without additional audio clues’ tone.
Well, that’s enough to push him past confusion and into pissed off.
“Yeah, real funny,” he snaps, trying not to fidget on the spot as Ianto refuses to stop staring at him. “Now, if you don’t mind, some of us have more important things to do than make the coffee.”
Not that he does, but he’s sure he can find some grotesque looking alien corpse to hunch over until Ianto stops being insane.
And should he be reporting this? Because they, the team, have a history of acting out of character right before the shit hits the fan, and wouldn’t it be just his luck that a sex-starved alien would use Ianto to proposition him.
Except that Ianto takes a step forward, a step closer. And Owen refuses to take an answering step back, and he really doesn’t like that so close he feels like he has to look up to see Ianto’s eyes. Not much, just enough to get him feeling even more soundly fucked off.
“It’s not a joke,” Ianto says evenly, and Owen couldn’t even hear the sarcasm in that, but he knows it must be there.
He snorts, smirks a little, because it is a joke, and he’s in on it, not falling for it, and crosses his arms. Tilts his head ever-so slightly sideways without moving backwards so he can stare back at Ianto more comfortably.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he replies, careful to keep the smirk on his lips even if his voice sounds rough and agitated.
So Ianto’s being controlled by some sex-crazed alien? Fine, Owen can probably have a bit of fun teasing him, just as soon as he can get Ianto to turn his attention elsewhere, and where the hell are the others when he needs them?
“It’s not a joke,” Ianto repeats again, and there’s a mirrored anger in his voice now, a touch of impatience. “I would like-”
Stops, lips in a thin line, and when he directs his focus to a point just to the left of Owen’s face it almost feels like a physical relief, like Owen can breathe again.
Until Ianto grinds out, “I would quite like your cock in my mouth.”
Breathing’s overrated anyway.
Owen’s back in “Bwuh?” territory, and Ianto just closes his eyes briefly, goes back to staring to the wall behind Owen.
Quick, instinctive assessment, looking for symptoms, but Ianto’s breathing only the slightest bit harder than usual, and there’s maybe a hint of a flush, just on his ears, but he doesn’t look sick or anything.
Owen opens and closes his mouth a few times, because there should be a million jokes there, yet it doesn’t feel funny at all.
He almost preferred the sarcasm.
Except. Except.
Owen frowns and snatches his com-link from the nearest table, slides it over his ear and hits the button, and, yeah, that’s Jack’s soft laughter on the other end
Not being controlled by a sex-crazed alien, then. Being controlled by the sex-crazed alien.
“Hysterical, Jack, absolutely hysterical,” Owen growls.
He can practically hear the grin in Jack’s voice. “‘Hysterical’ isn’t the first word that springs to mind, actually.”
One of the lewder shades of grin, then.
“Well, if you’re done trying to involve me in your little sex games, I can get back to work then.”
Jack just laughs again, quiet yet sharp, and Ianto rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue slightly, and Owen still hasn’t decided if he’s going to just punch him in the face but those condescending little noises aren’t helping his case.
Fine then. It’s all a big joke, and Owen’s just a big joke, and that’s how Ianto wants to play it? Fine, and Owen just lets himself fall right into Default Mode: swagger. Always the quickest way to wind Ianto up.
“So, you that boring then? Can’t get Jack off on your own?”
Leaning back just slightly, arms still crossed, letting his mouth stretch into a grin, and, yeah, there it is. That brief flicker where Ianto almost turns to glare, has to concentrate to keep his eyes fixed on the wall, and his lips pinch into that thin line again.
“Oh, he does just fine,” Jacks says with a laugh and a whole lot of assured implication that Owen doesn’t want to think too hard on, or at all. “He’s especially good at following orders.”
“And that’s what this is?” Owen scoffs against his better judgement, glaring at Ianto because it’s more satisfying that glaring at the nearby security camera. “Give the tea boy orders to offer himself up like a cheap whore?”
He doesn’t say the word ‘pathetic’, doesn’t need to, because Ianto’s eyes just flare with it, and he glances back at Owen just in time to see the raised eyebrow, the wide smirk.
It looks like it’s taking every ounce of discipline Ianto has not to just drive his fist into Owen’s stomach.
Good, much easier to deal with.
“Should I be warning Gwen and Tosh? Should I be warning the Weevil?”
Oh yeah, Ianto’s pissed. Much, much better.
“Does he even get a say in it, Jack?” Careful now to keep his voice light, to keep sounding so morbidly amused by the whole thing. “Is he even allowed to say ‘no’?”
Another laugh, directly in his ear, and why does Owen suddenly feel like he’s walking on a tightrope?
“You really think I could, or would want to, make him do anything he didn’t enjoy?”
Owen scoffs again, only it kind of rattles in his throat, because Ianto’s face is suddenly very carefully blank.
“He’s very good at following orders,” Jack purrs, and Owen feels like his footing is slipping, even if he’s not moving. “And that’s the beauty of orders. Sometimes it’s easier to do something because you’re told to, rather than because you want to.”
Shit, oh shit, and that flush to Ianto’s ears is becoming more pronounced.
“You can see it, can’t you?” Jack whispers, and Ianto flinches, fuck, shivers just noticeably enough that, yes, it’s suddenly all Owen can see.
He’s not going to look down, not looking down, and how are they still so damned close, and he can feel Ianto’s body heat.
Well. Well, fuck.
“Get down on your knees,” Jack murmurs, and for one blind and terrifying moment Owen thinks Jack’s talking to him.
Right up until Ianto swallows thickly and sinks to the floor.
He can hear Jack’s soft little exhale of pleased laughter, and Ianto’s head is lowered and Owen can’t see his face, and he thinks he might just be starting to panic.
“Do I need to order you to stay where you are?” Jack asks softly, and he still sounds amused and maybe just the slightest bit serious.
“Fuck off,” Owen hisses, but he doesn’t move, just stares down at the top of Ianto’s head, and he knows his own eyes are unnaturally wide.
“I think you need to get him in the mood,” Jack says with a hint of affection, and Owen almost shudders, feels the quiver in his muscles like a jolt of electricity as Ianto glances up as far as his chest before he thinks better of it.
And, oh, shock of heat as Ianto leans forward those scant few millimetres, and Owen maybe grunts or something because Jack’s laughing again, and Ianto’s open mouth presses against the fabric of his crotch.
Oh, oh, oh, oh shit, and when did Owen’s feet turn to lead?
Soft, pliable heat, and Ianto’s mouthing at him, fucking nuzzling, only it’s almost methodical, and it’s far, far too good.
Everyone’s always said Owen’s led around by his dick, but he didn’t think it would betray him like this.
But it is, because Ianto’s tracing the shape of it, nudging and nosing at it, mouth closed now, and Owen can see the clench to his jaw and why the fuck is he even watching? Why isn’t he running from the room, screaming if necessary, and why can he hear Jack smiling even though he can barely hear him breathing?
Open mouth again, and Owen has to hold back a noise that could be the first step of a major freak out, or maybe just a surprised gasp, because he’s definitely filling under the attention, and Ianto tilts his head just so, lips framing the base of his cock. Rubbing, and sucking at the material, and Owen wishes he was wearing jeans (or a radiation suit) so maybe it wouldn’t feel quite so fucking intense, and is maybe a little glad that he isn’t. Glad with the same part of him that Ianto’s now scraping his teeth against just slightly, just enough that Owen can feel it, and Owen’s trying not to look but, shit, damp patch of fabric and flashes of Ianto’s tongue and he’s never been so frustrated and impressed by how damn diligent Ianto is in everything he does.
“Told you he’s good,” Jack murmurs, and Owen jerks slightly, away from Ianto’s mouth, towards it, he doesn’t know. Either way, Ianto just follows him, leaning his weight into it a little more, keeping a steady, damn-near careful pace, running his nose and lips continually over the length of Owen’s cock, letting his jaw move over Owen’s thigh.
“Fuck off,” Owen snaps again, only his voice sounds thinner, a little more desperate. And Ianto doesn’t pause or even hesitate, but his rhythm catches, rhythm and his breath, and Owen realises distractedly that it’s another shiver, and that it feels really good when Ianto’s mouth is right there.
Jack’s laughing again, and then he’s not, and his voice is a little deeper and there’s no room for argument when he says, “Only with your mouth.”
And Owen opens his eyes, which apparently closed without his permission, just in time to see Ianto’s hands drop back to his sides and, yeah, he really should have walked away by now and he really shouldn’t be staring at Ianto’s hands as they ball into fists, fingers curling and uncurling reflexively, nails scraping restlessly at his own thighs. And he really shouldn’t be thinking about those hands on him, and he can hear Jack smiling again, somehow.
“I really don’t think that’s going to be enough, Ianto,” Jack breathes, and Owen watches Ianto’s face and the way he still hasn’t opened his eyes. “I think Owen might want more.”
And Owen could object to that, or something, anything, except Ianto shudders, just once, lets his forehead rest lightly against Owen’s stomach, mouth pressed to the fabric over the hollow of Owen’s hip.
Nods once, tightly, shit, obediently, and Owen swallows, feels like he can’t swallow enough, and wishes Ianto would just look at him, because that would be all he needs to break this weird tension. To get his feet under him and run the fuck away.
Only Ianto doesn’t, just ducks down ever so slightly, pressing his face into Owen’s crotch, teeth and tongue worrying at his fly, and Owen can feel the exact moment he flips up the zipper.
He’s lost his mind. Owen’s lost his mind, and so has Ianto and this is so insane, even for them, and he can feel Ianto’s breath on him, so much warmer through the gap in the material as Ianto eases the zip down with his teeth, and Owen’s holding his breath, actually holding his breath, waiting for the next touch.
That doesn’t come.
Owen glances down, watches the way Ianto’s eyes are flickering, clearly not sure where to look, and Owen can see how damp his lips are, the more pronounced flush to his cheeks.
Ianto doesn’t move, and Owen has no idea what’s going on, beyond the fact that his cock is beginning to ache for the attention, and he almost wishes Jack would say something just so he doesn’t have to hear the silence echoing off the walls, but it’s Ianto who speaks.
“I can’t use my hands,” he murmurs, voice quiet and deep, gaze settling on Owen’s knees.
Owen stares down at him, unsure of how he’s supposed to respond.
“I can’t use my hands,” Ianto says again, and he sounds like he’s trying to sound firm and confident but his voice is too ragged.
And Owen nods, no idea why, and then his fingers are moving to the button at the top of his fly, slipping it free before thought can catch up to him.
Jack makes a soft sound, something that could be bemusement or approval or just Jack’s usual indecency and, well, there goes plausible deniability. Because Owen realises that he just gave Ianto permission to continue. He just gave Ianto an invitation.
It’s like being hot and cold at the same time, that’s the only way he can think of it, that rush of heat that smothers him, almost chokes him, even while ice-cold lightning claws at his spine. Realisation, humiliation, somehow everything managing to slide even more out of his control, and Owen’s hands freeze on his trousers, and Ianto’s still staring at his knees.
Owen’s never exactly liked giving up control, no matter the circumstances, and it’s almost instinct to kick out against anything that resembles authority, and he knows that about himself, doesn’t really care enough to do anything about it. But he’s panting slightly now, and everything’s so fucking still, and he knows that flare of annoyance that burns in his chest, recognises the way it warps into defiance and arrogance and challenge, and he already knows he’s going to regret it and that he can’t stop himself.
His thumbs hook under the waistband of his boxers, roughly shoving them and his trousers halfway down his thighs, and he hears himself growl, “Just fucking do it already.”
Which probably wasn’t all that wise, but Ianto’s eyes snap up, wide and shocked and fucking staring at Owen’s cock, and if he wasn’t so pissed off and begrudgingly turned on Owen might just be embarrassed, or might find the way Ianto looks exactly like the proverbial deer-in-headlights amusing instead of feeling himself throb for it.
“Ianto,” Jack says quietly in his ear, and the playfulness is still there but it’s harder to make out. “He just gave you an order.”
Owen’s breath catches in his throat, awkward rattling gasp, and Ianto doesn’t even hesitate, and Owen didn’t realise how cold the room is until Ianto’s mouth surrounds him, God, like a fucking furnace. Hot, damp, and restless, tongue pressing flat against the underside of Owen’s cock for a long moment as Ianto shifts a little on his heels, and then he’s pulling back, lips closing around the head, licking at the slit, pushing against the yielding flesh, and Owen feels himself exhale shakily, hands fisting at his sides. There’s no time to get used to it, not that he probably ever could, because Ianto’s moving again, practically rocking forward, taking more in and, shit, sucking hard enough that Owen has to bite back the noises that are trying to crawl up his throat.
It’s rough, annoyingly confident, just the right side of painful but so damn close to that line that Owen can’t focus, like everything he is comes down to Ianto’s cheeks hollowing around him. Like it’s just another way they argue, another fight, and Owen pushed Ianto, so this is Ianto pushing back. And that makes sense, somewhere in the back of Owen’s mind, but he can’t even begin to think of a way to take back control, can’t even think to be annoyed, and Ianto moves over him, lips dragging up and down the length of him, suction and heat never relenting.
“You have a lot of work to do today, Ianto,” Jack says, only the sound of it seems to echo all around him, and it doesn’t make sense to Owen, the words don’t make sense, the conversational tone doesn’t make sense. “No time for slacking. So, you can use your hands on yourself.”
Ianto makes a noise in the back of his throat, low and guttural hum, and Owen hisses, cants his hips as it vibrates around him, sharp shock of sensation.
“And you better hope you finish before Owen.”
Owen knows that tone and, yeah, Jack is such a bastard, and Owen fucking loves him in that moment.
Ianto jerks slightly as Owen’s hand settles on the back of his head, the barest hint of teeth dragging over his flesh, and, yeah, Owen’s going to just embrace it, hot hard shudder as he finds his smirk again, and, yeah, Ianto’s going to fucking suffer for the rest of the day.
He rolls his hips forward, sure and steady, hand resting against Ianto’s hair, not pushing but not allowing Ianto to back away. And he doesn’t, because Ianto can’t step back from an argument any more than Owen can, and it’s so much easier to think of this as a fight, and Ianto swallows, slow, careful, tongue pressing up against him, lips tight around him, muscles working and breathing out through his nose.
Owen glances down, sees Ianto’s closed eyes, eyelids fluttering slightly as he frowns, mouth stretched, and Owen almost feels dizzy, seeing himself moving deeper between Ianto’s lips. Then he’s looking further, down to Ianto’s hand in his lap, palm rubbing between his legs in tight little circles, and Owen’s fingers tighten in Ianto’s hair.
The next roll of his hips is rougher, sharper, and, shit, Ianto just takes it, opening his mouth to it, and Owen distantly knows that trying to rush through is pretty much the exact opposite of what he usually goes for, but there’s only one crazed thought in his head.
He doesn’t care what it might say about him; there’s no way Ianto’s coming first.
He rocks forward, feeling that heat taking him in, and this time he nudges Ianto’s head forward, tugging at his hair, and Ianto makes another noise, only it’s softer, higher, something closer to a whine, and hearing that muffled by his own cock suddenly feels like the hottest thing in the world. Ianto won’t break, Ianto won’t complain, and Ianto is the one that started it all, the one who set the pace as fast, hard and everything Owen needs. It’s nothing like the cursory blow jobs of one-night-stands before they rush to the fucking and the hollow exchange of mobile numbers, nothing like older and more guarded memories of something more gentle and loving. It feels like Ianto isn’t trying to impress him, and maybe he isn’t even trying to impress Jack. Maybe he just wants to do this, and the idea that Ianto might like having someone like Owen fuck his mouth makes the snap of his hips a little more ragged, makes him twist a little more harshly at Ianto’s hair.
He’s falling deeper and deeper into it, and Owen doesn’t even care.
He’s burning up, and his legs don’t want to support him, but he can’t stop, nothing could make him stop rocking his hips, thrusting his cock between pliant lips, and Ianto shifts more onto his knees, rising up a little, pressing into it, and the new angle makes Owen’s head roll back, throat working, panting for air. He has to look down, has to see, no matter how much he just wants to close his eyes and just feel. Ianto’s eyes are still closed, frown of concentration still there, and his hand keeps kneading desperately between his legs, moving over the fabric of his suit trousers, and Owen can feel the way every little sound Ianto makes, thrumming across Owen’s cock like the best kind of tease, is coupled with Ianto’s fingers curling around himself, and no matter how rough Owen feels he’s being, it’s nothing to the way Ianto’s squeezing at himself.
Shit, Ianto likes it, and Owen can’t help the way his mind seems to shiver around that idea, the way his thoughts get caught up in it. Wondering if Ianto prefers to be the one taking it, or whether he likes to be the one standing, the one losing control, the one feeling the head of his cock scraping over the roof of someone’s mouth, and Owen growls and Ianto’s mouth is so fucking wet. Wondering if, maybe, Ianto likes to be kept on edge, maybe he likes to be pinned down, and it seems wrong that anyone could even do that, because Owen knows how much damage Ianto can do when he’s backed into a corner. But maybe he needs it like that, needs it to be rough, needs to be forced down, needs to have that pleasure forced upon him, and Owen’s shivering now, constant and fierce, he needs so fucking much it hurts. Flashes of Ianto struggling, the arch of his hips, an image of Ianto on his hands and knees, and Owen’s head’s swimming and he aches, balls tightening, both hands now on Ianto’s head, tugging at his hair. And Ianto’s making this noise that could almost be words except it’s too muffled, too raw, and Owen feels like he’s been punched in the spine, almost stumbling, white-hot rush as he comes thick and hard, feeling Ianto swallowing awkwardly around him, everything blurring and crashing over him and he barely feels himself slip from Ianto’s mouth as his knees finally give in and he sinks to the floor.
He feels numb, like even his ears and hair are frozen, like he doesn’t quite exist in his own body, and then his hands slide from Ianto’s head and land awkwardly on his thighs and his heart remembers to beat again. And he’s buzzing, vibrating with adrenaline but still not quite able to move, and he’s not thinking when he glances at Ianto’s face.
Ianto’s eyes are a little glazed, and his jaw is set and tilted up, teeth gritted and, oh shit, there’s this thin trail of come, Owen’s come, from the corner of his mouth to his chin that is so fucking wrong and Owen licks his lips and stares. And there’s this odd wave of cold that washes over him, which he thinks is maybe realisation and definitely not guilt, as he glances down and sees Ianto’s hands at his sides, fingers clawing just slightly against the floor, and the really obvious tenting of his trousers.
So he should be feeling victorious, or at least smug, except he can’t really feel anything beyond ridiculously sensitised, aftershocks still rippling through him, and he’s reaching forward as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to roughly squeeze the shape of Ianto’s cock through his suit and hiss, “Just fucking come already.”
He might not ever get tired of seeing Ianto shudder like that.
Ianto sucks in a sharp breath, eyes clamping shut, and Owen can feel the heat of him against his palm, can feel every jerk and twitch as Ianto slumps forward, can feel Ianto’s hips thrust up against his hand and the rush of moisture as Ianto’s forehead presses against Owen’s shoulder, and so close he can hear the catch to Ianto’s breathing, the thin almost-whimper, and his breath is hot, damp and too much as it huffs out over Owen’s neck.
It feels like it takes forever for Owen to remember how to move, the both of them suspended there, both panting harshly and leaning against each other, and he can only find the energy to pull his hand away from Ianto, but suddenly it’s like someone flipped a switch. Ianto’s shifting away, jerkily pulling himself up, and doing a vaguely impressive job of pretending he’s steady on his feet when he’s clearly not. Owen watches as Ianto produces a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping agitatedly at his chin, and just like that the normal Ianto’s back, the fussy, prissy, Owen-hating Ianto, who’s very carefully not looking anywhere even remotely in Owen’s direction as he haltingly walks away towards the safety of his beloved kitchen.
Owen just sits there for a long moment, thinking idly about Retcon and blackmail possibilities and going home to shower forever and how long it’ll take before he needs to jerk off and if he’ll hate himself for it. Standing is embarrassingly difficult, with his trousers still around his thighs and his knees still feeling unsteady, but he manages without stumbling too much.
“Jack,” he says clearly, and his voice sounds uncomfortably loud but he doesn’t care, hands tugging his clothes back into place, and he wonders if Ianto is listening. “Have I mentioned lately that I hate you?”
“No, you haven’t,” Jack replies, confident as ever. “And no, you don’t.”