Nine Tenths of the Law
FESTIVE TITLE: Nine Tenths of the Law
FESTIVE AUTHOR: invisible_lift
RECIPIENT WHO HAD BETTER BE GRATEFUL BECAUSE I SPENT TIME THAT I COULD HAVE BEEN DRINKING WRITING THIS SHIT: phaetonschariot
SUMMARY: KINKY JACK/IANTO SHIT, BUT ALL DEEP AND STUFF
BETA: DEFINITELY NOT FOXY
RATING: FESTIVE NAUGHTY
WARNING: IMMA REALLY CRAP WRITER AND YOU'RE ALL MUCH BETTER THAN ME
SPOILERS: IT'S JUST ABOUT THE TORCHWOOD TEAM DRINKING EGGNOG
DISCLAIMER: THEY'RE NOT MINE. EXCEPT WHEN THEY ARE. IN MAH PANTS.
Inhale.
His eyes stayed closed behind the blue silk tie. That was the trickiest bit. Everything would be easier if he could see.
Exhale.
Ianto Jones would not describe this moment. Or, rather, he would never relate it to another human being face-to-face. His journal was a different matter. That was a separate thing. Even so, Ianto never wrote to anyone but himself. It was, therefore, a safe bet that any reflection he put down later might lack certain crucial details that an outsider might need. Context might provide some insight, but even a critical reader with inside knowledge might not know everything necessary to genuinely understand why he’d been stood, naked, on the lift platform with a silver tray in his hands. On it, an assortment of cups, coffee mugs, and glasses balanced in the sort of precarious heap drunks might make in a café after a Saturday night binge.
Inhale again. Ignore the hands.
Appearances aside, he’d been a child upon signing that contract in London. Even when he’d arrived in Cardiff he hadn’t possessed the insight to really understand the degree of practical control that Torchwood could contractually assume.
This was not about that. This moment went well beyond even Torchwood’s rights to seizure of person, property, or financial resources; those had all come into play ages ago. After Lisa. Those were just a catalyst.
Ignore the weight. Exhale.
‘Love games?’ a hypothetical third party might assert, though if anyone had floated the idea his way Ianto would have demurred. They did play games - he’d implied as much to Martha Jones - but this was not one of them.
Breathe.
The muscles in Ianto’s shoulders and forearms burned. Knots in his neck and upper back that were already tight from a long day’s work positively screamed. He knew his own sweat only because he could taste it when he licked his lips. How long? Jack hadn’t said.
‘Punishment, then?’ the third party posits, but no. Jack told him to strip. Jack told him to stand. And as for love, well…
Ianto wrenched his eyes even more tightly closed. He heard Jack’s measured footsteps in their slow circle on the catwalk far above and counted them.
Seventy. Seventy-one. One more breath. Seventy-two. Seventy-th -- Wait.
Somewhere behind him, the footsteps paused. Ianto held his breath and kept as still as he could. Jack could see movement he couldn’t feel. Jack had all the points of reference. Jack -
“Drop the tray.”
Ianto flinched, felt a cup start to topple. His reflex said ‘catch’ and ‘panic,’ but he forced his hands down, and focused on letting the clang and shatter happen. Shards that peppered his shins on their way to the ground all around the platform. The silence that came of the others being gone collapsed. The tray’s fall was like a car crash in comparison.
“Now get yourself hard.”
Jack’s footfalls resumed. Clank. Clank. Soles met metal grating far above while Ianto took himself in hand. The air was cool but his palms were warm as he squeezed his cock and brushed at it with his thumb. He felt disconnected, like a bell still reverberating from the noise, but steady strokes and warmth made the flesh awaken and swell in his grip.
One-twelve. One-thirteen. One-fourteen.
The sound of his own breaths mingled with Jack’s footfalls now. He tried to breathe in time with them, which had the effect of obscuring details. Location. Standing without sight, uncertain, and increasingly aroused? It felt a little bit like flying. He was hard now. Fully erect and aching.
“You know what I’m thinking?” Jack asked, though Ianto knew the question was rhetorical. He sounded close, but Ianto couldn’t pinpoint him. “I’m thinking how hot it would be to make you fuck someone over my desk while I watch. I want to see you come apart and scream and dig your fingers into somebody while you pound away. I’d put you on your knees before you got a chance to come and then fuck your hoarse little throat.”
Oh God. Ianto did not still his hand.
“If I hired the right kind of rentboy, I could watch him fuck you after I finished. Right on the floor. I could make you beg for it.”
Ianto’s hand moved faster. He could stop, maybe, if Jack told him to. He could see it, though. All of it, just like Jack described. He could imagine gripping a pair of shoulders or a pair of hips and rutting until he was nearly there before Jack threw him to the floor and used his mouth. Ianto imagined being denied, being held down on the concrete and pounded while Jack watched.
“And you know how I know all that, Ianto Jones?”
The blood in Ianto’s head hammered its beat against his skull because, yes, he knew. He only needed Jack to say -
“Because you’re about to come all over tomorrow’s garbage.”
Ianto’s hand tightened as he came with a grunt. He couldn’t see, but he could imagine the spurt of his orgasm as it splattered the mess all over the floor in front of the platform. A little bit got on his hand and made his fingers slick. Intent on satisfying Jack, he squeezed and milked himself until there was nothing left.
Render unto Torchwood the things which are Torchwood’s, and unto Jack…
Fingers closed in his hair and he let himself be pushed down into a crouch. Ianto opened his mouth. The tie still covered his eyes as Jack came on his tongue and his cheek and his chin. He lapped it up and swallowed what he could before he blindly sucked Jack clean.
After a moment the grip in his hair loosened. He heard Jack kick away some mess and then with some help sat down on a clean corner of the platform. Ianto felt Jack wipe the last bit of come away with his thumb and then sucked it away when Jack pressed the thumb to his lips.
“I do love that mouth of yours,” Jack murmured as he leaned down to kiss Ianto. “Especially when it tastes like sex.”
“That is what it’s for,” Ianto replied as he reached up to remove the tie. “Apparently.”
Jack chuckled. His belt and flies were still undone, but his cock was back in his briefs. “Definitely.”
Wincing, Ianto surveyed the mess. The glass and such would sweep away, but he’d need a mop to wipe away the streaky mess his semen would make. “And you’re sure I’m not being punished?”
“Why?” Jack asked as he handed Ianto a dressing gown. “Would you like to be? Because if you do, I could make you leave all of that there. Or make a copy of the CCTV and --”
Ianto stood up. “Broom. Now.”
“Mmm. Forceful.”
“Torchwood owns me,” he said as he stepped down from the platform and reached for the nearest bin. “You may as well get your money’s worth.”
FESTIVE AUTHOR: invisible_lift
RECIPIENT WHO HAD BETTER BE GRATEFUL BECAUSE I SPENT TIME THAT I COULD HAVE BEEN DRINKING WRITING THIS SHIT: phaetonschariot
SUMMARY: KINKY JACK/IANTO SHIT, BUT ALL DEEP AND STUFF
BETA: DEFINITELY NOT FOXY
RATING: FESTIVE NAUGHTY
WARNING: IMMA REALLY CRAP WRITER AND YOU'RE ALL MUCH BETTER THAN ME
SPOILERS: IT'S JUST ABOUT THE TORCHWOOD TEAM DRINKING EGGNOG
DISCLAIMER: THEY'RE NOT MINE. EXCEPT WHEN THEY ARE. IN MAH PANTS.
Inhale.
His eyes stayed closed behind the blue silk tie. That was the trickiest bit. Everything would be easier if he could see.
Exhale.
Ianto Jones would not describe this moment. Or, rather, he would never relate it to another human being face-to-face. His journal was a different matter. That was a separate thing. Even so, Ianto never wrote to anyone but himself. It was, therefore, a safe bet that any reflection he put down later might lack certain crucial details that an outsider might need. Context might provide some insight, but even a critical reader with inside knowledge might not know everything necessary to genuinely understand why he’d been stood, naked, on the lift platform with a silver tray in his hands. On it, an assortment of cups, coffee mugs, and glasses balanced in the sort of precarious heap drunks might make in a café after a Saturday night binge.
Inhale again. Ignore the hands.
Appearances aside, he’d been a child upon signing that contract in London. Even when he’d arrived in Cardiff he hadn’t possessed the insight to really understand the degree of practical control that Torchwood could contractually assume.
This was not about that. This moment went well beyond even Torchwood’s rights to seizure of person, property, or financial resources; those had all come into play ages ago. After Lisa. Those were just a catalyst.
Ignore the weight. Exhale.
‘Love games?’ a hypothetical third party might assert, though if anyone had floated the idea his way Ianto would have demurred. They did play games - he’d implied as much to Martha Jones - but this was not one of them.
Breathe.
The muscles in Ianto’s shoulders and forearms burned. Knots in his neck and upper back that were already tight from a long day’s work positively screamed. He knew his own sweat only because he could taste it when he licked his lips. How long? Jack hadn’t said.
‘Punishment, then?’ the third party posits, but no. Jack told him to strip. Jack told him to stand. And as for love, well…
Ianto wrenched his eyes even more tightly closed. He heard Jack’s measured footsteps in their slow circle on the catwalk far above and counted them.
Seventy. Seventy-one. One more breath. Seventy-two. Seventy-th -- Wait.
Somewhere behind him, the footsteps paused. Ianto held his breath and kept as still as he could. Jack could see movement he couldn’t feel. Jack had all the points of reference. Jack -
“Drop the tray.”
Ianto flinched, felt a cup start to topple. His reflex said ‘catch’ and ‘panic,’ but he forced his hands down, and focused on letting the clang and shatter happen. Shards that peppered his shins on their way to the ground all around the platform. The silence that came of the others being gone collapsed. The tray’s fall was like a car crash in comparison.
“Now get yourself hard.”
Jack’s footfalls resumed. Clank. Clank. Soles met metal grating far above while Ianto took himself in hand. The air was cool but his palms were warm as he squeezed his cock and brushed at it with his thumb. He felt disconnected, like a bell still reverberating from the noise, but steady strokes and warmth made the flesh awaken and swell in his grip.
One-twelve. One-thirteen. One-fourteen.
The sound of his own breaths mingled with Jack’s footfalls now. He tried to breathe in time with them, which had the effect of obscuring details. Location. Standing without sight, uncertain, and increasingly aroused? It felt a little bit like flying. He was hard now. Fully erect and aching.
“You know what I’m thinking?” Jack asked, though Ianto knew the question was rhetorical. He sounded close, but Ianto couldn’t pinpoint him. “I’m thinking how hot it would be to make you fuck someone over my desk while I watch. I want to see you come apart and scream and dig your fingers into somebody while you pound away. I’d put you on your knees before you got a chance to come and then fuck your hoarse little throat.”
Oh God. Ianto did not still his hand.
“If I hired the right kind of rentboy, I could watch him fuck you after I finished. Right on the floor. I could make you beg for it.”
Ianto’s hand moved faster. He could stop, maybe, if Jack told him to. He could see it, though. All of it, just like Jack described. He could imagine gripping a pair of shoulders or a pair of hips and rutting until he was nearly there before Jack threw him to the floor and used his mouth. Ianto imagined being denied, being held down on the concrete and pounded while Jack watched.
“And you know how I know all that, Ianto Jones?”
The blood in Ianto’s head hammered its beat against his skull because, yes, he knew. He only needed Jack to say -
“Because you’re about to come all over tomorrow’s garbage.”
Ianto’s hand tightened as he came with a grunt. He couldn’t see, but he could imagine the spurt of his orgasm as it splattered the mess all over the floor in front of the platform. A little bit got on his hand and made his fingers slick. Intent on satisfying Jack, he squeezed and milked himself until there was nothing left.
Render unto Torchwood the things which are Torchwood’s, and unto Jack…
Fingers closed in his hair and he let himself be pushed down into a crouch. Ianto opened his mouth. The tie still covered his eyes as Jack came on his tongue and his cheek and his chin. He lapped it up and swallowed what he could before he blindly sucked Jack clean.
After a moment the grip in his hair loosened. He heard Jack kick away some mess and then with some help sat down on a clean corner of the platform. Ianto felt Jack wipe the last bit of come away with his thumb and then sucked it away when Jack pressed the thumb to his lips.
“I do love that mouth of yours,” Jack murmured as he leaned down to kiss Ianto. “Especially when it tastes like sex.”
“That is what it’s for,” Ianto replied as he reached up to remove the tie. “Apparently.”
Jack chuckled. His belt and flies were still undone, but his cock was back in his briefs. “Definitely.”
Wincing, Ianto surveyed the mess. The glass and such would sweep away, but he’d need a mop to wipe away the streaky mess his semen would make. “And you’re sure I’m not being punished?”
“Why?” Jack asked as he handed Ianto a dressing gown. “Would you like to be? Because if you do, I could make you leave all of that there. Or make a copy of the CCTV and --”
Ianto stood up. “Broom. Now.”
“Mmm. Forceful.”
“Torchwood owns me,” he said as he stepped down from the platform and reached for the nearest bin. “You may as well get your money’s worth.”