Fic: Shivers Down My Spine (Torchwood) - the 10s
Title: Shivers Down My Spine, 2 of 10
Prompt:Sarcasm, " the 10s" challenge.
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R-NC17ish. Adult, okay? It's extremely adult. My mother would die of shock (if she wasn't a closet perv herself…ask mithfeniel what she got for Christmas from my poor sainted mother sometime).
Word count: 1,309
Warnings: Inappropriate use of an interrogation room table, a broken antenna, and items from Ianto's wardrobe. Bit of very (very) light bondage-type activity. Mild spoilers of a non plot-related sort for 2.02, "Sleepers."
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them.
Summary: His mother told him once, sometime around age eleven, that atll that sarcasm would one day be the death of him.
“'Just us. This room. For as long as it takes.' Absolutely terrifying. Shivers down my spine.”
“You don’t look terrified.”
“It…passed.”
**
His mother told him once, sometime around age eleven, that all that sarcasm would one day be the death of him. At the time, the closest to death he’d come was a solid spanking from his father for smarting off once too often and Ianto was certain, in that way eleven year old’s can be, that it was all an elaborate exaggeration to convince him to behave. Worked for about a week. Hardly his fault; was just in his nature.
Now, splayed out across the interrogation room table, cheek pressed to the cold wood and his wrists and ankles secured to the table legs with a tie stolen from his closet each, Ianto’s beginning to doubt his earlier evaluation of his mother’s comment. Not, strictly speaking, that he’s thinking of his mother all that much - not exactly good for the psyche to let thoughts of your Mam flit in while you’re face down and naked on a piece of furniture. To be honest, his thoughts are more or less locked onto the persistent “thwack, thwack” of something lightly swatting skin behind him and out of his sight. He knows Jack is back there, seated in one of the chairs with his feet propped on the edge of the table between the archivist’s spread ankles. Metal creeks now and then as Jack rocks the chair back and forth on two legs, something Ianto would normally scold him about. But the Welshman’s mouth is too dry to even attempt getting words past it now.
He knows exactly what’s making the “thwack, thwack” sound, and he has a pretty good idea what the Captain plans on doing with it. And he’s half hard in anticipation.
“Jack…”
The antenna connects with the tabletop just shy of his left ankle. The feel of the displaced air against his skin excites as much as it terrifies. The minute vibration of the wood at impact goes straight to his cock.
“Sir…” he starts again, the single word little more than a half-choked groan.
“Rule number one: I ask the questions, you answer them. That’s the only time you get to talk.” The metal tip of the antenna brushes across Ianto’s calf, warmed by its contact with Jack’s skin. Ianto shivers anyway. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” One booted foot, then the other, slides from the table, clomping against the floor a second after a thud as the chair rocks forward, the grate of metal against concrete as it is pushed back. Ianto leverages his face up from the table to look back over his shoulder, watching Jack’s measured, methodical approach. As expected, the antenna is gripped in his right hand, tapping his thigh with every step. Ianto thinks, watching the rhythmic collision of metal to fabric, that his Captain looks far too comfortable with that implement - antenna, riding crop, it could be either the way he holds it - in hand; and in the same thought he wonders how often Jack’s done this before. Then he realizes he doesn’t want to know.
“We’ll start simple,” Jack says, dragging a hand across Ianto’s left buttock in a light, teasing caress. The Welshman arches off the table as much as his bindings and splayed limbs will allow. In answer, Jack’s hand slides up to the small of Ianto’s back and pushes him down again with firm, insistent pressure. The unexpected press causes his cock to slide against the lacquered wood with agonizing friction that makes him gasp. “Rule number two: you stay still. Got it?”
Ianto nods; any words would come out as a sharp, high-pitched squeak. But that’s not good enough for Jack. Before Ianto can draw what he hopes is a calming breath the antenna slaps down against the same cheek Jack had a moment before caressed, hard enough to sting, sharp enough to bring an inelegant yelp from the Welshman’s throat.
“Got it?” The way Jack shapes those two words, those two simple syllables, they come out as order, not question.
“Yes!” Ianto barely gives Jack’s words time to completely pass his lips before he answers. “Sir. Yes, sir,” he adds, because his lover’s tone demands it.
Jack’s hand is firm, constant pressure against the small of Ianto’s back. If he wanted to move - to squirm, to shrink away, to rub himself against the table in some attempt at relieving the ache in his groin - he couldn’t. And even if he could, the thin cylinder of metal drawing lazy circles across first one ass cheek, then the other, is both delicious torment and ever-present reminder that there are consequences to breaking Jack’s rules.
No matter how much he finds he enjoys those consequences.
Jack leans over him, never letting his hand or the antenna stray from their work, lips hovering just near Ianto’s ear. “Quick learner,” he whispers there as he lets the cool metal dip into the cleft between his lover’s cheeks. Ianto bites down on a needy moan and a backwards squirm as the knobbed end ghosts over his opening. “Won’t save you from getting your punishment in the end, but it might lessen it a little.”
There’s no warning. One moment the antenna is a tease against his skin; the next it’s brought down in a stinging blow across his ass. If not for the hand on his back, he would flinch at the sting. No; as the next blow lands before the pain of the first can fully fade, as he feels the shock ebb off and replace itself with steady growing pleasure, Ianto knows he wouldn’t flinch at all.
He’d buck.
“How many of these do you think you deserve?” Jack growls against Ianto’s ear. He recognizes that growl, that hungry rumble at the end of the Captain’s every word. If he could tilt his head - enough or at all - he could see just how hard his Captain already is.
“I-I don’t know. Sir!” The last is added with a desperate keen as the antenna comes down again, as his hips tremble with the repressed need to lift, to press back in a desperate, wanton plea. Ianto can feel every blow that’s landed still, trails of long, ragged warmth crisscrossing his skin. Every time they throb, so does his cock.
Jack, the bastard, laughs. Low, more stuttered breath and smug smile against Ianto’s ear than sound. “Then how many do you want?” This time, the skin-warmed metal is a ghost of a brush against Ianto’s dick and he almost comes right there.
“Jack…”
The antenna strikes again, low and stinging, and this time he can’t help but shift back into the blow.
“That’s not an answer,” the smug bastard murmurs, teeth grazing the Welshman’s earlobe.
“Jack, swear to God if you don’t fuck me soon I’ll…”
Another strike. But Ianto knows his lover’s resolve is fading. The hand at his back is shaking.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll die.”
He feels Jack’s grin against the back of his neck. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Later, much later, Ianto rolls gingerly onto his back in Jack’s bunk beneath the Hub, hissing when reddened skin makes contact with the sheet. He would be asleep if one nagging thought wasn’t keeping him awake.
“Jack?”
The Captain’s eyes don’t open as he offers a barely responsive “Hmmm?”
“Please tell me you turned off the CCTV.”
Jack just grins, lazy and half asleep and smug as hell. “What fun would that be?”
“Jack!”
“Hey, that’s a damn fine interrogation technique I’ve got there. Deserves to be preserved for posterity, don’t you think?”
Ianto yanks the pillow out from beneath the Captain’s head and proceeds to swing it like an overstuffed cricket bat straight for Jack’s self-pleased smirk.
Revenge, when it comes, is going to be sweet.
Prompt:Sarcasm, " the 10s" challenge.
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: R-NC17ish. Adult, okay? It's extremely adult. My mother would die of shock (if she wasn't a closet perv herself…ask mithfeniel what she got for Christmas from my poor sainted mother sometime).
Word count: 1,309
Warnings: Inappropriate use of an interrogation room table, a broken antenna, and items from Ianto's wardrobe. Bit of very (very) light bondage-type activity. Mild spoilers of a non plot-related sort for 2.02, "Sleepers."
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them.
Summary: His mother told him once, sometime around age eleven, that atll that sarcasm would one day be the death of him.
“'Just us. This room. For as long as it takes.' Absolutely terrifying. Shivers down my spine.”
“You don’t look terrified.”
“It…passed.”
**
His mother told him once, sometime around age eleven, that all that sarcasm would one day be the death of him. At the time, the closest to death he’d come was a solid spanking from his father for smarting off once too often and Ianto was certain, in that way eleven year old’s can be, that it was all an elaborate exaggeration to convince him to behave. Worked for about a week. Hardly his fault; was just in his nature.
Now, splayed out across the interrogation room table, cheek pressed to the cold wood and his wrists and ankles secured to the table legs with a tie stolen from his closet each, Ianto’s beginning to doubt his earlier evaluation of his mother’s comment. Not, strictly speaking, that he’s thinking of his mother all that much - not exactly good for the psyche to let thoughts of your Mam flit in while you’re face down and naked on a piece of furniture. To be honest, his thoughts are more or less locked onto the persistent “thwack, thwack” of something lightly swatting skin behind him and out of his sight. He knows Jack is back there, seated in one of the chairs with his feet propped on the edge of the table between the archivist’s spread ankles. Metal creeks now and then as Jack rocks the chair back and forth on two legs, something Ianto would normally scold him about. But the Welshman’s mouth is too dry to even attempt getting words past it now.
He knows exactly what’s making the “thwack, thwack” sound, and he has a pretty good idea what the Captain plans on doing with it. And he’s half hard in anticipation.
“Jack…”
The antenna connects with the tabletop just shy of his left ankle. The feel of the displaced air against his skin excites as much as it terrifies. The minute vibration of the wood at impact goes straight to his cock.
“Sir…” he starts again, the single word little more than a half-choked groan.
“Rule number one: I ask the questions, you answer them. That’s the only time you get to talk.” The metal tip of the antenna brushes across Ianto’s calf, warmed by its contact with Jack’s skin. Ianto shivers anyway. “Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” One booted foot, then the other, slides from the table, clomping against the floor a second after a thud as the chair rocks forward, the grate of metal against concrete as it is pushed back. Ianto leverages his face up from the table to look back over his shoulder, watching Jack’s measured, methodical approach. As expected, the antenna is gripped in his right hand, tapping his thigh with every step. Ianto thinks, watching the rhythmic collision of metal to fabric, that his Captain looks far too comfortable with that implement - antenna, riding crop, it could be either the way he holds it - in hand; and in the same thought he wonders how often Jack’s done this before. Then he realizes he doesn’t want to know.
“We’ll start simple,” Jack says, dragging a hand across Ianto’s left buttock in a light, teasing caress. The Welshman arches off the table as much as his bindings and splayed limbs will allow. In answer, Jack’s hand slides up to the small of Ianto’s back and pushes him down again with firm, insistent pressure. The unexpected press causes his cock to slide against the lacquered wood with agonizing friction that makes him gasp. “Rule number two: you stay still. Got it?”
Ianto nods; any words would come out as a sharp, high-pitched squeak. But that’s not good enough for Jack. Before Ianto can draw what he hopes is a calming breath the antenna slaps down against the same cheek Jack had a moment before caressed, hard enough to sting, sharp enough to bring an inelegant yelp from the Welshman’s throat.
“Got it?” The way Jack shapes those two words, those two simple syllables, they come out as order, not question.
“Yes!” Ianto barely gives Jack’s words time to completely pass his lips before he answers. “Sir. Yes, sir,” he adds, because his lover’s tone demands it.
Jack’s hand is firm, constant pressure against the small of Ianto’s back. If he wanted to move - to squirm, to shrink away, to rub himself against the table in some attempt at relieving the ache in his groin - he couldn’t. And even if he could, the thin cylinder of metal drawing lazy circles across first one ass cheek, then the other, is both delicious torment and ever-present reminder that there are consequences to breaking Jack’s rules.
No matter how much he finds he enjoys those consequences.
Jack leans over him, never letting his hand or the antenna stray from their work, lips hovering just near Ianto’s ear. “Quick learner,” he whispers there as he lets the cool metal dip into the cleft between his lover’s cheeks. Ianto bites down on a needy moan and a backwards squirm as the knobbed end ghosts over his opening. “Won’t save you from getting your punishment in the end, but it might lessen it a little.”
There’s no warning. One moment the antenna is a tease against his skin; the next it’s brought down in a stinging blow across his ass. If not for the hand on his back, he would flinch at the sting. No; as the next blow lands before the pain of the first can fully fade, as he feels the shock ebb off and replace itself with steady growing pleasure, Ianto knows he wouldn’t flinch at all.
He’d buck.
“How many of these do you think you deserve?” Jack growls against Ianto’s ear. He recognizes that growl, that hungry rumble at the end of the Captain’s every word. If he could tilt his head - enough or at all - he could see just how hard his Captain already is.
“I-I don’t know. Sir!” The last is added with a desperate keen as the antenna comes down again, as his hips tremble with the repressed need to lift, to press back in a desperate, wanton plea. Ianto can feel every blow that’s landed still, trails of long, ragged warmth crisscrossing his skin. Every time they throb, so does his cock.
Jack, the bastard, laughs. Low, more stuttered breath and smug smile against Ianto’s ear than sound. “Then how many do you want?” This time, the skin-warmed metal is a ghost of a brush against Ianto’s dick and he almost comes right there.
“Jack…”
The antenna strikes again, low and stinging, and this time he can’t help but shift back into the blow.
“That’s not an answer,” the smug bastard murmurs, teeth grazing the Welshman’s earlobe.
“Jack, swear to God if you don’t fuck me soon I’ll…”
Another strike. But Ianto knows his lover’s resolve is fading. The hand at his back is shaking.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll die.”
He feels Jack’s grin against the back of his neck. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Later, much later, Ianto rolls gingerly onto his back in Jack’s bunk beneath the Hub, hissing when reddened skin makes contact with the sheet. He would be asleep if one nagging thought wasn’t keeping him awake.
“Jack?”
The Captain’s eyes don’t open as he offers a barely responsive “Hmmm?”
“Please tell me you turned off the CCTV.”
Jack just grins, lazy and half asleep and smug as hell. “What fun would that be?”
“Jack!”
“Hey, that’s a damn fine interrogation technique I’ve got there. Deserves to be preserved for posterity, don’t you think?”
Ianto yanks the pillow out from beneath the Captain’s head and proceeds to swing it like an overstuffed cricket bat straight for Jack’s self-pleased smirk.
Revenge, when it comes, is going to be sweet.