[fic] Enough (Jack/Ianto; NC-17)
May. 7th, 2009 11:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rmTitle: Enough
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rm
Rating: NC-17
Summary: PWP. Mostly. And no matter what Ianto says, his brain really never seems to shut off. Ever.
Wordcount: ~1,000
Author's Note: Ooops! I originally posted this without the first two sentences.
They’re turned nearly the wrong way, sprawled across Ianto’s bed. Jack’s half-sitting, propped on an elbow, and Ianto’s sucking him off.
He’s never had a cock in his mouth before and wonders what the fuck he was thinking to not have managed the experience prior. Recent events lay the blame at Jack’s impatience: a touch and it’s just a rush to get off fast as they can and there’s never, ‘til now, been enough time for Ianto to so much as fall to his knees. At least in this particular fashion.
But before Jack, before Lisa, before this mess that is his existence entwined through them and Torchwood both, well, Ianto had a life then too. And so he thinks he really, really should have gotten around to this whole blow job thing sooner and not have had to have Torchwood to thank. There’s only so much he can stand to owe the place, after all. His life should be enough.
But sucking Jack’s cock? Nice, perfect, easy even, and it’s pretty much exactly like every fantasy he’s ever had about it, mouth open, jaw sore and the world reduced to this.
They’ve left the lights on, and it’s absurdly bright. Ianto wonders if Jack can see the remnants of thought on his face – novelty, amusement, submission and a certain nearly drugged wonder.
Jack, he knows, probably thinks it’s beautiful, or at least mildly interesting; Ianto just feels embarrassed to be under so much brightness and scrutiny. Not that that’s an emotion that’s particularly making him less hard. It’s also the sort of thing he thinks he should examine. One day. Very far from now.
Because all he wants in this moment is to be good at what he’s doing and get Jack off. He hopes the other man feels some wonder, some novelty of his own amongst the deeply ordinary landscape of Ianto’s flat.
To the extent that he can let himself consider it, which isn’t much, Ianto is charmed by Jack’s politeness or, perhaps, caution. He even has to reach for the hand Jack has lightly resting on his shoulder and push it into his hair.
Jack moans and tugs and laughs like it’s a marvel. Ianto’s gratified both by the sound of Jack pleased and the whole thing turning just ever so slightly darker. He has no choice in doing this; he is impelled. And he wants Jack to know it. Hell, he wants Jack to be thrilled by it. It is his fault after all.
Ianto could blame the pteronodon, but it’s not as rewarding.
It’s easy to tell, when Jack’s close. His breathing changes, sure. But it’s not that. It’s the way he goes from being careful of Ianto and making a little smug noise at the end of every deliberate thrust (as if getting sucked off somehow makes Jack clever - Ianto will roll his eyes at that later) to just not caring about what he sounds like, what he looks like.
Ianto knows Jack is close because he can tell Jack’s world has gotten smaller.
That’s all Ianto can do with someone like Jack: shrink the scope of what he must conquer. It’s a bit sad and a bit vicious a thought, and Ianto likes that as surely as he likes the ragged action of Jack’s hips and the instinctive clutching of the fingers in his hair. They tug without Ianto’s encouragement now, bright and sharp and needy, the needles, somehow, of Jack’s desire.
“Hey, I’m –“
Ianto does roll his eyes then. It’s not like Jack’s capable of finishing the sentence, and it’s not like Jack needs to tell him. It’s not like he doesn’t know, even if he’s never gotten Jack there just this way before.
Maybe Jack tries to push him back a little bit, Ianto’s not sure, but Jack does something that makes Ianto think it’s a good idea to choke himself on Jack’s prick instead. Which would have been a fine plan had Jack not come right then and there (and, okay, to be fair, Ianto should have been expecting that one; since he had been, a moment earlier).
He gags a little when Jack floods his mouth. All right. Not a little. A lot. He’s coughing and spluttering and still trying to swallow it all down even though his eyes are tearing and he feels like a complete idiot.
So much, he winces at his own thought, for being a quick learner. And Jack, damn him, is laughing, a sound as warm and glorious as ever, even if it’s a little rough around the edges.
Ianto smiles in spite of himself, lets Jack’s prick slip from his mouth in the process, and flops back on the bed, an arm across his eyes. He doesn’t bother to swipe at the come that’s run down his chin. He’s too tired, too vaguely embarrassed, too hard still to want to draw attention to the mess. Always messy. Not the sex; just Ianto himself.
“Sorry,” he says, almost amused but definitely dismayed.
“Fuck,” Jack says like his lungs and heart and brain are still trying to catch up with the orgasm he’s just had.
There’s a pause. Silence nearly, but for the sound of Jack’s slowing breath, and finally Ianto has to move his arm to look at him.
“You look amazing like that,” Jack says, appreciative, casual, reassembled into his preternaturally composed and charming self.
Ianto can barely stand it, and so laughs weakly and rolls his eyes because he has to do something.
“I did try to warn you,” Jack adds with a shrug and flops down beside him.
“No warning necessary,” Ianto says simply. Sure, it’s obviously not true, but that’s not Jack’s fault.
“That didn’t look like the fun version of not being able to get enough air,” Jack says conversationally.
“Do you really think I’m here for the fun?” Ianto blurts, regretting the words even as they’re still coming out of his mouth.
Jack bites his lip as he considers Ianto and then smiles, grand but not easy. Maybe even sweet, just a little, Ianto thinks.
“No,” Jack says, leaning in for kisses messy and then messier, “I suppose you’re not.”
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Author:
rmRating: NC-17
Summary: PWP. Mostly. And no matter what Ianto says, his brain really never seems to shut off. Ever.
Wordcount: ~1,000
Author's Note: Ooops! I originally posted this without the first two sentences.
They’re turned nearly the wrong way, sprawled across Ianto’s bed. Jack’s half-sitting, propped on an elbow, and Ianto’s sucking him off.
He’s never had a cock in his mouth before and wonders what the fuck he was thinking to not have managed the experience prior. Recent events lay the blame at Jack’s impatience: a touch and it’s just a rush to get off fast as they can and there’s never, ‘til now, been enough time for Ianto to so much as fall to his knees. At least in this particular fashion.
But before Jack, before Lisa, before this mess that is his existence entwined through them and Torchwood both, well, Ianto had a life then too. And so he thinks he really, really should have gotten around to this whole blow job thing sooner and not have had to have Torchwood to thank. There’s only so much he can stand to owe the place, after all. His life should be enough.
But sucking Jack’s cock? Nice, perfect, easy even, and it’s pretty much exactly like every fantasy he’s ever had about it, mouth open, jaw sore and the world reduced to this.
They’ve left the lights on, and it’s absurdly bright. Ianto wonders if Jack can see the remnants of thought on his face – novelty, amusement, submission and a certain nearly drugged wonder.
Jack, he knows, probably thinks it’s beautiful, or at least mildly interesting; Ianto just feels embarrassed to be under so much brightness and scrutiny. Not that that’s an emotion that’s particularly making him less hard. It’s also the sort of thing he thinks he should examine. One day. Very far from now.
Because all he wants in this moment is to be good at what he’s doing and get Jack off. He hopes the other man feels some wonder, some novelty of his own amongst the deeply ordinary landscape of Ianto’s flat.
To the extent that he can let himself consider it, which isn’t much, Ianto is charmed by Jack’s politeness or, perhaps, caution. He even has to reach for the hand Jack has lightly resting on his shoulder and push it into his hair.
Jack moans and tugs and laughs like it’s a marvel. Ianto’s gratified both by the sound of Jack pleased and the whole thing turning just ever so slightly darker. He has no choice in doing this; he is impelled. And he wants Jack to know it. Hell, he wants Jack to be thrilled by it. It is his fault after all.
Ianto could blame the pteronodon, but it’s not as rewarding.
It’s easy to tell, when Jack’s close. His breathing changes, sure. But it’s not that. It’s the way he goes from being careful of Ianto and making a little smug noise at the end of every deliberate thrust (as if getting sucked off somehow makes Jack clever - Ianto will roll his eyes at that later) to just not caring about what he sounds like, what he looks like.
Ianto knows Jack is close because he can tell Jack’s world has gotten smaller.
That’s all Ianto can do with someone like Jack: shrink the scope of what he must conquer. It’s a bit sad and a bit vicious a thought, and Ianto likes that as surely as he likes the ragged action of Jack’s hips and the instinctive clutching of the fingers in his hair. They tug without Ianto’s encouragement now, bright and sharp and needy, the needles, somehow, of Jack’s desire.
“Hey, I’m –“
Ianto does roll his eyes then. It’s not like Jack’s capable of finishing the sentence, and it’s not like Jack needs to tell him. It’s not like he doesn’t know, even if he’s never gotten Jack there just this way before.
Maybe Jack tries to push him back a little bit, Ianto’s not sure, but Jack does something that makes Ianto think it’s a good idea to choke himself on Jack’s prick instead. Which would have been a fine plan had Jack not come right then and there (and, okay, to be fair, Ianto should have been expecting that one; since he had been, a moment earlier).
He gags a little when Jack floods his mouth. All right. Not a little. A lot. He’s coughing and spluttering and still trying to swallow it all down even though his eyes are tearing and he feels like a complete idiot.
So much, he winces at his own thought, for being a quick learner. And Jack, damn him, is laughing, a sound as warm and glorious as ever, even if it’s a little rough around the edges.
Ianto smiles in spite of himself, lets Jack’s prick slip from his mouth in the process, and flops back on the bed, an arm across his eyes. He doesn’t bother to swipe at the come that’s run down his chin. He’s too tired, too vaguely embarrassed, too hard still to want to draw attention to the mess. Always messy. Not the sex; just Ianto himself.
“Sorry,” he says, almost amused but definitely dismayed.
“Fuck,” Jack says like his lungs and heart and brain are still trying to catch up with the orgasm he’s just had.
There’s a pause. Silence nearly, but for the sound of Jack’s slowing breath, and finally Ianto has to move his arm to look at him.
“You look amazing like that,” Jack says, appreciative, casual, reassembled into his preternaturally composed and charming self.
Ianto can barely stand it, and so laughs weakly and rolls his eyes because he has to do something.
“I did try to warn you,” Jack adds with a shrug and flops down beside him.
“No warning necessary,” Ianto says simply. Sure, it’s obviously not true, but that’s not Jack’s fault.
“That didn’t look like the fun version of not being able to get enough air,” Jack says conversationally.
“Do you really think I’m here for the fun?” Ianto blurts, regretting the words even as they’re still coming out of his mouth.
Jack bites his lip as he considers Ianto and then smiles, grand but not easy. Maybe even sweet, just a little, Ianto thinks.
“No,” Jack says, leaning in for kisses messy and then messier, “I suppose you’re not.”
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no subject
Date: 2009-05-08 09:57 pm (UTC)