Heather (heddychaa) wrote in hauldyourwhist,

Fic: Holy, Holy, Holy [One-Shot]

Title: Holy, Holy, Holy
Author: heddychaa, with thanks (and apologies) to Allen Ginsberg
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content
Genre: Romance, PWP
Wordcount: ~1,947
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies and the BBC. This is a work of fan-appreciation and no profit is being made.
Summary: Poetry in bed.
A/N: A porn-y follow-up to Sunflower Sutra. Can also easily be read as a stand-alone. Quotes from Allen Ginsberg's "Footnote to Howl". Written for my fellow Ginsberg-lover, lyryk, who now, I think, owes me sunflowers ala the courtyard scene in "Vincent and the Doctor". Beta-d and cheerleadered by the absolutely spectacular azn_jack_fiend, who made sure all limbs were accounted for.

Holy, Holy, Holy

the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!

“Holy—” Jack thinks he hears Ianto say, just before he feels the wet tip of Ianto’s tongue trace a prim stripe up the underside of his cock. He’s sitting on the end of the bed, feet pressed into the cold cement floor, with Ianto kneeling between his legs. Jack rests a hand on the top of Ianto’s bent head, clutching uselessly through his hair.

“Holy,” Ianto says again, his tone thoughtful, and although it’s a little muffled (he is more or less talking into Jack’s crotch), Jack’s sure he’s heard it right, this time. And then Ianto’s tongue is circling the head of his cock with the same dutiful attention to detail Ianto applies all his tasks and Ianto’s mouth – oh fuck – Ianto’s mouth is sinking down, taking Jack’s cock in inch by delirious inch. Into that hot fucking mouth with its slick teasing tongue and all those sucking swallowing sensations that he varies so precisely it’s like he has a goddamn mathematical equation of cocksucking calculated somewhere in that perfectly filthy mind of his.

So Jack tilts his head back, mutters a few prayers of his own, a few of those exaltations like “You’re beautiful,” and “Need you”, hitching out the words in gasping half-moans. And Ianto hums his pleasure at the praise, dragging wet swollen lips (probably bruised candy pink by now) slowly up the length of Jack’s shaft. Jack strokes his hand along the strong line of his jawbone, sweeps his thumb over the peak of one flushed cheek.

There’s a wet pop and Ianto gasps out “Holy!” the breath of the word cold across the saliva damp on the head of Jack’s cock. But before Jack can ask what he’s playing at, what the game is, Ianto has the tip of his thumb running along the edge of Jack’s foreskin, just barely scraping at the sensitive skin underneath. He hisses through his teeth, bucks his hips, but Ianto puts out a hand to hold him still, tracing the line of his hipbone with the pad of his thumb. Follows the white pressure path of his thumb with a trail of gentle kisses, whispering after each, “Holy”, “Holy”, “Holy.”

Jack can feel his heart shuddering off-kilter in his chest, and sinks back in the bed, propping himself half-up on his elbows and staring down the length of his own panting chest and belly at the sight of the top of Ianto’s head, bent as if in prayer, the flushed shape of his shoulders, his hands. His stomach muscles clench, just looking at him.

And then Ianto looks up, catching Jack’s eye. And his face is flushed pink with a sheen of exertion, lips swollen, and his eyes are wicked and affectionate all at once. Never breaking eye contact, he nuzzles into Jack’s cock, running nose and cheek along Jack’s shaft, still slick with his own saliva. His eyes half-close – those eyelashes – and his free hand reaches up to palm Jack’s balls expertly, rolling them between his fingers. Jack wants to reach out and touch him, but he can’t, not just yet, so he fists the sheets. Exhales in a sharp burst. Feels Ianto’s cheekbone, the hollow of Ianto’s cheek, the scratch of the night’s growth of facial hair, the yielding warmth and sweat and glow of Ianto’s skin.

And Ianto looks up at him with those blue eyes, and that pinkred mouth, with a streak of spit shimmering across his face and the head of Jack’s cock nudging across his cheek, and he says, in that gravelly, low voice of his, “‘The skin is holy, the nose is holy, the tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!’”

There’s nothing he can say to that, nothing he wants to. So he smiles, and sits up, and reaches down to grasp Ianto by the upper arms – they’re slick with sweat – and hoists him up. Raises him up. And Ianto is standing at the end of the bed, arms dangling at his sides, looking bewildered and pink and, well, holy, and Jack is sitting at waist-height, head angled up, studying him. Memorizing him. He reaches out to hug his lower back, gathering him in. Jack kisses his cock on the tip chastely, straining erect, ignored this long, and then leans forward to press his face into the flesh of Ianto’s belly, nosing the half-curled hair that grows beneath his belly button.

He’s hot to the touch; Jack sighs against him, rolling so that his forehead and nose both sink into Ianto’s fevered skin. He feels Ianto’s hands hesitantly touch, and then clasp, the back of his neck, the back of his head. Jack kisses him again, feels his lips against the give of Ianto’s belly, and then turns his head up, where he can see Ianto still watching him with that same surprised look, like he’s overwhelmed by the depth of Jack’s response.

Jack asks, “Can I?” and Ianto gives him a dumbfounded nod. His eyelashes flutter. It takes them a minute to let each other go.

Jack stands, brushing his hands up over the surface of Ianto’s chest, round the curve of his shoulders. Their foreheads touch, the tips of their noses touch, but they don’t kiss, just breathe against each other until Jack touches Ianto’s side, guiding him, bending him over the end of the bed, stretching out his arms over his head so that his body is at its full length. He runs his hands down Ianto’s sides, feeling the impressions of his ribs, the shift of his quick breathing. Anticipation. Jack’s own hands are shaking almost imperceptibly, enough to accidentally overlube his fingers. He places a kiss in the centre of Ianto’s back, circling his hole with his middle finger and feeling him shudder noiselessly. Ianto’s hips lift up off the bed by inches, his heels rising from the floor and all the muscles in his legs twisting and tightening. Jack runs an appreciative hand up along his thigh, feeling the firmness there.

He presses in with his middle finger, finally, feels tightness, heat; repeats cock and hand and asshole holy! in his head like a mantra even as Ianto bites out a gasp into the mattress. Jack can see his beautiful perfect gorgeous hands curl into fists, gathering the sheets up into twisted peaks. Jack glides his free hand over Ianto’s ass, squeezing the flesh and then smoothing over it again. Slides his finger in and out again gently.

“Stop fucking stalling, Harkness,” Ianto grumbles against the bed, the words muffled by his own squished cheek, and Jack laughs, slipping another finger in and scissoring them wide. Impatient grunts turn to moans when Jack twists his wrist and strokes his fingers in tandem, gliding the pads of them both along Ianto’s prostate. Ianto’s hand fumbles back, finding Jack’s cock and palming it from balls to head before jerking it arrhythmically. His arm bent up backwards, he frowns with effort, brow furrowed, until Jack grabs him by the wrist and removes his hand, pinning it, along with his other wrist, palms-up on his tailbone. Jack doesn’t need this boyish frustrated reciprocation, those fumbling hands that other days would make him laugh appreciatively or want to wrestle or cede control, change positions. He doesn’t want games, today: he wants Ianto be still, to be--

He slips his fingers free, despite a gasping protest. Grabs Ianto a little roughly at the juncture of hip and thigh to hold him steady and presses his cock inside. There’s resistance at first, pressure, then the tug and slide and heat and movement. He hears himself gasp out, “Oh, god.”

When he opens his eyes again Ianto’s face is turned to the side and he is biting his lip, his right eye winced shut, the colour high in his cheek. So Jack asks him, “Is this okay?” freeing Ianto’s wrists and instead placing his palm down flat in the centre of Ianto’s back. It’s almost as if he can feel Ianto’s pulse vibrating through every capillary under his skin like electric currents. Holy, holy, Jack thinks, half-mindless with desire.

“Yes,” Ianto replies, a little sharply, bringing Jack down again, and bucks his arse back greedily. Jack fails to swallow a groan, doubling over him and digging into the skin of Ianto’s back with the tips of his fingers. He thrusts harder, faster, and Ianto meets him, clenching around him. The skin of Ianto’s back is pinched and rubbed and twisted in Jack’s hand. His cock throbs in time with his heartbeat like a bruise.

“Jack, please,” Ianto grits out, gasping, grinding his hips against the mattress as Jack drives down into him. His back under Jack’s hand rises and falls, expands and contracts, frantic and violent and desperate and alive. Holy, holy, Jack recites, screwing his eyes up tight and trying to hold himself off.

He releases Ianto’s hip and snakes his hand between the other man’s bucking body and the mattress, finding his cock and gripping it firmly. He gives it a long upward stroke, thumbing the slit and smiling at the leak of precome that wets the pad of his thumb. Ianto moans, and the sound is loud and clear and when Jack opens his eyes, he finds him with his back arched, body raised up, and his neck stretched out beautifully with his chin tilted defiantly toward the ceiling. All the muscles and tendons of his throat are exposed – Jack reaches forward with his free hand, stroking from jaw to collarbone, feeling Ianto swallow under his palm. And looking at that gorgeous strong body, every muscle tensed, every muscle, Jack gives in, his own jaw locking as he feels his balls constrict and his cock twitch, throbbing out his heartbeat holy holy holy holy holy, and he isn’t breathing in anymore, only huffing breaths out, jerking Ianto’s cock with firm erratic strokes. And then, at last, when Jack’s hips are only barely moving, lethargic and dizzy, he feels Ianto’s cock pulse in his hand and Ianto’s body tense up beautiful again and then Ianto’s come warm and sticky on his palm and between his fingers.

They slink up into the bed together again boneless and happy. Ianto scrunches up his nose when Jack licks his come off his hand, but doesn’t volunteer to get a flannel, either. Jack opens his arm and Ianto nestles down in the crook, sighing thoughtfully when Jack strokes his knuckle over the heat of his flushed cheek.

“That poem,” Jack says, when he’s mostly caught his breath.

“Mm,” Ianto replies, and quotes, a little bit cheeky, “‘The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!’ I was up a few minutes before you and had a peek at that book of yours. Quite the poet, your Ginsberg. I liked that bit. I can see why you fancied him.”

“Did you get to the end?” Jack asks in a tone of begrudging patience, glancing down. He traces a fingertip lazily over the ridge of Ianto’s collarbone, curling it in a whirlpool at the depression in the centre. Ianto looks up at him, blue-eyed, mouth still swollen, and pulls a guilty smile. Jack clears his throat, reciting in a clear voice, “‘Holy! Ours! Bodies! Suffering! Magnanimity! Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!’”

At the end of the bed, Ianto’s toes curl and stretch like a cat kneading. Jack kisses him at the corner of his eye.

“So, that’s ‘Thank you’, then?” Ianto tries.

There are so many things Jack could say to that.

“That’s ‘Thank you’,” he affirms.

Tags: fanfic, jack harkness, nc-17, one-shot, torchwood
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