Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content
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: Sex with Jack isn't always perfect, no matter how big a game he talks. But when it's good, it's bloody fantastic.
A/N: A part of the "Seven Times Jack Shagged Ianto Silly" series organized by sanginmychains on tw_gleeclub in celebration of Ianto's birthday. Written in response to the prompt, "The sixth time. Hey, you can't get it right all the time." Beta-d by azn_jack_fiend.
The first and second times? Utterly mindblowing. No exaggeration required.
Jack has a way of turning him into someone he barely recognizes, a man who is impatient and breathless and bossy, a man who doesn’t think twice about holding his own knees to his chest, feet stuck up in the air, toes curled. Jack has a way of getting him on his knees, mouth full of cock and completely past caring about the last time he was in that position.
And then there was the third time, up against the bricks in an alley post-Weevil capture, hard and angry and spectacular with Jack biting down on Ianto’s shoulder right through his suit jacket. And then a group of drunk girls stumbled by, out on the street, and brought Ianto back down to reality again. Stupid! Dangerous! Embarrassing! He wasn’t sure what it said about Jack that the cocky maybe-American was more than happy to resume.
The fourth time was the evening after Toshiko’s necklace, and Ianto just couldn’t focus on the task at hand, no matter how talented he found Jack’s slippery fingers, not when every filthy, crazed, half-formed thought that crossed his mind had him wondering what an eavesdropper might think.
The fifth time had been on its way to bloody fantastic territory, right there on the floor down in the archives with no recollection how they’d got there or gotten their respective trousers down. And then Jack’s mobile rang (How did he even have service this far down?), and the ringtone was the Pussycat Dolls, “I don’t give a --- if you’re looking at my beep!”
They gave it a college try to go on after it rang to voicemail, but then, with Ianto knuckles-deep in his arse, Jack started whistling the tune, and that was the end of Ianto’s patience.
“What, it was stuck in my head!” Jack complained from the floor when Ianto stood abruptly, tugged his fly closed with an annoyed z-zip and stalked off toward the lift.
Which brings them to now, this time: Ianto sitting on the edge of Jack’s desk waiting for. . . something, shirt untucked and sleeves rolled up, tightening and loosening the knot of his tie in a mindless rhythm. When Jack creeps in, unnaturally quiet, Ianto, startled, moves to hop off the desk like a guilty schoolboy. And then Jack puts up a hand, Stop!, as commanding as a traffic warden, and Ianto freezes in place, half-off the desk.
“No,” Jack says, voice deep and strict. “Stay there. Like that.”
Ianto’s face and ears flush up hot, but he does as he’s told and settles back onto the desk again, feeling exposed, scrubbed raw, under the scrutiny of Jack’s dark gaze. The corner of Jack’s mouth twitches ever-so-slightly into a pleased, predatory smile.
“I love you like that,” Jack explains, not yet leaving his place at the doorway. Assessing the scene at a distance, arms crossed: Ianto’s seen him in that position a hundred times, but never quite like this. Not with the lids of his eyes lowered just that fraction. “With your sleeves rolled up,” he elaborates, prompting Ianto to consider his wrists.
“Didn’t know you were into forearms,” Ianto quips.
Jack breathes out through his nose, slow and frustrated. “No,” he says. “You, undone.”
A nervous laugh falls out of Ianto’s mouth, but then dies away just as suddenly when Jack takes that first step into the room, mouth firmed into a hard line. Ianto’s hands tighten into fists. His cock twitches in his trousers. That sense of exposure ramps up fifty notches until he has to break eye contact, staring resolutely down at the detritus cluttering the desk. Oh, when did that coral get here? He can feel Jack’s gaze on him, sizing him up. His teeth catch his lower lip.
“Sometimes I’ll come down to the archives and you’ll have your sleeves rolled up and your tie loosened, and I feel. . . privileged. Like I know all your secrets.” Ianto hears footsteps approaching
“Secrets?” he replies, staring hard at that skeletal bloom of coral, “We both know I don’t have any.” Joking about that? This is awkward.
Jack grabs him by the chin. Jerks it forward so that Ianto’s forced to look at him, at his eyes. Those hooded, pleased, hungry, predatory eyes. Ianto wets his lips, nervous. Jack’s hand moves from Ianto’s chin, up over his jaw, and strokes down his throat to the knot of his tie. He shivers under the sense of ownership tangled up in that touch.
He lifts his chin (defiant? proud? needy?). His breath is shaky in mouth. Jack just watches him closely, stroking his knuckles across the silk of Ianto’s tie. “R-really,” Ianto protests, trying for pithy but just wincing at his own stutter. Undone, yes, that’s the right word for it. Coming apart at the seams. His belly clenches.
“Mm,” Jack hums appraisingly, sliding a finger down into the knot of Ianto’s tie and tugging it free. Ianto feels the slip of the fabric as it gives way, sleek and pliant. Lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Jack’s finger grazes over the depression between his collarbones and dips down to the V of skin exposed by the unfastened first button of Ianto’s shirt, tracing through the patch of hair that grows there. It’s too intimate for Ianto right now, too thoughtful, too damn--
Ianto’s hand shoots out to clutch at the back of Jack’s neck, rubbing the knobs of his vertebra and tugging him down, and the kiss is warm and mean and breathy, Jack’s teeth tugging sharp on his lips and his fists balled up in Ianto’s shirt.
“I’m going to fuck you,” Jack announces against Ianto’s mouth, husky, palming the length of Ianto’s cock through his trousers. Ianto groans in reply, back arching, too far gone now to even contemplate a snarky response. Instead, he nuzzles his nose into Jack’s throat in mimicry of an attention-hungry dog. Presses a wet kiss under Jack’s jaw, bites and sucks a trail down his neck. “I’m going to fuck you right on this desk,” Jack threatens, gasping as he’s bitten, “Just like this. You’re not gonna be able to climb down again, when I’m through with you.”
“Trousers,” Jack commands when Ianto leaves the skin of his neck, “Off.” His mouth bumps into Ianto’s, their noses nudging against one another. Jack’s hand cups Ianto’s bulge, squeezes briefly, frustratingly briefly, and then there’s the pop of a button and Jack’s hand is sliding down into his boxers. There’s the relief of skin-on-skin, the roughness of Jack using his cock.
He hoists himself up on his palms like a gymnast, all his weight balanced on arms and shoulders. Aching but eager to please. Isn’t that just Ianto’s life story. Jack tugs his trousers and boxers down over his thighs in a quick, urgent motion. The cold air, the feel of Jack’s hands on his skin, the sense of submission, being stripped like that. . . His cock throbs and he screws his eyes shut, huffing out an overwhelmed breath. His lower arms wobble.
“Athletic!” Jack murmurs appreciatively, running his hands down Ianto’s hips, down the lengths of his thighs. Ianto collapses down onto the desk again with a clatter, the impact cracking up through his tailbone. A series of pens roll off the edge of the desk one by one.
“Keep the shirt on,” Jack orders when Ianto reaches for his buttons. He puts a foot down on the trousers hanging around Ianto’s ankles and they slip away over Ianto’s shoes. Ianto momentarily suffers the natural embarrassment of a man stripped awkwardly down to just socks, but forgets it all as soon as Jack’s hands are on his knees, circling the roundness of them with experimental playfulness. And then he pries Ianto’s legs open, rough and decisive, and Jack’s hand is fondling his balls, reaching down to stroke dry over Ianto’s hole.
Jack presses down on the centre of Ianto’s chest, forcing him back onto his elbows bent backwards over the desk. The coral in its stand tips sideways and Ianto hears the unmistakable sound of a manila folder sliding precariously back across the desk, followed by the flutter of paper to the floor. Disarray! his mind supplies.
Jack is fumbling with his own fly, now, still with his one hand groping all over Ianto’s cock, no rhyme or reason, no finesse whatsoever, and for some reason that doesn’t bother Ianto one bit. Ianto shifts position, moves a hand to suck on his fingers. His spit-wet hand joins Jack’s dry one, pumping Ianto’s cock, fighting for space.
“Look at you!” Jack crows. “I think you like this, up on my desk like this. Playing my filthy, obedient secretary.” He frees his own cock, flushed and straining. Ianto reaches for it but Jack slaps his hand away. “No,” he says. “I want to watch you wank yourself. Go on.”
So Ianto does exactly as he’s told, furrowing his brow with effort. His hand on his cock moves expertly, familiarly, rough and inconsiderate and efficient. He closes his eyes, tries to stifle a gratuitous moan. He can hear a condom wrapper tearing, and then Jack’s perfunctory lubed fingers are prodding at him until he grits out, “Oh, get on with it!” He’s so close, right on the edge, and every sensation flares up sharp and frustrating and almost intolerably good!
“Get on with what, Ianto?” Jack replies, enunciating the sharp ‘T’ and teasing with his fingers in slippery, wriggly little crooks and swirls until Ianto bucks his hips.
“Fucking me!” Ianto snaps, over the sound of palm and cock.
“Open your eyes and say that again,” Jack says. He sounds positively dangerous. His fingers slip away, leaving Ianto feeling empty and spent and cold. Are replaced by the nudge of the head of Jack’s cock, pressing but not with enough force to—
Ianto opens his eyes, wide. Stares straight into Jack’s. “Fuck me, Jack,” he says with artificial calmness. Not begging.
Jack smiles, all teeth. Grabs Ianto by the hips. Pushes.
It’s not tentative or kind at all; Ianto’s stretched and filled and invaded and ground down into the desk, shockwaves running up his bones. One more slip of his hand and his cock pulses and there’s come streaking up Jack’s blue shirt, speckling it like a bird’s egg. He pants heavily, exhausted and boneless, upper arms wobbling as he leans back on them.
Jack doesn’t laugh, but does shake his head a little, (Oh, you!). His cock withdraws, slides back in again, slow not to be considerate, no, but taunting. Ianto’s legs rise, hooking around Jack’s back. Jack’s pace turns punishing, then, rough and rude and erratic, no attempt at controlling himself whatsoever. Undone, Ianto thinks, again, briefly before he gives himself over to the sensation of Jack’s grabbing hands, Jack’s big condom-slick cock, Jack’s panting breath as he leans in to mouth the defiantly stiff collar of Ianto’s shirt.
He’s jarred against the desk, and every time it’s more painful than the last. Jack’s hands roam over the fabric of his shirt, then under, thumbs hot on his tensing belly. “I love fucking you,” he babbles, “I love being balls-deep in you. I love when you’re on your back and I can look at your mouth when I fuck you and your lips are all bruised red from biting – biting them. You’re so fucking coy. I love—”
I love, I love, I love. Undone. Ianto feels Jack’s cock throbbing inside him, hears his groan, muffled by the fabric of Ianto’s shirt, as he comes. Out of the moment, Ianto realizes his arse must be bruised three ways to Sunday from the desk, now. He feels tender all over, letting out a gasp of relief when Jack’s cock slips out. Jack’s arms wrap around him, enfolding him. Chest-to-chest, Ianto can feel his body trembling out aftershocks.
And then, as they’re holding each other, smiling and exhausted, Jack’s pocket sings, “Cause it don’t mean a thing if you’re looking at my beep!”
Ianto jerks out of Jack’s grip, glowering and panting and hot-faced as Jack retrieves the phone and flips it open at one ear, no sign of fumbling or sheepishness.
“Not at all, Gwen,” he says into the phone with a breathless little laugh, not the least bit sorry. He doesn’t even seem to notice the daggers Ianto’s shooting him. Or rather, he does, but just disarms them with a cheeky wink. “Just been bent over my desk all night, anyway.”