|the pocket otter (pocketotter) wrote in torchwood_fic,|
@ 2009-04-25 12:43:00
|Current music:||3 Doors Down - Kryptonite|
|Entry tags:||author:pocketotter, length:one-shot, pairing:jack/ianto, rating:nc-17|
Fic: Take Back the Night
Title: Take Back the Night
Rating: NC-17, kink
Summary: Ianto has a unique way of dealing with any unresolved issues post-Cyberwoman. Set late season one.
Notes: I think I overuse hyphen-words.
"Tell me," Jack says, all stretched out on Ianto's double bed, naked and post-coital and lazy with it.
Ianto laughs softly and looks away, a nervous laugh. "I haven't really thought about it."
"Yes you have." It's almost cajoling, that note in his voice. "What is it? Middle of the day, the invisible lift? Sensory deprivation? Bloodplay?" A little part of him is almost trying to shock Ianto, just a little, because it's fun to count how long between his eyes widening at a new concept and his pupils dilating as he really thinks about it.
He doesn't get the hit this time, though. Instead Ianto stares at the ceiling for several stretched-out moments before turning to look at him, steadily. "The gun," he murmurs.
Jack blinks. "What?"
Pink tongue darts out to wet suddenly-dry lips. Ianto is definitely nervous, but he doesn't let that stop him. He never has, which is one of the things Jack admires about him. "I want to suck your gun."
This is the first time, Jack thinks, that Ianto has done the shocking.
It's not, to be fair, the first time he's come across the eroticisation of weaponry. Certainly five years with John Hart was enough to be a crash course in the concept. But such a request from Ianto Jones, who looks impeccable more than pretentious in a three-piece suit complete with old-fashioned stopwatch and has mastered the art of rendering himself nearly invisible so that Jack will find himself looking up to a steaming mug of coffee with no real idea when or how it came to be there, is so completely unexpected that his mind actually reels for a moment.
And it has not been so long that it doesn't neglect to stutter over the last time Jack held a gun on the Welshman, either. Ianto, he realises, might be a lot more warped than he'd given him credit for.
His eyes are drawn to the chair across the room where his greatcoat is draped, gun-holster resting on top of it, and he debates for a moment before his curiosity gets the better of him and he slides off the bed. Stalking over to get it, he doesn't see Ianto's reaction, but he does hear the catch in his breath, and when he turns around his lover is watching him intently. "Get on your knees," he says, not sure exactly what it is that Ianto wants out of this but oh-so-willing to try to figure it out.
That seems to be right, though, as Ianto crawls slowly off the mattress, sinking to the floor, hands behind his head in a way that is too-familiar and makes Jack's stomach clench slightly in a vaguely unpleasant fashion. But Ianto is half-hard, eyes on the gun in Jack's hand, tongue running across his lips again, and he is fairly sure that this time it's not from nerves.
He takes two steps forward and braces his grip on the Webley with his other hand, holding it out in front of him with the muzzle angled downwards and Ianto's eyes flick up to his for just one moment before he leans forward enough to capture the end of the gun in his mouth. He hooks the sight in behind his teeth and wraps his lips around the barrel and Jack stares as his eyes flutter closed and he lets out a small noise.
A far too lucid thought pops into his head that Ianto will overbalance with his hands behind his head like that, and he shifts closer. More of the muzzle slides into Ianto's mouth and his eyes open again and lock onto Jack's gaze and-- "Fuck," he moans. This shouldn't be hot. This should be uncomfortable at the least and horrifyingly morbid at the worst, but god knows Jack has developed a somewhat fucked up attitude towards death over the last hundred and twenty years or so and Ianto, well, he supposes he's had enough near-death experiences these last months that this is fine with him.
More than fine.
Quite, quite fine.
The muzzle is only six inches long and not much around and either one of them could have taken it in a single mouthful but Ianto draws it in slowly, sliiiding up it towards Jack's unsteady hands. It seems to be almost a religious experience for him. Standing naked with his cock aching isn't exactly Jack's favourite time to think, but as he watches it occurs to him in a singularly crystalline moment that this might be Ianto's rather twisted way of taking back what had happened between them in August. It is probably not psychiatrist recommended, but it's almost crazy enough to make sense, the way that anger and lust have been tangling around each other off and on every time they touch now. Ianto's just... giving lust a fighting chance.
There is a quiet moment of resistance as the gun hits the back of Ianto's throat and he makes a noise that goes right to Jack's groin. His eyes close again in a picture of almost orgasmic bliss and Jack knows that this image will be seared into his brain for a long time to come: soft lips wrapped around the barrel of his gun, beautiful man in complete surrender, trusting him to have left the safety on and to not let his fingers stray near the trigger, sucking visibly as though it were an honest-to-god cock in his mouth, pre-cum he was tasting instead of gunpowder.
Jack groans, pulls the gun away, and Ianto almost does topple at the sudden change in focus. But Jack catches him by the forearm and an instant later Ianto's hands are at his hips and he's sinking his mouth over his dick with a whimper of need, tongue working, sucking with little finesse but a lot of enthusiasm, and Jack tilts his head back and arches his back and squeezes his eyes closed and curses in three different languages.
"Yes, Ianto, yes, god," he chants, and Ianto attempts to take even more of him down his throat as though he won't be happy until he's dipping it in digestive fluids and everything is wet and heat and tightness and needy noises and vibrations and he comes hard somewhere past Ianto's tonsils.
Ianto does have the remnants of a gag reflex, unfortunately, which kicks in about now, and the mood is sort of spoiled by the coughing and hacking.
Which is the glow taken off his orgasm, but Ianto is still looking to be painfully hard. (Maybe a little too painful, he thinks ruefully, patting him on the shoulder as he wipes his mouth with the back of a hand.) "On the bed," he orders, though the bad-boss-from-hell replay seems to be over already. This is just good old harassment-is-just-right-before-breakfas