V (count_to_seven) wrote in dessertmenu,
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Fic: Or Coleslaw, in a Pinch

Title: Or Coleslaw, in a Pinch
Authors: heddychaa & count_to_seven
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
Genre: PWP
Wordcount: ~3100
Warnings/Contains: Oral sex, comeplay, dirty talk, masturbation
Disclaimer: Torchwood's characters, concepts, and events belong to their respective owners, including but not limited to Russell T Davies and the BBC.
Summary: Ianto has been studying and he wants to force the time of his exam.
A/N: Pre-Cyberwoman. The authors gratefully acknowledge azn_jack_fiend for her critical eye and the_cazualty for his suggestions on technique.


Or Coleslaw, in a Pinch


He hadn’t asked, but he’d hinted, like a cat in heat arching its back in the direction of the closest alley. As he gathered up the trash from dinner he assumed that, in his typically unsubtle style, Jack had seized the message. The scuttling movements of the team made them seem like beetles heading for the clearest exit, punctuated by Owen’s cut off “For fu-” and the rolling groan of the cogwheel.

He kept pressing paper, plastic, and questionably soggy meat into a bin bag even as he heard the heavy footfalls that brought a flush to his cheeks. He wanted to sit down and wiggle a bit, readjust his pants, but he never thought it appropriate to join in when he was serving. As Jack came up behind him he tried to mask the flutter in his movements and let the man take over. This wasn’t a scenario he had rehearsed properly. Wasn’t really a scenario he could rehearse, really.

The heat against his back would have been nothing, could have been, except that he felt every hair rising along his thighs and he knew that Jack knew it. His stomach lurched with the kind of sick nervousness he’d kept at bay since he’d had no choice but to be brave. He wanted to be brave now and -- oh. That was Jack’s hand on his lower back, that was his hips lifting, that was...

The noise he heard was inhuman and certainly not his own. But somehow he found himself shifting, and the bag had dropped to his feet, he was being turned and a finger was pressed against his mouth.

It had been him making that noise, then.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm,” Jack comforted him, and that big finger pushed against Ianto’s lips, tugged the lower one down to expose the wet inside of it. Ianto couldn’t bear to make eye contact with him, so he looked at his hand, realized he was leaning against the boardroom table, clutching the edge of it in his palm. Jack’s finger swept back and forth, following the line of his lip, and Ianto thought-- wondered-- was he supposed to...?

Looking to Jack for approval, a hint, an order, anything, all he got in Jack’s eyes was a look of coy anticipation, awaiting Ianto’s next move. Ianto opened his mouth, felt Jack’s fingertip dragging over the tops of his teeth.

He prayed that he’d followed the hint and -- oh god, he’d thought about it, but he’d never done it, and -- oh, that finger felt so warm against his tongue. This was what he was meant to do, wasn’t it? The salt of Jack’s skin. The slide of his nail. He darted his tongue continually, experimentally, and watched Jack’s eyes for an answer.

He didn’t have to look for it in Jack’s eyes. “Yeah, see, I’m just the kinda guy who -- mfngh -- prefers for you to show, not tell.”

Ianto couldn’t help it: half his mouth twitched in a nervous smile, and that seemed enough encouragement for Jack, who grinned wolfishly back and thrust his finger in deeper, no longer waiting for Ianto to hesitantly follow his lead. His thumb dug in the soft flesh of Ianto’s cheek, finger arcing up and over Ianto’s tongue to tickle at the edge of his gag reflex and Ianto could only whimper in agreement, shuffling closer while still keeping his steadying hold of the table’s edge.

“Have I ever told you that you have absolutely gorgeous lips?” Jack asked (Ianto assumed rhetorically, what with his mouth preoccupied and all). He tried to make the No sir, tell me more sir show through in the flicker of his eyelashes, but Jack didn’t seem to be in the mood for subtleties. “Although... smart kid like you must know where they belong-- I’m thinking wrapped around my dick.”

Wow, Ianto thought, some detached part of him wanting to laugh, he really went there. Well. Except somehow Jack’s tone of voice, the eye contact, the heat of his body, maybe even the words themselves -- without knowing it, he’d closed his lips around Jack’s finger, was sucking on it slow and rhythmic, Jack’s knuckle rocking against the front of Ianto’s teeth.

“Well I said dick,” Jack joked, but Ianto could hear the subtle crack in his voice, hidden under the tone of false disapproval, “But that’s nice too, oh that is.”

Ianto knew he was blushing, but it was rather too late to turn back now. So he forced himself to look Jack right in the eye and push his lips out, forward, trying to touch as much of Jack’s skin with them as possible, draw Jack’s attention to them. They felt swollen. Jack’s free hand flew forward, palm and fingers caging Ianto’s cock through the front of his trousers.

Nice,” Jack finished, breathlessly, drowning out the sound of Ianto’s smothered whimper. Jack’s hand felt so good, so heavy, so god he hadn’t felt this in so fucking long it had been so fucking long.

Jack’s finger tugged free of his mouth, Ianto lurching needily after it and nearly losing his balance. “Get on your knees,” Jack growled, and the urgency in his voice had Ianto dropping like he’d had his legs kicked out from under him.

As his knees hit the floor, Ianto’s thoughts flew briefly towards the care of his trousers, then to Jack’s not-quite-sneer, then out the room and back wondering just how he’d be able to hide this from the rest of the team when he could tell his lips were already visibly damningly swollen (tingling, red) just from sucking Jack’s finger. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to worry about anything beyond the way his hands shook as he reached greedily for the zip of Jack’s fly.

“Yeah, I like that angle, just wish I coulda got you down there sooner,” Jack said, and Ianto gulped, flicking his eyes up and catching sight of nothing but the flash of Jack’s teeth.

“Are you going to be running your mouth this whole time?” he mumbled, before he’d realized he was even saying it. “Sir?” he added as an afterthought, some attempt at damage control. He tried to make his expression playful rather than scared as he sat back on the shiny heels of his shoes, toes bent flat to the floor. He ran his hands up and down over Jack’s thighs and pelvis, slow, teasing, just leaving his open fly and flash of pants to catch the breeze.

“And if I do? Don’t think you’re going to be in the position to complain, are you?”

There was a threat there that went far past the obvious mouth-full innuendo, to some place that made Ianto’s stomach curdle. Because he wasn’t in the position to complain, to ask anything of Jack. Down here Jack was god, judge jury and executioner. It wasn’t a comforting thought, especially not for Ianto. Once upon a time, maybe you could complain to Yvonne, go over his head, but there was none of that anymore, and Ianto sensed Jack knew it.

He anxiously licked the corner of his mouth, hearing Jack’s responding hiss, and waited for a clever retort to arrive. Well, that would be good enough. Still running his hands over the front of Jack’s trousers, he turned his face up, turned his eyes up, and wet his lips with a deliberate sweep. Either thumb brushed along the line of Jack’s pinned cock, drawing out another strangled groan. He smiled to himself: down here Jack may be god, but that just meant Ianto was the tiny mortal who could bring that god to his knees.

Okay, that was cheesy.

But accurate, he thought as he leaned forward, nuzzling his nose and cheek against Jack’s bulge and breathing hot against the fabric, feeling Jack’s hands fly to his head and get tangled in his hair. “Not so talkative now,” he murmured, smug. The hot ridge of Jack’s erection pressing against his face was exquisite. His breath huffed out through his nose as he breathed, intoxicated, and tugged at the scratchy fabric.

“I am...” Jack gasped, almost pained-sounding, “going to strangle you with your own tie if you don’t get my dick out and start sucking it five minutes ago.” Ianto smiled against the wool and, after one last graceless shove of his mouth, pulled back. Jack’s grip kept him close enough to realize that he’d gone practically cross-eyed with the force of his desire, but if he didn’t at least make a a show of resistance, he wouldn’t respect himself in the morning.

Not that he considered that a possibility.

Especially not as he caved against his own lack of propriety and fumbled for the prize he’d been
craving, resisting, and finally winning with hands and a mouth that betrayed his inexperience. Jack’s cock in his hand was hot to the touch and thick, filling his fist easily, pulse throbbing against his palm.

Jack grunted as the zipper grazed him and Ianto murmured his apologies distractedly, too caught up, just then, in the size of this (he could practically feel his brain taking a calming breath)... undertaking. He stroked the warm flesh appreciatively and, enjoying Jack’s quickened breathing, he leaned back on his heels to give himself some space, some room to think. Okay, lust (and a very healthy fantasy life) had gotten him this far so... now what? He’d kind of been hoping Jack would just continue playing the role of demanding boss, but no orders seemed to be forthcoming, and maybe he shouldn’t have sniped about how talkative Jack was. The hand on his head petted his hair impatiently. Too late for that now.

His reverential stroking of Jack’s -- what did you politely call another man’s penis? Ianto could call it all sorts of things that he had not quite come to grips with, except now that he had come to grips, it was... oh, fuck it, this was fantasy come to life and suddenly he was moving, darting forward with the sort of bravery he didn’t know he possessed. Not in regards to cocksucking, anyway. Tentatively, one could even say nervously, he slid back Jack’s foreskin to expose the flushed red of his cockhead and with a gasp he took the plunge, and Jack was groaning, “Yeeeeah. Best hire ever.”

In one harried movement he’d covered just the head of Jack’s cock with his mouth, maybe too scared to go farther just yet, wrapped his lips around it, swallowed down the urge to gag, minded his teeth; began, a little bit more enthusiastically than he expected, to suck. Jack’s hands on the back of his head twisted in his hair, tightened then loosened their grips, smoothed down the shape of Ianto’s skull and then brushed the wrong way up through his hair. He steadied himself with a hand on either of Jack’s thighs, determined to go at that spare inch and a half of cock with all he had.

“C’mon,” Jack urged him meaninglessly, and Ianto felt the scrape of nails up his scalp. Jack’s hips twitched minutely and Ianto pulled back, bringing a shiny line of drool with him, and stretched his tongue out to sloppily circle the shiny wet head of Jack’s cock. It was messy and clumsy, not his style at all, but Jack’s panting seemed to suggest he liked it like that, so Ianto kept on, ignoring the wet smear of spit covering his lips. Narrowing his tongue to a point, he lapped and worried at the slit, barely able to keep from echoing Jack’s moans above him. He kept getting splashes of Jack’s precome across his tongue, a saltbitter overlay to the inoffensive taste of skin.

Jack’s hands didn’t let go of his head. Seemed, in a series of aborted motions, to be trying to force Ianto’s face forward again: to nuzzle his cock with his cheek? To deep throat him? Ianto wasn’t sure. In a fit of uncharacteristic decisiveness, he spat into his palm, wrapped his hand around the base of Jack’s cock, and pumped it in a slow, twisting motion, the kind he used on himself when he wanted to draw things out. Torture himself. Pleased at the slight buckling of Jack’s knees, he sank his mouth down the shaft of his cock again, swallowing through the gag reflex, trying to take more, deeper, more.

As Jack’s fingers continued to guide him mercilessly forward, Ianto acquiesced with a tug on the wool of Jack’s trousers, enough to give him purchase to stay upright. He had researched, consulted the internet, and what was happening seemed fairly in line with his expectations. He just hadn’t expected it to be so messy. Or, oh god, to wish he had a third hand to take care of himself. No wonder Jack seemed to prefer aliens. His cock felt pinned, trapped, almost claustrophobic, pressed oddly to one side at an angle, the biting line of the zipper cutting across it. He thought about reaching down, just for a second, just long enough to free himself, but realized if he let Jack go he’d end up fucked into the edge of the table. Instead, he lifted his hips, trying pathetically to hump into his own zipper, imagining the restrictive tightness of his trousers to be a particularly punishing hand.

Then suddenly there was the moment of thrilling realization that he was here, he was doing it, and it was just that intense and he was so damn giddy that he would have laughed except his mouth was full. Full. He choked slightly, saliva dribbling gracelessly from his chin. He made a garbled cough around his mouthful to recover and felt Jack’s hand painfully tug back on his hair as he began to shout.

Maybe he should send out a memo. Yes, for all wondering, Jack Harkness comes loudly.

Yanking Ianto’s head back, Jack simultaneously tugged his cock free, coming across Ianto’s mouth and lips and chin while he spluttered, bewildered, trying to figure out what was happening even as it was happening. Halfway through, he somehow managed to belatedly open his mouth, catch two or three warm spurts on his tongue while the rest dripped slow as honey down his cheek and chin. He blinked his eyes rapidly, felt it sticky on the eyelashes of his left eye. He didn’t want to know how Jack got it up there.

He reached down and finally, gracelessly, rubbed the butt of his palm roughly over his own erection, moaning softly as he swallowed.

“You greedy slut,” Jack praised, wiping his cock off on Ianto’s clean(er) cheek. “How’d that taste?”

“Better than mine, sir,” Ianto admitted, blushing furiously when he realized what he’d said.

“Is that so?” Jack enquired, brushing Ianto’s fringe back and watching appreciatively as Ianto continued to rut against his own open palm. It almost hurt, it was so fucking good, so much sensation he could barely comprehend it. Jack was breathing through his mouth, not quite panting anymore, but he seemed exceptionally pleased.

“I uh... I tried it. Last week. When I... decided to do this. Had to be prepared.”

“Of course,” Jack agreed, like eating one’s own semen was the most normal thing in the world. For Jack it probably was. “You should try eating more vegetables.”

“Pineapples,” Ianto gasped, recalling his internet research. He could feel sweat popping on his forehead. His balls felt tight, tense, like a closing fist.

“Those too. So what, did you just wank into your own hand and lick it all up?”

“Pretty much.”

“Mm, I’d like to see that sometime. Think I could get a repeat performance?”

Ianto’s chin dropped to his chest. He realized he was probably getting gobs of Jack’s load all over his shirt and tie. “I think... I think... that could be arranged.” He was thinking of himself, dishevelled, red-faced, covered in Jack’s come, Jack’s come on his suit, Jack’s come still bitter on his tongue. “Oh god, Jack!”

He held onto the taste as he felt himself spilling into his pants, bucking uncontrollably with a yelping cry like a teenage boy, wishing to hide his shame, too engrossed in the feeling to care beyond yes yes yes. He felt the warm stickiness of his come soaking into the cotton of his pants, smearing over his cock and balls, up into his pubic hair. He was a mess, he was a mess, Jack was watching, he was a fucking mess. And somehow it was better than every fantasy he’d concocted while laying awake all these nights, picturing Jack’s face when he knew his loyalty was meant to lie elsewhere.

And then Jack lowered himself to one knee, cupped Ianto’s shoulders, kissed a splotch of his own come from the corner of Ianto’s mouth. “You,” he said, and for once seemed to be at a loss for words. He pulled back, studying Ianto at arm’s length. “I’m still not sure about you.”

Ianto winced, couldn’t even bring himself to make eye contact.

Jack just took him gently by the chin and turned his face straight again. Weirdly tender for a man who’d just come all over his face, and continued,“Something tells me, though, I’m gonna have a blast figuring it all out.”

Ianto’s tongue dashed out, catching a creeping drop of come that had gone in the last few minutes from the tip of his nose to the cupid’s bow of his lip. “Something tells me you’ve already had a blast,” he retorted.
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