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It's the fourth night, and everything about him hurts, from the balls of his feet to his hair. They're all in a bad mood from the war that played out in miniature along the Cardiff streets, two races locked in a combat no one cares about, certainly not Torchwood. Now the combatants are dead or incarcerated, the surviving human bystanders have been Retconned and the deceased have had their deaths covered up and their bodies dumped all around the city in a series of staged gruesome accidents.
No wonder he's tired.
Jack's awake and surprisingly upbeat for the number of casualties, but there are days Ianto thinks Jack takes anything less than the full-out destruction of the human race as a win. Maybe Jack's just glad he doesn't have to shelve another teammate so soon after Suzie's less than triumphant return. Maybe Ianto's thinking about this too hard.
Ianto manages a polite cough at the doorway. "Sir, I was just finishing up. Anything you need?" He lets his tone drift, knowing it's too late to call back the words, and Jack will always jump on any possible innuendo regardless.
"I'm sure I could think of a few things." Jump.
The fourth night, and they've fallen into a pattern already. This is where Ianto should comment about tending to Jack's needs, but the words stick, and anyway, he's beat. "When you do let me know. Otherwise, I'll be off."
He actually gets a foot onto the stairs because the words drifts out of Jack's office behind him: "Ianto." And for all that Jack teases him about his accent, the sound of Jack's own foreign vowels somehow bypasses his ears and hits him directly in the groin. Unfair. Completely unfair.
"Yes, sir?" He turns, affixing a placid smile on his face. This, too, is part of the pattern, except when it isn't.
"Any plans for tonight?"
He ticks off on his fingers. "Hot shower, mindless television, perhaps some porn, have a wank, get too little sleep, back in the morning."
That pulls a laugh from Jack, and Ianto smiles inwardly. "Busy night."
"I try to stay active."
"You could stay here."
He doesn't mean for his breath to catch, but it does. Sometimes there's the game, and sometimes there is just Jack's directness, simple and fierce. This is just sex, and Ianto feels like he is drowning, like Jack is consuming him. He can't imagine how deep he'd be in if this were something more.
He nods, not trusting his voice under the waves.
Down the ladder, he's in another world. Above, he's no one, a ghost in the corner, the loyal (but for once) servant, provider of meals and services. He worked there two weeks before Suzie and Owen bothered to say his name, and Tosh didn't pronounce it right for a month despite her attempts. Since Lisa, he's been keeping less to the shadows and still they barely see him, even Gwen, who prides herself on her compassion; even Jack, who ought to know better. Below, though, in the darkness of Jack's small room, Ianto is the sole focus of Jack's attention. Deft hands unbutton the extra layers he's adopted just for the sake of giving Jack another challenge. Without the requirements of Above, he's alive down here in ways he can't be elsewhere, teeth reaching for any bare flesh he can find, fingers clawed along Jack's willing sides.
He's hungry, feels it in a way he's ignored for weeks, and satisfies himself with sucking on the salt at Jack's throat, earning a needy whine for the effort that he can feel vibrate under his tongue.
Jack's clever hands are everywhere, running through every inch of hair on his body, up his legs and over his head, rushing down his chest and tangling big fingers in the curls at the base of his cock. They don't kiss, there's no room for kissing in this unspecified thing they have, but Jack finds his earlobe, and he's licking and blowing and sucking on it somehow that feels almost as good as his mouth covering Ianto's prick.
Jack doesn't have to say the words, his cock is hard against Ianto's belly, but he breathes, "I want you," into Ianto's ear, and instead of responding, Ianto licks his hand and starts pumping Jack's cock.
"That's good," says Jack, gasping and thrusting his hips. His own hand reaches blindly for Ianto's cock, grabbing and rubbing a thumb to smear the wetness he finds around the foreskin and over the slit. Ianto relaxes into it, not speeding towards a climax. The first thing Jack taught him: this is not a race.
Jack pulls away suddenly, leaving Ianto with the feeling of phantom fingers stroking him still in the sense-memory. Strong hands are rolling him over onto his stomach, and he clenches.
"Wait."
Part of him never believes Jack will stop when Ianto says the word, believes this will end with a struggle he isn't strong enough or trained well enough to win. Believes that if he tries to call a halt, Jack will force his legs open and take his own pleasure anyway. They have no trust between them, not yet, and so he tenses for a fight logic tells him won't come while instinct whispers otherwise.
Jack stops.
Jack always stops.
"What is it?"
"I can't. That. Tonight."
Jack lets out a breath. "If you can do the action, you can say the words."
The dark covers his blush. It probably doesn't make sense to be more ashamed of speaking things out loud. He thinks briefly about the phrase "The love that dares not speak its name," and considers, not for the first time, that acute embarrassment might have been the culprit all along.
"I don't want your cock in my arse tonight. I'm sore."
"There. Was that so hard?"
Ianto glares, but it does nothing in the gloom. "I hate you."
"What every man wants to hear in bed," says Jack. "C'mon, I've got something else in mind that's fun."
He coaxes Ianto onto his side, spooning him. Ianto's heart is still racing, but Jack's hands are calming, and his lips are pressed to a hard place on the back of Ianto's neck that unspools under the tender nips and licks. A contented moan escapes Ianto's throat, and Jack's hands come up to press against it, not hard, not choking, but firm. The hands creep up, and fingers slide into his mouth. Ianto sucks on each one, laving them from the short fingernails down to the delicate webbing at the very base.
"Like this," says Jack, and then his hands are between Ianto's thighs, moving one leg up enough to slide a spit-slicked cock through the space between, creating a delightful friction along Ianto's perineum and against his balls. The sensitive flesh of his inner thighs clasps hard, and it's a completely different kind of fullness than when they're fucking.
They set up a smooth rhythm, slower than their usual, and Ianto shuts his eyes hard against the new sensations. Jack's body is warm against his back, and his mouth has gone back to Ianto's ear, where it alternates between gentle bites and filthy whispers.
"Oh," Jack breathes, his body hitching. "You've got to feel this later. So slick and firm." He starts pushing faster. "Touch yourself. Do it now."
Ianto doesn't even think before obeying, grabbing his own cock and stroking himself the way he likes. Jack's not supposed to give orders here, not really, but the boundaries are fluid tonight, as Jack's cock presses pleasure out of places Ianto didn't know could feel this good. He speeds up his own hand, feeling Jack's orgasm near in the jerks behind him.
"Don't come," Jack says, and it's the last thing he gets out before he spurts hotly between Ianto's thighs with a cry. The semen slicks him further, and Jack jerks his trembling cock thrice more before stilling in a final shudder.
Ianto's close, hand gone rigid on his own cock. He can ignore the order, or request, or whatever the hell they'll pretend it was later, but he doesn't want to, so he obeys.
Jack slides, wetly, from behind him and pushes his shoulder so Ianto is on his back. He can make out Jack's eyes in the darkness now, dilated and mischievous, and then Jack places his lips just around the head of Ianto's cock and begins to suck.
It only takes a few more strokes before Ianto is coming and coming, and Jack sucks and swallows and licks him clean. Then he nuzzles in and licks away his own come from between Ianto's legs, and Ianto can't tell if it's weirdly intimate or just weird, the tickling around his balls and through his pubes, and the one last lick of his softening cock.
"You should taste this," Jack says, settling behind him again, mouth hot on his shoulder.
Ianto makes a noise that isn't a 'no' but isn't a 'yes' either; he's not used to the flavour yet, still spits it out when Jack comes in his mouth instead of on his face. Jack seems to understand, and isn't pushing, instead wraps his arms tightly around Ianto's chest.
Jack says, "When we're both not half-dead from exhaustion, I want to show you how to do that with the backs of your knees." With a quick squeeze, he brings one hand down, tickles the soft skin behind Ianto's left knee, which makes him jump.
"If I end up accidentally kicking you in the balls, you have no one to blame but yourself."
"Hazards of the trade. You know, I could make you come just by fucking your knees, or your underarms."
Ianto wants to call Jack on such a bullshit claim, but part of him thinks it's possible, and most of him is just sleepy. He should leave, now, before he drifts off, but the arms are around him again. As if reading his mind, Jack says, "Stay." It's not quite an order, which makes it easier to convince himself that acquiescence isn't obedience.
"I'll stay." This is just sex, not a relationship, not anything else, and it doesn't mean anything that he stays, that Jack wants him to stay. He can go home tomorrow night, and in the meantime, they can try out that knee thing.
As lies to himself go, this one isn't bad, and it chases him into his dreams.