Fandom/Pairing: Torchwood; Jack/Ianto
Warnings/Spoilers: no spoilers, a bit of sex (but not-too-graphic)
Genre: fluff that turned kind of porny in the end :P
Word Count: ~2,580
Summary: Ianto's under the weather, and Jack comes up with a few ways to make him feel better.
Notes: I started off with the schmoop_bingo prompt hot cocoa, but then got a little carried away? It's still pretty schmoopy though. ;)
(crossposted to jackxianto, torch_wood)
be of love (a little) more careful than of everything – e.e. cummings
Ianto frowns at the open filing cabinet in front of him, sniffling a little.
He doesn't feel horrible, just a bit of a headache, and a stuffed up nose--nothing to write home about, really.
He's spent the morning down in the archives anyway though, buried up to his neck in dusty files, despite having plenty of other probably-more-pressing work to do upstairs, hoping that this cold bug he’d been fighting since yesterday might just work itself out if he kept a low enough profile.
But being on his feet all morning has thoroughly tapped him of whatever energy he started out the day with, he realizes, sighing at the towering pile of completely disorganized field reports on the cabinet in front of him.
Maybe he’ll see if Jack is up for an early lunch—the deli around the corner has had some pretty decent soup lately…
And then Ianto starts in surprise at a familiar set of boots on the stairs.
"Hey," Ianto says in greeting as Jack comes into view around the corner.
Jack smiles as he enters, setting a steaming mug filled with…something, Ianto can’t really tell, down on top of the nearest filing cabinet.
"Hey you," he says fondly, snaking his arms around Ianto's waist, and pulling him close. He places a quick kiss to Ianto's lips, soft and warm, before he releases his grip.
"So I heard you were under the weather,” Jack starts, reaching for the mug he’d brought down with him. “But maybe this will make you feel better?"
He holds the mug out between them, smiling like he knows something Ianto doesn't.
Ianto’s eyes shift curiously from Jack’s face to the mug of very-fancy-looking hot cocoa in his hands, and then back to Jack. Jack, who’s clearly in a very good--slightly affectionate, even-- mood.
Ianto’s thinks he’s feeling better already.
He smiles at Jack, a genuine smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle up at the sides—the one that in his head he thinks he reserves just for this man standing in front of him, and no one else.
"Aren't you supposed to bring me tea when I'm sick?" he teases, eyeing the mug which has somehow ended up in his hands.
Jack just grins. "I thought you'd appreciate something sweet."
"Hmm," Ianto says, watching Jack—the attention makes his heart speed up, just a little.
"I added marshmallows." Jack gestures to the mug. "And those little chocolate flakes."
"I can see that," Ianto says, raising his eyebrows.
It's silly, but a tiny, fuzzy little pocket of warmth is creeping up into his chest as he pictures Jack upstairs in the kitchen, fiddling with the hot water pot, pulling out the tin of cocoa...
"Oh come on, just try it," Jack says, suddenly impatient.
Ianto smirks a little, shaking his head. Then he gives gives in and takes a sip as Jack watches attentively.
The liquid is warm and leaves a curious tingle on Ianto's tongue, a slight burn against his throat. His sinuses open up a little too, in its wake.
"There's alcohol in this, Jack," Ianto observes with a smile, and Jack just smiles back, looking even more pleased with himself than usual.
Ianto takes another long sip, and then another, warm liquid soothing his throat, and settling in his stomach, collecting happily there. It burns a little more than it should on the way down, but in a good way—he can feel his mood mellowing pleasantly, filling him with the kind of calm contentment that tends to be in understandably short supply around this place these days, what with the rift, and Jack disappearing whenever he bloody feels like it, and…
Ianto glances at Jack, who’s poking at a pile of files in front of him absently--bright blue shirt, dark braces pressed against his broad chest, all bone and sinew, those strong muscles flexing... Jack is so distracting, like this, Ianto thinks. The fact that he absolutely knows it doesn’t make it any less true.
"So," Jack asks quietly, suddenly close, as if he’s read Ianto’s mind. "I know there are probably better ways of winning you over, but..."
They’re so close they’re swapping breath in the tiny space between them, and Ianto thinks whatever Jack is about to ask, the answer is most definitely yes, but he quirks his face up expectantly anyway.
"How'd I do?" Jack asks softly.
Ianto lets out a breath, trying as hard as he can not to encourage Jack, but knowing that he’s already failing miserably.
"Really, Jack?" he says, trying his hand at sarcasm, but in the end, he knows that this kind of stuff works on him every. single. time.
"Did it work?" Jack says, brushing their noses together, and then pressing his lips against the bare skin of Ianto's neck.
"Did I win you over?" Jack asks again, this time against his earlobe, his breath heated and measured—Ianto can feel goose bumps rising up all the way down his arms.
"Of course you did," Ianto says finally, voice thick, brain going a little fuzzy with desire, his pulse throbbing in his ears--not entirely because of his cold, which he’s nearly completely forgotten about by now--but because being with Jack just does these things to him, like his body is tuned into some wavelength that reacts when Jack comes in close proximity. Pheromones, Jack would tell him, but Ianto hasn’t quite figured out how that’s possible. Still…
"That's probably the understatement of the year," he adds, sucking in a breath when Jack shifts a little closer, their thighs grazing each other, hips a hair away from touching.
"That's what I like to hear," Jack whispers, his fingers snaking up and over Ianto's chest, coming to rest on his neck, and before Ianto has a chance to say anything else, Jack is kissing him, and Ianto feels the tension drain out of his body like sand through a sieve, as Jack parts his lips easily.
His limbs feel loose, his skin warm, his body light—as it turns out, kissing Jack is as intoxicating as always, spiked drink or not.
Ianto barely notices the thunk of his back against the nearest file cabinet. Several loose papers flutter to the floor. He's oblivious. He swirls his tongue around in Jack's mouth tasting chocolate, and a tiny hint of whatever alcohol Jack had slipped into his drink--spiced rum, maybe? Of course he'd have tried it himself before coming down here. He threads his fingers through Jack's hair, delighting just a little at messing with that perfection, his thumbs brushing against Jack's cheeks as he deepens the kiss, feeling Jack moan somewhere deep in his throat. It sets his nerve endings on fire.
“You’ve sure got a lot of energy,” Jack says with a chuckle. “And here I thought you were sick.”
“Hmm…” Ianto offers, eloquently.
“I guess all those websites were right…”
Ianto stops, blinks. “Websites?”
“Rum,” Jack says, leaning in towards Ianto, close proximity and body heat (and yeah, pheromones, Ianto concedes) sending his brain right where he figures Jack wants him.
“Ah, right,” Ianto says, arm wrapping possessively around Jack’s waist as he pulls their hips together with delicious friction. The image of Jack typing ‘spiked drinks’ into a search engine practically makes him squirm with amusement. He grins, a little wickedly.
“They do say it’s just the thing for a cold, don’t they.”
“Yeah,” Jack says, and whatever other words may come out of Jack’s mouth, Ianto isn’t really planning on hearing them--his brain is officially offline, because Jack’s hand is tracing the bulge at the front of his pants, and it’s driving him mad.
“You just wanted an excuse to come down here, didn’t you,” Ianto murmurs, fingers circling around Jack’s waist, his stomach.
“Maybe,” Jack says, leaning into Ianto’s touch. “Maybe I like the way your mouth tastes when it’s all chocolaty~”
Jack’s tongue slides deep into Ianto’s mouth then, and Ianto closes his eyes, trying to ground himself and failing miserably. His legs feel boneless, like he could slide straight to the floor and not even notice. He returns Jack’s kiss earnestly though, concentrating on Jack’s responses, leaning into touches here and there, trying to find the right balance, the right rhythm. And then he finds it, and then…
Jack suddenly pulls away, breathless, grinning, in-charge. “Okay, that’s it, I’m sending you home.”
“You’re…" Ianto blinks. "What?”
“I’ve got a conference call with UNIT in ten minutes that they’ll kill me if I miss, but I’m sending you home, and then as soon as soon as I’m finished, I’m coming over, and we’re going to finish this properly.”
Ianto lowers his eyes. "Properly?"
Jack ignores him. “Deal?”
Ianto raises his eyebrows, pretending to consider this.
Then he leans in close to Jack, watching his boss’s eyes widen with interest.
“No,” he says calmly—-well, as calmly as he can manage while shoving his hand down Jack’s pants. “No, I really--”
His brain shorts out at the completely scandalous noise Jack makes when Ianto’s fingers finally get past the braces and the buttons and the zipper and everything else and it’s just the palm of his hand against Jack’s heated skin.
“I really think ten minutes is more than enough time,” Ianto grinds out, with effort, as Jack leans in to his touch with a groan, pressing Ianto’s back into the file cabinet again, hands immediately going for the front of Ianto’s pants. So much for finishing things properly, then.
Not that Ianto much cares, as those experienced hands quickly untuck his shirt from his pants, and then move on to zippers and buttons and the waistband of his briefs, because before Ianto has a chance to show Jack exactly what he thinks they can accomplish in ten minutes, his pants are pooled around his ankles and his head is thrown back awkwardly and he’s hissing out obscenities at the ceiling as Jack takes over, as Jack takes both of them in those huge, talented hands and just gets them off like… Well, like he’s got a conference call in less than ten minutes, and he’s in a hurry, but he still wants it to be good.
And god, is it good.
Jack is working fast, but his technique is impeccable, as always.
Ianto thrusts against Jack’s cock, against Jack’s hand, barely noticing the ruckus they’re making—grunting and groaning and thumping against the file cabinets like they’re moving furniture… There’s one euphemism of Jack’s that Ianto can really get behind, he thinks.
And then Jack stops pumping his hand, and gets straight to the point, twisting just so, and then he does it again, and Ianto grits his teeth, waiting. They’ve done this enough, he knows it’ll be better if—
And then Jack leans in close, and whispers, “Now, Ianto, come on, now,” and Ianto comes, white hot over Jack’s hand, right on command. He feels Jack jerk his release a half-second later, feels Jack’s hand gently tugging them through the aftershocks, as he reminds himself to breathe, as the world comes back into focus.
It’s the best orgasm he’s had in weeks.
After a moment or two Ianto blinks as he pulls the bits of his brain back together, and then bends over, pulling his pants up, too. He smirks at Jack, who’s fiddling with his braces, and his shirt. Looking completely satisfied.
“Told you I’d make you feel better,” he says smugly.
“Huh, I guess you did.”
Jack raises his eyebrows, as Ianto tucks himself back into his pants.
“You know what else? You also told me you’d come over later and finish this properly,” Ianto says calmly. “I hope you know I intend to hold you to that,” he finishes, knowing he’s being a little greedy, but not quite caring.
Jack grins, looking pleased.
“I’d expect nothing less,” he says, smoothing his hands over his shirt, blue eyes bright and gleaming.
“Well then,” Ianto says, satisfied himself now. He fixes Jack with a tired, sated smile, and sniffles, just a little. “Shall we say six, my place?”
“Seven.” Jack holds up his hand when Ianto starts to protest. “You need to get some rest. Wouldn’t want you giving out on me later, if you know what I mean.”
Ianto rolls his eyes. “Fine, whatever. Just call when you’re on your way. Maybe I’ll make dinner, you never know.”
Jack’s eyes light up a little at that, and the fact that it makes Ianto’s chest swell a little, well… He’s not sure how to explain that. He’s never made Jack dinner before--he has no idea why he even said that.
“Well, that sounds like a deal, then,” Jack says, before Ianto has a chance to take it back.
Ianto sighs, takes a long look at Jack, and then smiles as he sets his hands on the back of Jack’s shoulders. He gives him a small, affectionate shove.
“Go on then, wouldn’t want to keep UNIT waiting.”
Jack pouts a little—-Ianto knows he hates these calls, always says they bore him to tears--and then turns to go.
He stops a second later though, turning around. He stares at Ianto, holds his questioning gaze for a moment before he kisses him, quick and hard, but not completely devoid of tenderness, which is the part that takes Ianto by surprise. His hands move to Ianto’s neck, holding him steady as he parts Ianto’s lips for a second, driving his tongue through purposefully, before he pulls away.
Ianto stares at him, a little incredulously. “What--”
“Inspiration,” Jack says, grinning. “I’m really looking forward to dinner,” he adds. “And to after dinner, of course.”
“Hey,” Ianto starts, protesting mostly just because it seems appropriate. “I’m sick,” he reminds Jack, but it’s pretty half-hearted, especially since he’s not really able to keep the smile off of his face.
“Yeah, well, you seem to be managing just fine to me,” Jack tells him with a wink. “I think I’ve cured you,” he says.
And then he turns and disappears around the corner, and up the stairs.
Ianto lets out another sigh, as Jack footsteps recede, back into the hub, back into Torchwood. He can practically see Jack striding purposefully up to his office, ignoring the raised eyes of Gwen, Owen, Tosh—no way they didn’t hear at least some of that upstairs. He can see Jack picking up his phone too, barking out his security clearance to the operator, all-business…
He’d say he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into, but that wouldn’t be true at all, so he just straightens his tie, and then the collar of his jacket, and takes a quick survey of the general area, trying to decide how much clean-up is strictly necessary. It’s not like anyone other than him (well, and Jack) ever comes down here anyway, right?
He bends over to pick up several stray papers from the floor anyway, shoving them into the first available folder he sees, knowing he’ll probably regret this tomorrow when he has to figure out where they actually go, but at the same time, he has a hard time convincing himself that he really cares.
He’s got other, more pressing things on his mind.
Groceries, for one.
The archives (and most everything else, if he’s honest) can wait.