(no subject)
There
Author: ficklewords
Pairing: Ianto, Ianto/Jack
Rating: Uhm, G?
Fandom: Torchwood
Prompt: Supernatural
Thanks: truntles
Summary:
He’s in the archives, putting away some files and pulling out others, absorbed in his work and barely noticing the footsteps approaching, not until they suddenly stop and are replaced by too-quiet breathing. Warmth against the nape of his neck and he gives a short jerk of his head to get away form the sensation, still too lost in his work to even turn or move completely away from it. There’s a soft sigh, and the breathing stops; he’s left to his own world of paper and drawers and tags again.
****
The coffee maker’s hissing and wheezing as it wrings out the final drops of black liquid and he puts a small plate on a tray next to the four still empty mugs, and roots through a cupboard to find the package of jaffa cakes he is certain he’d seen there earlier that morning. The sound of somebody climbing the stairs two steps at the time, and stopping briefly at the top (“I’m coming, I’m coming!”) before continuing along the gallery walk, makes his skin twitch and he rolls his shoulder in an attempt at shaking off the feeling of somebody tickling him between the shoulder blades.
****
A few of the cells on the lower levels are covered is sticky, brownish goo and he’s scrubbing away, annoyed with Owen (no surprise there), annoyed with himself, jacket hung on a convenient nail sticking out of the concrete wall, waistcoat unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s hot and sweaty and his shoulders are knotted up and his back’s aching, and no-one’s offered to help him out, not that he would have accepted the offer, or that the others would have known what to do, but it owuld have been nice to hear someone offer, just offer to help. They’re not that busy if they can chat on msn, play solitaire and search ebay for bits and bobs to their kitchens and living rooms or whatever. There are steps down the corridor again, stopping by the cell door - too late now, he doesn’t need the help, he’s almost done and certainly in no mood for conversations. The glass wall creaks a little when someone leans against it, and:
“Bugger off, I’m busy!”
There’s a short pause as someone takes a deep breath, and the wall creaks again when the weight of the body lets up and retreats back through the door and out.
****
He’s gathering up his keys and coat and switching off the lights as he passes them, taking the lift up and trotting along the long corridor, stopping a second or two before locking the door to the tourist information centre behind him, pulling the key out of the lock and rattling the door handle to check. He turns, and there are steps echoing his own on the way to his car, shuffling feet as he unlocks the doors and gets in, pausing shortly again with an exasperated sigh and a quick, almost violent jerk of his head, before turning the key in the ignition and driving home. He prepares a quick snack to the sound of a jazz station on the radio before slipping into bed and curling up on his side, falling asleep with his nose tucked into the crook of his bent elbow, slow breaths and softly rustling sheets behind him, warmth seeping through the cotton to pool against his back.
****
Two weeks later, Jack returns to his team, wide grin in place (“Now, who missed me more?”), doling out hugs and back slaps and sloppy kisses on the cheek. The girls are squealing and Owen is grumblingly telling him off for leaving without telling anybody and Ianto smiling weakly from his place a few feet away before getting hauled in and properly squeezed and petted and greeted.
After, after the hugs and the questions and the explanations, after the girls and Owen have left, after; it was only the two of them again. The two of them, and shirt buttons and belt buckles and the whisper of skin on skin, small, hungry noises and fingers in hair and mouths and hands on backs and arms and hips and buttocks, sliding in slick sweat and heat and holding, clinging, not letting go.
Author: ficklewords
Pairing: Ianto, Ianto/Jack
Rating: Uhm, G?
Fandom: Torchwood
Prompt: Supernatural
Thanks: truntles
Summary:
He’s in the archives, putting away some files and pulling out others, absorbed in his work and barely noticing the footsteps approaching, not until they suddenly stop and are replaced by too-quiet breathing. Warmth against the nape of his neck and he gives a short jerk of his head to get away form the sensation, still too lost in his work to even turn or move completely away from it. There’s a soft sigh, and the breathing stops; he’s left to his own world of paper and drawers and tags again.
****
The coffee maker’s hissing and wheezing as it wrings out the final drops of black liquid and he puts a small plate on a tray next to the four still empty mugs, and roots through a cupboard to find the package of jaffa cakes he is certain he’d seen there earlier that morning. The sound of somebody climbing the stairs two steps at the time, and stopping briefly at the top (“I’m coming, I’m coming!”) before continuing along the gallery walk, makes his skin twitch and he rolls his shoulder in an attempt at shaking off the feeling of somebody tickling him between the shoulder blades.
****
A few of the cells on the lower levels are covered is sticky, brownish goo and he’s scrubbing away, annoyed with Owen (no surprise there), annoyed with himself, jacket hung on a convenient nail sticking out of the concrete wall, waistcoat unbuttoned and shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s hot and sweaty and his shoulders are knotted up and his back’s aching, and no-one’s offered to help him out, not that he would have accepted the offer, or that the others would have known what to do, but it owuld have been nice to hear someone offer, just offer to help. They’re not that busy if they can chat on msn, play solitaire and search ebay for bits and bobs to their kitchens and living rooms or whatever. There are steps down the corridor again, stopping by the cell door - too late now, he doesn’t need the help, he’s almost done and certainly in no mood for conversations. The glass wall creaks a little when someone leans against it, and:
“Bugger off, I’m busy!”
There’s a short pause as someone takes a deep breath, and the wall creaks again when the weight of the body lets up and retreats back through the door and out.
****
He’s gathering up his keys and coat and switching off the lights as he passes them, taking the lift up and trotting along the long corridor, stopping a second or two before locking the door to the tourist information centre behind him, pulling the key out of the lock and rattling the door handle to check. He turns, and there are steps echoing his own on the way to his car, shuffling feet as he unlocks the doors and gets in, pausing shortly again with an exasperated sigh and a quick, almost violent jerk of his head, before turning the key in the ignition and driving home. He prepares a quick snack to the sound of a jazz station on the radio before slipping into bed and curling up on his side, falling asleep with his nose tucked into the crook of his bent elbow, slow breaths and softly rustling sheets behind him, warmth seeping through the cotton to pool against his back.
****
Two weeks later, Jack returns to his team, wide grin in place (“Now, who missed me more?”), doling out hugs and back slaps and sloppy kisses on the cheek. The girls are squealing and Owen is grumblingly telling him off for leaving without telling anybody and Ianto smiling weakly from his place a few feet away before getting hauled in and properly squeezed and petted and greeted.
After, after the hugs and the questions and the explanations, after the girls and Owen have left, after; it was only the two of them again. The two of them, and shirt buttons and belt buckles and the whisper of skin on skin, small, hungry noises and fingers in hair and mouths and hands on backs and arms and hips and buttocks, sliding in slick sweat and heat and holding, clinging, not letting go.