The Silence in that Place
Title: The Silence In That Place
Author:jbs_teeth
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ianto/Jack
Spoilers: Nah, though inspired by that one conversation in "Reset"
Notes: 'Tis smutty and hot, but not happy.
Of all his senses, it's the smell that pushes him closer to mindlessness first, savory and heavy in the back of his nose, in his throat. He works his way down a few more inches, takes a secret pleasure in the kink of feeling Jack's skin on the tip of his nose, and Ianto leans closer to Jack's lap to take a long, dark pull of his odor.
The sight of him, of course, has exercised itself long ago, the foot soldier of Jack's attraction, but in the soft corners of this room now, Ianto chooses to see Jack in discrete pieces. His eyes take in one, two angles at a time, his left cheekbone, his right shoulder, the bottom curve of his hip where it becomes his pelvis, upper thigh. Each piece might lead an independent life, a strange triptych of three different men, couldn't possibly all belong to the same perfect body.
It's Jack who tastes him, and Ianto's mind drags closer to its primitive self, feeling the pooled heat of his exhalation, each point of texture in Jack's miracle of a tongue. The miracle of the friction of Jack's skin against his... is it possible to practice personal beatification of a man's skin only? Jack's pores and fine hairs work together to abrade his rationality, to drive whimpers into the back of his throat, to make him clench his teeth against the begging.
“Is this dabbling, then?”
He knows Jack is amused and irritated and self-possessed now, ready to take his frustrations out on Ianto in the most definitive way. Like all of their encounters - Ianto knows when he is thinking clearly, away from Jack - most of what Jack does to him is a creative form of masturbation and self-congratulation.
Not that Ianto is still through all of this; he tries desperately to hold up his end of the deal with his own hand and tongue and will. There is no where Ianto has not put his mouth, no where he would not touch, dripping with secretions, if asked.
“Is this avant garde or merely innovative?”
God, but its Jack's voice that drives Ianto to the place where he would open anything, position himself in any way, say anything he was asked by that voice. He wants to prostrate himself before Jack; he is pulsing now, feels each throb of the blood in his cock as Jack bends his left leg this way and twists him on his back.
Even though this is the road to his silence, the thoughts crowding themselves into each other in his head tumble faster now, edged with panic that soon Jack will make him talk.
“Is this avant garde?” is followed by something smooth and wet behind his knee, against his toe, an unlikely catalog of several different parts at once, and then Jack's tongue pedantically placed on the spot behind his ear that hurts, it feels so good. All his muscles tighten, and he tries to press himself away from Jack to escape how fucking good that feels.
“Jack. God, Jack. More.”
He knows this will earn himself something from Jack, who loves the sound of his voice when it's this desperate and deep and sounding like someone else. He'll win himself more of Jack's words, Jack's voice.
“I want to fuck you every where, Ianto, fuck your throat and your hip and your right thigh.”
He has turned Ianto back over onto his stomach, and Ianto makes out the words by their vibration on his skin as much as their vibration in his ear. God, yes, fuck my thigh.
“I want to fuck you when I'm alone and can't have you, fuck you when you walk two feet in front of me, when you run across a street.”
God, how long has he been thrusting? Ianto's thoughts are crashing themselves into incoherence.
“Yes. Fuck me.” No one he knows could recognize him in this moment by the sound of his voice, no one but Jack.
Jack. Yes, fuck me.
“Most of all, I want to fuck you while I am fucking you, when it's so good it can't be enough, when you... yes... are so hot for me you can't stop your cock from jerking itself wet.”
And that's all Ianto hears but the silence in his own head as he cums and strains and bucks beneath Jack forever, for just a few seconds.
The silence in his head is worth the next few moments of agony, when his heart is in his throat and he feels Jack thrusting away mechanically behind him.
And, finally it is over, Jack ejaculates into his ass and rolls away. And Ianto can breathe again and collect himself for a while.
Ianto suspects his childhood religion has something to do with the fear - or whatever - it is that overtakes him after he finishes cumming, and every time he asks himself why he participates in something so mad and as confusing as this.
It's the silence in the place he visits outside his own head for those seconds, he supposes, and the first thought directly after this. Yeah. Fuck my heart.
( Fic Index)
Author:jbs_teeth
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ianto/Jack
Spoilers: Nah, though inspired by that one conversation in "Reset"
Notes: 'Tis smutty and hot, but not happy.
Of all his senses, it's the smell that pushes him closer to mindlessness first, savory and heavy in the back of his nose, in his throat. He works his way down a few more inches, takes a secret pleasure in the kink of feeling Jack's skin on the tip of his nose, and Ianto leans closer to Jack's lap to take a long, dark pull of his odor.
The sight of him, of course, has exercised itself long ago, the foot soldier of Jack's attraction, but in the soft corners of this room now, Ianto chooses to see Jack in discrete pieces. His eyes take in one, two angles at a time, his left cheekbone, his right shoulder, the bottom curve of his hip where it becomes his pelvis, upper thigh. Each piece might lead an independent life, a strange triptych of three different men, couldn't possibly all belong to the same perfect body.
It's Jack who tastes him, and Ianto's mind drags closer to its primitive self, feeling the pooled heat of his exhalation, each point of texture in Jack's miracle of a tongue. The miracle of the friction of Jack's skin against his... is it possible to practice personal beatification of a man's skin only? Jack's pores and fine hairs work together to abrade his rationality, to drive whimpers into the back of his throat, to make him clench his teeth against the begging.
“Is this dabbling, then?”
He knows Jack is amused and irritated and self-possessed now, ready to take his frustrations out on Ianto in the most definitive way. Like all of their encounters - Ianto knows when he is thinking clearly, away from Jack - most of what Jack does to him is a creative form of masturbation and self-congratulation.
Not that Ianto is still through all of this; he tries desperately to hold up his end of the deal with his own hand and tongue and will. There is no where Ianto has not put his mouth, no where he would not touch, dripping with secretions, if asked.
“Is this avant garde or merely innovative?”
God, but its Jack's voice that drives Ianto to the place where he would open anything, position himself in any way, say anything he was asked by that voice. He wants to prostrate himself before Jack; he is pulsing now, feels each throb of the blood in his cock as Jack bends his left leg this way and twists him on his back.
Even though this is the road to his silence, the thoughts crowding themselves into each other in his head tumble faster now, edged with panic that soon Jack will make him talk.
“Is this avant garde?” is followed by something smooth and wet behind his knee, against his toe, an unlikely catalog of several different parts at once, and then Jack's tongue pedantically placed on the spot behind his ear that hurts, it feels so good. All his muscles tighten, and he tries to press himself away from Jack to escape how fucking good that feels.
“Jack. God, Jack. More.”
He knows this will earn himself something from Jack, who loves the sound of his voice when it's this desperate and deep and sounding like someone else. He'll win himself more of Jack's words, Jack's voice.
“I want to fuck you every where, Ianto, fuck your throat and your hip and your right thigh.”
He has turned Ianto back over onto his stomach, and Ianto makes out the words by their vibration on his skin as much as their vibration in his ear. God, yes, fuck my thigh.
“I want to fuck you when I'm alone and can't have you, fuck you when you walk two feet in front of me, when you run across a street.”
God, how long has he been thrusting? Ianto's thoughts are crashing themselves into incoherence.
“Yes. Fuck me.” No one he knows could recognize him in this moment by the sound of his voice, no one but Jack.
Jack. Yes, fuck me.
“Most of all, I want to fuck you while I am fucking you, when it's so good it can't be enough, when you... yes... are so hot for me you can't stop your cock from jerking itself wet.”
And that's all Ianto hears but the silence in his own head as he cums and strains and bucks beneath Jack forever, for just a few seconds.
The silence in his head is worth the next few moments of agony, when his heart is in his throat and he feels Jack thrusting away mechanically behind him.
And, finally it is over, Jack ejaculates into his ass and rolls away. And Ianto can breathe again and collect himself for a while.
Ianto suspects his childhood religion has something to do with the fear - or whatever - it is that overtakes him after he finishes cumming, and every time he asks himself why he participates in something so mad and as confusing as this.
It's the silence in the place he visits outside his own head for those seconds, he supposes, and the first thought directly after this. Yeah. Fuck my heart.
( Fic Index)