blowing smoke-ring halos (smokeringhalos) wrote,
blowing smoke-ring halos

TW: Getting to Yes (Ianto/Jack) ADULT

Title: Getting to Yes
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto, mentions of past Ianto/Lisa
Warnings: Abuse of office furniture. Ianto-esque naming conventions. Boys that won't stop shagging.
Rating: Adult. Adult liek woah.
Spoilers: None really. General for "Cyberwoman," 1.04.
Chronology: Takes place sometime after 1.08 "They Keep Killing Suzie" but before the end of s. 1.
Words: 9401
Summary: Now that they've settled into this pattern, how is he to tell Jack that, in all fairness, he thinks Jack ought to let him have a go?
Notes: at the end.

Ianto's riding Jack's cock the first time it occurs to him.

To be precise, he's straddled over Jack's hips, Jack stretched out beneath him, wanking Ianto slowly with one hand while the other's clutched possessively around Ianto's hip. Despite the maddening insufficiency of Jack's pulls, the pressure's built to the point he'll go off soon one way or another.

Sweat drips down Ianto's neck into the hollow of his throat. Jack reaches up and swipes his fingers through it, then pulls them down the damp length of his chest. When his fingertips rest on Ianto's solar plexus, he lifts his hips and drives his cock deep, deeper, into Ianto's arse.

A sound shamefully like a warble spills from Ianto's lips. Jack - bastard - laughs, but Ianto's momentary self-consciousness passes into the skin stretched too tight, sac too full, arse throbbing, thighs shaking of being fucked by Jack. Even if he's the one doing most of the work.

"God, Ianto. Love seeing you like this, sweaty and straining and coming unwound." Jack puts his fingers to his mouth and sucks them in. "Incredible."

"Always so good when you fuck me, Ianto. Love watching you come." Lisa's breathy and beautiful over him, nipples peaked and swollen under his thumbs.

The accustomed twinge does nothing to distract from the sight of Jack's mouth cinched around two fingers and the mischievous spark in his lust-blown eyes. Lisa's gone these three months now and Jack is here, and Ianto wants to fuck him.

Ianto blinks. Stutters in his rise and fall over Jack's cock.

Jack touches his forearm, ludicrously gentle under the circumstances. "Ianto?"

"It's nothing," he grunts when Jack fills him again. "Nothing."

Nothing except that he wants Jack stretched around him, strong body rocking under his snapping thrusts and mouth -- always so quick with a quip or smirk -- slack with moans of pleasure.

"Good." Jack issues the word like a command, as though defying Ianto to be anything but good with Jack worked so far up his arse he can taste him.

Hardly resisting, Ianto pushes forward into Jack's fist with a low moan. Jack obliges with a wicked twist of his wrist, and Ianto comes with a vision of Jack's arse high and fucked open around his cock swimming behind his eyes.

And comes, thighs quaking and spunk jetting through Jack's fingers onto his belly, chest and shoulder.

And comes still more, collapsing onto Jack's thighs with a whimper, as the last strong pulse flings a dollop of come onto Jack's lips.

Ianto has just enough time to appreciate the effect before Jack curls a palm around the back of his neck and drags him down to fuck his mouth.

While Jack bucks up into him, taking his pleasure, Ianto's blissed-out mind supplies the observation that this is the problem with homoerotic sexual arrangements. Someone's cock nearly always goes begging for a willing hole.

Later, when he's held, Jack's thigh thrown across his body – in a way Ianto still finds a little too intimate, but nevertheless pleasant – Ianto trails his fingers down Jack's hip and lets them dip into the cleft of his magnificent arse. Jack hmmms, sounding rather sated, and hooks his ankle around Ianto's calf to draw him closer.

It occurs to him that with all of Jack's exploits, he's almost certainly taken it up the arse on more than one occasion. But now that they've settled into this pattern, how is he to tell Jack that, in all fairness, he thinks Jack ought to let him have a go?


The second time he has the thought, Jack's sitting straddled over a chair, head pillowed on his arms.

They've had a hell of a week, what with a Weevil infestation in Prince Charles' gardens, retconning the Royal Family, and some silly prat from the West End thinking it a grand joke to hook a bottle of Lotharian courting mist to the hose for a sprinkler system, resulting in the necessary distribution of morning-after pills to over three dozen female employees of AMC Insurance Appointments and two hermaphroditic Galexians working peaceably amongst them.

Jack pretends to ruthlessness in distributing retcon in well-aged single malt, but the sight of the Duchess's horsey jaw fallen slack on the Queen's beloved Welsh Corgi's back would've scarred a far lesser man for life. Not to mention that for all his vaunted self-assurance, late at night, Jack sits alone and stares at the letter founding Torchwood, thumbing the edge and asking if they're doing the right thing.

Though he protects and serves by order of the Queen, Ianto knows Jack's worry is his own.

At such moments, usually after being taken to task by Gwen, Jack repairs to somewhere quiet, and tonight, Ianto follows with the intention of easing the burden in the ways he knows best. His hands, taught from an early age a tailor's measure of the human form, now use that knowledge to seek out the places where Jack's lines are snarled.

The soft grunts from Jack, along with the occasional, "Love your hands, Ianto," and "Feels like heaven," have Ianto settling into the pleasure as well.

He stops, only long enough to remove his jacket, and gets a plaintive whine from Jack. "I was just forgetting that string of drool and the dog. Don't stop now, Ianto…"

Don't stop now, Ianto.

His response comes out rather too thick and raw: "I wouldn't dream of it, sir." But considering his mind has rather unhelpfully filled in the gap with an image of Jack looking back over his shoulder, blue eyes glazed and pupils blown, begging Ianto to fuck him harder, Ianto's pleased he manages to speak at all.

Before he sets hands to Jack's broad shoulders again, he discreetly adjusts himself in his trousers. The hard-on's worth it for Jack's beatific smile and the sighed, "Yes, god, yes," that goes with it.

Feeling Jack melt under his touch, while gratifying, doesn't help the fit of his trousers at all. Nor the grunts and groans and sighs. Jack, hedonist creature he is, has no concept of restraint, and by the time the last knot slips loose between Ianto's thumbs, Jack's sprawled half-across the table, arse lifted enticingly off the chair.

"Captain, sir?" Ianto works his thumbs into Jack's lower back, circling them lower and lower still.

"Mmmm, I like when you call me that. Yes, Ianto?"

"I wondered if I might…" Timidity has never been one of Ianto's flaws, but something about this situation has him thinking and double-thinking. "That is, if you'd…"

Jack cranes his head around to grin cockeyed at Ianto. "As much as I'd like to, and believe me when I say I'd really like to, I don't think I can move."

Cheeks flaming Jack's blatant expression of desire, and his own, Ianto soldiers on. "For what I have in mind, you needn't move much."

At that, Jack's eyebrow rises and his lips quirk into a smirk that puts Ianto in mind to roger it clean off his face. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

Ianto very much doubts it. "That depends, sir, on what you think I'm suggesting. If it involves neckties used in unconventional fashion, then probably not." Probably, because binding Jack to a bed and shagging him stupid does have a decided appeal.

The smirk broadens into a bright grin. "I notice that's not a no."

"It's a no," he answers, trying to keep some semblance of control over the situation. But, it's not, is it? Not with Jack giving him that sort of once over. Nothing's a no when his eyes darken like that and his mouth… Well, fuck.

"Too bad. Here I was just getting a second wind."

Bastard. Ianto mocks up a martyred sigh. "If you insist, sir…"

"As it happens," Jack sits up and half-turns to face him. After a long pause in which Ianto begins to feel like one of the alien bits Owen's forever studying, Jack shakes his head. "I don't. I'm curious to know what you had in mind."

Somehow, with Jack inelegantly but decisively shifting about in the chair so that he's eyeing Ianto up, having you face down over the table and begging seems…cheeky. Ianto equivocates, then settles on, "I'd thought you might appreciate having your other needs attended to." The lift of Jack's eyebrow and the subtle but unmistakable curling twitch of his fingers -- yes? -- suggest he's on the right course. "Blow job, sir?"

Jack's fingers tap down on his thigh and his mouth opens like he might demur, no knowing why, but the moment passes and next thing, Jack's slipping his braces off his shoulders. "Careful, Ianto." His voice slips dangerously low and purring. "That's the same tone you use to offer me coffee. You wouldn't want me getting confused."

Warped on the inside, he is, the stunning prat. Ianto shrugs and steps away. "If it's coffee you're wanting, I'm pleased to—"

"Ian-to." His growl crawls up Ianto's spine and down his chest, then settles into his cock.

Still and all, there is pride to be considered. "Mocha, sir, or will you want—"

"You on your knees is what I want."

And Ianto's there, between Jack's thighs, before either of them breathes again. Tomorrow morning, he reckons they'll both be hard as stone when he brings Jack his coffee, but when Jack lifts his hips to ease his wool trousers down his legs and off one ankle, his mouth's abruptly rather too full to tell Jack he can get stuffed if he thinks Ianto's crawling around with a tray on his back.

It's probably for the best, since Jack is rather twisted enough to insist on it if they're alone. And Ianto's certainly kinked enough to agree.

Burying his hand in Ianto's hair, Jack slouches down in the chair to give Ianto full access to him. Already well in, the blunt, salt-slick head of his cock thumps Ianto's palate. Ianto's eyes tear and he has to pull back and swallow fast.

"Sorry," Jack murmurs, fingers weaving soothing patterns through his hair.

Though Ianto's certain Jack didn't mean to hurt him, there's quite simply nothing apologetic about his head thrown back, one arm up along the table, decadent do me posture. Even his knees have fallen wide, hips utterly relaxed, leaving his arsehole exposed and begging to be breached.

Ianto'd like to. Do him, that is. In fact, he reckons there's blessed little he'd like more than to finish unwinding Jack from the inside. Tongue, fingers, then stiff, aching cock loosening that last tight knot.

Grimacing at the situation he's put himself into, Ianto palms the front of his trousers for a bit of relief as he leans in to take Jack again. Yet he can't resist tracing the circumference of Jack's puckered hole while hollowing his cheeks to suck in earnest.

Jack moans, utterly wanton, then presses his hips up and Ianto's head down. The tip of Ianto's finger fits into Jack's opening. It sinks still further with the shimmy of Jack's hips trying to follow Ianto's mouth.

Given the floor's wearing down his kneecaps by Jack's command, Ianto's a bit reluctant to venture further. But forcing thought through his lust-logged brain, Ianto reasons that what's sauce for the gander is likely also sauce for the other gander.

Not to mention, a single word from Jack will stop him in an instant and they both well know it.

While Jack gives himself over to the rhythm of Ianto's building suction, Ianto slides his finger alongside Jack's shaft into the seal of his mouth. His own stiffens rather violently at the new, heavier musk on his tongue, and, for a moment, he sways with the headiness of tasting Jack Harkness.

Of having Jack Harkness.

After that, he simply can't wait. The aching in his jaw and numb-tingling in his bruising lips, the heavy weight of cock riding his tongue – as much as he enjoys them – can't compete with the prospect of Jack's arse opening for his finger.

It's not tentative, not even especially gentle, the way he pushes into Jack. Jack's relaxed, he's hardly fragile, and, by his own accounting, he's done absolutely everything with every species you can imagine, at least once. Though Ianto susses that for the bollocks it likely is, in his current condition, he can hardly be tasked with being overly literal for taking Jack at his word.

He slides into Jack with no resistance, physical or verbal. The hot clasp of muscle sucks a moan from Ianto to match the "oh god, Ianto," from Jack above him, and when Ianto remembers to breathe, Jack's arse holds Ianto to the third knuckle.

Jack seems more than content, but Ianto proceeds as cautiously as the furious throb in his cock and his heavy panting breaths will permit. He crooks his finger, positively nonchalantly, searching for that spot that makes Ianto see stars –

And apparently finds it, from the violent buck of Jack's hips, the clutch of his hand in Ianto's hair, and the sharply expelled, "Fuck."

Ianto smiles around Jack's cock and risks glancing up – through lowered lashes, naturally, since Jack loves the look of it – to see Jack staring down at him. His face gleams with sweat and his lips part to suck in ragged gasps of air; the sight delivers a fierce jolt through Ianto's chest straight into his sac, which draws up suddenly tight.

Lust-glazed blue eyes brighten like a smirk Jack can't quite grasp, and Ianto works a second and a third finger into Jack without delay. When he thrusts them up and curls them in, the almost-smirk vanishes around a whimpered "Jesus, Ianto, yes" and burst of bitter-salt across Ianto's tongue.

But there's no time to enjoy the triumph before the stretched heat around his fingers goes bone-crunching and he's choking on thick loads of Jack's spunk.

The image of him pounding Jack, hips up and arse spread, of Jack painting his belly and chest with streaks of musky white takes him so hard Ianto can feel the hot, slippery trails on his skin.

Next instant, he's coming as violently as Jack.

The pleasure's so intense he can't even moan. He's transfixed. Skin so hot he feels he'll burst into flame. Lungs so empty it feels like drowning.

Jack's come drips from his mouth when he pulls back to catch his breath. It smears on his cheek. He feels the stickiness as though through a fog, and knows he should be smug and well pleased.

But Ianto's come apart for Jack again, and the only the clasp of Jack's arse around his fingers and the soothing grip of his fingers in Ianto's hair keep Ianto grounded at all.

Following Jack's gentle tug, Ianto slips his fingers free and wipes them on the handkerchief in his pocket; he rises unsteadily, only to be pulled into Jack's lap and kissed. He'd protest he can't breathe but Jack licks too deep in his mouth for him to argue around. Then Jack embraces Ianto at once too tightly and just tightly enough to keep Ianto from slinking away in shame at creaming his boxers like he hasn't since his sixteenth birthday when Meggie Stuart's wet, bare-under-her-skirt cunt rode his denim-clad thigh while they necked.

There's no escaping the mess he's made. Not if he stands to go with a big wet stain on his damnably charcoal gray trousers. And certainly not with the cooling spunk smearing over his groin and Jack's softening cock laid against the damp spot while they kiss.

He wants to hide his face in Jack's neck when Jack reaches between them to unbuckle his belt, unbutton his trousers, and slip his hand inside. Even at sixteen he hadn't filled his boxers quite so thoroughly.

Jack laughs, a slow, smirking chuckle, as he drags his fingers through Ianto's come. Naturally, Ianto's affronted, but the urge to smack him passes when those same fingers spread Ianto's spunk over Jack's own mouth like lip gloss. "Taste yours—mmph."

Ianto hardly needs the invitation. That's what this is about, isn't it? While he's perfectly willing -- only too willing -- to drop, spread, give it up to Jack, he wants the same from Jack.

If this last go's any indication, Jack has no objections. Now if only Ianto can stop dropping, spreading, and giving it up long enough to take him.


The third time the thought doesn't so much occur to him as assault him and leave him bruised and beaten at the side of the road.

Ianto's busy cataloging several artefacts recovered in last night's bust on an illegal waterfront gaming den, reported, cheekily enough, by one of the regular patrons displeased to have lost on twelve horses, five football matches, two dog races and an entire evening of cards. Never mind that anyone stupid enough to place losing bet after losing bet oughtn't be trusted, Jack had insisted they follow up because "luck's a lady, but that's just a bitch."

And since Jack has the devil's own luck, of course, they found a stash of probability manipulators, mind-reading devices not unlike like the pendant Toshiko destroyed, and weapons to deal with anyone who didn't like losing. Fortunately the snitch had complained to Gwen's boyfriend Rhys rather than management, and Gwen, hearing the tale from Rhys had, in typical fashion, promised she'd have a look.

And Jack, in equally typical fashion, had waded right in at her side, sending Ianto round the back to shut down the devices he's just now entering into records.

"Ianto?" Jack never pings him first to see if he's available. It would irritate Ianto, except that it's most efficient.

"Yes, Captain."

"Can you join us in the briefing room, please?"

His heartbeat quickens. Ianto reminds himself rather sternly that Jack did say us, then stands and dusts his hands on his handkerchief. "On my way, sir."

He walks in on Jack with his back to the door, stretched obligingly across the table while unfurling the edges of a large sheet of paper, and Ianto nearly keeps walking until his inappropriate hard-on rubs against that firm, well-rounded arse.

"Just in time, Ianto." Jack smiles back across his shoulder; his mouth, always too pink, even pinker against the soft blue of his dress shirt, and eyes all the bluer for it. Ianto blinks to clear the after-image of the same scene, with Jack naked.

"Of course, I am, sir." Ianto hauls out his best Welsh to curse Jack in his head. He swears the miserable bastard does it on purpose. "Out of curiosity…" He slows to damn his curiosity as well. "What, precisely, am I just in time for? It's a fine spread, sir, but I'm afraid I've just eaten."

Tosh's hand flies up to cover her mouth, and that's the first Ianto notices she's there. Any of them. Gwen titters and Jack clears his throat, but he sounds rather pleased. Of course Ianto knew they were meant to be there, but one didn't walk in on Jack Harkness face-down over a horizontal surface and attend to anyone else in the room. Besides, from the minimal tilt of Owen's scowl, he's thinking much the same.

Which makes Ianto purse his lips. Inevitable the thoughts may be, but Owen best leave Jack's arse – and the rest of him – well alone.

"I'd like your opinion."

Yes, yes. You're the sexiest bastard in Cardiff. Possibly the world. And yours is definitely the most shaggable arse.

Jack turns and perches that attribute at the edge of the table, leaning on his hands. He meets Ianto's gaze and only the pocket watch Ianto grips until it digs a hole in his palm keeps him from grasping the back of Jack's neck and pulling him into the kiss those wicked eyes are begging him for.

Jack tilts his head to what Ianto now sees are blueprints. "We've been discussing the Weevil problem. They're breeding and we're running out of space to keep them humanely. Owen wants to euthanize them, but Gwen's persuaded me we should build them a habitat."

Ianto prides himself on his ability to follow any conversation no matter how technical, but, at the moment, this simple train of thought seems to slip through his grasp – and not in the heated, pleasant way of…

Pull your head out of Jack's arse, Ianto.

"And, naturally, since no one knows more about Torchwood than I do, you thought you'd ask me where to put it?"

"I have a few thoughts," Jack says, and there's a subtle dip to his voice and his eyelashes that doesn't help one bit. "But, as you say, you're best equipped to address the issue."

Oh, he is going to kill him. He is going to murder him, after he turns him over his lap and beats that pretty arse to an even prettier shade of red and then--Not helping. In no way is that helping.

Ianto swallows hard and looks to Gwen who ducks her head and nods encouragingly. It's sweet that she thinks he needs shoring up this way. Most of the time he doesn't, but today, he reckons, something else to focus on can't hurt. He gives her a quick smile, before leaning across the table himself to study the prints.

"Here," he says, nearly immediately, pointing to a block-square undeveloped area. "There are caverns under the Millennium Centre. They can be adapted and fitted out with Weevil-proof security and CCTV. Keeping them fed should be easy and Myfanwy can help with population control while Owen studies their mating habits." As tempting as it is to look up in that moment, Ianto waits until he's finished. "Shall I arrange for it, sir?"

"Not just yet." Jack claps him on the shoulder, and the pleased pride in his too-pretty face melts Ianto clean through. "I have Toshiko working on a translation algorithm. If we can talk to them, maybe we can work something else out first. Right, Gwen?" When Jack winks at her, Ianto feels the unpleasant surge of jealousy.

He tells himself to stop being ridiculous. Jack doesn't belong to him. "If that's all, sir, I should get back to my work." Another glance at Jack's candied pink mouth, and Ianto can't resist. "Unless… Coffee, sir?"

Jack's eyes darken. Ianto only narrowly suppresses an inappropriate smirk.

"Later." Jack gives Ianto a hard once over, gaze taking in a pale plum dress shirt, dove gray braces and charcoal trousers with dove pinstripes, and Ianto hard under them. "I've got so much paperwork, I'll beg on my knees for caffeine and any cause for procrastination."

As tempting as it is, Ianto doesn't answer "very good, sir." Instead he nods then glances to the others again. "Anyone else?"

Which, watching the corners of Jack's lips twitch, really isn't much better. Fortunately no one takes him up on it – not that they'd know they'd asked for personal service -- because Ianto's thoughts have hit such a fever pitch that he needs to dissociate from everything having to do with serving Jack or shagging him.

Considering how many places in the Hub Jack's had him or he's given Jack head, that's beginning to be a problem.

Ianto makes his escape before anything more shameful happens and returns to work in the archives. It occurs to him they ought to designate the archive off-limits, since he spends so much time here, but he can't imagine Jack agreeing.

Besides, where would be the fun in that?

Later comes, but Jack doesn't, and more painfully, neither does he. The monitors register the energy spike they've been dreading, and the team spends a long, exhausting night drinking dodgy take-away coffee and waiting for the Rawnian Razormouth to hatch so they can kill it.

Over the fifteen months of its incubation, they've tried everything from C4 to diamond filament to pierce the shell of its enormous egg, to no avail. Jack thinks the baby wyrm will be easier to destroy.

He's right, but only by the narrowest of margins, and by the time they collect and sort the various exploded bits, transport them to the Hub, and clean up, it's well into morning. They go home to wash and sleep in shifts, and though he and Jack grab theirs together, Ianto's too tired and too bruised to do much but let Jack rock him to sleep, curled around him, cock buried deep in his arse.

Apparently, his subconscious isn't tired in the slightest, as he's plagued - blessed? – with dreams of Jack on his back, legs up around Ianto's ears; Jack on his side, top leg pulled forward to give Ianto room to move; Jack squatting, holding himself open over Ianto's cock; Jack on his elbows and knees, and Ianto over him, chest to his back, lips ghosting over his neck while he stutter-thrusts and Jack keens for him.

When Ianto wakes, Jack's already gone, back at work. Ianto puts himself straight, then sets about picking up the mess they've made of the Hub while he slept. Jack passes him, not tired in the way Ianto or the others get tired, but with eyes soft and shadowed.

"Coffee, Captain?" Ianto asks, voice warm and intentionally intimate.

Jack reaches for him, and Ianto wonders if he will break his own rules about kissing at work, but his fingers only curl around Ianto's wrist, grazing his pulse. "You're a lifesaver, Ianto. Thanks."

"My pleasure, Jack."

It's only after he's walked away that Ianto realizes he's called him by name during working hours. Between that uncorrected slip and Jack's teasing touches, Ianto's fit to be tied…or tie Jack.

Whether and how to tell Jack what he wants isn't a problem. It's simply a matter of wanting to tell him – there are far worse things than being Jack's boy – when he's in a position to act on it.


After the Rawnian Razormouth, Ianto stops counting. No point, is there, now that he thinks about rogering Jack as often as he thinks about going to his knees, or back, or straddling Jack's lap.

Which, collectively, is every time he gets within ten feet of Jack.

That night, they go for drinks at the local, all of them. Ianto would rather stay at the Hub or crawl back into bed with Jack, but Jack insists. He says Ianto needs to bond with the rest of the team, then lifts an eyebrow and asks if Ianto's afraid Jack will beat him at pool.

He's not, in the slightest. Of the Torchwood team, only Toshiko can match him on the billiard greens. You'd think after however long Jack's been bouncing through time, he'd have learned to sink shots off the rails or off another ball, but he's barely adequate. Gwen's as good as your average spent-a-lot-of-time-at-the-pub-in-college bird and Owen's a bloody disaster. Tosh treats pool as maths, and if her game lacks surprises, it's still never dull.

For Ianto's part, it's patience and precision, rather like chess. He drinks his stout until the shot comes to him, and when it does, he never misses.

Jack makes a game of that, offering a round to anyone who can make Ianto miss. As well Jack has nothing to gain from it, because the simple sweep of his hand across Ianto's lower back, or the sight of him leaning to reach for the chalk when Ianto's cueing up would be more than sufficient to the task.

When the others leave, Jack clears out the pub with the flash of his Torchwood ID, and shags Ianto over the billiards table twice, growling about hustling in fitted trousers and giving him what he deserves. Ianto tries to tell him to the victor go the spoils, but Jack's having none of it, and, in truth, Ianto hardly minds. As they leave, Ianto slides a twenty under their pint glasses to help with cleaning the felt.

Jack can pay for his dry-cleaning.

The next afternoon, they have an appointment at St. Alban's parish about some ghosts. When Ianto helps Jack on with his coat, Jack leans back into him and says, sotto voce, that the Mauser tucked in his waistband becomes him. Ianto valiantly resists the urge to slide his hands around Jack's hips to pull their bodies flush.

He's helped in the effort by Gwen's arrival with the files she's prepared on St. Alban's ghosts. She offers to come along, but Jack says he and Ianto have it covered.

It's the first time since Lisa Jack's wanted to go out in the field with Ianto alone.

Ianto's quite well pleased.

As it turns out, one of the servitors is an amnesiac Falklands veteran with PTSD and the Communion chalice has a psychic amplifier in the decorative gem, and they've nothing to do but destroy the cup.

Jack stops for supper at Celi's afterward. Ianto's not hungry, but there's no point turning down a meal with Jack where Ianto can simply enjoy the creativity of his flirting using utensils, long-stemmed water glasses, and fresh berries – and his attention all on Ianto.

It's not a date, properly, but Jack radios ahead to tell the others to go on home. He insists he and Ianto go in through the reception area. There's no knowing why, until he crowds Ianto behind the information desk, and drops to his knees behind it.

He gives Ianto head behind the counter and shags him lying on top of it. Ianto watches his hands raking over Jack's back and Jack's arse flexing gorgeously in the mirror that hides the camera in the corner. He'll never answer the bell again without remembering Jack's fucked-red mouth, and Jack's bare arse begging to be fucked even while his thrusts threaten the structural integrity of the desk, which is definitely not made for this.

At this rate, he'll never get around to having Jack. Yet when Jack lets him up, Ianto's too pleasantly sore to care.

Even if he does spend the next half hour picking up scattered leaflets, chucking the sticky ones, and rearranging the displays.


It occurs to him again amidst the incredibly dull Friday afternoon that follows. He's spent the day researching the history of Weevil sightings, intermittently filing Jack's paperwork -- because it's easier to find later if he does it -- and serving endless cups of coffee.

More precisely, Ianto's entering Weevil sightings into a spreadsheet for Tosh, whilst his mind wanders to whether Jack's ready to switch to tea, and concomitantly whether he's doing anything more interesting - breathing, for example - that might require Ianto's assistance. He glances up toward the aerie, where, as it happens, Jack is talking to Gwen.

No surprise there, as Gwen's been reading up on time travel and relativity and Jack's their resident expert. Tosh's explanations, while technically accurate, leave much to be desired in the way of…pithiness. Jack understands rather less of the mathematics, but Gwen's more interested in experiential data than theory anyway.

Far more pleasant than Jack talking to Gwen – or talking to anyone but him, truth told – is Jack leaning against the aerie window, arse lovingly cupped by well-tailored chocolate wool and thoughtfully framed by his hands pressed against the glass.

No one's paying Ianto any mind; Gwen's with Jack, and Tosh has Owen foxed in a debate about whether human biology is a branch of physics. So Ianto allows his gaze to linger over the trim curve of Jack's posterior, and to consider the way his braces direct attention to the spot between his shoulder blades Ianto rather fancies tasting.

He's still lingering several minutes later when Jack turns to look out into the Hub. Eyebrow quirking, Jack mimes shame, shame with his index fingers, then jerks his chin as if to say get back to work. But even from here, Ianto can tell he's biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning, and he quite spoils even that token effort at sobriety by winking before he turns away.

Ianto waits fully ten minutes after Gwen returns to her workstation before messaging Jack: Sir?

The response comes back nearly instantaneously: Yes, Ianto?

It's only strokes on the keyboard, but his heart rate quickens and already he feels a little flushed.

Is this a good time?

He knows what Jack will say before he says it, but it doesn't rob it of impact when he does. It's always a good time with me. ;) The emoticon, text flirtation, even adds a little zing.

Of course it is. ::eyeroll:: What I meant was, am I interrupting anything?

Not unless staring at this stack of reports I'm supposed to read and willing them to catch fire counts as 'anything'.

You'll pardon me if I hope they don't. I'd rather not clean up the mess.

It takes a little longer for Jack to respond this time, and when the first bit is ::pout:: Ianto reckons it's because he had to scroll back to see how Ianto marked a facial expression. The next bit follows quickly. You'd condemn me to this drudgery just to spare yourself a little light cleaning?

May I remind you, sir, the last time Owen burned anything in the Hub you swore you'd fire the next person who did it?


I live to serve, sir.

That's more like it.

His flush graduates to full, but Ianto won't be dissuaded. Not with Jack physically out of reach and sex little more than wishful thinking at the moment. Ahem.

Oh, right. There was a reason for this…chat. What's on your mind, Ianto?

Torchwood instant messaging is all direct connection, and, excepting himself, only Tosh can easily access private chat-logs. Still, Ianto expects he'd best not type your arse, sir. More specifically, how it will look stretched around my cock. There's no need to be crass.

So, instead, he types, I was wondering if you had plans for the weekend, then sends.

Jack answers faster than Ianto knew he could type. ::lifts eyebrow:: Why, are you asking me out on a date?

Hardly. No, sir. But I could send you flowers in the morning, if you like.

That would be nice! No one ever sends me flowers.

Ianto resists the urge to reply that flowers imply a relationship and Jack makes a point of not being the type to have one. Instead, he types: ::takes notation:: Flowers for Jack, check.

Hmmm. Now…what could you possibly want that you'd need to send me flowers after?

Plans? Ianto types, somewhat more brusquely than is probably wise, given this is his boss he's messaging and they are at work. But he has an agenda, and this time he's sticking to it, hell or high water.

Sorely tempted to type "don't take that tone with me," but it's kinda hot. So, no. No plans.

He's already rolling his eyes when he realizes that Jack's implying he likes Ianto being assertive. Hm. Now you do.

Any chance they don't involve bleeding and saving the world?

Now's as good a time as any. Ianto keys out the words, Actually, sir, I thought I might shag you. Several times. then stares at them until another message pops up from Jack:


He replaces "shag" with "fuck" then sends it before he can change his mind.

There's a long pause. Too long for Ianto blindingly hard sweaty-palmed flushed-red and trying not to call attention to himself by shifting around to ease the restrictive fit of his trousers.

Maybe he should play it off. He could send a winking emoticon. Or offer to bring Jack coffee.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, but he can't bring himself to do it. He wants this.

Two full minutes pass before the IM window blinks.

Ping me about this after work.

**Session terminated by CapnJackHarkness.**

No emoticon. No exclamation point. No yes. Bold for emphasis. A not-so-gentle reminder of where and who they are, but also, Ianto can't help noting, not no.

Gripping the back of his neck with one hand, Ianto stares at the screen, urging it to cough up more information. Anything to indicate Jack's…position…on the matter.

He glances up to the aerie again. It'd be very like Jack to provide sexual subtext with direct eye contact. Unfortunately, Jack's not winking any more than his IM. He's not even looking out into the Hub.

Ianto's computer clock reads half-three.

Barring alien invasions, anomalous Rift activity, Weevil readings above ground, Ianto has an hour and a half to fill with busywork and putting things straight before he has his answer.

It's possibly the longest, hardest, hour and a half of his life.

But there are no invasions, Rift openings, Weevil sightings, and at three past five, when Ianto's ready to shove her out, Tosh -- always the last to leave -- finally gathers her things and goes.

The cog door rolls shut behind her. Ianto makes a hasty round of the floor to pick up after his coworkers, has a quick wash-up in the loo, then sits down to message Jack. There's an open IM window on his screen.


It's timestamped four minutes past five. Ianto breathes for what seems like the first time in over an hour. His lungs burn with it.

The window blinks again. Come in, Ianto. Do you read?

The time is now a quarter past. Loud and clear, Captain. Had some cleaning up to do.

The others have gone. By now, he recognizes that as Jack Harkness code for come play with me. Honestly, sometimes he's worse than a puppy.

Tonight, Ianto's the one wagging his tail. Or his cock, as the case may be. So I see, sir.

I think we should discuss this proposition of yours.

Discussing doesn't fall high on his to-do list for Jack Harkness. I'd hoped we might skip the talking and get to the-- He's still typing out the response when Jack sends again.

My room. Five minutes.

** Session terminated by CapnJackHarkness. **

Ianto glances up. Jack's watching him from the aerie window. He taps his wristwatch then turns away, giving Ianto a nice long view of the best arse in Cardiff, bar none.

Before he shuts down the computer, Ianto reads the IM session again. Five minutes, not the usual ten.



Already so hard he aches, Ianto descends the ladder into Jack's cubby.

When he turns around, Jack's watching him over the top of a book Ianto's sure from his state of undress and his presence at his computer terminal five minutes past he can't have been reading. Whether it's an artful prop or nervous hands, it calls attention by way of contrast to smooth skin stretched taut over firm muscle.

Smooth except for the purple bruise on Jack's right pectoral muscle from when, amidst being fucked on the information desk, Ianto'd stretched up to bite for need of tasting skin. And except for the scratch that curves over his left shoulder that Ianto knows runs the length of his back from Ianto digging in to pull him deeper, then arching away on a keening moan of pleasure.

Jack stands, braces fallen to his sides, and Ianto can't move. If he does, he will have his hands all over Jack; there will be no discussion and this won't happen. Either he'll go to his knees to strip away the trousers to gain access to the man beneath, or he'll kiss feverishly and incoherently until Jack rides him down to the bed and fucks him straight again.

"Took you long enough," Jack says when Ianto doesn't speak.

Grateful for something to do with his hands, Ianto checks his pocket watch. "Actually, sir, it's been four minutes fifty-nine sec—"

His mouth is over Ianto's before Ianto ever sees him move, and Ianto opens, greedy for the taste of him. Jack's hands frame his face, controlling the kiss, but how can he care? He barely manages to shove his watch back into his trouser pocket before his hands are mapping Jack's back and shoulders, running his strong lines, and curving around his much-desired arse to drag him closer.

He moans raggedly, or maybe Jack does. It hardly matters except for the break in the hungry strokes of their tongues. Fuck, he wants Jack. Wants him spread out beneath him, taking his cock and too high with it to do anything but tangle his fists in the sheets. Or wants Jack over him, heat and hard muscle, pounding his arse until Ianto's incoherent with pleasure and need.

Easing back a little, Jack pushes a hand between them to unbutton Ianto's suit jacket then he surges in again, shoving it open and down his arms. He growls something that's either fuck or God or want or all of the above, then presses Ianto back with a hand to his shoulder.

"Say it."

Ianto blinks. His mind works, slowly, searching for what Jack wants from him.

"Tell me," Jack demands, and he's sounds raw.

Tell him what? Jack's always verbal about sex. Issuing commands and praise in equal measure. Always, it's "do this" or "I'm going to do that" or "God, Ianto" and Ianto wants to comply, needs to. But he's too hot and too stupid with it to know what Jack means.

He searches Jack's face. "…Jack?"

"I want to hear it. No text to hide behind. Tell me."

His mouth feels suddenly dry, palms uncommonly wet. He falls into Jack's dark, dark eyes, licks at his mouth and swallows. "I…I'd like to fuck you." It's barely more than a whisper but Ianto feels it in his bones.

Jack closes his eyes, cocks his head and inhales. His lips and closed eyes turn up at the corners. "Again," he urges.

"I want to fuck you." Ianto's shaking, but a thought tickles at the back of his brain, like a message he was meant to deliver but forgot or a task that needs doing.

Jack's eyes open over a blinding smile. "God, Ianto. I thought you'd never ask."

He's been waiting? Jack wants this? The force of it knocks Ianto back a step. "You…why…" Ianto shakes his head and reaches for Jack. Closes his fingers around Jack's hip and curls his palm behind Jack's neck.

It's different. Every time he can remember that he's stretched for Jack, moved to him, there's been a sort of a please attached. I want, I need, please.

Now, he takes Jack's mouth, takes it, hearing an echo of his needs in Jack opening to him. It's there also in Jack's hands, torn between stripping off his necktie, holding their heads together to deepen the kiss, and slipping down Ianto's back to pull their hips flush and rock against him.

He's missed this, he realizes, amidst the bruising crush of mouths and scrape of eager hands. This, being knowing he's wanted, not just as a conveniently willing warm body with which to pass the time, but as Ianto, and again knowing he has the power to please. It's heady and a little terrifying, which, perversely, feels totally brilliant and washes away the lingering taint of guilt.

Lisa would never begrudge him finding someone else he truly wants.


So while Jack attacks his shirt-front, Ianto works the fastening of Jack's trousers, impatient with the need to have him now after so long a wait. And when he gets them open, ignores inconvenience to Jack still wrangling his cuffs and slides his hands around inside to fill his palms with Jack's arsecheeks.

Jack looks at him expectantly, more than a little smug. It seems that words are warranted, but Ianto has no handy quips. Instead he bends his head to latch his mouth onto the sweet spot over Jack's pulse and Jack's strangled cry of "Ian-to," goes straight to Ianto's cock. Even as he smoothes Jack's trousers down his legs, he sucks harder and deeper - finally leaving the possessive red mark he's been seeing in his head since a week last Tuesday when Jack rubbed the underside of his jaw during a briefing.

Jack returns the favor with a suckling kiss to the hollow of his throat that has Ianto clutching at Jack's biceps. Especially when he frees Ianto's cock and thumbs over the head while he marks him.

Having Jack, Ianto reckons, differs from being had mostly in the particulars, but Ianto's determined to make an impression.

"On your back, sir, if you don't mind." His voice sounds husky, vowels soft, but there's nothing tentative in it and the "sir" is tease, not diffidence. "I want to watch your face when you take me up the arse."

The latter sentence surprises Jack's eyebrow up. With satisfying speed, he goes to his back, knees spread and fingertips reaching out to where Ianto's standing to trail Ianto's hip and hamstring. His mouth twists around something he clearly wants to say, but in an uncharacteristic burst of patience – or possibly impatience for Ianto atop him – Jack waits to speak until Ianto's stepped out of his trousers, slipped off his shirt and settled over Jack on his elbows.

"Later, I'm going to get on my hands and knees for you. But I wouldn't miss seeing this for the world."

Jack's low purr resonates dangerously in Ianto. "Later…" Ianto flexes his hips to drag his cock along the length of Jack's. When Jack lifts into him, wanton and wanting, Ianto's bitten-back groan makes his voice deeper and darker than he's ever heard it. "You'll be lucky to remember your name, sir."

A soft, well-pleased laugh breaks from Jack accompanied by the deliberate rake of his fingernails down Ianto's spine.

There's little room to be offended. Not with the possessive scratch-marking, nor with Jack's cock sliding between them on slippery trails of precome as much his as Ianto's. But any temptation in that direction is removed when Jack growls across his ear, "Oh, I do plan to hold you to that," then nips his jaw sharp enough to set off a sparkler of hot pain before promising, "And repay it in kind."

The beauty of it is, Ianto can't honestly say which arouses him more. Not even with Jack gaze-locked to him and stretching back to fetch the slick off his dressing table – quite deliberately rubbing his entrance against Ianto's shaft.

Bottle delivered imperiously to his hand, Ianto kneels between Jack's thighs. Tit for tat, he spreads his own knees, then curls his hands under Jack's hamstrings and lifts his legs up, apart, and over Ianto's thighs.

And seeing Jack like that -- ruddy prick jutting upwards, heavy, full sac stretching down toward his thighs, back arched at an unnatural angle and arsehole exposed and begging penetration…

Ianto stutters, stumbles, fingers clutching Jack's strong thighs for balance. What is he doing, shagging Jack Harkness, his -- Torchwood's -- Captain?

Jack's gaze, usually bright with humor, now soft and dark with lust fixes on him, watching. Needing. "Don't keep me waiting, Ianto." Please.

He looks so altogether vulnerable – is this what Jack feels when it's him splayed open and waiting? Hesitation flees, replaced by the secure and certain knowledge this is simply one more way of taking care of Jack.

Before popping the lid on the lubricant, Ianto palms over Jack's belly and strokes his flat hand up the top-side of his cock. "Just appreciating the view."

Half-lie becomes whole truth as he speaks it. He can't stop watching his fingertip softening the puckered tissue of Jack's arsehole with slick. Nor the tight knot easing open beneath his touch. Nor, especially, two tight-pressed fingers circling and stretching just inside the rim until Jack whines, "Ianto…"

Then Ianto meets Jack's eye and winks. "You can hardly blame me, Jack. It's a fair prospect."

Even fairer when Ianto breaches him, opening Jack around two fingers, and Jack's arse lifts off Ianto's thighs.

"Yes, Ianto, yes, oh God, yes," Jack murmurs, though it's more demand than gratitude.

One with which Ianto's utterly pleased to comply. He's strung tight and pulled tighter with every inward thrust. Rough heat of not-quite-slick-enough muscle rubbing and squeezing his fingers. Jack's eyes going unfocused at the addition of the third, and sharp-focused before blanking when Ianto crooks them up and in. Jack panting and his orders becoming incoherent pleasure cries…oh yes, Ianto likes stretching Jack to take him.

In fact, he'd rather like to make him come this way. Stroking and massaging like he does Jack's shoulders, stimulating him until he can't hold onto tension and must release – and paint Ianto with his come.

Jack must see it in his face, or else he's just being bossy, because he grabs Ianto's wrist. His fingers lock down, crushing skin to bone. Bright bloom of pain only makes it better, hotter, when Jack struggles up to his elbows to urge, "No-more-foreplay-fuck-me."

It's all one sentence. Almost one word. Not quite incoherent but close.

Ianto smirks his triumph around a whimper of relief. It hasn't been but three, maybe four, minutes since Jack cinched tight around his knuckles, but with Jack's plea, the entire three weeks of waiting settles in his groin.

It'll be Weevils and the Queen if he means to last at all.

Wincing at the heaviness of his sac, Ianto retrieves his handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, uncharacteristically puddled within easy reach. Jack moans when he slips his fingers free, and Ianto quite agrees. The thought of a condom crosses his mind and slides right on through: they're regularly tested as per Owen; Jack can't get sick or be a carrier; and there's no one else for him but Jack.

All perfectly rational, right-thinking explanations, but, in truth, Ianto simply wants to see Jack's arse wet with slick and spunk.

The image burns behind his eyes, Jack rogered wide and wet helping nothing in the way of stamina as Ianto pours lubricant in his hand and fists – fuck, oh fuck -- his shaft. With Jack watching him, needing him, he keeps it to a few steady, unsatisfying pulls, then shifts to re-align.

Slow, Ianto, steady now he chants, though he guesses it's well past the point. Especially when feeding Jack his cock, seeing him open around the crown, has Ianto shuddering, teeth chattering, so fevered-hot he's chilled.

Kneading Ianto's biceps, Jack cants his hips and Ianto's cock head penetrates the first ring. Ianto stiffens, then lets go a ragged groan. Breath held and belly shaking, he pulls his gaze from where they're joined. Seeks Jack's permission and finds it in chewed-pink lip and wide, hungry eyes.

Ianto takes him on an even press, pace measured against Jack's flinches and flexes.

It's nothing like he expected. A half-bottle of slick couldn't make it feel like what he's been used to, mouth, fist, or cunt. Jack's tight over his entire length, and moving into him's a long, dragging glide. Hardly unpleasant – oh, hardly -- but it takes some getting used to.

Some. A little. A very little. Fuck.

He's throbbing, pulsing, needing, cock sheathed balls-deep in Jack.

And even better than Jack spread out beneath him is Jack eyeing him up, pleased and panting.

Jack's mouth opens, but before he can speak, Ianto gains his composure, hooks his arms under Jack's knees, and thrusts. What assuredly had been some variant on Move, Ianto comes out "nnngh-oh" mingled with Ianto's grunt.

The angle's so awkward at first that there's little need of counting Weevils. Jack's legs slide in sweat born of wanting and restraint. Ianto lifts them too high, then not high enough. His jaw clenches in frustration at the need to take and rut and fuck.

Yet Jack moves with him, adjusting, helping. Abruptly what was wrong is right and Ianto finds his place.

He fucks in, testing. Jack's fingernails rake furrows in his biceps. Again, harder, and Jack spasms around him. One more time, just to be sure and Jack's hands fall from Ianto's shoulders to tangle in the sheets.

"Ianto, yes. Harder. Want it." He opens squeezed-shut eyes to fix his gaze on Ianto. "I want you."

A slow frisson works its way down Ianto's spine. He risks the newfound rightness of the angle to bend and ask, "Do you want to hear it?" in a heated whisper against the shell of Jack's ear.

Jack arches up to take him deep. "You know I do."

"I want you."

Saying it is as much relief as finally having Jack. And once he has, he brushes his mouth over Jack's, pushes up and settles in. Lays in, lifting one of Jack's legs to rest his calf against Ianto's shoulder and slamming home. Steady, solid, hard connections of their hips, each one driving Jack farther toward the headboard.

Turns out Ianto doesn't need either Her Majesty or ugly aliens to hold on. Hearing Jack's words unravel into moans, seeing Jack's arse swallowing his cock and Jack's fingers scrabbling for a grip, that's enough to keep him flexing, thrusting, reaming past the skin too tight, sac drawn up, cock pulsing, chest aching of fucking Jack.

He's missed this, too. Eyes stinging with sweat and mouth tasting of salt and body aching for release while keeping himself back to bring his partner off.

It's an odd thing to miss, waiting for someone else to climax before you, but Lisa would understand.

He reckons Jack does too. Especially when he palms his cock and mouths, "Ianto," then manages "Wish you could see" and "Have to" between fast, filthy jerks.

Ianto moans "Please" and "Yes," and "Yes," again before Jack stiffens, bows off the bed, and comes.

Exactly as Ianto had envisioned it, Jack paints him in splatters of hot come. His belly, chest, and Jack's own calf, which Ianto promptly suckles clean, reveling in the taste of him.

More precisely, he latches his mouth around the muscle and marks it while surging through the sudden clenching spasms around his throbbing shaft. He loses himself in heat and friction, pounding Jack's arse without restraint until Jack whimpers, "Ianto, please," then tumbles headlong into Jack and his release.

The first pulse slickens muscle gone sticky with repeated applications of cock. The second pulls a deep groan from Ianto, and the third a higher sharper cry. After that, he loses count. No point, is there, wrapping his mind around an orgasm better than three weeks in the making.

He simply rests his cheek against Jack's ankle and rides it to the end.

Some time later -- no knowing how long -- Jack curls a hand around Ianto's neck and tugs him firmly down. Distantly, through a fog of pleasure and exhaustion, it occurs to Ianto perhaps he ought to be the one doing the holding, but he can't be arsed to care.

Not when Jack's smoothing back his sweaty hair and telling him how gorgeous he is between kisses.

Still later, Jack throws a leg across his hips in a way that no longer seems too intimate. He hmmms contentedly as Ianto dips two fingers between his arsecheeks to rub his wet, swollen hole.

"Did you figure it out yet?" Jack asks.

From anyone else, it would be a complete non sequitur. From time-traveling Jack Harkness, it's a direct line between two points on wholly separate but parallel planes. Familiar with his patterns, Ianto forces his brain to work back to before they fucked and finds his own unasked question as the likely reference:

Why didn't you just tell me you wanted to be fucked?

With Jack, there'll be more than one reason. A complex agenda of giving Ianto what he thinks Ianto needs, protecting him and allowing Ianto to care for him, enjoying life and having fun besides.

Ianto kisses Jack's shoulder, then offers, "You wanted me to ask."
"Almost." Jack pushes his arse into Ianto's hand and nuzzles against his throat. "I wanted to say yes."

And wanted Ianto to hear it, which Ianto fully appreciates. "I confess I rather liked hearing it, but… "

"But?" Jack's eyebrow lifts and Ianto traces the arch with the index finger of his free hand.

"But, now that we've got to yes, I do hope you'll feel free to ask."

Jack smirks and nips at the heel of Ianto's hand. "Oh, I will. In about ten minutes."

Ianto presses a finger into Jack. "If you will, sir, let me spare you the trouble. Yes."


poisontaster, derryderrydown and I had a challenge to see what would happen if three totally different writers took the same idea and ran with it. The idea: the first time Ianto fucks Jack.

derryderrydown wrote the sharp and clever Pobol y Ffaglcoedwig. Apparently the title's a Welsh joke. Not knowing Welsh, I can't help you, but read the story anyway. It's hot and sweet and angsty all at once.

My title is also a joke. A lawyer joke. "Getting to Yes" is the title of a very famous book on negotiations. This story honors it mostly in the breach (and yes that's another very bad pun).

Gracias tanto (which is Spanish, not Welsh) to way2busymom for quoting bandslash badfic at me to keep me writing. To merepersiflage who stepped up at a neurotic moment to pet me on the head, then turned out to be an amazing support system. To poisontaster for a supremely good job of putting me straight and concernedlily and perplexia for helpful Britpick. Obeisances to my muse for not abandoning me even when the cute butts of spring training got between me and Ianto rogering Jack's quite glorious arse.
Tags: gwen cooper, ianto jones, jack harkness, lisa hallett, owen harper, toshiko sato, tw

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