(mathematics) A contact of two curves (or two surfaces) at which they have a common tangent
Kiss: the act of caressing with the lips (or an instance thereof)
Dark, but not black; Ianto can still see outlines, shadows, reflections, cast into blue-ish light from the monitors above them. Or he could see them, if his eyes weren't closed.
He is pressed down into laying position on the couch, back firmly pushed onto the cushions. He feels the springs beneath them digging in slightly, and wonders vaguely if they should invest in a new couch, until, in an instant, the thought is completely wiped from his mind.
It's night, too. The team have gone home for the day.
Jack is on top of him. They lie there; alone but for each other, naked but for what they haven't yet dragged from themselves, silent but for occasional gasps, or moans, or groans.
It's painful, the brutal reality of it. And Ianto can't deny it, because it's real, and it's there. And there are Jack's thighs, burrowed between his, and there are Jack's hands, resting on his chest, and there are Jack's lips, focussed on his jugular… and he is completely and utterly vulnerable…
There is nothing he could do. Were Jack to strike, he would be utterly defenceless. Were Jack to run away, he would be naked and alone in the Hub. Were Jack to laugh, he would feel like a fool.
As it is, when Jack's lips part slightly, and he gives the smallest of nips… beautifully subtle, almost unnoticeable… there is nothing Ianto can do except shudder, and grip the couch beneath him, and try his utmost not to give away how fucking good it feels, because, for a moment, he has almost lost control of his everything.
He's naught but a passenger on Jack's ship. He knows that, really. Though it's him, Ianto Jones, that Jack is teasing, tickling, biting… it is for his own pleasure that he does so. All for personal gain. Ianto is just there, objectified, used for his expressions, his moans, his blatant physicality, and… but, oh, Christ, he's so fucking good at it…
It stops. Ianto opens his eyes.
And now Jack is right there, and their eyes interlock – just for a second – and then Ianto looks away, to the right, to last night's pizza boxes he meant to throw out, stacked neatly on top of the coffee table. And Jack moves on, to his neck once again.
He wonders, sometimes, what might happen if he had the balls to do as he pleased… to be spontaneous, to use his initiative. His thoughts about this whatever-it-is-arrangement-with-Jack are so unpredictably temperamental. Perhaps it's better if his thoughts stay with him, and him alone. Sometimes he wants to cry 'Stop it, Jack!'… to push him away, and to embrace the awkwardness with a punch or two. Other times, he dreams of sighing 'You're wonderful, Jack', and embracing the Captain in a different way altogether. As it is, he simply lies there, taking it – the pleasure, the pain, the unprecedented confusion – in heavy blows, as it comes.
The harsh neck-work stops, and it all becomes lighter. Soft, like warm rain. Jack's lips wander upwards, his effort delightful in its comparative weightlessness… a pattering trail, up to his chin, along Ianto's jaw.
Jack's lips detour sideways, slowly but surely, up by his ears, and then move, dangerously, further inward. Ianto forces his eyes open once again.
And Jack is right there, again, eyes glittering above him, bluer than usual in the monitors' glow. He's a little too close for comfort, now, and Ianto watches with… dread? Bemusement? Anticipation?... as Jack, as if in slow motion, pushes his lips downward and onto Ianto's own.
Ianto pulls away quickly, a sharp jerk of the head. Jack makes an odd, sliding exclamation. He props himself up on his hands, his chest an arm span above Ianto's, now. Ianto looks to the pizza boxes again, determined to avoid the gaze that is so equally single-minded in meeting his own.
"Do you want me to stop?" Jack's voice is harsh, almost cold in its brutal honesty.
"No." His own is quieter. Richer. Near mellow.
"Just that. The rest is fine."
"Jack. It's… fine."
Jack takes this as his cue.
Cold, clean unromantic verity slaps Ianto in the face. Hard. Tears begin to well, of their own accord. Jack doesn't notice. He's back at work on Ianto's well worn neck.
It is fine, it's all fine. In fact, it's fucking fantastic.
Until that moment, that kiss. Relatively insignificant to most.
A kiss makes it tangible. A kiss makes it explainable. A kiss makes it irreversible. The simple joining of two pairs of lips makes it, them, Jack and Ianto, actually exist. It makes these night-time expeditions seem more that what they are, what they can ever be.
If, in fact, whatever they are is what Ianto has perceived them to be. He's sure that it's what Jack sees, in any case.
And so he lets Jack do as he pleases to the rest of him. Because they both want it, and because they both like it, and because it's arrestingly satisfying.
But the lips… the lips are too much. Because with a kiss, the status quo is destroyed. With a kiss comes epiphany, and emotional lingering, and undeniable feeling.
And all that can bring, all it will ever bring, is a bitter resentment.
Yes, Ianto decides, as Jack moves slowly downward. Better to keep it unromantic, sterile… almost professional. Sensationalising it will only bring hope.
And it's downright depressing, when he thinks about it.
Until, once again, Jack finds just the right spot, right there, and Ianto can lose himself… all thought, all feeling, all everything… in wholly-consuming pleasure, and gut-wrenching pain.