Word count: ~ 1,200
Warnings: (Completely bucking the rules here, but I'm going to call this letting JAW earn its rating.) Um, blatant smut.
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective owners. I am in no way associated with the creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: Uh, hi, yeah, this is me practicing writing porn (and failing). I'm so sorry.
(Title is from the Daniel Powter song Cupid.)
We Always Get That Right
Ianto wakes to drowsy kisses pressed along his spine, warm hands on his hips and hot, damp breath against his neck.
He smiles, because how could one not when coming awake to that?
"Jack," he murmurs into the pillowcase, sleep-husky and a little gravelly from last night—his throat's not accustomed to so much use. He's warm all over, somnolent and dreamy and far too content to open his eyes, so he keeps them closed, even as Jack slides up to cover him with his body.
"Ianto," Jack returns, and it's husky and just this side of laughter. "Aren't you going to open those beautiful blues for me, gorgeous?"
"Mph." Ianto manages to crack one eye a sliver, and gives the Captain a look. "Jack, if you want a repeat of…" He squints to see the clock, and groans in disgust. "…four hours ago, then you're destined for disappointment."
Jack moves over slightly, one hand coming up to twine his fingers with Ianto's, the other gliding down along his side with a knowing, burning touch that Ianto feels down to his very core. His next kiss falls right behind Ianto's ear, and he breathes into it, "Well, I guess we're golden then, seeing as I was thinking of returning the favor." Then his teeth close with gentle pressure over the curve when Ianto's neck meets his shoulder, and every nerve in Ianto's body comes alive in a near-painful rush. He groans, twitching and fighting the urge to jerk back into Jack as his cock hardens completely.
His libido hasn't been this active since he was sixteen, and he can't quite decide whether to curse Jack for it or thank him.
"So gorgeous," Jack murmurs, the rumble in his chest just another jolt that leaves Ianto shivering against him. "You're so pretty in my bed, Ianto. I never want to let you out of it."
It's so cliché that Ianto just has to roll his eyes, twisting his head to pin Jack with a flat stare. (And if it can't completely hide the roughness of his breathing or make him entirely forget about the arousal throbbing through his blood, well. Only he and Mainframe have to know that.) "Torchwood would fall in a day, sir," he retorts, "and the others would rebel for lack of coffee. I'd enjoy seeing you try, however."
Jack laughs, full-throated and deep, and wraps both arms around Ianto to pull him close. He feathers kisses over Ianto's face, sweet and happy, and Ianto has to fight back giggles of his own. "Oh, Yan," Jack says, grinning, as he rolls over onto his back and takes Ianto with him. "What would I ever do without you?"
"Wither away," Ianto answers promptly, grinning right back at him, and kisses him—because he can, because he wants to, because they're in bed and happy and there's nothing holding them back right now. Jack tastes of spice and mint, warm and a little sharp, and Ianto hooks a leg around his hip and rolls them right back over so Jack's on top.
Jack will never have to find out what he would or wouldn't do without Ianto, because Ianto is "preservation status permanent," and he's never leaving.
Staring down at him, Jack's eyes are bluer than ever, warm and soft, and the two of them are alone in this bed, no one else between them. The Doctor is gone in the TARDIS, perplexed by Jack's decision to remain, but accepting, and Ianto's glad to see he and Jack are easier with each other now, even though it makes him a little jealous. But Jack will always be Jack, and there's always going to be someone who came before. Ianto just has to make sure that he remains long after all the others have faded to memory.
Jack's wandering fingers find the swell of his arse, and Ianto jerks a little bit as wicked touches glance over his hole, still sensitive from their first round, when Jack splayed him out over his desk in the Hub and took him there, where Ianto will never be able to so much as enter Jack's office without remembering. Six hours ago, by now, but he's still tender and hypersensitive there, eager for more but not entirely sure he can take it.
"You can," Jack whispers against his skin, like it's a secret, like he knows what Ianto's thinking. "Just a little more, right? You can take it." And the words might be gentle and encouraging, but the grin is filthy, just as wicked as the fingers that are now dipping in and out of Ianto's body, making him twitch and shudder into Jack's arms.
"Jack," he gasps, and it's hard, because Jack has stolen all his breath, snatched it away with the third finger he pushes into Ianto, the long, broad, calloused fingers that he crooks so expertly to find and torment Ianto's prostrate. Ianto has to bite back a cry at that, something wild working its way up in his throat as though trying to escape. A click of a plastic cap, the plurp of dripping gel, and then the fingers are smooth and can slide deeper. They drive all of Ianto's thoughts out as they slide in, the stretch and twist and sparks of magnesium-bright pleasure enough to leave him helpless in front of Jack, shuddering in desperation without so much as one coherent word on his lips.
But there must be some words, somewhere, because Ianto has enough lucidity left to reach out and grab Jack's hip, pulling him closer as he pants, "Now, please, fuck, Jack. Please."
It's not just Ianto reduced to the bare minimums, though—Jack's suspiciously quiet above him, normally deft hands fumbling on the lube as he slicks himself up, breathing rough and nearly harsh enough to be called panting. But finally, finally, he crooks Ianto's leg around his waist and lines himself up, and then slides home with a solid push.
It's perfect. It's beyond perfect. Ianto can't breathe for the heat and fullness, the pressure on his prostate and knowledge that Jack is in him and taking pleasure from his body. Jack seems overwhelmed, as well, leaning down to press his forehead to Ianto's as he simply breathes. His pupils are blown wide, only a thin rim of that beautiful blue left, and Ianto stares up at him, shocked that he is enough to bring the great Jack Harkness to this.
It's over almost embarrassingly quickly after that, regardless of the times that have come before. They're both so wound up, so ready, that Jack pulls out, pushes in again, hits Ianto's prostate, and Ianto is coming, gasping, head thrown back and body tightening almost convulsively. The feel of his orgasm sends Jack spiraling after him, groaning low and deep in his throat as he comes apart.
Ianto's never seen a more beautiful sight, and now it's going to be his forever.