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[personal profile] notevery
Title: Exorcism
Rating & Warnings: 18/NC-17.  Graphic, rough sex.  Porn & plot.
Characters: Jack/Ianto
Spoilers: Set post-Cyberwoman.  Spoilers up to 1.05 (Small Worlds).
Beta:  [profile] ferretwho (who is absolutely wonderful)
Wordcount: 3,374

Summary: Ianto watches something that he shouldn't, and Jack isn't very pleased.

Exorcism

It is all the fault of the fucking French boy.  Or rather, it is all the fault of the French boy Jack is fucking.

Not that Ianto is jealous.  Why would he be?  Not after what happened—not after what Jack did to Lisa.  Not even weeks afterwards, not even when Jack has been so polite, so eager to conquer Ianto’s heart and mind, win him back into the fold. No.  Ianto is not jealous.  He just cares about it because it leads to situations like this—two a.m. at the Hub, and Jack’s quarters empty.  The clean-up and lock-down left for Ianto to do.  Jack’s dirty clothes all over the floor, and an e-mail on his civilian address:

Will you come again tonight?

It is all the fault of the French boy Jack is fucking.  Him and his stupid double entendres.

*

Ianto watches them.  It is not intentional.   They are in the car.  The car has CCTV.  It plays constantly in a little blue-rimmed window on his desktop computer at the Institute; when it senses motion for the first time, rousing it into activity, it emits a tinny little jingle into the chilly emptiness of the after-hours reception room.  It distracts Ianto from eBay: it is his job to watch. (Almost.)  In the dim light, he can make out the muscles over Jack’s back, clear through his thin shirt: deltoid fascia.  Trapezius.  Latissimus dorsi.  Thoracic vertebrae.  True and false ribs.  The names trickle back into the forefront of his memory, a brief and sharp memory of Torchwood One: of the exhaustive training.  Of excelling.  Of being valued.

He watches Jack make excuses—grinning, sliding his hand down to cup the boy’s crotch though his jeans, pulling him gently into the backseat—, watches Jack talking about ‘government agency’, ‘company car’, ‘nothing special’.  Listens to them laugh together, listens to the laughter deepen into panting, open up into groans and gasps and low, deep hisses.  Watches as Jack slides back against the darkened glass, rests his arms over the headrests, smiles with that inimitable poise, self confidence, at the boy.  Watches as the boy undoes Jack’s fly, nerves making him fumble with the zipper—and Jack only strokes his hair, laughs once, reassures him.  Ianto zooms in, his own fingers trembling, to watch thin fingers tug slowly, slowly, painfully slowly at Jack’s boxers.  Looks at Jack’s cock.

Doesn’t look at Jack’s cock.  Doesn’t.  Opens up the Hub Interface quickly, pulls up Torchwood history, reads the files he helped to write.  Takes deep breaths.  Doesn’t look at Jack’s cock.

Changes the window again.  Looks at Jack’s cock.  Looks at the blonde’s mouth on Jack’s cock, the press of his lips against the dark skin.  Looks at the trail of saliva and pre-come at the corner of his mouth; the way his cheeks hollow as he bobs his head; the curve of his fingers as they grip the fabric of Jack’s shirt.  Looks up at Jack’s closed eyes, tilted head, parted lips, flushed cheeks.  Looks at Jack’s—

Ianto swallows dryly, slides a hand down to rub at his own erection, pressed tight against his suit.  It would not, a tiny part of him thinks, be a good time for Toshiko to remember she has left something on her desk.

Jack is panting, now: breath rasping from close by, as if he were sitting right beside Ianto—sprawled— over the desk, being given eager head by a barely-known boy.  Ianto’s mind clicks and flies with the same efficiency he brings to work everyday, the same efficiency that got him hired—collecting and collating memories with received images; juxtaposing the harshness of Jack’s words with the recalled smoothness of his lips during that kiss; his control and poise at work contrasting harshly with his face now, just there—and Ianto’s hand is somehow in his trousers, rubbing furiously quick, his heart beating hard in his chest—just there as Jack’s back arches, his hands slide and twist in the blonde’s hair, the muscles quadriceps rectus abdominus interal oblique external oblique oh fuck oh fuck tensing, catching, oh fuck squeezing

The boy swallows and Jack pulls him up for a hungry kiss, flushed and sweat-glazed and sliding skin over skin, hands under shirts, fingers pressing and scratching and scalding in the dark interior of the car.

Ianto kills the sound and changes back to eBay in one swift movement, takes a deep shudder-breath, reaches for the packet of tissues beside the box of leaflets about Cardiff’s nightlife.

*

Cleaned up and calmed down, Ianto checks that the front door is safely locked and heads down to the Hub proper; sets about cleaning up, sorting things out for the next day.  Unlike the Captain he needs to sleep; unlike the Captain, he lives outside of the Institute, and not very close to it.  Ianto may feel electric with energy, but the digital display of the clock above Tosh’s workstation flashes a rhythmic (rhythmic like the tiny thrusts of Jack’s hips into the blonde’s mouth; rhythmic like his kiss which was so energizing, invigorating, electrifying) 3:10 AM: it is time to go home.

He picks up the dirty coffee mugs from various surfaces; turns off computer screens to save power; dusts salt-and-vinegar crisp-crumbs from the empty autopsy table where Owen was reading a lads’ mag earlier; gently straightens Gwen’s already-neat piles of notes.  He feels as if he should do more—but the pterodactyl is capable of feeding herself, the Weevil is better left alone, and Torchwood Three is simply not as busy as One was.  He is unclear, even, of why they hired him to work here.  They don’t utilize his skills as much as they could.  As Owen put it, scathingly, that first day when Ianto was bringing down the coffee (made over the course of hours and several attempts, grinding carefully and measuring and whisking), “we don’t need a suit, thanks.”

Ianto shuts Gwen’s open draw with a small slam, aligns the pen above at perfect right angles with the edge of the desk.  They do need him, though.  This place would fall apart if he weren’t here.  It’s not only the coffee and how good he looks in a suit, like Jack says with that big, playful grin—it’s the fact that he organizes, and he can plan.  He keeps this thing together.  He cleans up their mess.

Jack’s quarters are downstairs from the Hub proper.  Ianto goes there, occasionally—like now—to clean for him.  He is, after all, a glorified maid.  Clenching his teeth he pushes open the door, tries to not concentrate on the smell of Jack’s cologne, of his skin.  The small room is as neat as it always is: if Jack allows his workspaces to become somewhat cluttered, he shows an almost military precision here.  Furniture is sparse: a chair, a wardrobe, a desk, a bed.

Ianto tries not to look at the bed.  Tries not to think about—doesn’t think about.  He takes deep breaths.

There is next to nothing to clean.  Ianto hesitates by the desk, resting his fingertips on the metal ever so lightly.  Jack travels light, apparently: there is no clutter.  An antique-looking watch rests beside a photograph in a delicate silver frame: Jack, wide-smiling, with his arm around a little old lady.  His mother?

The frame is surprisingly heavy in Ianto’s hands, cold and hefty.  Holding the picture close enough to his face for the glass to mist with his breath, he surveys the image once more, looking hungrily from one figure to the next.  Something—some nagging emotion—tells him that this is not quite right, that this is not all that it seems.  A weight settles in his stomach; his throat tightens; and yet, there is nothing.  Nothing to cause the apprehension.  Not unless the anger for the wide-smiling, smooth-talking Jack is returning again; burning and eating away at him.

But this emotion doesn’t feel like anger.  It feels a little more like hatred, perhaps: something cutting and grating deep in Ianto’s torso; a writhing in his belly.

“What the fuck,” Jack’s voice annunciates very carefully from behind him, “are you doing in my room?”

Ianto tenses, and the hatred feeling spikes.  All of a sudden it is very quiet: there is only Jack’s breathing; the quiet beeping from the Hub proper (how did he miss the sound of the heavy door opening?); Ianto’s own heart beating frantically, double-time.

“I checked your little eBay auction upstairs,” Jack adds after a pause, his voice smooth over the non sequitur.

Ianto cannot help but imagine his lips, imagine his—no, not imagine his—not that.  He sets the frame down on the desk with a clink, forcing his stiff fingers to let go of the metal.

“Your auction on the designer bean grinder is over.  You lost to someone whose name seemed to be a clever pun about rulers.  Anyway—” a pause, and a step, though Ianto cannot tell where to, feels almost panicky in his vulnerability, “I hope you were intending to put that down on work expenses—it’s very expensive to be coming out of your wages, don’t you think?”

Ianto swallows, mouth suddenly very dry and suit very tight about his crotch.

“And as for that little video you have playing in the background,” Jack adds in a lazy drawl, “that is priceless.”

“Sir,” Ianto says as firmly as he can.  “Sorry, sir.”

Jack makes a quiet tssking sound, and his breath is sudden and warm on the revealed nape of Ianto’s neck above the collar of his shirt, ghosting down his spine and tickling over his skin.  “’Sorry’?  I don’t think that quite forgives you for watching in on my private business.”

Ianto sees a flash of lips and cock and saliva, a quick blow in the back of a car.  His knees momentarily threaten to give way.  “Sir.  I wanted to check nothing was happening to the car, sir.”

“The car,” Jack repeats, slowly.  For a moment, Ianto is unsure of whether they are touching or not: and then he is very sure, accidentally starting forward till the desk presses into his upper thighs as Jack moves up against him from behind—a hot, heavy mass, forceful and dominating.

Jack’s hands hit the desk to either side of Ianto with an ominous thud.

“I guess you just wanted to check we didn’t get any come on the leather, huh?”

Ianto makes a tiny little noise, involuntary and embarrassingly whimper-like, and immediately wishes he had had more self control, that he hadn’t lost all his composure after what happened to Lisa: he can feel Jack’s smug smile against the side of his neck, feel the self-satisfied arrogance of his smirk.

“Well, we didn’t,” Jack whispers.  “Julien swallows.”

It is that—that, or perhaps the press of Jack’s erection against his arse—which makes Ianto’s anger and hatred flare, and he pushes back hard, sudden enough to send Jack off-balance and reeling back over the room.  “Go fuck yourself, sir,” he snarls, rounding on the larger man.  All of a sudden he realizes he’s shouting: practically screaming, though at least there aren’t tears like after Lisa, at least this is rage and not heartbreak.  “You’re a fucking bastard, you know that?  What you’re doing to that boy is wrong.  What is he—eighteen?  An exchange student!  And what’s more, a, a—” and oh, God, he’s gesticulating, his accent becoming thicker and thicker, trying to grip tight to the fraying threads of his self-esteem—“a victim, a memory-wiped victim.  What kind of ethics is that—saving someone from an attack, giving them the pills and then ‘accidentally’ being on their street the next day?  What kind of person does that make you—using your job to coerce teenagers into sex?”

Jack hits him.  It is not a threat, it is not a warning: it is an attack, Jack’s fist coming towards him hard and fast, crunching against his face.  Ianto reels under the impact and the sudden, dull pain – his fingers, as he lowers them again, are red with blood.

For a moment, just a moment, there is silence.

Jack massages his knuckles, not looking up at Ianto.  “Don’t you say that again, Ianto Jones.  Don’t you dare judge my personal life after the threat you brought into Torchwood.”

After a long moment, Ianto becomes aware that the quiet whimpers echoing through the subterranean room are his own.  Blood drips from his chin to his shirt, warm on his skin: as he licks his lips, he tastes copper.  He can almost see the hard metal of a gun before his face again.  Time seems oddly compressed, as if the very fabric of it has been folded and two alien moments nestled close together: Jack, threatening to kill him that night; and now Jack, here, early in the morning, watching him bleed.

“You’re an idiot, Ianto, you know that?” Jack sighs, breaking the long pause.  His hand is light on Ianto’s shoulder.  “Come on.”

Through the haze of post-outburst numbness, Ianto is barely aware of Jack leading him to the sink in Owen’s sunken examination room; unclear of the exact moment at which Jack finishes cleaning the blood from his face, lays down the damp cloth, and kisses him.  Ianto’s heart skips more than one beat.  Despite the shock, though, despite the almost physical crush of it, the sheer unexpectedness of Jack’s lips on his mouth, what first occurs to Ianto—as he grips the basin in shock, draws in a sharp breath—is philtrum.  Philtrum, labium superioris, labium inferioris.  Orbicularis oris.  Risorius.  The words swirl and collide and meld, easier than describing this—the softness of Jack’s lips.  The faint traces of late-night stubble.  The first touch of his tongue on Ianto’s lower lip, seeking, coaxing.  The faint taste of coffee in his mouth.  All the hundred other little realities that Ianto hadn’t quite grasped, no matter how hard he tried, in late-night fantasies he has tried to deny even to himself.

It takes him several long, freefall moments to realize that this is really happening and that he is not stopping it.

The muscles over Ianto’s belly clench as cool fingertips slide between the buttons of his shirt, tracing the circle about his navel.  Reflexively he opens his mouth to draw in a shuddering breath, eyes clenching shut—and there is Jack’s tongue, hot and slick and demanding, and Jack’s other hand cupping the back of his head, fingers twisting in his hair.

Jack pushes forward, slow but insistent, and Ianto takes one step back, then another, almost stumbling (suddenly everything, everything but his mouth and tongue is clumsy, somehow distant from him) until he feels the solid press of the wall behind him, lets the back of his skull rest against it.  Here, anchored against cold and hard reality, he finds it easier to make sense of this—this thing that is strange and inexplicable and wrong, but nevertheless something that feels good, something that feels somehow necessary, somehow predestined.  Desire and want throb low in Ianto’s belly and, as he slides his hand under Jack’s shirt, pulls him close, he can almost make himself believe that this is just about sex—this is just about hormones and anger and lust.

Everywhere there is heat: Jack’s tongue, Jack’s lips, Jack’s weight, Jack’s erection pressed against Ianto’s thigh, hard and wanting.  Jack’s fingers ripping at his shirt till the buttons pop, gripping Ianto’s hands rough enough to hurt and slamming them hard against the wall above his head, pinning him there—arching, gasping, pressing his hips forward desperately—as Jack dips his head and bites at Ianto’s lower lip, neck, collarbone.

(A phantom evocation in Ianto’s mind: a third man, younger than both of them, skinny and whippet-like, blonde, eagerly sliding his mouth down Jack’s body—)

Jack growls and presses Ianto back against the wall hard and angry, fingernails digging into the other man’s skin.  Look at me.”

Ianto gasps a “yes, sir,” and the intense look in Jack’s eyes makes his cock twitch.

Jack seems to accept that: he tightens his fingers in Ianto’s hair and tugs, forcing Ianto to tilt his head back with a short, sharp intake of breath at the sting—and then Ianto can feel Jack’s fingers at his trousers, Jack’s fingers undoing his zipper, Jack’s fingers on his skin as he pushes trousers and boxers down.

The air of the Hub is so cold on Ianto’s skin that he gets goosebumps.

“Turn around and face the wall.”

Ianto is almost surprised that he does not argue.  This is not about submission, though, he thinks as he turns and twists (Jack’s hand loosening their grip on his wrists, allowing the change in position): this is about mutual need, mutual anger.  This is some sort of ritual: penance, perhaps, for past sins; cleansing—part of him wants to laugh, at that: an exorcism in the autopsy chamber.

He hears Jack’s zipper from behind him, the rustle of cloth; then the sound of foil crumpling, the faint squirting noise of gel being pressed from a tube.  Eyes tight-shut, legs spread, Ianto tries very, very hard not to think about why Jack has the lube and the condom with him tonight—instead he focuses on other things: the pins and needles threatening in his left foot.  The throb of his cock.  Jack’s left hand holding his hands high above his head.  The slippery touch of the wall under his cheek.  He’s distracted soon enough, anyway—grits his teeth as Jack prepares him, tries not to tense up against the fingers inside of his body.

As Jack removes his fingers his voice is harsh, heavy-breathed against the shell of Ianto’s ear.  “If you ever betray Torchwood again, Ianto—if you ever betray me again…”

Ianto doesn’t respond, tries to ignore the phantom press of a pistol against his head.  It is not the kind of threat that needs an answer.

It isn’t a gentle fuck, and Ianto’s glad of that.  Jack pushes into him sharply and after the first few mistimed movements they develop a hard, rough rhythm together: Jack’s skin slapping against Ianto’s, Ianto’s hips being thrust forward painfully against the hard wall, hitting the surface over and over and over till the pain is just a blur, and everything else is more important—Jack’s breath, and sometimes teeth, on the back of his neck; Jack restraining his arms, keeping Ianto almost on his toes, stretched and taught and vulnerable; Jack’s grunts mixing with his own, echoing eerily against the tiles.  Ianto feels the pressure of his impending orgasm long before Jack slides a hand down between him and the wall to jerk him off with quick, jagged strokes that match the disintegrating rhythm of Jack’s thrusts.

When Ianto comes—squeezing his eyes tight shut, an animal’s cry forced from his chest with the feeling of it, hearing, or imagining he hears, his come spattering on the wall—everything is, for a moment, obliterated and there is only a sense of absolute nothingness that a generous person might call peace.

It does not last long.  Jack’s grunt behind his ear brings him back to reality sharply; Ianto, legs suddenly weak and trembling, stands still, feeling Jack spasm with orgasm behind him, reassembling from memory how he looks when he comes.  He prepares himself for Jack pulling away and out of him, prepares himself for the shock of cold air on his back to temper the pain in his hips and wrists and chest—

But even though Jack lets go of Ianto’s wrists, the blood rushing back into his fingers painfully fast, prickling at his arteries, he does not move away; his warmth seeping through the layers of fabric between them into Ianto’s back; his heartbeat pulsing against Ianto’s ribs despite the shirts between them.  Softly he slides his arms around Ianto, the leather of his watch-strap cool on Ianto’s skin; the kiss he presses to the back of Ianto’s neck is loud in the quiet that rushes in Ianto’s ears.

“If you ever betray me again,” Jack says quietly, “there won’t be any second chances.”

Ianto believes him.

[fin.]



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