![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sariagrayTitle: Stumble
Author:![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=1)
sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 784
Spoilers: None.
Warnings:Some language, sexual concepts, smokin' an' drinkin'. Oh, yeah. And it's total unbeta'd nonsense.
Disclaimer: Everything I own can fit in my room. Torchwood does not fit.
Author's Note: Some things you should know. 1) I have a smoking!Ianto fetish. Sorry. It can't be helped. 2) I have this thing were I impose on my characters. I drink wine, they drink wine. Etc. 3) This was supposed to be smut. Clearly, that didn't happen. It's probably better that way. So, yeah, uh, enjoy?
The wine in the glass, on his lips, staining his tongue, makes him feel romantic in a way he isn’t quite used to. It’s sweet and light, evocative of warmth, and Ianto loosens his tie before taking another sip. They’ve used real crystal this time and he is grateful, despite his initial protestations. He flicks it with a fingernail like an orphan in awe of finery, listening to the lyrical ping as it reverberates through the room.
“Cigarette?” Jack smiles at him softly, settling his drink down on the small round table between them.
He nods resolutely as an open sterling case is thrust confidently before him. He takes one, studies it, and tries not to grin. It’s Jack, so of course they’re pure and unfiltered. He packs it carefully, deftly against the wooden surface of the table and leans over. With grace, Jack lights the matching Ronson touchtip and he puffs skillfully. Ianto doesn’t cough or choke or gag, even if it has been a good while since his last inhale. He can almost feel his capillaries expand.
Jack lights one for himself, too, brandishing the burning tip like a baton before resting his hand on his knee. Almost subconsciously, he pushes the ashtray closer to Ianto, a nod servicing as a reminder to tip the collecting head of ashes before they fall.
They don’t speak much. War and theatre and music don’t cross their minds, though softer subjects are permitted entry. “The weather is warm for this time of year” and “I’m thinking of getting new luggage” and “Should I make chicken, do you think?” fill the room along with the collecting smoke.
Instead, mostly, they gaze at each other. Even Ianto manages to simultaneously hide his blush while keeping his eyes in view. He is compelled to; there is something entirely too erotic about the way Jack holds his cigarette, bringing it to his lips, dragging the burning embers down closer and closer. And the way Jack drinks his wine borders on sinful. His tongue darts out almost imperceptibly before the sip as he watches Ianto through heavy dark lashes. Golden flecks of honey wine cling to his lower lip, moistening it slightly, and Ianto suppresses an errant moan behind a feigned cough.
Jack smiles at him and raises an eyebrow as he leans back casually in his seat. His every move is graceful, deceptively languid to mask the predatory intent. It sends a shock down his spine that he’s certain Jack notices.
Stubbing out the last end of his cigarette, Jack rises and crosses to stand behind Ianto. It takes effort for him to remain seated, still smoking and clutching his glass. Jack runs a hand down the pale flesh of Ianto's neck, too firm to be a distracted caress, but too light to be a soothing massage. Ianto’s eyes close at the contact and his mouth parts ever so slightly. He leans his head to the side to expose more skin and Jack chuckles quietly. Then the hand disappears and he whimpers at the lack of contact.
“Music?” Jack asks, his voice a throaty whisper that barely breaks the threshold of the quiet. Ianto nods and listens, eyes still shut, to Jack’s footfalls across the hardwood. His eyelids flutter open as an unfamiliar strain of music breaks free, gentle and elegant. Jack is standing to his side, arm stretched and palm out in hopeful summons. Ianto stands and allows himself to be pulled into the waiting embrace.
They sway rather than dance, but they’ve had enough wine that they don’t notice. Leaning against each other, propping each other up, they move semi-synchronized.
When Jack leans down to capture Ianto’s lips in a kiss, they lose their symbiotic balance and stumble. They laugh at each other, temporarily breaking the spell, and Ianto takes the opportunity to actually look around the room.
If he squints, especially with the cloud of blue smoke hanging in the stuffy space, he can forget it’s his own flat for a moment. He can forget that outside the door, the 21st Century is changing everything. He forgets, too, that aliens and Jack’s unstable ex-lovers are plotting his demise, that he has to pick up more biscuits or Owen will throw a fit, and that there is anything other than here and this and now.
Having progressed from game to sanctuary, these roles gradually became less about sex and more about them. There is no stalking butler, no outlandish captain, no boss, no employee. No loud-and-quiet-assassins ever enter through that door.
And the here and this and now of it centers itself as Jack’s lips meet his; even though they’re standing upright this time, they still stumble.
Author:
sariagray Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 784
Spoilers: None.
Warnings:Some language, sexual concepts, smokin' an' drinkin'. Oh, yeah. And it's total unbeta'd nonsense.
Disclaimer: Everything I own can fit in my room. Torchwood does not fit.
Author's Note: Some things you should know. 1) I have a smoking!Ianto fetish. Sorry. It can't be helped. 2) I have this thing were I impose on my characters. I drink wine, they drink wine. Etc. 3) This was supposed to be smut. Clearly, that didn't happen. It's probably better that way. So, yeah, uh, enjoy?
Stumble
The wine in the glass, on his lips, staining his tongue, makes him feel romantic in a way he isn’t quite used to. It’s sweet and light, evocative of warmth, and Ianto loosens his tie before taking another sip. They’ve used real crystal this time and he is grateful, despite his initial protestations. He flicks it with a fingernail like an orphan in awe of finery, listening to the lyrical ping as it reverberates through the room.
“Cigarette?” Jack smiles at him softly, settling his drink down on the small round table between them.
He nods resolutely as an open sterling case is thrust confidently before him. He takes one, studies it, and tries not to grin. It’s Jack, so of course they’re pure and unfiltered. He packs it carefully, deftly against the wooden surface of the table and leans over. With grace, Jack lights the matching Ronson touchtip and he puffs skillfully. Ianto doesn’t cough or choke or gag, even if it has been a good while since his last inhale. He can almost feel his capillaries expand.
Jack lights one for himself, too, brandishing the burning tip like a baton before resting his hand on his knee. Almost subconsciously, he pushes the ashtray closer to Ianto, a nod servicing as a reminder to tip the collecting head of ashes before they fall.
They don’t speak much. War and theatre and music don’t cross their minds, though softer subjects are permitted entry. “The weather is warm for this time of year” and “I’m thinking of getting new luggage” and “Should I make chicken, do you think?” fill the room along with the collecting smoke.
Instead, mostly, they gaze at each other. Even Ianto manages to simultaneously hide his blush while keeping his eyes in view. He is compelled to; there is something entirely too erotic about the way Jack holds his cigarette, bringing it to his lips, dragging the burning embers down closer and closer. And the way Jack drinks his wine borders on sinful. His tongue darts out almost imperceptibly before the sip as he watches Ianto through heavy dark lashes. Golden flecks of honey wine cling to his lower lip, moistening it slightly, and Ianto suppresses an errant moan behind a feigned cough.
Jack smiles at him and raises an eyebrow as he leans back casually in his seat. His every move is graceful, deceptively languid to mask the predatory intent. It sends a shock down his spine that he’s certain Jack notices.
Stubbing out the last end of his cigarette, Jack rises and crosses to stand behind Ianto. It takes effort for him to remain seated, still smoking and clutching his glass. Jack runs a hand down the pale flesh of Ianto's neck, too firm to be a distracted caress, but too light to be a soothing massage. Ianto’s eyes close at the contact and his mouth parts ever so slightly. He leans his head to the side to expose more skin and Jack chuckles quietly. Then the hand disappears and he whimpers at the lack of contact.
“Music?” Jack asks, his voice a throaty whisper that barely breaks the threshold of the quiet. Ianto nods and listens, eyes still shut, to Jack’s footfalls across the hardwood. His eyelids flutter open as an unfamiliar strain of music breaks free, gentle and elegant. Jack is standing to his side, arm stretched and palm out in hopeful summons. Ianto stands and allows himself to be pulled into the waiting embrace.
They sway rather than dance, but they’ve had enough wine that they don’t notice. Leaning against each other, propping each other up, they move semi-synchronized.
When Jack leans down to capture Ianto’s lips in a kiss, they lose their symbiotic balance and stumble. They laugh at each other, temporarily breaking the spell, and Ianto takes the opportunity to actually look around the room.
If he squints, especially with the cloud of blue smoke hanging in the stuffy space, he can forget it’s his own flat for a moment. He can forget that outside the door, the 21st Century is changing everything. He forgets, too, that aliens and Jack’s unstable ex-lovers are plotting his demise, that he has to pick up more biscuits or Owen will throw a fit, and that there is anything other than here and this and now.
Having progressed from game to sanctuary, these roles gradually became less about sex and more about them. There is no stalking butler, no outlandish captain, no boss, no employee. No loud-and-quiet-assassins ever enter through that door.
And the here and this and now of it centers itself as Jack’s lips meet his; even though they’re standing upright this time, they still stumble.
END
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-12-09 01:20 am (UTC)