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Entry tags:
Stay (LAS #5)
Title: Stay
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sariagray
Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 600-700
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: None.
Warning: Language. Historical nonsense.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. In fact, it seems as though Torchwood owns and makes money off of ME. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Author’s Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
jack_ianto_las . The prompt was "Arrogance diminishes wisdom." The quote is from Anne Boleyn who, if you are familiar with history, you may consider to be the perfect example of the prompt. But that's neither here nor there. ;)
Stay
“Stay,” Jack offers magnanimously, the ever-gracious host.
The word bounces around the room only to fall on deaf ears as Ianto carefully zips up his trousers. Settling back against the pillow, Jack watches as Ianto scoops up his cufflinks, watch, and mobile from the tiny nightstand. He deposits the affects into his pocket with resounding finality.
“I’ll see you in the morning, sir,” Ianto murmurs.
“Stay,” Jack appeals as he leans forward to brush a fingertip across a bruise under Ianto’s right eye.
It’s small, slightly ovular, and a startling red-purple against the pale skin. There isn’t much swelling, though, and Owen had barely given the mark a precursory glance. There were more important things (Tosh’s sprained wrist, the bloody gash on Gwen’s right leg that ruined her favorite jeans) competing for the doctor’s focus.
Ianto blinks, shakes his head, and allows his lips to curl up into something that Jack suspects is supposed to be a smile. It manages to make Ianto looked terrified and angry, but his eyes reveal very little.
“I really should get home, sir,” Ianto half-apologizes.
“Stay,” Jack beams, certain now of his imminent victory.
Ianto sighs, runs a hand through his hair, bites at his lower lip, worries the pink flesh with his teeth, and nods.
Ianto meticulously undoes all of his dressing. There seems to be a reluctance about the way he removes his clothing; each article is stripped with deliberation and care, each pearlescent disc delicately slipped through its buttonhole, each crease of fabric smoothed with tender devotion. Far from erotic, it seems religious, ritualistic, and dire. The articles are all neatly draped over the back of a chair and Ianto brushes his hand over the pile once, twice, as though speaking his final goodbyes.
Raising an eyebrow, Jack clears his throat. The deer-in-headlights look that crosses Ianto’s face straddles the line between adorable and frustrating, and it’s all Jack can do to keep from laughing.
“They’ll still be here in the morning. Promise.”
Ianto nods and pads over to the bed. The distance is small, but he seems to drag out the journey as much as possible, as though he were about to be executed. There may be some truth to that, too, as there has always been a fine line between scaffold and bedchamber. When he reaches the end of the bed, Jack half expects him to kneel with his chin on the edge.
*****
There will come a time, Ianto knows, when he will regret letting Jack talk him into spending the night; one night will quickly turn into two, then three, then a week, a month, a year. There is enough of his heart at stake when they keep it to mindless fucking without the addition of cuddling afterwards, thank you very much. And yet, here he is, all acquiescence and submission.
As he approaches the bed, he feels as though he’s walking to his execution. Not of his body, perhaps, but of something less tangible and much more precious. He’s tempted to kneel before Jack and stretch out his neck for the glistening blade of a skilled French swordsman.
And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.
He can’t quite recall who said that – some pretty, ill-used monarch, if he remembers correctly – but it seems bizarrely fitting. He crawls between the sheets and has to suppress the desire to trail those inauspicious words across Jack’s skin, ghosting breath from his temple to his jaw to his chest.
Jack grins at him with such smugness that Ianto has to struggle to hold back a harsh laugh.
“Comfortable?” Jack asks.
Ianto nods, granting himself the small pleasure of shifting even closer to Jack’s warmth. It is an unwise decision, he wagers, but Ianto Jones has danced on the knife’s edge before and has lived to tell the tale. He’s strong enough to survive this, too.
Author:
sariagray Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto
Word Count: 600-700
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: None.
Warning: Language. Historical nonsense.
Disclaimer: I do not own Torchwood. I do not make money off of Torchwood. In fact, it seems as though Torchwood owns and makes money off of ME. This is for entertainment purposes only.
Author’s Note: Written for
jack_ianto_las . The prompt was "Arrogance diminishes wisdom." The quote is from Anne Boleyn who, if you are familiar with history, you may consider to be the perfect example of the prompt. But that's neither here nor there. ;) “Stay,” Jack offers magnanimously, the ever-gracious host.
The word bounces around the room only to fall on deaf ears as Ianto carefully zips up his trousers. Settling back against the pillow, Jack watches as Ianto scoops up his cufflinks, watch, and mobile from the tiny nightstand. He deposits the affects into his pocket with resounding finality.
“I’ll see you in the morning, sir,” Ianto murmurs.
“Stay,” Jack appeals as he leans forward to brush a fingertip across a bruise under Ianto’s right eye.
It’s small, slightly ovular, and a startling red-purple against the pale skin. There isn’t much swelling, though, and Owen had barely given the mark a precursory glance. There were more important things (Tosh’s sprained wrist, the bloody gash on Gwen’s right leg that ruined her favorite jeans) competing for the doctor’s focus.
Ianto blinks, shakes his head, and allows his lips to curl up into something that Jack suspects is supposed to be a smile. It manages to make Ianto looked terrified and angry, but his eyes reveal very little.
“I really should get home, sir,” Ianto half-apologizes.
“Stay,” Jack beams, certain now of his imminent victory.
Ianto sighs, runs a hand through his hair, bites at his lower lip, worries the pink flesh with his teeth, and nods.
Ianto meticulously undoes all of his dressing. There seems to be a reluctance about the way he removes his clothing; each article is stripped with deliberation and care, each pearlescent disc delicately slipped through its buttonhole, each crease of fabric smoothed with tender devotion. Far from erotic, it seems religious, ritualistic, and dire. The articles are all neatly draped over the back of a chair and Ianto brushes his hand over the pile once, twice, as though speaking his final goodbyes.
Raising an eyebrow, Jack clears his throat. The deer-in-headlights look that crosses Ianto’s face straddles the line between adorable and frustrating, and it’s all Jack can do to keep from laughing.
“They’ll still be here in the morning. Promise.”
Ianto nods and pads over to the bed. The distance is small, but he seems to drag out the journey as much as possible, as though he were about to be executed. There may be some truth to that, too, as there has always been a fine line between scaffold and bedchamber. When he reaches the end of the bed, Jack half expects him to kneel with his chin on the edge.
*****
There will come a time, Ianto knows, when he will regret letting Jack talk him into spending the night; one night will quickly turn into two, then three, then a week, a month, a year. There is enough of his heart at stake when they keep it to mindless fucking without the addition of cuddling afterwards, thank you very much. And yet, here he is, all acquiescence and submission.
As he approaches the bed, he feels as though he’s walking to his execution. Not of his body, perhaps, but of something less tangible and much more precious. He’s tempted to kneel before Jack and stretch out his neck for the glistening blade of a skilled French swordsman.
And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul.
He can’t quite recall who said that – some pretty, ill-used monarch, if he remembers correctly – but it seems bizarrely fitting. He crawls between the sheets and has to suppress the desire to trail those inauspicious words across Jack’s skin, ghosting breath from his temple to his jaw to his chest.
Jack grins at him with such smugness that Ianto has to struggle to hold back a harsh laugh.
“Comfortable?” Jack asks.
Ianto nods, granting himself the small pleasure of shifting even closer to Jack’s warmth. It is an unwise decision, he wagers, but Ianto Jones has danced on the knife’s edge before and has lived to tell the tale. He’s strong enough to survive this, too.
The End
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