A/N: A continuation, of sorts, of my one shot 'New Employment' (you can find it on my profile if you want). Pre CoE.
The rating for this has changed; I hope I haven't annoyed anybody by doing that, but this just got written, pretty much by itself.
Disclaimers; Slash (pretty sexual, really), Jack Harkness (he needs a warning all to himself), and some language.
I also do not own any of the characters/names/places contained herein; blame Russell T Davies and co. for their marvellous creations.
Reviews are appreciated.
"Mmm, looking pretty good there Mr Jones." comes the familiar voice from behind you, and you bite back a smile as you put down the file you're trying to archive and turn to face Jack, all teeth and great hair.
"Can I help you, sir?" This is a game you both enjoy playing. It isn't that you don't use his first name; you use it a lot. In Jack's quarters, in the board room, over the couch. The glint he gets in his eye when you act the subservient tea-boy gets you going as much as him, and you know you should be annoyed that he likes dominating, but truth be told, you don't mind being dominated.
"I was just hoping to get a couple of minutes to talk to you about the occupant of Cell Fourteen We need to file a report on their progress."
More games. Cell Fourteen is Jack's go-to code for wanna get fruity? Anybody listening who knows the layout of the Hub at all could tell that there isn't a Cell Fourteen. The block that would have housed it suffered blast damage after an unfortunate incident with an unexploded Silurian grenade seventy years ago.
So here you go, at the age of twenty eight you're playing bizarre work-related sex games with your employer, who you're almost sure has had his end away with every type of creature going. Weird, but what can you do? You're in far, far too deep to ever hope to leave unscathed now.
"I'll be there in five minutes, sir. I'll just finish this last bit of archiving." You see the slight narrowing of the eyes and the almost-pout of his mouth as he nods once and turns on his heel, grabbing a bottle of water on his way up the iron staircase.
You take your time filing the last papers, and your heart does the silly thump-a-thump it always does when you know you're going to be close to Jack in that way.
When the last folder has been tucked away neatly you stand, running your palms down your really-can't-afford-this suit and take a few deep breaths.
At a desk Gwen rests her forehead on her palm as she tries to explain that she's going to be home late tonight. He isn't happy about it; probably because it's the anniversary of when they met. She hasn't remembered that yet, and Rhys is too hurt to remind her.
People always used to find it strange that you remembered things like that; seemingly irrelevant or just downright pointless. Without fail you remember every birthday, anniversary, death date. It's always up to you to organise the office birthday cards, bacon sandwiches and drinks down the pub. You don't expect thanks for it as such, but a bit more recognition than a vague smile, a fumbling in a pocket for a few spare pound coins and a "yeah, cheers Ianto." wouldn't go amiss.
They missed your birthday this year, just four weeks after Tosh and Owen. In fairness to them, you only remembered yourself the day after, when Rhi's card dropped on to your doormat.
"Ianto?" The voice shakes you from your thoughts, and you are instantly at attention, hand automatically reaching for the folder that doesn't hold anything of any real import, but looks better when you're going to a meeting with the boss everyone knows you're sleeping with.
"Sir?"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to get that report done before next year."
You stifle a grin at the sound of his voice; heavy with petulant sexual tension. You force your features back into neutrality and nod once.
"Of course, sir. Can I fetch you a coffee?"
You swear you can almost see his teeth grind in impatience, but he looks down at Gwen quickly and moves his head at you in agreement.
"Yes. Don't take all day though."
You only just make it into the board room when the door shuts firmly behind you. The mugs of coffee are swept from your hands and dumped unceremoniously on the table, and hot breath is at the pulse point below your left ear.
"Keep me waiting, would you?" a smooth voice murmurs into your skin, and the vibrations are almost enough to spur your heart into an irregular rhythm.
"M…my apologies, sir." You murmur, and even though you both know how this goes, you feel yourself getting hard against the soft fabric of your boxers.
He's a smart man – he knows what effect this has on you, and his lips curve into an unmistakeable smile.
"You're into all this naughty schoolgirl stuff, huh?"
Your throat feels constricted, and your eyes flutter somewhere between open and closed as your breath is pulled in and pushed out in tremulous flutters.
"I…I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir." You manage, and with a muted groan Jack moves you so your back is flat against the door and your arms are pinned up somewhere by the sides of your head.
He moves your knees apart with one of his, and slides into the space left vacant by your legs. His breath tastes of coffee and the doughnuts he insists on eating every morning, and when you feel it touch your lips you unconsciously flick your tongue out to try and capture it. Jack's eyes dilate at the sight, and he ghosts his Hollywood – white teeth over his bottom lip, an audible inhale of breath rubbing against the backdrop of your body rubbing against his.
"You know," he says, and your hips automatically twitch forward, trying to find some fiction, "you look good when you're handling all those papers. Makes you look…intelligent."
You snort a bit as he uses those clever, sturdy hands to trace the lines of your abdomen.
"I'm sure that was meant as a compliment." You breathe, and he looks at you for a moment, frowning, before he realises what it must have sounded like.
"You get what I mean."
Of course you do. And even if you didn't, you'd pay someone big money to keep his hands where they are at the moment.
"Mmm, how about we take this to the table?"
As your shaky legs take you unsteadily to the wooden surface you push down against your erection, now embarrassingly prominent. The friction makes you sigh, and Jack almost looks jealous.
"Starting without me?" he purrs, and fits himself in right behind you as you stand at the table; his body plastered against yours. He gently leans his weight against the tops of your shoulders so your hands are forced down on to the table top.
This is the bit that drives you absolutely bloody mad; this little exercise in ridiculously amazing sexual torture that involves making you listen to every tiny noise his clothing makes as he removes it. Not that he removes it all, you understand. He takes off the shoes, socks, trousers (he always leaves them crumpled on the floor, why does he do that?), braces and shirt and presses himself up against you. You know, logically, that he's still wearing boxers and a those white vests that cling to his muscles, but that that doesn't stop your imagination whispering all sorts of depraved things to you.
"Jack." You somehow manage, and this is the part he loves, because in spite of the fact that he saves the world on a regular basis, and has given his life for every one of his team-mates, that doesn't stop him from having an arrogant streak as wide as the Amazon river.
"Tell me what you want, Ianto." He says breathily, and your legs lose all strength temporarily because that voice, in all its film star glory is not to be deployed lightly.
"T…touch me," you say, a blush heating your cheeks. He doesn't tease so much now, his hands methodically untucking your shirt, unbuttoning your trousers and slipping his hand down the hair on your lower belly.
"Eager, aren't you?" he chuckles, and you're this close to snapping and telling him to stop fucking around and just bloody get down to business already. "It's alright," he soothes, and you find yourself calmed momentarily. "I'll make you feel good, I swear."
With a free hand he tugs at the pocket of your trousers, sending them to the floor with a soft shushing sound. The boxers follow suit, and the snagging of the soft cotton on your cock nearly makes you cry.
You sneak a look at him over your left shoulder, and let out a muffled gasp whimper, because his pupils are dilated, and his eyelids are hooded, and he watches you watching him as he pulls himself out of his boxers, which he then casually slides to the floor.
It's a good thing you eat healthily and exercise because any predisposition at all to heart troubles would certainly lead to your end when faced with the pulse-raising sight of Jack Harkness standing there in only his army-issue white vest.
"Turn back around." He orders in his best military voice and, not that you're kinky by nature, but my god does that make you want to play dress-up.
He adjusts your body to just where he wants it, and then his hands leave you for a minute and you know what that means.
Then his fingers are running down your arse, and pressing against you, and your hands are shaking with want, and you're so hard you just want him to hurry up. He lines himself up and with that first push, firmly against the resistant muscles, he's in, and Jesus H Christ you can't focus your eyes anymore, and you're sweating against the fine cotton of your new shirt.
He holds himself there, breathing unsteadily through his nose and mouth like he always does when this happens, and you don't think he's aware of it but he strokes a thumb over the warm skin of your right thigh.
"Mmm," he hums, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck. "I could get used to doing this all the time."
You want it too, but what's the point in saying it? There's no tying Jack Harkness down; he's an unstoppable force in this universe, though whether for good or not you'll never be sure.
"Move," you gasp, and as if he remembers what he's doing there he clears his throat and starts the gradual slide out that leaves your primal, well-hidden part clawing to go with him and keening at the hollow feeling of loss. But he isn't gone for long (he never is), and he slides in at a maddening pace, before completely burying himself within you.
He gets touchy at this point, and his hands seem to move independently over you. You wish you weren't so horribly pale and that you had a washboard stomach, but at least it's relatively toned (bloody should be, working here), and you're not ridiculously hairy. His fingers circle the skin around your nipples and you bite your lip against the gasped moans that he seems to pull out of you.
"Aww, you're gonna be quiet, huh?" he taunts, and as a punishment you start to pull away from him, until he grasps you firmly by the skin and yanks you back toward him. The resulting nudge against your prostate makes you groan, and he decided playtime is over, so he grasps you firmly in his hand and starts pumping. You know how this ends, and it's messy.
Jack speeds up, keeping you in place with his wicked, wicked hands as he moves in and out of you roughly. You can't believe it, but you like it this way. You really, really do, and on nights when you aren't together you lie in your bed with the plain sheets and touch yourself, though it never feels like when he does it.
All too soon you feel the tightening and rushing, starting from somewhere deep inside you and surging through you like an unstoppable wave.
"J…Jack!" you choke, and he takes that as his signal to start getting faster and harder, moving so hard that your fingers grapple for a hold on the table and you feel like you could overbalance.
When you do come it's so hard that your voice is temporarily taken from you, as your lungs can't understand what's happening and shut down for a few seconds before everything makes sense again and you gulp in great, heaving breaths. Jack is moving slower now, and you almost feel bad, because so lost were you in your own joy that you didn't even feel him finish behind you.
He kisses you on the shoulder and pulls back, reaching for his clothes and dressing whilst you try to force your body to work again.
"Coffee?" he murmurs, and it's the closest he ever gets to you like this; gentle and warm, and you hum an assent as you blink hard to clear your eyes.
It's probably a fair assessment to say that as he leaves the room whistling nonchalantly, that you fall in love a little harder.
Great.