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If there is one job in Cardiff that is, at times, more dangerous and unpleasant than working for Torchwood, it has got to be delivering pizza. In the middle of November, the night is cold and really rainy, and around the Bay it’s impossibly windy, so that guy who had to take the night shift hates his life even a bit more when someone under the name of Torchwood places an order.
But then he has to walk all the way (a 3-minute walk) from the Jubilee pizzeria to that shady door, and he’s already soaking wet and annoyed, and gets even more pissed off when no one shows up once he’s in the small atrium.
“Pizza!” he calls again, and a moment later, a door swings open and a man walks out, and the delivery guy can’t help but notice that the buttons of his fuchsia shirt are buttoned up the wrong way.
It’s a Friday night, so he guesses – you know – late nights at the office, and some people don’t really wait till they get home. So he can’t really help himself when he almost laughs and takes the man’s money, and says, “Cheers, have fun,” before walking out.
The moment the door slams behind his back, Ianto curses and for a brief moment, his neck matches the color of his shirt as he walks back into the Hub.
He places the two pizza boxes on his desk and then cranes his neck, calling out towards Jack’s office;
“Dinner’s served, sir,” and there’s just the slightest hint of amusement in his voice, but he more or less manages to sound ridiculously composed and professional, given what had been going on a few minutes prior to the pizza’s arrival.
It takes Jack a minute to walk downstairs – coat off and braces swinging off his shoulders and down his thighs as if he’s suddenly taken up a career as a hip-hop artist – and then he sits down in Ianto’s office chair before he has time to protest.
“Hey—“
Jack laughs at him and opens the box, a bright grin taking over his face as the smell of hot pizza fills the air. “Lovely,” he nods, and grabs a slice immediately. Ianto remains glaring at him, arms crossed.
“You’re in my chair,” he observes. The fact that there are a few empty chairs around is irrelevant; it’s all a matter of principle, he’s just that kind of guy.
“Why would you need to sit down?” Jack smirks around a mouthful of pizza and honestly, it shouldn’t look as attractive as it does.
“Pardon?”
“I figured you’d go back to whatever you were doing— you can have your pizza later.”
Ianto stares at him in pure disbelief for a second. Usually they’re all about heated quickies over Jack’s desk while everyone else is working, or slow, breathless nights anywhere around the Hub where the intensity and desire of what they get up to is right at the borderline between shagging and cheap romance novel-like lovemaking.
In any case, they’ve never been that fucking domestic before. And usually, Ianto would argue and he’d insist on a dinner-and-sex night rather than whatever dinner-during-blowjob thing Jack is trying to instigate.
But then again, he’s really not that hungry – not for pizza, anyway – and Jack’s sprawled on his chair with his legs spread and stretched in front of him, and it’s kind of really easy to imagine it happening.
Ianto spends a second imagining. And then he rolls his eyes, mutters something along the lines of you owe me one— and drops to his knees.
He doesn’t stop to think about it because if he did, his mind would go all red alerts against porn-like sex scenes, but now he really doesn’t mind and in all honesty, his lean fingers are unzipping Jack’s trousers before he can really overthink the situation.
Jack lifts his hips just enough to let him push his trousers halfway down his thighs, and that will suffice, for now. He’s hard already – or still hard, Ianto reasons in his mind; he can’t know what Jack’s been up to while he was being all proper and communicating with the pizza delivery guy.
And then Jack reaches to run a hand through his hair and urges him to move closer, and Ianto thinks to himself that he really should stop thinking.
“If you get pizza in my hair, I swear to god—“ he murmurs, and Jack lets out a low laugh that registers all the way down in the pit of Ianto’s stomach.
And then he stops thinking.
Ianto’s lips are wet and soft around the tip of his cock and Jack almost chokes on a piece of ham and if he were anyone else, he’d probably see his life flash before his eyes for multiple reasons. Instead, he sits back and grips Ianto’s hair a bit more firmly, though he lets him pick his own rhythm, distracting his instinct to take control by grabbing a second slice of pizza.
Ianto settles for a slow pace at first. He figures it’d go better with dinner and all, since they’re not really going for the fast-fucking-against-the-wall thing now; or at least, not yet. So he takes his time and mouths at the tip of Jack’s cock, and then just a tiny bit more, and then he pulls back and drags a flat, soft tongue all the way up his length. That’s all it takes and then Jack’s hand freezes somewhere in between the pizza box and his mouth, and Ianto can’t help but smirk as he licks another hot stripe.
Jack’s plan for receiving a leisurely blowjob while eating pizza – and honestly, who wouldn’t like that – seem to have been irreversibly replaced by the single thought of Ianto’s mouth around him, and he can’t take the excruciatingly slow pace anymore.
“Ianto,” he manages, and his voice is low and barely composed, and just firm enough to make his words sound like an order. “More. Now.”
Ianto pulls back and presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh which makes him twitch and curse under his breath in a language that is not English or Welsh but Ianto doesn’t care enough to ask.
Instead, he murmurs a way too soft, “Yes, sir,” and then lets Jack pull him down, mouth wide open and jaw loose as he takes his cock all the way in. He takes a single second to revel in the way Jack gasps and then lets out a long groan.
And then he starts moving, his flushed cheeks hollowing as he sucks harder, Jack’s grip on his hair making him move fast, in an uneven, urgent rhythm. When he moves back to Jack’s tip, he lets his tongue swirl around it and the incoherent groan that Jack lets out is more rewarding than anything he could have said in any possible language.
So Ianto does that again, almost curiously, as if to see if he can make him groan like that again. This time, Jack chokes out his name and tugs at his hair.
So impatient, Ianto thinks, and his lips pull up in a smirk as he sinks down to the base of his dick, settling back into sucking in a quick rhythm. Jack grows louder with each glide of his lips, groaning a mix of incoherent sounds and Ianto’s name, all of which in turn makes Ianto gasp himself as his own dick strains against the fine fabric of his suit trousers.
And then Jack gasps just once, a sharp intake of air, and whispers a nearly defeated “Again, Ianto, come on, I’m so—“
and he doesn’t need to finish that sentence at all. Ianto closes his eyes, opening his throat as he takes him as deep as he can. By now Jack’s pushed his hips off the chair and Ianto swiftly slips a hand between his legs, his thumb pressing steadily against Jack’s perineum.
It’s unexpected and Jack gasps, and his hips thrust up before he can really help it. Ianto shakes his head warningly, and pulls back just a bit, giving him a second to adjust before speeding up once again.
“Keep doing that—“
Jack’s voice is down to a breathless whisper, almost pleading, and Ianto takes a second to acknowledge that it’s endearing.
Then he slowly takes his cock all the way in his mouth one last time, letting out a low hum at the same time. It’s the one thing that never fails to send Jack over the edge.
Within seconds, he moves from whispering to moaning, and then nearly yelling obscenities and Ianto’s name and oh God, oh God, yes, as he comes in his mouth.
Ianto closes his eyes and swallows to the last drop before pulling back excruciatingly slowly, letting his bottom lip drag across the underside of Jack’s dick before letting go of it with a small, obscene pop.
He stands up and wipes his lips nonchalantly, and he can’t help enjoying the fact that for once, he feels like he’s in full control while Jack sits there— eyes almost closed, trousers down and limp dick out, still trying to catch his breath.
So Ianto laughs as he drags a chair over to the desk and sits down, and really nonchalantly grabs a slice of pizza.
“Hope you’ll be alright in a minute, captain,” he teases. “We’re not done for the night, are we?”
Jack glares at him, then smirks.
And nods.