invisible_lift (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
invisible_lift) wrote2009-06-13 01:27 am
invisible_lift) wrote2009-06-13 01:27 am
Entry tags:
"Afternoon Play"
Title: "Afternoon Play"
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Ianto/Andy
Rating: Adult (sex, light bondage, D/s)
Notes/Summary: A post-IEIT Ianto/Andy interlude, PWP. This fic was sponsored by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kayleigh_jane, who contributed to my charity drive effort in Feb/March. Beta-fu by sanginmychains and resourceress.
Andy kneels on the carpet with his hands behind his head. Ianto has left him more or less in uniform, though his shirt hangs open and untucked, and his belt and fly are undone. He waits on the floor and watches out of the corner of his eye as Ianto, dressed in jeans and a black shirt, toys with the police issue flat cap in his hands. After a moment he puts it on.
“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court,” Ianto says with a hint of mischief as he steps closer and lifts Andy’s chin. “Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“Am I under arrest, Sir?” Andy asks. He’s sure he sounds a little too earnest, or that he’s too wide-eyed, but Ianto only gives him an appraising look.
“That depends on how cooperative you are, I think. You’d like to cooperate, wouldn’t you?”
His face is still cupped in Ianto’s hand, but he nods slightly. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good boy.” Ianto strokes Andy’s cheekbone with the tip of his thumb, but takes his hand away before Andy can lean into the touch. Instead, he walks past Andy and out of view. There’s the tell-tale zip and rustle of Ianto fetching something from his bag. After a moment, footsteps again that stop only inches behind. “Hands,” he says.
Andy unlaces his fingers and raises them up without hesitation. He startles slightly at the sudden noise of duct tape as it rips free from the roll, but does his best to hold still as Ianto binds his wrists together with the tape. Even through the cloth of his uniform shirt the edges of the tape dig a little. Still, it’s not so tight as to be uncomfortable when Ianto slips two fingers into each of his shirt cuffs to check it. When Ianto releases his hands, Andy keeps them aloft.
Ianto tears another strip of tape free and steps around to face Andy. “Look at me,” he says, and when Andy does, he centers the tape over Andy’s mouth. He smoothes it on thoroughly. “There. Now, show me ‘yellow.’”
Andy makes two quick grunts.
“Show me ‘red.’”
Three quick grunts, a pause, and then three more.
“Good boy,” Ianto says, and lowers Andy’s hands. “And now, let’s begin.”
When Ianto rests a hand behind his head, Andy isn’t quite sure what Ianto has in mind. The duct tape precludes any use of his mouth as an orifice. Still, Andy leans in when Ianto pulls a little to prompt him, and rubs his face against the denim. It’s slick under the tape, but rough enough against his skin that he can get some friction. He nuzzles eagerly at Ianto’s half-hard cock and hums against the tape. It seems to do the trick, judging by the way Ianto’s fingers dig into the back of his neck. Encouraged, he buries his face against the denim, purrs along the hard line of Ianto’s hard-on. His own is trapped awkwardly (nearly painfully) in his unzipped uniform trousers. He squirms and tries to wriggle into a more comfortable arrangement without using his hands, but Ianto shoves him back anyway.
“Hands behind your head,” he snaps.
Andy’s taped wrists make it harder to do as he’s told, but he manages. The position leaves him feeling off-balance and far too open, though he supposes that’s rather the point.
Ianto reaches into Andy’s open zip and past the waistband of his briefs. His fingers close none-too-gently around Andy’s aching hard-on and straighten it. Ianto leaves just the head of it poking out past the elastic band of Andy’s underwear.
And then Ianto stands up and unzips his jeans.
“And you were doing so well”. He regards Andy with disdain, eyes narrowed and shaded by the bill of the policeman’s cap. His stance is sturdy, feet spaced just wider than shoulder-width apart as he begins to jerk his own cock in front of Andy. He stands near enough that Andy can hardly see anything else. “I was going to let you make me come, but now I’m just going to use you like the dirty fucking whore you are.”
Ianto grabs Andy by the back of his shirt collar, yanks him halfway to his feet, and leads him stumbling across the room. Andy whimpers through the duct tape when Ianto shoves him down so that he’s bent over across the small, café-style table Andy keeps in his kitchen. His fingers close over the far edge. Ianto yanks Andy’s trousers down and they land with a thump at his feet, weighed down by his duty belt.
There’s a brief crinkle of wrapper and a plastic snap. Andy grips the table edge and presses his forehead down against the formica as Ianto slides a slicked-up thumb into Andy’s arse. He tilts his hips and opens up to him as Ianto fucks him with his hand.
“Fucking slut,” Ianto growls from behind him. His voice sounds thick and heavy, needier than it is angry. When he takes away his hand and pushes in with his cock, Andy can’t help but groan into the tape. Ianto huffs out a cruel little laugh. “Oh, you’d like to make noise, would you? Okay then. Let’s hear you.”
If he had his mouth, Andy knows he’d be swearing a fraught blue streak. Ianto’s making a point of not being gentle, and Andy’s own hard-on is still trapped against his belly and the table. There are probably words in the stream of muffled gibberish sounds he makes through the tape, but they don’t much matter except to punctuate Ianto’s thrusts. At the edge of the table, Andy’s knuckles are white. His mouth feels wet and sloppy underneath the tape.
And yet, he’s so close to coming when Ianto hauls him off of the table and back down onto the floor that he wants to scream.
Ianto chucks the condom into the bin and grabs Andy by the hair. A quick few jerks of his hand are all it takes, and he comes on Andy’s face, skin and duct tape both. Ianto looks down at him for a moment before he pushes him down in a heap.
“You’ve got thirty seconds to finish yourself off.”
Andy grips frantically between his legs with his bound hands. He’s never felt more awkward in his life than he does on the floor right now. He isn’t sure Ianto is even watching, half wonders as he humps into the gap between his hands how Ianto’s keeping time. In the end it doesn’t matter. He shoots through his fingers and onto the floor. He lies still and limp, breathing heavily through his nose.
After a minute Ianto kneels down next to him, pulls him close, and plants kisses in his hair.
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: Ianto/Andy
Rating: Adult (sex, light bondage, D/s)
Notes/Summary: A post-IEIT Ianto/Andy interlude, PWP. This fic was sponsored by
kayleigh_jane, who contributed to my charity drive effort in Feb/March. Beta-fu by sanginmychains and resourceress.Andy kneels on the carpet with his hands behind his head. Ianto has left him more or less in uniform, though his shirt hangs open and untucked, and his belt and fly are undone. He waits on the floor and watches out of the corner of his eye as Ianto, dressed in jeans and a black shirt, toys with the police issue flat cap in his hands. After a moment he puts it on.
“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court,” Ianto says with a hint of mischief as he steps closer and lifts Andy’s chin. “Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
“Am I under arrest, Sir?” Andy asks. He’s sure he sounds a little too earnest, or that he’s too wide-eyed, but Ianto only gives him an appraising look.
“That depends on how cooperative you are, I think. You’d like to cooperate, wouldn’t you?”
His face is still cupped in Ianto’s hand, but he nods slightly. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good boy.” Ianto strokes Andy’s cheekbone with the tip of his thumb, but takes his hand away before Andy can lean into the touch. Instead, he walks past Andy and out of view. There’s the tell-tale zip and rustle of Ianto fetching something from his bag. After a moment, footsteps again that stop only inches behind. “Hands,” he says.
Andy unlaces his fingers and raises them up without hesitation. He startles slightly at the sudden noise of duct tape as it rips free from the roll, but does his best to hold still as Ianto binds his wrists together with the tape. Even through the cloth of his uniform shirt the edges of the tape dig a little. Still, it’s not so tight as to be uncomfortable when Ianto slips two fingers into each of his shirt cuffs to check it. When Ianto releases his hands, Andy keeps them aloft.
Ianto tears another strip of tape free and steps around to face Andy. “Look at me,” he says, and when Andy does, he centers the tape over Andy’s mouth. He smoothes it on thoroughly. “There. Now, show me ‘yellow.’”
Andy makes two quick grunts.
“Show me ‘red.’”
Three quick grunts, a pause, and then three more.
“Good boy,” Ianto says, and lowers Andy’s hands. “And now, let’s begin.”
When Ianto rests a hand behind his head, Andy isn’t quite sure what Ianto has in mind. The duct tape precludes any use of his mouth as an orifice. Still, Andy leans in when Ianto pulls a little to prompt him, and rubs his face against the denim. It’s slick under the tape, but rough enough against his skin that he can get some friction. He nuzzles eagerly at Ianto’s half-hard cock and hums against the tape. It seems to do the trick, judging by the way Ianto’s fingers dig into the back of his neck. Encouraged, he buries his face against the denim, purrs along the hard line of Ianto’s hard-on. His own is trapped awkwardly (nearly painfully) in his unzipped uniform trousers. He squirms and tries to wriggle into a more comfortable arrangement without using his hands, but Ianto shoves him back anyway.
“Hands behind your head,” he snaps.
Andy’s taped wrists make it harder to do as he’s told, but he manages. The position leaves him feeling off-balance and far too open, though he supposes that’s rather the point.
Ianto reaches into Andy’s open zip and past the waistband of his briefs. His fingers close none-too-gently around Andy’s aching hard-on and straighten it. Ianto leaves just the head of it poking out past the elastic band of Andy’s underwear.
And then Ianto stands up and unzips his jeans.
“And you were doing so well”. He regards Andy with disdain, eyes narrowed and shaded by the bill of the policeman’s cap. His stance is sturdy, feet spaced just wider than shoulder-width apart as he begins to jerk his own cock in front of Andy. He stands near enough that Andy can hardly see anything else. “I was going to let you make me come, but now I’m just going to use you like the dirty fucking whore you are.”
Ianto grabs Andy by the back of his shirt collar, yanks him halfway to his feet, and leads him stumbling across the room. Andy whimpers through the duct tape when Ianto shoves him down so that he’s bent over across the small, café-style table Andy keeps in his kitchen. His fingers close over the far edge. Ianto yanks Andy’s trousers down and they land with a thump at his feet, weighed down by his duty belt.
There’s a brief crinkle of wrapper and a plastic snap. Andy grips the table edge and presses his forehead down against the formica as Ianto slides a slicked-up thumb into Andy’s arse. He tilts his hips and opens up to him as Ianto fucks him with his hand.
“Fucking slut,” Ianto growls from behind him. His voice sounds thick and heavy, needier than it is angry. When he takes away his hand and pushes in with his cock, Andy can’t help but groan into the tape. Ianto huffs out a cruel little laugh. “Oh, you’d like to make noise, would you? Okay then. Let’s hear you.”
If he had his mouth, Andy knows he’d be swearing a fraught blue streak. Ianto’s making a point of not being gentle, and Andy’s own hard-on is still trapped against his belly and the table. There are probably words in the stream of muffled gibberish sounds he makes through the tape, but they don’t much matter except to punctuate Ianto’s thrusts. At the edge of the table, Andy’s knuckles are white. His mouth feels wet and sloppy underneath the tape.
And yet, he’s so close to coming when Ianto hauls him off of the table and back down onto the floor that he wants to scream.
Ianto chucks the condom into the bin and grabs Andy by the hair. A quick few jerks of his hand are all it takes, and he comes on Andy’s face, skin and duct tape both. Ianto looks down at him for a moment before he pushes him down in a heap.
“You’ve got thirty seconds to finish yourself off.”
Andy grips frantically between his legs with his bound hands. He’s never felt more awkward in his life than he does on the floor right now. He isn’t sure Ianto is even watching, half wonders as he humps into the gap between his hands how Ianto’s keeping time. In the end it doesn’t matter. He shoots through his fingers and onto the floor. He lies still and limp, breathing heavily through his nose.
After a minute Ianto kneels down next to him, pulls him close, and plants kisses in his hair.