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femmedelalune (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} femmedelalune) wrote,@ 2007-03-31 15:24:00 |
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Torchwood, 18, Ianto/Owen
It's been a bit of a week; I really shouldn't be writing fic. My laptop's been nicked, for a start, and I'm meant to be writing several 5000 word essays. But I'll be straight with you, I want the kind of buzz only fic feedback can give you.
Pairing: Owen/Ianto
Spoilers: Season one
Rating: 18
Genre: smut
The Torchwood showers are somewhat notorious among those who have to use them. Strange rules govern those pipes. For example, only one person may have hot water at a time, but they may only have hot water. Two people may have have reasonable water pressure, but the third will be pounded into mush while the fourth would do better standing in the rain. The water will inexplicably vary between hard and soft, so however much shampoo you use, it is never the right amount. Only Jack suits the acoustics, so only Jack may sing.
Jack has been gone for some time now - Ianto deliberately doesn't work out how long - and that means there is no singing. Not that Ianto ever got to hear it, since he so rarely went out on field missions with the others. Now he stands here, Owen to his left, a wall separating them from the girls. It sounds like Gwen has the hot water at the moment, and all of the water pressure, poor thing.
He and Owen are more than capable of ignoring each other, in that ever so heterosexual manly man sort of fashion, though they're both aware neither of them really qualifies as such. When Ianto first found himself having to shower with Owen, they didn't talk much. Gwen and Tosh could be heard on the other side of the wall, chatting to each other, and sometimes comments would get called back and forth, but not often.
And then, one day, Owen dropped the soap. Both men had frozen, watching it skitter across the tiles to bump against Ianto's toe. They'd looked at each other.
They'd cracked up.
Ianto grins to himself as he rubs shampoo into his scalp. Only Owen could make showering competitive. Who could stand the coldest water? Who could stand the hardest pressure? Who was fastest? By unspoken agreement, they take it in turns to set the competition. Ianto keeps an eye out for extremes in shower conditions, trying to work out what Owen wants to prove today.
Owen catches his eyes, and smirks. He drops the soap. Ianto snorts, but Owen bends slowly to pick it up again, bends at the waist, bends away from him.
So that's today's theme, is it? Who can turn the other on.
Ianto rolls his eyes, and decides to play along. When Owen is standing again, when Ianto is sure he's looking, Ianto stretches under the cool water. He lets Owen watching the roll of muscles under his pale skin, and glances back over his shoulder to make sure he has Owen's attention. He reached up and adjusts the showerhead nonchalantly, turned just enough to give Owen only a glimpse of his cock. The change in angle of the water sends a stream of bubbles running down his neck; he feels them slide over his hip and realises he's turning himself on, a bit. It's been a while. He smiles.
It's Owen's go again, it seems. Owen is not, has not been, nor ever will be, a subtle man. He lathers the soap between his hands, and goes straight for his own groin. He keeps his eyes on Ianto, gives Ianto the full view, tilts his hips towards him invitingly.
Ianto stares at the tiles for a moment. Has he misinterpreted the rules somehow? What precisely marks the winner?
Does it matter?
Ianto sends his shampoo bottle rolling across the tiles towards Owen. He follows it casually, bend to pick it up when it stops by Owen's feet, and sidles his way into Owen's shower. It's warm, turning Ianto's skin suddenly pink. Ianto realises that Owen hadn't realised something, that Ianto takes cold showers. Something crosses Owen's face, a touch of understanding, a self-deprecating smirk, a flash of envy. And then he grabs Ianto's dick.
Ianto enjoys fucking Owen. They don't do it often, but it's good when they do. And by good, Ianto invariably means bad, at least compared with Jack. But it's real, and it's normal, and Ianto doesn't feel so strange and insecure next to Owen. Owen doesn't have flawless skin or bright even teeth or abs like stones or the experiences of hundreds of years of sex behind him. Owen has spots on his shoulders and a wonky smile and he grabs people's hair when he kisses them and it actually hurts, not like Jack's tender face-cupping. The sex is always awkward and painful and too fast, and they still haven't worked out what each other like. It gives Ianto the confidence to do what he wants without asking, and sometimes they end up fighting instead of fucking, but that's good too.
Owen's jerking him, too tight, too fast. Ianto sinks his teeth into Owen's shoulder, laughing and hissing into the soap there. He slides his arms around Owen's narrow waist and down, digging his fingers into Owen's buttocks and squeezing, yanking him close. They slam against the shower wall and Ianto feels heat where he'll have a nasty bump in a few hours. Owen rams his hips against Ianto, pulling his hands away to grab at Ianto's head and turn his face for a kiss. Familiar territory. Ianto kisses with teeth, and pushes back.
The floor is wet and soapy; Ianto spins Owen with ease and now Owen is face into the wall. He struggles. Owen doesn't like to be the bottom - not because he doesn't enjoy it, but because his pride demands otherwise. Tough luck: Ianto likes being on top. He didn't have the nerve to tell Jack that, didn't think he'd be able to equal Jack in that area, but with Owen he can do what he likes. They're equals.
Shampoo is not the best lubricant, and Owen will spit and swear at him later for it, but Ianto doesn't care. He's quick with his preperations, owen pushing away from the wall and against him, a halfhearted attempt to turn the situation aorund again at first, but now just so he can reach his own cock. Ianto bites his shoulder, and Owen turns his head to grin at him. Good. Ianto watches Owen's face as he enters him. Owen smirks at Ianto's attempts to be something resembling gentle. Ianto spits soapy water in Owen's eye, and slams into him.
It's short and rough and Owen won't stop swearing at him and Ianto can't keep his footing on the slick floor and neither of them is sure which comes first, just that suddenly there's semen on the wall in front of Owen and Ianto is sitting on the floor, soapy cock already wilting.
"'sdraw," Owen says, pushing himself away from the wall carefully. He doesn't offer Ianto a hand up. Owen looks pleased with himself, despite everything. Ianto can feel his own grin. "G'back in y'own fuckin' shower," Owen says, beginning to regain his grasp of the English language. Ianto swears at him in Welsh, and slowly climbs to his feet.
He returns to his shower and spins the temperature dial a couple of times, watching Owen wince and flinch. He finds something resembling warm, and cleans himself off thoroughly. Before he's done Owen has switched his own shower off, and is standing, wet and warm and naked, just out of Ianto's reach. Ianto's eyes, as always, centre on the bullet wound.
"You're a weird bastard," Owen says. "You know that?"
"Yeah," Ianto shrugs. "Stay there."
Owen does as he's told, and Ianto finishing washing quickly. He'll want another shower in, oh, fifteen minutes, but that's not the point. The point is right now Owen is clean and warm and smells of soap and sex, and Ianto wants more. He even lets Owen be on top this time.
It's been a bit of a week; I really shouldn't be writing fic. My laptop's been nicked, for a start, and I'm meant to be writing several 5000 word essays. But I'll be straight with you, I want the kind of buzz only fic feedback can give you.
Pairing: Owen/Ianto
Spoilers: Season one
Rating: 18
Genre: smut
The Torchwood showers are somewhat notorious among those who have to use them. Strange rules govern those pipes. For example, only one person may have hot water at a time, but they may only have hot water. Two people may have have reasonable water pressure, but the third will be pounded into mush while the fourth would do better standing in the rain. The water will inexplicably vary between hard and soft, so however much shampoo you use, it is never the right amount. Only Jack suits the acoustics, so only Jack may sing.
Jack has been gone for some time now - Ianto deliberately doesn't work out how long - and that means there is no singing. Not that Ianto ever got to hear it, since he so rarely went out on field missions with the others. Now he stands here, Owen to his left, a wall separating them from the girls. It sounds like Gwen has the hot water at the moment, and all of the water pressure, poor thing.
He and Owen are more than capable of ignoring each other, in that ever so heterosexual manly man sort of fashion, though they're both aware neither of them really qualifies as such. When Ianto first found himself having to shower with Owen, they didn't talk much. Gwen and Tosh could be heard on the other side of the wall, chatting to each other, and sometimes comments would get called back and forth, but not often.
And then, one day, Owen dropped the soap. Both men had frozen, watching it skitter across the tiles to bump against Ianto's toe. They'd looked at each other.
They'd cracked up.
Ianto grins to himself as he rubs shampoo into his scalp. Only Owen could make showering competitive. Who could stand the coldest water? Who could stand the hardest pressure? Who was fastest? By unspoken agreement, they take it in turns to set the competition. Ianto keeps an eye out for extremes in shower conditions, trying to work out what Owen wants to prove today.
Owen catches his eyes, and smirks. He drops the soap. Ianto snorts, but Owen bends slowly to pick it up again, bends at the waist, bends away from him.
So that's today's theme, is it? Who can turn the other on.
Ianto rolls his eyes, and decides to play along. When Owen is standing again, when Ianto is sure he's looking, Ianto stretches under the cool water. He lets Owen watching the roll of muscles under his pale skin, and glances back over his shoulder to make sure he has Owen's attention. He reached up and adjusts the showerhead nonchalantly, turned just enough to give Owen only a glimpse of his cock. The change in angle of the water sends a stream of bubbles running down his neck; he feels them slide over his hip and realises he's turning himself on, a bit. It's been a while. He smiles.
It's Owen's go again, it seems. Owen is not, has not been, nor ever will be, a subtle man. He lathers the soap between his hands, and goes straight for his own groin. He keeps his eyes on Ianto, gives Ianto the full view, tilts his hips towards him invitingly.
Ianto stares at the tiles for a moment. Has he misinterpreted the rules somehow? What precisely marks the winner?
Does it matter?
Ianto sends his shampoo bottle rolling across the tiles towards Owen. He follows it casually, bend to pick it up when it stops by Owen's feet, and sidles his way into Owen's shower. It's warm, turning Ianto's skin suddenly pink. Ianto realises that Owen hadn't realised something, that Ianto takes cold showers. Something crosses Owen's face, a touch of understanding, a self-deprecating smirk, a flash of envy. And then he grabs Ianto's dick.
Ianto enjoys fucking Owen. They don't do it often, but it's good when they do. And by good, Ianto invariably means bad, at least compared with Jack. But it's real, and it's normal, and Ianto doesn't feel so strange and insecure next to Owen. Owen doesn't have flawless skin or bright even teeth or abs like stones or the experiences of hundreds of years of sex behind him. Owen has spots on his shoulders and a wonky smile and he grabs people's hair when he kisses them and it actually hurts, not like Jack's tender face-cupping. The sex is always awkward and painful and too fast, and they still haven't worked out what each other like. It gives Ianto the confidence to do what he wants without asking, and sometimes they end up fighting instead of fucking, but that's good too.
Owen's jerking him, too tight, too fast. Ianto sinks his teeth into Owen's shoulder, laughing and hissing into the soap there. He slides his arms around Owen's narrow waist and down, digging his fingers into Owen's buttocks and squeezing, yanking him close. They slam against the shower wall and Ianto feels heat where he'll have a nasty bump in a few hours. Owen rams his hips against Ianto, pulling his hands away to grab at Ianto's head and turn his face for a kiss. Familiar territory. Ianto kisses with teeth, and pushes back.
The floor is wet and soapy; Ianto spins Owen with ease and now Owen is face into the wall. He struggles. Owen doesn't like to be the bottom - not because he doesn't enjoy it, but because his pride demands otherwise. Tough luck: Ianto likes being on top. He didn't have the nerve to tell Jack that, didn't think he'd be able to equal Jack in that area, but with Owen he can do what he likes. They're equals.
Shampoo is not the best lubricant, and Owen will spit and swear at him later for it, but Ianto doesn't care. He's quick with his preperations, owen pushing away from the wall and against him, a halfhearted attempt to turn the situation aorund again at first, but now just so he can reach his own cock. Ianto bites his shoulder, and Owen turns his head to grin at him. Good. Ianto watches Owen's face as he enters him. Owen smirks at Ianto's attempts to be something resembling gentle. Ianto spits soapy water in Owen's eye, and slams into him.
It's short and rough and Owen won't stop swearing at him and Ianto can't keep his footing on the slick floor and neither of them is sure which comes first, just that suddenly there's semen on the wall in front of Owen and Ianto is sitting on the floor, soapy cock already wilting.
"'sdraw," Owen says, pushing himself away from the wall carefully. He doesn't offer Ianto a hand up. Owen looks pleased with himself, despite everything. Ianto can feel his own grin. "G'back in y'own fuckin' shower," Owen says, beginning to regain his grasp of the English language. Ianto swears at him in Welsh, and slowly climbs to his feet.
He returns to his shower and spins the temperature dial a couple of times, watching Owen wince and flinch. He finds something resembling warm, and cleans himself off thoroughly. Before he's done Owen has switched his own shower off, and is standing, wet and warm and naked, just out of Ianto's reach. Ianto's eyes, as always, centre on the bullet wound.
"You're a weird bastard," Owen says. "You know that?"
"Yeah," Ianto shrugs. "Stay there."
Owen does as he's told, and Ianto finishing washing quickly. He'll want another shower in, oh, fifteen minutes, but that's not the point. The point is right now Owen is clean and warm and smells of soap and sex, and Ianto wants more. He even lets Owen be on top this time.
