out_there | TW Fic: Underwear Not Required (Bra Optional)

Title: Underwear Not Required (Bra Optional)
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not RTD. Even RTD wouldn't do this to them.
Notes: Thanks to

in_the_bottle for cheerleading. Thanks to

ekaterinn for betaing and making me giggle with title suggestions.

Summary: Genderswitch (girl-Jack) porn.

Jack's in the middle of saying, "At least it's only a temporary thing. Last time I was suddenly female it lasted for a month of corsets and heeled boots. These days the dresses are much less terrifying. And the heels do make me look good," when Ianto shoots him an annoyed look over his shoulder.

"Please be quiet. At least until I get my door unlocked," Ianto says, as if Jack's an unwanted stray that's followed him home.

Truth be told, Ianto's been like this all day: quiet with a snappish edge of politeness. Jack waits until they're inside, and then asks, "What? I'm making conversation."

"You haven't stopped talking since this morning. Non-stop, Jack," Ianto says, placing his keys on the hook near the front door and then taking off his shoes. He lines them up next to the others, toes touching the skirting board, and then adds, "Coming to bed?"

"You're sending mixed messages," Jack says, twisting his hips to feel the skirt swirling around his calves. It's not the first time Jack's worn a skirt -- he's lived in places where skirts and dresses are expected for both genders - but he particularly likes this one. It's long and slinky, enough volume in the skirt to swish gently with each step. It was the material that caught Jack's eye; it's thin, silky and dark red, and made Jack think of one of Ianto's ties.

Jack knows he looks good in it. After all, Gwen made it clear when Jack bought it that as soon as Jack was male again, she inherited the skirt. She would have claimed the strappy black heels, too, but Gwen has surprisingly small feet for her height.

Jack looks up from admiring the shoes, and the turn of his bare ankle peeking above the straps, and finds Ianto looking at him. Jack doesn't know how to read Ianto's expression.

"Mixed messages?"

"Since I unexpectedly got in touch with my feminine side," Jack says carefully, waving a hand at the heels, the skirt, the shirt, "you've been avoiding me. If you're uncomfortable..."

Ianto frowns at him, looking very serious as he undoes his tie. "I've had a year to get used to you."

"So?"

Ianto rolls his eyes, as if Jack's being intentionally dense. (He's not. This time.) "I've had a year to learn to control the urge to jump your bones every time I see you. Forgive me if a few hours isn't enough time for me to have a tight leash on my libido yet. Making myself scarce was the only way to keep control."

Jack feels his face split into a grin. "If that was true, why are we standing around talking now?"

Narrowing his eyes, Ianto licks his lips. Then he wraps an arm around Jack's waist and drags him into the bedroom.

Jack loses a heel on the way, but it's hard to complain when Ianto's mouth is fused to his and Ianto's hands are sliding down his back. Not that Jack would complain anyway: he likes Ianto using his initiative. Especially when it results in fingers tracing down his spine, warmth bleeding through the thin cotton of his shirt, pulling him a little closer.

Sliding down to his arse, squeezing, and then-- "You're not wearing underwear?"

Jack loves that low growl.

Jack smiles, nips at Ianto's bottom lip. "Didn't seem...necessary."

Ianto groans, a low sound trapped in the back of his throat, and kisses Jack. Or tries to check for cavities with his tongue. Jack's not sure which, but it feels fantastic: Ianto's mouth against his, demanding and desperate. Ianto's hard against his hip, his hands sliding strong and hot over the back of Jack's thighs, pulling the material of the skirt over Jack's skin slowly, teasing.

Jack's really getting into it, wrapping his arms around Ianto's shoulders, hooking a knee around his leg and rubbing against Ianto's thigh, and then Ianto manhandles him against the wall. Turns him to face the cool plaster, white with grey speckles.

Jack gets his hands up for balance, braces himself against the wall as Ianto crowds up behind him, chest to Jack's back. There's a sweet shiver down his spine as Ianto's breath disturbs the hair at the back of Jack's neck, and Jack doesn't try to hide it.

Smiling to himself, Jack can remember the other times they've done this -- or something very similar -- and he can't help thinking it's sweet that Ianto would return to the familiar. He spreads his legs, waiting for the skirt to be pushed over his hips, waiting for that first touch of Ianto's fingers to his arse.

Instead, Ianto curves a hand low around his belly, and slides his hand up under the shirt. He slides up past ribs, past the stretch of underwire and lace, and cups the curve of Jack's breast. "No undies, but you bought a bra?" Ianto asks, amused and turned on.

"More fun," Jack said as Ianto's thumb slid back and forth, brushing the lace-covered nipple. It's teasingly light, an almost-touch that makes Jack's breath catch, that makes him bite his lip and rock his hips back against Ianto.

Ianto runs his other hand along Jack's arm. Fingers wrap around Jack's wrist briefly, then trace over his hand pressed flat against the wall, and all the time, his other hand keeps teasing, enough to make Jack squirm, enough to make Jack feel the heat between his legs.

He feels newly aware of his skin, bare wrists and one bare foot, lace and straps tight around his chest, waistband tight around his stomach. His legs are naked beneath the skirt, and he can feel a slight draft of cool air as he shifts against Ianto's solid pressure, as he rocks into Ianto's hand.

"Did you forget I've done this before?" Ianto murmurs into Jack's ear, and there's nothing better than his Ianto Jones sounding smug and competent.

Jack nods, because he had. He tends to forget that Ianto ever belonged to anyone else.

Ianto chuckles, low and so sexy Jack's toes curl and dig into the carpet for purchase, and then he slides his hand from Jack's chest to Jack's thighs, pulling handfuls of skirt up. The material is soft and slinky. Jack had bought it for the luxury of it, for the way Tosh's eyes followed his hips when he sashayed across the fitting room. He's now wishing he was wearing something a lot shorter, because Ianto is taking his time, dragging it up slowly.

"You are going to kill me," Jack manages between clenched teeth.

He's rewarded with another of those chuckles. "Far from it."

Jack's about to reply with something witty and biting -- he doesn't know what but it would have been impressive -- when Ianto slides his other hand over Jack's hip, playing with the bunched fabric. He curls fingers against Jack's skin, rubbing the smooth, silky material against the curve of his hip, and then sliding lower, sliding across, and stopping just short of where Jack wants his fingers.

"Ianto."

It sounds more like a plea than the threat Jack had intended, but it works. It makes Ianto move his fingers across, makes him rustle the material over curls of hair, and then slid over Jack's clit. Still light, still such a tease, but so good Jack reaches behind him, gets fingers in Ianto's hair and tugs him close enough to kiss. Kissing over his shoulder is messy, missing Ianto's mouth as much as he hits it, but he can feel the rumbling groan Ianto tries to cover. Even better, he feels Ianto's fingers tighten against his clit, rubbing with enough pressure to make Jack's vision short out for a moment.

There's a slightly suspicious ripping sound as Ianto yanks the skirt up, pulling it out of the way, getting warm fingers on Jack's skin. Two fingers slide wetly, side to side, then up and down, brushing over a sensitive spot that makes Jack gasp and bite at Ianto's mouth. Then the fingers start circling, pressure building from light to firm, then back to a barely-there tease. Ianto repeats the motion and Jack has to break the kiss, has to close his eyes and just try to breathe as his skin tingles and his body tightens.

He rocks his hips against Ianto's hand shamelessly, holds Ianto's head twisted at that horrible angle, and squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel the pleasure building, feel goosebumps break out on his arms and legs, feel Ianto's breath against his neck and hear the wet, sliding sounds of Ianto's fingers on his skin. But it's not enough. It's just... not quite enough.

Jack licks his lips, tries to find words -- tries to remember which language he speaks here -- but it's Ianto who talks. Ianto who says, "Hands against the wall," very carefully, very calmly, as if he's talking down a homicidal alien. As if he's struggling to keep control.

He probably is struggling, Jack realises. While he's been twisting against Ianto's talented fingers, rocking and squirming and unable to stay still, Ianto's been pressed up behind him, cock hard against the small of Jack's back. There's a part of Jack that thinks it serves Ianto right for driving Jack insane, but he reaches for the wall anyway, bends his elbows a little to help take his weight.

Ianto pulls his hand back, his fingers slick and glistening in the light, and Jack turns his head to see Ianto lick his fingers. Ianto sucks them into his mouth, lips tight around his two fingers and doesn't look away from Jack's eyes. Jack feels a shot of lust that has nothing to do with his current gender and everything to do with Ianto.

And then Ianto smiles -- face flushed, breathing heavy, so damn pretty it takes Jack's breath away -- and Jack's sure that nobody else has ever had Ianto like this. Focused, confident, happy. So sure of himself, so sure that he knows exactly how to make Jack forget his own name.

If Jack's honest with himself, Ianto can do that with little more than a kiss.

If Jack's being really honest, Ianto probably knows that.

Before he can say something corny or full of clichés, Jack swallows and says, "Going to stand there watching?"

Ianto looks him all the way down and then all the way up. Then smirks and says, "Maybe another night," as he adjusts his stance, spreading his legs and leaning his weight against Jack. It's only for a moment, which is a pity because Jack likes the feeling of Ianto leaning against him, that comforting pressure of solid muscle beneath the suit.

Jack closes his eyes, listens to the sound of a zipper being opened, the rustle of fabric being pushed down Ianto's hips, the plastic crinkle of Ianto pulling out a condom -- from his pocket, because Ianto is almost always prepared for these things -- and waits. Waits for Ianto to lift the skirt up and out of the way; waits for Ianto's hands on his hips, lifting and adjusting the angle as Ianto's cock grazes the inside of Jack's thighs.

Waits for Ianto to slowly, carefully nudge the head of his cock against him, a slide and nothing more. Ianto's fingers unmoving against Jack's hips when he gets impatient and tries to force Ianto inside.

"Don't tease me, Ianto Jones," Jack growls out, and this time, it sounds like a threat.

Unfortunately, Ianto doesn't seem cowed. He just nips at Jack's earlobe, holds it between his teeth as he says, "I thought you liked being teased."

"Not right--" And Ianto pushes all the way inside in one sweet thrust, cock sliding inside Jack warm and hard, catching Jack with his mouth open, halfway through a threat and making him grunt loudly.

"Better?" Ianto asks smugly, but he sounds breathless as well.

"Better would be your fingers--" Jack starts but he can't finish the thought, because Ianto slides back out, hovers for one torturous moment with only the head of his cock resting inside Jack, and then pushes back in hard.

Ianto moves his hands from Jack's hips. One lands on the wall, beside Jack's splayed fingers, wrist tense as Ianto braces himself, as he eases out of Jack and slams back in, hitting a spot high and deep, and so good Jack's brain melts.

The other slides around Jack's waist, presses flat against Jack's stomach, holds Jack there as he thrusts. Pulls Jack into it with long fingers pressed flat against the soft curves, holds Jack steady.

Jack can hear his own breathing, loud and getting faster, echoing in the room. He can feel his palms, sweaty and slick against the painted wall, fingers spread for purchase even though it barely helps. He can feel his legs tingling, his muscles tense and on fire, straining to hold himself still, to push himself back, to arch into every thrust.

Ianto slides his hand between Jack's legs, brushes fingertips over soft skin and traces the place where they meet, where Ianto's pushing inside Jack. Then Ianto flattens his fingers against Jack's clit, hard ridge of knuckles rubbing against Jack with every thrust.

Jack closes his eyes against the onslaught of sensation. Tries to remember to breathe. And stand.

And keep breathing. Which only becomes more difficult when Ianto bites into his shoulder, all but growling into Jack's skin.

Ianto's fingers keep moving, rubbing in tiny circles, getting maddeningly lighter as Ianto slowly loses control. Jack gasps for air, face caught between a grin and a snarl, air cold against his teeth and dry against his tongue, so close that he can't find words. All he can do is grab Ianto's wrist, press his fingers against Ianto's and push Ianto's hand against him hard, moving fast against his skin.

Ianto gets the message, rubs his fingers hard and fast. It's a pleasure so intense it almost hurts, but Jack welcomes it, wants it, rocks his hips and keeps his grip tight around Ianto's wrist until he shatters apart, insides clenching and back arching, and pulse throbbing through every vein he has.

It's glorious and amazing, but it's just as well Ianto moves his hand to Jack's hip because it feels like Jack's knees are about to fold under him.

Jack presses his forehead against the wall, cool and supporting, and so good. He folds his elbows up and Ianto moves both hands to Jack's hips, pulling and pushing as Ianto loses all rhythm, all restraint, and tries to pound Jack through the wall.

There is a distant part of Jack that notices how good it feels when Ianto finally loses control, how hot Ianto sounds, biting back Welsh curses and growling over the consonants, but most of him thinks about nothing at all. Most of him is still awestruck and struggling to breathe.

He's still working on that breathing thing when Ianto stills, driving in deep and hissing between clenched teeth. His fingers clench tight on Jack's hips, and there's a few jolting pushes as Ianto comes, half-heartedly thrusting through it. Then there's no sound in the room but their heavy breathing, and no movement at all.

When the room is nearly silent and Jack's muscles are starting to object to being frozen in one place, he looks over his shoulder and grins at Ianto. "If that's the reason you were keeping your distance, you should have dragged me into the conference room at lunch."