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The Secretary

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Jack looks shifty when Ianto walks into his office, so Ianto makes a point of coming around behind the desk in order to set down Jack's coffee. Office products made easy proclaims the banner at the top of Jack's screen. Ianto shakes his head internally in fond amusement. Typical Jack to be up here browsing the Staples online catalogue when downstairs, Tosh has just introduced the rest of the team to PornTube.

It's a slow afternoon.

"Need to put another order in, do I?" Ianto asks, eyes flitting over the screen. Jack appears to be perusing a range of sticky notes in a variety of shapes and shades. "I thought we re-stocked just this Monday?"

"We did," Jack says, reaching out to grab a stack of the notes where they sit on his desk. He leans back in his chair, head tilted back against the top of it as he beams up at Ianto; a Cheshire Cat grin. ffllptptttt is the sound the notes make as Jack runs his thumb over the edge of the stack. "I can dream, can't I?"

Ianto shrugs as if in disinterested agreement, but can't help smiling back.

The sound of the rough callus of Jack's thumb against the edges of the paper whispers repeatedly, and the reflexive tightening of Ianto's hand reminds him why he came here in the first place. Well, other than to fend off boredom and possibly scratch the itch caused by the others' online activities. He's still holding the stack of papers that require Jack's signature.

Ianto braces one hand on the back of the chair by Jack's head and leans forward a little, bringing Jack's attention back to the screen. "Have you seen the other adhesive labels, sir? Page markers, I think they're categorised as. I bought a set myself this week."

"Oooh," Jack says, hand moving back to the mouse, though he keeps his head tipped leisurely back against the chair, hair brushing Ianto's fingertips. "No, but I-- Ahh." His eyes crinkle shut and he gives a long, pleased sigh as Ianto brushes the bristle of plastic flags protruding from his stack of papers lightly along the side of Jack's neck. Jack tilts his head a little further, stretching his throat out for the inanimate, intimate touch.

He holds the pose after Ianto stops, merely opening his eyes a crack to look up into Ianto's face with undisguised happiness.

"Have you always had such an unhealthy fixation on office supplies, sir?"

Jack shrugs, and pushes his feet against the floor enough to revolve the chair incrementally back and forth, the movement almost coy. "Only since I got a secretary."

Ianto snorts. "I believe the PC term these days is 'assistant'," he tells Jack, setting the stack of papers squarely on the desk in front of him before walking back around to the other side.


"Politically correct."

Jack doesn't appear to be any more enlightened, and Ianto shakes his head, giving it up as a lost cause. Jack eyes the stack of papers sadly.

Ianto reaches into his jacket for the pen he keeps in his breast pocket; clicking the nib-retractor button once is enough to secure Jack's attention again. Ianto taps the pen against his lower lip thoughtfully. "Why don't you sign those--where I've marked them, if you please--" Jack brushes his fingers along the fringe of plastic tabs-- "And when you're done, make up a shopping basket and send it through to me." He tips his head towards the monitor, sees Jack's eyes dart to the screen, sees the light bulb go off above Jack's head.

Ianto holds out the pen. Jack seizes it with fervour.

Half an hour later, when Ianto has most definitely not closed the tourist office early in order to peruse PornTube with a little more privacy than the echo chamber of communal shrieking below, an IM window pops up. It's Jack, his message containing nothing but a link to a Staples shopping basket. Ianto smirks.

Ianto: Thank you, Captain, I'll be making the order shortly.

Jack: and?

Ianto waves his fingers above the keyboard for a moment, doing a quick mental calculation of just how long a Staples express order will take to arrive.

Ianto: Might I request your presence in the supply room at 1815, sir?

Ianto: It's somewhat unorthodox to make more than one order in a week, so it's probably best if we go through the inventory.

[ Jack is typing ]

Ianto: Just to make sure our expenditure remains balanced, sir.

Ianto worries at his lower lip with his teeth, glances at the digital time in the corner of the screen again. Jack's still typing. He'd better hurry up if he wants Ianto to get this order in today, honestly.

Jack: Inventory, right ;-) 6.15 it is. I'll make sure the others are out by 1800.

Ianto grins.

Ianto: Probably for the best. Wouldn't want to bore them with the minutiae of keeping us in paperclips.

[ Jack is typing ]

Jack: I'll not forget that you promised me paperclips, Jones. Over and out.

Ianto huffs out a brief laugh and exits the chat, going to the new tab in his browser that's opened up with Jack's shopping list. He scrolls through it briefly, adds a few items of his own, then places the order.

It's four o'clock; they really won't be able to justify the expense of an express stationery delivery made at this hour, but Ianto sets aside the background guilt in favour of focusing his thoughts on the evening's activities. After all, in placing the order he's effectively written off the remains of the day for any kind of productive work.

He stretches, interlacing his fingers and pushing his hands up above his head. If the others are still skiving off in the manner in which they were earlier, they're probably feeling worked up enough to benefit from the application of a hot drink.

Ianto locks his computer and heads downstairs again.


It's 18.15 on the dot when Jack sidles into the supply room, pushing the door closed behind him. Ianto, who's been in there since five-thirty--long enough for Jack to practically kick the others out the door at 17.55--doesn't look up from his clipboard.

"Take a seat please, sir, and we can begin." Ianto nods toward the office chair positioned away from its fellows, which remain huddled in a far corner. There's nothing wrong with them per se, but it's the nature of the office chair to be replaced when newer, more ergonomic models are released, approximately once a year.

The chair creaks as Jack sits himself down, and from the corner of his eye Ianto can see the way Jack immediately sprawls his legs wide.

Ianto crosses the last T on his form and looks up, clicking the button on his pen idly. Jack watches him, licking his lips.

Pavlovian response achieved, then.

Ianto smiles in mild inquiry. "Shall we begin?"


The newly-arrived supplies are still in their box, and Ianto's positioned it near to the chair, though not quite within Jack's reach. It's open already, of course; Ianto's already done a preliminary inventory to make sure the order's arrived complete.

He sets the clipboard down on a nearby shelf, stopping briefly to reach into the box before straddling Jack's lap. The chair creaks again, but Ianto's not concerned, having armed himself with research of just how much of a load it can take.

Jack's hands come to rest on his waist as if automatically, and Jack grins up at him happily as Ianto moves in closer to kiss him. They've not kissed since the after-lunch coffee round, and even then it was brief; Ianto tilts his head to open their mouths against each other more effectively, eyes slipping closed at the cool, wet probing of Jack's tongue.

Ianto's hands cradle Jack's face, thumbs stroking over the late-afternoon prickle of Jack's jaw, and Jack makes a muffled noise of pleased surprise, eyes opening. Ianto draws back enough to hold two thumbs up between them, showing off the nubbled, rubber thimbles he's wearing. "They're called thimblettes, sir. Good for counting pages, and preventing papercuts."

Jack makes an interested sound that's just over the salacious side of polite. "And other things too, I imagine."

Ianto hums in agreement, unbuttoning Jack's shirt. The weather's been warmer lately, so Jack's not wearing the white tee-shirt that's part of his customary underclothes in the cooler months. Good man. Thumbing the tender place under Jack's jaw with one hand, Ianto slides the other up Jack's side, splaying his fingers out and rubbing the thimblette over Jack's nipple. It perks up immediately, and Ianto drags the nubbly rubber over it more deliberately.

Jack groans, tightening his arms around Ianto to pull him closer then shifting his grip to reach for the knot of Ianto's tie. Ianto grasps Jack's wrists immediately, stilling him.

"Sorry, sir," he says apologetically. "But we really need do to get this inventory done." He sets Jack's hands on his thighs. "Shall we move on to the next item?"

Jack's look of mild puzzlement lasts but a moment, segueing almost instantly into intrigue. He nods shortly.

Ianto leans forward to kiss him again, fingers squeezing around Jack's wrists then lifting Jack's arm up above and behind his head. If Jack hasn't moved the chair by sitting in it, then it should be just--ah, perfect. Ianto fastens the ribbon of nylon around Jack's wrist by wrapping it around a few times; he's threaded it through the holes in the reinforced steel shelving already. Jack laughs, low and breathy against Ianto's mouth, and they both look up to watch Ianto secure Jack's other wrist as well.

Jack tugs experimentally and Ianto admires his handiwork. "Lanyards," he explains. "I bought a couple of samples; if you like them then we can get them custom-printed with the Torchwood logo."

"Hmm." Jack almost looks like he's seriously considering it. "Not sure we'd be able to get any work done, if we did. Can't have people following us back to our secret base just because we wore our security passes to lunch."

"You're probably right, sir." Ianto slides the grip of his hands down Jack's arms--wrists-to-elbows, dragging the thimblettes along the tender skin exposed by Jack's rolled-up sleeves--to rest on his chest again. He can feel the beginnings of Jack's erection pressing up against his own groin.

If he kisses Jack again now, he won't be able to stop, so instead he reaches into his pocket and produces the next item.

"Correction tape roller," he identifies the device for Jack's benefit. "Less messy than the fluid. And less toxic, too."

It requires some pressure to operate, so he begins with the winged lines of Jack's collarbones, leaving straight, white lines of tape like paths to the hollow of Jack's throat. Ianto rolls the little wheel back and forth in the dip lightly, then presses down harder again to drag a line down Jack's breastbone. Ianto's other hand follows the path left by it, fingertips brushing lightly over the tape, the skin around it briefly white from the pressure then flushing faintly.

"Give it up, Ianto," Jack says, humour warm in his voice. "You can't correct perfection." His abs flex, providing a harder surface for the roller to press against as Ianto rolls down as far as Jack's navel, and Ianto can't help but laugh.

His hips rock forward against Jack's, thinking about what comes next on the inventory. "Close your eyes," he says, pleased when Jack obeys; even tied to the furniture, Jack's far from at Ianto's mercy.

The correction tape roller is no longer dispensing tape, but Ianto rolls the little wheel in a tightening spiral in towards Jack's nipple anyway; first one, and then the other, teasingly light over the tightening skin; then puts the device back in his pocket. He's still wearing the thimblettes; he rolls Jack's nipples under them until Jack's panting and the nubs are hot against Ianto's fingertips. Ianto reaches into his pocket again.

The clips are each about the size of Ianto's thumbnail, with long, silver arms, opening without too much pressure when Ianto squeezes them.

"These are the small ones," he tells Jack, mouth close to Jack's ear but head tilted down so he can still see what he's doing. Jack shivers at the touch of Ianto's breath, and a quick glance tells Ianto that Jack's still got his eyes closed. Ianto palms over one of Jack's nipples before framing it between his fingers. "The bigger ones are made of spring steel; good for holding together larger stacks of paper when staples just won't do. Torchwood Three's sexual harassment pamphlet, for example."

Jack seems to miss the humour; but Ianto's not offended because really, Jack's attention's right where he wants it. Jack's chest stills and trembles when Ianto fastens the clip to the protruding nub of his nipple, then it rises and falls rapidly as Jack lets out a panting whine.

Ianto pushes his hips against the urgent pressure of Jack's, both of them fully hard now and grateful for some resistance to thrust against. Ianto's breathing hard himself as he leans down to close his mouth around the clip and surrounding flesh. He traces his tongue gently around the areola, unable to avoid jostling the clip; it's cold, and the metallic flavour of it creeps into Ianto's tastebuds. Jack sucks in a loud breath and pushes his chest out; Ianto uses his hands to try and hold Jack still. He finds an open edge of the clip and pushes his tongue tip delicately into it, trying to soothe and further torment the imprisoned flesh there all at once.

It works, from the noises Jack's making, and Ianto wastes no further time in proceeding on to a repeat performance with the second nipple. By the time he stops, Jack's eyes are screwed shut tight, face and chest flushed and hot.

Ianto's more than a little breathless himself. He sits upright again, muscles in his back twinging even as the chair creaks again, then reaches up to lay his hands over Jack's fists. He presses his lips against Jack's again, firm until Jack's jaw loosens enough to let Ianto's tongue stroke inside again. The taste of Jack's mouth soon overwhelms the remaining metallic taint.

"All right?" Ianto asks hoarsely, and Jack blinks open his eyes, looking dazed.

"More than," he says fervently, gaze focusing on Ianto's. "Next item, then?"

Relief makes Ianto's arousal even more eager, but he tries to detach himself from its distraction as much as possible; remembering what comes next makes him grin.

He strokes his grip down Jack's arms again, reaching into the arms of the shirt to dig finger tips into the vulnerable flesh above Jack's armpits and dragging the pressure down Jack's flanks, the touch improvised but enjoyable nonetheless. He dismounts Jack's lap at the same time, kneeling instead on the floor between the sprawl of Jack's legs. Ianto looks up, taking in the strips of white patterning Jack's chest like warpaint and the black clips adorning his nipples, before his gaze comes to rest on Jack's face again. Jack looks down at him, expression equal parts interest and anticipation.

Ianto divests Jack of his boots and trousers rapidly, but then Jack's cock distracts him; he's not sure if the outline of it through Jack's underwear could be more enticing if it were bare. Ianto carefully pulls back the waistband far enough to let it bob freely against Jack's belly before easing the band down again, the elastic trapping Jack's cock against his body with just the red head of it peeking above the white cotton; picture perfect. Ianto mouths upwards along the hard line of it the material, breathing in the heady scent rising with the heat of Jack's body, then dragging the waistband down a little further with his teeth. The head of Jack's cock is blood-hot against the flat of Ianto's tongue, and Ianto's saliva glands flow so suddenly it's almost painful.

The chair creaks again as Jack thrusts forward, and it's enough for Ianto to remember where he is, what he's doing, what the plan is; his eyes blinking dopily open again. Even in the unflattering fluorescent light, Jack's body is irresistible.

Ianto clears his throat, but his voice still comes out husky. "Back to the inventory, then."

"Indeed." Jack smirks.

Ianto pulls Jack's underwear down and off his ankles before retrieving the tape gun from the nearby delivery box and kneeling back in again. It's loaded with masking tape, so shouldn't be quite as painful to remove as packing tape might be, but will hopefully be strong enough to serve its purpose. Ianto pushes Jack's knees wider then presses the first end of the tape high on the top of Jack's thigh, dragging it down and around, binding Jack's limb and affixing it to the bottom of the chair simultaneously. The loud squawk of the tape reluctantly unspooling is loud in the tiny supply room.

Once he's done both legs, Ianto sits back on his heels to admire his handiwork, finding himself with an almost physical urge to reach for his clipboard again; Jack's fetishes must be rubbing off on him. Jack's hips twitch and the tape crackles; perhaps not as effective as if the chair had legs to more securely affix Jack to, but this setup has its own reward. The whitish bands of masking tape binding Jack's thighs off-set the tan of his skin, an effect Ianto appreciates even as he appreciates the practicality of it as well; Jack's legs secured in a wide spread, further restraining movement.

Ianto shuffles forward again, hands creeping along the underside of Jack's thighs until he's scoring the edge of his fingernails along the border of Jack's yielding skin and the stiff smoothness of the tape, freeing a few half-stuck hairs. Then he gropes further back under the chair, the reach bringing his face closer again to Jack's naked cock, arching up in obvious approval against Jack's belly; Ianto tries to pretend his proximity to it does not affect him, but suspects he's not doing a very good job. Finally, his hand finds the lever and lifts it; Jack's entire body jerks in surprise as the chair drops a few inches with a hydraulic hiss.

That's better. It'd be no good for Ianto to do his back in, especially not now; he's not even got his suit, let alone his end, off. And the lower positioning of the seat means that Jack's arms are pulled higher above him, Jack's torso stretched out between the points of restraint. Ianto admires the view as he looks up the bowed length of Jack's body, from between his legs, pleased to see the clips on Jack's nipples tremble with Jack's deep breaths.

Kneeling on the floor means the newly ordered box of supplies is within reach, and Ianto locates the next item on the inventory by touch. Jack's head is tipped back against the edge of a shelf, pushing a neat stack of notepads askew; he watches Ianto from beneath lowered eyelids. They squeeze closed when Ianto brushes his still-thimbled thumb down the underside of Jack's cock, and Ianto uses his teeth to tear open the packaging of the new purchase, then again to pull the lid off.

He changes his touch on Jack's cock to another one of restraint, using his thumb on the underside of the head to hold it against Jack's belly. Not wanting to overstimulate Jack too fast--or at least, not in that manner--he resists the urge to torment Jack there with the rubber nubs of the thimblette, and instead, before Jack can open his eyes, he rolls the stamp up the shaft of Jack's cock.

Jack's eyes fly open at the new sensation, head jerking to stare down at Ianto with wide eyes. "What the hell is that?" He sounds mildly awestruck.

Ianto smirks, holds up the item. "Roller stamp, sir. Self-inking."

Jack makes a noise that Ianto supposes is meant to be polite interest, but comes out rather strained.

He rolls the tip of the stamp back down the line of Jack's cock, then takes a firm grasp around the shaft and pulls it away from Jack's belly and towards him. He rolls the stamp carefully around the rim of the head, printing CONFIDENTIAL in bold, red letters. Jack's breathing heavily, and Ianto pauses for a moment to admire the effect. He'd not been convinced when he'd first seen the roller stamp in the online catalogue; the pen-like nature of it had him scoffing--why not just write the bloody word?--but he has to admit, this is much better. Much more professional. Jack's cock decorated with neatly printed text is unexpectedly pleasing.

Carefully, Ianto draws back the tight sleeve of Jack's foreskin, lapping away the pearling precome before rolling the stamp across the tip of Jack's cock, holding his breath as the letters press down into the springier flesh. It's too wet from Ianto's own spit to hold the word very well; it smudges when he rubs his fingertips against it, but he tries again anyway. Jack doesn't seem to mind, mewling mindlessly above him, chair and tape creaking in counterpoint as his hips twitch desperately, as if unsure whether to push closer to Ianto's attentions or pull away.

Ianto hooks his elbows over the tops of Jack's thighs without relinquishing his grasp, then pulls with his arms to roll the chair forward a few inches. Jack's body stretches out further, taut enough to be more effectively immobilised--well, immobilised enough. The view of Jack's body, bow-tight, is appealing enough that Ianto decides to diverge from the plan a little between inventory items; he drops the stamp and draws Jack's cock to his mouth instead, closing his lips around the exposed head, sucking lightly and tonguing broadly as he slides his fist around the shaft, rubbing his thimbled thumb just below the pout of his lower lip.

Jack's cock jerks in response, so hard in Ianto's fist and mouth. The skin under Ianto's hand is like hot, delicate paper and the ink from the stamp is bitter on his tongue; the sensory stimulation is perversely reminding him of being in the archives, the touch and taste of classifying and filing mingling with that of fucking, Jack's smell and scent and feel, the combination dizzying.

"Ianto," Jack gasps, his voice, as unravelled as it is, grounding Ianto again. "So good. Yes--" Jack's coherency, mild as it is, cuts off into a guttural cry as Ianto takes more of Jack's cock into his mouth, guiding the head further back with the cup of his tongue then sliding down just far enough for his lips to touch the top of his fist before pulling back off entirely. The head of Jack's cock looks even more delectable when glistening with spit and Ianto can't resist kissing it again lovingly, making a show of pouting his lips around it.

He makes himself draw back again, watching the pulse of precome at the tip of Jack's cock as he strokes up and down, then lapping it clean again, smiling a little at the lingering marks of the stamp. He tilts a glance up at Jack, pleased to note the slackness of Jack's jaw, the sweat darkening the hair at Jack's temples. Jack's panting, and Ianto needs a moment to catch his breath as well. He's dropped his free hand into his lap at some point during the process of sucking Jack, kneading his own erection through his trousers; without the sensory overload of Jack's cock in his mouth it suddenly dominates his attention and he huffs involuntarily, shoulders curling, as the stimulation sends a shuddering jolt of lust up his spine. Jack's restraint means he can't see below Ianto's shoulders, but his eyes are fixed hungrily on Ianto's face.

Ianto forces himself to still, moving his hand away, rubbing the sweat from his palm against his thigh. "Ready for the next item, sir?" he rasps.

Jack's adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "There's more?"

"Of course." Letting go of Jack's cock, Ianto makes a show of producing the item in question, pulling the chain of paperclips from his inside jacket pocket like a magician. He holds the strand up with a flourish. "As promised."

Jack laughs, low and delighted, which eases Ianto's nerves a little. He'd considered at length how to fulfil Jack's demand for paperclips; the initial thought of leading Jack around by a chain of them affixed to his nipples made Ianto squirm with the ridiculousness of it more than anything else. It always feels a little like tight-roping blindfolded, taking an unorthodox approach with Jack; always the background concern that fumbling into his own unchartered territory with the goal of surprising Jack with something new is akin to teaching your grandmother how to suck eggs. Still, regardless of the vague anxiety that he might get something wrong, Ianto's had enough sex (with people other than Jack, even) to know that striving to please your partner is something that can rarely go wrong.

And Jack seems to enjoy the anticipation of waiting to see Ianto's next move, in all their encounters. So Ianto supposes he must be doing something right. And actually, if the way Jack's responding to Ianto's ministrations here is any indication, things are going very right. Just as long as the novelty of his inventiveness doesn't wear off any time soon.

Ianto grasps Jack's cock again, pulling it away from his belly with a light pressure that's nothing to do with gratification. It's barely tacky, the wet of Ianto's spit mostly dried off by the heat of the skin. Ianto holds the first clip of the chain against the base of Jack's cock with his still-thimbled thumb, then--madly willing the chain not to tangle--carefully winds the strand of linked paperclips around the shaft. He needs both hands; leans a little closer to tuck the head of Jack's cock under his own chin where it smears wetly, concentrating fiercely to make sure the winding is not so tight as to be constrictive, still loose enough for the chain to move but not so much that it comes unwound as soon as Ianto lets go.

The metal of the clips feels cool to Ianto's touch, despite being kept in his pocket; they must feel amazing against the burning skin of Jack's cock. When Ianto's finished, the chain sheaths a few inches of the shaft from the base, and Ianto wraps his hand around it, giving a careful, experimental stroke. The metal clips shift under Ianto's touch, sleeve of them loose enough to slide easily around Jack's cock. Jack gives a choked moan, hips twitching up to push his cock through Ianto's grip again, and the masking tape makes an ominous tearing sound, warning of Jack's impending freedom.

It's a timely warning, and reminds Ianto of just what he had planned next; the reason he's still crouched here sweating in a three-piece suit. Ianto's knees crack when he rises, and when he carefully unwraps his hand from Jack's cock, his handiwork holds firm; the chain is left looser but still in place.

Nudging the chair between Jack's legs with his knee pushes it back flush to the shelves again; then tension in strung tight Jack's shoulders eases a little, lines of his body shifting. Ianto swings a leg over Jack's lap again, his own legs straddled wide over the splay of Jack's. His shoes click a little against the concrete floor before he rests his weight back on Jack's thighs and takes up his grip on Jack's cock again, stroking slowly.

"So," Jack says, faux-casual. His eyelids flutter as Ianto twists on the next slide, then he forces his eyes open again. "Paperclips, huh?"

"As per your requisition, sir," Ianto says, tone polite, perfectly civilised but for the sandpaper edge to his voice.

"Mmm." Jack closes his mouth long enough to hum in incoherent agreement. "Remind me to... requisition a few more crates of them."

Ianto feels more than a little smug to think where Jack's mind will go the next hundred times Ianto brings him a handful of printouts fastened with a paperclip. "Next item, then?"

Jack whines. It might be because the queue between him and orgasm just got longer. Or, more likely, because Ianto's leaning forward to reach the shelf behind him scrapes the front of his jacket against the clips still closed around Jack's nipples.


"Sorry," Ianto says automatically, drawing back; Jack hisses when Ianto strokes his fingertips against the areola of one, its dark circle distended by the pull of Jack's arms above his head. Ianto carefully pinches together the metal arms of the clip, releasing its grip; Jack cries out sharply and wordlessly when Ianto touches the freed nub, flesh hot against his fingers.

"Shit." He's dropped the clip, rapidly losing his own control as Jack comes undone under his hands; Ianto peels the thimblettes off with his teeth, spitting them away then reaching back to Jack to unclip the second nipple, just as inflamed and tender under Ianto's touch.

"Your mouth," Jack gasps, and Ianto looks up to Jack's face. It's not quite a non-sequitur, Jack must want him to-- "It's all red."

Ianto touches his lips before he's thought about it, then his mind catches up. "Red ink will do that, sir," he says, tilting his head and leaning in to smile, teasingly close enough for Jack's gaze to still take it in visually, but just out of reach of his mouth.

Jack tips his chin up, more desperate than demanding, and Ianto moves that little bit closer to kiss him; Jack's mouth, lips and teeth grasping and clinging where his hands aren't free to. He gives a startled moan when Ianto fastens the foldback clip onto his ear lobe.

"Sorry, sir," Ianto murmurs, sliding his mouth from the kiss to press against Jack's ear. It's warming rapidly under the touch of his lips, tight grasp of the clip inflaming it. "I know it's a terrible imposition to do this after hours, but protocol is protocol." He cups the back of Jack's skull in his hand, protecting it belatedly from the edge of the shelf behind him.

A quick glance down; Jack's cock looks so hard it must be painful, curving against his belly, lines of red print on the shaft offsetting the darker flush of the head crowning it, swollen and dripping precome. The paperclip sheath is loosening around the base, parts of the chain looping down to brush against Jack's balls, the silvery metal looking almost pretty against the dark hair.

Ianto rubs his fingers against the back of Jack's head soothingly, unscrewing the cap on the tube of glue he'd retrieved from the shelf with one hand. Squeezing it in his fist makes the clear, tacky fluid ooze from the sponge over the tube's opening. It's an untimely reminder of his early school days, the adhesiveness of the glue weak enough to merely flake apart any papers stuck with it, water-based and suitable for use by small children with a propensity to stick things in their mouth.

Even gently, circling over Jack's nipple with the sponge of the glue pen makes Jack curse and shake. Ianto squeezes the tube, viscous clear fluid flowing generously, no doubt cold against the hot, tormented flesh. He watches Jack's face as he repeats the attention on the other nipple; Jack's eyes are screwed shut and his neck corded with tension. Ianto uses the glue pen to trace the line of a tendon from collarbone up to the corner of Jack's jaw, and Jack's whimper has him pressing his hips forward, his own cock straining against the seam of his fly, the folds of his trousers rubbing against Jack's.

"Fuck," Jack heaves on an indrawn breath, his head grinding Ianto's hand against the metal edge of the shelf. "Ianto, please--"

He'd not realised he was waiting for Jack to beg; but now Jack has (Jack is; making helpless, imploring sounds as Ianto's fingers roll the slippery nubs of his nipples amidst the clinging, clear glue), he can't wait any longer. He drags his hand down Jack's chest and belly, wiping away the glue from his fingertips. A quick palm of the head of Jack's cock gathers enough fluid that Ianto's not jerking him off dry; but then Ianto's not sure the comfort of that matters all that much because just a few pulling strokes of Ianto's fist is enough to have Jack coming.

Jack yells like it's pain and relief all at once, cock pulsing in Ianto's fist. Ianto squares his shoulders back to ride the bucking of Jack's hips between his thighs, remembering in time to angle Jack's cock in his grip, directing the spatter of Jack's come over his pristine suit front, a few wet drops catching the underside of his chin but most decorating his tie, collar and waistcoat.

Jack slumps, gasping; when he opens his eyes they flit over Ianto's soiled suit and he lets out a pained groan.

"Stop," he says breathlessly, and Ianto relinquishes his hold on Jack's still-twitching cock. "Untie me."

The air in the tiny room is thick with the scent of Jack's come. Ianto thinks he could get off within a few seconds of just staying where he is, rutting against Jack's softening body, but the promise in Jack's command has him standing again on shaky legs. He leans forward to fumble with the lanyards tied around Jack's wrists but the knots have tightened so Ianto has to resort to scissors to get them undone. Jack makes a muffled noise partway through; Ianto looks down to see Jack pressing his face against the sodden front of Ianto's waistcoat, then the flash of teeth--Jack's chewing on his tie.

As soon as he has one hand free, Jack's grabbing Ianto's arse and pulling him in. "Jack--" Ianto gasps, and stumbles, even as he's shoving his hips forward.

"Leave it," Jack grinds out as Ianto struggles to focus on cutting Jack's other wrist free. Jack's rubbing his face into Ianto's belly, as low as he can reach, his throat only occasionally bumping the aching head of Ianto's cock through his trousers as he tries to gnaw on the gabardine of Ianto's waistcoat. "Wanna suck you."

Ianto's a little embarrassed at just how inflammatory the blunt admission is; then again, no use in denying that making Jack come hard enough to apparently relieve him of all his charm is an incredible turn-on. Ianto can't believe he's held out this long, if he's honest with himself; can't believe that apparently the sight of one of his favourite suits spattered with Jack's come is affecting him almost as much as it's affecting Jack.

Or maybe it's more to do with the fact that he's had this hard-on for the better part of an hour, and for most of that hour it's been untouched. Ianto wishes he had the coordination, or perhaps the willingness to step away from Jack's touch long enough to pull the hydraulic lever on the bottom of Jack's chair again to lower him down the requisite several inches.

Casting his eyes about, however, does uncover the step stool he uses to reach things stored on higher shelves; Jack grumbles as Ianto angles his hips away in order to herd it over with his foot, then hums in approval when Ianto steps onto it--perfect. Jack's face rubbing against his crotch now, then Jack mouthing the backs of Ianto's hands as he unfastens his trousers and shoves his underwear out of the way, then oh, god, yes, holding his cock out for Jack to close his mouth around it, wet and eager and sucking immediately.

Ianto throws his head back, body teetering dangerously on the step as Jack's fingers dig into his buttock, Jack's mouth slurping around his cock as if the suction's enough to keep Ianto upright. Jack's grip slides from Ianto's arse to the back of his thigh, then pulling on the back of his knee, guiding his foot up to brace against Jack's thigh; Ianto leans forward and grips one of the metal brackets that hold up the shelves, his other hand grasping at Jack's hair, pushing Jack's head forward even as he thrusts his hips.

Jack takes it, hums blissfully like he wants to take it, the sound and sensation of it clutching at Ianto's cock, making his balls draw up and his hips stutter forward more fiercely. Jack's arm hooks around Ianto's waist, pulling him forward further and the whole picture of it is overwhelming all of a sudden; Jack's face buried in his groin with the occasional glimpse of the deep pink of Ianto's naked cock as Jack bobs and sucks, otherwise fully clothed with Jack's body mostly naked, half-shackled and ruined beneath him.

Jack presses his knuckles against Ianto's tailbone, making Ianto's hips tilt up on the next thrust and then Jack's tightening his mouth, his teeth faintly scraping as he rubs his tongue hard against the underside of Ianto's cock, pressing it to the roof of his mouth and sucking, hard. Ianto curls forward, hand slipping to brace himself on Jack's shoulder. Jack makes encouraging sounds as Ianto loses what little rhythm he had, just shoving into Jack's mouth with desperate, shallow strokes and coming hard, the remaining energy draining out of his body as Jack swallows around his cock, leaving him weak and light-headed.

Jack pulls away at last, mouth red and wet. "Careful," he says, and guides Ianto's foot off his thigh and back to the ground, holding on until Ianto steps down from the stool as well. Ianto's grateful for the support; his leg muscles are trembling like he's just climbed several flights of stairs.

He fetches Jack's trousers before he realises Jack's still got one arm tied to the shelving unit, and flushes in embarrassment; of course he's automatically on clean-up, they're in the bloody store room. Jack smirks at him, amusement and affection both. He's grabbed the scissors from behind him, now gestures towards Ianto with them. "You get the legs, I'll get the arm."

It's a relief to be on the floor again, as much as his knees protest the repeated abuse of being ground against the concrete, and intimate in an entirely different way to be this close to Jack's naked cock when it's not hard and begging for his attention. Ianto takes a moment to tuck his own cock away again, then peels the masking tape from Jack's thighs as carefully as possible. At least Jack's not as hairy as Ianto is; then it would be considerably more painful. As it is, the skin below the tape is only moderately more stripped of hair than the skin around it, and faintly red. Ianto kisses it; Jack squeezes his ribcage between his knees, then places both hands in Ianto's hair. Ianto goes boneless as Jack's fingers curl and rub against his scalp, sighing deeply, head resting against Jack's leg.

Jack laughs. "Don't fall asleep," he says. "You still have to put my trousers back on. And then there's this." Ianto opens his eyes again and looks up; Jack's waving Ianto's clipboard. "There are at least six items on here we're yet to inventory. Some of which, I might add, were from my shopping list."

Ianto groans, deliberately breathing out over Jack's soft cock. The paperclip chain has almost entirely come unwound, now, draping between Jack's legs like bizarre postmodern punk jewellery.

"I'm not sure what you expect me to do with a staple remover, sir. It almost doesn't bear thinking about."

Ianto struggles back to his feet, bracing his hands on the tops of Jack's thighs to rise up between them. He pauses, looking down into Jack's face; Jack stares back up at him. Ianto kisses him, then puts his hands on Jack's shoulders and slides the shirt off Jack's arms. Jack quirks an eyebrow at Ianto when he draws back. He's naked but for the dangling paperclips and single foldback clip, still clipped to his ear.

"I'll put your trousers back on in a minute," Ianto informs him.

Jack pretends to look nonchalant. The farce only goes so far as his expression; he's reaching into Ianto's breast pocket, withdrawing again with Ianto's pen. He clicks the retractor a couple of times, then, looking thoughtful, presses the end lightly against Ianto's lower lip. Ianto obediently takes it in his mouth, and with both hands freed, Jack starts on Ianto's waistcoat buttons. "No rush."

A/N: I do not know if the Staples in Cardiff has express delivery, nor do I know if they stock all of the following items: desk chairs, thimblettes, lanyards, correction tape, foldback clips, masking tape, paperclips, glue pens, step stools.