Current mood:	cheerful
Entry tags:	fic: mine, fic: torchwood, tv: torchwood

Title: Performance Review
Author: Hope (angstslashope / hope)
Fandom: Torchwood
Wordcount: ~4,000
Genre: PWP
Rating: NC-17
Characters(s): Lisa/Ianto
Notes: Written for Porn Battle V, using the “Enclosed Spaces/Tight Quarters” prompt. Alas, it's too long for a comment, so posted here instead. Hmph. Thank you to amand_r for beta.

Summary: Ianto and Lisa at Torchwood 1. A porny beginning.

*

“Jones,” Lisa says, not even looking at him as she walks past. “With me, please.”

From the cessation of conversation behind her and the soft rustle of fabric as Ianto falls into step, she knows he's following. She keeps her shoulders back and spine straight, knowing the killer heels make her legs look fantastic, not to mention the way her skirt clings to her arse and keeps her thighs together. She doesn't even have to try to shimmy; the combination of her carefully-chosen attire constricts and directs the roll and sway of her body as she strides.

Just knowing that he's looking at her is enough to firm her resolve that final increment required for her to go through with it. She's not misreading this. She's always been a good judge of character; but she'd have to be utterly blind to miss the way that once he'd worn her down enough to request his transfer to her team, his calculated flirting didn't stop—just changed tack. It's still as subtle in its suggestiveness as it always was, though. And that's what had ultimately won her over—where winking and simpering would have bought him a harassment warning weeks ago, just knowing he's walking a few paces behind her in silent obedience is enough to send a frisson across her back.

She pauses at a door near the end of the corridor, willing herself not to look around to check if there's anyone else in the vicinity, then grips the handle and turns to face him for the first time, keeping her expression cool. He wears a mask of politeness that's transparent enough for her to recognise that he's not entirely certain what's going on here, yet—not sure if her clipped tones and lack of friendliness, let alone being addressed by surname only, means he's about to be reprimanded for something.

Perfect. Lisa drags it out for a little longer, her chin tipped up and maintaining eye contact without letting her expression shift. He returns her gaze, though not her composure; a faint blotchy flush is beginning to creep along his cheekbones. She wonders if that means he realises what's about to happen, or if the thought of her giving him a dressing-down (and isn't that a delightful phrase) is enough to cause such a response.

She's pleased with it, either way, and allows the hint of a smirk to curve her lips before she opens the door. “After you.”

She sees the moment he realises which way this is going as soon as he steps into the tiny room and the motion sensor flicks the light on; the tension of his shoulders changes, head bowing down a little. He doesn't turn to face her as she follows him, even though she has to step right up against his back in order to pull the door closed behind her.

Mere millimetres separate them, and in the enclosed space she can hear the rustle of his woollen suit jacket brushing against the crisp ruffles at the front of her blouse when he breathes.

Lisa swallows. “Turn around, Ianto,” she says.

Turning around is slightly awkward. There's barely room for two of them in there, because it's less a room and more a glorified closet, really—not meant for people to occupy, anyway. At Ianto's back is a towering stack of uncomfortable chairs, to either side of them are shelves with boxes of pens and stacks of notepads sporting the hexagonal Torchwood watermark. The faint scent of cheap mints permeates the room. It's merely storage space for the function rooms further down the hall, wide enough to store chairs a few stacks deep and to wheel in a trolley to collect them before backing out again.

There are no functions on today, though, or any time this week—Lisa checked the calendar—and the stacks loom high at Ianto's back once he's turned.

With these shoes she's practically eye-to-eye with him, and she doesn't back away, their faces not more than a couple of inches apart as she stares at him. “Do you know why you're here, Ianto?”

This close she can take in his reactions in more detail; see the Welsh patchiness of his flush, and the way he's trying to keep his breathing under control, shallow breaths through his nose. His gaze darts down to her mouth and back again, though he doesn't try to move forward. She can hear him swallow. “I'm afraid I don't.”

She's sure that if not for Torchwood's first-name rule—Yvonne's ridiculous attempt at enforced casualness—there'd be a resounding ma'am at the end of Ianto's response. It's not the first time she's come to that conclusion, and while it occasionally makes her feel squirmingly awkward, in the midst of her fantasies he calls her nothing but. The unspoken echo of it in the tiny space now holds no embarrassment whatsoever.

“Harassment is no light matter,” she continues, keeping her tone even and authoritative, as if his proximity is not in fact speeding the pump of blood around her body. She's not sure they've even been this physically close to each other, before. “I could report it to the higher ups, but I do prefer to handle these sort of issues within my own team—better for morale.”

Ianto nods very slightly. Lisa feels her skin prickle with heat, even as warmth radiates off him, his body broad and solid in front of her. She keeps her eyes on his face and despite the accelerating pound of her heart, her hand is steady as she slips it between them and presses her palm to the front of his trousers. His mouth drops open a little and he breathes in sharply, his eyes widening a little as she feels out the shape of his cock through the fabric.

“No need to over-complicate things.” She pauses, can't help but swipe her tongue out a little over her bottom lip—no need to be lascivious, or ruin her lipstick, and it's mostly involuntary anyway. She firms the touch of her hand beyond exploratory, massaging his cock, feeling it stiffen. “Do you understand?”

Ianto's gaze is fixed on her mouth. Somehow, being close enough to see the way his eyes are darkening is more intimate than the fact that she's got her hand on his prick. “Yes,” he croaks.

“Good,” Lisa says, swallowing down the flutter of excitement in her throat before she speaks again. “Now, kneel.”

He sinks down immediately, looking surprised only for a very brief moment, as if he's not shocked at her command but the fact that he's automatically obeying it. Lisa feels a little light-headed, as if the mint fumes are getting to her. The belt cinched high around her waist tightens constrictively when she takes a deep breath.

Ianto kneels, a little awkwardly, trying to find space for his feet beneath the stack of chairs behind him. Once he's down Lisa pushes her hips forward a little, stance suggestive, and he places his hands almost hesitantly on the sides of her thighs, just above the hem of her skirt. He looks up at her, expression questioning. She can see the bulge in his trousers, framed by his pose, and can't help but think: I did that.

She nods curtly. “Go on, then.”

He moves his hands down until they're just below her skirt, then slides them slowly up again, under the hem this time. There's a whisper of friction as the calluses on his hands skate over the fine weave of her silk stockings, and he gathers the skirt up against his thumbs as he goes. Lisa sucks in a sharp breath of her own when he reaches where the silk ends, the warmth of his hands suddenly more immediate against the bare, sensitive skin of her thighs. She widens her stance as the constricting fabric is rucked out of the way, and allows herself a smile as Ianto uncovers the simple black lace of her stocking tops and knickers.

She'd considered suspenders, but they would have absolutely ruined the line of her skirt, and Ianto doesn't seem to mourn their lack; his fingers dance over the lace encircling her thighs, stroking over the enticing border of it between fabric and skin. They come to rest cradling the backs of her thighs, fingers in the dips where her buttocks end and legs begin, and he leans forward as if drawn inexorably.

The first touch of his mouth on her is the firm press of his lips through the silky fabric of her knickers, and her sex throbs at the diffuse sensation provided by the hotness of his breath. The muscles in her thighs tighten and pleasure strikes through her chest anew because he does make a pretty picture, kneeling at her feet, clinging to her, eyes closed as if all his attention is devoted to trying to taste her through her knickers. She can feel the persistent lave of his tongue wetting the fabric, moulding it to the outer lips of her sex.

Before his hands can make it to her waistband she shifts her weight, using her knee to push him back again. He gazes up at her, breathless and adorably confused, though his eyes drift back down her body to focus between her legs again, skirt is still rucked up above her hips.

“Ianto,” she says sharply, and his eyes jerk up again. “Hands behind your back,” she commands.

She waits until he's obeyed, hands clasped in the small of his back—pose more polite than restricted—before making her next move, pushing aside her flutter of nervousness and focusing instead on the way Ianto's paying her absolute attention. He's a bloke; she's fairly certain she could do the hokey pokey with a cockney accent right now and he'd still be utterly rapt and grateful. It's not really like she could end up doing anything wrong, at this juncture, but still—she wants to get this right.

She rests one hand on the cinched curve of her waist, the pose popping her hip at a slightly more jaunty angle, and a little more forward. Allowing her other hand to fall to her side, she drums her fingers lightly against her bared thigh as she regards the man kneeling before her, as if in contemplation. Ianto watches the movement avidly, keeps his eyes on her hand as she slowly drags it up the side of her body. She idly strokes her fingers back and forth along the lower swell of her breast when she reaches it, lacquered fingernails whispering against the starched cotton. She wishes briefly that she'd worn a shirt without the ruffles; they hide the way her nipples are stiffening, tightening into exquisite points of sensitivity as they push against the matching black lace of her bra.

Well, she can show him that. She unbuttons the top few buttons of her blouse, pulling it open enough to expose some cleavage and the scalloped edges of her bra. She waves her hand above her chest as if fanning herself, puffing out a breath between her pursed lips. Imagining herself right now is faintly ridiculous, but Ianto's not laughing, just staring at her, far from passive despite his immobility, erection straining at his flies.

Lisa slides her hand back down her body in a lingering caress again then hooks both thumbs into the waistband of her knickers and continues the downward movement. She has to narrow her stance again to slide them down the length of her legs, careful not to drag the stockings with them—and oh god, this is the difficult part, because she suspects that hopping around with her legs akimbo is the antithesis of sexy, so she tries to do it without bending her legs at all but can't help wobbling a little on the deadly height of her heels as she gets lower. There's a moment when she's certain she's going to crash face-first into the man she's got kneeling at her feet or worse, fall backwards, bare-arse-first into the corridor, and her stomach lurches as she feels her centre of balance go— But then she's upright again, knickers trapped effectively under the spike of her heel. She resists the urge to put her hands on her hips proudly.

Her skirt has been dislodged from its precarious position above her hips, though, so she hurriedly drags it back up again, tucking it as much as she can into the broad band of her belt this time. The magic appears far from ruined for Ianto, though he looks up at her face again as she regains her poise; his compatriot smile makes it impossible for her to repress one of her own, and the surge of fondness for him that floods through her sets all her nerve endings to tingling in anticipation, the surface of her skin heating instantly.

She can't help but hold her smile as his gaze returns between her legs again, so she cups her hand over where he's looking, huffing out a silent laugh when she begins to stroke herself and his breath very obviously catches. It's hotter than she'd thought it'd be—even though she's done this before, performed for other lovers—she's not even kissed Ianto yet, it's like they're forging through entirely new territory.

And it's brilliant. Her heels click lightly against the floor as she steps forward a little, then she lifts one leg to brace her foot on one of the lower shelves alongside them. She uses her fingers to part the lips of her sex, spreading herself open to his gaze; she's standing close enough to him now that his breath stirs the air coolly against the newly exposed skin. With her other hand she strokes teasingly against her own inner thigh, and when he licks his lips she's inspired, offers him her index finger which he obediently sucks. When he's wetted it sufficiently she withdraws it from his mouth, bringing it instead between her legs. Careful not to obstruct his view, she strokes it lightly against her labia, sliding between to show him the dip of her cunt and then up again. She toys with her clit, rubbing circles around it with the tip of her finger, then spreading her sex open wider to draw back the hood of her clit, showing him the sensitive peak of it.

He's a gratifyingly fast learner, not that she hadn't known that five minutes after she'd requisitioned him for her team, of course; but having his mouth close and suckle around her clit as soon as she guides his head forward is somewhat more compelling evidence. When he rubs his tongue against the stiff little nub it's perfect, better than her own touch had been, and she lets out a breathy moan, her hips rocking forward. He hums in approval, muffled, and his tongue flattens as he licks against her. He nudges his chin down, tongue seeking out and then pushing into her cunt, but she pulls his hair until he returns the attention to her clit again.

Not that it wasn't nice—she almost wishes she'd allowed him his hands free; her cunt clenches at the thought of his long, blunt fingers fucking into her. This is good, though, this is exquisite, the hot focus of his mouth over her clit, tongue probing beneath its hood, flicking firmly against the tip.

There's something decadent about having a lover make her come without any penetration, as if it's because she's merely too lazy to touch herself. Sometimes she thinks that no one could make her come as hard as she can herself, but the painstakingly narrow focus of Ianto's mouth is just part of the gloriously broader picture this time. She can tighten her hands in his hair and push his head against her but she's no way of anticipating the way his tongue rubs harder against her in response, no control over the way his front teeth press bluntly against the high stem of her clit.

Sweat creeps down her spine, prickling in the small of her back as she rolls her hips into the stimulation, holding his head in place as she grinds against his face. The strident pose is beginning to get awkward, though, teetering on one spiked heel and the door just slightly too far away for her to brace her shoulders back against, and while having her foot planted on the shelf gives Ianto the best angle, it's not doing wonders for her centre of gravity. She can't find it in her to care, though, all her attention is regrouping between her legs. she can feel herself getting wetter, the thinner slick of his saliva amping up the raw sensitivity of his tongue against her clit even as her cunt throbs, pushing out its own slick as her sex swells.

The stimulation radiates out, cunt throbbing, thighs trembling, belly tightening and breasts feeling taut and full. Even her head feels loose and wobbly on her neck as if the pulse of pleasure has weakened it on the way to her brain. Because she's thought of this enough, touching herself, so now the amplified pleasure of having Ianto there, his mouth on her, recalls all the scenarios she's imagined while getting herself off before—

Ianto disobeying, pushing fingers into her slick and eager cunt, or turning her around and thrusting his cock in instead, or—Lisa moans, her mind flicking through scenarios greedily as she feels herself start to come—Ianto standing penitently next to her desk while she sucks his cock, or fingering her cunt while they stand close together at the back of a crowded lift, or her riding him in the passenger seat of her car because they can't wait for the end of the day to fuck—

She bucks against his face, her balance teetering and he does disobey, then, hands coming up to clasp her buttocks, both pulling her forward against him and stopping her from falling. The abrupt restraint makes her grind forward harder, hips twitching involuntarily and she holds his head in place with one hand while the other grips the metal edge of one of the shelves. She can't even feel it, though, her extremities go numb as if all the attention of her nervous system is focused on the unrelenting flicks of his tongue over her clit, a molten pulse of pleasure that batters against the last of her control.

She's fairly certain she cries out as she comes, if nothing else it serves as a signal for Ianto to stop, or at least slow; his hands stroke the backs of her thighs and his tongue strokes over her sex, lapping broadly from her still-throbbing cunt up to the root of her clit. She makes an incoherent that probably sounds most like a grunt as his tongue passes over the still-sensitive point of her clit.

Finally disengages the spike of her heel from the metal shelf and sets her foot on the floor again; Ianto leans back, breathing hard, watching still as she untucks her skirt from her belt then shimmies her hips to make it fall back over her legs. He's still hard, cock pressing hotly against her hip once she helps him to stand, and she crowds him back against the stack of chairs. The air in the tiny room is filled with the scent of her sex but she abruptly wants to taste it as well, seeing it gleaming on his mouth and chin.

She kisses him and his mouth feels familiar, the particular movement of his tongue already recognisable and well on the way to being beloved; she squeezes her legs together and licks back into his mouth in kind, reciprocal. He moans into it, his hand cupping the nape of her neck, and her hand gets as far as his belt before he stops her.

“You've got that meeting,” Ianto pants, tipping his head back away from her mouth. “Xenobiology. Two thirty.”

She pulls away, but can't help rocking her thigh forward against his groin; he's still hard. She's still too punch-drunk high from her orgasm to suspect this is some kind of rejection, but then what—?

Ianto's eyes close for a moment, and she watches his adam's apple bob as he swallows. He pushes his cock against her for a brief moment. “Shall I pick you up at eight?” he rumbles, perfectly polite.

That's supposed to be her line, but she's grinning nonetheless, even as she steps away from him again. He looks both grateful and devastated at the break of bodily contact. If he can wait then so can she, and oh, this is going to be fun.

She nods, smoothes her hands down the sides of her skirt, feels her inner thighs cling slickly together, remembers her knickers.

“Wait--” Ianto says as she bends down to retrieve them. “Can I--?” She's not sure if the redness of his face is from arousal or self-consciousness, either way it makes her feel very pleased. She lets him take the knickers out of her hand, and watching his fingers tangle in the damp lace makes her press her legs together again. She supposes she can do without them for another few hours.

“Leave after me,” she instructs, and he nods.

The air in the corridor outside is startlingly cool, the light warmer. There's no one else in around but Lisa still makes her stride unconcerned and purposeful, finger-brushing her hair back into order, glancing at her watch—two ten.

Ten minutes later as she's gathering her papers together at her desk, Ianto walks past the glass front of her office. He doesn't so much as glance in her direction and appears a picture of composure, though his hand is firmly in his pocket, she notices.

“Ianto,” she calls out before she's even really thought about it.

He backtracks, stands just inside her open door with an expression of mild enquiry.

She mentally grasps for something to say. “Good work this afternoon.” God, they're never going to be able to keep this a secret if she can't even repress her inanity.

Ianto's smile is bordering on devious, though his tone is perfectly professional, for anyone who's walking past. “Does that mean I'm up for a pay rise?”

“Perhaps. Though at this time of year, I'd have to submit your performance report to the head department for review, first.”

His mouth twitches, and Lisa struggles to repress her own snigger. She glances at her computer clock. Two twenty-five. It'll take at least five minutes to get upstairs and through xenobiology's security. She stands, tucks her folio under her arm. “We'll discuss it later. Now,” she walks to the door, and he backs out before her, keeping the requisite few-feet of professional distance between them. “Get back to work.”

Ianto smiles. “Yes, boss.”