Work Text:
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Violent Acts of Beauty
*
Cool lips on hot skin, pressed to a scar that held no visible trace. It was there, and deep, for all that it couldn't be seen. Only another like him, scarred but unbowed, would know so intimately the path the ink had taken, would be able to trace the outline so perfectly with no guide except heart and memory. The path of the tongue against his wrist left him breathless, probing through the layers of what he had been with its gentle, sure touch; slicing into him with each intimate caress. It was too much; it was beyond... Physical pain blossomed as teeth bit down on the scar that wasn't there, like they were excising a part of his past, or lancing a deeply seated source of infection. Dazed by the rush of sensation, Methos fell back into strong supporting arms, gasping the name of his saviour and destroyer.
"Ianto..."