Crash and Burn
Ianto hadn't intended to end up as bait – or a goad – in a fight between immortals but he'd decided to stop off at a late night takeaway away from the bright lights of the Bay and the city centre, leaving Methos in the car. As he was returning, Methos' shouted warning had come just a little too late, with the net result that the takeaway lay splattered against the ground and Ianto was being hauled at sword point, a leather clad arm clamped around him, to the nearest place two immortals could fight to the death in relative peace; in this case a backstreet between 2 rows of mostly boarded up houses. If it had been a gun against his head, Ianto knew he would have stood a chance of getting away – he'd had far too much practice at being in that situation not to know how to react – but the edge of the sword was pressed close enough into the skin of his neck to already draw blood and he was acutely aware of the thin, warm trickle making its way under his collar and the metallic tang of it in his nostrils. To move suddenly would likely make the sword cut deep and mean that his death would promptly follow any escape attempt; Ianto had *no* intention of inviting a swifter death than the one that would be meted out by Torchwood anyway so he stayed as still and relaxed as he could in his attackers grip, but ready to move away – or fall safely – at a moments notice.
"Show yourself!" The immortal's voice was calm, his hand – with the sword at Ianto's throat – unerringly steady. Ianto swallowed, feeling the blade bite just a little more as he did so. A darker shadow moved at the end of the street, resolving itself into Methos, and Ianto could tell this was most definitely Methos; there was nothing of 'Adam' about him, beyond a superficial physical resemblance. Ianto felt his heart rate increase, and not through any action on his captor's part; life threatening and adrenaline fuelled the situation might be, his body couldn't help but react to the presence of Methos in warrior mode.
"Let him go, he has no part in this," Methos said.
The sword pressed harder against Ianto's neck.
"He means something to you then, this *mortal*?" The words were spat out as if in disgust. Great; of all the immortals in the world they had to run into a mortal-hating headhunter, and a fairly decent one or Methos would have been aware of him long before.
Methos shrugged. "A distraction, no more," he said, unsheathing his broadsword from inside his coat. Ianto could see the truth of the lie in Methos' eyes as they touched his face and hoped that the still nameless immortal didn't notice or he would be dead meat.
"Then let us proceed." Ianto found himself flung away with some force and just let himself go with it, crumpling intentionally as he hit a wall in an attempt to avoid major injury. "Do you have a name?"
"Names are unimportant," Methos said, his voice cold and expressionless.
"Very well. I will know that, and more, about you very soon."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Ianto muttered to himself; he'd seen Methos spar and knew that although he didn't always choose to fight, there was nothing wrong with his skill in that department – or any other for that matter. He clamped down on the inappropriate surge of desire as the sound of clashing swords filled the desolate street. Knowing Methos as he did it didn't take him long to realise that the ancient immortal was toying with the headhunter, allowing him to believe that there might be a chance at Methos' head. He could also tell the instant that Methos got bored of the game, even before the next sword stroke fell. Ianto hardly dared breathe as a series of wicked cuts and slices let the nameless guy realise just how wrong he had been, the look of surprise on his face as his head left his shoulders almost comical. Ianto scrunched as low as he could against the wall, wanting to avoid the worst of the violence of the ensuing quickening but needing to Watch all the same. As the first bolt of lightning hit, Methos caught his eyes and Ianto was unable to tear his gaze away. The only time he'd ever seen the immortal with that expression on his face was when he completely surrendered to pleasure and passion. Ianto shuddered in sympathy as Methos rocked and shook under the force of the quickening, screaming as each successive bolt of lightning hit and looking for the world as if he was in the throes of an amazing, but painful, orgasm. It was extraordinary, and a sight that Ianto knew he would never forget no matter how long he lived; it was indelibly seared into his brain. Forever.
Methos collapsed gracelessly to the ground in a silent and unmoving heap as the last of the quickening fizzled through him. For a few moments Ianto could see nothing as his eyes were blind after the brightness of the quickening and the contrasting darkness that followed. All the streetlights had blown, making it even worse. Once he could make out Methos' shape against the surrounding dimness he crawled over, not trusting his shaky legs to support him and glad of the leather gloves that saved his hands from the broken glass he could feel crunching under them. He stopped just short of ramming Methos' shoulder with a knee and stretched out one hand to touch, only to find his wrist wrapped in a vice like grip and another hand round his neck to drag him down for a kiss, if you could call the rough and desperate clash of lips and life a kiss.
"Mine," Methos – for he was very much still Methos – snarled against his lips. Even if Ianto had the breath or inclination to reply, he wouldn't; it was only the truth after all. Methos and Jack owned him heart and soul and part of him felt that he should care about that, but most of him couldn't give a flying fuck – whatever there was left of him that didn't belong to them had already been claimed by Torchwood long ago. They shared breath a moment longer, then Methos began to struggle to sit up. Ianto scrambled upright first, and offered Methos a hand, which wasn't released once he was standing, the other coming up to frame Ianto's face.
"He hurt you," Methos growled, sweeping his hand through the drying blood on Ianto's neck, his touch feverishly warm against Ianto's skin. Ianto could feel his pulse pounding beneath Methos' hot fingers, his breathing becoming more rapid with every indrawn breath; he couldn't help it.
"It's nothing, really. I…"
"Spilling your blood is not *nothing* Ianto, and never will be." This time, the kiss was less violent, but there was still little of tenderness in the duel of lips and tongues and teeth; Ianto met like with like, only too aware that his dick was almost painfully hard where it was sandwiched up against Methos' body. A twitch against him, and a groan into his mouth let Ianto know that Methos was in as bad – if not a worse – state. They had to get away from the place, or risk being arrested for both murder and lewd behaviour. Ianto tried to pull away, his body sluggish in its unenthusiasm toward the idea of moving.
"Methos." No longer able to reach Ianto's mouth, Methos lunged in and went for his neck instead, fingers busy at the fastening of Ianto's trousers but clumsy with need. "Methos, we need to get out of here."
"Can't. Need you now." Methos' fingers were insistent, Ianto's body betraying him as he couldn't help but press himself into them. Methos raised his head. "See?" He asked with a disarming smile and Ianto swore he could almost see flickers of lightning in the dilated eyes.
"Oh fucking hell," Ianto muttered, and gave himself up to the inevitable. Trying to resist Methos like this was akin to pissing in the wind and about as much fun. If he was honest with himself Ianto didn't want to resist, it wasn't as if he were entirely unprepared; too many months of weevil hunting with Jack and its frequent aftermath meant certain things were second nature, like ensuring there was lube in his coat pocket. He pushed Methos' hot and fumbling hands out of the way and undid his own trousers, helpfully doing the same for Methos while he was at it, unable to withstand the temptation of brushing his fingers over Methos' hard cock which seemed to be as unnaturally hot as the rest of him. It was almost the last thing Ianto managed to do with any degree of control as Methos spun him round, bent him over the nearest piece of crumbling wall at the appropriate height, moved his coat aside and yanked his trousers and underwear down with enough force to almost leave friction burns. Ianto was just glad he hadn't ended up on his knees amongst the broken glass and other detritus and as Methos swept a possessive caress over his back and hips, Ianto pressed the lube into his hands. Even as horny as he was, a dry fuck was not Ianto's idea of fun and he wasn't convinced that Methos entirely had the presence of mind to ask, though it seemed he had been thinking about it when he mumbled into Ianto's back.
"That's my Ianto, always prepared." He sounded eerily like Jack and if Ianto hadn't been past caring, it could have freaked him out but all he really wanted at that point was Methos' cock in his arse as fast and as hard as comfortably possible. Hot, slick fingers pressed into him, stretching him almost clinically, with none of the teasing touches that Ianto had come to expect from Methos, bringing it home to him that although he was ridiculously turned on, this wasn't about him, it was about Methos and what Methos wanted and needed; his pleasure was almost incidental though Ianto was certain that if he'd offered up a serious protest, Methos would have stopped, no matter how difficult it would have been. Even while dazed by the quickening, Methos knew him too well, knew that Ianto would take Methos any way he could get him no matter what. Ianto would have classed himself as a sad and needy bastard but for one thing, Methos – and Jack – made him feel bloody brilliant and he'd be a fool not to want that; if he was going to be an addict they were the best sort of addiction.
It was a shock when Methos' fingers left him, the lack of his heat making the air seem all the more chill on Ianto's bare arse. His disappointed moan morphed into a satisfied grunt as Methos pressed into him with more restraint than Ianto would have given him credit for being capable of given the somewhat hasty preparation. Ianto trembled under the almost gentle onslaught; restraint be damned, he wanted *more* and shoved back against Methos to drive him deeper, faster. He would probably regret it later – and the next day – when he wouldn't be able to sit comfortably for long periods of time, but right now he wanted Methos hard and fast and almost brutal and was going to do his damnedest to get him that way. The response was everything Ianto could have hoped for, and then some. Methos leaned over, his breath hot and heavy against Ianto's neck and ear
"Be careful what you wish for," he murmured harshly and bit down on Ianto's neck, just above the wound from the sword. Everything became something of a blur for Ianto after that, Methos' burning fingers digging into his hips hard enough to leave bruises, the incredible heat of him against Ianto's arse and thighs as he drove his cock into him in a pounding, punishing rhythm. Ianto spared a fleeting thought to be glad his upper body was still clothed as he was jolted around on the wall with every hard thrust of Methos' hips into his and he snaked a hand down to his own dick, as much to protect it from the brickwork as to bring himself off. Then Methos shifted, and Ianto's brain fried.
"Fuck!" He groaned into the wall beneath his cheek, he was so close now, just a few more… Methos' rhythm stuttered, but he didn't stop and one hand shifted from Ianto's hip to his shoulder as he used the extra leverage to drive himself impossibly deeper – and came with a howl that may or may not have contained Ianto's name. It seemed to go on forever with Methos shuddering around and inside Ianto, filling him with liquid fire that for all the world made him feel like he had a violet wand in his arse, not a flesh and blood cock. It was a relief when his own orgasm hit, distracting him from the sensations inside of him with the twitch of his cock in his hand as he spurted his own release over his hand and the long suffering wall.
Afterwards Ianto didn't move; he barely dared breathe for all he was almost gasping for every breath. He was pressed against the wall; Methos a warm weight against his back, panting hotly against his neck though the unnatural heat seemed to have dissipated from his skin. There was no other sound beyond that of their breathing, harsh and desperate in the cooling night air. Nothing was said, but Methos' hand shifted to clasp Ianto's unsticky one where it rested against the wall and squeezed, gently. Their breathing slowed, and Ianto became aware of Methos' lips soft against his neck.
Ianto squeezed Methos' hand in reassurance.
"I'm… good. Yeah." It was the best he could articulate at that point in time, especially when Methos wriggled his other hand round to bring Ianto's sticky fingers to his lips and gently lick them clean; Methos was going to kill him, but at least he would die happy. Then Methos moved and the shock of his withdrawal was almost painful.
There was a rustle of cloth behind Ianto, Methos putting himself back to rights he presumed, and then careful hands were pulling up his own clothes and fastening them back up, a lot more gently than they'd been taken down.
"Ianto, can you walk? We need to get out of here." Ianto hid a smile as he pushed himself upright, talk about stating the obvious; the old man obviously was still a bit frazzled himself.
"I'm fine," he replied. And he was; OK, he stumbled a little as they made their way back to his car but Methos was weaving like a drunk, so much so that Ianto had to steady him as he opened the Citroën's door and Methos fell into the car as much as stepped in. As Ianto settled himself as comfortably as he could in the driver's seat he glanced at Methos in concern.
"You're not fine, though, are you?" Ianto asked. Methos was shivering, pale and clammy and if Ianto hadn't known differently he would have thought Methos was going into shock. Methos turned his head and gave Ianto the ghost of a smile.
"Not really, but I will be. I don't always react to quickenings well – sometimes I tend to crash and burn."
Ianto wondered what would cause such a difference in reaction and resolved to ask Methos when he was a bit more capable of answering the question. He chuckled softly as he started the engine.
"I think you got that the wrong way round," he commented.
"You burn first; think about it."
"And you can explain to Jack why I'm not going to let him fuck me for the next 2 days at least."
"Ok," Methos commented tiredly, "but you could just tell him I'll make it up to you both."
"And just how would you propose to do that?" Ianto shifted uncomfortably in his seat, he really wasn't kidding about letting Jack – or Methos – near his arse for a couple of days unless they promised to kiss it better, which knowing them they would do if he asked, and enthusiastically too.
"Simple." Methos sounded almost disinterested. "You both fuck me instead."
"At the same time?" Ianto was proud that he managed to keep the squeak out of his voice; it wasn't every day you had the offer of fulfilling a fantasy while your undies were still damp with come.
"Yeah. It would be fun." Ianto said nothing at first, just concentrated on his driving as a certain part of his anatomy indicated its agreement. Fun. Yeah, right. The sneaky old bugger was definitely trying to kill him. He cast another glance at Methos; he appeared to be asleep.
"You are an evil old man, and I wouldn't change you for anything," Ianto whispered, unsure if he imagined the gentle smile flitting across Methos' face or not, it didn't matter either way; he only spoke the truth.