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Friends in Dead Places 4

Title: Friends in Dead Places

This Chapter is NC17 and can be missed out without losing any of the plot... Please read at your own discretion
Characters/Pairings: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones, Toshiko Sato, Owen Harper, Gwen Cooper, Jack/Ianto, Ianto/OMC, mentions Jack/OMC
Spoilers: Small ones for Cyberwoman, Countrycide, End of Days, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and Exit Wounds but nothing major!
Warnings: M/M relationships, violence, blood, Character Death, angst. Don't like any of those - don't read!
Length: apparently: 25,381 (oh dear.)

Summary: Ianto gets a lesson in dining, morality, mortality and the betrayal of friends.

Disclaimer: Torchwood belongs to RTD and the BBC, unfortunately. But if I owned them they'd have a lot more fun! This is a non-profit work of fiction and the only thing I lay claim to is the OMC and the plot (and I still have reservations on that one!)

Ianto hurtled back into consciousness; like a diver surfacing from the deep having pushed his oxygen deprivation to the limit. His heart was pounding, his lungs burning as he dragged oxygen into his starved lungs. Looking wildly around he managed to notice that he was in his bedroom, in his bed, before his eyes lit upon his window. It was open, cold night air fluttering in through the partially closed curtains and he desperately wanted to be there.

Dragging his sweat soaked body from his bed as fast as he could, Ianto fell to the floor, his sheets twisted and twined around his legs. His knees hit the carpet hard enough to burn, but he barely felt it. He didn't have time for the shock of pain, he needed to get to the window. He twisted and turned, writhing on the floor desperate to get the sheet off from around his knees. His shoulder slammed into the nightstand, rattling the lamp, but after a valiant struggle he freed himself.

Throwing the sash wide open, he stuck his head out and drank in huge lung-fuls of air. The air was cold and damp, and it shocked his bare skin. It was only then that he realised that he was in his baggy cotton pyjama bottoms. Turning so that he could see into his own room he took in the sight of his water glass, three-quarter's full on its customary coaster on the nightstand, his book, bookmark in place, on the floor and his mussed up bed. Actually his bed held his attention.

It wasn't merely mussed, it looked as though war had been waged in it. One of his pillows had been stripped of its coverlet and was lying forlornly on the floor, another was stuffed up the wall and the third he'd obviously been curled around as it was in the middle of the bed. The duvet was kicked down to the bottom of the bed, the comforter balled up in the corner between the headboard and nightstand and his sheets had given up and ghost and the elasticised corners had come away from the mattress. His bed hadn't even gotten into that state on the few occasions Jack had stayed the night.

The only time it had been in such a state was the night after Lisa had died, when he'd woken up screaming and burning in the fires of Torchwood One.

So, he drank another lungful of air, it had just been a nightmare. Nothing more than a nightmare. He laughed weakly. Those late nights with Owen, beer and curry and an endless supply of B horror movies were bound to catch up with him eventually. Neither of them were ever in the mood for romance or comedy after days at the Hub chasing after aliens or wondering about Jack.

It was just a nightmare. He repeated the mantra over and over to himself, letting the cold air wash it all away on the night breeze. He still felt sick and his heart was still racing but he was calming. By morning, he'd be chuckling over coffee at his rampant imagination.

"You'll catch your death."

Ianto froze. No, it was a nightmare. It wasn't real. Slowly, gripping the sill and then the curtains for support he turned, hoping to god that it was Jack and that he was just hearing things.

No, no, nononononono.

Webb was stood in the doorway. His shirt untucked and loosened, his shoes obviously kicked off somewhere in Ianto's flat and he was wearing striped, multicoloured socks. It was that innocuous little thing that held his attention as he stumbled away from the window, sliding down and squashing himself between the bedside cabinet and the wall, eyes wide and fixed. He hugged his knees, staring vacantly at the socks, green, pink, blue, yellow, green, pink, blue, yellow, greenpinkblueyellow…

He barely noticed as Webb padded towards him and hunkered down, crouching before the semi-catatonic man. Webb grabbed his chin, forcing Ianto to look at him. He watched as Ianto's face paled, his eyes widened and barely had chance to clap his hand over the young man's mouth before Ianto could scream.

"Now, you listen to me Ianto Jones. I am going to remove my hand in a moment, and you can scream all you want." His smile was ugly, vicious. Like his words. "However, I fear I must warn you that I will kill anyone who walks through that door. Police or neighbour, I will tear their throats out."

Ianto giggled. A burble of laughter that was born from his complete and all-encompassing fear. His mind had shut down and vacated his body a long while ago, and all that was left was the deep bone-chilling nothing and the steady surge of adrenaline. He could hear drums in his ears and there was something dripping down his neck.

"So are you going to scream?"

Ianto's head flopped from side to side. He was trying to say no. He thought he was trying to say no. He didn't know anymore though.

"Good boy."

"Doesn't matter anyway," he giggled, "No one would come." Except Mrs Lloyd from next door, but she was deaf and probably wouldn't have her hearing aide in.

Webb stroked over Ianto's hair, smoothing it down. Hysteria was an old favourite with those about to die and he much preferred it to maudlin weeping and begging and turning to God. Ianto leaned into the touch, almost nuzzled at the hand on his cheek.

"I thought you were going to kill me," he whispered, blue eyes calm but no one was really there.

"I am," Webb whispered back.

"No your not," he giggled.

Webb smiled, slightly perturbed but mostly amused by Ianto's inane reaction to the situation. "Yes I am."

Ianto shook his head and his eyes cleared. There was a crack and something slammed into Webb's shoulder. He briefly saw the gun in Ianto's hand before the man was up and over him, racing for the bedroom door.

Webb caught him just as he was grabbing his mobile, his finger paused over the call button the name 'Jack' highlighted. Wrenching the phone from Ianto's clutching finger's he through it at the wall, watching with satisfaction as it shattered and scattered over the floor. Ianto struggled in his grasp, kicking and bucking and violently trying to get free of Webb's embrace. Webb merely pushed him into the wall and wrapped a hand around the wrist of the hand holding the gun, squeezing until the bones creaked and Ianto had no choice but to let it go.

It dropped to the floor with a dull thud.

"As much as I would like to see my dear Jack again, I think we're best left alone for the time being. We'll get to him eventually."

Ianto froze.

"You know Jack?" his voice cracked on the man's name. He knew that had he been able just to call him, just get the phone ringing Jack would have come. They never rang one another unless they had to. Jack didn't even use phone calls to flirt. He'd send dirty text messages if he wanted to do that. Phone calls were for serious business.

Webb chuckled and it vibrated through Ianto's frame. They were stood, pressed together, Ianto trapped between the solid marble of Webb and the plaster of the wall and he wanted to scream. He could feel the pressure rising in his chest, clutching at his throat. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't bring someone else into this mess. If Jack had come it'd have been different. He'd have burst in, guns blazing, and gotten up from any hit delivered to him.

Jack's life mattered, but he, at least, had more than one.

"I know Jack."


"It's a long tale and we don't have the time."

"Please." He turned his head slightly, willing Webb to see the utter desolation on his face and feel something, anything. He forced a smile. "Last request of a dying man?"

Webb gave him a toothy grin, canines long and white. "You're not dying Ianto. Not ever."

His fangs flashed ivory daggers in the corner of Ianto's vision before they were in his neck. Red hot pins of fire and pressure and ohdeargod ecstasy. It hurt, it brought tears to his eyes, and he smashed his fist into the wall and Webb's leg but it did nothing. He could feel his blood rushing north and slamming through his veins. His capillaries burst from the force of the pull and push of his blood and his insides were molten.

Idly, barely perceivable over the pressure and pain was the new coldness that was starting in his feet. He moaned, gritting his teeth, bottom lip trapped and split between them. Blood splashed on his chin and he felt Webb press in closer, letting the wall take Ianto's weight.

Webb released his hold on Ianto's wrist. The gun dropped and the danger over. He'd already drained well over a quarter of the man's blood that night; he was as dangerous as a rag-doll, easy and pliant in his arms. He tasted divine, so sweet, so rich and it was all Webb could do not to simply drain him there and then.

You could tell so much from someone by tasting their blood, and Ianto's spilled its secrets willingly. Broken, bruised, hurt and so damn lonely it'd have shattered Webb's heart had he not tasted the pure unbridled passion that was streaming through and into his mouth. It was like nothing he'd ever tasted before. So pure and untamed and willing. It was screaming for someone to notice it, use it, worship and abuse it.

And Webb was just the person.

He stopped sucking, not wanting the boy to die too quickly on him, it made turning much more risky if they died fast, but he left his teeth in the supple flesh, stoppers in the most palatable of wines. Wrapping himself more firmly around the dazed young man, Webb steered them back towards the bedroom. Pressed up against a wall was perhaps one of the least dignified ways for this to happen.

Ianto watched from behind a watery bubble as the world moved passed him. He could feel his blood moving through his body, sluggish and slow and very cold. Every time they moved slightly the fangs jolted into him, spearing him with heat and intensity and Ianto was panting from the wrong delicious mix of pain and searing hot pleasure.

He felt the bed under him, cool sheets and soft mattress and the arms and fangs were gone and he whined. He couldn't help it. There was madness and delirium and all he knew was his senses. There were no thoughts, no fears, everything had floated away and tears fell and blood seeped and he just couldn't care. He was dying; sweet welcome death and he didn't know how to ask for it to stop.

The bed dipped as Webb rejoined him. There was a cold flannel in his hand and he wiped the tears, saliva and blood from Ianto's face. He was careful and quick and Ianto's bleary eyes followed his every move, just a second too slow, but still.

Shedding his shirt and pants, Webb crawled up Ianto's body, fingers tracing the soft lines of muscle and pulling at the chest hair. Leaning down he pressed his ear to Ianto's chest, hearing the steady, if slow, thrumming of a hopeless heart. It was like the sweetest of music's, a symphony just for him. His hands wandered to the waist band of Ianto's bottoms, pushing and pulling them, until they were stripped from the long lean body and unceremoniously abandoned on the floor.

Ianto whimpered as Webb shifted around him, he felt his pyjamas disappear and the word No sparked briefly in his mind before it drifted away. Somewhere he knew something, that this wasn't right. That someone else was meant to be doing this. But he didn't care, couldn't care. There was nothing but the tingling sweep of hands, lips, fingers over his body, setting every nerve on fire. It was like electrocution, divine and shuddering and he did his best to press into it, wanting it, craving it, needing it with everything he had.

He writhed and squirmed, whimpering and trying to plead but he couldn't form the words, his tongue thick and heavy and swimming in saliva.

He could feel lips on his chest, on his neck and face and wrists. There were fingers rubbing over his belly, his legs, touch teasing and soft. Nails grazed at his balls and heavy shaft and there was a slick prodding at his hole.

He wanted to scream or beg or just float away on the blackness that was hovering just out of reach, but he was suspended, hanging limp somewhere between here and everywhere and it wouldn't let him go.

Something, thin and warm moved within him, delicious friction and increasing width and Ianto knew this dance. He'd craved it before. Craved it from a man with bright blue eyes and a dazzling smile and the eternal scent of the ocean and sweet salty sex. But it wasn't him. He wasn't touching him, stroking and stoking him. He wasn't here and the tears rolled faster. He'd left, flown away in a magic box and all Ianto had to cling to was the body moving over him.

Webb slid inside Ianto with little more than blood from his wrist covering his cock and set up a frantic rhythm. Ianto's cock was hardening and heavy in his hand as he manoeuvred it between them, trapping it between their bellies, letting the weight of his body tease and stroke it to fullness. Ianto was warm and welcoming, his heat grasping and squeezing him, pulling him in and in and Webb drove as hard as he could.

Tentative hands wound there way round his back, heavy and clumsy with blood loss and legs lifted up as much as they were able, cradling Webb's body. Internal muscles, still working, clenched rhythmically around him, beating at him in time with the sluggish heart and blood song. He could feel the heat building in his own belly, spiralling up and out and a fever broke out over his cool skin. Salt tinged the air and wetness spread over his stomach and Ianto began to shudder slightly. The boy was peaking, but it would hurt, screaming agony as his thinned blood rushed everywhere at once.

He slammed harder, reaching into the dark for that blinding white heat of bliss that was looming over the horizon. He could see it dawning in Ianto's soft sky eyes, his cheeks were flushed, mouth parted and panting and the bright red of his tongue slipping in and out. Webb couldn't resist anymore, he flew down and took Ianto's mouth. This kiss was hot and sloppy, wet and dirty and Ianto gave as good as he got. He suckled on Webb's tongue like a newborn on a teat, as if it was his salvation.

Webb's hips moved faster, erratically. Ianto fell away from him, his mouth open and eyes wide in a silent scream as he came, white hot fluid falling spreading between them and Webb was lost. Ripping at his wrist, he tore all the way down to the bone, flesh shredding like paper under the onslaught. Without missing a thrust, he buried his fangs in Ianto's heart and raised the bloody tattered arm up to Ianto's slack mouth.

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