I lick my way along the faded scar on his lower abdomen. That one's from when his appendix were removed when he was eight.

I take his hand in mine, lowering my lips to kiss each fingertip, until I reach the rough one. The one he burnt on a lighter when he was trying his first cigarette as a teenager. I pay extra attention to that particular one.

I turn his hand over, licking along his knuckles, the largest bump almost abusing my tongue. The one he broke when he punched the wall because his dad was pissing him off when he was seventeen.

I kiss him, feeling the slight cut on his lower lip from when he accidentally bit too hard when I was teasing him last night.

Later, when I'm coming inside him with a shout, I bite his shoulder, just enough to draw blood.

Another hidden memory etched on the almost perfect canvas of Ianto Jones' porcelain skin.