Maestro


MacLeod has found him in the taverna, though Consone saw him first, saw him watching the gypsy dancers and moving in time to their music as if the rhythm was irresistible. His presence is strong and dark, an image of the man himself, resonant with a sense of danger that shivers down Consone's spine. It draws them towards each other, step by step, eyes fixed on each other as if they are alone.

It is a dangerous thing, that moment when one Immortal meets another. Every instinct calls for battle, for blood and fire. But this time there is something more in MacLeod's eyes, something that says he comes seeking something other than a quickening. The knowledge quells the bloodlust in him, for the moment at least.

There is a conversation, trivial words that say nothing of what their bodies are saying to each other. MacLeod has come, seeking a master, though Consone is sure he knows not what he asks -- not completely. He is young and beautiful, as gauche as pigs' feet and already Consone can sense the stubbornness that marches alongside the pride of this man, but it won't change his decision. MacLeod wants to learn the magic of the circle, or so he says. Consone will take him on. Teach him everything he needs to know.

He will be a good student; Consone is an excellent judge of such things.

All that remains is for MacLeod to learn how it will be between them, to learn that in all ways and in all things Consone will be the master. Over wine and conversation he draws MacLeod out, marks the strengths and weaknesses in him, marks the part of his nature that will let him yield to a teacher, to a lover.

The taverna is all but empty when the wine is finished. It is the matter of a moment to persuade MacLeod that the rooms here are verminous and drafty and that far superior accommodations are to be found at the Villa Consone. He agrees with a courtly bow and a smile that draws Consone's attention once more to that tempting mouth.

Soon, he promises himself, very soon.

They walk through the dark Madrid streets, through the old quarter, talking of inconsequential things. Consone can hear the things MacLeod is not saying and they tell him far more than words ever could. He knows now that MacLeod is the banished scion of some godforsaken Scotch village, given to wandering and acts of bravado, still clinging to the ideals of a time that had not treated him kindly. But still, he loves and hopes and dreams. And he fights.

Consone reminds himself that no matter what this one looks like, how gentle he seems (gentle, but never gentle -- and Consone knows the difference well) he is still a warrior. He knows he must never forget this.

The old quarter gives way to the beauties of the plaza where Consone makes his home. Gentlemen's town homes, the finest in all Spain, citadels of peace and light and beauty. Consone smiles a little to himself as MacLeod marvels at them. His enthusiasm is…amusing, and Consone struggles not to laugh. Gauche, he may be, but Duncan MacLeod is a proud man and will not take well to derision. Time enough to humble him outright, later, later when they face one another in the destreza. This is a time for humbling of another kind entirely.

They arrive at the front gate of Consone's villa and he opens it with a flourish, waving MacLeod through before him. The barbarian's inexperience -- or overconfidence -- shows in the way he turns his back to Consone without a second's hesitation as he passes through the gateway.

Time, then, for his first lesson.

Pulling the gate closed behind him, Consone is at MacLeod's back an instant later, pushing him forward into the villa wall, trapping his arms behind him in a steely grip. He can feel the panic in the coiled tension of MacLeod's muscles, but he holds him still, even if it is an effort to do so.

"Did no one ever teach you to never turn your back on another Immortal, my young friend?" Consone whispers in his ear.  

"And here I was thinking all this time you were wanting something other than my head." MacLeod's reply is composed and steady, not a trace of fear in his voice. He is either very brave, or very stupid. Time will tell.

"What would you know about what I want?" Consone says, his voice still soft, so close to MacLeod's ear that he can taste the vapour of wine rising from his skin.

"I saw you watching me."

"And you think you know what that means?"

"Was I wrong?" There is a trace, the smallest hint of uncertainty in MacLeod's voice.

"I could take your head right now," Consone whispers so his breath feathers over MacLeod's neck.

In his arms, MacLeod stiffens. "You could try."

"This time you are lucky, my young friend. It is not your head that I want. Consider this your first lesson, not every Immortal who takes you home with him will be satisfied with the delights of your body," Consone presses him closer to the wall, lets him feel how hard he is, "when he could have your Quickening instead."

MacLeod replies with a roll of his spine that presses him back, sinuous as an alley cat, back against Consone's body, against the ache in his breeches. "I'm not the child you seem to think I am, Senor Consone," he breathes, shifting back into him once more. "Nor a fool."

MacLeod's chin lifts as he speaks, his head dropping back, exposing his throat. It is entirely too tempting to resist. Consone turns his face to the column of fine, bronze skin and presses his mouth to it, biting, soft, then hard. It sends a shudder through MacLeod that Consone can feel in every part of himself.

Consone bites him once more, hard enough that he can taste the smallest tang of blood on his tongue, piquant with the edge of Immortal healing. The effect on MacLeod is profound. He moans and rocks his buttocks back, rubbing himself against Consone.

"Yes," MacLeod breathes.

Consone waits, holding him a little longer, letting him writhe and struggle while the heat builds. MacLeod thinks he is ready, but he has no idea what ready truly is. In time, he will. The strong body in his arms struggles a little more. Delicious. And then, at last, when Consone can no longer bear the fire licking between his thighs, through his gut, he releases him.

MacLeod turns in his arms, not pulling away, nothing but desire in his eyes. Consone has judged the moment perfectly. MacLeod's mouth is on his in a heartbeat, surprising him with its passion. Consone moves his hands to the small of MacLeod's back as he bends him backwards, taking control.

Kissing has never been one of his pleasures with men, but for this man he will make an exception. MacLeod's mouth is soft and hot, voracious and quick, rough with the whiskers framing it. Delightful. His hands clutch and rub at Consone's back, his buttocks. He moans into Consone's mouth when Consone pushes a leg between his thighs.

MacLeod thrusts against his hip; Consone can feel how hard he is and it makes him ache. Already, he can smell the desperation on this one; the smallest effort will have him on his knees. Begging for it.

The thought makes his cock harden even more. He slips his hands down to MacLeod's arse, grabbing handfuls of taut muscle, pressing him closer. MacLeod pulls his mouth away and makes a sound of suffering. He is gasping for breath, fine tremors running the length of his body.

"Come inside with me," Consone whispers, bending MacLeod's head back and feasting on his neck. It is not a question, and MacLeod does not answer it. He simply nods and steps back out of Consone's arms. Consone turns away from the scorching look in MacLeod's eyes and leads him into the villa, simply by walking away and knowing that MacLeod will follow.

The cool breeze on his skin as they walk is a good and necessary thing. It brings him back the control that MacLeod's surprising response was fast wearing away. The thought of merely taking what is on offer is entirely too tempting, but too simple…far too simple. His goals are more complex, and infinitely, ultimately, more rewarding.

MacLeod reaches for him even before he has closed the door of his bedchamber, kissing him again while Consone kicks the door closed. There is no mistaking the knowledge behind every eager touch. MacLeod's hands are busy with Consone's shirt, tugging it free of his breeches.

There's no need to light the lamps; moonlight is streaming in through the open windows, silvering the room, silvering MacLeod's skin as Consone draws his clothes from him, piece by piece.  He is exquisite, warm and eager and uninhibited, laughing as Consone tumbles him back into the bed.   

At the first press of their bare skins, MacLeod moans into Consone's mouth, his arms tightening, pulling them closer together. Then, with a laugh, he breaks the kiss, rolls them over, grinning like a boy as he tries to pin Consone's arms above his head. Consone doesn't return the smile, but reverses the maneuver in an effortless arch and thrust.

Putting himself back on top where he belongs, telling MacLeod without a word how it will be between them.

There's something new in MacLeod's eyes when Consone grinds down hard on him. Submission, perhaps, or the beginnings of it, and desire, tinged with the smallest flicker of fear. That is far more to Consone's liking. This is not a meeting of equals, and it is past time MacLeod realized the fact. Consone lowers his mouth to the sharp ridge of MacLeod's collarbone and scrapes his teeth across it, drawing blood. Breath hisses between MacLeod's teeth. Between them, MacLeod's cock leaks against Consone's belly.

"Give me your hands," Consone says.

There is a stubborn, defiant tilt of the barbarian's chin, but he lifts his hands anyway, crossing his wrists above his head. With one hand, Consone traps MacLeod's hands and presses closer to kiss him again, though kissing is a pale word for the hungry devouring that follows. Never before he has felt this kind of carnal obsession for another man's mouth. He cannot get enough of it.

Sweat is springing up over MacLeod's skin, and Consone can smell his need growing. As is his own. He breaks the kiss and shifts up and over MacLeod's body, the lust burning through him making his cock throb. He soothes it with his free hand, completely aware of MacLeod's eyes on him, the desire, the hunger. With his knees either side of MacLeod's chest and his cock in his hand, Consone stills and waits, looking down into eyes gone black with passion. MacLeod licks his lips and breathes deep.

With a tilt of his hips he's angling his cock to meet that soft, lush mouth, tracing it over the contours, not pressing in, not yet. MacLeod's mouth is open, his tongue flicking out to lick at the fluid leaking from Consone's cock, trying in vain to draw the head inside. When Consone judges the moment is right and not before, he finally pushes inside.

Leaning one hand to brace himself on the wall behind the bed and with the other cupping the back of MacLeod's head, Consone fucks his mouth. Slowly at first, though he senses MacLeod will take it any way he wishes, then deeper, faster, bruisingly fast. MacLeod is nothing to him, simply a hot, sweet vessel to expend his lust. But MacLeod has no idea; his hands are on Consone's hips, his fingers digging in hard, while between Consone's legs, he writhes and thrusts at the empty air as if this alone could make him come.

Perhaps it could.

Consone thrusts deep, fucking MacLeod's throat, reveling in the feel of it working around him. Hot, silken flesh closes around him in a frantic rhythm, sucking in time with his rough thrusting. MacLeod can't possibly be breathing with the thickness of Consone's cock deep in his throat, but that is a matter of no concern to him; the man is Immortal, after all. And this feels so very good.

Dios. All of a sudden, he is on the verge of his climax, his cock impossibly stiff and his balls drawn up tight. Without a word, he drags himself back under control, slowing his movements to the rhythm of his slow, deep breaths. That is better -- for him at least -- judging by the needy sounds coming from MacLeod, he doesn't quite feel the same. But that is all for the best, it is past time MacLeod understood his role in all this and everything to come after.

Beneath him, MacLeod is coming apart, swallowing Consone's cock greedily, while his body shudders and thrusts into a non-existent touch. The response is as gratifying as it is beautiful. Consone takes him hard once more and then MacLeod is coming, his whole body arching like a drawn longbow, letting Consone's cock slip free when he groans long and loud. In all his years, Consone has never seen anything to match it, and he can do is look down and watch, mesmerized.

He was not wrong about this one; he truly is a find.

MacLeod's cock is still twitching out the last of his orgasm when Consone moves back down his body, running his hands over the finely muscled contours, just to get his attention. MacLeod may be finished, but Consone is far from satisfied. Yet.

He smoothes his hand through the warm fluid running over the ridges of MacLeod's flat belly and strokes it over his own cock.

"Turn over," Consone tells him as he shifts to kneel between MacLeod's spread legs.

MacLeod's only response is a sleepy, interrogative, "Mmm…?"

Consone slips a hand beneath MacLeod's knee, bends his leg up, rolls him over none too gently. "Lift up," he orders, climbing between MacLeod's legs again.

MacLeod doesn't move.

Annoyed, Consone slaps one rounded cheek to get his attention. "Lift up!"

Breath hisses between MacLeod's teeth and he tilts his hips up, slowly, sinuously, spreading his legs wider and drawing his knees up by his sides. He is beautiful in his submission. And he loves it; Consone can feel MacLeod's cock beginning to fill once more when he reaches for more fluid to ease his entry. He tucks his realization of what the reaction means away for another day. Right now all he wants is to bury his aching cock as deep as it will go inside that gorgeously taut flesh and fuck it until this madness burns itself out and he can think once more.

He doesn't bother to waste any time on preliminaries; his need is too great. He needs to finish this, needs to master this man. Cock in hand, he presses forward, working himself inside MacLeod. And almost loses control the moment he is all the way in. It takes every bit of his formidable strength to rein himself back.

MacLeod is pressing back against him, opening for him, taking him greedily inside. Wordless little cries echo against the bedchamber walls as MacLeod tries to entice Consone into moving, but he grips MacLeod's hips hard, not caring if it hurts him, and holds him still until he is ready for more.  

At last he can wait no longer. Heat and the tight, slick grip of MacLeod's flesh on his own are driving him past any hope of control. A small part of him hates MacLeod, hates that he can have this power over him, but it's something MacLeod will never know. Slowly, achingly slowly, he withdraws, watching with a kind of stunned fascination as, inch by inch, his cock moves out of MacLeod's body.

And back in again as he begins to thrust at last. Madre de Dios, has taking one of his own kind ever felt like this? At this moment, he can remember nothing to compare with it. He is stroking slowly, rhythmically, in and out of MacLeod's body while beneath him MacLeod is pushing back against him, meeting his force with the strength of his own.

He is close, so close, but he is not finished, not yet. He can hear MacLeod's rough breathing, forced out of him with the beat of Consone's body on his own. Everything, the sounds of MacLeod's pleasure, the scent of his body, the ease of his submission, everything is pushing him towards his climax. But still, he resists.

He will have MacLeod as needy as he is himself before he gives in to the urge to come. Easing forward, he presses MacLeod into the feather mattress, covering him full-length with his body. And that is so much better, with his cock buried even deeper and MacLeod's smooth skin slick and hot against his own. He bites at the strong muscle between neck and shoulder, hard, smiling grimly to himself as MacLeod bucks up into him.

"Please…" MacLeod breathes, his voice gone rough.

Consone doesn't reply, just fucks him harder and faster, bites him again and again.

Beneath him, MacLeod is in constant motion now, his hands clutching at the bedclothes, his hips meeting every thrust of Consone's cock as it burns in his arse with rapid, ragged strokes.

He reaches beneath MacLeod and wraps his hand around his rigid cock, pressing hard at the base; MacLeod's pleasure will wait for his own this time. With a suffering sound, MacLeod shudders and tries to buck back into him, but there is nowhere for him to go, Consone has him trapped to his own rhythm.  Torn between the two pleasures, MacLeod can only moan and let himself be taken.

MacLeod manages a whispered, "Please," once more, but that is not what Consone is waiting for.

He is deep inside himself now, deep in the place where only his own pleasure matters and he is intent on wringing every drop he can from this. Even he cannot last much longer, but while he can he revels in the sweetness of it.

"Please," MacLeod moans again. "Please, maestro…."

That…that is what he has been waiting for. Now it is time. It takes nothing more to send him falling over the edge into his climax. He is only distantly aware of MacLeod spurting hot fluid over his hand, spasming, crying out wildly as he too finally finds his release. He buries himself deep inside the body beneath him, everything in him going exquisitely tight for long, long moments while his passion spends itself.

Under him, MacLeod is silent but for the sounds of his breathing, still quick, but slowing by degrees.  Occasional after-shocks shake him, but he makes no other move. Consone withdraws and rolls off him, folding an arm behind his head to regard the ceiling. There is a box of cigarillos beside the bed and he takes one and lights it one-handed, smiling to himself through the cloud of fragrant smoke.

He was right about this one, in all the important ways right, and self-satisfaction makes his smile widen. In every way that matters, Duncan MacLeod will make a fine student and, one day, a loyal ally. The future stretches before him, a clear path all the way to the Gathering and the Prize. Oh, yes, MacLeod is a find indeed. Consone is never wrong about such things.

The end

With thanks to Athena and MacGeorge for the beta work.

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