The Glitter Jungle:
Fiction:
Essays, Speeches and Public Letters
Methos writes. Methos/Kronos/Duncan
Adam Pierson's essay on Methos' Sex Life caused an uproar in the academic watcher circles. Such outrageous, delicious content was not seen since the watchers of Roman times. Of course, it was all rumour, hearsay and assumptions, but it was crafted so artistically, so skilfully, into the historical facts, times, names and dates, it read almost entirely true. Young watchers read it to each other in the evenings; old watchers read it to keep warm; and Joe Dawson read it with a gaping mouth and wide, almost bulging eyes.
"You *didn't*."
Methos smiled at him pleasantly. "What page are you on?"
Joe checked. "Hundred and sixty-eight."
The smile turned into a very smug smirk.
-=-
"The times were different, Macleod. *I* was different. The whole bloody world was different, okay?"
Duncan's serious face turned a touch more grave. "Did you sleep with all those people?"
"Yes." The expression on Methos' face was pained. He wasn't ashamed of who he was, but he knew Duncan would never accept or even understand it. "Is that what you want to hear? Sex was all I knew. Is that what you want to hear?!"
Duncan nodded, angry. "It's enough."
But Methos was just getting warmed up to the subject and he wanted to tell Duncan everything, spill his heart and see what would happen. If Duncan would just leave.
"No. It's not enough. I was a slut, but I didn't just fuck fifty, I didn't fuck a hundred ... I fucked a thousand. I fucked *ten* *thousand*!" His voice rose, and Duncan knew he wasn't exaggerating. "And I was good at it."
The shock was clear on Duncan's face. Methos didn't care, he just continued his tirade.
"And it wasn't for vengeance. It wasn't for greed. It was because - I liked it." He smiled, and his voice turned just this side of hysterical. "Cassandra was *nothing*. Her village was *nothing*. Do you know who I was?"
Duncan shook his head, not wanting to hear.
"I was Sex," Methos chuckled, "Sex on a horse. When mothers warned their children about growing up the wrong way, the bad example was me. I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night. Is that what you want to hear?" Methos took a deep breath. "The answer is yes. Ohh, yes."
As expected, Duncan did not take it well.
"We're through."
And so the worst breakup in history of the clan Macleod came to be.
-=-
"Dear Editor,
you have recently published in your magazine, Frisky Watchers Quarterly, excerpts from Adam Pierson's book on the Immortal known as Methos.
I wish to point out several errors...."
Methos read on, and with every word his heart sank further. Whoever wrote these corrections knew what they were talking about. Knew what *he* was talking about, because even though the style was completely bland, very watcherly in appearance, only one person could have known what happened in some of those specific events.
Kronos.
Just what he needed right now, when his boyfriend broke up with him and all he had was drinking and the blues at Joe's bar. His infamous, pain in the ass ex.
Who would surely show up any minute now out of the blue, carrying a weapon of some sort, and just say...
"Greetings, brother."
-=-
Duncan didn't mean to go visit Methos. He was in the right, he knew it, and he wasn't going to apologise.
He was just... in the neighbourhood. There was a very good little wine cellar and store just around the corner. Really.
But as he passed by Methos' building, incidentally of course, for the third time in an hour, he saw someone standing on the porch. And that someone wasn't Methos.
It was Kronos, holding onto the rail, eyes half closed and looking very concentrated. Methos was nowhere to be seen.
"Hey!" Duncan shouted up.
There was a rather long, unnatural pause, and then Kronos said, "Duncan Macleod," and nodded. His voice sounded strangled. He was also not looking Duncan in the eyes, and that in itself was odd.
Duncan ran into the building and up the stairs.
-=-
"Duncan Macleod." Kronos could barely see straight, let alone recognise the Highlander, but he managed to choke it out.
Methos stopped licking for a fleeting moment to whisper, nose still buried in Kronos' cleft, "He can only see you from the waist up."
His tongue then returned to work. Kronos bit his lip and gazed blindly into the street, trying not to shout out loud.
After a few deep breaths, he said, "Won't he... oh, fuck, god, METHOS.... Won't he come up here?"
Methos' tongue was momentarily replaced - "No. He hates me." - with a finger.
Kronos mewled.
-=-
The front door broke down.
Methos lifted his head for a moment, then dropped it back to Kronos' shoulder. The man was lying on the floor of the porch, a blissful grin on his face, one hand flung carelessly into a potted plant, legs open. Methos nibbled on his shoulder some more, and thrust a second finger into his ass.
Someone was in the living room.
Methos gauged the distance to his sword, the amount of time it would take Kronos to get up on his wobbly feet again, and the danger of the Immortal presence in his flat. He also mused to himself that rimming is the best way to soothe this specific savage beast, and introduced a third finger into Kronos.
The door to the porch was flung open.
Duncan stared, open mouthed.
Kronos moaned, almost entirely unaware of the Highlander, and pushed down on Methos' hand.
Duncan found his footing.
"I am Duncan Macleod of the clan Macleod, and that's *my* boyfriend's hand up your ass!"
Kronos thought about fisting, and whimpered.
"So *now* I'm your boyfriend, Macleod?" Methos said angrily, and his hand jerked. Kronos gasped and threw his head back, banging it against a stray shoe.
"You couldn't handle that book. Do you know what the main objection Kronos had to the book?" He pushed his three fingers in violently, stabbing at the spot that made Kronos' whole body convulse. The former horseman was still wearing his shirt - since Methos wanted him to be semi public before - and his cock was leaking steadily and leaving a large wet stain on the fabric.
"He said I got some dates wrong, and misspelled the name of the slave from chapter eleven!" Kronos' hand was slinking slowly towards his erection for a much-needed tug. Methos batted the hand away.
"And what did you say?" Methos went on, bitter. "We're through, you said. Couldn't handle - and what are ten thousand fucks, in the grand scheme of things? I've lived for five thousand years, Macleod, that's an average of two a year. Less than you!"
Duncan put his sword down and moved closer to the pair on the floor.
"When I was in the street talking to Kronos..." He wasn't sure he even wanted to know. "What were you doing to him?" He frowned.
Methos flipped his ex over on his stomach and grinned triumphantly.
"This," he said simply, and started licking.
Kronos howled.
-=-
Somehow Duncan stayed and watched. He wanted to be appalled at Methos' lack of morals, at his promiscuity, at Kronos' evil ways, but all his brain could provide was the word 'hot', and the proper way to keep his jaw shut to avoid excess drooling.
And somehow he found himself naked, and panting, with Kronos on top of him, fierce steely gaze and a crooked smile right above his face, and then a kiss, searing and brutal, that left his lips tingling and his tongue hungry for more.
And then he was somehow kissing Methos instead, familiar and warm, and fucking Methos, familiar and intensely hot, and Kronos was doing to him what Methos had done to Kronos himself earlier, licking there. Duncan understood the look on Kronos' face when he was on the porch, understood the incoherence and the bliss, or he would've understood, if he had any brain left at all.
And when it was all over, many hours later, deep into the night, and Duncan was in bed on one side of a sleeping Kronos, watching Methos on the other side, he had to revise his standards.
"Are we back together?" He asked quietly.
Methos nodded, sleepy.
"Are you and him back together?" Duncan had to know.
Methos nodded again, hand patting Kronos' thigh absently.
"What about me and him?" Even in his sleep, Kronos appeared menacing. Duncan didn't know what to think, what to do. Things were no longer simple black and white. This was grey. Dark, dark grey.
Methos rolled to his side. He took Duncan's hand and placed it over Kronos' crotch, and then rested his own hand on top of Duncan's.
In slumber, Kronos' hand drifted lower to hold Methos' palm. He mumbled something.
"What did he say?" Duncan whispered.
Methos grinned.
"He said, we ride."
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For the Faulkner
Title challenge