Disclaimer: Children, what are you doing in here? Get out of here! It features angst and entertaining graphic descriptions of men doing sexual things with each other. If you don’t like that sort of stuff, or know you are too young for it, I know www.3do.com has some fabulous games, like the Heroes of Might and Magic series. So if you don’t want to read about fantasy characters making out with each other, go there and play with fantasy characters who just kill each other. Oh, and I don’t own any of these characters. I’m just borrowing them for a little storytelling. They are all owned by Rysher, and the rest of the people with the money. I don’t have any. I do, however, have an overactive sexual imagination and a good grasp of how to drive a plot home. Oh, dear, that didn’t come out quite right . . . oh, well. The story Methos tells Duncan is “The Warlock of Glen Dye” from “Legends of North-East Scotland,” by Fenton Wyness.
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Methos hated airports. He loved flying, he loved traveling, but airports, he couldn’t stand. They were like huge holding cells, trapping travelers like prison inmates before shuffling them to either another cell or the freedom they hungered for.
The waiting was the worst part, especially when you were unprepared for it. As in this case, where Methos had decided early this morning to run away. Running and waiting - a terrible combination.
Methos shifted uneasily as he waited in line. He’d become Duncan MacLeod’s lover without really planning to. At first, they had just been friends, living together because Methos’ mortal persona didn’t have the money to afford an apartment in Seacouver. They’d slept together once, just to relieve some sexual tension. They hadn’t discussed it, they hadn’t planned it (or at least, Methos hadn’t), and somehow, instead of sex, they had ended up making love. And the next morning, Methos realized that he would give anything to be able to do it again.
Methos had never been with anyone like Duncan before. There were no words to describe the wonder of Duncan’s lovemaking. Methos knew a hundred languages where there were words that came close, but not one was good enough. And the more they had made love, the more Methos feared that he was never going to able to give it up. Duncan - caring, brave, loving, sweet, silly, romantic, strong - faithful, loyal - accepting. Methos sighed. Duncan was a disease, and Methos was incurably infected; a drug that he was shamelessly addicted to.
He needed to leave now, before he became too hopelessly entangled with the man, because the Rules of the Game are simple: There can be only One.
Methos was, at his core, a survivor. He thought ahead, made plans and contingency plans the way other people breathed. But when he was around Duncan MacLeod, his breath caught in his throat. So Methos had decided to run, and deliver the hurt now, before it was too late for either of them.
Finally, it was his turn to buy a ticket. “One way to New York-LaGuardia, please,” he asked the clerk. Methos settled his bags on the floor before him and pulled out his wallet to dig out the cash. His breath caught in his throat as he pulled a small piece of white notebook paper from his wallet. There were three words scrawled there, in Duncan’s shamefully untidy handwriting.
“Please don’t leave.”
“Sir? Do you want your ticket?”
Methos looked up, suddenly aware that he was crying openly in a crowded airport, being stared at by quite a few mortals. He shook his head. “Never mind, I’m going home after all.” He grabbed his few bags and ran back to the taxi stand.
Duncan won, this time.
Methos walked back into the loft. He immediately felt Duncan’s warm wonderful presence. Although his range was stronger, he wasn’t as good as Duncan was at reading emotions from Immortal auras. “Duncan?” he called out. Only chilly silence rang back to him. Methos dropped his bags and ran upstairs to the bedroom.
One of the bay windows was open, which explained the cold, and Duncan was sitting quietly on the floor, leaning against the bed facing the window. His knees were drawn up to his chest, and he didn’t move when Methos entered or acknowledge his presence in any way.
Methos leaned over, trying to see if Duncan was all right.
“You came back,” said Duncan suddenly.
“Yes,” said Methos, and sat down on the floor next to Duncan. From what Methos could see, Duncan was having a slight breakdown.
“Why did you leave?”
“Oh, Duncan,” Methos sighed. He leaned his head against his lover’s shoulder. “I was frightened. I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad you came back, but you shouldn’t have left.” Duncan continued staring out the window, and wouldn’t look at Methos.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Methos. He slid an arm around Duncan.
“Do you remember the fight we had the other day?”
“Why do you think I tried to run away?” said Methos, half-jokingly.
“I kept thinking of the look you got when I said that you could take my head. I meant it, you know.”
“I don’t want your head, Duncan!” Methos’ irritation ripped through his voice.
“Why does that upset you so much?”
Methos sighed. How could he explain all the things that ran through his head when Duncan spoke? His need? His hunger? His fear? The terrible overwhelming desire to love warring with his need to survive?
“Tell me you love me,” said Duncan softly, so softly that Methos was tempted to pretend he hadn’t heard him.
“Duncan-” but the words stuck in his throat. What if he said them, and found himself trapped by his own words? Stronger spells had been wrought with simpler phrases.
Duncan’s head dropped into his chest, and his shoulders sagged. Methos felt like he had just kicked a small, helpless animal - no, worse, as if he had kicked a loyal friend for no reason. “Then tell me a story, Methos. Say something, so I know you’re really here.”
Methos wrapped his arms around Duncan, desperately wanting to protect him from the pain, but knowing all the while that he was the cause. “Then I’ll tell you a story, as they did in the old days, my love. And thus they say and tell and relate, that, ‘between the village of Torphins and the bridge of Potarch is the hill of Craiglash’....” Methos’ beautiful voice filled the room, retelling the story of Ian Russell and the Warlock of Glen Dye as it had been told to him by a slender Scottish storyteller a hundred years ago. Duncan let himself be held at first, but pulled Methos closer when the Warlock’s wrath felled the brave laird, and when Dora’s love softened the Warlock’s heart, Duncan kissed Methos, drowning the words with his lips. “Don’t you want to hear the rest of the story?”
“‘...but a huge ash tree marks the spot where love triumphed over pride and force of arms.’” Duncan kissed Methos again, gently, brushing his full lips against Methos’ narrower ones. “I love that story.”
“And I love you,” said Methos, before he could think himself out of saying it, “although it scares me to death that I do.”
Duncan laughed. “Silly thing, scared of death. You’re an Immortal!” and then he kissed Methos, as if his kisses could draw out the terrible fears that haunted him, or at least bruise them into silence so that he could feel safe with his lover. “Why does commitment scare you so? No, don’t answer that now. Kiss me.”
Methos obeyed eagerly, pushing aside his thoughts and concentrated on Duncan. Not hard at all, once you put your heart into it, Methos decided. He concentrated on kissing Duncan, letting his tongue trail over Duncan’s, dance with it, letting his lips mate with Duncan’s, setting them both on fire for each other.
“Methos?” Duncan whispered as he pulled away. “May I make love to you?”
Methos stared into Duncan’s dark eyes. “Of course, Duncan. You don’t have to ask.”
“I know.”
Methos felt the foundations of his world rock and sway as he stared into Duncan’s smoldering eyes. He reached out to touch Duncan’s face, to reassure himself that he hadn’t walked into a fairy world, and been seduced by some elemental creature. Duncan closed his eyes, and leaned into his touch. Methos caressed his face, his lips, before allowing his fingers to wind themselves into Duncan’s lovely hair, and pulled that beloved face closer, for another kiss.
Duncan picked Methos up, still locked in the kiss, and laid him flat on the bed, gently pushing back his legs.
“Duncan?” asked Methos gently, but then all thought was lost as Duncan slid down his body, trailing his hair over Methos’ taut stomach, before coming to rest, kneeling between Methos’ legs. Then Duncan began to kiss him, on the legs, on the hips, on the waist, on the stomach, never touching his lover’s aching cock, but letting his unbound hair swing over Methos’ body like a thousand tiny whips, until Methos was arching into the contact, desperate, but aware enough to keep his hands entangled in the sheets, letting Duncan have his way.
“Don’t-” Duncan kissed the tip of his lover’s shaft- “ever-” he dragged his tongue up the side- “leave-” he cupped Methos’ testicles in one hand- “me-” he swirled his tongue carefully around the head- “again.” And then he engulfed Methos in one smooth motion. Methos arched silently, driving his cock against the back of Duncan’s throat.
Duncan could tell that Methos was still with him by the silence. Early in their relationship, he had learned that a noisy Methos was just fucking; but a silent one was concentrating on every touch and sensation, and came so hard that he invariably blacked out.
Duncan bent to his task, caressing his lover with his lips and tongue. He licked one finger for lubrication, and slid it slowly into Methos, still marveling at the tightness he always found there. Methos breathed out softly, and closed his eyes. Duncan continued to suck while he stroked Methos from the inside with his finger, and could feel Methos tighten around his finger, and breathe a little faster. He added another finger, and deliberately began to seek out that spot inside him, where all the nerves collected and that pleasure called home. He found it, and Methos began to rock on his hand, thrusting harder and harder into Duncan’s mouth.
“Duncan?”
Duncan nearly collapsed when he heard that soft whisper.
“Please make me come.”
Duncan stared, but Methos’ eyes were closed, and all he could do was suck harder and stroke faster, giving Methos full access to his throat and adding another finger. Methos came silently, filling Duncan’s mouth with salty warmth. The muscles around Duncan’s fingers clamped down hard, and then relaxed, allowing Duncan to pull his fingers out slowly.
Methos lay sprawled on the bed, beautiful and spent. Duncan was still so hard it ached. He pulled himself, kneeling, to stare down at Methos. “Methos?” he said gently.
“Yes, Duncan?” he replied, without opening his eyes or moving.
Duncan considered. He desperately wanted to finish pleasing Methos, and ease his own need, but something strange was definately happening. Methos had never spoken so calmly during sex before. “Are you all right?” In fact, he didn’t normally talk during sex at all.
“I will be when you fuck me, Duncan.” As he said this, Methos stretched slightly and spread his legs wider, opening himself for Duncan’s eyes, but still not opening his own eyes.
Duncan whimpered. He felt like he should try to talk, to make some effort to find out what was going on in Methos’ head, but all he could think of right now was Methos’ soft voice asking for him.
“Think about it later,” said Methos, as if he could read Duncan’s mind. “I want you now.”
Duncan leaned down to kiss his lover. “You have me forever, Methos.” He had some vain hope that he might be able to control himself enough for a tender kiss, but Methos was too tempting, and his kisses were worth dying for. Duncan ended up plundering his lover’s mouth, bruising the soft lips beneath him. Duncan growled hungrily as soon as he pulled away from the kiss. Now he needed to be inside Methos as badly as he had ever needed anything. He almost missed Methos’ satisfied little smile. “Oh, this is all part of your plan, isn’t it?” he half-snarled, half-laughed. Methos’ smile grew, and he lazily reached out an arm to stroke the broad, downy planes of Duncan’s chest. Duncan shook his head, and readied his cock to enter Methos’ body.
Lying very still, with the tip of his cock just at the opening of Methos’, he heard Methos whisper, “I do love you, Highlander. And I’m not scared of death; I’m scared of the life I’m setting myself up for. With you. I’ve never needed someone so much before, Duncan. Never.”
Duncan froze, trying not to come right there. He thought patient thoughts, cool thoughts, any thoughts other than the confession from his lover and the burning need inside him.
“Duncan? Are you all right?”
“No, dammit, I’m not all right,” he moaned. “Must you say such things when I’m this hard? Do you think it has no effect on me?”
Methos laughed, and finally opened his eyes to look up at Duncan. For a moment, time was lost in their singular connection to each other, and they drowned in each other’s eyes. Reality returned via Duncan’s throbbing cock registering the heat of Methos’ body just a touch away.
“Oh gods,” moaned Duncan, and drove into Methos in one hard thrust. Methos didn’t gasp, merely lifted his hips to make sure Duncan had all the access he needed. Duncan withdrew all the way, and entered Methos again. Methos closed his eyes again, and arched his back to meet Duncan’s thrust. Duncan hit the rhythm that did it for them, hard and fast, letting his hands rest on Methos’ hips for balance, while Methos draped his arms and legs over Duncan’s body.
It was too soon for Methos to be hard again, but it looked to Duncan as though his lover was going to have an orgasm anyway; his face was flushed, his body was covered in sweat, his muscles were tightening around Duncan, and his breathing was erratic. It fascinated Duncan that Methos could do that, and he loved to bring his lover to that point. Methos was teaching him how to do it too, but apparently it took a lot of practice. Duncan smiled at the thought, practicing sex with Methos until he got it right. Methos moaned underneath him, awash in pure ecstasy.
“You feel so good around me,” Duncan whispered to his lover. “So good...” his voice trailed off as his instincts took over, bringing his hips pounding forward, to the moment of completion. Duncan ran his hands all over Methos’ body, feeling the life pulse hotly beneath his sweaty skin, just as it pulsed around him as he thrust in and out of his lover’s body. “So beautiful...” Duncan moaned, and filled Methos with his seed. Beneath him, Methos moaned softly and wordlessly. He pulled Duncan closer, and Duncan could feel the heat coming from Methos. They lay together, in a hot sweaty tangle on the bed.
“I was a virgin when I became an Immortal; did I ever tell you that?” Methos whispered.
Duncan stared. Methos looked blandly back at him. “With men?”
“And with women. I wasn’t much of a catch in the tribe, you see. The wise men feared my intelligence, and told everyone I was cursed. No one would touch me. They drove me out of our tribal lands, and one of the warriors snuck out and killed me to earn favor with the spirits.”
“Really?”
Methos laughed. “I have no idea. I can’t remember that far back.” He pulled Duncan’s lips to his, for an achingly hungry kiss. “Thank you, Duncan. For everything.”
“I love you, Methos,” Duncan replied. He rearranged himself around Methos, who was curled in the center of the bed, purring slightly at the warmth of Duncan’s body against his own.
Sleep completed their peace, and when morning returned, neither man could bear to leave the shelter of each other’s arms. So they slept the day away, and made the night before the first of many treasured memories.
Followed by: Sleeping and Lying