This is a critique of Leaning With The Turns by Aristide, written by local Highlander addict June Cleaver.

"You know, Mac," Methos said, bending over Duncan with absorbed fascination and a hearty degree of what looked like mock-solicitousness, "you're really doing a grave disservice by robbing some psychologist of a peek inside that psyche of yours."

"Yes," Duncan managed dryly, blinking fast and willing away the pain, "and if I wasn't lying here in agony waiting for my spine to heal, I'd discuss that with you. At length."

Methos smiled. "Stings a bit, does it? So, which is worse: the broken back, or the fractured pride? Really, I'm curious---"

"Methos," he rumbled, as low with warning as he could get. He didn't continue, however, because even as he said the word the lower half of his body tingled back into awareness, his spine stuttering into fusion. He sighed. "Ah, that's got it. Help me up."

Methos did so, snickering with much apparent relish. Duncan endured it, but when Methos tried to dust him off, he stepped away, knowing his face was bright red and hating it, gathering what shreds of dignity he could while he waited for Methos' humor to die a natural death.

His mouth twisted as it occurred to him that he would probably have quite a wait.

He'd never ridden a skateboard. He mentioned it. Just offhand, of course, just to have something to say. He'd fully expected Methos to claim a similar ignorance.

But Methos hadn't. That in and of itself should have warned him off. The idea, the thought of Methos---beaky, geeky, ancient Methos---riding a skateboard was just...he tried to picture it, but it only made his head hurt.

"It's not as easy as it looks." That had been it, the sum of Methos' contribution to the topic. He'd said it calmly, as if the words were only some kind of minor observation and not a blatant challenge.

Don't believe me? Here's the beginning...and by the way, I really wish I could share the art work that illustrates this story; it's one of the most gorgeous computer illios I've ever seen. Raves to Killashandra, who is credited with illustrating the zine, Futures Without End 3, this story originally appeared in.

Methos floated up out of the armchair silently, which was strange, because that chair always creaked. He'd replaced the springs twice, checked every board on the frame for weakness, and hammered in extra nails all over the place, but none of it had done any good; none of it had ever...had ever....

Methos' tongue was a hot and lively thing, decadent and predatory, and that was another thing he should have expected, should have been prepared for, but he wasn't. Hadn't. Not. No.

Yes.

Wicked and wet, and just as he'd trapped himself time and again tonight, he now knew he'd pushed it way too far, called Methos' bluff only to find that Methos hadn't been bluffing at all. Methos really wanted to kiss him. Was kissing him. Deeply. Slowly. Hotly. And he himself was...was...

Trapped again. In his suddenly dizzy head. In his too-tight slacks. In his pounding, overheated, don't-back-off-don't-back-down body.

Jesus!

He didn't even realize that he'd tensed up until Methos' hand ran from the back of his head downwards, relaxing his muscles almost against his will. "Let me know in two minutes."

It was hard to make sense of the words, to know if the words should have made sense, heard over the pounding of his heart. "What?"

"Two minutes. I'll ask you again then. If you're ready."

Yes, Methos sounded like that was supposed to make sense. "What's that--- Oh..." The soft tip of a warm tongue teased across the top of his cleft, and immediately, everything in him simultaneously either loosened, or tightened, as if Methos had flipped some hidden switch. "Oh. I...Methos---"

"Shh."

He felt that, as well as heard it, the breath it was carried on over moistened skin almost indescribably intense. He bucked hard into the rumpled sheet beneath him, and for a moment, he could only writhe shamelessly, caught in a sensual mesh of anticipation.

He knew what was coming, knew well enough what Methos intended to do to him, but somehow there was no preparing for it, no way he could convince himself that it was going to happen until it was happening, until he felt that wet, muscular softness easing slowly downwards, leisurely, but unstoppable, deeper and lower and softer until pleasure throbbed through every nerve so hard that he bit into his own fist without thinking, needing something, anything, to throttle his stunned, disbelieving cry.

And Methos couldn't have known that, but it seemed somehow that he did, because he pulled back, and inside the hot, pounding world he inhabited, Duncan could feel himself being watched.

"This will work much better if you actually breathe, Duncan."

And this next dream was wild; this next dream was utterly raw erotic abandon, ripe with an edge of sweetness that pierced his heart in time with the tongue that pierced his body. He heard sounds, low and uncontrolled and darkly lush with pleasure, and that made sense because this was a very dark dream, after all. Awareness of corruption washed over his skin, sinful and iniquitous. This was a wicked, dissolute, and lascivious thing, and he loved it he loved it he loved it...

"Tell me," he gasped, not knowing what it was that he needed to know, knowing only that he had to speak. "This is...is this good?" A sudden press of pain behind his closed eyes made him stiffen, and before he understood that he meant to move he was struggling mindlessly, pushing away from his own question, from his own surrender, from the stark raw truth of what this was doing to him.

"Very good," Methos murmured earnestly, as if he weren't rolling over to press him down hard, spreading out his body weight to crush Duncan's rapidly weakening efforts into the sheets, "This is very good, Duncan, this is beautiful, you're beautiful, and it's all right, it's all right...this is everything, this is good."

Methos' thrusts built on his words, and once again Duncan was too distracted, too spellbound by a simple thing edged with the gorgeousness of a miracle to gainsay a single word. He struggled on, even though it meant nothing to him now, even though half his movements only opened him wider, sent him arching back, and taking, taking as much as Methos would give him.

Methos didn't appear to be at all impressed with his wit. Methos, in fact, looked like maybe it wouldn't take very much at all to haul off and let him have it. "I can resist because I'm not a bloody fool! Unlike some people, I've grown to know my own limitations, what I can and can't do---"

And God only knew where Methos would head if he got started down that road, so Duncan just leaned in and kissed him quiet, one hand on Methos' ass to ensure that he wouldn't pull away, which left the other free to touch, to stroke, to cup Methos' cheek and feel the absolutely annihilating rush of being on the other side of this, of turning the tables in this particularly satisfying way.

When he finally released Methos' mouth, he tucked that soft-haired head right down close to his own, as close as possible, smelling the clean soap- and-shaving-cream scent of Methos' skin mixing headily with the unwashed-cathouse-and-locker-room scent of his own. He closed his eyes, savoring.

"It's all right, Methos. It'll be all right. Just lean with the turns."

CABS Grade: A