Title: Golden Opportunity

Author: Ysanne

Email: ysanne_1@yahoo.com

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: DM/M

Highlander



Golden Opportunity
by Ysanne

Methos looked up sharply, listening, then relaxed marginally as he recognized Duncan MacLeod's Immortal presence then heard his footsteps on the deck of the barge. Never one to take chances, however, he remained alert until the door opened and the familiar figure was silhouetted in the dim light before he returned his attention to his book.

"Honey, I'm ho-ome," MacLeod singsonged as he came down into living area where Methos was reading in front of the fire.

"Cute," Methos responded laconically, glancing up, then he really looked at MacLeod. "You look like hell," he told the Scot, who rolled his eyes and began stripping off his muddy, torn sweater on his way past. "Hey, what happened to you?" Methos called after him, a little alarmed.

"Ran into a very old acquaintance," explained Mac straight-faced, as he sat to remove his shoes and socks and undo his trousers, which were also stained with blood and mud.

"Guess you didn't get the beer, then," remarked Methos matter-of-factly.

MacLeod shot him a look, then stood and peeled the trousers off, leaving them in a heap with his sweater. Methos blinked as his host walked on toward the bath clad only in a pair of white briefs.

"Mind getting rid of those?" he asked Methos casually over his shoulder, indicating the pile of clothing as he entered the bathroom.

"Think I'm your bloody valet?" muttered Methos, but he rose from the sofa and fetched a garbage bag to dispose of the ruined outfit, quite glad that the clean-up involved only an Armani shirt and linen trousers instead of Mac's head.

Entertaining himself with creative mental images of MacLeod now quite naked under the hot spray, Methos prowled around the barge as Mac showered. In ten minutes he had lighted a half-dozen candles, poured the Scot two fingers of single-malt, uncapped a beer for himself, and started a jazz CD, thinking that the Highlander might need some calm and quiet after a fight. The fireplace was already burning, so he sat down with his book and pretended to read. He'd allow himself just a quarter hour with MacLeod, that's all, and then he'd leave. He knew what it was like after winning a challenge.

He heard the water shut off, then in a few moments Mac emerged in a rolling bank of steam, wrapped in a long, richly patterned satin robe. He was still toweling his hair, and when he was done the thick mass lay in tousled damp waves around his flushed face.

Methos schooled his own face to blankness as this darkly delectable vision padded closer to take the proffered drink from his hand, but an unsettling image of hand-feeding a beautiful, dangerous panther flashed through the old Immortal's mind. There was a watchful expression on Mac's face and Methos didn't quite know how to read it, but of course it was hard to decipher hidden meanings when the surface beauty was so blinding. Methos used up a lot of mental energy just hiding his reactions.

Mac sipped from his glass and studied his guest, crowding his personal space just a bit.

"What? Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?" Methos finally demanded uneasily, breaking the heavy silence.

MacLeod's mouth turned up slightly in amusement, and then he gazed pointedly around the room.

"Planning a seduction tonight, Methos?" he inquired pleasantly, elaborating when the older man stared mutely at him. "Candles, sexy music, drinks, a cozy fire -- perfect. And I've taken a quickening. Of course, you couldn't have known that beforehand, but you're a quick study."

MacLeod continued to look steadily at his friend, whose face was revealing, then concealing, a number of emotions, one after another.

"I don't know what you're going on about," a thoroughly unnerved Methos told him, getting up to leave.

"Liar," Mac said quietly, draining his glass and setting it on the bar.

Stopped in his flight by the odd timbre of that single word, Methos stood waiting. The half-empty beer bottle was taken from his hand and set beside Mac's glass as the younger man circled him, then placed himself between Methos and the exit.

"What game are you playing, MacLeod?" he asked carefully, dropping back a step.

"No more games," said Mac firmly.

He came closer, laying his hand on Methos' arm, then sliding it up to grasp the firm biceps with long, strong fingers. Completely bemused, Methos remained silent, waiting for Mac to make the next move. The warmth of the big hand was like a brand on his arm.

"Don't leave," Mac said softly, the words half demand and half plea.

Methos felt his heart slam against his ribs, then lurch into stuttering action again. When Mac leaned toward him Methos closed his eyes, shutting out at least one vivid sensory perception in self-defense. The warm lips that touched his were soft and full, and Methos was filled with a sudden, desperate need to either flee for his life or wholly surrender. Surrender quickly became the only option, and he gave himself up without another thought. After long, breathless moments Mac pulled away to tug at the sash tied around his own waist, then pressed himself intimately against the slighter man.

Methos knew he was still alive because his heart was pumping in double-time, but he felt as if he had died and gone to Valhalla. If he had, the man embracing him was a warrior-god; Mac certainly looked the part. Methos lifted his hands to the damp chest where he felt the hard, quick pounding of Mac's heart under his palms. He pushed the satin robe off the solid, wide shoulders, then down over the swell of hard biceps. Mac let his hands fall from Methos' waist and the heavy robe slid to the floor, revealing a body so achingly beautiful that Methos wanted to worship it. Oh, definitely, he'd get down on his knees here. He wondered how much marble temples cost these days, and if he could lock MacLeod inside one, with himself as the lone supplicant. It sounded like the perfect way to spend a century or two.

"Are you gonna do anythin' besides stare?" Mac asked in an amused voice. "You've got to be familiar with all the parts."

"Shut up," ordered his companion, "until I'm done looking. And touching. How do you get that....that sort of golden color on your skin all over?" He explored slowly, his deft hands leaving shivery paths on the aforementioned skin.

"Just comes that way," answered Mac a bit breathily, shifting his stance slightly, "like yours comes pale. Here, I think you missed a spot." He captured one roving hand and moved it exactly where he wanted it.

"Don't be in such a hurry," Methos scolded, "or I'll wake up and.... Oh," he added in a different voice.

"Not a dream," Mac reassured him slyly, "now is it?" He watched with interest as the other man's pale features pinked up and Methos met his eyes boldly.

"Feels quite realistic, yes," Methos agreed dryly. "Mac, what in bloody hell are we doing?" he asked, still not quite sure that he wasn't caught up in one of his better fantasies. When the Scot simply raised one eyebrow and looked at him, Methos flushed in earnest. "I mean *why* are we doing it?" he said impatiently.

"Does it matter?" Mac replied simply. "Methos, I'm sick of pretending. It just feels so damn good -- oh, do that again -- and I've wanted this for so long."

The whiskey-brown eyes closed in pleasure and Methos became fascinated with the thick dark lashes resting on the high cheekbones. Such soft romantic beauty was embodied in those curling lashes, so incongruous on a Highland warrior. He leaned forward and nuzzled them lightly with his nose, which made Mac smile and open his eyes.

"How long?" Methos insisted.

"I dunno. Get a tape measure if you need to be so bloody specific. Ow!"

"Answer me before I get rough with you!"

"Hmm...how rough?" Mac inquired cheekily. "Oh, you mean....hey, stop it! Okay, okay, since the Valincourts' wedding. Guess you didn't notice, though god knows I tried. You can be pretty thick, for an old guy. Now will you please shut up?"

The big hands dragged Methos closer, and then the oldest Immortal dropped into another universe, apparently one in which wicked fantasies came true. All of Methos' senses vied to log the most erotic input he could remember, and he felt simply shell-shocked by sensation. The warm, muscled flesh under his hands and mouth was satin over marble and tasted spicy-sweet, Mac's body tantalized him with its faint, clean, male musk, and the throaty sounds of pleasure the man kept making were driving the ancient Immortal's blood pressure right up the scale. Oh yes, a feast for the senses is Duncan MacLeod, he thought dizzily.

He felt overpowered with the other man's sheer physical presence, and without realizing it, kept giving ground until his back hit the metal bulkhead. Sensing his advantage, MacLeod surged forward aggressively, shoving his knee between Methos' thighs, devouring his willing mouth, taking him captive. Methos was helpless under this unexpected onslaught of lust from MacLeod. Never had he imagined MacLeod as the aggressor in a first sexual encounter between them, yet the Scot's ardor was taking his breath away. He fancied he could even feel the power of the newly absorbed quickening thrum through the big body that pressed him against the wall. Flooded with a sudden desire to see Mac's face, he caught the dark hair in his fists and yanked backward, groaning aloud at the sight of Mac's sensual, beautiful face, his glittering eyes, and his lush, wet mouth inches away.

"Was I hurting you?" Mac asked in a voice uneven and husky with desire, holding himself quite still in case the slighter man had felt threatened.

"Gods, no. I just wanted to look at you," breathed Methos. "Just have one good look before I lose control entirely."

"Thought I was the one losing control," Mac responded wryly, still motionless under the grip on his hair. "Let go," he ordered, "before you scalp me."

"Make me," Methos challenged just under his breath, and tightened his fingers.

His gut clenched in excitement as Mac's brown eyes blazed and strong fingers closed around his wrists in an iron grip. In just a few minutes Methos' hands were numb and Mac pinned them against the wall over Methos' head.

"Anything else?" MacLeod asked insolently, undulating his hips against his captive in a slow, intimate dance, holding the other man's startled eyes with the sultry challenge in his own.

"I'll.let you know," replied Methos with difficulty, his higher brain functions draining away as he surrendered to the erotic, slow-motion dip and thrust of MacLeod's beautifully honed body. All his sarcastic verbiage seemed to vanish, pared down to a simple one-word desire: more.

Mac had first thought to tease the other man with this blatant display, but he soon stopped thinking at all. All that was left to him was the burn and pulse of desire, the feel of the strong male body moving in counterpoint against his. The hot blood roared in his ears, pounded in his veins, blotted out everything but the vibrant response of his own flesh.

If Mac's body was issuing demands Methos was entirely ready to obey them. Unable to use his pinioned arms, he turned his head to tongue the beard-stubble on Mac's jaw, coaxing the gorgeous mouth closer until he captured it with his own. He swallowed each wordless sound escaping Mac's throat, wanting to possess every part of the man. He met the thrusting hips, sliding himself against the hot, burnished strength and hearing Mac's harsh breathing quicken.

"Let go my wrists," Methos panted urgently, struggling against the heavier man in his need to have his hands on this long-desired lover.

When MacLeod finally registered the words and released his grip, Methos immediately dragged his hands down the heavy planes of the tapered back to the powerful, flexing muscles of buttocks and thighs. He hauled the bigger man closer, needing to mold the hard flesh against every inch of him, barely aware that he was still fully clothed while MacLeod was naked. When he reached between their straining bodies to possess the other man completely and heard Mac's rough, primitive response, he assuaged it with another ravening kiss. With quick efficiency born of desperation he opened his own trousers and all other awareness receded as the two men moved together frantically.

In a matter of moments MacLeod felt molten release gathering deep inside, then with a choked cry he wholly surrendered to a volcanic completion, accompanied by the sound of Methos' orgasmic groans. Long, pounding waves of fiery pleasure surged through him, and overwhelmed by sensation, he rode them until they finally began to ebb. Suddenly relieved of the quickening-intensified sexual tension, Mac sagged, lurched dizzily and struck his head against the metal wall. From a dim distance he heard Methos' breathless, concerned voice, but couldn't quite understand the words.

"MacLeod! Don't pass out on me here. Mac?"

Methos felt weak in the knees himself, but also exhilarated by the urgent passion they had shared. His private deity was still in his arms, and Methos was still pinned by his gasping, solid body. As much as he loved the feeling, he thought that Mac might just fall down if someone didn't take charge.

"Let's have a lie-down. That's right, come on," he encouraged as he circled the bigger man's narrow waist with one arm and they staggered to the sleeping area.

Both men tumbled onto the wide bed and Mac lay replete and smiling faintly, his eyes closed, his breathing beginning to slow. Methos hovered above him, certain that the dark Scot was the most beautiful thing he had seen in several millennia. He stripped off his tee shirt and mopped them both off a bit, then removed his boots and socks, slipped off his damp jeans and boxers, and lay down beside his new lover, eager to remain in physical contact. Mac stirred as Methos drew a blanket over the two of them.

"Sorry," murmured MacLeod, opening his heavy eyes and squeezing Methos' arm.

"Sorry for what, Mac? That was spectacular, didn't you think so?"

The Scot flashed him a heart-stopping grin and nodded in agreement, closing his eyes again.

"For nearly passing out. Must be the quickening," he said in a fading voice, "but I'll make it up to you..."

"You young people have no stamina," Methos told the sleeping Highlander smugly, "but I can teach you. We've got plenty of time, and believe me, you definitely have potential."

He stretched languidly, smiling like a satyr, and pressed himself comfortably all along the Scot's radiating warmth. This scenario hadn't been in his plans, but never let it be said that the oldest Immortal couldn't take advantage of a golden opportunity.



End