Title - LET DREAMS UNFOLD

Author - McJude

Email: mcjude@sbcglobal.net

Fandom - Highlander

Pairings - Amanda/Methos, Duncan/Methos

Archive - sure (I will have on my website with a like shortly)

Rating - NC-17 (sex might be considered non-con)

Disclaimer - I don't own these characters, just like to play with them.

WARNING!! This story contains both m/f and m/m sex which in some cases could be deemed non-consensual.



LET DREAMS UNFOLD
by McJude

Methos fingered the small piece of paper in his jacket pocket as he walked down the quiet Parisian street. It held only one word "Tonight," unsigned, and an address; but the scent it carried told him all he needed to know. Amanda. He couldn't believe Amanda had invited him over. She was Duncan's woman; and Duncan was his friend. Still an old voice inside him wondered if she wanted him to help change a fuse or fix a leaky faucet. No, Duncan could have done that. Grill him on the whereabouts of some long forgotten immortal that only he might know? Not likely. There were a lot of possible questions, the least of which was whether he would be able or willing to answer them.

Her flat was on the second floor, but he raced up the polished staircases avoiding the rickety old lift. A foolish invention that allowed men to construct buildings beyond the height that an in healthy man wished to climb, allowing the fat cats to rule from above. He knocked quietly on the heavy wood door. Where had he imagined Amanda lived? What would her place be like? Why did she want him here?

"Come in. It's unlocked." A distant voice called. He realized that she had sensed him, but wondered if she often left her door unlocked. He walked in and looked around. It was as he imagined, and even more.

It looked like the rooms shown in those decorating magazines that Alexa used to read. While he loved to fill his living spaces with art, furniture had little appeal to him. Unless hand crafted and made with passion approaching the realm of art, he had little interest in furniture. He thought that furniture should be functional. A table was a table whether it was made in the first, fifteenth, or twentieth century from hand hewed boards, polished mahogany, or oriented-strand-board. Amanda, however, seemed to subscribe to the "more-is-not-enough" school of decorating and also shared his passion for collecting art.

Then he remembered that Amanda lair probably reflected either the spoils of her pilfering or shopping with someone else's credit card. He wondered if the people whose cards she had borrowed would be happy to know that at least she did not waste their money as bargain shops and flea markets, but spent it on the best. From the looks of it, she'd managed to keep the interior decorating economy alive and thriving in several areas of the world.

"Sit down, I'll be right out." The voice called.

Methos surveyed the various chairs and settees and deemed none of them very inviting. They were too fragile, decorated and clean to impose his jeans-clad body upon them. He had recognized the address as a quiet neighborhood but not an upscale one. He wondered if Amanda often had her neighbors over and what they would think of her place. Most would think she was living with the spoils of a divorce and some would probably entertain their own visions of larceny.

"Make yourself comfortable. Put your feet up and relax."

"Yea, sure," he thought, "on the softly curved lucite coffee table, the once-burgundy antique velvet ottoman, or the carved Chinese trunk." He finally thought he could do least damage to the ottoman, removed his shoes and stretched out his feet. He looked down to see a big toe popping out the end of his socks and decided he would be less embarrassed barefooted. He pulled off his socks and stuck them in his jacket pocket.

Like the note, the entire apartment smelled like Amanda. He inhaled deeply and felt the effect on his lungs and various other body parts. The woman could turn you on even when she was in another room. He tried to stifle the thoughts. She was Duncan's woman. Duncan was his friend. You don't covet . . . he tried to think of Alexa. Grief was always an effective antidote for sexual arousal. He was as close to being a widower as he had been for several centuries. Just because she refused to go through the ceremony did not make him any less committed . . . married. It should have worked, but it didn't.

When she finally entered, he wondered what had taken Amanda so long. It was obvious that it wasn't getting dressed. She was wearing a cream silk chemise that wasn't even long enough to cover the matching silk tap pants she wore under it. Like him, she was barefoot. Her short hair was still wet and appeared to have been combed with her fingers. Still, she looked like she had been buffed and her skin radiated a translucent glow. Despite the ambient scent of the apartment, there was an even greater redolence when Amanda was actually there. In addition to her perfumes, there was the heady smell of her body and her sex.

"Here make yourself useful." She handed him a champagne bottle, chilled, unopened, but unlabeled. "And please don't try to impress me by using a sword. I used to date this dental student who thought it was just too kewl to open them that way."

"He didn't know; did he."

"Of course not. It was just a college fling."

"You went to college."

"Yea, there was this museum collection that was on loan only for student research . . ."

"Don't tell me. I know." He ran the bottle through his hands. It was hand blown. It was probably part of a boutique hand-bottling available only to selected cliental which of course included Amanda or a benefactor of hers. "I've spent too many hours twisting cage wires by hand, to cut them off. You realize, I was there when Dom Pérignon was trying to figure out how to keep the corks from popping out of the bottles. It was bad wine, you know. That's why he added sugar to it."

Amanda watched over his shoulder as his long fingers patiently twisted the wires that held the cage over the cork. Before seating herself across from him on a mohair loveseat, she placed a small tray with two glasses and a large peach on the ottoman. She tucked her long legs up under her causing him to direct his eyes to her crotch, now discretely covered with tap pants.

Methos gently cupped his hand over the cork and twisted the bottle that emitted a soft cough as the cork disengaged. He carefully poured the liquid into the flutes. It was pink. He scowled. Amanda smiled.

"I drink that brut stuff with . . . all the time. I thought you'd appreciate a change. I know I would."

She shifted her legs slightly and the silk did not move. Methos wondered if she was talking about champagne. His eyes mimicked the popping of the cork. Amanda had discretely waxed her pubes, leaving just a small hint of hair. He didn't remember this style being so popular with women since Roman times. Just a generation ago women in France didn't even bother with their armpits.

`There was a little girl, who had a little curl. . ." he thought. `When she was good she was very, very good and when she was bad . . . she was Amanda.'

"Here, have a piece of peach first. It tempers the sweetness that most men like to say they dislike." She leaned forward and placed the slice in his mouth. His eyes, of course, had a clear view down the top of her chemise that fell forward as she leaned toward him.

She clinked her glass to his and then downed it in one gulp.

"Aren't we supposed to sip this?"

"You can sip all you want, Adam, but when you can gulp it down, why not?"

"Someone took a lot of time to make this." The taste of the wine for some reason made him think of pearls.

"And we, of course, have all the time in the world." She spread her legs to straddle the ottoman. Methos tried to focus on the peach as she poured herself another glass. He took another sip and tried to think of the quality of the wine and not the woman in front of him. He thought of Duncan. He thought of Alexa, his recently deceased girlfriend. While he was thinking, she downed the second glass. Was she trying to get herself drunk? He couldn't believe that there was anything about which Amanda would be so inhibited that she needed alcohol to repress, not with the way she was dressed and smelled.

"Come over here, sit beside me," she said.

At least that would avoid having to make mental adjustments to her clothing that seemed to have a definite exhibitionist bent. Still he sensed the danger of getting too close to Amanda. If she were just teasing it would be embarrassing. He'd always found her sexually exciting, but he doubted if the other included excitement that came with the package was what he needed right now. He wasn't sure what he needed. Still he had a weakness for peaches and champagne and a half-naked woman with long legs and pert breasts. He moved.

It didn't take long. He was less than half finished with his glass, Amanda on her third, when she made her move. First she took a piece of peach in her mouth and ran it along his cheek and chin before feeding it to him. Juice dripped on his sweater, but he had ceased to care. Her hand ran up the soft denim of his leg and circled the buttons of his fly. He had always imagined Amanda trying to open them with her mouth and was not disappointed. He knew he should make some sort of denial motion or at least express concern over the propriety of continuing with someone who he had always thought seriously tied romantically to one of his friends, but he didn't. It wasn't lack of conscience or intoxication that didn't stop him, it was just the realization that sometimes you just have to let dreams unfold.

The dream, of course, was now under the exclusive control of Amanda. He didn't have to think about it. It didn't matter that he hadn't showered or shaved that morning or that he was wearing a pair of his oldest boxers. She didn't seem to notice; hell she seemed to be all the more excited. The thoughts he had had of slowly running his tongue over her smooth body and finding hidden morsels secretly tucked way were erased by her desire to take complete control of him. If a man would ever totally submit to a woman, it would be to Amanda.

It didn't take much coaxing to make him hard. She carefully manipulated his feet onto the ottoman, placing the tray on the floor, and then athletically impaled her body on his. He had always imagined that Amanda had a great sword swallowing technique and now realized that the ensheathing could be done with other parts of her body with equal ease.

He closed his eyes, not convinced that this was not a very pleasant dream, and allowed Amanda full range of motion to give him pleasure. Duncan had to be a blessed man to have this anytime he wanted without commitment or entanglements. Having a woman who could make love to you like this, not just for one night, but for as long as someone didn't take your head. It gave immortality a new advantage.

His head ached. Someone was there – another immortal. A door opened. The dream was over.

He opened his eyes. In his dream Duncan MacLoud was not supposed to be standing there. The Highlander's black eyes were not supposed to be burning with fire. While Duncan's face often appeared in his dreams, but it never was wearing this look of rage. The emotions of this situation were most clearly expressed by the silence between them. Methos imagined Duncan's fine katana and strong arm were enough to facilitate taking both his and Amanda's heads at the same time.

Amanda twisted around and looked at her lover. It was only then that Methos noted that she had managed to execute his sexual conquest without removing her clothes. Even the penetration had been achieved with only a shifting of her tap pants. Methos realized that until she managed to remove herself from his still hard cock, he could not move.

"I'm sorry, Duncie, I forgot you were coming over," she feigned innocence.

"Forgot," Methos thought. "Amanda doesn't forget. She planned this. Why hadn't she just taken my head when she had me captive in her own personal prison? Maybe she wanted Duncan to take it? The death of the oldest immortal could provide the ultimate aphrodisiac."

The silence lingered as Amanda swung her leg back and lifted herself off giving him a silent squeeze with hidden muscles. The bitch. Even this was a joke to her.

"Think I'd better let you two work this out." She said as she rose and adjusted her clothes. She grabbed a long trench coat off a hook by the door and exited out into the night.

"Methos, I thought you were . . ." Duncan finally spoke.

Methos looked down at the half glass of pink champagne still held in his hand and realized that intoxication would not be a believable defense. "Your friend? Obviously there is little I can say in this position to refute that point." He said as he tucked himself back in and adjusted his jeans.

"I was going to say `still in mourning." But I guess I got that answer, too."

"If you'd asked me this morning, or for that matter this afternoon, I would have agreed with you totally."

"Amanda has a way of changing one's perception."

Methos eyes spotted the brown leather jacket that contained his sword puddled at Duncan's feet. There was no way that he could defend himself . . . or any way that he felt that he should. For the second time since he had met Duncan MacLeod he lifted his head backwards and offered his neck to the Highlander.

"What's that for?" Then Duncan laughed. "Methos, if I took the head of every immortal Amanda has fucked behind my back, the sky would still be light from quickenings. I don't want your head. I . . . " Then he paused. It was the longest pause Methos could ever remember. His mind worked through every possible conclusion to the phrase that he could imagine, never even beginning to imagine what came next. Duncan's tongue seemed to thicken and he said with his original highland accent. "What I want is your arse."

"What?" Methos sat up in the chair, pulled his legs back, but found himself unable to rise."

"It seems simple enough. You fucked my woman. Now I get to fuck you." It was as if the man standing there was some other than Duncan MacLeod. "Stand up."

Methos had already tried that and his legs didn't want to cooperate.

"I said stand up." This time the legs worked, grudgingly.

"Now take your clothes off. I want you naked and vulnerable."

Methos mumbled something to himself as he removed his sweater.

"And for once in your long life, I want you silent." Duncan added.




Scotland September,1504

It was originally a panorama in greens and browns – merely a hunting expedition. Duncan had been excited when his father had suggested that several of the boys his age from the clan accompany the hunters to learn things that "all lads should know before they became men." He liked the idea of almost being a man and had always wanted to learn. Furthermore, he was tired of staying in the village with the women and younger children, drying the vegetables and fish. It was definitely time to learn to hunt and other things that men were supposed to know.

The first few days were far less exciting than he had imaged. There was much talk about the lack of large game and a worry about food for the winter. Even the village women were more optimistic about the food supply than the men on this hunting party. He remembered the line of animals -- deer, boar, small game and birds that the men would parade into the village. This year they were not even killing enough for their meals on the expedition and had to eat the dried fish they brought with them.

About a week into the unsuccessful trip the reason became clear. One of the scouts stumbled on a makeshift village. A group of people, clearly not Scotsmen, and speaking a language he could not understand, were sitting amidst a stock of game. The poachers had killed not only the stags but does and fawns. All were hanging around the village, now containing only a few hard looking women, while the men were out tracking and obviously killing more.

His father had said something about respect for nature and food for next year and the men had rallied. He had seen men kill animals, but not other men. He felt like a child as he hid his face as the returning strangers were run through with swords and fell to the ground. Surely there was enough food in the forest to share. The panorama turned to red.

What happened next he would never forget. He watched as men he knew as husbands and fathers, including some of his just slightly older friends, attacked the women. Throwing up their kilts in glee as they mounted and exchanged the screaming women amongst them. He knew of sex and had been waiting for the time he would be able to grow large and hard and bring himself pleasure. He did not know of this. He was even more shocked when, after the women had fallen lifeless to the ground, some of his clansmen had turned their attention and engorged organs to the wounded men at the edge of the village. He knew of animals mating, but never of this.

His clansmen partied for several days amongst the dead and dying and took their animals back to the village as provisions for the winter. Duncan swore he would never carry the rage he saw that day, swore to never take man or woman in other than love.

Even after he had become an immortal he had kept that promise. Until today.

* * * * *

Methos nodded his head and pulled off his shirt. He unbuckled his belt and allowed his open jeans to fall to the floor.

"Take off that ratty underwear. It's enough to kill a hard-on."

It certainly didn't look dead to Methos. Duncan had pulled his engorged cock out of his pants and had motioned him onto his knees. Duncan's cock was exactly what one would suspect, long and thick, heavily veined, uncut and surrounded by coarse dark hair. No wonder Amanda had been chasing after Duncan for centuries.

Amanda must have thought him woefully inadequate. Maybe Alexa had, too. But with Alexa, he had been inadequate. He had failed with the one thing he had wanted most to give her. Life. Maybe if he had had a magic wand like Duncan's, she would have magically been cured. Horrible thoughts and fears engulfed him as he dropped to his knees, reached for the Highlander's thighs for support and took him into his mouth. He lifted Duncan's heavy balls, wondering if when they were emptied, he could swallow fast enough to prevent himself from drowning on Duncan's cum.

It seemed that Duncan was attempting to fuck right through the back of his mouth, fuck his brains out, kill him if he didn't drown on cum, but he knew he would be revived. He would feel the pain of death and then the pleasurable gasp of life reentering his body. It was the curse and the blessing of the immortal, and there had been times in his life he had cavalierly used it to increase his sexual enjoyment. It didn't seem like something Duncan would do, and as he stopped thrusting into his mouth, he realized it would not be happening today.

Duncan stepped back, abruptly removing his cock. Methos remained on his knees, mouth open, eyes closed. He hadn't wanted Duncan to stop. Dreams were unfolding again. He'd had these Duncan dreams about as often as he had had the Amanda ones. He just never thought one would lead so quickly into another.

"You seem to be enjoying it too much, you cocksucker."

Methos shrugged his shoulders. He usually didn't get complaints about his oral skills.

"You're not going to get off taking me that way. Get up and bend over."

Methos had been raped many times; but not recently, unless you counted that Turkish prison game he had played with some of his friends in the late 1960's. He seriously doubted if the Duncan MacLeod he knew was capable of such a vile act. Duncan was the champion of the little man. What was it that Amanda called him – a boy scout. However painful Duncan's penetration would be, it could never be rape. He could never look at it as rape. It would be just be sex to which he hadn't consented, but only because he hadn't been asked.

* * * * * *

He remembered telling Sean, an immortal psychologist, that the memories were disturbing but never clear. They would always be a jumble of nameless faces and cocks unrelated to time or place. Usually they were associated with too much scotch and perhaps a quickening.

"I can't explain them."

"You don't have to, Duncan."

"But I want to understand. Why do I do it? I love women."

"I know you love women, Duncan, but this is different."

Sean would then talk about some cussed seven point scale telling how everyone fell someplace in between and then drone on about repressed childhood memories and the like.

"Have you ever had sex with a man you . . ." Sean paused as if unsure he should ask this question, then proceeded. ". . . love."

"Of course not, I told you I love women."

"You haven't been listening at all Duncan MacLeod. Haven't you ever wanted to just be with a man?"

"Not if there were a woman within 200 kilometers."

"Come on, you've told me about some of your escapades with other immortals."

"I couldn't. Not unless I was drunk, or frightened, or . . ."

"You aught to try it sometime, Duncan. With someone you really care for. It might be . . . enlightening."

Now Sean was dead, Duncan had killed him in a fit of blackness, and it had been Methos had saved him from that madness. He was definitely attracted to Methos, he even enjoyed it when Methos was sucking on his cock, and yet all he could do now was act on repressed boyhood memories.

* * * * *
"We'll show Amanda what her lavishly upholstered furniture is really good for."

Methos had expected it to be painful and it was. Duncan used nothing but the juices that clung to his cock. No fingers, no oil, no . . . He would heal. Duncan knew he would heal. It wasn't if Duncan was trying to hurt him because he knew that nothing he could do would actually harm another immortal. The first strokes, he lost count at ten, were hard, deep and angled to give more pleasure to the active partner. It was apparent that Duncan was seeking his own pleasure and not Methos' pain. The Highlander seemed to know a little more about sex with a man than he had ever been willing to let on.

The charade had to end sometime. Duncan shifted Methos' hips back off the ottoman to which his cock had been pressed so hard that it could not rise. He reached around and took the now freed member in his hands and began to stroke it. Methos realized that Duncan was perhaps not ready for tender and gentle; but at least he could do firm and skillful. He was probably using the moves he used on himself in moments of self-pleasure. Men were not that different, especially immortal men.

At his advanced age Methos recognized the change the moment it happened. Methos was tempted to turn MacLeod over and show him exactly what 5000 years of sexual experience could do, but there would be plenty of time for that. All he really had to do now was, as with Amanda earlier this evening, let the dream unfold.

He'd wished MacLeod had taken him with his legs up over his shoulders, because then he would have been able to see the look on his face as he came. As it was he felt it as a shudder that moved through Duncan's entire body and almost caused him to collapse. Methos wondered if the antique ottoman could take both their weight and braced himself with his arms.

Methos' orgasm closely followed. He had tried to stifle it, but it was hard to argue with a cock that had been seriously stroked by Duncan MacLeod. Duncan seemed unprepared for his response and pulled his hand back. It was obvious that neither of them were prepared for the words that would have to be exchanged. Amanda's ottoman would never be the same again.

"Well, you got my ass, now what?" Methos turned his head and smiled to let Duncan know the question was rhetorical, but it was too late. The Highlander had his back to him and was on his way out the door, Methos wasn't even sure if he had heard the comment.

* * * * *

Amanda sitting on a bench near his barge when Duncan returned home. She must have been there for some time sitting in the cold rain, waiting for him. Looking up at him with her big eyes she asked. "Did you kill him?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you should have fucked him."

"What?"

"That's what you wanted; that's what he wanted. I thought I was going to go crazy waiting for one of you to make the first move."

"Amanda."

"You're not going to try and deny it, are you, because I won't believe you?"

"No, did it."

"I wasn't talking about the doing, I was talking about the wanting to."

"But it wasn't what I wanted. Why would I want to fuck Methos?"

Amanda answered with a pout, "Perhaps because he has such a very, very cute ass."

"Why would I want to rape Methos?" It was obvious to Amanda from the look in his eyes, that Duncan was asking that question to himself and not to her.

"Believe me, it wasn't a rape. You just had to call it that. He knows the difference."

Duncan put his arm around her. He wasn't sure she was right, but he was fairly certain he didn't want to discuss it any more tonight.

"Do you want me to walk you back to your apartment."

"You're place is fine. I'll sleep on the couch."

"You don't have to Amanda."

"Good, because I was thinking I might want your ass tonight."

"Amanda."

* * * * *

There hadn't been enough beer in the flat to get Methos as drunk as he wanted to be, so he drank a bottle of bad gin. He knew he'd regret it in the morning, but it would be the least of his regrets. He wondered where he had made his first mistake, probably when he had taken off his shoes. Fortunately the gin was strong enough to block his abilities to relive and rehash every moment of the previous evening.

He was awoken by a knock on his door. It was past 10:30 AM. Pulling on his jeans he hopped to the door to answer it. A delivery boy was holding a large bouquet of yellow roses. Joy and friendship was a strange message to be receiving this morning.

He checked the card. It read, "Are you going to thank me? Amanda."

* * * * *

After a long, much-needed shower, the sight of Amanda in his kitchen was a welcome but slightly amusing sight. She seemed perky and looked incredible clad only in an apron, but the net results of her labors were only a few slices of badly burned toast, a pot of very dark but steaming coffee and a very messy kitchen. The orange juice stashed in the frig was fine, though, and he downed it in one gulp.

"Smile, it's a new day, Duncan."

"And every other day isn't?" Duncan questioned.

"Every other day you don't wake up feeling . . . how did you wake up feeling this morning?"

"Not good, if that's what you mean. I'm either going to have to face Methos or he is going to be gone. Neither are particularly desired alternatives."

"And my having to get up to make breakfast is?"

"Usually, I enjoy getting up to make breakfast. It's a lot easier to discuss . . ."

Amanda walked over and threw her arms around him. Her leg ran up his, giving the signal that she was ready to go at it again. He wasn't.

"It's not me that you have to have the discussion with Duncan. I've woken up by your side so many times that there's nothing left to discuss. You should be having breakfast with Methos. Here drink your coffee."

It was a hard gulp, but it was coffee. He needed coffee, even if it were so strong that a spoon could stand upright in it without help, until the bowl was melted off.

He made an indefinable noise and coughed. "How much coffee did you use?"

"Enough," she smiled.

"You toasted this bread enough, too." He tried to brush off some of the charred crumbs.

"Duncan, darling, what are you going to do about Methos?"

"What do you suggest?"

"You could always send flowers. That's what I did."

"You sent Methos flowers? When?"

"Last night, after I left the apartment."

"But that was when you were thinking I might have taken his head."

"I knew you wouldn't do that. Anyone mortal or immortal when given a choice between Methos' head and his cute little ass, would pick the latter. I sent him flowers telling him to thank me."

"You didn't?"

"Call him and check, if you want."

"Then I'd have to . . . talk to him."

"Exactly."



Mcjude
March 24, 2004