Carson Kearns' Highlander Fanfic
Lost in the Loving: The Calling
by Carson Kearns
As Methos felt himself slowly slipping into sleep, he breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of the man deeply asleep in his arms. He told himself the next day, when he was still feeling the phantom ecstasy of the hardest fucking of his long life, he should never have let Duncan lure him into the false sense of security.
For what could have been more lulling than a warm, freshly shampooed and soaped Highlander, swathed in royal purple, lying in the safe harbour of his lover's arms? Duncan's mumbled, "Don't say I don't think of you--I'm saving it...." certainly made no sense to Methos at two in the morning. He simply mumbled a reciprocal "Mmmmm..." and proceeded to glide further into Highlander heaven in the large, silken cocoon that passed for a bed at the Ritz. His last thoughts were that having a passive Duncan made for a change, given his unusual insistence on taking the dominant role in their lovemaking since arriving in London.
But there was nothing lulling about the incredibly pornographic dream that disturbed Duncan's rest. Images of Masters flashed and flickered behind his eyeballs--fierce fucking...groans...moans...he had no idea who he was rutting--who was being rutted, more to the point. His silken-shrouded world had simply been reduced to dreamed images of sweat-soaked skin dripping sex...vaginas and anuses...orifices of all sizes and shapes...impaling cocks. He'd never seen such a concentration of hedonism in his life. Part of him tried to struggle out of the sleep-induced haze in which he felt trapped, wanting to slough off the tight skin imprisoning him. He wanted to get in a shower and watch those scenes swirl around the tiled floor, wash away, and disappear down the drain, into the sewer where they belonged and from where they'd come.
For that's what Masters' memories were--the detritus from a cesspit. And amongst the strongest images that had assailed him and assaulted him and impaled him during the Quickening was the image of the rutted Duncan MacLeod--on his knees, on his back, being whipped, having his throat fucked and fucked again and again while he watched his own mouth and face through Master's eyes. Watched the red lips swell, the saliva escaping from the gagging throat, the eyes refusing to look away and glaring straight into Master's soul.... //Such pride amidst such defeat.//
And when his eyes sprung open, he was finally back in the Ritz--lying in the silken cocoon of the bed, wrapped in Methos' arms...and horny as all hell. He'd deliberately not jerked himself off in the shower, thinking that Methos would take care of that pleasure for him.
//Well, Gradhach--no time like the present.//
It was the witching hour...the darkness and the silence were deafening, the only light from reflected moonlight...and all Methos could see as his mind had come starkly awake was a glorious dark-shaped warrior looming above him...black hair streaming around him like coiled snakes, wild curls framing his forehead and cheeks. He wondered how he could have slept as Duncan expertly tied his wrists, using that same exquisite purple sash, to the headboard. He supposed it should have worried him that he had become so complacent. He supposed. Having thought the ultimate survivor's thought, he congratulated himself--and immediately discarded the notion. He knew that the proverbial snowflake had a better chance of surviving in hell than he had of ever resisting Duncan in full-blown alpha ascendancy.
As always, it was indescribably and utterly overpowering. Duncan stole across his body in the depths of a moonlit night, lashing him to the headboard. It was all Methos could do not to simply ejaculate on the spot. He knew nothing of the dreams that had inspired and frightened the Highlander, and in truth, he didn't care. He pulled on his own bound arms, testing the restraints, delighted to find them taut and tight. A quiet and threatening voice washed over him, all honey and velvet.
"Boy Scouts know about knots. And these ones aren't coming off until I want them off. Does that excite you? Mmm?"
Suddenly, Methos felt total, mind-chilling terror and was back once again with a ravaged and lost Duncan in the throes of the Dark Quickening. And his cock remembered. It filled with what seemed like every ounce of blood and iron that currently resided in his body. He watched Duncan licking his lips--staring at it.
The warrior above him continued to whisper in that deep, rich husky threatening voice. "You like me like this, don't you, Methos? You like not knowing what I'm going to do. Sssh--don't speak, or I'll have to gag you...and I have much more interesting things to do with that mouth than gag it." Duncan had traced his finger across Methos' lips, and Methos felt the velvet voice snake its way around every part of his torso, lashing him. He lay helpless and moaning at Duncan's whim.
Methos had no idea whether this was a game or not. He decided on discretion--silence--and to go along with whatever game Duncan, or whoever possessed him, was playing.
Duncan moved up the pale, glistening body, straddling it, and gripped Methos' head as he slid his bursting cock into the depths of Methos' throat. There were no preliminaries, no foreplay. And Methos loved it, just as Duncan knew he would. "I saved it for you, Methos...." came the intoxicating, adored voice over the roar in Methos' ears.
And all Duncan could see was his long, thick cock thrusting in and out of the hot, wet tunnel that his lover had been reduced to. There was no other form--no substance that mattered to him at that moment--just his cock, being devoured again and again by the exquisite body below. He let it go on for longer than he should have before finally shouting in release as spurt after spurt rippled out of him...the Quickening-charged semen had indeed been saved to lubricate and temper that acid mouth and throat.
He greedily grabbed Methos with both hands and pulled his face into a deep, penetrating, devastating kiss. Methos again felt real fear as he tried to work out who was fucking him--Duncan, Dark Duncan--or Masters. Whoever he was, he was magnificent--and Methos was fundamentally, he conceded, a pragmatist.
The man who was now desperately seeking his own lost seed, licking every interior surface he could reach of Methos' mouth and throat, was both frightening and incredibly arousing. And the more he took back into his own body of the mixed saliva and semen in Methos' mouth, the more aroused he became.
Methos had still said nothing, and before he could decide whether that was wise, he was roughly turned over, his arms now twisted before him. He felt Duncan leave him for what seemed like minutes before returning to position himself behind the bound and helpless Immortal. "It was very thoughtful of you to bring your toys, Methos. What will it be--mmm? The sea urchin? The spiny anteater?"
Any thoughts about continuing silence--or safewords--were swept away with the sweat lubricating his overheated body. "God, Duncan--god--do it. Fuck. Just do it. I want it...I want it... want..." He could sense Duncan behind him--kneading his flesh--hear him pulling on the amazing condom with the oil-filled tendrils. He knew that the head of Duncan' cock would once again be large and dark red, and that it would be free of the tendrilled sheath coating Duncan's stem. Duncan swathed Methos' anus in some type of oil, and without further preliminaries slid his encased cock home.
Methos cried out in ecstasy as the slippery tendrils teased and caressed his anus and every surface of every cell between that outer entry and his prostate and beyond. It was extraordinary. It was, in every sense of the word, sensational. It was dangerously addictive. The uneven surface of the sheathed cock massaged, teased, and left him feeling deliciously ravaged. How Duncan could possibly have become so hard again so quickly was unknown, but welcome.
The tiny tendrils and nodules pushed this way and that--backwards and forwards--twisting, turning back on themselves, stretching to their breaking point as they were dragged out of the tight silken passage and then rammed home. Again and again, rammed home, until two loud cries of abandonment and victory echoed and re-echoed off the decadent walls of the Ritz.
But Methos had still not come--his cries simply signaled his joint flight into ecstasy with his lover.
Duncan swung below him to take his lover's still-engorged cock deep into his throat, savagely gripping the pale, firm hips now positioned above his sweat-drenched face. Not allowing Methos to take control, he proceeded to mastermind every thrust into his own throat, every tiny movement, every bit of pummeling. It was a vicious and merciless assault--as if Methos' cock were somehow disconnected from the gloriously lean body being held prisoner by the beautiful Scot. Indeed, as if Methos' cock were Duncan's own private dildo--some incredible, pulsating, living piston.
Methos supposed he should care about that seeming disconnection on some level. Maybe he would find that particular level some time in the future, when his heart and soul stopped soaring and his body stopped thanking him in incoherent whispers and snatches of guttural fragments, panting its approval, rejecting thepretence that he wasn't in utter Highlander heaven. Or hell. He didn't give a fuck as long as Duncan MacLeod was there burning with him. Searing away rational thought as he found even more nerves to tantalise, taunt, and torture. If infinity was a hell of endless, soulful yearning inside Duncan's arms and powerful thighs and succulent throat and chest--for he must surely be that far inside--then infinity was too short, far too short to ever be enough. And if he'd still had a soul to sell, he realized much later, he would have sold it in that time and place, in that bed in the Ritz, and asked only that infinity be redefined to last a fraction longer.
When he finally awoke, the sunlight was streaming in through cracks in the thick velvet curtains. Their bed was in need of major refurbishment. Their bodies were in equal need of cleansing and revitalising. Methos pulled the Highlander more tightly against him, and decided to remind him what gentle loving, as a submissive partner, was all about, as it had clearly been forgotten or abandoned for whatever dark reasons invariably made sense to Duncan MacLeod in the hidden depths of his mind. Something had seriously upset the unstated and intuitive balance of their lovemaking since Masters' appearance, and Methos was determined to restore that balance, as well as Duncan's comfort with the idea of Methos making love to him. In truth, wild and wonderful as the sex had been, they had not made love for days--they had, quite literally, fucked. Or rather, Duncan had fucked. Methos had been fucked. And now, unbeknownst to the Scot, Methos wished to remind his lover of the difference between the two.
Slowly he started to caress and kiss Duncan's neck, ears, forehead, mouth. Gently. Slowly. All the while mouthing soothing words, calming, stroking, kneading. As he rolled on top, he tasted the sensual mouth and pulled Duncan into a deep kiss, all the while rubbing their cocks back and forth in the dance of the ages. As Duncan started to awaken fully, he tried to use his greater weight to roll Methos over and once again take his prize.
Methos stopped him, and with all his strength, pushed himself back on top. "Duncan--trust me?"
Thick black eyebrows immediately creased. "No..." And Duncan was back in the first weeks of their relationship, so unsure of how to be submissive, but wanting that new experience with a passion, finding it such a turn-on. There had been little he hadn't experienced sexually in the past four hundred years--but becoming so passive--so female, flat out on his back, legs spread, totally exposed...being penetrated...that had been breathtakingly terrifying. That position represented everything his father would have detested, speaking as loudly as it did of submission. It thrilled him to experience sex in such a novel way--to have Methos make love to him with such strength and such passion--and such devotion. He enjoyed feeling so sinful. He often found himself becoming Tessa as Methos soared above him and seared their souls and filled him with his seed. He had been such virgin territory in this regard, so many new discoveries for them both, including how much he enjoyed playing the whore to Methos' warrior. It had been such a refreshing change, to be bested and held down by someone so strong, to trust Methos enough to allow him to hold him like that, while he was so vulnerable, so open.
Methos' kiss broke into his thoughts. "Trust me...what's the safe word?"
"Say it." Methos started to pinch Duncan's nipples savagely, but ceased the second Duncan whispered the name of his homeland. And then the honest admission from the Scot, "No! I'm frightened...I don't want it like that...."
"Trust me, Gradhach. Trust me. It's me. No one else. Let me love you."
And over the next hour, Methos reminded him of how love looked, tasted, smelled, and felt, and how easy it was to get lost in the loving...
Of sensual caresses...
And five thousand years of sexual skills...
And erotic images of ivory-skinned lovers...
And summer days...
And silken beds.
So that when Methos pulled his lover onto his thighs and pushed his powerful legs back and apart to receive him and his oil-sleeked, glistening penis, it was as if the Methos-moulded depths of the Highlander were calling him home.
This time there was no harsh or brutal thrusting. This time there was only gliding and sliding on the sweet, sweat-soaked cells of every surface. All was liquid and succulence and myriad refractions of light and color as the sun sought out the droplets on the silken skin and attempted to draw them back into the cycle of life and love and hope. Dust danced along the shaft of warmed light between the bed and the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. And the shaft impaling Duncan seemed to grow hotter and hotter as Methos bathed it in the juices of the extraordinary man before and below him--his lover, giving himself to him--offering himself to him. Delivering himself and all his darkness and light up to him.
As his orgasm built, and as he called Duncan's out of him so that both could ride the waves together, he gave thanks that the latest crisis had passed and that they were still alive and relatively whole. And that whatever Masters had done to the man below him, it could no longer harm him to the extent it could have before this dawn.
"Do you know, Duncan, 'a true lover is constantly and without intermission possessed by the thought of his beloved...and the very difficulty of attainment makes it prized'? That my skin is so pale because 'every lover regularly turns pale in the presence of his beloved'?"
Duncan started to laugh. "What--a literary assault from a man who's normally hard-pressed to give more than two grunts in a row before ten a.m.? What's going on, Methos?"
"Can I help it if you inspire me? I came across an excerpt from my old friend, Andreas Capellanus--The Art of Courtly Love. And I thought of you." Leaning down he softly kissed Duncan's hands. "Indeed, 'love can deny nothing to love.'"
Duncan turned and stared at the man lying alongside him--not on top, or on the bottom--but alongside. "Capellanus, eh? Tell me why I think he was probably you?" Pulling back he stared at the man before him. In love. "Thank you. I'm sorry that I've been such an asshole lately."
"Yes, you have--but, fortunately for you, 'a lover can never have enough of the solaces of his beloved.' And I want lots of solace, MacLeod--buckets full. You owe me. As well as half a packet of peanuts."
A loud guffaw clearly
signaled what Methos could do with that suggestion. Unless Methos was interested
in substituting peanuts for the anal beads awaiting a christening in his top
The British Museum. Two days later.
"Is it just me, MacLeod, or do you have a thing for museum restaurants--not to mention bloody museums. As if our lives aren't living bloody museums. We can go to one of our respective warehouses and see as good as all this. Or stay at home." He let his patented whine trail away, noticing the subtle shift in the Highlander's features. "What? What did I say?
"Home...you said 'home.' I like the sound of that, and I like that it came so easily to you. I'm looking forward to getting back to Paris."
"Don't get excited about it--home is anywhere there's free beer."
Duncan shook his head, smiled, and said nothing as his Watcher approached the table. Gazing at Methos, Joe sighed. "Do you have any idea how many museums I've had to drag myself through over the past twenty years keeping up with MacLeod?"
Methos chuckled. "Tell me about it. I've breathed in more ancient dust in the past few months than in my previous five thousand!" Methos ducked just in time to avoid a solid thump from the put-upon Highlander. Duncan let his fist open into a gentle grasp of Methos' upper arm, letting it slide down and stay over his outstretched hand. Joe looked on with amusement as a strong coffee was poured for him. Clearly, some things had been resolved in the convoluted, complicated worry room that housed the myriad thoughts and dreams, despairs and desires of the Highlander. Mac's words broke into his thoughts.
"We're leaving for Paris tomorrow, Joe. Coming with us?"
The Watcher closed his eyes and let the caffeine announce its presence in this overtired and overtaxed body. "I've got some business to do here, but I'll be back by the weekend. Try and stay out of trouble, MacLeod--at least for a few days."
Duncan looked--really looked at his old friend, and noticed how tired he appeared. How much older. "You okay, Joe? I can stay on--"
"Nah. I'm fine. But thanks for asking. It's Watcher business." Joe smiled as Duncan took on his best mother hen look. "I'm fine, Mac, really. Just tired."
Turning to Methos, Joe deflected any further concerned inquiries. "So, bore us--did they get everything right with the Rosetta Stone exhibit?"
Methos absorbed the concerned vibrations emanating from his lover, but decided to abide by Joe's clear wishes. He picked up and ran with the light banter, focusing on aged things, rather than aged people. "The Stone is fascinating, I'm sure, if you enjoy reading grocery lists. Personally I preferred The Golden Sword exhibit...." Light laughter rang around the restaurant, and the three friends continued to discuss life, love, and Joe's music over the next hour. Finally saying their farewells, Duncan gave an uncharacteristic warm hug to his Watcher as he and Methos took their leave.
Joe watched the two walk away, their arms and shoulders in contact. He felt his years weighing him down. Maybe, he mused, it was being around so many reminders of time's passing, here in the beautiful surrounds of the British Museum. Or maybe it was the juxtaposition of death and the departed, along with the Immortals he watched. He took another long, slow sip of his coffee and continued to gaze out the window at life passing by.
Two floors below, Methos dragged the Scot into the literary exhibits. "If I can trudge around looking at armour and swords for hours, you can indulge me for thirty minutes." Sixty minutes later they were still engrossed in the first editions and working copies of many great works--including some by Byron and Shelley.
Duncan gazed for too long at one of Byron's poems, safely encased in the cold glass case, its inky scratchings the only tangible signs of the life and love and passion--and doubts--that once flowed out in such creative genius. He closed his eyes, determined to not give reign to the dark thoughts and memories threatening to well up inside him. He was sure Methos would find some smart-assed comment to make about the cosmic irony of Duncan reading the Elegy written by the man whose Quickening Duncan now possessed:
We know that tears are in vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?"
Duncan felt a great weight beginning to settle yet again on his shoulders and closed his eyes, only to have Methos break into his threatened brood. "Oh, Highlander--" He spoke the next part of the Elegy aloud to his lover, never breaking eye contact:
thou, who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet."
Duncan looked into Methos' eyes--genuinely uncaring as to who was near them or who might take offence at their intimacy. He said nothing. He had once told Methos that he was sorry for the pain he'd caused him by killing Byron--but not for actually killing Byron. The killing still came too easily to him. He was still too young, too much the warrior for it to really be any different, he supposed.
He cast his mind back and remembered that awful night when he'd come to Methos and Joe after he'd taken Byron's head. Methos had set out to punish him, to flail him alive with excoriating words, and he'd been no match for the ancient Immortal. He had vague memories of kneeling on the Quai de la Tournelle, gazing over at Notre Dame, after he'd walked out of Methos' life that night--again.
It called to him.
The great cathedral always called to him--its structures and spirit offered him a haven when his life seemed to be spinning out of control. Just as the Game called him. Was it any wonder, any wonder at all, he concluded, that he so often felt pulled in two? The Game sang to him--lured him to battle. Such a seductive siren. He'd told Methos many times that he couldn't hide from it anymore. Wouldn't hide from it.
One part of him was magnetically drawn to the blood and the fear and the chaos. And maybe even the Quickenings, if he were honest with himself. And the rest of him yearned for the safety and shelter of sanctuary. Of all that Notre Dame represented.
And he still felt the same way.
But, he sighed, finally tearing his eyes away from his lover, that didn't mean that he couldn't mourn what Byron had become. Methos finally spoke. "Yes--I know what you're thinking. But he was still beautiful. Still a genius." He turned and reached out to place his hand over the cold glass separating him and the world from Byron's heat and flaming passion:
wert lovely to the last,
Extinguish'd, not decayed;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high."
Turning back, he took Duncan's strong hand in his and gently kissed it. "It was his time, Duncan. Let it go."
The Highlander swallowed with difficulty--and simply nodded. From deep within his memories, the fragments of an old Gaelic poem surfaced:
le na laethe a bhí
Slán le na laethe a bhí
Slán leis an oíche
A casadh orainn do'n chéad uair
Slán le na laethe bhí."
to the days that were,
Goodbye to the days that were
Goodbye to the night
Turning on the first hour
Goodbye to the days that were.
And turning towards the brilliant, sunlit entrance, the two most powerful and vulnerable Immortals in the world turned towards Paris--and home.