Summer Solstice. June 2000
"I do not!" exclaimed a mortified Duncan MacLeod. "That's ridiculous Methos! And you know it!"
Bull's-eye, decided the world's oldest marksman. There was no doubt about it. None at all. There really was nothing as satisfying on a lazy summer morning as lining Duncan up, and releasing this latest salvo with a very gratifying p:i:n:g. He was going to regret the day when Duncan ever thought that he knew his lover well enough to refuse to play these games.
Then again, Methos smirked, these games invariably led to some very stimulating rough and tumble - and myriad offerings and demands as to what reparation might be required? Indeed, now he thought about it more carefully, he wasn't at all convinced as to who was playing with whom? And of course that in itself made the games worthwhile.
There was no room for complacency and boredom - too long a companion in his long life. BD. Before Duncan when cynicism, and an uncanny ability to predict others' likely ridiculous actions, had accompanied his thousands of years of observing the sad and sorry human condition.
There had been few who shook him out of his comfortable complacency. Kronos, certainly. Byron. Duncan MacLeod. Beautiful, passionate, infuriating Duncan MacLeod.
That very Duncan MacLeod was in the process of picking up some of their much-abused bed linen and tumbling it into what appeared to be a very satisfying missile. It was then being launched in the general direction of the bathroom and the already overflowing washing hamper. Duncan continued the argument (bending to find discarded clothing under the bed) as if there had been no pause at all. "I haven't lived in Scotland for years and don't even have an accent!" he insisted.
"Fine. Forget I said anything. After all I've only been listening to accents for five thousand years and listening to you for…mmm…five years…so what would I know?" He continued to look at Duncan looking back at him, smiled, and reached for another pastry.
He ignored the suspicious look Duncan continued to aim in his direction and the Highlander's grabbing of a pillow to punch and fluff up before turning away from his live-in companion. Methos counted down - 5:4:3:2:1: and smirked as Duncan refused to let him have the last word:
"I know you Methos - you just make .." His fumbled attempts to find just the right word echoed the fumbling of hands around soiled linen "…stuff up in order to get a rise out of me." Methos' raised eyebrow brought a snigger from Duncan at the unintended double entrendre but no other overt response.
Methos turned another page of Le Monde'and continued to eat his pastry and drink his morning coffee. "You're the one carrying on about it. I made a simple observation - that you drop into a most endearing Scottish accent when you dream and when you're in the throes of passion. You're the one who's got all embarrassed about it. Personally I find it quite erotic."
"Of course it's embarrassing!" Duncan stopped and thought about the admission of his statement. "Well - it would be embarrassing if it were true. Which it isn't!" he added with emphasis. He turned away and made his way to the beautiful chest where he kept the bed linen and proceeded to choose one of the new sets that he'd only recently ordered. "And it's exactly the sort of thing that you know would be embarrassing - which is why you made it up! Short of having a tape recorder next to the bed you know that there's no way I can call you on it!"
Methos studied him studying the linen. It was his considered view, having watched the man touch and caress the various offerings in the linen chest, that Duncan was being far too theatrical about the linen choice -and of course it had exactly the effect that his lover bloody well knew that it would.
The pastry in his mouth, he decided, was in need of added saliva and he watched, with increased interest, Duncan's picking and choosing of the linen. Which one would he choose? One of the satin sets? And if so, which color? How was his Scottish satyr feeling this fine day, he wondered. Aggressive? Submissive?? Methos knew, without ever consciously realizing how he knew, exactly which hues and textures Duncan loved and what they each signified. Dark colors invariably were chosen by Duncan when he wanted to see the contrast of his lover's pale skin beneath him - against a deep green or a burgundy - or, a real favorite - chocolate. If Duncan were feeling manipulatively submissive then he would invariably choose black - or different shades and textures of bronze or silvery/gray.
Methos had given up wondering what Duncan must have spent on their bed linen. It had been realized early that bottom sheets should be brought in triplicate, given the increased wear and tear that they seemed to suffer as the backdrop to endless hours of very active and very physical sexual shenanigans. His sudden vocalized laughter caught Duncan's attention.
"What are you laughing at?"
"I was just thinking about what a funny word 'shenanigans' is," Methos responded. His wide-eyed innocence served only to make the Scot's eyes narrow further as his suspicious mind tried to work out Methos' latest game.
He looked down at the newspaper Methos was reading and seemed to decide that it must be the source of the semantic musings. He turned back to the chest and chose a stunning set of black linen with matching self-embossed Celtic motifs on the quilt cover. Piping and tassels of shimmering steel grey was evidence of superb quality and craftsmanship. The Scot proceeded to make their bed, seemingly oblivious to the out of control fully erect cock threatening to pierce the breakfast table Methos' newspaper was resting upon. Indeed, Methos mused, in between blood rushes to his brain, he himself wouldn't have been surprised to have seen it pierce the ruddy newspaper itself. Thoughts of Duncan, spread-eagled on the black linen, suddenly replaced any thoughts of continuing the teasing game he had been playing with Duncan about his moaned yews instead of you and nohts instead of not…
Methos' eyes, however, continued to stare intently at whatever he was envisioning atop the black linen. He was sure he heard, from a land far far away, Duncan innocently inquire "Sugar?" - Duncan's SugarLook he called it.
At that point Duncan turned innocently to stare, wide-eyed at his lover - a lover who seemed to have been caught frozen in time. "Of course, I could always ask Amanda?" he helpfully suggested, knowing his lover's very uncharacteristic jealous streak. "Or Anne?" That certainly brought the reaction he thought it would. "Or maybe we could set up the videotape? Or ask Joe for some Watcher footage?"
It was now Methos' turn to narrow his eyes and give Duncan what in the parlance of teenagers worldwide seemed to be called a greasy. He narrowed his eyes and gave himself the appropriate twisted look with pursed lips and piercing squinting eyes. He found it a most therapeutic and satisfying look. Even so, the look appeared to be having little effect on Duncan bloody MacLeod of the clan bloody MacLeod. Indeed, Methos mused, who was the potter, pray - and who the pot?? Who was manipulating whom here?
A truce was called and both laughed at that stage - but revealed nothing of who thought who had won and what they had won and what they both really knew about the other and who was playing whom. Really, sighed Methos, just thinking about it all was too confusing for mid-morning analyses.
With a shake of his head Methos ordered his cock to cease and desist any interest in the immediate proceedings and to definitely cease and desist any forward scouting - any sniffing of the wind - concerning later activities on the black bed linen. He turned the page, to reinforce the point, and found himself looking at the astrology section.
"You do realise, MacLeod, that there is only one shopping day left until my birthday?"
Duncan stopped, now mid stride to the kitchen, his face a living canvas. A canvas, decided Methos, that depicted a man caught unawares and unprepared and desperately attempting to convey an opposite impression.
"Your birthday? Aaah - ". Duncan seemed to give up the charade at that point, before looking at a singularly unimpressed Methos. "Aaah - your birthday? Thought you had no idea when your birthday was?"
Clipped, over-enunciated words were never a good sign that tolerance and understanding were anywhere in the vicinity. Methos knew this and he knew Duncan knew it. It gave him particular pleasure, therefore, to be even more clipped than usual.
"As I recall, MacLeod, it was only last month, when you were promising to give me anything my heart desired if I would use a certain Sexual Object - #24 as I recall - on you, that you decided that the summer solstice was in future to be mine alone for celebration of my birthday. Said you'd been thinking about it for months. Said that nothing would give you greater pleasure than to gift me with a birthday of my very own!"
Methos made a theatrical show of shaking out the newspaper. He took particular delight as pastry crumbs fell to the newly polished floor. "Of course it's obvious now that it was only #24 talking. Clearly, you'd promise your soul for your own pleasure. So much for the word of the Highland Chief," Methos finished with a satisfying flourish.
"Well - really Methos. You only have yourself to blame. You know I'm putty when you bring that out. We all have kinks! I'd only have to mention #18 to you and your studs would be flying like shrapnel off your jeans and out every porthole!" As he backed into the galley kitchen he continued, having at least the good grace not to duck imagined fly studs, "Anyway, we still have one shopping day. We can still celebrate your birthday tomorrow," he reasoned.
Methos ignored the comment about #18 but secretly admired Duncan's skill at deflection. "It's not the same. We'd only be celebrating it because I made you. Not because you wanted to," Methos sulked. Thoughts of #18 left him wondering if he would have time to change the bed linen to a nice deep brown set when Duncan was in the shower?
It was at that stage that Methos found himself the victim of some skilfully applied reverse psychology. He often found himself wondering if there was more reverse psychology in the world than forward psychology? It was to this intellectual backdrop that Duncan's "OK then - if you don't want to celebrate it then that's your choice. Just remember that I offered." And with that Duncan turned and made his way to the bathroom, leaving a flabbergasted Methos.
How, he wondered, did Duncan end up on the moral high ground - particularly given that it was Duncan who had forgotten his lover's birthday? Duncan! The world's Greatest Romantic. The man who had an anniversary for everything. The man who always had extra presents on hand for any age group, gender or occasion.
Amidst the echoes of fantasised jean studs still reverberating around the barge, Methos thought he heard a penny drop…
"Getting slow, old man," he admonished himself.
As the sound of spraying water drifted from the bathroom, Methos smiled and returned to the astrology section of the newspaper - confident that the sun would fail to rise before Duncan MacLeod ever forgot his lover's birthday. His eyes came to rest on the literary tidbit aimed at informing any who felt that the summer solstice was an event worth celebrating. Methos carefully cut it out and quietly entering the bathroom, stuck it the mirror.
Of course, he would deny completely that he had put it there, blaming the spirits of missed birthdays…
Summer Solstice, sometimes known as Midsummer, Litha, or St. John's Day,
occurs in the middle of June. It is a celebration of the longest day of the year
and the beginning of Summer. It has been a grand tribal gathering time since
ancient times. The Goddess manifests as Mother Earth and the God as the Sun
King. Colors are Yellow, Green, and Blue. It is a festival of community sharing
and planetary service.
Celebrate Solstice time with other Pagans -- take part in the Pagan Spirit Gathering or some other Pagan festival happening during June. Keep a Sacred Fire burning throughout the gathering. Stay up all night on Solstice Eve and welcome the rising Sun at dawn. Make a pledge to Mother Earth of something that you will do to improve the environment and then begin carrying it out. Have a magical gift exchange with friends. Burn your Yule wreath in a Summer Solstice bonfire. Exchange songs, chants, and stories with others in person or through the mail. Do ecstatic dancing to drums around a blazing bonfire.
Even Methos couldn't keep a straight face when he heard, some 5 minutes later, the explosive guffaw from the bathroom as Duncan read the newspaper snippet. Ecstatic dancing to drums indeed! Methos stretched, rifling through Duncan's clean clothes and chose a particularly tight pair of black jeans to encase his lover's loins. He accompanied the effort of choosing with some particularly off-key drum chanting.
It promised to be a most interesting and entertaining 24 hours. At the very least, he would ensure that #18 object of his desire was at the top of the toy box….
Either way he would need to be abused or apologized to. There was no reason
at all why the outcome of either should not be identical. Or words like
'burning' and 'ecstatic' and 'service' and 'magical' and 'blazing' should not
figure prominently in the birthday celebrations…
Hours later the pair had collapsed at a Café, in desperate need of both food and drink. Duncan's complaints of feeling like a packhorse earned him little sympathy as Methos continued to express delight at the new sweaters he had insisted Duncan buy for himself. Duncan's counter-insistence that Duncan buy them for Methos instead got him no-where.
"It's not the same if they're already mine!" Methos reasoned, as if speaking to a five-year old. "Think of all the opportunities this gives me to annoy you. And then there's..." but he stopped, letting the rest of the sentence fade away unuttered.
Duncan didn't finish it for him but the look on his face revealed that he knew what Methos would have said - that he liked the smell of well-aged Highlander in the wool.
"I know. I know," admitted the world's oldest cynic. "I'm hopeless. Mind you MacLeod, I should feel insulted. Why don't you wear my sweaters?"
"How do you know I don't?" was all the Scot offered on that point - leaving Methos with some delightful images of Duncan stealing deep breaths of Methos-impregnated wool when Methos was absent. That thought was disturbed by the Highlander going on to suggest that maybe Methos was more turned on by sweat than was Duncan?
Methos changed the topic. "While all these gifts are very nice, they don't make up for a surprise one. If there isn't a surprise one then it isn't a real birthday."
Duncan looked up from his soup, smiled and reassured his lover that he was sure he could find some old thing to surprise him with on the morrow.
An hour later they were still sitting in the Paris sunshine. Duncan luxuriated in it - 'breathing in the gold' was how Methos described the image of the Highlander opening himself up to the unusually warm Parisian summer heat. As he sat sipping his second coffee he delighted in watching Duncan close his eyes and offer his body to the sun gods. "Sensuality, thy name is MacLeod," he sniggered.
"You're the one who left that article for me which said that now is the time to worship the Sun King."
Duncan then suggested that they return to the Barge and do some serious sun baking on the deck. Never ones to turn down an opportunity to bask half-naked in each others' presence, it didn't take long to get themselves and their acquisitions back to the Quai.
Cold drinks were placed in a cooler, and bread, cheese and pate gathered up for the late afternoon repast on the warmed deck. Duncan changed into a more comfortable pair of blue jeans and shed his t-shirt, shoes and socks. Methos declined the suggestion that he also shed his clothes and left a black singlet on - arguing that it really wasn't that hot and that he was far less an exhibitionist than was the Highlander.
"I wouldn't be surprised if you were on the tourist trails!" he teased. To Duncan's look of feigned surprise, Methos continued, "Don't try to pretend that you don't notice the number of on-lookers who seem to come out of no-where when you go through your exercise routines in plain view of half of Paris."
"You're just jealous, old man. Besides, what am I supposed to do - practise in the bathroom?" was Duncan's final word on the narcissistic accusations. He once again demonstrated his increasingly expert skills at deflection by returning the conversation to the one they had been having in the morning.
"So - what do you say Methos? Do I ask Amanda about my Scottish accents in bed or do you take back what you said?" Before Methos could answer Duncan continued. "Of course, you could always ask her about the time she decided to make a cast of my cock..."
The explosion of wine from Methos' mouth clearly had exactly the effect that Duncan MacLeod had been hoping for. He finally took pity and thumped him on the back in order to restart his breathing.
"A cast! Of your cock! You are kidding!"
Duncan chose that moment to stretch his arms and gather in the heat that surrounded them. He took a slow sip of the cold wine and theatrically looked down at the bulge in his jeans. "Oh believe me Methos - I'm not. You know what she's like when she gets an idea..."
Methos shook his head in amazement. "Come off it MacLeod. Don't even try to pretend that she had to twist your arm too strongly on this one. So - tell me about it. And more importantly - where is the bloody cast?"
Duncan's SugarLook took over. "What's to tell?" His leaned across to whisper in Methos' ear. Methos noted that the Scot made sure that his chest rubbed against Methos' upper chest and arm. Duncan punctuated the telling of how the cast was made by some slow licks of Methos' earlobe. "It seemed to take (lick) - ages - for her to get my cock to just the right size - and (lick) - shape. Remember Demi Moore in 'Ghost' - (lick) at the Potter's wheel - I think that was (lick) Amanda's inspiration...(lick)...
Methos felt as if he were being cocooned in thick warm sound waves as Duncan continued to describe the intricate stroking ...and forming ...and shaping of the MacLeod cock, by a (fucking) rival lover, into a work of (fucking) art.
Three words punctuated the warm air as Duncan suddenly found himself forcefully gripped and pulled upright. After all, reasoned his lover, Duncan was the one flaunting the black sheets of submission under Methos' nose that morning.
"Downstairs. Now. Naked."
Within minutes Duncan found himself downstairs, pushed against the wall, his wrists held above his head. Methos suddenly moved away, ordering the Scot to move nary a muscle, and pulled out one of the boxes they kept under the bed. He derived great satisfaction from looking across at his lover, still spread-eagled against the wall, and asked him what he would like Methos to pull out of the box.
Duncan's eyes were the color of obsidian, his tongue fighting a useless battle to keep his lips moistened. His groans encouraged Methos to keep up the teasing.
"Too soon for #24 again? Hmmm?"
Duncan's response was deep and gutteral - and desperate.
Methos knew what Duncan had been doing on the deck - knew that Duncan played with fire when he fuelled the dark and dangerous desire deep inside Methos that simply wanted to kill anyone who had ever touched Duncan. Anyone who had ever made him moan with lust and longing. And didn't the Scot love playing with fire. Indeed, - indeed - didn't they both....
As Methos continued to caress the various objects before him, he thought, quickly, about these dangerous games they played. He couldn't understand how and when it had happened - but it had - and somewhere an obsession had started to form between the two of them. Maybe it was the shared Quickening? And maybe, they had once agreed, it was simply primitive, alpha bullish territoriality, fuelled by the knowledge that as Immortals they could go so much further with each other - be more physical, push the strength barriers that would break a mortal. For after all, as long as the head stayed attached, all was retrievable.
Physically, he reminded himself.
And maybe there simply were no acceptable explanations. No refined excuses. Maybe, he reminded himself, as he pulled beautifully crafted leather gauntlets onto his forearms, - maybe it was just irrational, inexcusable, insensitive Bronze Age old guy possessiveness? It was one that was going to have to be managed before disaster ensued.
"But not tonight - not tonight," he mumbled to himself, as he finished lacing the gauntlets. Reaching to extract the wrist restraints he turned, licked his own lips at the sight before him, and quickly returned to the broiling Scottish delicacy awaiting his pleasure.
It was now Methos' turn to tease and lick and encase his lover in his own
dark and deep vocalizations. Pressing his groin against the hardness of the
Highlander, Methos finished fastening Duncan's second
wrist restraint onto one of many rings on the gray metal bulkhead of the old Barge. The design of the Barge had meant that there were many extras that could be added without seeming at all out of place amidst the utilitarian fittings that characterised its décor and engineering design.
There was no doubt that Duncan loved being restrained. Indeed, in a moment of
post-coital analysis he had once admitted that it was the very act of allowing
another to take such total control of him, indeed - to allow the taking of such
control by this dangerous lover - that fuelled his sexual appetites in new and
Methos reached across and grasped fistfuls of long silken hair, letting the leather laces of the gauntlets graze Duncan's cheekbones. "Now - what was it the Astrologist advised? 'Stay up all night on Solstice Eve and welcome the rising Sun at dawn.' I think we can manage that - don't you, Duncan?
Duncan didn't even bother to try to reply - he seemed too busy trying to focus on the predatory, sensual mouth only inches in front of his own. His moans spoke of the excitement he felt at being encased and imprisoned in the cuffs. He turned his head and let his tongue lick and stroke the leather on Methos' forearms before turning to offer his mouth to the man before him.
Methos held his lover's head immobile as he reached to taste the scents that were Duncan's own, as well as the leather of his own gauntlets now smeared across the Highlander's lips and tongue. It was a heady combination, particularly when coupled with his insistent pressing of their groins. Both were vocal lovers and it would have been almost impossible for any to differentiate between the sighs and groans and pleadings that accompanied the drinking in of each other's mouths. Duncan's insistences that he wanted to touch his lover were met with refusal and this served to make him pull on the restraints with more force - but in vain.
Methos moved to Duncan's neck, again using his powerful encased forearms to control every movement of the beautiful head. His tasting was rough and more than once he forcefully pushed the Scot's head back against the wall as he bit a particularly tender part. It was when he felt the Highlander start to collapse that he realized how hard he had inadvertently slammed his head. He stood back and let him fall, watching in fascination as the cuffs prevented him reaching the floor.
He touched the back of the Scot's head to make sure that there was no blood and, satisfied, knew that it would only be a minute or two before Duncan got himself back under control. He was correct and within the minute Duncan had pushed himself back into a standing position. Methos decided that the glaze in his eyes was no doubt due to the concussion and the sex. Or maybe just he sex, he smiled. Still - he hadn't meant to actually knock him out and breathed deeply to bring himself under closer control.
Taking pity he reached for a glass of wine and held it to the Scot's lips. If anything, it seemed to only make Duncan even lighter headed, which was the intention of the more experienced lover. Methos worked his way down to Duncan's chest, spending what seemed like hours suckling the nipples, and moving his mouth to take in the large muscles that ran from the chest to the armpit. Methos let the scent of sweat invade every pore and indulged himself by tasting and smelling it as it ran down the golden skin. He turned his face from side to side, letting the armpit hairs caress his mouth and nose before moving to bite deeply into the muscle that continued around towards the beautifully chiselled wing-bones, now hidden from him.
Duncan's repeated calling of his lover's name, his moans and groans, his twisting and turning in the restraints and the sheer unadulterated pleasure with which he offered himself as prey to the ancient predator was more sexually thrilling than anything Methos could remember.
He had always been attracted to sensual lovers, but there was something about the Scot's abandonment that triggered long dormant passions, feelings and desires in Methos - and these in turn fuelled the Scot even more.
It was a perfect synergy.
Continued in Chapter 2
|Copyright © Carson Kearns 2001||