Carson Kearns' Highlander Fanfic

Lost in the Loving: Coming Home

Chapter 7

by Carson Kearns

 

 

Duncan walked quietly back to the bedroom he shared with Methos, unsure of what he would find there. Life couldn’t possibly be kind enough to just let Methos be asleep?  He had never intended to be away so long. Or to be coming back so late. He stopped outside their door and slumped back against the wall, thinking of the confusion of the past few hours. It had been very pleasant in Anne’s arms.

A woman’s arms.

It was comforting. It could have been much more. It surprised him that he was even thinking such thoughts. His thoughts flew around inside his head like shrapnel, adding to the excruciating headache that refused to depart.

//Why? You’re only flesh and blood. Maybe Methos is right? Why does loving each other have to mean we can never, ever, have sex with anyone else? Maybe I’ve been too conservative? Too possessive? Is Methos really going to leave me because he has a one night stand? For all I know he’s had hundreds in the times we’ve been apart. Yeah, sure. Don’t be ridiculous. He’d have told me. We’d have agreed first. You sure?//

He shook his head in disgust at his well known propensity to over-analyse every issue. //You openly declare your love and commitment to Methos, give him Father’s ring, and within 24 hours you’re thinking about having sex with another. You’re pathetic!//

But seeing Tessa had been completely unnerving. What had struck him, on first seeing her lying there in her wedding finery, was that he didn’t feel over-whelming guilt. He had been able to put that behind him. The choice was simple, in the end. Choose sanity or insanity. Choose life or death. In choosing life he also, knowingly, had chosen to come to terms with the guilt and self-doubt that had accompanied so many of his acts over the past few years.

But what had stunned him on seeing her lifeless body, was the cruel contrasts thrown up. Her current lifelessness with her once joyous vibrancy. Her current body’s lack of passion. 

//Your togradh, your passion, Tess. So sexy.//

 Now it only existed in his memories. Everything that Tessa was............could have been........

He’d let his eyes caress her loveliness, even in death. And all he had been able to see, through his tears, was her radiant smile. Hear her laughter ringing down the years. Warmed to the caress and touch of her wondrous hands, sculptor’s hands and fingers, kneading him, forming him, shaping him. Felt her silken body wrap itself around him, her full breasts pressed against his own chest, her hardened nipples driving him to distraction.

She was so small that he was always surprised at how his large hands seemed to totally enclose her, when he seized her hips to control and drive them. Thrusting into her, again and again. When they first made love he had been worried that he would hurt her. That he was too large. Delusions of grandeur, he laughed. He had loved her softness beneath his hardened hands. The moistness, the velvet smoothness of her vagina, the sweat that glistened over both their bodies from the roughness and exertion......Ah Tess....Tess. He opened his eyes and realised that he was still standing outside the bedroom door, unwilling to enter. She could still bring him to unbridled sexual excitement and anticipation, he mused, conscious of his erection and his yearnings to be held and caressed.

He found himself wondering whether Methos might, indeed, be holding back in the same way - just as he had with Tessa. Was Methos afraid to let all that power loose - not just on his part but for Duncan as well?  Maybe, he considered, he hadn’t trusted Methos enough, and Methos had read him and had known? Hadn’t given the right signals. Hadn’t given permission?

And yet, he reminded himself, it wasn’t a one sided relationship with Methos. He would just as often play a dominant role in their love-making. Take Methos just as he had delighted in taking Tessa. And not having to be so conscious of mortal fragility, he had elevated such sessions to planes of passion and ecstasy he’d never before experienced. He’d never, ever, consciously held back with Methos.

The warrior in him enjoyed the domination.

He gripped his upper forearms and sighed, luxuriating in the richness and layered possibilities of being with Methos. Both could be feminine, masculine, both rutting bulls, both tender.....But Duncan was also conscious of the fact that neither could give each other the saoi,  -  the softness of a woman’s body and its smells. Even now, years later, he could taste Tessa’s salty tanginess. Still feel the softness of her on his tongue as he sought her warm scents and juices........drank deeply from her breasts........sheathed himself in the hidden depths of her.

Her.

She.

Tessa.....

Woman.

He breathed in deeply, remembering the softness and the wonderful smells of Anne’s body under his cheek. So warm. So alive. Reawakening desires. Lust.

He rubbed his eyes, conscious of how emotionally exhausted he was. And excited.  And in two hours time he needed to be fresh enough to take Mary riding.

He rubbed both of his hands through his hair, leaving them there to rub the pain that had commenced once again in his temples. Sometimes, sometimes, he understood why Methos was tempted to just disappear.

He turned, sighing, and entered the room.

Methos was dressed and reading in a chair by the window. Looking up from his book he saw a vision. Duncan. Totally dishevelled. His black silk pants and robe were rumpled, his black hair unkempt and wild. It had long ago lost its tie and its silken sheen was now dulled with sweat and hung loosely, framing his beautiful face. The only colors were black, the gold of his skin and the flushed pink of his mouth.

Neither spoke.

Methos gave an enigmatic smile and resumed reading. Finally, the silence became oppressive. “Are you feeling better?” Duncan finally offered, wondering why he felt so guilty.  He felt renewed anger at Methos -  that he could always manage to make the Scot feel guilty even when he hadn't done anything wrong.

Methos looked up, briefly, wearing his Innocent Face . “Feeling better?”

Duncan began to feel a slow burn of anger, deep within him. He began to feel toyed with. First Rachel needing extra attention and answers last night. Then the nightmare and the nausea that followed. The excruciating head ache now. The session with Anne on the balcony.  And now Methos and whatever game was being played here. He kept his temper, although anyone who knew him well, such as a lover, could not have missed the flare of the nostrils and the flashing of the eyes. “I thought you must be feeling unwell last night,” he persevered.

Methos looked at him again, seemingly dispassionate. “No. I was feeling fine. But thanks for asking.” Again, he broke his eye contact and resumed his reading.

//Then why were you sleeping in the single bed?//

 Why bother asking, he wondered. Straightforward questions never got him anywhere with Methos. He would just say something cutting or ambiguous.

//Fine.//

Without realising it, Duncan started to rub his temples, frowning. He turned to go to the bathroom, oblivious to Methos’ verbal lasso, already spinning its way towards him.

“No good morning kiss, Duncan?”

Duncan turned back, and in the filtered light saw the master weaver, weaving his webs. The spider and the fly.

 “I’m not very kissable right now Methos.” 

//And I don’t feel like kissing you. Stop playing with me.//

Methos rose from the chair in one fluid movement and walked purposefully towards his lover. He allowed his beautiful hands to frame and immobilise Duncan’s face and as he bent to kiss him, sought the long dark strands of hair on either side of Duncan’s face and twisted them around and around his fingers.

Duncan was, effectively, imprisoned..

The unwelcome, fragrant scent of Diorissimo filled Methos’ nostrils and settled on the pores of his face. He closed his eyes and breathed in his lover’s new scent, realising where it must have come from. He brought a fistful of Duncan’s hair to his nose and smelled it, as he often did. Deeply. Usually, he loved the smell of Duncan’s hair. Slowly he blinked and stared, in silence, into Duncan’s questioning eyes.

“Methos. I...”

Methos was determined to silence him. To not let that beautiful mouth be sullied by the lies about to stain it. And he would know, //I will know,//  he told himself, as the lies were uttered. He would only have to look into Duncan’s eyes to see the pain of the lies. Even after all these years, Methos had proven a total failure, (despite expert role modelling), at teaching Duncan how to bluff. How to be ambiguous. How to mislead. Duncan, he had long ago decided, couldn’t lie if his life depended on it. //Don’t start now, ionmhuinn laoch.//

And so he leaned in to cut off any air that might fuel the lies and give them life.

Duncan felt a thrill pierce his entire body as Methos roughly twisted his hair and imprisoned his face and leaned in to savagely kiss him. Deeply. Possessively. And deep down, a warning signal started to sound.

A thrum.

That same signal that had for hundreds of years warned the Highland warrior when not to turn his back, when to stay alert.

Methos sniffed the scent of another person, a woman, on his lover.

Duncan sniffed danger, to himself, and was finding it intoxicating. Playing with fire.

All of his senses began to feed him information that he could use to protect himself, if required. He could feel Methos’ heart pumping its many gallons of blood, beating loudly as the body’s requirements for extra blood in his groin made itself known. He could feel Methos’ cock hardening against his stomach, proving his theory. Methos’ heightened breathing sounded in his ears, alive to every deeper breath. Every quickened intake of air. Duncan’s eyes saw the determination on his lover as he continued to brutalise the soft mouth before him, let his teeth sink into both lips. And just before Methos closed his eyes, Duncan could see passion, anger?, wanting and yearning... possession... written across the moist green irises before him, before Methos quickly hid them behind his own dark lashes.

His senses were sending a thousand different pieces of information to his already overloaded and tired brain, all signalling danger. Imminent possession. It whispered of rough handling, hurt, _ and pain. On instinct he tried to pull back, but Methos would have none of it, keeping the Diorissimo saturated hair and skin pressed tightly against his own.

Methos growled his wants and his needs, skilfully using his right leg to hook behind Duncan’s off balance legs and effectively dropped him onto his back on the floor, riding him down. He watched in fascination as Duncan was momentarily dazed, fighting to regain his breath and re-fill his lungs. But Methos was too quick and once again covered the Highlander’s mouth with his own, seeking out the hot, moist surfaces with his tongue. As Duncan started to become distressed from the lack of oxygen, Methos pulled away just enough to reassure him but keep him unnerved.

Still, nothing was said.

The roughness continued as Methos ripped the tie from Duncan’s gown and gathered the edges of the silk in his fists. “Take it off,” he ordered.

Duncan thought about refusing, but decided that he was sufficiently intrigued to see what game Methos was playing. He found himself wondering whether this might not, indeed, be the fantasy that Methos had won in their silly contest. Methos settled five thousand years of experience on Duncan’s thighs, giving him room to remove the silken covering.

Again, his fighting instincts refused to be quelled. He had not chosen his battleground well. But, he quickly realised, he could choose his weapons.  He decided, therefore, to explore what weapons he still held. Pinned, on his back, he called on the power of his eyes with this man, never taking them off him. Blinking slowly. He opened his mouth and let his tongue begin to caress his swollen lips. “You take it off if you want it off, ” he challenged.

Methos took a deep breath and licked his own lips. He was completely unable to disguise the sound of his own swallowing as he took in the sight below him. 

"Either way, Duncan, it’s coming off." 

He reached down and allowed his left hand to snake across Duncan’s golden chest, fingers parting channels through the scattering of rich black hair . It seemed to take hours of excruciatingly slow sensual movement, pausing to pinch, stroke and savage the hardened left nipple, before his fingers disappeared beneath the black silk of the beautiful robe. Very very slowly, still licking and tasting his own lips and mouth, he firmly pushed the gown off Duncan’s left shoulder, far enough to release his arm from its sleeve. He reached down, to possess Duncan’s left hand, spreading the fingers to taste and suck each one while he repeated the slow removal of the rest of the silken gown, off Duncan’s right shoulder. And all the while Duncan let his increasingly glazed eyes and lashes stroke Methos’ body, sweeping up and down to the swollen groin. Finally the Scot’s entire upper body was naked, exposed and imprisoned atop the dark silken surface of the gown, Methos’ firm thighs squeezing along the length of his lower body.

Methos looked at his luscious lover, spread before him on the black silk tablecloth. “Siursach..” he hissed.

Duncan reached back into time, trying to recall if he had ever before been called a whore. He hadn’t, to his knowledge. This made the current sexual game that much more erotic and dangerous for him. Until Methos, he had always been the powerful one. In control. And certainly this geographic landscape of Loch Shiel had never seen Duncan MacLeod captured, on his back, about to be well and truly fucked by his male lover. He suddenly felt very ....female. Very possessed. After 409 years, having sex, being penetrated by a male in a traditional male missionary position was still sufficiently different for him to get hard  just thinking about it. Being taken. He wanted it. Desired it. Needed it. And intended, by fair means or foul, to allow Methos the stalking, the capture and the taking.

Methos continued to gaze at Duncan, helpless below him. Reading him closely, he decided that despite initial misgivings, Duncan had now surrendered totally. Methos found himself wondering whether the immediate surrender was the result of a guilty conscience on the Scott's part.

Removing the soft belt from the robe, he flicked its long length so that it stretched out, like a long black snake, across Duncan’s upper body and across his left shoulder. Slowly, he started to pull it in, letting it caress and stimulate every perfume-soaked pore it travelled across. He did this four more times, each in a different direction, each time stimulating and exciting a different part of the Highlander’s chest, stomach and shoulders. He stretched it out between his two hands and positioned it over Duncan’s solid erection, still hidden beneath the black silk of the pyjama pants. The small stains appearing told him all he needed to know about Duncan’s level of excitement. He pushed down, firmly, on either end of the belt, letting it slide back and forth across the silken covering of the weeping cock, never taking his eyes off the Highlander. Slowly he leaned down and wrapped the belt loosely around Duncan’s neck, before gently pulling it, watching in fascination as it uncoiled itself from the vulnerable area. With Duncan completely engrossed, Methos reached for each of his hands, raised them above his head and bound them, tying the loose ends to the leg of the bed.

“Don’t bother testing them. You’re not going anywhere,” he purred into the left ear of his scented prey.

Duncan was suddenly conscious of how very vulnerable he was. For sexual gaming, being vulnerable wasn't a problem. But trust was needed, and he didn't feel any. And Methos hadn't given him any safe word to use, if he wanted whatever was happening to stop, immediately.

"I won't do anything I don't want to do," he had told Methos. //He knows I'm not into all the sexual games that he is.//  The deep warning thrumming re-commenced, permeating his entire body.

"What's the safe word, Methos?"

Methos feasted his eyes on the body below him, and smiled. "There isn't one."

If a smile could be said to be feral, then Methos had perfected the art. Duncan could no longer tell where the warning alert stopped and the sexual excitement started. Waves of fear, lust and excitement continued to ripple through him. But the part of his brain still functioning on the rational plane told him, with marked displeasure, that he had just failed Warrior Behaviours 101, by allowing himself to be captured and tied. 

He tried to reassure himself that it was just  a game. Methos'  fantasy. That it was Methos...Methos, his lover....So why, he wondered, did that give him so little reassurance? There was something about Methos' eyes. They raked across the Highlander as if he were fresh meat.

Methos sat back and smiled, but his eyes remained hard. "To the victor go the spoils, Duncan. Do you feel spoiled?" When Duncan refused to answer, Methos continued. "Don't worry. You soon will. Feel spoiled, that is."

All of Duncan's finely honed instincts now came into play and they all told him to lie still. To feign surrender. Not fight. Bide his time. Look. Listen. Search out weakness. Be ready to attack and exploit. He stopped pulling at the ties and lay before Methos, seemingly acquiescent, ripe for the plucking. Or, he wondered, was all this part of the game, designed to bring out just these fears and these feelings? Was he feeling exactly as he was supposed to be feeling? He reassured himself that it must be a game because Methos had called him  a whore. It couldn't therefore be real?  And at the end of the day, short of taking Duncan's  head, he realised that there was little real harm possible - at least none that was permanent. . Again, he wondered why that gave him such little reassurance.

"Enjoying yourself Duncan?" Methos had moved and was now lying along Duncan's legs, his head positioned above the encased genitals. He started to blow hot, moist air over the silk. Again, Duncan refused to answer. "A groan will do. Or a moan. As long as you're quiet about it. Remember how tissue thin these walls are?"

Duncan considered. Fact: he had no idea if this was real or part of a sexual fantasy. But there were times when being a pragmatist had actually ensured his survival. Fact: he was trapped. Tied. Captured. He could fight. Resist. Or he could lie back and experience the new. He decided to do the latter, until he received a signal that the battle had once again shifted its direction. He licked his lips, slowly, knowing how much it distracted Methos. The most sinful mouth in the world, Methos called it. 

//Prepare to sin, Methos.//

Methos let his cheek press down firmly on the engorged cock below him, and continued to breathe moist air up and down it, wetting the silk. He let his fingers play all over the golden skin above the waistband, stopping only to pluck sharply at the fine black hair. Duncan gasped as his nipples were suddenly and fiercely pinched. It seemed to go on for many minutes, sending spasms of delight into his already over-engorged cock. Real or not, he acknowledged that the game was certainly stimulating. But of course that was the point, he told himself, in between the gasping. For after all, if it wasn't frightening there'd be no turn-on, no anticipation, no fantasy. He sincerely hoped that the whimpering he could hear at the edge of his reasoning wasn't him.

Methos' teeth soon replaced his hands and the painful stimulation of the squeezed nipples was soon replaced with an even more intense pleasure as a hot, wet tongue joined the sharp pressure of the teeth. For Duncan, keeping quiet was almost impossible. Methos always took delight in how uninhibited Duncan could be and appeared to be doing his best to encourage the elemental wildness that their best lovemaking produced. Finally, his nipples were released and Methos stood up. Never taking his eyes off his bound warrior he started to remove his jumper, shoes, socks, jeans and boxers until he stood before Duncan gloriously naked. Clearly, he was also finding the sex play very stimulating, given the size of his erection.

Reaching behind him, he opened a bedside drawer and removed a small box, one Duncan had never seen. He found himself pulling once again on the ties, testing them. He had no doubt, however, where his hands would be if they were free - wrapped around his own erection, which was now painful given the amount of time it had been fully erect. Reaching into the box, Methos removed a cock ring and rolled it, slowly, onto his own erection and down to the base. Duncan watched in fascination, the rubber ring caressing every surface of Methos' penis, as he rolled it to the very base. Clearly, Methos was intent on keeping himself erect for sometime.

What that might mean for Duncan was a frightening, but highly stimulating thought.

Positioning himself over  his lover's beautiful moist mouth, Methos reached down and once again ran his fingers through Duncan's hair. He then lifted the head of the bound man below him, winding Duncan's long strands of  hair around his hands, as he had done before. Positioning his cock at Duncan's pink and swollen lips he let it trace the sensual outline, before slowly pushing it into the receptive, wet mouth.

"Bright boy. I love pragmatists."

Game or reality, Duncan was the first to admit that he loved taking Methos into his mouth and throat, smelling him, pleasuring him, bringing him to explosive orgasms with the sheer power of his sucking, licking, lustful possession. So it was not difficult to relax his throat and welcome Methos into his depths. Methos began to thrust, again and again, finding it impossible to hide the exquisite pleasure of Duncan's mouth surrounding his cock. He could feel Duncan's teeth, razoring the surfaces, sharp enough to hurt but not damage. It was a fine line that the Highlander balanced on, and he had it down to a very fine art. His teeth would tease and clamp down on the engorged cock, filling his mouth and throat. It intrigued Methos, the way he always managed to somehow use his tongue to move the cock around his mouth, bringing down his back teeth to grind along its surfaces, before using his magical tongue again to swing the cock back to his incisors, letting his canines score its tender surfaces as it plunged back and forth, in and out and around the wet cavern of his amazing mouth.

The cock ring meant that there was no chance of an early ejaculation, something Methos knew would disappoint Duncan, who loved taking Methos' ejaculate deep into his throat, and then kissing Methos, feeding his essence back to him. Methos let the suckling go on for what seemed like hours, but of course couldn't have been. Pulling Duncan's head back, sharply, he exposed the throat and slid his cock down into its waiting silken depths. Duncan was ready, and had already relaxed, in anticipation and excitement. The addition of the cock ring slammed into and past his lips, making them even more red and swollen. More enticing. Methos never seemed to take his eyes off the amazing scene that he had set up, watching in fascination and deep excitement as Duncan received and massaged his cock without ever seeming to lose his breath. Having his hands twisted through the Highlander's hair, pulling the head into Methos' genitals as the rhythm built, seemed to set up an almost primeval memory for Methos. It was as if, from deep in his past he could hear drumming, constant drumming, and could  see beauty and feel heat and longing, passion and possession.

He looked down at the Highlander as if he were the most erotic sight he had ever seen.  Duncan's bound body beneath his legs, Duncan looking wild, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. And Duncan chose that moment to open his eyes. Both stared, transfixed at the other. It shouldn't have been possible for Duncan's eyes to become any blacker. 

Clearly, decided Methos, Duncan was enjoying himself. Enjoying giving pleasure to Methos. And if it was possible for a cock to be well and truly milked, Duncan had done it, yet no ejaculation had occurred - yet.

Keeping his mind on why he'd set this up, mused Methos, was becoming impossible. Time to remind himself, more than Duncan, he decided. So as he continued to thrust into the receptive throat before him, he began to talk. Calmly. Coldly. "Have I told you how much I'm enjoying your new smell, Duncan?"

Duncan stopped sucking and looked up, confused.

"You reek of it. Is it Anne's or Rachel's? Or both?" Suddenly withdrawing, he moved back down the body and roughly pulled off the black silk pants. With even more roughness, he pulled Duncan's buttocks onto his thighs, giving him complete, unfettered access to the Highlander's genitals and anus.

Duncan decided to say nothing. His wrists were chaffed raw from the constant pulling and testing of their strength. He wasn't going to escape them in a hurry. So he just kept staring at the sudden stranger before him. He couldn't believe that this was about jealousy! He was torn between wanting to scream at Methos - and wanting Methos to never stop what he was doing.

Methos looked up and down the golden body, then once again into Duncan's eyes. They bore proudly into his, refusing to be cowed or frightened. "Have I ever told you, Highlander, that you can be a first class tease? Whose perfume??"

"Both Rachel's and Anne's, I imagine." ??If you want to wallow in jealousy, there's something to wallow about.?//

Methos simply nodded, slowly, as if confirming with himself that he had been correct. He removed the cap from the tube of lubricating jelly. Squeezing it into his hands, he reached down and grabbed the still weeping cock of his lover and proceeded to coat it liberally, before moving his fingers to part Duncan's cheeks. He continued to smooth the jelly as far inside as his fingers would allow, as well as all around the sensitive opening. Still nodding, he continued to look in cold fury at his lover.

 //Both! Both! Brat……//

Every time Methos' fingers touched his anus, Duncan would involuntarily squeeze, yearning to be penetrated and filled. Pulling Duncan's ankles onto his shoulders, Methos relaxed into the weight of them. With both hands, he started to squeeze and stroke and pull Duncan's cock, managing to move his thumbs across every sensitive plane and surface.

At times like this, Duncan always felt like formless clay, being worked upon and crafted into something beautiful by the master potter. //Methos. Plotter and potter.// At some stage Methos must have removed a hand because when Duncan decided that he couldn't hold his orgasm any longer, he felt an over-powering wave of pleasure building in the souls of his feet. But life wasn't going to be that simple and Methos pressed his fingers, painfully, around the area at the base of his penis that immediately stopped the exquisite pleasure from exploding. He was vaguely conscious of squeezing Methos' neck with his feet, but all of these sensations were annihilated by the sudden painful pressure combined with a savage squeezing of his balls.

He was aware of Methos doing something with his tied hands and suddenly he was free. But not for long. His arms were drawn down by his side with Methos' own arms and hands positioned on the outside of them. Methos leaned into and across him, moving to seize his mouth. The position forced Duncan's legs to fall down the arms of his lover, the underside of his knees settling at Methos' elbows. It was ironic that it was his own legs that were now effectively trapping his own arms. He didn't care. If this was what being punished was all about, he was, he decided, a contented masochist. He remembered that Methos had told him that the loser would be the winner and he decided that maybe he needed to lose more often?


So once again he was trapped, unable to move his arms, positioned as they were against his body and Methos' arms. Then, with no preparation or warning, Methos slammed into him, sheathing himself in one powerful thrust. Duncan cried out, in pleasure and pain, expecting Methos to stop and give him time for his body to adjust. But again and again he rammed his steel cock into the Highlander. And because of the cock ring, there was no chance that Methos would come to a quick orgasm. Centuries of mental discipline came into their own and Duncan consciously relaxed and once he had done this, he fell into the savage thrusting with abandon. By pulling down on Methos' arms he could even lift himself and achieve a deeper penetration. If Methos had been hoping to disappoint or frighten the Highlander he soon realised that he had failed miserably. 

"Harder, Methos. Faster!"

Methos kept pounding into the Scot, basking in the exhilaration of Duncan writhing and thrashing. 

//God. You're a god, Duncan. So much for well laid plans for fearful domination. Trust the brat to love it! //

So he suddenly withdrew, resulting in whimpers and moans and cries and pleadings for more. He slowly released the cock ring and forcefully turned the Scot over onto his stomach, pulling his hips up so that he was on all fours. Methos leaned onto Duncan's back, letting his hands caress and stroke every surface of skin they could find in their aimless and desperate wandering, before settling once again onto his lover's wonderfully powerful, engorged cock.

Spreading Duncan's thighs further apart, he once again plunged into the slick channel before him.  It wasn't long before his felt it squeezing the life out of him.  Duncan suddenly dropped to his elbows, allowing deeper penetration to take place. The part of Methos' mind still functioning was pleased with how much Duncan actually loved sex, and how intuitive he was with its every nuance, its every need.

Reaching forward, Methos once again grabbed a fistful of the Highlander's hair and began to ride him into oblivion and annihilation. For both of them. Reaching underneath with his free hand, he grasped Duncan's equally hard cock, finding that the Highlander's hand had already beaten him to it. He covered the hand with his own and both began pumping it in time with Methos' fierce and brutal thrusting into his lover. Realizing what was coming, Methos quickly grabbed a cushion from the nearest chair and placed it under Duncan's face. "Use it!"

"Christ Methos. Harder. Harder.." and then any chance of any coherent speech was lost in the muffled explosion of Methos' final ejaculation. Duncan felt as if every cell of every internal surface was being coated with the hot liquid being sprayed into him. His own orgasm soon had him struggling, virtually out of control, as Methos pushed his head into the cushion, trying to muffle his cries of joy and desperation. The black silk tablecloth received spurt after spurt of Duncan's semen as it sprayed through his own and Methos' fingers and fists.

Methos was still in control enough to keep riding the Highlander, slamming his balls against the golden-skinned cheeks before him. He fell across Duncan's back and, remembering what he was there for, decided to mark his lover with a savage reminder of what possession was - what it looked like and what it felt like.. "Both!", Duncan had said. "Both.....Rachel and Anne!" 

Leaning down, before he could change his mind, Methos viciously bit Duncan's shoulder so hard that blood started dripping down over his shoulder joint and his arm, joining his semen on the black silken gown. The gown that had served as Methos' tablecloth for this highly delectable feast.

Panting, growling, sweat dripping off him, he whispered into Duncan's ear, "And now you have my mark as well, Duncan. Blood and perfume."

Duncan had started to breathe again just as the teeth had sunk very, very deeply into the muscle at his shoulder. He was more thankful for the cushion at the moment of the attack than when he had orgasmed.. The pain exploded in his shoulder and, as he continued to come down from the explosive heights of the incredible sex, he tried to recall through the pain what all this had been about. Perfume! Methos had commented on his smell. And he suddenly realised what all of the past thirty minutes had really been about.  Jealousy. Blood and perfume. Symbols of life, death and disguises. 

He realized in that moment how he had been used and abused by his lover and was furious. //What if I hadn't enjoyed it? What then?// He knew the answer before he read it in the coldness of Methos' eyes. "Blood and perfume," Methos had taunted.

Duncan spat at him. "They all wash off, Methos - just like your scents!." Pushing Methos off him, roughly, he reached for his gown and threw it on. Crumpled and soiled, just as he was, he dryly mused. Spinning around, eyes blazing, he saw Methos getting his own breathing under control and watched in fascination as one of the many faces Methos habitually used was put in place. Masked. Feelings hidden, as if there were none. Duncan felt his fury build, as more of the puzzle fell into place for him.  He was almost incoherent with exhaustion, pain and anger.

"So I was tried and found guilty? Are you actually telling me that you thought I'd betrayed our relationship? And instead of just fucking asking me, or openly accusing me, you set this up?"

The object of his temper was languidly rising and pulling on the long black pullover he had so recently discarded, as if whatever had just occurred was all in a day's work. And the more he ignored Duncan's passion, the more passionate Duncan became. Methos had to keep schooling himself not to simply leap on the Highlander once again, and ravish him again, so beautiful was he in his fury. And nothing made Duncan more angry, Methos smiled, than Methos being cold and dispassionate. He had it down to a fine art. Duncan could be so easy to play with, he reminded himself.

Angrily Duncan found his pyjama pants and belt, but instead of putting them on crumpled them and threw them at Methos. "I'm surprised you didn't just piss all over me to mark your territory."

Methos shrugged, affecting boredom. "It occurred to me, but I decided that the rugs didn't deserve it."

"And I did?" He was incredulous. And at meltdown. Weeks of tension and years of grieving surged through him, overwhelming him.

But Methos remained cool, fanning the Scot's temper with seemingly little effort. "You said it, not me. My semen and teeth served just as well as urine. Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it. You bloody well loved it."

"And what if I hadn't, Methos? What then?"

"At least one of us would have."

They both had tempers and both had consciously worked on controlling them. They'd had far too many examples, with each other, of how they could wound so painfully with their razor sharp verbal weapons. Having burned all night, Methos was the first to attempt to control himself. But Duncan, he realized, was too wounded, humiliated, tired - and young - to have yet learnt the importance of being able to control yourself. In Methos' experience it took about three thousand years - give or take a millennium or two.

And the problem with lighting wicks, he mused later, is that you can rarely control the dynamite, much as you arrogantly think that you will. Duncan exploded. "Yes, I slept in Anne's bed, and I loved it and so did she. And I realized how much I've missed it and how much you can't give me. And I want it!"

"Fine. Take it! I thought at first I cared. Then I realized that I didn't and all I really cared about was punishing you for betraying our relationship, with that woman. Fuck who you like. You're still such a child that you need all the practice you can get before you'd even begin to hold my interest in that department." He instantly revised his three thousand year estimate before one learned self-control to six thousand. 

//Fuck it. Why do we always do this to each other. I don't mean a word. He doesn't mean a word. Talk about verbal flaying.// 

And suddenly he was back in the nightclub after Byron's death. He'd pushed too far then. They both had. He knew that he was pushing too far now. //I'm the older one. I should be able to control this...stop it.....he's still fragile....//.

But there was no stopping Duncan, now the anger and grief had been lanced. He reacted like all hurt and damaged children, wanting only to hurt and damage in return. "You're a fucking hypocrite, Methos. Cealgair!" He watched Methos reach into his memory for that, and the screwed eyes of recognition when he'd successfully recalled the etymology. Duncan stormed onwards. "You tell me to sleep with whomever I like but your piss weak little ego can't stand the thought that I might be enjoying myself without you. Or that someone else's hands and mouth might be covering me and I might be loving it. I've had other male lovers and they didn't have any complaints. I don't sit around pining for you every time you leave town. You're not that special....." Then he found the inspired barb, the one his brain had been searching for while his mouth uttered the average, predictable barbs. "You've been a stop-gap for me. A rest between drinks. But it's women I miss!"

Methos paled. "Thank God. You're too dangerous and emotionally unstable to be around. Poor Anne and Mary. How long before you're burying them, I wonder?" His words sounded like ice, cracking and breaking.. 

//Fuck. Stop it. Stop it!//  he pleaded with  himself..

Duncan froze.

But Methos' mouth kept releasing the weapons against which there was no possible defence. No retort. Duncan felt himself beginning to buckle as the poisonous words rained down on him, removing any remaining traces of the pleasant smelling Diorissimo. Now he truly was left covered only in blood, semen and venom. And guilt. They had been his cloak against the elements for centuries. 

//Mary.....He's right.....I'm too dangerous......they all die....// He couldn't breathe. Couldn't get his breath. Couldn't think. //Mary......//

"So I'll be off then, MacLeod. Parts of it were fun. Consider the endless therapy sessions you've needed (and still need) payment in kind. In full. Good luck with the nightmares." Afterwards, he recalled, the words even burned and savaged him as they were leaving his mouth, so poisonous and hurtful were they. All his senses screamed at him to stop. But he ignored his sage advice, revelling too much in the adrenalin charged fight. 

//Make that fucking ten thousand years before self control and self discipline cuts in.//   He was unable to believe, even for him, that he'd just said what he'd said. No retort from Duncan could even come close.

He watched the Highlander go white as all his anchors were once again pulled away from him, leaving him with nothing but the image of two more graves over which he would weep and a cold and empty bed and house, falling away down the coming centuries. //Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.//

Duncan fell into the nearest armchair and bent double, trying to stop the rising nausea. //Damn it. Damn. Damn…// He grabbed his upper arms, desperate to find something solid to hold onto to. //Hold Fast. Hold Fast. Hold Fast. Hold Fast. Hold Fast. Or you'll never stop falling...//

He stopped listening and started to rock and rock again and again with his entire body, desperate to do anything to stop himself hearing anything and to stop himself saying anything more.  //Why do we always do this to each other? Why? Why? Why? //.  And still the air refused to enter his lungs... 

Time seemed to stand still as his world once again started to fall from its axis.  And then there was heat, as his face and neck were encased in a hot washcloth. He knew it was Methos, kneeling in front of him. Trying to cradle him. Trying to soothe him. Mouthing more words.

"I'm sorry, Duncan. Gods, I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said. Please, stop rocking, Duncan. I'm sorry. Look at me. Please, Duncan.  Stop it...stop it...I'm here......" Methos looked at the man beside him, terrified, seeing the exact behaviors that had occurred the night Richie had died.  Kneeling in the Barge, keening and rocking. Holding himself tightly, in exactly the same way,  - as if to stop himself from completely dissipating.

"Duncan! Stop it. Please....please stop it I can't bear it....Stop rocking....I'll hold you....I'm here, Duncan. I'm here. It's all right, Gradhach, it's all right........" He reached across and gently pulled back the robe, wiping away the blood from the now healed bite, before kissing his eyes and forehead.. "I didn't mean any of it. I'll never leave. Ever. Even if you throw me out, I'll keep coming back. I love you, Duncan. Please stop it. I love you. Look at me. Come on. Look at me." He forcefully grabbed the Highlander's head between both of his own large hands and forced Duncan to look at him.  Once he had eye contact, Methos smiled his most disarming smile and told the Highlander again and again how much he was loved.

Duncan moved his hand to cover his mouth and began to sob, uncontrollably. It was all the more heartbreaking for the inadequate attempts to muffle it. Grabbing him firmly, Methos pulled him out of the chair and took him to the bed, where he lay down and pulled him down into his arms, soothing, caressing, calming, stroking, until the long and violent storm had passed. At least when it had, Duncan didn't try and pull away. He just lay in Methos' arms, his face held securely against Methos' shoulder.

"You okay, Duncan?" He smoothed the long tear-streaked hair from his ravaged face, kissing his hair lightly. 

But there was no answer as Duncan lay unmoving, staring at the window - watching intently but registering nothing.  But there was at least no resistance so Methos continued to hold him fast in the cocoon of his arms. Eventually golden dust impregnated beams of dust started to fan across the bed and as Methos turned his head to look at the man still cradled in his arms he could see the deeply etched silvered tracks of the tears that he had unleashed. 

Finally, Duncan looked at Methos, reached across and gently wiped his cheeks with his fingers. "I'm okay...I'm sorry...."

Methos sighed and shook his head.  Only Duncan MacLeod, he sighed, could do this to him.  Allow himself to be treated so badly and then apologise.  At first, in the early days of their relationship Methos used to think that it was a severe character flaw.  Of late he had come increasingly to the view that Duncan was a more clever tactician than he'd ever given him credit for.  For no-on in five millennia had ever succeeded in the way that the Scot could, at leaving Methos consumed with guilt.

"No - I'm sorry!  I didn't mean any of it. And the good news is, " he continued, lightening the mood, "you realize that we've definitely improved. Twelve months ago we'd have just stabbed each other-"

Duncan interjected, speaking so quietly that he could almost not be heard. "Humph. You'd have shot me as well..."

"-- and one or the other or both of us would have stormed out and poor Joe and Amanda would have had to play marriage counselor again. We've saved him having to use the entire resources of the Watchers, secretly, to find us both. He'll miss his fee from us." He kissed Duncan's forehead gently. "At least this way I don't have to listen to lectures from Joe about how I've upset his precious Duncan."

Precious Duncan said nothing at first but finally smiled at the image Methos had created. "Can't fault Joe's priorities. If this is an example of how much better we are at relating to each other then I can't begin to remember what we must have been like years ago? Talk about coming off a zero base." He snuggled closer into Methos, pulling the ancient Immortal's arm more securely around him.

"We were unbelievable. Or so Joe says." He gripped the beautiful warrior more tightly. "I should have known what a state you've been in and I made no allowances at all. I'm sorry. I can't believe that I'm going to admit this but I was  jealous."

Duncan pulled away, to stare at the man by his side. "I've never known you to be jealous before!. Why now? Jealous of what?"

The world's oldest Immortal grimaced. "I can't tell you when I last felt jealousy. If you think I gave up guilt in the eleventh century then I can't even recall when I gave up jealousy. It's been that long since I really cared. Or if I did, it just wasn't an issue." He paused, considering. "Maybe it was seeing Tessa yesterday, and how beautiful she was." Methos' hands moved restlessly over Duncan's back. "I know how petty and insecure this is Duncan, but I started to wonder whether you took up with me just to have a break from mortal women for a while. I worried that once you put their deaths behind you, you wouldn't need me anymore." Raising his eyebrows, he signaled his contention that he'd been an idiot. "Last night at the wake I watched you watching the women, appreciating their bodies. You were so long coming back from seeing Rachel off..."

Duncan was incredulous. "Don't tell me that was why you were in the single bed. You're kidding me, aren't you? Aren't you? Methos? Fuck. You're five thousand years old, for Christ's sake. Does this mean that I'm never going to get any more mature either?"

Methos gave him a playful wallop. "Who said wisdom and security goes with longevity? It wasn't me. I blame Hallmark Cards." He yanked the long hair to gain attention. "I'm purging my soul and conscience here, so stop interrupting. After going to sleep, you had those nightmares and I was just about to come to you when you rushed out of the room like a Victorian heroine with the vapors........"

"Pardon me. Vomit will do that to you...and not wanting to disturb your lover."

"....and then when I was about to come to you in the hall bathroom Anne was already there and you both went back to her room. I came back here and seethed and plotted my dastardly revenge."

"But Methos, nothing happened with Rachel or Anne. I even slept on the covers. She held me until I fell into a deep sleep, that's all. That's where the perfume would have come from." Duncan sighed. "Can you believe that we're having this conversation? Do you think it's because we can't have children ourselves that we lose all focus in life? Behave like such children - brats - ourselves?"

"Personally I've always thought that having every second person want to decapitate you, combined with losing everyone you love and care about over and over and over has more to do with it." He reached over and once again softly wiped his lover's face and eyes. "Duncan. What would your reaction have been if Tessa had left your bedroom and spent the night with an ex- lover in the room next door?"

Duncan said nothing for almost a minute. "I never thought of it that way. I didn't mean it that way, Methos. I never even intended to run into Anne. I only went to that bathroom so I wouldn't disturb you. Why didn't you just say something?"

"That would be too straightforward. I've told you before that you got all the openness and honesty that was being handed out. I'm quite adept at brooding myself. Anyone that lives on their own for as long as we do gets good at it." He leaned in and kissed Duncan on the lips, gently but deeply. I'm sorry for calling you a whore."

Duncan ran his hands through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. "I didn't think you meant it. But I'll be your whore whenever you want......"

"Gods, what have I awakened. I'd intended being much more feral. But the sight of you brings me quite undone...it really does...," he murmured, "and I lose all of my resolve. And to think that I did feral so successfully for thousands of years, and you've managed to civilize me in less than a decade. I was going to brutalize you, remind you that you're my property....." Methos rubbed Duncan's shoulder. "I'm sorry about the bite. But it's a lot better than the branding I used to do...or worse. I started off suitably threatening though, don't you agree?. And I even felt it, Duncan, I was so angry. But then you looked at me. That's why I turned you away from me. So I wouldn't have to keep looking into your eyes."

"They were the only weapon I had. You were frightening."

//Thank the gods, if you think that they are your only weapons. //  Methos continued, ignoring the interruption. "Soon I forgot that it was about anything but wanting to just fuck you stupid."

"I'm not your property, Methos. And you're not mine. But that doesn't mean that I don't like feeling as if I'm a part of you. I love it. But not as your chattel. I'd never sleep with someone else without your knowing about it. You must know that about me, Methos?"

"Well, I thought I did. That's why I was so surprised." Methos paused a beat. "Duncan?"

"Hmmm...God the last few days have been tough...." He snuggled deeper into Methos.

"Have there been other men?"

"What do you think?"

"No."

"You're right. I lied. You taught me that.  At least there haven't been other men in the way that you think..."

Methos let that admission go until they were both more fit to pursue it.  "Brilliant me." He rolled his eyes and pulled up the bedspread over them both. "Do you want to sleep with others?"

"Can we have this discussion after I've had a good night's sleep? Please??" He pulled back and looked at Methos with large liquid eyes that he knew could normally get him anything. Particularly if a slight pout accompanied the eyes. "Mary's expecting me to take her horseback riding in forty-five minutes. Maybe I can get in thirty minutes' sleep before then......."

Methos said nothing, just cradled him, and whispered, "Did you like the sex?"

"Maaay-be. Let me sleep so I can dream about it and I'll let you know. ...Methos?"

"Hmmmmm?"

"I'm sorry. I was thoughtless. And insensitive. And rude....I didn't mean what I said..."

"Mmmmm. I know. It was definitely all your fault. I agree. Now go to sleep."

Duncan breathed in deeply, feeling as if he couldn't get enough of Methos' smell. "Of course it's my fault. Everything is my fault. If it wasn't I'd have nothing to worry about...that's what worriers do......"

"True. Just trying to do my bit to give you some fresh material, Highlander."

"Thank you."

As lancings go, decided Methos, dropping into a light sleep, it had been spectacularly successful. Thirty minutes later both Immortals were awakened by a six-year-old bouncing up and down on them. Methos groaned. "Who let you in, Shirley? And what are you doing bouncing up and down on us?"

"I'm riding cock horses arnten I, Unca Duncan?"

At Methos' raised eyebrow, Duncan shook his head and laughed. "Don't ask. I could have sworn I only recited that nursery rhyme in my head. Obviously not."

Methos swung off the bed, pausing only to lightly kiss Duncan and modestly clothe himslef while Duncan entertained Mary. Finally he was ready to go. "Tell you what, Shirley. What do you say I take you riding. After all, even Unca Duncan says I'm a better horseman than he is, and I've just had some extra very special lessons." Both Immortals looked at each other and smirked. "We'll leave Duncan to catch up on some sleep." Her young face registered disappointment until Duncan assured her that he would join them later, with her mother.

Looking up at Methos, he thanked him. "And thanks for the great S-E-X..." he spelled out.

As Mary and Methos left the room, he could hear her little voice, babbling and questioning. Methos would be a mess by the time he caught up with him, he chuckled. Particularly if her first question was any indication of the general tenor of the day's observations and queries. "M'Adam, what's S-E-X?

Aaaargh, decided Duncan. There is a god..............Good luck, old man.........As he drifted off again, he prayed to that god that he was, in fact, dreaming. That he did not, in fact, hear M'Adam promising to tell Mary of the "wondrous mythical two-headed beast called the Essyex....."


...And he'd have to remember the rocking

...and add it to his weapons...........

...no match at all for Methos verbally...

...But his body was.....

...and his emotional fragility and instability...

...and heaven knew, he had plenty of that in stock............


Glossary:

saoi: good, worthy person; learned man; warrior; scholar.
leannan: sweetheart, lover.
ionmhuinn laoch: beloved warrior.
Siursach: whore
Cealgair: deceiver, hypocrite.
Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa: Through my fault. Through my fault. Through my most grievous fault.

Go to Part 8


Re-edited 16 January 2001
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