Toeing the Line
©2000 kamil

Extraordinary amounts of blame for this totally incomprehensible idea can be heaped upon Suze and Luminosity's collective heads. Due to some heretofore unknown cruelty, they decided to take the virgin!Methos discussion on the Duncan-Methos list to places it really, truly, ought never to have gone. I've also been given to understand that Melina bears the brunt of the blame for starting this discussion in the first place. At any rate, this is so not my fault. 

        Whimper. <g>

   In actuality, no one but me has seen any of this—so all blame, beginning, intermediate, final or otherwise, needs to come directly to me and my very horny Duncan (predator!Duncan@slashcity.com) Muse. Duncan read the quotes, picked one, pounced, and I haven't been let up for air since. Course it would've helped if Methos had bothered to duck, or run away, or do anything other than flip onto his stomach, spread his legs and demand to be ravished. Sigh.use. 

  NC-17 for serious guy/guy sexual content, etc. Plot? Snerk. Plausibility? In a virgin!Methos story? Umm, don't you guys think that the concept alone is enough of a challenge? <g> Warning for gratuitous use of that soft spot behind Methos' ear and more virginal clichés than you can shake a stick at. Sorry about that. 

  I don't own Duncan, Methos or the concepts of Immortality and nobody at Rysher: Panzer/Davis told me I could play with their toys. Come to think of it, I don't own the concept of one of the guys losing his male/male virginity either...but I sure would like to. <eg>

---

      "You will not laugh; you will not cry. You will learn by the
      numbers. I will teach you."

      Full Metal Jacket

      Methos blinked into dark sable eyes that suddenly seemed to be the center of his world. How, in all the days, weeks...months, they'd spent together had he failed to notice the burnished depths of MacLeod's eyes? How had he missed how...insistent they were?

      And right now Mac was looking at him, demanding things of him — looking through the normal barriers that existed between even the closest of friends, seeing right into places that another man had never been. The look in Mac's eyes kicked deep in Methos' belly, creating a very familiar sensation—except that this was a sensation that Methos had never, in all of his long life associated with someone of his own sex.

      How very...odd. 

      Methos blinked in amazement. He'd never given any serious thought at all to wanting another man sexually. 

      Why should he when there were women in this world? 

      Beautiful, glorious women. Blessed with their generous bodies and gracious spirits. For as long as he'd been alive women had soothed and comforted him, enchanted and entranced him. Methos delighted in their loveliness, in the enveloping cushioned softness of their willing bodies. And for many many centuries, having a woman waiting for you when you returned home at the end of the day was just the way things were in the world—one of the very few things in his elongated existence that had always seemed normal. And yet, despite all that, all those years of, well, straightness — something tonight was different ... somehow— 

      It wasn't even that he'd never been propositioned by another man before. Hardly. 

      Certainly Kronos would have taken him many times if he'd've allowed it — but adding sex into the volatility of their hyper-competitive relationship would only have thrown the already precarious balance of their lives into disarray and made Kronos' head games even deadlier. No, that would've been a fatal error even if he'd wanted to touch the tightly coiled power that was Kronos. Fortunately, even though he'd seen thousands of men and women that had, the thought had never appealed enough to be worth the considerable risk.  

      And Byron. God knew Byron had never made a secret of his desire for Methos' body — propositioning him almost the first day they'd met. Methos had been flattered and amused, mostly, and had deflected the opportunistic young man's offers with ideas of his own. Ideas usually involving the multitude of young beauties that constantly surrounded Byron like lovely, wind-blown petals. Fortunately for their relationship, Byron always accepted, more or less gracefully, and acceded to his wishes. 

      But now, for some obscure and unguessable reason, having MacLeod's arms around him, the heavy weight of his body pushing Methos deep into the buttery soft leather of the couch, feeling the moist warmth of Mac's breath ghosting over his skin, made something new, something lurking deep inside, begin fighting its way into awareness. Something unknown and totally unconsidered until this evening was waking up and loudly demanding attention and consideration. 
 
 

      Methos shivered; MacLeod had just stuck his tongue into his ear—without asking, his higher sensibilities reminded him and desperately wished for just a bit of time and peace to consider this diametric shift in his perceptions properly. As it was, between the tongue probing his neck and ear and the broad thumbs tracing circles around his nipples, he had all he could do just to keep MacLeod from devouring him whole.

      Mac had him trapped in the corner of the couch, leaning over him, pressing himself onto as much of Methos' skin as he could manage. Methos sincerely hoped that Mac couldn't feel the faint tremors tracing just under the surface of his skin; he was nervous enough already. Mac didn't need to know just how off balance he truly was.

      For it was blatantly obvious that the idea that Methos might not be equally experienced with other men had never entered into MacLeod's mind. At least Methos was fairly sure that if Mac knew exactly why Methos was frozen solid under his proprietary hands and lustful gaze, if Mac really understood, Methos thought that the other man would alter his actions accordingly.

      At least he surely hoped that he would. 

      Of course he would. Mac and Methos had shared more than a few Immortal lovers over the centuries. Without fail, every time he'd brought MacLeod up, wanting to learn more about this young Highlander who was becoming such a pivotal force in the Game, they'd managed to squeeze in enough enthusiasm about the Scot's amorous skills to be more than mildly annoying. 

      It's not like I ever asked anyone about that, Methos grumped, his mind happy to escape for a moment. Besides, the subject was still a touchy one as far as he was concerned.

      Shit! Mac's mouth was an unstoppable predatory thing—devouring his neck, totally divesting Methos of his ability to think, to consider what to do next.

      If Mac knew how heart squeezingly nervous Methos was, surely he'd back off a bit...attempt to seduce him instead of merely pouncing on top of him and eating him alive. So why wasn't he? MacLeod must have noticed that Methos hadn't moved a muscle since their little encounter began. 

      Great. Now I'm pissed because he isn't pulling one of his famous seduction scenes on me. What is he doing to me? Methos wondered helplessly, the unwilled response of his shivering body amazing him.

      But he wasn't being given time to think about this, about any of this. Mac had him backed into a corner, literally, and Methos couldn't think at all. Mac's soft, outrageously wet tongue stroked along the line of his jaw, tickling behind his ear—and Mac didn't seem to notice at all that the object of his surprise attack had been shocked insensate. 

      What was worse of course, were the frantic images, flashing like pornographic vid-clips behind his eyelids. Their incendiary effects raced like fevered demons through his nerves, firing his blood in helpless response. And Methos was frozen in place, any ability to reason logically overcome by the rush of inflammatory new ideas.  Stultifying thoughts of just what he'd like to do with his newly aware body, and just where he'd like to touch MacLeod with it, flooded Methos' brain. 

      Once he regained the power of independent movement of course. 

      What is he doing to me...?

      Methos was no longer sure if he couldn't move because Mac had shocked him or if it was simply because he wanted to do so very many things, so very badly, and couldn't decide which thing to do first. It was absolutely maddening. 

      MacLeod spoke, dragging Methos' thoughts back outward. "Methos," MacLeod murmured against his skin, his voice heavy with lust, "I want you. Tonight. Now."

      Well that was certainly obvious enough; did Mac really think there was any doubt about that? And yet he seemed to expect some sort of response, because Mac raised his head, the focused intensity of his hot and hungry gaze raking fire over Methos' perplexed aching body.

      "Methos...?" Mac's voice was concerned, but not really worried yet.

      An abrupt panic attack began pushing its way to the forefront, overriding this mindless incomprehensible lust, and Methos stuttered. Words, long since numbered among his best friends, inexplicably failed him. "Umm, Mac—Duncan...."   

      Fuck  

      "Look, MacLeod, we really need to talk." 

      Suddenly Methos was desperate to put some distance between them, to get some time and peace alone, just to think before he did something so supremely out of character. 

      Just because it felt so very good. 

      Methos shoved hard against the solid mass of Mac's chest, dislodging him. Methos ducked out from under Mac's body, his stocking feet slipping on the loft's floor as he scrambled away. Ignoring the startled look on Mac's expressive face, Methos threw a frantic glance around the suddenly strangling loft, looking for somewhere to go, someplace to hide, something to put between himself and the burning panting need MacLeod was pulling out of him. 

      Everything was too close: MacLeod was way too close. He had to get out of here and think about this. Now.

      Methos snatched his coat from off of the chair where Mac had hung it after he'd tossed it onto the floor and ran. He'd almost made it to the stairs, shoes abandoned to their fate, throwing himself into his coat, grabbing at his keys, the need to escape uppermost in his mind, when MacLeod caught him by the arm and pulled hard, swinging him around so they were pressed together, face to face again. MacLeod hung on tight to Methos' wrist, keeping him mere inches away, ignoring his half-hearted attempts at escape.  

      "Methos?!" 

      Complete confusion traced over MacLeod's familiar face. Methos flinched at the soft hurt shining in Mac's eyes. They were huge in his face, and totally focused on him. 

      "What the hell is wrong with you? You're acting like you've never been kissed by a friend before."

      "Please. Methos, talk to me, don't just run out. " Mac's voice gentled carefully from his first instinctive, angry shout. "Please, whatever it is, even if it's awkward—Methos...just talk to me...."

      Methos stopped trying to pull away and dejectedly hung his head in defeat. Exactly how was he supposed to explain this to Mac? 

      Well, MacLeod, you see, it's like this. You're only partially right. I have been kissed by friends before, even male friends. I've just never been kissed by one of those guy friends, and then discovered that I really wanted to kiss him back...among other things. Things that I'm suddenly starting to wonder about. So you'll just have to excuse me if this entire thing has me a little off balance. 

      Yeah, right. That'd make a wonderful, if highly embarrassing start, if only Methos could force the words past the tight band gripping his throat. But even if he could make himself reveal that much, even then Mac would want to sit down, and discuss this—together—and Methos would rather have his fingernails pulled out. 

      Slowly. 

      One at a time. 

      No, he had to have peace, quiet and most importantly, privacy to think this over. 

      Awkward?  

      No shit, this situation was awkward.  

      But if he said nothing, did nothing, just ran for the door and left with this parting between them, Methos knew that he wouldn't really stop running until several time zones separated them.  

      Not for long, mind you, just a few weeks...maybe a month or two, just until the thought of seeing MacLeod again didn't make his palms sweat and his breath come short in his chest.  

      But if MacLeod was gone when he came back...no doubt but that his embarrassment would return full force, with a little guilt added in for good measure. Which meant that Methos would turn right around and leave again. He'd be gone as soon as possible, heading out to see if the Seychelles were as beautiful and untamed as they'd been the last time he'd seen them. 

      And this time, he might not come back for a while.  

      And so, without ever really meaning to, they might go years, decades —centuries— might never see one another again unless surprised into a chance encounter. Methos had seen marriages, never mind close friendships, shot to hell over far less.

      All over an ill-conceived grope on a couch. 

      No way in hell he was going to let that happen. No way he'd take that chance with Duncan MacLeod. 

      God, what is it about our relationship? 

      If it's possible for something to go wrong, a meaning to be taken amiss, then it always does—usually as spectacularly as possible. 

      Methos straightened his spine unconsciously, his brain finally overriding his shock. He'd already been through much worse with Mac; this wasn't going to be the end of them. They'd survived the madness that began with the Dark Quickening and ended with the Watcher's trial of Joe Dawson. After all of that, trusts given, betrayed and then offered again, Methos was even more determined to hang onto this singular shining friendship. 

      He had far too many reasons for sticking close to MacLeod, for risking his neck to save the often bull-headed Scot. The man was simply too important to lose — even now. 

      Especially now. 

      None of which would make this any easier to say. "MacLeod," Methos' voice cracked alarmingly; he sucked in a deep breath, cleared his throat and tried again. "Mac, as, umm, flattered as I am, I'm not— I mean, I just don't do that sort of thing." 

      "But please, don't take it personally. I don't want you to feel embarrassed about anything that happened tonight, okay?  You simply assumed that I'd like the same sort of things that you do. Which makes sense—except that I don't. In this instance. But I certainly don't mind if you do." Methos couldn't seem to shut up, prattling on and on ridiculously at the look on MacLeod's face. He'd never seen anything quite like it before.

      Oh, shit. Don't stop talking. Methos focused on his left thumb, fiddling with the skin around the nail and hurried on. 

      "Not that I think that there is anything wrong with it—certainly not. But you know me, MacLeod, I love women, numbering in the thousands, I've...." Methos almost made a rude joke, then flushed clear to the roots of his hair when he realized how especially unfunny MacLeod would've found it at that particular moment. 

      "Anyway, as I was saying...I've always loved women, and as much as it hurts when you lose them," an unstoppable flash to Alexa, so recently gone, "it's impossible not to fall in love with the next one. I've never needed to look somewhere else, so I haven't wanted to."

       "MacLeod," Methos found himself searching for Mac's eyes; suddenly the answer was very important, "you do understand this; don't you?" 

      What he saw cured him of any warm fuzzy feelings he might be experiencing and damn near sent him racing for the door again.

      MacLeod's grin was spread completely over his face. Its reflection was sparkling in Mac's eyes, and instead of being reassuring, it was eager—hungry.  

      Oh, fuck.

      Methos refused to allow himself to be actually frightened of his friend's smile—but it was a very near thing. He risked another glance and this time found himself literally prevented from looking away. MacLeod grabbed Methos' chin in strong fingers and pulled reluctant eyes to meet his own burning gaze.

      Mac's eyes were...oh—God.

      "A virgin? You, Methos?" Mac's grin slipped for a moment into something much more familiar and comfortable as he shook his head with a soft chuckle. "If I thought for one minute that you were trying to weasel out on me with this ridiculous excuse...." Mac pulled his face even closer and stared deep into his eyes, looking for God alone knew what, then pulled back, licking his lips. This time MacLeod's smile was positively terrifying.

      "How very...interesting." 

      Mac slid his fingers lightly down Methos' chest, pulling them back in time to glide over Methos' belt buckle. Along with his fingers he drug their combined gazes down, pulled them right down to Methos' groin, and the thrice-damned tell-tale bulge, silently offering its own witness there. 
 
 

      Methos narrowed his eyes in annoyance and looked away. He'd been determinedly not thinking about the slow reluctant swelling he'd felt, reasoning that if he didn't think about it, it might go away. Foolishly he'd indulged himself with the belief that if Mac had also noticed it, that he'd be too much of a gentleman to say so. So much for that vain hope. 

      Mac tightened his grip on Methos' chin, securing it, then leaned his head in, his tongue licking quick and firm, shockingly hot, over Methos' lips. 

      "It seems now that you have thought about it...." Mac let his voice trail off, his unspoken suggestion lingering in the air. "You're thinking all kinds of brand-new thoughts—aren't you, Methos..." 

      Mac's voice slid out from between rosy lips, a dark lascivious promise. He tilted his head so that his lips tickled Methos' ear when he spoke, his damp breath feathering out to play over Methos' skin. Mac murmured, "...you're starting to wonder."

      Oh...God. How had MacLeod known what he wanted? How could he be so sure of something that hadn't been reality until scant minutes ago? And who was MacLeod anyway to just assume that Methos was at all affected by what had happened earlier? Just because his heart had sped up, and his breathing had quickened until he was gasping for air; that was no reason to assume this turn of events had meant anything to him. 

      No, there was no way Mac could be sure.  Methos hadn't done anything that could be considered either provocative or evocative. He was sure of that simply because he remembered, quite clearly, doing nothing at all. 

      Mac's mouth was at his throat again; who knew having MacLeod nibbling on your neck could be so damned distracting? "Come on, Methos; give it up. You know you're getting off on this."

      No. no no no no no No!

      "Don't lie to yourself; don't lie to me either, Methos. You know you'll only end up pissed off at us both if you do. You want to try this  — more than that...you want to try me."

      No, nononononononono...fuck! 

      Mac licked full across his lips again, lingering for a moment to nibble on the corner of Methos' mouth.

      Fine. 

      Yes, are you happy now? Yes, you son of a bitch, yes—but I'll die before I tell you that, you over-confident cocksure asshole. 

      Mac's grip on his jaw tightened and his gaze deepened in intensity; suddenly, Methos felt Mac's gaze alter somehow. It didn't release him, but it changed to include the possibilities of future release. All sorts of releases. 

      Mac drug his tongue over his own lips, wetting them and making them shine most distractingly. Mac pulled on his full lower lip with his teeth, considering God alone knew what. 

      And how was it that he'd never noticed how very...lush, how enticing Mac's mouth was before today? 

      Mac slid his fingers along Methos' jaw, curling them back to cup his nape. The hold was still firm, and Methos had no doubts that Mac could force his gaze back up in a second if he tried to lower it. He sighed heavily, trying to sound as put upon as possible but kept his eyes locked with Mac's. 

      Mac's eyes sparkled approval at him and the grip around his neck softened into an easy caress. "Very good, Methos." Mac drew the backs of his fingers slowly over Methos' cheek, stroking gently down to curl under his jaw, the broad pad of Mac's thumb tugging slowly over his lower lip. "That's it. Just relax. You don't have to think about anything at all."

      "Tell you what, Methos. You trust me enough to give me control, to do everything I tell you to, and I promise you one thing. You won't regret tonight at all." Mac's low chuckle warmed his insides and annoyed him all at the same time. 

      "Unless you decide to regret not having made this discovery a few thousand years ago. Knowing you though, you won't dwell on it for more than a few weeks at most. Now relax, Methos. Relax, stop worrying so much and just trust me. I promise, it'll be worth it." 

      Relax? Who was this donkey-spawned bastard trying to kid? Yeah, right, he'd relax; right after he got out of the loft and got the hell away from MacLeod. There was only one little problem. As much as Methos wanted to get away—he wanted to get other things more. 

      God, MacLeod. I hate you right now. 

      "That's easy enough for you to say, Highlander. You aren't the one who's suddenly changing his orientation after five fucking millennia. Urm," Methos groaned and lowered his eyes, hoping that wouldn't cue Mac into just how unsettled he was, "sorry about that...."

      Mac grinned. "I'm glad to see that your twisted sense of humor didn't disappear along with your composure. We're not changing anything, Methos. We're just expanding your horizons—adding new moves to your repertoire."

      "Inundating me with really awful clichés, you mean." Methos grumped, rolling his eyes.

      "Stop trying to change the subject, Methos."  

      Mac leaned into Methos' space again. He let go of the clasped wrist and tugged Methos' coat off, tossing it back onto the floor. Mac slid one hand up into Methos' hair, tugging at the short spikes. Methos couldn't help himself; he had to lean into the hand warming his cheek, push into the callused thumb brushing over his lower lip, tugging it open.

      Methos' tentative arousal returned against his will. Beginning as an almost imperceptible shudder, it slid through his body, coming to rest in the anxious tingling between his thighs. Mac's thick blunt fingers kneaded over his skull, polarizing his arousal as they slid through his hair. Mac seemed to feel it as well and smiled, then leaned even closer and resumed tracing his tongue along the vein pulsing through Methos' neck, nibbling on the oh-so sensitive spot behind his ear. 

      Methos really wanted to slow things down a bit, to insist on just a moment to properly consider this monumental shift in his perception of the universe, but MacLeod had apparently processed his approval of the proceedings and had resumed his attentions with a dedication and devotion that was making it impossible for Methos to think clearly. 

      And that was another thing.  

      Methos was used to controlling the pace of his sexual encounters — and even when he'd allowed himself to be directed, it was something totally apart from this. Then his submission had always been granted, a liberty only given because everyone involved knew he was permitting it. 

      This was different; but the hell of it was, Methos recognized it. Understood what MacLeod was doing to him. 

      Mac was pushing him—the same way Methos had pushed many a woman whose lust had burned hot, just under the surface, requiring only a bit of force to shake it loose. 

      And Methos felt things starting to shake. 
 
 

      Methos found himself beginning to pant. Just a bit, mind you, but there wasn't as much air in the room as there had been only a few minutes earlier. Mac seemed to take his open mouth as an invitation, for suddenly those incredibly soft lips were attached to his, pressing into him, capturing him in a deadly trap of velvet skin and liquid heat. 

      Methos shivered hard and found himself again desperate to pull away—the influx of utterly foreign, yet totally familiar sensations terribly confusing. This new panic didn't really make any sense; but since when was such a highly emotional state as panic logical? 

      Methos thought that he'd already made his decision, surrendered himself to going wherever Mac wanted to take him, but his resolve had slipped away, vanishing like smoke through a keyhole. No matter the reasons, he still had to escape. Now. Methos shoved against Mac's chest, and squirmed out of the circular trap of his solid arms.

      Mac growled impatiently and yanked him right back. "I told you to trust me, dammit." 

      Pulling Methos with him, Mac retreated back to the couch and drew Methos down after him. Once they were settled, Mac resumed his relentless attack on Methos' mouth. 

      Methos hadn't noticed when Mac had pulled his tee-shirt out of his jeans, but he did notice when a hand, hotter than he could have possibly imagined, curled warm over his ribs, gliding up to trace firm circles around his nipple. Mac used his thumbnail to scratch across the delicate skin, then smoothed the pad of his thumb over the sensitive flesh. Mac's mouth had returned to his, the pattern of Mac's tongue in his mouth an erotic counterpart to the path of his fingers on Methos' skin.

      Methos squirmed restlessly. He really wanted to get involved, to participate, but doing so would seal them to this course of action. Like he still had a choice. Methos grimaced and shook his head. He was already committed to this—and if he doubted it, all he had to do was remember the craving that had surged through his body when Mac had yanked him back after his latest escape attempt. After a few uncertain starts and stops, his hands moved from their uneasy place by his legs to settle carefully on MacLeod's massive shoulders.

      Methos lost every hold he had on reality for a moment, the utter alienness of his situation coming home to him as he felt the breadth and thickness, the masculine heaviness of the body underneath his hands. 

      Methos struggled against the fright of his immediate wide-eyed reaction and forced his mind to reconsider, to think — how did this actually feel?  Well, okay, he felt weird—really really weird—but still, there was no denying that he felt good. Very different, certainly, but still, this was good; even if it was good in a way that he'd never looked for before. 

      So...now what? Good was still good. This was merely different; and God knew that he'd integrated his share of different feelings and brand-new perspectives before. 

      Next question. Why now? And for that Methos had no answer other than the obvious — well, why not? And somehow, Methos felt sure that it wasn't his higher brain functions leading him to respond that way. Oh well.

      Which didn't make the question any less valid — Methos knew that. God, why couldn't he find a simple answer? Because nothing involving Duncan MacLeod had ever been simple, nor was it ever likely to be. 

      Wonderful. 

      Mac felt so strong, and Methos knew for a fact, knew from personal experience, that Mac's determined strength was no lie. However absurd the idea seemed from the outside, the reality itself was true; MacLeod freely gave of all that he was to anyone that he loved. 

      It was impossible. It was unbelievable. It was Duncan MacLeod.

      Such barely constrained power—offering itself up willingly to Methos' touch. It made him dizzy.

      Methos gave one last amazed shake of his head and surrendered totally, opening his mouth and his body to MacLeod, welcoming him home. 
 
 

      Mac pushed Methos away without warning and stood, leaving Methos alone and gasping, his mind and body absolutely shocked from the force of the intense hunger devouring him. Grasping Methos' forearm Mac pulled him up, turned him, then shoved him forward with a solid hand in the small of his back.

      "Bed. Now."

      And, God—Methos hadn't thought it possible, but Mac's implicit command ratcheted his arousal up another notch. It sent desire he'd never dreamed of soaring, to settle aching and needful in his cock. Its warm fingers pulled him up and out of himself, molding him into an entirely new creation, one of MacLeod's choosing. 

      Mac stopped them by the bed, his gaze stroking smoothly over Methos while Mac threw off his own clothes, no seduction at all in his actions, the movements as brisk and economical as possible. 

      So when Mac turned to Methos and grasped the hem of his tee-shirt, Methos braced himself for similar treatment, almost glad that Mac intended to get it over with as quickly as possible. 

      Instead, Mac studied his eyes one more time, and what was he looking for anyway, then he pulled away, settling on his knees on the bed, resting easily on his heels. With the ripe plum flush of his arousal rising proud and strong between them, Mac captured Methos' eyes and demanded his soul. 

      "Take your clothes off for me, Methos. Do it. I want to watch. Watch you make yourself ready for me." 

      Oh...God. MacLeod couldn't really expect him to do that—could he? No way he could do this all by himself, sustain this intense, utterly foreign emotion all alone. 

      Not in this version of his lifetime. Damn it all—in spite of his best efforts he wasn't going to be able to pull this off; it wasn't going to work.

      He was going to lose MacLeod after all....

      I've got to get out of here.

      Mac sensed his spiraling panic, and reached out to him, catching him before he fell any further into dismay. Mac slid his fingertips along Methos' damp neck, carefully retracing the exact pattern his mouth had taken, re-igniting the damping heat. 

      "Shh. Stop scaring yourself." Mac's smile covered him like a soft blanket. "We're in this together."

      Mac lowered his eyes and looked up at Methos through his lashes, his voice a gentle, implacable demand. "Now do it, Methos. Take your clothes off for me. Please—I want you to." 
 
 

      Methos shook his head in silent surrender and gave one last moment to considering the pros and cons of trying for the stairs again. He thought for a moment, and then dismissed it for the unwanted excuse that it was. 

      Okay, so this is what we both want.  I can do this—I can. I just can't think about it while I'm doing it. 

      Methos leaned for one last moment into the comfort of Mac's hand then straightened and grasped the hem of his tee-shirt, determinedly pulling it over his head in one smooth movement. Toeing off his socks Methos refused to allow himself time to think. He tugged the buttons on his jeans open in one smooth movement, not looking up until he was kicking them off of his legs. 

      Watching with hot eyes Mac dropped a totally unselfconscious hand to himself and began stroking lightly. Methos swallowed convulsively when he discovered his own hand, its response totally out of his control, trembling annoyingly, reaching out to join with Mac's.  

      Shocked at his boldness, Methos jerked his hand back. Shivering from the conflicting desires of his body and his mind Methos found the courage to meet the blatant challenge in Mac's eyes. Swallowing determinedly he slipped out of his remaining clothing, refusing to allow himself to react as he slid his boxers off, revealing his half-erect state to Mac's devouring gaze.  

      Tossing them away, Methos forced himself to take a step closer to the bed—a step closer to the blatant desire in Mac's eyes. Emboldened by the deep approving purr that rumbled up and out of Mac's chest, he took another hesitant step and found himself a mere hands width away, trembling and eager, desperately afraid to touch and oh-so afraid not to.  

      The look on Mac's face glowed with excitement and happiness, altogether pleased. "I told you good things would happen if you'd trust me. Now come're and I'll show you what I was talking about."

      Mac reached out and slid his arms around Methos' waist and tugged him down until he was lying flat on his back with Mac looming over him. Desire crackled between them, begging for actual touch. Mac slid his hands down Methos' arms, caressing the sensitive insides, curving around his forearms until he reached Methos' hands. Interlacing their fingers Mac smiled; pulling each hand up to his mouth, he kissed each palm moistly, then pressed the tingling skin firmly into the mattress—a clear "stay put." implied. 

      Methos squirmed. He writhed under Mac's clear demand for submission, his breath coming in sharp, distressed pants. Much as he wanted to reach out, Methos still feared the actual moment when he'd take Mac into his hand... or his mouth... feeling for the very first time the intimate heat of another man's aroused sex. Even so, Methos had to clutch fistfuls of cool sheets in his sweaty fingers to stop himself from dragging desperate hands over every damp silken inch of Highlander skin. 

      It was maddening. Surrendering any control of this totally unfamiliar situation was proving to be almost more distressing than the actual logistics of what was happening between them. 

      Almost. 

      It was more than a little bizarre, and totally unexpected—how this increase in vulnerability had equated to such an massive increase in sexual heat. They'd barely touched each other, and yet, at the simple act of Mac's command, Methos found himself growing impossibly hard and desperate for touch, struggling for breath, trembling with barely suppressed need. 

      Very strange, very scary, and yet still, so very impossible to deny.

      Mac's hands were a tight prison surrounding him, holding him captive to their mutual desire.  Mac's hot mouth roamed over him, dragging each inch of his skin into tingling life. 

      Mac's teeth seared pleasure into his skin with sharp bites, nothing like anything he was used to. This was aggressive confident eroticism, given by someone who was sure that his partner was just as strong as he was. Mac's lips and tongue smoothed over the abused skin, nuzzling softly at the small hurts. Mac lapped up the light droplets of sweat that had broken out, the velvet rasp of his tongue indescribable in its sweetness. The sting of his lips was hot and unyielding, marking Methos' skin with dark red and purple bruises, his ownership plain.

      Methos shook convulsively; how in the name of all that was holy was he supposed to just lie here and take this? It didn't matter how impossible a task that seemed, for lying there and taking it was exactly what Mac was insisting that he do. Mac's chin settled comfortably into the hollow of his hipbone; the damp heat of his breath sliding teasingly over the pounding hunger in Methos' groin. 

      "Please...," Methos choked out, the inarticulate whimper breaking free. He had to have more—he craved the wet promise of Mac's mouth more than he wanted his next breath. Mac's eyes caught and held him, liquid and almost black with desire. 

      Mac grinned, and, God, there was such delight and desire in his smile, then lowered his mouth, licking delicately around the thick root of Methos' cock. And, ohh, it felt so good—so right...the heat of Mac's mouth was like an inferno and Methos wanted nothing more than to fling himself headfirst into the flames. It wasn't enough; it was far far too much—it was the most wonderful thing Methos had ever felt.

      Does he know what he's doing to me? 

      Seeing the utterly self-satisfied gleam in Mac's eyes, Methos decided that yes, this particular, four-hundred year old Highland prick tease knew exactly what he was doing. Knew it and was delighting in his easy mastery of Methos' flesh.

      I'm gonna kill him...I swear I am. Just as soon as he's finished with what he's doing right now. Oh, sweet merciful heaven....

      Mac's fingers followed his mouth, tugging and pulling on the stiff curls. Grinning at Methos' strangled noises he drew his tongue up Methos' hot center in one long gliding lick. Mac circled the pulsing cockhead with his tongue, licking away the eager drops of glistening fluid. 

      God, finally. Mere seconds from now, and he'd be buried deep in the focused heat and fiery sensuality of Mac's incredible mouth. Just - one - more - moment and....

      Fuck...apparently it wasn't going to be that easy after all. 

      Mac held on tight to Methos' frantically seeking hips, laughing softly as Methos thrust vainly against the implacable control of Mac's hands, swearing and complaining loudly — nothing clear, just garbled obscenities really, sputtering aimlessly out. 

      The problem, Methos decided, was in having so very many things to say, and wanting to say them all at one time. His mouth choked closed and his tongue tied itself into knots under the weight of all the languages, dialects and colloquialisms presenting themselves for his use. 

      Mac's voice slid out on top of his, totally bemused innocence. "Something I can do for you, Methos?" 

      What would make you think that, you arrogant cock-sure son of a bitch? You know damn well what I want. Stop fucking around and suck me! 

      Unfortunately, that didn't come out any clearer than any of his earlier ravings. Mac just smiled, fond and amused, and sat up even more, sliding his hands up under Methos' knees. Spreading his fingers over the hot skin, Mac pushed Methos' trembling thighs up and apart. 

      "Come on, Methos. Open up for me. Wider."

      Fuck.... Methos groaned. He beat his head into the pillow for a few more irate moments then reached up and dug his fingers into the edge of the mattress, knowing beyond any doubt that he needed something solid to hang onto—besides his cock—if he was going to keep his hands off of MacLeod, never mind himself. Oh well, in for a penny....

      When he was spread wide, laid out bare, as open as possible, Mac looked up, smiling reassuringly into Methos' frustrated, lust-dimmed gaze. Mac raised his hand and laid the back of his fingers gently along Methos' cheek. "Settle down, Methos. I promise; you're gonna love this." 

      Mac's fingers slid warmly down his thighs, his thumb brushing feather light along the crease of his groin. Mac's fingers gently teased Methos' balls, softly petting the tender skin there, then they pulled back, his hand pushing under Methos' thigh, coming to rest behind his knee. 

      "I want to make you feel so good." 

      Oh, God. Very much more of this 'feel good' business and Methos wasn't going to be able to think at all. Warm fingers curled around Methos' nape, squeezing gently, offering silent promises. The soft feeling of Mac's reassurance slid through Methos and he moaned in delight, eager anticipation shivering through him. 

      Mac's hand was back—familiar and warm, smoothing up and down the inside of his thigh. Mac's hands were touching him so intimately, reminding of him how very vulnerable he was at this moment—to this man. 

      Mac smiled into Methos' eyes then turned his head to lick delicately along the seam where Methos' thigh joined onto his body. Following the path lower, Mac slid his hands up under Methos' ass, grabbing hold, then pulled, tugging him forward and tilting him up all at the same time. Mac ran his tongue over his lips, his eyes bright and eager. 

      Mac's grin took on wolfish qualities, his craving and delight obvious. And wasn't it incredible to be so desirable, and yet so exposed...to feel owned—possessed and coveted. Mac lowered his head, his mouth following his fingers as they walked and nibbled a deliberate path along the crease of Methos' thigh, dipping lower to stroke warm and wet along the cleft of his ass. Mac's tongue paused at the center of everything for a moment, then slid easily inside. 

      The sound that erupted out of Methos' mouth was totally unrecognizable as something a human might make, but it was utterly heartfelt all the same.

      MacLeod's mouth—oh...dear...God. 

      Methos had foolishly prided himself on his survival skills. How had he failed to notice the presence of this singularly deadly weapon—a new and constant threat that lived oh-so close to him; a freshly awakened desire that could totally destroy him. For right now he would do anything, anything at all, for more of this soul-shattering pleasure.  

      Methos trembled in helpless shock as Mac's mouth owned him, exploring him intimately, the liquid heat moving up to lick and sizzle like quickening fire on the tender skin behind his balls. Mac pushed them up and aside with his nose and tongue, grinning against Methos' skin as they pulled up even tighter in their sac, giving involuntary assistance. 

      Methos felt Mac's hands as they pressed gently on his ass cheeks, spreading him apart, wide open and completely vulnerable. Mac lowered his mouth once more, his tongue thrusting easily in and out of Methos' hot center and Methos sobbed and groaned as he was penetrated again and again, owned by liquid fire. Mac pushed him right up to the edge of completion, then held him there, trembling on the brink of total surrender.

      Mac stroked into and over him one last time then pulled his head away. Methos shook hard, vibrating the entire bed then sank into a breathless stillness. Mac reached over to the nightstand and came back with a small tube. Smiling dark promises, he squirted some into his palm. Mac swirled the fingers of his right hand around in the slick substance. 

      Methos' eyes widened. God, it was really happening—he was going to be fucked by Duncan MacLeod. His cock was still untouched, lying aching and heavy on his belly...but suddenly, that didn't seem nearly as important as it had, just moments before. 

      And he wasn't being given time to consider any of this either...a slick hot hand closed firmly around him, squeezing just hard enough for stars to erupt at the edges of his vision, dazzling sparkles of light in the warm dark haze of his lust.

      Mac's tongue curled warm around the head of his cock once more, then without warning Mac lowered his head and swallowed Methos whole. 

      Methos screamed, the enveloping heat and blissful suction heavenly after all of Mac's infernal teasing. Finally...finally, after all of the endless torment Methos felt himself sinking and sinking into the hot wet bliss of Mac's mouth. Mac's mobile lips and swirling tongue were relentless—chasing all rational thought from Methos' mind. 

      Mac's head bobbed slowly up and down and Methos totally forgot the lube, with all its implications, that he'd been so fixated on, just moments before. Instead, Methos tentatively pushed himself up to his elbows and pulled Mac's hair back. He had to see himself sliding in and out of Mac's soft mouth.

      Mac met his eyes and smiled around him, pulling almost completely off. Holding the tender head of Methos' cock firmly between his lips, Mac's tongue began tracing patterns around the head, sliding into the slit. Without any warning at all Mac shoved two fingers up and completely into Methos' body. 

      Methos jerked hard from the shock... God, had the man never heard of easing a person into an unfamiliar situation?... but before he could really lose his precarious sense of control, Mac pressed firmly on something deep inside his body, and everything in the universe shifted, becoming something totally different. Whatever Mac was doing, it was touching him with a power and a passion that was beyond his ken...something far beyond his knowing.

      MacLeod didn't give him time to catch up either, instead, Mac's mouth slid onto him again. This time Mac didn't stop until his nose was bumping up against Methos' curls, his throat flexing around Methos' length in a way that somehow coordinated and combined with the movements of Mac's fingers deep within his body. Dragging Methos completely up and out of himself, the voluptuous swirl of sensation slid into his body, pulling him happily to wherever Mac wanted him to go.

      Everything in Methos' body pulsed with erotic desire, keeping time with the patterns Mac was smoothing on and into his body. The reaction sparkled through him, warm curling sweetness, low in his belly. Mac's fingers pushed against that place again, sending glittering showers of delicious desire chasing through him. At the same moment, Mac's mouth slid back over him again, covering him in fiery suction, and intense pleasure spiked hard, all throughout his body.  

      Methos jerked up, his hands clutching with bruising force into the heat of Mac's shoulders — his body curling forward. Every demanding inch of his cock was buried deep in Mac's impossibly hot wet mouth and every inch was being cherished, worshiped as though it was something rare and priceless.

      "God...Mac, oh fuck—please; I can't... oh, God, Duncan...."

      Methos trembled as Mac's throat closed around his pulsing need. The delicious tightness shook through him, astonishing him with its intensity, shuddering through every inch of his body. 

      Mac tightened his grip on Methos' trembling hips, guiding him up, urging Methos to give in, to push up, over and over, deep into the depths of Mac's yielding throat.

      God, finally.   

      Methos thrust with vigor, surrendering himself totally to it, surging up, fucking Mac's mouth with abandon. Burying himself deep in that incredible haven that felt so much like home, Methos lost all sense of the outside world. All of his awareness was centered on the delicious sensations that Mac pulled so easily from him. Methos gave himself up utterly. Each drive forward pushed him into Mac's mouth, each surge backwards shoved Mac's fingers even deeper into him, trebling his pleasure. 

      The craving built and grew, totally out of his control, and Mac kept pushing him forward, shoving him headfirst into blinding desire and crushing need.  Methos felt the intensity increasing, chasing and gathering around him in a cyclonic swirl of passion until a last pull from Mac's mouth drew everything out, and he fell back into the softness of the bed, coming so hard that he thought his heart was going to just go ahead and join with everything else, and pound its way right on out of his body. 

      Methos sagged into the sweat-damp sheets, each muscle, bone and nerve in his body shuddering with the aftershocks of overcoming, overwhelming pleasure. 

      God, had anything in the everlasting eternity of his life ever felt this good before? 

      Certainly Methos had been sucked off brilliantly before—by more women than he would ever be able to remember. An unbelievable number of which had been gifted enough to melt him into a limpid boneless mass. No, this wasn't anything as simplistic as a new technique—however stunningly good MacLeod was at that. 

      No, this went deeper somehow...stirred up  feelings that were best left unconsidered, and that Methos would have preferred to remain quiescent until the concept that mortals thought of as eternity was old. 
 
 

      Out of some new and unexpected perversity, Mac refused to move his mouth, licking and nuzzling over Methos' hyper-sensitive skin until he was ready to scream. Tormenting him until simple self-preservation demanded that Methos find the strength somehow...somewhere to raise a weary hand and attempt to shove Mac away by main force. 

      "You're trying to kill me, right? No? Then give me a minute, okay?." 

      Mac grinned and shifted until he settled with a happy contented sigh, back into the hollow of Methos' hipbone. Looking at Mac, even knowing that he'd had no relief at all, Methos didn't have any problem believing that Mac would be willing to stay there—totally contented to just be where he was for a very long time.

      "Methos." Mac murmured, face turned into Methos' skin, his tongue slipping lazily out to trace Methos' hipbone. "Do you have any idea how good you taste?" Mac laughed softly and blew delicately over the twitching softness of Methos' spent cock. "I'm sorry. That was a silly question, wasn't it? You have to know how very..." Mac's mouth traced warm patterns all around, the shivery echo of his voice vibrating in Methos' cock, "...desirable you are." 

      Methos happily offered up more illegible nonsense. It seemed as though Mac was willing to be content with any effort on his part—and wasn't that a mercy? So many things were clamoring for attention right now that Methos had no idea where to begin. Especially considering that anything that required coordinated movement was going to be out of the question for the next hour or so. Maybe longer, depending on what Mac decided to do about that unspent cock of his.

      Mac's hungry rumble vibrated through them both—looking down Methos arched an eyebrow and echoed Mac's earlier words. "Something I can do for you, MacLeod?" 

      And didn't the Highlander look incredible—his lips swollen and rosy, his brown eyes almost black with desire and need, the thick silk of his hair tangled around his face.

      Mac rotated the fingers buried deep within Methos - smiling around the damp skin he was nuzzling and Methos' weary cock twitched in response. 

      "I thought I could get your attention again if I tried." 

      Mac's voice was far too insufferable for comfort—but considering the fact that he'd just sucked Methos into oblivion, he was willing to be charitably inclined for a while longer.   

      Mac didn't let up, his fingers and mouth working miracles on Methos' exhausted body, not stopping until Methos was as hard as he'd been before...aching and wanting and totally unable to believe that he was this hard again, so soon after such a volcanic release. 

      Mac nuzzled his thigh softly. "Methos, you trust me, right?"

      Methos considered a moment, then ashamed that he'd had to consider, answered. "Yes, of course I do." Looking deep into Mac's open and accepting eyes, he said the words, knowing as he did that they both needed to hear them. "Whatever you want, it's okay. I trust you."

      "Good." Mac's smile was a gentle blessing. He raised his other hand, tracing his fingertips over Methos' lips again. "I want inside of you, Methos. I want to feel you all around me. I want to come buried so deep in you that I may never find my way back out again"

      Methos shivered; Mac's fingers and words alone were almost enough to make him come again.

      "God, Methos, do you know what it does to me when you moan like that? I want you so badly. You know that, right? You know that I've wanted you since the first moment I saw you...God, you're so fucking beautiful...." 

      Methos felt his insides dissolve, looking at the raw need in Mac's eyes. "Yes. Hurry, Mac—yes."

      Methos held on, didn't allow himself to fly apart as Mac slid lubrication into him—preparing them both for a joining that was out of his experience. 
 
 

      Mac glided behind him and nudged his thighs apart. "Open up, Methos." 

      Methos did as Mac asked; he pulled his right leg up, as high as was comfortable, shivering in anticipation and so hot with desire that he thought he might explode at any moment. Mac was right behind him, and Methos felt Mac's cock, pressed tight against his ass, sliding into him, all the way in until there was nothing left for him to accept, nothing else he could surrender to. 

      And, oh...God—didn't it feel good to be completed this way? Mac's weight was a solid presence, molded tight along his back, and Methos shoved hard, back into it—the completeness of the fit smoothing an edge that he hadn't even known was rough. 

      Mac had his arms around him, one big hand smoothing along his forehead, combing softly through his hair, the other stroking firm along his cock, still slick with lube, a wonderful wet tunnel for him to thrust into when Mac's hips shoved him forward. 

      Mac pushed on his cheek, turning him so he could open his mouth for Mac's hungry kiss. Mac attacked his lips and Methos pushed back just as hard, their lips and tongues clashing. Methos twisted a fistful of Mac's hair and pulled him in, as tight as possible, grinding their open mouths together.

      It felt so good—to be enclosed and enfolded this way, and Methos couldn't think, couldn't spare presence of mind for anything other than the wet heat of their open mouths, the slick comfort of Mac's hand and the glittering shivering sensations, sparkling throughout his body every time Mac rocked against that place deep inside of him.

      Mac driving in him felt like heaven itself, and Methos simply closed his eyes and allowed himself to be transported. Sheer bliss and the seduction of perfect sensation slid through him and he didn't open his eyes, couldn't talk, couldn't do much of anything at all until he felt Mac's voice, whispered thick and intimate into his ear. 

      "Come for me, Methos. Do it now."

      And that it, that was all that he could stand—he simply obeyed and let everything within him flow up and out, sliding warm and grateful over Mac's encircling fist.  

      "Fuck...."

      "God...oh, Methos—"

       "...I can't...."

      A noise that was terribly similar to the roar of a lion exploded very close to Methos' ear, which under other conditions might have been worrisome. As it was, it was simply an accompaniment for the breathy moan that whispered out of Methos' lips. A last convulsive shudder rippled through him, and he simply closed his eyes and allowed himself to slide away into blessed oblivion.
 
 

      Methos moved his head around on a ...pillow...? Yes, he was definitely in bed — err, come to think of it; he was in Duncan MacLeod's bed. A flood of memories returned and Methos cracked open an eyelid to see the man himself, looking sweaty and freshly fucked...which actually suited him very nicely, leaning over him. Quite close over him.

      "Hey, there. You back yet?"

      "Yeah, how long...."

      Mac grinned, then Methos felt warm lips being pressed into his brow.

      "Don't worry—not long enough for me to really brag about."

      "Brag about? MacLeod... "Methos sputtered. He would've risen, but found that Mac's arms were still tight around him. In fact...he shifted a bit, and then couldn't help the flush that he felt heating his body; Mac's cock was still inside him as well—he hadn't separated them yet. Methos started to move his hips away, then stopped when he felt Mac tighten his grip, deliberately holding them together.

      "MacLeod?"

      "Shh, it's just that I thought that you wouldn't be able to get around to those regrets I promised you wouldn't have, if we were still technically fucking when you woke up. I mean," Mac's grin appeared to be in danger of slipping out of control, "as long as I'm still in you," a not so subtle thrust, "you can't exactly regret what "happened", now can you?"

      And, hell, Methos wanted to argue that he could regret anything that he damn well pleased, wanted to remind this child that it was never too early to start having second thoughts, that regret was his middle name...but faced with the playful grin that Mac was trying so hard to control, reflecting and sparkling in the most beautiful eyes that Methos had ever seen, all he could bring himself to do was to ask, "So, when do I get to lose the other part of my virginity?" 

      And after that, there really was nothing else to do but to lean back into MacLeod, and collapse back into the bed, into gleeful laughter and playful jabs, and a lifetime of new experiences.
 
 

      finis