A Clothing Story, for unovis
Title: A Clothing Story
Author: The Nutcracker. Not THAT nutcracker. Get your head out of the gutter. aka Carene (carenejeans)
Written for: unovis_lj
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Amanda/Methos (and, er, "original character" pairings: boxers/briefs, t-shirt/jacket/duster, bra/boots, sock/stocking, spangled/tartan/black scarves, and poly sweater relationship implied)
Rating: PG
Summary: Slash/threesome and Clothes Go Wild
Thump, bang, clatter --
They arrived, the three of them, flinging suitcases this way, bags and backpacks that way. A pair of boots hit the floor, a pair of bare feet started a slow-dance with a pair of sock-feet, and laughter entered the room along with the cold air that knifed in through the cabin door.
A more solemn tracking of weary shoes followed behind; outer clothes were shrugged off, dirty and ragged and so tired.
More clothing fell. A spangled scarf was draped across the back of a chair -- then covered by more sturdy scarves of tartan and black, black wool. Gloves fell to end tables. A dark sweater was tossed across the bed. A black men's t-shirt, crumpled and tossed over a feminine shoulder, joined a white sweater that slid from a chair to the floor, unremarked.
A gray sweatshirt, slashed and bloodied, was unceremoniously thrown into a corner.
Their voices -- lilting, weary, and sardonic -- retreated to the front of the cabin.
Silence.
Then -- a series of small, furtive movements disturbed the stillness. A backpack flopped over, a black scarf unwound and pooled on the seat of a chair, a white sweater rippled and spread out on the hardwood.
A handbag unsnapped and flung its contents across a table.
Where are we?
MacLeod's Cabin, said a woolly sock. It rolled down tangled pile slowly spilling from the backpack and bounced on the floor. Been here once or twice before. Woods. Lake. Holy ground.
Holy ground? The jacket stirred on its peg behind the door. Are they hiding out?
Laughter pealed in the other room.
Nah, said the woolly sock. For pleasure. Some of the old in-and-out.
All three of them? The jacket sounded scandalized.
The woolly sock twisted into a question mark. Why not?
It's a bit -- triangular, the jacket said dubiously.
E-qui-lateral, said the woolly sock sagely.
Nothing as simple as a triangle, chimed in the duster hanging next to the jacket. Never mind geometry. You need theoretical physics to explain those three.
Boot-heels tapped a sudden angry staccato. Woods? Holy ground? A lot of tramping about, I'll wager. Hmph. He can scramble barefoot over the rocks, for all I care. Did you hear what he said? Boots these days, he said. The ungrateful lout. I carried his calloused feet from Beijing to Kathmandu, and what does he do? Complain I'm not as good as the boots he had a hundred years ago, or a thousand. He's lived too long, that's his problem. He remembers the workmanship but does he remember the fit? Hah. Like buckets, those old boots. Does he remember the way his toes splayed out in those old squared-off jobs instead of nestling snugly, just the right fit, roomy but snug? He doesn't.
His toes are prodigious, said the woolly sock.
They are, agreed a dress stocking. Put a hole right through you if you aren't careful.
His toes aren't his only prodigious Part, purred the spangled scarf, twining with the tartan.
Big nose, said the woolly sock.
I'm not talking about his nose. Don't be obtuse. Boxers know what I'm talking about, don't you, darling?
It's nobody's business what goes on under my softly draping folds, the boxers snapped. Nobody's but mine and his.
Oh, right. The spangle scarf dismissed this with a flip of its fringes. As if everyone doesn't know.
I've seen those folds tent right up when MacLeod comes near, the black scarf said, also snuggling against the tartan.
Seen it, hell, I've felt it, said a pair of blue jeans, its voice muffled from deep inside a suitcase. Pressing against my zipper like you wouldn't believe.
The poor sod used to go pigeon-toed, trying to hide it, said the boots with a hint of a snicker on its tongues.
The spangled scarf giggled.
He doesn't try to hide it anymore, said the jeans. The opposite, in fact.
Hide it, hell, said the tartan scarf. He wags it around like a dog with a boner.
A silence fell as everyone tried to work this out.
Now, ventured the jeans, is that a pun, or-
The boots stomped. It's a damned unfortunate image, that's what it is.
I'd stay away from canine jokes on general principle, said the woolly sock. Too easy to go astray. Now, a frog, that's a humorous animal.
We were talking about MacLeod, said the tartan scarf hurriedly.
There was a general rustle of approval.
Oohh, yes, the black t-shirt twirled up from the floor happily. Methos straightens his back right up when he feels MacLeod's presence. Just like a soldier at attention. He throws his lovely shoulders back, and draws himself up like a man. Pity he slouches right back down again.
The boots rocked from heel to toe in agreement. He's good at slouching. Expert. He can slouch like a teenager with five thousand years of bad attitude.
Not that you can tell what his posture's like when it's me he's wearing, said the dark sweater sprawled across the bed. I'm made for a much larger man.
You're made for an orangutan, said the t-shirt.
And whose fault is that? Not mine. He stretches sleeves something terrible. I think he has a secret fetish for straitjackets.
MacLeod's better, piped up the white sweater. The worst he does is push his sleeves up to his elbows.
You've hung across MacLeod's shoulders more than the rest of us, said the dark sweater enviously.
Back and forth, back and forth -- I've gotten so I can't remember who I belong to anymore.
Hell of a thing, said the boots sympathetically.
How else is it different on MacLeod? The dark sweater rippled, and one of its long arms stretched down the side of the bed.
Oh, lots of ways. He fills one out a bit more, but it's more than that. MacLeod is a very physical person --
Very sensual, said a voice from inside a pale blue travel case. The lid opened a crack, and a bit of red lace slipped out. Careful of this clothes -- and careful of other people's clothes. Easy on the fastenings, and never does anything crude, like snapping one's straps.
I second that, said the boxers. Not the snapping sort. Not like some I could mention.
That curly headed fellow, for instance? The t-shirt wrinkled disapprovingly. The know-it-all smitten with MacLeod?
If any man needs a keeper, that one does, said the boots darkly.
He's got one, said the t-shirt. A cute guy who follows him around saying “amazing” and shooting people.
Now, he sounds more like Methos's sort, said the woolly sock. Sounds like MacLeod, to be honest. Immortal?
Not yet, said the jacket. The consulting detective knows his way around a sword, though. He's a natural.
The man cannot resist an elastic strap, said the bit of red lace petulantly. Makes you wonder about his upbringing. One minute he's all, "what's it like inside your funny little brains," and the next it's TWANG hur hur hur.
Snapper, agreed the boxers. He thinks it's terribly funny. Juvenile git.
I like being worn by MacLeod just a stitch better than being worn by Methos, the white sweater continued, somewhat dreamily. He's, I don't know. Comfortable. He's an easier sort -- well, except for the one thing.
Don't talk to me about MacLeod, complained the bloodied and ragged sweatshirt from its gloomy corner.
There was a silence.
Sorry, said the white sweater. Wasn't thinking.
The boots scuffed awkwardly. The t-shirt, the socks, the scarf, the boxers, and the jeans sighed and flexed, checking their weave for gashes, cuts, tears, and broken threads.
Mark my words, said the sweatshirt, there's trouble afoot. You don't flee to holy ground just for a little nookie. What about that Kimmie they met up with?
What about him? said the jacket. He was an idiot, like the rest, and he lost his head like the rest. It doesn't signify anything. MacLeod's always running into those people, it's a bad habit of his.
True, said the black scarf. The man can walk to the corner store and there'll be a Kimmie waiting for him in the frozen food aisle.
MacLeod likes it, though, said the boots. The fighting. Watch him sometime. He grins like Death.
He does love the sword, sighed the t-shirt.
Tell me about it, said the sweatshirt. My back is slashed to ribbons. Completely to ribbons.
MacLeod attracts trouble, I'll grant, said the boxers. My guy has been dragged out of bed of a night often enough because of him.
Dragged into bed too, though, said the t-shirt. On the same account.
Nah, said the boxers. Different thing entirely.
Drawn to trouble like a -- began the tartan scarf.
Don't start, warned the woolly socks.
-- Moth to a flame, is all I was going to say. Perfectly common simile.
He isn't, though, said the boxers. He doesn't need MacLeod for that. He's seen worse trouble than MacLeod. He's not drawn to danger. It's something else.
Not drawn to danger? The black scarf was incredulous. What about when he offered his neck to MacLeod? MacLeod's blade was right there, sharp and businesslike. I get chills all the way down to my fringe just thinking about it. The guy either craves danger or --
He knows MacLeod wouldn't, though, said the boots. He knows his good guys.
He's in love, said the boxers.
The boots scoffed. What do you know about love?
What don't I know? It's not like I don't have it rubbed in my flies often enough.
That's not love, that's just --
No 'just' about it, said the t-shirt. I've felt his heart banging like a parade drum.
So have I, agreed the white sweater. I've been pulled over both their heads, and I'll just say, I've felt each one's heart speed up at the sight of the other one.
Maybe they're both drawn to danger, said the boots. Maybe that looks like love to them.
That's pretty deep for something that's usually filled with feet, said the boxers.
Says the one who's usually filled with ass, the boots flung back.
They've clashed swords, though, said the t-shirt thoughtfully. And there can be only one -- or so they're always telling each other. Maybe someday they'll do each other in. That's love for you.
They fell silent, pondering the intersection of swords and love.
To ribbons, the grey sweater intoned portentously, making all of them jump.
A general galumphing and banging around started up in the other room and rapidly grew both louder and closer.
Here they come, said the t-shirt. Look sharp!
What are they doing? Did they let in a stray herd of elephants?
Shh! Shh!
The clothes stopped their rustling and listened.
Laughter, teasing voices, bottles opening, glasses clinking.
Three sets of clothes were discarded, bit by bit, cast off in a trail across the bedroom floor, slung over chairs, thrown over the side of the bed. A pair of red trousers, a denim shirt, and a soft cashmere sweater flumped down by the t-shirt.
Hey girl, the t-shirt said politely to the sweater. It's been ages.
Absolutely ages agreed the cashmere sweater in a light, fluffy voice. First the cleaners, then into the drawer with the lavender. Nice, and quite relaxing, but I'm glad to be out and about. How's tricks?
A shocking pink brassiere sailed through the air and draped over the boots. The boots giggled.
The bra sighed and insinuated itself among the boots' laces. The two of them faded together into the shadows under the bed.
A blindingly white pair of briefs was next.
The boxers perked up. Hel-lo.
Sounds like a party up there, said the woolly socks.
Not a stitch left on any of them, said the t-shirt, sighing. Dress up is more fun, don't you think?
I don't fancy being worn by men as a rule, said a new voice that both slithered and creaked, as if made of satin and whalebone. They stretch you out dreadfully, and your lace is never quite the same. MacLeod's a good sort, though.
Theatrical, agreed the white sweater. He loves nothing more than a good costume party. He should go back to the stage. He gets nostalgic for his days at the Globe.
Nostalgic for his days at the Globe my eyelets. The man protests too much. If you ask me, he's got a fetish for girly clothes, plain and simple.
I can vouch for that, said a sultry stiletto voice. A red high-heeled shoe dangled over the edge of the bed on the tip of one slim pale finger. He's got an absolute thing for fuck-me shoes.
He can't get his dogs in those straps of yours, can he? The boot's voice was strangely muffled.
Hardly. His feet are made for your sort. He just likes Amanda to -- wheee!
Well, she'll be gone for a while, said the t-shirt wistfully.
And so she was. A good, long while. Three people in a big bed, wearing not a stitch or a scrap between them, can take a very long time to tire themselves out. It takes a lot of petting, and kissing, and sliding over and slipping under and in and out and stroking and sucking and buzzing and licking and slapping and laughing --
Wrapped up in themselves, they might believe the static electricity snapping through the air came from their own busy friction, never once noticing that all around them soft satin tangled joyfully with sturdy shoelaces, and sweaters slid one over the other, and scarves streamed into bright braids, bows and love-knots, and socks danced with stockings, and boxers twirled with briefs, and t-shirts snuggled into jackets snuggled into dusters --
Until finally all that was moving was a pair of red fuck-me shoes waltzing slowly in a pool of fading moonlight--
It takes all night long. And in the morning --
"What the hell happened in here last night?" Duncan nudged a suggestively twisted pile of socks with his bare foot. "It looks like a tornado hit." Methos sat up groggily and Amanda raised herself up on her elbows.
Each of them -- for just a moment -- imagined they heard faint silky laughter coming from somewhere -- from everywhere -- in the room.
And perhaps they did.
--End
Author: The Nutcracker. Not THAT nutcracker. Get your head out of the gutter. aka Carene (carenejeans)
Written for: unovis_lj
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Amanda/Methos (and, er, "original character" pairings: boxers/briefs, t-shirt/jacket/duster, bra/boots, sock/stocking, spangled/tartan/black scarves, and poly sweater relationship implied)
Rating: PG
Summary: Slash/threesome and Clothes Go Wild
Thump, bang, clatter --
They arrived, the three of them, flinging suitcases this way, bags and backpacks that way. A pair of boots hit the floor, a pair of bare feet started a slow-dance with a pair of sock-feet, and laughter entered the room along with the cold air that knifed in through the cabin door.
A more solemn tracking of weary shoes followed behind; outer clothes were shrugged off, dirty and ragged and so tired.
More clothing fell. A spangled scarf was draped across the back of a chair -- then covered by more sturdy scarves of tartan and black, black wool. Gloves fell to end tables. A dark sweater was tossed across the bed. A black men's t-shirt, crumpled and tossed over a feminine shoulder, joined a white sweater that slid from a chair to the floor, unremarked.
A gray sweatshirt, slashed and bloodied, was unceremoniously thrown into a corner.
Their voices -- lilting, weary, and sardonic -- retreated to the front of the cabin.
Silence.
Then -- a series of small, furtive movements disturbed the stillness. A backpack flopped over, a black scarf unwound and pooled on the seat of a chair, a white sweater rippled and spread out on the hardwood.
A handbag unsnapped and flung its contents across a table.
Where are we?
MacLeod's Cabin, said a woolly sock. It rolled down tangled pile slowly spilling from the backpack and bounced on the floor. Been here once or twice before. Woods. Lake. Holy ground.
Holy ground? The jacket stirred on its peg behind the door. Are they hiding out?
Laughter pealed in the other room.
Nah, said the woolly sock. For pleasure. Some of the old in-and-out.
All three of them? The jacket sounded scandalized.
The woolly sock twisted into a question mark. Why not?
It's a bit -- triangular, the jacket said dubiously.
E-qui-lateral, said the woolly sock sagely.
Nothing as simple as a triangle, chimed in the duster hanging next to the jacket. Never mind geometry. You need theoretical physics to explain those three.
Boot-heels tapped a sudden angry staccato. Woods? Holy ground? A lot of tramping about, I'll wager. Hmph. He can scramble barefoot over the rocks, for all I care. Did you hear what he said? Boots these days, he said. The ungrateful lout. I carried his calloused feet from Beijing to Kathmandu, and what does he do? Complain I'm not as good as the boots he had a hundred years ago, or a thousand. He's lived too long, that's his problem. He remembers the workmanship but does he remember the fit? Hah. Like buckets, those old boots. Does he remember the way his toes splayed out in those old squared-off jobs instead of nestling snugly, just the right fit, roomy but snug? He doesn't.
His toes are prodigious, said the woolly sock.
They are, agreed a dress stocking. Put a hole right through you if you aren't careful.
His toes aren't his only prodigious Part, purred the spangled scarf, twining with the tartan.
Big nose, said the woolly sock.
I'm not talking about his nose. Don't be obtuse. Boxers know what I'm talking about, don't you, darling?
It's nobody's business what goes on under my softly draping folds, the boxers snapped. Nobody's but mine and his.
Oh, right. The spangle scarf dismissed this with a flip of its fringes. As if everyone doesn't know.
I've seen those folds tent right up when MacLeod comes near, the black scarf said, also snuggling against the tartan.
Seen it, hell, I've felt it, said a pair of blue jeans, its voice muffled from deep inside a suitcase. Pressing against my zipper like you wouldn't believe.
The poor sod used to go pigeon-toed, trying to hide it, said the boots with a hint of a snicker on its tongues.
The spangled scarf giggled.
He doesn't try to hide it anymore, said the jeans. The opposite, in fact.
Hide it, hell, said the tartan scarf. He wags it around like a dog with a boner.
A silence fell as everyone tried to work this out.
Now, ventured the jeans, is that a pun, or-
The boots stomped. It's a damned unfortunate image, that's what it is.
I'd stay away from canine jokes on general principle, said the woolly sock. Too easy to go astray. Now, a frog, that's a humorous animal.
We were talking about MacLeod, said the tartan scarf hurriedly.
There was a general rustle of approval.
Oohh, yes, the black t-shirt twirled up from the floor happily. Methos straightens his back right up when he feels MacLeod's presence. Just like a soldier at attention. He throws his lovely shoulders back, and draws himself up like a man. Pity he slouches right back down again.
The boots rocked from heel to toe in agreement. He's good at slouching. Expert. He can slouch like a teenager with five thousand years of bad attitude.
Not that you can tell what his posture's like when it's me he's wearing, said the dark sweater sprawled across the bed. I'm made for a much larger man.
You're made for an orangutan, said the t-shirt.
And whose fault is that? Not mine. He stretches sleeves something terrible. I think he has a secret fetish for straitjackets.
MacLeod's better, piped up the white sweater. The worst he does is push his sleeves up to his elbows.
You've hung across MacLeod's shoulders more than the rest of us, said the dark sweater enviously.
Back and forth, back and forth -- I've gotten so I can't remember who I belong to anymore.
Hell of a thing, said the boots sympathetically.
How else is it different on MacLeod? The dark sweater rippled, and one of its long arms stretched down the side of the bed.
Oh, lots of ways. He fills one out a bit more, but it's more than that. MacLeod is a very physical person --
Very sensual, said a voice from inside a pale blue travel case. The lid opened a crack, and a bit of red lace slipped out. Careful of this clothes -- and careful of other people's clothes. Easy on the fastenings, and never does anything crude, like snapping one's straps.
I second that, said the boxers. Not the snapping sort. Not like some I could mention.
That curly headed fellow, for instance? The t-shirt wrinkled disapprovingly. The know-it-all smitten with MacLeod?
If any man needs a keeper, that one does, said the boots darkly.
He's got one, said the t-shirt. A cute guy who follows him around saying “amazing” and shooting people.
Now, he sounds more like Methos's sort, said the woolly sock. Sounds like MacLeod, to be honest. Immortal?
Not yet, said the jacket. The consulting detective knows his way around a sword, though. He's a natural.
The man cannot resist an elastic strap, said the bit of red lace petulantly. Makes you wonder about his upbringing. One minute he's all, "what's it like inside your funny little brains," and the next it's TWANG hur hur hur.
Snapper, agreed the boxers. He thinks it's terribly funny. Juvenile git.
I like being worn by MacLeod just a stitch better than being worn by Methos, the white sweater continued, somewhat dreamily. He's, I don't know. Comfortable. He's an easier sort -- well, except for the one thing.
Don't talk to me about MacLeod, complained the bloodied and ragged sweatshirt from its gloomy corner.
There was a silence.
Sorry, said the white sweater. Wasn't thinking.
The boots scuffed awkwardly. The t-shirt, the socks, the scarf, the boxers, and the jeans sighed and flexed, checking their weave for gashes, cuts, tears, and broken threads.
Mark my words, said the sweatshirt, there's trouble afoot. You don't flee to holy ground just for a little nookie. What about that Kimmie they met up with?
What about him? said the jacket. He was an idiot, like the rest, and he lost his head like the rest. It doesn't signify anything. MacLeod's always running into those people, it's a bad habit of his.
True, said the black scarf. The man can walk to the corner store and there'll be a Kimmie waiting for him in the frozen food aisle.
MacLeod likes it, though, said the boots. The fighting. Watch him sometime. He grins like Death.
He does love the sword, sighed the t-shirt.
Tell me about it, said the sweatshirt. My back is slashed to ribbons. Completely to ribbons.
MacLeod attracts trouble, I'll grant, said the boxers. My guy has been dragged out of bed of a night often enough because of him.
Dragged into bed too, though, said the t-shirt. On the same account.
Nah, said the boxers. Different thing entirely.
Drawn to trouble like a -- began the tartan scarf.
Don't start, warned the woolly socks.
-- Moth to a flame, is all I was going to say. Perfectly common simile.
He isn't, though, said the boxers. He doesn't need MacLeod for that. He's seen worse trouble than MacLeod. He's not drawn to danger. It's something else.
Not drawn to danger? The black scarf was incredulous. What about when he offered his neck to MacLeod? MacLeod's blade was right there, sharp and businesslike. I get chills all the way down to my fringe just thinking about it. The guy either craves danger or --
He knows MacLeod wouldn't, though, said the boots. He knows his good guys.
He's in love, said the boxers.
The boots scoffed. What do you know about love?
What don't I know? It's not like I don't have it rubbed in my flies often enough.
That's not love, that's just --
No 'just' about it, said the t-shirt. I've felt his heart banging like a parade drum.
So have I, agreed the white sweater. I've been pulled over both their heads, and I'll just say, I've felt each one's heart speed up at the sight of the other one.
Maybe they're both drawn to danger, said the boots. Maybe that looks like love to them.
That's pretty deep for something that's usually filled with feet, said the boxers.
Says the one who's usually filled with ass, the boots flung back.
They've clashed swords, though, said the t-shirt thoughtfully. And there can be only one -- or so they're always telling each other. Maybe someday they'll do each other in. That's love for you.
They fell silent, pondering the intersection of swords and love.
To ribbons, the grey sweater intoned portentously, making all of them jump.
A general galumphing and banging around started up in the other room and rapidly grew both louder and closer.
Here they come, said the t-shirt. Look sharp!
What are they doing? Did they let in a stray herd of elephants?
Shh! Shh!
The clothes stopped their rustling and listened.
Laughter, teasing voices, bottles opening, glasses clinking.
Three sets of clothes were discarded, bit by bit, cast off in a trail across the bedroom floor, slung over chairs, thrown over the side of the bed. A pair of red trousers, a denim shirt, and a soft cashmere sweater flumped down by the t-shirt.
Hey girl, the t-shirt said politely to the sweater. It's been ages.
Absolutely ages agreed the cashmere sweater in a light, fluffy voice. First the cleaners, then into the drawer with the lavender. Nice, and quite relaxing, but I'm glad to be out and about. How's tricks?
A shocking pink brassiere sailed through the air and draped over the boots. The boots giggled.
The bra sighed and insinuated itself among the boots' laces. The two of them faded together into the shadows under the bed.
A blindingly white pair of briefs was next.
The boxers perked up. Hel-lo.
Sounds like a party up there, said the woolly socks.
Not a stitch left on any of them, said the t-shirt, sighing. Dress up is more fun, don't you think?
I don't fancy being worn by men as a rule, said a new voice that both slithered and creaked, as if made of satin and whalebone. They stretch you out dreadfully, and your lace is never quite the same. MacLeod's a good sort, though.
Theatrical, agreed the white sweater. He loves nothing more than a good costume party. He should go back to the stage. He gets nostalgic for his days at the Globe.
Nostalgic for his days at the Globe my eyelets. The man protests too much. If you ask me, he's got a fetish for girly clothes, plain and simple.
I can vouch for that, said a sultry stiletto voice. A red high-heeled shoe dangled over the edge of the bed on the tip of one slim pale finger. He's got an absolute thing for fuck-me shoes.
He can't get his dogs in those straps of yours, can he? The boot's voice was strangely muffled.
Hardly. His feet are made for your sort. He just likes Amanda to -- wheee!
Well, she'll be gone for a while, said the t-shirt wistfully.
And so she was. A good, long while. Three people in a big bed, wearing not a stitch or a scrap between them, can take a very long time to tire themselves out. It takes a lot of petting, and kissing, and sliding over and slipping under and in and out and stroking and sucking and buzzing and licking and slapping and laughing --
Wrapped up in themselves, they might believe the static electricity snapping through the air came from their own busy friction, never once noticing that all around them soft satin tangled joyfully with sturdy shoelaces, and sweaters slid one over the other, and scarves streamed into bright braids, bows and love-knots, and socks danced with stockings, and boxers twirled with briefs, and t-shirts snuggled into jackets snuggled into dusters --
Until finally all that was moving was a pair of red fuck-me shoes waltzing slowly in a pool of fading moonlight--
It takes all night long. And in the morning --
"What the hell happened in here last night?" Duncan nudged a suggestively twisted pile of socks with his bare foot. "It looks like a tornado hit." Methos sat up groggily and Amanda raised herself up on her elbows.
Each of them -- for just a moment -- imagined they heard faint silky laughter coming from somewhere -- from everywhere -- in the room.
And perhaps they did.
--End