Fic: Lavender House II: Invocation (Highlander, Mature/Explicit)
Title: Lavender House II: Invocation
Author Name:
lferion
Fandom: Highlander | Lord John Grey
Characters|Pairing: Methos
Rating: Mature or Explicit
Word Count: 1340
Disclaimer: Panzer/Davis &etc. Not me. No harm, no foul, no money.
Summary: Methos wakes on a pleasant morning
Warnings: None
Author Notes: Follow-on story to Lavender House: Initiation, though I believe this stands alone. There is no Lord John in this part, but there will be in the next.
Many thanks to Morgynleri, Auberus and especially Jay Tryfanstone for input and encouragement.
Can be found on AO3 here:
Lavender House II: Invocation by
lferion
Methos woke to the first glimmer of autumn dawn-light through the curtains. James was apparently an early riser, somewhat to Methos’ surprise: few of his personae actively enjoyed mornings. He stretched luxuriously alone in the clean bed, crisp linen sheets sliding over his skin, wool blanket and feather counterpane a pleasant weight across his hips, his morning erection heavy against his thigh. His arse still felt very pleasantly stretched and loose; well and thoroughly used to the satisfaction of all concerned. If his Quickening had ever interpreted a willing fuck, however vigorous, as injury to heal, Methos could not remember it, and he enjoyed the sensation for the time it lasted. Chenowyth was certainly skilled, and was, moreover, a generous partner, more so when not on display, and he had been generous enough at James’ initiation. Nevertheless, it was much more rewarding to reciprocate, participate, rather than just be a receptacle of other men’s seed, however much pleasure one found in it. James rolled his hips again in happy recall, and spread his legs, letting his hand cradle and squeeze his erection in slow pleasure.
Waking to morning after an evening of private and intimate exchange was a different kind of beginning than that of the ceremonial witness and work of initiation: that had been an act of will, extra-ordinary in moment, duration, and consequence; this was more discovering the rhythm of this ordinary time. The world spun irrespective of humanity, the seasons and cycles going inexorably forward. People looked for meaning, created and imposed it within and around the wheel of the turning earth: lives fierce and bright and quick-consumed as fireflies, burning to know, to be, to do, to be known. All ritual was structure, a shaping out of the unshaped. James was more distinct in his self for having been so shaped, still in the morning of his understanding of himself, unfettered in his physicality, as earthy and sensuous and libidinous as Methos could remember himself being, though the focus of that interest was narrower than usual. The last time he had been hetairekos in truth, he had been sought equally by men and women, easily aroused by either. James, it seemed, was interested only in men.
This morning he felt very settled in his skin, fitting neatly in the shape and tenor of James’ mind, happy in the carnal awareness that glowed like a coal at the base of his spine, a warm heaviness that suffused the root of him. Initiation was once, morning recurrent, both marked moments in time, ordinary and extraordinary. And this: to wake warm and clean and comfortable in a secure place, with pleasant prospects and interesting people in his life, topped with the sheer enjoyment of arousal to start the day. He could feel the beat of his blood pulsing steady under his fingers, in his prick heavy in his palm.
He wasn’t seeking release, just enjoying the sensation, thoroughly grounded in the physicality of his surroundings - the firm-stuffed mattress, the whisper of air that accompanied the finger of light through the gap in the bed-curtains, the distant sounds of the house - boys tending fireplaces, fetching water, returning smartly-cleaned shoes and blackened boots to the doors their owners slept beyond. Lavender House was very well run, for all it was hard on the edge of the respectable part of town, and employed no women at all. Furthermore, the man who accosted one of the servants while in the house was not welcome to return, which made for a better opportunity for the lads than in many a more overtly respectable establishment.
James let his hand wander between his legs, arching and spreading and rubbing happily against the sheets. Such a luxury to sleep alone, to wake unhurried, to have time and ease to reacquaint himself with his own touch, his own self-pleasure. He rolled and cupped his balls in his fingers, enjoying the slip of the thin skin over the firmer shapes within, the tickle of hair against his palm and wrist. He petted the soft place between the root of his shaft and his arsehole, letting his fingers slide further, to touch and swirl and press just in. He could finger himself open, but that would want oil, and none was immediately to hand, so he just squeezed and released his inner muscles, enjoying the almost-soreness, the little tremble as he shifted. His shaft was harder now, the coal of heat in his groin growing under his attentions.
He closed his eyes against the trickle of light through the curtains, the better to just feel, enjoy, explore. His other arm was bent over his head, stretching his side, fingers curling and caressing the warm tender place under his ear, and his own touch on his neck sent a delightful frisson through him. He had known this body for more years than he knew, and yet some things were always new; like sunrise, this pleasure never got old or stale. He trusted that it never would. His cock twitched against his belly, a pulse of heat and desire, and he brought his hand back up, fingers trailing over his skin, through the sprinkle of hair on his balls, tracing shivering lines the length of his shaft. He teased the head peeping out from his foreskin, sliding it back and forth, delicate, light, not nearly enough friction, but his buttocks clenched and released anyway, and he took himself fully in hand, squeezing and pulling, firm and slow, enjoying the sensations inside and out, breathing with the rhythm his hand knew, his cock knew, so very well, the perfect pace, the perfect grip.
He arched into his hand, making a happy little noise; brought his other hand around and down his neck, dragging his fingers along the sides, over his Adams-apple, down to rest fingertips in the hollow of his throat, under his collarbones, letting himself shudder, - a hand at his throat, vulnerable, alive, pulse thudding hard and fast. Harder and faster now, rocking on the excellent mattress, hearing the faint creak of the ropes under the ticking, sheets and coverlet fallen away, bunched at his thighs, naked torso exposed to the air, hot and writhing with building need, abandoned to sensation. Almost, almost there.
His balls pulled tight, arse clenching, hips jerking as he arched high, release shuddering and pulsing through him, seed spilling into his fingers, smearing his palm, anointing his belly as he cupped and pressed the head downwards, that the fluid not go on the sheets. His arse was spasming, jolting pleasure in time with the last pulse of his cock, gasp of his breath, tingling all the way through him.
He took a deep breath, filling his whole torso, letting it out slowly. His hand was rubbing circles through his seed sticky on his fingers, and every nerve and particle of him was awake and alive. The air was cool on his chest, the covers warm on his legs, and James was happy, happy, happy to be alive and here and able to revel in it all. He stretched like a starfish, kicking the covers off, and rolled over to throw the bed curtains open and rise. His feet found the slippers he had set ready, and he caught his banyan up as he padded to the window, drawing the curtain and standing naked in the spill of pale sunlight, uncaring of the cold.
Thank you Sunna - Aten - Helios - Arinna - Mithras - Belenos - Utu. Thank you for the day and the night and the rising. Thank you that this is my life.
Methos did not say the thoughts, the ancient invocation, the even older names, aloud. He did not need to. The sunlight touched his face, warm despite the autumn-pale sky beyond the glass. Then he chuckled, shaking himself not unlike a cat, and pulled the banyan on before he actually got chilled.
With the silk-wool of Athy’s gift warm on his skin, James went in search of water for his ablutions. It was going to be a splendid day.
This entry was originally posted at http://lferion.dreamwidth.org/208248.html, where there are currently
comments. Please comment there using OpenID.
Author Name:
lferion
Fandom: Highlander | Lord John Grey
Characters|Pairing: Methos
Rating: Mature or Explicit
Word Count: 1340
Disclaimer: Panzer/Davis &etc. Not me. No harm, no foul, no money.
Summary: Methos wakes on a pleasant morning
Warnings: None
Author Notes: Follow-on story to Lavender House: Initiation, though I believe this stands alone. There is no Lord John in this part, but there will be in the next.
Many thanks to Morgynleri, Auberus and especially Jay Tryfanstone for input and encouragement.
Can be found on AO3 here:
Lavender House II: Invocation by
lferion
Methos woke to the first glimmer of autumn dawn-light through the curtains. James was apparently an early riser, somewhat to Methos’ surprise: few of his personae actively enjoyed mornings. He stretched luxuriously alone in the clean bed, crisp linen sheets sliding over his skin, wool blanket and feather counterpane a pleasant weight across his hips, his morning erection heavy against his thigh. His arse still felt very pleasantly stretched and loose; well and thoroughly used to the satisfaction of all concerned. If his Quickening had ever interpreted a willing fuck, however vigorous, as injury to heal, Methos could not remember it, and he enjoyed the sensation for the time it lasted. Chenowyth was certainly skilled, and was, moreover, a generous partner, more so when not on display, and he had been generous enough at James’ initiation. Nevertheless, it was much more rewarding to reciprocate, participate, rather than just be a receptacle of other men’s seed, however much pleasure one found in it. James rolled his hips again in happy recall, and spread his legs, letting his hand cradle and squeeze his erection in slow pleasure.
Waking to morning after an evening of private and intimate exchange was a different kind of beginning than that of the ceremonial witness and work of initiation: that had been an act of will, extra-ordinary in moment, duration, and consequence; this was more discovering the rhythm of this ordinary time. The world spun irrespective of humanity, the seasons and cycles going inexorably forward. People looked for meaning, created and imposed it within and around the wheel of the turning earth: lives fierce and bright and quick-consumed as fireflies, burning to know, to be, to do, to be known. All ritual was structure, a shaping out of the unshaped. James was more distinct in his self for having been so shaped, still in the morning of his understanding of himself, unfettered in his physicality, as earthy and sensuous and libidinous as Methos could remember himself being, though the focus of that interest was narrower than usual. The last time he had been hetairekos in truth, he had been sought equally by men and women, easily aroused by either. James, it seemed, was interested only in men.
This morning he felt very settled in his skin, fitting neatly in the shape and tenor of James’ mind, happy in the carnal awareness that glowed like a coal at the base of his spine, a warm heaviness that suffused the root of him. Initiation was once, morning recurrent, both marked moments in time, ordinary and extraordinary. And this: to wake warm and clean and comfortable in a secure place, with pleasant prospects and interesting people in his life, topped with the sheer enjoyment of arousal to start the day. He could feel the beat of his blood pulsing steady under his fingers, in his prick heavy in his palm.
He wasn’t seeking release, just enjoying the sensation, thoroughly grounded in the physicality of his surroundings - the firm-stuffed mattress, the whisper of air that accompanied the finger of light through the gap in the bed-curtains, the distant sounds of the house - boys tending fireplaces, fetching water, returning smartly-cleaned shoes and blackened boots to the doors their owners slept beyond. Lavender House was very well run, for all it was hard on the edge of the respectable part of town, and employed no women at all. Furthermore, the man who accosted one of the servants while in the house was not welcome to return, which made for a better opportunity for the lads than in many a more overtly respectable establishment.
James let his hand wander between his legs, arching and spreading and rubbing happily against the sheets. Such a luxury to sleep alone, to wake unhurried, to have time and ease to reacquaint himself with his own touch, his own self-pleasure. He rolled and cupped his balls in his fingers, enjoying the slip of the thin skin over the firmer shapes within, the tickle of hair against his palm and wrist. He petted the soft place between the root of his shaft and his arsehole, letting his fingers slide further, to touch and swirl and press just in. He could finger himself open, but that would want oil, and none was immediately to hand, so he just squeezed and released his inner muscles, enjoying the almost-soreness, the little tremble as he shifted. His shaft was harder now, the coal of heat in his groin growing under his attentions.
He closed his eyes against the trickle of light through the curtains, the better to just feel, enjoy, explore. His other arm was bent over his head, stretching his side, fingers curling and caressing the warm tender place under his ear, and his own touch on his neck sent a delightful frisson through him. He had known this body for more years than he knew, and yet some things were always new; like sunrise, this pleasure never got old or stale. He trusted that it never would. His cock twitched against his belly, a pulse of heat and desire, and he brought his hand back up, fingers trailing over his skin, through the sprinkle of hair on his balls, tracing shivering lines the length of his shaft. He teased the head peeping out from his foreskin, sliding it back and forth, delicate, light, not nearly enough friction, but his buttocks clenched and released anyway, and he took himself fully in hand, squeezing and pulling, firm and slow, enjoying the sensations inside and out, breathing with the rhythm his hand knew, his cock knew, so very well, the perfect pace, the perfect grip.
He arched into his hand, making a happy little noise; brought his other hand around and down his neck, dragging his fingers along the sides, over his Adams-apple, down to rest fingertips in the hollow of his throat, under his collarbones, letting himself shudder, - a hand at his throat, vulnerable, alive, pulse thudding hard and fast. Harder and faster now, rocking on the excellent mattress, hearing the faint creak of the ropes under the ticking, sheets and coverlet fallen away, bunched at his thighs, naked torso exposed to the air, hot and writhing with building need, abandoned to sensation. Almost, almost there.
His balls pulled tight, arse clenching, hips jerking as he arched high, release shuddering and pulsing through him, seed spilling into his fingers, smearing his palm, anointing his belly as he cupped and pressed the head downwards, that the fluid not go on the sheets. His arse was spasming, jolting pleasure in time with the last pulse of his cock, gasp of his breath, tingling all the way through him.
He took a deep breath, filling his whole torso, letting it out slowly. His hand was rubbing circles through his seed sticky on his fingers, and every nerve and particle of him was awake and alive. The air was cool on his chest, the covers warm on his legs, and James was happy, happy, happy to be alive and here and able to revel in it all. He stretched like a starfish, kicking the covers off, and rolled over to throw the bed curtains open and rise. His feet found the slippers he had set ready, and he caught his banyan up as he padded to the window, drawing the curtain and standing naked in the spill of pale sunlight, uncaring of the cold.
Thank you Sunna - Aten - Helios - Arinna - Mithras - Belenos - Utu. Thank you for the day and the night and the rising. Thank you that this is my life.
Methos did not say the thoughts, the ancient invocation, the even older names, aloud. He did not need to. The sunlight touched his face, warm despite the autumn-pale sky beyond the glass. Then he chuckled, shaking himself not unlike a cat, and pulled the banyan on before he actually got chilled.
With the silk-wool of Athy’s gift warm on his skin, James went in search of water for his ablutions. It was going to be a splendid day.
This entry was originally posted at http://lferion.dreamwidth.org/208248.html, where there are currently
comments. Please comment there using OpenID.