Fic: Leathers
Leathers
by MacGeorge
Methos peered close to the large, super-high definition screen, trying to decipher the enhanced image of a faded, ancient papyrus text. It had taken a decade or two, but he finally reluctantly conceded that advances in technology made studying digitized images more practical and even more productive than handling the original texts. It wasn’t nearly as emotionally satisfying, but the results spoke for themselves.
An approaching deafening mechanical rumble broke his concentration and he reflexively glanced up and watched as the sheer volume of sound made his beer bottle rattle on the desk beside him. The engine noise stopped abruptly and a few seconds later he felt a wash of Immortal presence vibrate his very bones . He was on his feet, sword in hand, back against the wall by the door before he even thought about it.
The fight-or-flight rush of adrenaline was only slightly alleviated by the polite knock that followed. People after your head rarely knocked before entering, but he hadn’t survived this long without being more than a little paranoid.
“Who?” he demanded.
“MacLeod,” came the answer in an unmistakably familiar voice.
“Shit!” Methos whispered, reached for the knob and opened the door. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded of his visitor. “Do you know they’ve been searching for you for almost a year? Joe thought you were dead!”
“Nice to see you, too, Methos,” MacLeod responded calmly. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“I ought to take your head right here,” he grumbled in return, but let the door open all the way and Mac strode in with a clump of heavy boots, dropping a silver helmet and a black duffle bag by the door. “Beer?” Methos asked grumpily, and assuming a positive response slid his sword into the umbrella stand by the door, then headed into the kitchen nook to retrieve two bottles.
“Yeah,” Mac sighed and dropped heavily onto the couch, leaning back to close his eyes.
“You look like shit,” Methos observed, eying his friend’s scruffy, unshaven face, raggedly curly dark hair and dusty motorcycle leathers.
“Thanks,” Mac replied, reaching for the beer. He drank half of it in several long swallows, sighed gustily, belched and laid his head back again against the couch, his eyes on the ceiling. “I needed that.”
“What you need is a good swift kick in the arse,” Methos snapped, flopping onto the couch next to him. He caught a whiff of engine oil, of dust, of leather and sweat, and of the unique sharp tang of ozone. “You been fighting?”
Mac rolled his head towards Methos and gave him narrow-eyed look. “I thought you said nobody knew where I was.”
“I didn’t,” Methos replied, turning his body towards his friend. “But you look, as they say in Texas, like you’ve been “rode hard and put away wet”, and you smell like someone overloaded a circuit breaker.”
Mac’s mouth twisted and he relaxed back a little. “Oh. “
There was a long, pensive silence as Mac studied his beer and Methos studied Mac. As always, he was lean and muscular, but there were shadows under his eyes and a sharpness to his hard jaw that leant him an even more dangerous look than usual. The black leather jacket and pants only emphasized the obviously cultivated don’t-fuck-with-me persona. Methos could well imagine MacLeod brooding in the dark corners of various biker bars between here and… wherever. He would be left alone, for sure. Except that he was criminally handsome, which probably was an annoying liability in that particular social milieu.
“What’re you smirking about?” Mac finally asked in annoyance. “And can I have another beer?”
Methos rose to get him a fresh bottle. “I was just picturing you in some smoky biker bar, all dolled up in your leathers, getting propositioned by a biker chick covered in tattoos, wearing a spiked dog collar and a sleeveless leather vest with a skull’s head on it.”
The dark look Mac gave him made him certain that at least some version of Methos’ speculative scenario had, indeed, taken place.
“Or maybe a 300-lb. biker guy, same tattoos, same collar, same vest,” Methos added, just to annoy him further.
“You have a warped view of biker society,” Mac commented a little archly, drinking a little more moderately from his second bottle of beer. “Most of the time they’re just people, like everyone else. Some good, some not so good. Most just getting by as best they can.”
“So who were you running from?”
Mac closed his eyes and ran the cold bottle across his forehead, leaving a trail of moisture behind. “An old friend,” he sighed. “Or at least not someone I wanted as an enemy. He was a good man, if a little stubborn and misguided.”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
Mac ignored the comment. “His name was Kasim, and we’d had a couple of run-ins over the centuries. I owed him a debt from a long time ago and he wanted me to repay it by killing someone. I refused. He challenged me. I won, but didn’t want to kill him. I still owed him a debt.”
Methos tut-tutted, shaking his head. “Dumb, MacLeod. Never let them go. It will always come back to haunt you.”
Mac shook his head, his mouth hardening. “He didn’t deserve to die, but I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice myself for his version of ‘honor’. When he found me last year here in Seacouver I was caught off-guard and had to get out of town fast. I kept hoping he would just give up, but he stayed on my tail.”
“For a year?” Methos asked incredulously. “And you didn’t just stop and take him on? You’d beaten him once, already. It’s not like you’re a slacker when it comes to taking heads.”
A tight smile ghosted across Mac’s face as he studied the label on the beer bottle. “I suppose it got to be a game after awhile. To see if I could lose him, make him just give up.”
“And he out-stubborned the MacLeod? I’m in awe,” Methos quipped as he sipped from his bottle.
“Yeah,” Mac replied softly. “He won the game. Found me.” Mac sighed. “I think that’s what might be called a Pyrrhic victory.”
“Yeah, well, there’s that,” Methos acknowledged, chugging down the last of his beer. “So you’re back, then? Joe will be pleased.”
“I guess,” Mac sighed. “I just don’t really want to face the wreck of my place right now. It got trashed when we scuffled before I knocked him out and took off.”
“You can stay here, if you want. We can check out your place in the morning,” Methos offered. “In the meantime, take a shower, man. You’re stinking up the joint.”
“Some host you are,” Mac replied, as he looked up, a real smile touching his lips for the first time since he’d arrived.
“It’s a gift,” Methos met his eyes, and was pleased to feel that warm anticipatory glow that occasionally sparked between them. Mac was generally a woman’s man, but also a sensualist at heart. Over the centuries he had finally begun to lower his barriers, widen his horizons, and Methos had deliberately put himself in MacLeod’s path so many times that, ultimately, his intentions could not possibly be misinterpreted.
Ever a master of the obvious, one drunken night Mac had finally asked Methos if he wanted to fuck. Methos hadn’t answered with words and the result was enlightening for them both. Methos had discovered - well, actually re-discovered - his addiction to truly charismatic, self-destructive, alpha males. It was distressing in a way, but of the few times Methos had gotten totally caught up in his obsession, this one felt… different. Good, even. Maybe because there was an essential sweetness about Mac that had been lacking in the previous objects of addiction. The greatest danger from MacLeod was that he would pull Methos into some save-the-world do-gooder enterprise that was contrary to Methos’ basic philosophy of do-unto-others… first.
And here his obsession was, all decked out in Quickening-singed leather, smelling of sweat and testosterone. There was a charged silence as Mac just breathed, cocking his head, his expression speculative, curious and anticipatory.
“You dog,” Mac said softly.
“Woof,” Methos replied.
Mac chuckled, the sound rumbling deeply in his broad chest. Mac leaned towards him, their lips almost touching but instead of kissing him, MacLeod pushed away, rising to his feet. His left hand strayed to his crotch, snugly swathed in butter-soft black leather, to gently rub the ever-rising ridge of an already noticeable bulge. “You want something?” Mac asked softly.
Methos leaned back, spreading his legs apart and opening his arms wide across the length of the couch. “Yeah,” he answered. “You gotta problem with that?”
“No,” Mac breathed. “No problem at all.” He reached for the opening of his leather jacket, peeling it off slowly, revealing first one and then the other heavily muscled shoulder clad in a tight black t-shirt. The jacket slid to the floor, the silver zipper clacking softly against the hard wood.
Mac’s right hand found the top button of the leather pants that clung to his flesh like saran wrap. Methos thought he could even see the outline of the distended veins of Mac’s throbbing cock, providing serpentine decorations under the shiny, black surface. One button came loose, then a second, and Methos was forced to gasp for air, realizing he had stopped breathing for a moment. He reached out, needing to touch.
“Wait,” Mac insisted, then smiled at Methos’ irritated, impatient glare.
“Boots,” Mac explained. He raised his foot and placed it provocatively between Methos spread thighs.
Methos’ lips twitched into a smile, and he grabbed the toe and heel of the scuffed, dusty boot, pulling it against his crotch. For a second they stayed like that as Mac gently rubbed the sole against Methos’ erection, then he tugged, Methos tugged, and the boot and then the sock came off. The process was repeated with the other boot, and at last attention returned to MacLeod’s clinging leather pants.
Methos’ mouth watered and he had to swallow as he watched Mac’s blunt warrior’s fingers manipulate each of the two remaining buttons. He was mildly disappointed to discover damp, clinging white briefs underneath, but he supposed it was only practical when riding astride a hot, rumbling, vibrating machine for hours at a time. That thought got him more excited, and he slipped to his knees as the soft leather sagged around Mac’s thighs. He reached to reveal the object of his desire.
“Ah, ah,” MacLeod admonished, stepping back out of range. “I thought I was all smelly and disgusting and needed a shower.”
“Fuck the shower,” Methos replied harshly, reaching for him again, but Mac leaned away.
“I don’t think so,” Mac replied with an evil grin. “You insulted me, and now you’ll just have to wait.”
“Cock tease,” Methos accused, levering himself back onto the couch.
“I didn’t start this.”
“Who showed up at my door, all hot with a Quickening, wearing black leather?” Methos asked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know what was going to happen.”
Mac looked at him for a minute, then slowly nodded his head. “Yeah,” he answered softly. “I suppose you’re right.” He leaned down, finally peeling off his leather pants, then reached for the lower edge of his black t-shirt. He pulled it up slowly, stretching as he did, revealing the rock-hard ridges of a well-toned abdomen, then a perfectly proportioned chest and biceps still pumped and swollen with adrenaline. He dropped the shirt, his eyes never leaving Methos’. Sweat pooled in the curve of Mac’s throat and along the sculpted line of his clavicle as he finally reached for the edge of the offending briefs, and paused.
“I’m feeling a little underdressed,” he observed softly, nodding at Methos’ conspicuously fully-clothed state.
Methos rose smoothly to his feet, stepping close. The dagger that normally nestled conveniently at his lower back was now in his hand. “To the contrary,” he whispered, moving so close he could feel the heat rising off of Mac’s flesh. “On you, especially, clothes are over-rated.” Mac didn’t move a muscle as the razor-sharp blade caught the top edge of his briefs. Their eyes locked together, as slowly, slowly Methos moved the dagger, his touch so light, so controlled, so expert that it was just enough to part cloth, but not cut the skin beneath. At last the briefs were slit from waist to leg on one side, and they fell silently to the floor.
Methos’ other hand folded possessively around Mac’s jutting cock.
Mac gasped, his eyes closing as he moved into Methos’ body, his big hands reaching around to splay over Methos’ jeans-clad arse. “You’re right,” he growled, pulling them together with a jerk. “Fuck the shower.”
~finis~
by MacGeorge
Methos peered close to the large, super-high definition screen, trying to decipher the enhanced image of a faded, ancient papyrus text. It had taken a decade or two, but he finally reluctantly conceded that advances in technology made studying digitized images more practical and even more productive than handling the original texts. It wasn’t nearly as emotionally satisfying, but the results spoke for themselves.
An approaching deafening mechanical rumble broke his concentration and he reflexively glanced up and watched as the sheer volume of sound made his beer bottle rattle on the desk beside him. The engine noise stopped abruptly and a few seconds later he felt a wash of Immortal presence vibrate his very bones . He was on his feet, sword in hand, back against the wall by the door before he even thought about it.
The fight-or-flight rush of adrenaline was only slightly alleviated by the polite knock that followed. People after your head rarely knocked before entering, but he hadn’t survived this long without being more than a little paranoid.
“Who?” he demanded.
“MacLeod,” came the answer in an unmistakably familiar voice.
“Shit!” Methos whispered, reached for the knob and opened the door. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded of his visitor. “Do you know they’ve been searching for you for almost a year? Joe thought you were dead!”
“Nice to see you, too, Methos,” MacLeod responded calmly. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“I ought to take your head right here,” he grumbled in return, but let the door open all the way and Mac strode in with a clump of heavy boots, dropping a silver helmet and a black duffle bag by the door. “Beer?” Methos asked grumpily, and assuming a positive response slid his sword into the umbrella stand by the door, then headed into the kitchen nook to retrieve two bottles.
“Yeah,” Mac sighed and dropped heavily onto the couch, leaning back to close his eyes.
“You look like shit,” Methos observed, eying his friend’s scruffy, unshaven face, raggedly curly dark hair and dusty motorcycle leathers.
“Thanks,” Mac replied, reaching for the beer. He drank half of it in several long swallows, sighed gustily, belched and laid his head back again against the couch, his eyes on the ceiling. “I needed that.”
“What you need is a good swift kick in the arse,” Methos snapped, flopping onto the couch next to him. He caught a whiff of engine oil, of dust, of leather and sweat, and of the unique sharp tang of ozone. “You been fighting?”
Mac rolled his head towards Methos and gave him narrow-eyed look. “I thought you said nobody knew where I was.”
“I didn’t,” Methos replied, turning his body towards his friend. “But you look, as they say in Texas, like you’ve been “rode hard and put away wet”, and you smell like someone overloaded a circuit breaker.”
Mac’s mouth twisted and he relaxed back a little. “Oh. “
There was a long, pensive silence as Mac studied his beer and Methos studied Mac. As always, he was lean and muscular, but there were shadows under his eyes and a sharpness to his hard jaw that leant him an even more dangerous look than usual. The black leather jacket and pants only emphasized the obviously cultivated don’t-fuck-with-me persona. Methos could well imagine MacLeod brooding in the dark corners of various biker bars between here and… wherever. He would be left alone, for sure. Except that he was criminally handsome, which probably was an annoying liability in that particular social milieu.
“What’re you smirking about?” Mac finally asked in annoyance. “And can I have another beer?”
Methos rose to get him a fresh bottle. “I was just picturing you in some smoky biker bar, all dolled up in your leathers, getting propositioned by a biker chick covered in tattoos, wearing a spiked dog collar and a sleeveless leather vest with a skull’s head on it.”
The dark look Mac gave him made him certain that at least some version of Methos’ speculative scenario had, indeed, taken place.
“Or maybe a 300-lb. biker guy, same tattoos, same collar, same vest,” Methos added, just to annoy him further.
“You have a warped view of biker society,” Mac commented a little archly, drinking a little more moderately from his second bottle of beer. “Most of the time they’re just people, like everyone else. Some good, some not so good. Most just getting by as best they can.”
“So who were you running from?”
Mac closed his eyes and ran the cold bottle across his forehead, leaving a trail of moisture behind. “An old friend,” he sighed. “Or at least not someone I wanted as an enemy. He was a good man, if a little stubborn and misguided.”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
Mac ignored the comment. “His name was Kasim, and we’d had a couple of run-ins over the centuries. I owed him a debt from a long time ago and he wanted me to repay it by killing someone. I refused. He challenged me. I won, but didn’t want to kill him. I still owed him a debt.”
Methos tut-tutted, shaking his head. “Dumb, MacLeod. Never let them go. It will always come back to haunt you.”
Mac shook his head, his mouth hardening. “He didn’t deserve to die, but I wasn’t prepared to sacrifice myself for his version of ‘honor’. When he found me last year here in Seacouver I was caught off-guard and had to get out of town fast. I kept hoping he would just give up, but he stayed on my tail.”
“For a year?” Methos asked incredulously. “And you didn’t just stop and take him on? You’d beaten him once, already. It’s not like you’re a slacker when it comes to taking heads.”
A tight smile ghosted across Mac’s face as he studied the label on the beer bottle. “I suppose it got to be a game after awhile. To see if I could lose him, make him just give up.”
“And he out-stubborned the MacLeod? I’m in awe,” Methos quipped as he sipped from his bottle.
“Yeah,” Mac replied softly. “He won the game. Found me.” Mac sighed. “I think that’s what might be called a Pyrrhic victory.”
“Yeah, well, there’s that,” Methos acknowledged, chugging down the last of his beer. “So you’re back, then? Joe will be pleased.”
“I guess,” Mac sighed. “I just don’t really want to face the wreck of my place right now. It got trashed when we scuffled before I knocked him out and took off.”
“You can stay here, if you want. We can check out your place in the morning,” Methos offered. “In the meantime, take a shower, man. You’re stinking up the joint.”
“Some host you are,” Mac replied, as he looked up, a real smile touching his lips for the first time since he’d arrived.
“It’s a gift,” Methos met his eyes, and was pleased to feel that warm anticipatory glow that occasionally sparked between them. Mac was generally a woman’s man, but also a sensualist at heart. Over the centuries he had finally begun to lower his barriers, widen his horizons, and Methos had deliberately put himself in MacLeod’s path so many times that, ultimately, his intentions could not possibly be misinterpreted.
Ever a master of the obvious, one drunken night Mac had finally asked Methos if he wanted to fuck. Methos hadn’t answered with words and the result was enlightening for them both. Methos had discovered - well, actually re-discovered - his addiction to truly charismatic, self-destructive, alpha males. It was distressing in a way, but of the few times Methos had gotten totally caught up in his obsession, this one felt… different. Good, even. Maybe because there was an essential sweetness about Mac that had been lacking in the previous objects of addiction. The greatest danger from MacLeod was that he would pull Methos into some save-the-world do-gooder enterprise that was contrary to Methos’ basic philosophy of do-unto-others… first.
And here his obsession was, all decked out in Quickening-singed leather, smelling of sweat and testosterone. There was a charged silence as Mac just breathed, cocking his head, his expression speculative, curious and anticipatory.
“You dog,” Mac said softly.
“Woof,” Methos replied.
Mac chuckled, the sound rumbling deeply in his broad chest. Mac leaned towards him, their lips almost touching but instead of kissing him, MacLeod pushed away, rising to his feet. His left hand strayed to his crotch, snugly swathed in butter-soft black leather, to gently rub the ever-rising ridge of an already noticeable bulge. “You want something?” Mac asked softly.
Methos leaned back, spreading his legs apart and opening his arms wide across the length of the couch. “Yeah,” he answered. “You gotta problem with that?”
“No,” Mac breathed. “No problem at all.” He reached for the opening of his leather jacket, peeling it off slowly, revealing first one and then the other heavily muscled shoulder clad in a tight black t-shirt. The jacket slid to the floor, the silver zipper clacking softly against the hard wood.
Mac’s right hand found the top button of the leather pants that clung to his flesh like saran wrap. Methos thought he could even see the outline of the distended veins of Mac’s throbbing cock, providing serpentine decorations under the shiny, black surface. One button came loose, then a second, and Methos was forced to gasp for air, realizing he had stopped breathing for a moment. He reached out, needing to touch.
“Wait,” Mac insisted, then smiled at Methos’ irritated, impatient glare.
“Boots,” Mac explained. He raised his foot and placed it provocatively between Methos spread thighs.
Methos’ lips twitched into a smile, and he grabbed the toe and heel of the scuffed, dusty boot, pulling it against his crotch. For a second they stayed like that as Mac gently rubbed the sole against Methos’ erection, then he tugged, Methos tugged, and the boot and then the sock came off. The process was repeated with the other boot, and at last attention returned to MacLeod’s clinging leather pants.
Methos’ mouth watered and he had to swallow as he watched Mac’s blunt warrior’s fingers manipulate each of the two remaining buttons. He was mildly disappointed to discover damp, clinging white briefs underneath, but he supposed it was only practical when riding astride a hot, rumbling, vibrating machine for hours at a time. That thought got him more excited, and he slipped to his knees as the soft leather sagged around Mac’s thighs. He reached to reveal the object of his desire.
“Ah, ah,” MacLeod admonished, stepping back out of range. “I thought I was all smelly and disgusting and needed a shower.”
“Fuck the shower,” Methos replied harshly, reaching for him again, but Mac leaned away.
“I don’t think so,” Mac replied with an evil grin. “You insulted me, and now you’ll just have to wait.”
“Cock tease,” Methos accused, levering himself back onto the couch.
“I didn’t start this.”
“Who showed up at my door, all hot with a Quickening, wearing black leather?” Methos asked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know what was going to happen.”
Mac looked at him for a minute, then slowly nodded his head. “Yeah,” he answered softly. “I suppose you’re right.” He leaned down, finally peeling off his leather pants, then reached for the lower edge of his black t-shirt. He pulled it up slowly, stretching as he did, revealing the rock-hard ridges of a well-toned abdomen, then a perfectly proportioned chest and biceps still pumped and swollen with adrenaline. He dropped the shirt, his eyes never leaving Methos’. Sweat pooled in the curve of Mac’s throat and along the sculpted line of his clavicle as he finally reached for the edge of the offending briefs, and paused.
“I’m feeling a little underdressed,” he observed softly, nodding at Methos’ conspicuously fully-clothed state.
Methos rose smoothly to his feet, stepping close. The dagger that normally nestled conveniently at his lower back was now in his hand. “To the contrary,” he whispered, moving so close he could feel the heat rising off of Mac’s flesh. “On you, especially, clothes are over-rated.” Mac didn’t move a muscle as the razor-sharp blade caught the top edge of his briefs. Their eyes locked together, as slowly, slowly Methos moved the dagger, his touch so light, so controlled, so expert that it was just enough to part cloth, but not cut the skin beneath. At last the briefs were slit from waist to leg on one side, and they fell silently to the floor.
Methos’ other hand folded possessively around Mac’s jutting cock.
Mac gasped, his eyes closing as he moved into Methos’ body, his big hands reaching around to splay over Methos’ jeans-clad arse. “You’re right,” he growled, pulling them together with a jerk. “Fuck the shower.”
~finis~