Day 15: Highlander: Island Living
Author: temaris
Fandom: Highlander
Rating: R
Characters: Methos
Summary: No man is an island, entire of himself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
A/N: no warnings. Apart from random existentialism. I feel I should warn for that, somehow.
Methos doesn't think of anyone any more. His best moments are those when he is utterly alone, his mind silenced by the power of a good orgasm or three. He takes his time. Forgetting everything -- all five thousand or so years of loss and disaster and ridiculous humiliations (he'd made a list once of how many times he'd been impotent at the crucial moment, and laughed for a week off and on, as yet another memory re-surfaced, more hilarious now than it had ever felt at the time) -- is easy, as long as he sticks to the script.
Privacy. Real privacy. Not merely locked doors, but empty land well hidden. This is *his* safe house. No one comes here.
Well. Not quite no one. He smirks, and continues with the preparations.
He's been busy. Cleaning the house took nearly a week, it always does, even if you don't have to factor in dying from a roof fall. He went swimming; ran on the beach in the evenings, eyes squinting against the sun. A sword fight would be nice, but anyone good enough to be a worthwhile opponent isn't getting an invitation.
A long soak in the bath/hot tub arrangement, watching the stars. His eyes close, and he drifts, loose and content, getting there. A good kind of tired, with the memories dulled to a faint susurrus instead of a constant chittering swarm distracting and disturbing.
His prick hardens, and he lies back, rocking in the water, losing himself in just the wet rush of ripples around and over him. The air is cool, and his nipples have tightened, pulling more sensation out of his body. The contrast between the cooling night air and the warm water is blissful, and he deliberately moves, creating little waves that creep up and retreat. Chilled skin warms briefly, making the contrast the more deliciously sharp as the cool sea breeze snatches every last fraction of heat away a scant second later, only to be warmed once more.
The water is slick, gilding everywhere, more complete than hands or bodies; almost as tender; almost as loving; almost as uncaring.
He sinks deeper, deliberately thinking of nothing. When thoughts push up he focuses on the touch of the water, of the breeze, of the sounds of the little waves in the hot tub, the greater ones on the shore. When he opens his eyes there is no light. The moon is obscured behind the earth; the stars lost to a canopy of dark leaves. The cities might as well no longer be. There might be nothing more until the sun rises. If the sun rises.
This is all that is. Him. This moment, flickering from second to second.
He grasps his prick firmly, squeezes and feels every vertebrae crackle as he arches up. And again, nothing but his own touch, more familiar than any lover will ever be, more sure. More.
Here and now he is more connected to the world than anyone living. More connected to the universe. He's outlived stars. Seen creatures who have fallen between the cracks of memory, who will never be known to any busy cataloguer of remains.
He and time have paced each other, for a while. The longer he lives, the better he knows that life is fleeting.
Even his.
Even his.
And in the knowledge that all things die, that death will come even to him, he lives the little death, entirely, utterly, completely here. Now. Him.
Fandom: Highlander
Rating: R
Characters: Methos
Summary: No man is an island, entire of himself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
A/N: no warnings. Apart from random existentialism. I feel I should warn for that, somehow.
Methos doesn't think of anyone any more. His best moments are those when he is utterly alone, his mind silenced by the power of a good orgasm or three. He takes his time. Forgetting everything -- all five thousand or so years of loss and disaster and ridiculous humiliations (he'd made a list once of how many times he'd been impotent at the crucial moment, and laughed for a week off and on, as yet another memory re-surfaced, more hilarious now than it had ever felt at the time) -- is easy, as long as he sticks to the script.
Privacy. Real privacy. Not merely locked doors, but empty land well hidden. This is *his* safe house. No one comes here.
Well. Not quite no one. He smirks, and continues with the preparations.
He's been busy. Cleaning the house took nearly a week, it always does, even if you don't have to factor in dying from a roof fall. He went swimming; ran on the beach in the evenings, eyes squinting against the sun. A sword fight would be nice, but anyone good enough to be a worthwhile opponent isn't getting an invitation.
A long soak in the bath/hot tub arrangement, watching the stars. His eyes close, and he drifts, loose and content, getting there. A good kind of tired, with the memories dulled to a faint susurrus instead of a constant chittering swarm distracting and disturbing.
His prick hardens, and he lies back, rocking in the water, losing himself in just the wet rush of ripples around and over him. The air is cool, and his nipples have tightened, pulling more sensation out of his body. The contrast between the cooling night air and the warm water is blissful, and he deliberately moves, creating little waves that creep up and retreat. Chilled skin warms briefly, making the contrast the more deliciously sharp as the cool sea breeze snatches every last fraction of heat away a scant second later, only to be warmed once more.
The water is slick, gilding everywhere, more complete than hands or bodies; almost as tender; almost as loving; almost as uncaring.
He sinks deeper, deliberately thinking of nothing. When thoughts push up he focuses on the touch of the water, of the breeze, of the sounds of the little waves in the hot tub, the greater ones on the shore. When he opens his eyes there is no light. The moon is obscured behind the earth; the stars lost to a canopy of dark leaves. The cities might as well no longer be. There might be nothing more until the sun rises. If the sun rises.
This is all that is. Him. This moment, flickering from second to second.
He grasps his prick firmly, squeezes and feels every vertebrae crackle as he arches up. And again, nothing but his own touch, more familiar than any lover will ever be, more sure. More.
Here and now he is more connected to the world than anyone living. More connected to the universe. He's outlived stars. Seen creatures who have fallen between the cracks of memory, who will never be known to any busy cataloguer of remains.
He and time have paced each other, for a while. The longer he lives, the better he knows that life is fleeting.
Even his.
Even his.
And in the knowledge that all things die, that death will come even to him, he lives the little death, entirely, utterly, completely here. Now. Him.