so instead of writing a new chapter...
...I got sidetracked, and wrote smut instead. Blame this one's existence on
lferion, folks. (If it's crap, of course, that part's my fault). I wanted to scrap it; she made me keep it. She held my hand while I wrote and re-wrote it, and reassured me that it was worth keeping. Then she poked me into reformatting it and posting it. She also spent the entire time dealing patiently with my 'I can't post this; I've never posted smut before' jitters, which were formidable, and gently guiding me back onto the right track when I went off on one of my many tangents.
In other words, if it weren't for her, this story would never have been written, let alone posted. Thanks for the encouragement, the kind words, and the constant prodding,
lferion, This one's for you.
This Unimportant Morning
After Byron's death, things are surprisingly normal -- far more normal, in fact, than Duncan expects them to be. Methos is standoffish at first -- he makes no attempt at conversation when they're together, doesn't come anywhere near the the barge, and abandons even the illusion of courtesy when Duncan does speak to him -- until Kieran Miller comes along looking to make a name for himself, and very nearly succeeds in taking Duncan's head in the process. It's enough to make Methos lose his temper, and by the time he's finished yelling at Duncan for gross stupidity the ice between them has been broken. They walk back into the Le Blues Bar shoulder to shoulder.
Joe takes one look at them and grunts "Well, finally," pours Methos a beer and Duncan a scotch, and then settles in to get the details of the fight with Miller. That night Methos sleeps on Duncan's sofa instead of at a hotel, and by the time they've finished breakfast in the morning, the last of the lingering tension between them has vanished. Duncan tries once to apologize, but Methos cuts him off with a gesture and an 'I always knew he'd never make old bones' that sounds more resigned than angry. No more is said.
They go back to spending their evenings at Le Blues Bar, and Methos takes up more or less permanent residence on Duncan's couch again. The only real difference is that now they seem to spend their days together as well. Duncan has the summer free from the University, and Methos has decided that Adam Pierson is taking a year off, so neither of them have any real responsibilities; neither of them have anywhere to be.
They wander around parks, into libraries and museums and restaurants, and investigate the Latin Quarter. They spar, sometimes with live blades and sometimes with wood, and through it all winds the thread of conversation. The topics are varied in the way that only conversations with Methos can be: modern politics segues into the Roman Empire, which gives way to the use of poisons for medical purposes in the seventeenth century, and a hundred other subjects besides.
All in all, nothing is unusual; nothing has changed -- except for one thing, and it's so small that at first Duncan doesn't even notice it. Methos starts touching him. It's nothing blatant; it's not even overt. A hand warm on his shoulder in passing, fingertips on the small of his back to guide him through a door; the brush of Methos' fingers over his own when he passes the man a book. In fact, it's only because it's Methos that he notices it at all, because Methos never touches anybody casually. Physical contact is limited to times when Methos is trying to make a point, and he doesn't welcome casual touches from others, either. Duncan learned early in their relationship not to sling a friendly arm around the man's shoulders -- but now Methos is the one doing the touching, and he's doing it all the time.
At first, Duncan thinks it's a sign that Methos has decided that he no longer needs to be quite so cautious around his friends -- but then he notices that Methos hasn't suddenly started touching anyone else. After that, he isn't sure why Methos is doing it -- and the uncertainty makes it impossible for him to think about anything else. The next time Methos places a hand on the small of his back he feels the heat of it through three layers of clothing, and the memory of it lingers on his skin all day. He can feel Methos' fingers around his wrist long after the man himself is gone; a touch on his shoulder stays with him even after he showers. When they sit next to each other at Le Blues Bar, Methos' thigh presses against his own; after half an hour, Methos is leaning against him, the solid weight of him warm against Duncan's side from knee to shoulder.
He tries to return the casual touches once; places a hand over Methos' at the bar while the man is expounding on some point of existentialist philosophy, but Methos stops in mid-sentence and looks at him with blank, dark eyes that give nothing away until Duncan moves his hand. Five minutes later, Methos gets up to get another beer and trails his fingertips along the breadth of Duncan's shoulders as he passes behind him. The next morning, Duncan wakes up tangled in the sheets, still achingly hard, and it takes only a few quick pulls before he's coming, skin still tingling with the memory of Methos' hands on him in dreams. When he remembers that the man himself is only fifteen feet away, the thought of waking him up by sucking him off is so visceral that he's halfway out of bed before he has a chance to think it through. He retreats to the bathroom instead, where he showers and shaves with a grim intensity.
Methos is still curled up on the couch when he emerges from the bathroom. Duncan pokes at him, then pokes at him again. Methos says something in a dialect of Spanish that Duncan doesn't recognize, but the tone is unmistakably insulting. Undaunted, Duncan strips the covers from Methos' prone body -- and freezes, his mouth going dry.
Methos is clad only in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. It's the most of his body that Duncan's ever seen at one time, and the lean, heavy muscles of Methos' arms, the long legs, are enough to stop him in his tracks. That proves to be a mistake. Methos sweeps one of those long legs out to the side and knocks Duncan to the floor before snatching the blanket back and rolling up into his cocoon. Duncan, from his new seat on the floor, watches the dark spill of Methos' hair on the pillow for a long minute before getting up and changing into running clothes.
Methos is in Duncan's bed when the latter returns to the loft, curled up beneath the blankets like a sarcastic male version of Goldilocks. Duncan is about to indignantly evict him, but the sudden realization that Methos is in his bed prompts him to take another shower instead. This one is cold.
By the time he gets out of this shower, Methos is awake and cooking breakfast. He beckons Duncan over to help, and autocratically directs the preparation of omelets, English muffins, and bacon. Duncan starts by chopping green peppers, but he's barely begun before Methos is frowning at him.
"What?" he asks.
"The pieces should be smaller," Methos says, walking around behind him. He places his hands over Duncan's; they are close enough in height that he has to put his chin on Duncan's shoulder in order to see what he's doing. The feel of Methos' hands over his, Methos' breath warm on his neck and ear, send shivers racing over Duncan's skin. When Methos nods his satisfaction and steps away, Duncan's back feels cold and bare.
Duncan eats all of his breakfast, but doesn't taste a bite of it. He's too busy watching Methos: the muscles in his forearms, his throat working as he swallows, his long fingers tapping idly on the table as he scans through the newspaper. After breakfast they wash the dishes together, and Methos touches him forty-seven times before they're done. Most of them seem accidental; still, Duncan is hard and aching by the time they've finished.
They spend the morning sparring. Methos, as usual, stays in his jeans and sweater, but Duncan keeps finding himself distracted by the memory of Methos in t-shirt and boxers; keeps thinking about the hint of muscle he'd seen the night before, hidden by Methos' t-shirt. Even while they're sparring, Methos keeps touching him; brushes against his arm or his leg, or throws himself underneath and inside Duncan's defences to run a hand over his chest or side in some new Methosian version of counting coup. Duncan is incredibly grateful for the loose pants he wears to train in.
He makes salads for lunch. Methos leans against the counter beside him while he cuts chicken and chops vegetables, then watches him wash the lunch dishes with a strange, unreadable look in his eyes. Afterwards, Duncan settles down with his bookkeeping while Methos takes his journal and a beer to a chair nearby. They work in silence for an hour or so, but Duncan can feel the weight of Methos' gaze on him the entire time. Every time he looks up, the man is watching him calmly, with an expression that reveals nothing.
"I'm going to get another beer," Methos says eventually. As he passes by on his way to the kitchen, he touches Duncan's shoulder gently; on his way back, he brushes his fingertips over the back of Duncan's neck.
It's the final straw. Duncan is instantly hard, all of the caution he's been exercising over the past few months reduced to insignificance by the feel of Methos' callused fingertips and weeks of mounting frustration. He shoves the desk chair back and surges to his feet. Catching up to Methos in two long strides, he grabs him by the upper arms and backs him into the wall. Methos drops the beer. It hits the floor and fizzes onto the rug. Duncan is vaguely aware of the wetness soaking into his shoes, but the rest of his attention is taken up by Methos, who is staring at him narrow-eyed.
"MacLeod, what the hell do you think you're doing?" he asks crossly. There are twin spots of colour staining his high cheekbones, and his arms are as tense as steel cables beneath Duncan's hands.
"Shut up," Duncan growls."Why don't you tell me what the hell you're playing at?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Methos snaps. "Let go of me, you provincial Scottish barbarian."
"Oh, really?" Duncan asks, his voice dropping dangerously. He squeezes Methos' arms a little harder, looms over him to make his point. Methos inhales sharply, his pupils suddenly so dilated as to make his eyes look almost black in the barge's dim lighting. "Are you sure you want me to, Methos?"
"Positive," Methos says. He's clearly striving for his usual superior calm, but there's a breathlessness in his voice that sends a shiver racing along Duncan's nerves.
It's pretty obvious now that Methos had been playing a one-sided game, a game he hadn't expected Duncan to be aware of. He certainly hadn't expected reciprocation. The heady enjoyment of defying the man's expectations, of startling Methos, is almost dizzying.
"You don't seem positive," Duncan says, deliberately letting his voice sink even lower and watching as Methos' eyes flutter briefly closed. They're only inches apart now, and he can feel the heat radiating between their bodies.
"No?" Methos asks. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes keep sliding down to Duncan's mouth.
"You keep touching me, Methos," Duncan says. He lets go of one of Methos' arms; brushes his fingers along the line of Methos' cheekbone. The other man's skin is surprisingly smooth. Duncan lets his fingers drift from Methos' cheek up to and through his hair. "You know you're doing it; you keep putting a hand on my shoulder; my face, my arm." As he talks, he runs his other hand across Methos' shoulder, down his arm, tracing the curve of muscle through the man's sweater until he reaches bare skin at Methos' wrist, circles it with his fingers. The pulse at Methos' throat is jumping visibly. The rush of triumph through Duncan's veins is nearly as bright as his arousal.
"You can't tell me it isn't deliberate," he breathes, leaning in closer. He's still touching Methos; gentle, teasing brushes of hands and fingertips over the back of the man's hand, along his palm, between his fingers. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" he asks, directly into Methos' ear.
Methos closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall in what is probably an attempt at getting some distance. Instead, it serves only to expose the long column of his throat. Duncan brings his hand up, runs the tip of his index finger along Methos' jawline and down the curve of his neck. Methos makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like a bitten-off moan. His breath is coming in shallow gasps, and when he opens his eyes, the iris is nothing more than a thin rim of green-hazel around glittering black pupils. Duncan cups his hand around the back of Methos' neck, feels the tremor that runs through the other man, and leans forward to close the last few inches between their bodies.
Methos is already hard, the heat of him pressing insistently into Duncan's thigh even as the man himself pulls slightly away. Duncan doesn't bother arguing. Instead, he bends his head and bites at the muscle on the side of Methos' neck. This time Methos gasps out loud and his hands come up from their previous position at his sides to clutch at Duncan's upper arms, gripping hard enough to bruise. Duncan licks softly at the already fading teethmarks, then at the place where Methos' shoulder and neck meet before turning his attention to the sensitive spot just below the man's ear. Methos is shuddering beneath his weight, hands clenching and unclenching on Duncan's arms, and his eyes, dark and hungry, have never left Duncan's face.
"You keep touching me," Duncan repeats, taking advantage of their closeness to rumble the words directly into Methos' ear. "Do you have any idea what it's doing to me?"
"It wasn't -" Methos groans as Duncan shifts his hips, bringing their erections into contact through their jeans. "It wasn't -- deliberate. "
"No?" Duncan growls. This time he bites hard at Methos' neck, sucking and licking at it, and the man cries out, his hips thrusting blindly forward as Duncan works his way none too gently up Methos' neck with teeth and lips and tongue. "Are you sure about that, Methos?" Duncan's taken enough Immortal lovers to know that the neck is an infallible erogenous zone, but he's never had anyone react like Methos is doing. He's coming apart under Duncan's mouth and hands, practically incoherent.
One of Methos' hands releases Duncan's arm, and half a second later, Methos' long fingers are tangling in his hair, while Duncan slides one hand up and under Methos' baggy sweater. The feel of Methos' skin beneath his fingertips is everything that Duncan's been fantasizing about since the man started this infernal game. Suddenly touch isn't enough; he has to see Methos, and he finds that his own hands are trembling as he pulls the man's sweater off.
Methos is wearing a t-shirt beneath it; old, thin cotton worn to feather-softness. It clings to the muscles of his chest and torso in ways that Duncan hadn't been able to see last night. Instinctively, Duncan has always known that Methos was in good shape, but the slender form that has been hidden away beneath baggy sweaters and old jeans for the past few years is as much of a weapon as the man's sword, is just as deadly and infinitely more beautiful. He leans into Methos again, reveling in the feel of the other man's body against his, grinding against him as Methos' hips jerk involuntarily.
"I asked if you knew what you were doing to me," Duncan reminds him, low in his ear, and when Methos starts to answer, Duncan wraps a hand around the back of the man's neck and brings their mouths together. For a long moment, Methos is pliable, uncertain; then Duncan runs his tongue across Methos' lower lip, and suddenly Methos is kissing back frantically, one hand fisted in Duncan's hair, the other sliding down to wrap around his waist and pull their hips together.
"You've been driving me insane for weeks," Duncan says, breaking off the kiss to whisper in Methos' ear. "You touch me all the time; your hands on my skin, my hair, my back..." He punctuates his words with a few well-timed thrusts, and by licking a stripe up the side of Methos' neck. Methos' head falls backwards, hitting the wall with a thump that he doesn't even seem to feel.
"At first I didn't notice," Duncan continues, tracing his fingers over Methos' sides; over his cheekbones, his nose, the line of his jaw. "Then it was all I could think about, all I could concentrate on," he says, and kisses Methos again, hard, sliding his tongue into Methos' mouth, along the line of his teeth, the curve of his lip. When they finally separate, they're both breathing hard. Duncan's hands fall to the bottom of Methos' shirt, pulling it over his head and stripping it off. Methos is all lean muscle under soft, pale skin, and Duncan stops to run his hands over the man's chest.
Methos is still trembling beneath his touch, his eyes fluttering open and shut, and his hands have fallen back to his sides, clenched into fists. When Duncan brushes a nipple with the edge of his thumb, though, it seems to cross some invisible barrier; suddenly Methos is reaching for him, pulling him down into another searing kiss while nimble fingers make short work of the buttons on Duncan's shirt. He pushes the shirt back off Duncan's shoulders, lets it drop to the floor, and trails shaking hands over Duncan's chest, down his back.
The sensation is both strange and familiar. Methos' hands are more sword-callused even than his own, and the roughness on his skin sends a firestorm of desire rippling through him. Methos has been touching him for weeks, but now the man is doing it with intent, every movement meant to tease, to arouse. Long fingers trace over the muscles of his back, dip briefly below his waistband before climbing up over his ribs. Methos smooths a palm over his abdomen and up and across one nipple; again, calluses catch on his skin, make him shiver with delight. His next words are far from premeditated; in fact, he doesn't know that he's going to say them until he opens his mouth.
"I want you to fuck me," he says. He knows his voice is embarrassingly shaky, knows he sounds just at the edge of control -- but the effect on Methos is electrifying. His fingers dig briefly, almost painfully, into Duncan's sides, and his eyes widen, dark and hungry. He leans in and kisses Duncan again, pressing them chest to chest for the first time. The feel of Methos' bare skin under his own is enough to tear a groan from Duncan's throat. Methos traces a thumbnail along the edge of his spine, and he can feel himself arching forward involuntarily.
"Say it again," Methos demands. His voice is low, and as dark as his eyes.
"I want you to fuck me," Duncan says again, and watches as Methos closes his eyes as if he's hiding some unchecked emotion behind his lids. When he opens them again, all of that laser-bright, frightening focus is on Duncan's face.
"You're sure?" he asks. He's touching Duncan again; those little, innocuous touches that are nothing like innocuous now; the press of fingertips against a collarbone, the brush of his palm over Duncan's back.
"Yes," Duncan says. He's never wanted this before, never had anything with another man that went further than mutual relief, but the feel of Methos against him, under him, makes him want things he's never known to want. "Please," he says deliberately.
Methos' groan is heartfelt; then suddenly he moves and Duncan's the one being pressed back, not against the wall but onto the bed, Methos solid and strong and holding him in place, hands tracing over the muscles of his chest, his stomach, his thighs, but never touching his cock, which has been aching since Methos' impromptu cooking lesson
"I didn't realize it was your sort of thing, MacLeod," he murmurs. His tone is light, but Duncan can hear the hesitancy in his voice. What remains unspoken is that if Methos had known, they wouldn't be here now; if he'd thought there was a chance of being figured out, he'd never have touched Duncan at all.
"I've thought about it," Duncan admits, responding to the words and tone and present rather than to what's left unsaid. Methos pulls back so quickly that Duncan is left reaching for him, worried that he's done something wrong -- but Methos' expression is a mixture of awe and desire, surprise and heat, and his hands are still tracing maddening patterns over Duncan's torso.
"You've never --" he asks.
"No," Duncan starts, but doesn't have time to elaborate before Methos is sliding down his body, before Methos is on his knees in front of him, long clever fingers working his slacks open, pulling his boxers down.
"I'm going to suck you off, first," Methos says, voice rough, "and then I'm going to fuck you." Duncan's cock twitches, and Methos takes a sharp breath. "You have to tell me you want it, though," he says, eyes never leaving Duncan's.
Duncan can barely breathe. Methos' hands are braced on his thighs, fingertips just centimeters from where he wants them the most, and Methos' mouth is so close to his cock that he can feel the heat of the man's breath.
"Please," he manages, after a long moment. "Methos, please."
Methos' eyes darken even further, and he licks a broad stripe up the underside of Duncan's cock before leaning forward and swallowing him down. Duncan shouts and buries his hands in Methos' hair, thrusting forward involuntarily. Instead of pushing him away, Methos hums encouragingly, throat working in a rhythm that soon has Duncan writhing in near-desperation. He slides one hand up, cupping Duncan's balls and rolling them gently between his fingers. Pulling back slightly, he sinks down again, tongue tracing patterns along the shaft of Duncan's cock while one finger teases at the entrance to Duncan's body; delicate, fleeting touches that leave him shaking, frantic with a combination of anticipation and desire.
He's briefly aware of hearing a drawer open and close; then Methos' fingers, newly-slicked, return to their teasing caresses. When Methos' first finger presses up and into him, he has to force himself to relax against the strange feeling of invasion. Methos has stopped sucking him, and is instead watching, with an expression on his face that is not unreadable, but incomprehensible. When he slides a second finger in, bends his head back down over Duncan's cock, the latter gasps in increasing pleasure. He'd never expected it to feel like this, a slow building need that twists through him, washing over and around him while Methos' free hand smooths over his sides, his stomach, his thighs, gentling him. He's torn, caught between Methos' fingers and Methos' mouth, possessed and split open, and unable to choose. When Methos pulls back, adds a third finger and brushes over something inside him that sends pleasure sparking through him, he can no longer hold back a cry.
"Methos," he manages, just as Methos does it again, leaving him gasping. Methos pulls away from Duncan's cock, sitting up, eyes intent on Duncan's face, though his fingers never stop moving, twisting, and his other hand is tracing teasing, deliberate patterns over Duncan's chest. There's no misreading Methos' expression now. His face is as open as Duncan has ever seen it, naked with desire and longing and a hint of something deeper that catches at his chest, so bright as to be almost painful. Methos brushes his prostate again, and Duncan realizes that his cock is throbbing almost forgotten against his stomach while he fucks himself back onto Methos' fingers.
He can't take his eyes from Methos' face; can't look away from the undisguised longing there. Despite their relative positions, it's Methos who's being laid bare. Duncan's never seen such an open expression on the man's face, has never seen him look so unguarded, and that alone is almost enough to push him over the edge; would be, except that Methos is sliding his fingers out. Duncan can't help the noise of protest that tears itself from his throat. Methos swallows hard, his other hand tightening momentarily on Duncan's side.
"I'm going to fuck you now, Duncan," Methos says, low and urgent. The dark, raw sound of Methos' voice, of his own name being pronounced in those tones, sends a tremor rippling through his entire body, again pushes him to the edge of orgasm; then Methos is stepping back and away.
"Don't move," he orders. Duncan does as he's told, hands twitching as he watches Methos shed the rest of his clothing, his eyes on Duncan while Duncan watches him hungrily. Once he's nude, he steps back towards the bed, all traces of the self-consciousness he sometimes displays vanished. Climbing onto the bed, he plants a hand to either side of Duncan's face and kisses him deeply, bringing their bodies together. The sensation of Methos' skin on his, of muscle; of his hands, his legs, his body -- Duncan is dizzy with gratification and desire, and now he's the one trembling, coming apart.
Methos is rock-hard, and the slide of their erections is an almost unbearable pleasure until Methos slides down his body again, pausing to bite gently at one nipple, to soothe it with his tongue, before turning his attention to the other. Duncan is writhing beneath his weight, lips parted, eyes wide. He can't tear his gaze away from Methos, can't look away. He's not sure what he's seeing in Methos' eyes, but he knows it's genuine, knows it's truth -- and he knows, too, that if Methos knew how naked his own gaze was he would close his eyes, might even leave. He pulls Methos up to kiss him again, cradles his face gently in both hands and ignores the frantic demands of his own body to make the kiss long and slow and achingly sweet. He kisses Methos until they're both breathless, and when Methos finally pulls away, his eyes are glittering, are shining and brilliant.
"Duncan," Methos says and kisses him again, sucks and bites his way down Duncan's neck, pressing a series of lingering, wet kisses across Duncan's chest. Methos is murmuring something in a language that Duncan doesn't understand, the same series of phrases whispered over and over. Duncan hears his own name, and a note that sounds almost like wonder in Methos' voice, but nothing else is recognizable. Methos slides two fingers back into him, bends his head back over Duncan's cock, and sucks him hard while stretching him again. His eyes never leaves Duncan's face, and the expression in them is suddenly too much, too much; Duncan has to reach down and pull him away.
"I'm not going to last much longer," he manages. "Just -- please, Methos, just do it."
"All right." Methos' voice is shaking almost as much as Duncan's. He twists his fingers again and Duncan cries out again, clutching at Methos' shoulders while ecstasy flares through him.
"Should I turn over?" Duncan asks, when he can speak again. Methos shakes his head, sliding his fingers out. Again, the loss leaves Duncan feeling empty, hollow.
"No," he says hoarsely. "I want to see your face." Duncan's hands tighten involuntarily on Methos' shoulders. For the first time, he wonders if his emotions are as visible to Methos as Methos' are to him, and isn't sure if he hopes they are or if he hopes they aren't.
Instead of trusting his voice, he nods, and Methos leans down for another long, lingering kiss before pulling away to lift Duncan's legs and spread them apart. The head of his cock nudges at Duncan's entrance, bigger and thicker than his fingers. Duncan is caught between apprehension and anticipation, nervousness and desire. When Methos finally starts to press in, though, the heavy, full burn of him quickly turns into a desperate, greedy hunger, a desire for more that shakes him to the core. Methos is moving so slowly, a bare centimeter at a time, every line of his face taut with the effort of control until finally Duncan can't wait any longer, until he reaches up and grabs Methos' hips, pulling him forward.
Methos' lips press tightly together. He starts to move, but slowly; there's still too much control behind it, and though Duncan appreciates the care he's taking, it's not what he wants. He wants Methos shaking, out of control with desire, trembling and breaking apart above him, inside him, and he says as much, says it in a low, fierce voice that makes Methos' hips stutter, his eyes widen and then flutter closed, until finally Duncan growls, "Just fuck me, Methos. Do it," and Methos stops trying for control.
Duncan can feel the difference; can feel the desperate hunger suddenly unchecked, tangible in the way Methos' hands slide on his skin, in the frantic kisses pressed against his temple, his face, his hands, even as Methos is sliding in and out, cock brushing Duncan's prostate with every thrust. Duncan shoves back to meet him, can feel both of their bodies winding tighter and tighter. Above him, Methos is murmuring fervently in a scattering of languages, words sliding easily into the silences between breaths and the sounds of their bodies against one another.
"Methos," he gasps again, "Methos." Methos presses a kiss to the palm of Duncan's hand as he wraps his own hand around Duncan's cock. One pull, two, and the swipe of his thumb along the head and Duncan is coming, his whole body shaking as he follows his release into ecstasy. It's enough to bring Methos over the edge too. Duncan feels him tense, feels him thrust hard and unevenly, once, twice, again. When he comes, it is with Duncan's name on his lips, and his fingers are tangled with Duncan's own.
***
Author's Notes: This is my very first foray into NC-17 rated fic. Thanks go not only to
lferion, but to
runriggers, also for beta-help and encouragement. Thanks also to
marauderswolf, who was flatteringly pleased when I told her I'd written a PWP. The title is borrowed from a Lawrence Durrell poem, the text of which can be found here.
lferion, folks. (If it's crap, of course, that part's my fault). I wanted to scrap it; she made me keep it. She held my hand while I wrote and re-wrote it, and reassured me that it was worth keeping. Then she poked me into reformatting it and posting it. She also spent the entire time dealing patiently with my 'I can't post this; I've never posted smut before' jitters, which were formidable, and gently guiding me back onto the right track when I went off on one of my many tangents.
In other words, if it weren't for her, this story would never have been written, let alone posted. Thanks for the encouragement, the kind words, and the constant prodding,
lferion, This one's for you.
This Unimportant Morning
After Byron's death, things are surprisingly normal -- far more normal, in fact, than Duncan expects them to be. Methos is standoffish at first -- he makes no attempt at conversation when they're together, doesn't come anywhere near the the barge, and abandons even the illusion of courtesy when Duncan does speak to him -- until Kieran Miller comes along looking to make a name for himself, and very nearly succeeds in taking Duncan's head in the process. It's enough to make Methos lose his temper, and by the time he's finished yelling at Duncan for gross stupidity the ice between them has been broken. They walk back into the Le Blues Bar shoulder to shoulder.
Joe takes one look at them and grunts "Well, finally," pours Methos a beer and Duncan a scotch, and then settles in to get the details of the fight with Miller. That night Methos sleeps on Duncan's sofa instead of at a hotel, and by the time they've finished breakfast in the morning, the last of the lingering tension between them has vanished. Duncan tries once to apologize, but Methos cuts him off with a gesture and an 'I always knew he'd never make old bones' that sounds more resigned than angry. No more is said.
They go back to spending their evenings at Le Blues Bar, and Methos takes up more or less permanent residence on Duncan's couch again. The only real difference is that now they seem to spend their days together as well. Duncan has the summer free from the University, and Methos has decided that Adam Pierson is taking a year off, so neither of them have any real responsibilities; neither of them have anywhere to be.
They wander around parks, into libraries and museums and restaurants, and investigate the Latin Quarter. They spar, sometimes with live blades and sometimes with wood, and through it all winds the thread of conversation. The topics are varied in the way that only conversations with Methos can be: modern politics segues into the Roman Empire, which gives way to the use of poisons for medical purposes in the seventeenth century, and a hundred other subjects besides.
All in all, nothing is unusual; nothing has changed -- except for one thing, and it's so small that at first Duncan doesn't even notice it. Methos starts touching him. It's nothing blatant; it's not even overt. A hand warm on his shoulder in passing, fingertips on the small of his back to guide him through a door; the brush of Methos' fingers over his own when he passes the man a book. In fact, it's only because it's Methos that he notices it at all, because Methos never touches anybody casually. Physical contact is limited to times when Methos is trying to make a point, and he doesn't welcome casual touches from others, either. Duncan learned early in their relationship not to sling a friendly arm around the man's shoulders -- but now Methos is the one doing the touching, and he's doing it all the time.
At first, Duncan thinks it's a sign that Methos has decided that he no longer needs to be quite so cautious around his friends -- but then he notices that Methos hasn't suddenly started touching anyone else. After that, he isn't sure why Methos is doing it -- and the uncertainty makes it impossible for him to think about anything else. The next time Methos places a hand on the small of his back he feels the heat of it through three layers of clothing, and the memory of it lingers on his skin all day. He can feel Methos' fingers around his wrist long after the man himself is gone; a touch on his shoulder stays with him even after he showers. When they sit next to each other at Le Blues Bar, Methos' thigh presses against his own; after half an hour, Methos is leaning against him, the solid weight of him warm against Duncan's side from knee to shoulder.
He tries to return the casual touches once; places a hand over Methos' at the bar while the man is expounding on some point of existentialist philosophy, but Methos stops in mid-sentence and looks at him with blank, dark eyes that give nothing away until Duncan moves his hand. Five minutes later, Methos gets up to get another beer and trails his fingertips along the breadth of Duncan's shoulders as he passes behind him. The next morning, Duncan wakes up tangled in the sheets, still achingly hard, and it takes only a few quick pulls before he's coming, skin still tingling with the memory of Methos' hands on him in dreams. When he remembers that the man himself is only fifteen feet away, the thought of waking him up by sucking him off is so visceral that he's halfway out of bed before he has a chance to think it through. He retreats to the bathroom instead, where he showers and shaves with a grim intensity.
Methos is still curled up on the couch when he emerges from the bathroom. Duncan pokes at him, then pokes at him again. Methos says something in a dialect of Spanish that Duncan doesn't recognize, but the tone is unmistakably insulting. Undaunted, Duncan strips the covers from Methos' prone body -- and freezes, his mouth going dry.
Methos is clad only in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. It's the most of his body that Duncan's ever seen at one time, and the lean, heavy muscles of Methos' arms, the long legs, are enough to stop him in his tracks. That proves to be a mistake. Methos sweeps one of those long legs out to the side and knocks Duncan to the floor before snatching the blanket back and rolling up into his cocoon. Duncan, from his new seat on the floor, watches the dark spill of Methos' hair on the pillow for a long minute before getting up and changing into running clothes.
Methos is in Duncan's bed when the latter returns to the loft, curled up beneath the blankets like a sarcastic male version of Goldilocks. Duncan is about to indignantly evict him, but the sudden realization that Methos is in his bed prompts him to take another shower instead. This one is cold.
By the time he gets out of this shower, Methos is awake and cooking breakfast. He beckons Duncan over to help, and autocratically directs the preparation of omelets, English muffins, and bacon. Duncan starts by chopping green peppers, but he's barely begun before Methos is frowning at him.
"What?" he asks.
"The pieces should be smaller," Methos says, walking around behind him. He places his hands over Duncan's; they are close enough in height that he has to put his chin on Duncan's shoulder in order to see what he's doing. The feel of Methos' hands over his, Methos' breath warm on his neck and ear, send shivers racing over Duncan's skin. When Methos nods his satisfaction and steps away, Duncan's back feels cold and bare.
Duncan eats all of his breakfast, but doesn't taste a bite of it. He's too busy watching Methos: the muscles in his forearms, his throat working as he swallows, his long fingers tapping idly on the table as he scans through the newspaper. After breakfast they wash the dishes together, and Methos touches him forty-seven times before they're done. Most of them seem accidental; still, Duncan is hard and aching by the time they've finished.
They spend the morning sparring. Methos, as usual, stays in his jeans and sweater, but Duncan keeps finding himself distracted by the memory of Methos in t-shirt and boxers; keeps thinking about the hint of muscle he'd seen the night before, hidden by Methos' t-shirt. Even while they're sparring, Methos keeps touching him; brushes against his arm or his leg, or throws himself underneath and inside Duncan's defences to run a hand over his chest or side in some new Methosian version of counting coup. Duncan is incredibly grateful for the loose pants he wears to train in.
He makes salads for lunch. Methos leans against the counter beside him while he cuts chicken and chops vegetables, then watches him wash the lunch dishes with a strange, unreadable look in his eyes. Afterwards, Duncan settles down with his bookkeeping while Methos takes his journal and a beer to a chair nearby. They work in silence for an hour or so, but Duncan can feel the weight of Methos' gaze on him the entire time. Every time he looks up, the man is watching him calmly, with an expression that reveals nothing.
"I'm going to get another beer," Methos says eventually. As he passes by on his way to the kitchen, he touches Duncan's shoulder gently; on his way back, he brushes his fingertips over the back of Duncan's neck.
It's the final straw. Duncan is instantly hard, all of the caution he's been exercising over the past few months reduced to insignificance by the feel of Methos' callused fingertips and weeks of mounting frustration. He shoves the desk chair back and surges to his feet. Catching up to Methos in two long strides, he grabs him by the upper arms and backs him into the wall. Methos drops the beer. It hits the floor and fizzes onto the rug. Duncan is vaguely aware of the wetness soaking into his shoes, but the rest of his attention is taken up by Methos, who is staring at him narrow-eyed.
"MacLeod, what the hell do you think you're doing?" he asks crossly. There are twin spots of colour staining his high cheekbones, and his arms are as tense as steel cables beneath Duncan's hands.
"Shut up," Duncan growls."Why don't you tell me what the hell you're playing at?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Methos snaps. "Let go of me, you provincial Scottish barbarian."
"Oh, really?" Duncan asks, his voice dropping dangerously. He squeezes Methos' arms a little harder, looms over him to make his point. Methos inhales sharply, his pupils suddenly so dilated as to make his eyes look almost black in the barge's dim lighting. "Are you sure you want me to, Methos?"
"Positive," Methos says. He's clearly striving for his usual superior calm, but there's a breathlessness in his voice that sends a shiver racing along Duncan's nerves.
It's pretty obvious now that Methos had been playing a one-sided game, a game he hadn't expected Duncan to be aware of. He certainly hadn't expected reciprocation. The heady enjoyment of defying the man's expectations, of startling Methos, is almost dizzying.
"You don't seem positive," Duncan says, deliberately letting his voice sink even lower and watching as Methos' eyes flutter briefly closed. They're only inches apart now, and he can feel the heat radiating between their bodies.
"No?" Methos asks. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes keep sliding down to Duncan's mouth.
"You keep touching me, Methos," Duncan says. He lets go of one of Methos' arms; brushes his fingers along the line of Methos' cheekbone. The other man's skin is surprisingly smooth. Duncan lets his fingers drift from Methos' cheek up to and through his hair. "You know you're doing it; you keep putting a hand on my shoulder; my face, my arm." As he talks, he runs his other hand across Methos' shoulder, down his arm, tracing the curve of muscle through the man's sweater until he reaches bare skin at Methos' wrist, circles it with his fingers. The pulse at Methos' throat is jumping visibly. The rush of triumph through Duncan's veins is nearly as bright as his arousal.
"You can't tell me it isn't deliberate," he breathes, leaning in closer. He's still touching Methos; gentle, teasing brushes of hands and fingertips over the back of the man's hand, along his palm, between his fingers. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" he asks, directly into Methos' ear.
Methos closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall in what is probably an attempt at getting some distance. Instead, it serves only to expose the long column of his throat. Duncan brings his hand up, runs the tip of his index finger along Methos' jawline and down the curve of his neck. Methos makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like a bitten-off moan. His breath is coming in shallow gasps, and when he opens his eyes, the iris is nothing more than a thin rim of green-hazel around glittering black pupils. Duncan cups his hand around the back of Methos' neck, feels the tremor that runs through the other man, and leans forward to close the last few inches between their bodies.
Methos is already hard, the heat of him pressing insistently into Duncan's thigh even as the man himself pulls slightly away. Duncan doesn't bother arguing. Instead, he bends his head and bites at the muscle on the side of Methos' neck. This time Methos gasps out loud and his hands come up from their previous position at his sides to clutch at Duncan's upper arms, gripping hard enough to bruise. Duncan licks softly at the already fading teethmarks, then at the place where Methos' shoulder and neck meet before turning his attention to the sensitive spot just below the man's ear. Methos is shuddering beneath his weight, hands clenching and unclenching on Duncan's arms, and his eyes, dark and hungry, have never left Duncan's face.
"You keep touching me," Duncan repeats, taking advantage of their closeness to rumble the words directly into Methos' ear. "Do you have any idea what it's doing to me?"
"It wasn't -" Methos groans as Duncan shifts his hips, bringing their erections into contact through their jeans. "It wasn't -- deliberate. "
"No?" Duncan growls. This time he bites hard at Methos' neck, sucking and licking at it, and the man cries out, his hips thrusting blindly forward as Duncan works his way none too gently up Methos' neck with teeth and lips and tongue. "Are you sure about that, Methos?" Duncan's taken enough Immortal lovers to know that the neck is an infallible erogenous zone, but he's never had anyone react like Methos is doing. He's coming apart under Duncan's mouth and hands, practically incoherent.
One of Methos' hands releases Duncan's arm, and half a second later, Methos' long fingers are tangling in his hair, while Duncan slides one hand up and under Methos' baggy sweater. The feel of Methos' skin beneath his fingertips is everything that Duncan's been fantasizing about since the man started this infernal game. Suddenly touch isn't enough; he has to see Methos, and he finds that his own hands are trembling as he pulls the man's sweater off.
Methos is wearing a t-shirt beneath it; old, thin cotton worn to feather-softness. It clings to the muscles of his chest and torso in ways that Duncan hadn't been able to see last night. Instinctively, Duncan has always known that Methos was in good shape, but the slender form that has been hidden away beneath baggy sweaters and old jeans for the past few years is as much of a weapon as the man's sword, is just as deadly and infinitely more beautiful. He leans into Methos again, reveling in the feel of the other man's body against his, grinding against him as Methos' hips jerk involuntarily.
"I asked if you knew what you were doing to me," Duncan reminds him, low in his ear, and when Methos starts to answer, Duncan wraps a hand around the back of the man's neck and brings their mouths together. For a long moment, Methos is pliable, uncertain; then Duncan runs his tongue across Methos' lower lip, and suddenly Methos is kissing back frantically, one hand fisted in Duncan's hair, the other sliding down to wrap around his waist and pull their hips together.
"You've been driving me insane for weeks," Duncan says, breaking off the kiss to whisper in Methos' ear. "You touch me all the time; your hands on my skin, my hair, my back..." He punctuates his words with a few well-timed thrusts, and by licking a stripe up the side of Methos' neck. Methos' head falls backwards, hitting the wall with a thump that he doesn't even seem to feel.
"At first I didn't notice," Duncan continues, tracing his fingers over Methos' sides; over his cheekbones, his nose, the line of his jaw. "Then it was all I could think about, all I could concentrate on," he says, and kisses Methos again, hard, sliding his tongue into Methos' mouth, along the line of his teeth, the curve of his lip. When they finally separate, they're both breathing hard. Duncan's hands fall to the bottom of Methos' shirt, pulling it over his head and stripping it off. Methos is all lean muscle under soft, pale skin, and Duncan stops to run his hands over the man's chest.
Methos is still trembling beneath his touch, his eyes fluttering open and shut, and his hands have fallen back to his sides, clenched into fists. When Duncan brushes a nipple with the edge of his thumb, though, it seems to cross some invisible barrier; suddenly Methos is reaching for him, pulling him down into another searing kiss while nimble fingers make short work of the buttons on Duncan's shirt. He pushes the shirt back off Duncan's shoulders, lets it drop to the floor, and trails shaking hands over Duncan's chest, down his back.
The sensation is both strange and familiar. Methos' hands are more sword-callused even than his own, and the roughness on his skin sends a firestorm of desire rippling through him. Methos has been touching him for weeks, but now the man is doing it with intent, every movement meant to tease, to arouse. Long fingers trace over the muscles of his back, dip briefly below his waistband before climbing up over his ribs. Methos smooths a palm over his abdomen and up and across one nipple; again, calluses catch on his skin, make him shiver with delight. His next words are far from premeditated; in fact, he doesn't know that he's going to say them until he opens his mouth.
"I want you to fuck me," he says. He knows his voice is embarrassingly shaky, knows he sounds just at the edge of control -- but the effect on Methos is electrifying. His fingers dig briefly, almost painfully, into Duncan's sides, and his eyes widen, dark and hungry. He leans in and kisses Duncan again, pressing them chest to chest for the first time. The feel of Methos' bare skin under his own is enough to tear a groan from Duncan's throat. Methos traces a thumbnail along the edge of his spine, and he can feel himself arching forward involuntarily.
"Say it again," Methos demands. His voice is low, and as dark as his eyes.
"I want you to fuck me," Duncan says again, and watches as Methos closes his eyes as if he's hiding some unchecked emotion behind his lids. When he opens them again, all of that laser-bright, frightening focus is on Duncan's face.
"You're sure?" he asks. He's touching Duncan again; those little, innocuous touches that are nothing like innocuous now; the press of fingertips against a collarbone, the brush of his palm over Duncan's back.
"Yes," Duncan says. He's never wanted this before, never had anything with another man that went further than mutual relief, but the feel of Methos against him, under him, makes him want things he's never known to want. "Please," he says deliberately.
Methos' groan is heartfelt; then suddenly he moves and Duncan's the one being pressed back, not against the wall but onto the bed, Methos solid and strong and holding him in place, hands tracing over the muscles of his chest, his stomach, his thighs, but never touching his cock, which has been aching since Methos' impromptu cooking lesson
"I didn't realize it was your sort of thing, MacLeod," he murmurs. His tone is light, but Duncan can hear the hesitancy in his voice. What remains unspoken is that if Methos had known, they wouldn't be here now; if he'd thought there was a chance of being figured out, he'd never have touched Duncan at all.
"I've thought about it," Duncan admits, responding to the words and tone and present rather than to what's left unsaid. Methos pulls back so quickly that Duncan is left reaching for him, worried that he's done something wrong -- but Methos' expression is a mixture of awe and desire, surprise and heat, and his hands are still tracing maddening patterns over Duncan's torso.
"You've never --" he asks.
"No," Duncan starts, but doesn't have time to elaborate before Methos is sliding down his body, before Methos is on his knees in front of him, long clever fingers working his slacks open, pulling his boxers down.
"I'm going to suck you off, first," Methos says, voice rough, "and then I'm going to fuck you." Duncan's cock twitches, and Methos takes a sharp breath. "You have to tell me you want it, though," he says, eyes never leaving Duncan's.
Duncan can barely breathe. Methos' hands are braced on his thighs, fingertips just centimeters from where he wants them the most, and Methos' mouth is so close to his cock that he can feel the heat of the man's breath.
"Please," he manages, after a long moment. "Methos, please."
Methos' eyes darken even further, and he licks a broad stripe up the underside of Duncan's cock before leaning forward and swallowing him down. Duncan shouts and buries his hands in Methos' hair, thrusting forward involuntarily. Instead of pushing him away, Methos hums encouragingly, throat working in a rhythm that soon has Duncan writhing in near-desperation. He slides one hand up, cupping Duncan's balls and rolling them gently between his fingers. Pulling back slightly, he sinks down again, tongue tracing patterns along the shaft of Duncan's cock while one finger teases at the entrance to Duncan's body; delicate, fleeting touches that leave him shaking, frantic with a combination of anticipation and desire.
He's briefly aware of hearing a drawer open and close; then Methos' fingers, newly-slicked, return to their teasing caresses. When Methos' first finger presses up and into him, he has to force himself to relax against the strange feeling of invasion. Methos has stopped sucking him, and is instead watching, with an expression on his face that is not unreadable, but incomprehensible. When he slides a second finger in, bends his head back down over Duncan's cock, the latter gasps in increasing pleasure. He'd never expected it to feel like this, a slow building need that twists through him, washing over and around him while Methos' free hand smooths over his sides, his stomach, his thighs, gentling him. He's torn, caught between Methos' fingers and Methos' mouth, possessed and split open, and unable to choose. When Methos pulls back, adds a third finger and brushes over something inside him that sends pleasure sparking through him, he can no longer hold back a cry.
"Methos," he manages, just as Methos does it again, leaving him gasping. Methos pulls away from Duncan's cock, sitting up, eyes intent on Duncan's face, though his fingers never stop moving, twisting, and his other hand is tracing teasing, deliberate patterns over Duncan's chest. There's no misreading Methos' expression now. His face is as open as Duncan has ever seen it, naked with desire and longing and a hint of something deeper that catches at his chest, so bright as to be almost painful. Methos brushes his prostate again, and Duncan realizes that his cock is throbbing almost forgotten against his stomach while he fucks himself back onto Methos' fingers.
He can't take his eyes from Methos' face; can't look away from the undisguised longing there. Despite their relative positions, it's Methos who's being laid bare. Duncan's never seen such an open expression on the man's face, has never seen him look so unguarded, and that alone is almost enough to push him over the edge; would be, except that Methos is sliding his fingers out. Duncan can't help the noise of protest that tears itself from his throat. Methos swallows hard, his other hand tightening momentarily on Duncan's side.
"I'm going to fuck you now, Duncan," Methos says, low and urgent. The dark, raw sound of Methos' voice, of his own name being pronounced in those tones, sends a tremor rippling through his entire body, again pushes him to the edge of orgasm; then Methos is stepping back and away.
"Don't move," he orders. Duncan does as he's told, hands twitching as he watches Methos shed the rest of his clothing, his eyes on Duncan while Duncan watches him hungrily. Once he's nude, he steps back towards the bed, all traces of the self-consciousness he sometimes displays vanished. Climbing onto the bed, he plants a hand to either side of Duncan's face and kisses him deeply, bringing their bodies together. The sensation of Methos' skin on his, of muscle; of his hands, his legs, his body -- Duncan is dizzy with gratification and desire, and now he's the one trembling, coming apart.
Methos is rock-hard, and the slide of their erections is an almost unbearable pleasure until Methos slides down his body again, pausing to bite gently at one nipple, to soothe it with his tongue, before turning his attention to the other. Duncan is writhing beneath his weight, lips parted, eyes wide. He can't tear his gaze away from Methos, can't look away. He's not sure what he's seeing in Methos' eyes, but he knows it's genuine, knows it's truth -- and he knows, too, that if Methos knew how naked his own gaze was he would close his eyes, might even leave. He pulls Methos up to kiss him again, cradles his face gently in both hands and ignores the frantic demands of his own body to make the kiss long and slow and achingly sweet. He kisses Methos until they're both breathless, and when Methos finally pulls away, his eyes are glittering, are shining and brilliant.
"Duncan," Methos says and kisses him again, sucks and bites his way down Duncan's neck, pressing a series of lingering, wet kisses across Duncan's chest. Methos is murmuring something in a language that Duncan doesn't understand, the same series of phrases whispered over and over. Duncan hears his own name, and a note that sounds almost like wonder in Methos' voice, but nothing else is recognizable. Methos slides two fingers back into him, bends his head back over Duncan's cock, and sucks him hard while stretching him again. His eyes never leaves Duncan's face, and the expression in them is suddenly too much, too much; Duncan has to reach down and pull him away.
"I'm not going to last much longer," he manages. "Just -- please, Methos, just do it."
"All right." Methos' voice is shaking almost as much as Duncan's. He twists his fingers again and Duncan cries out again, clutching at Methos' shoulders while ecstasy flares through him.
"Should I turn over?" Duncan asks, when he can speak again. Methos shakes his head, sliding his fingers out. Again, the loss leaves Duncan feeling empty, hollow.
"No," he says hoarsely. "I want to see your face." Duncan's hands tighten involuntarily on Methos' shoulders. For the first time, he wonders if his emotions are as visible to Methos as Methos' are to him, and isn't sure if he hopes they are or if he hopes they aren't.
Instead of trusting his voice, he nods, and Methos leans down for another long, lingering kiss before pulling away to lift Duncan's legs and spread them apart. The head of his cock nudges at Duncan's entrance, bigger and thicker than his fingers. Duncan is caught between apprehension and anticipation, nervousness and desire. When Methos finally starts to press in, though, the heavy, full burn of him quickly turns into a desperate, greedy hunger, a desire for more that shakes him to the core. Methos is moving so slowly, a bare centimeter at a time, every line of his face taut with the effort of control until finally Duncan can't wait any longer, until he reaches up and grabs Methos' hips, pulling him forward.
Methos' lips press tightly together. He starts to move, but slowly; there's still too much control behind it, and though Duncan appreciates the care he's taking, it's not what he wants. He wants Methos shaking, out of control with desire, trembling and breaking apart above him, inside him, and he says as much, says it in a low, fierce voice that makes Methos' hips stutter, his eyes widen and then flutter closed, until finally Duncan growls, "Just fuck me, Methos. Do it," and Methos stops trying for control.
Duncan can feel the difference; can feel the desperate hunger suddenly unchecked, tangible in the way Methos' hands slide on his skin, in the frantic kisses pressed against his temple, his face, his hands, even as Methos is sliding in and out, cock brushing Duncan's prostate with every thrust. Duncan shoves back to meet him, can feel both of their bodies winding tighter and tighter. Above him, Methos is murmuring fervently in a scattering of languages, words sliding easily into the silences between breaths and the sounds of their bodies against one another.
"Methos," he gasps again, "Methos." Methos presses a kiss to the palm of Duncan's hand as he wraps his own hand around Duncan's cock. One pull, two, and the swipe of his thumb along the head and Duncan is coming, his whole body shaking as he follows his release into ecstasy. It's enough to bring Methos over the edge too. Duncan feels him tense, feels him thrust hard and unevenly, once, twice, again. When he comes, it is with Duncan's name on his lips, and his fingers are tangled with Duncan's own.
***
Author's Notes: This is my very first foray into NC-17 rated fic. Thanks go not only to
lferion, but to
runriggers, also for beta-help and encouragement. Thanks also to
marauderswolf, who was flatteringly pleased when I told her I'd written a PWP. The title is borrowed from a Lawrence Durrell poem, the text of which can be found here.