Angel/Highlander: "Antiquaries" (NC-17, Wesley/Methos)
Last month there was a kissing meme, and litalex requested Wesley/Methos. Now, sometimes it takes me a little while to get around to things, and as I hadn't yet written anything for the month of July, I thought, "Okay! Sit down and write a Wesley/Methos snippet before you leave town!"
The result? Um. Not so much a snippet.
Antiquaries
Angel/Highlander crossover. NC-17, Wesley/Methos. 2,728 words.
"In which there are quips, a book, a sword, an immortal who cannot die, an erstwhile rogue demon hunter, and an unknown quantity of scotch."
Beta by nestra.
Methos found the request in an old e-mail account he remembered to check infrequently and almost trashed it along with the spam in his inbox, his eyes catching the subject name of an ancient occult text as he hit the delete button. He rescued the message from the trash and found a string of forwarded messages in which he knew perhaps one-third of the parties involved; at the bottom was the original query, a request to purchase the volume from a Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. The name sparked a moment of recognition that faded into a tickle. Methos moved the message back into his inbox, shut down his computer, and went to bed. Then he got back up, drank a few beers while watching some execrable program on the TV, and fell asleep on the couch.
As he was making tea the next morning, the tickle in his memory stretched and unfolded, causing Methos to recall the thin, bespectacled young man who had made business trips to Shakespeare & Company several times a year for books even Methos found exceedingly strange and difficult to locate. Pretty enough, very intelligent, but rather tightly wound and something of a prat; always paid in full.
Methos dealt in rare books sometimes, usually when it amused him or it meant visiting a place he wanted to see, and especially when he could charge a ridiculous price. That weekend, Methos retrieved the book in question from one of his storage facilities and sent Mr. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce an e-mail claiming that he had the book at hand, and named his exorbitant fee.
Methos's mobile rang an hour later.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Pierson? This is Pryce."
Methos put down a tin of biscuits and immediately looked out the windows at the street below. No movement. "I'd ask how you got this number, but as I gather you weren't put off by my fee, I'll assume you've gone up in the world since last we met."
"I thought a telephone conversation would be more expedient," said Pryce.
Methos continued moving through his flat, checking his security. "Quite."
"When can you deliver the item?" asked Pryce.
"Depends on where you want me to go," said Methos.
"Los Angeles."
"Long flight." Methos sat at his computer and began typing one-handed, bringing up possible itineraries to LAX. "Good thing you're making it worth my while. I'll leave as soon as possible."
"Call this number when you arrive at the airport," said Pryce. "I'll tell you where to go from there."
Pryce rang off without saying goodbye. Methos put down his mobile.
Well, his life had been lacking somewhat in intrigue lately. Perhaps this would be just the thing to remind Methos why he liked it that way.
*
Methos arrived in Los Angeles two days later, cranky, feeling cramped and in need of a shower. Customs took some time and artfully crafted credentials, but eventually he exited baggage claim late in the afternoon and took a shuttle to the airport Hilton. Steam still fogged the bathroom mirror when he called Pryce.
"I instructed you to call when you reached the airport," said Pryce.
"And I told you it was a long flight. I prefer not to meet clients smelling of Eau du British Airways," said Methos. "If it was that much of an emergency, your henchmen could have whisked me away when they spotted me."
There was a pause, after which Pryce's voice was marginally less frigid. "I take it you've freshened up."
"Fresh as a baby's bottom," said Methos. "Where you do want me?"
Pryce gave him the address. Methos armed himself and hired a cab. When the driver pulled up to the address in question, Methos saw that it was a kitschy British pub. If the barman didn't have a decent beer on tap, Methos decided to be very put out.
The inside lighting was dim, and Methos had to dodge two rather enthusiastic fellows playing darts just inside the door. The pub was less than half-full, and he saw a man with the right build seated alone at a table near the bar.
Methos headed in that direction and called out, "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, I presume?"
The man looked up. His eyes were striking, and the cut of his suit was as casually expensive as a restaurant without prices on the menu.
"Mr. Pierson," said Pryce. He nodded. "Have a seat."
Methos slouched in the chair. "Perhaps I should wait until our monetary transaction is concluded to make this observation, but didn't you used to have a stick up your bum?"
A grin flashed across his serious face and Pryce snorted loudly, and Methos finally let his hand slip off the knife hidden up his left sleeve. Pryce glanced at the approaching waitress, and the movement revealed a long, pink scar on his neck above the loose collar of his shirt.
"I took the liberty of ordering for you," said Pryce as the waitress put two pints down on the table.
"Well," said Methos, taking a sip. "As long as you don't expect me to go dutch. It's our first date. I like to be wooed."
"Do you have it?" asked Pryce.
Methos patted the satchel in his lap. "Got it right here next to my liverwurst sandwich and a mango smoothie from Jamba Juice."
"I'm fond of the Berry Lime Sublime," said Pryce dryly. "I'd like to inspect it, please."
Methos slid the book across the table. He'd wrapped it in thick brown paper and twine. "I'd certainly hope so, considering what you're paying for it."
Pryce cautiously unwrapped the book, taking care with the spine as he opened it. Methos drank his beer and didn't hurry him.
"Everything looks to be in order," said Pryce finally. He kept one hand on the book and reached inside his suit. Methos tensed, but Pryce only pulled out a PDA. He put it on the table and tapped the screen a few times, then pushed it over, twisting his wrist at the last moment so that the screen wouldn't be upside down for Methos. "If you'll enter the appropriate information for a wire transfer."
"Happy to oblige," said Methos as he typed in his routing and account numbers.
Pryce took back the PDA and tapped the screen a few more times. "There --"
Methos's mobile beeped. He took it out of his satchel and read the confirmation e-mail from his bank. "The wonders of modern technology."
"Well, this has been very satisfactory," said Pryce.
"We ought to celebrate this successful business venture with another drink," said Methos, because Pryce's eyes really were something, and the rest of him wasn't half-bad, either.
"I'd like to get this somewhere secure," said Pryce as he wrapped up the book again.
"Another time, then," said Methos, and pushed back his chair.
"Not what I meant." Pryce halted his backward progress by hooking his foot around the leg of Methos's chair. "I have single malt."
"Well, what are we waiting for?" asked Methos.
*
The cab ride to Pryce's was quiet and skirted the edge of uncomfortable. To be perfectly honest, Methos had expected Pryce to take him to some flashy, high-rise condo, not the modest apartment building they were approaching.
Pryce caught him looking and hefted the book in his lap. "I didn't sell my immortal soul to corporate America for real estate."
"A man after my own heart," said Methos as Pryce leaned forward to pay the cab driver. Methos followed Pryce to his apartment.
Pryce unlocked the door and let him inside, saying, "If you'll wait here a moment."
Methos lingered in the dim hallway as Pryce disappeared into the apartment. Methos heard the metallic whisper of a safe being opened, the clank of the door, another spin of the dial. Amanda would have peeked, but Methos practiced virtue. He didn't very often, and sometimes he liked to remind himself of what it felt like.
"Where were we?" asked Pryce as he reappeared in the hallway.
Methos pushed his hands in his pockets. "About to get me drunk and have your wicked way with me?"
Pryce's eyes gleamed. His smile was lopsided. "Really."
"Unless you'd rather wait until the third date," said Methos.
"Take off your coat," said Pryce. "I'll get you a glass."
Methos dropped his satchel and shrugged out of his coat, trying to prevent the sword concealed inside from clanking too much as he draped it over an armchair.
Pryce came back from the kitchen with two mismatched glasses, pouring a few fingers of scotch in each.
Methos took the glass he was offered. "Cheers."
Pryce clicked his glass against Methos's and then tossed back his scotch with alacrity.
"Rough day at the office?" asked Methos. He sipped his scotch while Pryce poured himself another.
"Rough year," said Pryce. "Or three."
Methos thought about MacLeod, thought about Alexa, Kronos and his brothers, how Joe wasn't getting any younger, and swallowed the rest of his glass, holding it out for more. "I can relate."
Pryce chuckled. It was warm and weary, the kind of sound Methos tended to make when he was almost at wit's end and trying not to let it show. Methos put down his glass, tugged Pryce's out of his hand, and then set it next to his own on the coffee table. Methos put his hands on Pryce's neck, his thumbs rubbing along his jaw.
"Things aren't looking so terrible right now," said Pryce.
Methos kissed him. Just a press of the lips at first, a warm spot of contact, close enough to smell another person and feel him breathing. Pryce tilted his head and Methos angled up a little, glad that Pryce was only a little bit taller. Methos opened his mouth and licked Pryce's lips. Pryce brought his hands up, cupping Methos's biceps when Methos licked his tongue.
Sometimes kissing struck Methos as such an odd thing to do, something weird and unintuitive, and yet it was so intimate and so good whenever he met someone who did it well. Pryce gently dragged his teeth over Methos's lower lip, and Methos muttered his approval.
Methos slipped his hand inside Pryce's suit jacket, and Pryce grabbed his arm, but not before Methos could see that Pryce was carrying a gun. They both froze.
"Well," said Methos. "That's an unexpected wrinkle."
Pryce pushed up the sleeve of Methos's shirt, revealing the knife sheath strapped to his forearm. "I'm afraid I have to agree."
Pryce didn't have a Watcher tattoo, and Methos didn't get the feeling that he was armed for a special occasion. The cut of his suit concealed the holster too well. Methos either had to take a leap of faith that Pryce wasn't planning to kill him, or get the hell out of there without turning his back.
"Don't ask, don't tell, disarm?" suggested Methos.
Pryce stared at him intensely. "I take it you don't... hunt."
Methos suspected that they were talking at cross-purposes, but answered truthfully anyway. "Oh, heavens no. But one can never be too careful, don't you agree?"
"I've always found it helpful," said Pryce. He took a deep breath and stepped back, shrugging out of his suit jacket. Methos unstrapped his knife and watched Pryce take off his holster. They both put their weapons on the coffee table next to their glasses. Pryce hesitated a moment and then reached back, pulling a knife sheath from the small of his back. Methos smirked and took out his own.
"I suppose it's a good thing neither of us got handsy. I hear finger reattachments are expensive," said Methos. He knelt down and tugged at the hem of his jeans, removing the throwing knife strapped above his ankle.
"No gun?" asked Pryce with an amused tilt to his mouth.
Methos shrugged. "Too much paperwork for an international flight, although I did bring something significantly larger and sharper."
Pryce glanced at Methos's trench coat. "Yes, I suspected you weren't wearing that for the August chill."
Methos yanked Pryce forward by his shirt and kissed him again, his mouth slanting over Pryce's hard and fast. Their arms tangled once, separating as Methos went high and Pryce went low, his hands sliding into the back pockets of Methos's jeans. Methos kissed Pryce until his lips tingled and then switched to Pryce's neck, licking the scar. Pryce grunted and tugged him closer when Methos bit down.
Methos pushed him hard. Pryce fell back onto the couch, his eyes opening wide with surprise and his legs sprawling. Methos dropped to his knees and slid between Pryce's thighs, reaching for his trousers.
"Get your shirt," said Methos.
"Mm," said Pryce. His fingers were long and elegant, and he unbuttoned from the bottom up.
Pryce's belly was flat and he really was ridiculously attractive like this, color high on his cheeks and his mouth red from kissing. Methos tugged his trousers and boxers down his thighs and Pryce lifted up to help. Methos licked his palm and jerked Pryce off for a moment, enjoying the way Pryce's breath hissed between his teeth. He leaned down and licked the head of Pryce's cock. Pryce's broad hand settled on the back of Methos's head and pressed him down. Methos smiled and went, sucking him into his mouth.
"Yes," said Pryce, his voice thick and his consonants sibilant.
Methos went down until his lips touched his own hand, again and again, pressing and fluttering his tongue until Pryce made a hurt noise deep in his throat. Pryce scratched his blunt fingernails over Methos's nape and then grabbed his shoulder hard. Methos liked doing this and he knew he was good at it. Men had written odes. Methos kept stroking and sucking, pushing his other hand between Pryce's legs. Pryce spread his thighs wider, his fingers sliding restlessly through Methos's hair. Methos cupped Pryce's balls, sucking hard at the tip of his cock. Pryce stopped breathing for a beat and then he came; Methos swallowed because he could.
Methos pulled off and sat back on his heels, grabbing the closest glass and bolting the rest of the scotch. He licked his lips and looked up at Pryce, who was sprawling on the couch and had a sated expression softening the planes his face.
"Come here," said Pryce.
Methos climbed onto his lap and kissed him, slow and sloppy. After a while, Pryce pushed him, and Methos sat sideways on the couch, leaning back. Pryce's fingers were clumsy on the button and zipper of Methos's jeans, but he finally persevered and slid his hand inside, stroking Methos's cock. Methos took off his shirt and pushed up with his hips, getting his jeans down as far as they would go with Pryce's pliant body half on top of him.
Pryce pressed two fingers against Methos's lips, and Methos sucked them into his mouth, licking until Pryce pulled them out again. Pryce went down on Methos's cock and then pushed his wet fingers into Methos's ass. Methos grabbed the back of the couch and groaned quietly, petting Pryce's head and shoulder, sliding his hand down the back of his shirt to rest against Pryce's shoulder blade. Pryce crooked his fingers just right and sucked harder.
"There, yes, more," said Methos. "Oh, I knew this was a good idea."
Pryce looked at him, his mouth stretched around Methos's cock; he winked and Methos laughed, the laugh turning into a groan as Pryce pulled out and then added another finger. Methos appreciated a pretty man who listened but didn't play fair.
Methos came with his cock in Pryce's mouth, the smile on his face twisting into a grimace and his fingernails digging into Pryce's back. Pryce sagged against him, their bodies tangling together.
"This certainly has been an interesting evening," said Pryce, his face pushing against Methos's hip.
"I think we skipped the part where you got me drunk and you just had your wicked way," said Methos.
"Yes, I noticed you complaining," said Pryce. Nevertheless, he reached out and handed Methos the other glass of scotch.
"I have a very extensive library," said Methos.
Pryce lifted his head from Methos's hip. "Do you, now."
Methos sipped his scotch. "Mm. Something to keep in mind."
"I see," said Pryce. He took the glass from Methos and tossed back the rest of the scotch. "I'll send you my wish list."
the end.
The result? Um. Not so much a snippet.
Antiquaries
Angel/Highlander crossover. NC-17, Wesley/Methos. 2,728 words.
"In which there are quips, a book, a sword, an immortal who cannot die, an erstwhile rogue demon hunter, and an unknown quantity of scotch."
Beta by nestra.
Methos found the request in an old e-mail account he remembered to check infrequently and almost trashed it along with the spam in his inbox, his eyes catching the subject name of an ancient occult text as he hit the delete button. He rescued the message from the trash and found a string of forwarded messages in which he knew perhaps one-third of the parties involved; at the bottom was the original query, a request to purchase the volume from a Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. The name sparked a moment of recognition that faded into a tickle. Methos moved the message back into his inbox, shut down his computer, and went to bed. Then he got back up, drank a few beers while watching some execrable program on the TV, and fell asleep on the couch.
As he was making tea the next morning, the tickle in his memory stretched and unfolded, causing Methos to recall the thin, bespectacled young man who had made business trips to Shakespeare & Company several times a year for books even Methos found exceedingly strange and difficult to locate. Pretty enough, very intelligent, but rather tightly wound and something of a prat; always paid in full.
Methos dealt in rare books sometimes, usually when it amused him or it meant visiting a place he wanted to see, and especially when he could charge a ridiculous price. That weekend, Methos retrieved the book in question from one of his storage facilities and sent Mr. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce an e-mail claiming that he had the book at hand, and named his exorbitant fee.
Methos's mobile rang an hour later.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Pierson? This is Pryce."
Methos put down a tin of biscuits and immediately looked out the windows at the street below. No movement. "I'd ask how you got this number, but as I gather you weren't put off by my fee, I'll assume you've gone up in the world since last we met."
"I thought a telephone conversation would be more expedient," said Pryce.
Methos continued moving through his flat, checking his security. "Quite."
"When can you deliver the item?" asked Pryce.
"Depends on where you want me to go," said Methos.
"Los Angeles."
"Long flight." Methos sat at his computer and began typing one-handed, bringing up possible itineraries to LAX. "Good thing you're making it worth my while. I'll leave as soon as possible."
"Call this number when you arrive at the airport," said Pryce. "I'll tell you where to go from there."
Pryce rang off without saying goodbye. Methos put down his mobile.
Well, his life had been lacking somewhat in intrigue lately. Perhaps this would be just the thing to remind Methos why he liked it that way.
*
Methos arrived in Los Angeles two days later, cranky, feeling cramped and in need of a shower. Customs took some time and artfully crafted credentials, but eventually he exited baggage claim late in the afternoon and took a shuttle to the airport Hilton. Steam still fogged the bathroom mirror when he called Pryce.
"I instructed you to call when you reached the airport," said Pryce.
"And I told you it was a long flight. I prefer not to meet clients smelling of Eau du British Airways," said Methos. "If it was that much of an emergency, your henchmen could have whisked me away when they spotted me."
There was a pause, after which Pryce's voice was marginally less frigid. "I take it you've freshened up."
"Fresh as a baby's bottom," said Methos. "Where you do want me?"
Pryce gave him the address. Methos armed himself and hired a cab. When the driver pulled up to the address in question, Methos saw that it was a kitschy British pub. If the barman didn't have a decent beer on tap, Methos decided to be very put out.
The inside lighting was dim, and Methos had to dodge two rather enthusiastic fellows playing darts just inside the door. The pub was less than half-full, and he saw a man with the right build seated alone at a table near the bar.
Methos headed in that direction and called out, "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, I presume?"
The man looked up. His eyes were striking, and the cut of his suit was as casually expensive as a restaurant without prices on the menu.
"Mr. Pierson," said Pryce. He nodded. "Have a seat."
Methos slouched in the chair. "Perhaps I should wait until our monetary transaction is concluded to make this observation, but didn't you used to have a stick up your bum?"
A grin flashed across his serious face and Pryce snorted loudly, and Methos finally let his hand slip off the knife hidden up his left sleeve. Pryce glanced at the approaching waitress, and the movement revealed a long, pink scar on his neck above the loose collar of his shirt.
"I took the liberty of ordering for you," said Pryce as the waitress put two pints down on the table.
"Well," said Methos, taking a sip. "As long as you don't expect me to go dutch. It's our first date. I like to be wooed."
"Do you have it?" asked Pryce.
Methos patted the satchel in his lap. "Got it right here next to my liverwurst sandwich and a mango smoothie from Jamba Juice."
"I'm fond of the Berry Lime Sublime," said Pryce dryly. "I'd like to inspect it, please."
Methos slid the book across the table. He'd wrapped it in thick brown paper and twine. "I'd certainly hope so, considering what you're paying for it."
Pryce cautiously unwrapped the book, taking care with the spine as he opened it. Methos drank his beer and didn't hurry him.
"Everything looks to be in order," said Pryce finally. He kept one hand on the book and reached inside his suit. Methos tensed, but Pryce only pulled out a PDA. He put it on the table and tapped the screen a few times, then pushed it over, twisting his wrist at the last moment so that the screen wouldn't be upside down for Methos. "If you'll enter the appropriate information for a wire transfer."
"Happy to oblige," said Methos as he typed in his routing and account numbers.
Pryce took back the PDA and tapped the screen a few more times. "There --"
Methos's mobile beeped. He took it out of his satchel and read the confirmation e-mail from his bank. "The wonders of modern technology."
"Well, this has been very satisfactory," said Pryce.
"We ought to celebrate this successful business venture with another drink," said Methos, because Pryce's eyes really were something, and the rest of him wasn't half-bad, either.
"I'd like to get this somewhere secure," said Pryce as he wrapped up the book again.
"Another time, then," said Methos, and pushed back his chair.
"Not what I meant." Pryce halted his backward progress by hooking his foot around the leg of Methos's chair. "I have single malt."
"Well, what are we waiting for?" asked Methos.
*
The cab ride to Pryce's was quiet and skirted the edge of uncomfortable. To be perfectly honest, Methos had expected Pryce to take him to some flashy, high-rise condo, not the modest apartment building they were approaching.
Pryce caught him looking and hefted the book in his lap. "I didn't sell my immortal soul to corporate America for real estate."
"A man after my own heart," said Methos as Pryce leaned forward to pay the cab driver. Methos followed Pryce to his apartment.
Pryce unlocked the door and let him inside, saying, "If you'll wait here a moment."
Methos lingered in the dim hallway as Pryce disappeared into the apartment. Methos heard the metallic whisper of a safe being opened, the clank of the door, another spin of the dial. Amanda would have peeked, but Methos practiced virtue. He didn't very often, and sometimes he liked to remind himself of what it felt like.
"Where were we?" asked Pryce as he reappeared in the hallway.
Methos pushed his hands in his pockets. "About to get me drunk and have your wicked way with me?"
Pryce's eyes gleamed. His smile was lopsided. "Really."
"Unless you'd rather wait until the third date," said Methos.
"Take off your coat," said Pryce. "I'll get you a glass."
Methos dropped his satchel and shrugged out of his coat, trying to prevent the sword concealed inside from clanking too much as he draped it over an armchair.
Pryce came back from the kitchen with two mismatched glasses, pouring a few fingers of scotch in each.
Methos took the glass he was offered. "Cheers."
Pryce clicked his glass against Methos's and then tossed back his scotch with alacrity.
"Rough day at the office?" asked Methos. He sipped his scotch while Pryce poured himself another.
"Rough year," said Pryce. "Or three."
Methos thought about MacLeod, thought about Alexa, Kronos and his brothers, how Joe wasn't getting any younger, and swallowed the rest of his glass, holding it out for more. "I can relate."
Pryce chuckled. It was warm and weary, the kind of sound Methos tended to make when he was almost at wit's end and trying not to let it show. Methos put down his glass, tugged Pryce's out of his hand, and then set it next to his own on the coffee table. Methos put his hands on Pryce's neck, his thumbs rubbing along his jaw.
"Things aren't looking so terrible right now," said Pryce.
Methos kissed him. Just a press of the lips at first, a warm spot of contact, close enough to smell another person and feel him breathing. Pryce tilted his head and Methos angled up a little, glad that Pryce was only a little bit taller. Methos opened his mouth and licked Pryce's lips. Pryce brought his hands up, cupping Methos's biceps when Methos licked his tongue.
Sometimes kissing struck Methos as such an odd thing to do, something weird and unintuitive, and yet it was so intimate and so good whenever he met someone who did it well. Pryce gently dragged his teeth over Methos's lower lip, and Methos muttered his approval.
Methos slipped his hand inside Pryce's suit jacket, and Pryce grabbed his arm, but not before Methos could see that Pryce was carrying a gun. They both froze.
"Well," said Methos. "That's an unexpected wrinkle."
Pryce pushed up the sleeve of Methos's shirt, revealing the knife sheath strapped to his forearm. "I'm afraid I have to agree."
Pryce didn't have a Watcher tattoo, and Methos didn't get the feeling that he was armed for a special occasion. The cut of his suit concealed the holster too well. Methos either had to take a leap of faith that Pryce wasn't planning to kill him, or get the hell out of there without turning his back.
"Don't ask, don't tell, disarm?" suggested Methos.
Pryce stared at him intensely. "I take it you don't... hunt."
Methos suspected that they were talking at cross-purposes, but answered truthfully anyway. "Oh, heavens no. But one can never be too careful, don't you agree?"
"I've always found it helpful," said Pryce. He took a deep breath and stepped back, shrugging out of his suit jacket. Methos unstrapped his knife and watched Pryce take off his holster. They both put their weapons on the coffee table next to their glasses. Pryce hesitated a moment and then reached back, pulling a knife sheath from the small of his back. Methos smirked and took out his own.
"I suppose it's a good thing neither of us got handsy. I hear finger reattachments are expensive," said Methos. He knelt down and tugged at the hem of his jeans, removing the throwing knife strapped above his ankle.
"No gun?" asked Pryce with an amused tilt to his mouth.
Methos shrugged. "Too much paperwork for an international flight, although I did bring something significantly larger and sharper."
Pryce glanced at Methos's trench coat. "Yes, I suspected you weren't wearing that for the August chill."
Methos yanked Pryce forward by his shirt and kissed him again, his mouth slanting over Pryce's hard and fast. Their arms tangled once, separating as Methos went high and Pryce went low, his hands sliding into the back pockets of Methos's jeans. Methos kissed Pryce until his lips tingled and then switched to Pryce's neck, licking the scar. Pryce grunted and tugged him closer when Methos bit down.
Methos pushed him hard. Pryce fell back onto the couch, his eyes opening wide with surprise and his legs sprawling. Methos dropped to his knees and slid between Pryce's thighs, reaching for his trousers.
"Get your shirt," said Methos.
"Mm," said Pryce. His fingers were long and elegant, and he unbuttoned from the bottom up.
Pryce's belly was flat and he really was ridiculously attractive like this, color high on his cheeks and his mouth red from kissing. Methos tugged his trousers and boxers down his thighs and Pryce lifted up to help. Methos licked his palm and jerked Pryce off for a moment, enjoying the way Pryce's breath hissed between his teeth. He leaned down and licked the head of Pryce's cock. Pryce's broad hand settled on the back of Methos's head and pressed him down. Methos smiled and went, sucking him into his mouth.
"Yes," said Pryce, his voice thick and his consonants sibilant.
Methos went down until his lips touched his own hand, again and again, pressing and fluttering his tongue until Pryce made a hurt noise deep in his throat. Pryce scratched his blunt fingernails over Methos's nape and then grabbed his shoulder hard. Methos liked doing this and he knew he was good at it. Men had written odes. Methos kept stroking and sucking, pushing his other hand between Pryce's legs. Pryce spread his thighs wider, his fingers sliding restlessly through Methos's hair. Methos cupped Pryce's balls, sucking hard at the tip of his cock. Pryce stopped breathing for a beat and then he came; Methos swallowed because he could.
Methos pulled off and sat back on his heels, grabbing the closest glass and bolting the rest of the scotch. He licked his lips and looked up at Pryce, who was sprawling on the couch and had a sated expression softening the planes his face.
"Come here," said Pryce.
Methos climbed onto his lap and kissed him, slow and sloppy. After a while, Pryce pushed him, and Methos sat sideways on the couch, leaning back. Pryce's fingers were clumsy on the button and zipper of Methos's jeans, but he finally persevered and slid his hand inside, stroking Methos's cock. Methos took off his shirt and pushed up with his hips, getting his jeans down as far as they would go with Pryce's pliant body half on top of him.
Pryce pressed two fingers against Methos's lips, and Methos sucked them into his mouth, licking until Pryce pulled them out again. Pryce went down on Methos's cock and then pushed his wet fingers into Methos's ass. Methos grabbed the back of the couch and groaned quietly, petting Pryce's head and shoulder, sliding his hand down the back of his shirt to rest against Pryce's shoulder blade. Pryce crooked his fingers just right and sucked harder.
"There, yes, more," said Methos. "Oh, I knew this was a good idea."
Pryce looked at him, his mouth stretched around Methos's cock; he winked and Methos laughed, the laugh turning into a groan as Pryce pulled out and then added another finger. Methos appreciated a pretty man who listened but didn't play fair.
Methos came with his cock in Pryce's mouth, the smile on his face twisting into a grimace and his fingernails digging into Pryce's back. Pryce sagged against him, their bodies tangling together.
"This certainly has been an interesting evening," said Pryce, his face pushing against Methos's hip.
"I think we skipped the part where you got me drunk and you just had your wicked way," said Methos.
"Yes, I noticed you complaining," said Pryce. Nevertheless, he reached out and handed Methos the other glass of scotch.
"I have a very extensive library," said Methos.
Pryce lifted his head from Methos's hip. "Do you, now."
Methos sipped his scotch. "Mm. Something to keep in mind."
"I see," said Pryce. He took the glass from Methos and tossed back the rest of the scotch. "I'll send you my wish list."
the end.