Date: Fri, 17 Nov 1995 15:35:07 -0600 Reply-To: Julia Kosatka Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Julia Kosatka Subject: Daybreak, 3/4 ADULT delight to his lovemaking. Despite everything, he'd somehow not quite expected to enjoy this, yet he did, every bit at much as he enjoyed loving a woman. He kissed the smooth shoulder beneath his lips. Next time he should spend more time using his mouth. He knew Methos had a thing about his mouth. How much could he stand? Thinking of it made him even harder, took him a step closer to coming. Knowing he wasn't going to last much longer, he increased the tempo of his hand on Methos sex, and in response to Methos' whispered instruction, he slid a knee between Methos thighs, changing the angle of his entry. Methos went still, and then he was shivering, shuddering, and Duncan's hand over his sex filled with heat and wetness, the proof of his completion. It was enough to send Duncan over the edge to join him, his body pulsing with waves of release. Panting, he wrapped himself closer around Methos and held him as the last of the sensation faded, leaving behind a feeling of profound satisfaction. Several minute passed in silence, finally Methos shifted slightly, disengaging, and turned his head and look at Duncan. The expression on his face and in his eyes went through Duncan like a knife, yet the pain was only in realizing he could have given him that so much sooner, had he been a little braver. He let his hand move from Methos' shoulder to brush the back of his fingers down Methos' cheek, skimming his mouth with a fingertip. "I'm sorry it took me so long," he said quietly. Methos smiled. "Some things are worth waiting for. I..." he hesitated, and the fear was back in his eyes. "Did you..." "I loved it," Duncan said, interrupting him, not wanting him to have to finish asking. As he said it, he realized it was glib, meaningless. The physical pleasure was such a small part of what they'd just done. The whole symbolized so much more. He shook his head, and cupped Methos face in his palm. "No, it's more than that, much more. I love you." He was amazed at how easily those words came to him now. He'd been able to speak of need before, but never love. Why should the physical act of making love have broken that barrier? He didn't know, but it was so. Methos went strangely still, his gaze wide, and stunned, then he pulled Duncan close, his arms going around him so tightly it almost hurt. "Methos?" he queried, hoping everything was all right, afraid he'd somehow managed to say the wrong thing. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that, Duncan." Methos said, his voice slightly muffled against Duncan's shoulder. "I've been in love with you forever, it seems." "I just never quite knew how to say it. I took you for granted, and I'm sorry." Methos lifted his head, his eyes suspiciously moist. "No, Duncan, don't apologize. The past is the past, we can't change it, and we can't spend our time regretting it. We start over from now." Duncan nodded, and lifted his other hand to smooth it through Methos' hair, then stopped, realizing that hand was still sticky. He wiggled his fingers a little embarrassedly. "I, ah... think it's time to use the 'fresher. I'm assuming there is one?" he looked around the small cabin, there weren't many places to hide one, but there was a curtained-off corner that looked promising. Methos grinned back. "There is, it's behind that curtain. Thankfully we don't have to do the outhouse thing." Duncan thought of making a forty-yard dash in the driving rain and nodded vehemently. "You've got that right. At least the Valhallans are practical about some things!" **** Methos lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling beams as he waited for Duncan to finish in the 'fresher. He couldn't keep a grin off his face, he felt too good. Of all the possible outcomes of their earlier argument, this had not been one he'd considered. He really had expected that he'd be leaving as soon as Guinan and the others returned, but that option was no longer possible. There was no way he could leave now. Still not quite believing it, he reached down and pinched himself on the inner thigh, and winced. Yep, it hurt. He was awake. The curtain moved, and Duncan stepped out, still gloriously nude. Methos wished he were an artist, to capture that on canvas or in stone for others to share. He came and knelt next to Methos, dropped a warm cloth from his cupped hands onto Methos' belly and began to gently bathe him. Methos closed his eyes, enjoying the damp warmth and slight roughness of the cloth against his skin. At some point the cloth cooled and was set aside, yet the touching didn't stop, turning from ablution to caresses, lips, and fingers, and tongue, and teeth... oh god, those teeth. Duncan knew exactly how much was enough, how much was too much, and how to walk the tightrope between them. It was as if he'd been doing this for years. Of course, he had, just with a partner of a different gender. For once Methos was able to think of that without feeling the dark scrabblings of jealousy. He thought about Duncan taking him again, and though it excited him, he knew he ought to wait, to give his body a chance to recover first. Duncan was, as Guinan had said on more than one occasion, a lot to handle. With reluctance, he reached down and took Duncan's hands in his own. "It might be a good idea for you to give me a little while before we do this again." Duncan freed his hands, and brought them up to cup Methos' face, holding him still for a kiss that rapidly went from gentle pressure to an intimate dance of tongues. When he lifted his head, Methos caught the gleam of mischief in his eyes. "I don't think you need to worry," Duncan said, grinning. "There are other paths to pleasure." Even though Methos didn't really think Duncan meant what it sounded like he might mean, his body still reacted to the prospect. Duncan glanced down at the unmistakable proof, and smiled. Duncan let his hand trail down to Methos' erection, and followed his hand with his mouth, but only for a moment. His tongue forged a path down the inside of one thigh, then bit, hard enough to hurt. Before Methos could protest, Duncan soothed the spot with his tongue, sending fire rocketing through him. For a few seconds Duncan made a pattern of gentle nips all over the sensitive inner surface of his thigh, then he bit again, and soothed again, before starting the whole cycle over. It was torture, but a damned erotic one. Methos couldn't help the instinctive arching response, the need to be buried inside the warm welcome of a body, or a mouth, dying with the aching pleasure of frustration. Where the hell had he learned that? Methos had more than four millennia on Duncan, and no one had ever tantalized him like this before. Maybe it was the emotional involvement, maybe it was just the fact that Duncan was a complete and utter sensualist at heart. Whatever it was, Methos was beginning to feel like a plate of hors d'oeuvres. The thought made him laugh, and Duncan raised his head, his hair tickling like mad as it trailed over highly sensitized skin. "What?" he asked, inviting Methos to share the joke. Methos grinned. "I was just wondering how long it's been since you last ate." Duncan grinned back at him evilly. "Too long," he said huskily, as he bent his head once more. Methos watched, bemused, as the mouth he'd fantasized about for years touched him lightly. He clenched his fists, his stomach, his thighs, even his sex, in an agony of effort. He wanted this to go on as long as humanly-- or inhumanly-- possible. He would not come. Hands cupped him, lifting; a finger stroked, then humid warmth surrounded him. Pressure... the swirling caress of tongue, the startling skim of teeth. He arched, panting his mantra. "I won't, I won't, I won't!" He realized he'd said it aloud when Duncan laughed, and lifted his head again. The relief Methos felt was tempered by the desire to have that luscious touch back, to feel that dreamed-of mouth on him again. Duncan moved up until he was lying full against Methos, their bodies skin-to-skin, a faint sheen of moisture gathering where they touched. He looked into Duncan's dark gaze and read a question there. He stared, stunned, wondering if he were misreading, surely he was misreading? "Methos, show me," Duncan said, and the slight tension in his body betrayed the truth. Methos hadn't misunderstood. "Duncan? You...?" "Why should you have all the fun?" he asked, a little flippant, trying to hide his uncertainty. "Don't do this just for me," Methos said gravely. "It can wait." "No, it can't." Duncan lowered his mouth to Methos' and kissed him slowly, unhurriedly. When he lifted his head, some of the tension had ebbed. "Show me, I want to know. Teach me." "Are you sure?" "More sure than I've ever been." Methos was still hesitant. "For someone who's waited eight-hundred years to get around to doing this, you're certainly in a hurry all of the sudden. You don't have to do everything in one fell swoop." Duncan shook his head. "I know that. I also know I want to. I've wanted to for a lot longer than you might think. Methos, please?" It was almost too much to comprehend. The fulfillment of so many fantasies, all in one night? How could he refuse? Slowly, he nodded, and was rewarded by that mouth again, this time on his own, all velvet and fire. For just a moment Methos wished Guinan were here to share this with them, then he decided that there was nothing wrong with being selfish, just this once. She'd had Duncan to herself on occasion, but he never had. Methos let himself move gradually from passive to active. He let his arms tighten around Duncan, fingers splaying over the sleek, solid breadth of his back, kneading slightly. Duncan made a soft "mmmm" against his lips and rolled his shoulders. Methos knew a hint when he felt one, even if it was subconscious. Realizing that a massage would be a good place to start, Methos ended the kiss and gently pushed Duncan away, sliding out from beneath him. Duncan started to turn, and Methos put a hand on his back, urging him to stay, following that with a firm, two-handed attack on his shoulders. They were tight. Despite his conviction, Duncan was clearly still tense about his decision. Not surprising. Making the first attempt at anything was always nerve-wracking, no matter how much you wanted it. He'd probably been equally nervous before his first time with a woman. Slowly Methos expanded the scope of his massage from shoulders, to upper arms, then down the back. He picked up the tube of moisturizer and squirted some onto Duncan's back, laughing at his gasp as the cool substance hit warm skin. Then he started to work in earnest, digging the heels of his hands into the taut muscle beneath silky flesh. Duncan began to relax, sighing, pillowing his head on one arm, his hair obscuring most of his face, leaving only his nose and slightly parted lips visible. Trying to ignore the urge to lift his hair and claim his mouth again, Methos worked his way down Duncan's back to the densely muscled rise of buttocks, then thighs, calves, and finally feet. He began to massage them with firm pressure, feeling the little bones shift and settle under his fingers. Duncan groaned, and he stopped, unsure. "Is that a good or a bad groan?" "Good," Duncan said, sighing, his voice slightly muffled against his arm. "Very good. You should go into business." That brought back some old, or more accurately ancient, memories. "I have, actually, on several occasions. In fact, it was one of the things I did before my first death." "Really?" "Mmmhmm, for a time, I was a body-slave." He felt Duncan tense, and pressed harder with his fingers. "Relax, it was a long time ago." "I don't like the idea of you being a slave." Methos smiled. "Neither did I, but that's life. Turn over." **** Duncan obliged, still thinking about Methos, wondering about his early life. He managed not to scream a protest at the thought, trying to accept it with the same nonchalance his lover had. He thought of him as a young boy, perhaps a teen, thought of those hands with their long, beautiful wrists ringed with iron, thought of the stroke of a lash against that milky skin instead of the caress of lips or fingers. Iron? No, his chains would have been bronze... or would they have simply been rope? Methos predated even bronze! It suddenly dawned on him what a small percentage of Methos' life they had known each other, and how little of that time they had actually spent together. It was a slightly staggering realization. Was this what a human felt when confronted with the knowledge of immortality? Gods... no wonder they got weird! He started to feel like the infant Methos had teased him about being. "Duncan, stop it," Methos said softly. Duncan looked up at him where he sat, his hands warm and sure as they worked the muscles of one calf. There was understanding in his clear hazel gaze, in the secret curve of his mouth. "You know the truth of living, Duncan. You can't change what was, only what is to be." He turned his attention back to Duncan's body and began to work his way up Duncan's legs. Midway up the long arch of thigh, his touch lightened, became more sensual, both more and less than a massage. Duncan closed his eyes, trying to let sensation sweep through him and take with it the grief, but it didn't assuage his dark thoughts. With his eyes closed, the sound of the storm outside seemed to increase, the howl of wind and the vicious slash of rain against the shelter seemed somehow appropriate, echoing the storm of emotions that scourged him. He wanted to give, to keep giving until there was nothing left of him. Only in giving did he become whole. He reached down and found one of Methos' hands, linking their fingers, tugging him upward to wind his arms around him and hold him as if he thought the wind might tear him away. Methos soothed him, hands and mouth and body; caging the fear, replacing it with passion. Duncan felt lips claim his mouth, move down his neck, a tongue touched the hollow of his throat, then traced a fiery trail to first one astonishingly sensitized nipple, then the other. He shivered, moaning as hands stroked him, slippery with the first tears of desire and sweat, and other, less earthy essences. It went easy, far easier than he'd imagined, that gentle insinuation of fingers into untried territories. The touch he had feared became craved instead, and when he would have turned, yielding and eager, Methos laughed and held him as he was, teaching him the secret behind his smile. Any other time the slick, subtle heat of Methos' mouth on him and the velvet insistence of his tongue, accompanied by the unaccustomed ecstasy of his deep touch would have sent him over the edge, but not now. Now he wanted to wait, to have it all. He rode the pleasure, balancing on the edge of the cliff, trying not to fall in and drown. As if sensing how hard he was trying, Methos let him go. The air cooled his moist, hot skin as Methos curled around him, tucking his hips behind Duncan's, sliding one thigh between his, bending a knee to open him. Gently, very gently, he took Duncan's hips in his hands and drew him back until their bodies merged. Duncan moaned, fists clenched, as the pleasure-pain fountained in him, then the pain faded and nothing was left but pleasure. He opened his eyes, briefly registering the flicker of firelight across the ceiling as Methos' hands slid forward to encircle him, and the touch was so intense he had to close them again. He arched forward into Methos' hands, and gasped as his movement changed everything. Methos gentled him again, holding him still and moving with the smallest of movements, until it seemed right, and natural, and the urgency took over and Duncan lost himself in the moment, letting himself fall into the wave. He heard his own voice, and moments later, Methos', and then there was nothing left except for the harsh rasp of their breathing and the twinned pounding of their hearts, gradually slowing as the storm waned around them. **** "Good God, what a mess!" Methos said, looking around at the devastation the previous night's storm had wrought. Tree-branches were strewn everywhere, the grounds looked as though a herd of elephants had been playing tag across them. On the terrace a shattered window gaped, tattered cloth dangling from it where the wind had sucked the drapes through and shredded them on the jagged glass. He shifted his gaze from the broken window to Duncan, and looked smug. "I told you to use transparent aluminum in the windows instead of glass." Duncan rolled his eyes. "That is your one and only `I told you so' for the day. Come on, we've got our work cut out for us." "Why don't you just hire someone to come clean this up?" Methos asked a little plaintively, following Duncan as he strode toward the house, each step squishing noisily in the mud. "Do you have to do everything yourself?" Duncan stopped and turned, amusement gleaming in his dark eyes. "Why Methos, don't you agree that some things are best done personally?" Methos eyes widened, and he chuckled. "Oh, aye, Highlander, very much so. However, there's a time and a place for everything." Duncan looked at the house, then around at the grounds, and sighed. "So there is. I suppose it wouldn't be such a bad thing to get help, after all, last night was quite an experience." Methos amusement softened into something else, and he smiled. "So it was, and for that I thank you." Duncan shook his head. "No, Methos, please. There's no place for thanks here. There just is what is." Methos nodded, accepting that. "I'll go down to the Glenfinnan and see if I can round up some workers... after breakfast." "What, you mean those ration bars didn't fill you up?" Duncan asked mockingly. Methos grimaced. "I was afraid I'd break a tooth so I didn't finish mine. Come on, I'm starving." Shedding their muddy shoes outside the kitchen door, they stepped inside. Methos sniffed and lifted his eyebrows. "Smells like Amanda's cooking." Duncan nodded, puzzled, then enlightenment flooded his face. "Oh damn! The cassoulet!" Methos watched with amusement as Duncan went to the oven and opened the door, using a towel to shield his hands from the heat as he lifted out a ceramic baking dish which contained some blackened, unrecognizable mess. He set it on the counter, scowling as if personally affronted, and picked up a fork with which he vainly tried to chip at the carbonized contents. Nothing budged. "I'm in for it now," he said gloomily, shaking his head. "Why? Because you burned dinner?" "No, because I burned dinner in Guinan's heirloom El-Aurian baking dish." Methos studied the unprepossessing item in question critically. "Do you think she'd notice if we just replicated it?" That drew a chuckle, and Duncan nodded. "It's a thought, but as a matter of fact, she probably would. `I feel a fluctuation in the force...'" he quipped. Methos grinned, recognizing the quote. "You're right, she probably would. I guess we'll have to try to get that stuff out of there." Duncan nodded, wrapped the towel around it and carried it to the sink, where he carefully added water, watching it runnel into all the cracks in the lava-like surface. After a moment, he managed to work a fork tine into one of the cracks, and lever out an ossified chunk. Methos came up behind him and looked over his shoulder as he picked up the dish and tilted it back and forth, trying to get water into all the crevices so he could repeat the process. Duncan glanced back at him, lifting an eyebrow. "Supervising?" "Who, me?" Methos asked, sliding his fingers under the edge of his kilt. Duncan jumped and yelped in surprise as they closed rather firmly on one cheek. Sooty water splashed all over him as he dropped the dish, and somehow managed to catch it before it hit the counter and broke. He eased it back to a resting place in the sink and turned, his expression thunderous. "Damn it, Methos..." Whatever he'd meant to say was lost as Methos kissed him, his hand stealing beneath the kilt again, this time from the front. Duncan resisted for a moment, then yielded, one hand curving around the back of Methos' head, fingers stroking the soft, short hair there. "What is that awful smell?" a familiar, husky alto voice asked amusedly. They jumped apart guiltily, like teenagers caught necking by their parents. "Guinan!" Duncan managed. "It's... uh... " he broke off, at a loss. "Um... I... thought you were you due back day after tomorrow?" Methos asked, recovering a tad bit faster. She looked from one of them to the other, a nonexistent eyebrow lifting. "Yes, we were, but Daria made life so miserable for the rest of us that we thought we'd better come home." "Daria? What's wrong? Where is she?" Methos demanded anxiously. "Richie took the kids upstairs to check on their rooms, and nothing's wrong, not according to her, anyway. She just spent the entire trip insisting that something was wrong and we needed to come home. Until last night, when we were three quarters of the way home, that is. That's when she suddenly decided that everything was all right again. I have no idea what's going on in that complex little brain of hers." Guinan looked out the window that framed some of the external devastation. "Well, we had a hell of a storm last night, but I think we came through it without too much damage," Duncan said, puzzled. "She didn't mean the weather," Guinan said softly. "To be honest, I've been a bit concerned myself lately." Her shrewd gaze lingered on them, taking in their flushed faces. "Okay, out with it, what is going on here?" "Hey, guys?" Richie's voice sounded from the hallway. "Guys?" The younger immortal stepped into the room. "No damage upstairs from what I can tell. Everything's all..." his voice trailed off as he sensed the almost tangible tension in the room. "What's up?" "Richie, would you give us a minute?" Guinan asked. "Richie, out for a few." Duncan snapped, virtually simultaneously. Richie took one last glance at each of them, and nodded. "Uh.. sure. I'll go check out that broken window." There was silence after he left, Guinan looking expectantly from one to the other of them. Duncan looked at Methos, who shrugged, and tried his hand at `spin control'. "It's not like it's a major disaster or anything. So you burned dinner. It'll come out, eventually." Clearly, whatever Guinan had been expecting him to say, that wasn't it. She looked confused. "What?" Methos stepped aside and pointed into the sink. "Duncan's afraid you'll be mad because he messed up your dish." She followed his gesture and looked, wrinkling her nose expressively. "Well, it is quite a mess, but it's not..." she stopped, and looked at them again, taking in their wrinkled clothes, their unshaven state, their proximity and their expressions, and began to chuckle. "Well it's about time! I thought you two were never going to get around to it!" =========================================================================