by 'Tilla and Sandi
'tilla's notes for part 1....
The following is not my fault. Sandi wanted to do this in answer to a challenge received on this list. So, folks, you have only yourselves to blame. Standard disclaimers apply. The boys are not ours (we can dream though, can't we?); they belong to somebody else entirely. They are not being forced, coerced or made to do anything against their wills. They have not been harmed and will be returned when we're done with 'em in pretty much the same shape as when we got 'em. Part I is rated PG13 for very mild homoerotic thoughts and practically no action. If this offends you and you'd rather have something stronger, please delete now.
Sandi's contribution will be up shortly. Any comments, you know where to find us.
Sandi's notes for part 2...
Warning!! Here's part 2 of "The Banquet"....you guessed it---my half is rated Adult....graphic M/M slashy stuff..read at your own risk.....someone challenged me to slash M and M at an awards banquet.....also, my heartfelt thanks to the listees who forced me to ditch the end table and get more inventive with the lube.....and thanks, `tilla, this was fun!
"Come on, Methos, you've got to get ready." Duncan tossed a clean silk shirt at the slender figure lounging on the bed and strode into the bath. He turned the water on full, then stepped out to check on his companion. Methos was still reading and Duncan swore softly, then snatched at the book.
"Hey," Methos yelped, making a grab for the precious pages. "Give that back!"
"Nope, not a chance," Duncan retorted holding the slender volume just out of reach of his friend's grasping fingers and staring longingly at the finely sculpted chest heaving with such passion over a book and the perfectly rounded bum clad only in those pale blue boxers. No, he would not be swayed. "We've got less than an hour to get ready and get over there and I will not be late because you've found some ancient history text more interesting than the social event of the season."
"But, Mac," Methos moaned.
"No 'buts' Methos," MacLeod said, stepping carefully over the debris littering the floor. "You promised you'd go and it's too late to ask either Amanda or Anne, so go you shall. Like it or no."
Methos eyed the Highlander speculatively as the other man backed away from the bed. If he jumped the larger man, there was every chance the fragile binding would be, at the least, damaged if not completely destroyed. Not a chance he relished taking where his books were concerned. Wiliness might serve where sheer strength would not, so Methos lay back on the bed, pretending a total lack of interest in the fate of the volume in Mac's hands as he pulled another from under the pillow.
MacLeod swore, louder this time, and lunged. There was a brief struggle, the sound of something ripping and a gasp as Mac pulled back, half of his copy of Classic Cars Digest in his hands and one half in Methos' grasp. One sleeve of his fine silk shirt dangled from Methos' other fist. "Oh, gods, Mac! I'm sorry," Methos breathed looking up in shock.
Mac looked down in reproach. "Do ye have any idea how long I've waited for this issue, Methos," he moaned. Methos shook his head. "I've waited for months, Methos, for the issue with my T-Bird in it and now you've torn it." He backed away, tears filling the brown eyes, a wail building in his chest that had only a little to do with the shirt on his back and a great deal to do with the torn magazine in his hands.
Methos lay the other half of the magazine down and slid off the bed, moving cautiously toward his friend. "I'm sorry, Mac," he murmured, holding out one hand for the remains of Mac's digest. "I've got some fixative here somewhere; I'm sure I can put it right." He edged closer, his eyes fixed warily on the Highlander, knowing one wrong move could doom his book. "Please, Mac," he said using his most cajoling tone. "Just let me try; I'm really good at repairs like this, worked in the Library at Alexandria for years."
MacLeod shook his head, clutching what was left of the cover story on his classic T-Bird to his chest and practically snarling when Methos attempted to wrest it from him. "Noh, Methos," he whimpered, as slender fingers pried loose the pages from his grip. Methos stroked his hair and guided him back to the bed.
"Sit, Highlander," he purred, massaging tense shoulders before moving away to rummage through the drawers in the antique desk he'd had shipped over from Paris. "Ah, here it is!" A cry of triumph as the long fingers closed over the tube of glue and sat it down on the desk. "Hand me those other pages, will you MacLeod?"
"Not now, Methos," MacLeod retorted, standing up and moving closer to his slender partner. "You've got to shower and dress and I have to change my shirt." He fingered the torn silk and chuckled wryly. "Although, making an appearance like this might lead to some rather interesting speculation."
Methos grinned as he turned 'round, the long slim hands reaching almost by habit toward the buttons on the Highlander's shirt. "Think you might need a shower as well, MacLeod," he surmised with a slight sniff and Mac frowned.
"Do ye truly think so, Methos?" Surely their little tussle hadn't been that strenuous. He caught the mischievous twinkle in the hazel eyes and leaned forward to kiss the patrician nose and fondle the clingy blue shorts. "Aye, Methos," he murmured, nuzzling his friend's soft throat and thinking lascivious thoughts. "I do believe you're right." He nibbled at an ear. "Community Service, Methos," he breathed, teeth grazing the ridge of his lover's shoulder, "shouldn't we be conserving water?"
Methos nodded, stripping what was left of the Highlander's shirt off the muscled chest and tugging at the zipper of the soft woolen slacks. "How much time did you say we had, MacLeod?" The hazel eyes were slightly glazed, the fine lips parted and his heart rate had increased three-fold in just the last few minutes. Much more of this foreplay and he wouldn't be able to walk to the car let alone make it into the banquet hall.
Mac glanced at the clock and groaned. "About 45 minutes, now; we'll have to hurry." He turned to make his way into the bath, managing all of three steps before the pale woolen trousers had fallen round his ankles and he tripped, landing face down on the bed.
"Oh, gods," Methos breathed taking in the tantalizing view. "I offer thanks for thy bounty." Nimble fingers skimmed over the Highlander's posterior and down the parted thighs. Mac moaned as the hands flew back up his legs and stroked along his back and shoulders. "This is a very nice invitation, Mac," Methos purred. "And I really do appreciate you giving me this little opportunity." He bent to kiss the back of his lover's neck. "But I really think we'd better get cleaned up before the water gets cold." MacLeod turned his head to catch a better view of his companion and Methos kissed him gently, tongue slipping in quickly between the Highlander's teeth and out again.
MacLeod rolled over, reaching for the pale slim figure, but Methos slipped away like a wraith and vanished into the shower. "Come on, MacLeod," he called, peeking out from the steam billowing around him. "You didn't want to be late, remember?" Duncan rose from the bed and staggered into the bath.
"We could forget the banquet," he urged, catching the other man by the shoulders and pressing him against the wall. "It's not that important."
Methos clutched the soap in one iron fist. "Not so, MacLeod," he hissed, hazel eyes narrowing as he soaped both their bodies thoroughly. "You've gone to a great deal of trouble to convince me to attend this little soiree and by the gods we're going to make a proper showing of it." He planted a kiss on the Highlander's cheek as atonement for the words, then guided the spray to rinse them both, easing the temperature down gradually so the shock wouldn't kill his playmate. Methos rather enjoyed a nice cold shower once in a while; it reminded him only slightly of the days when men bathed in icy streams, if they bathed at all. He much preferred the present though where you had a choice of bathing in hot water or cold. As he'd told Kronos, not all that long ago, he was all for choices.
He turned off the shower spray and stepped out, wrapping a large towel around his narrow waist and tossing another to the Scot who stood mesmerized by the slight sway of his partner's hips as he sauntered from the room. "Do hurry, MacLeod," Methos called over one bare shoulder, catching his friend's eye and grinning wickedly. "If we're late, it won't be my fault. I'm a bloody fast dresser - years of practice making quick exits, you know."
"Oh God," groaned the Highlander, making haste to rub the moisture from his body and join his friend for another round of dalliance. All in vain, however, for his eyes were greeted by an impeccably clad Immortal where he had expected, nay hoped for, prayed for longed for, one slightly more dishabille. Black leather boots polished to a high gloss adorned Methos' shapely feet. Snug gray trousers graced legs that stretched up to there. A loose white shirt trimmed with a veritable flood of lace at throat and cuffs clung to broad shoulders and a smoothly muscled chest. So much lace, in fact, Duncan could barely glimpse the strong hands hiding somewhere in all that fluff.
The Scot's jaw dropped like a hot rock. "Methos?" He stared, first at his friend then at the clock. Damn, there was no time! "Where did you . . .How . . .When . . Where's Methos?" The words poured out of him like smoke from a five-alarm blaze and Duncan felt himself flush at the knowing grin on his friend's face.
"Come, MacLeod." Methos glided closer. No, Duncan thought, he flowed, inexorable as the tide, a primal force undermining defenses it had taken the Highlander 400 years to build. And the worst of it, screamed the part of his brain still capable of somewhat rational thought, the absolute worst of it was that Methos wasn't even trying. The thought of what his friend might be capable of should he put his mind to it brought an even deeper tinge of crimson to the tanned cheeks, a whimper from the bronzed throat and something more than just a quiver of life to the flesh underneath the towel.
Something was burning. MacLeod felt the heat building in his chest and grinned foolishly as Methos propelled him back toward the bed. What did the Old Man have in mind? Then he noticed an awful buzzing in his ears.
"Casual or elegant, MacLeod," a slightly annoyed baritone queried.
"I said, which shall it be, casual or elegant, conservative or flamboyant? Help me out here, MacLeod. I can't make all your decisions for you, just the important ones." Methos chuckled wickedly as he pushed the Highlander down on the bed. "Sit," he ordered sternly, giving MacLeod a slightly disorienting feeling of déjà vu.
Mac looked at Methos. "Ah, elegant, I think." Methos waited, patiently. "And flamboyant, no conservative; yeah, definitely conservatively flamboyant." Methos groaned, then nodded, satisfied at last and strolled leisurely to the closet. MacLeod could hear the other man, rattling hangers and swearing softly in some obscure tongue. The dark head peeped out from behind the closet door as Methos studied the brooding Scot, then ducked back inside. There was more rustling and more cursing before Methos seemed to find what he wanted. MacLeod's attention wavered momentarily and a low throaty chuckle was all the warning the warrior chieftain's son had before finding himself flat on his back and minus his towel.
"You are getting sloppy, MacLeod," the Ancient growled, grabbing the Highlander's legs and pulling clean briefs over the twitching muscles. He straddled MacLeod's waist, sliding soft ebony slacks up the calves and over the trembling thighs, then hauled the other man unceremoniously to his feet.
MacLeod began to struggle. "I am noh a child, Methos," he railed. "I can dress myself." Resistance was futile he soon discovered, as his arms were thrust into silken folds the color of a desert sunset, opalescent buttons fastened and ruffles adjusted so quickly his head swam. The narrow black tie was knotted with a hangman's precision and Methos stood back, surveying his handiwork. The fiend looked positively smug.
"Oh, dahling," Methos sighed, plucking a silver clip from the dresser and pinning back the thick locks. "You'll be the belle of the ball." He patted Duncan's cheek and the Scot winced. "Do make mother proud, won't you dear?" He steered his friend toward the mirror, turning him this way and that until Mac felt like nothing so much as a mannequin in a department store window. "Well, MacLeod," the easy baritone prodded. "What do you think?"
Duncan stared, stunned and unable to speak. His mind reeled at the thought of parading up to the podium to present the awards for Best Historical Essay and Best Historical Poster dressed as a modern day Zorro. All he needed was the black cape and the mask; he already had the sword.
As though reading his mind, Methos draped a black opera cape over Duncan's shoulders and bowed gracefully. "There you are, milord," he intoned solemnly. "Your carriage awaits."
Before he had time to register a protest at this cavalier treatment, MacLeod found himself thrust into the elevator, watching the ceiling of his loft disappear from view. Methos leaned back against the grate as they descended, tossing two sets of keys from one hand to the other. "Which shall it be, MacLeod, Explorer or T-Bird?"
"T-Bird," MacLeod snapped, snatching his keys from mid-air and attempting to find a pocket in which to secure them. Methos smiled as he tucked his keys into the breast pocket of his own form-fitting jacket and slid closer, wrapping his arms around his lover's neck. "What are you doing, Methos," Mac asked warily.
"Giving you a little something to think about while you're enjoying your dinner, MacLeod," the other man purred easing the Highlander's hands down toward the narrow hips. "And suffering through all those boring speeches." Mac groaned as the slender body pressed close, sending pleasant jolts up and down his spine, and he felt just how little separated his flesh from his partner's.
"Aye, Methos," the Highlander choked. "I'll be thinking about dessert."
They made it to the Lodge with minutes to spare and were ushered in by a black-suited majordomo. "You are to sit at the head table, Mr. MacLeod," the man said leading the way through the already packed hall.
"What about my friend?" Duncan was not about to strut up the aisle with no moral support whatsoever, though he wasn't entirely sure Methos was up to 'moral' support. Perhaps 'immoral support' would be more in line with what the Oldest Immortal might be offering. He grinned at the thought of what his friend wasn't wearing underneath those snug breeches and the majordomo frowned.
"With the other guests, of course." Duncan shook his head. The honorees and other judges had their husbands and wives, dates and significant others at the table with them to lend a hand in case someone got an attack of nerves. Methos could do no less for him. "I think noh," Duncan said, clutching Methos' hand in desperation. The majordomo looked askance at the pair. "He comes wi' me or else."
Methos patted his shoulder. "It's all right, MacLeod," he said through gritted teeth, feeling the bones in his hand cracking under the strain. "I'll be perfectly comfortable back here."
"Aye, but I will noh be comfortable wi' you here while I'm up there." The Scot's brogue was getting more pronounced and Methos prayed the majordomo would relent before every bone in his hand was pulverized.
The imposing figure of the Highlander was enough to insure prompt attention, and they were soon seated amongst the elite of Seacouver society. The addition of two such handsome, elegantly attired, extremely sexy gentlemen immediately livened up the table conversation, as the ladies sought to impress and their dates sought to compete. Methos rolled his eyes heavenward as MacLeod preened under the flirtatious attentions of the silk and jewel clad debutantes. In turn, Duncan was highly amused as Methos became the target of one after another blue-haired society matron, who all pronounced him "just too precious". The dinner went smoothly, if overlong. Once, as Methos tried to politely smother a bored yawn, he felt the broad palm of the Highlander come to rest on his thigh beneath the table. He grinned, knowing it was a subtle hint that the evening would definitely get better.
After dinner was completed, the speeches were made and the awards presented. Methos, his thigh resting comfortably against the Highlanders, entertained himself by making mental plans for the "dessert" he had promised Mac earlier.
When Duncan rose to stride gracefully to the podium for his own speech, Methos watched him hungrily, marveling at the perfection of his bronzed, muscular physique, and wishing desperately for a speedy end to these festivities.
Minutes later, he groaned in frustration as Mac explained to him that, though the dinner and awards presentation were over, they were obliged to stay for the silent auction.
"Gods, Mac, auction? No! No more--I want to go home!" he pleaded.
Duncan couldn't help smiling at his tone, "And just why are you so anxious to go home, hmmm?"
Methos narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to the Scot, whispering menacingly into his ear, "MacLeod, you do not want to mess with someone who spent quality time in the Roman baths!"
The brown eyes twinkled, "Oh, but I do, Methos--I do!"
Seeing the old man's hands clinch, he quickly danced out of range, mingling in the crowd as the auction was announced.
Determined that he'd had enough socializing to last him for awhile, Methos loosened his tie, snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and headed for the nearest exit, which turned out to lead into the office area of the building. The halls were deserted and Methos sighed appreciatively, glad of the peace and quiet. He idly wandered up the carpeted hall, sipping his champagne, until he came to an open doorway. Ahh, a refuge until this interminable evening comes to an end.
Duncan's eyes scanned the room for a sign of his lover. He hadn't seen him in a while, and was beginning to feel a bit uneasy. He's probably taken over for the bartender. Eager to collect Methos and get back to the loft, he searched for the lanky Englishman. Not seeing him anywhere, he pushed open the nearby exit door, knowing Methos was probably avoiding the crowd. As he proceeded down the hall, a familiar buzz let him know that the ancient immortal was nearby.
He yelped in surprise as he started past an open door, when a long arm shot out and yanked him into one of the offices. Methos quickly shut and locked the door, then spun around to face the Highlander, a satisfied grin lighting up his features.
"Fancy meeting you here, Mac!"
"Methos! What the.....?"
Long, lean legs closed the distance between them. "Time for dessert, Highlander."
Duncan's protest died as lips met his in a hungry kiss. Methos' passionate urgency was contagious, and Mac found himself returning the kiss with equal greed, parting his lips to allow the sweet invasion of his lover's tongue. Methos tasted of champagne and need, and Duncan could think of nothing except fulfilling that need. Dimly, he was aware of insistent hands pulling off his shirt, of Methos' slim body urging him backwards until his legs made contact with the leather couch. He moaned in frustration as his partner broke the kiss, then helped him as shaky fingers made short work of the clothing between them.
Methos eased the Scot down onto the couch as he followed, covering the warm, solid body with his own. He felt Duncan's strong arms come around him, his broad palms trailing the length of his spine, down over his ass, pulling their bodies even closer together. He gasped as Mac's lips made their way up and down the pale, vulnerable skin of his throat, licking, biting, sucking urgently. His slender, elegant fingers entangled themselves in Duncan's long hair. He moved against the other man, their erections straining, the friction becoming unbearable.
Mac groaned, "Methos.....gods.....hurry.....!" He pushed his hips up into his partner's frantically.
"Shhh, Highlander, just a second..." Methos reached to the floor, fishing for the vial in his coat pocket. "Ahh, got it!" He raised up triumphantly, holding the salad oil up for Mac's inspection with a smug grin.
"I thought of you at dinner....." Methos stopped the Scot's astonished words with his lips, until he had Duncan's mind back on the business at hand. Pouring the oil into his palm, he lay beside the younger man, smoothing his hand down his back, over his smooth hips, until he reached the opening, then slowly inserted a finger. Feeling the muscles contract around his finger, he kissed his lover deeply, until he had relaxed, then added the pressure of another finger, then another, gently moving them to prepare the way for the much larger intrusion. Short moments later, Mac began to move restlessly, pushing against his partner's hands, moaning softly. Their urgency was too great for further hesitation. Methos rose over the Highlander, moving his thighs under Duncan's hips, raising them for easier access. Their eyes met and held as the ancient immortal made his entry, burying himself deep inside the body of his lover. He held still, giving Duncan time to adjust, watching as the dark eyes focused on his own gaze.
Mac began to move first, wanting all of Methos, body and soul. Methos did not fail him, as he thrust deeply, holding nothing back. His hand reached to close around the younger immortal's surging cock, pumping with the same urgent rhythm. Faster, harder, deeper, they met---melding into one before finally, together, reaching the pinnacle. Methos cried out as he made his final, deep thrust, coming into the warmth of his lover, and in seconds, Duncan's warm seed spilled over his hand.
Moments later, he withdrew slowly, and stretched out beside the heavily breathing Scot. Strong arms reached out to pull him close, and Duncan reached to brush the damp hair away from his forehead, and kiss his temple.
"Methos?'' Mac whispered softly.
"Hmmm? " the ancient immortal fought to regain his breath, feeling his heartbeat beginning to slow.
"That was a great dessert. But don't you think we better get home, before they want their office back?"
The world's oldest immortal smiled sleepily. "Yeah, Ok, Highlander. And wait till you see what I have planned for breakfast!"