|A Laying on of Hands
Disclaimer: Well, they're not mine, and if they were, I don't think that I'd want to know about this adventure in their lives. Well, maybe.
A few months ago, Ellen and I went on an ICQ rant which, in turn, evolved into Lessons in Futility, a sort of compendium of cliches that we had seen in HL fic, many of them ours. I was intrigued by a one-liner of Ellen's: "Nobody writes a good fisting anymore." Well, that could still be the case, but I'm giving it a shot.
This is NC-17 and then some. Not much pain, really, as I'm not into that sort of thing per se, and I am into just enough denial about it to gaze at you stupidly if you deign to bring it up.
Thank you Barb and Ellen and Suze for encouragement and criticism and humor, and for pointing out that Methos doesn't have three hands.
The two men leaned against the Thunderbird, one of them staring aimlessly ahead, grief-stricken and guilt-ridden, the other staring pointedly at his friend.
"So, what are you saying, there is no answer?"
"No, there is an answer. But the real question is whether you're ready for it."
Duncan nodded uncertainly.
"Stefanovich killed, and Ingrid judged him. Wilkinson killed, and Ingrid judged him." Methos paused, hesitant to continue. "Ingrid killed, and you judged her."
"So who judges me?"
Methos paused briefly before speaking. "You hungry?"
Methos rose and walked around Duncan, while Duncan, head bowed, slowly pulled himself up to follow. Methos' heart went out to his friend. He was quiet, finding no words of consolation, no forgiveness, no condemnation--only an aching heaviness and the familiar frustration at his own inability to give comfort. He led the silent man to a quiet restaurant across the street and ordered a bottle of scotch. He beckoned for the waiter to bring them two glasses. Methos splashed the scotch into the glasses and onto the table, suddenly aware of his own nervousness. Duncan was taking this badly, worse than he had anticipated.
"Drink this, " Methos handed the tumbler to Duncan, the ice clanking loudly. Mac took the glass and swallowed the double portion of the strong liquid without taking a breath.
"Another." He slammed the glass down next to the bottle. Methos obediently filled the glass and pushed it back across the small table. He watched uneasily as Duncan knocked that one down, too, and half-threw his glass back at the other man, the ice spilling over onto the table and the floor. Methos poured him another two fingers of scotch.
"Shall we order?" Methos asked, looking up expectantly.
"No, just pay for the bottle and let's get the hell out of here." Duncan grabbed the half-empty fifth and lurched out of the restaurant, leaving Methos to pay the bill.
Methos drove Duncan home in uncomfortable silence. Attempts at conversation were crushed with monosyllabic grunts as quickly as he made them. Duncan's behavior was unsettling. This Quickening was unsettling for both of them. Methos felt himself being inextricably drawn into Duncan's dark mood, and he struggled to maintain a little objectivity. He glanced over at his morose companion and felt an overwhelming pity for Duncan's youth, for his guilt, for the pain that his taking of the moral high ground usually caused.
MacLeod stumbled into the dojo ahead of Methos and made his way to the elevator. He jerked forward, yanked the latticed gate up, and threw himself against the back of the cubicle.
Methos made an experimental move towards the lift, hesitant, until he saw Duncan's drunken, overdone gesture of invitation. Then, wearing a mask of composure that he did not feel, he strode in purposefully and pressed the UP button. He leaned back against the wall and reached to steady Duncan, thought better of it, and jammed his hands into his pockets. The elevator grated to a stop, and Methos hurried forward, wrenching the gate open.
Duncan didn't pause as he reeled into the loft. He made his way drunkenly into the kitchen and set the bottle of scotch on the edge of the counter as he rummaged through the dishes in the sink. He pulled two dirty glasses out and started to open the bottle.
"Always the considerate host, MacLeod. If you don't mind, I'm going to have a beer. Why don't you?" Methos rescued the bottle of scotch from its precarious position and moved it out of reach as he walked over to the refrigerator. He pulled out two beers, popped the tops, and offered one to Duncan.
Duncan ignored Methos' outstretched hand and struggled out of his duster, dropping it heavily to the floor next to the coat rack. Tottering, he reached down to pull off his shoes, tossing one at the wall and the other behind him.
The very behavior that irritates me the most is what draws me to him, Methos thought. No one called on Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod to be judge and jury over wayward immortals. He cast an annoyed glance at the Highlander. To have been raised to lead his clan, to preside over the moralities and values of his tribe, to have had the burden of leadership laid upon him, unasked, to have borne it with such strength, Methos pondered, this is what draws me to him. His morality is not buffeted by the passage of time, and he has an invaluable personal sense of right and wrong.
He regarded his drunken friend warily. We have only ourselves to judge at the end of this very long day, MacLeod. What do you need? What do you want?
"Come over here. I know what you need--a massage. You're a mass of tension, and I learned a very helpful technique when I was living in Japan, ohhh, about 200 years ago." He took Duncan's elbow and steered him to the couch, where he pushed him down to the floor and situated himself on the cushions behind him. Methos took a long, gulping draught of his beer before setting it on the table. He flexed his hands and then pressed his fingers onto the tense muscles of his friend's head and neck, making his way down Duncan's spine, stroking across his shoulders. Duncan remained quiet, his beer untouched. Soon his head began to nod forward as he gave way under Methos' hands.
Thank God! He's easing a bit. Thankful for Duncan's relaxation, Methos continued his deep muscle massage, stroking down Duncan's shoulders, pressing his thumbs onto the pressure points just below his scapulae, adjacent to his spine. Duncan slumped over the coffee table, groaning quietly. As Methos stroked his back, Duncan's shoulders started to heave and shake, and he began to weep. "Well, Highlander, there is a little bit of build-up here. Let it out."
Methos expected Duncan to feel some emotional lability, putting it off to the circumstances of his evening and the resultant Quickening, but the crying did not cease. It seemed only to get louder and more unrestrained. Oh no. A crying jag.
"Duncan. Duncan!" Methos slid off the and pulled Duncan into his arms, awkwardly petting at his heaving shoulders. How often had he fantasized about this moment? To wrap his arms and body around the Highlander, to feel flesh shuddering under his fingers? But not this way. Not like this. "You had to do what you felt was necessary. It isn't any less painful because she was your friend. It's more terrible, but the choice was hers. It was only a matter of time." He watched his words fall onto Duncan's bowed head and bounce off, useless and ineffectual.
Methos sat there a long while, silently stroking his friend's hair. He tried vainly to ignore the tingling in his legs and the uncomfortable posture in which he found himself. He squirmed about, seeking an easier position. As he settled in, leaning sideways against the bottom of the couch, he felt Duncan shift and turn towards him, his face scraping slowly against the tear-soaked wetness of Methos' pullover. Hot, moist breath permeated his shirt, and he fought back his initial response to it, scolding his body for its inability to remain calm. He knew Duncan could feel his violent heartbeat, and he willed it to slow down.
Duncan's head rose further, and the warmth of his tongue stroked across Methos' neck, shocking him into stillness. Duncan lingered at the same place, softly licking over and over. In spite of Methos' forced inertia, every motion of Duncan's tongue seemed to caress another part of his body. He moaned--thrilled, hot, confused. "Duncan?"
The brown eyes met his, and Methos saw the guilt, the terrible grief and hunger there. Impulsively, he leaned down, meeting Duncan's partially opened lips with his own. He felt large hands encircle his head, pulling him closer, felt the warm tongue slip into his mouth. Methos was dissolving into the sensation when Duncan abruptly drew back and looked questioningly at him, tears running down his face.
Afraid to move, feeling a vague sense of impropriety about the idea of pursuing his baser desires to their natural conclusion, Methos warred with himself, alternately hoping that Duncan would think better of what he was doing and stop, and scolding himself for even considering such a thing. "Do you want this? Now?"
"Yes. I want it. I want you. Now. Please, Methos." Duncan looked down at the floor, as if embarrassed by his own forwardness.
Methos watched, shocked, as the broad shoulders sagged. He faltered. There were so many reasons not to do this. Every reason to just back off, allow Duncan some time to work out his feelings without the added distraction of a Quickening to sway him one way or the other. At the same time, there were so many reasons to do this. Every reason to just climb on, trust his feelings, with the added distraction of the Quickening to sway Duncan to his way of thinking.
Methos fought with himself for one more moment, and then, just because he wanted to, he capitulated to the inevitable. He leaned up onto his knees and caught Duncan under his arms, pulling him up until they were knee to knee, belly to belly. Every rasping breath he heard, every slow rock of Duncan's hips, threatened to undo him. He cupped his fingers around Duncan's face, kissing him slowly, thoroughly, till he saw stars around the periphery of his vision.
Methos pushed Duncan back onto the coffee table, murmuring softly as he kissed his eyelashes and tasted the salty tears. He squatted back on his knees between Duncan's legs and drank in the sight of the object of his fantasy and affection, lying silently on the table, eyes closed. For a long moment, they were still, suspended in a tableau that defied the churning excitement that seemed to palpate through them both. Finally breaking the spell, Methos pushed his hands under Duncan's sweater, sliding his palms across the deep chest, his fingertips sensing the tingle of the newly acquired Quickening. He marveled that one of them did not come to his senses and stop this foolishness. Tentatively, he stroked the backs of his fingers lightly across Duncan's breastbone. Becoming bolder, he gently pinched and pulled and stroked Duncan's nipples, putting more pressure against them as he heard the other's sharply inhaled breath. Looking up, he saw that Duncan's eyes were still closed, but the tears that had seemed to drip endlessly from each corner had stopped, and his lips were parted and wet.
Duncan reached down and unbuckled his belt. Methos' eyes followed the brazen movement, consciously eyeing the straining bulge that he had not allowed himself to see earlier. Duncan unzipped his own pants, and his erection surged outward. He boldly reached for Methos' hand, placed it firmly on his cock and then lay still.
"This is a natural reaction to such a trauma, Mac," Methos chattered, nervously watching Duncan's flushed face. Wracked with another volley of second thoughts and indecision, Methos stroked gently up and down, anticipating that Duncan would jump up, mortified, at any moment. "Modern psychology has recognized the odd connection between death and sex, and what you are feeling is totally to be expected." Unable to shut up, he pulled at Duncan's jeans, and eased them down as Duncan jutted his hips into the air. "Of course, we immortals recognized it long before the 20th century." He slid his hands up the insides of Duncan's thighs, kneading the muscular flesh. "And, of course, this is the best way to deal with those feelings." He pushed Duncan's legs further apart and leaned in, drowning in musk.
"Shut up." Duncan's stretched his arms across the coffee table, and he hooked his fingers under the edge of it. He enveloped Methos' body between his legs and braced his feet against the couch, pushing his cock up towards Methos' face.
Methos reached behind himself and picked up a couch cushion. He shoved it under Duncan's buttocks and, placing both hands along the crease between Duncan's hipbones and thighs, he prodded the long legs apart.
As Methos tilted his head in, his own pounding hardon grated against his still-fastened pants, sending little shocks up his body. He shuddered, exhaling a hot breath on Duncan's inner thighs. He stroked them rhythmically, until he saw the tense body thrusting in reaction. He continued stroking as he licked and bit, up one leg, across the perineum and down the other leg, avoiding Duncan's balls, not touching the erect, swaying shaft. Duncan became very still.
Methos looked up. Duncan was grimacing, his body a frozen study of lust and pain. He seemed to be waiting, poised on a great precipice. Methos lowered his head and breathed gently, hotly onto that most tender place. He snaked his tongue out and pushed it deeply into Duncan's ass, tasting the essence of his body. He felt the groan down into his own balls. Methos shifted Duncan's legs, pulling knees across his shoulders and lapped his tongue back and forth, biting around the periphery of the tight ring of muscle. The pheromones, the heady, rutting aromas emanating from Duncan, wound themselves around Methos' back brain. He instinctively swiveled and pumped his hips, performing an ancient dance, but met only air.
"Methos! Please!" Duncan rocked his pelvis up into Methos' face, his knuckles white against the dark grain of the coffee table. Tears rolled down his temples, sparkling through his hair.
Impatiently aware of the cloth barrier between them, Methos scrambled to unzip his pants, lowering them down to his knees. His erect cock bumped against the coffee table, and he rose and lay his body over the supine man, using his shoulders to push Duncan's thighs still higher and farther apart.
Methos gently stroked his hands down the sides of Duncan's hips, in awe at his own control in the face of a substantiate, tangible dream. Was this really happening? Could he, would he be able to do what Duncan wanted him to do, without coming all over himself beforehand? The sight of this man, lying under him, breathing heavily, covered in sweat, burned into his memory. Ah, he mused, at least I'll have this to remember, if he throws me out on my bum within the next five minutes. It will never be enough, but I will always treasure this vision.
Sliding a hand between them, his fingers drummed all around the tight ring, and he felt Duncan's minute thrusts against his belly. They tickled until they found the hot, wet hole that he had kissed as passionately then as he now kissed Duncan's lips. As he bit down delicately on Duncan's tongue, he pushed his index finger up into the searing heat and began to ease it in and out. Alert to every inhalation, every whimper, he gently twisted it around and around, cautiously adding a second digit. In and out, in and out. As the supine man began to stab forward, his swollen cock shifting wetly against Methos' own, he forced in another finger, stroking in a steady rhythm.
Duncan tossed his head from side to side and groaned harshly. Methos was afraid. Afraid that Duncan would come to his senses, afraid that he would injure Duncan, afraid of tomorrow morning, afraid of ten minutes from now, and he slowly began to pull his fingers away.
"No!" Duncan grabbed Methos' wrist. With unexpected force, he shoved Methos' fingers back towards his ass and tried to push them in. "It--hurts."
Methos attempted to rise, entangling his long legs in the jeans that had somehow become knotted around his ankles. "I don't want to hurt you," Methos countered. "I can stop. It's all right."
"No!" Duncan pulled the off-balance man back on top of him. "I want you to hurt me. I want it to hurt. God. Please don't stop." MacLeod slid his knees off of Methos' shoulders and spread his legs as far apart as he could.
Epiphany dawned. With as much force as he could muster and still not tear the delicate skin, Methos jammed his fingers into Duncan's ass, measuring his jabs in time to the groans. The sound of each moan sent little spears of pleasure to his dripping cock. Oh, Duncan! I forgot about this. I forgot that even you can cross that line of pain into pleasure. Do you think that I can judge you? That I can absolve you? Why do you think that I'm the one who can do that? What do you know? Methos paused. You know that I love you. Motionless at the revelation, Methos stared down at the incredible truth that lay before himóthe Highlander, lying on the coffee table, his shirt bunched up around his shoulders. Naked legs splayed. Trousers in a heap on the couch behind him. Panting. Abruptly, he was pulled back into the moment by the steady pressure of a strong hand gripping his wrist.
"Do it, Methos! For God's sake! Do it!" Duncan pulled his balls up tightly against his groin.
Methos rocked back on his knees and grabbed his own cock. He felt the frustrating relief of over-stimulation, and yanked down, squeezing himself tightly. This was Duncan's time. He struggled to fit his hand inside of Duncan, and Duncan screamed. Was it agony? Was it grief? Was it rapture? He fucked Duncan with his arm, curling his fingers up and scraping them around Duncan's prostate. He grasped and released, faster and faster. Sweating from the effort, he opened and closed his fist around the small, hard gland. Pre-ejaculate poured from Duncan's cock, running down the shaft in time with Methos' clutching rhythm.
"Uhhh-- uhhhh-- uhhhhhh--" Duncan's taut body glistened with sweat; his eyes squeezed shut, forcing out new tears. He hyperventilated, gasping in time to the pulsating rhythm of Methos' fist.
Methos leaned forward and wrapped his lips around the tip of Duncan's cock, tasting the saltiness. He scraped his teeth around the impossibly hard shaft and sucked. Duncan came in a bone-wracking spasm, violently spilling into Methos' mouth, down his chin, in his hair, on his face. In a torment of pleasure, Methos eased his thumb out, leaving his four fingers inside of Duncan, still softly stroking, and turned his attention to his own insistent cock. One, two, three strokes. With a low, surprised cry, Methos spurted on Duncan's belly, mixing his semen with the last bit of Duncan's.
The room was silent for a long moment. Methos struggled to rise, pulling his pants up to rest low on his hips. As he turned towards the bathroom, he looked over at the figure lying on the coffee table. Duncan lay there, quiet and still, bonelessly satiated. He reached over and took Duncan's hand. "Let's put you to bed, MacLeod."
The Scot stood up unsteadily, dazed and blinking, and followed Methos to the back of the loft.
"MacLeod, I'm a mess. You're a mess. We don't have to discuss this to death." Methos paused at the doorway to the bathroom. "You don't need to tell me anything or explain anything unless you want to do it. Now, I'm going to take a shower. Do you mind?"
"Okay. On one condition. That when we talk about it, we will talk about it right here," Duncan wearily patted the bed.
"Yes. Oh, yes." Methos padded off to the shower, exultant.