|Position Does Not Dictate Behavior
I thought I'd just run this little PWP by y'all. More entertainment, of course. NC-17, Duncan and Methos, same ol', same ol', yaddayaddayaddabingbingbing.
Thank you to everyone who put up with me while I was writing it. You know who you are, and I don't want to pull a Barbra Streisand.
Methos walked wearily back to his car. /The things I do for you, Highlander!/ He had not expected Robert to put so much effort into their little vignette. He had only hastened the end of the play by running his sword through the love-addled guy. A stiff one was in order.
He groaned. "Ha!" A stiff one indeed. /And that's another thing, MacLeod./ The teasing and bickering with Duncan over tea was enough to bring on the physical evidence, and he managed to sport an erection after any sort of sword play. Hmph. Didn't everybody? /What are you going to do about it?/ Methos took a peevish comfort in his decision to rub Duncan's nose in his obligations. /Wonder what he'll do to get the barge back?/ He headed that way.
The two men circled each other warily in the small space afforded by the barge--one irritated and the other amused. The barge was hot and stuffy-the perfect metaphor for Methos' mood and bearing. That man was so thick! So irritating. /needs a ton of bricks/
"Not another word of muttering, Methos. If you have something to say, say it." Duncan poked a stick at the fire that was crackling merrily in the fireplace.
"What I was saying, MacLeod, is that there is usually more than one reason for a man to leave his comfort zone." /What's so funny?/
"You did it because you wanted to do it. Because you thought it wasin your best interests." He looked up at Methos, smiled and licked his lips.
Methos could almost see the feathers around Duncan's mouth. He mumbled under his breath. /Don't look at me like that unless you mean it, you 400-year old cocksucker./ "Well, it's my barge now." He swept his hand dismissively over the stacks of detritus on Duncan's desk.
"There is at least one reason that you played marriage counselor, that you did this favor for me." Duncan strolled back to Methos and leaned over the front of the desk, his massive frame blocking the grey light that streamed in from the porthole. "And you know that I know what it is. I'm not an idiot, you know."
Methos met Duncan's stare levelly. "I'm sure that's up for debate."
Duncan smile broadened, if that were at all possible.
"All right, MacLeod. Tell me. Why? Why did I take my life into my hands? Why did I throw myself out there into angry wife-angry Immortal wife--territory? You are so intuitive. You tell me." Methos felt vaguely off balance.
Duncan's eyes flickered in the dimming light "Because you have a vested interest in me, don't you?" He pressed forward, stopping just short of Methos' nose, his face alight with a predatory gleam, enjoying the other man's sudden, all-too-obvious discomfiture. "Yes, I am intuitive, but I didn't need the psychic network to divine what's been on your agenda, Old Man."
Methos' vision tunneled, and his other senses seemed to turn up. He smelled Duncan's aftershave although he seemed to be shrinking away from him. A sucking sound echoed in his ears, a sharp intake of air, and he was curious, in a detached sort of way, to realize that the sound was coming from him. /Found out!/ His tenebrious thoughts had shouted themselves from the rooftops.
It was too bright. The dust specks floating in the light, the blazing, blinding flames in the fireplace. /Too bright./ The crackling embers, the creaking desk chair, the waves splashing softly outside the barge. /Too loud. Too much./ He felt a pounding in his chest, and his heart's outraged rhythm filled his head. /Well, now or never./
Methos raised his hands to MacLeod's face and stroked down his cheekbones, his fingertips delicately caressing stubble. "Come here," he croaked, barely able to hear his own words over the deafening pulse in his ears. /He'll back off, and then what? What?!/
Duncan sauntered around the desk, Arrogance Incarnate. From far away, Methos noted the rasp of denim against denim as Duncan slid his right leg between Methos' thighs and leaned in, pulling the chair forward at an unsteady angle. He slid down to the edge of the chair, his body coming to rest at Duncan's knee. Duncan surprised him with an exquisite tenderness, and reached down and softly rubbed his fingers just north of Methos' instant erection.
"I'm here, Methos," Duncan whispered. "Now what?" He massaged up Methos' pelvic bones and caught his thumbs in the belt loops of the older man's jeans.
Unable to form a coherent thought or, God help him, a single word, Methos pushed backwards, trying to return, trying to distance himself at the same time, trying to place his feet flat on the floor. He was no longer in control of any part of this. /If I ever was,/ the late realization bubbled up. Panic, thrill, panic, thrill drummed through his body in sharp succession. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. /Or stay./ He grabbed the arms of the chair and locked his arms defensively, enveloped in a paralyzing fog of indecision and hope. /Who the hell does he think he is? What the hell does he think he's doing? Where the hell does he think he's going with this? What the hell do I think I'm doing?/ A litany of what-the-hells reverberated in his brain as Duncan lifted him bodily out of the relative safety of the chair.
He found himself wrapped around Duncan's thigh. /Like a fucking poodle./ "Mac! What the... hell do you think you're doing?" Vainly, he tried to take some air and some righteous indignation, to retake a territory that had never been his in the first place. "Trying to surprise me, MacLeod? Another breath. "It won't work. Been there. There's not much...you can do to..."
Duncan exploded into motion. He grasped the back of Methos' neck and pulled him up into a ferocious, biting, open-mouthed kiss. A kiss that stopped time. A kiss that stopped his heart. A kiss that obliterated everything except Duncan's hot, wet, insistent mouth and his own cock, with its own awareness, thrusting back, riding against Duncan's perfectly placed leg. Panicked, he let go of the arms of the chair and made a futile grab for Duncan's shoulders. Dexterity was nowhere on his planet. He could not gather the motor skills to make a clenching fist into the soft wool of the sweater, and he fell back in a heap against the desk.
Duncan drew back from Methos and stared, grin still in place. "You shouldn't be surprised. You've been asking for this--for me--for nearly as long as I've known you." He languidly licked up one side of Methos' face and planted a sloppy kiss against his eyebrow.
Methos was distantly aware of a faint prickle in his fingertips. They were growing numb. /Breathe./
"Let's just play it out, see where it goes, why don't we?" Duncan whispered, teasing his tongue into Methos' ear. "I'm going to help you; I'm going to do what you've been asking me to do. I'm going to do you, Methos."
Methos nodded, still unable to find his voice, unable to move any other part of his body. Millennia of mental discipline crawled unwillingly to his cock, and he tried to zen out the overwhelming impulse to come, to spill ignominiously all over himself. Gooseflesh followed the trail of Mac's tickling fingernails down his belly and around to his back. /Don't come! Don't come, goddammit! How does he do that?/ Somehow, his sweater levitated off his body and found its way to the floor. Methos stared dumbly at the clump of slate-grey wool lying in a heap. /When did that happen?/ He let that thought float away, too, and concentrated on the hands and lips that played his body like a musical instrument. Now he was unable to stay still, and his entire body shuddered with pleasure as Duncan dragged his tongue wetly up from his navel to his chest. Licking, licking. /An oral gem you are, Duncan. You've done this before, haven't you?/ He had craved those hands for what seemed like every day of his 5000-year life. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back, hyperventilating, savoring.
"You taste good," Duncan chuckled. He popped open the button and eased the zipper down Methos' jeans, and gently coaxed his cock from its too-tight hiding place. Duncan whistled in what Methos nebulously hoped was appreciation. Bending down once again onto Methos' slack, shocked mouth, Duncan kissed him again. He shifted his fingers and mildly caressed Methos' balls, then drew his palm up and took Methos firmly, sweetly in hand, and set a steady rhythm. "Come for me. I want you to. I do. I'll bet you've come for me when I'm not here," Duncan whispered, smooth as silk, smooth as his tongue in Methos' ear.