|Words and a Tune
Disclaimer for Disclaimer: I'm really very nice and work well within the norms of society. That said, I will go on to the disclaimer.
Disclaimer: My first story. The guys don't belong to me. They belong to the big cahunas at Rysher/Davis/Panzer & Finklestein. Yaddayaddayadda. I'm harmless. I have no money, nothing worth suing me for, and I have no contract with Methos OR Duncan. Rated R for mental masturbation imagery (or NC17, depending on how active your imagination is). This is a Duncan/Methos story, naturally. Only it's up to you to decide who's who.
Where was he? He had half expected to see him when he walked out of the shower. He had been in there long enough, trying to wash the stink of blood and adrenalin off, trying to coax down an erection, trying NOT to jerk off in there, trying not to injure himself with it either. If he was alone and knew he was going to be alone after a Quickening, he would just jerk off until his arm ached, or his dick was raw, and the sheer quantity of the activity would serve to exhaust him into sleep and rest. BUT... He wasn't planning to be alone tonight.
//Well, he sighed, dragging on his jeans, I'll only have to take these off again if the evening goes well. No matter how comfortable nudity is, it would be pretty presumptuous of me to be lounging around in the altogether when he gets here.//
He coaxed the zipper of his jeans up over his swollen cock, imagining his teeth dragging up the shaft.
//If he doesn't get here soon... We both know what a Quickening is like. He knows the frenzy of sexual appetite that accompanies these little jaunts out into The Game. Ah, the certain aftermath of taking a head. Sex and Death, he laughed to himself. Just like Woody Allen.//
He nervously paced thru the loft, unconsciously reassessing the sparse, utilitarian layout--all one room, welcoming, yet easy to defend. He wandered over to the coffee table and sat down on the big pillow, leaning back against the couch. He absently shuffled through the knick-knacks, smiling at the histories of many of them. The river rocks, the chess set.
//I'm more of a poker player tonight, he mused, trying to hustle a good friend. Trying to bluff. Upping the ante.//
As he lined up the chessmen for the third time, he realized that he was just woolgathering, trying to take his mind off of the miserable hard on that was pressing against these damned pants! The ache of feeling "bent" finally forced him up to his knees, and he slid his hand into the waistband of the jeans, adjusting his penis to a more acceptable position. God! Where was he?! The mere touch of his own hand was enough to start him dripping. As he knelt there, half leaning into the coffee table, he stroked himself.
//Just a little. Sorta take the edge off.//
He stopped abruptly.
//What am I doing?! Just my luck, he'll come sauntering up the stairs and see me jerking off all over the centerpiece. Hmmm. He could be the centerpiece...//
He pulled himself to his feet and strode purposefully to the CD player. He idly started picking his way thru the stack of CDs on the second shelf. Opera. Opera. Pearl Jam. Opera. Beatles. Ravel. Opera. Dr. Demento. Opera.
//If there's one thing we have here, it's plenty of music.//
He smiled as he found one that struck his fancy, and slid it into the player. The undulating whine of the lead guitar came over the speakers. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the slow, bluesy rhythm.
It's all right if you love me. It's all right if you don't.
True. True. Love was not exactly what he was feeling at the moment. What he was feeling right now was...was frustrating horniness. He felt those hands--strong, sure, experienced--moving over his body. Someone, or something, goddammit, was going to get fucked tonight. He curled his body protectively over the unending swell of a hard on that wouldn't die.
I'm not afraid of you running away, honey. I get the feeling you won't.
//Not if I have anything to say about it.//
Didn't they agree to meet tonight at the loft? Was he at Joe's? Was he serious? Hell! He was always teasing, and probably didn't even know it.
//Mixed signals R us. If this is your idea of foreplay, my friend...//
Grooving to the music, he made his way over to the kitchen, stopping at the window. He gazed down into the darkened street, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, or feel the buzz of him. Nothing. He walked over to the counter, opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. Ruefully, he tossed the twist-top over the appliance.
//Another bad habit. So easy to nurture those. And I guess that's what you are, baby, a bad, bad habit I would like to fall into.//
He took a long swallow of the beer and danced over to the elevator. Nothing. He absently stroked the bottle, lost in thought. Long. Hard. Wet. Was it too hot in here? He felt a sheen of sweat across his upper lip, the dampness of his hair, still wet from the shower. He laughed.
//Is it hot in here, or is it me?//
There is no sense in pretending. Goddammit! There was no sense in pretending. What had pretending gotten him? What felt like an unrequited crush, an empty bed, a weeping hard on. If he had just dealt with this at the beginning, when they first met. He knew it then, and he was only more certain of it now. That flash of recognition, of kindred souls. But there was a certain thrill to the chase, now wasn't there? He wasn't pretending anymore. He wanted that man. Bad. Bad enough to hang around here in the loft and wait. Enough to endure this sexual exasperation, and wait. Enough to wait. And wait.
Your eyes give you away.
//Yep. Eyes are the windows of the soul, and I've seen and given come-hither looks often enough to recognize one. And his eyes! So seductive. //
Was Tom Petty talking to him!? He walked back over to the window, his skin vibrating with the heightened sensitivity of this evening's Quickening. He had expected the tingling to fade a little as the evening wore on, but it only seemed to get more pronounced.
//Aha! That's because I'm not doing anything about it!//
He scraped his own fingernails over his chest, feeling instead his nails scraping across his body, tugging at his nipples. Feeling the gooseflesh rise up, he gasped. Losing himself in the fantasy, he gently dragged the fingertips of both hands across his chest, his arms, his belly, sliding them once again down into his jeans. Brutally, he grabbed his dick and squeezed it as hard as he could tolerate, just to take himself off that wet dream precipice. The relief lasted mere seconds, and he was back up again, oozing and dripping and pressing against the zipper seams of his jeans.
Something inside of you is feeling like I do, We've said all there is to say--
//I wanna be inside of you, feeling like I do! Will I be able to control the situation when he comes in? I do know how he feels. He feels like I do. Will I want to control anything? //
Attempting to soothe himself, he lay down on the couch, back to the table, sinking into the softness of the leather. Leather. It felt alive. This was not the place to try to relax, not feeling as horny and hard and sweaty as he did. He stroked the back cushion, anticipating his hands fondling the contours of a masculine body. Reveling in the pleasure of his imaginings, his breath became husky and short, and his mouth became dry. Lost in sensation, he was barely aware of the tiny tingle that started far, far back in his subconscious. As the familiar buzz of an approaching immortal became stronger, he opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented. He rolled off the couch and made his way to the elevator, listening as the buzz merged with the music.
Breakdown. Go ahead and give it to me. Breakdown. Come on, take me through the night. Breakdown. I'm standing here, can't you see? Breakdown. It's all right.
Breakdown by Tom Petty and Mike Campbell. Lyrics used without permission.