Whispers
by Rachael Sabotini

 

CYA: All standard disclaimers apply. I don't own these guys; I just like to have fun with them. I make no money off this; I mean no harm.

WARNING: This story is rated NC-17 for graphic, m/m stuff


The moon had hidden itself in a robe of soft white clouds while Duncan waited patiently for Methos' return. He relaxed against the hood of the T-bird, his arms folded in front of him, the warm summer breeze tugging at his shirt. He closed his eyes briefly, reveling in the scent of juniper carried on the wind and the feel of timelessness that surrounded this place. Sea grass and scrub trees clung to the rocky hillsides while sand piled up in dunes around everything manmade; it was almost impossible to see where the rest area ended and the beach began. But the constant whisper of the ocean and the cry of the gulls lent an expectant air to the stillness, the whole world waiting patiently, paused for something to happen.

The noise of cracking branch brought him alert, jerking him upright, but the flood of presence that followed reassured him. Methos had returned. He glanced over at the small, concrete washroom and watched Methos make his way up the hill and back toward the car.

Duncan didn't know why they'd had to come here, and he didn't really care. Just simply being together seemed miracle enough. In fact, Methos was the one who had driven them from the dojo yesterday, not stopping until they came to this isolated town, and its cliffsides, and seemingly endless beach.

Duncan looked up expectantly, waiting, wanting to know what was going on but not willing to risk their truce enough to ask.

Lean and lithe, clad completely in black, from leather jacket to jeans and boots, Methos' eyes practically glowed in the moonlight, his aura predatory and determined. He looked like some sort of wolf emerging from the shadows -- and Duncan was dinner. Duncan felt himself flush under the frank appraisal and turned his head away, still unsettled by how quickly Methos could build up the fires in his veins. Just a single look, and Duncan found himself hard and wanting, glad for the loneliness of this outpost, his stomach knotting as tension etched itself in his bones.

The destroyer had crept out from behind the walls and padded up the hills toward him, seeking its prey. Duncan could already feel his chest tightening, his breathing accelerating. The danger of this, the close edge of sanity, was a drug that he could not help but desire.

Methos slid up next to him, his whispered words carried like raindrops on the wind. "How do you feel about getting fucked in public?"

An explosion of visceral need flooded through Duncan's thighs and groin, and he found himself instantly erect. His breath caught, like a lump of ice in his throat, and his ability to think momentarily vanished as his body broke free of its intellectual chains.

Methos didn't seem to need a verbal answer; his hand slid down Duncan's chest and cupped Duncan's groin, kneading at his erection. "If it bothers you, you can bend me over the car instead." His intent whispers spun though Duncan's head, leaving a tingling rush of excitement in their wake.

Methos' hands were already at Duncan's zipper, sliding it slowly open; Duncan's cock throbbed as each clasp gave way. Methos low chuckle was filled with five thousand years of sexual innuendo. "I don't want to wait," he whispered. "I want to fuck."

Duncan turned his head slightly so his lips were pressed close to Methos' cheek. "Why wait?" Duncan whispered back, his voice catching as the heat of Methos' body wove itself through his senses. "There's no one around the beach tonight." That damned laughed bubbled forth again, and Mac hardened even more in response.

"Good," Methos murmured as he turned Duncan to face the car. He slid around and kicked Duncan's legs apart slightly; Duncan could feel Methos' erection pressed against the back seam of his jeans as Methos ground himself against the taut cloth. "You want to take those off?" He tugged at the waistband of Duncan's pants, "or just leave them bunched around your thighs?" His hands cupped Duncan's ass and squeezed. "I can get to what I want either way."

The casualness of the question and the insistent, controlling tone just made Duncan want him more. It set fire to Duncan's blood, and Methos knew it, the bastard, knew how Mac liked to be turned and moved and molded to Methos' desires.

"Whatever." Duncan finally managed to choke out, his mind and sense of propriety lost, as usual, under the touch of Methos' hands. "Jus' do what you want."

"Oh, I want plenty, Highlander, not just this one thing now. And I will have each of them in time. But for the moment, I think I'll just fuck you bent over the hood of your car."

Mac's shirt was the next casualty, collar torn and buttons snapping free as Methos tore it off his chest. Duncan tried to stop the whimper that escaped, but it only brought forth another whisper. "You like it when I do this, don't you, Duncan? You love it when I fuck you."

And, oh god, how true that was. He shifted his weight a bit, trying to get himself adjusted against the car, find some sort of way to brace his weight, his torn shirt barely cushioning his cock against the hard metal of the car's hood -- but it was in vain.

Methos grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind him, locking them both in the center of his back, and bent him forward, pressing his chest and right cheek against the warm metal of the car. Duncan's knees were braced on the bumper, supporting him, while his hands remained bound up in the cloth that had been his shirt. With his free hand, Methos jerked down Duncan's jeans and underwear, leaving his ass exposed to the night wind that surrounded them. Duncan shivered, but it wasn't the cold, it was the way he could feel Methos' gaze consuming him as he lay against the hood of the car, like a trophy on display.

"Umm." Those damn whispers again, caressing his ears the way Methos' hands caressed his ass and back. "Much better." The hands slid up to his neck, bushing casually across the nape. "But not yet enough." The hand slid softly down Mac's back, stopping to play with bits of skin, circling around to the front to tease at Duncan's nipples.

And then Methos knelt behind him, and Duncan jerked at the feel of Methos' tongue pressed against his inner thigh. He jerked again when the teeth closed on the soft skin, and groaned as the nibbling gave way to long, cat-like stokes of Methos' tongue. He tried to grind himself against the car, but it wasn't enough; he couldn't get enough purchase like this. He twisted and turned trying to find a better way -- and then Methos spread the cheeks of his ass, opening him to the caress of the night wind.

Little shivers descended over him, each wet spot Methos left overly-sensitized to the slightest touch. Duncan growled as Methos' tongue pressed itself against his opening, seeking its way inside, wanting more, needing it to be enough.

"Soon, Highlander, soon."

The wetness was gone, and he could feel the head of Methos' cock against him, nudging, pushing, teasing the opening. "Now." Hands gripped his hair, jerking his head back as Methos sank deep into his flesh, filling Duncan in one thrust.

Partly in pain, mostly in pleasure, Duncan gasped in reaction, his mind swirling with a thousand colors and sounds as Methos pulled back and thrust again. This is what they needed, this abandonment of civility, this basic drive to rut. The searing pain gentled itself to a slow building tension, and Mac thrust back to meet Methos' cock, his hands caught between their bodies, his own erection throbbing with an unsatisfied need to be touched.

Like riding the wind, they fell against one another, slapping and growling and surging like a fusion of wolf and man. Duncan's belly caught and stuck on the warm metal as he was slammed hard against the car. It scraped, it tore, it demanded Duncan yield, the same way Methos' cock did. Duncan was caught between the two forces, sandwiched between them, unable to find release. Methos must have taken pity on him as arms reached around him and jerked him slightly upright, Methos sinking even deeper into him. "So tight," Methos whispered. "So damned tight."

Duncan couldn't move, he could only brace himself as Methos thrust into him, but it was better than the car. With a deep sigh, he forced himself to relax into the movement, his head lolling back against Methos chest. He let most of his weight rest against the other man, feeling a sharp tingle as Methos took him hard and fast...this was life.

He had no earth, no stars, no moon, no light, no dark. He had no center, he had no form -- just the shaft within him and the hands upon him, turning him, using him, molding him into what was needed for the moment. His body trembled and wept its need as he felt Methos' cock deep within him; finally, he groaned his desire.

He wasn't sure if he had formed actual words, but Methos' hand wrapped around his cock anyway, and that touch was all he needed to find his own release.

He stilled and jerked, a thousand electrical pulses igniting within him, and at some point, igniting a similar fire in Methos'. Wetness filled him, completing him, and Duncan practically collapsed as Methos withdrew. His shirt was pulled back into play as Duncan lay panting on the hood of the car, and then his pants were pulled up and re-fastened. He was rolled over but he just lay there, staring at the moon and at Methos, the halo of light a complete contrast to Methos' devilish grin.

The destroyer was gone, at least for awhile, and Duncan wasn't sure if he could bring himself to mourn its passing. He almost fell into the car -- his legs refused to bear his weight -- and all Methos did was smile as he started the car and turned them back onto the road.


This was part of the 'Inspirational Quote' challenge issued on HLWC. We were each given a line, a phrase or a snippett of poetry, and from that we could build whatever we wanted. Here's the quote I received, which was itself cut from a larger poem:

But the year had lost its meaning,
And in intellectual chains
I lost both love and loathing,
Mured up in the wall of wisdom.

--Richard Eberhart
from "The Groundhog"

 

For some reason, the phrase "intellectual chains" really excited my imagination, sparking ideas about how to 'throw off' the 'intellectual chains', and this PWP was the result.


The End