Belling the Cat
by Suze

 

Warning: Here there be Slash. Homo-erotic fan fiction. Male/male sex, get it? Two gorgeous men -- and when Amanda's in the mood, one beautiful woman -- doing the wild thing. If this squicks you out, or if it just makes you uncomfortable, or if you're under the age limit for adult content in your current corner of the space-time continuum, please -- leave now!

Highlander: The Series and the concept of immortality presented therein belong to Rysher and Panzer/Davis. Believe me, if these characters belonged to me, I'd dress them better -- at the very least I'd get Methos out of those tacky rust colored pants and into painted-on jeans where he belongs. With silk shirts -- white, loose on the shoulders, unbuttoned halfway to his...you get the picture. Duncan wouldn't get shirts at all. Just jeans and low-slung sweats. Oh, all right -- the occasional tux. But only if it's Armani.

I'm not going to apologize for the continuing appearances by Amanda. I like Amanda, and she gives me an extra pair of eyes to write through. Duncan can only do so much Blatant Methos Body Worshipping by himself.

I make no profit from these stories; I'm just amusing myself and hoping to seduce the occasional innocent bystander into the Highlander Universe along the way.


Chapter One: 

He looked at the collar in his hand. He looked back at Duncan.

<As far as he's concerned, you belong to him now.>

MacLeod began to move, shrinking the distance between them.

<Body and soul.>

Methos took two steps back and turned to run. But Duncan was between him and the door, and he'd waited a beat too long. The Highlander pounced. 


Methos' attempted flight was brought to an abrupt halt by strong hands closing tightly around his waist.

"Is this your idea of a friendly greeting, MacLeod? 'Good morning, Methos' generally works for me."

His voice trailed off as his feet lost contact with the floor, and the idea of flight became reality. Lifted and thrown toward the bed, he twisted in midair, landed on his stomach, slid across the still mussed sheets, and scrambled for the opposite edge of the bed. His frantic efforts at escape were thwarted by a large hand grasping one slim ankle, jerking him back to the center of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Get your hands off of me!"

"Good morning, Methos. Have a nice chat with Amanda?"

"MacLeod, this isn't funny!"

"Oh, I don't know. Looks pretty funny from here."

One hand still clutching the forgotten leather collar, the other reached futilely for something, anything, to hold onto and came up with a handful of sheet. Methos clenched his fingers around it and watched as the sheet was pulled from the bed by his continuing, involuntary backward movement.

"MacLeod, can't we talk about this?"

The hand grasping his ankle was joined by a hand sliding up the opposite thigh. Stroking, fondling -- distracting. He stopped thinking about Amanda and escape and started thinking about whether or not he could actually feel the warmth of Duncan's skin through his jeans. Time slowed, and Methos' world narrowed to physical sensations, the dark green expanse of MacLeod's sheets, and the hands that were touching him, pulling him inexorably back toward the Highlander.

He could feel the cool morning air against his bare upper body, the softness of the sheets against his skin, and Duncan's warm, sword-callused hands touching him, caressing him. A small Amanda-toned voice was whispering something unintelligible in his ear, but his body was too enthralled by memories to listen. Memories of how those hands felt against his face, guiding his head as he took Duncan deep into his throat. How they felt holding his hips as Duncan's invading cock thrust relentlessly into his ass. How they felt squeezing and caressing him, stroking his cock as he came.

"Unhh...I didn't want this, did I? Why was I..."

"I have no idea, Methos."

Then the world spun as he was effortlessly lifted and flipped onto his back, landing with his arms stretched over his head and pressed to the mattress. Both wrists were held firmly by one large hand as Duncan lowered his body to cover Methos'.

<You're his prize for defeating Kronos, and he's ready to claim you.>

And Methos remembered. Amanda. Rules. Games. And not just any games-- collars meant dominance games. Bullshit.

Methos twisted under the larger man's weight, attempting to bring a knee up between the hard thighs for threat leverage before his own were captured. Too late. Not just captured, but pinned and spread as MacLeod grinned and adjusted his position to rub against Methos, pressing him into the bed as if Methos were a new cushion he was contouring for his comfort, rather than a writhing, reluctant captive. Methos thrust his hips upward, testing Duncan's grip. Duncan smiled and thrust back, obviously finding Methos' struggles more exciting than discouraging.

Methos felt MacLeod's hardness pressing against him and stopped struggling. Duncan outweighed him by at least twenty pounds and had the upper hand at the moment. Getting into a pissing contest while Duncan had him in this position was only going to wet the bed.

Methos assembled an appropriately disgusted look of long suffering patience, sighed dramatically, and stopped squirming.

"Going somewhere, Methos?" Duncan didn't seem to be unduly impressed with Methos' acting ability. Maybe sarcasm would be more effective.

"Apparently not. Nice style, MacLeod. Real smooth. Bet it impresses the hell out of the ladies."

"It's not a technique I get to use very often, but it has its fans." Duncan rotated his hips, pressing Methos even deeper into the bed. Methos smothered a groan as his body began to respond to the friction.

"Stop that! I'm trying to talk to you."

"Blah blah blah."

"I'm serious, MacLeod. We need to talk. Amanda said..."

"Methos, why is it that every time things start to get really  interesting, you want to have a discussion that begins with 'Amanda said'? I thought we'd covered that ground already. Remember 'no pain, no gain?' No? Then how about 'Duncan's never been with a man?' That was one of her better efforts."

Amusement flickered across Methos' finely drawn features and settled in the twist of his lips before he could hide it.

"I'd forgotten about that." Duncan's smirk told Methos that he wasn't going to be allowed to forget it again. Not anytime soon, anyway. Maybe in a century or two.

"Bad move, Methos. I love Amanda, but her definition of 'truth' can be rather flexible, and even her hidden agendas have hidden agendas. Forgetting somehing like that is a dangerous habit to get into. It's probably a sign of old age. Don't worry, Methos, even when you're completely senile, I'll take care of you. But while you're still coherent, tell me -- do you want rearview mirrors on your wheelchair? Racing stripes? Chrome spoilers?"

"MacLeod..."

"How about a set of fuzzy dice? Or a little plastic Immortal with a head that nods up and down? A personalized license plate that says Really Old Fart?"

"Enough, Duncan. I get the point. But that still doesn't explain the collar."

"And here I was thinking you were the expert on sex games. You don't like the collar? I'm disappointed. That particular fantasy is one of my favorites. You in a collar. Maybe a leash."

"No collar. No leash."

"A black leather bustier and fishnet stockings?"

"MacLeod..."

"I guess the high heels are out too, huh?"

"Not necessarily. I'll bet you'd look fetching in four inch spikes."

"Okay, we can try something else. There are lots of fun things we haven't tried yet. The chains are still hanging, and we've got all those leftover feathers. That looked like fun. And I never did finish exploring the rest of the toys in your little black bag. No? I think I've got some Jello in the cabinet, and there's whipped cream in the fridge. What do you say? I've got  sprinkles." Duncan's wide eyes were trying for innocent, but the leer lurking in the background wasn't hard to see.

Methos felt a giggle gathering in his chest and struggled to stifle it before it could break free and give MacLeod yet another embarrassing moment to hold over his head. As much as it  irritated him to acknowledge defeat, Duncan in one of his rare playful moods was downright irresistible. Screw Amanda and her mysterious hints and obscure warnings. The tasty little bitch was safely on her way to Paris -- not here dealing with an aching, painful hard-on, pinned to the bed by a hot, sweaty, equally horny Scot. Methos blew a mental raspberry at Amanda and smiled at Duncan. Surely it wouldn't kill him to play just a *little* bit longer? After all, it was just a game-- he could end it whenever he wanted to.

"That would depend entirely on which one of us gets chained."

"Well, since I can't have you in the collar, I kind of like the idea of you hanging from the ceiling. It intrigues me." Suddenly, Duncan wasn't smiling anymore. He leaned closer, whispering. The echo of Scotland became richer, fuller, as the voice deepened, sliding over Methos like warm oil, fragrant with sensual possibilities. "Your lean, sexy body naked and glistening with oil. Your tight, hot ass displayed and angled for my enjoyment. Helpless. Powerless to resist. Entirely at my mercy." Those wonderful hips moved again, thrusting and rubbing. Methos' urge to giggle abruptly disappeared, displaced by an equally embarrassing urge to whimper.

"I can think of several wicked, evil, probably even illegal things that I want to do to your body." The hand that wasn't holding Methos' wrists moved to his chest and began stroking his ribs, almost, but not quite, tickling. "I could start slow, like this." Warm fingers moved up and covered a nipple. "And then I could do this," the fingers closed and the soft strokes began to alternate with pinches and twists.

Methos inhaled sharply as the tingle at his nipple moved in a straight line to his cock which twitched and jerked in sympathy with its northern cousin. The little memory-demon that was Amanda whispered in his ear.

<I know you can handle physical pain, but how are you at handling emotional risk?>

It was just sex, Methos reminded himself, only sex.

"And then we could move on to this." Duncan lowered his mouth to Methos' neck and tongued his way slowly up to a delicate ear, licking and sucking along the way. The doubting demon was drowned out as Methos' senses were overwhelmed by the hot, coffee-scented breath against his neck, the sharp, bitter tang of male sweat fueled by arousal rising from the hard body pinning him to the bed, the rough silk of Duncan's sweat-dampened hair spreading across his throat.

The searching mouth moved down to his shoulder, pressing delicate, teasing kisses to his skin. Methos arched his neck and turned his head to the side, inviting his captor to taste his fill, then flexed his wrists in suggestion. Duncan accepted the invitation, but his grip never loosened.

"Duncan, this would be a lot more fun if I got to touch too."

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Behave yourself and I'll let you know when you have permission to touch."

Duncan ignored the moaning response and returned to his rapt exploration of Methos' neck, soothing with licking tastes and small nibbles. Then suddenly biting. Hard.

"Shit! Jesus, MacLeod!" Duncan's head came up, and he smiled at Methos, brown eyes wide and brows raised in a mute question. The attempt at innocence was spoiled by the revealing gleam of mischief in the warm eyes and the small smear of Methos' blood decorating the full lower lip. MacLeod's tongue flicked out and captured the evidence then traced Methos' lips, sharing the salty flavor.

"What's the matter, Methos?" A low, throaty murmur into his mouth as Duncan's lips moved lightly over his, barely touching. "I thought rough was how you liked it. At least, you liked it rough last night. And the night before that. And the night before that." Each 'night' was punctuated by a soft kiss at one end and a hard thrust of Duncan's hips at the other. "Or is 'oh God, fuck me harder' Methos-speak for 'stop that, you brute'?"

<Do you think you're fooling anyone, Methos?>

Why the hell wouldn't she shut up? The persistent whispering was making it difficult for Methos to concentrate on enjoying the full benefits of MacLeod's enthusiasm. And the man was *so* damned enthusiastic! His hips were pressing Methos into the bed, grinding against his cock. Harder. Faster. His mouth returned to press against Methos' throat. Licking. Sucking. Biting again.

Duncan's hand left Methos' nipple and traveled south. It lingered briefly on the sensitive skin beneath his ribs, stroking softly, then moved to his navel where a single finger explored, teased, and thrust gently in implied promise of delights to come before continuing on its southern trajectory. The tell-tale whimper finally escaped Methos' efforts at control and snuck through lips that were parted and gasping for breath.

The Amanda demon reappeared at Methos' shoulder and snickered at him.

<What will it take to make you scream and plead?>

Damn her sneaky little soul to the depths of a celibate hell. Why wouldn't she leave him alone? Methos seized the shreds of his self-control and tried to think past the formidable distraction of a determined Duncan MacLeod holding him captive with one hand and lowering his zipper with the other.

A breath, a soft kiss, a nibble, and his jeans were open -- Duncan's hand was inside, tracing patterns of heat down the length of Methos' cock and over his balls, cupping the delicate globes in the large palm while the fingertips gently stroked the sensitive skin behind them. Another whimper, another gasp.

<You might as well have 'property of Duncan MacLeod' tattooed across your ass.>

"Shut the fuck up!""

"What? Did you say something?" Duncan raised his head, and his hand paused in its tantalizing explorations.

"Uhmmmm...I said don't stop. Whatever you do, don't stop."

"I didn't intend to." Then Duncan was moving. Methos' arms were  free at last, but before he could use them, his jeans were down his legs and off, and he was flipped onto his stomach and pulled to his knees in a fluid series of motions that spoke of both Duncan's strength and the limits of his patience. The room was still spinning when a hand closed around his cock and a wet finger pushed into his ass. Methos yelped in surprise and jerked forward, catching himself on his elbows just before his nose hit the bed. Duncan's hands never faltered. The finger moved in his ass, stretching and turning, then withdrawing briefly to return with a friend, while the hand on his cock moved up and down, pushing, pumping, occasionally squeezing. Methos' vision blurred, and he decided that resting his head on the bed wasn't such a bad idea after all as his body made an independent decision to flex and buck to Duncan's rhythm.

"Oh, now that's a beautiful sight. Almost as good as the collar." The passion-rough voice seemed to drift over miles of distance before it reached him. Methos struggled to find words to respond, any words. Eloquence wasn't necessary, just words.

"Unnhhh...fuck, MacLeod! Warn me next time."

"What a coincidence, Methos. Fucking is exactly what I have in mind." Methos couldn't figure out exactly when Duncan had managed to shed his sweat pants, but the warm skin pressing against the back of his thighs indicated he had. Then he had more important things to think about as the fingers in his ass withdrew, and MacLeod sheathed himself in one long, continuous stroke.

Pain. Pressure. Excruciating pleasure. One blended seamlessly into the next as Duncan moved inside him with deep, smooth strokes. Methos bucked-- forward into the hand pumping his cock, then back, impaling himself further on the Highlander's cock, an inescapable rhythm that Duncan encouraged by leaning forward to whisper a litany of sweet obscenities into the pale skin at the back of Methos' neck.

"Oh, yessss. You're so fucking tight, Methos. Tight, hot, a perfect fit. Unnhh! Oh, God. It's so sweet, so good. You were made for me to fuck. Why the hell did we wait so long to do this? I'm not waiting any more, Methos. I'm going to fuck your ass whenever the hell I feel like it. And you're going to bend over and take it, aren't you? You love it as much as I do, don't you?"

In a fleeting moment of insanity, Methos wanted to assure Duncan he would do anything and everything Duncan wanted, fulfill every fantasy, grant every wish, keep every promise, then realized that in order to speak, he would have to stop screaming first. The burning in his throat told him he'd been screaming for more than a moment, how much more, he had no idea. He gasped, drawing in air to speak, then lost it again as Duncan sped up, tightening the hand around his cock, pounding even faster into his ass. Any hope of coherence vanished. Nothing mattered, nothing existed. Nothing but Duncan, and pleasure, and the unending, relentless rhythm of their joining. Methos' entire body was vibrating, balanced between the extremes of selfish passion and complete surrender. Teetering, straightening, fighting for equilibrium. Finally, he fell.

The room tilted, fractured into splinters of deep shadow and blinding light, rejoined in strange new forms, then disappeared altogether as Methos came, pulsing in sync with Duncan's powerful thrusts. He collapsed to the bed as his knees gave out, and Duncan followed him down, his thrusts never faltering. Once, twice, three times before he buried himself deep inside Methos and came.

An unknowable time later, Methos sniffed, sighed, and opened his eyes. He was still half underneath Duncan, his face buried in the warm, safe space between the Highlander's chest and the strong right arm that was holding him close.

He should leave. Get up, get dressed, and leave. Duncan was proving to be a little too fond of dominance games -- and too good at them for Methos' comfort. A little distance and a little time would calm things down. He could come back in a week or two and they could decide on a different game to play.

Or he could stay. It was cold outside, and the bed was warm and comfortable, Duncan even more so. And he knew for a fact there were three different brands of expensive imported beer in Duncan's fridge. The thought that leaving would be exactly what Amanda would expect him to do made up his mind.

Decision made, he sighed again and edged closer, content to remain where he was until the other man moved. If he was lucky, it would be a long, long time. His eyes closed and he drifted to sleep, lulled by Duncan's even breathing and the phantom whisper of Amanda's laughing voice.

<Body and soul, Methos. Body and soul.>


 The End