by Taselby


This story is rated NC-17 for adult content, including the graphic description of homoerotic sex. If you are under the age of 18 or if the loving depiction of consensual M/M sex does not appeal to you, PLEASE turn back now. You have been warned. If you persist in reading this despite my warning, don't come crying to me if you get offended. You know if you should be here or not.

Methos, Duncan, and the concept of Immortality are the property of someone else with more lawyers than me. I claim no ownership, no money... Just for fun, eh? I promise to return the guys relatively unharmed when I am done with them (which, on further thought, might be awhile...). ;)

Special thanks to my multitude of Beta-readers Kimberly, Brenda, Merry, Charlie, Jack, Meg, Ann, and everyone else on the ROG-L list to whom this story was inadvertently sent :). Any correct spelling, grammar, punctuation, or continuity you find herein is entirely their fault. All mistakes are, of course, my own. Mea culpa.

The heat was stifling. Methos glanced around the deserted loft with faint disappointment at the lack of MacLeod's Presence, and tossed his bag down beside the elevator gate. The reason for the Highlander's absence was all-too apparent as the air slammed into Methos like a wall. It hung thick and still, heavy with humidity and the unseasonable, sweltering heat. A quick check at the switch confirmed his deduction: the air-conditioner was broken.

He sighed and mopped at the beads of sweat tickling down his face in a steady flow, raking a hand through his saturated hair. He briefly considered and then rejected the idea of going to Joe's for a cold beer, but even the lure of the Watcher's hospitality and hyperactive air-conditioner wasn't sufficient to tempt Methos back out into the punishing mid-afternoon sun. You're getting soft, Old Man, he thought to himself as he set about opening windows and positioning fans to circulate the stale air.

Thirty minutes later Methos reluctantly turned off the shower spray, savoring the last icy fingers of water drumming against his scalp. The apartment was still hot, and MacLeod was still gone. He glanced at the soggy pile of clothing in the bathroom floor and grimaced. It was an easy choice to raid Mac's dresser for clean garments.

Loose gray jogging shorts satisfied the twin demands of convention and modesty as Methos padded barefoot and bare-chested over to the Highlander's well-stocked refrigerator. Overheated linoleum burned into the bottoms of his sensitive feet. Gods, even the _floor_ is hot! He stood in the cool mist pouring from the open refrigerator, twisting his lean torso to distribute the delicious breath of cold air as widely as possible. A thought struck him, and he grinned, opening the small freezer compartment with the intention of better chilling the back of his neck. As he looked into the frost-coated space, the grin faded, and Methos' eyes widened in amazement. No.... He didn't! He looked again to be sure. He did, that sneaky Scot! I didn't know he had it in him! And Methos reached reverently for one of the giant-sized Popsicles nested in the freezer's center.

Methos leaned back into the warm, butter-soft leather of Duncan's couch, his long limbs splayed easily across the cushions. His lips brushed gently against the frosty tip of the oversize confection, the chill vapors teasing his nose. He breathed down the side, watching, fascinated as his breath froze around it, ice crystals materializing across the red-and-yellow veined surface. He lipped again at the tip, and cautiously swirled a moistened tongue around the rim.

Flavor exploded in Methos' mouth. Extravagant, over-sweet exaggerations of cherry and pineapple rolled across the searching tongue. The taste bore no resemblance to the flavor of real fruit, but the deception itself was delightful. Surely the gods must have favored the person who invented this rare treat! The Popsicle would soon begin to melt in the heat, and the bottom edge was already soft and wet-looking. A broad lap and a twist of his wrist took care of the melt there.

Methos cupped his lips against the surface, sucking gently at the quickening melt. The slightly textured surface slid across his mouth, and he sighed into it, closing his eyes. Gods, but he loved Popsicles. Lips opened around the slick girth of the pop, and he slid the frozen length deep, slurping and groaning his pleasure as the cool sweetness trickled down his throat. He leaned back further into the cushions, craning his long neck back to let the melting pop drip down onto his lapping tongue.

Such was Methos' distraction that he didn't notice the tell-tale tingle of the approaching Immortal until the elevator gate slid up with a clatter.

MacLeod stepped off the lift warily, reasonably sure about the identity of his uninvited houseguest, but taking no chances. He was completely unprepared for the sight of the oldest Immortal sprawled, half-reclining on the couch, sucking enthusiastically at a Popsicle, pale red syrup dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Clad only in a pair of shorts that Mac recognized with a brief flare of irritation as his own, Methos' muscles moved fluidly underneath his glistening skin, his abdomen tensing and relaxing in time to the rhythmic movement of his mouth. The long legs were splayed comfortably open, and an obvious erection tented the front of the baggy shorts. Mac stopped in the entryway and stared, his bag slipping from nerveless fingers as his own body responded in sympathy to the older man's arousal.

Methos paused for a moment to look at Duncan with a mix of embarrassment and surprise, the substance of the gaze slowly changing as he took in the Highlander's fixed stare, the rapid, open-mouthed breathing, and the scanty summertime garb that did little to conceal Mac's elemental reflex to his sudden arousal. The glance hung between them for a long moment, the silence filled with the subtle whirring of fans, and the Popsicle continued to melt in Methos' hand, cold red syrup dripping steadily over his knuckles and onto the sweaty stomach. With a gleam of mischief in the hazel eyes, Methos slowly raised his hand and began to lick the sticky mess off the long fingers.

Methos' red tongue trailed wetly across the backs of his fingers, and the lips sucked softly with an exaggerated kissing motion. Each finger was then treated in similar fashion.

Mac groaned as the dwindling red-and-yellow pop found its way back to the thin mouth. Methos held Duncan's gaze as he resumed his pattern. The long shape slipped between the red-stained lips, the jaw moved slowly, and moments later the pop reappeared with a muted slurp. The old Immortal worked the pop with deliberate sensuousness until the Highlander squirmed uncomfortably, shifting his stance to accommodate his bulging erection.

The pop reappeared again with that gentle sucking sound that made Mac so crazy. Finding his mouth dry, Duncan licked his lips and swallowed heavily. The icy confection was lowered, and Methos fixed Duncan with a potent stare.

"Want a bite?" he asked wantonly, waggling the dripping confection in the Highlander's direction.

Duncan hesitated for only a moment before pulling an uneven breath and replying, "Yes, I do."

Methos paused, and his mouth hung open for a moment as something like surprise flickered across his sharp features. The red-stained tongue ran briefly across his lower lip, and he swallowed once before speaking.

"Come here and get it then." He sat up and offered the pop as Mac crossed to the sofa. The leather upholstery creaked faintly as Duncan perched lightly on the edge of cushion between Methos' knees and reached for the extended treat.

The first touch was electric. Methos' hand was almost searingly hot where Mac gripped it to guide the slender point of the ice-pop to his mouth. He turned the supple wrist this way and that, slowly lapping at the sweet, sticky melt. Mac watched Methos as the older man watched him, the hazel eyes slightly glazed with desire, the breathing becoming labored in the lean chest. The corner of Mac's mouth quirked upward in a playful smile, and he began performing in earnest. Two can play at this game.

The length of the pop disappeared between the full lips. Methos swallowed thickly at the implications, entranced as MacLeod leaned in over the imprisoned hand and began to seriously torment the old Immortal. Down... The pop vanished. A smooth twist to the side to display the glistening and vulnerable side of the Scot's olive-tone neck and an agonizingly slow ascent as the pop reappeared with a wet, sucking sound. Down, side, up. Down, side, up. All punctuated by soft moans and gentle slurps.

Syrup dribbled freely across Mac's fingers and chin. The pale hand he held cupped in his own broad palms began to shake. Down, side, up.

"Mac..." Methos began slowly, breathless and trembling, he seemed to have difficulty finding his voice. The word came out as little more than a squeak. Down, side, up.

Methos coughed and tried again. "MacLeod, I..." A slight, hysterical edge was creeping into the rich baritone, pushing it up a step. Methos' free hand gripped the soft leather like a life preserver. The Highlander's rhythm was relentless. The full lips slid mercilessly across the gaudily colored surface of the confection. Down, side... Up. Slurp.


The Scot paused, the tip of the shrunken pop just inside his mouth. Surprise and desire raced across Methos' face, competing for dominance. Mac took in his friend's ragged breathing, the flushed, sweat-slick skin, the easy glide of firm muscles as Methos' hips twitched involuntarily, betraying his need to soothe the aching tightness there. Mac looked up into the wide, fevered hazel eyes and slowly, deliberately bit through the tip of the Popsicle.

Methos groaned and slid down, frantically clutching at the creaking leather as if that alone could save him from this sadistic Scot. As if on cue, the abused ice-pop disintegrated, crumbling away from the stick and spattering across Methos' chest and abdomen. He gasped in surprise, eyes widening at the shock of ice against his burning skin.

Duncan sighed and shook his head in mock-regret. "Och, look at that. Whatever will we do now?"

Methos met the smoky gaze with equal force, gulping for air, trying to calm his pounding heart. "Oh, I'm sure we can think of something..." He freed his sticky hand from Duncan's grasp and picked up a last unmelted chunk of Popsicle from where it rested on his chest, sitting up and holding the treat delicately under Mac's nose.

Mac took the bait, and allowed Methos to push the flavored ice into his mouth. Methos followed the frozen delicacy with a gentle caress of the sticky lips before closing the distance for a kiss.

Duncan's mouth was sweet and cold. Methos slowed the pace of their play here, to linger over the subtleties of the Highlander's kiss. Sweat, salt and the artificial nuances of the fruit-pop all combined with indefinable essence of the man himself in a dizzying combination of taste and scent. A ghost-fragrance of shaving cream and a rasp of late afternoon stubble teased at the edge of Methos' perceptions. He slipped a long hand behind the damp neck to urge the Scot closer, to deepen the gentle caress of lips and tongue.

The kiss did not remain gentle for long as Duncan's hands echoed Methos', reaching behind to stroke and caress the slender contours of neck and jaw. A rising tide of urgency hastened their movements as the kiss, and the hesitant explorations that accompanied it grew hungry, wanting more. Methos reached for the tail of Mac's damp t-shirt, moving close, letting his hands wander freely across the broad expanse of humid chest beneath it, mapping the firm flesh, the dips and swells of the Highlander's well-defined physique.

Methos struggled to control his breathing, to calm the racing of his heart. He wanted to be the one directing this encounter, guiding the exploration, and it was difficult to do that in the face of Duncan's raw enthusiasm. Methos felt like laughing, or crying, or wrestling MacLeod to the floor, shredding the thin layers of clothing that separated them and rubbing himself lengthwise on that longed-for body. Any of which would surely scare Mac witless, despite his bold appearance.

It was MacLeod that finally inserted a hand between the pressing bodies, mutely asking for distance to slow the tempo once again. It reminded Methos of nothing so much as driving a car down a steep incline. You had to tap the brakes every so often just to keep from losing control. And control was in serious jeopardy here. Methos ached to press himself full-length against Duncan, to grab the Scot's broad hands and push them where he wanted them most to go. But there was time. He schooled himself to patience as Duncan broke the kiss and leaned back to remove the barrier of his shirt. There was time.

The offending shirt was gone. Duncan tipped his head back down to reclaim Methos' mouth, brushing only lightly around the thin, sensitive lips before dipping down to trail nips and moist kisses across the sturdy span of the older man's collarbone. Methos' breath caught as fingers brushed the pale rise of a nipple, lingering a moment to tease the tiny nub to tightness before moving on. The Scot's questing mouth followed the talented hands as they mapped Methos' body. A kiss here, a gentle nip there, a firmer bite just at the edge of Methos' ribs that made him fill his lungs in a sudden rush of surprise. The breath escaped him in a low moan as Duncan's tongue found his navel.

It was all the old Immortal could do to contain himself. His fingers dug rhythmically into the leather upholstery, clenching and relaxing in a furious attempt to keep from grabbing Duncan and pushing that delightfully sadistic mouth down. He groaned again, stretching his legs wide around Mac's waist, pressing his hips up into the Highlander's chest.

"Duncan..." Methos groaned in protest as the younger man chuckled softly and rested his cool hands on Methos' upper thighs, sliding under the shorts to tease the crease where the long legs joined his body. The searching hips were gently guided back down to the sofa.

"Duncan, please..." The appeal was cut off with a sudden gasp of pleasure as Duncan pressed a firm hand against the tight bulge of the other man's groin.

"There?" The dark eyes looked up at Methos in mock-innocence, the gaze dissolving into molten desire as the Highlander began to stroke the aching erection in an irregular rhythm. Duncan's free hand tugged lightly at the elastic waist of the shorts.

"Yes... Yes, there." Methos reached to strip the shorts off, impatient to feel Duncan against him.

The Scot stopped him with a small shake of his head. "No. Let me do it." Methos moaned and gave up any struggle for dominance that remained. He was content to let Duncan have his way this time.

The blissful, tormenting caress stopped as slowly, too slowly Duncan eased down the thin gray shorts, freeing the trapped erection. The younger man looked up into the slightly wild hazel eyes of his partner, searching them for a brief moment before lowering his head to lip cautiously along the hot, incredibly soft skin of the shaft.

Control became a foreign concept as Methos felt himself lifted and slowly enveloped by wet, swirling pleasure. The old Immortal hands floated down, stroking the back of his lover's head, encouraging, asking for more.

And Duncan gave it. The teasing promise of their earlier play with the ice-pop was more than fulfilled as Methos lost himself in the eager caress of his friend's mouth. A skim of teeth, a rough stroke of tongue, the uneven suction and startling puffs of air, all stood out against the backdrop of soft, moist smacking sounds and the Scot's searching, grasping hands. It wasn't long before all Methos could do was tangle his long fingers in Duncan's hair and strain upward into that heavenly mouth. He wanted to feel this way forever...

Duncan felt the tremor begin first in the long limbs. It spread in a rippling wave across the smooth muscles, highlighted by the gleaming sheen of sweat that covered the fair skin, and settled in the thickening shaft between his lips. He glanced upward in time to see Methos' eyes glaze over, the pupils huge and black with arousal. The older man's attention shifted inward then, his fingers tightening in Duncan's hair, the lean chest heaving in short, labored pants.

The force of the orgasm took Duncan by surprise. Methos cried out and curled his long form around Duncan's head, shuddering and trembling long after the fluids of his release were exhausted. MacLeod held himself there, wrapping strong arms around his friend to ease him through the moment, only relaxing his embrace when he felt the tension in his lover's body recede.

Large hands cupped Duncan's face, guiding him up. Hazel eyes peered deeply into his for a long, silent moment before the hands tipped his face up into a deep kiss.

Methos severed the kiss, urging Duncan up on the sofa with a burning gaze. "Come here."

MacLeod hastened to comply, roughly stripping off his shorts and shoes. He had no patience left for teasing or games, and clutched at Methos' hands, pulling them down to soothe the strident need of his own desire.

Methos wasted no time. Fixing his mouth to Mac's erection, he quickly settled into an irresistible rhythm, hands and lips and teeth combining to bring the Highlander to a shivering climax.

Breathless, Duncan raised his head to look at the old Immortal smiling up from between his thighs, and couldn't resist laughing. "I'll have to buy Popsicles more often."

Methos grinned back at him, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "I think you have one left..."