Disclaimer: This story is rated NC-17 for graphic depiction of sexual activity with a variety of genders. You have been warned. The characters in this story are not mine. I am only borrowing them, and I mean no harm. For fun and for free, yadda-yadda-yadda. This material may not be copied or distributed without permission. Please do not link, publish or post this material without permission.

Dedication: This one’s all for Killa, with great appreciation, adoration and wusship! If you enjoy it, you have her to thank for it. If you don’t, it’s all my fault.

Author’s Note: Special thanks to all the depraved partners of my wild youth (a.k.a. my idiot years), for inspiring me with such naughtiness, and teaching me exactly how people can and can’t bend :-)

Feedback and virtual flogging is welcome at mtriste@hotmail.com.


A Good Thing

--By Aristide

//Lifetimes upon lifetimes of privation and want can embed some strange habits into a person.//

Methos smiled at the thought, acknowledging the wry truth of it even as his hand slipped surreptitiously into the warm paper bag and fetched out another morsel of superb bread.

Two streets down from his new apartment there was a tiny bakery run by a huge and indistinguishable family of Italians, and Methos often succumbed to the lure of their golden, crusty loaves when he passed that way. To his amusement, he found that he was never able to make it home with an intact loaf--he had to nibble.

It was one thing to give in to temptation-- a familiar dynamic, the very one that led him to buy the bread in the first place. This other compulsion was different, older; something implacable and insistent that demanded that the good opportunities, the good things, be enjoyed before some unknown calamity happened along and took it all away from him.

It was, he considered, a similar principle to that which dictated that a camel will drink whenever water was offered, regardless of thirst; an evolutionary imperative-- and what was he, after all, but the cumulative manifestation of five thousand years’ worth of evolving durability? Yes, true, he currently lived in a world of relative peace and absolute plenty, but still… the bread was an excellent thing, a sustaining thing, the staff of life… and so, he nibbled. Every time.

Which was why, when the buzz hit him in the exact same moment that he heard a familiar voice singing from behind the closed door to his apartment; when the singing stopped and his door flew open and a tidy shape hurtled into his arms; he was unable to offer or return any immediate greeting-- his mouth was full of very good bread.

“Methos!” Amanda hugged him and his bag of purchases so fiercely that the delicate loaf was squashed flat between them. “You must have missed me terribly-- I bet you did-- Oh, it’s so good to see you…”

Somehow, Methos forced the mechanics of peristalsis, swallowed his mouthful despite the fact that Amanda squeezed him so hard that there wasn’t much option about where it could go.

“ ‘Manda,” he managed dryly, “good to see you too. Get off me-- you’ve squished my bread.”

Her face turned up from his chest and she blinked incredulously. “Your …bread.”

He nodded.

She blinked again. “I haven’t seen you for three months, and all you can think about is your bread?”

Methos scowled, and kissed her nose with mock-disapproval. “You shouldn’t thwart my bread instincts-- it interrupts my evolutionary process.”

Her eyes narrowed warily, and he saw her nostrils flare a bit-- no doubt olfactory research into the state of his sobriety. He smiled.

“Right,” she said slowly. “Well, Methos, you don’t smell drunk--”

“Never mind,” he interrupted mellowly, holding her close, resigning his bread to its pulped fate, “a baguette and a bagatelle, and the value of both sacrificed to this momentous occasion. It is good to see you.”

Her lips opened warm beneath his, her body folded to him easily-- a compact bundle of accommodating welcome in his arms; sweet. He tasted wine-- his best wine… He growled, a low sound of contradictory but inextricable aggravation and delight. Amanda. Beautiful, passionate, infuriating Amanda; profligate vixen, maddening Goddess…

When his bakery bag slipped from beneath his arm and thudded unceremoniously to the dusty floor of the hallway, he didn’t even notice.


“So,” he began, now warm and fed and comfortable in the familiar embrace of his favorite chair, “what brings you here? Are you in trouble?”

Amanda rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Oh yes, Methos-- I’m pregnant and Duncan refuses to do the honorable-- I want you to force him at sword-point to make an honest woman of me.”

Methos choked, suffering and sputtering under the uneasy combination of a mouthful of beer and a bellyful of laughter. “You got me,” he gasped out when he could. “Oh, that hurts…” Eventually he swallowed, composing himself. “Amanda, Mac’s a wonderfully skilled man, and I’ve seen him do some incredible things, but there’s a world of difference between the incredible and the impossible.”

“Bastard,” Amanda replied mildly, smiling at him over the top of her wine glass, “if I didn’t need your help I’d make you pay for that.”

“Ah-- now it all comes out. You break into my new apartment, wreck my bread, guzzle my good wine, and then have the temerity to ask for my help. I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t pop by to give me a piece of your mind-- you’d probably have burned the bloody place to the ground.”

Amanda delved into her purse, pawing, muttering. “I know I have that guy’s gold lighter in here somewhere…”

Methos waved her off. “Okay, Amanda, enough. Out with it. You want my help…”

“I do.” Bright, brilliant smile; charming smile, fetching smile. Methos braced himself.

“It’s Duncan’s birthday next week,” she chirped briskly, setting her wine firmly on the low table next to her chair, “and I want to give him something truly spectacular. Something staggering--”

“Mm-hmm. And this priceless item which you can’t obtain without my help-- the Hope diamond?-- no, too gauche-- how about the Kashmirine Garnet? Perhaps the entire Picasso exhibit at--”

Now Amanda waved *him* off, tossing her head impatiently. “Wrong, wrong and wrong, Methos. I said spectacular, not felonious. I want to give him us.”

Methos waited patiently, sure that there must be more to that statement. He maintained calm, he breathed, he blinked; and in his mind he flashed back to 1929, to the first time he ever rode a roller coaster. The serene, dizzying drop in his stomach was the same, exactly the same…

Apparently, there was no more to that statement. He blinked again. “Us?”

Amanda nodded happily. “Yes, my darling idiot, us. You’ve got to admit, Methos, it’s the very last thing he’d expect--”

Methos shifted slightly in his chair, stomach still fluttering madly. “Oh, I admit that Amanda-- although now that I think about it, finding out that you’ve lost your mind is probably going to be a bigger surprise. He’s always thought you to be pretty solidly nailed together--”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Methos.” He prickled at the sight of her flashing eyes-- he’d always found that to be her most appealing look: DeathThreat Amanda. “I haven’t lost my mind. It’s a perfect gift-- he loved it last time--”

Methos cleared his throat loudly, cutting her off. “Come on, Amanda-- yes, okay, he got through it last time, until he woke up naked with me in his arms. After which, if you’ll recall, he got very quiet. After which, I’m sure you remember, he successfully resisted both of our attempts to jolly him along, to talk about it, to get him to do anything other than stare at the floor and brood. And after that, in case you’ve forgotten, I stayed away while he gave you the cool shoulder for an entire week-- a week during which you plagued me continually, whingeing on about it.”

Amanda favored him with a lofty, disdainful sniff. “I do not whinge on about things. You’re the one who was so morose that you couldn’t find your way out of a bottle for a week…”

Methos nodded firmly, staring hard and resolute into her eyes. “Yes, and I’ve no desire to do it again. So go steal him something breathtaking, Amanda, and leave me out of it.”

Her lips pursed. He knew that she hated it whenever she talked herself into a corner-- he had to struggle not to grin, despite the small silver blossoms of pain that threatened behind his temples. Maybe now she’d give up and go away so that he could take his nascent headache, his incipient erection, and his bittersweet memories off to the warm solitude of the shower.

No such luck. Amanda never admitted defeat easily-- it was one of her most endearing (and most frustrating) traits.

“Meee-thos…” she murmured, amazing him with the new-found knowledge that there was such a thing as a silky whine, “don’t be so cross.”

She slithered from her prim position on the couch down to her knees in one sinuous, boneless slide, and crept leisurely towards him. “You know he loved it, Methos. We all did. He was just scared, that’s all--”

“And now you want to scare him again, is that it?”

His voice stopped her approach, but she only smiled at him, smiled as graciously as if he’d paid her a lavish compliment.

“You let me worry about that.”


Amanda imparted her plan in a warm, glowy whisper, looking the whole time as if she was utterly unaware of the picture she made curled so innocently at his feet with her hands and chin propped on his knee-- an ingenuous schoolgirl in her off hours, narrating dirty stories without a single blush.

Amazing, really; that he could actually get hooked by something like that. Amazing. He didn’t know whether to order her out of his house or fall on her like the dirty old man that she seemed to want him to be.

“You’re mad, Amanda. He’s not going to go along with it.”

Amanda rolled her eyes, as world-weary as all of her young years could make her. “You men-- none of you have any faith. It’s terribly sad, Methos-- without me around to inspire you, none of you would ever get anything accomplished.”

Methos regarded her testily. “I believe the word you meant to use was ‘incite’, Amanda, not ‘inspire’. The only thing you ‘inspire’ me to do, is to paddle your deserving bottom.”

Amanda smiled, unperturbed, and leaned against him so that the swell of her breasts under the silky material of her blouse grazed innocently against the knees of his jeans. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘squeeze’, Methos. Not ‘paddle’.”

Methos tried to hold on to his irascible expression, but it was damn difficult when she knew that he loved that perfume… “Paddle,” he insisted, drawing his brows together with effort.

Still smiling, Amanda swarmed into his lap, captured his hands, and pulled them behind her to rest upon the part in question. “I still think it’s ‘squeeze’.” She encouraged him with a demonstration. “Or maybe ‘stroke’…”

Methos teetered, losing the thread of significance, of why it was so very important that he not give in to this. “Stroke,” he echoed mindlessly, suiting the action to the word.

“Or maybe-- ah!--not ‘paddle’, but another ‘P’ word altogether, Methos…”

“ ‘P’ words are good,” he murmured against the hollow of her throat, “I like ‘P’ words…”

“Like pull--ohgod--or maybe-- plunder--”

“Pants!” Methos growled. “Why are you wearing these damn pants?”

“Pants isn’t the ‘P’ word I had in mind…”

“Uh-uh. Better get ‘em off you, then-- Mmm…”

“Mmm-- ‘M’ word, Methos; quick!”

“Mmmfuckingmarvelous…”

“Good choice-- Oh, that’s better… A general embargo on pants altogether--”

“Leave the pants out of it, Amanda… Christ, you’re lovely--”

“Eee!--not the ear, I’m ticklish. Methos!…”

“Mmm.”

Things got a little vague at that point, what with the moaning and rough demands for words of one kind or another. Methos attempted to keep himself under sufficient control, knowing his tendency to be slightly more vulnerable to fervent and foolish promises under certain circumstances; but in the lost, dazzled moments when he dripped with sweat and trembled with strain, working her hard against a wall with her legs a vise around him, he may have slipped.

She said he did, afterwards; when she’d stopped shrieking and had removed her fingernails from the tender flesh of his shoulderblades. And who was he, anyway, to doubt the word of a lady?

Or even Amanda, for that matter.


As Methos drove through the dark Paris streets towards the barge, he marveled over the fact that even after five thousand years of life he could still be led around by his ‘P’ word. He’d left behind his perfectly toasty and comfortable apartment, his plentiful beer supply and an intriguingly trashy novel about space aliens and ancient civilizations--guaranteed snicker material--to pile out into the bitter, gnawing cold towards an assignation that would probably turn out to be an exercise in futility.

Amanda’s scheme was simple enough--she’d told Methos that she planned to ask Duncan to turn himself over to her for one night, to let her use the inventive stretch of her imagination to provide him with an evening of rare sensual delights, a birthday present no other could give him.

“You will, of course, remind him that you’re significantly older than he is.”

It had been his only comment. Her smiled response was delightfully wicked. “Of course. You know he always falls for that age and experience line.”

Methos smiled in subtle agreement. Indeed.

Amanda did not plan to inform Duncan of Methos’ involvement. “If I tell him I’ve invited you, he’ll balk. If you just show up and join in, he’ll have to say no to your face.” Her sharp, lacquered fingernail absently traced a Shakti pattern on the knee of his jeans. “I’m betting he won’t.”

Methos wasn’t so sure. Last time, Mac’s wary nervousness had given way only under the extreme duress of denied satisfaction--a bloody inferno of passion when loosed, yes; but damn hard to get to. And the quiet, the coolness afterwards… he must be mad, for going along with this…

And yet--how could he not? Methos tingled with anticipation as he drove, vacillating dizzily between a biting dread that Mac might repudiate him on sight, and a memory-fed blaze of desire--Duncan moving over him, inside him, dark with pleasure and an unsuspected need for closeness… his mouth, that feeding, open, full-lipped mouth… Methos shivered. How could he not, indeed?

He surfaced dreamily into dual realizations: first of all, that his penis was so hard that it hurt; and second, that he was here, at the barge, only minutes away from the answer to the question that had him strung on opposite poles of intensity. Immediately there were two distinct options before him, provided with near-molecular clarity by the ruthless part of his mind whose job it was to offer him alternatives: he could take his duffel-bag and destiny in hand, walk down there and risk what there was to be risked; or he could take himself in hand, and jerk off while imagining what Duncan and Amanda must be up to by now, and then drive himself home.

There was an interval of wry amusement, almost humility, as he looked back and forth from his duffel bag in the passenger seat to the hard tent in his jeans, chewing his lip speculatively; and wondered what in the hell five thousand years of experience was worth when he still had to undergo moments like this.

He took the duffel/destiny option. After all, nothing ventured…


The ambiance of the room enveloped him intimately as soon as Amanda let him inside. She offered only a softly worded ‘welcome’, accompanied by a finger to his lips to caution him to silence.

Soft music, soft light, deep warmth emanating from the fire that crackled with lively coziness in the depths of the stove--an immediate impression of comfort and indulgence. His cheeks and ears tingled pleasantly, and he almost expected to see himself steam from the change away from the frigid air outside. As his eyes adjusted he began to pick out details; candles and incense burners; Amanda closing the door behind him, lovely in a short, open robe of midnight blue silk and nothing else; and, of course, the piece de resistance, the lucky birthday boy; Duncan MacLeod.

Looking fairly concerned about all this. But still, Methos had to admit, looking quite devastating anyway.

Methos didn’t blame him for the apparent wariness--Duncan was, after all, blinded and gagged with two lengths of some silver-grey fabric, stripped naked, dewed with sweat, and tied to a sturdy wooden chair; each ankle secured to one of the front legs, hands bound behind the chair-back. Mac would know that another Immortal had entered the room and that Amanda had issued a welcome, but nothing more--plenty of uncertainty to justify those tight, rigid muscles and that knotted brow.

Methos smiled. He turned to Amanda, who was watching him eagerly, waiting for his response.

//Well I’ll be damned// he mouthed at her silently.

//But of course// she smiled back, obviously pleased.

“Duncan,” Amanda began soothingly while she waved at Methos to unburden himself, “I’ve invited a friend to help me tonight--we won’t hurt you, and we won’t do anything you don’t want. Do you accept? Nod yes, or shake your head no.”

Methos paused in the act of twisting out of his coat, watching, his breath held unconsciously. Duncan hesitated; his head turned to the side as if listening intently. Methos felt his heart pound, agitation that didn’t die away when Duncan shrugged and uttered a few muffled syllables.

He was about to speak, would have spoken if Amanda’s hand hadn’t covered his mouth. She pulled restlessly at his sweater, telling him without words to take it off; then walked away towards the small, cleared area where Mac was sweating out the unexpected risks associated with his birthday present. Methos watched, mesmerized, his hands lazy with the slow removal of his own clothing while Amanda slipped silently out of her robe, straddled Duncan’s corded thighs and settled her bare bottom onto his lap.

“I’ve been warming him up, so to speak,” she murmured proudly, running her hands slowly through his hair, down to his barely shivering shoulders, “and he’s been very, very good so far, haven’t you, love?”

Methos flushed hot with response as he watched Amanda wrap around Mac and bend down to his face, tracing sundered lips with the tip of her tongue. Duncan strained towards her, a liquid, uncertain, but undoubtedly desperate noise filtering past the gag. Methos’ hands paused on the button of his jeans, wracked with a shudder of arousal so profound that he forced himself to be still for a moment, lest he give in to the overwhelming urge to rush over there and just…

“My friend is watching us now, Duncan,” Amanda purred, “looking at how beautiful you are like this, wanting you. You like to be looked at, don’t you?”

Apparently Duncan did, but was none too comfortable with it. His normally olive skin bloomed crimson, but his shifting, restless, straining limbs told a different story. Lovely.

Methos stripped off his boxers and stood, naked and painfully erect, his nipples tight despite the heat of the room. Amanda waved him towards them and he obeyed automatically--his body moved towards the promise of fulfillment, even as his mind cautioned that he might be putting his clothes on and fleeing in one hell of a hurry in just a few moments.

Amanda rose from Duncan’s lap and circled around to the back of the chair as her hands fluttered over the bared, damp muscles of Duncan’s chest, at once soothing and tantalizing without gratification. The Highlander shivered, tilted his head once more in that listening attitude, evidently aware of Methos’ approach even though his steps were as silent as he could make them.

Methos stopped in front of the bound man, glad to look his fill without fear of what Duncan might read in his eyes. This vulnerable, aroused, unsure picture before him rocked him with lust so severe that he swayed where he stood; it was all he could do to keep from sinking to his knees and taking Duncan’s swollen, leaking erection as deep into his throat as he could get it. He could almost taste the slick salt fluid, memory and desire fused to a perfect tonal hum of want.

Amanda’s hands were busy, and then she slipped the fabric muffle teasingly from between Duncan’s lips. The resulting gasps for air and halting words thrilled Methos--Mac was beautiful gagged, true enough; but who could resist the pleasure of that dark, emotional voice?

“Amanda,” --gasp-- “I’m not sure about this--why don’t you--”

Instinct and need led him down, brought him against those suddenly available lips without another thought. His head swam. It had been too long--too long just thinking about what it had been like to kiss and bite those soft lips, a memory hoarded and brought out only during moments of grave necessity… So now Methos licked and nuzzled, kissed and devoured and fed. His hands came to cup smooth, new-shaven cheeks; the better to tilt this captive, this utterly desirable Highlander into a position where his mouth might be accessed fully… such a warm, soft tongue…

Duncan froze under his touch, rigid and gasping and startled; silent until a tremor broke through the lock on his limbs, and then only giving voice to a shocked moan.

This might be it--this could very well be all he was going to get. The moment of determination was too close for Methos to pull away lightly, so he sucked hungrily on Duncan’s tongue until his own body quivered, until he knew that one more second of this crazy indulgence was going to make him come. His chest heaved when he pulled away, but he forced himself to breathe quietly.

“Methos…”

Duncan spoke the word with absolute certainty, but there was no certainty echoed in his posture--he shrank away, back into Amanda’s calming hands. Methos saw her about to speak, shook his head silently. He wanted Duncan to take or leave him on his own merits this time, not because of any of Amanda’s cajoling promises.

“Happy birthday, Mac.” Methos gave in and went to his knees, limiting himself strictly to only one soft touch of either hand on Duncan’s tense thighs. “You know why I’m here.”

He didn’t expect to say that. Apparently, Mac didn’t expect to hear it--he tensed further. Methos took a breath, and resumed. “I want to be here, Duncan; but I’ll go if you want me to. I’m not going to give you any present you don’t feel like taking.”

He watched Duncan swallow, traced out the visible flutter of a speeding pulse under increasingly damp skin.

“I… I don’t…” The Highlander’s voice was hoarse and full of tension, Methos could almost hear Duncan talking himself out of it.

“Wait,” he interjected, his own voice as calm as he could make it. “Let me refresh your memory, Mac--this one thing, and then you can decide.”

He didn’t wait for a response--to wait was to risk the possibility of thought for both of them. Instead he slid forward, relished the touch of flesh under his hands that was bound and stripped for the purposes of pleasure--heady stuff, indeed--and slid his open, eager mouth around Duncan’s erection.

“Oh my…” Amanda’s soft words penetrated through even past the noise of his own thundering heartbeat pounding in his ears. Methos opened and sank down, catching the slippery evidence of arousal with his tongue as he plunged lower, feeding that place in himself that hungered. His own moan was stifled, but Duncan’s ripped through him like fire; so deep that it vibrated through the flesh stretching him. Oh--this was consuming him, sure enough; slow, languid strokes in and out of his practiced throat, sucking and swallowing and all the time wanting more--if Duncan sent him away after this, he’d have to toss off for a solid week before he’d be able to walk

Duncan’s hips lifted towards him in wonderful, greedy rhythm, punctuated by grunts and sighs from above that seemed the fulfillment of every heated fantasy he’d ever had. Methos breathed in the taste/scent of musk and hot desire, liquefying slowly into a boneless, mindless mass devoted only to the pleasure of the beautiful man twisting beneath him.

“Give it up, Duncan.” Amanda’s voice floated distantly to his ears, hazily demanding. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t love fucking his mouth. Is he hot, when he takes you deep like that?”

Duncan shuddered fiercely, flamed Methos’ nerves again with another staggering groan. The thrusts into his mouth speeded slightly.

“Too bad you can’t see this, love; too bad you can’t watch him take you in. You could make him come, you know--if I gave you your hands you’d grab for him, wouldn’t you? You’d grab him and hold his head and get as deep inside as you possibly could, right? That would do it, Duncan, that would just make him explode…”

Duncan came in his mouth with a choked, pleasured howl, his body bucking so hard that for a moment Methos thought the chair would splinter and break. He held on, his hands tight on the Highlander’s thighs while he drank deep of the salt-bitter essence of ecstasy, feeling his own body tremble on the edge. His cock throbbed hard, sympathetic to the one that pulsed out pleasure into his mouth in measured doses, liquid heat that burned through his system like individual electric shocks.

In the end, however, he kept himself from erupting through force of will--even now he was uncertain, even now he didn’t know which way Duncan would go. He locked down on his body’s incessant demands, sucked his slow and gentle way off of the half-erect shaft in his mouth, and finally looked up.

Duncan’s chest heaved, now flushed a deep and dusky rose, and the grey blindfold had been sweated dark with free-flowing perspiration. Methos heated with equal, sudden measures of pride and dread--he’d done that, brought Mac to that lovely place of carnal satiation; now if only he could be sure that he’d be staying…

“Okay, Duncan?” His lips moved before the thought was even fully expressed, a compound question asked in the simplest terms. He found himself holding his breath again.

“Jesus,” Duncan’s voice was low, faint and breathless. “Methos, that was… Okay?” A throaty half-groan blew warm air over Methos’ forehead, followed by a dark chuckle, “I dunno, maybe if you… convinced me, somehow…”

The words were lost, buried under further chuckling and Amanda’s loud but somehow dainty snort of incredulity--Methos didn’t, couldn’t join in the laughter, however, but limited himself to a sigh of debilitated relief as he lowered his hot face onto Duncan’s relaxed thigh.


Amanda had brought plenty of the long, soft strips of grey fabric--a rather dismaying amount, actually; enough to tie up a whole battalion of Highlanders. Methos wondered idly what exactly she’d had in mind as he selected two at random, then turned to where Amanda was ruining her silk robe by using it to wipe the sweat from Duncan’s face.

“Put the gag back, Amanda.” His stern tone reverberated through the room, and both Duncan and Amanda tensed--Amanda with evident excitement, Duncan with something that looked a lot more like uneasiness. Amanda did as he’d asked quickly, looking toward him with wicked curiosity when she wasn’t busy checking the knot to make sure that it didn’t catch Mac’s hair. Methos noticed the quick, expert way she fulfilled his request, and made a mental note to get her tipsy on good wine at some point in the future and pump her for all her tales of experience--that touch was just too practiced…

And then there was only focus, only the free flood of creative urges that no longer had to be held back, now that he was here for the duration. He snatched up a pillow from the bed and then approached the other two quickly. He kissed Amanda hard and demandingly, waiting until she whimpered into his open mouth before he released her; almost cold with the level of control he’d required of himself.

“You’ll like this,” he promised softly, guiding her to kneel on the pillow he placed on the floor between Duncan’s feet. He bound her eyes tenderly while she shivered, heard two gasps echo each other as she leaned forward and her head came to rest against Duncan’s stomach. Before she could move away he’d circled to the back of the chair and found her hands. He pulled them through and secured them together quickly with the second piece of fabric, wrist crossing wrist over Mac’s bound hands so that her upper body was pulled tight against Duncan’s groin, without much room to move.

“Oh…” A soft, plaintive sound from her: essential, distilled Amanda… when she wasn’t being demanding, that is. He hushed her absently.

Methos circled around to the other side of the chair, greedily absorbing the picture of what only he could see. Amanda’s skin glowed against Duncan’s dark complexion, her narrow back framed by strong, corded thighs a contrast that was almost dangerously tempting. Both bodies trembled slightly, and despite her bonds Amanda seemed to be doing her level best to slide her bare breasts over Duncan’s groin. Mac looked nearly pained.

“Amanda--stop that,” Methos snapped. At once both of them froze into stillness.

Methos reached out casually, ran one hand from Duncan’s temple down over the tense throat, between the hardened buds of nipples and softly onto Amanda’s neck, finally down her spine to trail away gently just as he reached the crack of her curved ass. A tremor ran from one body smoothly into the other, as if they were actually one flesh.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. It was the only word he could come up with.

Amanda interrupted his contemplation. “Methos,” she gasped, arching back toward him, her eager, urgent voice muffled against Duncan’s sternum.

Methos spanked her right buttock; only lightly, but the sound was like a whipcrack in the close quiet of the room. Both she and Mac jumped, and two sharp inhalations echoed.

“Patience, Amanda,” he said soothingly. He polished the blushing flesh he’d abused, teasing a little at the way she arched into it, admiring how quickly a plain handprint rose on her white skin. “My turn now.”

He stepped astride her kneeling body, and leaned forward to brush Duncan’s cheek softly with his fingers. “I think you probably know what I have in mind, Mac. Would you like to watch?”

The Highlander tensed a little, and his brows drew together again.

“You don’t have to,” Methos continued calmly, “if you’d rather keep the blindfold.”

Uncertainty and hesitation, alarm and desire--he watched them all flicker over Duncan’s face with eerie speed. He bent closer, until their lips almost touched.

“Do you want to watch me fuck Amanda?”

Duncan turned crimson beneath his blindfold, and drew in a massive breath through his nose. Between his knees, Methos felt Amanda shiver. He waited.

Duncan nodded, faintly.

Methos pushed the blindfold off, drew the movement out into a lingering caress through long, silky strands of hair.

Duncan met his eyes, and Methos felt the weight of that hot, intense look almost like a blow; right here and right now, there was nothing in the world except that passionate, liquid gaze.

“Hello there,” Methos whispered, careful to let slip only the safe words, only the faintest acknowledgement of what it meant for them to face each other in this moment. Duncan nodded again, more firmly this time. Methos brought his fingers around slowly, traced back and forth over rosy, parted lips and the material between them.

“Do you want me to take this off?” He bit his own lip to stop himself there--abruptly he knew that he would do anything, anything those speaking eyes asked of him.

Duncan blinked and swallowed, paused, and then shook his head slowly. Methos smiled.

He pulled his hand away from Duncan’s face, relishing the tingle that lingered at the tips of his fingers. Methos felt almost disconnected from his body as he sank to his knees between Amanda’s spread calves--Duncan’s dark gaze buoyed him, held him floating in a honey-slow tide of want.

He reached forward, and dragged his hands from Duncan’s thighs over Amanda’s shoulders to her hips, marveling again at that dual, shared shudder. When he reached his destination he circled downwards underneath her, dove with both hands into the liquid heat of her body. She gasped and bucked beneath him, but Methos never let his eyes move away from the Highlander’s.

“Wet,” he murmured, and pulled in a hungry breath. God--the smell of Amanda in heat--“So wet…” He used one hand to spread her delicately open, and the other full palm, flat against her, slipping delightfully. “So much, Amanda--why don’t we share?”

He pulled his drenched hand from her shivering warmth, smiling and kissing her shoulder in apology when she whined softly in protest. He leaned forward a little and reached up beneath her chest; deep into the hot, magical crevice where her smooth breasts pressed hard against Duncan’s renewed erection. He rubbed slick moisture over her pointed, swollen mounds, his other hand tight on her hip to keep her still. Not quite wet enough. Patiently, he pulled his hand free, traced down her torso with his fingernails--

“Methos please!” Amanda’s voice was plaintive and desperate, and her struggles against him escalated into frantic bucking. Methos watched Duncan’s pupils dilate as her chest slid over his groin wildly, and for a moment he thought a descent into orgasmic chaos was pretty much inevitable. However, when he tightened down on her hip hard enough to bruise she squeaked and went still, narrowly averting premature capitulation.

Methos sighed. “Now you’ve done it, Amanda. I’m going to have to come up with something deeply terrible to make you pay for that.”

He felt his words shiver through her frame, saw them strike home in MacLeod’s eyes. His hand slipped back between her thighs; petting, gathering, then up again between their two bodies to slick and stroke Duncan’s rigid cock. Mac went with him--taking, thrusting; moaning rough lust into his gag without ever breaking the lock they had on each other’s vision. Methos felt his control teeter precariously, a dangerous and nearly overwhelming compulsion to just shove himself into Amanda and put the three of them out of them out of their collective misery; but… no. There was more that he wanted. He gave one last, lingering squeeze, and backed off, finally breaking that devastating eye contact that was doing such delightful things to him.

“Now, Amanda,” he said softly, touching her back as if he were gentling a restive horse, “you can have three words--‘yes’, ‘please’ and ‘stop’. Every other word is off-limits to you.” He smiled at her sigh of response. “Of course, noises are fair game and don’t count. Do you understand?”

“Yes--Ahh…”

Evidently, she’d understood perfectly. Oh--Amanda could be so good when she tried… Methos reached around and down again, offered a little reward of tender, circling touches while his other hand directed the tip of his burning erection to the cleft between her thighs. He only teased, only slipped up and down in slow, lazy rhythm; refusing penetration until he had her in a fine, trembling state.

“Please--pleaseplease-oh-please…” The frantic note was gone from Amanda’s voice, replaced by a rough whisper that sounded almost reverent. The rush of power, the rush of control was dizzying. Methos looked up.

If ever a look whispered ‘please’, MacLeod’s did. Methos held that dark-brown gaze while he sank deep into Amanda’s hot wetness--the collective, gusty sigh would have filled the sails on a clipper ship. He thrust twice, lazily; his spine arched reflexively at the deliciously snug fit--Amanda was nearly quivering within, a hunger that would seduce him out of his nicely gauged control if he wasn’t careful.

When Mac’s eyes dropped from his own they went straight to where Methos plunged deep between Amanda’s thighs--it seemed to Methos that he could feel the weight and warmth of that look, a burning consumption that almost outdid the heat inside. For a few moments Methos concentrated only on his own pleasure and Duncan’s visceral response to it; watching Mac watch him moving within Amanda was a feedback loop of sensation that threatened to suffocate him with voluptuous indulgence. His fingers never left off stroking her, but every time he felt a pulse begin under his touch he stilled and pressed the palm of his hand hard against her, denying release while relishing her helpless whimper of disappointment.

All too soon it was too much, and Methos knew that one or two more full strokes into her welcoming body would end it for him. “Okay, Amanda,” he panted, “remember that you can say ‘stop’, if this hurts.” He pulled his drenched fingers away, his grip slick and wet on her thighs as he nudged her to open further. When she was as spread and vulnerable as she could get he crowded close to her, deep in to his full length and his body hard, hard against her while he reached forward. Her moan was dark and halting, a perfectly balanced sound of pain and pleasure, and it buzzed down his spine as if it carried an actual electric charge.

His hands shook as he found the outer curve of her breasts, a tremor that radiated out to the other two bodies as he gathered her close and pushed the slick mounds together; tight together to squeeze fiercely on Duncan’s erection. Now two moans echoed blissfully in his ears; one muffled, one lush and unrestrained. In this position he couldn’t pull back much, but their three bodies were connected so closely that every faint rocking motion of his hips reverberated through Amanda and over Duncan--every move that he made brought some quiver or sound of response.

He had to look up now to see MacLeod’s face, but the tension in his neck was well worth it. Duncan’s nostrils flared with the labor of taking in enough air; corded muscles strained in his neck and shoulders while he arched up against Amanda’s chest. Methos shivered.

“Is this good, Highlander?” he asked with breath he didn’t know he had. “Hot, and--wet, and--tight enough for you?”

Duncan’s eyes blazed, a fury of earthy passion. He nodded, grunted, and strained forwards so hard that it made the chair creak alarmingly.

Methos groaned. His body trembled and his senses threatened to overwhelm him, but somehow he found the strength to hold off while he settled his knees a bit more firmly between Amanda’s and started fucking her as hard as restricted movement would allow. Amanda arched beneath him, her sobs of pleasure delighted his ears while he watched the heat in Duncan’s eyes purify, intensify; spiral down to the simple response of raw erotic appetite.

Amanda’s body clenched around him, not coming but damned close. Methos thrust harder, battering against her, force that rippled through her body to echo in quick tight slides around Duncan’s cock. His head swam, suffused and pounding with each beat of his heart--everything trembled, everything melded into an indefinite pleasure-haze as barriers fell away between them, leaving them shifting together as one extended, gasping, eager being.

“I want to watch you come, Duncan,” he couldn’t hear his own words above the thudding rush in his ears and the low-frequency vibration of Amanda’s moans, but he felt his lips move and he saw Mac’s leap of response, so he supposed he must have really said it. Beneath him Amanda uttered a high, piercing cry and went completely rigid; a locking of muscles that made it very easy to shuttle her stiff body back and forth between them, deliriously fast. Methos pounded into her ruthlessly, his hands rough and demanding on her breasts, almost brutal. When she came she seemed almost to shatter around him, a tight-furled creature breaking apart under heavy treatment into shivering joy. He rocked her through it, eased and cradled her body with rough tenderness as he felt her crest again and again; those indescribably wonderful orgasms that women could have, one peak to another with barely a valley between.

Above her writhing form Duncan strained towards him, curled around Amanda’s shoulders as if tortured. Methos watched every stroke, every shiver spark in his eyes; he moved and shifted and squeezed automatically as his own body sought release only through MacLeod’s.

“Please,” he managed with numb lips, “do it.”

Duncan’s low, muffled wail and abruptly dilated pupils threw Methos back into raw physical awareness with savage force--he’d fended it off for the sake of the control he needed, but now, watching Duncan heave, shudder and come; the grip and swell of pleasure refused to be denied. Methos’ hips twisted fiercely as he came, groaning, falling into the brown depths of Duncan’s eyes even as he throbbed violently into Amanda’s sweet wetness. He watched Mac greedily, absorbing every flutter of pulse and drip of perspiration, drinking him in, complete.

Before he could stop himself he collapsed forward onto Amanda’s damp shoulders, shaking, eyes finally closed as twitches chased through the three of them, one response setting off another.

“Christ--I think that almost killed me,” he gasped dimly, his hands roving sluggishly over random flesh.

“Yes,” Amanda whispered beneath him, breathless. “But it’s a good thing you’ll come back, ‘cause I think I know what I want for my birthday.”

Methos and Duncan uttered simultaneous snorts of dismay, eerily harmonic.


Amanda had offered the opinion that chairs were good enough for a change of pace, but that beds had them beat as far as comfort and latitude of options. Methos was happy enough to agree with her--he was happy enough to agree to almost anything during the silly, tipsy period of lassitude that followed while both of them took turns feeding Duncan tidbits of cake and increasingly erotic sips of wine.

Apparently Mac had finally reached a new maturity on this his four-hundred-and-third-birthday--enough maturity not to be put off by the fact that one of the naked people rubbing and feeding and teasing him was a man. No small triumph, in Methos’ opinion; and no small cause for celebration, either.

Every time Amanda suggested that they move towards the shower, Methos put her off. “I don’t want you to bathe, Amanda,” he replied reasonably, scenting towards her like an animal; “I like it when you smell like an unwashed trollop--very nostalgic, you know? Anyway, it suits you.”

Duncan hadn’t joined in the pillow-fight that ensued from that particular remark, but he hadn’t appeared unduly disturbed by it, either. Methos caught glimpses of the Highlander placidly regarding the pair of them, nibbling bemusedly on a piece of cake while Methos got clobbered.

“Besides,” Methos panted finally, holding Amanda and her death-dealing pillow off with the last of his strength, “I like the idea of all the work we’re going to have to do to lick that frosting off of Mac’s body hair--it must be dried to a nice glaze by now…”

Her Achilles’ heel, and not an uncommon one--she couldn’t fight while she was laughing. Methos used the advantage to disarm her; and was about to execute a combined attack strategy of tickling and bad jokes when her little body was whipped out of his clutches as quickly as if she’d been sucked into a vortex.

No vortex here--only Duncan MacLeod; apparently sufficiently refreshed with cake and wine to be ready for another go. The Highlander had pinned Amanda flat to the bed, and now he kneeled over her menacingly, a dark, barbarian god come to exact retribution.

“Methos,” Duncan’s voice shivered down his spine, cut cleanly through Amanda’s gasps of surprise, “go and get some of those ties, will you?”

Amanda’s scandalized squeal was so convincing that Methos almost laughed out loud, but he subdued himself as he selected a handful of fabric strips, and returned quickly to stand beside the bed. The picture they made both touched and amused him--the two of them struggled languidly amidst a battlefield of crumbs; nude and painted sticky with streaks of white frosting and other equally enticing (albeit less dessert-oriented) substances. He snorted.

MacLeod looked at him composedly. “Something funny, Methos?”

“You two. You look like an X-rated Sara Lee commercial.”

Duncan burst out laughing--that deep, intense, wine-enhanced laugh Methos didn’t get to hear often enough. Mac looked like he would have lost control of Amanda if she hadn’t been weak with giggling, if she hadn’t been occupied with breathless suggestions that ‘sex sells’ and ‘wouldn’t Duncan Hines be more appropriate?’ Methos did his best to help, and eventually the two of them sobered enough to get her hands bound to either side of the bed. Methos had taken another strip and was angling for one of her flailing legs when Mac stopped him.

“That’s enough--I think we can handle the rest.” MacLeod’s eyes were suddenly very serious; serious and warm, and urgent enough to create a small, internal explosion of heat that had Methos hard and aching in about three seconds. Next to them, Amanda became abruptly still.

Methos felt almost as if he were suspended in some strange, trancelike state when Duncan reached for him; he floated free, his mind shockingly silent as the Highlander guided him up off the bed, pulled him close and descended on him. It took two whole heartbeats for it to get through to him that Mac evidently meant business; there was a strong, warm hand on either side of his face, and that soft, questing tongue was in his mouth, opening him, looking for something…

“Oh…” Methos shuddered violently, galvanized. “Mac…” That luscious mouth pulled away, but hovered close, waiting. “I’m going to come if you do that…”

Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but, heaven help him, it was true. Those lips on his, hungry, claiming him; had pushed him from hot to boiling with lightning speed--his body cried out, so desperate, wanting so much…

Duncan smiled at him, warm and kind. “Not yet, Methos.” Methos closed his eyes as Duncan fluttered a gentle kiss against each eyelid, a touch so pure that he seemed to hear distant singing, sweet and redeeming.

The only thing that pulled them apart was Amanda’s low groan. Methos looked at her, saw her staring at Duncan with wide, hot, disbelieving eyes. Her voice shook a little.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Duncan?”

Methos ached as Duncan moved away from him. “I gave him the night off.”

Still burning, still shaking with his lips tender and wet where Duncan had licked them, Methos watched Mac advance on Amanda’s bound body. “I thought you might have more fun with me.”

Methos remembered that tone, that threatening, velvet tone of voice that brought back crystal-shard memories of getting fucked through the mattress by a gorgeous Scottish brute. He crept towards the bed, knowing that if he didn’t sit down he was going to go straight to the floor pretty soon, dizzy and spinning and lost.

He watched, entranced, as Duncan manipulated Amanda’s limbs with irresistible, inexorable precision. The Highlander knelt between her open legs, took her bottom in both hands and lifted her lower body straight off the bed as he crept forward. Amanda’s soft, high-pitched sighs of excitement seemed to exert actual pressure on Methos’ ears--each one dug into him while his vision faded to black at the edges around the one thing he focused on, the place where Duncan dragged Amanda up his thighs and onto his cock with one casual, relentless pull.

“Oh…” Methos and Amanda in stereo this time. Duncan was quiet, but Methos could see a fine sheen of perspiration starting to glow over his skin. Mac barely moved his hips at all--but his hands lifted Amanda effortlessly up and down the full length of his shaft with slow, deep strokes; patient but unrelenting. When her head tossed ecstatically on the pillow, Methos sympathized down to the smallest quiver.

“Methos,” the passion hidden in Duncan’s voice, a backdrop of passion with his name on those lips, made his cock twitch. “Come here--you can help me with this.”

Oh my--could he ever. Methos obeyed, crept slowly closer until he felt waves of heat that poured off of their shifting bodies. He forced his eyes away from the place where Mac drove into her; a pointless exercise, as it turned out, because as soon as he got close enough Duncan reached for his head and pushed him downwards.

Whatever it was that had gotten into MacLeod, Methos sincerely hoped that it never got out of him. Mac’s hand was on the nape of his neck for only a brief moment before shifting back underneath Amanda, but that one, demanding touch was sufficient to blister Methos with desire. He used one hand to spread Amanda tenderly, saw from the edge of his vision how his touch shivered the muscles of her inner thighs, and then engulfed her slick clitoris with his open mouth.

Duncan, ever courteous, had switched tactics--now he held Amanda still for Methos’ flickering tongue while he did all the thrusting--a change that seemed to work well for her, given the suddenly increased fervor of her moans. Once again Methos felt a flash of intimate, piercing envy--Duncan rode her hard; strokes that Methos remembered well. He shuddered.

“You… oh yes--both of you--more…” Amanda’s broken words burned within him, and Methos sighed as he nibbled her softly. One flash of his tongue snaked down lower, tingled with salt and musk against Duncan’s shaft, sliding in, out, and in again while Amanda writhed.

“Amanda--open your eyes,” Duncan’s voice was a growl, a low fury of intensity. Methos heard her gasp, echoed by his own as Mac reached for him and pulled him up. “Methos…”

“Mmm…” Methos blinked, admiring. The Highlander was flushed and damp, his hair wild, utterly beautiful.

“I missed your mouth.” Duncan kissed him hard, sucking Amanda’s moisture off his tongue while she wailed like a woman possessed. Methos barely had the presence of mind to slip his thumb between her legs while Mac kissed him breathless; the tremors of her cresting pleasure throbbed against his hand with exquisite perfection.

Methos moaned when Duncan pulled away; his stomach curled in on itself with want. Mac gasped against his lips, his eyes hot and demanding. “Don’t let her stop, Methos. Just… help me do this.”

Okay. Damn. His bones had obviously melted. He’d have to do without. Methos slid from Duncan’s grasp and obeyed, ranging the length of her body with hands and tongue, drawing out Amanda’s passion until her cries were almost shrieks, until her restrained limbs quivered with helpless struggle. When he bit her nipples she almost threw herself off the bed, but Methos used one hand clenched tight in her short, silky hair and the other hard between her legs to keep her immobile.

And through the whole time, while Amanda came again and again and Methos ached with unfulfilled need, Duncan never missed a stroke. Methos heard the Highlander’s breath gradually shorten, felt his own body tense abruptly when Mac uttered a soft, pained groan, and wondered disconsolately whether it would be taken amiss if he suggested that Duncan should perhaps pull his cock out right now and push it straight into his throat.

“Methos--fuck--get down here…”

Methos went. Duncan’s hand clenched fiercely on the back of his neck, pushing his open mouth hard between Amanda’s legs. Methos drifted, rolling and lost in sensation while Amanda surged against his tongue and screamed; screams that couldn’t obscure Duncan’s earthy, satisfied grunts. He abruptly forgot that he needed to breathe.

He felt it when Amanda passed out, her tight, spasming muscles relaxed into limp passivity between the space of one heartbeat and the next. Her voice slurred off into incomprehensible, rhythmic sighing; and Methos wasn’t at all surprised when he pulled away and looked at her to see that she was solidly out, lax in her bonds. What did surprise him, however, was the fact that black clouds seemed to be obtruding on his vision--it wasn’t until he pulled in too-long-delayed air that it occurred to him that he was about to pass out himself.

He put his head down on her drenched midriff and gasped, locked in his own world where he seemed to be able to feel each individual molecule of air that brushed against his overheated skin. //Shower// he thought dimly. //Very soon. Jerking off soon would be good.// His mind quieted, satisfied with a temporary and ardent promise.

Vague motion blurred at the edge of his field of vision--Duncan, reaching gingerly for one of Amanda’s wrists. As soon as he felt like he could move Methos bestirred himself and pitched in. He worked slowly to free her other wrist from the broad wrap of fabric; which, despite its softness, had tightened cruelly on her delicate skin. As he rubbed at the red mark, Methos warmed in familiar gratitude to the fortuitous alliance of Immortal healing and rough sex.

“Christ…” Duncan sounded totally out of breath. Methos didn’t blame him--he had, after all, just pumped Amanda into unconsciousness--not an easy task.

He turned to watch Mac settle Amanda tenderly beneath the covers. As usual, she curled quickly into a satisfied, snuggling ball. Methos smiled. “Everything okay?” he whispered.

Duncan grinned at him shakily. “Oh yeah--I just realized that I lost count of her orgasms… too bad--I was going for a record…”

Methos had to bite his lips to keep from laughing. For a moment it was a losing battle, but the urge to snicker departed abruptly as Duncan leaned towards him over Amanda’s slumbering form and stabbed that wicked tongue between his lips. Methos got out one interrogatory gasp of surprised pleasure before the world washed away to nothing more than deepening waves of heat.

Oh god… Duncan…” He pulled away, shaking, ready to bolt for the shower to save himself the ignominy of a public wank. He looked down, shocked to see that Mac’s cock was already fully erect, slick and so engorged it was almost purple. “Already?” he asked shakily, “are you sure it was Amanda’s record you were trying for, Mac?”

Duncan smiled into his eyes for a moment, full and warm, but then his eyelids fluttered down and he looked away. “Well, I… I didn’t--I didn’t finish. With Amanda, I mean.”

Methos stared at him, disbelieving. “Why? I mean--why not?”

Duncan’s voice was quiet, Methos had to strain to hear it over the sound of his own rushing heart. “I thought… maybe you might not want me to. Maybe you might want… something else.”

Methos drew in a slow breath, something to focus on and use as an excuse to cover the fact that his heart had just broken open and was bleeding something sweet and terrible deep in his chest. “Oh…”

The word hung between them, resonant of all the unspoken things. Methos clenched his hands into fists; grasping at anything--anything that would stop him from just reaching out and scaring the hell out of that gorgeous, wary Scot… “Anything,” he whispered, unknowing until it reached his ears. He cleared his throat. “Anything you want, Mac.”

Duncan didn’t look at him, but his cheeks were almost brilliantly red, his forehead knotted. “Help me move Amanda over,” he murmured, barely audible.

Methos obliged, and soon they had her settled peacefully to one side of the big bed, after which Methos was presented with the terrifying and extraordinary reality of Duncan MacLeod, staring at him as if mesmerized, fluctuations from reticence to outright fear to melting lust plain on his face.

Methos reached out slowly, schooling his hand not to tremble as he brushed gently over Duncan’s cheek. Mac’s eyes closed and then it was easier, the easiest thing in the world to seek out those silken, mind-blowing lips, lips that opened under his own as if they’d been waiting for him. Oh yes…

Methos abandoned himself to the slow tides washing through him, to the feel of the vibrant man in his arms; all live passion and sugar-wet kisses. Frenzy and need seemed to have retreated far over some interior horizon, left him stranded with only an endless, oceanic patience; unsuspected fortitude and the urge to give this man every single pleasure that might be given. When Duncan dragged him down, locked him tight under a blissful, heavy weight, Methos went with a swooning willingness and joy that threatened to blind him.

“Methos,” Duncan murmured the word close behind his ear; soft and astonished. “Methos… Methos… God--I could kiss you forever…”

//Okay. Yes, please.// Only his thoughts could reply--his mouth was incapacitated, able to do no more than pull in air and bloom warm with Duncan’s heady kisses. Arms tightened around him, and Methos lost a breathless moan between Mac’s lips as Duncan moved over him sinuously, rocking them together. Without warning Methos found himself trembling on the keen, aching edge of orgasm, suddenly all too aware of how their cocks pressed and rubbed against each other with maddening slowness.

“Duncan--please…” He gasped it out, “I’m shaking myself apart, here. Will you… I want to feel you in me--”

Duncan’s only response was a swift, thorough kiss that left Methos dizzy, left him pawing blindly at the bedside table in search of something slippery. Mac reached over to his hand, twined with his fingers, and guided him unerringly to a flip-top bottle of oil. Methos seized it fiercely, but before he could open it Duncan stayed him, brought their eyes together through the simple expedient of cupping his face.

“I think I’ve done enough of the hard work for one night,” Duncan whispered hoarsely, looking deep into his eyes. “Your turn, Methos.”

For one horrible moment Methos suffered an almost insurmountable urge to throw Duncan off him and run. He knew exactly what Mac meant--oh yes; his mind provided him immediately with a full-color, three-dimensional illustration, complete with soundtrack, but…

But, he couldn’t possibly. Not that kind of intimacy; that kind of deepening of what was already between them; that kind of risk when he knew full well that Mac had never… his mind babbled, tripped over itself in a confused rush, assuring him that either he’d end up in love, or Duncan would never speak to him again, or possibly both.

Methos closed his eyes quickly, waged a brief but bitter war between his common sense and something that went deeper than temptation, deeper than desire… and sighed. This staggering and unexpected trust, this surprise gift… it was a good thing.

That is, he amended, he could make it a good thing, if he could keep himself from spurting all over Duncan’s stomach while thinking about it. Methos sighed again; eyes still closed, and rubbed Duncan’s smooth cheek with his own in acquiescence and ardor--surrendering, even as he drew inward to gather his strength.


As it turned out, he needed every bit of it. Mac seemed determined to do everything in his power to drive Methos insane--he rewarded Methos’ unspoken compliance with a rash of deep-throated kisses that reminded Methos of the quick flash of pain that happened if he drank something hot too quickly and scalded his tongue--only, too-hot coffee didn’t usually make him moan and shudder and writhe… although it might from now on. He didn’t doubt the abilities of an association this powerful.

Apparently, Duncan had decided that it was time for the gloves to come off--he clung to Methos fiercely, grappled with him, rolled him over and back in what space was available just to make sure that there was no neglected part of either of their bodies that had somehow missed rubbing against each other. Methos, with both fists dug deep into that marvelous, wild hair, Duncan’s soft groans whispering over the skin of his neck, and the glorious sensation of being slowly crushed to death under the Highlander’s full weight; almost felt, cynic though he was, that life had nothing more perfect to offer him.

Good thing he didn’t take bets. “Methos… please,” the whisper breezing just below his ear jolted him as much as if it had been a full-out shriek. It also brought back a measure of control, an awesome awareness of what he’d been entrusted with. His hands did not tremble as he took the bottle of oil, as he gentled Duncan onto his side and settled close, as he cupped that beautiful face and pulled it around to him for one more unalloyed, glowing, never-to-be-forgotten kiss.

The oil was already warm from being gripped in Duncan’s hot hands. Methos poured some of it into his palm, then leaned as close as he could so Mac would have something to feel besides the… intrusion. He felt a strong, almost overwhelming urge to ask Duncan if he was sure, if this was really what he wanted, but he refused to give in to it. It seemed, somehow, almost a lack of respect to do so, and he wasn’t going to cheat this experience of any mark of respect or veneration he could bring to it. There was a clear path before him. He would take it. His own craven need for reassurance be damned.

Methos slid one arm underneath Duncan’s neck, pressed with his forearm and hand on the sweat-moist but calmly breathing chest, and pulled Duncan firmly back against himself. He cradled Mac, soothing him, tracing gentle patterns with his tongue over Mac’s throat and ear. When he slipped his oiled hand between the Highlander’s buttocks, the man barely sighed.

Methos found a pulse there, at Duncan’s center; like breathing or heartbeat or cresting pleasure--flex and relax, open and contract. Methos waited through patient breaths, absorbed the rhythm… and entered on the open beat; the right moment, the same moment he thrust his tongue deep into Duncan’s ear.

“Oh…”

Methos held tight as Mac rocked in his arms; another gentle wave of a body surging through some unknown--and closed his eyes on something too bright to look at that surfaced for a moment in his interior landscape.

Now two fingers, as easy as one--Duncan breathed with him, alive inside and out; live hot rippling response and instinctual motion, rocking again. Methos dragged his lips from ear to throat, to another pulse; a strong, wild heartbeat that sank into his very bones--tongue and fingers moved in tempo, the cadence of life.

At three fingers, something shifted indescribably. The change eluded him until he realized his own stillness--he held, he clasped and offered; but mostly he stood guard over the marvel in his arms while Duncan slowly, sweetly fucked himself on Methos’ hand.

“Duncan…” it broke from him before he could stop it, stretched his throat with unspoken words. Mac arched into him, turned his head and pressed blindly closer, shivering.

“More, Methos.” Just a whisper, warm on his lips. Methos took Duncan’s mouth and held it, painting soft tongue-patterns within. Two gentle movements, and Mac’s undulations finally stopped while Methos slipped out, and slipped in.

Methos moved slowly, anticipating resistance. There was none. All he felt was a hot, welcoming channel; flexing muscles that drew him right in, further in, slow sliding richness that snugged down around him like satin. Duncan heaved in his arms, panting--it wasn’t until Methos heard a breathless ‘oh Christ’ and felt the sheath around him ripple along his length that he realized that Mac had just come, just from one stroke. He gasped, and held on.

“Mac… are you okay? Just hold still, I’ll pull out--”

“No--” Duncan interrupted him, holding tight to Methos’ arms. “Yes, I mean, but--” a whoop of breath, “on my back--I want… I want more. To see you.”

“Okay, okay--shhh. Easy… Easy.”

The Highlander seemed utterly boneless; weighty and damp. Methos rolled him easily, lifted heavy legs up to his shoulders as if they’d break from rough usage. “You have to tell me, Duncan,” he murmured, “I don’t want to hurt you, and this way can be… deep.”

Duncan’s eyes were only half-open, but brilliance shone out beneath lowered lashes. “Deep is good--Methos, please--”

Such a plea, from those lips, vibrated through Methos so profoundly that he felt it in his toes. “Yes--yes, okay, Duncan. Here--kiss me.”

Methos closed on Duncan’s mouth just as his cock pushed inside. Once again, there was no resistance, nothing to struggle against--he sucked hungrily on the silky tongue in his mouth while he slid deep, deeper, all the way in until his balls were cradled hard against warm skin, and there was nowhere left to go. Burning--his mouth and his cock and his eyes were all burning, all drowning in sudden and unanticipated wetness--his wetness, Duncan’s; his heat, Duncan’s… it was all one.

Methos allowed his weight to push Mac hard into the bed, pinned him to rumpled sheets while his hips moved, circled, plunged and circled again. Duncan was slippery--soaked with sweat and semen, moving below at every stroke to meet him, lift up to him, take what Methos wanted so desperately to give. Methos pulled away from Mac’s lips--he needed to look, needed to see that he wasn’t alone in this soul-searing, terrifying place.

“Methos…” Duncan’s eyes were closed, his brow tense. “Help me, I… I can’t bear it…”

Methos froze. “Hurts?” he panted, blinking sweat and dangerous tears from his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you--”

“No!” Mac’s voice was a low rasp. “Not--God, not hurting me. For God’s sake--don’t stop…”

Obedient, Methos thrust and thrust again, one hand cupping Duncan’s firm ass, the other brushing away moisture from that heartbreaking face. “I won’t stop, Duncan. Not unless you want me to.” Methos brushed a soft kiss on the Highlander’s cheek, wincing under the terrible burn of tenderness. “What’s wrong? Why can’t you bear it?”

Duncan shuddered beneath him. “I didn’t know… I--I think I’m going to come again, Methos…”

The words seemed to pierce him, shine a devastating light upon him--Methos left off petting and let his arms wrap greedily around as much of the Highlander as he could possibly reach, locking them together. “Oh Mac,” he whispered close against Duncan’s ear. “Then just let go--do you have any idea how fucking *beautiful* you are when you come?”

He felt Duncan’s erection now, hard and throbbing against his belly as he took this last chance, this last moment to give everything over. His hips worked hard; plunging fast and deep while everything went dim and his heart tried to pound its way out of his body. He only managed five ruthless strokes before Mac arched beneath him and cried out his name, a sound which exploded through him with exquisitely sharp pleasure and let his body take over; writhing, bucking as deep into that silken, welcoming ass as he could get.

“Oh my God--”

“Please--”

“That’s… Oh, that’s so…”

“Yes--oh fuck--”

“Come…like that, yes…”

And then they were gasping; cheek to cheek--and shaking; body to body--and Methos knew that he should let go… it was time for him to let go… he had to let go now--but, Christ--even the thought of it was a knife in him, a wounding; he couldn’t even--

“Don’t. Don’t let me go.” Mac’s voice, barely audible, steadied him.

“No.” His own words were breathless, strengthless… but sure. “Not until you want me to.”

It was a very, very long time before they moved apart.


[Four months later]

“Oui.” Clipped. Terse. That don’t-fuck-with-me tone. He’d like to finish this damn book before he died, which wouldn’t happen unless the damn phone stopped ringing…

A pause. Then: “Methos?”

Instantaneous, immediate rush--hot cheeks, shaking hands, the works. Methos put down the book, forgotten. “MacLeod. Hello. Sorry, I thought it was another annoying researcher.”

“Ah. No, just me.” Methos heard Duncan clear his throat, which for some strange reason brought back a complete tactile and auditory surge of perfect memory. He gripped the phone tighter, and watched absently as the front of his jeans underwent a spontaneous geological shift.

“Well, Highlander,” he said into the silence, “what can I do for you?”

Duncan cleared his throat again briefly, paused, and then sighed so deeply that Methos expected to feel the breath of it caressing his ear. He clamped down hard on that particular thought.

“You remember, Methos--the last time you were here?”

Well, perhaps Methos wouldn’t remember it, if he didn’t bloody think about it one or two hundred times a bloody day… “Yes--yes, of course.”

“Are you… okay with it?”

Okay? Okay as in ‘tolerant’; or okay as in ‘obsessed’? Methos floundered for a moment, unsure. “Oh yes. Quite okay.” He was inordinately proud of the steadiness in his voice, the calm. “Why, are you having a problem?” That was less steady. Damn!

Thankfully, Mac rushed right in. “No--oh, it’s not that. I just wondered--there’s something that’s come up, and I need your help.”

Methos’ stomach sank. Another crusade. He could have cursed Duncan quite creatively for getting his hopes up like that. “I see.” Hopefully he sounded enlightened rather than disappointed.

“Are you available on Friday?”

Curious--Duncan’s crusades didn’t usually require a datebook. “Friday? Yes, I could arrange--what’s Friday?”

More throat-clearing. More sighing. Damn that man!

“Well, I don’t know if you remember or not, but… see, Friday is… well, Friday is Amanda’s birthday, and…”

Methos listened; unspoken curses evaporating, blessing the voice that tingled against his ear while a slow, expectant smile stretched the corners of his mouth.


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