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Hey! A Highlander story!
I started and abandoned this Duncan/Methos story about a year ago, inspired by the following challenge from Carson Kearns:
Duncan and...
It can be het or it can be slash or it can be a mixture... it
might be a fantasy of Duncan's or a fantasy (or intention... or a
bet...) of someone else 'about' Duncan... and...
It's nominally in the "By Any Other Name" universe, but it certainly stands on its own.
Strip Him and Bathe Him
Valentin
Methos drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his throne. Beside him his third advisor blanched and spun to hiss into the ear of a nearby guard, who bowed and backed hastily from the room.
Methos waited for another handful of breaths, then pursed his lips.
"Well. Apparently this barbarian Scot isn't co-operating." He stood, and the room's inhabitants prostrated themselves.
"So be it, then. I certainly have no need of another hostage. A nice, bloody war sounds just the thing to relieve my boredom. Send his head back to his father with my compliments."
He frowned; the royal court cowered.
"And do the same for whoever's making that racket in the hallway."
The steadily growing tumult outside his throne room seemed to achieve some sort of climax, for the massive doors crashed open, scattering (and in some cases damaging) retainers unfortunate enough to be caught behind them, and through them strode--
"Hell! He's used up all my oil!"
Muttering balefully about the inconsiderate, selfish nature of certain bloody nameless and unforgivably absent men, 21st century Methos heaved himself from his candlelit bath and sloshed, dripping, to a cabinet, there to retrieve various bottles, sponges, and several more candles.
The latter were lit and placed to send the room's more prosaic uses into shadow. The former were set within easy reach of his fingers beside a snifter, a bottle of cognac and the Moroccan bong he'd unearthed during a rainy afternoon spent in the attics of his London townhouse.
Now, if only MacLeod were looking at him from the other end of the tub--or better yet, drawing Methos' toes, one at a time, into that invitation to sin he called a mouth--but no, he was gallivanting across the country to deliver an idiotic lecture at some museum or other on something to do with armour, and no, Methos was not sulking at not being free to go along, and was certainly not the least bit threatened that this would be their longest separation since they'd become lovers.
Methos was sure that MacLeod had been perfectly sincere when he'd said he was sorry Methos couldn't come with him.
Hah. Well, Methos had every intention of coming. Repeatedly. With MacLeod, whether he was there or not.
He climbed carefully back into his tub, drew deep on his bong and measured a capful of his favourite oil into his bathwater. Submersing himself, he treated his cock to a tender caress. All in the name of research, of course. One had to fix the appropriate ratio of oil to water early on so as not to run the risk of ruining one's focus at a later, more critical point.
He determined that a slightly higher concentration was called for, and another judicious capful swirled into the tub. A pat or two and the mix was adjudged a success; the inner man fortified via the snifter, Methos lay back and allowed each long limb to uncurl in the warm satin embrace of his--
"Sleep wi' ye! I'd sooner tup ma' sheep!"
A normal man, Methos thought as he groped for his bong, would be fantasizing about Penelope Cruz, or Tom Cruise, or for that matter all three of Charlie's Angels, either edition. A normal man doesn't have his sexual fantasies about his lover hijacked by his own twisted psyche.
So his subconscious wanted to fight him for Duncan? Lay on, MacLeod.
Damn, this was good dope. He'd have to remember to ask Joe where he'd got it.
Another slurp of cognac and a minor adjustment to his pillow, and he settled back again. Where had he left off? He swished the satiny bathwater around his cock and shivered.
Ah, yes…
--in strode the dirtiest, smelliest, hairiest, most stunningly gorgeous creature he'd ever seen. Its dark eyes were flashing; its matted curls were flying about its remarkably broad and provocatively bared shoulders; its splendid biceps rolled and bunched as it shook its fists; its voluptuous red mouth was emitting some of the most eardrum-mutilating sounds Methos had ever been forced to tolerate. The barbarian tongue did not improve with exposure to it, in his opinion.
"Beast! Speak a human language, and kneel when you enter the presence of our lord!"
Methos thought that command might have been more intimidating had the guard who issued it been willing to venture within arm's reach of the creature. Under the circumstances it only earned them all a scornful laugh.
"I am Duncan MacLeod o' the Clan MacLeod, and I kneel tae no man!"
Blah, blah, blah. If only he were as interesting as he was beautiful. And speaking of beautiful… perhaps the beheading could wait.
After all, a man should get some return on his investment, shouldn't he? He'd been feeding and sheltering the lout for…
"Commander! How long has the creature been here?"
"Almost two days, my lord."
Oh. Well, it was the principle of the thing, surely.
Methos had, he decided, been dining exclusively on oysters for long enough. It was time to reacquaint himself with snails. (Not that he'd ever received credit for that particular metaphor, 21st century Methos thought anachronistically, and poured himself another cognac.)
"Strip him, bathe him, and… you know the rest."
He watched with interest as the barbarian's scuffles with the guards demonstrated copiously just what was worn under a plaid.
In this particular Scot's case, it was clear that nothing was worn under his plaid. No, from all offered perspectives everything under that plaid seemed abundantly and obviously in excellent working order indeed.
"I'll no' be havin' any bath!" came a muffled shout from under the pile of guards. "I'll catch ma' death this close tae winter!"
"You smell like a goat, and you probably have just as many fleas," Methos observed. "I'll catch my death."
"Aye, and good riddance, ye poxy whoreson!"
Methos was unruffled by MacLeod's disembodied insults. "On the contrary, I have no doubt that my mother was a woman of intelligence and substance. As for myself, I'm so clean you could eat off me. And you will."
Present-day Methos was distracted from his fantasy by a memory of the second time he'd felt Duncan's tongue on his body. He'd been feeding Methos bites of ripe pear, and his hair had tickled Methos' skin exquisitely when he leaned in to lick its stickiness from Methos' chest and the hollow of his throat.
Since then they'd made love so many times that Methos had almost lost count. He'd be reading on the couch or puttering in the kitchen, and would look up to find Duncan fixing him with a hot stare. It had taken him six weeks to finish a single book, and it was only recently that they'd made it all the way through a movie.
On one memorable occasion, Methos had lain in wait along Duncan's jogging route and leaped on him from the bushes. After Methos' broken neck had repaired itself Duncan had punished him severely, to the extreme gratification of both men.
Methos smiled reminiscently and toyed with the fronds of hair that drifted in the tidal pool of his groin.
And now here he was, saturated with loving, the feel of Duncan's eyebrows and wrist bones and heartbeat engraved on his fingertips, and what was he doing? Fantasizing about him still. After five thousand years of lovers Methos had not imagined that there were any more surprises for him, but that was what had made Duncan too important to lose, wasn't it? The exhilaration that lay in new discoveries, new surprises.
The exhilaration of a life that had Duncan in it.
Duncan would laugh when Methos told him of the shape his fantasy had taken, and hug him, and tell him working through his grudges was healthy. And if he was in a mood to accommodate then, Duncan would put on his plaid and growl into Methos' ear in that rich Scots burr he'd abandoned, and was that the front door Methos heard?
Thank god.
"Methos! Where are you?"
He was blushing like a schoolboy simply from hearing the man's voice. How utterly mortifying. He'd be simpering next.
Duncan opened the bathroom door and stuck his head round. Methos clutched at his knees to keep from bounding out of the tub and into his arms.
"Oi! You're letting all the warm air out!"
Duncan obligingly closed the door behind himself. "What are you doing?"
Lord, how Methos had missed that molten stare. "What does it look like, MacLeod? You've been gone for days. How long do you expect me to go without, after all?"
"I've been gone for a day and a half, you insatiable loon." Duncan was removing his clothing, his eyes on the spot where Methos' cock, gleaming under its film of oil, made an occasional Nessie-like appearance above the water.
Methos stretched out a set of long toes and briefly opened the drain, then cranked the hot water tap, all without opening his eyes or lifting his head from the pillow.
"I love this tub. Can't believe it took Western civilization two thousand years to reinvent the soaker bath." His toes manipulated the tap closed, and he sighed contentedly and sank until only his nose remained above the water's surface.
Duncan leaned over the edge of the tub. "'I can resist anything except temptation,'" he advised the nose, and tugged.
Methos sounded, sputtering indignantly, and laid tender fingers over his pinkened proboscis.
"My nose," he said severely, "is not your personal plaything."
"No?" Duncan mused. "Maybe not." His hand drifted south. "What about this?"
"Well, now. That, of course," Methos told him, making room for him in the tub, "is an entirely different matter."
Finis
Duncan and...
It can be het or it can be slash or it can be a mixture... it
might be a fantasy of Duncan's or a fantasy (or intention... or a
bet...) of someone else 'about' Duncan... and...
It's nominally in the "By Any Other Name" universe, but it certainly stands on its own.
Strip Him and Bathe Him
Valentin
Methos drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of his throne. Beside him his third advisor blanched and spun to hiss into the ear of a nearby guard, who bowed and backed hastily from the room.
Methos waited for another handful of breaths, then pursed his lips.
"Well. Apparently this barbarian Scot isn't co-operating." He stood, and the room's inhabitants prostrated themselves.
"So be it, then. I certainly have no need of another hostage. A nice, bloody war sounds just the thing to relieve my boredom. Send his head back to his father with my compliments."
He frowned; the royal court cowered.
"And do the same for whoever's making that racket in the hallway."
The steadily growing tumult outside his throne room seemed to achieve some sort of climax, for the massive doors crashed open, scattering (and in some cases damaging) retainers unfortunate enough to be caught behind them, and through them strode--
"Hell! He's used up all my oil!"
Muttering balefully about the inconsiderate, selfish nature of certain bloody nameless and unforgivably absent men, 21st century Methos heaved himself from his candlelit bath and sloshed, dripping, to a cabinet, there to retrieve various bottles, sponges, and several more candles.
The latter were lit and placed to send the room's more prosaic uses into shadow. The former were set within easy reach of his fingers beside a snifter, a bottle of cognac and the Moroccan bong he'd unearthed during a rainy afternoon spent in the attics of his London townhouse.
Now, if only MacLeod were looking at him from the other end of the tub--or better yet, drawing Methos' toes, one at a time, into that invitation to sin he called a mouth--but no, he was gallivanting across the country to deliver an idiotic lecture at some museum or other on something to do with armour, and no, Methos was not sulking at not being free to go along, and was certainly not the least bit threatened that this would be their longest separation since they'd become lovers.
Methos was sure that MacLeod had been perfectly sincere when he'd said he was sorry Methos couldn't come with him.
Hah. Well, Methos had every intention of coming. Repeatedly. With MacLeod, whether he was there or not.
He climbed carefully back into his tub, drew deep on his bong and measured a capful of his favourite oil into his bathwater. Submersing himself, he treated his cock to a tender caress. All in the name of research, of course. One had to fix the appropriate ratio of oil to water early on so as not to run the risk of ruining one's focus at a later, more critical point.
He determined that a slightly higher concentration was called for, and another judicious capful swirled into the tub. A pat or two and the mix was adjudged a success; the inner man fortified via the snifter, Methos lay back and allowed each long limb to uncurl in the warm satin embrace of his--
"Sleep wi' ye! I'd sooner tup ma' sheep!"
A normal man, Methos thought as he groped for his bong, would be fantasizing about Penelope Cruz, or Tom Cruise, or for that matter all three of Charlie's Angels, either edition. A normal man doesn't have his sexual fantasies about his lover hijacked by his own twisted psyche.
So his subconscious wanted to fight him for Duncan? Lay on, MacLeod.
Damn, this was good dope. He'd have to remember to ask Joe where he'd got it.
Another slurp of cognac and a minor adjustment to his pillow, and he settled back again. Where had he left off? He swished the satiny bathwater around his cock and shivered.
Ah, yes…
--in strode the dirtiest, smelliest, hairiest, most stunningly gorgeous creature he'd ever seen. Its dark eyes were flashing; its matted curls were flying about its remarkably broad and provocatively bared shoulders; its splendid biceps rolled and bunched as it shook its fists; its voluptuous red mouth was emitting some of the most eardrum-mutilating sounds Methos had ever been forced to tolerate. The barbarian tongue did not improve with exposure to it, in his opinion.
"Beast! Speak a human language, and kneel when you enter the presence of our lord!"
Methos thought that command might have been more intimidating had the guard who issued it been willing to venture within arm's reach of the creature. Under the circumstances it only earned them all a scornful laugh.
"I am Duncan MacLeod o' the Clan MacLeod, and I kneel tae no man!"
Blah, blah, blah. If only he were as interesting as he was beautiful. And speaking of beautiful… perhaps the beheading could wait.
After all, a man should get some return on his investment, shouldn't he? He'd been feeding and sheltering the lout for…
"Commander! How long has the creature been here?"
"Almost two days, my lord."
Oh. Well, it was the principle of the thing, surely.
Methos had, he decided, been dining exclusively on oysters for long enough. It was time to reacquaint himself with snails. (Not that he'd ever received credit for that particular metaphor, 21st century Methos thought anachronistically, and poured himself another cognac.)
"Strip him, bathe him, and… you know the rest."
He watched with interest as the barbarian's scuffles with the guards demonstrated copiously just what was worn under a plaid.
In this particular Scot's case, it was clear that nothing was worn under his plaid. No, from all offered perspectives everything under that plaid seemed abundantly and obviously in excellent working order indeed.
"I'll no' be havin' any bath!" came a muffled shout from under the pile of guards. "I'll catch ma' death this close tae winter!"
"You smell like a goat, and you probably have just as many fleas," Methos observed. "I'll catch my death."
"Aye, and good riddance, ye poxy whoreson!"
Methos was unruffled by MacLeod's disembodied insults. "On the contrary, I have no doubt that my mother was a woman of intelligence and substance. As for myself, I'm so clean you could eat off me. And you will."
Present-day Methos was distracted from his fantasy by a memory of the second time he'd felt Duncan's tongue on his body. He'd been feeding Methos bites of ripe pear, and his hair had tickled Methos' skin exquisitely when he leaned in to lick its stickiness from Methos' chest and the hollow of his throat.
Since then they'd made love so many times that Methos had almost lost count. He'd be reading on the couch or puttering in the kitchen, and would look up to find Duncan fixing him with a hot stare. It had taken him six weeks to finish a single book, and it was only recently that they'd made it all the way through a movie.
On one memorable occasion, Methos had lain in wait along Duncan's jogging route and leaped on him from the bushes. After Methos' broken neck had repaired itself Duncan had punished him severely, to the extreme gratification of both men.
Methos smiled reminiscently and toyed with the fronds of hair that drifted in the tidal pool of his groin.
And now here he was, saturated with loving, the feel of Duncan's eyebrows and wrist bones and heartbeat engraved on his fingertips, and what was he doing? Fantasizing about him still. After five thousand years of lovers Methos had not imagined that there were any more surprises for him, but that was what had made Duncan too important to lose, wasn't it? The exhilaration that lay in new discoveries, new surprises.
The exhilaration of a life that had Duncan in it.
Duncan would laugh when Methos told him of the shape his fantasy had taken, and hug him, and tell him working through his grudges was healthy. And if he was in a mood to accommodate then, Duncan would put on his plaid and growl into Methos' ear in that rich Scots burr he'd abandoned, and was that the front door Methos heard?
Thank god.
"Methos! Where are you?"
He was blushing like a schoolboy simply from hearing the man's voice. How utterly mortifying. He'd be simpering next.
Duncan opened the bathroom door and stuck his head round. Methos clutched at his knees to keep from bounding out of the tub and into his arms.
"Oi! You're letting all the warm air out!"
Duncan obligingly closed the door behind himself. "What are you doing?"
Lord, how Methos had missed that molten stare. "What does it look like, MacLeod? You've been gone for days. How long do you expect me to go without, after all?"
"I've been gone for a day and a half, you insatiable loon." Duncan was removing his clothing, his eyes on the spot where Methos' cock, gleaming under its film of oil, made an occasional Nessie-like appearance above the water.
Methos stretched out a set of long toes and briefly opened the drain, then cranked the hot water tap, all without opening his eyes or lifting his head from the pillow.
"I love this tub. Can't believe it took Western civilization two thousand years to reinvent the soaker bath." His toes manipulated the tap closed, and he sighed contentedly and sank until only his nose remained above the water's surface.
Duncan leaned over the edge of the tub. "'I can resist anything except temptation,'" he advised the nose, and tugged.
Methos sounded, sputtering indignantly, and laid tender fingers over his pinkened proboscis.
"My nose," he said severely, "is not your personal plaything."
"No?" Duncan mused. "Maybe not." His hand drifted south. "What about this?"
"Well, now. That, of course," Methos told him, making room for him in the tub, "is an entirely different matter."
Finis
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