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Shadow Dancing
A boat slides past on the Seine, sending enough of a bow-wave to rock the barge where it lies moored beside the quay. The rocking, in its turn, is enough to wake MacLeod out of a tumbled dream to lie, sweating and achingly hard, staring at the ceiling. Above him, the patches of moonlight reflected from the river dance with the shadows, shaping patterns as formless and chaotic as his emotions. What was happening to him? He's had rough quickenings before. Ones where his defeated opponent had fought on within him for a few days before finally quietening down, like a child fighting sleep until it claims him. He'd had ones that left him horny as hell for several hours after the energy storm. But Kronos was something else. Here he is, two weeks on from Bordeaux spending his days half-aroused and his nights disturbed by vague erotic images that leave him, as now, awake and hard in the watches of the night. MacLeod tries to relax, to let go and let his erection subside. A meditation - some mind-clearing mantra perhaps. He tries, but it is no good, his cock lies stiff against his stomach, pulsing with his need, as stubborn as any adolescent's. All right then! MacLeod pushes the covers over to one side and takes his cock in a practised hand. His hips join in the rhythm as his lets his mind drift into the familiar territory of sexual fantasy. A tropical island where grass-skirted, dusky-skinned maidens weave sweet flowers in their hair, and giggle as they half-run, breasts bobbing, leading him into the jungle in a mock chase, before tumbling with him on to beds of sweet grasses. The girls run down the beach, but he stops and takes his hand off his cock. His need is there but not the desire for this. The door to the harem opens, but MacLeod turns away. The old fantasies aren't enough, not now. Not since... He groans and pushes his left arm across his eyes and reaches for his cock again, giving into the inevitable – his secret, hidden desire. Methos. Methos, all pale, smooth skin over taut muscle. Methos in the shower at the dojo. Pink skin highlighted with lather as he washes his hair, hands raised as the water pours down his back over the swell of his firm buttocks. MacLeod watches him, his hand aches to caress that warm skin as the lather does. Methos turns round and sees him, smiles a welcome as MacLeod moves towards him. MacLeod's hand is slow, caressing his cock with firm, leisurely, sensual strokes. Methos and water. In an abandoned, rat-chewed building Methos stands naked under a broken water pipe. The thin trickle runs over his skin, snaking a line from chest to hip to groin where it is lost in the dark fuzz of pubic hair that emphasises the pallor of Methos' skin. MacLeod's lips press against the pulse there and drink from the warm skin as his hands skim across the strong muscle of his thighs. More Methos, naked in the camp, careless of the eyes upon him, pouring water from a skin he holds above his head. The posture highlights his slim frame and shows his body off to best advantage. He knows this and only does it to tease. MacLeod's hand is faster now and he moans and his pleasure mounts, but then, as before, he takes his hand away. Methos stands there naked, aroused, but his eyes are mocking. MacLeod grinds his teeth in frustration. He's been here before and it isn't enough. His erection mocks him. He knows who he desires, but what does he need? Maybe something more. MacLeod's eyes look over to the chest where he keeps some of Amanda's toys for when she wants to play. She has a taste for anal pleasures when the mood takes her, a taste he has never had the inclination to sample. Until now. Almost without thought, he gets up and quickly kneels beside the chest. He pulls out Amanda's favourite, a slim, slightly flared dildo. He stands, undecided, and then runs his hands over it. His cock twitches as a wave of desire and need floods through him. He grabs the lube and heads back to the bed. Methos stands beside a porthole, the moonlight falling on him makes his flesh seem like marble. A Greek statue, as long as Greek statues wear black leather jackets. It's short, ending just above his hips, highlighting the masculine curves of hip and buttock the long plane of his thigh and the magical joining of hip and belly. It is a sight that angels would gladly be damned for. Methos moves an arm and strikes a model's pose, offering more of his body to view, offering an invitation. MacLeod, on the bed, tips his hips back and starts to spread the lube down under his balls to his tight opening. Methos kneels between his spread legs, in the dim light of the tent his skin almost glows against the black leather. Methos slides a hand down his smooth stomach and takes hold of his long, hard cock, jutting out between the opening of the leather jacket. MacLeod moans at the sight of Methos pleasuring himself. Methos' eyes are locked on MacLeod's body as his hand moves up and down the dark shaft in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Methos' other hand parts the black leather and bares a rosy-brown nipple which he starts to rub and then pinch. He bites his lips and his cock glistens from the precum that gathers at the reddened tip. MacLeod knows the salt-sweet taste of it. Maybe he will get to taste it later. Maybe he will feel Methos' cock twitching on his tongue. Maybe. If he is good. Methos takes his cock and rubs it around MacLeod's opening. Around, up and down, against, but never in. The feelings are intense, but MacLeod needs something more. He's got to have it. 'Methos,' he whispers, 'Please. Fuck me.' Methos pushes his cock against the tight opening and slowly, gently, firmly enters him. A deep groan escapes from MacLeod's throat as the gift, so long desired, so long denied is granted to him. Then Methos begins to move a slow, easy rhythm while MacLeod squirms with pleasure against the furs. Why had he waited so long for this? For how many years, how many centuries has he needed this? The sensations, on the border of pain and pleasure, are beyond anything he'd dreamed of. The rhythm quickens to a stead, rolling movement that floods MacLeod with pleasure as he is completed, made whole. He can hear his grunts and moans tighten and become high-pitched as he nears the summit, but the noise doesn't matter compared to the fire that fills every inch of him. And then he is there. A cry of 'Methos!' and he's coming. Intense spasms of pleasure race through him centred around his arse as his muscles clench around the dildo and his hot, white juices spurt across his belly. Then it is done. MacLeod lies there, chest heaving as he returns to his body again. He pulls the dildo out and lets it drop from his weakened fingers on to the bed. He has enough energy to pull the covers back over him as he turns and falls asleep in one motion. Exhausted. Satisfied. Completed. Finally. Above him the moonlight and the shadows carry on their dance. Never still. Always changing. Always the same. Until the morning. The End
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Freyja's Highlander Slash Fic |
