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Santa’s Little Helper This little piece of slashy fluff needs an explanation only slightly shorter than the fic itself. This is set in Esjay's AU universe of Kiss the Steel. However, this is *my* AU version of that one with Duncan and Methos together at the end. So this is an AU of an AU. Don't think about this too much or your head will explode and that'll be messy. Thank you to Esjay for the loan of the sandbox, even if I have messed with it, and especially for the loan of Sister Kathleen-Mary, the Immortal Southern-belle turned nun. "Ho! Ho! Ho! Me-erry Christmas!" The voice was slightly wheezy, as though it's owner had been smoking 40 a day for too long. MacLeod ignored it. Methos frowned and smacked the bottom of the furry toy Santa again. "Ho! Ho! Ho! Me-erry Christmas!" There was still no response from the Highlander. Methos put the Santa down beside the tree they were decorating and picked up a packet of baubles. Christmas was hard work this year. Here it was, Christmas Eve and they were only just decorating the tree. The flat they shared was otherwise devoid of seasonal decorations. They had the groceries in for the Christmas dinner, but only at Methos' prompting, just as he had insisted on them having a tree. Normally MacLeod was a Christmas fanatic, planning, decorating, and entering into the spirit of the festival with the enthusiasm of a child, but this year he was operating on autopilot. Methos thought he knew the reason for the change: Joe. While both men were still mourning for their friend, MacLeod seemed unable to put the death behind him. And here at Christmas it was hitting him harder than ever. Since Horton's death, Joe had been estranged from his sister's family who had blamed him for it. That first Christmas, MacLeod had contrived to be in Paris and Joe had celebrated Christmas with him. From then on, it had been a tradition and Methos had been around for the last couple of them. It had been a riot. Faced with the issue of what to buy a 400 year old man for Christmas, Joe and Richie had come up with the solution of buying carefully chosen, beautifully wrapped and utterly useless presents. MacLeod had been given a tourist guide to Glenfinnan and a box of cold remedy. Methos smiled at the memory. That had been the year that Richie had given Joe a set of roller skates. Joe had laughed so much he'd nearly bust the proverbial gut. Methos' smile grew rueful, perhaps MacLeod had a point. Still it wouldn't do for the two of them to be brooding. He picked up a box of ornaments. "What do you think we should put at the top of the tree?" He asked MacLeod holding up the options. "Star, angel or fairy?" He leered at his lover. "I think it's got to be the fairy, don't you?" MacLeod had his mouth open to answer, when the presence of an Immortal washed over them. The doorbell rang. MacLeod scowled and went to open the door, picking up his sword as he did so. Methos stayed behind in the living room, giving MacLeod the space he needed to deal with whoever was coming in, but he held his sword ready. He heard voices and then the Scot came into the room shepherding a slight figure dressed in black. Methos dropped his sword. "Sister Mary-Kathleen!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing out today?" The Immortal nun was carrying a large holdall which she placed beside the sofa. At Duncan's invitation, she sat down, perching on the extreme edge of it as though she mistrusted its soft depths. Duncan, fussing slightly, offered her a coffee. "No thank you," she said. "I cannot stay with you boys long. I've come in a taxi," she confided. "It's waiting outside." "What can we do for you, Sister?" MacLeod asked politely. Sister Mary-Kathleen beamed at him. "It's the orphans," she said. "Orphans?" There was a suspicious edge to Methos' question. "Yes, the orphanage attached to Sacre Coeur. It's the kiddies' Christmas party this afternoon and I need a big favour from you boys." "If we can help in any way," MacLeod said, ignoring the warning glance that Methos shot at him at his use of the word 'we'. "Well, Claud and Jean-Marie have been our Santa Claus and his elf helper for many years now. But they just called this morning to say that their mother is very ill and they can't make it. They're brothers, you see. Naturally we understand that their mother comes first, but it does leave us without a Santa." "And you think we might fill the gap?" Methos asked. Mary-Kathleen smiled. "That's right! Claud was much of a size with Mr MacLeod here, and I think Jean-Marie's elf costume should fit you." She rummaged in the bag, pulled out a slightly rumpled green tunic, and held it up, gauging the size of it against the man sitting across from her. Methos saw MacLeod preparing to speak and leapt in. "Well, we'd have loved to help Sister, but unfortunately," he looked downcast, "we have some friends coming for a Christmas meal and it wouldn't be right to put them off now." MacLeod looked daggers at Methos, but was unwilling to call his lie in front of the nun. "Adam," he said pointedly. "I think our friends would understand considering that this is an emergency." "Well they're coming a long way and I don't think it's right that we leave them to their own devices while we play Santa and elf, even if it *is* for the orphans." Methos turned apologetically to Mary-Kathleen. "I'm sorry, Sister, at any other time... but prior engagement and all that." The nun stood up. "I understand," she said. "It was foolish of me to expect help at this short notice." She began to put the elf costume back in the holdall. "I'll not take up any more of you gennelmen's time. What with you having guests coming and all." She turned to leave. MacLeod was almost dancing round her in an effort to apologise. "*Adam*!" he said between gritted teeth. Methos folded his arms. "I'm sorry MacLeod I'd like to help, but I really think our guests come first." "ADAM!" Mary-Kathleen had been watching this exchange with interest but, at Methos' determined refusal, she turned to go. "Merry Christmas, boys," she said. "I just hope the orphans can cope with the disappointment." She left, with MacLeod hovering over her. He followed her out and down to the taxi. Methos stood in the middle of the floor, arms folded waiting for what was going to come. MacLeod came back into the apartment carrying the holdall. "You said yes. Didn't you?" Methos accused him. MacLeod was unrepentant. "You can't say no to a nun like that" "Excuse me, but I thought I just had!" Methos snapped. "But it's for the orphans!" "Well good for you! But I'm the one who's going to be dressed up like Peter Pan!" "You never know, you might enjoy it," MacLeod said persuasively. Methos was unimpressed. "Don't turn those big brown eyes on me, MacLeod," he said. "And don't try that 'last puppy in the petshop look' either. I'm not happy with this." Methos turned and walked over to the window, gazing down into the quiet square below. "You’re definitely not going to do this?" "No. N-O." MacLeod came up to stand close behind him. "What if I asked nicely?" "How much nicely?" Methos felt MacLeod's breath against the side of his neck. "Very nicely," MacLeod whispered. A kiss was planted at the juncture of Methos' head and neck. "Very nicely indeed." Methos bent his head slightly, offering more of his neck for attention and then changed his mind and pulled away irritably. "You're going to need to do more than that." "Anything you say." Methos was held as warm arms wrapped around his waist and drew him close and soft, wet kisses were trailed down his neck. Methos found himself melting as he nearly always did. But he wasn't giving up without a fight. "OK," he said in a voice that he couldn’t stop from being husky. "If you can make me beg for it, I'll be the elf." +++ MacLeod didn't reply, but ran his hands up inside Methos' sweater, over warm, smooth skin that moved slightly as Methos tensed at the touch. He kissed slowly around the edge of Methos' sweater collar, pausing a little to nibble and suck gently at the nape of the old Immortal's neck. MacLeod could see that Methos' pale skin was raised in goosepimples, but otherwise he gave no reaction. The Highlander continued round to the right side of his lover's neck and Methos moved his head to the left to accommodate him. A low, contented sigh escaped from Methos as the Scot left a trail of hot, wet kisses up to his ear. MacLeod sighed too, Methos tasted so good. Suddenly MacLeod bent down and swept his lover into his arms. He grunted slightly at the weight and then moved quickly in the direction of the bedroom. "What the?" Methos cried, struggling briefly, but subsiding. He lay relaxed in MacLeod's arms as though he was the heroine in a bodice-ripper romance. MacLeod paused by the bed. He had a sudden vision of throwing Methos down on silken, purple pillows before ripping open his lover's white linen shirt to reveal the smooth, muscled chest beneath. Not possible now, but something to be tried another time. MacLeod unceremoniously dumped Methos on their wide bed, followed him and began to kiss the old immortal. For a while there was only the feel of silken tongues in soft mouths and the sound of wet kisses interspersed with low moans of pleasure and need. Again it was MacLeod who broke the mood. He stood up. He'd thought of an inspired secret weapon. "Stay there," he said to the panting man on the bed, and disappeared out of the bedroom. He came back quickly, hiding something behind his back, which he put on the floor beside the bed in such a way that Methos couldn't see what it was. The Highlander stood up again and stripped quickly. Methos eyes were fixed on him and MacLeod made a production of it, so that the muscles of his arms, shoulders and side rippled as he pulled off his boots and his jeans. He knew Methos obsessed over his body and it excited him beyond measure to turn his lover on just by undressing. Methos reached out a hand towards him. MacLeod looked at it. "Are you begging already?" he asked. Methos instantly withdrew it. He opened his mouth to say something, but MacLeod, now naked, leant over him and claimed his lips with his own. Any words evaporated in the heat of the deep kiss that followed. MacLeod kept on kissing him, slow and deep, their tongues rolling around each other. MacLeod moaned in his turn, lost in the incredible taste of Methos' mouth, the feel of his mobile lips under his and the slick slither of tongue against tongue. Now Duncan moved his hand down and started to rub his open palm under Methos' sweater over the flat plane of his abdomen. His callused hand teased Methos' skin in the same rhythm as his tongue. For a while that was all he did, until Methos started to twitch under the gentle caresses. He knew that Methos wanted him to progress but was unable to ask for anything. He quickly lifted Methos up, removed the sweater and laid him down on the bed again in one swift movement. The Scot began the leisurely kisses again, keeping his lover entirely passive, but now his hands roamed over all of the smooth ivory torso, rubbing and pressing against his hardening nipples. Methos moaned into MacLeod's mouth, pushing his chest up towards the pleasuring hand. That hand now started to move downwards in wide circles, until it moved over the bulge in the Methos' pants. Methos moaned again, but MacLeod moved his hand away in the slow circle. The next time he came around he lingered over the increasing hardness, enjoying the sensation of movement under his palm. He reached over and started to unbutton the fly, ensuring his one-handed fumbling extended the time it took to finish the simple task. MacLeod slowly slid his hand down under the waistband of Methos' cotton shorts, through the soft fuzz of hair to gently grasp the hot silk of the imprisoned flesh. Methos' cock twitched in his hand and a cry escaped the old Immortal's lips as MacLeod slowly moved his hand up and down the hard length. Now both men moved to pull the pants down, Methos frantically kicking to get them off his feet. With his lover entirely naked now, MacLeod could not resist pulling him close, feeling the smooth, hard length of him against his own hot body as they kissed. Then MacLeod pulled back from the vortex of pleasure that was swallowing him. He reached down beside the bed and then brought his hand up to continue its slow exploration of Methos' body. Time for Stage Two. "What?" MacLeod looked up at the words to see Methos staring at the handful of bright silver tinsel the Scot was holding against his skin. MacLeod moved the soft and ticklish material in slow circles against his lover's sensitised skin and grinned as Methos sighed and squirmed under the motion. "Does that feel good?" MacLeod whispered. "Mmmm..." "Want to feel more? Want me to touch your cock with it?" Methos bit his lip and turned his face away, not answering. MacLeod kept on slowly moving the tinsel against Methos' skin, but eventually realised that his lover wasn't going to give in that easily. He decided to up the stakes and moved his tinselled hand down to cup Methos' groin. The individual strands of tinsel teased the sensitive flesh with jolts of pleasure and Methos moaned deeply. MacLeod began to torment his lover, moving the tinsel to stroke the old Immortal's inner thighs and then returning to cup his balls before moving on again. He kept up the stimulation of Methos' cock, but was careful not to touch the head which he guessed Methos was getting desperate for him to rub. He could see that the stimulation from the tinsel was making Methos clench his fists and tense his buttocks rhythmically. MacLeod knew that he must be close to giving in and begging for his release. He himself was entranced by the sight of Methos' erect cock rising out of the pool of silver. Then MacLeod wickedly moved a strand of tinsel down to stroke the flesh under his lover's balls. Methos arched his back and tried to press against the hand and the teasing tinsel, but MacLeod kept the pressure light enough to prevent Methos' release, but hard enough to keep him on the edge. Shouldn't be long now... "Ah," Methos gasped. "Ahh ... oh ... plee... oh ... please ... Mac ... please ... " MacLeod carried on his gently stroking. "... Duncan! .... For God's sake Duncan!.... Please!" At his victory MacLeod smiled triumphantly and finally did what Methos wanted. He brushed the handful of soft silver over the weeping head of Methos' cock, smiling in satisfaction as Methos cried out and thrashed frantically under the treatment. When Duncan felt Methos begin thrusting into his palm, he abandoned the tinsel and moved so that he was graping his penis as well as Methos'. For a few moments they thrust together, abandoned to ecstasy and pleasure. Then Methos cried out and his hot fluid spurted into the Highlander's hand. Now MacLeod followed his lover over the edge and he came too, his essence hitting Methos' stomach in strong jets. Duncan collapsed in his Methos' arms, still entangled in the tinsel. A part of him knew that he had won, but it seemed a small thing in comparison to the pleasure he'd just experienced. +++ MacLeod parked the SUV beside their apartment building and looked at the man beside him. Methos had been a revelation at the orphanage. The Highlander had expected him to sulk at being forced to wear a short green tunic with peterpan collar and thick, green tights. Instead, Methos had thrown himself into his role with abandon. He had capered, danced, jigged, tumbled, juggled and done basic conjuring tricks. The children had loved him. They had swamped MacLeod as Santa Claus of course, but by the end Methos had his own little troop of followers, including a tiny, little tot, who had followed them from room to room gripping one of Methos' long fingers. It had been so unexpected that MacLeod was finding it difficult to fit into his knowledge of his lover. And then there had been something else; Methos looked hot in tights. MacLeod had not been prepared for how the clinging material had enhanced the lean muscles of the old man's long legs. Occasionally, during their stint at the orphanage, MacLeod had found himself entranced by the sight and was thankful for the children demanding his attention. On their way out, they had been detained by the grateful nuns and Duncan had found it really hard to keep his mind on the conversation when it obviously would much rather have dwelt on the picture of Methos in green tights beside him. In the car it had been worse. At a set of traffic lights with a long interval between red and green, MacLeod had gripped the gear lever almost desperately to stop himself from reaching over and sliding a hand along Methos leg. He could almost feel the sensation of flesh under the thin fabric as he moved his hand up the inner thigh to cup the mound at the top and feel it swell and grow under his fingers. "What's up MacLeod?" *Me?* The Highlander came back to himself at the amused query. "Er," he stammered. "I was just thinking how good you are with kids. You would have made a good father." Methos smiled. "I like to think I did," he said. The shock swept all lustful thoughts from MacLeod's mind. "I never thought you'd had children." He shook his head, astonished at his own obtuseness. The old Immortal had opened the door and now stood on the pavement, but he leaned back into the car. "When you've had as many wives as I have, some of them are bound to have children," he explained and then turned to go up the stairs to the front door. MacLeod joined him just as he was opening it, and kissed him, gently. "That's for always being unexpected," he responded to Methos' look of enquiry. Back in the apartment both men were eager to get out of their costumes. MacLeod's cotton-wool beard hadn't even made it back to the car, but he unbelted his red coat with relief. Methos pulled his tunic over his head and then stood in his tights and stretched luxuriously. The tunic slipped on to the floor off the sofa and he clicked his tongue in annoyance and bent to pick it up. Sudden lust swept through MacLeod at the sight of his lover's tight, firm arse outlined by the green fabric. For the second time that day, MacLeod bundled Methos from the living room as he was overwhelmed by his passions. MacLeod was close behind Methos, his hands roaming over his body and thighs. They paused together for a moment beside the bedroom door as the Highlander claimed Methos' mouth in a hot kiss before they were on the bed again. This time Methos was face down on the bed while MacLeod placed wet, soft bites down his back until he reached his waist. The tights were pulled frantically down and the Highlander began to feverishly feast on Methos' arse, kissing and gently biting at the firm white globes. A hand under Methos' waist pulled his arse up until he was kneeling and then MacLeod parted his arse cheeks and bent to lick at the starred opening. In a few seconds both men were moaning; MacLeod because of the sensation of heat as his tongue penetrated the secret opening and Methos as the pleasure filled him. Apparently enough thought was possible for Methos to reach up a hand and scrabble for the lube on the nightstand. He passed it down to MacLeod who quickly anointed his aching cock with the cool gel and then coated his fingers with it. His need left him time for only the briefest of preparations before MacLeod slowly sheathed himself in Methos' tight heat. He paused to allow Methos to get used to the sensation of being filled and then the rhythm of their mutual lust started them moving against each other. MacLeod could hear nothing except the sound of their gasps and grunts as they moved together. The pleasure grew in him, through him and around him until he swam in it and it rose and swept over him and Methos, bringing them crashing to the bed in a sweaty, tangled heap. +++ Methos lay with MacLeod's head on his chest. He stroked the younger man's hair in a gesture of tenderness that he rarely permitted himself, or was permitted, to indulge in when MacLeod was awake. But now the Highlander was sleeping, sated and content, so it was safe to be 'motherly' if he wanted to. Methos smiled at the memory of the day. It had been much more fun than he'd anticipated. He hadn't worn hose since the Middle Ages and it was nice to think that he still had a good leg for them. He chuckled gently, wickedly. Time was when he could make a monk blush at ten paces. It looked like he hadn't lost his touch. *And* it looked like Duncan had cheered up as only doing a good turn could make him. So it had been a good day. The tinsel was a bonus, though – he'd have to remember that. The End
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Freyja's Highlander Slash Fic |
