Rating: NC-17
Author: Trekker
Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Fandom: Highlander
Methos is sweating. It's not a sheen of sweat, it's not dampness. He's wet with it. His armpit slips against itself as he turns, drawing his sword back, watching his sparring partner circle him.
Duncan's sword is clasped in both of his hands, inclined towards Methos, and his feet move in precise patterns, never touching or interfering.
Methos's every breath burns like smoke in his chest. As he pivots, he can feel the sweat wet in the crack of his ass, can feel drops swelling and running through his hair. His sweater hangs heavy and scratchy against his skin.
Duncan's eyes are dark, his brow is drawn. His shirt is off, and like Methos, he's soaked.
Methos's gaze catches on one drop, working through the curls on Duncan's chest, sparking in the light like a liquid jewel. Momentarily, it's a distraction. Momentarily, Methos's tired mind forgets the fight, his body, already amped up on adrenaline, can't handle the added stress of desire. His eyes lose focus, he feels the weight of his sword tug, and he feels his arm waver.
That's all it takes. Duncan lunges. Methos dodges, but his feet aren't coordinated, the toe of his boot catches the heel of the other and he stumbles. He feels the wind of Duncan's blade and sucks in a breath, scrambles, and finds his footing, gets his own sword in both hands and swings, and then metal meets metal and screams, and he feels it all the way to his shoulder, all the way through his bones. He grits his teeth and the blades squeal, sharp edge against sharp edge, sliding, until hilt clanks against hilt, and Methos can feel Duncan's knuckles hot against his own. They are inches apart, and when Methos raises his eyes, he finds Duncan looking right back. He can smell him, rank and sharp. They both breathe. Muscles twitch, gazes lock like their blades. Methos's arms tremble, all along his forearms. His elbow joints feel greased, feel loose.
Then Duncan swings and shoves, and Methos stumbles back and all he can see is bright steel flashing in the sunlight that melts over him, heat on heat, and then he's parrying. Almost unsure how he's done it, all he knows is the clash of metal, and then he strikes again, knowing if he doesn't go on the offensive now, he's done for. He pours everything into it, striking again and again, the clashing rings through the room, fills his ears, rakes across his mind.
They part.
They circle.
Methos watches his own blade wobble between them and knows he's going to lose. It's not that that worries him. It's the fury in Duncan's eyes. He wonders if he was wrong. If Duncan's changed his mind. If all of this was a prelude to the final bow of whatever friendship they had. He's breathing hard, he can barely stay upright, much less fight another round. He'd call it off, if it wasn't for this nagging doubt, this small part of him that isn't convinced that this time Duncan's blade will tap his throat and pull away.
Duncan moves like a dancer and shows no sign of exhaustion, and Methos knows that this is the last sight many Immortals have seen.
He only feels the pain, a sudden crush against his fingers, a wrench of his wrist and shoulder, and then he hears the clatter as his sword falls and slides, and he falls, too, hits one knee, like he's proposing, and there's sharpness against his throat, and he's eye-level with Duncan's crotch, and he can't move.
In the stillness, he hears his own breath whistle.
His heart beats five times. Then he leans his head back, not moving any other muscle, like a man standing before a wild bear, knowing stillness is the key to life. He finds Duncan's eyes blazing down into his own again, and shivers under the heat. The blade moves infinitesimally against his throat, and he can feel the weight of it, pressing against tendons. He can feel his own arteries pulsing against the pressure. His lips part, and he feels air rush, cool and dry, over his tongue.
"Damn it, Methos."
Methos inhales, and exhales, and his shoulders tremble, and the floor is hard under his knee, making it ache.
Duncan's lashes flutter. "Anyone else, Methos," he says. "Anyone else, and you would have been dead."
And now, Methos's brow draws together, a question lodges in his throat. *Anyone else but me? Or anyone else but you?*
But he can't speak. He can hardly think. He breathes in again, through his nose, and his eyes fall shut of their own accord as that scent hits him again. Duncan and himself reek of sharp sweat smells. It's heady and sensual. Methos tilts his head back further, and leans his weight, leans into Duncan's blade. The cool metal is bliss against his overheated flesh. He turns his head and ducks, and rests his chin against the coolness, feeling wetness trapped in the creases of his flesh.
He hears Duncan inhale, and opens his eyes. He can feel his pulse in his cock, now, feel the heat of the fight spreading down. And Duncan is hard, hard enough to tent the fabric of his loose workout sweats. Not the first time sparring has led to this between them, but it feels different. Methos reaches, spreads both hands out wide and flat, and touches the outsides of Duncan's knees, then runs his hands up, feeling thigh muscles tensed and hard as stone under his palms.
Duncan steps closer at the same time Methos's fingers slip under his waistband, so his cock is only inches from Methos's lips as Methos pulls his sweats down just enough to set it free. Duncan is still holding his sword as his hands slip down to brace himself on Methos's shoulders, so Methos can feel the blade hanging against his back as he leans in, wraps one hand around firm flesh and takes the head of Duncan's cock into his mouth.
Duncan grunts. The smell of him is incredible here. Methos can feel Duncan's heat rising off his body in moist waves as he pushes down, taking the heft of Duncan into his mouth, working his tongue in patterns. Duncan tastes like battle. Methos lets him slip from his mouth, and nuzzles down along his length, deeper into the heat and musk between his legs. He laps at Duncan's balls, letting Duncan's shaft slide against his stubbled cheek. Duncan hisses, and his fingers bear down on Methos's shoulder. It hurts.
"Yes," Methos breathes.
Duncan shoves with his hips, jostling them both. Methos has to swing out a hand and steady himself against the gritty wooden floor boards.
"Christ, Methos, suck me already," Duncan groans.
Balance regained, Methos still presses his face into the crease of Duncan's hip, licking at his thigh, feeling as though he hasn't had salt in years, as though he needs it.
"You smell so good," he says, emphasis rendering every word a sentence unto itself.
"Methos," Duncan gasps.
Methos finds swiftness left in him, takes Duncan in him quickly and with little warning, feeling the air more fast and cool against the wet at the fringes of his hair. Duncan cries out, but Methos grips him tightly, fist wrapped around, pumping the base of Duncan's cock as his tongue curls against the head, rubs against the shaft. His other hand clenches around the back of Duncan's knee, holding himself up, just as Duncan's hands, weighing down on his shoulders, hold him steady. They are leaning on each other, moving against each other, in a dance older than swordplay, in a game older than the Game. Everything comes down to harsh breathing, straining muscles, grunts and whispers.
Then Duncan shudders and comes, spilling bitterness across the back of Methos's throat.
Methos drops back on his heels, and Duncan falls back a step, yanking his sweats up with one hand, and his sword falls, clangs and clatters to the floor behind Methos.
"Christ," Duncan says, again.
Methos feels his lips curve up. "Just me," he says, the obvious joke. But he's tired, strung out, quivering. Endorphins finally begin to overcome the pain, and he feels washed-out and high.
Duncan huffs a laugh, then wobbles another step back, looks around, and then, abruptly collapses to the floor like a marionette with cut strings. He ends up sitting cross-legged across from Methos, smiling a small smile.
As the adrenaline eases off, Methos can feel his own arousal, calmer than before but still strong. It's a slow beat in his groin and he's hard and pressing against his too-tight jeans. With his knees slightly spread, he's quite sure it's impossible to miss, and sure enough, in a moment, he sees Duncan's gaze slide down below his waist.
A moment later, Duncan's hand is following the same path as his gaze and Duncan himself has slithered closer, up on his knees, trapping Methos's thighs between his own powerful thighs. Methos groans as Duncan begins to stroke him through his trousers.
"Oh, yeah," Duncan says, as Methos presses himself into his hand, into the warm mass of his body, the hard planes of his chest, curls of chest hair tickling his cheek, "I want you to live a long, long time."
The End