Disclaimer: Rysher and Davis et al own the characters of the highlander series and this particular incarnation of immortality, not me. I intend no copyright infringement and will make no money from this story.
Warnings: This story contains m/m sexual situations and a theme of domination/submission. It is adult in nature. If you aren't an adult yet, I'll have to ask you to come back when you are. If the idea of two men together squicks you, or just isn't your cup a tea, I've got lots of Het stories that might interest you. (link to my main page at the bottom.)
LOST
By
Kiristeen ke Alaya
Methos stared at the retreating form of one Richie Ryan, young immortal, feeling like his jaw was at about knee level. Just when had this spiraled so far out of his control? When? He laughed inside. He suspected that any control he'd *thought* he'd had was even more illusory than average.
The attraction he'd felt for the boy had grown considerably over the last three weeks, but he had assumed it was well hidden. He was *good* at camouflage after all. Richie's words however had torn down that illusion quite effectively. The young man had as good as quoted his thoughts back at him, leaving him in something of a quandary and completely off balance.
He'd gone to bed more than once filled with visions of what might happen if he gave in to this healthy dose of lust he was feeling and actually seduced Richie. He'd been secure in those fantasies. He was in control. He knew what to expect. Well, that and secure in the fact that it wouldn't ever happen. He wouldn't make the first move on such a new immortal.
Never in all his imaginings could he have guessed that Richie would have this yearning, nor be so damn good at it. He, the master manipulator, had been manipulated by a mere child, and as much as he really wanted to, he couldn't find it within himself to truly object. Apparently, even after 5000 years of living and learning better, he could still be led around by certain unruly parts of his anatomy.
And he *was* good. He'd metamorphosed in the blink of an eye into a vision of confidence and control. He'd sat in that booth like a predator crouched in the shadows waiting for the opportunity to strike. And Methos had reacted instantly. From the moment Richie had sprung the initial trap, catching him completely unprepared, he'd moved from one step to the next with blinding accuracy, leaving Methos nearly breathless and desperately trying to play catch-up. Unfortunately, Richie also knew enough not to allow him the time he needed to do so.
Before tonight, he'd never even seen the smallest *hint* that Richie Ryan knew *anything* about the less traveled paths of sexuality, and now he was paying for that blindness. Richie stopped, waiting for him, his hand holding the door open. He didn't do anything, didn't say anything, didn't even change expressions. He just stood there waiting.
Methos knew then, he was in serious trouble. There was nothing in the other immortal's demeanor that suggested he was not absolutely certain about what he was doing. He kicked himself mentally at having underestimated him. The blasted child had practically grown up in the streets. How could he have overlooked that? There was probably a whole lot he'd seen in his few short years.
Methos stood slowly and about half way up was suddenly not entirely certain his legs would support him. He took one slightly shaky step and then another. Unable to convince himself to turn around and get another beer instead, he found himself passing through the door.
The cool air of the night wafted across his overheated skin. So, it was with a sigh of relief that stepped out into the darkness and heard the bar door close behind him. It rang with an odd sound of finality, of a choice made and a path taken. His mind was not on where he was going, but on the feel of the heat from the body so close behind him.
He swallowed convulsively. Had he been able to envision this at all, he'd never have credited Richie with being *this* good. He still wasn't giving him any chance to catch his breath, his one and only concession to the modern conventions had been his brief pause after 'marking' his earlobe. That's what that short pause had been. Richie's bow to his right to say No and mean it. It had been too long for comfort, but too short to allow him time to calm, time to think.
*That* had been the time to demur. That had been when he should have spoken up and said no. It would have been easier, gentler then. Now, if Richie was as serious about this as he thought he was, he wasn't going to be easy to dissuade. Now, it would be taken as part and parcel of his 'role'.
He drew in three deep breaths and started to say 'the right thing'; to say that this would not work. But, as soon as he opened his mouth say it, his body turned traitorous and his throat muscles clenched. He couldn't get a sound out.
Richie's hand firmly pressing into the small of his back, urging him left, was the only thing that kept him moving. He shivered in response to the touch and heard a knowing chuckle from behind him. He was, he realized, to put it bluntly, screwed. The kid was reading him far too well.
He should end this. He should turn around and walk the other way. He should get in his car and drive away. He should forget this even happened. He kept moving, but he was doing it on automatic, his mind far to occupied to pay attention to where that hand and his feet were taking him. What was the kid doing to him?
Who was he kidding? He knew exactly what the kid was doing. He was pushing all the right buttons; that's what he was doing. There was a reason he hadn't allowed anything like this to happen since...well, since a long time ago, a very long time ago. He liked it far too much.
The pressure at his back stopped and it brought him out of his musing. His shoulders slumped. The bike. No way, he thought stubbornly. He might not be able to talk himself out of what was happening, but he was *not* getting on that death trap.
Richie moved from behind him and swung a leg up and over the motorcycle. After fastening his helmet on, he looked up at Methos and crooked a finger, twice.
Methos shook his head tightly, not moving an inch.
Richie's expression narrowed and that crooked finger turned downward, pointing to the pavement right next to the bike. Shit! When that boy got into character, he stayed that way!
Methos took two slow steps forward, wondering where the hell his will and his survival instinct had fled to.
***
Holding on for dear life, Methos berated himself silently. It was *just* a motorcycle and even if they did crash, it wasn't as if it would kill him, at least not permanently. 'Leave your car here, Methos. It'll be all right, Methos. We'll pick it up in the morning.' Methos muttered to himself sarcastically. He could be safe in his car, not pressed up against the backside of the must luscious body in front of him.
Uh, huh. Like Richie would give him that cooling down time. The boy wasn't stupid. But what about him? This made him temporarily completely dependent on the man controlling this death trap.
'That's the point,' answered a snide little voice inside him. He suddenly wondered if the lack of a mention of a 'safe word' had been intentional on Richie's part or not. Just how *experienced* in this sort of thing was he? While Methos was reasonably certain that if he actually went through with this at all, Richie couldn't possibly want to do anything that would require him to actually *use* one, but it's lack was an...uncertainty.
He felt a hand caress his arm, and was comforted. Wait! Why weren't both of Richie's hands occupied with driving? His grip on the younger immortal tightened, pulling them even closer together. He felt a chuckle from the body in front of him. It vibrated along his entire torso.
Oh, bloody hell! The brat had done this on purpose. This was all just one more step, one more accurate button to push, just one more thing to keep him completely off balance. He wilted. It was difficult to admit, and he fought it for several more minutes, while they drew ever closer to their destination, but finally, admit it he did. He was completely and utterly lost. He wilted against the broad back.
Part Two
As soon as they were both off the bike, Richie's hand was once again in its position on his back. Methos couldn't block it out. It was a physical demonstration of exactly who was in control, who was leading this unexpected dance. He felt marked, owned.
He had caught one look at Richie's face before their positions made that impossible and he'd been unable to get any clue as to what Richie was thinking. He caught his lower lip between his teeth. That inability made him feel so exposed, and more, alone in his exposure.
While he knew what Richie wanted, well, the basics anyway, not knowing even remotely what he was thinking was unnerving. Richie had always been relatively easy to read, at least he'd always thought so. Now, he wasn't so sure he'd been right. In fact he was beginning to suspect that most of what he'd been seen had been a mask. Had, in fact, been exactly what Richie had wanted the world to see.
Richie unlocked and opened the door, without ever removing that hand and ushered him in. As soon as the door closed behind them, Richie pressed up behind him, gathering him close, letting Methos feel him and just how much this affected him.
Methos' heart rated shot up as those arms wrapped around him and strong hands splayed across his abdomen in an intimate caress. He moaned softly as Richie's teeth grazed his neck lightly. He leaned into it, letting his head fall back against the other's shoulder.
The hands crawled up his chest to his lapels and drew his coat slowly off his shoulders. He desperately tried to wet a mouth gone very dry. This was where the trust came in. Richie wasn't just removing his coat, a psychological shield, he was disarming him as well. He tensed slightly, his breathing coming in hitches, but didn't stop him.
"Living room, couch, Now," a voice growled low in his ear.
He hesitated. Where was Richie going to put his coat?
A mostly gentle shove set him moving. He looked over his shoulder as he neared the entrance to his destination and was surprised to see Richie heading into what appeared to be the kitchen. He started to change directions.
"Living room, Methos," Richie called.
Methos froze, damn! When the hell had he become so bloody predictable, he wondered, and after only a moment of indecision headed where he was ordered. He even sat on the couch. He couldn't *quite* relax, however. He kept glancing back the way he'd come. The outer door was visible from his vantage point and his thoughts kept urging him to just get up and disappear through it.
The wait grew longer and Methos almost called out to Richie twice, but didn't. Suddenly he stood and headed toward the door. He was half way there when he remembered Richie had his coat *and* his weapons. That was stupid. He knew better than that. He groaned. Fuck it! He could get them later. He *had* to get out of here before it was too late.
His hand was on the knob when a low, sinister voice halted him. "Just *where* do you think you're going?"
He pulled his hand away from the door knob. He absently noticed it was shaking as he turned slowly to face his host. His knees nearly buckled at the sinister smile that greeted him. That little shit! He thought fervently. He planned even this! He'd waited, bided his time until Methos had bolted.
Richie stalked forward, slowly, one menacing step at a time. Methos was suddenly very glad he knew the red head even as well as he did, because if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn the youngster was out for blood. He couldn't move. He couldn't even swallow. That *smile* grew.
"You weren't really thinking about ducking out, were you?"
Methos lied. He shook his head, no.
"Of course you weren't," Richie taunted mercilessly, pressing him back against the door, the entire length of his body holding him there. "You *do* know better than that, don't you."
Methos tried to answer and ended up simply nodding.
"Good," Richie purred. "I'd really hate to have to chase you down."
Chase him down?! Methos thought, a bit incoherently. Richie closed the distance between their faces, bring their lips closer together. Methos felt like a wild animal caught in the headlights on an oncoming vehicle and couldn't tear his gaze away from the blue pools maintaining eye contact with his.
Richie's hand slipped behind his neck roughly pulling him into a slow, bruising kiss, his tongue demanding immediate entry. It was granted, almost without conscious volition. Methos moaned into the consuming mouth and gave himself over to the feelings coursing through him.
They warred briefly for control of the kiss, but he knew it was a battle that was actually lost before it was even begun. Richie had managed to light desires he thought he'd hidden and then purged long ago. His heart wasn't in victory. His body knew greater delights lay in defeat. He gave in, leaning into heart stopping kiss and the instant he did, Richie pulled back taking him with him.
He stumbled in surprise when Richie pushed him ahead and just barely caught himself before falling to the floor. Eyes widening, he look over at Richie and started backing up slowly. Gods! An electric shock of arousal shot through him and his cock was suddenly painfully hard. Richie's eyes blazed with his intent. He swallowed convulsively when an image flashed through his mind and he realized that last time he'd seen such a look. He couldn't breathe. Just what had he gotten himself into?
It had been in a church and Duncan MacLeod had been with him. For the first time tonight, true fear coursed through him, for in that moment he also realized Richie had *not* removed his coat. He was now regretting not establishing a safe word. He started moving more quickly.
"Richie," he said, as firmly as an adrenaline wracked voice would allow," I think maybe-"
Richie tackled.
He dodged, but Richie had timed it well and Methos went down over a footstool he hadn't seen. He landed flat on his back with a slightly pained 'oof', his legs straddling the offending piece of furniture, and Richie squarely on top of him.
He struggled against what had become more, oh so much more, than he'd bargained for. Unfortunately, Richie's better leverage position and the blasted footstool, (which he silently cursed in at least three dead languages) defeated his efforts. Richie had his wrists pinned firmly with his hands.
He swallowed convulsively and tried again as Richie leaned down.
"Richie-"
"What's the matter, Methos," Richie whispered lowly, his hot breath teasing his neck. "Can't you handle not knowing all the rules of this? Can't handle not having an 'out'?"
What?! Rules? They were still bound by rules? Shit! How much of what had happened here so far was an act, and how much real? His mind spun in circles, unable to land on any one thing. His body knew what it wanted, though. He arched and threw back his head as Richie feasted on his neck, driving all reasonable thoughts from his mind.
"Do you need an out?" Richie asked softly, his tone suggesting...disappointment if Methos requested one.
He shook his head.
Richie smiled a bright smile, just before he stood suddenly, leaving Methos feeling bereft. Richie held a hand out and clasped Methos' wrist instead of the hand he held up, yanking him up against him by twisting the arm he held behind the older immortal.
"Good," he hissed, then proceeded to expertly divest Methos of the rest of his clothing. The skin bared as each article came off was touched, licked and nibbled on in turn. Methos tried to return the favor but Richie stepped back, out of reach and slowly removed his clothes himself until he stood nude and proud in front of him. His cock jutting out in front of him.
Methos stood stock still during this, then belatedly realized Richie wasn't confining him any longer and he bent to remove his shoes, which were preventing him from stepping out of his pants.
He gasped in surprise as Richie shot forward and grabbing him round his waist, spun him around. "Down, on the floor, now."
Methos shuddered and dropped to his knees. He felt Richie lean to the side and heard the buckle of Richie's belt clank against the floor.
What?! he thought in a spurt of panic-edged arousal. He started to look, but a firm pressure on his shoulder pushed him forward until his elbows were on the floor and his head rested on his hands. He gasped and bucked against the sudden feel of a well lubed finger sliding into him. On the first stroke it brushed against his prostate sending tiny little bolts of electric pleasure through his gut.
He moaned and pushed back against the invading digit, then moaned again when a firm grip on his hip stopped him. The finger left him, only to be instantly replaced with two. He writhed as Richie quickly prepared and stretched him. Cold replaced the warmth of Richie's hand for long moments. Then, as he felt a second hand grip his hips he felt, also, the blunt tip of the man behind him, press against the puckered hole.
It pushed inside him, barely, and Methos struggled to impale himself. Richie didn't let him move.
"Richie!"
"What do you want? Tell me."
"You!" Methos growled huskily. "I want you, Now."
"Very well," Richie responded lazily, sounding completely relaxed.
But before Methos could object to that, Richie plunged fully into him, then froze, giving both of them time to adjust. He bucked against the restraining hands. His body felt hot and cold all at once, hot where Richie touched and cold where he didn't.
Richie pulled back, oh so slowly, until he barely remained within, then forcefully plunged forward burying himself in Methos. Again and again, Richie repeated this move, never entering at exactly the same angle or pace, until Methos thought he would go crazy with need, the steel inside him brushing against his prostate with only every other thrust.
He wondered briefly where Richie had learned this, but the thought was gone before he could actually pin it down. Now wasn't the time to think, anyway. "Ri-chiee! Please!"
Richie shuddered behind him, and *finally* set a regular pace.
Methos mumbled incoherently, moaning in a low counterpoint to Richie's own sounds as they rocked against each other. Richie's movements became a touch erratic and then Methos felt his calloused hand slide to his neglected cock, stroking it in time to their thrusts. Methos found himself rocking back onto Richie and forward into his hand. And it thrust him over the edge.
Shouting out Richie's name, he came. His muscles clenching and releasing Richie, who suddenly tensed and cried out in his own release, filling Methos with liquid heat. They collapsed together, their breathing ragged, and hearts beating far too fast.
They lay, on the floor, limp and sated for long moments, listening only to the sounds of their breath and to the ticking of a clock somewhere in the apartment.
Finally, Richie pushed himself up and carefully withdrew. Pulling Methos against him and folding him into his arms, he reverently kissed Methos, gently teasing his lips open.
"Thank you, for not saying no," Richie said quietly after pulling back once again. "Even when you thought things had changed."
Methos' eyes widened fractionally as he frantically reviewed the events of the evening. He shook his head as he suddenly realized he never had. In the beginning, he hadn't wanted to, and then, later...well, it just hadn't occurred to him.
"Um, your welcome?"
Richie laughed heartily and Methos was glad to note, it sounded more like the Richie he thought he knew. "Bed?"
"Yes, that sounds good to me," Methos answered contentedly.
The End
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