Highlander, Duncan/Methos, yak butter Yak-butter, thought Duncan with some heat as he threw himself into his morning run, I’ll yak-butter you! Images of Methos — sprawled across his bed like an invitation to riot; licking a bead of moisture from the rim of his beer-bottle; tousled and damp from a shower, towel not quite slipping down narrow hips; grinning up at him over the pages of a book, the blade of a sword, the rim of a glass of good whiskey — played through his mind. Duncan ran harder, attempting to subsume the images in effort, but sweat and exertion brought their own images: Methos, sweat-slick, writhing in the sheets of his bed, panting and hard in the aftermath of Kristin’s Quickening; arched back beneath him, heavy sex moving, pressing against his own with urgent friction, the look of need and ecstasy on his face as Duncan brought him, finally, almost agonizingly, to climax and release.
The pounding of his feet on the pavement and the cool breeze in his face from off the water were not helping reduce the heat or the pounding in his groin. What had possessed the man to show up like that? To show off like that? Helping a man through Quickening aftermath was one thing, no more than the mutual grope and tumble of friendly relief, the simple comfort of another body in the bed, warm and familiar. This was invitation to something more than that. This was invitation in.
Duncan’s groin tightened again and he almost stumbled at the thought. Invitation into those beautifully tight, beautifully worn jeans. Into that mesmerizing channel between those beautifully firm buttocks. Buttered buttocks, slick and sweet and he was going to do himself an injury if he didn’t stop that line of thought right now. He stopped and leaned against the wall of the building he was passing, forcing his breath even, his heartbeat and thoughts to slow. Warm, yeasty air filled his nose. Fresh bread baking. He considered the pleasure of bread hot from the oven, and could taste the memory of it, slathered thick with butter straight from the churn, creamy-sweet. He remembered Graham, baking, dusted with flour, feeding him buttered bread, their mouths devouring, hungry for taste and touch, fingers digging into the butter-safe and slick, swift, piercing pleasure.
He turned and pressed his shoulders to the cool bricks, looking to the grey sky. It was going to rain. It was a weekend, Richie was on walkabout and wouldn’t be back for days if not weeks, Joe was breaking in a new band and new waitstaff. No crises. No commitments.
Methos in his bed, invitation in every line of his body.
Invitations … could be accepted.
Duncan bought three loaves of bread just out of the oven. The smiling girl at the counter (flour on her nose, an appreciative twinkle in her eye) scooped a more than generous quantity of butter (Oh yes, we get it from a local dairy, three times a week) into a tub for him and encouraged him to go directly home. (That butter’ll melt with all that bread in the bag. Best get it home quick!)