The Tease Series:

The Bedroom

September 1999

Timing is everything, was Joe's first thought upon opening his bedroom door and spotting a very nude Methos sauntering down the hall toward him. His second thought was an envious one. Not an ounce of fat on the immortal's leanly muscled frame. He never reached his third thought, Methos interrupting the process.

"Morning, Joe."

"Mornin', Methos."

Joe watched, transfixed, as the still nude immortal turned and wandered into the guest bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him.

Giving himself a shake at the unexpected site of a nude Methos strolling down his hallway, Joe broke his frozen stance in his bedroom doorway and headed for the kitchen. He hadn't quite reached the door of the guest bedroom when MacLeod strolled out of the bathroom nude as a jaybird, as Joe's mama used to like to say. Only difference between MacLeod and his predecessor was that he had a bath towel in hand and was using it on his shoulders and had half turned to take a swipe at his rear end. When he straightened and saw Joe, he modestly but unhurriedly slung the towel around his hips.

"Morning, Joe."

"Morning, MacLeod."

"Sleep well?"

"I slept fine. You?"

"Can't complain," replied the immortal with a strange smile that Dawson wasn't even going to attempt to decipher this early in the morning.

When MacLeod had reached the same bedroom door that Methos had disappeared through just moments before, Joe offered, "I'll start some coffee."

"That'd be great, Joe. Thanks."

MacLeod stepped into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Joe's face scrunched up in a familiar what-the-hell expression. He started pulling all the pieces of the puzzle together. First Methos strolls down the hallway, obviously fresh from a shower. Then MacLeod follows, in a similar state. Two immortals. Both nude. One bathroom. One shower. Both exiting from the same room at nearly the same time and both disappearing into the same room, which just happened to be a bedroom where they just happened to have shared a bed the night before. Had they? Were they? His eyes darted to the aforementioned bedroom door.

Making his way as quietly as possible to the door, he listened. It was quiet on the other side of the door. Too quiet for two immortals who were constantly exchanging verbal spars. He leaned closer, then abruptly straightened, disgusted with himself for listening at a bedroom door for what might very well be something of a very personal nature.

Starting to turn away to head for the kitchen and make that coffee he had mentioned to MacLeod, Joe halted abruptly in his tracks at a totally unexpected sound.


Methos found himself with an urge to do something completely out of character for him as he stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He wanted to snicker at the expression on Dawson's face. Methos wasn't quite sure he ever recalled himself actually "snickering". He wondered if Joe even realized that he had given Methos a quick once over that, at one time, a few hundred years ago, Methos might have taken as a flirtation. Hell, he might still take it as flirtation, if he wasn't so certain that Dawson was straight as an arrow. He couldn't quite keep the grin off his face.

The grin quickly disappeared to be replaced by a wistful expression as he remembered the kiss. He had intended for it to be a flirtatious, friendly kiss. The ease of it, the rightness, the unexpected tenderness had taken him by surprise. If he was a sane immortal, it should have scared him to death. But then again he had never made any lasting proclamations of sanity. Following one's heart was a sure sign of insanity. It broke one of the first rules of survival. And he found that he didn't give a damn. All he wanted right now was another taste of those lips and the feel of MacLeod's body next to his. It felt right. Almost too right. Too perfect. That both scared and thrilled him. Allowing his feelings for Duncan MacLeod to swallow him completely for a long moment, he tasted the fire and passion of the other man and knew he was unwilling to let it be. Knew that the time had finally come to pursue it.

Hearing the bedroom door open, Methos bent over his duffel bag on the floor, supposedly searching for a fresh pair of underwear. A secretive smile, however, curved his lips upward and he purposely stayed bent over, knowing what would be the first sight to greet the Highlander upon his entrance.


MacLeod, looking up as he finished toweling himself dry, caught Joe watching him with what could only be called a carefully neutral expression. The immortal  teetered for a long moment between embarrassment and a carefree attitude that harkened back to his youthful days. He was starting to tip toward carefree, still lost in the intoxicating feel of Methos and the crumbling of that final barrier between them, when it occurred to him that Joe must have seen Methos exiting the bathroom as well. And Methos hadn't been wearing a stitch of clothing, not even a towel. Not knowing what Joe might read into that but knowing from experience that Dawson was usually very swift at piecing things together, MacLeod tried for an air of nonchalance as he wrapped the bath towel around his waist, not believing for an instant that he pulled it off but hoping Dawson wouldn't call him on it.

"Morning, Joe."

"Morning, MacLeod."

"Sleep well?"

"I slept fine. You?"

An affectionate smile unconsciously graced MacLeod's face as he recalled the previous night. He and Methos arguing over who got which side of the bed. Then arguing over who was going to get back up to turn out the light. Both carefully staying to their own side of the bed under some misguided notion that the other was forbidden territory, and his discovery that Methos was a blanket hog. All this fondly replayed in MacLeod's mind as he gave Dawson an easy, "Can't complain."

Already distracted by thoughts of what, or more correctly who, was on the other side of the bedroom door, Duncan replied to Joe's offer to make coffee with what he hoped was something intelligible before disappearing into the bedroom, being careful to firmly close the door behind him.

The sight that greeted him within the bedroom brought him up short. He leaned back against the door for a moment as he gazed, entranced, at Methos' still very nude rear end prominently displayed before him. MacLeod's eyes narrowed. It was taking Methos entirely too long to find whatever he was searching for in his duffel bag. Not that MacLeod didn't appreciate the view but it was as obvious a ploy as MacLeod had ever seen. And a strategically planned one. Refusing to be so easily hooked, MacLeod unwound the towel from his waist.


Methos straightened with a startled exclamation, one hand ruefully rubbing at the quickly disappearing red spot on his rear end where MacLeod's towel had bit him.

"Nice butt," MacLeod told him as he slipped into a pair of fresh briefs from his own overnight bag.

Methos watched MacLeod's hand slide beneath the front of his briefs and rearrange the family jewels to a comfortable resting place. Eyes still on the front of MacLeod's briefs, Methos replied, "It requires delicate handling, MacLeod. You can't just go snapping towels at it, you know."

"Perhaps a demonstration . . . ?"

Methos seemed to give MacLeod's suggestion its due consideration while pulling his own briefs on. His jeans quickly followed. "You might be right," he agreed, coming over to stand in front of the Highlander. Methos circled him, looking him over like a buyer contemplating the purchase of a prime specimen of livestock.

Fingers traced down MacLeod's back and then two hands came to rest flush against his buttocks, only the thin fabric of his briefs between Methos' hands and MacLeod's bare skin. MacLeod fought the urge to turn and pull the other man against him. He was willing to let Methos lead -- for now. The hands left his buttocks. Methos circled him once more, finally coming to a stop facing MacLeod. They were mere inches apart. MacLeod could feel Methos' breath on his lips when the older immortal spoke.

Pressing his body up close to MacLeod's, Methos softly said, "You cannot manhandle that part of the body, MacLeod." Methos' hands were now resting on Mac's hips. MacLeod tried to press his groin in tighter against Methos' but the other immortal wouldn't allow it. "My demonstration," Methos whispered, lips nearly touching MacLeod's. "My rules." His hands slid beneath Mac's briefs until his hands lay warmly against MacLeod's buttocks. He squeezed them gently, kneading them, before slowly pushing the briefs down Mac's legs. Methos went down with the briefs until he was sitting back on his heels, face even with MacLeod's waist. Ignoring what was bobbing right in front of his face, Methos gently turned MacLeod around until his backside was to him.

Methos' fingers trailed up MacLeod's legs until they came to rest between his thighs. MacLeod  willingly shifted his legs farther apart. Methos gently caressed the insides of Mac's thighs with soft nips of his teeth and the sweet touch of his lips. Moving upward, Methos' tongue moved over Mac's buttocks in an erotic dance that sent waves of pleasure rippling through MacLeod's frame. MacLeod's hands moved toward his erection only to have the movement aborted by Methos.

"Ah ah ah," scolded Methos. "No touching. Arms to your sides."

MacLeod hesitated.

Methos started to pull Mac's briefs back up.

Mac's hands instantly went to his sides.

The briefs dropped back to his ankles.

"Good boy," encouraged Methos, approval and appreciation in his voice. Parting the twin globes before him, he gently teased the other man with his tongue, his own cock hardening with Mac's every responsive twitch and every exhaled groan. He'd always suspected the Highlander would be a very vocal lover.

Mac was hard put to stay still, even with Methos supporting him. The intimate touch of Methos' tongue teasing at his opening was driving him wild. Even worse, there was no rhythm to it. MacLeod couldn't anticipate when the next touch would come and in what form. His hands fisted as he fought for control. His breathing grew ragged. His whole being became attuned to anticipating Methos' next touch until--

MacLeod's eyes shot open. Eyes he hadn't realized had slid closed, so lost in the pleasure was he. He swayed for a moment as he struggled to get his bearings. Methos, pulling a sweater over his head, appeared in MacLeod's line of sight.

"I smell coffee."

"Coffee?" MacLeod had to work overtime to catch up with Methos.

"Yeah. You know, that atrocious stuff that kick starts us every morning. You coming?"

MacLeod took way too long to process Methos' question, much to the older immortal's amusement. When he finally did, he looked at Methos with a rueful glare. "Apparently not yet." He was rewarded with one of Methos' rare full-blown smiles but all the older immortal said was, "Better not keep Joe waiting. He might start to wonder what's going on in here."

As MacLeod finished pulling on his own clothes, he was gratified to see Methos stop to adjust his suddenly tight jeans before the older immortal exited the bedroom. MacLeod might have suspected Methos was toying with him if not for that acknowledgment of his own suppressed needs.

With a smile, MacLeod exited the bedroom on Methos' heels, confident that the game was afoot and that the thrill of the chase would be every bit as exhilarating as the capture. He wondered which of them would give out first. Ahead of him, Methos was whistling softly. MacLeod strained to hear what the tune was. When he caught it, he grinned.

Anticipation, Anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting

And I tell you how easy it is to be with you
And how right your arms feel around me.
But I rehearsed those words just late last night
When I was thinking about how right tonight might be.

Anticipation, Anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting

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