This story contains explicit scenes of sex between consenting adult men. If you are under age or don't care for this, LEAVE NOW. As usual, characters from Highlander: the Series belong to Davis-Panzer et alia ; I only play with them from time to time without any compensation. No harm; no foul; no profit. Anyone or anything new, however, is mine (left-overs again). This was inspired by a chat-room description of Richie, soaking wet, in jeans and a hard hat. Beta-read by Nikki Memmott. Thank you, merci beaucoup, tapadh leat, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato. Any errors are mine alone.

Foothills, California, 1998.

T he sudden storm caught Richie high on a ladder, hammer in hand. He quickly finished seating the last nail in the siding and made his way down the already slippery rungs. The cold, stinging rain pelted him as he ran around the side of the house to the front door and let himself in.

“Don’t drip on the floor,” Methos called to him from the living room.

“Well, excuu-uu-use me,” Richie quipped. “I could use some help, here.”

The squeak of the leather couch told him Methos had found the strength to stand up. In a moment the oldest immortal stood in the arched doorway and leaned one shoulder on the door jamb. Even upright he managed to sprawl.

“You’re soaked.”

“You noticed.”

Richie hadn’t removed his hard hat, and the yellow helmet perched high over the red-gold curls. Rain still dripped from the edge of the hat and the chambray shirt was plastered to his shoulders and chest, nearly transparent where it touched his body. The shirt was unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, showing off the younger man’s muscular forearms and chiseled chest. His tight jeans were soaked, and the work boots made a squishing sound when he shifted his weight. Low on his hips hung a leather tool belt, its many loops and pouches supporting two hammers, a metal tape measure, a double handful of nails, and a cordless drill. Everything was dripping rain water onto the hardwood floor of the entry.

Methos’s breath caught in his chest. “You must be freezing,” he managed to say.

“Are you just gonna stand there leering at me or are you gonna get me a towel?”

Methos tore his eyes away from Richie’s lean thighs outlined by the soaked denim. “Yeah, sure.”

“I don’t think you want me dripping all over the living room.”

“No,” the older man called from the next room as he went for towels. “Stay right there.”

Waiting for Methos to return, Richie tried to unroll his sleeves, wanting to get out of the wet clothes as quickly as possible. As he fumbled at the blue fabric his teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. “That’s silly,” he muttered to himself. “It’s not that cold.” But his sleeves obstinately refused to cooperate with his now shaking hands.

“Gods, you’re freezing.” Methos threw a large towel around Richie’s shoulders as soon as he returned. He reached around his shivering lover to wrap the towel even more snuggly, and as he pressed against Richie he felt the rain water soak into his own clothes. Great, now we’re both gonna be wet.

The shivering abated as the towel trapped some of Richie’s remaining body heat, but the soaking clothes still dripped onto the floor.

Methos knelt to remove Richie’s shoes, tossing the wet leather boots aside, then peeled the socks inside out to pull them off. Sitting back on his heels, the old man reached for the tool belt buckled low around the slim hips.

“Give me that,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. Blue eyes met hazel, and they each could see the familiar signs of arousal beginning.

A salacious smile crossed Methos’s face when he lowered his eyes to the tool belt again. The already tight, wet jeans were now strained by the growing bulge of an erection. Graceful fingers quickly unfastened the leather belt and he gently laid it on the wet floor. He stood and brought his body close to Richie’s, then slipped his arms inside the towel to wrap around and pull him, soaking wet clothes and all, into a tight embrace. With the precision of experience, their lips met exactly aligned, both mouths opening as they met.

Richie grasped the seat of Methos’s pants and pulled the older man’s pelvis tightly to his own, the bulge in the dry jeans matching his own.

“Get out of these clothes,” Methos finally said, pulling away from Richie’s cold-tinged lips. The towel dropped to the floor to soak up what water had already puddled there, followed by shirt and jeans, leaving the golden skinned youth standing wearing only the bright yellow hard hat.

“Now there’s a picture,” Methos sighed. Richie’s manhood stood at full attention, the rosy-headed shaft rising from its nest of red-gold curls.

“Did you bring another towel?” Richie’s teeth chattered again.

Methos ducked his head out of the now damp sweater and tossed it to join the growing pile of discarded clothing. He’d already popped the top button of his fly. “No — but there’s a blanket on the couch.”

“Come on then, I’m freezing.” Richie took a purposeful stride toward the living room, then half turned back when Methos didn’t join him immediately. “What.” The word was only half a question.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Methos patted his own head.

“Nah, I figured I’d keep it on and give you a thrill.” He reached for and grabbed Methos’s hand and pulled him through the open archway to the living room.

With his free hand Richie snagged the folded blanket from the back of the couch, and together they sank to their knees in front of the blazing fire. Richie drew the blanket around both of them. “You can warm me up right here, Old Timer.” He dropped Methos’s hand and yanked on the already strained fly, popping the remaining buttons loose, exposing the dark pubic hair and the swollen base of the older man’s cock.

Methos leaned his head back and moaned as slender fingers released him from the restrictive denim. He pushed his way out of the jeans, then hooked a long leg around the lower part of Richie’s body, bringing as much as he could of his dry, warm body into direct contact with the still damp, shivering form of his lover. “Body to body — it’s the only way.”

“Oh, yeah, man,” Richie muttered as the older man’s lips covered his.

Richie wanted to melt into Methos’s embrace, to mold his body to the oldest one alive. But he was cold, so cold his muscles were tensed and he shivered, even in direct, skin-to-skin contact with his hot-blooded lover.

“Damn,” he swore, pulling his swollen lips away from Methos’s mouth. I c-c-can’t g-g-get warm,” he stuttered.

Methos tucked the blanket around the younger man’s arms again, then lowered them both to lie on the floor. “Let’s see what I can do about that.” He covered the younger man’s body with his own, and held the rain-chilled face between the palms of his hands. He lowered his face to softly kiss Richie’s lips. “First let’s get rid of this.” The bright yellow hard hat rolled away at the swipe of the hand.

The helmet left strips of wet hair plastered close to the skull, and a reddened stripe across Richie’s forehead. Methos rubbed the damp hair with a corner of the blanket. Dried, the hair sprung up with the rest of the strawberry-blond curls. The older man smiled at his young lover, then carefully, deliberately placed his hungry lips on Richie’s. The younger man’s mouth opened immediately, drawing in the questing tongue even as it sought entrance.

The elder’s tongue explored every bit of the familiar cavern. He felt Richie's body warm beneath him, the natural responses bringing body's reserve heat to the surface.

Methos felt the hum of satisfaction begin at the center of the boy’s body, rising through the chest and throat until it vibrated against his tongue, tickling and arousing him all the more. For a second he pulled away, feeling the last of the moan against his lips. He slid aside, pulling Richie with him, so they lay side by side, still covered by the blanket. He moved his hands away from the now-flushed cheeks, lightly running his fingertips along neck and shoulder, over the shoulder and down the smooth skin of the back.

“Better?” he whispered against the still eager mouth.

“Oh, yeah, Old Man,” Richie managed to murmur. “Yeah.”

Methos slid his hand lower, then clutched Richie’s ass, and holding his lover’s body still, pushed his hips, his erection steel-hard and weeping, against Richie.

The slide of cock against cock drove a wordless cry from Richie, and he thrust in response, his hands no longer idle, but matching the hold of body against body.

Their legs entwined, pulling the lower portions of their bodies closer together.

Their mouths once again engaged, tongues trading possession of the other’s mouth, hands roaming, caressing, holding onto the other, and bit by bit the blanket slipped from their shoulders.

But Richie had warmed up. He was so warm, in fact, that he pushed Methos onto his back and threw a leg over his hips. He sat up, straddling the slender body, their cocks side by side between them, each stiff and weeping, both of them in need of the other. They each reached for the other’s cock, the slender fingers of one hand interlacing with the strong digits of the other around both pillars of flesh. Blue eyes stared into hazel as the two hands worked together.

“Gods, you’re hot now.”

“I can’t believe I was — ” Richie was cut off as Methos reached with his free hand and tweaked one rosy nipple, pinching and pulling on the nub of flesh until it was hard and pebbled.

“Oh god!” he cried. He gasped in the same rhythm as their hands before going on. “I was so cold.”

A grin curled the corner of Methos’ mouth, but the smile faded when he had to breathe. Breathe. His cock was next to Richie’s, and together their hands grasped both organs, pumping in a rhythm older than time. He arched his hips, pressing even closer to Richie, feeling the heavy balls brush against his own. “So close,” he whispered.

“Yeah, Old Man?” Richie ran the palm of his hand over Methos’ body, never removing his other hand from strongly pumping their matched organs. “How close?” His fingertips brushed the dark, sensitive circles on the pale chest. He thumbed the hardened bud, then pinched. “This close?” A bright smile crossed the younger man’s face as his lover bucked beneath him. He teased the nipple again. “Closer?”

Trapping one of Richie’s legs with his own, Methos pushed his tormenter to the side, rolling over to take his place on top. He slid his knees up under Richie’s thighs and leaned forward. He pressed his mouth to Richie’s, grinding his hips and throbbing erection against his equally ready partner. He felt Richie’s legs wrap around his hips, and he deepened the kiss, knowing that they both needed little more. Then, when he felt Richie’s fingers delve into this hair, holding their heads and faces together, he could no long stave off the explosion of passion.

Before Methos could pull his head back to breathe, his young lover shuddered, his back arched, and he, too, climaxed, pouring his passion between their bodies.

They lay without moving for a long moment except for their heaving chests and small motions of their fingers, little caresses that told each other they were still there, still connected, still wanting nothing more than each other. Methos nuzzled his face into the curve of Richie’s neck, and they finally settled half on their sides, neither giving up his hold on the other.

“Methos?” Richie whispered, brushing his lips on the Old Man’s still-sweaty forehead.

“Hmmm. Yes, love?” He punctuated his response with a soft kiss to the collar bone beneath his lips.

“I thought you were going to get me warm — not hot.”

This page last updated
22 August 2002

© 2000 Emma Keigh