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The Citric Acid Cycle Series

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Snippet One by Elistaire

"What the-"

In shock, Duncan glanced in the rearview mirror, reassured himself he hadn't starting hallucinating, and pulled the Thunderbird over to the side of the road. He got out of the car and leaned against the hood, waiting.

A minute later, Methos, in sweat dampened t-shirt and running shorts, finished jogging the stretch and stood in front of him. "Hello, Mac," he said.

"Methos? What are you doing?" Duncan asked.

"Exercising. What does it look like?" Methos asked, stretching a bit. "And I'm not done. So, if you'll excuse me."

"But - but," Duncan sputtered. "You don't exercise."

"Oh?" Methos said and raised an eyebrow. "You think I look like this because I lounge around all day? Beer has calories, you know."

"Well I know that," Duncan replied. "But, I just have never seen you running before."

Methos grinned. "Mac, the only Immortal that doesn't stay in shape is a dead Immortal." He stepped closer so that he and Duncan were only a few inches apart. He added in a lower tone, "And it takes a lot of stamina to keep up with you. I've got to train."

Duncan swallowed and nodded, hands reaching out for Methos' hips, intending to pull him into an embrace or a kiss, or just about anything that would press that sweaty, sculpted body against his own. But Methos danced away just a moment too soon.

"I've got another six miles to go," Methos informed him as he started running again, backwards for the few steps it took for him to speak. "See you back at the loft. There's still the anaerobic part of my workout to finish."

Duncan got back in his vehicle. Oh, yes, anaerobic, indeed.


Snippet Two by Pat

Duncan dropped his keys on the coffee table, slinging his coat to the couch as he passed. He went to the refrigerator to liberate a beer, smiling as the mental image of his lover continued to monopolize his thoughts.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the image of a sweat soaked Methos jogging up the street. He could see the pull and play of the man's muscles with every graceful movement, the strength in the long legs with every step. Duncan closed his eyes, envisioning the sweat slicked body pressing against him. He could feel the wet heat against his skin, smell the salty musk of male sweat and arousal.

His cock filled and rose in his pants, as his hips tilted into the air to find a mate. In his mind he felt the answering bulge in his lover's running shorts, saw the wetness spread across the thin material from the mixture of sweat and precum. He pressed his hand to his own hardness, envisioning his partner's arousal pressing to meet his need. He began a slow undulation of his hips against his hand, letting the slide and friction guide his pleasure.

In his mind, a long, lean body was pressing against him, an answering arousal sliding across his own. He felt the pressure building with each pump and slide of his hips, and sucked in a deep breath, as wave upon wave of pleasure gripped him in his orgasm. He cried out, hearing an answering cry in his mind.

He opened his eyes slowly, feeling his breaths even out and his pulse slow. Grinning, he looked down at the sticky wet spot on the front of his jeans, and picked up the phone.


"Methos, it's me. Just wondered if you wanted to go running with me in the morning?"


Snippet Three by pat

Duncan pushed against the dojo doors, his chest heaving as his aching lungs struggled for air. His running shorts and tee shirt were soaked with the salty sweat that was now running down his torso to collect around the heated flesh at his groin. His running partner was behind him, a perfect male specimen with lean, sculpted muscles and pale skin which was now wet and glistening in the soft lighting of the room.

He had asked Methos to run with him this morning for the sole purpose of seeing that perfect body heated and sweating. He was not disappointed as Methos leaned against the door frame, his own chest heaving with exertion, sweat glistening and running down his lean frame. The small peaks of his nipples were clearly visible through the damp fabric of his tee shirt, the sensitive nubs sending visceral signals straight to Duncan's cock.

He let his eyes scan the masculine form, stopping to gape at the hard bulge clearly outlined in his partner's shorts. His blood was already boiling with desire, filling his own penis with red hot pulsing need. He motioned with his head towards the interior of the dojo, following as Methos pushed away from the door and entered the room.

They were only a few steps inside the empty room when he pounced, knocking the other man to a large mat on the floor. He immediately attacked Methos' mouth, pushing it open and entering with his insistent tongue until he felt his kiss being returned with an answering passion. Groaning, he began a trail of sucking kisses down Methos' jaw, until he reached his neck.

He spent long moments there, sucking on the salty skin, savoring the feel of their hot slick skin as they clung together in desperation. Their breaths were still raspy, both from residual exertion from their run and their sexual need.

Duncan heard a rip of fabric and shivered as cool air licked his heated flesh. He looked down, smiling, as Methos tore the wet tee shirt from his chest. He looked into the dark green of Methos' eyes, and shivered from the unleashed desire he saw reflected there as the ruined material was thrown to the side. He shifted his weight onto his arms, letting his lover touch and caress his chest. Methos was gliding his fingertips across Duncan's chest, across the steel muscles, sliding through the wet dark hair covering the soft skin. He found a nipple, and stroked until the tiny bud hardened under his fingertips.

Duncan took hold of the wet material covering Methos' torso, and pulled, smiling when the shirt tore away easily to display the smooth muscular chest underneath. He began his own exploration, tending to every nerve ending, taking special care with the buds of his pink nipples. Methos' hips had started a slow rotation, gliding across the hardness pressed against him.

Duncan met the movement with a press of his own hips, feeling his pulse accelerate as the friction increased.

He took the other man's mouth again, breathing in deeply as the male scents of adrenalin and testosterone flooded his senses. He grabbed at the wet fabric of Methos' shorts, feeling his own clothing being yanked from his body harshly.

Methos took his mouth hungrily before flipping himself over onto his stomach, tilting his perfect ass into the air in invitation. Duncan fell across Methos' body and began sucking desperately on his shoulder. He slid his hands down Methos' flanks until he reached his hips. From there it was only a caress and a small glide of his fingertips before he was stroking across the rounded globes of the other man's perfect ass. He kneaded them roughly, moving inward until he reached the crack. Pulling them apart, he moved a finger to the small opening.

He felt his partner's hips moving, felt the desperation in the other man's groans and positioned himself for penetration. There was no time for preparation. No need for lube as the sweat ran down Methos back, down his buttocks, into the crack of his ass until it pooled around his entrance.

Duncan felt his own sweat trickling down his chest and abdomen until it pooled to his groin, running down his cock and balls. He pressed against Methos' hole, until he gained exquisite penetration. He stilled, feeling the wet heat close around him, and waited until his partner growled at him through clenched teeth.

"Bloody hell, Mac. Move damn you."

Grunting, he complied, slamming into the man with all his strength. He began pistoning in and out, each thrust slamming the other man down into the mat. He set a rhythm that had both men panting and shaking as they fought to hold off the impending explosion of orgasm, trying to extend the build of pleasure as long as possible.

Duncan felt the pressure build, knowing it couldn't be contained any longer, and cried out as the first convulsive expulsion ripped through his cock. He felt Methos tense and cry out, as he pressed around him, hugging him tightly in the crushing embrace of his arms.

They seemed to come forever, until they were completely spent, left shaking and exposed on the dojo floor. Duncan felt his muscles relax with a heavy languor as he pulled the other man into his arms with a crushing embrace.

"God, Methos," he gasped as the damp head of his lover snuggled on his shoulder.

Duncan felt Methos tense as the tap tap of a wooden stick followed by the asynchronous shuffle of feet echoed into the dojo interior. They heard the creak of a door before a familiar voice called out, "Mac. You here? It's Joe. "

'SHIT !'


Snippet Four by elistaire

"I'm blind."

"You are not, Joe," Methos said as he set a mug of coffee in front of the other man.

Joe was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. "Yes, I am. I've lost my sight. I'll never be able to Watch again."

Methos rolled his eyes and continued to make breakfast. There weren't enough eggs for omelets so he had opted to make French toast, especially seeing as how there was real Fancy Grade maple syrup tucked in the back of the refrigerator. "Well, next time you'll knock," he countered.

Duncan sat next to Joe, his face clouded in concern. "Maybe we should take you to the hospital," he suggested. He watched Joe tentatively reach out and try to find the coffee, groping unsuccessfully before Duncan guided his hand to the mug. "You're in shock," he said, guilt lacing his words. "You've had a stroke or a seizure. Maybe an aneurism."

"He's not blind," Methos insisted. He finished piling the French toast onto a plate and added a pat of butter to the top before bringing it to the table where he doled it out. "Here. Eat. You'll feel better any minute now."

"I highly doubt it," Joe said, still hunched over and pressing his fingers against his eyes.

Methos smiled at Duncan. "Besides, I'm thinking our blood sugar must be pretty low by now."

Duncan stared hard at Methos for a moment. Damn, the man was teasing him again. He was torn. He should continue to attend to Joe, the poor man had lost his sight! But Methos was picking up a strip of French toast between his fingers and the toast was glistening with butter and syrup. Methos popped the piece into his mouth and then proceeded to lick at his fingertips, his tongue darting out, pink and sharp.

Duncan felt his breathing speed up, his attention riveted to the performance in front of him.

Methos plucked another strip from his plate, closing his eyes in apparent ecstasy as he chewed. The amber syrup had run over his knuckles and had started lazily spreading towards his wrist.

Duncan reached out and caught the wrist just before Methos turned it to start licking again. He brought the sticky hand to his own mouth and gently began licking and sucking the sweet boiled sap from those long, tapered fingers. He trapped Methos' index finger in his mouth, pushing the pad of the finger towards his palate and sliding his tongue past the distal knuckle and over the broad, smooth fingernail. He could almost taste the wood-smoke in the syrup and the salt from Methos' skin piqued the abundant sweetness. He allowed the fingertip to scrape along the bottom of his front teeth and escape past the suction of his lips. Methos let loose a long, rumbling breath and Duncan felt desire flare deep in his gut.

Still clasping the buttery, sticky wrist, he leaned forward and licked at Methos' lips, sweet and salt mingling together and causing his mouth to water. With his free hand he reached out and clasped behind Methos' neck, brought the other man closer, and began to devour that which was necessary to sustain life.

Dimly, behind him, he heard Joe begin to move.

"Guys? I think I'm better. I can see light again. I'm okay now." Joe stopped pressing against his eyelids and finally opened his eyes. Then he made a strangling noise.

Reluctantly Duncan pulled away, Methos tenaciously resisting separation for a moment. "Joe? Are you okay?"

"Shit! I'm blind again!"

Snippet Five by pat

Methos closed his eyes, shivering from the delicious sensations as each one of his fingers was licked and sucked in turn.

Duncan's tongue was flicking lightly up each digit as it was sucked into his mouth, the sweet syrup a crisp harmony to the musky salt of Methos' skin.

Releasing Methos' index finger with an almost silent "pop", Duncan frowned, a nagging worry filtering through his lust.

"Maybe we should have driven Joe home. He didn't look well," he mused out loud.

"Mmm, he's fine, Mac. Just a little shocked. Now...," he leaned towards the Scot until his lips ghosted over the other man's mouth, "where...," he licked Duncan's upper lip, "...were...," a flick of his tongue caressed Duncan's bottom lip, "... we?" He pressed against Duncan, his last word lost in Duncan's mouth as he pressed inwards with his tongue.

Duncan felt himself pressed backwards as their mouths fused, their tongues dancing together in the moist heat. Suddenly they were in motion as Methos pressed him backwards towards the bathroom, his busy hands removing Duncan's clothes with each step. Duncan felt his cock pulsing painfully in his jeans and groaned, his own hands ripping at Methos' clothing in a new sense of urgent need.

A shirt slid to the floor, followed by a belt. Another step...a zipper released...a pair of pants thrown to the side....

And suddenly they were naked, heated skin touching, two pulsing cocks pressing for contact with its mate. Methos pulled his mouth from Duncan's as they entered the bath stall, his starved lungs gasping for air."

We'll...," gasp, "...check..., "gasp, "on Joe...," gasp, "this afternoon." He delved for his partner's red, swollen lips once again, noting the glazed dark eyes that met his own.

Methos pressed Duncan back until he was pushed against the cold tile, the tactile contrast of cold against his heated skin sending a bolt of pleasure straight to his cock. Duncan smiled wickedly as he grabbed Methos' shoulders abruptly and turned him until their positions were reversed. "Joe who?" he growled before devouring Methos' mouth once again.

Somehow the water was turned on, the hot jets cascading down their bodies as they pressed together, unwilling to separate their mouths for even a moment. Duncan blindly reached for the soap, his eyes closed as the kiss continued, perfectly content with not breathing for the moment.

He felt long fingers stroking and pressing into his muscles, across his chest and down his abdomen. His cock jumped with excitement as sensitive nipples were skimmed and pinched, his own fingers finding their mates on his lover's body. Breaking apart to gasp a breath, he shivered under the hot spray of water, his pleasure threatening to peak with each hungry caress.

His cock was red and throbbing, every heartbeat inching him closer to completion. He felt Methos tremble against him before strong hands grabbed his arms, turning him brusquely towards the wall.

Methos pressed against Duncan's back, fighting the overwhelming urge to spear the body under his hands with his aching cock. He rested his head against Duncan's broad back, his eyes tightly shut, his breaths raspy, and blindly reached for the lubricant he knew resided on the shower ledge. His sure fingers found the tube and he smiled (boy scout).

He quickly coated two fingers and pressed inward into the tight ring of muscle between his lover's ass cheeks. He stroked in and out, quickly and efficiently stretching the tiny orifice until he heard a warning growl echoed from his partner.

Duncan felt the hard tip of Methos' cock as it pressed against his anus. He took a deep breath and bore down, allowing the beloved penis to enter his body. He felt the satin skin slide across his membranes, the hard shaft pulsing with life as it grazed his gland. The pressure was building in his groin as his cock speared the air with every thrust of his hips as he was filled over and over by Methos' heated organ. He reached for his cock, wrapping his fingers around it tightly, and began stroking, matching his lover's strokes inside his body.

Methos wrapped his arms around Duncan's chest tightly, supporting his upper body with the firm mass of his lover's masculine frame. His hips were jerking sharply against Duncan's firm buttocks, his balls slapping the wet skin. He felt the pressure peaking and tensed, his pelvis pressed tightly to Duncan's ass. The orgasm started in his balls, the pressure exploding into hundreds of tiny contractions that shot up through his cock until he was spilling out into Duncan's hot body. He was vaguely aware that his lover was tensing, crying out at the same time when they both collapsed onto the shower floor.

Duncan turned, taking Methos into his arms as they leaned back against the shower wall. The shower was pounding down across them, beating a rhythm against their heaving chests. He felt, rather than heard, Methos chuckle once he was able to collect his breath.

"That was...." Duncan managed to say between laughing breaths.

"Yeah, it was," Methos agreed, stroking a hand lightly down the tan thigh pressing against him. "Water's getting cold," he managed to warn.

"Yeah, it is," Duncan agreed. "We should turn it off," he said logically.

"Yeah, we should. Duncan?"


"What do you think about waffles after our run tomorrow?"


Snippet Six by Chris Quinton

MacLeod sat up, pushing his hair back from his face. It hung in heavy coils about his shoulders, tangled from sleep and their loving. "I'm worried about Joe," he said. "Going blind like that. Shit, maybe it's a symptom."

"You mean a syndrome. Too many draughty keyholes," Methos snickered, and rolled over to watch him drowsily. "Watcher's Syndrome. It finally caught up with him."

"I'm serious!" MacLeod protested. "If he keeps having episodes like that - oh, God! It could be a brain tumour! You've been a doctor, what do you think?"

"That you're developing hypochondria-by-proxy," Methos grinned, and then took another look at his lover's anxious frown. MacLeod was serious, damn it. "Joe's fine. It's probably a subconscious censor-reaction."


"What he can't see, he can't report."

"That's crazy!" MacLeod snapped. "You're a cynic, you know that?"

"Five thou years will do that to you," Methos conceded. "That or he's dazzled by - "

"When was the last time you were blind?" MacLeod interrupted. "Trapped in the dark with no hope of light!"

"I suppose you don't mean waking up in a coffin?" Methos sighed. That was a common and unpleasant facet of an immortal life. "Years," he admitted. "Probably centuries. But it always heals." He gazed around the loft, picking out familiar objects, the tall windows, the spread of morning sunlight across the rough walls and polished floor. Then, head on one side, he studied his lover, rediscovering the way that same light struck rich mahogany glints in the long dark hair, gleamed on the burnished skin.

To be blind, never to see this man again.

Methos shivered, suddenly cold. Instantly MacLeod turned to him, arms closing warm around him.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," Methos said quickly - too quickly, he acknowledged wryly, as those strong arms tightened. "Just several gaggles of geese tap-dancing on a selection of my graves." MacLeod didn't answer, just held him, and Methos slid his arms around the man's waist, splayed his hands across the powerful back. Then he closed his eyes and kept them closed.

Imagine endless night. Imagine darkness so deep you swam in it, lithe as a shark and as deadly; Methos took the dark and made it his own.

Know your enemy by his quickening, or hers. Know your lover by - what? The subtle empathy that had him reaching for you the instant pain struck deep? The scent of him, musk and amber, heady as wine? The satin hide over hard and supple muscles, and a mouth - oh, god, a mouth designed for sensuality, sex and sin and all kinds of follies. That mouth was investigating his throat, moist lips nipping, tongue gently tasting.

Methos turned his head, met the silken slide of long hair and nuzzled into it. Fine strands clung to his face, was caught in his morning-stubble, and snared by the moistness of his skin where MacLeod's kisses had left their invisible mark.

He explored the shape of the skull, traced an ear with his fingertips, the smooth, lobeless sweep into the jaw line. He didn't need sight to recognise that curve, knew it with tongue and lips - and teeth. Methos smiled, found the hard line of the eye socket, the thick, untidy eyebrow and touched long lashes. Then he rediscovered the line of the nose, the planes of cheekbones and the jaw that could jut as stubborn as a rock The fine skin was smooth, the night's beard-growth harsh silk under his hands. So very vulnerable. The head moved, and lips caressed his palm.

"I love you," MacLeod breathed.

"I know," Methos whispered. He rarely said it. MacLeod knew his feelings, so he didn't have to, did he? But sometimes it had to be said. "I love you."

The End