Soggy Catfic

There must have been a reason why the idiot Highlander had a gym bag full of kittens. He wasn't doing a good job of explaining it after Methos accidentally booted the bag over the embankment into the canal.

"The kittens -- they'll drown!"

Methos peered at the water. "No kidding -- what are you doing with..."

"You clot-headed fool," Duncan tore off his sweater. "They're in the bag."

"So? Can't cats swim?"

"Not babies, you everlasting pest!"

"Oh. Sad, that." And then he felt a grip at his collar and seat and was airborne over the edge, only hearing, "Don't come up without it," before the cold, wet dark closed above his head.

Well, the bloody bag had opened and snagged on something in the murk. He came up waving empty hands and the thick-skulled son of a bitch jumped in himself before he could say a word. Fine, then, Methos thought, hauling himself out. He swapped his soaking shirt for Duncan's sweater and sat down on the bank to wait.

+++

Methos stole peeks at MacLeod from the front seat where he was damply socketed, neither of them doing the upholstery any good. The pair of young cats, it appeared, came from the farmhouse where they'd stopped to buy cheese. Cheese, MacLeod, not livestock. A gift for Maurice, who was plagued with mice.

MacLeod was angry and gorgeous with it. Steam rising from the back of his collar where his neck was red. Tendrils of hair drying and sticking to the rim of his ear with bits of weed. Muscles bunching in his jaw while he chewed over...Ow!

Something was waking up under his sweater. Something with claws.

A little needle-edged foot scrabbled for purchase and found it in Methos's navel; rubbery toepads spread and then clenched in the pit of whorled skin that was sensitive, dammit. A tiny mewl vibrated against his skin. Then two, together. A second set of claws pricked at the flesh above his belt. Methos leaned into the seatbelt and snapped on the radio. MacLeod growled and changed the station. Piss on my leg, why don't you?

It felt curious, but far from unpleasant: slick wet hair, stiff dryer patches, and in spots the small but intense heat of skin against his skin. Two round heads bobbed against his sternum. A blunt muzzle rubbed over his chest; he felt whiskers around a velvet mouth that fumbled and searched and found. And then raspy licks from a tiny tongue across a puckering nub of flesh. (Shouldn't have worn the nipple ring occurred to him as the sandpapery strokes tweaked it back and forth.) The licks turned to sucking, between clustered pinpricks and a rhythmic kneading that he knew was drawing blood. He squirmed. More scrabbling up his left slope with silk and needles digging into his ribs, and then a decided chomp.

MacLeod jerked a glance his way. "Cramp," he said between clenched teeth, clutching his writhing midsection. The Scot made an unattractive noise and bent back over the wheel. A thin hot jet of liquid spurted down his stomach and pooled at his waist. Aim for the sweater, kids.

+++

"And so I asked myself, 'What would Duncan do?' and dived in after the poor mites." Methos made a conjurer's gesture and pressed two writhing demons into Maurice's hands. He smiled; Maurice looked more dubious than pleased -- but then, Maurice had an unobstructed view of MacLeod.

-End-