A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel | Chapter 12

A Scottish Scout in Geronimo's Land - Prequel

by Toby Johnston

Chapter 12

Freedom and Highland Games

The six-inch miracle had paralyzed Austin for a full week, granting Hank and me a stolen lifetime together. It didn't faze us; we simply retreated into our own world, bouncing between the lavvu and the sanctuary of my room depending on the Magnus-level of annoyance in the house. We spent those gray days feasting, walnut pressing, and exploring each other with a frantic, unyielding curiosity, proving that for two fifteen-year-olds, the thought of enough doesn't actually exist. Of course, we also ventured out with Bonnie; she loved the mud, often coming home looking more like a black lab than a golden retriever.

Outside, the pristine white dissolved into a treacherous, tea-colored slush. The Austin sky settled into its January-February gray ceiling—a flat, oppressive slate that leaked a constant, freezing mist. The backyard became a battlefield of mud and downed cedar limbs, but we'd scouted the high ground well. The interior of the lavvu stayed bone-dry, the scent of the reindeer skins and the low thrum of the fire making the Texas winter feel like a distant rumor.

The spring semester at Saint Luke's roared to life as the mud dried. Academically, Hank and I were untouchable, both solidly entrenched in the upper echelon of the class. Betsy happily continued her role as the third point in our study-group triangle—the perfect beard that allowed us to spend hours huddled over books, sitting side-by-side in the library without raising the eyebrows of our peers.

It worked fairly well. I say fairly because the bubble was starting to thin. Among our inner circle, the truth was becoming an open secret—a quiet understanding that didn't need to be uttered aloud. We weren't out —not in the way that would invite the scrutiny of the Paige clones or their male counterparts—but the shadows we occupied were becoming increasingly comfortable. We were learning the delicate art of being ourselves in plain sight, hidden by the very excellence that made us stand out.

Scouting got ramped back up, with us pushing toward Eagle and King's Scout with a new intensity. I even found myself back in the saddle, breaking my solemn vow to never touch a stirrup again. It was a tactical retreat for strategic positioning; I folded the moment Hank whispered about the playtime that would follow a massage with Amá Sání 's salve. Daisy seemed to recognize me, her temperament steady as she carried me through the brush. In an open field, I finally let her out, hitting a full gallop alongside Hank—the wind biting my face while the heat of the race burned in my chest. It was fun, wild, exhilarating.

We were hurtling toward a major milestone—March 15^th , the Ides of March —and Hank's sixteenth birthday. I knew I needed to enlist Da's help in acquiring the gifts immediately after Christmas. My brilliant idea had to come from Scotland, of course, and since Magnus had been such a colossal twat about the logistics the first time around, I wasn't about to give him a second chance to meddle in my plans.

I knew this was going to be a high hurdle—a Black Argyll Highland Dress set was not going to be cheap. But there was no other choice for Hank's birthday. I'd already given him the blades; this would complete his MacKenzie Clan adoption. I had the money, that wasn't the issue—Da's approval to spend it was. And more than that, I had a knot in my stomach, I was pretty sure that if I was going to ask for his help with the kilt, I was going to have to be honest about the boy who was going to wear it—this wasn't just a Best Mate gift.

I'd done my research, and emailed Da the link to what I wanted to buy for Hank. I settled in on the edge of the couch in his office—my leg jiggling like Bonnie's hind leg when I give her belly rubs, at least my tongue wasn't hanging out. Da leaned back in his heavy oak chair, the glow of the laptop screen reflecting in his glasses. He let out a long, slow whistle as he scrolled through the checkout page of the Edinburgh outfitter.

"Lachlan, lad," he began, his voice dropping into that cautious tone he used when things were serious. "I know you want to do this right. But four hundred dollars for...a full Highland Dress? The jacket, the wool, the silver...that's a massive ask for a sixteenth birthday. We didn't get you yours until just last year, and you're a MacKenzie."

I took a deep breath, this was it. I didn't see any other way to explain things than to tell Da the truth—that Hank and I were one. He was a MacKenzie just as much as I was the Compassionate Snow Raider. Knowing it and saying it are two majorly different things. I tried to move my lips, but nothing came out. I struggled to breathe and felt the tears welling up in my eyes. Da became a blur.

I felt him settle in on the couch next to me, his arms wrapping around my now shaking shoulders and pulling me into his warm chest. He rocked me back and forth, while stroking my back, just like he used to when I was a kid. "It's okay Lachlan, it's okay. Your Mum and I love you to bits, you know that."

I nodded into his chest, still shaking and crying. I was a mess.

"We know you and Hank have grown very close. We know he's very special to you; and you to him."

I pulled back, tears still trickling down my cheeks, "We're closer than that Da. I love him. He loves me. I'm gay, Da."

He pulled me back in; hugging me even tighter. Da gives really good hugs when you need them. "We know, Lachlan. We were just waiting for when you were ready to tell us. We still love you. It doesn't change anything."

"You knew? Are we that obvious?" I was stunned, we'd been so careful.

Da chuckled; no, he outright laughed. I was so on edge, that set me laughing. The two of us just looked at each other— laughing hysterically like kids. Finally, Da took a deep breath, "Let's just say there were signs…"

I titled my head and arched an eyebrow; the MacKenzie man way of saying go on then, without saying a word. I got it from Da; he got it from grandda.

Da grinned, like he was really enjoying this, "Over Christmas, the snowstorm, when you and Hank were bouncing between the lavvu and your room, you were a tad bit indiscrete in your room one night."

I wracked my brain. We'd always been super careful to be quiet—no way they'd heard us. My mind went through every tactical precaution we'd taken, every floorboard I'd mapped out, and taught Hank, to avoid.

Da could barely get the next part out without laughing all over again, "That night the temperature plummeted. Your Mum went to check on you and make sure you were warm enough. Apparently, you were plenty warm. She found you and Hank completely starkers, spooning each other in your bed—no blankets, not even a sheet."

I could feel even my bum blush as I thought back—I knew exactly which night he was talking about. Hank and I had feasted. Then we'd fallen asleep as I spooned him, my cock nestled nicely in the cleft of his bum; my hand cupping his crown jewels. And Mum had seen us, oh God!

Da leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead, "It's okay, Lachlan. She just pulled up your blankets and threw another one on for you. She didn't want to disturb you. She said you looked adorable; and very much in love."

I felt the need to explain, "Hank didn't turn me gay, Da. I was gay before—since I hit puberty in Germany."

He nodded, "Yes, we thought so. That's when we got the first inkling. You couldn't keep your eyes off of young Frederich's lederhosen. We were pretty sure it wasn't just the embroidered edelweiss designs on his bum."

I giggled, "Frederich did have a very nice bum, Da. We never did anything though."

He chuckled, "It'd be okay even if you did, Lachlan. Boys experiment; it's all part of growing up. But your Mum and I understand—you and Hank are not a casual experiment."

I took a deep breath, "No, we're not. We don't just love each other Da. We're in love with each other. I don't feel whole when we're not together—like part of me is missing."

"Like I feel with your Mum, Lachlan, just like I feel with your Mum," he murmured.

"I should go talk to her," I exhaled, feeling like a massive weight was off my shoulders.

"That's a good idea, you go do that," Da moved back to his desk, "I'll get this order in with the clothier in Edinburgh."

After I talked to Mum, I retreated to my room to call Hank and give him the heads-up on my parents. He took their finding out in stride, just as he'd done when Betsy found us out. I guess having an Amá Sání who urged us to balance our Gentle and Warrior Spirits makes it easier.

What he didn't take in stride was how my Mum found out, "She saw me naked? Everything? My bum, my cock?"

I giggled, not being helpful, "Well, probably not much of your bum, just the cute dimples on the side; I was nestled in really close, my cock right up against you."

"You're not helping, Lachlan," he growled.

I doubled down, "And I had my hand on your crown jewels, so she probably couldn't see those or much of your thick cock and sheath—unless she leaned over for a good look. I wouldn't know though, since I was asleep. Do you want me to ask?"

That got a snort, "I dare you to! Mum, what do you think of Hank's cock? He's got a nice thick one, doesn't he?"

We decided that was a question best left unanswered.

Hank and I had a formal chat with Hank's parents, and later with Mum and Da. Both were kind of embarrassing and awkward; but in the end, good. It was obvious that all four of them had been talking about us even before Christmas. My bum doesn't blush anymore whenever I see his parents; and mum gives Hank a nice hug every time he's over.

Both our families got together to celebrate Hank's sixteenth birthday, but not until the 17 ^th , two days after his actual birthday, and two days after he passed his driver's test. I had to remind myself to keep breathing the whole time he was completing the test in the DPS parking lot. His open road test was more stressful to me as I couldn't see him and wish happy thoughts—I just had to wait on pins and needles until he got back with a thumbs up or thumbs down. Fortunately, it was all thumbs up—his picture even looked adorable.

Hank got a car!

We came out of Jeffery's—the oldest and best steakhouse in Austin, an amazing dinner—and were walking towards the cars. All of a sudden, Hank's dad stopped and looked at a Defender 90 in the lot, clearly rebuilt, roof rack and everything—it looked ready to head out into the open desert.

"That is a nice-looking Defender," he murmured.

We all agreed—a dark, matte green, with off-white wheels—it was a stunner. His dad pointed out a bunch of features we hadn't even noticed.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, handing them to Hank, "Well why don't you and Lachlan drive this baby home, we probably shouldn't leave it sitting in the parking lot overnight."

Hank and I were gobsmacked! Then we were dancing. Hugging his parents. Hugging my parents—obviously in on the whole surprise. Hugging each other. Hank climbed in the driver's seat while his dad took my seat and explained all the features and controls. It wasn't just refurbished; they'd done a ton of upgrades. I was hopping from one foot to the other, waiting for him to finish so I could take my seat.

Eventually, he got out and I hopped in—finally. Hank and I explored the dash all over again while the parents drove off. "Ready?" he asked, glint in his eye and key in the ignition.

"Not yet," I grinned, "Can't start driving until you've had your about to drive my brand-new Defender 90 kiss—it's in DL-7, the Texas Driver's Handbook, page thirty-seven I think."

We nailed the about to drive my brand-new Defender 90 kiss, and went back in for extra credit, a lot. The handbook didn't specify which kind of kiss—brushing, light, deep, tongues—so just to be sure, we tried all the kinds. We even included the Right-of-Way Yield, the Soft-Shoulder Grazin g, and a very thorough Defensive Driving Maneuver that involved me practically climbing over the center console. By the time we got to the Multi-Point Turn, I'm pretty sure we both deserved a gold star on our licenses—of course mine is a few months away still, but I'm ready.

No surprise, my Hank is a very careful driver—he's a Scout after all. He stuck to the speed limit, stopped at all the Stop signs, didn't try to run any lights—unlike the adult, experienced Texas drivers that zipped around us. We made it home in one piece, Hank easing the Defender into the empty slot in his parent's garage. The automatic door closed, giving us plenty of privacy for the required, just parked your brand-new Defender 90 kiss, page 38.

Hank's parents were already in their bedroom when we got home. I was spending the night, so we stopped by their door and said goodnight before heading to Hank's room. When his older brother had gone off to college, Hank inherited the apartment over the three-car garage. It was a sweet set-up—master bedroom, an ensuite shower like mine—but with four showerheads instead of just three, and a sitting room/dining room/kitchen. Not too shabby.

Time for me to give Hank his present from me, which I'd hidden earlier in the day. Just like in the lavvu, I made him sit down, Indian-style, eyes closed, and hold his hands out. He hefted the box; much heavier than the two blades I'd given him at Christmas. Then I whispered, "Okay, you can open…"

He opened his eyes, taking in the massive, matte-finished box in the same shade of Heritage Green as the Defender sitting in the garage. Centered on the lid, the maker's mark, Kinloch Anderson, embossed in a deep, burnished gold that caught the light from the kitchen. Just above the name sat the three Royal Warrants —intricate gold seals that marked this as the real deal, straight from the King's own Kiltmakers in Edinburgh.

Then he giggled, echoing his words from Christmas, "Lachlan, this is the most beautiful box, thank you!"

I punched him in the shoulder, "Dork! Open it!"

He did. His eyes going wide as he pulled open the sage green tissue paper, revealing the full-on, Black Argyll Highland Dress set—the MacKenzie kilt and jacket; but then all the giblets, the sporran, MacKenzie kilt pin, belt and buckle, the kilt hose and flashes. His fingers lightly traced over all the pieces.

When he finally lifted his eyes, he was smiling…and crying. Not sobbing crying, but tears.

I was welling up too. I'd had a whole speech prepared, but it evaporated, so I just blubbered on, "Your own MacKenzie kit. It makes it official...with your blades. You…me. Da helped me."

He nodded; he didn't need my feeble explanation. He reverently set the box aside and stood up, taking me in his arms and kissing me deep, "I love you, so much…"

I wiped the tears from his diamond-cut cheekbones while we kissed, both of us pouring every ounce of our souls into the touch. When we finally pulled apart, we just stood there with foreheads leaned together and silly, ear-to-ear grins.

I whispered, "You have to try it on now," my fingers already finding the buttons of his shirt. One by one, his clothes hit the floor—shoes, socks, pants, and finally his boxer-briefs—until the Scout was gone and only the boy remained. I leaned in, my breath warm against his ear. "A true Scotsman never wears anything under his kilt, Hank. They say it's all in perfect working order."

God, my Hank looked beautiful standing there. Completely naked. My lean warrior. The soft light traced the definition of every muscle, highlighting the curve of his cock where it arched over his crown jewels—framed by his war-party's arsenal of straight black arrows.

Surprisingly, I was able to dress him without triggering an emission that would mess up his new kit—as I would have done if he'd tried to dress me in my new deerskins back at Christmas. I moved with a Scottish Scout's precision, my fingers steady as I cinched the heavy leather of the belt and adjusted the mid-weight of the wool. I knew exactly where every buckle belonged.

I made Hank close his eyes again, as I led him into the bedroom with its full-length mirror. I played with the light dimmer until I was satisfied that we had the most perfect, the most stunning, the most beautiful picture of my warrior. And then I let him open his eyes and look.

When his eyes opened, the air left the room. For a long second, he didn't even move. The mirror didn't show a boy in a costume. It showed a man. The kilt fell in perfect, razor-sharp lines, and the black Argyll jacket made his shoulders look a mile-wide. The silver of the MacKenzie kilt pin glinted in the low light like a warning. He looked like a new page in the history of my family standing in a Texas bedroom.

But two gay boys on one's sixteenth birthday can't spend the whole night admiring wool and silver, even if it is a Kinloch Anderson set. With Hank still facing his reflection, I slowly reversed the exact steps I'd followed to dress him. One by one, the layers of the MacKenzie legacy hit the floor until my warrior was once again standing in front of me—and himself—totally naked.

Only this time, he wasn't just a statue of muscle and curve. He was reactive, alive, and reaching for me. His cock stood tall and rigid, the sheath pulled back to reveal his swollen, purple crown.

I made him stay still, watching us in the glass, while I stripped down to nothing. I slid in behind him, the heat from his skin radiating against mine as I pressed up against his bum. I slid my hands around his front, caressing the lean, hard definition of his torso in the soft light. He arched back into me, a shudder running through his frame, his breath catching in a soft moan with every touch.

The light glinted off the thick bead of pre-cum oozing from his slit. My hand traced down through the silky dark of his pubic hair to circle the base of his cock, before gliding up the shaft to spread that slick heat all over the crown.

I flicked my tongue around his ear as I leaned in and whispered, "Are you ready to rub this thick cock all up and down my cleft, teasing my pucker, Birthday Boy?" He swallowed hard and nodded, his eyes never leaving mine through the mirror.

I led him to the bed, stretched out on my stomach, legs spread, and slid a small pillow beneath my hips. I wanted my bum—the shape, the firmness, and the whiteness he was so obsessed with—presented perfectly, raised and ready for him. "I can do anything?" he growled huskily.

I shuddered just from his voice, "Umm, well, anything but that. Like we've talked." I figured I'd feel his fingers next, like we'd done since Christmas. I was wrong.

I felt the bed shift from his weight as Hank climbed onto the bed between my legs. Scooting up so his knees were just touching the insides of my thighs. I felt his eyes on me. I knew they were traveling up and down my body, savoring the view with a hunger he didn't try to hide.

Then his fingertips. First on my thighs, then lightly moving up, over my cheeks, my back, all the way to my shoulders, and then back down. I flexed every muscle as his fingertips passed over me, my body reacting to his touch like a warrior's bowstring being drawn.

I could feel him shifting again. Then his breath, warm, ghosting across the cheeks of my bum. His lips, a kiss, the left cheek and then the right. His hands again, gently pulling my cheeks apart—he blew gently, right on my pucker, making me twitch. His tongue—just the tip—flicked against the wrinkled skin. Circling, pressing, pushing, until I was wet, slick, and completely open for him.

He pushed his tongue in—actually in—and I could feel it entering my pucker, deep and wet. I squealed, a sharp, loud sound that made me thankful for the privacy of the garage apartment. He pulled back for just a second before thrusting back in, deeper this time, his tongue wriggling around inside me. He was tongue-fucking me, and the sensation was unlike anything I'd ever felt.

His tongue pushed deep, and though it couldn't reach the heat at my center, the pressure made my whole pelvic floor seize, sending a jolt straight to my prostate that made me bite the pillow and made my toes curl. I would have bounced off the bed if his hands weren't firmly gripping my cheeks, anchoring me down even as his tongue drove me higher.

I'd arched my bum up so high, my cock wasn't even touching the sheets anymore; instead, it pointed forward, bouncing with every jolt. Then, with one final, deep thrust of his tongue, I simply broke. I let out a muffled wail into the pillow as I came hard, the first shot hitting me right in the face. My body bucked against his hands, spasming and shivering as he finally slowed his assault.

I collapsed into the mattress as Hank kissed a trail up my spine. His weight settled over me, his chest heaving against my back—two heartbeats hammering against each other in the quiet room.

I felt his thick cock slide into my cleft, effortless and slick from his spit. Even though I'd just come, I couldn't help but moan as he drove deep, his crown catching on my pucker for a heartbeat before sliding past. I could even feel his sheath rolling back, the skin bunching and sliding as he pushed home.

He thrust slowly, methodically. I could sense he was on the edge from his tonguing me, and he was trying to de-escalate so he could last. He was successful. I could feel his heart slowing, his breath returning. Then he shifted, lifting himself up on his arms, pressing his cock deeper into my cleft. I rocked back against him as he found his rhythm, each thrust grinding with precision across my sensitive pucker until the friction started to build that white-hot heat all over again.

The friction was different now—heavier, hotter. I was already spent, but my body didn't care. Every time he drove forward, the crown of his cock snagged against my pucker, sending a fresh wave of electricity through my gut. I started to pant, my hands clawing at the sheets.

"Hank," I whimpered, his name caught in the back of my throat.

He didn't answer with words. He just gripped my hips and hammered home, his own breath coming in ragged, Fierce Wolf growls. The synchronization was perfect. As he hit his limit, his cock pulsing and swelling along my cleft, I felt that familiar, white-hot tension snap again. We went over the edge together—a messy, beautiful collision of cum, spit, sweat, and Texas heat.

He collapsed on top of me, both of us gasping for breath, chests heaving in the dark. A second later, the silence broke. We started giggling—then it turned into hysterical laughter, both of us trying so hard to be quiet that it only made it worse. I could feel his chest bouncing against my back with every laugh.

Eventually, the air in the room settled. Hank laced his fingers in mine, squeezing tight. We fell asleep that way—me lying in my own cum, Hank lying in his, the drying heat of it gluing us together.

I woke the next morning on my back, Hank's head resting on my lower chest and his gentle breath skimming across my skin. His black mane was fanned out; I reached down, threading my fingers through it and gently combing as I watched him sleep. Eventually, he stirred. His eyes blinked open, focusing on me. He grinned, whispering, "Intense. Best birthday ever."

I giggled. "For both of us. I came twice—I love your tongue!" Hank waggled it at me, his eyebrows too. I felt my pucker twinge in hunger and was about to roll over. Then: Bacon. We smelled bacon.

Our stomachs growled in unison. The spell was broken. "Calm down you horny Viking Raider! It's shower time," Hank giggled, half dragging me out of bed and into the shower—the one with the heads. Mental note to self—we need to get back in this shower when we have more time. Those side jets hit amazing places!

Shorts and t-shirts, looking like right proper Saint Luke's boys, we scurried down to the kitchen where Hank's mom and dad were well into breakfast preparations. They let us grab a cup of Gohwééh coffee before setting us to work cutting fresh fruit to go with the bacon and scrambled eggs.

Breakfast was lively. His parents graciously avoided any questions about what we did after we got home last night other than wanting to hear about the Highland Dress kit. We had to go back upstairs after breakfast and get Hank all dressed up. He pretty much got the hang of it quickly, and I only needed to make a few adjustments. His parents were very impressed, and took a bunch of pictures. We only got out of there after promising that I would bring my kit next time for pictures together.

After breakfast, Hank and I took the Defender on a road trip to visit his Amá Sání —and show off the new rig, of course. She was beyond enthusiastic, and I happily gave up my seat so she could ride shotgun as we tore across the dirt tracks of the compound. Having her in the car even meant I could get behind the wheel on my learner's permit—finally seeing what the Defender could do from the driver's seat!

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