Disclaimer in part 0 ---------------------------- With a smirk and a saunter, Methos headed for the small bedroom, peeling his shirt off over his head as he went. Duncan exhaled and listened to his pounding heart. His hand went to his groin. He adjusted his pants, and gently massaged his cock through the damp cloth. He stood and followed Methos around the corner to the bedroom on the far side. Methos had a small reading lamp turned on, making a friendly glow in the shadowy room. The warmth from the fire seeped into this room, creating pockets of warm air circulating with the chill. Methos glanced at him, fluffed the down-filled bolster, and began un-self-consciously removing his wet jeans. "It's not unthinkable," Duncan said. Methos paused. The moment stretched. "It's not," he said, neutrally. "No. Did you mean to shock me?" Looking skeptical, Methos slowly finished removing his jeans and underwear. Duncan looked, and saw, in the shadows cast by the reading light, Methos' semi-erect cock bobbing with his movements. "You are full of surprises, MacLeod," Methos breathed. Encouraged by the lack of sarcasm in his tone, Duncan stepped closer. Naked, beautiful, and unconcerned, Methos did not move, but he narrowed his eyes. "I don't want to be your penance," he said. With this newer proximity, Duncan saw the flush start on Methos' chest and inch up his long throat. Methos' scent came to him then, mixed with pine and leaf smells. Duncan felt light-headed. Duncan raised his eyebrows and used his best throaty tone of voice. "You weren't serious, then." Methos' breathing quickened. He lifted his chin. "You couldn't," he said. "Is that a challenge?" Duncan was pleased to see the effect his words had on the other man. Methos' cock swelled and expanded. "You'd be afraid of hurting me." Duncan froze. Methos had thrown up a barrier better than a wall. He took a deep breath and then exhaled, frowning slightly. "You're good," he admitted. Methos gave a small smile and turned to the bed. "Been there," he said quietly as he flopped open the down bolster. Duncan watched with stunned disappointment as Methos -- all six gorgeous, naked, feet of him, slid into the bed. Why had he done that? Duncan could *see* the man's desire for him. His tousled head on an ample pillow, Methos regarded him. Duncan unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, then unfastened his trousers and stripped. Methos watched, eyes dark with interest. "You'll just have to fuck me, then," Duncan said. He moved to the opposite side of the bed. Eyes sparkling, Methos shook his head. "I told you. I won't be penance." Duncan lifted the bolster, and slid in between deliciously soft linens. "I'm not looking for punishment," he said softly. "Make love to me. Let me make love to you." Silhouetted against the dim light, Methos was something of an indeterminate lump in the bed beside him, but the scent of rain and leaves surrounded him, like a perfume on the sheets. He savored the anticipation of that first questing touch with a new lover -- the first tactile connection that said *yes, we are doing this.* Duncan reached for Methos, like he had in the forest, for connection. His skin seemed to tingle with desire to be touched and stroked. Between memories and anger, there could be so many dangers here, but for this one delicious moment, Duncan knew only a virgin excitement. He was not a virgin with men, but it was territory he had seldom entered. Often it had seemed wrong to him, on some level, even when his rational mind told him that the world was full of experiences for him to enjoy, and this was merely one of them. In reaching for Methos, however, he felt none of that faint guilt, only the excitement of something new, and the desire to give and receive comfort. Methos turned to face him, so Duncan's hand beneath the covers reached Methos' shoulder. From there he slid slowly down his arm, no other part of their bodies touching. The rest of Methos' body remained unmapped landscape, and Duncan did not rush the exploration. He truly wanted Methos to take the lead so he could be sure they didn't go anywhere Methos might flinch from. He caressed Methos' upper arm, the location chaste, but the motion as provocative as he could make it. He explored the tight bicep, the sensitive underarm, the hook of the elbow. Every inch of Duncan's skin seemed to cry for contact, but he kept his distance, praying he could get Methos to take over. Methos had issued the invitation, after all. Duncan hoped fervently that he really wanted it, because Duncan did. Oh, how he wanted it. He didn't have to wait long. If Methos had had any real reluctance, he set it aside and responded. At first, like in the give and take of a swordfight, he only matched Duncan's own move -- he reached his hand across the space between them and placed it on Duncan's side. Slowly he stroked his palm up and down Duncan's ribs, not covering much territory. To Duncan, the touch felt tentative, so he steeled himself to keep his own advances in check, insisting that Methos be the one to escalate the contact. But it was hard. Not only was his skin begging for more physical touch, all his nerves were primed and jangling - quivering with excitement at caressing a new lover. Biting his lip, Duncan continued his attention to Methos' well-muscled arm, and waited. "Is that all you're going to do?" asked Methos softly, but with tension in his voice. "You go first," Duncan replied. Methos paused only a moment before replying, "Right." He moved his long arm along Duncan's skin, hand snaking to his back and curling up behind the shoulder. He tightened his grip, pulling himself into Duncan's embrace. Something in Duncan relaxed, relieved to finally be skin to skin with this man. He was stretched full length along Methos' fever-hot body. He sighed. Their faces close in the shadowy room, Duncan could feel Methos' warm breath tickling his cheek. Methos slid his bottom arm, the one beneath their bodies, the one Tessa, borrowing words from Richie, had referred to once as "the dorky arm;" slid it to a position above his head and under the pillows. The brief thought of Tessa was unfortunate; Duncan was abruptly engulfed by a wave of sheer alienness. This was a man he held, and not just any man; Methos. For a moment Duncan was glad he was not taking the initiative. For that moment he couldn't do anything. Methos put his hand between Duncan's shoulderblades and pressed Duncan to his chest, placing Duncan's chin onto his shoulder. It felt more like a fierce hug than like foreplay. For no reason he could name, tears sprang to Duncan's eyes. He blinked them away. "Asps. Very dangerous. You go first," Methos murmured against his ear. Duncan hugged Methos back, slipping his own "dorky arm" beneath Methos' chest, where it would soon go numb if the two of them remained on their sides. "What?" Duncan mumbled. "Nothing," Methos answered, and Duncan could hear the smile in his voice. Duncan's cock, hard and full and as ready for action as any drawn sword, was pressed pleasantly into some warm terrain of Methos' body. It throbbed, demanding attention. Duncan swallowed a moan. It seemed he had been aroused for ages. He fervently hoped Methos would speed things up. "Your turn," Methos said, and teased Duncan's ear with his nose. Duncan turned his head enough to look more fully at Methos' face. Methos' eyes were half closed, and a rosy flush colored his cheeks. "You're sure?" Duncan asked. Something hard flashed in those changeable eyes. "Told you," he said, sounding like his usual cynical self. "Not a problem," Duncan protested. He was not hung up about the rape. He was not. He was only going carefully. Trauma induced anxiety could come out of nowhere. Not that he wasn't glad of the invitation. Passivity in bed did not come naturally to him, and his own need burned along his nerves. But it was not his own need he intended to attend to. Struck by a sudden desire to *see* Methos, he propped himself up and pulled back the bolster. Before him lay the whole glorious, vulnerable, flushed form of his friend, still on his side. Loosing his grip on Duncan, Methos moved his hand to grasp and massage his own proud cock. Duncan's earlier experiences with men had been hobbled by self-consciousness and by an uneasy monitoring of his own responses. None of that hampered him now. The sight of Methos urgently stroking himself went to Duncan's superheated libido like gas on a fire, and Duncan couldn't stifle a groan. Methos looked up at him expectantly, breathing quickly through parted lips. Duncan grasped Methos' buttock possessively, feeling the quiver of tensed muscles and the building rhythm of motion. He remembered so well how he had beaten and abused this beautiful body. He'd give anything to undo that. But it seemed Methos was taking matters in hand without him. As if reading his mind, Methos stopped stroking himself, and reached up to Duncan's chest, finding a taut nipple and rubbing it in a circular motion. It was more than Duncan could bear. With a sound close to a growl, he covered Methos with his body, clutching Methos to him, burying his face against a bared throat. Though a part of his mind was dismayed by the force of his tackle, he could no more stop himself than he could stop a storm. His hips jerked reflexively against Methos' groin, searching vainly for a sheath for his needy cock. For a brief moment he coveted Methos' ass, the one part of his anatomy which Duncan knew could give him the tight, engulfing satisfaction he craved, but he blotted out the thought swiftly, before it could bring memories with it. As if fending off his own memories, Methos reacted to Duncan defensively, rolling and grappling, so the two wrestled for a moment amid the bedclothes. Duncan found himself on his back, his head on the pillows, Methos straddling him at the pelvis. Duncan stilled and looked up into Methos' face. Methos' expression was slack, vacant, almost confused. His gaze searched Duncan's own face, looking for something. Duncan inhaled to speak, then held his breath. He wasn't sure what to say; he could only gaze back and hope. Slowly, Methos' features recovered the sharpness and perception Duncan knew, then slid on to a mischievous expression Duncan did not know. Smiling slightly, Methos slid himself back along Duncan's form, over and past his groin, until his cock bobbed up beside Methos' own. Methos regarded the two organs speculatively, then moistening them both with fluid from their tips, he began stroking them together. Duncan breathed again, deeply, and he felt perspiration spring from his pores. Duncan struggled to hold his hips still; if he moved he might throw Methos off rhythm. And that rhythm was heavenly! Methos stroked and coaxed and kneaded with an expert touch. The golden glow of the reading lamp reflected off the fine layer of sweat on Methos' molded chest. Methos tipped his head back, eyes half closed, and panted. The light let Duncan watch every subtle increase in Methos' physical tension -- the erect nipples, the tightening muscles, the growing flush, amber in the diffuse light, which started on his abdomen and spread slowly up his chest, finally covering his throat and face. Every sign of Methos' pleasure increased his own until Duncan felt he couldn't tell where his body ended and Methos' began. A groan escaped him; he couldn't hold still much longer. His pelvis twitched and pulsed. Methos opened his eyes -- inky black with shadow and desire, and smiled down at him. He quickened the pace of his hands, thrusting roughly down both shafts. Pre-cum leaked everywhere, slickening Methos' sliding palms, teasing fingers, and rod-hard cock. The exquisite torment was more than Duncan could take; he began bucking, lifting hips and groin and man, straining into that hand, rubbing alongside that cock, dreading that Methos would fall off and end this contact. He held tightly to the other man's hips, trying to hold him in place. This must not stop! Methos grinned widely, and stayed firmly seated, moving his hands ever faster as Duncan strained and gasped. Duncan saw on his face the moment where Methos' concentration withdrew into his own physical state -- mounting to the inevitable -- and still Methos' hands did not falter. Gems of sweat crowned his brow, and his chest rose and fell in faster and faster gasps. Duncan's own state mirrored perfectly what he saw on Methos until they were both bucking, gasping, clenching, and moaning for release. Methos threw his head back and gave a long, sinking, satisfied cry as he gushed over the shafts he held. Duncan teetered on the precipice, then tumbled blissfully over it seconds after Methos, geysering over them both. Methos collapsed forward, almost burying Duncan's face in smooth slick skin, but Duncan couldn't move, still vibrating like a plucked string, still lost in the haze of physical bliss. He wanted to talk to Methos, to see his face and judge what damage he had done or undone, but exhaustion and warmth and bed sucked him deep into sleep. He dreamed. He was in Japan, desperately wanting to study under a famous Kendo sensei: one who only accepted the most talented students. He approached the dojo, confident that he would be chosen, that he would be one of the favored. He entered with a stream of other prospective students and waited at the edge of the tatami mat, as protocol dictated, for the sensei to acknowledge him and invite him to join the class. The sensei was Connor MacLeod, and one by one he invited the new students, bowing, onto the mat and trained them. Hours passed, and days, and Connor never recognized him. He was forced to leave in disgrace, miserable. And then he woke up. He rolled to his elbows and propped himself up. The room was dark and he was alone in the bed. Methos' clothes were gone. Even with the missing immortal aura, Duncan searched, knowing he wouldn't find him. At least, he told himself, it proved they could part. He wondered if they had had to fuck first. Dejected, he looked out the window at the night. *It's always darkest before the dawn.* The words entered Duncan's mind, and he puzzled over the inaccuracy of the phrase. Actually, it was always darkest at any time both the sun and moon were down, if the stars were hidden by high clouds. Not like this chilly, glorious display of light. Still, dawn was not far off, he knew. It was time he got back. The End _________________________________________________________________ Express yourself instantly with MSN Messenger! Download today - it's FREE! http://messenger.msn.click-url.com/go/onm00200471ave/direct/01/