Black

Duncan MacLeod should always sleep swathed in black silk, Methos decides while watching one
sleepless, guiltless night. Duncan lies naked, a portrait in bronze and black. He sleeps with one
arm thrown back, revealing the flame of hair in his armpit, black as the silk shimmering over his hips.

Long, black hair drifts over the glossy temptation of his neck and shoulders, curling, tangling,
catching the moonlight. Methos reaches out to wrap a cool, crisp curl around one fingertip and tug
gently. He edges closer, his skin slipping over the warm silk, and then watching is no longer
enough.

White

Duncan's knuckles are white where his fingers clutch the headboard. White, too, the marks in his skin
where Methos' fingers dig deep in the hard muscle of his ass, lifting him up, spreading him wide.
Teeth sink into the lushness of his lower lip, white against dark rose. Beautiful.

Another thrust, four, five, urgent, unstoppable. The world is white behind Methos' eyelids and he's
coming hard, grabbing Duncan harder, the last of his breath leaving him in a long, single groan.
Nirvana. Rubber-limbed, he collapses against Duncan's side, trailing his fingers through the hot white
pooling on Duncan's belly.

Red

There's blood on Duncan's neck, a burgundy smear left by Methos' teeth sinking into the irresistible
lure of fine bronze skin while the red madness of passion was still with him. Methos licks the blood
away, lazily, thoroughly, feeling Duncan shift against him, even though he has gone to sleep long before.
It doesn't matter now; Duncan's body knows his, responds to it instinctively. An arm drops heavily
around his waist, drawing him closer to Duncan's heat, warmer and more comforting than any fire.

Love is fire, he decides in the moments before sleep: hot, beautiful, dangerous, consuming.

Essential.

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