Rub-A-Dub-Dub(Two Men and a Tub)
by Kevin H. Robnett
Under duress, Methos finally admitted these scenes were dropped from the European version of "Deliverance," for various reasons. In some cases the scenes are incomplete and unedited. They are presented "as-is." Because I'm lazy, they are written in a narrative format, not the usual "script" format.
Outside of quaint country inn:
The car pulled up in the parking lot as a gently rain began to fall. Whether because of the storm clouds, or impending night, the sky quickly darkened. Methos shut off the engine, then turned to the Highlander seated next to him. "Are you sure about this?" he asked for the third time in as many minutes. There was enough to worry about without giving Duncan time to regain his footing. "It's only a couple more hours of driving left. We could still be there tonight."
"Just do it," MacLeod said as he stared straight ahead. His voice was thin, controlled. It was also tired, mirroring the complete exhaustion of his face and eyes. "You're about to fall asleep and I.... I don't trust myself."
Methos stared at his friend for a moment. "Have it your way," he said as he opened the door and stepped out into the rain. Both of their swords were safely locked in the truck, and Duncan wouldn't expect another sword to be laying in the back seat. Just a few hours of shut eye was all he needed, and MacLeod swore he could stay in control that long.
It was a good ten minutes before he returned. "They had a room left, in the back." The Highlander didn't react until Methos opened the passenger door and waited for him to get out. It was then the heavens flashed and the thunder rumbled. The rain descended in droves as the ancient Immortal ran for the door to the room he had just rented.
Duncan looked skyward, his face raised to the rain. He filled his lungs with the cool, crisp air before he followed Methos at a slower pace. The other Immortal was in the doorway, looking into the room.
"There's only one bed," Methos shouted over the storm.
A small smile crossed Duncan's lips as he pushed the shorter Immortal into the room. "Good."
The water pounded the short black hair, running in rivulets down the wet skin. It was good and hot, steaming in fact. Drumming on his skull like tiny little fingers. A vain attempt at easing the other pounding in his head.
His hands were pressed into the white tile on either side of the shower head, holding his body upright. The warm water felt good as it poured down his body. He raised his face to the spigot, letting the water wash away the fluids that had ended up on his cheeks and chin. Nothing could wash away the memories, though.
Everything hurt, from his mouth to his cock to his ass. But it was a good kind of hurt, one that reminded him he was still alive. He had trouble nowadays, feeling alive. Until he met the olive skinned warrior with the voice of the highlands and the body that reminded him of the Greek gods. All of a sudden his hiding, his carefully laid plans were no longer important. Just the black, thick hair and the dark eyes. He wanted those eyes to look at him like so many others had before.
He raised his head higher, letting the hot spray massaged his chest. Muscles relaxed under the warm liquid, skin was cleaned under the pounding water. Sex was messy. That's something that had never improved in five thousand years. But just like having a fight and making up, there could be wonderful pleasure in cleaning up.
If this had been America, a delightfully decadent country, a long, lazy swim would be the thing to work tired muscles, and wash the sweat and other fluids off. Here in Europe, he had to settle for the next best thing. It was time to soap, before all the hot water was gone. The last thing he needed was a cold shower.
His hands created a fine lather that soon covered his smooth body. Fingers traced where lips had been an hour earlier. He caressed his torso as he felt the water spray on his legs and groin. Nipples hardened when the stimulating soaping reached them.
Eyes were closed now, imagining the impossible sight of another's hands washing him, caressing him. A murmured word in his ear, full of the sexy accent he adored. He knew he was getting hard again, his fantasy taking over. The rough coupling earlier did nothing to dampen the eroticism.
But now was not the time to indulge. Hot water was notoriously lacking in small inns, and the last thing he needed was to leave only icy water for *him*. This Duncan could be handled as long as he was kept calm. An angry Scot could be disaster.
No longer excited, he quickly finished his washing and rinsed off. He was letting the warm water soothe his head one last time when he heard a noise in the bathroom. He looked over, but his water-filled eyes couldn't focus.
The shower door open, and he could sense the Highlander entering the stall. He felt the callused hand grip his shoulder and pull him backwards. As he straightened, the other arm snaked around his front to cross his stomach. When his back came into contact with the muscled chest, the hand on his shoulder slipped across his throat, trapping him.
"You were gone when I woke up," he heard in his ear, before teeth chewed on his earlobe. The rough stubble scratched his bare shoulder as the arms gripped him tight. "I don't like being alone in a cold bed."
He could feel MacLeod's hardness pressing against his buttocks, a groan escaping his lips as the Highlander nibbled on his flesh. The arm across his neck loosened as the hand came up to cover his mouth. Methos knew exactly what was about to happen, but was powerless to prevent it. Didn't want to prevent it. He wanted it. Needed it.
The hand muffled his scream as the hard invader tore its way into his anus. Everything that had so recently healed was stretched again, the membranes giving way to the massive intruder. The pain radiated outwards and made him panic, but the hard arms had him trapped, not letting him escape what was happening. Just like before.
Methos stopped screaming long enough to suck in air through his nose. Duncan was still pushing forward, slowly destroying any resistance from the ancient Immortal. It helped the pain to concentrate on something simple, like breathing. But his lungs were filled too soon. Once he had enough oxygen again, the scream continued of its own accord into the rough hand.
Finally, the penetration stopped. The formidable penis was seated fully inside Methos' body, nestled in a hot, tight place. Duncan paused a moment, giving him time to get reacquainted with it. The hand moved down, resting on a smooth pectoral as whimpers escaped from his mouth.
The Highlander slowly pulled back, letting Methos feel every inch slide out, until only the head remained inside the ring of muscle. Then there was an equally slow push, firm and steady, as the ancient Immortal shivered uncontrollably in the strong arms.
Gradually, the rhythm picked up as he was acclimated to the intruder. The raw pain became a dulled ache, transformed into the heady pleasure of being totally fucked. His hand jerked to his own throbbing rod, but the memory of the earlier slap, whose bruise was already gone, made his stop.
"Please..." he heard himself beg over the tepid water that poured over his cold flesh. He was surprised at how desperate he was. Especially when Duncan had thrown him on the bed. All the desire, all the impulses he had ignored for decades were released. Not quite how he had always dreamed it, but this man *was* Duncan, and he was wallowing in it on a level he could never have imagined.
The Highlander let out a moan of his own as his hand reached down and grabbed the other Immortal's pulsating manhood. It gripped the shaft and let Methos' thrusting hips provide the stimulation. A particularly rough jab of Duncan's hips drove Methos forward, as the tight hand circled the shaft.
The ancient Immortal was in heaven. Not since the days of Rome had he felt so...debauched. He heard MacLeod's testicles slap his thighs as his ass was pounded. Heat from the friction spread through his groin, feeding its way to his rigid cock and the tight hand.
His balance shifted. Three arms reached out to the tile wall in front of him, trying to keep them both from falling forward. Duncan was panting as he plowed into him. Gone was any gentleness, any love. This was raw, pure sex. Two sexual bulls in heat.
The water, ice cold, was splashing on his head, making his skull feel like it would explode. It was hard to breathe as the water invaded his mouth and nose. He choked on the liquid, but he wasn't concerned. Nothing concerned him except for the steel intruder sliding in and out.
He felt it, down in his balls. The beginning of his climax. The likes of which he had not dreamed possible. It had been so long since... Well, since he had been fucked in such a brutal way. Lovemaking was nice, but there was just something dark and primal that he had longed for in the last century or so. And Duncan was catching him up in spades.
"Oooohhh," Methos cried out as the hand on his shaft tightened even further. The stab of agony mixed with the impending explosion, making his toes curl and muscles tense. The pace was mind-bending and violent, the Scot slamming furiously with his hard-muscled body.
Methos imagined his head would be pushed through the wall if he relaxed for a second. He could feel his feet lifting off the tub with each thrust. And it felt so good. Suddenly, he could resist no longer, put off the climax another second more.
It bubbled up from his groin, overtaking his body as his face flashed red. The cold water sent stabs of ice through the waves of heat and he shuddered. Every muscle in his body throbbed and tightened as he trembled under the stress of ejaculation.
The hand twisted his shaft hard as all movement stopped. His asshole gripped impossibly tight, sending Duncan over the edge. MacLeod let out a howl that could wake the dead as Methos, convulsing like a puppet, felt hot semen pour into his bowels.
He groaned as his climax subsided. The pain was gone, the pleasure muted. All he wanted was to collapse into a boneless heap, but the rock-hard invader still impaled his body. The strong arms gripped him as Duncan shuddered violently, lost in his own orgasm.
The arms suddenly fell away. The penis in his ass softened and withdrew, slick from the white semen that dripped from his loose anus. Methos' legs gave way, and he fell to his knees in the tub.
He quickly left the bathroom, a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. His skin was still wet, covered in goosebumps. And it hurt to walk.
But he had to get away. Had to leave. He couldn't bear standing next to that beautiful body, the charisma pouring over him, and see the eyes in the mirror. They were looking at him, leering at him, taking in his body as if it was only flesh to be used, abused. He saw the sneer that came so readily to the Highlander's face. The lust and sexual appetite displayed so openly on a visage that use to hold such love.
This was not the man he had studied from afar. It was the same body, but all the intangibles that had made the Highlander into the special person Methos befriended were gone. Replaced by something more base...more animal.
He bolted out the door, in haste to get away and find some peace, some steady ground. Duncan chased him, managed to catch his leg and send them both tumbling. The carpet burned as his skin slid over it, the heavy form of MacLeod landing on him and knocking away his breath.
The strong arms turned him over. Duncan sat on his stomach, sliding the older Immortal's arms to his side and trapping them there with powerful thighs. "Who said we were finished?" Duncan asked, looking down.
Methos struggled, but he was too spent to put up much of a fight. The Highlander leaned down, pressing their chests together until his face was over Methos', and black hair surrounded them both. "You like it," MacLeod told him.
The ancient Immortal could not argue. He had always enjoyed an occasional rough bout of sex. Any damage would heal in minutes, and the spice of danger made the pleasure that much more enjoyable.
"I like you," Duncan went on, his mouth suddenly diving into Methos', claiming it, conquering it. The strange tongue made itself at home between his teeth, fighting off his tongue like two Immortal's swords in battle. The Highlander won, like always.
MacLeod straightened back up, his laugh echoing through the dark room. His hands started exploring the trapped chest beneath him, the ridges and curves of a five thousand year old torso. "You want this," Duncan pointed out, feeling Methos' penis stir under the towel still around his waist. "You want this, bad."
The ancient Immortal yelped when the Highlander's fingers found both his nipples. Thumbs and forefingers tightly gripped, squeezing the sensitive flesh. Methos arched his chest, trying to lessen the twin stabs of pain caused by the tormenting hands. When they finally released, he fell back to the carpet, breathing hard. "Oh, so bad," MacLeod added as he attacked the aching nubs again, relishing the struggle of the trapped Immortal.
When the torture eventually stopped, Duncan listened to his whimpers, brushing fingers over his crying face. He felt the Highlander shuffle along his body until he was firmly planted on Methos' chest, keeping his arms trapped at his sides. It was hard to breathe with the Scot there, two well-muscled thighs framing his face.
He looked up, past the enlarging manhood before his eyes, to the muscled abdomen and pectorals covered in fine black hair. The wet, glistening body of a warrior and now conqueror. Up to the face that leered down at him. Offered him such pleasure, promised such pain. It was a nightmare he never could have imagined. Such beauty twisted into all that depravity.
"Kiss it," Duncan told him, gloating.
The purple cockhead already rested on his mouth. His lips puckered out, stretching to caress the flesh above them. The penis jumped. And MacLeod smiled.
All Methos could do was lay there as MacLeod fucked him, ramming his back into the bed, letting him watch the emotions cross the Highlander's sweat-covered face. It seemed the man's lust and energy were unflagging at the moment. Methos the scientist would have enjoyed finding out if it was natural, or brought about by the Dark Quickening. Methos the battered man only wanted it to end.
It was much later when Duncan rolled off of him, slipping to the side and pinning Methos' arm to the bed. The ancient Immortal's other hand was forced behind his head, where Duncan could grasp his wrist. A thigh was pressed between his legs, driving them apart, until a knee rested on his exposed, aching testicles. He was trapped.
"He's not coming back, you know," MacLeod informed him. Fingertips lightly brushed his exposed flank. The ancient Immortal jerked to protect that ticklish area of skin, but he was held fast. The Highlander chuckled as the fingers grazed the sensitive spot again, tormenting Methos.
The hand freely roamed his body, sometime teasing a nipple into hardness, then pinching it until he struggled helplessly. Sometimes it trailed down to fondle his growing erection, taunting the rod with possible release. But the large hand always left too soon, moving to another patch of flesh to torment and tickle.
It was exquisite agony, the likes of which Methos had not suffered since the reign of Cleopatra. Duncan MacLeod, good or evil, was a skilled lover, which made him as skilled a tormentor. Lips lowered until the closest tit was being suckled, then sharp teeth grazed the puckered flesh. "Oh, gods, stop..." Methos finally begged.
"Should I kill you?" Duncan baited. "Or should I keep you?" The hand brushed across Methos' chest, running through the small amount of black hair, smoothing it against the pale, warm skin. "You're very good," was whispered in the ancient Immortal's ear. "He was a fool to keep you at arms length." The hand moved down to the stomach, and then gripped Methos' hard shaft for a jerk or two. Enough to keep him on edge, not enough to carry him over. "I won't."
It had been stupid to think he could 'save' the Highlander. Just like he couldn't 'save' Alexis, or Sean or Donald. Sometimes it was too late. Duncan had been right, the good was too far gone. Nothing was sacred any longer, not friendship, not love. Now all Methos needed to worry about was surviving. And escaping.
MacLeod was torturing him, pure and simple. Feeding off the fear and terror. Hurting the older Immortal in both physical and psychological ways, and enjoying it. Duncan was evil, pure unadulterated evil. Methos believed that now. And knew the man he might have loved was gone forever.
He was allowed to stagger to the bathroom in the morning. There he tried to wash the pain and suffering of the night away. The shower had hot water again, but it was no longer a safe haven. Instead, it was a reminder of what had happened. There was no residual pain as he washed his body, but the memories burned hot. His face flushed when he thought about what had been done to him.
A shower at least gave him some much needed energy. It was safe to say he had gotten no sleep, and he'd need everything he possessed to get away from MacLeod. He had brought his clothes into the bathroom, and dressed there, not wanting to give the bastard another chance to leer and lick his lips.
Duncan must know he'd try to bolt. The Highlander already had the car keys, and informed him hours earlier they were returning to Paris. And then Methos would be taken somewhere 'appropriate'. That didn't give him much time.
Once he stepped out of the bathroom, he saw Duncan blocking the door, dressed in the leather pants and sweater Methos had found so enticing the day before. The broad back was to him, and a brief thought of bashing MacLeod over the head crossed his mind. But before he could do anything, he heard the sound.
Duncan was crying.
Methos carefully approached, knowing how well this Duncan could play games. The Highlander was facing away from the bathroom, his head on his chest, arms crossed, hands gripping his own body. "Help me," he sobbed through his falling tears. "You've got to help me...."
"I will," the ancient Immortal promised, as his hand unconsciously rested on the broad shoulder. It was the wrong gesture. Duncan's head snapped up, and the eyes blazed as they bore through Methos.
"You won't!" the Highlander breathed as his hands shot out and gripped Methos around the neck. He was pushed against the wall as Duncan throttled the life from him. He tried clawing at MacLeod, scratching deep with his fingernails, but the Scot wouldn't release him.
His hands flung about, ramming into the telephone on the nightstand. Without much thought, Methos smashing it into the Highlander's head, the bright plastic cracking with the same sound as Duncan's skull. The hands fell away, leaving Methos to gasp for breath as he looked down at MacLeod's dead body.
Duncan's plea for help echoed in his ears. He had to try, at least. There was still some good inside the Highlander, buried deep. He had to try and bring that back, even if it might cost him his own head.
He pulled the cord down from the curtain rod, and searched MacLeod's pants for the car keys. It took a few minutes to wrestle the limp body into the passenger side of the car, hands tied behind the bucket seat. By the gods, he'd get Duncan to the spring, even if he had to kill him every mile of the way.
Duncan hadn't said a word since he had settled in the passenger seat. Methos had left him to change out of his dripping wet clothes in privacy. Actually, he didn't want to see the Highlander's naked flesh. The memories were still too raw, too painful.
They had driven for hours along the country road, retracing the steps they had taken to the spring earlier that day. Methos was starving, but had no clue how to broach the subject of food. He drove until he couldn't see straight, and then pulled over. His seat pivoted back and he closed his eyes, worried about what might happen.
Nothing did. He awoke some time later. It was still dark outside, and the Highlander was still staring out the side window. Being alone with Duncan was suddenly terrifying. He sat upright and adjusted his seat before starting the car again.
"Did I..." Duncan began over the roar of the engine.
Methos shut it off, afraid of what came next.
"Did I...hurt you?" MacLeod quietly asked.
The sound of the voice, the accent, was so petrifying, Methos had to close his eyes. "No," he said, stifling a sob. He forced his eyes open, and looked over at the Highlander. The dark brown Scottish eyes were full of tears, asking a totally different question with the same words. "No," Methos replied again. "Nothing that hasn't happened before," he admitted.
The eyes stayed locked on him, as Duncan shook. "I'm sorry...."
The was such pain, such agony in those eyes it almost made Methos weep. There were echoes of Richie and Joe in the depths, and even the unnamed woman from La Havre. The Highlander knew what he truly was capable of, Dark Quickening or not. He could still turn into the monster he had been. He was the monster he had been. But all the evil that was still there was tempered once again with compassion, love, and concern.
Methos wanted to take Duncan in his arms, and whisper sweet words to the frightened man, and feel the muscled body press against his own. Then the memory of the leer, and the smirk surfaced, and almost made him throw up.
"I know," Methos finally said, not able to be more specific then that. It would take time for the memories to lose their power. And lucky enough, that was something they both had plenty of.