by elynross and Luminosity

Okay, Lum happened to be fortuitously (from my POV) hanging about when I was struck by a swarm of little dogs....(pet peeves, that is)

Nobody was harmed in the composition of this madness. Much. Far too long. Save yourselves now, just leave. You really don't want inside our heads.  

Excisions from a slash manuscript. Almost sort of in some anarchical kind of stream-of-consciousness order....

The Ancient One:

He tried to calm himself, but the incredibly, stupendously, older-than-dirt Immortal felt as though he had been kicked in the goolies....

"I fucked them all, MacLeod! Every Immortal you've ever met, I knew first! *And* we were lovers!" cried the only Immortal who was older than dirt.  

Duelling muses:

"When I was a pre-Immortal, we didn't have dirt. We had to scrabble around on molten lava, just *waiting* for a bit of rock to solidify. And air? We had to make do with noxious gases!!!"

"Well, when I was a pre-immortal, we were still in the primordial soup. We had fins--not legs.  We had gills.  One of us just had to crawl to the surface and wait to evolve!!"  

"Oh, yeah? Well, we didn't even have soup! We had to make do with clouds of unconsolidated dust! We would have been ecstatic to have had soup!"

"Oh yeah??? I was starstuff!  I was dropped to float gracefully to the planet and only hope that there were amino acids and lightning... it was tough."  

Duncan the guilt-ridden, broody, depressed Scot?

Once again, MacLeod put his oar in the water, replaying in his mind, over and over again, the death of Little Deer.  It was HIS FAULT!  He could have been there, playing wigwam, but NOOO, he had to go hunt and find food and stuff..... If only he'd been there! Sure, he'd probably have been slaughtered, five or six times, maybe a dozen, knifed, shot, bludgeoned, eviscerated, torn apart and left for the scavengers, over and over and over...but he'd have known that he'd tried! Not thatit would have done any good.

But still!!  If only he had been there, he wouldn't be carrying this tremendous load of concern and guilt for the entire human race.  Or whoever was unlucky enough to piss him off, and NOW, he feels guilty for killing that immortal serial killer.  If ONLY he had stayed with him in 1843.  If only he had taken the laudanum away.. now the guy wouldn't be an immie crackhead. But he would've found something else to imbibe...

Virginal Duncan:

"Oh, no you don't! You just put Mr. Happy back where he belongs! You know I'm not that kind of an Immortal! Not until I have that ring on my finger! Now, where do you want to go on the honeymoon?"

"I've, I've, I've....never done this before.  Do you want to put that gigantic, immense, OLD, ANCIENT throbbing shaft up my little rosy WHAT????"   he said, overcome with lust and shyness.

He tittered shyly as Methos slid his arm around him, alternately wanting to pull away and wanting to be flung to the floor and ravenously fucked within an inch of his inexperienced , tentative, virginal, 400 year old life....

Duncan held back, overwhelmed with fear at the thought of taking Methos' ancient, imponderable immensity into himself, but beseiged by a flood of immense and brooding guilt at the thought of denying the world's oldest living mobile creature...

He had never been attracted to a man before, but Methos.... Methos was different.  Methos.  The mention of his name was enough to stiffen Duncan out like a board.  His alabaster skin.  His vulnerable neck. His vulnerable, luminescent neck. Of ivory. His vulnerable, luminescent ivory neck. His vulnerable, luminescent, swan-like, ivory neck. Without the feathers. He wondered what it would be like to make love to Methos.  He and his weeping cock were lost, lost in the fantasy. And in traffic. God, he was bored.

...the ivory-skinned Ancient One, who manipulated him.  Methos:  the Puppetmaster to Humanity.... The Oldest One with all the strings, who made him feel so guilty not to have at least some experience with men, if only to present him, the Decrepit Ancient Guy,  with a knowledgeable, willing mind.....  

Sexual dysfunction:

one can't get it up, one can't keep it up....

His skin was luminescent, smeared with the stickiness of Duncan's inability to control himself...ooooh... the shame of it all!

"Omigod Duncan!  If you look at me that way again, I'll come!" said the Ancient Uncontrolled One, lost in Duncan's hooded pools of night eyes....

"Oops, wait..." The Immensely-Aged one looked embarrassed. "Um, it's gone now." <scuffs feet> "In 5000 years, that's never happened to me. I mean, we've only come fifteen or twenty times tonight..."

"what with our amazing recuperative powers.  I'm sorry I killed you that last time, but you should have known better than to let me fuck your mouth with my enormous, humongous, eldest tool.  Just give up control, Duncan.  Give it to me!"

then there's one who can't get it up and one who can't get it down....  Ok.. Because he's been tortured for millennia, and now the only way he can get it up is to be beaten nearly to death, and he'll only come if you stomp on his thick, wet, purple, throbbing, tumid Ollllld shaft....

um, isn't that And Hades Followed After?  

And then there's Amanda.....

"I've never been involved in a threesome before," Duncan gasped, as Amanda untied the gag.

 "That's okay, dear. I don't enjoy them myself. I'm just here as a plot device to get the uncharacteristically shy, but really, really old guy in bed with you, ya handsome lug. He can't seem to manage it on his own, and I'm perfectly willing to be used as a tool by the writer to start with something a bit more familiar. Then I'll just fade into the background while you guys go after each other like the magnificent stallions you are."

"I'll just crawl to the corner of the bed here and be bug-eyed, watching you devour his alabaster body.  Maybe I'll masturbate, because I've never seen anything like this before...again... and it makes me so hot!!"

(although it was, wasn't it?)

"Now, be good boys and give good face to the porthole, I think Joe brought the videocam tonight."  


"And whatever you do, don't eat the cucumbers without washing and peeling them!"

<Hack, spit> Methos, there are *some* things you can't use as lubricant...

Wait!!  I have a quote...

"You're not going to use your......sword <wink, wink>???  Oh, Dunnnnnncaaaannnn..."

Oh wait.  that's not even slash.  LOL  

True Equals:

Never in his life had Duncan been fucked with such strength, all the women of his admittedly huge acquaintance being basically weak and wimpy in the extreme. Now he knew what it was like to be fucked by a Real(ly old) Man!tm

Mac nodded daintily and blinked his eyes flirtatiously, while Methos noted with a pure, prehistoric thrill that his immense member was once again swelling with passion.  

How many, again? And how did he move?

"When the Ancient, Prehistoric Love God slowly removed his four fingers from Duncan's miraculously accommodating love canal, the  Highlander..... WHIMPERED AT THE LOSS.

"no, no, Duncan, you're doing it wrong. It's only two, maybe three fingers at most. Any more or less is ingenue."

Methos moved across the floor like a jungle cat, one that had just consumed an entire wildebeest and was just hoping to make it to his lair before collapsing in total satiation...

nobody writes a good fisting anymore.

Duncan stood under the cold shower, lost, thinking of the strong lean hands of the Oldest Immortal, fondling his now erect, swollen, purple, turgid, dripping member.

He looked deeply into the depths of the indeterminately colored eyes, realizing...that he had absolutely *no* idea what the man was thinking. Nothing in his gaze conveyed the slightest indication of what he was feeling, and Mac was buggered if he could figure out what Methos was trying to convey with his meaningful looks....

Green?  Gold?  Brown?  Hazel?  Gold Flecked? Jade-sprinkled?  Where the hell did he find those contacts?

Mac stared into Methos' face...what the hell color were those eyes, anyway? He completely lost track of their passionate interlude as he tried to determine the precise term that would capture the shade of that elusive gaze....

Methos stared into Mac's lucid, limpid, chocolate, coffee, java, black, midnight eyes, darker still with the passion that was possessing him...

Brown! Get it? They're just plain fucking brown. I don't care what color they told you they were. Shit brown.

Back to age:

Duncan gasped in shock as the old man leapt upon him unexpectedly. I mean, where the hell had he come from, anyway? About 95, so frail looking a gust of wind could take him out, but he sure as hell had determination.....

Duncan stroked his fingers lustfully down the anemically pale, almost leperous skin of his unbelievably old lover.  

The Puppetmaster:  

The Incredibly Ancient Hard One had Duncan MacLeod, 200 pounds of Highland warrior, exactly where he wanted him--plunging wildly into him, howling in his climax.  It was all going according to plan.

"Candygram," he whispered, plunging his turgid member all the way down the Highlander's all too willing, yet inexperienced, throat.

If only he'd known that Duncan was such an incredible slut, he'd have had him here years ago. Wait. How had he not known, having immersed himself in Highlander lore, thanks to the incredibly detailed and voyeuristic Watchers?  Hmmm. Somebody must have stolen the original plans.....

"you are one manipulative son of a bitch!"

Ah, I planned for you to say that, just then...  

"No, no, that too. There's not a though in your head I didn't put there, that I haven't had before. I've done it all. In fact, I invented it. All of it. Mine. Every jit and tottle."  

"Been there, done that, got the untanned mastodon leisure suit."  

Traveling Man:

Methos threw his tattered gunnysack and 11,578 chronicles in the back of the Jimmy, threw his coat in, and then himself, and threw his head down on the steering wheel and threw up.  He didn't want to leave, but he had to go. He had happy feet.

It wasn't that he didn't want to stay...okay, it was. He didn't want to stay. In fact, if he spent one more moment in the presence of that temperamental, guilt-ridden, judgmental Celt-for-brains, he'd....after all, how was he supposed to know that you couldn't wash all-cotton sweaters in hot water? He was really, really old, he knew a whole bunch of things. How was he supposed to keep them straight?

Yes, it was true.  He had borrowed MacLeod's favorite hand-woven, white cotton sweater.  It was the only thing that Mac hadn't sent out for drycleaning. But that was no reason for Mr. Anal Retentive to nail his shoes to the floor.

Well, he'd be sorry. Methos would just leave. Get in the car and go. Take all his stuff. And most of Mac's. To hell with this traveling light shit. Comfort before convenience. Who said a really, unbelievably, incredibly old dog couldn't learn new tricks?

And he'd drive all the way to Timbuktu, and use Duncan's Gold Card for expenses.  After all, when the going gets tough...

And he was Mr. Living Cliche, after all.


You would have thought the most unspeakably beautiful Immortal of them all would have been a bit more entertaining, a bit more forgiving, with 5000 years of experience and talent at his fingertips, but NOOOOOOOO............

And yet, Duncan blamed himself.

Methos smiled nastily to himself. That was the best part. It was as good as being Catholic. He could do anything he wanted, lay on a few pouts and a guilt-trip, and the Scot melted like a pound of butter left out on a really hot sidewalk. Of course he was contradicting himself, but it was bound to happen once or twice over the course of centuries...millenia even. He was really, really old. At least, that's what he wanted Mac to think. He'd never tell them that it was all a lie, that he really was only a fairly young Immortal with a knack for history, who'd hired a few really desperate Immortals like Kronos, Silas, and Caspian to flesh out his part. Sure, it was cheap, it was tawdry...but it was a living.

Mac smiled evilly to himself. Yes, he had fooled them all, even Methos.  He was still evil, and no body knew it anymore because he was acting like a good guy.  He chortled with evil glee. Now to go shortsheet the ROSOB....  

Live.  Grow Stronger..  If he had listened to that crap, he'd be Superman by now.

And then he would have been able to save the World!!!!!!

But no.  He had let yet another dear old friend fuck up, and he was driven... driven, I tell you, to relieve him of his head.  If only he had listened to reason.

Ah, well. Another day at the office. Another head, another guilt trip. <yawn>

Another day, another dollar.  Joe tiredly wiped down the bar.  He wondered for the umpteenth time why he kept buying the imported expensive stuff for his Immortal, deadbeat bum friends when they never paid their bar bill.  But it was enough for him to know that they had finally found each other.  Hell, he was an old guy, but he could appreciate true love.

...who wannnnts to live forever?  who wannnnnnnnnts to live forever?   WAAHHH. Fuck it, Joe did! And he deserved it!

Dammit, no!!! He had to admit it! He despised them! He hated them, with every patently mortal fibre of his being! Why should the sexy, good-looking and incredibly virile guys get the Immortality, too!!!!  It should have been him!!!

Instead, he's stuck here, a regular guy, with a lot of really, really old buddies.  He should have known it, though, the way they looked at each other, the way they humped each other in the storeroom, on the barstools, at the table in the dark.  He was a Watcher, dammit!

"Fuck off, MacLeod. I'm really, really tired of listening to you whine and moan. Just because I'm your Watcher, and your bartender, a kinky voyeur and an incredibly nosy bastard to boot, doesn't mean I want to have to listen to every petty little detail of your undeservedly long life. Go find yourself a shrink. Oh, wait, you killed him, didn't you?"

"Watch it MacLeod.  I wouldn't be talking if I were you, what with that 5:00 shadow that let's everyone know just how evil you are right now... and catty, too."

"You know, Methos, I think you've gained weight. I mean, I know that you used to be trim, slender, lithe and wiry, but now you're just pudgy."  

and the simplicity of it:

"Um, no. No, I don't think so, Methos. Not tonight. I don't feel like it."

Man, Duncan thought to himself, incredibly disappointed. He'd expected that after 5000 years the old guy would know a few tricks, but he had to admit it: Methos was the worst lay he'd ever had in his life.

Methos was amazed.  Sated, yet amazed.  That Duncan, Don Juan Immortal to the Ladies, couldn't control himself long enough for lubrication.

"Um, that's it? 5000 years of experience, and that's it?"

Methos sat there in a snit. "I'm just a guy, Mac."

I wasn't thinking!  I was improvising!  How did I know you weren't into golden showers?

Methos sulked in the corner. "You'd think after 400 years a little thing like being asphyxiated during sex wouldn't bother you. Don't you want me to be happy?"

"You don't want to disappoint me, you know. I get very, very upset when I'm disappointed. And if I'm upset, I find it hard to concentrate. Now, tell me again: where did you hide the glass-encrusted cat-o-nine-tails?"

"Do you want me to take the gag off?  No?  Just nod your head.   Not THAT head..."

<What will people say?>  Duncan worried, as he gave Methos yet another screaming orgasm.

"It's not you, Duncan. It's just...absolutely incredible sex several times a night has gotten boring. Predictable. Bertha and I...we have something different. Something unique that you could never understand. I'll always love you, but...."

Methos lay on the kingsized bed, mesmerized, silently awed by the magnificence of that godlike body.   This was it.  His every fantasy, his dream, his jerk off story about to come true......

Shit.  The fantasy is always better than the reality, The Ancient One mused, as he wiped up.  

And then the livestock:  

It's YOUR goat, Duncan.

Well, how was I supposed to know he left it to whoever took his Q, Methos? <pause> He is kind of cute.

"Methos, please! Don't cry! It's not your fault!"

"But...but...Maaaaaac! It's a sheep!"

"You're...very attractive when you say my name like that, Methos..."  

or why don't we just spit it out into the open?  

"Methos!  I've never had these feelings before, and I was afraid you'd leave and disappear YET AGAIN, so I'm telling you now.  I love you.  I want to fuck you till you scream, and I want us to live happily ever after until the end of time.

"What do you mean, what about the Gathering? screw the Gathering. I'll win, of course, but until then we can be perfectly happy fucking like a couple of Senators on Viagra."

"Or else I'll put my neck on your sword again, and pretend to swallow it.  that always gets you hot, and while you're fondling your Little Scottish Laddie, I'll take your head, and always cherish you."

Don't think of it as dying, Mac. Think of it as the real opportunity to be together forever!

"If you loved me you'd give me your head."

"If you realllllly loved me, you'd let me just... thwack!"


The End