No Ordinary Madman


There are voices in Michael's head, shrill, constant and vile. No, not voices, he makes himself acknowledge in a rare moment of clarity, that would make him just an ordinary madman. No, it's just one voice. The voice he has known his whole life. The voice of the Other, and it won't leave him alone. It's with him constantly; even when he's wholly, fully himself, the Other is still there, waiting for him.

Even now, with Duncan MacLeod covering him with his big, hard body, touching him with rough, square hands, tumbling him into bed with a glint in his eye and a grin on his lips, it's not enough to keep the other away.

It's not as bad as it could be, Michael's still himself, unlike the times when he wakes with blood on his hands, his teeth...his cock. Those are the times when the Other is in control and Michael is lost in the endless dark. This is nothing like that. He is here, himself, with Duncan's hard cock driving into him and the promise of a bright new life with Jeanette just around the corner. He should be happy.

So, what is this creeping dread that will not leave him?

It's a stupid question, really, because Michael knows only too well what there is to dread. The seeds of destruction, madness, are inside him. He's lived with quicksand under his feet all his life. Is he himself right now, or this simply another of the Other's deceptions?

Is Duncan really here with him, taking him with such sweet, sharp pleasure, blindfolding him in silk that smells just like Duncan's beautiful body and tying his hands tight above his head, stretching him out so he can feel that good, dark burn? Or will he wake later sticky but not sore, alone, knowing this is just another fantasy and die a little as the dream fades?

Is any of it real at all? Jeanette, Duncan, his life, his Immortality -- is any of it in any way real? And if it's not real, would he want it to be? Duncan's hips snap harder against his ass and Michael gasps, arching as the pleasure peaks. Right now, the answer is yes. It feels too real to be a lie.

'Trick or treat?'  the Other whispers too far inside him to be in his ear. 'Is it one or the other? Is it both? Will you ever know? Do you want to...?'

Michael shakes his head, trying to banish the voice, knowing the futility even as he does it. He will never be rid of the Other, not as long as he lives. He is no ordinary madman and his madness will be as Immortal as he is.

But if he falls, as Michael thinks he must, will his madness linger on? Will he infect the one who takes him? Perhaps the darkness in him is something elemental, something that can't be killed, something endless. Perhaps Quentin Barnes will lie in wait inside Michael's killer, as he did inside Michael, waiting for his moment to strike.

No. He can't believe that. One day there will be an end to this and it will truly be an end. He will die and take Quentin Barnes to hell with him. He has to.

Inside him, Duncan is coming, hot breath on his neck and a hard hand on his cock forcing his orgasm to come tearing out of him on a high, sharp cry and a bowing of his body. For a few blessed moments, he's alone in his head, alone with the searing pleasure that makes him gasp and buck and arch as Duncan drags him back to himself, silencing the Other at last. It's beyond wonderful, but over far too soon, and then the Other is back -- Quentin is back -- whispering poison into his ear, telling him it was all a lie. 

The darkness is coming again, he can feel it. It the only thing he is sure of. It's more real than the man holding him or the fading ache of his body. Despair sinks him. Quentin Barnes is coming back and Michael must take himself far away from Duncan MacLeod.

He would never understand.

The end

A remix of McJude's 'Such is the Nature of Insanity'. Written for the third hl_remix challenge.

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