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Alec/Normal. NC-17.

A musing on the nature of Normal's gladiator dream about Alec. Clearly I am a sick, sick individual who should probably be under heavy sedation. I think this piece says rather a lot more about Normal than about Alec. And possibly a lot more about me than about Normal. You Have Been Warned.

NORMAL: I had this dream about you the other night. You were this, uh, Roman gladiator, and you slew barbarians and Medusa-like women, and I was your tiny little valet. I wiped your sword clean after every sweet victory. I rubbed your tired, beautiful, golden muscles...

ALEC: Hot run! Fourth and Main!

All That
By Melissa

The first thing I notice is the heat. It's stiffling; oppressive, even from where I stand, under the shade of the arena's overhang.

And then I see him.

He's standing inside the arena proper. I'm several yards away, but I can still see the sweat sheen on his golden muscles, the expression of intense determination on his face.

He's handling the sword like it's a part of him; sweet deadly force, unbelievable precision.

I know his sword is sharp. I worked on it myself.

There are two men - barbarians - facing him. And they're afraid. You can see it in their faces and you can smell it on the wind.

I feel my mouth curve into a slow smile.

He'll kill them. Brutally. Theatrically.

They're monstrosities of nature. Transgenics maybe, or just plain freaks. They don't deserve to live, don't deserve to be so close to him, so close to perfection, and he knows it.

He'll take the cheering and the applause from the crowd with the same indifferent, arrogant façade as always, but it will be a different story when we go back through the tunnel and into the sleeping quarters.

I'll clean his sword while he strips, and then he'll let me bath his wounds and rub linament onto his bruises.

If it was a particularly hard fight, he'll lie on the sleeping pad on his stomach, and let me rub oil onto his tired, beautiful, golden muscles.

And then he'll turn over, let me rub the oil onto his chest, his stomach, and then lower, onto his hips and thighs.

He'll stir restlessly, and I'll know, without any words passing between us, that the tease needs to end. I'll slick his already hard cock with the oil, moving slowly and deliberately until he sits up, pushing my hand away with a grunt and using his strength to force me onto the bed underneath him.

I'm not really fighting. It's just a token struggle. I want this, and he knows it.

He'll rip my breech-cloth away and push into me with one brutal, long, perfect thrust.

And then he'll fuck me until we're both panting, desperate for release. I'm begging, softly, incoherently, and eventually he'll take pity, moving his hand around in front of me to jerk me off in rough, quick movements.

It's painful and it's perfect, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

The heat of his body on mine is intense. He's crushing me with his weight and I don't care.

He chose me for this. He could have had any of them, but he chose me. I don't know how or why, or what I did to deserve this - could I be more unworthy? More insignigicant? Further from perfection? - but none of that matters.

This beautiful man. This man amongst men.

I was chosen.

Not by default. Not because there was no one else, or just no one better.

He had the choice, and he chose me.

And as I watch him stand in the heat of the arena, sweat slicked and perfect, sword poised and ready, the inevitable only twenty seconds away - perhaps thirty five or forty, if he's feeling whimsical - I know the sequence of events that will follow as if they had been burned on my brain.

This is the moment I will cling to, later, back in the real world that seems so less clear than this. Dispatching packages and unruly messangers and placating customers and signing invoices.

It's not the feel of his muscles under my hands. Not the weight of his body on mine. Not the rough cotton under my belly and rubbing my cock. Not even the heat of his skin burning my back.

These things are perfect, of course, but transient. Fleeting.

What's important is the sense of promise. The promise of the inevitable. The sense that all is right with the world. That evil will be slain and perfection will triumph and that he will fuck me into unconsciousness at some later unspecifed time because I am the one he has chosen.

I don't need it to get through the night.

It may seem a petty distinction to make, but I make it anyway.

Besides which, my nights are brief and dreamless for the most part. There is nothing to fear at night that a bottle of good pre-pulse whisky can't take care of.

And when all other courses of action have failed, there are always the girls that stand on street corners with their too-sweet perfume and their too-soft bodies. Not perfect, but a fair subsitute for perfection.

There are boys that stand there too, of course. Hard bodies and pretty faces. Willing to do almost anything, if the price is right.

I've been tempted. Not that I would ever admit to it. But I couldn't bear to taint the perfection with a memory of a sweaty body both too close and too far away from what I really want.

I suppose I think that women are safer. Certainly no danger of forming any kind of long term attachment to any of them. And, god forbid, they would be easier to explain away, should the need ever arise.

No, the night has never bothered me. It's more the long hours of day that I find difficult.

The time when it all seems sick and dirty and shameful. Not right, like it seems now. Still perfection, of course, but tainted by the disgust I know he feels. The disgust that *I* feel.

It doesn't matter.

He's given me everything I need to make it through the day. One way or another.

And there's always the promise of of a perfect tomorrow to keep my mind off today.

THE END.

 
 
 
 
   
 

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