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Hiedra, Part Three

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Posted to the RoswellSlash mailing list March 12, 2001

Title: Hiedra 3/?
Author: Scynneh
E-mail: Scynneh@yahoo.com
Feedback: That makes me write more...*eg*
Disclaimer: No, I do not own more than the 'Porn Pad', where I think this AU takes place.
Author's Notes: Ah, this is fun, I like these pairings. Am focusing on Kyle/Michael this chapter, so hang on Lifesavers!
Spoilers: Lalalalala....



        Idea precedes action. trite little statement, but one that generally holds true.

        The way that Michael touched, it was as if he had carte blanche to be wherever he felt appropriate, and that was giving Kyle conflicting feelings. On the one hand, he was ready to split the front of his Levis, on the other, this wasn't Tess, or even Liz, Michael was, Guerin, and that made him dangerous.

        Distant, angry, disdainful, that was Michael Guerin, his labels and the way people looked at him. Or, how they ignored him altogether. Max was nice and giving, and he stood in front. But over his shoulder, or nearby was someone who didn't want to be liked, was protective and hot-headed and sexy, Kyle added in his mind as he ran his eyes over the shape above him. There hadn't been a bulletin put out on the school gossip line that Michael Guerin had enough potency to put gentle Max in the back of the crowd. But none in this small town except those closest to Michael saw him as anything besides 'poor white trash.'

        This kind of racism is what motivated a frustrated Adolph Hitler. If only they'd bought his paintings, third-rate watercolorist that he was. He would have stayed in the back-streets of Vienna peddling his wares and history would have been much different. Kyle thought that the rest of Roswell were idiots, and could see them allowing this example of sensuality to dominate them, if for the tales of the next day. They would all take what he had, never noticing the contempt that he directed their way, while seeking his own ends at their expense, fools oblivious to the consequences waiting to catch and trip them.

        The Worshipful Company of Hatters resented the colonies making hats out of beaver skins. They shipped them to England and the silk-clad crowd was able to run around looking like 'a noble savage', or some rot like that. Hat or not, it was still a beaver on some moron's head.

        But there were standards in all things and if one was a Norman, they spoke French and dressed better than those filthy Saxon dogs. That's how the Sheriff of Nottingham would have put it, right? And Kyle knew that even though an alien could gather a reputation of being prickly but a real catch, he wouldn't be accepted without some sort of clout, like the kind Isabel wielded with the click of her heels down a slavering hallway.

        When Michael's mouth touched his again, his brain and all rationality shut down while his body performed the necessary movements that allowed him to open under that insistent mouth.

        If this sonofabitch ever achieved his full potential, the humans would be screwed, if they were really lucky, Kyle thought as he focused on the tentative presses of Michael's tongue as the seal of his mouth was tested. Not giving in only gave further license to those hands, and Michael smiled; he knew that the human didn't know if he should slug the person intent on possessing him, and that was all the 'go ahead' a horny, and adventuresome alien needed.

        He and Maria had planned to grab this one and maybe loosen a couple of buttons, see what happened. Branching out in all directions had taken their relationship to some intense heights, and they were always ready to find another diversion in their games. If she saw what he was doing now, more than likely she'd snark that he didn't care enough about her to get his ass across the street, then she'd settle down to watch the action.

        Deeming it more satisfying to abandon obtaining a pass to the mouth that gave so much attitude out whenever its owner felt that his territory was being infringed upon, Michael found the sweaty flesh concealed beneath Kyle's' shirt- collar to be sensitive, and occupied himself with licking and nuzzling the area until it was suffused with blood, both from the nips of his teeth, and the desire hat was making itself known in the tenting of rough denim along his thighs.

        From his position above Kyle, he could tell that those pants had to be getting awfully confining, and as he scratched the needy member through the fabric, he rested the rest of his weight on his other arm and murmured into Kyle's ear:

        "Once I had a little game, I used to crawl inside my brain. I think you know the game I mean, I mean the game called 'go insane.'"

        Kyle had no idea who Michael was quoting, and he had about as much of an inkling of the possible symbolism behind those words; they could be a comment on the teeter-totter state of the alien's mind, or, and this seemed more likely to the tormented teenage, it was a mockery of how much he was going to be denied of what he wanted.

        "Come on baby," Michael urged, "Gonna take a little ride," and then he was silent, his eyes meeting Kyle's, words passing between them without speech.

        Those flecks of gold were more molten than the core of a volcano as they gave their ultimatum.

        'I'm not going to come out, you'll have to come in, to me and my world, I dare you.' Skin tone was different, Kyle was as pale as corned marble, despite a summer at football camp, and Michael's flesh was a shade off the honey that was poured on bread.

        The contrast caught Kyle's attention and, he was devoted to the place where an arm thinned out and a deceptively fragile joint of bones formed Michael's wrist. Not that he'd found the gumption to ascend to the next level of contact, his fingers played sonatas directly above skin which was covered in sun-bleached, but he was just short of instigating anything that might accelerate things beyond casual explorations for the time being.

Continue to Part Four

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