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The King Lives

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Posted to the RoswellSlash mailing list May 16, 2001

Author: Aunty Mib
Title: "The King Lives"
Fandom: Roswell
Pairing: Peanut
Rating: X
Beta: Brandi.
Archives: Please everyone ask. I haven't decided whether this is a segment of a longer story or a stand-alone.
Disclaimer: These characters and basic situation were created by and still owned by Melinda Metz. I urge everyone to read the books.
Comments: This is based on the book canon NOT the TV canon. The basic idea came out of a situation in Book 2 of the series.
Warnings: Ever have a story where the characters get uppity and do what they want? I like tender, the boys decided to play rough. This might disturb some people.



        Max stood, arms akimbo, looking at the new sign.

        It read "Ray Iberg Memorial UFO Museum" in enormous, bilious, green letters. Underneath, in smaller, black, cursive, it continued, "under new management."

        Max smiled. Things were going to be different from now on.

        He picked up his gym bag and hefted it over one shoulder. He went up to the employees entrance and let himself in.

        Once inside, Max dropped off the gym bag containing his sweaty, wrestling team uniform in his locker. He splashed some water on his face and went directly to the General Manager's office where he tapped on the door.

        "Yo, come on in."

        Max opened the door and entered. The new owner and general manager was sitting before the main computer terminal wearing faded jeans and a scruffy, plaid flannel shirt. He was checking the emails.

        "Hey, Max. Want a snack?"

        Michael offered Max an open bag of Cheesies. He grabbed some himself and washed it down with a swig of Wintergreen Scope.

        "Thanks. How are things?"

        "All ready and raring to go for the big reopening tomorrow."

        Michael turned around and looked Max in the eyes.

        "On one side, I'm really pumped. I've never had an opportunity like this before. Hell, I never had any opportunities at all. All of a sudden, I have my own home and my own business, thanks to Ray. On the other hand, I'm scared of fucking things up, y'know?"

        Max nodded with the full experience of a 17 year old. "Yeah! I hear you, man. Responsibility is scary."

        "Parts of it can be fun. I love the idea that you are going to work for me now."

        Max tried to look relieved, "You mean I can keep my old job?" Max hadn't had any real doubts on that score.

        "Sure thing. Be here for the opening tomorrow. I've hired the girls from the restaurant to serve the hors-d'oevres, I'm going to have The Whits play and I've redone a lot of the basic displays."

        Michael paused and licked his lips. This next bit would be difficult but worth it if he could keep a straight face.

        "I've had the tour guides uniforms specially dry-cleaned."

        Max went white, then red.

        "You're going to make me still wear that fucking ELVIS SUIT!"

        "Hey, remember Ray picked out that suit just for you. I can't really afford to make up brand-new costumes for everyone before we open. Besides, I got a couple of new things to go with it."

        Michael opened a box at his feet and pulled out two *things* that resembled roadkill.

        "What the hell are those?" Max asked.

        "Your sideburns, of course. And here is a pair of sunglasses... Oh! Before I forget, your new name tag."

        Michael piled all of the costume into Max's arms and then with a flourish pulled out a name tag. The name tag did not say Max, it simply stated, "THE KING", in cursive.

        "Michael, I'm going to fucking kill you, man."

        Michael hid his snickers. "Maybe later, Fearless Leader, but if you want to be working here tomorrow night you damn well wear what I tell you to wear. Go try the things on."

        Max was furious and embarrassed. He felt like walking out then and there but he could use the extra cash. He grabbed the stuff and slammed the door behind him.

        He could sense Michael's malicious glee at the situation.

        But then the humor of the situation got to him. He had figured out how to fuck with Michael's head.

        The Elvis costume was designed (badly) to fit over Max's clothes (poorly). The stones were dull and scratched. The material was some sort of synthetic that was supposed to look like silk but looked like a synthetic designed to look like silk.

        Max stripped nude. He hung up all of his clothes in the locker, even his underwear, then pulled on the godawful jumpsuit. He remembered all the stuff he had ever seen his sister do with clothing.

        First, he tightened the material so that it caressed every nook and bump on his body. Max damn well spent enough time body-building that it was a shame to hide it all the time. Then, he went to work on the sequins and artificial rhinestones- a slight manipulation of the refractive index and they sparkled like diamonds. He changed the dingy light-gray of the overalls to a moonlight -gleaming satin sheen.

        With a second of concentration, and a flip of his hand, Max had a full pompadour. He readjusted the sideburns and pulled his own pair of Pornstar sunglasses out his knapsack.

        He practiced a few sneers in the mirror, looked himself over and decided that he looked great. Just one last thing to 'upsize' before giving Michael the grand effect.

        Max closed his eyes and remembered back to grappling with the Valenti boy on the wrestling team. He did find some ironic amusement that he had dealt with THAT situation by imagining himself at work.

        Max was ready to screw with Michael's mind. He went into the office where Michael was pretending to ignore him and struck a pose.

        "How does this look?" Max said meekly.

        Michael turned around to tease Max some more. His jaw hit the floor, followed by a half cup of drool.

        After a couple of seconds, Michael managed to stammer out, "I think you look so fucking HOT!"

        Max thought, "Gotcha!" He said, "C'mere and have a closer look at what I did with the material."

        Michael got out of his chair with a touch of discomfort. He walked over to Max.

        Max said, "I've noticed that the zipper goes all the way down.", he did a couple of Elvis-pelvic-thrusts just in case Michael hadn't caught on. That sufficed. Michael dropped to his knees.

        Max looked down at Michael and ruffled his hair. 'That's exactly where you belong, my friend, kneeling in front of your King'.

        He and Michael had been playing around since they were little. But it had never been as ... intense as this. Hell, he and Michael had always touched each other like they were a pair of china dolls. This time Michael was being rough as he gagged and choked on Max's dick. His fingers dug into Max's butt tight enough to leave bruise marks. Max had never felt so turned on.

        Max took a hold of Michael's shirt and focused a little on the seams. He ripped it off of Michael's torso.

        "MAX! That was my favorite...."

        Max grabbed Michael by the mullet and yanked him to his feet. He kissed Michael, hard. The two young men bit at each other's tongues. They could taste the mouthwash and blood in each other's mouths. Max twisted Michael's nipple so hard that a shock of pain ran through Michael like electricity.

        The young aliens' psychic abilities flared. They could feel each other's perceptions like a radio station between two cities, the sensations within one's own body fading out as the volume from the other rose.

        Max never knew whether the image of Alex' strip-away pants came from him or from Michael. He PULLED on Michael's pants with his hands and his will then threw the shredded denim into a corner.

        Michael shivered, dressed in nothing but white cotton briefs, sport socks and sports shoes. A drop of orange pre-cum stained the front of his briefs.

        Max grabbed Michael by the dick and led him out of the office, like a tethered bull, to the Hall of Mirrors display.

        Michael and Max could see a myriad of reflections surrounding them. They could see each and every angle like a Picasso painting. Everywhere they could see a sneering Elvis with his dick jutting out pushing a punk up against a wall. Michael could see himself bracing against a wall as an Elvis crouched behind him, licking his ass.

        Max stood up and curved his body into Michael from behind. He put one finger into Michael's mouth for Michael to suck on.

        He rasped in a low whisper. "OK, Mike. This is the decision point. You can stop me, right now. Hell, scream or shout or say 'No' or fire me, right now. Because, if you don't, I'm going to fuck you raw. And once I start fucking your ass, I'm not going to stop. Well?"

        Michael growled and bit down onto Max' finger, hard.

        Max understood Michael's 'yes'.

        They were both surprised to feel that penetration hurt Max almost as much as it did Michael. Max grunted as Michael squeezed his dick in a vice grip. But for both of them, the pleasure outweighed the pain. Hell, the excitement that the pain lent made the pleasure a lot more intense.

        Max hammered into Michael. Drops of sweat ran down his face and dripped on Michael's ass to mix with his sweat. Michael felt waves of intensity, even he couldn't label them as either ecstasy or hurt, tear through his body.

        All around them, they could see what they were doing from every angle; the blood running down Michael's chin, the sweat delineating Max's butt, the naked bodies glued together by a thin layer of sequined satin and the sneer melting into an absolute openness.

        Michael arched his back as he spurted his orange jelly against the mirror. Max felt the tightness of the Elvis suit tight up behind his balls and the spasms in Michael's ass. That too, was sufficient. He dug his fingers into Michael's shoulders as he shot.

        Michael felt like fainting. When Max pulled out of his ass, he turned around and said, "Intense."

        Max didn't know what to say, for once, so being Max he scooped Michael up in his arms and carried Michael up to his apartment.

        Inside, he dropped Michael to his feet and asked, "shower?"

        Michael swayed for a sec, "Sure. Let me get some towels and a change of clothes first. You ruined my best outfit, bastard."

        He walked over to his closet and yanked it open. Half of the closet was filled with grey-green vests. Michael tossed one of them to Max.

        The vest was embroidered; on the left side the stitching read, "Ray Iberg Memorial UFO Museum" and on the right side it read, "Max Evans."

        "What the hell is this?"

        "Your new uniform, of course. Worn over your regular clothes, natch." Michael turned back to Max, painfully, "You didn't think I'd actually dress my best friend like a laughing-stock, did you?"

        "Asshole!" Max growled. He grabbed Michael by the balls and squeezed, not quite gently. Michael yelped.

        Max said, "We're going to have to fix one thing with this suit, y'know."

        "What's that?"

        "We need a zipper in back. Y'know, for when you dress up like James Dean."

        Max peeled off the suit and hung it up in Michael's closet.

        "Let's go have that shower now."

        The End

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