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Reply to Criss or visit her websitePosted to the WBSlash mailing list March 11, 2001
Author: Criss Moody, email@example.com
Date: March 11th, 2001
Disclaimer: I own nothing but a case of caffeine jitters and a stuffed lion.
Distribution: If you like, ask for it. And please, post to any list where this is acceptable.
Spoilers for Viva Las Vegas
Summary: An interlude from the Las Vegas ep of Roswell, second season. Takes place during the ep, near the end when the boys are alone in the hotel suite.
Notes: Again, blame Charles. He asked. And out of great love for my Charles, I put aside my distaste of Roswell slash, and wrote this.
Feedback: Gods, yes, it's appreciated and replied to.
I can't believe that he could hurt me this much.
What are we? I want to understand. I need to dissect that, pull apart the pieces and put them back together. Without the separation, I can't understand the whole.
Are we friends? Comrades? Master and soldier? Dominator and dominated?
Funny. That he could ever be dominated. I wonder if in our former lives, I ever dominated him.
Thoughts like that bring a hot flush to my groin, and I ruthlessly cool them with temperate visions of Liz: over flowers with a water can, graceful smile falling on my face; child in her arms, dark hair dark eyes; begging to be fucked. Good, yes. Calm, yes. Ordinary, yes.
As second-in-command, he served me.
Because I dream, I know he knelt before me, from birth mine to command, mine to send to death, mine to fuck.
The male of the species wants to fuck, to rut with something. Preferably with a fertile female who will continue the species, but any hole in an emergency will do. Does it make them gay? Does it make them queers?
As I turn to him, I think he'll slap me. I'm in his face and we're ready to do something.
Drastic. Deadly. Permanent.
But we're too human for deadly, and too cowardly for permanent.
Drastic it is.
His lips are hot and thin, opening fast and wide over mine. In seconds, I've got my hands in his shirt, stripping him down to thin white cotton. His perked nipples tent the spare fabric, giving me something to hold, to pull at while I suckle his mouth. Teeth, tongue, silky wet of the inside cheek and all the purple blue skin between, and I realize he tastes familiar.
Like heat when I expected cold. Like hate when I wanted love. Radical, revolutionary.
Fallen to the ground, his knee rides up between my thighs. I gasp; he knows just where to direct the pressure of his knee, leaving my hard-on little room to grow. Bam, bam, crackles of heat shoot down my spine and I'm gone into the little place I go when Liz licks her lips in front of me ((they'd look so good around my dick)) but Michael brings me back with a slap to my face.
Not the time to think of her.
He throws himself back into the kiss. Our teeth clack, pain folded into blossoming pain. ((it's pleasure, don't you know it?))
Fall, down into the well of blossoming agony I didn't know existed but now I never want to leave. Feel his hands brush down my chest, callused skin I can feel through the polo shirt I wear. Startling. I'm still clothed and somewhere along the line he lost his shirt and his pants dip down to his hips.
Bones that jut against my hands, introducing themselves bravely to my hand. I think my hand were meant for other things, but now they're framing Michael's cock, jutting steel lying against my interlaced fingers.
Dry lips against silk skin, brushing, scraping rough dry ridges where I forgot to use lip balm against the wild heat of Michael. Reverence in my kiss. Forget the human stigma. I pray before this altar of meat and bone, begging forgiveness for my transgression.
He will forgive.
Seconds pass before I can breathe, but Michael up and clothed and pacing out the door before I can open my mouth. It's hot in here, and I run my hands along the carpet, hissing at the static electricity that runs up my arms.
I'm glad he left. I'm glad we didn't try to stumble through macho human assurances of our heterosexuality.
This wasn't about that.
I think, maybe, it was about healing.
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