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Triad, Part Seven

Reply to Gale

Posted to the Roswell Slash list Sept 15,2000

TITLE: Triad (7/7)
AUTHOR: Gale Dumont
EMAIL:'m fully prepared for flames on this one.
DISCLAIMER: The WB would never do anything this much fun with them. Thank God for fanfic, huh?
SUMMARY: Liz and Max and Michael. Oh my.
RATING: NC-17. Hoo boy, is it ever.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Inspired, at least in part, by Sandy's "An Unlikely Trio", as well as a few nasty thoughts Miranda put in my head and my occasional love of UC. Also, this isn't related to any of my other stories. Purely a one-shot. (As if I could top this. Shyeah.)
SOUNDTRACK: "Addicted" by Faithless, Janet Jackson's "Velvet Rope" album (especially "Go Deep", "I Get So Lonely", "Got 'Till It's Gone" and "Rope Burn").
HUGS GO OUT TO: Miranda, as ever, who pre-read most of this for me. Top *this*, sis.

Isabel pounded on the door. "Michael, open up! Christ, it's almost eight. Even *you* couldn't still be sleeping --"

But maybe he wasn't sleeping. Maybe they'd found out that Pierce wasn't Pierce and gone after the easiest target. Not happening. No one was ever going to hurt one of her brothers again. No one.

The door burst inward with no trouble. Isabel made a mental note to replace it and sprinted toward the bedroom, "MICHAEL!" bursting from her mouth before she was truly aware of it.

And froze.

Sure enough, there was Michael, safe and sound and -- for the most part -- unharmed. His throat and upper chest were covered in teethmarks and mouth-shaped bruises, but she doubted those were really painful.

On the other side of the bed was Liz, fast asleep and just as naked as Michael. Finger-shaped bruises dotted her hips and upper thighs, and there was a ragged, dark red bite on the join of throat and shoulder. Smaller bites formed an almost-pattern along her sides and stomach. A smile touched her lips.

And stretched between the two of them like a bridge was Max. Her dear, sweet, loving brother -- who now looked like the only survivor of an orgy, and *that* was by the narrowest of margins. Scratches marred his shoulders; his nipples had been sucked until they stood out against the honey-gold of his skin. Michael's head rested companionably against the low edge of his stomach, scant inches from his cock. One hand was flung over the edge of the bed; the other was embedded between Liz's thighs.

Isabel sucked in a deep breath and squeezed her eyes shut. She was dreaming. Yes. She'd been watching Sex and the City and had fallen asleep. This wasn't really happening. She was on the couch, and Max was in the kitchen, not in Michael's bed as part of a living tableaux to hedonism. Liz was at home, and Michael was out with Maria. They were not here, sprawled together like lovers, and she was not here, and Max was not here, and Christ was it warm in here or was it just them?

Isabel slapped her face lightly. /Idiot. It's just a dream. Just a dream. Not real. Go home and sleep it off./

Or, better yet, go to Alex's and ride him until he collapsed.

Slowly, trying not to make any noise, Isabel backed out of Michael's bedroom and out of the apartment proper, then ran for the street.

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