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Sweet Fix of a Daydream
Reply to Scynneh or visit her websitePosted to the RoswellSlash mailing list June 14, 2001
Title: Sweet fix of a daydream (of a boy) 1/1
Disclaimer: And while I stretch lazily, Sean and Michael try and convince me about the merits of fold-down car seats.
Feedback: All right people, I know that you're out there, tell me how it made you feel. Pretend that we have a real relationship- I write a story and you tell me what you thought about it.
Rating: R, for sexual goings-on
Author's Notes: This is a sort-of series about Michael and Sean. The title is from the Fiona Apple song 'Paper Bag'.
A fry cook was a rare commodity in a small town, and Sean wondered if that knowledge influenced Michael to infrequently exercise his authority.
Liking someone's sweat-dappled neck was one thing, but it was a new terror for that person to turn easily and fleetingly show that endearing charm the, as quick as could be, there was no gentility, just the brute, blunt magnetism that made him someone to be considered.
There was some quality about Michael could only be described as 'universal.' Corny and 'been there a thousand times' he thinks, but that poor, white, apparently dull boy has another side to him, one that only a few get to see, and despite all the sense that he has been given, he wants that.
There was nothing between them; not an emotion real or healthy, and Sean didn't care. He knew what their lives were like- he wanted to patch up the Quilted goddess and make her forget that Max had ever touched her flesh.
Michael knew what he was thinking; that was evident from the way he wiped his hands off meticulously, acting as though he weren't following Sean's musings directly, with no stops off at tact.
"No matter which place I go to avoid, there they are," Sean noted, glaring at the one person who he would like to subject to a concrete bath.
"So what if they're everywhere, microbes are everywhere too."
"Yeah, but they don't wear cheap knockoffs of fashion."
"They might, how good is your vision?"
More glimpses of a mind that leapt over potholes too often visited by the young who wanted to fit into whatever mold was accepted for that week.
The next move took Sean by surprise; Michael tossed the rag he'd used for his hands in the 'dirty' bin and walked towards the stockroom, without looking back, plainly sure that Sean would follow him. That was inevitable, and Sean had to snort to himself- Lizzie would never consider that boredom lead to more interesting paths than brooding on missed chances.
The lights were off. And a box was positioned so that it impacted with Sean's kneecap. He swore, and Michael found the pull for the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Rubbing the smarting joint, the blond glared at his companion.
"Couldn't have warned me."
"Forgot." No remorse there. Then, as an afterward, "You twitched."
"Involuntary muscle contraction. Normal for an energetic male forced to remain stationary, and then shown into a dark room."
"You're not mimicking paper products idjit."
"Says the guy who's not a tree."
"Yeah, safer getting your food from the dirt, shedding leaves, but this'd be more fun," fingers pulled lightly at the shoulder of his t-shirt, and Sean had to admire the bravery that made those hands go past the 'friendly zone' of biceps to clasp his wrist firmly, and then pull him forward.
Sean took the touches as a sign that he could reciprocate the explorations, and bypassed that long, lean back to find the waistband of khaki pants some indescribable gray-ish shade that he had never seen before. Fingers under the cloth revealed something he hadn't expected, and he pulled away inches enough to look Michael in the eye.
Michael had a calm 'I am an enigmatic loner wearing absolutely no underwear and if you're smart, you will not so much as comment, but instead make a polite noise and go along with it' look on. Sean decided that because Guerin didn't bitch and moan like Max had been doing lately, he was able to get his opinion across with expressions, which he did really well, and followed the unspoken directive.
He would not have expected it of Michael- to be so good at this. He appeared so mundane, but there was more underneath those loose shirts, and he wasn't just talking about the muscles he could feel.
He wanted to say something about the very soft backs of Michael's hands, and how he wouldn't mind them touching his face, but this isn't a date, or drunken experimentation, consciousness put down certain rules, and he didn't want to be the one to violate them first.
But Michael didn't seem to have read the same handbook, one hand took Sean's wandering fingers and deposited them in front, giving them fabric to grip, and then lips found Sean's elbow on the way down, and breathing would be good now-but that required more brain cells than he had as his zipper was undone, the metal teeth nipping his cock, and *zap* went another necessary connection as his underwear was peeled back. And then wet-heat, and, he didn't know that a mouth could do that - something to research, and later, because the tongue had joined in. Balance was extinct, and other things brought out as the slippery fingers painted his hips with sweat and he lost control at the confident prodding and stroke down his cock, and to his balls, then right there, to Never Been Touched but Considered Often, and then he tried to choke Michael without meaning to. Yet Michael handled it, the gag reflex had also been neglected when he was taught this, by whomever had been lucky and wise enough to do so, and when Sean came, it was swallowed, he was cleaned, and tucked away, and knowing eyes met his for an instant before Michael nodded once, a little, and walked out, back to the hurry of customers and uncooked meat.
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