Blame the Moon
by EmilyluvsRoswell

Disclaimer: I own nothing. And if Katims ever sees this, I never will…
Category: Liz and Max
Summary: A full moon in Roswell. Read the rest and see.
Spoilers: I wish….
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: Set during the summer between junior and senior year. Max and Liz have only recently become sexually active. Season two never happened.

* * * * *

There's a full moon tonight. I can see it through my window, hanging low in the night sky, giving my bedroom an eerie silver glow and bringing to mind luminous handprints and v-shaped constellations. Lying in bed, basking in this otherworldly light, it is easy to understand where the myths and stories came from - Artemis and her silver chariot, the man in the moon, the idea that madness stemmed from moonlight. The moon seems to hold a kind of magic, brightening the paths for those who cannot walk by day, guiding the way for lovers bound to meet in secret. There is an element of romance, of mystery, inherent in its shining curves and lustrous surface.

Of course, I know the truth - the facts behind the fantasy, the science behind the magic. For all of its mystery, the moon is merely a hunk of rock that orbits the earth. It is visible in phases, based on its alignment, through the reflected light of the sun. The surface is rocky and dotted with enormous craters - not Swiss cheese. Yet, I see magic in the reality, as well. The moon affects the tides, though that matters little in Roswell. But I have heard my mother blame erratic drivers on the full moon, and my father's occasional moodiness - Three Dog Night seem to get more play time in the café during certain parts of the lunar cycle. And lately there has been something else - something inside of me that reacts to the swelling moon. I feel it calling to me, luring me out of my sensible shell, making me reckless. I long for something bigger, bolder. I ache…

I wonder if he feels it too. If the moon causes something to stir in his soul, makes him want more than his rational mind says is safe, pushes him to break through, ignore limits, shatter boundaries. Or if it is just me - my restless spirit, my need, my desire. Heightened senses make every nerve in my body scream. Everything seems to be… more. The sheets rustling against my skin, the quiet buzz of the occasional car passing below, the scent of roses from my evening bath - everything lingers, repeats, echoes. The restlessness grows until my bones tingle beneath muscles stretched too far, and I stare at the sphere in the sky and feel my vision dim.

He is coming. Though he has yet to come into view, I can hear him, his footsteps quick and light as he climbs the fire escape. I do not know what brought him, nor will I ask. It is enough that he is here.

* * * * *

She is sitting up in bed, her eyes reflecting the moonlight as he opens the window and swings over the ledge. His movements silent as the shadows, he makes his way across the floor, his own eyes pinned to hers, their amber depths glowing embers in the darkened room. She can see the barely restrained need, the lust that overrides the softer feelings - his desire, his love - and her breath catches.

"Max, the door," she whispers, a final coherent thought as he reaches for her.

With the grace of a cat, he changes direction mid-stride. Though his body blocks her view, she hears the click of the lock cut through the silence. And then he is coming toward her again, stripping off his shirt, muscles flexing as he tosses it to the floor. His shoes hit the ground, two dull thuds reverberating even as he comes down on the bed beside her, clad only in jeans riding low on his hips. He spears his fingers through her hair and brings his mouth down over hers, a moan sounding deep in his throat. The kiss is hungry, probing, demanding, his tongue sweeping over hers, his teeth nipping at her lips. Helpless beneath his onslaught, she opens her mouth, drowning in the sensations that ripple through her body, her own tongue questing, warring with his as he plunders, withdraws, then advances again.


He is dying. Every nerve in his body is humming as he drags his mouth over her jaw, bathing her skin in hot, wet kisses. His fingers trail down her sides, tracing her ribs, finding the hem of the shirt she wears - one of his - and pulling it up over her smooth skin, feeling her arms reaching up automatically, barely lifting his mouth from her neck as he tugs the fabric higher, higher, until finally there is a flutter of silky dark hair and the shirt goes flying. His teeth scrape over her shoulder, his hands drop to her breasts, his fingers homing in on her nipples, already tightened into peaks. Pinching lightly, he hears her gasp and smiles against her heated skin before returning to his task. He is aware of her hands in his hair, her fingers stroking the nape of his neck, her breathy moans as he kisses his way south - open-mouthed kisses over her collarbone and the top of each breast, down and around and under before he closes his mouth on one red nipple and sucks hard, his tongue circling the pointy nub, his teeth teasing the tip mercilessly until she arches up against him and bites down on her fist to keep from crying out. Pulling back abruptly, he blows gently on the taut, wet nipple, watching as she trembles, then looks up to find her eyes on him - glassy and filled with longing. He smiles, then moves to the other breast, biting down on her nipple and tugging lightly before closing his lips over her. He cannot get enough of her - her taste, her feel, her scent. Inhaling, he can sense her readying, her body softening, opening for him.

He kneels over her, sucking at her breast, his hands roaming over her stomach and hips, pulling down the scrap of black lace that is her only covering. Her panties are drenched with the evidence of her desire and he feels his own desire kick higher in response. He slides slowly down her body, running his tongue between her breasts, down to her navel, feeling her muscles contract violently under the teasing contact. Her hips buck beneath him and he runs his hands down her thighs in long, firm strokes, urging them apart, spreading her wide. There is an instant when she tenses, a ripple of fear traveling through her body, and then he drops his head, his tongue plunging inside of her, lapping at her wetness, his strong hands holding her captive. He slips a finger inside of her - then a second - as his mouth retreats to her clit, licking and sucking. Again she tenses, but no longer in fear. Her fingers twine in his hair, pulling him closer. A moan that resembles his name reaches his ears and she shudders beneath him, her muscles spasming, clenching hard around his fingers as she rains down on his hand.


She is dying. Even as her tremors slow, she reaches for him, pulling him up and over her, dragging him close and capturing his mouth with hers. She can taste herself on his lips, her own sweetness mingled with his familiar spiciness. Though she has only just climaxed, she can feel the tension building again, the aching emptiness that screams to be filled. Her body is calling for him, demanding, needy. She rakes her hands over his back, feeling the warmth of his muscles, then down, slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans to discover he wears nothing beneath them. A spike of lust jolts her and she arches her hips against his, feeling his impossible hardness through the denim that separates them. He rolls to one side and her fingers go to work, the sound of the zipper loud only in relation to their ragged breathing.

He rises and pulls the jeans off, then comes down over her, balancing his weight on his elbows, his hips over hers. Looking into his eyes is like looking into the sun - all fiery passion and unfathomable heat. His erection presses against her and she spreads her legs wider, angling up, holding him tightly, wrapping her legs around his waist as he enters her. He drives home with a single stroke, causing her to gasp. She feels the breath leave her body as he fills her, stretching her. His mouth comes down on hers, devouring, demanding, and she groans. Then he is moving, his hips pistoning, plunging, each stoke bringing him deeper. OhGodohGodohGod - no loving, gentle, attentive love making is this. This is something else, something more. It is hot and desperate - earthy - elemental. There is a rawness, a brutality. It is primitive.

She arches against him, every nerve on fire, sweat pooling between her breasts. He is taking her somewhere they have never been - higher, faster, harder. They are flying and she never wants to land. She feels it starting, her muscles begin to tighten over him, and she screams.


He has lost all control. There is no breath for whispered words of love. His body has taken over, his need overpowering his best intentions. Plunging into her, over and over, all he knows is heat, incredible heat - her sheath impossibly tight around him - driving him on. His heart pounds, the blood roars through his head, his hips connect, the slap of flesh on flesh rings in his ears. He clutches her to his chest, his fingers gripping her hips, her back, sweat making her skin slick beneath him. He stares into her eyes, feels her muscles contract and knows… Swooping down, he takes her mouth, swallowing her scream as she convulses, her body clamping down on his cock and dragging him over the edge. His own cry mingles with hers as he pumps relentlessly into her, shaking with the power of his climax.


He shifts to one side, easing his weight off of her, but keeping her locked in the circle of his arms. Their foreheads touch, their breaths mingle. They are both exhausted. Her eyes are closed and his remain focused on her face, waiting for his heart to slow so he can speak. Before it does, her eyes drift open and she smiles - a sleepy, knowing, contented smile that shoots straight to his heart and has it speeding up again.

"Are you all right?" he asks finally.

She traces the crease between his brows - the one that comes when he frowns, when he worries - with a gentle finger. "Don't I look all right?" she teases.

"I didn't… hurt you, did I?"

"No. Of course not," she promises. She shifts, pressing her lips against his, the kiss reassuring, loving.

When she pulls away, the crease is still there. "I don't know what happened. I just needed you so badly," he whispers.

She hears the self-recrimination in his voice. "Max, stop." She wraps her arms around him and rests her head on his chest, nuzzling gently. "It was the same for me. I was lying here, wanting you. Aching for you. And it was… amazing," she says softly.

He feels her breath ripple over his skin, her hair spilling like a silken waterfall over his chest. Stroking her head, he feels her relaxing against him, her muscles lax, her body content. He wonders what came over him - what came over them - to bring them to such a fevered pitch. Looking down, he smiles, admiring how the moonlight illuminates her velvety skin, revealing every smooth curve and gentle slope of her figure as she curls up against him. Her chest rises and falls in even breaths - she is asleep. Blinking, he feels suddenly languorous, his limbs heavy. Careful not to disturb her, he reaches down and pulls up the covers, allowing the sheet to billow lightly before it floats down over them. His eyes drift closed, and he shifts closer to Liz as sleep reaches out to claim him.

* * * * *

Max once told me that kissing Tess made him feel something different about himself. That there was a part of himself he didn't know - and didn't like. The alien part. It was as if something was awakening inside of him - something instinctive and primal, something he didn't want to face. Of course, much of what he felt with Tess was a result of her mind games, but I still believe there is another side to Max - a part of him he denies and keeps hidden. And it has nothing to do with his being an alien. In fact, it is completely human.

There is a part of all of us - humans, I mean - that goes back to the beginning, to the earliest days of evolution. We have moments of pure instinct, flashes of intuition, kicks of adrenaline when we sense danger is near. And we do, on occasion, lose control. Even the most rational of us. We get angry, hit things, scream and yell. Or we have down and dirty sex because our hormones are raging and we can't see our way clear of the lust that heats our blood to a boil. Regardless of the alien blood swimming through his veins, Max shares that human inheritance, for better or for worse. It is bred into his bones, his DNA. It's not something he can escape. Refusing to lose control, to accept who he really is, well… it's like trying to hold back the tide. You can try, but eventually the tide will break free and the waves will crash against the shore. The only thing you can do is hold on for the ride. And maybe blame it on the moon.