The Road Less Traveled By by Dmetri

Summary: What if Michael had chosen a different path? Will contain slash and dark themes
Categories: David, Michael Emerson
Characters: Alan Frog, David, Dwayne, Edgar Frog, Laddie, Marko, Max, Michael Emerson, OC: Male, Paul, Star
Genres: Supernatural
Pairing(s): David/Michael
Warnings: Adult Themes, Blood play, Character Death, Mild Violence, Slash (male/male parings), Smut (graphic sex scenes)
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 5 Completed: No Word count: 6186 Read: 7946 Published: 23 Aug 2008 Updated: 16 Feb 2009
Story Notes:
Disclaimer; I don’t own a thing, unfortunately. It all belongs to other, far more talented dudes. AU, reworking of an incredibly old fic, “When The Path Diverts”. Will contain slash, dark themes, blood and violence. You’ve been warned. Title taken from a Robert Frost poem.

1. Part One by Dmetri

2. Part Two by Dmetri

3. Part Three by Dmetri

4. Part Four by Dmetri

5. Part Five by Dmetri


Part One by Dmetri

Author's Notes:
What if Michael had chosen a different path?
The Road Less Traveled By

Summary; What if Michael had chosen a different path?

Part One;

Blood drips unheeded down a bound form, flesh torn, the noose around his neck loose and flexible and soaked in blood, more for show than actual strangulation, though no breath comes from those cold, dead parted lips. Some might say that Death is serene. Indeed, for when the spirit has left the body and the heart has ceased to beat, it is then that the body is naught but a shell of the corpse’s former self.

For those that reside in Santa Carla, the witching hour is the most dangerous. Here there are hunters that prowl in the darkness, whether they be human or otherwise. Here the blood flows as freely as the drugs and the alcohol, with the heady beat of music pounding beneath the surface. Here, those like the Lost Boys are in their element, senses honed to the taut, flushed bodies of youths who flaunt their half naked bodies upon the sands, their skin encrusted with sea salt. This is their food, their life, the very thing that the vampires live for; the thrill and the chase, and the final rush of copper on the tongue.

Yes, here in Santa Carla, those that venture out at night are aware of the dangers, the hazards. And they take that risk. Their young do whatever they so wish, thinking that the creatures of the night are naught but a fairy tale, whilst their wizened elders are wary and cautious.

It’s a pity that the Emerson’s don’t realise their place in the scheme of things.

- - - - - - - - - - -


Amidst the smoke, Michael lounges, both in body and in mind. He’s as languid as can be, his grey eyes dull as if in a stupor, though only thanks to the half smoked joint between his lips. Courtesy of Paul, of course, who is too busy sprawling on the lip of the fountain in the cave, poking and prodding at a decidedly sleepy looking Laddie.

Funny how one can feel so at home like this, yeah?

“So, Mikey... how’d you like us?” The blond bombshell intones, voice low and husky thanks to the drugs in his system. Leaning his head against the cool stone, Paul can only grin manically, eyes bright, staring at Michael as if he’s looking right through him. And he might as well be, but Michael doesn’t really care. Michael’s floating.

“Hm?” Paul’s voice sounds too airy for Michael to comprehend.

“How’d you like us?” The voice is much closer than the teenager anticipates, turning his head a mere hairs breath away before his cheek brushes Pauls own, the blonds’ eyes practically searing with mirth. “Do you like us enough to want to stay, huh Mikey?”

Hell, if the wine and the smokes keep flowing, Michael will gladly stay here forever.

“Maybe,” he slurs, head tipped back, blowing out a stream of smoke, “maybe not.”

A soft snort of amusement and Paul cocks his head to one side. “Indecision, nice. I like that, s’cool.”

The music blares through the cave, causing Michael to sink further and further into pleasant delirium. It’s everything; it’s Dwayne on his skateboard, Marko with his birds. It’s Paul with the rock box, fiddling between stations, and it’s David, standing naught but a few feet away with such an intense look in his eyes that it makes Michael want to bare his throat in a strange indication of submission.

The joint is taken from his hand by him, by David, whose pale lips part and takes a drag, and pauses before releasing the fragrant smoke in a soft, cotton wool stream. That’s what Michael’s brain feels like; cotton wool, all soft and fluffy on the inside, easy to pick apart at the seams.

David; the self proclaimed leader of the pack, merely withholds the joint from the boy-childs’ grasping fingers, lips twitching into a smirk that is at once callous and bewitching. “Do you like us, Michael?” He repeats Paul’s earlier question, and Michael frowns, as if he’s finding it suddenly difficult to answer such a simple thing. But then, David is so very enthralling, the warm presence of his body beside him, enshrouded in black, and Michael’s hand drops to the side, the joint momentarily forgotten.

As if sensing that he now has his guests full attention David passes Michael the bottle once more.

The wine is life; like nothing he’s ever tasted. It’s a wonder how it was replenished so quickly, for mere minutes ago he was tasting the delicious concoction for the first time, drinking down it’s oddly bitter taste... but finding it good. It stains his lips, slickens them and clouds his brain even more, until all that Michael Emerson can see is David’s eyes; cool and knowledgeable and primal.

Unbidden, his heart thumps wildly in his chest, and he swallows down a large mouthful of the wine to calm it.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

David leans in, close enough to touch, close enough to share the very oxygen between them. “Come with us,” he murmurs, the words as intense at that gaze, with so much heat. So much heat.

Odd, how Michael can trust David like this. His fogged brain has pushed aside the confrontation earlier, the beginnings of the brawl, and over what? A girl?

What girl?

Starr is forgotten, the gypsy girl curled upon the bed and watching the proceedings with fearful eyes. But Michael doesn’t see the pretty girl he’d glimpsed on the Boardwalk. He doesn’t see the fear and the worry and the knowing in her eyes, for he doesn’t care. Michael has eyes right only for David, close enough to feel his heat.

“Come with us, Michael.”

And who is Michael to say no?

Part Two by Dmetri

Author's Notes:
Michael gets a little gift courtesy of the Boys, and there's a new guy in town... but what's he up to? Contains character death.
The Road Less Traveled By


Summary; What if Michael had chosen a different path?

Part Two;

The night is as cool as a kiss, sweet with the scent of candy floss and bonfire smoke. Michael is calm, not as drugged and drowsy as before, merely revelling in the wind as it caresses his face with its fingers. The Lost Boys leave their bikes along the ride of a dune, out of sight and out of mind, away from the hustle and bustle of the Boardwalk, though the faint sound of carousel music is in the air.

David and Marko are a presence at his back, herding him forward along the sand, feet sinking into the softness like the heady scent in the air is sinking into his very pores, making him feel strangely alert. Michael Emerson can feel the steady beat washing through him, the meaty organ that pumps blood around the body, though he’s clueless as to whether he is hearing the languid beat of his own heart, or someone else’s.

“This is for you, Mikey!” Paul is exuberant, all wide smiles and moving hands, eyes bright in a way that is decidedly feral. “We got ya a little gift!”

That scent... sharp and distinct, and his heart quickens in his chest, threatening to burst forth at any moment. Metallic and heady and inviting, and the sight that greets Michael’s eyes is enough to give him pause, for his very body freezes, mesmerised.

Struggling for breath, hands scrabbling intently at the rope around his wrists... is a man. The blood runs in gentle rivulets down the mans arms, softly pudgy, tough, beginning to show age. The suit is torn into thick strips of bloodstained black and white, the normally immaculate hair and bland expression pulled and twisted into some semblance of terror. Dad. Lance Emerson’s eyes bug out of his head, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, unable to voice his fear.

He stinks of terror.

But all Michael can see is the blood.

A golden film is over his eyes, a deep primal instinct rearing its great ugly head and whispering in his ears, so sensual, nudging, and urging. Take, it says, just take. Rip and tear and bite and feed. And the smell... oh the smell... it’s like someone has fucked with the receptors in his brain, and instead of feeling revulsion, all Michael wants to do is sink his teeth into such a treat, as if it is naught but a bowl of ice cream in front of him rather than a quivering semblance of a man.

Vaguely, it dawns on him that this man is his Dad. The abusive sonofabitch who forced them across to this stink hole of a coastal town, the man who’d made his Mom cry. What does Michael remember? The fighting, the tears, the bruises on the pale flesh of his Mom’s slender, bird-like limbs, and all of it just bubbles up inside him.

Anger. Hatred. Revenge.

The need to feed.

Michael never had had a good relationship with Lance. Those with like personalities always clash, or so they say, even if Michael would rather eat his own bike than admit that he and his Dad are alike. But right now, Michael isn’t exactly rational. Right now, Michael is sinking further and further into delirium, only aware enough to know that he is so very hungry and that his pack are pressed close to him... and are letting him take this kill for his own.

That’s all Michael needs before he sinks his teeth in deep.

The pulse beneath his lips flutters wildly, and the blood cascading into his mouth is full of the odd tang of adrenaline. But Lance’s terror only pumps the bitter, wonderful blood down Michael’s throat, and it’s nothing like he’s ever tasted before. Blood. Metallic and bitter and yet strangely sweet all at the same time, making him feel rejuvenated from the inside out. Lance struggles vainly against Michael, stubby hands pushing against his chest, but soon the fight goes out of him, allowing the newling vampire to suck at the bloody wound on the man’s throat like a suckling babe, lips and chin slickened with blood.

Slowly, gradually, Lance’s heart begins to slow, the meaty organ in his chest fluttering vainly, before stuttering harshly, body heaving, dead-as-a-doornail.

It slumps down onto the sand, a victim, and Michael feels drowsy, wiping the remaining blood off of his mouth with the back of his hand. Languid and with the taste of blood in his mouth, sliding thickly down his throat and into the core of his belly, where it begins to change him completely.

Cool hands grace his hot face, sliding through the slick-sticky mess. David. The animal in him is still there beneath the surface, its hunger sated, but it reacts in a way that both excites and unnerves him, sets his body ablaze.

“David.”

Michael’s voice is sand-paper rough, the needle sharp bone of his fangs accidentally knicking the side of his lip, drawing blood that intermingles with that of Michael’s poor, dead victim, and it’s that action which causes David’s eyes to become as feral and golden and primal as a beast. It’s the blood and the expression on Michael’s face, the scent of death and the underlying presence of something which wants to rip open Michaels chest and crawl inside, but will settle for burying into the crook of his neck.

It’s always about the blood.

Chest to chest and lips to lips, and a kiss which is nothing but lust, permeating the both of them until it’s all they know, until fingers arch into claws that want to do nothing but tear away the restriction of clothing, to fuck until the threat of the sun drives them home.

But for now, with David claiming Michael as his own, a kiss will just have to do.

- - - - - - - - - - -


On the outskirts of Santa Carla, there is a man. This man, enshrouded in darkness and avoiding the fluorescence of the street lamps, is of the sort that isn’t welcome in a town like this. A scar runs down the side of his face, eyes as black as coal, as he watches the night life, overlooking the town he has come to visit.

Gabriel is his name, and vampires are his game.

In the boot of his truck is Gabriel’s arsenal, kept under lock and key. A gun in its holster is hidden beneath the heavy fabric of his coat, a cigarette stuffed between his thin, scarred lips. At most, Gabriel -- which, as it happens, isn’t even his real name -- is around thirty two, though the battle scars adorning his entire body gives him an air of menace... and ups the estimation. The chain around his neck, long and silver, has gleaming, polished charms upon it; fangs.

But, of course, Gabriel isn’t here to socialise, and thus what the residents of Santa Carla think of him means absolutely nothing. To a seasoned hunter such as himself, the scent of the death surrounding this coastal town is a stench that just stays in his nostrils, causing a sneer to be stuck on his face.

Stubbing out his cigarette, Gabriel slides into the driver’s seat, shifts into gear, and drives, thinking only of his target, and his contacts.

After all, a hunter’s gotta do what a hunter’s gotta do.

Part Three by Dmetri

Author's Notes:
Gabriel indulges in a spot of hunting, and Michael is claimed.
The Road Less Traveled By

Summary; What if Michael had chosen a different path?

Part Three;

It’s funny, Gabriel muses with a crooked smile on his lips, how the residents of Santa Carla just seem to rationalise everything away as if it’s nothing but a trick of the mind. With the gruesome missing posters scattered around the boardwalk like a child’s broken toy, as tatty and discarded as the dead bodies of those very runaways, washed up on the sandy beach, distorted, bloodless and mutilated, it’s strange how these people can’t see what is staring them in the face, complete with golden eyes and a set of fangs. Once upon a time, Gabriel’s job caused a deep hatred to well up in his gut whenever he glimpsed these hapless victims, their bodies torn to pieces, such an act of rage that bile spills up his throat, tasting bitter in his mouth.

After some time, however, it has left him numb inside.

Revenge is the key, here.

As a small child, Gabriel had a home, parents. He had a brother, one born of the same womb mere minutes after he himself was born, screaming as he was brought into the world. A family that, whilst not exactly well off, had a roof over their head and food in their bellies, and a terrier that whined at their feet for scraps off the table.

Picturesque?

Not quite.

At ten, Gabriel and his brother came home to carnage. The stiff, cooling bodies of dear mum and dad were arranged so peacefully in their bed, blood soaking thick and sweet into the cream duvet, staining it red. What Gabriel remembers the clearest is the expressions on their faces; his mother, with eyes wide and glassy. No-one home. And his father, with blood streaming down his torso messily, his chest ripped open and a gaping hole where his heart used to be.

There’s always something that pushes a Hunter to his vengeance, and for Gabriel, it was the ruthless massacre of his family that clinched the deal. And thus, it’s no surprise that he finds himself here, a man of ill repute and with a reputation that causes other Hunters turn around and flee, in the place where it all started.

Santa Carla.

Home.

The night is oddly chill for the time of year, the salty spray of the sea cool and sticky on his scarred face. Gabriel is hunting his prey, the warmth of his weapon a secure weight in his hand, more of an extension of his very being than anything else.

His quarry, the undead, is unaware.

His quarry is naught but a hapless fledgling, young and stupid, one feeding messily on the still twitching form of a young girl, its face tucked into the crook of her neck with the soft slurping of a primal animal.

When the beast raises its head, eyes golden-feral and thick blood smeared across his chin, there is the thin, pulpy flesh of the girls throat stuck between his teeth. The growl that passes the vampires lips is low and husky, one of a deep seated hunger that will never be sated, a bottomless pit of evil, one that deserves to be skewered on the end of a stake.

Gabriel’s thin lips twist into a sneer.

Vampires. Disgusting.

“Poor baby... did I disturb your meal?” He mocks, bony fingers tightening around the stake until his knuckles are white, taut with tension. “So sorry... but here... let me treat you to dessert, huh?” The sickly-sweet scent of blood is as bitter as vomit to Gabriels senses, and such carnage is something that even a seasoned hunter will never, ever forget. The image of that girls face, pulled into a twisted semblance of agony, is burned into his very retinas.

The vampire pauses, half mad with bloodlust.

Funny, Gabriel never gets much satisfaction from slaughtering the baby ones. Really, they’re no fun at all.

His dagger -- and what a pretty piece of weaponry it is, crafted with such love and care – slices across the rough flesh of his forearm, as if to entice his prey to come closer, to lose that fine thread of control. Crimson rivulets stream down the pale skin, and the fledglings nostrils flare, catching the scent. “C’mon you sonofabitch... you know you wanna.”

This thing... doesn’t have a pack. This beast in front of Gabriel is a loner, newly turned and full of rage and hunger, not even a glint of intelligence in his eyes. The scent of the hunters blood is enough for him to growl hungrily and lick his lips, rushing towards its death like a raging bull toward a red flag.

The sharp crack of wood meets bone fills the air, and the sweet scent escalates until Gabriel gags in disgust.

The vampire twitches, agony in its eyes as it writhes on the end of Gabriel’s stake, only managing to force itself further and further onto the blood-slick wood, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream.

One swipe of the hunters’ dagger and the disgusting creatures’ head is rolling along the sand.

Pushing the decapitated body off of his prized stake, Gabriel can only kick the vile creatures’ body, lest the thick blood soak into his jeans. The last thing he wants is to be contaminated by such a thing, to be so careless. His hands are stained with blood; the blood of the dead and the blood of their victims, victims he could not save. Like his parents.

Spitting onto the body only shows his utter disdain.

The sun will take care of the rest, will burn the body to ash, intermingling with the soft particles of sand, before being washed away by the unforgiving waves.

Strange how killing this one leaves him feeling so empty.

So unsatisfied.

So very dead inside.

- - - - - - - - - - -


David’s arms are warm, and his caresses are rough. Blood pools in the hollow of Michael’s navel, only to be swept away by a tongue that is as slick and wonderful as the hands that part his thighs with obvious intent. The pleasure leaves him feeling hazy, drugged, and as soft as cotton wool in the hollow of his head, pressed into each corner.

David presses forward, and the stark pain is nothing compared to the pressure that eases inside Michael. The stretch and the gentle scrape of teeth against his throat, the marking of such ownership, and Michael is lost. So very lost. It cascades against him like a wave, the dull ache in his ass and the sharp sting of David’s teeth, but none so like the distinct pleasure as David’s cock touches a place inside him that makes him see stars.

Each thrust and each sweeping lick into the neat wound at his neck and Michael is whimpering, arching, mindless and clutching at David’s shoulders, his nails digging in deep into the pale, delectable flesh, running crimson over the blonde’s back, causing those blue eyes to become alight with something more than mere lust.

“Michael.” Husky and deep and manipulative, urging him to come apart at the seams.

The pleasure escalates, intermingling, sinking into Michael’s very pores. David’s lips are warm and rough and claiming, the hands gripping his hips, bruising, snapping Michael down so as to sink deeper and deeper into nirvana.

When it all becomes too much, Michael tastes blood in his mouth, the thick metallic fluid that is as sweet to his senses as candy and ice cream. When it all becomes too much, Michael just lets it all go, allows his body to lose all control... handing it over to the master to store and covet.

A sated David purrs, sliding his hand through the mix of blood and cum scattered across Michaels' belly, before lifting his fingers to his lips to taste, lips twisting into an expression that can only be described as triumphant.

Funny, Michael thinks as he lies there, bone-tired and satisfied, because he doesn’t really care.

He’s home.

Part Four by Dmetri

Author's Notes:
Gabriel meets his contacts.
The Road Less Traveled By


Summary; What if Michael had chosen a different path?

Part Four;

“Children. Santa Carla is protected by children.”

“Hey... we do the best we can.”

“I’m sure you do. And that is why wherever I look, I see filth scurrying under my feet. Do you think this nothing more than a game?

The utter disdain on Gabriel’s face is apparent, jaw tight as he appraises his contacts with a suspicious eye. These two are nothing more than children in his eyes, blind and oblivious to the dark desires of the vampires that exist within Santa Carla. Hell, these boys wouldn’t know a Master if it stared them in the face.

Pitiful. Absolutely pitiful.

Gabriel pivots; surveying the surroundings of what could only be the base of operations. Holy water. Wooden stakes. A useless arsenal against those that are strong enough to snap your neck in a split second. How the brothers have survived on nothing but information from comic books and Hollywood... it’s mindboggling.

“The lore on vampires is extensive. Some say that silver and holy water are its folly; quite possibly stemming from the roots of religion. Some say that it is sunlight, or beheading, whilst others say that the blood of a dead man is enough to poison it,” Gabriel utters, drawing his trusted blade out of his sheath to gently trace the Latin engraved on the hilt, “Trust me when I say that this is not like the ravings of Stoker. When endangered, they will not play games. They will tear out your throat before you can even scream, to protect themselves and their pack.”

The thought that perhaps he’s talking to the brothers like they’re idiots briefly crosses his mind.

But then, that’s what they are. Idiots.

“I don’t want either of you to be a part of this,” Gabriel slips his dagger back into his sheath, turning to eye one brother, and then the other. So young, their faces still rounded with the softness of boyhood. “You’re a liability.”

In an ideal world, these boys would not need to know of the darkness, or of the creatures that inhabit it.

In an ideal world, Gabriel wouldn’t be scarred with the loss of his family.

But then, the world is a pretty damn cruel place.

The eldest – Edgar – scowls, lips downturned and posture stiff in an attempt to appear mature. How endearing. “Now wait a minute old man... we called you for backup. If you think we’re gonna sit this one out—“

“—Oh, but you are.” Interrupting Edgar’s tirade, Gabriel merely leans in close and smiles crookedly, one full of confidence. “You’re going to sit here, on your ass, and be good. Or else you’ll be bait, wriggling on a hook.” As he smirks, the stark scar on Gabriels face twists, and becomes deformed. It’s funny how he feels just as twisted on the inside, dark and vengeful and full of sin.

In a way, Gabriel is slowly becoming the very thing he hates most.

A monster.

Edgar’s mouth shuts with a resounding click, though the anger in his eyes and the tightness of his jaw belies the fact that he isn’t comfortable with allowing a veteran Hunter do all of the dirty work. That, in fact, he and his brother are just as capable. The boys’ fists tighten into balls, knuckles white, pointedly diverting his attention to some other medium. Edgar’s anger is palpable. So palpable, in fact, that Alan narrows his eyes and steps to the fore to answer for him.

“Fine. But as for the final showdown, we want some of the spoils.” His voice, though lacking inflection, just screams that he wont take no for an answer in this. That this is their compromise.

Gabriel nods his head, satisfied. “You’ve got yourself a deal there, kid. I’ll rid you of this particular little problem for free of charge too,” lips twist into an expression that’s decidedly twisted, broken, “just as an introductory offer, of course.”

No more needs to be said.

And if Gabriel ignores the fact that he’s being silently dismissed by two children, then he doesn’t comment on it. There are, after all, much more important things to do.

-----------


With Laddie’s hand grasped in her own, Star roams the Boardwalk without a sense of purpose. Indeed, she’s almost frantic in the way that she drags the poor boy behind her, the pulse and thrum of blood, the stuttering sweetness of heartbeat surrounding her and tempting her in a way that has her very mouth watering with hunger.

She doesn’t know if she can hold off for much longer.

The hunger pangs are awful, great and powerful stabs in the gut that leave Star reeling, tears dripping down her cheeks and clouding her sight. She ignores the questions thrown at her by Laddie – who is naught but a worried little boy, now – trying to focus on one thing and one thing alone, in a poor attempt to distract her from the hunger coursing through her veins.

For once, Star doesn’t have anyone to save her.

David and Michael. They wouldn’t save her from this, would only encourage her to give in and join the Boys in companionship. The Boys are the only family she has left now, and the urge to give in and be welcomed finally with open arms...

Seeing them together had almost been too much.

Star had burned with jealousy, jealousy which tapered off into anger, resentment... and then sadness. For a moment she’d thought that she could love Michael, the boy so full of naiveté and innocence and yet still touched by darkness. Still touched by abuse. And it was then that she’d come to realise that Michael, sweet Michael, doesn’t need someone like her. He needs strength, and that strength is something only David can give him.

Fallen angels; the both of them.

Doubling over in pain, Star loses her grip on Laddie’s hand... and then her grip on reality. It all falls apart at the seams, as if her child-friend had been the only thing keeping her together. It roars – the hunger – great and terrible and all encompassing, until all she can see is red. All she can smell is blood.

All she can feel, is the phantom softness of flesh between her teeth, and the nirvana.

The boy, her age and beautiful with his dark hair greased up into a Mohawk, barely has time to protest before she’s on him, blunt teeth struggling to break the skin. It takes time, it takes chewing, it takes too long until a hot splash of copper hits her tongue... and that’s all she needs. Blood is bliss as it slides down her throat, the struggles of her beautiful prey growing weaker and weaker with every mouthful, her soft moans lost beneath the pounding of the waves.

And when his bloodless carcass falls onto the wet sand, all Star can do is stare at her blood-soaked hands in horror, her pure and white blouse dripping gore. Her soul is stained, sinful.

Is it any wonder that a part of her longs for death?

Part Five by Dmetri

Author's Notes:
Action must be taken.
The Road Less Traveled By


Summary; What if Michael had chosen a different path?

Part Five;

Blood is life.

Michael knows this acutely, deep down in the very marrow of his bones. He knows it as well as he has come to know the rough and possessive touch of his lover... something that he reveres more than he should. David is Pack; and Pack is safety. Pack is family. Dwayne, Marko and Paul have quickly replaced those that had held a certain place in his heart, one that had ached with the loss of a broken home, and a broken childhood.

But, as the saying goes; you just have to put the past behind you.

A rich, coppery slickness slides down his throat, satiating a hunger that has been tearing violently at his innards for the past few hours. Indeed, it is the beast inside that demands sustenance as much as it demands the feeling of home, of Pack. It is this that Michael had been warring against so desperately before; though now wonders how he could have ever rejected it.

Cold fingers slide across his throat, hard, coarse nails that drag along his cheeks to trace his lips, delving into his mouth and suddenly slick with blood. David is here, always here, currently an almost indifferent lover as Michael feeds, pressed tight against his bare back.

Soon, the gasping breath of the boy begins to fade, those plush lips wide and open as that precious heart stops beating. Michael pulls away lest he draw on the beginnings of dead blood, licks his lips, and leans back.

“I never thought-“

“Thought what? That you would adapt so quickly?”David utters, dragging his lips over Michael’s ear, the hot breath causing him to shudder, “like I said; you’re one of us, Michael... and you’re mine.”

Such a simple declaration that it has Michael, whose face is once more smooth with the lines of burgeoning manhood, turning so as to meet David’s lips in a feverish kiss, giving himself over to the lust that so quickly pervades his senses. It shifts through the stolen blood in his veins, heating up his body in preparation for an act so primal, so needy, that Michael allows himself to be pulled down by hard hands and a vicious smirk, back into the carnal sanctuary that is their bed.

-----------


The Boardwalk is its usual hustle and bustle, filled to the brim with overactive kids and teenagers, doped up on pot and candy and the general atmosphere that permeates the very air of downtown Santa Carla.

Sam would much rather stay indoors with a comic book.

But this... this is at least the next best thing.

And yet, the comic book store is currently not the haven that Sam wishes it to be. Right now, it is a very hostile environment.

“Look, guys... Mike’s just... he’s not...” Sam lets out a heavy breath alike to a prepubescent tantrum and stumbles over his own words, tongue-tied, “he’s just not a killer, alright? An ass, yeah, but a murderer? Mike? Are we even talking about the same guy here?”

The Frog brothers exchange a look, unimpressed. It was Sam, after all, that had come to them and expressed his fears... and they are merely offering their side of things.

“Our contact says otherwise.” Edgar says.

“Sam, you’ve said it yourself. Your brother’s changed... beyond saving. It’s time to face facts, man; your bro’s a goner.” Alan is the voice of reason against Edgar’s stoic expression, against his brother’s solid determination. “And it might as well be you that does the honours.”

Conflicted, Sam drags his fingers through Nanook’s fur, who whines at him uncertainly. Dogs notice these things, Sam knows, and the obvious tension that resides in the Emerson household is thick enough to cut with a knife.

And yet, a part of Sam still acknowledges the brother that hid him from fatality. Dad, well he wasn’t always a sober man, and it was Mike and Mom that bore the brunt of it; never Sam.

Mike, who’d push Sam under the covers and tell him not to come out, even when it’d gone quiet. Who, when all was dark and taut after the battle, would come and reassure him that Dad had passed out on the couch, drunk and exhausted.

Mike, who’d made up some obscure tale as to how he’d managed to get such an impressive shiner.

“No...” Sam shakes his head, fingers tightening around Nanook’s collar, “I can’t. Whatever he is, whatever he’s done... he’s still my brother.”

Alan merely shrugs, leaning shoulder to shoulder with Edgar.

“Then we’ll have to do it for you.”

-----------


The scent of sand and salt permeates Michael’s nostrils, no less dimmed by the overpowering presence of blood. Indeed, he finds the crashing of the waves and the crackling flame of the bonfire to be as soothing as the arms that encircle his waist.

However, food is the last thing on the Boy’s minds, and the distant sight of Paul and Marko, gleaming red, means little to Michael right now. It is the afterglow, where – although David and Michael had fed hours previous – revelling in the carnality of such brutal murder is first and foremost, where David’s blood kisses up and down his throat is what has him humming in pleasure, and not the warm weight of a full belly.

And yet, the Pack is content, is it not? S’all that matters.

The purr that rumbles deep in his chest is pure animal, escalating in volume as the sharp sting of fang graces his neck alongside the smooth kisses and rough burn of stubble. Michael bares his throat; submission and delight, because fuck... he can’t get enough of it. Of David, whose gloved hands move fluidly under the worn material of his shirt, as sure of his dominance over Michael as the knowledge that the sun always sets.

For a moment, David’s hands pause and Michael tenses in anticipation.

There is someone here.

Someone... watching.

The scent of fear and blood and Sammy reaches his nostrils, buoyed by the wind, and for a moment Michael is confused, because his brother shouldn’t be here, not now. He should be at home with his dog and his comic books, because here... here he is a threat.

And it’s when that fear becomes tinged with self-righteous anger that Michael feels he has to act.

Sam, who had only wanted to clear his head by the waves, is in the wrong place at the wrong time. The mortal’s very presence threatens the existence of the Pack, his association with hunters being what sets him apart from the rest of the blood bags that wander the Boardwalk. And yet, he is brother. And against his better judgement, Michael decides to meet Sam head on, away from the circle of safety, and the fine hairs on his neck rise; the Boys have his back.

But, they give him this. Sam is family. Sam is blood.

Of course, it blows up in his face.

Quite literally.

“So... this is who you are now, huh?” Sam spits, voice ripe with fury and indignation. “A bloodsucking murderer? A whore?”

“Sammy, I...”

It shouldn’t sting. It shouldn’t. But it does, and his face flushes red with an awkward kind of shame. But no matter how hard he tries to get a word in, to explain himself, to prove himself to the one person he’d deemed it right to protect through all of that shit back home... Sam’s anger is simply too palpable.

“I trusted in you, Mike. I really did. And now... I have to kill you.”
This story archived at http://www.lostcave.net/fanfic/viewstory.php?sid=839