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This isn't the first time Michael has come screeching to a halt just a hair's breadth short of the edge of Hudson's Bluff, wheels skidding through those last dangerous inches between solid ground and the void. But it's the first time he's done it on purpose, knowing full well where the edge should be, creeping up on him in the dark while Michael guns the accelerator, stubbornly refusing to brake until the last possible moment. He gets it now, why the others do this: why play it safe when the fall might not even kill you? What's Michael got left to live for, anyway?
He takes the rough, stone steps down to the fallen hotel two at a time, hardly caring that one bad step could send him tumbling face-first down into the dark. He's not eager to get down there, he's eager to have this done with, so he can... go back to wallowing in his room over just how fucked he is, probably, to missing that innocent time when he'd imagined David was his biggest problem. Michael's been ready to have this done with ever since he first heard David calling his name an hour ago, whispered on the winds for his ears alone.
They're waiting for him at the bottom. The space is lit tonight by only a single, burning drum—why waste more fuel when your only guest is Michael, who's halfway to being one of them already? He can hear voices from the dark around him, lurking just out of sight. Could probably pinpoint each one if he took the time, his night-vision's pretty good these days. But tonight, Michael's saving his energy to deal with just the asshole in charge.
"What do you want from me, David?" he snarls into the shadows.
David isn't hiding in the gloom—he sits in the light on his wheelchair-throne, lounging, almost, one leg slung casually over the arm. He looks around slowly, like Michael's barely worth his notice. Like he hasn't spent the last hour tormenting Michael with voices until he gave in and rode down here like hell was on his heels.
"You still haven't figured that out," David drawls—sneers, almost, each word dragged from under the crushing weight of mockery, "have you, Michael?" Someone cackles from out in the darkness—Paul, probably, joining in his cheer.
Michael rolls his eyes so hard his whole head almost goes with them. "I mean, why call me out here now? To gloat?"
"To gloat?" David actually has the gall to act offended. "To share the moment, Michael!" he proclaims, arms spread wide. "After all, you've met Max. You know. We're all gonna be one big, happy family!"
Small comfort that David makes it sound as absurd as it deserves. Oh yeah, Michael's met Max. Invited the man into his home, would have sat down to dinner with him, even—if the smell of what was really in the 'red wine' he brought to share with Michael's mother hadn't driven him almost crazy. His mother's not soon going to forgive him for the clumsy 'accident' that shattered that bottle all over the tiles of his grandpa's dining room floor. Michael only wishes it was easier to convince himself he'd meant to do it at all—that if his hands had been less clumsy, he could have resisted the need to raise it to his lips, right in front of his whole family. Freed from the neat confines of the bottle, the smell had only been so much worse. Even as Michael's mother lectured him and sent him up to his room, the need to bend down right there and lick that thick blood right off the tiles had dragged at him with every step he took to get away.
"It was Max's blood in that bottle you gave me. Not yours." It's barely a question; Michael knew from the moment he breathed in in Max's presence. David doesn't smell like that, none of the boys do. Max does. Being able to smell the pulsing life-blood of every living thing around him—every un-living thing too, apparently—is a power Michael could really live without.
One big happy family, Michael's frosty, denim-covered ass.
David gives him a slow clap. "Very good, Michael!" He quirks his brow at Michael's obvious disgust. "Not good enough for you? Same blood that runs through every one of us."
From around the room, hoots and hollers of agreement ring out. "Papa Max loves his matched set!" someone calls—Paul's voice, somewhere more to Michael's left now than he was a minute ago, like maybe they're all circling him out there in the dark. It only makes Michael all the angrier.
Papa Max—do they call him that? The whole damn reason Michael's family moved out here was to get away from one domineering father figure who wanted to dictate their lives. You could just about kill a man under the weight of all that irony. Since meeting David, Michael has been betrayed, offended, and betrayed again, barely had the chance to get his balance back between all the rug-pulls, but learning this about the real power behind David and his gang...
"You really let a loser like Max tell you what to do?" It's not the worst part, but it is the kicker, somehow—just the icing on the cake, the festive cherry perched right on the top of so much bullshit.
Something dangerous flickers across David's face, catches Michael's eye and breath for a second too long, but then—"Nah," David is saying, too casually, "not lately. Not this decade. You know what it's like with dads. Always gotta make sure you know who's in charge." There's no humour in the way David bares his teeth. "Doesn't matter how ready you are to step out of his shadow—your own plans, your own groove, high time to move on and up with your lives—you'll always be that same helpless brat in their eyes. Guess that's why he wanted to bring your mom on board." A sharp jerk of David's chin, scorn that should have Michael bristling. "Thinks we all need a mother's love. Thinks he knows what's best for all of us."
Michael hesitates. He wasn't ready for David to come at this like he agrees—like Max's brand of patriarchal bullshit is nothing David hasn't been straining against since long before Michael set foot in Santa Carla. He was expecting... hell, he doesn't know. Every time he thinks he's got David figured out, there goes the rug from under him again. He'd thought David was his competition for Star, thought David just wanted to make him feel small and stupid. Had been floored by the idea David genuinely wanted him as a friend, only to find out what that really meant... and then to learn none of this was ever David's idea to begin with? What's Michael supposed to think?
There are a thousand things he wants from David, but what comes out is this: "Was what Max said true?"
David raises a curious eyebrow, almost like he doesn't know every damn thing that's happened to Michael since the day they met, like he wasn't in Michael's head half an hour ago and multiple miles away. "Max talks a whole lot."
"When he said..." Michael takes a deep breath. "He said you only came after me because of his plan to get to my mom. Was that..."
He doesn't get to finish; David throws back his head and laughs. "Michael, Michael, you didn't believe that, did you?"
"I don't know what to believe anymore, David." I thought you were my friend. I thought you were human. I thought...
"Well, believe this," David snarls, twisting to his feet in one fluid motion. "I had my eye on you before Max ever met your mother." It's an effort for Michael to hold his ground as David stalks towards him, looking every inch the predator he really is. "Ever stopped to wonder what it is about your family, Michael? Maybe there's just something in the blood." David grins. "I never had to go after you. You came to me."
Like that means anything. "I was following Star."
"Mmm." It's impressive, how David can make it sound like this wasn't even worth an eye-roll, even as he begins to pace around Michael in a tight circle. "There was just something about her, wasn't there? Something dark. Something that called to you." Michael wants to scoff that. Star was—is—nothing like the rest of them, but opening his mouth feels like a trap. "One thing me and Max could agree on," David goes on, emerging from behind him, dangerously close to Michael's right ear, "you were meant to be one of us."
Michael feels himself clenching his fists at his sides, something red and furious boiling under his skin. "I'm no killer."
"No?" That grin is back as David steps in front of him. "What was your plan when you got inside Max's place? As him nicely to let you go?" Something feral glimmers in David's eyes. "Gotta hand it to you, Michael: a head vampire is one hell of a target for your first kill, but you almost pulled it off!"
"Almost." Like he needs David, of all people, to rub just how much he's fucked this up in his face. Not when his one shot at Max barely even connected, got him tossed bodily across the room like he weighed no more than a fucking baseball. Not when he didn't even get to take another shot, because it turns out a single word from Max's mouth was all it took to make Michael's own muscles betray him. Make him sit there and fucking watch while Max tore one of the Frog brothers apart, right in front of him—the scent of fresh blood thick as miasma in Michael's nose. He's never going to forget the sight of Max holding Sam down and forcing him to drink his blood; the way Sam had screamed and begged his useless, big brother to help him while Michael just knelt there, helpless and enraged...
The patronising way Max had patted him on the cheek and sent him home. I won't lie to you, Michael, I'm truly impressed with your initiative today! But as the man who's going to be your new father, boys, I can't stand for this kind of misbehaviour. We've hardly had the chance to get to know one another yet! But do send your mother my regards—I'll be seeing her again very soon.
And that was it, Michael released to take what was left of his little brother home. To lick his wounds, to face the betrayal in Sammy's eyes, and to really marinate in all the ways they'd well and truly lost.
They couldn't fight Max. Michael had his shot, and he'd blown it. There was nothing they could say to their mom that would make her believe how dangerous Max really was. The surviving Frog brother—Allan, he thinks—limped home, a broken wreck. Michael wouldn't have dreamed of looking that way for aid again; should never have let those poor, dumb kids get involved. Who else could they turn to for help? Max had won.
So maybe Michael hadn't resisted David's call as long or as hard as he could have. Against Max, even David had come to represent something relatable; a familiar quantity on a scale that keeps telescoping further away from him. A day ago, David was the monster that tricked Michael into selling his soul to be part of something he barely understood. Today, he's the only reason Michael was even in a position to recognise what Max had really brought to dinner, and that's still more than Michael is ready to deal with—except maybe by way of admitting maybe it wasn't a complete surprise that David doesn't like Max any more than Michael does.
"Not close enough," he tells David, bitterly, but it's a narrow thing, when all he wants to do is launch himself at the bastard vampire who fed him Max's blood, tear his face right off his grinning skull.
David just shrugs, heedless of how close he might be to an improvised facelift. "Shame."
Michael scoffs, eyes drifting shut as he laughs quietly to himself. This fucking bastard. "You want Max dead so bad, why don't you do it yourself?" It's not much, but at least it makes David angry.
"Why not?" he snarls, baring his teeth. "You know why not, Michael! His blood is in our veins! He made all of us! Wherever you go, he can find you. When he calls us, we come. And when he clenches his fist with your name on his lips," Michael watches David's outstretched fingers curl inwards until the leather of his glove strains against his knuckles, "oh, you will feel it, no matter where you are. You know what that's like, Michael?"
"I've got a pretty good idea." David probably knows that, he knows enough about what went down when they broke into Max's home. Maybe he even knows how badly Michael wanted to hear the opposite—that at least if he became the monster David wants him to be, he'd be that much less helpless in Max's presence. But whether David knows it or not, Michael's heart sinks. "Nice to know how much I've got to look forward to."
"He doesn't control our every move—we've won our freedom, bit by bit. But he wants us back under his thumb. The only reason you got as close as you did is because you're only halfway there." David lets his words sink in. "But because you're only halfway there, you don't have the power to win."
Michael shakes his head, swallowing around a hard lump of disappointment. So that's it: there's going to be no throwing himself on the grenade of full-vampire-hood, no taking whatever new power that gives him back to Max's doorstep, to at least save Sam and his mother. Even if the lost boys wanted to help, they couldn't. They're as helpless as Michael, and knowing that isn't the comfort it should be.
He's pulled from his reverie by a familiar arm around his neck: as quickly as David's rage boiled over, it's gone again. "It's not all bad, Michael. Eternal life. Eternal youth. We owe Max a real debt. But that was years ago. And he just can't let go."
Michael stiffly shrugs him off. God damn it, they didn't come all the way from Phoenix just to watch his mom get caught in the net of another sick bastard who only wanted her to keep his kids in line. Maybe it's time to swallow his pride. "There's gotta be another way," he pleads. "If it was just about me, fine, but my mom, my brother..."
His reward for trying to push David away is David's hand on his face, cupping his chin and framing his mouth between a forefinger and thumb. "It's not up to me, Michael," David tells him, close enough that his breath gusts against Michael's face. "And Max doesn't want you. He wants your mother. You're just a means to that end. Even if you weren't, you know there's only way to save your family now."
That much hasn't changed. "Max has to die." Michael doesn't try to twist away from David this time. He never wanted to come down here at all, but fuck it, this is the only gamble he has left.
David nods. "Not an easy thing to do, when he's already seen you coming." This close, there's something almost hypnotic about his eyes. "Stronger than you, faster than you. And he can flatten you with a thought. A word."
"So help me," Michael growls. "There's gotta be some way."
Sudden as it arrived, David's hand is gone. David is gone, and Michael's blinking at where he was and refocusing his eyes on a David who's suddenly well outside arm's length, head tilted, giving Michael a considering look. A slow, once over that makes Michael's skin prickle.
"Boys," he calls, louder, "give us a few minutes alone, would you?"
Behind Michael, sounds of laughter and movement trail towards the exit. "You smell that?" he hears Paul say, as their voices move further away. "Smells like rebellion brewing."
Marco laughs in reply. "Didn't hear nothing, didn't see nothing." Someone slaps someone else on the back. Michael resists the urge to look back over his shoulder, to watch them go. David hasn't moved, and breaking eye contact with him now feels unsafe.
It's not until the sounds of footsteps and voices have faded away completely that David speaks again, and when he does, it's nothing Michael hasn't heard before: "Just how far are you willing to go, Michael?"
Michael exhales. As far as I have to, that's the answer David wants, right? But he's learned his lesson about promising what he doesn't even understand. "What do I have to do?"
"You can't beat Max with his own blood in your veins," says David, beginning to close the distance between them once more. "So you do it with mine."
This makes no sense to Michael. "Bit late for that, isn't it? His blood's already in me."
"Not," says David, "if I suck it all out of you first." In his voice, this reasonable suggestion sounds positively filthy.
Michael blinks at him. Sam's comics make out like having your blood sucked is the usual first step to becoming a vampire, but so far, Michael's own experience suggests they're basically full of shit. None mention anything like this, anyway. "Would that even work?"
"Why not? I've done it before."
"You..."
"Another of Max's attempts to expand our little family," David explains. "Didn't really think it would work; I was just messing around. Max didn't even know what I'd done until they were face to face, and whadya know—he couldn't control her."
Her? "You don't mean..." Michael hesitates before he can finish that thought. David hears him anyway.
"Star? Nah. This was years ago. And my reward? A nice little lecture about how disappointed he was in me, before away they went to 'fix my little mistake'." A shrug. "Never saw her again. Told us he'd decided she wasn't a good fit after all. We all know what he really did with her."
"Jesus." Michael's not even surprised.
"It'll work, Michael," David promises him, his grin turning sly. "Max won't see it coming. He knows I wouldn't risk losing you the same way."
Which is the kind of statement that deserves some pointed follow-up questions, but there's a bigger fly in the ointment that's already got Michael's attention. "So instead of Max being able to control me... you will?"
David's grin only widens. "Nothing gets past you anymore, Michael."
"That's it?" Michael scoffs back. "No platitudes, no promises you'd never use me like that?"
"Would you believe them?"
Michael looks away, almost charmed by David's brazen refusal to even pretend. "So why should I buy that you'll be any better than Max?"
"You know why, Michael," says David, like Michael's being particularly stupid. "Besides, I never wanted your family. Just you."
But why? It's on the tip of Michael's tongue, What the fuck is it you think you know about me that I don't?—and so many more questions he might not even want the answer to. He still hasn't made up his mind to voice them when David's talking again.
"One more thing: you want your best shot at Max, you need to be in all the way." David catches his eye again and holds it. Michael couldn't look away if he tried. "You need to make your first kill."
Michael's throat goes very dry. He'd kind of known this was coming, but it's something else to hear David say it out loud. Why help Michael save his family from Max, only to make David the last obstacle between Michael and the happy ending he wanted? But as Michael's options narrow, it seems like every option he's got left comes down to this.
Maybe how and when he gives in to the hunger is the only real choice he has left.
"Doesn't have to be anyone you know," says David. "Doesn't have to be anyone who'll be missed. But it needs to be human, and you need to drink 'till that last drop of life drains out of them." He pauses, letting his words sink in. "So what do you say, Michael?"
Michael takes a deep breath. Is this really the best option he has left? "How long do I have to decide?"
"You tell me. How much longer do you think you can hold out, Michael? Once that first kill is made, it's over: no more changing your mind. Maybe it won't be you that cracks first. That little brother of yours... how's he doing?"
Michael clenches his teeth. David is never more hateful than when he's got a point.
God knows he's got no good reason to trust David. He's lied to Michael before—by omission, sure, but what difference does that make? Maybe he and Max planned this whole thing out, a nice round of good-cop-bad-cop to trick Michael into sealing his own fate. Maybe once he does it, he won't even care what happens to Mom or Sammy anymore. Letting David and that irresistible smile talk him into whatever David wants is how Michael got into this situation in the first place.
But it remains: Michael wants Max's blood out of him. Doesn't care nearly enough that David's the same guy who put it there. Doesn't care that it's going to be David's blood replacing it, that he's just exchanging one master for another. But the thought of having David's blood in his veins... that thought starts something strange burning under Michael's skin.
"What about Star?" he asks, on a whim. She's held out much longer than Michael has had to. He should... talk to her first, right?
"What about her?" David sounds impatient and bored. "Kill Max, and she'll be human again too, just like she wanted. She had her chance. She wasn't meant to be one of us, Michael. You were."
The uncomfortable truth is that Michael doesn't want to talk to Star. He's pretty sure he knows what she'd say: that this is a mistake, there has to be some other way. He doesn't want to talk to Sam either, because Sam would only tell him the same thing—and that probably means something. He should go home, give himself time to realise what a bad idea this is without David and his smirking face breathing down his neck, daring him to jump.
But if Michael walks out of here now, someone will talk him out of it—he'll talk himself out of it, if they don't. And Michael doesn't want that. Every minute he wastes is another minute Sam has to endure this same inhuman hunger that's overtaken Michael's world, another minute where Max might be inviting his mother out for a bottle of wine. Even if there is another way...
He's already made his decision.
"Fine," says Michael, his voice steadier than it has any right to be. "Do it."
"You sure, Michael?" David's eyes glitter dangerously. "No going back."
Michael stares at him in disbelief. "What, now you care if I'm sure?"
David grins. "Maybe I just wanna hear you say it again."
Would fucking serve him right if Michael did back out now, but it already feels too late for that. "Do it. Before I change my mind."
A grin like none he's seen before spreads slowly across David's face. "Oh, Michael," he breathes, in a voice that makes Michael wonder anew just what he's agreed to, hands closing on Michael's forearms, inching upwards. "You're gonna enjoy this. We're gonna enjoy this." He inclines his head towards the couch. "Shall we take it somewhere more... comfortable?"
Michael wants to tell him to go to hell, they can do it right here. Nothing about this is comfortable. Instead, he stalks over to the couch and throws himself onto it. David follows more sedately, settling himself at Michael's side.
"I'm gonna suck and drain you until you can't stand, until you can barely lift a finger. And then I'm going to feed you until you're born anew." He points at Michael. "Jacket and shirt." A sharp motion, indicating away. "If you wanna keep them, that is. I think I might be about to make a real mess out of you, Michael."
Stiffly, Michael sheds his jacket and shirt. Watches David loosen his gloves, one finger at a time, before peeling them from his hands. There's a reverence to how he puts his hands on Michael, fingers cool against his bare chest, running them up to his shoulders, up along the line of his neck to make Michael tilt his head to the right, the bare curve of his throat stretching beneath them, exposed. (Isn't the touch of a vampire supposed to be freezing? It might be easier if it was, at least this would feel less like...)
"Ready, Michael?" David whispers, flicking his tongue against Michael's new earring.
"Just do it," Michael complains. He's not stupid, it's starting to dawn on him what this is, what's going on here, but he's not—this isn't...
And then David snarls and sinks his teeth deep into Michael's flesh.
Michael didn't ask if it would hurt. He knew it would hurt. He'd seen David and his gang feed before, when they turned a bonfire at the beach into a horrific cacophony of tearing flesh and screams, set to a soundtrack of Walk This Way still blaring from someone's stereo. Michael gasps and shudders, fists his hands in David's coat, just to have something to hang onto. Tells himself this has to happen, he can't push David away, as blood pours from his neck and David drinks it down in greedy gulps, lips busy against his skin. He knew it would hurt.
But this isn't like the beach at all. The beach was a riotous orgy of blood and gore, arteries torn open and left to spray wildly into the night. The beach was a light meal salvaged from a wrecked buffet, rockstars trashing a hotel room where they hadn't even planned to stay, the lost boys putting on a show for an audience of one: this is what it means to be one of us, Michael! Forget what Max tells you, what anyone else tells you: this is what you can be.
This is different. This isn't David supping from a half-vampire's blood while Michael bleeds out on the floor. This is David swallowing Michael down, gorging himself, groaning around eager mouthfuls as he rides out the flow from Michael's throat like a dirt road under his wheels, savouring every last drop. It's painful and heady and strange. Michael can feel the life flowing out of him, his head swims and his muscles shake, and David presses him inexorably downwards to the couch below as Michael's strength ebbs away, sinking and sinking like he'll never find the bottom. Life flows out of him in a hot, fluid rush, into David, who catches it and swallows it down.
The world swims as David gently peels Michael's hands off his coat, meeting little resistance. The flow from his neck has slowed to a trickle, that David still laps at with long swipes of his tongue. Dazed, vision blurring, Michael watches him shed his own coat and strip off his shirt. Tilt his own head to the side and run a long nail down the line of his neck, so that his fingers come away bloody.
Michael frowns, or tries to. Is that supposed to be part of this? Wasn't there a bottle, last time? Something like that?
"Your turn, Michael," David purrs, bending downwards. Bloodied fingers trace the line of Michael's lips, spreading sweet, hot flavour onto his tongue, and Michael groans, rising with new strength as David guides his mouth to meet him. Blood flows from David's throat, and Michael drinks.
The bottle had captivated him: too strong, too much for more than a few mouthfuls, yet he'd gone back to it again and again as the night wore on, until he'd drained it dry—would find his eyes drawn back to it with guilty thirst, only for one of the others to laugh and press it back into his hands. Would find it in David's hands, holding Michael's gaze as he wrapped his lips around the mouth and drank deep, eyes drifting shut as he enjoyed a flavour Michael could almost taste from across the room, thirst awakening anew—the knowing look in his eyes as he passed the bottle back to Michael again, plenty to go around. But to drink David's blood, hot and fresh from David's neck—there's no comparison; it renders what was in the bottle dry and stale. It's intoxicating.
Blood flows from David's neck, and Michael drinks. Not with as much grace as David; it pours over his chin, dribbles from the corners of his mouth and runs down his neck, wasted and forgotten as Michael loses everything but the source, the oozing wound in David's throat. Nothing else matters.
"That's the way," David breathes in his ear, tongue hot against the point of Michael's piercing, a needle prick that had healed closed by the next morning, as if Michael had had his ear pireced years ago. But that doesn't dissuade David, who draws the lobe of Michael's ear into his mouth, sucks on it like the blood might still be coaxed from where steel pierces his flesh.
Michael whines and clutches him closer, lips working feverishly as David-David-David flows down his throat. The shakes that overtook him as his life drained away haven't left him as his strength returned, seem to grow only worse as David's blood grows only more intoxicating with each mouthful. As Michael sinks new-grown fangs into David's shoulder for purchase, feels David quiver and moan above him, digging his fingers into Michael's shoulder hard enough to leave bruises.
Michael will never drink from more willing a target, yet a kind of desperation overtakes him as he feeds, needing this, already sensing that, all too soon, David would begin pressing him firmly but gently away, saying, "Alright, Michael. That's enough."
Michael whines, moving unthinkingly to follow him, but David holds him down effortlessly, one hand flattened against Michael's chest. He hesitates, mid-withdrawal, swiping his tongue along Michael's jawline, cleaning it of sticky trails of blood, before seeming to remember himself again. Leaning back further, he admires his handiwork. "Mm. I did promise to make a mess of you."
"More," Michael moans. He wants to flip David onto the couch, bury his mouth in the other boy's neck until he shakes the way Michael had.
"Tempting," allows David. "But I let you take any more, and your blood will be all that's left in me." He grins down at Michael, flexing his shoulder as the sluggishly-bleeding wound heals and closes before Michael's eyes. He watches, mesmerised. Barely aware of the way he's already drawing David back down towards him.
"Michael," David warns him, a pointed reminder, but he doesn't stop Michael from slotting them back together again, faces to one another's necks, he just—he just needs to get his tongue on David again, lapping up the last drying blood on David's shoulder, cleaning him with deliberate care. Even with the wound closed, he can still feel the place David had scored himself open with his nail, the marks left by Michael's own teeth under his tongue. Can't resist sucking on them, just a little.
"Oh, Michael," David breathes, his tone very different now. His mouth moves against Michael's neck, beneath his chin, and then he's kissing Michael, full on the mouth, open-mouthed and filthy. David tastes like blood, and it doesn't matter that it's mostly Michael's own blood he's tasting, he groans, tongue plunging deep into David's mouth, exploring every corner for more. David sucks on it, like he had on Michael's shoulder, and Michael—fuck, he's harder than he's ever been in his life.
David's hands are already on Michael's belt, wrestling with it, clumsy with eagerness, almost angry with it; getting it open takes far longer than it should. By the time Michael catches on, David's working on his fly. Michael lifts his hips and helps him shove his jeans down his legs, underwear going with them, catching on his shoes in a terrible tangle until David snarls and sits back, yanks both Michael's shoes off his feet, one by one, before flinging his pants away without the least care for where they might land. Michael's hands are already back on David's fly; he's not wearing a belt, but those leather pants do not want to go. But Michael loses track of that issue somewhere in the process, because David's pants are open and he's not wearing any underwear, and there's another man's cock in Michael's hand.
"Fuck," he murmurs, eloquently. He's got David in his hand, the shape familiar and not in too many ways for Michael to process just now, but none of them feel like they matter nearly so much as being able to squeeze his fingers gently and watch David's eyelids flutter.
"Fuck," Michael mutters again. He has no idea what he's doing, all he knows is that he wants everything. David growls and pushes down, shoving his hand out of the way and pressing himself against Michael, cock to cock, and just ruts against him, animalistic and wild, and it's so, so good.
"Still want more, Michael?" David growls, teasing him. His hips don't stop moving, but there's a hand between them, wrapping around both their cocks and squeezing until Michael can barely remember the question. "Tell me how much."
It doesn't matter what he means—more blood, more sex—more of David's hands, his mouth, his cock—more David. Michael needs it more than he knows how to ask for. "Anything," he breathes. "David..."
"Gooood answer," David purrs, gives their cocks one last tug, and sets about rearranging their bodies to his liking, pushing Michael's knees up to his chest, settling himself between Michael's legs. Michael watches him spit on his hand, feels David's cock trail downwards, coming to rest in the crack of his ass, right over...
Oh. Belatedly, it occurs to Michael that this is a thing guys do, right? He's never seen the appeal, especially not from the receiving end, but if it's what David wants... Michael did say anything, and he meant it.
"Relax for me, Michael," David breathes in his ear. "Let me in."
Michael feels his body go pleasantly, improbably limp, feels David's cock begin to nudge its way inside him. It's a strange sensation; it doesn't hurt, exactly, but there's resistance, the weird awareness of David inside him, somewhere things aren't supposed to go.
"Ever done this before, Michael?" It seems like a strange time to be making conversation. Maybe that's just how David stays in control.
Michael pants and shakes his head.
"Gooood. I'll be your first."
Michael's 'first' was a perky blonde from his class back in Phoenix called Teresa, whose chewing gum stuck in his teeth while they were making out, and which might still be stuck somewhere on the underside of his old bedframe like an impromptu notch in the bedpost. David's not his second either. But he'll be Michael's first boy. He'll be the first to drink Michael's blood, the first Michael has let stick his dick inside him. He might be Michael's last, yet. Michael doesn't want to think about Teresa now, anyway.
It's not bad though, it's actually kind of nice—and then David hitches Michael's legs a little higher, shifting his angle just a little, and Michael's mouth drops open, suddenly aware of something deep inside him that neither he or anyone else he's ever been with would have known to look for.
"Thaaats the spot," David sounds inordinately pleased with himself. "Isn't it, Michael?"
Michael just moans, eyes drifting closed as David picks up the pace. God, he's never been passive during sex before, but right now, he just wants to lie back and let David have his way with him. He wants David to come inside him. If he can't have more of David's blood, fuck, he'll take whatever he can get.
"More," he growls.
David leans in low, hips still steadily pistoning into Michael's body. "What was that, Michael? Didn't quite catch it."
Michael opens his eyes. "More," he demands, louder. Tries not to get distracted by how gorgeous David looks like this, over him, inside him, eyes no longer blue or even yellow, but so blown out they're almost black.
"You sure you can handle more, Michael?" Even in the midst of coitus, David summons a truly shit-eating grin. "Might be more than you can take."
Michael growls at him—reaches up with shaking hands and drags David down so he can kiss that smug look right off his face, mouths barely aligning in what becomes an angry clash of teeth and tongues. His hands are still shaking, his whole body is shaking, and all he wants is for David to make it so much worse.
"I said, more," he snarls, directly into David's face.
David's only response is a snarl of, "Michael," but it doesn't sound like an objection. Just hitches Michael's legs somehow even higher, guns the accelerator, and shows Michael just how much power he's got thrumming between his legs.
It's amazing. God, nothing compares—it's all Michael can do just to hang on and ride it out—forever, if he has to.
"Let go, Michael," David whispers to him, and this time, Michael doesn't hesitate.
The aftermath of fucking a vampire turns out to be not so very different from fucking a human: you come out sticky, sore, with real regrets that you never moved this to the bed when you had the chance. Michael is, as promised, a complete mess, and feeling pretty good about that, all considered. David just came inside him, and he needs a minute to just lie back and savour that before he makes up his mind how freaked out about this he's going to be. Going from first impressions, it feels like the answer might be not all that much. Which should be surprising, but when Michael's already agreed to sign away his humanity in favour of becoming David's vampire-spawn bitch tonight, is it so bad if it turns out he likes it? What's it matter what anyone else thinks of him anymore? He's dealt with worse this week.
Fuck, he could use a cigarette, though. And why not indulge a little? It's not like vampires get lung cancer.
Probably not, anyhow.
As if reading Michael's mind, David passes over a lit cigarette. Michael takes it without lifting his head, inhales deeply, and wonders, as he watches smoke curl upwards in the firelight, whether it's true vampires don't need to breathe. At least if they're not speaking, or smoking, or whatever else David and his crew get up to.
Michael opens his mouth to ask, but what comes out instead is, "Is it always like that?"
David steals his cigarette back from Michael's unresisting fingers. "Is what always like that?" he asks, like it's not perfectly obvious—and Michael's just going to have to get used to never getting straight answers out of this loser, isn't he? "Sucking another vampire's blood out of someone, replacing it with my own?" David suggests. "Dunno. Only done it once before."
He takes another drag, studying Michael's expression until whatever he sees there makes him break into a grin. "You don't have to worry about her. She's been gone a loooong time. And, you, Michael, are something else."
Michael almost comes up with something to say to that, but the sight of David's lips wrapped around his cigarette as he sucks in another lungful are a little distracting. He's still staring when David breathes out, and looks at him again. "Ready to move?"
"What?" Michael blinks at him. "Already?"
"We're not done, Michael." David's voice has gone suddenly icy. "You've got a first kill to make, remember?"
Michael groans, perhaps a little more theatrically than necessary. Murder is not how he wants to spend the afterglow. Can't he have a minute to feel good about this before David brings him right back to earth again? "Do we have to?"
"You have something better to do tonight?"
Michael's eyes fall on David's cigarette; he reaches for it and plucks it from David's hand. "Maybe."
David laughs, but he doesn't make Michael get up just yet.