Te mentioned a yen for Lost Boys fanfic on a list once, and I wrote this on a whim, even though it had been at least a year since I'd seen the movie. It's unbetaed, and the continuity is probably off, but I found I just didn't have the desire to go back and fix it. I considered not putting the story up at all, but Te liked it, and that was really the point.

In the end, it was easy enough to let go, with the gang calling his name in the dark and the fog, and the movement of the train rumbling through his bones. It didn't stop him from being terrified at that first rush of wind, cold and strong and he was going so fast. Then he hit something, felt arms like steel wrap around his waist, and David was laughing in his ear, that low husky sound that curled warm in his gut and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The sudden lack of speed shocked him.

"David," he gasped, and David laughed again.

"Michael," David half-purred, half-growled, mocking and soothing and threatening and daring. "I was beginning to think you couldn't keep up, after all. Are you ready for the next step?"

Before he could ask what that meant, David's hand was in his hair, yanking his head back. He gasped again, then screamed as David sank too-long teeth into his throat. He struggled, trying to pull away, but David was too strong and he only succeeded in driving the teeth in farther. That hurt, not just the feeling like David was trying to suck his heart up through his neck, but the tearing and ripping of the teeth, the helplessness of being held onto while he fell through the fog, the surety that he would hit the ground and David would probably still feed off his corpse.

And then David laughed again, in his head, and that made it worse, because it still hurt and he was hard with that laughter.

You're not going to die, Michael, still in his head. I'm making it so you can't. It's my blood, Michael. You drank it. Just like I'm drinking yours.

It sounded like something out of Sammy's damn comic books and he felt a wave of hysteria coming on. Washed away by cold terror when David's hand slid from his waist and down, cupping him through his jeans. David laughed again.

Relax, Michael. You won't even remember any of this tomorrow, I promise. But for now...pretend it's Star.

David unzipped him, reached in and freed his dick to the cold night air, and he couldn't pretend it was Star because David's hand was too square, too callused; but he could almost pretend it was his own hand. Jerking himself off while he fantasized about Star, about soft skin and firm tits and David was still laughing.

That's it, Michael. Just think of Star.

Which only served to banish all thoughts of Star, to remind him that this wasn't him alone, in his room in the dark. This was David biting him and somehow keeping him from falling and working his dick with disturbing expertise. And he didn't want to think about what it meant that he came with the last vestiges of Star gone from his mind, with David's teeth still in his neck.

David's hand freed his hair, arm snaking around his chest while David pulled back. That hurt, too, but then David was licking his throat and Michael could feel the wounds closing up under sticky, iron-smelling saliva. He heard his own breathing for a minute, harsh in the night air. He sounded like he was still falling, or running.

"You sound," David said with too much amusement in his voice, "like you've been having sex, Michael."

David's hand moved off his cock, pushing his pants down. He had exactly one second to panic before David's finger, slick with his come, pushed inside him. And he'd only thought the biting hurt. The biting was a fucking papercut compared to this.

"Just relax, Michael." David was back to growling and purring. "You might even like it."

He opened his mouth to tell David to go to hell, but then David shifted a little and there was an unexpected, high voltage surge of pleasure in the middle of the pain. It turned his comment into a gasp. David's laughter in his ear didn't have the immediacy of David's laughter in his head, but David's laughter in his head hadn't been accompanied by puffs of warm air against his skin. He told himself those puffs were not a good thing, and David added a second finger.

"Fuck," he hissed. "David--"

"You catch on quick, Michael."

Pulses of pleasure and pain, now, as David's fingers moved. Michael remembered to struggle again, but he was weak and uncoordinated and his body was sending too many conflicting signals for his brain to catch up and focus. He knew the moment he settled into a rhythm that had nothing to do with struggling, but he couldn't stop. Nor could he stop himself from groaning when David's fingers slipped out, and David's laughter was a little breathless over the sound of a zipper being pulled. And that, Michael was certain, should have motivated him to struggle again, but all he did was whisper David's name and hold on as something much bigger than fingers began to push inside him.

It hurt worse than anything else, and he bit down to keep from screaming, though he was sure David heard it anyway, the way the laughter started up again. David took his time, and Michael had no idea if that was supposed to help or not. At last he felt David's balls against his ass, and David whispered in his ear again.

"Pretend it's Star," David said, and the stupidity of that suggestion struck Michael, and that laugh should not make everything feel better. "But then, Star doesn't exactly have the equipment for this part, does she? In that case, maybe you should pretend it's little Sammy."

"Fuck," Michael hissed again, feeling his dick jerk as the image of his brother doing this popped into his mind. That was just...sick. And hot, in ways he didn't ever, ever want to think about. Sammy didn't belong here, not here in the dark with David and the blood and the pain and the laughter, and he couldn't stop thinking it as David's hand slid around him and started pumping his dick again.

"Don't worry, Michael. We can do this for him, too. You two seem so...close."

"Don't," Michael forced past his teeth, then gasped as another one of those flashes of pleasure raced through him.

"Think about it, Michael. He'd be your little brother forever. Dependent on you like he is now. Don't tell me you wouldn't like that." David shifted, and it felt too good to protest anything right now. Except stopping. And then David spoke again.

"Or maybe you'd rather do it yourself. What do you say, Michael? Want to fuck your little brother?"

He didn't know what he screamed as he came, and he didn't want to know, because it was probably Sammy's name. David continued to drive into him, and all he could do was pant at the sensation, seeing Sammy's face, Sammy's smooth boy body, Sammy's wide, trusting eyes.

David came in him, wet and hot, and then pulled out, laughing as he let go. Michael fell again, and this time he knew he'd deserve it when he hit the ground, and he hoped that David was wrong and it would kill him.

Except that would leave Sammy unprotected, and Michael didn't want that, didn't want David touching Sammy. Didn't want anyone touching Sammy.

Except him.

He had to survive this, had to hit the ground and get home and warn Mom, convince her to move with Sammy, and then he'd go...somewhere else. Anywhere else. But that wasn't going to happen, because David had said he wouldn't remember, though he didn't know how he could forget.

He was still waiting to hit the ground when he jerked awake on his bed. He felt a vague kind of anxiety, the kind he always felt after a really bad dream. He shifted and realized he was still dressed, right down to sunglasses, and he could be grateful for that as he took in the brightness of his room and knew his head would be pounding without the protection of darkened glass. He felt filthy and sore and very definitely hung over. He should probably be glad he couldn't remember last night, and he wondered if David's gang were the kind to talk to him again just to share the embarrassing details, or if they'd shut him out if he did anything too stupid.

That might be a good thing, actually, there was something about them that really struck him wrong, but...well...Star.

Wow, he must be really hung over. That didn't even get a twitch from the little guy. A shower would probably help, a good few hours of sleep when he wasn't wearing denim and leather, and some food....

No. Definitely no food.

Sammy's voice floated to him from downstairs, and he closed his eyes tight behind the glasses as his body proved he wasn't nearly as hung over as he suddenly wished he was. Delayed reaction, maybe? Just now catching up with his own thoughts of Star?

Right. Mom had always said he was a lousy liar, especially to himself.

With a little growl of self-disgust and a determination to not think about it, he put his hand down his pants and squeezed. Which almost worked, until he heard Sammy's voice again, and then his dick felt just like hitting the ground.

Hard.

~END~