Disclaimer; I don't own a thing. 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.
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 it's 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.
