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azuremewTitle: Mistaken Identity, Part 4
Word Count: 3,397
Pairings/Characters: Carl/Michael, Eames/Robert, Arthur/Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf,
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: graphic sex (slash), bloodplay
Summary: After the team gets out, they separate to not draw attention and converge once everything is clear. Michael returns to Los Angeles.
Author's Note: Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lycanthrophile, my beta and the owner of Carl Dane. <3
Part 3
Part 4
The Extractor
Cobb sat in the warehouse before anyone else arrived. They were to disperse upon leaving the hotel room, some take the elevators while others the stairs, and meet back at sunset. The natural light still poured from the windows, showing each crack, every corner of the room. It wasn't part of the plan, but it felt safer, and he worried.
When the first thoughts of what might happen to the others trickled through, he removed his totem within a clenched fist that stayed around it since waking. It spun for seconds, what seemed like minutes, Cobb staring because some part of his mind knew that their mistake wouldn't come after him in the daylight. Then it fell and rolled for a moment before its complete stop.
He breathed out the held in air and sat back. Henri was right. Whomever the mistake was, he wasn't a vampire. Couldn't be. Just some fanatic that fell too well into their plan . . .
The Architect
Ariadne knew that she shouldn't be there. They took the stairs together, and at the lobby, because of Cobb's glances, went opposite ways. She waited at the bar for hours, ordered a few drinks, and stopped when her eyes closed to think and felt the cold metal of a gun pressed up to her head. There was no one there, her mind knew that, yet she instinctively spun out with eyes wide enough for the late, more drunk patrons to look at her.
It was almost time for them to meet when she knocked. The cab took to her to a different hotel, and she called a second one from down the street. It took three blocks of walking before she reached the place Arthur said he would be.
No one answered, so she spoke. “Arthur? Open up. It's me.”
The Point Man
“It's unlocked,” Arthur called out. He didn't glance at the person that entered, didn't move from between the two, double-beds. There were papers sprawled across either side, scattered and flipped, no longer organized other than keeping to their side. To his left were photographs of Robert Fischer Jr., newspaper clippings, and files for his eyes only and from time to time, Eames. To his right were papers he only recently procured. Erika Whitmore, age 29, born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Blond hair, gray eyes, 5'5”, 125 pounds. That was what her driver's license, passport, and birth certificate told. There were school records, police records, and other findings too that marked the beginnings of an extractor. Psychology, research, knowing people, reading their movements and voice like reading their minds. Everything was there, every –
“Arthur,” Ariadne said for the third time since entering and cautiously approached the point man with fallen shoulders and exhaustion in his eyes. They were all tired. The plan started at sunrise, and that screwed up all of their cycles, but this was more than the wear and tear of changed sleeping schedules.
Her hand touched his shoulder, and he looked at her, his voice so unlike him that her eyes grew wide: “How did we miss it? How did I miss it? Everything is here. Erika is here. Fischer is here.” He turned and sat down on the edge of the bed, photographs and papers crackling beneath him.
“I don't know,” Ariadne said and brushed aside to make room before joining him. “Maybe someone's hiding more information than we originally anticipated. Browning, maybe? Before he left Fischer Morrow?”
Arthur wanted to say that he doesn't miss information like this, but none of it made sense. And he did. Once. So he nodded to stop the conversation from becoming more insane. The papers displayed enough of that, and it was not like him.
The Forger
It took one of Yusuf's cocktails before Eames could sleep, and even then, it was not peaceful. He lied on the couch of the small flat his friend was staying at, twisting and turning from a dream that he rarely had.
He was an artist once. That was not a lie. An innovator, imaginative, and a genius to his teachers. It led to boredom. The parties never interested him, and the scholarship came without surprise. He was an artist, but what came from art without the struggle? Bland, boring, technical shit that would wow the crowd because it was mistook for being complicated. Imaginative to an end, but inspired? Hardly.
So came the life of a thief, a charlatan, and a deceiver. He stole many things for the thrill – formulation, execution with chance of being caught, and the accomplishment of seeing it through. But even that got boring. Life was boring while being alone, and in this lifestyle, he was more alone than before.
Mombasa was a nice stage for his performance. Acts could be played out with an audience that took part as much as watching the show. Even after learning about extraction, he returned. It was home.
But like the others, it felt less so until he was an outcast in everything but Yusuf's eyes. He continued his normal practices – gambling, thievery, and lies until he had it all. Saito's paycheck laid in his offshore bank account, untouched because there was no need for the funds. It was all taken care of, and being that comfortable killed it.
It was only with Robert that he felt sated, and perhaps it was because he was not being selfish.
The Mark
They planned on going out for dinner, movie, and a list of other things that made him grin with anticipation before. Now, Robert laid his suit out on the bed. He straightened out one of the sleeves and smoothed the fabric with his fingers.
“You were going to plant an idea . . .” Robert started, his hands balled into fists. “Again?”
Eames frowned but kept a respective distance. “I wanted to help you, Robert.”
“By what? Giving me a false sense of trust in you?” Robert asked and stepped back into the chair behind him. He sat, and Eames took a step toward him. The icy blue eyes welling with tears told him to stop. “I loved you,” he said and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Loved,” he echoed and coldly added, “Get out.”
“Robert . . .”
“I said get out!”
He couldn't remember the last time he allowed those three words to be vocalized. A few times before, recently, but none ever felt the gravity. One laughed at him when he said it. That took the longest to recover. Apparently, their pairing was never meant to be anything permanent. None of them ever were.
So why did he allow himself to believe that this was any different?
His kisses were soft, gentle as often as they were rough and needy, maybe more. They had sex, but afterward, he remained, letting Robert sink into the nook underneath his arm. They joked and laughed, from the very beginning, and he had to believe that not all of it had money involved, that he was happy because of a Eames and not someone else manipulating him.
Eames made him happy, so why did he have to force what was already there? Didn't he see it?
Robert washed his face and made the preparations for the night out. He needed his strength, to take on this alone and prove to himself, to Eames, and to everyone that he was a strong, capable man. Even if it meant going at it alone.
The Chemist
Yusuf woke Eames at sunset, and they took a block away from the warehouse.
“You didn't tell Cobb, did you?” Eames asked once they were on concrete and alone.
Yusuf scoffed, “Course not. He might have paid me to babysit you, but we're not friends. This was business.”
Eames smiled at that, “Thanks, mate. I was worried that you were still pissed off at me for leaving Mombasa and chasing Robert.”
“I wouldn't have nudged you in that direction if I was mad,” Yusuf reminded. “Cause and effect.”
“Even if it came to this consequence?” Eames questioned, faintly surprised. “Obviously everyone else thought it wasn't going to work out.”
Yusuf shrugged, “I'm not everyone, and whomever said it was over?”
“True,” Eames agreed to he first part, but he lifted his hand to count the logic of the latter, “But lets see. Robert threw me out on my arse, with good reason I might add, mum's the word.” He looked at Yusuf with a stern look.
And he grinned, “My lips are sealed.”
“Right, so Robert kicked me out, I lied after I said I wouldn't, and then there's the whole inception bullshit after what happened before . . .”
Yusuf laid his hand on Eames' shoulder. “You know this has nothing to do with the previous inception. The idea took, and he's not going crazy because of it. There's an underlying problem, his relationship with Browning. You've told me this a thousand times before.”
“Doesn't matter, Yusuf. I was part of the team that changed him.”
“For the better, don't you think?”
Eames nodded, and Yusuf let go. They were nearing the entrance. “But this? Maybe we were wrong to think he needed help again. Maybe if I hadn't pushed him so far, he wouldn't have fallen apart.”
Yusuf frowned, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” He pulled out a key that Cobb gave him earlier and unlocked the side door, ushering his friend in before muttering, “No killing anyone.”
“No promises,” Eames replied.
Like chemistry, when two, violent properties are put together, there really can be no good end to it. Yusuf knew this as they approached the main room. They couldn't hide their disappointment if they wanted to, and Eames - his face was tight with tension, eyes devoid of that laughter they thought was infinite. And his voice was loud, angry, “What the fuck happened?”
“There was a mix up,” Ariadne started.
“We were led into a trap,” Arthur corrected. “Erika and Henri, they were working for someone else that wanted a different mark, this other man, someone that looked just like Fischer.”
“And you didn't notice?”
“No, we didn't,” Arthur protested. “No one woul--”
Arthur stopped because Eames' curled fist collided with his jaw. The resounding crack caused Ariadne to scream and Arthur to stumble back. Cobb came from the other room then, having left the table where the top twirled just as soon as he heard the door open.
“I would have known!” Eames yelled and turned toward the exit. Quieter, he added,“And now, Robert knows.”
“Eames . . .” Cobb said, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but it was knocked off.
“Piss off.”
Yusuf exchanged a glance but left before anymore questions could be said.
The Mistake
Normally he would have been tucked away in his office when writing. Or in the shared-yet-private space at Luther Fine Jewelry. But without Michael or even Richard to interrupt him, he found those spaces too confining. So he sat on the couch in the living room, computer balanced on his lap, pecking slowly at keys. Slowly the speed of the clicks were increasing as the idea in his head took a firm hold and formed.
He had planned to return on Monday, but on Saturday, Michael made a phone call to change his plans. It was early Sunday night when he returned. Richard drove him home. It was silent. Beneath his fingers was an envelope, filled with official papers, but the grand politics of Clan Toreador were quite honestly the last thing on his mind. The images still played like a movie brought to life - surreal, impossible, and not entirely his own. If he closed his eyes long enough, he could remember faces. Longer still and dots might be connected.
But that needed to be put aside, his eyes remaining focused on the cement driveway to the door, and by the time his fingers clutched the key in one hand, the thought was pushed away.
Carl continued typing away, not hearing the lock unlatching. He squinted at the screen as his fingers moved over the keyboard, lost in trying to describe the scene in his minds eye.
The sight should be concerning, temptation rising to go into rage at how Carl should be watching his back, but the way it was curved forward, exposing his neck, made Michael’s lips pull back. “You know,” he said in a cool, leveled tone. “I don’t know if I should be offended or upset right now . . .”
Carl jumped, almost knocking his laptop to the ground. He caught it at the last second, pushing it onto the couch as he turned. “Michael!” Instead of taking the time to walk around the couch, he bound over it. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
Michael laughed, letting the sound pour through because at that sight, he was unable to hold it in passed the grin that wanted to take over that originally still face. “I decided that I could not wait,” he said, letting his hands slide around to find their place along the lower back. “I missed you and did not think a plastic contraption would be fitting.”
Carl slipped his arms around Michael’s waist, holding him firmly against him. “I’ve missed you too,” he said, nuzzling Michael softly and then kissing him gently “So how did it go?” He frowned, suddenly putting together the odd, cryptic messages into perspective. “Does you being back early mean it didn’t go well?”
“I told them that I had more important matters to attend to,” Michael said, his fingers slipping beneath cotton and sliding to pluck it away from each button. Each gesture was slow and calm unlike the hands that grabbed his wrists and reluctantly pulled him away.
“Michael,” Carl said with a frown, wanting to see his mate's eyes, to try and understand without needing supernatural gifts like reading the mind or emotional auras “Won't they use such a faux pas against you? This is your art. I don't . . .”
Michael pulled away easily to wrap his hands around the back of Carl's neck and press their lips together. “If they do, I don't want to be part of it,” he murmured. “Until then, lets not worry about it, hrm? They will send a missive when the time comes.”
It was a delight to feel him there again, and Carl could sense the need of his mate and happily obliged. They kissed repeatedly, pulling away at clothes while slick lips caressed silk lips. The taste was delicious, but nothing like the red trickle that stained Michael's smile from a nip. He licked it before a drop could be lost and seized the mouth fully.
Each step brought them closer to the bedroom, each movement a little closer together, until Michael's hand was reaching down and scratching at the inner thighs, sending shivers and moans. He laughed lazily, pulling away for the briefest of moments to say, “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you, Michael,” Carl replied, his voice heated with desire.
There was wonder if that was why he answered so easily, but Michael tried to not think about it, to remember all the times before it was said at simpler times. He bridged the gap quickly, his sudden speed knocking them both over onto the bed. Carl slides back while Michael remains on top, soaking in the curves and lines that make up the body and the hard erection beneath his parted legs. Slowly, his hand lifts Carl's head for another kiss before he moves his hips forward, grinding them together in a release of groans that vibrate in erotic warmth.
“Please,” he could hear being begged between kisses, but Michael is unable to comply. He wants to so very much so, but he stopped, lying there in their fire, his forehead buried into the nook of Carl's neck. “Michael . . .” he hears soft against his ear, and his mouth opens to reply that he's fine, but a shuddered exhale filled the air instead, laced with sobs.
Carl pulled a strand of Michael's hair away from his ear, tempted to try and read the surface thought, to find out what was wrong, or speak something that would soothe, but nothing came. Rather, he laid his hands upon Michael's shoulders, the base of the palm against the front, and pushed him up just enough to look at him in the eyes. They were rimmed with red that stained his face.
They rolled, Carl shifting them gingerly to lay Michael onto his back, his head settled upon the pillows. He bent forward and kissed the forehead, then the blood, careful to not let his tongue slide out in to lap it up like a hungry beast. He continued down to the lips and the chin, tracing the jaw to the neck line.
Michael pulled his head back, stretching his neck into a vulnerable position. It was instinctual now, reactionary, so he was surprised to not feel the rapture of the kiss take him away from his thoughts and clarity.
“I love you, Michael,” Carl whispered into that spot, that point where he sucked at the flesh until it puckered red and faded just as quickly. He kissed the collarbone and the more tender muscle of Michael's breast, swirling his tongue at the hard nipple before biting it to arch the back beneath him.
A moan slipped out of Michael's throat before sound was caught by Carl. It continued as fingers finished where the mouth left off, down the sharpness of lines and small lift of ribs in his delicate frame. Carl was hesitant to carry on, but Michael's hand grabbed his. “Don't stop,” he pleaded.
Carl lowered himself to Michael's waist as his lover's knees lifted, parting way just like his neck had. He kissed the swollen shaft down to the balls before biting the inner thigh to release a small stream of blood. It tensed Michael, his lip bitten as his back arched, so he waited with patience until the moment passed before slicking his fingers to slide a single tip in.
Rising back up, one arm brushed along the rise and fall of the belly while his finger felt the muscles constricting around before relaxing to his smooth, gentle preparation. It was when Michael let three slide and hook that he stopped to push his cock in. The sensation set him off instantly, a shudder rolling down him and through his lover in a unified sound of pleasure. He found a rhythm before leaning forward, holding the shoulders while hands held his. A kiss is laid upon trembling lips before they part just enough for him to let go and stroke Michael.
Michael's eyes remained closed, tight out of fear that the waves would break another stream of tears. His thoughts were so chaotic, emotions run high, that he would worry about becoming too violent if not being subdued by his lover. There, he was able to remain without fear until he cried out, his feet pushing onto the bed as if to try and help Carl thrust until he was swallowed whole to the very point of joining him.
There was uncertainty that such a moment was accomplished, unable to look and see or do anything but feel the pull of his muscles to accommodate his mate and the bliss as fangs sunk into his neck to signify so. It was only after that he allowed a look, a shocked glance that he might wake up alone. It was eased by the sight of Carl lying down next to him and arms bringing them close. He rested his head upon the chest although their bodies were dabbled in blood.
It took a while before either could speak. “Michael,” Carl whispered and kissed the top of his head. “What's wrong? Did something happen in Columbus?”
“Nothing,” Michael murmured. “Just half-remembered dreams and memories I wish that I could forget.”
Epilogue
Word Count: 3,397
Pairings/Characters: Carl/Michael, Eames/Robert, Arthur/Ariadne, Cobb, Yusuf,
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: graphic sex (slash), bloodplay
Summary: After the team gets out, they separate to not draw attention and converge once everything is clear. Michael returns to Los Angeles.
Author's Note: Dedicated to
lycanthrophile, my beta and the owner of Carl Dane. <3Part 3
The Extractor
Cobb sat in the warehouse before anyone else arrived. They were to disperse upon leaving the hotel room, some take the elevators while others the stairs, and meet back at sunset. The natural light still poured from the windows, showing each crack, every corner of the room. It wasn't part of the plan, but it felt safer, and he worried.
When the first thoughts of what might happen to the others trickled through, he removed his totem within a clenched fist that stayed around it since waking. It spun for seconds, what seemed like minutes, Cobb staring because some part of his mind knew that their mistake wouldn't come after him in the daylight. Then it fell and rolled for a moment before its complete stop.
He breathed out the held in air and sat back. Henri was right. Whomever the mistake was, he wasn't a vampire. Couldn't be. Just some fanatic that fell too well into their plan . . .
The Architect
Ariadne knew that she shouldn't be there. They took the stairs together, and at the lobby, because of Cobb's glances, went opposite ways. She waited at the bar for hours, ordered a few drinks, and stopped when her eyes closed to think and felt the cold metal of a gun pressed up to her head. There was no one there, her mind knew that, yet she instinctively spun out with eyes wide enough for the late, more drunk patrons to look at her.
It was almost time for them to meet when she knocked. The cab took to her to a different hotel, and she called a second one from down the street. It took three blocks of walking before she reached the place Arthur said he would be.
No one answered, so she spoke. “Arthur? Open up. It's me.”
The Point Man
“It's unlocked,” Arthur called out. He didn't glance at the person that entered, didn't move from between the two, double-beds. There were papers sprawled across either side, scattered and flipped, no longer organized other than keeping to their side. To his left were photographs of Robert Fischer Jr., newspaper clippings, and files for his eyes only and from time to time, Eames. To his right were papers he only recently procured. Erika Whitmore, age 29, born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Blond hair, gray eyes, 5'5”, 125 pounds. That was what her driver's license, passport, and birth certificate told. There were school records, police records, and other findings too that marked the beginnings of an extractor. Psychology, research, knowing people, reading their movements and voice like reading their minds. Everything was there, every –
“Arthur,” Ariadne said for the third time since entering and cautiously approached the point man with fallen shoulders and exhaustion in his eyes. They were all tired. The plan started at sunrise, and that screwed up all of their cycles, but this was more than the wear and tear of changed sleeping schedules.
Her hand touched his shoulder, and he looked at her, his voice so unlike him that her eyes grew wide: “How did we miss it? How did I miss it? Everything is here. Erika is here. Fischer is here.” He turned and sat down on the edge of the bed, photographs and papers crackling beneath him.
“I don't know,” Ariadne said and brushed aside to make room before joining him. “Maybe someone's hiding more information than we originally anticipated. Browning, maybe? Before he left Fischer Morrow?”
Arthur wanted to say that he doesn't miss information like this, but none of it made sense. And he did. Once. So he nodded to stop the conversation from becoming more insane. The papers displayed enough of that, and it was not like him.
The Forger
It took one of Yusuf's cocktails before Eames could sleep, and even then, it was not peaceful. He lied on the couch of the small flat his friend was staying at, twisting and turning from a dream that he rarely had.
He was an artist once. That was not a lie. An innovator, imaginative, and a genius to his teachers. It led to boredom. The parties never interested him, and the scholarship came without surprise. He was an artist, but what came from art without the struggle? Bland, boring, technical shit that would wow the crowd because it was mistook for being complicated. Imaginative to an end, but inspired? Hardly.
So came the life of a thief, a charlatan, and a deceiver. He stole many things for the thrill – formulation, execution with chance of being caught, and the accomplishment of seeing it through. But even that got boring. Life was boring while being alone, and in this lifestyle, he was more alone than before.
Mombasa was a nice stage for his performance. Acts could be played out with an audience that took part as much as watching the show. Even after learning about extraction, he returned. It was home.
But like the others, it felt less so until he was an outcast in everything but Yusuf's eyes. He continued his normal practices – gambling, thievery, and lies until he had it all. Saito's paycheck laid in his offshore bank account, untouched because there was no need for the funds. It was all taken care of, and being that comfortable killed it.
It was only with Robert that he felt sated, and perhaps it was because he was not being selfish.
The Mark
They planned on going out for dinner, movie, and a list of other things that made him grin with anticipation before. Now, Robert laid his suit out on the bed. He straightened out one of the sleeves and smoothed the fabric with his fingers.
“You were going to plant an idea . . .” Robert started, his hands balled into fists. “Again?”
Eames frowned but kept a respective distance. “I wanted to help you, Robert.”
“By what? Giving me a false sense of trust in you?” Robert asked and stepped back into the chair behind him. He sat, and Eames took a step toward him. The icy blue eyes welling with tears told him to stop. “I loved you,” he said and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Loved,” he echoed and coldly added, “Get out.”
“Robert . . .”
“I said get out!”
He couldn't remember the last time he allowed those three words to be vocalized. A few times before, recently, but none ever felt the gravity. One laughed at him when he said it. That took the longest to recover. Apparently, their pairing was never meant to be anything permanent. None of them ever were.
So why did he allow himself to believe that this was any different?
His kisses were soft, gentle as often as they were rough and needy, maybe more. They had sex, but afterward, he remained, letting Robert sink into the nook underneath his arm. They joked and laughed, from the very beginning, and he had to believe that not all of it had money involved, that he was happy because of a Eames and not someone else manipulating him.
Eames made him happy, so why did he have to force what was already there? Didn't he see it?
Robert washed his face and made the preparations for the night out. He needed his strength, to take on this alone and prove to himself, to Eames, and to everyone that he was a strong, capable man. Even if it meant going at it alone.
The Chemist
Yusuf woke Eames at sunset, and they took a block away from the warehouse.
“You didn't tell Cobb, did you?” Eames asked once they were on concrete and alone.
Yusuf scoffed, “Course not. He might have paid me to babysit you, but we're not friends. This was business.”
Eames smiled at that, “Thanks, mate. I was worried that you were still pissed off at me for leaving Mombasa and chasing Robert.”
“I wouldn't have nudged you in that direction if I was mad,” Yusuf reminded. “Cause and effect.”
“Even if it came to this consequence?” Eames questioned, faintly surprised. “Obviously everyone else thought it wasn't going to work out.”
Yusuf shrugged, “I'm not everyone, and whomever said it was over?”
“True,” Eames agreed to he first part, but he lifted his hand to count the logic of the latter, “But lets see. Robert threw me out on my arse, with good reason I might add, mum's the word.” He looked at Yusuf with a stern look.
And he grinned, “My lips are sealed.”
“Right, so Robert kicked me out, I lied after I said I wouldn't, and then there's the whole inception bullshit after what happened before . . .”
Yusuf laid his hand on Eames' shoulder. “You know this has nothing to do with the previous inception. The idea took, and he's not going crazy because of it. There's an underlying problem, his relationship with Browning. You've told me this a thousand times before.”
“Doesn't matter, Yusuf. I was part of the team that changed him.”
“For the better, don't you think?”
Eames nodded, and Yusuf let go. They were nearing the entrance. “But this? Maybe we were wrong to think he needed help again. Maybe if I hadn't pushed him so far, he wouldn't have fallen apart.”
Yusuf frowned, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” He pulled out a key that Cobb gave him earlier and unlocked the side door, ushering his friend in before muttering, “No killing anyone.”
“No promises,” Eames replied.
Like chemistry, when two, violent properties are put together, there really can be no good end to it. Yusuf knew this as they approached the main room. They couldn't hide their disappointment if they wanted to, and Eames - his face was tight with tension, eyes devoid of that laughter they thought was infinite. And his voice was loud, angry, “What the fuck happened?”
“There was a mix up,” Ariadne started.
“We were led into a trap,” Arthur corrected. “Erika and Henri, they were working for someone else that wanted a different mark, this other man, someone that looked just like Fischer.”
“And you didn't notice?”
“No, we didn't,” Arthur protested. “No one woul--”
Arthur stopped because Eames' curled fist collided with his jaw. The resounding crack caused Ariadne to scream and Arthur to stumble back. Cobb came from the other room then, having left the table where the top twirled just as soon as he heard the door open.
“I would have known!” Eames yelled and turned toward the exit. Quieter, he added,“And now, Robert knows.”
“Eames . . .” Cobb said, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but it was knocked off.
“Piss off.”
Yusuf exchanged a glance but left before anymore questions could be said.
The Mistake
Normally he would have been tucked away in his office when writing. Or in the shared-yet-private space at Luther Fine Jewelry. But without Michael or even Richard to interrupt him, he found those spaces too confining. So he sat on the couch in the living room, computer balanced on his lap, pecking slowly at keys. Slowly the speed of the clicks were increasing as the idea in his head took a firm hold and formed.
He had planned to return on Monday, but on Saturday, Michael made a phone call to change his plans. It was early Sunday night when he returned. Richard drove him home. It was silent. Beneath his fingers was an envelope, filled with official papers, but the grand politics of Clan Toreador were quite honestly the last thing on his mind. The images still played like a movie brought to life - surreal, impossible, and not entirely his own. If he closed his eyes long enough, he could remember faces. Longer still and dots might be connected.
But that needed to be put aside, his eyes remaining focused on the cement driveway to the door, and by the time his fingers clutched the key in one hand, the thought was pushed away.
Carl continued typing away, not hearing the lock unlatching. He squinted at the screen as his fingers moved over the keyboard, lost in trying to describe the scene in his minds eye.
The sight should be concerning, temptation rising to go into rage at how Carl should be watching his back, but the way it was curved forward, exposing his neck, made Michael’s lips pull back. “You know,” he said in a cool, leveled tone. “I don’t know if I should be offended or upset right now . . .”
Carl jumped, almost knocking his laptop to the ground. He caught it at the last second, pushing it onto the couch as he turned. “Michael!” Instead of taking the time to walk around the couch, he bound over it. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
Michael laughed, letting the sound pour through because at that sight, he was unable to hold it in passed the grin that wanted to take over that originally still face. “I decided that I could not wait,” he said, letting his hands slide around to find their place along the lower back. “I missed you and did not think a plastic contraption would be fitting.”
Carl slipped his arms around Michael’s waist, holding him firmly against him. “I’ve missed you too,” he said, nuzzling Michael softly and then kissing him gently “So how did it go?” He frowned, suddenly putting together the odd, cryptic messages into perspective. “Does you being back early mean it didn’t go well?”
“I told them that I had more important matters to attend to,” Michael said, his fingers slipping beneath cotton and sliding to pluck it away from each button. Each gesture was slow and calm unlike the hands that grabbed his wrists and reluctantly pulled him away.
“Michael,” Carl said with a frown, wanting to see his mate's eyes, to try and understand without needing supernatural gifts like reading the mind or emotional auras “Won't they use such a faux pas against you? This is your art. I don't . . .”
Michael pulled away easily to wrap his hands around the back of Carl's neck and press their lips together. “If they do, I don't want to be part of it,” he murmured. “Until then, lets not worry about it, hrm? They will send a missive when the time comes.”
It was a delight to feel him there again, and Carl could sense the need of his mate and happily obliged. They kissed repeatedly, pulling away at clothes while slick lips caressed silk lips. The taste was delicious, but nothing like the red trickle that stained Michael's smile from a nip. He licked it before a drop could be lost and seized the mouth fully.
Each step brought them closer to the bedroom, each movement a little closer together, until Michael's hand was reaching down and scratching at the inner thighs, sending shivers and moans. He laughed lazily, pulling away for the briefest of moments to say, “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you, Michael,” Carl replied, his voice heated with desire.
There was wonder if that was why he answered so easily, but Michael tried to not think about it, to remember all the times before it was said at simpler times. He bridged the gap quickly, his sudden speed knocking them both over onto the bed. Carl slides back while Michael remains on top, soaking in the curves and lines that make up the body and the hard erection beneath his parted legs. Slowly, his hand lifts Carl's head for another kiss before he moves his hips forward, grinding them together in a release of groans that vibrate in erotic warmth.
“Please,” he could hear being begged between kisses, but Michael is unable to comply. He wants to so very much so, but he stopped, lying there in their fire, his forehead buried into the nook of Carl's neck. “Michael . . .” he hears soft against his ear, and his mouth opens to reply that he's fine, but a shuddered exhale filled the air instead, laced with sobs.
Carl pulled a strand of Michael's hair away from his ear, tempted to try and read the surface thought, to find out what was wrong, or speak something that would soothe, but nothing came. Rather, he laid his hands upon Michael's shoulders, the base of the palm against the front, and pushed him up just enough to look at him in the eyes. They were rimmed with red that stained his face.
They rolled, Carl shifting them gingerly to lay Michael onto his back, his head settled upon the pillows. He bent forward and kissed the forehead, then the blood, careful to not let his tongue slide out in to lap it up like a hungry beast. He continued down to the lips and the chin, tracing the jaw to the neck line.
Michael pulled his head back, stretching his neck into a vulnerable position. It was instinctual now, reactionary, so he was surprised to not feel the rapture of the kiss take him away from his thoughts and clarity.
“I love you, Michael,” Carl whispered into that spot, that point where he sucked at the flesh until it puckered red and faded just as quickly. He kissed the collarbone and the more tender muscle of Michael's breast, swirling his tongue at the hard nipple before biting it to arch the back beneath him.
A moan slipped out of Michael's throat before sound was caught by Carl. It continued as fingers finished where the mouth left off, down the sharpness of lines and small lift of ribs in his delicate frame. Carl was hesitant to carry on, but Michael's hand grabbed his. “Don't stop,” he pleaded.
Carl lowered himself to Michael's waist as his lover's knees lifted, parting way just like his neck had. He kissed the swollen shaft down to the balls before biting the inner thigh to release a small stream of blood. It tensed Michael, his lip bitten as his back arched, so he waited with patience until the moment passed before slicking his fingers to slide a single tip in.
Rising back up, one arm brushed along the rise and fall of the belly while his finger felt the muscles constricting around before relaxing to his smooth, gentle preparation. It was when Michael let three slide and hook that he stopped to push his cock in. The sensation set him off instantly, a shudder rolling down him and through his lover in a unified sound of pleasure. He found a rhythm before leaning forward, holding the shoulders while hands held his. A kiss is laid upon trembling lips before they part just enough for him to let go and stroke Michael.
Michael's eyes remained closed, tight out of fear that the waves would break another stream of tears. His thoughts were so chaotic, emotions run high, that he would worry about becoming too violent if not being subdued by his lover. There, he was able to remain without fear until he cried out, his feet pushing onto the bed as if to try and help Carl thrust until he was swallowed whole to the very point of joining him.
There was uncertainty that such a moment was accomplished, unable to look and see or do anything but feel the pull of his muscles to accommodate his mate and the bliss as fangs sunk into his neck to signify so. It was only after that he allowed a look, a shocked glance that he might wake up alone. It was eased by the sight of Carl lying down next to him and arms bringing them close. He rested his head upon the chest although their bodies were dabbled in blood.
It took a while before either could speak. “Michael,” Carl whispered and kissed the top of his head. “What's wrong? Did something happen in Columbus?”
“Nothing,” Michael murmured. “Just half-remembered dreams and memories I wish that I could forget.”
Epilogue
