by Aimer Boyz
A motley group, three with long, lank hair, two with shaved heads. No hats, no gloves, their winter coats hung open, declaring them too tough to feel the cold. Pure posturing. The hunched shoulders and hands jammed into pockets said they were freezing. The ringleader, a tall, skinny kid looking lost in his long leather coat, sneered at them. “You cocksuckers should have stayed in Toronto. Niagara Falls is a fag free zone.”
Michael stepped in front of Symon, the protective stance making him smile. He needed about as much protection as a Sherman tank, but he appreciated the thought. Still, he pulled Michael back as Andrew sauntered up to the homophobic asswipes.
“You guys didn’t get the email?” Andrew asked the little group of human waste.
“Huh?” Leather Coat looked over his shoulder, but his gang of delinquents didn’t know what Andrew was talking about either. “What the fuck are you—”
On the delicate side of graceful, Andrew wasn’t a threatening presence, but when he stepped forward, Leather Coat stepped back. “News flash, asshole. Queer boundaries have been extended. We can go wherever the fuck we want,” he said, grabbing Leather Coat by the throat, and lifting him into the air.
Symon eyed Leather Coat’s friends, but these kids were no hardened criminals. Rather than gang up on Andrew, they shifted away from him, shooting nervous looks at each other and staring at their valiant leader dangling from a slender hand.
“Andrew,” Etienne said, cautioning the redhead, even as he moved to stand at his side.
Symon shared the concern he heard in Etienne’s voice. Andrew was still new to the night, his control uncertain, and as pissed as he was…
“I’m okay.” Andrew flashed a quick smile at Etienne, and opening his fist, dropped Leather Coat to the ground. The kid stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet, and Andrew grabbed a leather lapel pulling the young dickhead close. He dragged one finger over the trembling man’s jaw, traced his lips. “Want to know what you’re missing?”
Leather Coat tried to jerk his head away, but Andrew gripped his chin, holding him still. The guy whimpered, beer breath polluting the air between them, and Andrew grimaced in distaste. “Maybe when you don’t smell like a dead brewery,” he said, shoving the kid away, watching as he flailed backwards, bumping into one of his friends. The group of would-be queer bashers ran, Andrew calling after them. “Fuck with us fags again and you’re going to be sucking down more than beer.”
Leather Coat raised his middle finger, but he didn’t stop running.
“I cannot take you anywhere,” Etienne said, dark eyes smiling at Andrew.
“Dude, that was fucking awesome,” Michael said, smacking a high-five into Andrew’s hand. “I thought he was going to piss himself.”
Symon didn’t think it was fucking awesome. A stunt like Andrew had just pulled brought attention, attention the Eternal Secret was better without. He opened his mouth to rain all over his fledgling’s parade, but Etienne shook his head.
Symon kept his opinion to himself.
***
At just after one in the morning, the parking lot behind the Prince of Wales hotel was full of dark shadows and empty cars.
“Anytime, seriously,” Andrew said, adding Michael’s number to his contacts. “During the day, you’re on your own, but at night we can show you a Toronto the tourists never get to see.”
“We are always happy for an excuse to go grocery shopping,” Etienne said, seconding his partner’s invitation.
“We?” Andrew said. “He’s the one who keeps coming home with stuff he can't eat.”
“My not being able to eat the food is not what bothers him,” Etienne said, his hand settling into its accustomed place on Andrew's hip.
“A few weeks after I turned, he came home with Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie, my favourite. He thought he was being supportive, like somehow the scent would be enough. I wanted to kill him.”
“Fortunately,” Etienne said. “I am older.”
“He's got two hundred years on me, makes him stronger, faster,” Andrew said, answering the question on Michael’s face. “Kind of hot.”
“Yeah.” Michael's grin matched Andrew's, but he wasn't talking about Etienne.
Symon would never admit it, but Etienne had been right. Michael’s hand in his as they walked the shovelled paths of the park had felt…good. The whole evening, ridiculous parody of a human double date that it was, had felt right, and that was just so fucking wrong.
The four of them had wandered the illuminated park together, walked up the hill to the casino where they’d emptied their wallets at the blackjack table, before piling into Symon’s car and heading back to the hotel. No fangs, no blood, no reason for Symon to feel like an old tabby cat curled up in front of a fire, all warm and content. It pissed him off.
He held himself slightly apart from the others, a silent witness to the exchange of phone numbers and plans to get together in Toronto, his mind on Michael. Despite the bite to the frigid early morning air, he unzipped his jacket, getting one step closer to naked.
“Insane,” Andrew said, following Michael’s eyes to Symon. “He looks like he should be at a rave, but he’s…Symon.”
“Kind of hot,” Michael said, borrowing Andrew’s phrasing.
In a blur of speed, Symon latched onto Dimple Man’s jacket and hauled him in.
“Hey,” Michael said, the word all surprise and no protest, his body adhering to Symon’s like they were matched strips of Velcro.
Symon didn’t have control issues, or insecurity issues, or any kind of two-hundred-and-forty-dollar-an-hour issues that he needed to work out by manhandling Michael. He did it because he got off on the way Michael went pliant against him. The way his face went soft and his eyes got needy. Even when he didn’t say it, Michael’s body said it for him, ‘please’.
Symon closed his fist on Michael's jacket collar, pressed his knuckles against his throat. “Kind of hot?”
“Fucking inferno, Fido.”
“Better,” Symon said, uncurling his hand from Michael’s collar to shove at his shoulder.
“That’s so cute,” Andrew said. “You call him Fido.”
“Man’s best friend,” Etienne said, laughter lighting his midnight eyes.
“Loyal, friendly, affectionate,” Andrew added. “Oh, yeah, totally Symon.”
“Cute as a puppy,” Michael said, flashing that dimple at Symon. “Don’t know about the cuddly yet.”
From Andrew, Symon had learned there was a subtext to teasing, an expression of inclusivity, of family. Didn’t mean he liked it though. “You done?” he asked, the ice in his voice saying they were.
Etienne, obviously deciding it was time to leave, pulled Symon into a hug. “Sire,” he said, touching two fingers to the pulse at Symon’s wrist. “Blood of your blood. Ever and always.”
“Beloved,” Symon answered, his own fingers reaching for the life beating in Etienne's neck. “Blood of my blood. Ever and always.”
“Dad,” Andrew said, throwing his arms around Symon.
“If I'd known you were going to call me dad, I wouldn't have turned you,” Symon said, holding the redhead close for a heartbeat.
Chapter 13
SYMON THREW THE lock on the hotel door, turned to find Michael’s parka on the couch, and Michael himself, tugging his sweater over his head on his way to the bedroom.
His human had the kind of body infomercials touted in the wee hours of the night, hawking exercise equipment and protein supplements. Slight himself, Symon appreciated the span of Michael’s shoulders, the play of muscles across his back. “In a hurry?” he asked, tossing his jacket on top of Michael’s, and following him into the bedroom.
Michael kicked off his boots, glanced at the window, at the dark on the other side of the glass. “How much time do we have?”
“Enough,” Symon said, watching as Michael shoved at his jeans and briefs, his cock bouncing about as he tugged off his socks. He remembered the weight of that cock in his ha
nds, the feel of it in his mouth. Intent on experiencing that taste again, Symon pushed off the doorjamb, and moved in on his prey.
“I like this,” Michael said, wrapping himself around Symon, sliding a hand under his sweater. “You dressed and me, not dressed.”
It didn’t come as any big shock that Michael liked the D/s vibe implicit in the clothed/naked divide. Symon preferred skin-on-skin, but he wasn’t complaining, not with a naked Michael pressed against him, his hands sliding down Symon’s back, melding them together.
Michael nipped at Symon’s earlobe, sucked marks into the side of his neck, and Symon allowed it. More than that even, he encouraged it, tilting his head to give his prey better access. One hand at the back of Michael’s head, Symon held him there at his neck, all but trembling under the cascade of sensation. To bare your neck to another was to make yourself vulnerable and Symon didn’t do vulnerable. He didn’t do intimate either, but this, Michael’s teeth at his neck was intimate, and Symon was in deep shit. He wanted what he couldn’t have. Not in any real way, because Michael was human, and he wasn’t.
Fucking dimple.
Michael went to his knees, set both hands on Symon’s denim-covered thighs. Inch by tormenting inch, those hands travelled north. “Please,” Michael said, grey eyes smiling up at Symon.
The word was right, the tone of voice perfect, just the combination of playfulness and supplication that Michael did so well, but— “No.”
“What?”
Symon wanted to laugh at the stunned expression on Michael’s face. Obviously, he’d expected Symon to say yes and why wouldn’t he? Who said no to a blowjob?
“No, you can’t suck my dick.”
His hands falling off Symon, Michael sat back on his heels. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Symon said, tracing Michael’s jaw. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m good with you expressing yourself, asking for what you need, but I’m not always going to do what you want me to.”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I just—”
“Top from the bottom?”
“I do not,” Michael exclaimed, appalled.
“You do,” Symon said, pinching Michael’s earlobe. Michael opened his mouth on another denial, and Symon pinched him again. “Think about it.”
Michael did just that, rethought the last few minutes, and reassessed. “Okay, yeah. Maybe.”
Not good enough, Symon thought, delivering another pinch.
“Shit,” Michael said, jerking his head away, and rubbing at his ear. “I’ve got two, try the other one next time.”
Symon laughed, Michael grinned up at him, and Symon wished he didn’t know this couldn’t work…
Michael knelt upright again, assumed his best submissive pose with his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders squared off. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again except,” he qualified, little-boy mischief in his eyes. “When it does.”
“No problem. Turns out I like to say no,” Symon said, nudging his motorcycle boot against Michael’s defenceless dick. “You okay with that?”
His eyes on the cock propped on the toe of Symon’s boot, Michael exclaimed, “Fuck, yes.” The avid affirmation more about Symon’s foot work than his question.
Symon, feeling generous, rubbed his boot along the underside of Michael’s hardening dick. He had to admit, it made a pretty sight, that flushed pink cock against the black leather. Not as pretty though as Michael’s reaction, wide eyes, and a spiralling arousal Symon could almost taste. “Up." Symon sat on the bed, motioned for Michael to stand in front of him. He wrapped a hand around Michael’s dick, and using it like a handle, pulled Dimple Man between his legs. “You going to say no?”
“What are you, nuts?” Michael asked, pulling the tie out of Symon’s hair, and sifting his fingers through the blond. “Who says no to a blowjob?”
Symon started with his hand, not his mouth, and he took his time. When you had eternity on your side there was no need to rush. Plus, he wanted to draw this out, wanted to make Michael whine, and curse, and beg. He gave Michael long strokes. Slow strokes. Strokes that were meant to madden and, judging by the way Michael dug his fingers into Symon’s shoulders, they did.
“You’re not a nice person, you know that, right?”
Symon grinned, rewarded that bit of snark by tightening his grip. Fast and tight, slow and light, Symon alternated the rhythm, keeping Michael waiting, wanting. When he felt like it, he dipped his head, and licked at Michael’s weeping crown.
“I’m not a fucking ice cream cone.”
Some people would argue that a submissive should be silent, but where was the fun in that? Symon liked the smart-ass mouthing off, frustration sounded good on Michael. Desperation, he thought, would sound even better. To that end, Symon trailed his fingers down the divide between Michael’s ass cheeks, circled his hole, and Michael whined for him. The whine was nice, but it wasn’t begging. Not yet. Michael rocked back and forth between Symon’s hands, trying to get more, trying to get off, but Michael wasn’t in control here. Symon was the puppet master, the guy holding the strings.
He tapped two fingers to Michael’s lips and Dimple Man opened for him, sucking on Symon’s fingers like they were a rare treat. In a coordinated attack, Symon breached Michael’s entrance and swallowed his cock. Michael clutched at Symon’s shoulders the way a drowning man clings to a buoy, need blowing his pupils wide. Symon encouraged Michael to thrust harder, deeper, taking him to that edge where nothing existed, but the pounding of his heart and the tension threatening to break him open.
Michael’s whole body tensed, his breath catching the way it did just before he tipped into oblivion. And, sadistic bastard that he was, Symon dialled it all back, sliding his fingers from the clutch of Michael’s ass and pulling off his cock.
“No…What…?” His eyes wild, his face a mask of confusion, Michael looked like he’d been ripped out of dream.
“Shh, prey, shh, I’m here. I’ve got you,” Symon soothed, knowing he would remember this moment, this Michael, until time itself stopped. “So beautiful, my prey,” he murmured, laying Michael on the bed, dropping chaste kisses at his temple, on his eyelids, on his mouth. He stroked a hand down Michael’s chest, wrapped it around his cock. His eyes on Michael’s, he fisted that poor denied cock.
“Please, Symon.”
And there it was, the word Michael had somehow transmuted, turning it into Symon’s personal kryptonite. The word that unravelled Symon every fucking time, made him want to give Michael everything, forever. He sucked Michael in, buried his nose in the cluster of dark hair at the base of his cock, and swallowed him down.
He cut the strings and set Michael free.
Chapter 14
MICHAEL DIDN’T MOVE for the longest time. If Symon couldn’t plainly hear the thump of his heart, he would have thought the man dead by orgasm.
“Hey,” Michael murmured, as if the energy required for full-on speech was beyond him.
“Not dead. Good,” Symon said. “I didn’t know what to do with the body.”
“Uh-huh.” Michael rolled onto his side, curled up against Symon, and settled in.
Cuddling wasn’t Symon’s forte, but then Michael had him doing a lot of things he didn’t usually do. Symon had been around a long time, long enough to know himself, but he hadn’t known this. He hadn’t known that one smile, one man behind that smile, could make the night interesting again. Symon threaded his fingers through Michael’s hair and ignored the voice in the back of his mind. The one that insisted this didn’t have to end. He knew better.
Mountains eroded, suns exploded, everything died, except him.
Poor little lord of the night, all alone.
Piss off.
Symon wasn’t alone, or any more alone than he wanted to be. Unlike humans, hardwired to live in packs and comb bugs out of each other’s hair, vampires weren’t social animals. They hunted alone, forming alliances rather than friendships. Nightwalkers didn’t drop by
for a chat and a glass of blood, not that Symon had been able to make Andrew understand that. The redhead insisted on—
A hand pushed his sweater up, a thumb ghosted over his nipple flicking back and forth until Symon’s tit tinted an annoyed pink. Michael propped himself up on one elbow and smiled at his artistry.
“Pretty crappy work ethic you’ve got there,” Symon said, glancing down at his chest. “They’re supposed to be a matched set.”
“On it,” Michael said, leaning in. He teased the neglected nipple with his teeth, keeping the first one happy with his fingers. When he was satisfied that Symon’s nips were once again a perfect pair, he dragged a hand down the centre of Symon’s chest. “Your turn,” he said, working Symon’s belt open and his zipper down. “What are we going with here?” Michael asked, hand wrapped around Symon’s cock. “My mouth or my ass?”
“Hmmm, tough call. Your lips stretched around my cock or your ass…? Lube’s in the drawer.” Michael rolled off him and Symon lay back, arms crossed behind his head, his eyes following the curve of Michael’s spine, appreciating the ass on display as Michael leaned over the edge of the bed.
Lube in hand, Michael eyed the still mostly dressed Symon, took in the sweater pushed up around his armpits, the cock hanging out of his open fly, and quirked an eyebrow. “Undressing yourself break some kind of union code I don’t know about?”
“You’re into ancient history, right? Greece, Rome?”
Michael tilted his head a fraction, searched Symon’s face, clearly wondering where he was going with this. “Yeah?”
“The wealthy had slaves.”
Michael laughed. “And I’m the slave?”
Symon grinned. “Get to work,” he said, gesturing at his clothes.
“Good thing you’re cute,” Michael said, tugging at Symon’s boot.
“You mean hot.”
Michael shrugged. “Sure.”
Smartass, Symon thought, catching the smile Michael was trying to hide, and wondering if there was any facet to this man he wouldn’t like.
