A Flutter of Wings
folder
G through L › Lost Boys
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
2,803
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
G through L › Lost Boys
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
4
Views:
2,803
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own The Lost Boys, and I’m not making any money here either. But, I do believe David might have devoured Peter Pan. I’ve not seen the little bastard since.
Chapter One
A Flutter of Wings
Flora_Winters
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lost Boys, and I'm not making any money here either. But, I do believe David might have devoured Peter Pan. I've not seen the little bastard since.
Summary: "Oh, Lucy! Can Michael come out to play?" Santa Carla is full of strange people. Michael Emerson meets the strangest of them all, and then some. Language, MM, OC, Violence
Chapter One
His mom was in the kitchen, fixing dinner when he walked in. It smelled like she was frying up some hamburger with chopped onions thrown in. She must be making her special meat sauce for the pasta he assumed she was boiling. Her meat sauce was the best, if a little wild with the garlic.
Walking by one of the many mirrors in the house, he snuck up the steps, so he could quickly change into some dry clothes. He was soaked down to his shivering skin.
“Michael!” His mom called from the foot of the steps, causing him to freeze in his tracks. “Did you forget how to say hi?”
Slowly, he turned around and waved down to her. “Hi, Mom.”
“Have you been out in this storm?” She asked, putting her hands on her hips. “You know I don’t like it when you ride your motorcycle in the rain.”
A puddle was already forming at his feet.
Should he make a run for it? He could have his door locked before she even made it up the steps.
“Hey, Mike,” a voice snickered from behind him. “Did someone throw a bucket of water on you?”
Michael clinched his fists. He was going to give the twerp such a thrashing later.
“Go change before you get sick,” his mom snapped, shaking her head. “I saw your drip trail all the way from the door. Why do boys never think of these things?”
He turned around, glaring switchblades at Sam. He almost punched him, but suddenly sighed in pleasure when the brat tossed a warm towel over his drenched head.
“I’ll clean up your puddle,” Sam said, only to laugh. “Or Nanook will just lick it up.”
Michael looked down at the handsome dog. Nanook was licking away at the puddle of water as if he hadn’t had a drink in years.
He strolled by Sam, ruffling his hair. He’d hit him later, after he got dry and warm.
Entering his room, he closed the door behind him, locking it with a click. He didn’t want someone walking in on him while he was changing. Not that anyone would, but it was always good to make sure.
His mom still didn’t know about the tattoo on his left shoulder blade, and neither did Sam. He was going to keep it that way, until he found a place of his own, of course.
Taking off his wet shirt, he turned so his back was facing the mirror on his closet door. That tattoo in the reflection was that of a small, stalking black panther.
He was a real bad boy. The cat had cost him fifty dollars. He had saved up four weeks worth of lunch money to pay for it.
Smiling, he put on a dry shirt and changed his jeans. He tossed his wet clothes in the corner and flopped down on his bed, bouncing a bit.
All the way home in that storm, he hadn’t been able to get those blue eyes out of his mind. Those dark lashes had been so long. The redhead had looked as flawless as polished marble, without any hint of having any makeup on at all.
The guy might have been short and skinny, but he had heard him obviously tear someone a new ass.
What had his name been again? Had he even said? Hadn’t someone been shouting it?
Rolling over onto his back, he looked up at the ceiling, wiggling his toes as he stretched out long and lazily across the cotton sheets. He was tired and hungry.
He sneezed and it made his eyes water. It stung.
“Damn,” he muttered, sniffing.
He curled up on his side, closing his eyes. His room was nice and warm. He slid his bare feet under the covers.
~*~
Long strands of molten fire tickled his cheeks as he gazed up into eyes the color of brilliant moonlight on the surface of still waters. His large hands ghosted across bone white flesh, smooth and cool as alabaster. Those sultry red lips were pouting with devastating seductiveness, more venomous than a pit of poisonous thorns.
Suddenly, he was holding nothing but empty air, for the grinning redhead of a million wet dreams had vanished in swirling wisps of shimmering red vapor and rose petals. It was as if the young man had never been in the same bed with him. All he could feel was the hollow ache in his chest as he called out, falling through windswept chambers.
~*~
Michael’s eyes snapped open and he sat up. His face was dripping with sweat.
“Mike,” a knock came at the door, making him look with a deep breath. “Time for dinner. Open up.”
“All right,” he answered, pulling his legs out from the tangled sheets. He didn’t remember pulling them up around him. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
He looked at his face in the mirror and almost yelped. It was not his face looking back at him.
The eyes were all wrong. They were yellow, snake-like, and glowing in the shadow he was in.
“Mike?” Sam asked, banging on the door.
Michael blinked, and he was looking at his own startled reflection. It was him, only sweaty.
He was going to have to wash his face.
“I’ll be down in a minute, Sam,” he said, looking for some socks. His feet were really cold.
“Are you going to the boardwalk tomorrow?” Sam asked, still knocking on the door.
He told him that he was, and if he’d stop knocking, he’d even take him with him. The knocking instantly stopped.
He found some clean socks, put them on, and looked at his face in the mirror again. He was still him.
He was never going to eat funnel cake again.
To Be Continued…
Please review and tell me what you think.
--Flora
Flora_Winters
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lost Boys, and I'm not making any money here either. But, I do believe David might have devoured Peter Pan. I've not seen the little bastard since.
Summary: "Oh, Lucy! Can Michael come out to play?" Santa Carla is full of strange people. Michael Emerson meets the strangest of them all, and then some. Language, MM, OC, Violence
Chapter One
His mom was in the kitchen, fixing dinner when he walked in. It smelled like she was frying up some hamburger with chopped onions thrown in. She must be making her special meat sauce for the pasta he assumed she was boiling. Her meat sauce was the best, if a little wild with the garlic.
Walking by one of the many mirrors in the house, he snuck up the steps, so he could quickly change into some dry clothes. He was soaked down to his shivering skin.
“Michael!” His mom called from the foot of the steps, causing him to freeze in his tracks. “Did you forget how to say hi?”
Slowly, he turned around and waved down to her. “Hi, Mom.”
“Have you been out in this storm?” She asked, putting her hands on her hips. “You know I don’t like it when you ride your motorcycle in the rain.”
A puddle was already forming at his feet.
Should he make a run for it? He could have his door locked before she even made it up the steps.
“Hey, Mike,” a voice snickered from behind him. “Did someone throw a bucket of water on you?”
Michael clinched his fists. He was going to give the twerp such a thrashing later.
“Go change before you get sick,” his mom snapped, shaking her head. “I saw your drip trail all the way from the door. Why do boys never think of these things?”
He turned around, glaring switchblades at Sam. He almost punched him, but suddenly sighed in pleasure when the brat tossed a warm towel over his drenched head.
“I’ll clean up your puddle,” Sam said, only to laugh. “Or Nanook will just lick it up.”
Michael looked down at the handsome dog. Nanook was licking away at the puddle of water as if he hadn’t had a drink in years.
He strolled by Sam, ruffling his hair. He’d hit him later, after he got dry and warm.
Entering his room, he closed the door behind him, locking it with a click. He didn’t want someone walking in on him while he was changing. Not that anyone would, but it was always good to make sure.
His mom still didn’t know about the tattoo on his left shoulder blade, and neither did Sam. He was going to keep it that way, until he found a place of his own, of course.
Taking off his wet shirt, he turned so his back was facing the mirror on his closet door. That tattoo in the reflection was that of a small, stalking black panther.
He was a real bad boy. The cat had cost him fifty dollars. He had saved up four weeks worth of lunch money to pay for it.
Smiling, he put on a dry shirt and changed his jeans. He tossed his wet clothes in the corner and flopped down on his bed, bouncing a bit.
All the way home in that storm, he hadn’t been able to get those blue eyes out of his mind. Those dark lashes had been so long. The redhead had looked as flawless as polished marble, without any hint of having any makeup on at all.
The guy might have been short and skinny, but he had heard him obviously tear someone a new ass.
What had his name been again? Had he even said? Hadn’t someone been shouting it?
Rolling over onto his back, he looked up at the ceiling, wiggling his toes as he stretched out long and lazily across the cotton sheets. He was tired and hungry.
He sneezed and it made his eyes water. It stung.
“Damn,” he muttered, sniffing.
He curled up on his side, closing his eyes. His room was nice and warm. He slid his bare feet under the covers.
~*~
Long strands of molten fire tickled his cheeks as he gazed up into eyes the color of brilliant moonlight on the surface of still waters. His large hands ghosted across bone white flesh, smooth and cool as alabaster. Those sultry red lips were pouting with devastating seductiveness, more venomous than a pit of poisonous thorns.
Suddenly, he was holding nothing but empty air, for the grinning redhead of a million wet dreams had vanished in swirling wisps of shimmering red vapor and rose petals. It was as if the young man had never been in the same bed with him. All he could feel was the hollow ache in his chest as he called out, falling through windswept chambers.
~*~
Michael’s eyes snapped open and he sat up. His face was dripping with sweat.
“Mike,” a knock came at the door, making him look with a deep breath. “Time for dinner. Open up.”
“All right,” he answered, pulling his legs out from the tangled sheets. He didn’t remember pulling them up around him. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
He looked at his face in the mirror and almost yelped. It was not his face looking back at him.
The eyes were all wrong. They were yellow, snake-like, and glowing in the shadow he was in.
“Mike?” Sam asked, banging on the door.
Michael blinked, and he was looking at his own startled reflection. It was him, only sweaty.
He was going to have to wash his face.
“I’ll be down in a minute, Sam,” he said, looking for some socks. His feet were really cold.
“Are you going to the boardwalk tomorrow?” Sam asked, still knocking on the door.
He told him that he was, and if he’d stop knocking, he’d even take him with him. The knocking instantly stopped.
He found some clean socks, put them on, and looked at his face in the mirror again. He was still him.
He was never going to eat funnel cake again.
To Be Continued…
Please review and tell me what you think.
--Flora