Every night after the club closed I'd go out to hunt and feed, sometimes
with Cash, sometimes alone. And every night I ended up walking to Mulder's
apartment by myself—walking there and standing under his living room
window, looking up at the dim light shining through it, flickering shadows
from the TV playing on the far wall. Every night I thought about going up,
knocking on his door. I even toyed with the fantasy that maybe he wouldn't
slam it in my face. And every night I didn't do it, couldn't bring myself to
do it, couldn't bring myself to try slipping inside uninvited, taking what I
needed from him while he slept. No way, never happen. Not again.
Now that I'd had time to think about it, I knew Cash was right. It was a bad
idea. Maybe I could justify the risk to myself, but not to Cash and Lillie,
not after everything they'd done for me. Didn't matter that everybody else's
blood tasted like sewer water compared to Mulder's. Didn't matter that I
dreamt about him every fucking night—him and me, tangled together in
those warm, soft sheets, skin to skin, groin to groin, mouth to throat—
and woke up spurting all over my belly like some goddamned horny kid. Didn't
matter. I'd get over it in time.
Yeah, I figured another century or two'd probably do it.
Then again, I'd never been one to wait. The way I was going, I'd be lucky to
live another year, let alone another hundred. Fuck the future. Mulder was
here and now.
I crept up the stairs to the fourth floor and down the hallway, picking the
lock on Mulder's apartment door, slipping soundlessly inside. He was lying
on the couch snoring softly, mouth slightly open. He shifted a little when I
knelt down beside the couch, but I stilled him with a touch, leaning close
to his ear. I caught his plump, salty lobe between my teeth, shuddering. I'd
gone too long without him; even this tiny taste had me too fucking close to
losing it.
His right arm was hanging over the side of the couch, barely brushing my
leg. I brought his wrist to my mouth, tracing the thick blue vein with my
lips and tongue, teeth poised right there, savoring the anticipation, then
sinking in. He tasted different this time, darker, richer, like bittersweet
chocolate, and I sucked hard, drawing him deep, long, hot mouthfuls of him
pouring into me, easing my hunger. I could've sworn he gasped at the exact
same time I pulled away, giving his wrist a farewell lick, checking the
pulse in his throat. It was more rapid now, threadier than normal. I'd taken
more than last time, though I was sure I'd stopped before reaching the
danger point. He looked a little paler too, but not enough to worry about.
He'd be okay.
I bent down and kissed his mouth, nipping at his lower lip, sucking it into
my mouth. God, he was a temptation, every millimeter of him a rainbow of
flavor and texture, salt and sweet and pebbled and satin. All I wanted was
to crawl onto that couch, wrap myself around him and stay forever, but I'd
already stayed too long. Any second now he'd be waking—
Too late. He moved under me, stirring, giving me a weak little push with the
wrist I'd just drunk from, eyelids fluttering, snapping open as he jerked
back to consciousness with a sharp, pained gasp.
I didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't do anything. I couldn't. He was
staring up at me, blinking, lips parted, working. "Y-You...it was you the
other night, in that alley? It wasn't..." Licking his lips, he let out a
long, hissing breath, eyes flickering with dulled-hazel recognition,
suppressed memories kicking in with all the subtlety of a hammer smashing
bone. "It wasn't a dream."
A statement, not a question. "No."
"Y-You bit me. You took my blood. You t-took it just now."
"Yeah," I breathed, grinning a little. I couldn't help it.
"Get the fuck away from me, you—" Another shove, this time barely enough to
push himself upright, push me away. I fell back on instinct, back on my
knees next to the couch. Every nerve in my body screamed for me to get up,
get the fuck out of here, but I didn't. Mulder was sitting there on the
couch glaring at me, limp, boneless-looking, breathing like he'd just run a
marathon, pale and sweaty and shivering and looking like he was ready to
puke up his guts. He wasn't in any condition to keep me from going, but I
still didn't go. I couldn't leave him like this.
"C'mon," I said, leaning down, looping my right arm around him, somehow
getting him into a standing position, then, hobbling like a pair of old
geezers on crutches, got him into the bedroom, dumping him on the bed with a
relieved grunt. He hadn't changed the sheets since we'd been rolling around
in them together; I could still smell the faint tang of semen, his and mine,
mingled in the blue cotton warmth. Jesus.
My cock leapt. My veins ached. So, naturally, the next thing I did was turn
tail and head for the bathroom. There was a damp washrag sitting on the edge
of the sink; I wetted it a little more with some warm water from the tap,
wrung it out and brought it back to the bedroom, laying it on Mulder's
forehead. I slid onto the edge of the bed and just sat there, watching him,
listening to his sighs and moans, the soft rasp of his breathing. Just
another couple minutes, just so I could be sure he was really okay. He'd
fall asleep, and I'd slip out. Maybe if I was lucky, he wouldn't even
remember I'd been here. Another couple minutes, and I'd go.
"So," he said groggily, opening one eye a sliver, "wh-what happened to you?"
For a second there I wasn't sure if he meant my arm, or...Christ, I had no
idea what he meant. When did I ever? I shrugged.
"Y-You're not my first, y'know," he slurred, letting out this tiny,
high-pitched, half-strangled sound. It took me a second before I realized it
was a giggle. "N-Not my first v-vampire, unh-uh, not by a long shot..."
"I think this is my cue to leave," I muttered, starting to get up—
But his hand was on mine, fingers weakly encircling my wrist. I could have
pulled away with no problem, made my escape, but I didn't. I sat back down
on the bed, lifting the back of my hand to his cheek. He was warm to the
touch now, flushed-looking, slightly feverish. I was almost tempted to call
Scully.
Almost.
"I used to dream about her all the time...the other one, I mean, the vampire
I met in LA right after Scully disappeared, after you..." Balancing wobbily
on one elbow, he scooted up a little on his pillow. "I dreamed about her
last night. I dreamed about her climbing on top of me, ripping my shirt,
tearing open my throat. Only this time, she turned into you." The washcloth
was sliding off his forehead, but he caught it, tossing it on the bedside
table with a soggy plop. "You bit me." He sounded angry, accusing this time,
all signs of his previous giddiness suddenly evaporated. "Whatsa matter,
kissing me wasn't punishment enough, you had to use your teeth too?"
A chortle stuck in my throat. Typical Mulder—no matter how weird-ass the
revelation, he had it absorbed, analyzed, and spun into even weirder-ass
fantasy fodder in an eyeblink. "You tasted so good, I couldn't resist coming
back for more."
"You bit me in the dark, in that closet. And here too," he whispered,
grabbing a handful of sheet. "Right here, the other night."
I nodded. No point denying it now.
"You bit me, and you fucked me."
"I didn't fuck you. I stroked you off."
"You made me come when you bit me." A rose-colored tongue-point darted out,
leaving his lips wet and glistening. I bit down hard, gritty iron blooming
in my mouth. "I want you to do itagain," he rasped. "And I want to be awake
for it this time."
"You want—"
His hand flew up, cupping my cheek, the edge of his thumb lingering at my
lips, slipping between them. My tongue swept the soft, fleshy pad,
salty-sweet, rough-calloused at the very tip, and I was gone.
Sucking, I drew the whole thumb in, catching a piece of skin between my
teeth, worrying at it until I drew blood—just a little, the barest taste,
just enough to make my stomach cramp and my cock squirm in my pants,
screaming for mercy. Somewhere beyond the roaring in my ears I heard a soft,
husky moan, but couldn't tell if it came from him or me.
Didn't matter. In the next second both of us were moaning and I was tumbling
on top of him, my mouth hovering right over his, close enough to taste his
breath. Close enough for him to lap gently at the corners of my mouth,
licking up the last droplets of his own blood. Close enough for him to drag
me down to be kissed.
One, two impatient stabs of his tongue and he was sliding between my lips,
exploring, taking his time, flicking his tongue over mine, though I jerked
away abruptly when he touched that small raw spot on the inside of my right
cheek where I'd bitten myself earlier. His soft cry of protest mutated into
something huskier, deeper as I dusted more kisses along his jaw, down his
throat, sucking and licking, feeling the steady, quickening thrum of the
artery right beneath my mouth.
I stopped, savoring the beat, the warmth and sweetness flowing under poised
teeth. All it would take was one bite, one tiny little nip that I could wipe
from his memory later. I'd taken his blood once tonight, yet I still wanted
it, still craved it. Craved him. Just one taste, one more taste. What
could it hurt?
"Do it."
His voice seeped through the thunder in my ears like water trickling through
a sieve. Seeping into my brain took a little longer. "What?"
"Do it," he repeated. "You want to. I want you to."
But I didn't. I couldn't. Not from the throat. I'd stopped myself in time
last time; now I couldn't make myself—or him—that guarantee. There
were other ways, though, better, safer ways. He'd have what he wanted, and
so would I.
Giving his throat one last, playful kiss, I moved off just long enough to
wrestle him out of his sweat-dampened t-shirt, then slid down, dragging my
mouth, wet and open, across his collarbone, down to the flat plane of his
chest, finding a nipple, swirling it with my tongue, sucking it into my
mouth. I wasn't sure if he even felt it when I bit him, but the quick buck
and roll of his hips, grinding his crotch up into mine, told me he'd felt
something. I was feeling something too—something stiff as a steel club,
straining against his zipper. Straining against my zipper. God. Hot copper
burst onto my tongue as I licked the blood from his nipple, biting the
inside of my cheek again, barely holding myself in check. I had to slow
down, make him slow down, or this was going to end quicker than either of
us wanted it to.
An insistent nudge, and I scooted down between his splayed legs, far enough
that our cocks weren't touching, affording us both a little relief. Swiping
lightly at his nipple to heal my tiny bite, I kissed and nipped all the way
to his navel, dragging my incisors along his smooth, tanned skin, a fine red
line welling in my wake. "Look," I murmured, and he did, gasping sharply,
gaze flicking, locking on mine, gasp swelling into a full-throated moan as
he watched me lave the fresh cut from bottom to top and back again. My lips
were smeared with his blood by the time I was done, and I lifted my head so
he could see it. He made a grab at me, hand snaking weakly, helplessly,
trying to drag me back up for another kiss. But I ducked, sliding down,
rimming his navel just long enough to make him writhe, fumbling at his fly,
unzipping him, letting him spring free.
I think he was almost disappointed that I didn't bite him there, on the
crown of his gorgeous, rosy cock, but that wasn't what I was looking for,
not now, anyway. A couple rough, insistent tugs had his jeans halfway down
his thighs, pinning him effectively, subduing him long enough for me to get
my own zipper undone. I could almost swear I heard a pop when my cock poked
free, pushing into the warm, bunched-up sheets. Enough relief for now.
I knew he was expecting me to clamp onto his cock immediately, so I didn't.
His balls were another matter entirely, though, dusky and swollen, begging
for my mouth. I took each one in turn, sucking and rolling, laving every
millimeter of his scrotum, pulling back, blowing warm air on moist skin,
grinning at his whimpery little jerks and jumps, head tossing on his pillow,
hands twisting in the sheets. It was as close as he'd get to begging me for
it.
He didn't need to ask twice. Way past the point of restraint, I let the tip
of him slide between my lips and plunged, taking him as deep as I could,
burying my nose in brown, crisp curls, grinding my own hips into the sheets.
I thought he might try to grab hold of my head and take charge himself, but
he didn't, he let me do it all, letting me suck him, work my tongue on him,
wrapping it up and down the whole length of his cock until he couldn't help
it anymore—one thrust, two, and he was swelling, bursting, spurting hot
and salty down my throat.
I took it all, every drop, then pulled off slowly, gently. There was a huge,
rapidly-cooling wet spot in the sheets between my thighs; apparently I'd
come without even realizing it. God, I hadn't done that since I was a kid.
Mulder had fallen still and silent, though the gentle tangle of his fingers
in my hair told me he hadn't passed out. A tug, and I was moving upward,
licking away the last droplets of blood from his belly as I went, rolling
off to one side so as not to crush him. Our lips met, his parting under
mine, warm, wet velvet sweeping inside my mouth, sucking my tongue like a
smaller, more pliant cock, drinking the taste of himself, seed and blood
mixed together.
"You gonna come back tomorrow night?" he whispered huskily.
Like he needed to ask? It was weird, too fucking weird and twisted and even
a little sick, but since when had our relationship been anything else? I had
to feed, and it might as well be from someone who knew what I was, and
wanted me anyway.
The hunger was my addiction. Maybe this was his.
Afterbite
by Sugar Rush
Every night, it happened.
