Bloodsucking's Just Another Way To Say I Love You
It took Pete three days to wake up, after. Patrick thought he'd look different, somehow, but he didn't get any paler or, well, it's not like he suddenly started wearing eyeliner and dressing sort of goth. He was still Pete.
Of course, usually it didn't take Andy and Joe together to pull Pete off of Patrick when Pete woke up hungry and disoriented and actually even worse than he normally was when he woke up.
"The fridge," Patrick gasped out, stumbling back and clutching his neck. Pete had gotten him onto the floor in seconds, taking his wrists and pinning him down as he moved in, lips just barely brushing Patrick's neck before Andy and Joe got him away. "In the pitcher-"
"Right, right," Joe said, looking worried. Andy had sat on Pete until he stopped freaking out and realized where he was. Pete was scrappy, but no match for a hundred and forty pounds of badass vegan.
Joe brought back a glass of the blood cocktail Patrick had been working on, and they sat there looking at Pete, who stared moodily back at them.
"What," Pete said flatly.
"You have fangs," Patrick said. "Are you going to try and kill me again? Say no."
"Sorry," Pete said. Patrick couldn't help but think that he didn't look particularly sorry. Also, fangs. They were sort of- well, they were shiny, and sharp, and Patrick had the sudden urge to feel them against his skin, to see how much pressure it would take before they drew blood.
"Don't," Pete said, his voice strained.
Patrick pulled back, startled. He lowered his hand, his thumb itching. He hadn't even realized he'd been reaching to touch them.
Pete slept all day and destroyed his room when he found out he could no longer be recorded on film.
"Well, at least we know that for sure now," Patrick said. "I mean, there have been differing reports-"
Pete threw his webcam at him.
"I ripped up all my pillows," Pete said. Sunrise was edging in beneath the blackout curtains, and Patrick could just see the outline of Pete standing at the side of his bed. Patrick squinted up at him. Pete had a feather in his hair. "Can I sleep here?"
"Do you promise not to eat me?"
Pete didn't say anything.
"Do I have to promise?"
Patrick woke up in the middle of the afternoon to find the blankets kicked off and Pete clinging to him. He closed his eyes. This wasn't fair.
"'m cold," Pete murmured, snuggling closer. No, it wasn't snuggling, precisely. It was sort of like having a boa constrictor wrapped around you, slithering in and tightening. But also sort of sexy, because it was Pete. He slid his arm around Pete's waist, nudging up under the edge of his t-shirt to feel the cool skin beneath. Pete had always been cold, a consequence of being that skinny. It was worse now.
Patrick's pulse was speeding up a little, and that was bad, bad. Even worse than the fact that he was hard, although not much. At least an erection wouldn't get him killed. Pete's hand moved to his neck, fingers stroking around to curl in his hair. Patrick swallowed. "You said you wouldn't."
And Pete was nuzzling at his neck now, cold nose and warm lips and irregular stutter of breath against his skin. "Please," Pete said. "Please. Just a little, I need-" Patrick closed his eyes, feeling the slightest graze of teeth, a wet flash of tongue as Pete licked his neck, sucking lightly without biting down, and he could feel it now, the tension in Pete's body as he struggled not to give in. Pete's other hand was sliding down his stomach, nudging at the edge of his boxers, and this was, no, it shouldn't be like this-
"No," Patrick gasped, pushing at him, and Pete broke away with a sound like a sob, rolling over and putting his back to Patrick, his shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't," Patrick said, even though it was stupid to apologize, it wasn't like he was at fault here, Pete was the one who had gone and gotten himself- oh god, gotten himself killed, and now he was back and giving Patrick everything he had ever wanted except now it was all wrong.
He was still Pete, and Patrick still loved him, still hated to see him like this, broken and sad and angry and needing something Patrick could give him, even if it was a price too high for Patrick to willingly pay. "Sorry," Patrick said, touching Pete's shoulder, "I'm sorry," and he moved up behind Pete, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close. Their fingers intertwined, Pete shuddering against him.
He was still Pete, and Patrick still loved him. Even if he was dangerous, now.
Pete couldn't see his reflection anymore. This had two major effects on Patrick's life: 1. Pete was even more sullen than before, but took about ninety-five percent less time in the bathroom before they went out, and 2. Patrick was crowned de facto makeup artist since Pete couldn't see to apply his eyeliner.
"There's really no easy way to do this," Patrick said, leaning forward on the bed and manfully ignoring the way Pete eyed his wrist as he drew an impressively crooked line just north of Pete's eyelashes.
"You could climb into my lap," Pete offered. The innocent smile he offered when Patrick looked askance at him was somewhat marred by the ever-present fangs. Pete batted his eyelashes, fucking up the line even further.
"I don't think that would be a good idea."
"Why not?" Pete asked, tugging him forward until Patrick was up on his knees, looming over him but somehow not being remotely intimidating at all.
Patrick sighed. "Do you enjoy fucking with me? Is it a hobby for you?"
"Yes," Pete said, after a moment. He moved his hand around to the back of Patrick's thigh, pulling him closer until Patrick reluctantly settled into his lap. "See, isn't it easier now?"
Patrick tilted Pete's chin up and held him still, carefully filling out the line and smudging it. "Be quiet. And don't bite me."
"Are you guys ready?" Joe peeked in, raising an eyebrow at them. "Am I interrupting something?"
"No," Patrick said, as Pete said, "Yes."
"Shut up," Patrick said, when he walked out and found Joe and Andy waiting.
"I didn't say anything," Joe said.
Andy said, "Don't let him bite you."
"Thank you. I'll get right on that."
Patrick spent a lot of time throwing himself into this work and not thinking about Pete, which was difficult since all Pete seemed to do anymore was sit across the room scribbling in his notebook and staring at Patrick, and finding excuses to come up and fix a strand of Patrick's hair, or straighten his collar, or push in the tag of his shirt, which Patrick honestly didn't think was sticking out as often as Pete would have him believe.
Pete was still writing lyrics, too, except now his song titles were all like, Bloodsucking's Just Another Way To Say I Love You and Nobody Wants To Sleep With A Vampire and My Bandmates Hate Me and Won't Let Me Bite Them. Pete was not what Patrick would call subtle.
"You smell like ink and dust," Pete said, and Patrick jumped, startled. He hadn't actually noticed Pete come up behind him; Pete was really getting better at this whole stealth vampire thing, and that really wasn't good at all.
Pete leaned in, sniffing at Patrick's neck. "Cinnamon, too. I like it."
Pete was not what anyone would call subtle.
Patrick stopped sitting with his back to Pete when he could help it. Pete caught him off guard more than he liked, and always took a moment to unsettle Patrick further. It was cruel of Pete to use his advantage like that, but also sort of comforting. At least he was still Pete in all the ways that counted.
Andy and Joe had gone out hunting early, leaving Pete still sleeping and Patrick whittling stakes. He enjoyed whittling. He liked to pretend that he was sitting on a front porch somewhere down south, on a creaky old rocking chair, maybe, instead of in a big dark warehouse alone with a vampire.
His thumb slipped, dragging down the rough side of the stake and catching. Patrick made a startled noise, raising his hand to his mouth to suck on it, but it seemed barely a second had passed before Pete was in front of him, holding his wrist. "I didn't know you were awake," Patrick said, blinking at him. Pete got down on his knees, leaning up against Patrick and looking closely at his thumb.
"You're hurt," Pete said.
"It's nothing." Patrick looked down at him, staring so intently at the small wound. It wasn't nothing. It fucking hurt. "It's just a splinter."
Pete moved closer, nudging Patrick's legs apart to he could settle between them, and of the million times Patrick had pictured this happening he had to say it had never gone quite like this. The tiniest bit of pressure on his thumb, and Pete was carefully drawing the splinter out, flicking it to the ground as a small drop of blood welled up. The splinter had gone in deep. Pete looked up at him, eyes dark.
"What's it like?" Patrick said, hushed, the one question he hadn't let himself ask, too afraid he'd find out the answer.
Pete stared at him, then back at his thumb, where the drop of blood had spilled over, running down his thumb and into the creases of the palm of his hand in a line of wet red chains. "I'm always hungry. I always want." Wanting, Patrick knew of wanting. He raised his hand to Pete's face.
"I just want to," Patrick said. "For research." His interest was entirely academic. He'd make...notes. And then he'd know things. His thumb brushed Pete's lower lip, a brief gentle pressure before Pete's lips parted and let him in, tongue flicking out to taste the blood from the base of his thumb up. Patrick couldn't help but shiver, smoothing over the pointed edge of one fang and then the other, each one sharper than he'd expected. Pete pulled at his hand, sucking at the blood gathered in his palm until there was none left visible, and then he put his lips to Patrick's wrist.
And this had gone on too long, a week since Pete had crawled into his bed, months since he'd looked at Pete and wanted, years since they'd first met and it had been just like this, electric right and what Patrick had been looking for all along. "Not there," Patrick said, and Pete tugged him down onto the floor by his belt loops, arms around his neck as Patrick leaned down and kissed him. Pete tasted like copper and arched up beneath him, kissing back like he was starving for it, like this was what he'd wanted all along, and for a moment Patrick let himself believe it until Pete's lips moved down his jaw and to his neck.
"Just don't, um, don't kill me," Patrick said, as Pete kissed his neck, and it was hard to concentrate on the possibility of his imminent death when Pete was doing that, clutching at the back of Patrick's sweater and grinding up against him and sucking at his neck like he could do that all day and not get tired of it.
"Just a taste," Pete murmured, and Patrick felt the sharp-sweet graze of fangs and wanted it, really, wanted to give this to Pete because Pete needed him, and also because it felt really good and yes, probably vampire trickery and there was a reason they hunted guys like Pete but there was also a reason that vampires were classically the sexy ones of the underworld. Pete moved under him, thrusting up, and Patrick thought he should get Pete's jeans open before he bit down and multitasking became a blood loss related issue.
Yeah, really not how Patrick thought this would ever go, but the important thing was to focus on the now and the fact that Pete didn't seem to be wearing underwear. Pete was working on Patrick's pants, too, which was nice because if Pete didn't kill him the anticipation probably would. And wow, that was sort of, hmm, usually sex for Patrick wasn't quite so much a source of gallows humor, but this was really a different situation, one in which he was having sex with Pete, or at least something with Pete, which was more than he'd had before, so. Yes, it was good, and then Pete got a hand around his cock and that was really good, and then the fangs grazing at his neck sank in further.
Vampire trickery, Patrick thought hazily, it was all- something, mmm, it was nice, he liked it, and Pete definitely needed to keep doing that. That, with the stroking, that was great, but also the sucking on his neck was really nice, the pain no worse than digging his nails into the palm of his hand and satisfying like that, enough to keep him aware of what he was doing, enough to keep him slowly jerking off Pete in return. The room around him was wavering, and all he could see was Pete's skin, the red and black of his hair, the smoky edge of his lined eye, smudged with sweat. He could barely keep himself held up, and finally Pete nudged him over until Pete was on top, backed by blurred gold light and moaning softly against him as he came.
Patrick curled his fingers in the back of Pete's shirt as Pete pulled away, licking his lips, and took Patrick's own hand, placing it against the side of his neck. "I'm sorry," Pete gasped, pressing Patrick's hand down further, "hold that there, just hold it," he said, and moved down Patrick's body, tugging Patrick's pants down and taking Patrick's cock into his mouth, sucking hard, and now that Pete wasn't at his neck anymore Patrick was starting to see clearly again, starting to feel everything, the pain and the pleasure of Pete moving up and down on his cock, careful suction and clever tongue and it was- it was Pete, doing this, and Patrick shuddered, coming hard. The world went white for a second, dizzying blinding, and then Pete was crawling back up, holding onto him, holding him there.
When Patrick tried to stand up, he passed out, and didn't wake up for three days.
When he did, he found Pete asleep beside him.
Pete didn't touch him again.
They hunted at night, taking down the one who turned Pete and any others that got in their way. Andy and Joe trained and practiced and Patrick researched, doing what he could to make Pete more comfortable, working on the blood cocktail and looking for a cure he knew he'd never find.