****************************************************

Disclaimer time once again! Thirty-seventh verse same as 
the first . . everybody *sing*:

I don't own these characters, (chorus) Paramount does!
I don't own this venue, (chorus) Paramount does!
I am making no money off of this, (chorus) Paramount does 
not either!

This story involves sex between two men, (well, mostly) aka: 
slash.  If that is *not* your cup of . . tea, sweet as it is <g>, 
then don't read it!  (simple, ain't it??)

Feedback is *very* much appreciated, and always 
answered.  Flames will be passed around to friends and 
chuckled over.  :)

First in the 'Bound In Blood' Series.

'Consanguinity' by Amirin


****************************************************


"Hail them again, Harry."

I'll say this for the Captain, she doesn't like to give up.  So, I 
hail them again.

"Still no answer, Captain."

I check the instruments for the fourth time, but the distress 
beacon is still signaling, loud and clear, even though we're 
getting nothing from the sensors.

"Maybe there's no one left alive *to* answer, Captain," Tom 
speaks up, always the optimist, as he turns in his seat, 
grinning that grin.  His eyes meet mine and I grin back at 
him. It's one of those things I can't help doing, like a 
conditioned response.  He grins, I grin back.  He touches 
me, my cock hardens to the point that I could punch holes 
through the hull with it.  Simple reflex.  Not a damned thing I 
can do about either one.  I only wish I had the opportunity to 
try and do something about the latter with Tom, if at all 
possible.  But he doesn't know and I'm not about to tell him. 
"Harry, where is the beacon?"  The Commander this time, 
after exchanging one of those *looks* with the Captain over 
Tom's statement.

"On the surface, Sir.  Easily accessible," I look back at him 
innocently, but he sees the burning curiosity in my eyes and 
he and the Captain exchange another look.  I just sigh 
inwardly.  I've come to hate those looks.

"Harry, Tuvok, go check it out," the Captain says and even 
though it's her command voice, she still sounds indulgent.

I grin good-bye at Tom, and Tuvok and I are making our way 
to the transporter room, to try and figure out this latest 
mystery.

A planet, shrouded in cloud cover, almost like nuclear 
winter, with a sun in permanent eclipse by a moon in an 
identical orbit.  The whole planet is in constant night, every 
single day of the year, no matter what time of day it is, no 
matter how it spins on its axis.  I've never seen anything like 
it, which maybe doesn't say much, but neither has anyone 
else.  Maybe Tom was right, maybe there's no one left alive 
to answer our hails. What could possibly survive in near-total 
darkness?

Tuvok is silent and I respect that, keeping my thoughts to 
myself until we beam to the planet, to the sight of the 
distress beacon.  Everything's immaculate, which makes the 
hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.  Someone has 
taken very good care of things.  I meet Tuvok's eyes to voice 
a question but it never gets uttered.  We're surrounded 
before I can speak, blink, move. Gods, I've seen anyone 
move so fast. 

Tuvok makes the standard greeting and they're largely 
unimpressed.  I look cautiously at the . . aliens around us. 
Male and female, mostly young. No, wait, *all* young, the 
oldest no older than I am.  I make eye contact with the one 
who seems to be the leader and wish I hadn't. The look in 
those eyes goes from triumphant and mocking to hungry in 
an instant.

"Take him," he snarls, nodding at Tuvok.  "But leave this one 
for me."

The rest of the group is no happier with that statement than I 
am, but a cold look shuts them all up quickly and they leave 
with Tuvok.  A hand touches my face and I flinch. I can't 
help it; the man is *freezing*.

"We're here to try and help you," I say, with what Tom calls 
my natural enthusiasm.  "We don't mean you any harm." 

He smiles at that.  I really wish he hadn't.  The smile is as 
cold as his hand on my cheek.  He brings the other hand up 
to cover my other cheek and sighs, like he's warming them 
on my face.  The chill goes right through me. I cover his 
wrists with my hands and he looks startled for a minute. 
"Let me help you," I say and he nods, grinning, his smile off 
and odd.

"Oh, you will," he says confidently, stroking my cheek.  "You 
won't be able to help yourself."


                   <<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>


"Emergency beam out, two to sickbay."

Fortunately, Tuvok recalls next to nothing.  He remembers 
meeting the aliens, he remembers being taken to a room 
and having some sort of medical procedure performed on 
him, and he remembers their displeasure when they got the 
results.  They couldn't use him, not at all, and were going to 
kill him until I changed the rules they played by, just a bit.

Playing *along* is one of my best things.  Going with the 
flow. Tom discovered that about me early on and used it to 
his advantage.  Little did he know that I would have gone 
along with him on anything from the moment we met. Life  
with him is a constant adventure.  But, back to the point.

I played along with Saik'lin, acting like this wasn't such a bad 
thing, making noises about how tired I was of everyone I 
knew on board treating me like I was a child, or worse.  How 
much I was looking forward to ruling them at his side, like he 
ruled the others lured to this place, kept like cattle for them 
to make use of.  The others were fed enough to keep them 
alive and reproducing; the underground greenhouses and 
farms manufactured enough food for all of them, hundreds 
of times over.  I expressed my appreciation for how 
efficiently everything was run and he smiled.

He wanted me to call the ship, ask for help, bring more 
people down and I promised I would help him, I just wanted 
to know as much as possible about what had happened so 
that I could explain it to my crew, make them understand.  

Once I got him started, he told me everything, everything I 
needed to know to bring *him* down.  I asked enthusiastic 
question after question and he laughed, ruffling my hair, 
always touching me as he answered.  He frowned when I 
grew colder and did what he could to keep me warm until I 
got used to it.  

Saik'lin was delighted with how quickly I adjusted, how 
quickly he'd won me over after he was finished with me, and 
I denied the side-effects long enough to totally take him by 
surprise.  

I told him I wanted to try it out, with him, see what it was like
first-hand, experience the miracle, and the fool let me. I 
seduced him, there's no other way to put it, and left him 
unconscious, nearly dead, becoming what he'd made me, 
then headed back to the site of the beacon.  I was 
determined that they weren't going to use the damned thing 
to lure anyone else down to this place ever again, and 
destroyed it.  It was then that I found the impressive 
technology that kept the moon exactly where it was and I 
grinned bitterly as I blew it away.  The only thing still 
functioning when I left was the piece of equipment that 
blinded Voyager's sensors.

They enjoyed the darkness, reveled in it.  Damned near 
every building was made of totally transparent material and 
once the sun started shining around the moon, they were in 
*big* trouble.  The artificially induced eclipse was over and 
sunlight hit the planet with a long-denied vengeance, 
seeking out and illuminating corners, wiping out every 
shadow as it ate through the population on this side of the 
planet.  Eventually, it would get them all, leaving only the 
others behind, to move their greenhouses and farms to the 
surface and begin a new life in sunlight, unless they decided
to leave in the ships they originally came in, still stored 
underground.  I tried to feel badly about killing over a million 
. . people?  But, I couldn't bring myself to regret it, not right 
then.

I made my way back to Tuvok, using those underground 
passages, found him still alive, and thanked the gods on 
every planet I'd ever been to that he was Vulcan and that his 
copper-based blood was useless to them.  That only *I* had 
to deal with what I was . .

I watch the Doctor work on him, now, replacing what he's 
lost, what they took to experiment on, and convince the 
Captain that nothing happened to me, there wasn't time. 
She looks appropriately horrified when I make the 
suggestion that Saik'lin was interested in me on a more 
personal level and we leave it at that.  I feel badly about 
lying to her that much, but I have nearly a millennium of 
legends and hysteria working against me and can't think of 
anything else to do.  

She calls a senior staff meeting and I tell them what 
happened, or at least as much as I want to tell them, for 
now.  I make up a story, on the spot, about two factions, one 
below ground and one above, and how the ones above had 
used the absence of sunlight to convince those living below 
that they had the better deal, literally keeping them in the 
dark about the fact that the eclipse was not a natural 
phenomenon.  

I tell them of the games played, moving the moon to allow 
things to grow, making it disappear when those below came 
to the surface.  How some had grown suspicious at our 
arrival, how we'd been summoned to the planet, and why, 
and had knocked out the beacon, as well as the system that 
held the moon in front of the sun.  We'd left as war had 
begun to wage over the rights to live on the surface and the 
Captain agrees that we got out of there just in time, as the 
Commander nods along with her. Only Tom looks at me like 
he doesn't believe a word of it, but he says nothing.


                      <<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>


It only dawns on me when I hear Harry talking about what 
happened on the planet, that he's changed.  He sounds 
differently, moves differently.  And, as I come to realize, acts 
differently.  What he is saying seems like the truth, the 
whole truth and nothing but the truth, but the *way* he's 
saying it gives evidence to the fact that he isn't saying 
everything.  Maybe Saik'lin *had* . . . in spite of Harry's 
statement that the guy hadn't had time to get around to him. 
Gods, I want to kill the bastard all over again, but Harry says 
he was wiped out in the first attack, so there is no target for 
my anger.  And I am angry, believe me. And worried.

The Captain dismisses everyone but him and I leave, 
thinking about things I don't want to think about in the same 
thought as Harry.  


                       <<<<<<<<>>>>>>>


The Captain dismisses everyone, but keeps me behind, to 
tell me how impressed she is with my performance, how I 
used the confusion of battle to rescue Tuvok, how I kept my 
head, even after Saik'lin . . She leaves it delicately right 
there for a moment, before suggesting that maybe I should 
talk to Chakotay, or the Doctor about the experience, if I feel 
it warranted.  I protest that there is nothing to talk about, that 
the conflict escalated too rapidly for Saik'lin to do more than 
make his interest known.  That I'm fine. Really.  She smiles 
with relief and gives me the next couple of days off.  

I smile back, but feel like cursing.  Two days off to think 
about what I've become.  Ponder it.  Dwell on it.  Agonize 
over it.  Wonderful.

I thank the Captain when we're finished, and leave, heading 
to my quarters, wondering what I'm going to do now.  How I 
can get what I need to survive without hurting anyone.

The thought occurs to me that the Doctor has some of what 
I need in storage and I know I can use the replicators to 
increase the amount.  I hack into the computers in sickbay 
and find the samples taken during my last physical.  From 
before . . this.  

I stand in front of the replicator and see what I've been 
reduced to.  I shudder, and wish more than anything that I 
could call Tom.  I can't.  And the isolation and misery of that 
knowledge brings tears to my eyes.  

I pick up the decanter, like the beautiful crystal will somehow 
make this less ugly, and pour myself a glass.  Nauseating. 
But, it will keep me alive and no one has to suffer for my 
continued existence.  I can do this.  I have no choice.


                    <<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>


I waste time fidgeting, waiting for the Captain to be done 
with Harry, until the computer tells me he's back in his 
quarters and I invite him out for dinner. He refuses, says he 
wants to hole up for a while, think things over, get his 
bearings back, but something else is going on, I can hear its 
omission in his voice.  I just don't know what.  

He doesn't join me for dinner and only comes out of his 
quarters once over the next couple of days, to visit the 
resort.  He won't come to Sandrine's. Enjoys the sunshine, 
he says, even if it is holographic.  Whatever that means. He 
seems sad, depressed, and I find myself watching him 
obsessively the day he returns to duty, looking for any clues 
in his behavior that might tell me what really happened to 
him. But, he isn't around enough for me to watch.


                   <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>


Another day, another bottle.  This is barely living.  

Back at my post, now, and I can no longer feel anything 
close to excitement about the job I'm supposed to be giving 
my undivided attention to.  

I don't look at myself in the mirror and I don't leave my 
quarters any more than I have to.  *I* don't want to see me; I 
don't want anyone else to have to see me, either.

I'm distracted, uneasy, anxious.

And Tom won't leave me alone.  Still.  Damn him. 
Thank the gods.

As long as I can see myself in his eyes, I'll still be here. I'll 
still be Harry Kim.


                      <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>


Four days have passed, since Harry's return from that 
planet.  He's been back on duty for the last two, and I'm no 
closer to any answers.  Lots of suspicions, yes, but no 
answers.  I hate the helplessness, the inability to *do* 
anything to help him.  And he needs help. Badly.

I keep pushing, keep after him, making him deal with me, be 
with me. I have no choice.  It's like I'm the only one who 
remembers how he *used* to be.  

I invite him for dinner and he accepts, but without his usual 
pleasure.  I don't care.  Anything is better than nothing.

I sit in the mess hall and wait for him to join me and can't 
taste a damned thing on my plate.

Harry walks in and I can feel the tension rise as people see 
him, some of them for the first time in days.  He looks like 
hell. Like he hasn't been eating, sleeping, all those 
wonderful things you have to do to keep a body healthy. 
He's pale, listless, no light or life in his eyes, no smile on his 
lips.  This isn't Harry, not *our* Harry, and the thought that 
this silent shadow of a man might well *become* Harry for 
all of us, scares the shit out of me. 

He heads in my general direction and I give him my most 
welcoming smile.  The corners of his mouth barely turn 
upward, but it's a start.

"Hey, Har," I say with quiet cheer as he sits across from me. 
"Dinner almost looks appetizing tonight."

He looks at his plate like he's faintly surprised he bothered 
to get one and begins moving the contents around with his 
fork.  His silence is unnerving and I talk enough for both of 
us for a while, until he looks up at me and something in his 
eyes shuts me up between one heartbeat and the next.  And 
damn me if he doesn't look apologetic for doing it.

"Sorry," he murmurs.  "I'm just not very good company right 
now."

"Would something else help?" I ask, feeling desperate and 
cold.  "Anything you want, dinner's on me." I have to fake 
the grin and I don't think I'm fooling him for a second.

"I don't feel much like eating," he says quietly, but his voice 
is almost wry, like he's found himself to be the butt of a 
not-very-damned-funny joke.

"Maybe you need sleep more than food right now," I 
suggest, taking a long, hard look at my best friend, yet 
again.  The man is *grey*, I kid you not.  Like something is 
eating him alive right in front of me. For about the 
thousandth time, I wish he could tell me what the hell 
happened to him on that planet.  What they did to him, how 
they stole Harry away and left this shell behind, all of it. 
Damn, it makes me angry and he seems startled for a 
minute when he sees it in my eyes.  He's out of his seat, 
before I can tell him that it isn't directed at him, and out the 
door, hopefully going to his quarters to get some sleep.

Dinner doesn't look all that great to me either, suddenly, and 
I'm out of my chair, heading to my own quarters to see if I 
can figure out what's happening to my best friend.  Damn, I 
feel *good*, I realize, finally feeling like I'm *doing* 
something to help, instead of waiting for Harry to come to 
me.

I enter my quarters and pace aimlessly for a minute, making 
a mental list about what's different.  Try everything.  Okay, 
let's start with the obvious.  He isn't eating.  He makes a 
game show of it, but the food never actually touches his lips. 
I pause, realizing that I'm exactly right about that, and try to 
recall when I last saw him eat.  Not since he got back, is 
the disturbing answer, and I am over at my computer before 
the thought is finished.

"Okay, Har, let's see what you've been replicating, cause 
you couldn't go for four days without eating *something*," I 
mutter to myself, getting into the files and digging around. 
Privacy locks??  He put *privacy locks* on his replicator 
usage?  What the *hell*?

I dig around a little more and am able to access a set of 
instructions for the replicator.  He's been increasing the 
quantity of a sample he entered into the computer.  I sigh, 
thinking.

"Sample of what, Har?"  The computer can't or won't tell me. 

"How about, where did it come from?" I start a new trail and 
find that the sample came from sickbay.  Damn, this is 
getting stranger by the minute.  "Okay, where in sickbay?" I 
stare, as the data from the typing storage flits across the 
screen.  Typing storage?  Blood?  Sweet Gods, *whose*?  

I get into the files, using my access and discover that he's 
been using his own, that Harry Kim's coding is on the 
sample.  I sigh and dig back into the replicator files, trying to 
find out how much Harry is replicating.  I don't even want to 
think about the *why*.  My back hits the chair when it comes 
up.  Nearly two liters worth, no more than once a day.  And 
not every day, either.

"Dammit, Harry, what did they *do* to you?" 

I stand and pace, wondering if I should share this with the 
Captain, Tuvok, Chakotay, even; he has to talk to 
*somebody*.  Then, I realize that he would've told them, 
would've told *me*, if he could.

I walk and think about what could have happened to Harry, 
what all of this means. Part of me refuses to accept the 
obvious and I try to tell myself that I simply don't want to 
jump to any conclusions.  I lie to myself rather well most of 
the time, but this is beyond even my ability.

"Shit," I mutter to no one.  "Harry's a vampire."


                      <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>


I haven't felt well for days.  Tom's noticed, I know he has. 
He's getting a permanent frown right between those 
beautiful blue eyes of his and I can practically smell his 
worry, lately.  Damn, I don't want him looking too closely for 
what's 'wrong' with me. I'm afraid he'll find it.

Speaking of finding, I find *myself* thinking of the oddest 
things, now.  Like wondering which planet I had seen my last 
sunrise on.  I can't remember, but I hope Tom was there. 
Whether I'm going to miss beer, or if the appeal was only in 
the company I've enjoyed while drinking it.  If my clarinet 
playing will improve noticeably.  I hear myself sigh and lie 
there, my quarters silent, staring at the ceiling over the 
couch.  Again. You know, the amount of time I've wasted 
recently, memorizing what my ceiling looks like, is 
astounding.  I can tell where every slight deviation is, every 
minuscule change in texture, color, depth.  Everything.

The doorchime ends my fascination with the ceiling.

"Come."  Gods, Tom.  What on earth is he carrying?  *Two* 
bottles of wine?  Good grief, how drunk does he think I need 
to get?

"Hey, Har."  Soft voice.  He looks so hesitant.  What the hell 
is going on?

"Hi.  What's with those?" I ask him, nodding to the bottles in 
his hands as I slowly right myself on the couch.

"Something I think you could really use right now," he says 
quietly, with unusual seriousness.  I can't help grinning, but I 
do so carefully.

"You think it's that bad, huh?" I try and joke, but it falls flat. 
And now he's not even looking at me. I clear my throat and 
start again.  "Replicated?" I ask, nearly certain of the 
answer.

"No," he answers me gently.  "Mine."

He grins at the puzzled look on my face, but I don't know 
where he got them, or where he's been hiding them.  I 
thought we polished off his stash months ago.

"Chateau Paris," he says, looking at me as he slowly walks 
over to sit down at my side.  "It's a very good year."

A wry smile flits across his face, one bottle gets placed on 
the floor and he twists the cork out of the other.  Damn, the 
fangs start growing as soon as the smell hits me.  Blood. 
Salt.  Sweet, so sweet.  The lush, heady scent, so familiar . . 
oh gods.  His.  It's his. I move fast, trying to get away from 
him before I do something stupid, but the heat of his hand 
on my arm stops me, cold.

"Don't," I growl.  I can't help it, it comes out sharp and mean, 
but he ignores it, like he was expecting it.  Shit.  I keep my 
eyes closed; I know what's happening to me and the hunger 
is growing and I can't . . I can't. Gods, I just can't . .

"It's okay, Harry."  Soft voice, low and gentle.  My 
damnation.  Or is it my salvation?  I open my eyes to turn 
and look at him and the surprise on his face when his eyes 
catch the fangs is fleeting, like he'd just gotten the answer to 
a minor question.  "Damn, Har."

I chuckle helplessly at the awe in his voice.  "How did you 
know?" I ask, and it sounds petulant, almost like a whine.

"I figured out something was wrong the second night I 
watched you not eating your dinner," he says calmly, like 
we're discussing nothing of importance, but he can't take his 
eyes off my teeth.  "It was pretty easy to crack into the 
computer and find out what you *were* eating."  He smiles 
roguishly at me. How the hell can he *smile* at me, knowing 
what I am?

"Or drinking, as the case may be," he adds, nodding down at 
the bottle in his hand before his eyes meet mine again and 
he holds it out to me. I notice my head shaking before I can 
even voice my protest and he's nodding, and still smiling.

"I can't," I whisper, my voice thick, fighting its way around 
both the fangs and my hunger.

"The replicated stuff isn't working," he says, stubborn, now, 
and insistent.  "You're fading more and more every time I 
see you and I'm not going to sit by and watch until there's 
nothing left of the Harry I know."  Gods, the pleading in his 
voice is a thousand times worse than the hunger in my body.

"I've already replaced what I withdrew," he says cajolingly, 
like he's trying to convince me to go along with something 
foolhardy, but ultimately fun. He puts his thumb over the 
open neck of the bottle and tips it, covering it with his own 
blood.  My eyes close when his finger coats my lips and I 
can't help but lick it off, damn, I can't help it.  Gods, the 
taste of him on my tongue, fresh and alive.  I start shaking; I 
can't seem to help that either.  The blood's still warm.  Oh, 
it's so warm . . 

The bottle is in my hand, the glass about the same 
temperature I am, and my mouth closes around the opening 
and I tilt it back and sweet warmth and wetness slides over 
my tongue and down my throat and the hunger, the hunger 
has awoken with a vengeance and I'm . . I'm lost.  Totally 
lost.  Gods, I'll never be able to drink my own replicated 
blood again.  

It's not just the heat of it, thick, red heat, but the life in it, the 
fact that it came from something living and breathing and . . 
Tom.  Oh, Tom. I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.  The empty bottle 
falls to my chest, cold and dead and drained dry, and 
another is placed in my hand, warm and sweet, like the 
voice in my ears.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Harry," he says, hand 
rising to my cheek, then down to my throat so he can feel 
me swallowing, drinking.  Drinking *him*.  The look in his 
eyes is so damned tender it makes my heart ache. 

I reach satiation a little before I finish it, but I empty the 
bottle anyway.  "You're too damned delicious for your own 
good," I murmur, feeling his heat and life fire through me, 
cleanse me, if that's possible.  *His* heat warming my skin, 
the color of *his* blood in my hands and arms as I hold them 
out in front of me. I grin.  His matches my own.

"How often do you need to feed?" he asks, like we're talking 
about dinner.  I guess we are.

"Tom," my protest is weak and he knows it.  My will is gone. 
Damn him.  "How often, Harry?"  Insistent, again.  Coaxing.

"Daily is ideal, but I can skip a day here and there, if I have 
to," I tell him and he shakes his head at me, one of those 
'Harry, you're an idiot' looks on his face.

"You won't have to," he says, looking like he's the one who's 
taking care of me, again.  Which he is.  "I'll see to it," a soft 
promise, but written in blood.  His.

My chuckle is bitter and he frowns when he hears it.  "I feel 
like such a parasite."  My hands cover my eyes because I'm 
so afraid I'll see him nodding in agreement and his hands, 
no warmer than my own for the first time in days, pull mine 
away.

"You are *not* a parasite," he says, his voice almost angry, 
but still quiet.  "You're my friend . ."  Gods, now *he* looks 
guilty?  What the *hell* can he be feeling guilty about?

"If it were reversed, you would've taken the direct route," and 
now *his* voice is bitter, such a contrast to the sweetness of 
his blood that I hate to hear it.  "You probably would've 
opened a vein for me to drink from. I'm not that brave, Harry. 
I'm sorry."

"Don't."  Uh oh.  The growl is back.  "Don't you *dare* 
apologize for not wanting me to suck you dry, don't you 
dare!"  I can feel the anger coloring my eyes and he looks 
mesmerized, but not fearful.  Damn, even my anger can't 
make him do the smart thing and run from me.  I flinch when 
his hand touches my temple and he's looking at my eyes, 
again.

"Gods, what a *color*," he breathes.  Oh, what the sound of 
his voice can do to me, not to mention the touch of his hand 
on my skin or the taste of his blood on my tongue.  

"Like cherry over chocolate.  That is *amazing*, Harry." 
Why does he sound like he's discovered something 
wonderful?

"It isn't *amazing*, Tom," I hiss at him and he looks hurt for 
an instant, until I continue.  "It's monstrous and hideous and 
. ."  Oh, me and my big mouth. Now, he's pissed.

"No, it *isn't*, Harry."  Hell, he's back to being insistent 
again, too.  "It's incredible, *you're* incredible . ." 

His voice trails off like he knows I'm not buying a word of it 
and he gets this look, pure evil and mischief, on his face. 
I'm getting a little frightened here and there's nothing I can 
do about it.

"Tom."  My voice is a warning but he doesn't listen.  Now, 
why doesn't that surprise me? 

"You're incredible," he whispers and he's practically purring 
as he moves closer to me. Warm hands sliding over my 
chest distract the hell out of me and that must be how I 
missed him straddling my lap.  Clever fingers part my shirt, 
quickly undoing it before I can catch them and his breath is 
hot against my neck, teeth nipping me lightly, coaxing me 
yet again to join him in something foolhardy, but ultimately 
fun. Where does my reason go, when I'm with this man? 
Why does my brain forget the fact that it ever knew the
word 'no'?  

I shake again, nearly throwing him off when his neck comes 
into contact with my mouth.  Dammit, what is he *doing* to 
me? How strong does he think I am, anyway?  Gods, the 
fangs are descending and I can't *stop* them and he ignores 
my warning growl.  Suddenly, when the temptation becomes 
almost too much, he pulls away and kisses me and a 
different hunger fills me, a new, exhilarating kind of heat. I 
can feel his erection slowly moving against mine, teasing 
me, and my growl is changing timber, I can hear it and so 
can he. 

His chuckle echoes in my mouth a second before his tongue 
enters and I cry out, hands gripping him for dear life, *his* 
dear life, when that hot tongue caresses one of my fangs. 
The shaking increases and he's holding onto *me*, trying to 
keep me together, and does it again, winding sinuously 
around the other one, the tip of his tongue just touching the 
sharp point of the tooth.  Another stroke, another slow, liquid 
lick as his tongue moves back to coil around the first one, 
and I'm moaning again, his scent and taste and warmth and 
life filling me to bursting.

I barely realize I'm vertical, his legs wrapped around me as I 
carry him, until I'm falling onto the bed I haven't slept in in 
days and his faint 'oof' is devoured by my mouth.  His 
tongue is still making love to first one canine, then the other, 
and his shivering registers about the same time that I realize 
he's naked under me, the clothes I tore off his body littering 
the floor around the bed.  One of us is still wearing too 
damned much clothing and I think it's me. 

A few seconds out of his arms is a lifetime too long and his 
heat envelopes me, welcomes me back, as I return to him 
every kiss and caress he's given me over the past few 
minutes.

His moaning is driving me crazy, the faint thrusts of his heat 
and hardness along my own cloud my mind in a blood-red 
fog that smells like him, feels like him, tastes like him. Dear 
gods, my name, groaned on his lips, and my cock is harder 
than my fangs are.

"You don't know how dangerous this is," I murmur, trying to 
warn him, but, as usual, he pays no heed. I explore his 
body, more pale than mine since 'dinner', and hold his hands 
to his sides when they start directing my movements.  He 
struggles briefly, then melts when I lick my way down his 
chest, my tongue swirling patterns in glinting hair, the tips of 
my fangs lightly scraping over his nipples as I work steadily 
downward, ignoring his whimpers and the begging motions 
of his body.  His legs open for me, bending at the knees, 
feet firmly planted on my bed and I settle between them, one 
pale, lean thigh on either side of my head.  Too late, I realize
my mistake.

I nuzzle his hip and it occurs to me that I can hear his 
heartbeat, so damned fast, pounding through the artery in 
his thigh.  The fangs grow a little longer and the other 
hunger rears its ugly head. Gods, how can I still be hungry? 
I release his hands and they coax me, gentle pressure on 
my shoulders, moving me slightly as his legs rise, draping 
themselves over my shoulders.  I aim for his cock, flushed 
nearly purple, but he steers me toward his upper thigh.

"No!" I growl and pull away and his hands are in my hair; 
he's trying to lead me back to what he knows I want.  The 
shaking has returned and I lick his cock,  in an effort to coax 
him away from this madness, but he is not to be denied. 
Fingers tighten in my hair and I try again, swallowing his 
hard length, sucking, but his moan is almost disappointed 
and I give up, my will gone yet again.

My nose finds the strong scent of him and my hand closes 
around his cock as I turn my head to lick the sweat-sugared 
skin over the artery that pulses and throbs and drums his 
life's rhythm with every beat of his heart.

"Please, Harry?"  Why is it that I can refuse him nothing?

"Drink from me, *please*."  Gods, how can I *not* do this, 
give him what he wants, when he seems to want it as badly 
as I do?  I can no longer deny us both and my mouth closes 
over the tender flesh as my hand speeds him on his way to 
orgasm.  He bucks upward and cries out and my teeth 
haven't even touched him yet.  He's so close.  If I can time 
this right . . .

"Damn, you make my fangs ache," I mutter roughly against 
his skin, barely recognizing my own voice, harsh with hunger 
and . . hunger. 

He keens my name, a wailing whimper as his climax surges 
through him. His scent changes, becomes sharper, and I 
surrender to the burning hunger within, sinking my fangs into 
his body, a different kind of penetration, more intimate than 
sex, and he screams, his hard cock erupting onto my face, 
my neck, as the hot, clean taste of him explodes on my 
tongue.  Flame and heat and light and all that is red colors 
my eyes again and I see him, really see this man, whose  
unselfishness shames me utterly.  Gods, I know I am not 
worthy of this gift, given with such trust, and I remind myself 
to be as gentle and careful as I can with him. 

I can take the time to enjoy him, savor him, he's already fed 
me well, and I do, rolling his blood around in my mouth as if 
sampling the wine I thought he was bringing me earlier.  I 
drink slowly, not needing much, not taking much, and he 
quiets above me, faint whimpers signaling the aftershocks 
still rippling through his body.  I can even taste his sex in 
his blood, making it sweeter, richer, than it would have been 
otherwise.  And there's so damned much of it.  A thought 
makes me frown and I withdraw the fangs, soothing the sting 
I know he must be feeling with a few licks of my tongue as 
the teeth retract with aching slowness.

The blood flow tapers to nothing and I glance up at him 
when a hand stirs my hair.  Satisfaction the likes of which I 
have never seen is shining from his eyes and he looks 
beautiful.  Radiant.  Still.  Even after feeding on him like the 
leech he'd hate for me to call myself. 

"You replaced more than just what you gave me, didn't 
you?" I ask and see the truth in his eyes before I hear his 
answer.  "You planned this," I say quietly and hear his 
instant denial.

"NO, Harry."  Sharp and quick.  "It was just a precaution.  I 
didn't know how . . hungry you were and if the need got to be 
too much for you, I wanted you to be able to drink your fill 
without worrying about me. That's all.  I swear it, Har." 
Pleading again, and I hush him, kissing the marks I left on 
his thigh before licking him clean of the slick, white fluid 
that's got to be covering me. He moves beneath me with 
intent and I roll to the side, enjoying a satisfaction of my own 
as I watch him drag himself, naked, *finally*, out of my bed 
and head into the bathroom.  Water runs briefly and he's 
back with a warm towel, cleaning me gently, *gently*, of the 
evidence of his earlier pleasure.

I let him, lying there, feeling the cloth against my skin until 
he's done and gone and back in my arms, holding me like 
he doesn't plan on ever letting go.

"From me, next time," he says softly, eyes still shining like 
the sun I'll never see again.  "Fuck the bottle."

I laugh, I can't help it, and he smiles, moving on top of me. 
A soft kiss leads to another and I wonder if he can taste 
himself in my mouth, the sharp sweet tang of him that still 
sings through me, sending heat into the coldest reaches of 
my body.  I shudder when he licks the fangs, as if coaxing 
them to come out and play, but they are sated and remain 
dormant, for now.  Then, I realize he's trying to get another 
part of me to awaken and I take his shoulders, pushing him 
away from me, gently.

"I could hurt you," I protest, but his mouth, sweeter than his 
life's blood, silences me. 

"You won't," he says with an assurance I just don't feel and I 
have to try again.

"I *could*."

"You *won't*, Harry," Tom says, gazing at me with the most 
astonishing look in his eyes.  I recognize it.  Dear gods, it's 
my own.  That look I can feel crossing my face whenever he 
tries to talk me into something.  The look that tells him I'll do 
anything for him, with him, all he has to do is ask me. Is it 
my turn?  Is that it?  That he'll follow me straight into Hell if I 
let him? 

The look on his face changes to something almost 
affectionate and I bury my face in his shoulder and shake 
my head.  "Don't look at me like that, please," I beg him 
quietly.  "Please."  None-too-gentle hands in my hair tug my 
head up and he frowns at the tears in my eyes.

"How am I looking at you?" he asks me softly, but I move 
away.  He doesn't let me go far, though.

"Like you don't hate the monster I've become," I say 
mournfully into the sweet skin of his neck.

"I don't hate you, and you are *not* a monster!" he says 
sharply, but of course he'd say that.  He's my best friend. 

"Tom, I am a creature of nightmare, now.  Vampires have 
horrified mankind for centuries," I tell him, trying to make 
him see.

"You are not a nightmare, Harry, and nothing about you 
horrifies me," he says, nuzzling my throat, then changes 
topics so quickly I find myself struggling to keep up.  "Are 
you going to tell the Captain?"

I inhale raggedly and he pulls away, seeing the fear on my 
face.

"What do you think she'd say about this?" I ask him bitterly. 
"That I'm feeding off one of her crew . . ?"

"Who volunteered," Tom reminds me, with a gentle smile. 
"If you want me to make it go away, Harry, I can *try*," he 
offers, kissing my face.  "I'm on sickbay duty tomorrow. 
Maybe I can find a cure.  If you want one."

"Why wouldn't I want one?" I ask him in disbelief, truly 
stunned that he'd think I *want* to stay this way.

He shrugs, not about to tell me, whatever it is, and moves 
his hips, caressing my cock with his body, trying to distract 
me. Gods, is it ever working.  

I flip him onto his stomach without thinking about it, barely 
noticing his startled yelp, and open the drawer in the table 
by the bed.  He stretches out under me, opening his legs, 
shivering slightly, but I can't tell why.  

I coat my fingers and quickly move them into his body, 
grinning harshly as the sounds of his arousal and need 
interrupt the silence.  My cock is aching as I cover myself as 
well, taking up position behind him so I can pull him 
backward onto his hands and knees.  My sticky hand wraps 
around his own hardness and he thrusts forward, then 
moves backward to feel me just outside his body.  I do my 
best to enter slowly and see-saw back and forth until I'm 
imbedded deeply inside him. 

"Oh, Tom, you feel so good," I murmur, starting to plunge 
into him, withdrawing to do it again.  He's shaking under me 
and I speed up until he's crying out on every thrust home. 
His head falls back, baring his throat to me, which would not 
be a smart move if I were hungry, but I'm suffering from a 
different hunger, now, one that I can't sate with his blood, 
only his body.

He moans when I nip him, pushing his neck against my lips, 
as though urging me to bite him.  "Take me, Harry," he 
groans out, fingers tightening in my sheets as he holds on.

"I am," I whisper and he shivers, moving frantically under 
me, shaking his head.

"No," he whimpers.  "With your teeth.  Please.  I want to feel 
them in me, like I feel your cock in me. *Please*, Harry. 
Please."

I speed up, understanding what he wants from me and I 
can't help but wonder if this is why he's so okay with what I 
am, now.  It turns him on.  Gods, help me.  Help us *both*.

I fasten my mouth onto his neck and feel his cock grow 
harder in my hand as he fucks it.  He's whimpering again 
and I lick that hot place over the artery before positioning my 
fangs, as long and hard as I am, with the same care I used 
earlier.  I enter him slowly with my teeth, still fucking him 
with my cock, and he shouts out loud, cursing, trembling 
violently beneath me.  "Fuck me, Harry, gods, *yes*," and 
his words are silenced as I drink, just a little, just enough for 
him to feel it, and I use my cock much rougher than I'm 
using my fangs, taking him furiously.  His body seizes up 
under mine and I move faster, harder, possessing him in 
every way a man can possess another man, until he's 
screaming, back arching, and I'm coming inside him as he 
tightens around me, the once white haze of orgasm blushing
red behind my eyes.

He collapses under me and I fall on top of him, not wanting 
our connection to be severed.  My fangs are still buried in 
his neck, but his body is forcing out my spent cock with 
every beat of his thundering heart. I move to withdraw my 
teeth and he voices a faint protest, but I do it anyway.
They're growing far too comfortable in his throat.  I lick over 
the wound, angry and red, bruising already, two small holes 
offering mute witness to what I've done to him and he rolls 
over before I can castigate myself further and smiles at me. 
"Thank you," he says, then frowns at the slight twinge of 
pain he gets from speaking, from making those muscles 
move around the still-oozing wound.  I lick him clean again 
and he sighs, languid and depleted and beautiful at my side.

"How can you enjoy this?" I ask him with gentle anguish and 
he flames red, my favorite color, not looking at me when he 
answers.

"Because it's you," he says, stroking my arm down to my 
hand to lace his fingers through mine. I bring his hand up 
and kiss the wrist, nuzzle and lick the pulse I feel pounding 
there and his eyes go dark again.  I snort in disbelief at his 
response to me, to *this*, and he looks shamed as he 
recognizes my knowledge of his need, seeing it in my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I say instantly, kissing him everywhere until he 
relaxes against me again.  "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry, Tom. 
I'm not mocking you, I swear I'm not.  I just can't believe 
you're so turned on by something that disgusts me." 

"It shouldn't," he protests immediately, rising until he's 
leaning over me, touching my face with his fingers, easing 
my lips back from my teeth until he can see what would be 
fangs, if I were hungry for blood or just hungry for him. His 
fingertip strokes one pointed tooth, pushing on the end as if
to test the sharpness of it and I sigh and let him, lightly 
licking his finger as he explores.  His expression reflects 
utter fascination and I see none of the revulsion I've found in 
my own eyes when I look at myself in the mirror. 

"But, it does," I admit when he pulls back, curiosity sated for 
the moment. "It scares me and shocks me and horrifies me 
and I hate it," I tell him ruefully and he looks so sad on my 
behalf.

"I'll help you, anyway I can," he vows as he kisses me again.

"Cure me," I say instantly and see him nod with surprising 
reluctance.

"If I can," he says and nestles against me. I throw the covers 
over us and sigh when his arms come around me. Fullness 
joins forces with exhaustion against me and I find myself 
tumbling into sleep at his side.


                      <<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>


I watch Harry sleeping, not knowing how the hell this can 
disgust him. He's never been more beautiful.  I see his face, 
now, slack with sleep; he's almost glowing and I can't take 
my eyes off of him. 

What's happened to him is amazing and I don't understand 
why he won't tell anyone, but I respect his choice and will 
say nothing without his consent.  He's just a different 
life-form, now, right?  Sort of like before, with the Taresians, 
but this time it's for real, it's not a trap, and he may be this 
way for the rest of his life.  I wonder if he's immortal, like the 
vampires of legend.  Shit, Harry's a creature of *legend*. 
Not a nightmare.  Never a nightmare.  Why can't I make him 
*see* that . . ?

I can feel his heartbeat under my cheek, loud and powerful. 
And I know I'm going to be bruised from the grip he had on 
my hips while he was fucking me.  His hands are so damned 
strong, now.  He's always been strong, that sort of 
underestimated kind of strength, but when he's cornered, 
gods help the one who put him *in* that corner.  I find the 
strength exciting, I really do, more so now than ever before. 
Underestimated has become overwhelming and, damn, is 
that a turn-on.

The fangs are something else, again.  In sleep, you can't 
see them; he looks perfectly normal.  But, gods, the first 
time I saw them, what I felt . . . Not fear, it didn't even occur 
to me to be frightened of him, but captivation.  So apt, that, 
my being his captive, bound in blood . . . 

And seeing them retract, painted red, as he licked my life 
from his lips, eyes darker, deeper than ever, showing me his 
hunger . . He can't hide it from me; I won't let him. 

Those breathtaking eyes are closed, now, that startling color 
they have when angry, aroused or hungry, banked.  It *was* 
like cherry over chocolate, sweet and utterly mesmerizing. 
The heat those eyes are capable of, the hunger, the need. 
For me. Hell, I can feel my body responding to him, even 
now.  I crave it.  The feeling that I get when he's drinking 
from me, that I'm keeping him alive, fed, is indescribable. 
That look of satiation on his face when he's had his fill of 
me, for the moment. Shit, what that does to me. I'd let him 
drain me dry in a second, if I could see that look before I 
died.

Why does this excite me so damned much? Why did his 
fangs in my neck get me hotter than his cock in my ass?  It 
feels like he had sex with my neck, it really does.  That ache 
I get when I've been fucked good and hard, taken apart and 
put back together again, with ecstasy used as glue?  I *feel* 
that where he bit me, sucked me, drank from me, I swear I 
do, even as my fingers trace the tiny holes left behind as 
evidence of his possession of me. It feels like he's given me 
alternate orifices for him to fuck, using those teeth.  And my 
thigh, shit, it burns even now.  I can't even move around to 
see what he did there; I don't want to wake him.  

So beautiful.  *Gods*, so beautiful.  He looks better, now, 
than he has for days, since before he left, even.  Golden and 
glowing, faint smile touching his mouth as he dreams.  What 
do vampires dream of?  Blood?  Fuck, he can have all of 
mine that he wants.  *Anything* of mine that he wants, any 
way, anytime.

I promised him that I will try and help him find a cure and I 
will.  But part of me hopes it doesn't happen. Damn, is that 
selfish, or what?  I can see how this is tearing him up inside, 
but I can't understand it.  He's not a monster, not some 
hideous, evil thing.  He's *Harry*.  And he's fucking 
gorgeous.  If only he could see himself through my eyes, 
he'd never want to be anything other than what he is.

But, I will help him any way he needs me to.  If he wants me 
to try and find a cure, I will.  If he needs me to help him 
survive this, I will.  He doesn't have to kill anyone to feed the 
hunger inside him and he's not like the others on that planet, 
the ones who made him this way.  I can replace what he 
takes from me at any time.  Dammit, why is this so awful for 
him?  What's so terrible about being a vampire?


*************************end