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A good portion of this story has been beta'd by my daughter, vibrant_daphne.
Thanks, hon :)
Authors notes: Feedback is more than welcome and can be sent to email@example.com
Disclaimer: I don’t own them, never will, never wanted to.
He found you in the alley behind Babylon as you were locking up for the night. It was past 3 A.M., but now that he was living in New York, and you were the owner of a Pittsburgh business that typically didn't close its doors until well past two, your mutual curfew wasn't really practical, anymore. Even still, you'd never admit to him the guilt you felt when you couldn't meet it.
He startled you, stepping out of the shadows as if he'd been waiting there all night for you to appear. You felt a peculiar tingling along the flesh of your arms when you saw him, and you knew, without quite understanding how, that something wasn't right.
You'd spoken to him just two days ago and he'd made a point of telling you how exhausting it was to have you call him in the middle of the night. He'd whined like the princess he was, begging you in a pouty voice to make it up to him by giving him hot phone sex, and then had fallen asleep shortly after coming, with threats to your privates if you dared call him at 4 A.M. two nights in a row. It was unlikely that he would just appear here, less than 48 hours later, after such a performance and with no advance warning. Unless something was terribly wrong.
His hair was longer than the last time you'd seen him and you blinked as if it was an illusion. He'd been home just two weeks ago, but this looked like several months' growth. He was dressed differently than he normally would have been, as well. He was almost completely encased in expensive black leather, and your dick responded even as your brain try to puzzle out where the money had come from for the new duds. You knew you certainly hadn't bought them for him.
Despite the inky darkness, he wore black wrap-around sunglasses that looked starkly out of place against his pale flesh, but the incongruousness of them was nothing compared to the luminosity of his skin. Justin had always been wraith-like, it was one of the things that attracted you to him so powerfully, but his skin was so pallid tonight that it was almost translucent. You could swear that if you squinted your eyes, you'd see his blood pounding in the veins beneath the surface.
He glowed where he stood, causing you to glance briefly to the sky to see if somehow he was catching a reflection of the moon. It didn't even occur to you how ridiculous that thought was because all at once, everything felt very surreal.
And then he spoke.
"Another late night."
He didn't ask, it was a bland statement of fact, and even if he had, you wouldn't have noticed, because all you really heard was that his voice wasn't the one you recognized. It was his, that much was certain, but the timber was so far off that you wondered if the loud club music was finally affecting your hearing.
"Justin." You weren't sure why suddenly your own voice sounded so cautious. "Do you have a cold or something?"
"Or something," he sneered. "An infection is more like it."
The odd emphasis he'd given to the word 'infection' was just starting to creep into your nervous system, preparing to be processed by your brain, when he was on you. You didn't have time to think that he might be trying to kiss you, because his teeth were sharp and your felt the pinpricks when they sank in, and then you wondered if he would kill you, but you were unconscious before the thought was complete.
You awoke in the dark, confused. You body ached and you knew without even opening
your eyes that you were in a strange bed. You scrambled to recall who you'd
gone home with, but couldn't produce a face. One thing was certain: the fucking
must have been spectacular- your muscles felt like lead. It wasn't so unusual,
though, or even particularly disconcerting, that you couldn't remember that,
You lay still, cursing your lack of control when it came to saying no to tricks who gave phenomenal head, or had killer asses, or whatever it was that this one must have possessed to lure you away from your plan to get back to the loft and collapse into sleep.
The sound of ocean waves reached your ears and you shook your head in disgust. Your trick must be one of those guys who can't sleep without his precious noise machine. It was always frogs croaking, or waves lapping at the beach, or the freaking irritating sound of crickets chirping endlessly, with these guys. They'd have herbal tea in their kitchen cupboards and eco-friendly cars in their garages, and on weekends, they'd volunteer down at the GLC passing out condoms to needy queens, or some shit like that.
You groaned softly, stretching the kinks out of your sore muscles, and rolled to the edge of the bed. Sitting up and glancing around, you were stunned to find yourself in a luxuriously appointed room. Aged tapestries cushioned the hardwood floors that, even in this poor lighting, gleamed. Louis XVI pieces furnished the room, and while this wasn't anything like the clean, uncluttered lines of the mid-century Danish modern you favored, your discerning eye could see that these were most likely not reproductions. Your trick must have been hot and rich, you thought, scrubbing your hands over your face.
Sluggishly, you began to realize that the sound of waves wasn't coming from some 30.00 piece of crap electronics sitting on a dresser somewhere, but was, in fact, floating in from several French doors. They took up two of the four bedroom walls, and had been flung wide open. Warm air accompanied the sound, filling the room with a light breeze that stirred gauzy curtains. You would've laughed at how stereotypically romantic the whole scene was, like something out of one of your more smarmy ad campaigns, but for the fact that you were pretty fucking certain there was no beach in Pittsburgh. And you had felt the tang of the cold when you'd come out of Babylon, tonight, not this balmy, tropical heat.
Coming out of Babylon. You had left Babylon late. You'd been shutting the heavy security door and locking it tightly when… What? Something had happened. Something.
Frustrated, you clutched your head in your hands, trying to remember. There'd been a mediocre rim job you'd gotten in the back room, and a boring conversation with the professor that you'd mostly tuned out about some fucking book he was in love with this week, and then there'd been the shooters you and Emmett had thrown back while critiquing the dick size of most of the fags on the dance floor.
But what came next? You forced yourself to concentrate, sensing that this was something you needed to know, absolutely vital information.
And then, in a sickening rush, it all came screaming back to you. Justin, outside the club, looking alien, ghostly, moving so quickly, like lightening, and… what?
You stood suddenly, a small scream wrenched from your throat, your heart thundering in something remarkably like terror. You clutched the edge of the bed as a stomach-dropping lurch of dizziness overwhelmed you.
Justin had been there and he'd fucking bitten you. You could almost still feel his sharp little teeth breaking the skin even now, and you raised your hand, slapped it at your neck, searching for the wound you knew must be there. Not finding it, finding nothing but perfect, smooth skin, you stumbled out into the middle of the dimly lit the room.
That was when you saw him.
He was standing on a balcony outside the open door just across from you. You realized that you hadn't noticed him before because somehow he seemed to be shifting in and out of the shadows as they flitted across the porch. Yet he was perfectly still, almost statuesque. And he was watching you.
Even in the dark, you could see his eyes gleaming, and a stray thought (what happened to the Miami Vice glasses, Justin?) skittered across your brain before disappearing again.
"Justin, what the fuck?"
Your throat was dry, painfully so, as if you'd stayed up all night dancing, or dropping E, and had dehydrated yourself. You licked your lips, searching for moisture and, finding none, swiped the back of your hand across your mouth, instead.
He didn't move, didn't speak. But he didn't stop staring at you, either. And you couldn't be certain, but it sure as fuck looked as if he wasn't even blinking. If he hadn't been so familiar, so very Justin, even in his strangeness, you would have laid money that he was carved in stone, inanimate.
Except for those eyes. His eyes had always seemed to sparkle, but you knew that was usually just a trick of the light and the depth of his impossibly blue irises. This was different, though. His eyes were glittering, and even from the ten feet of near darkness that separated you, you could see flecks of azure, gray and gold flickering in them continuously.
You couldn't tear your gaze from his.
"Where are we, Justin?" you croaked. You were faintly amazed at how his stony demeanor seemed to squeeze all the oxygen out of the room, despite the wide open windows and the breeze blowing through them.
His posture never changed, nothing about him acknowledged your question, and for a moment, you were sure he'd refuse to answer, that he'd continue staring at you, through you, as if he'd never known you.
But then he did answer, and you were certain that you'd wake up again, any minute now, that this was the product of a stupid mix of bad drugs, a nightmare that would break apart with the sound of your alarm clock beeping. Because that wasn't Justin's voice. It just fucking wasn't, no matter how much it sounded like him.
"At the home of my… benefactor." He said 'benefactor' the same way he'd called whatever was wrong with him an 'infection', as if there were layers and layers of meaning you weren't catching.
"Why?" You felt thick-headed, slow.
With a flicker, no more movement than it would have taken him to shrug his shoulder, he was standing in front of you, his body pressed almost flush with yours. Instinctively, yelping in surprise, you leapt back a step, or thought you had, because before you fully understood it, you were in his grasp and he was strong. He held you by the shoulders, his fingers digging deeply into your muscled arms, and though you'd spent a lifetime training yourself to show as little reaction as possible in unfamiliar and frightening situations, you couldn't keep the grimace of pain off your face.
"You're asking the wrong questions, Brian." His voice was like glass ground under a powerful boot heel. He shook you once, snapping your head back, and pushed his face into yours. "Pay some fucking attention!"
His mouth was so close to yours that you could have licked his lips without even bending to meet them, but you felt no breath coming from him. Stupidly, you looked down at his chest. It rose and fell in a convincing imitation of inhalation and expiration, but when you raised your eyes to his face again, you realized with a horror that made the flesh on your testicles crawl that he wasn't breathing.
The hair stood up on your arms and at the back of your neck because now you knew. This wasn't your Justin. This creature, who studied you with such chilling impassivity, might not even be human.