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A moment ago they were walking home. Walking, not taking the Kineema or the tram or the bus, or any other alternative – in hindsight, a bit dangerous at this time of night. But Kim insisted. That should have been a clear clue. At no point would he have insisted on walking unless he had ulterior motives.
In hindsight... incredibly dangerous.
Harry looks around. Every hair on his neck and arms is raised, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach.
"Kim?"
Nothing. Silence. Or not silence, per se – the city is still alive around him. Still breathing, whispering, screaming, still producing that constant low-level hum that he can't sleep without... but the immediate surroundings have a sucking emptiness where a body once was. The wind tugs at a scrap of paper. The oppressive change presses against his inner ear.
His legs start running before his brain has fully realised the threat.
A little part of him is pleased. Elated, even. He's been here before. He knows how this goes, by now: if he doesn't run, it will be worse. The pain will be worse with less of the pleasure – just use and no payment. But if he runs...
Feet slap on the pavement. The movements are second nature to him, something that he does without thinking with or without danger. Despite the years, he's still fleet-footed. But also, still what he always was: a marathon runner more than a sprinter. The predator he's evading now is uncannily fast.
As he turns a corner down a back alley, there's a fleeting memory of the first time they met – the only time he's seen Kim tired. It's hard to imagine now, but that exhaustion wasn't a facade. Kim got winded from the days spent jogging like any normal human. It was because he hadn't had a chance to feed before, and then forced to wait for days in that little insulated backwater, trapped and exposed with eyes on him at all times. A few days of that and his muscles were burning, his nerves were fraying, adding onto the stress of the whole situation. Lucky thing the bullets. Lucky thing the eyes closed the doors and stopped looking after the chaos of the tribunal. Lucky thing he could drink his fill before sewing up the wounds. Lucky thing for Harry too, since it was the only thing that saved him.
Now that they're back in his normal routine, with unlimited access to blood whenever he likes it, Kim's fast and agile again, enough so that he needs to keep it hidden most times. Harry can still run farther. But on short distances, Kim will always overtake him.
Harry pants, and runs, and runs. There's a noise – something dislodged far above, a loose piece of roof tile or a dead pigeon, falling to the ground. He allows himself a brief glance upwards. Something black and thin is outlined against the night sky, just for a second. Then it's gone.
For a while after he learned the true nature of his new partner he spent obsessive time on trying to understand. It was so hard to sieve through the conflicting stories of a hundred cultures, all of them trying to describe something that defied explanation, most of it made up and muddled. He's never known him to turn into anything, bird or beast or smoke... that's not what he is. What he is, is a drug. A promise of oblivion at the end of exertion, relief from thought for a blessed moment. But only if he gives up entirely.
If he can only keep running...
He turns another corner, slips on the moist cobblestones. He's out of breath already. He's carrying more weight these days, more years, less uppers, less blood at times. And this isn't a marathon – not the steady rhythm of a patrol job but a frantic dash for survival. He keeps running. Don't stop. Don't fall. Don't stumble. Kim doesn't want an easy win, he want Harry driven to the very end of his capacity until he can't physically run any more. He wants the thrumming pulse, the aching lungs, the cramping muscles. He wants the taste of defeat.
It takes longer than it usually does. Just when he thinks he might have, for once, against all odds... that he might finally have-
"There you are."
Harry skids to a halt and stands still, sweaty, chest heaving. He presses a hand against his aching chest to quiet the sound of his heart. The shadow blocking the way advances slowly. He falls to his knees.
"I'm sorry... Kim-"
"Shhh."
Kim places a gentle hand on the top of Harry's head as he steps around him, barely touching the sweat-soaked strands. Even that light of a touch makes the hairs rise on his neck again, parts of him screaming to get up, run, run, run again until his heart bursts if he has to – don't succumb to him, why are you doing this, you insane, stupid, suicidal old masochist?
He slumps, hands on the ground, eyes downcast. Defeated. There's a rustle of nylon as Kim kneels down in front of him. Perhaps he should plead for something, but it's impossible to force words through the wheezing breaths. His teeth ache and taste of metal. The hand on his head retracts for a few seconds – then returns, ungloved.
"So warm. Harry, so warm."
Harry sits meekly as Kim inspects his meal. Another gulp of air and a full-body shiver at Kim's cool hands on his flushed, sweaty skin, sliding along blood vessels, deftly undoing a couple of shirt buttons. Fingertips lightly press into the fat on his chest until they meet muscle and bone thrumming with a frantic heartbeat. A pleased hum.
"Such a valiant effort, yefreitor. But you looks so tired. Did I harry you, my Harrier?"
It's just noise. He could say anything. All that matters is the scratch of his nails, the burrowing fingers that press and knead as he fondles the plump tits. Kim's own breaths come faster now – not because of exertion, but from excitement. A predator panting. Harry whines softly. The grip is hard and hungry, near painful until it suddenly lifts and Kim rips open Harry's shirt fully with one easy movement. A beat to enjoy the sight of the expanse of pale flesh, and then he leans in and drags his teeth along the curve of soft fat, rips open a long, jagged tear.
As the blood wells forward, the pain, elation, fear and relief all mingle into a roaring high. Harry slumps into Kim's embrace as he works his way down along the softness of Harry's chest, opening tiny red yawning mouths that dribble crimson. He eagerly licks the red rivulets, lapping at the marinade of salty sweat and coppery blood. Another tear. Another. Another...
He isn't closing the wounds.
He always-
He always closes the wounds-
Harry moans. The rising pain is floating just outside of reach, cushioned by the slow, syrupy ecstasy of Kim's saliva mingling with his own fluids. But all the drugs in the world can't keep out the feeling of Kim feeding. He drinks so deep tonight, rips into the fatty meat with a demented, beastly hunger. Deeper. Yellow adipose, red muscle, black blood, deeper. A weak shudder, a little panicked protest, a realisation. So many. So deep.
Deep enough that he could-
A firm squeeze to his soft underbelly pulls him back to reality.
"Focus, Harrier. Or are you getting to old to play?"
Harry swallows, tries to understand. This much blood, he could-
"Do you need to stop, Harry?"
Sudden, sheer panic – no, not stop, not that, not yet – they've barely started! The feeling is too good to stop this suddenly. He shakes his head and pushes the words out through numb lips.
"No. No, please. Don't... don’t want you to stop."
He's rewarded with a pleased smile and the glint of a canine. But Kim doesn't continue his frenzied feeding. Instead, he sits up between Harry's legs and runs a finger under his gut, pushing at the buttons. Harry blinks slowly. It's hard to think, with the slowly dissipating high and the throbbing, red-hot aches – but Kim's drunk so much. So much, he could...
All it takes is a light push, and he's on his back with Kim looming over him. The blood leaves trails along his sides, soaking into the shirt and staining the dirty asphalt. Kim tugs on Harry's trousers. The button comes off with an easy pop.
Another breathless, whimpering moan. He's been hard since it began. Pain and fear is the ultimate aphrodisiac, now; he barely ever gets it up otherwise. But here and now, with death lovingly ripping him into bite-sized chunks, he's ready and dripping. Kim's slim, strong hand fondles Harry's crotch – then moves lower, further back.
"Can you take it?"
"God, anything, please, Kim, I promise..."
He was right, then. This is something rare and amazing that he's only been allowed to experience a handful of times before, only when Kim's drunk enough to sustain it. He doesn't have enough of his own. But now that he's languidly unbuttoning his own trousers, he's thick and firm with blood – Harry's blood.
Kim opens up Harry's remaining clothes with a few effortless rips, then slides a hand over his chest to gather up enough crimson wetness to make his fingers nice and slick. His movements are slow, hungry, clearly savouring the moment. This panting, whining, well-fed prey writhing underneath him won't go anywhere; he can take his time with it. Harry parts his legs and tries to stop from tensing up. Kim's hands grip and knead, squeeze the thighs and ass cheeks slowly, pulls Harry open and forces two fingers in without any preamble.
"Ahhn-"
A sharp pain. They took too long. Kim leans in and licks the open wounds again, gives Harry another hit that leaves him slack and moaning. The fingers slide deeper, tug and pull. Another lick, another hit – the last traces of tension bleed away. The fingers pull out, and Kim leans over him to push in with one hard thrust.
It's a miracle he doesn't come on the spot.
It's not that he hasn't been fucked before. Kim fingers him often, much gentler than this – slowly and methodically, edges him to get that sweet cocktail of frustration and pleasure bubbling in his system. It's his favourite way to get Harry off. It's best when Kim ties him up and uses him until he's a whimpering mess, when he scratches the soft insides of Harry's thighs and milks him to the point of pain until he finally bites down. This is different. This is hard and fast, for Kim's benefit, a rare delicacy he only indulges in when he's fed enough. And he only does it when Harry's been driven to his absolute limit. No resistance, no sound – just Harry's warm, soft, slack body underneath him, sustenance and entertainment in one, the perfect end to a successful hunt.
He can barely feel it. Kim kneeling between his legs, fucking into him – the pain and pleasure there is nothing compared to the roaring in his ears, the floating feeling, the joy of bleeding out. Kim's hands sink into his sides, kneading the flesh, using it as leverage to force himself deep. It doesn't matter. Nothing does but the high. He's just a thing to be used, fattened meat with warm blood and a thundering pulse for Kim to enjoy. Despite that, the thing reacts to the stimulation, bucks and moans and then he comes and comes, barely without any tension, just emptying himself with a wordless wail. It spurs Kim on, has him tightening his grip and shudder through his own orgasm while Harry passively drifts in the last of the euphoria.
It all comes back after a while. His heart is pounding, rattling his ribcage. Everything's cold, rainbow-hued and swimming in front of his eyes. He lays panting while Kim's tongue finally closes the wounds, one by one. A little feeling begins to return to his abused body. He whines softly when Kim finishes off by kneeling down to licks his fingers and push them in again. Whatever he's left behind in his need is repaired as a small mercy – sewing his favourite toy back up after ripping it open.
"My poor Harrier."
He blinks, looks up. The glimmer of a smile against the black sky. Kim is adjusting his clothes, tutting at the bloodstains on his knees. He wants to say sorry, sorry for messing your clothes up, sorry for being so useless – but there's no sound, just a hoarse moan. He's too tired and drained to talk, shivering and half naked on the hard ground. Kim sighs softly.
"Come here."
Kim's fingers card through the sweaty strands again, lovingly petting them for a second before gathering Harry up in his arms like he weighs nothing. Everything aches. He nuzzles in against Kim's throat and breathes in the dry scent of paper and pine, blood and transmission fluid. The skin is warm. There's no heartbeat.
He's pretty sure he's never felt this safe and loved.
It's the dead of night, and Kim carries him easily. It's not too far to his flat. A week in bed to get well enough that he can stand again. Not that he'll get to sleep that much. Kim will want to put Harry to good use, now that he has the means for it. Until he's used up enough of what he's taken he'll be nigh insatiable. He might even prolong it just for the sake of it – top himself off to keep Harry docile and slack, receptive, pliant. The thought makes him curl up and whine, half eager and half afraid. After that it'll be weeks to recuperate, big meals, forced rest until he's fat and healthy again. Tired, angry phone calls from the precinct wondering where he is and Kim fielding them, taking the praise for caring for the drunk with admirable stoicism. Just a relapse, nothing else. Just a little lapse in judgement.