A/N: Fourth part of the vamp!Dave series that began with "Ambivalence" and followed with "Midnight Monster" and "The Fifteen Laws of Phoenix".

Even you haven't read the first three parts, it's not necessary to read the previous stories to get this one. I'm not saying "GO OUT THERE AND READ MY STORIES" but if you're a real sucker for details you might want to at least skim through the pilot story. Have fun!

You sigh, feeling as though a huge, distracting weight has slid off your shoulders. The white haze from a nearby streetlight illuminates a small section of your bodies, making the fresh bloodstains on the sheets of the bed glisten attractively. Few choice cars fly by on the street below the window, filling the otherwise silent hotel room. It's a cool night, but the air is thick and smells like heat, clouding your thoughts to the point where you can't remember how frantic you should be now.

The room is in shades of red and grey, blurring your vision noticeably. The details of the body beneath you - bite marks, parted lips, heaving chest, trails of blood - are clear in the darkness, but everything seems to clamber over one another, each flick of the eye overloading your vision with details and yanking on your brain heavily. You need to clear your mind before you forget to move, before you stay up here, mounted on Mike's aching body until it's too late to go back. His taste and his smell nauseate you in the best way, intoxicating your actions to the point where you have to force your lids to stay up.

He's so soft, nestled beneath you, legs thrown hastily around your waist. You feel rough compared to his soft, pliant body. You feel sharp and dangerous next to him, next to his gently throbbing pulse and his pink skin. Even when he's been drained he's got the pinkest colour you've ever seen. As though sensing your thoughts, he moans gently, arches his back and pushes his hips into yours, sending a tumbling tsunami of blissful, numbing pleasure and goosepimples along your entire body. You cast a wanting glance back down to him. So many things beneath that pink skin and those shut eyes could drive you mad - madder than you already are. But it has to end, and it has to end now, or nights like this will be only a distant memory.

Pulling out of his heated body gently, you spare a gasp of satisfaction and roll off of Mike's panting body, shifting your weight so you lie on your side, facing him. He responds immediately to the loss of contact, and fumbles blindly and weakly for you. You love him, a risk, and can't bear to see him so lost without your contact, so you shuffle closer, pressing your chest into his shoulder. His hand snakes out for you, grabbing onto your shoulder and pulling you nearer, his eyes still closed and blood smeared on his cheek. You, in another risky move, lean down to lick it off desperately. The taste dulls your senses even more, causing you to press your teeth against the soft tissue of his cheek, enticing the slightest, high-pitched moan from the top of his throat. You run your hand along his chest and bring it up to his face, cupping his other cheek, and he whimpers, turns his head and captures your mouth with his.

It's too much, kissing him. It's too intense and intimate, and right now you need to get away from him, if only to save him. You sigh against his lips and turn away, and his eyes squeeze tighter, his arms wrapping around your neck and pulling you closer to his face. His pulse is still heavy and thick in your ears.

"More," he pleads, pressing a kiss against your cheek. "Please, more, Dave. Don't stop."

You shake your head and shift away, and that arm follows you, grabs your shoulder and pulls. "No more, Mike, you're too weak." The words come out heavy and betray you, for they're dipped in desire and dripping with lust. To back this up, your hand that remains on his cheek strokes soft, soothing circles into his flesh, brushing the lashes on his closed eyelids with the tips of your fingers. 

"I'm fine," he whines. "Just... come back."

"You'll be fine in a few minutes," you sigh, sitting up in the bed and rubbing your forehead. It's always like this. You spend an hour or so drinking from Mike's - fucking delicious, if you might add - body and, suddenly, he's your biggest fan and your lover and nothing could separate the two of you except for utter exhaustion.

But it only takes a few minutes for him to die down from his blood high and start hating you. You, fearing the loss of his love, sometimes found yourself spending ten or more minutes running your tongue across his neck and making him writhe and moan and cling onto your body, just to experience those last moments of being loved and cared for.

"Then I don't want to be fine," he nearly cries. "I want you." He tries to sit up, but his arm shakes and he falls back onto the pillow, tears leaving trails down his blood-stained cheeks. You're at his side in a second, cradling him in your arms and pressing kisses to his face.

"Go to bed," you coo, and Mike turns his head around to yours, kisses you again and again until you slip your tongue into his mouth and you're completely lost in his lips and you can't help but lie back down on top of him again. You run a hand up to his face, trail your fingers across his cheeks and press the tips against his jawline. He moans and sucks on your tongue, slides shaky fingers through your hair. You're lost in him, lost in his everything. Anything outside of this moment is unimportant, and you arch your back into him in the hopes that this will last forever.

But it's short-lived. You have to pull away eventually, you don't want to be on top of Mike when he comes to his senses - when he remembers just how much he hates you. And you climb off of him, ignoring his cries and stumble away from the bed. You half-trip over his shirt, strewn carelessly across the floor, and your mind reels, but you regain your footing and take a moment to stop the room from spinning.

You hear him call out after you when you approach the bathroom and shut out his voice when you close and lock the door, lean against it and slide down to the cold tile floor. You inhale deeply, smelling only his scent on you and the smell of the bathroom. You need to pull him out of your system, regardless of how badly you want him.

It, you decide, is worse than any form of withdrawal you've ever heard of. You crawl across the floor and lie down, your body sprawled spread-eagle on your belly as you stare at the bottom of the toilet bowl. You feel as though your body is on fire, but you can't stop shivering. You want to go back in the bedroom and lie down next to Mike and keep him warm and kiss him and do all the things you were happily doing to him not half and hour ago. You want to run your hands across his hot skin and feel him tremble violently underneath you.

But he's too weak for any of this. He's weak and he's low on blood and he needs his energy for a show in a few days. If you want him to live, you can't spend any longer doing what you love. You've only been lying down for what feels like a few years when you hear his voice.

"Daaave," Mike moans from the bedroom, and you shift onto your side and lean against the cabinet of the sink of whatever hotel you're in today. Everything is too white and you wish these lights dimmed so you didn't have to squint your eyes at everything. "Dave, come back."

You groan and cover your eyes with your hands, still breathing quite heavily from pure exhaustion. You hear the sound of Mike whining from the bedroom and shake your head until you can only hear rattling. His voice penetrates your thoughts. You get annoyed very quickly, knowing how much you want to go back to him, but can't.

"Shut up!" you scream, covering your ears with your hands. "Crying for me isn't going to fix anything!"

He moans in discomfort before retiring to silence. You hesitantly struggle to your feet, grabbing onto the sink counter and pulling yourself up. You lean on your elbows, resting against the top of the sink counter, your back to the mirror. Taking in a few breaths and blinking the brightness away, you turn your head sideways to see your reflection.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in your peripheral vision and grimace. It isn't pretty. Your eyes are sunken into your skull and dark from two nights of no sleep - of doing things other than sleep. You haven't shaved in a while, so your face looks scruffy and your hair falls is wisps around your ears and down your neck. There's still blood smeared across the side of your mouth, and your tongue darts out to wipe it from your cheek. Underneath the still-warm scent of Mike is your skin, and it scares you how familiarly disgusting it tastes on your tongue. You can still taste him on your tongue, your teeth, and you moan and bite your lips at the memory of his skin and his blood and you have to do this now or you're going to lose the sanity you've only just regained.

You turn completely around and lean on the top of the sink, hang your head and look down to your bandaged left arm.

All the guys know about this. You told them straight out that if they wandered into the bathroom and found you mutilating yourself not to be shocked because it's probably saving someone's life.

There's not much you truly, utterly hate in this world, but at the very top of the list is your own blood. It's the only thing that can kill off your bloodlust - which you discovered when Mike bit down hard on your lips one night and immediately turned you off as the bitter liquid hit your tongue.

As you peel the white tape from your arm, you hear Mike's cries from the bedroom again.

"Phoenix," he calls. "Phi, please."

You don't know what he's begging you for, but you ignore it nonetheless. You unwrap your forearm, the thick, vertical, black abrasions slowly appearing on the skin. It's only been a month of this and you've already begun to scar your skin permanently with this cutting. The bandage slips down your arm and falls to the floor leaving nothing but endless scars and nauseating bruises to cover the surface of your skin. There are wounds from steak knifes and pen tips and even your own fingernails, anything sharp that you could get your hands on torn through your skin and forcing the thick, dark blood to pour ominously down your arm.

And now you're doing it again, pressing the tip of your thumb against the destroyed skin of the inside of your arm at the elbow and sliding it down to your wrist. The line is soon filled by a dark strip of blood that spills over and drips onto the floor. The drop is such a dark shade of red that it's nearly black. The smell hits your nostrils immediately and you gag, hating the smell of pure death radiating from your own body. If you and Mike had spent a longer time together, if you had spent the entire night in eachother's arms, your blood would be bright and flow freely and you would feel human again.

But, instead, you're digging every finger from the index to pinky into your forearm and scraping four, thin scratches down your arm, more and more inky blood pouring from the wounds. You look around the small room quickly and find Mike's toothbrush, reach out for it with blurry eyes and hold it between two shaky hands.

"Dave?"

You bend it until you hear a snap and blink away the tears to see the shaft has snapped in half diagonally, leaving pointed ends on the two halves. Dropping one, you place the point against the crook of your left arm, press down hard, harder than you should, but you do anyway. Blood drips down the scarred skin as you drag it down vertically, following one of the older slices going down. It's a disgusting scent and you lean against the countertop to stop yourself from collapsing. It fucking hurts, ripping through your flesh so carelessly, but you need to feel this, you need to or you won't be able to erase Mike's body from your memory.

It's still not enough, though, so you drop the toothbrush half and press the side of your hand below your smallest finger to your mouth, your palm turned toward your face and your fingers spread out resting against your cheek and over your right eye. Spreading your jaws, you slide as much flesh as you can into your mouth before biting down hard.

Growling is a natural reaction when the skin is broken because when you bite yourself, you don't feel the physically exciting shockwave of pure sexual ecstasy resonating through your body like others feel.

You feel like you're being bitten.

But it isn't even the pain that hurts the most; it's the taste that lands on your tongue that makes your eyes shoot open. It doesn't taste natural, it doesn't taste human, it doesn't even taste like it belongs in a wild animal. It tastes just like it smells - like decay and rotting flesh and it's so disgusting that you cough and spit out the thick liquid.

"Phoenix?" Mike's voice is heard on the other side of the door, much closer than the distance the bed is at. "Dave, stop it and open the door."

But you continue to ignore him, jam your hand back into your mouth and bite down harder, using your right hand to hold it in place and inhaling roughly through your nose to try to avoid throwing up, forcing yourself to swallow the thick, tepid flow of vile blood.

You dislocated your pinky finger two weeks back, just from biting down on your hand so fucking hard and you've always tried to control how much force you press down. But this time you peek and watch your fingers tremble like leaves in a windstorm as you clench your jaw tighter. You feel something warm slide down your cheek - tears - and something cold drip down the side of your mouth - blood - and you choke back a flustered sob.

Coming down from a blood high is horrible, and the worst part of it lies in the fact that all blood affects you similarly, even your own. Every drink eventually leads to a climax - be it a euphoric, sexual release shared between you and your host, which is usually Mike; or a devastatingly painful drop to the bottom of the deepest pits of pure fucking madness that clouds your mind with nothing but suicidal thoughts because every time you hit that point you know it's the worst thing you have ever experienced, and not the last time you'll have to go through it.

The difference between the two is vast.

You scream into your torn flesh and feel the muscles in your arm tense up and shiver without your control, feel your jaw become sore from the strain pushed onto it. But you can't stop now because Mike's taste and Mike's scent and Mike's hot, naked body writhing beneath yours and Mike's legs wrapped around your waist and Mike's cries filling your ears are all still fresh in your mind. Because as long as still want him you can't stop. You have to wait until you hit a point so mentally low that you want to rip your own throat out. That would be the only time you could face him again without your body begging you to jump his bones.

You let a sob escape past the palm of your hand and hear banging on the door. Mike's voice echoes out, and your body sways toward it affectionally, begging you to run out of the bathroom and join him and get some fucking sleep for the first time in God knows how long.

"Dave, come on, seriously," Mike begs. "Come out of there, you'll be fine. Come back to bed."

But you can't go to bed because you'll be next to Mike again and if you don't reach the most intense point of this you could end up drinking from him again. You feel your legs shake as more blood disappears down your throat and you collapse to the cold floor again, but this time the once-cool tile burns the skin on your legs and you cry out in agony and more tears fall down your face because it doesn't just hurt physically anymore.

And when you get closer and closer to what you like to call your anti-climax, you dig your fingernails into your hand and gasp out obscenities and shake your head back and forth - anything to distract yourself from what's to come. And just as you think you're going to approach it, you hear Mike's voice again.

"Dave, please, stop. You're scaring me."

And it hits you like a tidal wave, just as you realize, you're scared, too and you gasp out a devastating cry and your lungs won't listen to you anymore so you stay frozen in that spot, all the wind knocked out of you and your stomach swirling with such force that you release your grip on your hand, the crescent-shaped impression vivid and dark and caked with drying blood against your pale palm. You cough and splutter and blood pours down your chin and splatters onto the floor and you steady yourself on one hand because your lungs still aren't working and you still can't inhale and your eyes bug out of your skull as a raging headache hits you in the back of the head.

It hurts like nothing you could ever describe. It was as though you witnessed and physically experienced your own brutal, bloody death endless times. It's as though all your insides have been torn to shreds. As though your fucking soul has been murdered. And you want to die, to not go through any of this anymore.

You cough once more before the thought hits your head.

This is all Mike's fault.

And it's true, because he's the only reason you have to do this to yourself, he's the only reason you want to collapse on the floor and drown in a pool of your own sickly black blood and never see the light of day again. He's the bane of your existence, right now, and you cough out your last breath before falling down to the tiles on the floor and gaping for breath. Your eyes glaze over from tears and loss of will to live and loss of consciousness, but a the last moment the muscles in your chest remember how to move and you greedily suck in one long, hasty breath.

And all that's left to come out is a scream of frustration, because you truly wanted to die then. And you want to blame Mike for this, too. The blame goes partly to him, because now you're stuck being ridiculously and hopelessly in love with someone who in the end forces you to hurt yourself and nearly end your life just to keep their pathetic heart beating precious blood into their body.

It makes you sick and you cough, spit blood onto the floor and try to throw up, but your body doesn't allow you the pleasure. You're stuck with this toxic sludge seeping through your veins and your body and there's nothing you can do about it but try to stop the onslaught of tears that refuses to retreat.

"Dave!"

Mike's voice rings throughout your ears and you turn your head to see if he's in the room with you. But he isn't because you've locked the door and Mike is on the other side of a wooden barrier. You can't even smell him anymore. Only the rancidness that continues to coagulate across the floor of the bathroom. You struggle to lean on two hands and support yourself.

"I'm fine," you reply around a gag. "I'm fine. Go to sleep."

He makes an aggravated grumble through the door. "Phi please, baby. Just open up."

You glare at the stained tiles of the bathroom and wait for the scars in your arm to clot. The wounds are too deep, and should be important, but your blood is so thick and dry these days it clots in almost an instant. It's any wonder you can still bleed. Mike calls your name out once more, hoping you'll come to your senses and let him in, but you just snarl and keep your back to the door.

"Phoenix... please, please let me in," he pleads, and something tugs in your chest. His voice has lost it's whiny, hungry edge and has taken on a fully concerned moan of terror. You turn your head toward the locked door. "Dave, come on, please."

He only really calls you "Dave" when he's being serious, and you lean back on your knees. Your limbs tremble slightly, and your body hates what you've just done to it. "Go to bed, Mike," you demand. The strains of anger in your voice add to your tone, but this tone has no effect on him anymore. You can almost feel his irritation slither toward you from underneath the door.

Sighing, you struggle to your feet, using the sink counter for leverage, and unlock the door. It swings open immediately, and Mike's trembling face appears, small smears of blood littering his jaw, tempting you. His eyes meet yours, both weary and frightened.

"I hate it," he struggles to keep his voice level. "I hate it when you do that."

You shrug softly. "I'm the only one who can stop myself from killing you."

He looks like he might say something, but you're too tired to hear it, so you advance toward him slowly, and lick a spot of red from the corner of his jaw below his ear. He inhales gently and leans toward you. You exhale, unhappy that he's still under your influence, but don't want to pull away from him just yet. Yes, it's true that he's the cause of all your pain - you've never hated anyone more than you do him. He tempts you with his scent and then kills you off whenever you get too close. But he's something else, too.

He's endless. He's your key to immortality. He keeps you living when you've already died. He's a euphoria you don't think you've ever experienced before. He's got you on a short leash, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You wrap your arm around his waist, pulling him closer and layering his collarbone with light kisses. He's so sweet and addictive, but your bones are exhausted, your body begging you to lie down, your heart pounding lazily in your ears. He rests a hand in your growing hair, sliding the soft, wispy curls between his fingers, soothing you further into a staggering weariness.

"I still want you," he admits, wrapping his other arm around you in a hug.

"I know," you assure. He's fucking cold, and you are, too, so this embrace is strange and painful, but so familiar and sensual that you lean heavily against him, feeling your legs give out. You snap the fingers on your free hand to get his attention and point toward the bedroom. "Bed."

You can't see his face, but you know he's smiling as you both stagger toward the mattress. It looks infinitely soft and the covers look warm and the thought of sleeping in Mike's arms soothes you. You collapse the second you reach the mattress, lying prostrate and burying your face in the luscious pillow. It's so cushy that you almost don't notice the bed dipping as Mike lies down besides you. There's a hesitation.

You want to touch him and he wants to touch you, but you don't want to risk it. He'll snap out of his high, and you don't think you can handle the look of disgust on his face when he wakes up fully-sober tomorrow morning and finds you in bed with him. But, as you prepare to sleep isolated on one side of the bed, you feel his arm snake around your waist and pull you closer. He's still trembling, so you turn your head toward him, watch his steady gaze with your own to match.

"I still want you," he repeats, inclining his head towards yours.

"I know you do," you whisper, feeling your lids get heavy.

"I love you, Dave," Mike whispers back, his lips brushing yours with the upmost delicacy.

"Of course you do," you sigh. He loves you. He loves you until he comes to his senses in the morning. He loves you until the sun comes up and burns away his love away like a moth over a candle flame.

-e.n.d-