He can't say he likes the man. He wouldn't call it love. He wouldn't even call it lust. But he enjoys the man. He enjoys the way he takes care of himself, and he likes the way he walks, talks, sits and observes. He likes the barely noticeable sway to the hips when the man walks, he likes the way the new pairs of jeans hug his body, and he likes the way he keeps himself. He likes the way he speaks, with a hint of Italian and Arabic accents, in the language of the Mohawk Indians when he thinks no one is listening, or in Arabic when he talks to himself as they walk side-by-side. He likes the way he just sits down, and those golden eyes just focus on a person, watching as if there was no one else, and yet simultaneously watching everyone all at once. He does enjoy the tan skin, the way it's remarkably smooth under his fingers as he slides them down his thighs and grips them firmly as the man pulls back his hood. The man is straddling him, looking down at him with those fierce gold eyes as those callused fingers grip his head firmly and force his head closer.

"It's not fair you're still all dressed, Alex. Especially with everything I give you."

He smirks, and his hands slip up into his boxers to firmly grasp his ass as the man leans in to kiss him. He can already see his erection straining against the soft fabric. He grins, predatorily, and snaps the waistband of his boxers with a tendril, earning a pleased grunt.

"Desmond, have I ever denied you anything?"

"Yeah. Your clothes on the floor."

"You like it when I remained dressed."

Those hips rock against him as he slowly starts kneading the flesh, the firm muscle in stark contrast with the soft cotton undergarment. He lets Desmond kiss him, the memory of a kiss making it feel nice, and he slides his hands out of the boxers to grab his ass again on top of the cotton. It's a pleasant feel, the firm muscle being covered by the thin layer of blue cloth. He can taste the man, he thinks, as the kiss continues, and he can taste the memories in the DNA that he's become so accustom to clinging to. It's not like he needs much to recover nowadays, and there's such a pleasant drug in front of him now that as he squeezes his "lover's" ass and causes him to moan quietly and rock against him he realizes he couldn't give Desmond up.

He can't say he likes the man. He wouldn't call it love. He wouldn't even call it lust. But he would call it codependency, because he likes to think that he's not the only one in this relationship that depends on the other. Desmond moans softly as Alex stops kissing his lips and slowly kisses his way down to the base of his neck. Alex smirks, his lips pressed against that wonderful skin as he grows eager for his "lover." Desmond's body grows tense: he knows what's coming. He bites, hard, sinking his teeth into the skin and breaking it so easily as teeth turn into long fangs closer to that of a snake than a vampire, and he slips a hand into Desmond's boxers and grabs him firmly, earning a shaky groan.

It's a race to the finish now, he thinks as he strokes him slowly but firmly, secreting his own sort of lubrication to combat the friction between the dry skins. He lets his teeth turn to tendrils, which travel down the length of Alex's throat so he can kiss Desmond again as he runs a thumb across the head of Desmond's dick and chuckles as he bucks into his hand helplessly. Alex can feel the blood passing from him, its warmth quickly diminished as he milks it for biomass. It's not like he has much more to recover from than a handgun bullet or two, and that makes it possible for this to work in substitution of eating a whole person, and he slides his tongue into his mouth to get that deep-throated groan that rumbles throughout all of his chest. It makes Alex shudder as he continues to draw out that blood.

He keeps stroking him, a little harder and a little faster, feeling Desmond's hips buck into his hand on their own accord, as he breaks the kiss and presses his ear to Desmond's chest to feel his heartbeat. This is where it gets tricky, he thinks, as he continues to watch just how much of Desmond's blood he drains. The man's heart is beating quick, from arousal or blood loss he's not entirely certain, so he pushes Desmond onto his back gently and nips at his collarbone, pressing kisses all up and all over his neck as his "lover" groans and arches into the nips. This man is his, and he owns everything the man is, even his soul, and he won't give it up for anything as he hears Desmond give a slurred cry of his name and release. Alex's eyes flash with hunger as he absorbs it and lets the man close his eyes. He presses his ear to his chest again and can feel the skin beginning to get cool as the heart keeps up its frantic pounding. His skin has lost some of its color, and Alex estimates he's taken just about two liters of blood.

He pulls his hand out of Desmond's boxers, and the man hardly responds as Alex paces out to the kitchen and pulls out some of the solutions he took from the hospital for after a feeding session. He attaches it to Desmond as they taught him, and he lets the Ringer's lactate solution keep the man alive. Alex trails a hand over his cheek, and those fierce golden eyes look at him, smirking as he pants and tries to recover. He shouldn't technically have these solution bags, but if Alex says jump, the whole damn world tries to fight him and loses.

He's converted the room into a partial hive, just so that is stays warm and can protect the man from anything thrown his way. He found him in the middle of New York Zero, uninfected and bopping and jiving to some song stuck in his head. The man's voice wasn't pretty, but it was enough to lure him out of his hiding spot and stalk him for several blocks just to listen to him sing. He eventually cornered him in the alleyway and commanded him to keep talking as he pressed his ear to his chest and listened to the heartbeat and felt an inexplicable calm settle in him at the sound of music. He figured the saying, "Music soothes the savage beast," to be true, and shortly after that, New York Zero was cleared up, Heller was disposed of, and the man he had "kidnapped" now lived a good life under his watchful eye. The man still held his job as whatever it was, and Alex didn't care, so long as he continued to return and give him food.

He knew Desmond hated the newspapers and the TV stations asking him why he allowed Alex to do such things. There wasn't a reason for them to know, he would snap as he drew his hood up and did that nifty vanishing trick his profession was known for. And then he would return to Alex's "hive" and crash in the warm, fleshy virus as he slept beside him. But still, he mused as he watched the man sleep in his boxers, there was nothing better in this life for him than the man stretched out and sleeping soundly with the IV in his arm.

I really hope this isn't as awkward as I think is. T_T