<Jameson Dade>: The whole ‘regular food source’ thing was pretty cool. It had only been a couple of days since Jameson and Robin had struck the deal that would find the latter wealthier and the former sated without much in the way of danger to the discretion many of his kind found so precious. Jameson, or Jammy, as some called him, wasn’t all that interested one way or the other. He just liked not being dead. Or whatever. His apartment was on the cheap end, because when he had signed the contract to rent it out; he hadn’t had much in the way of money. Since becoming a vampire, his ability to steal had found his pockets lined with more cash than he rightly knew what to do with. So he just spent it. For example, against a paint chipped wall, just beneath a crack in the ceiling, there was a plush couch. Soft leather, brass, and wood, it looked like it might have come from another era. Across from it was a television that nearly took up the whole of a wall. Covered a tiny hole there perfectly. There was a bathroom, a miniscule kitchen, and a bedroom. He was flopped in the living room, tongue sticking out of one corner of his mouth in concentration as he attempted to turn water bombs into smoke bombs. It was going…okay.
<Robin Little>: Robin wasn’t at all sure that he should be making this a nightly thing. He wasn’t a Doctor, and his brief googling about how much blood a human body could lose per day hadn’t really revealed much. Why should anyone do that kind of experimentation? It’s not as if there’s a human reason as to why someone would give up their blood every day. Anyway. It had only been two nights, and Robin felt fine. Maybe a little tired, but that was all. He just made sure to drink a lot of water (mixed in with healthy amounts of coffee and whiskey). The night before had been brief. He’d arrived at Jameson’s, he’d exchanged blood for money, and had agreed to come back at the same time the next night. And so here he was again, dressed now in his second best outfit (because the suit would be recognised from the other night). Jeans, black sneakers, a worn white shirt and a different jacket. He stood on the doorstep and took a deep breath. Then knocked three times.
<Jameson Dade>: The sound of a hand rapping against the door drew his attention, his head tipping up for a second in confusion. And then he glanced to the digital clock at the bottom corner of his computer screen (which happened to be where he was getting the information on how to build smoke bombs to begin with). Oh ****! He’d lost track of time. So he put his screwdriver down, and closed the laptop screen, only to shove the supplies for his crafting set off to a corner. It looked conspicuous as hell but he stumbled his way to the door a second later. He was without a shirt because he’d been working with poison chemicals, and hadn’t wanted to risk walking around with an outfit soaked in dangerous toxins, which left him answering the door in a pair of jeans. “Robin!” He said, and then he essentially snatched the man, dragging him inside so he could kick the door shut and greet him properly. Which was to say that he hooked a finger in the man’s shirt collar, tugged, and abruptly sank his fangs in.
<Robin Little>: The greeting grin on Robin’s lips was fleeting. Blue eyes went wide as the shirtless blonde pulled him inside and slammed the door; within seconds, sharp canines were sunk into Robin’s neck and, regardless of the fact that he was there willingly, and that he knew this was a thing that was going to happen, the fight or flight instinct still kicked in. A hiss broke past his lips and he stumbled back, as if he’d be able to get out the door that had so promptly shut behind him. His body slammed against it, and though the past two nights he’d assumed a ‘no touching’ rule, this time he couldn’t help it. Fingers pushed into Jameson’s blonde hair, as if they were to curl and yank the head away. In fact, they did curl, as the other hand half pushed at the vampire’s shoulder. But then the sensation took over. The sudden rush of adrenaline, the sudden cooling of skin as blood drained from his face and left the tips of his fingers numb. He sighed, and relaxed against the wood of the door. And yet he remained as he was; fingers resting in Jameson’s hair, and against the skin of his shoulder.
<Jameson Dade>: The truth of the matter was that Robin couldn’t have pushed him away if he’d wanted to. Though Jameson looked slight, he had the preternatural strength of a vampire on his side, along with the hunger that fed it. Blood splashed into his mouth, tasting of whiskey, all the best parts of cigarettes and coffee. It was like a crimson shrine to putting one’s health last, and naturally Jameson found it intoxicating in its own way. Some of his favorite flavors swirling over his tongue with that raw heat and the metallic tang of hemoglobin . He listened for a heartbeat, waiting for it to grow erratic and then begin to mellow out. It was only after he forced the other man up and over the apex that he pulled away. His lips and chin were covered in blood and the wound wasn’t sealed yet. There were fingers in his hair and his hooded gaze met Robin’s. He looked like he wanted to eat him. Well and truly consume him. “You taste different tonight.” He commented, swallowing. His hands kept the other pinned.
<Robin Little>: When Jameson lifted his head, Robin turned to look at the vampire. Although his eyes were hooded, and although he felt that usual sensation of light-headedness, there was a spark of fear, there, hidden in the depths of his blue eyes. The eyes that were usually gleaming with opulent optimism or sarcastic amusement. It wasn’t terror. It was a mild fear, countered by fascination. This was the first time he’d witnessed something… monstrous. Jameson’s cupid lips, his androgynous features were smeared with blood that belonged to Robin. His own blood, smeared over the chin of another. A being that could consume him whole, if he wanted to. Could take all of his blood, could make his heart stop. Could kill him right there and then and no one would know. But it was fascinating, and in that dark visage there was beauty, too—and the words were forming in Robin’s mind, his eyes flickering over every feature to brand this moment into his memory, sear it there, to remember later. To write it all down. Yes, he would write it all down. He hiccupped, as the laughter bubbled to the surface. “Different how?” he asked, his voice slightly slurred. Slightly wary, as if he was far too tasty for his own good. Literally. But mostly curious. There was an arch to his brow, and his lips curled into a neat, small smile. It was only then that he realised where his hands were, and what he was doing. And they dropped, to rest against his own thighs.
<Robin Little>: Robin wasn’t at all sure that he should be making this a nightly thing. He wasn’t a Doctor, and his brief googling about how much blood a human body could lose per day hadn’t really revealed much. Why should anyone do that kind of experimentation? It’s not as if there’s a human reason as to why someone would give up their blood every day. Anyway. It had only been two nights, and Robin felt fine. Maybe a little tired, but that was all. He just made sure to drink a lot of water (mixed in with healthy amounts of coffee and whiskey). The night before had been brief. He’d arrived at Jameson’s, he’d exchanged blood for money, and had agreed to come back at the same time the next night. And so here he was again, dressed now in his second best outfit (because the suit would be recognised from the other night). Jeans, black sneakers, a worn white shirt and a different jacket. He stood on the doorstep and took a deep breath. Then knocked three times.
<Jameson Dade>: The sound of a hand rapping against the door drew his attention, his head tipping up for a second in confusion. And then he glanced to the digital clock at the bottom corner of his computer screen (which happened to be where he was getting the information on how to build smoke bombs to begin with). Oh ****! He’d lost track of time. So he put his screwdriver down, and closed the laptop screen, only to shove the supplies for his crafting set off to a corner. It looked conspicuous as hell but he stumbled his way to the door a second later. He was without a shirt because he’d been working with poison chemicals, and hadn’t wanted to risk walking around with an outfit soaked in dangerous toxins, which left him answering the door in a pair of jeans. “Robin!” He said, and then he essentially snatched the man, dragging him inside so he could kick the door shut and greet him properly. Which was to say that he hooked a finger in the man’s shirt collar, tugged, and abruptly sank his fangs in.
<Robin Little>: The greeting grin on Robin’s lips was fleeting. Blue eyes went wide as the shirtless blonde pulled him inside and slammed the door; within seconds, sharp canines were sunk into Robin’s neck and, regardless of the fact that he was there willingly, and that he knew this was a thing that was going to happen, the fight or flight instinct still kicked in. A hiss broke past his lips and he stumbled back, as if he’d be able to get out the door that had so promptly shut behind him. His body slammed against it, and though the past two nights he’d assumed a ‘no touching’ rule, this time he couldn’t help it. Fingers pushed into Jameson’s blonde hair, as if they were to curl and yank the head away. In fact, they did curl, as the other hand half pushed at the vampire’s shoulder. But then the sensation took over. The sudden rush of adrenaline, the sudden cooling of skin as blood drained from his face and left the tips of his fingers numb. He sighed, and relaxed against the wood of the door. And yet he remained as he was; fingers resting in Jameson’s hair, and against the skin of his shoulder.
<Jameson Dade>: The truth of the matter was that Robin couldn’t have pushed him away if he’d wanted to. Though Jameson looked slight, he had the preternatural strength of a vampire on his side, along with the hunger that fed it. Blood splashed into his mouth, tasting of whiskey, all the best parts of cigarettes and coffee. It was like a crimson shrine to putting one’s health last, and naturally Jameson found it intoxicating in its own way. Some of his favorite flavors swirling over his tongue with that raw heat and the metallic tang of hemoglobin . He listened for a heartbeat, waiting for it to grow erratic and then begin to mellow out. It was only after he forced the other man up and over the apex that he pulled away. His lips and chin were covered in blood and the wound wasn’t sealed yet. There were fingers in his hair and his hooded gaze met Robin’s. He looked like he wanted to eat him. Well and truly consume him. “You taste different tonight.” He commented, swallowing. His hands kept the other pinned.
<Robin Little>: When Jameson lifted his head, Robin turned to look at the vampire. Although his eyes were hooded, and although he felt that usual sensation of light-headedness, there was a spark of fear, there, hidden in the depths of his blue eyes. The eyes that were usually gleaming with opulent optimism or sarcastic amusement. It wasn’t terror. It was a mild fear, countered by fascination. This was the first time he’d witnessed something… monstrous. Jameson’s cupid lips, his androgynous features were smeared with blood that belonged to Robin. His own blood, smeared over the chin of another. A being that could consume him whole, if he wanted to. Could take all of his blood, could make his heart stop. Could kill him right there and then and no one would know. But it was fascinating, and in that dark visage there was beauty, too—and the words were forming in Robin’s mind, his eyes flickering over every feature to brand this moment into his memory, sear it there, to remember later. To write it all down. Yes, he would write it all down. He hiccupped, as the laughter bubbled to the surface. “Different how?” he asked, his voice slightly slurred. Slightly wary, as if he was far too tasty for his own good. Literally. But mostly curious. There was an arch to his brow, and his lips curled into a neat, small smile. It was only then that he realised where his hands were, and what he was doing. And they dropped, to rest against his own thighs.
