Path of the Vampire forum

He studied him for a moment, before offering an equally noncommittal shrug. He considered pointing out that the other man was surprisingly well-spoken for someone who didn't spend the majority of their time seeking refuge in the printed word. Poetic. That was the word. It was just as well, really; there'd been half a heartbeat's worth of skepticism. It was somewhat of a relief. The trouble with people who held a love of words-English majors, literary critics, readers--was that they expected too much. Less a question of standards and more that they set the bar impossibly high. Grey lacked the motivation to better himself. That hadn't always been the case. He'd lacked clear goals, but he'd had...hopes. They were fragile things, too easy to discard in a series of moments. "You sounded like you might---" he began, words dying on his lips as Jameson abruptly leaned closer.

If they'd been strangers passing on the street--which, effectively, they were--it would have been unsettling. Mildly uncomfortable. As it was, his reaction was to blink. He'd shed his concept of boundaries some time ago. That gnawing emptiness just underneath his skin had seen to that. His mouth had only remained ravaged because, until a few months ago, he'd kept off the amp. It had been a rule he'd set for himself. Firm and unwavering, initially; a line drawn. And, with a slow eventuality, he'd broken ever single rule he'd ever created for himself. He'd also had the aid of cheap health insurance, until the scholarship funding had dried up and even that minimal coverage had dwindled down to nothing. There were no miracles, just blind luck. Grey wasn't particularly good at taking care of himself.

He didn't pull away when Jameson reached for his face. Their breath would have intermingled, ordinarily. A strange interplay of cool and warm. That probably should've alarmed him--the lack of heat from the other man. The lack of breath at all. But he was caught up in the way that a fingertip reached out to skim over his upper lip, folding it back slightly as Jameson explored, gently pressuring against a canine. It was dull. No sharper than any other tooth. He shot him a questioning look, one brow slowly lifting. It was only when Jameson gestured at the murals that decorated his walls by way of explanation that he snorted. The mumbled remark didn't help. "If I were going to put any part of you in my--I mean. If I were going to suck on you, it wouldn't be your neck." A pause. "That's not better."

His gaze locked with Jameson's own a second later, the slightest hint of color creeping into his cheeks. Not high enough to be a true blush--he wasn't the self-conscious sort--but enough to indicate a sudden spike in circulation. He'd meant what he'd said. If the other man had decided that was the price he'd pay, he wouldn't have questioned. He'd done it before. Would probably do it again. The pressure of fingertips against his shoulder was...confusing, to say the least. He understood the intent behind the squeeze, and maybe he ought to have appreciated it more. But it was unnecessary, as far as he was concerned. Which isn't to say it didn't make him slightly nervous. The other male was clearly on edge--warring with himself over something. That rarely boded well. He braced himself for the delivery--whether bad news or some outlandish request. Maybe the guy had a thing for---

His line of thinking ended abruptly with Jameson's words. For a moment he just stared, gaze steady. As if silently asking See? Was that so hard? Most people would have laughed it off. It was, in fairness, slightly ridiculous. But the delivery was too deadpan. Weighty. Matter-of-fact. His expression was carefully neutral. He'd...heard of weirder things, honestly. What business was it of his if Jameson had a fetish that was weirder than most? "Alright, Bram," he muttered. A shrug.

There was a brief moment, when Jameson's eyes rolled and he pushed himself upright, where he wondered if that had been the wrong response. Needless worry, as it turned out. He returned a few seconds later, and Grey half-turned in time to snatch the spoon from the air. He was surprised and grateful. He turned his back on him a moment later, taking a moment to carefully scoop the crushed powder onto the spoon with the pad of a finger. He reached for the glass of water, pouring from the glass with one hand while he steadied the spoon with the other. The water, far from clear to start with, clouded immediately, tiny pieces floating on the surface. He took a moment to tip a finger into the mixture experimentally, before abruptly getting to his feet, miraculously managing not to spill.

He carefully set the glass down on the edge of the nightstand, before closing on Jameson. He lifted the offending finger, not allowing the man time to protest before forcing it inside of a mouth, rubbing the pad against the man's gumline. It wasn't the most direct route, of course, but it would, at the very least offer a faster absorption rate. The careful rubbing motion gradually slowed, before his finger slid from his mouth entirely, his eyes never once leaving his. He pulled away a second later, his free hand dropping to his pocket to remove a small plastic bag--not much cleaner, in truth, than the one he'd been using. "See..." He began, fishing a syringe from the clouded plastic as he spoke, fitting the tip to the spoon's contents, and drawing on the plunger with his opposite hand. "The thing about voyeurism..."

It filled halfway almost immediately, leaving him to tuck the damp spoon into his pocket. He reached up to fit the syringe between his teeth a second later, hands reaching out to grip Jameson by the front of his shirt, tugging roughly as he started backwards, all but collapsing back onto the bed. "Is that it's ******* boring," he finished as he carefully slid his burden from between his teeth, turning it to offer it plunger-first to Jameson with a careful lift of a brow.

"Unless you have Gonorrhea, then no." He agreed. Not that he seemed terribly concerned one way or another. The careful jerk of his shoulders was nonchalant. The words themselves, though, were unapologetic; borderline cheeky. He sobered a second later, the grin that started to tug at his lips flagging. He studied him for a moment, taking note of the other man's hesitation. Not shy. Dubious. It reminded him of a summer afternoon that seemed half a lifetime away. The sticky heat of an attic bedroom, the stutter of flies against the windowpane. The slant of amber mid-day light, and the static hitch of their breath. Sweaty palms. The word 'maybe' curling unspoken in the between them. He blinked, and the room dimmed, four sunlight walls receding into memory. Maybe. "I don't have to do anything." The words were firm. Hushed.

He'd tried, when the pad of a finger grated against Jameson's gums, dragged over the smoothness of teeth, not to focus on how close he'd been standing. Not to think about how his lips had parted slightly. How he'd crowded closer, nearly chest to chest. Almost rocking up to balance his weight on his toes, chin tilting up to catch the graze his lips with the soft warmth of his own. Almost. But he'd stepped back, let his hand fall. Then reached to pull him after. Maybe. His breath escaped in a shallow exhale as he settled back, ghosting over skin. His eyes lidded, taking on an almost drowsy quality when Jameson tipped forward, forehead pressed against his. "I'm capable of that. Sometimes." The last word trailed into a whisper. Low and cracked. It was a strange balancing act, the moments between self-control and surrender. Between the 'here' and 'now' and the solid, not at all unpleasant weight of Jameson and the way his pulse picked up, veins already buzzing with the promise of being somewhere else.

And the line was so thin. He was still, not wanting to distract Jameson from his work. The familiar sting registered a second later, breath rushing from his lungs, arm tensing slightly. It was a feeling that intensified, peaked towards pain--before fading. Though that may have been due to the way Jameson's thumb compressed the plunger, and everything he could have possibly wanted -- mercy. Absolution. Forgiveness/permission. Both? -- was his. It didn't take long. It never did, those days when he'd starved himself from it. It was clear from the way he went limp, pupils dilating that the initial rush had hit. Done exactly what it was supposed to. "You have no idea." He said, a slight quaver to the words. Not quite jittery. Hovering on the edge of relief and giddy. He tipped his head back, eyes settling on Jameson's own.

He reached up a second later, originally intending to wind a finger around a strand of hair. As much to feel the texture as to pull him closer. Instead, his fingers reached for his throat, loosely curling around it. He didn't exert pressure; didn't attempt to dig in his nails or choke. He simply tugged, a low noise escaping him. A sound quieted a second later when his lips pressed against Jameson's, hand dropping to trail the back of his knuckles across the expanse of his smooth, white throat. Gentle at first, and then more insistent; the barest brush of tongue against the seam of his lips, hand dropping to once against pluck at his shirt. Restless at first, before his fingers twisted in the fabric. Pulling. As if trying to encourage him to move impossibly closer. Yes.

Thread end. To be continued in: Neverland Bound