Path of the Vampire forum

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Jesse Fforde> Grey had insisted on going back to work, though Jesse had allowed it only on the second night after the incident, rather than the night directly after. There was no way he was going to let her go to work with her body as mangled as it was—though he knew it could have been so much worse. If he catches himself off guard, he still sees her blood covering his hands, when he looks down. A figment of his imagination, of course, but he needs to find ways to distract himself.

Except he’s finding it very hard to distract himself. What had happened to Grey had happened primarily to her, yes, but something had happened to Jesse, too. A crack had opened up inside of him and he could think of only one way to fix it. Or maybe it’s just an excuse. It hadn’t been all that long since Rhett and that huge black hole hadn’t opened up underneath Jesse just yet. Not in the ordinary way. This is something completely different. And surely Mickey would prefer it. Surely. Jesse had enthralled the guy so the family could get to know him in a safe atmosphere. Now they know him. They like him well enough. Now…

It’s time, Mickey. Get your *** to Larch Court Basement. He sent the text. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He paced. He waited.


<Mickey Macintyre> The text vibrated his pocket as Mick was boltin' from the cops. Lights flashed behind him, feet a-thumpin', and Mickey dove through a hole in a fence, stumbling, correcting, doing his best goddamn Jesse Owens impression. Mick's pockets were filled with the **** he'd gotten from a purse, and damn, this wasn't worth it. Whatever cash he'd grabbed was not worth this ********. Of course, the ***** had had a cop fucktoy who was in plains clothes; of course that was Mickey's luck. The Chicagoan ducked in an alleyway close to Larch Court, where he figured he could hide. Maybe Jesse wouldn't rat him out. Vampires had to hate pigs. Before he pushed inside, the punk checked his cell, saw that text. It was time. Dread pricked the base of his neck and Mickey swore his stomach dropped right out of him. Shoved the cell back into his pocket, and headed downstairs. At least there, the coppers wouldn't have a clue where he went.


<Jesse Fforde> As soon as he heard the footsteps on the stairs, Jesse turned toward them, head cocked. Where the human might feel dread, Jesse only felt a thrill. It was sick, maybe. It was... Jesse didn't even know what it was, but it was there. That need to take blood and give it away again. It was a high. An adrenaline kick. To hear the sound of that human heart beat in his own home. A heart beat that he would snuff, and replace with power. Jesse smirked and spread his arms out, palms upturned in a welcoming gesture. "Mickey. Mickey Mickey. You have leaves in your hair," he said, gesturing to the guy's head. He does have leaves in his hair. And is that a smudge of dirt? "What have you been up to, eh?"


<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse was there and Mickey felt every hair on his body stand up. Some part of him liked the man, against his own goddamn will; maybe it was just attraction. God, please, just be attraction. But the other part of him was ******* terrified, wanted to run the instant he saw the other man, felt his eyes on him. Mick felt like a minnow and Jesse was a shark. He scrubbed a hand against his beard, rubbed some of the dirt from his cheek, pushed leaves from his short hair. "Just been... busy. In nature. Y'know."


<Jesse Fforde> "Busy. In nature," Jesse says with a slow nod. He gestures to the space behind him. Couch? Bunk bed? Hallway? Bathroom? Doesn't really ******* matter. The outcome was going to be the same either way. Jesse smirks as if he's just imagined Mickey out in nature with some other woman. Or guy. Or whatever. Messing around in the darkness. "I hope I didn't interrupt. But I suddenly realised you're probably sick of being a human slave forced to come whenever I tell you to," he said with a snort. It would be a loss, Jesse knows. He kind of likes having someone around who's terrified of him. But who's to say he can't get another? "What do you think, eh?"


<Mickey Macintyre> The chances were slight that Mickey had been messing around with some girl. And though he wasn't exactly chaste, he hadn't rolled around in grass with a guy for a while, either. Jesse seemed amused. The words made Mick's heart thunder. "Yea," he admitted, and glanced around the basement. This was it, Mick. Your *** was finally gonna be grass. "But it ain't so bad. You ain't so mean, for an unwilling vampiric slave driver."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse saunters a little closer. The upkick in Mickey's heart rate is tantalising. It makes Jesse's mouth water and now that the decision has been made, he can hardly control himself. He's not in his right mind, when he gets like this. When he decides to sire, that outcome is the be all and end all. Jesse shrugs. "Yeah. I didn't really get to use you to your potential. But whatever. I think you'll like it better, Mickey, I really do," Jesse says with a genuine and sincere nod. As if he's the doctor and Mickey is the patient and this is the only solution to some disease that Mickey has. Mickey has no disease. Just Jesse. Jesse and his moments of spontaneous whimsy. He's standing right in front of Mickey, now. Right in the middle of the room, at the bottom of the basement stairs. "You ready?"


<Mickey Macintyre> Mick wasn't ready. ****, of course he wasn't. He didn't want to die. Jesse stalked closer and Mickey's heart strangled his throat and he didn't see his life flash before his life, like some stupid goddamn movie. All he saw was Jesse, looking terrifyin' as all hell and powerful in front of him. "I-... I don't think dis a good idea..," he managed, feeling trapped. He took a step back, caught his heel on the bottom step, lost his balance, arms flinging to try and catch himself. Mickey was no cat. He didn't always land on his feet.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse isn't in the mood to discuss it. Mickey says he doesn't think it's a good idea and if Jesse were a decent person he would listen, and he would stop, and he would take more time. There are doubts in the back of his mind, of course. Maybe the family are happy with Mickey the way he is and maybe they won't like Jesse, either, for turning him like this. On a whim. Forcing it on someone who's just admitted they're not ready. But as Jesse reaches out to catch the flailing guy, he knows he's no good at talking **** out and he likes to be optimistic. Mickey will like it. He just doesn't realise it yet. So Jesse doesn't catch Mickey. He lets him fall. He lands over Mickey. Not in any way that could be misconstrued as desirous. Not like that, anyway. All Jesse desires is Mickey's blood. Which becomes immediately obvious as Jesse grabs the guy's chin and pushes his head aside, lunging for the neck and the hot blood pulsing beneath.


<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse came closer, and if he'd been anyone else, Mick would have thought he was coming onto him. Mick's body reacted on his own, hands digging into the stairs beneath him. But then Jesse was going for his throat and Mickey realized. ****, ****. Fuckin' hell. His hands came up, tried to push the other man off of him. "S-****, Jesse, d-don't do dis, fer ****'s sake," he said, voice trembling in fear. Mick heard his blood rush like a river in his ears.


<Jesse Fforde> If Jesse could speak right then and there, he'd tell Mickey to shut the **** up and quit being a pussy. Oh, Jesse knows this isn't how he should go about it. He knows he should wait a while. Rhett's only... how long has it been? Two weeks? And Bastion, before that. A month? Less? They'll all have to pin Jesse down and nightly rip out his fangs. Keep him locked up and not let him out. Maybe only for special occasions. He shouldn't be allowed near humans. No one believes it's an addiction, he knows that much. But ****, it feels like it. That inability to stop and the... oh, it feels so good. His teeth sink into the flesh over the vein and the blood his hot over his tongue. It soothes the ever-present thirst. He ignores Mickey's shoves and his pleas. Jesse pins him down; a physical way of saying shut the **** up and quit being a pussy.


<Mickey Macintyre> Sure, Mick was being a pussy. He liked being alive. He fuckin' loved it. Liked the sun, liked having a heartbeat. Liked eating and drinking and Hell, he even liked sunburns. But he was about to lose it all. All of it. Jesse was so fuckin' strong, and he pinned Mickey down, and Mick's head swam with fear, and then pain. Mickey gasped. Pain stabbed him in the throat as Jesse's fangs punctured the skin and his blood flowed hot and ready. Mickey's hands dug into shoulders and shoved, but it was useless. Jesse was stronger, and he chewed Mick up like a starving, rabid dog, and he wasn't ready to spit the punk out just yet.


<Jesse Fforde> No, not yet. Jesse is enjoying his meal. He always does, when he has the freedom to feed straight from the vein. It's so much better than from a bottle or a blood pack. It's so alive, thrumming and thriving with energy and that fear. Like a nice aged spiced rum. Jesse barely held on to that satisfied hum of pleasure. He continues to drink, to consume the hot gush of blood, eyes closed and focused on the feel of Mickey beneath him. Again, nothing funny. Just waiting for the guy to slacken, to weaken. Waiting for the slow of the heartbeat. Jesse doesn't want to kill him. He needs Mickey alive. Just.


<Mickey Macintyre> With each and every swallow, Mickey felt weaker. It didn't even hurt, anymore; the pull from his veins was only a dull rushing in his ears. He felt Jesse above him, pinned, and Mickey was sure that this would be it. He'd just finish him off, then and there. How ******* funny that he'd die with a man over him. His pa was rolling in his fuckin' grave. Slow, Mickey's grip loosened where it held Jesse's shirt, fisted in the material. Black edged out his vision, his jaw slackened. Heart slowed to a stumble, then a crawl.

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--




<Jesse Fforde> Jesse has to force himself away. He doesn't need all that blood, but he takes it all anyway. He does it with any human victim; he can't just bite them and then send them on their merry way, because they'll remember. So he has to kill them. Why not drain them before doing so? Would be a waste, otherwise. It's hard to stop, though. It's hard not to keep going until all that's left is a sack of skin and bones. But Jesse does stop. He pulls away with an angry growl, the thirst returning instantly. Looming over Mickey, Jesse tears into his own wrist, bringing his own now slightly tepid blood to the surface. His lips are smeared, a drop of Mickey's blood crawling over his chin. He holds his wrist over Mickey's slack jaw. "Now you gotta drink. Drink and be free," he whispers.


<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse pulled away. Mickey's throat worked uselessly, mouth dry. Why did he pull away? Why wasn't he finishing him off? Mick didn't want to be a vampire, didn't want to survive in darkness, on blood. He smelled the copper tang of it and he shook his head, slightly, mouth twisted. "No."


<Jesse Fforde> "You've got to be ******* kidding me," Jesse mutters under his breath. Kaelyn's going to hate me is all he can think. Mickey's going to die because he refuses to drink the thing that will save his life. Jesse knew that Mickey didn't want to be a vampire. He'd said as much, in the past. When it came down to it, however, Jesse assumed the guy would pick any kind of life over death. Maybe he's just not thinking right, and needs the consequences drilled in. "No, Mickey? No? If I leave you like this you're gonna die. You get that, right? No bringing you back. You drink and you live or you don't and you die," Jesse says. He's half pushing himself away. Half ready to just walk away from the stubborn asshole and let him die on the steps.


<Mickey Macintyre> Mickey didn't want to die. The **** had he done with his life? Left his goddamn family, killed his pa, moved to Canada. He worked at a bar and a goddamn convenience store, for ****'s sake. Jesse pulled away and fear clutched Mickey's chest, and goddamn. **** him. **** him for this. Mickey didn't want to die. He reached out, curled inked fingers around Jesse's wrist and brought it to his mouth. Hesitation, for a second, before his lips closed around the wound.


<Jesse Fforde> A growl that sounds more like a purr rumbles in Jesse's throat as the human finally gives in. Jesse lets Mickey have his wrist; lets him drink as much as he wants as Jesse himself no doubt bruises his shins as he collapses onto the stairs beside Mickey. His forehead rests against the mahogany wood and he revels in the feeling. Poor Mickey hadn't even been warned that he'd have to be fed Jesse's blood each night for a week. That if Bastion and Cosette and Rhett were anything to go buy, each turning is going to be as difficult as the last. It's going to take a while. And Mickey's going to feel like hell warmed up. And he'll come through it if he's strong enough. Jesse, the asshole, hadn't thought to warn the poor guy. But for now?


<Jesse Fforde> For now he takes a deep breath in and holds it. This is what the fuss is all about. That forging of a bond, no matter how week. And there it goes! Boom! Like a puzzle piece falling into place, a bridge connecting the two men. And Jesse laughs.


<Mickey Macintyre> Beside him, Jesse collapsed onto his knees. The sound was far away. Mickey was focused on the bitter taste of copper on his tongue. It didn't taste good; but he'd had enough blood in his mouth before to swallow it down. So he did. Mick swallowed and swallowed, mouth latched onto that open wound, and he felt something stir, something he couldn't explain. A change in heart rate, in taste, as copper tasted better. Confusion flickered across his face and Mickey pulled back, mouth smeared red. He licked the wound, and it didn't taste so damn bitter, anymore. When he pulled away, something flipped. Skin got pale, looked like he was going to be sick.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse had laughed, and his fingers had curled into a fist. It's all so wrong, so rushed, but he can feel that void filling up. That new seering bond helps to soothe a wound that might never actually heal, but which could be tended to, every now and again. A wound he would discuss with no one but Grey; no one will ever be aware of that singular weakness. When the pull stops, Jesse groans. But it has to stop, sooner or later. And he can enjoy it all over again the next night. He pushes himself up and sighs. That fear will no doubt have completely fled Mickey's system. Jesse stands and holds out a hand to help Mickey up. "You'll feel better in a week. Sorry I didn't warn you. You'll need a bunk," he says.


<Mickey Macintyre> There was a bond there that wasn't before, something in Mick's gut that twisted a lot like a knife trying to gut him. Twisted up in him, wiggled there, and he felt like he was gonna hurl. Jesse was saying something, trying to help him week, talking about a week and a bunk but Mickey's heart just hammered, too slow and hard, like it was running through molasses. He grabbed a trashcan and emptied out his stomach and it smelled like blood and bile and burgers, and his head swam, skin hot with fever. "The **** is happenin'?" he asked, trembling, as another wracking roll of his stomach made him bend over again.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse arches a brow. Yeah, this is expected. "You know what's happening, Mick. I turned you into a vampire. The family likes you, see? You passed the test," he says with a sin-eating grin. "Physically? I suspect your body is now rejecting all the stuff it doesn't want. Any food you ate earlier, that kind of thing. It just needs blood from now on," he says. He pats Mickey's shoulder consolingly--kind of--as he waits for the heaving to stop. Better for Mickey to throw up the contents of his humanity into a trashcan rather than all over the floor and/or bedding.


<Mickey Macintyre> Your body just needs blood, from now on. Mick thought he was going to be sick again -- was, a goddamn second later, hurling back into the trashcan. He struggled to his feet, making his own damn way, but felt weak, ill. His skin was pale, except for his cheeks, which held a high flush. "Jesus H. Christ, I feel like I'm dyin'. Is that what fuckin' happens? Am I goddamn dyin', Jesse?"


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse follows along behind Mickey, having grabbed the trashcan--an acrid stench wafting up from within it--just in case Mickey felt like he was going to hurl again. His lips are still stained with Mickey's blood, which he wipes away with the back of his hand. He swallows, still tasting the thick cruor upon his tongue. He wants more, of course. Having given away what he needed to in order to make this turning happen, he needs more. But he pushes the need aside and focuses. "In a way. The way I see it? Your human body is dying as the vampiric blood takes hold. You're ... being reborn," Jesse says. Yeah, he likes that.


<Mickey Macintyre> Reborn. It sounded like horseshit, but Mick sure as hell felt like he was dying. His body was covered in tremors he couldn't quite suppress, skin felt hot and the air too cold. Reborn. He grit his teeth, wanted to bash Jesse's head against a wall. Wanted to crack that ******* skull right open. The Chicagoan grit his teeth, grabbed the trashcan, leaned heavy against the wall. "**** you. What were ya sayin' 'bout a week?"


<Jesse Fforde> "The last three people I've turned, they've been sick for about a week. Maybe seven days, exactly. Some kind of magical hoodoo as a punishment for me siring too many or some ****, I don't know," Jesse says. That's the conclusion he had come to, anyway. As if vampires only had a certain amount of magic they could pass on and once they reached their limit, it became harder from there on out. New vampires had to prove their worth, maybe. "Sorry, man. You're gonna feel like you've got some mish-mash of killer flu and stomach bug for the next week. I gotta give you your medicine every night. Play nurse," he says, grinning again like the cat that got all the milk.


<Mickey Macintyre> Killer flu and stomach bug? It felt worse than that already. Mick felt like the walking dead, and this *********** was saying it was only gonna get worse. Mickey leaned his head back against the wall and exhaled, slow, cringed when it only made him queasy again. "Ya better be playin' nurse in a whole goddamn nurse getup after puttin' me through dis ********, man."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse actually stops and thinks about it for a second. It could be kind of amusing - though of course, the first thing he wonders is what would Grey think? But then, his stomach turns and the thought is banished. "I can dress in a pair of scrubs. Easy," Jesse says. He can swing by the hospital and nick some. Practice his thieving skills. Men are nurses, too. Mickey seems determined to make his own way, so Jesse just stands back. Not going anywhere, of course. "Or maybe I should get a stethoscope and a white coat. Play Doctor instead..."


<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse seemed to actually stop and thinking about it, and Mick almost barked a laugh, if he didn't feel so goddamn sick. "Nurse, doctor, whateva," he said, and held a hand to his stomach. His throat ached from Jesse's bite, and his other hand slid up, to touch the tender wound. It came back with specks of blood mottling his fingers. "I wasn't talkin' 'bout scrubs, but alright."

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Grey> Grey managed the stairs without much difficulty. She wore flip flops and jeans so long that the hem had worn away. They were new jeans just that morning. Well, their vampire 'morning' that was. She dressed on top with a long sleeve t-shirt that had those fancy thumb slits in the cuffs and a cotton jacket that was a zip up of some favored well washed band mostly worn away from Jesse's closet. There was a lick of her lower lip, a face pale without too much of her typical rosy glow. She heard talk of nurse and doctor play and she couldn't help but adjust that ugly, olive green bag that crossed over her body. Remaining quiet, she looked from Jesse to the stranger in the basement. "Jesse." She said her lover's name, looking at him in a way of pure curiosity in acknowledgement of the stranger.


<Jesse Fforde> Mickey isn't a stranger, really. It doesn't cross Jesse's mind that Grey hasn't met the guy. Or has she? Surely... she was there that time... but was she? Or did they just miss each other? Doesn't matter. It doesn't cross Jesse's mind that Grey doesn't know who the guy is. He'd have told her all about Mickey, regardless. Jesse turns at the sound of his fiance's voice and he blinks. "Dove," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets as if he's not going anything. There's nothing going on. Nothing at all.


<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse looked all sketch when his girl came in, and Mickey almost snorted. He felt ******* sick, anyway, and wanted to sleep for about a hundred years and he damn well couldn't drag his *** back to his apartment. "So," he said, gaze swinging onto Jesse like a pickaxe aimed for the back of the head, "Where'm I stayin' tonight?"


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse grins sheepishly at Grey before turning back to Mickey. "Here, obviously. Plenty of bunks for you to choose from. And you don't have to worry about anyone biting you in the middle of the night," Jesse says, gesturing to the many free bunks available. It's where Cosette and Bastion had stayed during their turning. Why not Mickey, too? "There's probably some spare clothes of mine you can have in the drawers just there," he says, pointing. "And there's the shower over there, if you feel in need of one, ever," he says. Though, looking at Mickey now it seems as if he's about to just collapse into bed and couldn't give a sweet **** about clothes or cleanliness.


<Grey> "What are you up to now?" She asked Jesse quietly. She moved closer to him and away from the stairs. She had been out walking the city for hours and collecting various items. She'd of rather fought gangsters, but knew better than to attempt to gain any of the city employees and their wayward attentions. So, she looked over to the green man and then back to her lover. No, she didn't really recognize him that well. She should of, but Grey was an antisocial woman. So, she bit her lower lip and wandered closer to the two. "Hello." She said to Mickey. She kept it simple.

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--



<Mickey Macintyre> Mickey didn't wanna talk to this woman. For someone who actually liked people, he wanted to ******* be alone, right now, and puke up his guts, and maybe dream about busting open Jesse's brains against the cement. "Hey," he said, but his mouth was all twisted up like barbed wire, and he glanced at the bunks Jesse gestured to. He held the trashcan tight in his grip, white knuckled. "Dis gonna keep gettin' worse, every night?" he finally asked, gaze falling on Jesse once more.


<Jesse Fforde> "I'm ahh, stuff," Jesse says, turning back to Mickey. It doesn't cross his mind to introduce the two because he assumes they already know each other. He doesn't actually realise that they haven't. "I'm afraid so," Jesse says. "Just for a week, though. And I ah..." he glances sideways at Grey, before he clears his throat, straightens his shoulders and continues. "Give you more blood each night, to help you along," he says, slowly.


<Grey> Those fly away hairs ran down over her cheeks and caressed her pale flesh. She let her pale blue eyes rush over Mickey and his kill state. Her brows pinched together. Her jaw clenched a little more. Of course, her fingers were already tightly wrapped around the strap of that crossover purse and her knuckles seemed to blanch even more. She was of course... concerned. He's sired again. But, she doesn't say anything. She actually steps back for a moment, half afraid that she's interrupted a moment between the two men that she shouldn't of. She knows that a connection between the Sire and one's procreate can be fragile at first. And, given that Mickey was obviously ill, had Grey not quite knowing if she should offer any assistance or run the other way. Because, Grey knew what it was like to feel ill and still having to function. "Ah... Can I do anything for either of you?" No work boots that night. No... She wasn't ready to get back under any hoods just yet.


<Mickey Macintyre> A week of this hell, only getting worse each day. Mickey felt pale, and flushed, hot and cold, dizzy. He moved, slow, over to one of the bunks closest to the ground, sat heavy on it. Any clothing he had on, boots and pockets full of stolen items, they'd all have to stay; he didn't have the energy to change or do anything other than fall into feverish sleep. "I don' need nuthin' but sleep," he said, dragging the trashcan over to the side of the bed, sure he'd be puking his goddamn guts out in half an hour.


<Jesse Fforde> If Jesse had been worried about being interrupted, he'd not have instigated this turning in the basement of Larch Court 12. Maybe he'd have taken the guy to the sewer dwelling, where he kept all the plants. Maybe he'd have taken him upstairs, where the family don't tread as often. But, obviously, Jesse hadn't been too concerned about interruption. Although he doesn't share absolutely everything with the family, he does share most things. And this is one of them. Jesse shakes his head. He might have said she could play nurse but he could see Grey undressing MIckey and making him get clean and Jesse doesn't really want her undressing another man. He leans over and grabs Grey before she can get very far, to press a kiss to her temple before letting her go again. "I don't think there's much more any of us can do tonight, but wait it out," he says with a shrug.

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Grey> Grey was fortunate to not suffer through a week of torture to become a creature of the night. She sucked in a deep breath, her chest twisting for Mickey's current state. That... And the smell of his upset stomach turned her own and she tried to swallow down the sour bile of her own. She was hungry when she came down into the basement. She had come here because Jesse hadn't been at their own apartment and... Well, that didn't matter now. She swallowed deeply. Again. As if she were trying to quell the churning within her own abdomen. "If you do need anything... Just let me know." Grey would try to help any way she could if it was within her ability. Receiving the kiss from Jesse, Grey just nodded slowly. She gave a vague, empty smile up to Jesse because she knew she wouldn't do anything to strain the situation at hand.


<Mickey Macintyre> They talked, and Mickey couldn't listen. Everything lurched, spun, dizzy, and his heart thundered in his chest, loud, so loud he knew everyone could hear it, down the ******* street, like some Indian war drum. His face burned, his arms shivered. Mickey decided to just ignore the two, laying down on the bunk, back to them. He didn't care what they had to say, especially ******* Jesse, who confused Mick because something in his gut was tugging differently, somehow, but he still felt an anger that burned. "'m fine. Christ, I just need sleep."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse knows that smile from Grey is empty, and he can see something else there, churning behind her eyes. Yeah, yeah. He gets it. He wants to roll his eyes and rant and rave, his anger a defense mechanism. But he doesn't. He just approaches that bed that Mickey has selected and tugs at the blankets until they're up and over the guy. Jesse clears his throat again. "We'll be in the next room," he says. That's the usual habit, anyway, when Jesse sires these days. He doesn't move too far out of the new progeny's radius.


<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse and Jesse's girl moved away, and Mickey grunted when a blanket covered him. For the crazy ******, it was an oddly sweet gesture, but Mickey didn't show any more of his appreciation. He was still pissed as all hell, after all, because he felt like he was literally dying (he was) and about to puke (he was close), all because this dude had some innate desire to ruin his life. Mick dragged the sheets up to his face, heard the other mumble and move away, and within minutes, he'd fallen into a fitful sleep.

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Jesse Fforde> The timing could have been better, Jesse ponders. Except, when he'd decided to change Mickey's like for the better (in his opinion) he hadn't known that Kaelyn had been sent to the Shadow Realm. If he had known, he'd have put off MIckey's rebirth another week and thus wouldn't be so ******* exhausted. The message had come through not long after Jesse and Grey had left Mickey. Jesse had slipped into the Shadow Realm to help Kaelyn and stayed there throughout the day; he'd come back to grab a couple of hours shut-eye, only to wake up and be fed the equivalent of a teenager by Grey. Which was nice. Now he's here, sauntering into the room in search of Mickey - to check in and check up. To feed him some more blood. To hang.

<Mickey Macintyre> Mick was goddamn sick. So fuckin' sick. The entire night before, he'd thrown up, shivering, emptying out the contents of his stomach, blood and bile, and nothing else. His throat burned from it. Mostly, he tried to sleep. His skin was hot, fever-sick, sweat on his brow. Was it always this bad? Did it ever get better? Jesse had said he had to wait a goddamn week, a whole fuckin' week, before it was all over. Behind him, he heard a door open, and his ears felt too-sensitive. Mickey didn't turn around to look at Jesse, stayed under the sheets that he had pulled around him. He'd only gotten up to go to the bathroom and shower, once.

<Jesse Fforde> The room smells like bile, too. At least, to a vampire's sensitive nose it does. But that's to be expected, and probably won't last long. Mickey'll empty his body of all vestiges of human life, and then that'll be done with. Unless he tries to eat human food, and then it'll just happen all over again. Jesse moves over to the chair that he's constantly dragging around to sit by people's beds. Which he does so now, dropping heavily into it with a sigh, careful not to upend the bucket with the bile in it. He could go to sleep, right there beside Mickey, but he doesn't. Nor does he ask how the guy is - because that would just be asking for a smart-*** response. "Time for your medicine, Mickey," he says.

<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse sat beside him, talked about medicine. Medicine. Make it stop. For ****'s sake, make it stop. It was only then that Mickey sat up, head swimming, hands flat on the cot. He was pale as death, except for his cheeks, a flush high on them, dark. Medicine. "Yea," he said, mumbled around a thick tongue. His mouth was dry as a goddamn desert, and he rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Hurry. Fuckin' make it stop. Jesus H. Christ. I fink I hate ya, Jesse."

<Jesse Fforde> "I'm sure you do, Mickey. At this point in time. Totally understand," Jesse says. Maybe it won't be just for now. Maybe it will last longer than that. Maybe not. Maybe he'll get over it. Jesse pulls the chair that tiny bit closer, now eye to eye with Mickey. He brings his own wrist up to his mouth for the second time in two nights and creates a weeping gash, which he offers to Mickey. "Medicine. Take it or leave it."

<Mickey Macintyre> Blood. The smell of it filled his nostrils, sweet and bitter and like old pennies. The bloody wrist was lifted up, and something curled in Mick's gut, disgust and something that felt a lot like hunger. His medicine. The only thing in the world that would made him feel better. Greedy, disgusted with himself, Mickey grabbed Jesse's wrist and brought it to his mouth. The red painted his lips and his jaw hinged open, closing around the wound. He swallowed, messy.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse doesn't worry about the mess. He doesn't care about it. There's a low rumble in Jesse's throat that isn't a growl or a moan or a groan, just an unbidden reaction to that thing that he likes best. The strengthening of that bond with each swallow that Mickey takes. All that blood Jesse had consumed earlier to give himself the strength to just get out of bed is now being fed to Mickey. Happily. Willingly. Near blissfully. His head falls forward on his arm and he just sighs, and lets Mickey take what he needs.

<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse gave it up, nice, easy, didn't fight. Mickey would have to get used to the fight, eventually, but for now he was weak, his fingers barely able to grasp around that wrist, barely able to seal his lips to the wound. He didn't dig his teeth into the skin, like his gut told him to. The punk just opened up, swallowed and swallowed, coated his throat with it, the thing that would fix him, would make him better. Give him back the strength Jesse had fuckin' ripped away so cruelly. Mick hated himself for how good it tasted, how much his body longed for it, already. Needed it. A disease winding black and angry through his veins.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse isn't thinking of much else while MIckey continues to take his blood. With his eyes closed he can still sort of see the shadowed corners and crumbling buildings of the Shadow Realm. But with each mouthful of blood that leaves his body, those images disperse. The stronger that bond becomes, the less Jesse's desire to go back to the Shadow Realm exists. There's more reason to remain in the land of the living. Because, regardless of what anyone else might think, this IS living, being a vampire. They are not dead. They are all more alive than they have ever been before.

<Mickey Macintyre> Mickey felt more alive than he ever had been before. And wasn't that some ****, that it was only when his organs were turning on him, his heart slowing, his stomach writhing with hunger, that he felt goddamn alive? Was this what he'd been chasin', all that time? Duckin' away from cop cars, trying to find purpose in the body of another? Had he just been missin' this? Jesse gave his veins up and Mickey swallowed and swallowed, couldn't resist the goddamn urge to bite down, just a little, testing, like a teething baby, freshly sharpened teeth bringing more red to the surface when he did.

<Mickey Macintyre> And he fed, like he ain't never tasted anything so fine before. Mick goddamn feasted, felt like he'd never had a hunger so vicious, like he'd never found a cure so pure. Jesse had called it medicine. Mickey Macintyre was starting to believe him.

<Jesse Fforde> It lasts longer than it had the night before. Where Mickey had only taken a little before collapsing into sleep, tonight he takes a lot. Jesse lifts his head, eyes bright as he watches. He doesn't even flinch when Mickey bites down and savages the wound a little. His eyes might narrow a little, but that is the only indication given that he had even felt it. All the blood that he had consumed only the hour before is being swiftly taken from him. Although the pallor of his skin is usually a deathly pale, it gets worse. It turns grey, the ink beginning to stand out as if it were painted on paper. Stark and bright. Those bags reappear under Jesse's eyes, and all he can think is that Grey won't be happy. He knows she worries. But he's fine. Perfectly fine. This is nothing that can't be fixed - he even does so, now. Boosts his own blood, giving Mickey a fresh batch to take. He doesn't pull away. He refuses to.

<Mickey Macintyre> And just like a mama takin' care of her young, Jesse fuckin' Fforde provided. Didn't pull away, even when Mick bit down. Didn't even grimace. Just let his lifeblood be sapped from him like a tree. This was what Mickey had needed all along. All that other ****? Drugs? He didn't need 'em. Whiskey? **** it. Sex? It all boiled down to this, warm in his throat and filling. When Jesse pumped a fresh batch from his heart, Mickey groaned, like a starving man whose first bite to eat in months had been a medium-rare ribeye. Almost too good. It almost made him sick, and after a while, he couldn't take any more, his body trying to reject it again, too much, too soon, too rich. The Chicago punk pulled his mouth away, rubbed a hand over it. It came back red, and his guts felt conflicted, disgusted and starved. Hunger, animalistic in its simplicity, eventually won out. Refusing to look at his maker, focusing on keeping the roiling of his stomach at bay, Mickey licked Jesse's blood off the back of his hand.

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse had come straight from his and Grey's apartment; he'd tomed into the house and landed by the ritual altar. He'd had no need to change, to do much of anything. He hadn't wanted to use the shower at the apartment, for reasons. Larch Court had a perfectly functioning shower, which he had yet to use. And would he even bother? This body would be disappearing soon, before he went back to the Realm. So he wears only a pair of trackpants and nothing else. It's Jesse's usual attire, when kicking around the house. Maybe a tank, if he feels like it. So when Mickey releases his hand, he pulls it back only to press the wound against his thigh, the dark grey of the material soaking up what's left before the wound heals itself. "Better?" he asks, his voice rasping in his throat.

<Mickey Macintyre> Better, that fuckin' ******** rasped, and Mickey would have laughed, but his stomach lurched with how full it was. Full of blood. Jesse's blood, and nothing else. He'd emptied out everything else hours before, knew better than to try and stuff down any real food. Mickey had a flush to his cheeks, not from the fever, which had broken, but would come back in a few hours as the cycle repeatedly, viciously, all over again. His bottom lip, beard, was wet with red and he swiped his tongue against it, rubbed his mouth again. "For now," he managed, and his breath was shallow, body dying bit by bit, preparing for its rebirth at the end of the week. His humanity seeping out of him with every shuddering night. Red seeped into Jesse's pants and Mickey's eyes fell to it, stared, before he ripped his gaze away. Anywhere else. The wall. The trashcan. The bunk. "How much longer this go on, again?"

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse sighs. He lifts his wrist from his pants and peers at the wound. It has stopped bleeding, and in the grand scheme of things is only a surface wound. A small one. Already the edges have begun to pucker. Even the ink--the greyscale skulls--stitches itself back together perfectly. Jesse sometimes likes to stare at his wounds as they heal. It's kind of fascinating. But Mickey had asked a question, and though it takes a few long seconds for Jesse's distracted mind to catch up, he does finally look up, and think about it. "Usually about a week, I've noticed," he says. "Tonight is the second night. I'll come to you every night for seven. But usually by the seventh, you'll be right as rain, and it won't be my blood you crave," he says. He is wary, sometimes, of overfeeding, and whether it'll have any adverse effects. But none have surfaced thus far. Mickey is at least lucky, in the fact that he isn't the Guinea pig.

<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse watched as his wound healed, and Mickey did, too. A sort of sick fascination grabbed his attention as he watched as it stitched itself up, as if it had never been there. So quickly. Every night for a week. Five more nights of this, worse every night, until it wasn't, anymore. It had felt like the last night would kill him, feverish and starving for something he'd never find, a thirst no water could quench. When Jesse had come, at first, he thought it was a fever dream, some sick hallucination, but the man had been real, and his blood had been thick. Again, that strange tugging in his head, like a bond he didn't want forming, soldified as he looked at the other. It made his stomach turn, and he cripped onto the cot, white knuckled, as it passed. Already, it felt like the so-called medicine was running its course. And he had to wait another day for his third dosage. Mickey set his jaw, could still taste copper on his tongue. "Is this th' option ya always give 'em? Die, or be like you?"

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse thinks about it. His mind trips over all those he'd sired thus far. Felicity hadn't had a choice. Axel hadn't had a choice. Ishaq... Clover, Aria... he stops there. He nods and gives a slight shrug of his shoulders. "Pretty much," he says. Although he doesn't take his eyes from Mickey, it's clear that there's more, hidden beneath the surface. An explanation that Jesse isn't all too willing to give. It doesn't matter much to him. Having reverted, somehow--having returned in some small way to the man he had always been--he doesn't care if people think he's a ******* asshole. He is an asshole. He always has been. "Mostly I have faith that you all will like it too much, in the end, to complain about how it happened," he says.

<Mickey Macintyre> Die or die, in another way. It was fuckin' cruel. Who did this guy think he was? God? Mickey wasn't sure he believed in God, despite being brought up Catholic. He mostly went to church to steal from the collection plate. "What if I don't like it?" he asked, and so far, he didn't like it. He didn't like feeling sick, like feeling like he was addicted to something on the second taste, needed it. He felt his blood in his veins, and Jesse's blood in them, too, thicker than his, stronger. Heavier. He scrubbed both hands over his face. "What if I don't like it at all?"

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse smirks. Yeah, it's cruel, in a way. Maybe Mickey will continue to think Jesse's cruel, though Jesse will offer the guy a roof over his head and safety. He starts by giving his blood, Jesse does, and then he continues by giving everything else, too. All that he can. On some level he is aware that forcing people into this life isn't exactly kosher and isn't exactly going to earn him any brownie points. But nor is he going to admit that he can't help himself. It's an addiction that he can't shake. One day he might drive himself into the ground with it, but until then he'll probably just keep going. Especially when no one seems to give a **** anymore about how many he's sired within so short a time. "Then you'll regret ever trying to steal from me. You'll probably go on loathing me," he shrugs. "But you'll just have to forge on through."

<Mickey Macintyre> Mick had seen some of it, already. Jesse hadn't, after all, abused his thrall in the way that he could have, easily. Could have asked Mickey to lick clean every pair of shoes, to bring a gun to his sister's head and shoot. His own head. But he hadn't. He hadn't done anything, really, other than force Mickey to keep his big mouth shut about vampires, and to work at Gresse's. He even fuckin' paid him, which was more than Mickey Macintyre deserved. But it was hard not to hate him, now, when the sickness was creeping up on him again, making him paler, cooling his skin, flushing his forehead, cheeks. "Yeah," he said, and held a hand to his mouth, swallowed down his sick. "Guess I gotta, now. Ya fuckin' ********."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse stands. He claps a hand to Mickey's shoulder. Over the next week he will explain more to Mickey. He'll open up some more, maybe. If Mickey is lucky. Tonight, he's tired. He's exhausted. And being called a ******** isn't the barb that Mickey might wish it to be. "Yeah, you gotta," he says. He doesn't tell Mickey that most people die. That Jesse does go out and he does feed and he breaks their necks and burns their bodies to a crisp. He sires on a whim, yes, but only if he sees something in that person that he thinks is worthwhile. In Mickey's case, he'd seemed like a good addition to the family. The others had liked him. Maybe he'd be good for them. "I gotta go die, now," he says, and stretches. "I'll be back tomorrow night. Make yourself at home," he says, though he doesn't really need to. Mickey had been allowed to make himself at home for ... however long he's been a thrall. Not that he'd have been comfortable, with all the vampires around who'd have fed from him.

<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse stood, and Mickey didn't. He said something about dying, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He grunted, feeling that sickness roll over him like a wave again. "See ya," he muttered, with none of the venom he wished he'd had, and rolled back onto the cot, his back facing the exit.

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--

<Mickey Macintyre> Mickey Macintyre was a man haunted by nightmares. He always had been, but now, especially now, they plagued him. It was day three, or he thought it was, and he woke up every night, flushed and sweating, breathing catching in his throat as his body tried to shut down the need for it, shut down his bodily functions. He was dying. Slow. He was fuckin' dying and it was all Jesse Fforde's fault. This night was like the others, and in his dream, he saw his pa's face. White-skinned and pissed as a rabid dog above his, grinning like a skull. Mickey lurched from the cot, drenched in sweat, his body cool save for his face, his chest, which burned like a goddamn brand.

The Chicagoan felt hunger biting at his guts, starving, rows of teeth gnawing in thirst, and he reached for the trashcan and emptied out the contents of his stomach. Shivers wracked his spine and he sat up, head between his knees, trembling, useless, ******* useless, before he grabbed his cell phone. God, he hated himself. He fuckin' hated himself for this, actin' like a needy, abandoned child, wonderin' where mama's breast was. With shaky fingers, he tapped out a message to Jesse. where are you.


<Jesse Fforde> It had been a few nights. Jesse tried to make Mickey his first priority every night, but sometimes it didn't quite work out that way. Tonight, he'd had to rush off to Gresse's due to a few messages on his phone from the new day staff; the first time Jesse regretted pulling Mickey away. The problems he'd been called to deal with weren't even problems. They were easily fixable. ******** that Jesse is sure Mickey wouldn't have bothered him with. The new thrall, Nancy, just isn't entirely up to scratch. Jesse'd hung around Gresse's just to make sure everything else was in order, which is where he is when he feels the phone buzzing in his pocket. He swears silently, before he tomes back to Larch Court; within the space of a single minute, he's striding into the room looking for Mickey. He's there, curled around the trashcan as if he's deendent on the thing for his life. Without a word, Jesse drops to the floor beside Mickey. He crosses his legs and pulls up the sleeve of his shirt. He brings his wrist to his mouth and tears a wide gash. Of course this is what Mickey needs. Why else would he have texted? Maybe he had texted about something else, but this is something Mickey needs regardless. Jesse holds his arm out for his newest creation-in-the-making.


<Mickey Macintyre> Mickey's sense of time was skewed, sideways, like a Dali painting. Melting clock. When Jesse wasn't there, time blurred, a furious mix of fever, sleep, and hunger. The hunger clawed at him like he'd never felt before, even as a poor street rat in the streets of south Chicago. Nothing like this. Not never. Mick had never fuckin' felt a pain like the pain he felt now, mouth swollen with fangs that shouldn't be there, teething like a baby, aching everywhere. He texted Jesse and fully expected to have to ride out the pain on his own, hands fisted against his mouth to keep from crying out or gnawing on his own arm just to taste blood.

But a few seconds later, there he was, striding through the door, and Mickey, poor fuckin' Mickey, had never been happier to see that terse face. The smell of blood, strong, iron, bitter, filled Mickey's lungs when Jesse ripped open his wrist, held it out. Without saying a word, the dying man gripped onto his sire's wrist, dragged it to his mouth, fingers digging into skin hard enough that it would leave bruises on any other person. Mickey swallowed, and his hunger roared like a goddamn cornered lion. He gulped, messy, more eager than previous nights, knowing, fully well by now, that Jesse hadn't been joking about his medicine. This was what he needed. This was the only thing in the whole goddamn world he wanted. Mick drank, shut his eyes, felt his thirst sated, drop by drop.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse would never know what that felt like, to feel his thirst sated. He knew what it was like, to feel it roaring like a cornered lion. Every single goddamned night of his life he has to deal with that ****, try to ignore it, try to gain a mindful upper hand, somehow. It never really worked. Jesse blamed his bad temper on his thirst. He never used to snap as much as he does now; but what the **** ever. Maybe people listen more now than they ever had before. Though, that was a laugh. Of course they didn't listen when he couldn't talk. Not that he'd ever tried giving orders. It didn't matter. He watches Mickey take his wrist in a frenzy, and Jesse swallows, too. He swallows air. With every drop Mickey takes, Jesse's own thirst intensifies. But that's okay. That's okay, becuase there's a more important addiction being sated. And there's not long, now. Not long until Mickey is whole and well again. Better than he's ever been. Surely. How much longer? Two nights? Maybe three. Doesn't matter. The halfway point has been met and hurdled over, and they are now on the downward slope. Jesse releases a breath and clenches his teeth. Like always, he won't pull away. His fingers curl into a fist, and he waits it out. He lets Mickey take all that he needs.


<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse didn't pull away, and Mickey thought, deliriously, that he could kill this man. That the wrist wasn't good enough, the vein too small, the flow too slow. Mickey wanted to crack open Jesse Fforde's throat and feast. Wanted to bite into the fount of that life, his heart. The thought terrified him, but he didn't stop his feeding. For perhaps the first time since this nightmare started, the medicine did its damn job. Every swallow made Mickey feel stronger, beat back his gnawing, hysterical thirst. Jesse fisted his fingers, and it made blood surge onto Mick's tongue, and he dug his fingers into inked skin, again.

It soothed; soothed the feeling of fire ants crawling in his skull, begging for this. Soothed the sickness in his stomach that wanted him to live, somehow, goddamnit. Mick's eyes were screwed shut and he bit down, an inch away from Jesse's own wound. Trying to make his own. Trying to leave his mark. Trying, fuckin' trying, to take it all. His body hadn't learned yet, how much it needed, what was too much, what was too little. There were no green or yellow stop lights to warn him, in his head. Mickey only saw blood red.


<Jesse Fforde> By this time, one would hope, Mickey should have sharper teeth. Baby teeth. The kind to help slice through skin like a hot knife through butter to get at the lifeblood beneath. Jesse can't tell, even while watching; the bite does catch him off guard, a sluice of sharp pain that wings its way up his arm. He laughs. A low sound in the base of his throat, bubbling there as Mickey continues to take. It gives Jesse the notion that the next night, he would let Mickey make his own wound. He would stand at a distance and tell Mickey to pretend Jesse is human, and to go with his gut. To do what his instinct told him to. Yes, that would work. That would be better. Too late, tonight. If Jesse had a heart it would be beating a staccato rhythm to keep up with the loss of blood, to pump more of it, but lacking. But Jesse has no heart. But, when he uses that power to boost his own blood--again--it seems to burst from that part of his body like a ripe grape being stood on. Fresh juice replenishes his veins and he narrows his eyes at the rivulets of red that escape from his wrist and drip to the floor. He doesn't know why he enjoys it so much. But he does. He should be anxious and his body should be telling him to pull away, but it doesn't. Instead, he feels like he is flying.


<Mickey Macintyre> If Jesse didn't have a heart, Mick didn't know it by the way his body worked like it did, pumping blood at the mere call of its master, straight into Mickey's open mouth. He groaned, and he didn't mean to, but he couldn't help it, goddamn, he couldn't help it because he was seeing, now, what Jesse had meant. You'll like it. How could he not? This was better than any fuckin' drug on the market. This was an addiction forming fast and hard and it gripped Mick by the shoulders and shook and shook and shook. And Jesse gave and gave and gave, and how could Mickey Macintyre hate the man who gave like that?

Who opened up his wrist and told Mickey to take? Who let him? Who shared this drug, stronger than smack, more controlling than cocaine? Mickey took until he couldn't anymore, and his jaw hurt, teeth sharper than they should be, his bites more jagged than they should be, a puppy with its first bone. But despite feeling the pressure of that much satiety poundin' like fists against his skull, he couldn't waste. Brought up poor, even when rich, you eat like a poor man. Mick dragged his tongue against the wound as it started to close, cleaning the mess he'd made and any that followed, his crushing grip finally loosening.


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse remains sitting there even after his arm is let go. His legs crossed but not quite; just crooked and at odd angles. A strict schoolmaster might whip Jesse's shoulders to get him to sit up straight, but his posture had never been something to crow about. Always sprawled or slouching unless hunting, Jesse's current position probably doesn't scream intimidation. To the other man, the Necromancer probably looks tired. ******* exhausted, really. But with that light gleam to his eye and that hint of a smile on his lips, it's clear he doesn't think his exhaustion is anything to worry about. And it's not that he's exhausted, really. That's partly the case. But he sits like he does now with his crooked legs and his slouched shoulders because he's still revelling in the high. Imagining his own blood pumping through the body of the other is a miraculous thing. To think that his blood is the live-giver; that it has the magic within it to do great things. Perhaps it's got something to do with Jesse's ego, always at its height after turning someone. Specifically in the midst of it. Mickey cleans up the best he can, but Jesse points to the guys beard--just a little to the left of the corner of his lip. "You missed a bit," he says, voice like sandpaper, his wrist resting, upturned, on his knee.


<Mickey Macintyre> When Mickey leaned back, his entire world spun. He felt high. Mickey Macintyre had been fuckin' high before, but it wasn't nothing on this. This. Jesse's blood was hot in his veins and Mickey felt alive. **** what he'd said before. He felt like he was living for the first time, despite knowing that he'd be sick again, that night. But maybe he'd be stronger. Maybe whatever Jesse had done would soon give him the strength to fight it. He had to press his fists into the cot, to keep from swaying, or lunging, again.

All of him felt hot, and Mick realized he was hard, and **** that, because it didn't matter if Jesse was good lookin'. He was straight as a goddamn arrow, and was killin' Mick, one day at a time. But he couldn't hate the man for it. Try as he fuckin' might, he couldn't. So he didn't, gave up on that hot bead of hate, tiny, let it go. Jesse spoke and it took Mickey a few seconds to realize. Pointed to his mouth. Mickey licked his bottom lip, tasted blood that he'd missed. ****. It was a goddamn high, and Mickey Macintyre was soarin'. "Don't take dis a weird way, but you taste fuckin' stupid good."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse smirks. No, he wouldn't take it the wrong way. Jesse has an ego that loves to be fed and it doesn't matter who by. There are plenty of suggestive things that he could have said, each one curling at the back of his tongue only to fall away, unsaid. Coming from over a decade of not saying anything at all, sometimes it can take Jesse a while to actually decide on the words. Sometimes he chose not to speak at all. In the end, in this particular situation, he chooses not to tease Mickey with sexual innuendoes, the ones that Jesse likes best. Instead, he remembers where he is and who he is with, and what they are in the middle of trying to achieve. And that there are things that Mickey needs to know. Things that he needs to learn. Although he had laughed, although he is still grinning, what he eventually says is serious. A real-world application. "Don't get too used to it. Once you're no longer sick I'm cutting you off. Unless you want to become a necurat who can only ingest the blood of vampires, and that's no fun unless you have a constant donor. People don't like Necurats much..." he says.


<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse laughed, and hesitated, before speaking. Even as he waited, Mickey's mind supplied all the innuendos left unsaid, and he grunted. Shut the hell up, Mick. The last thing you need is to be hitting on the dude who just ripped your life out of your hands. But then Jesse did speak, and Mickey listened, because his guts told him to. "Never again?" he asked, and then he laughed, and he rubbed his mouth. When he swallowed, Mickey could still taste blood. "That's a damn cryin' shame, Jesse."

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. "You haven't tasted all the different varieties of human blood out there, yet. Mine only tastes good because it's the only **** you've had," Jesse says. There's nothing Jesse likes better than wandering the streets with the sole purpose of finding someone whose blood he can steal and whose neck he can eventually snap. It's like a buffet out there. So much to choose from, when all one wants to do is eat everything. All of it. "No. Never again from me," he clarifies. There's only one person who he still allows his blood, and that's personal information that has no place here, with Mickey.


<Mickey Macintyre> Never again from Jesse. For the best, probably, especially if Mickey found himself aroused by it. No sense in makin' **** awkward with the guy he was apparently stuck with from now until... Well, whenever the **** he died, he guessed. If he even could die. "Alright, alright. Have it yer way," he said, and he didn't feel sick, yet, which was new. Before, the so-called medicine had only done him up for a little bit. Now, that high stretched long and didn't waver. Mick still didn't like the idea of offing people -- humans -- but now that he'd finally gotten a taste for his new fix, he thought, maybe, sacrifices could be made. Occasionally.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse finds himself staring. He does that often. Stares at other people as if trying to figure them out; to get past the thickness of the bones of their skulls and into their heads. Mickey seems better tonight than previous nights, which is a good thing. And Jesse has nowhere to be, so he stays where he is. Though, after his wrist has fully healed he does straighten a little. Crosses his legs properly and leans back against the bed post. There are other things that Jesse can tell Mickey. Teach him. But there's plenty of time for that. For now, the silence just stretches - because Jesse has never really thought that silence is awkward. Not in the least.

<Mickey Macintyre> A silence stretched between them. Jesse straightened up, leaned back, healed all over again. Mickey found himself watching that wrist, as it stitched itself up, smoothed the skin back over. He glanced down, at his own wrists, covered in ink. "Will mine do that, too?" he asked, genuinely curious about his body, the new things it could do. Tongue swiped over teeth, and yeah, that'd take some time to goddamn get used to.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse nods. When he blinks it's a slow blink, as if he could go to sleep right then and there. "Yeah. Depends on the depth of the wound, how bad it is. Some will take days to heal, some just a few hours. Scratches and bruises can take minutes. Seconds," he says. His voice still sounds as if it's being forced through a find cheese grater. He needs to get up soon, feed himself. Otherwise his lover won't be happy.

<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse spoke, and Mick whistled low. Fuckin' crazy, how that worked. The trade offs for needing to bite into the throats of unsuspecting people for the rest of eternity. But Mickey noticed how slow Jesse was being, tired. The urge to kill the man had subsided, strangely enough, and Mickey's skin was getting cool, losing the warmth of stolen blood. "Alright. Go on, yea? I'll be fine, mom. Go do whatever the **** ya do when ya ain't here."

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse arches a brow. "Are you kicking me out, Mickey Mack? You don't want me around anymore? I see how it is..." he says with a smirk. He'll go back to work, probably; that's where Grey is, isn't it? But he should go to work anyway. After he feeds, of course. Maybe he'll actually go out and find himself a hot bag of blood, a living one, instead of that stale **** from the fridge. "No more questions yet, man? I got plenty of answers but I'm just slow in giving them..."

<Mickey Macintyre> The nickname actually made Mickey laugh. "Shut up," he said. "Yer killin' me, or whatever this is. You don't get to use nicknames." The hatred he'd felt was dissapating, somehow, and it made him uncomfortable. Blame it on the drug, that blood, the way it wormed into his system. The thunk of a bond he had never asked for, or wanted. "Does this actually kill me? Or... will my heart work? My lungs? How's my liver gonna fair in all this?"

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse smirks. He'll use nicknames all he likes. And is it really a nickname or just a hacked shortening of the guy's name? Whatever the case, Jessejust shrugs nonchalantly, very clear that he's not taking that directive on board. "I don't know the biology of it. There are paths. Did I tell you about the paths already?" Jesse asks. He narrows his eyes, curiously. How can he not remember this?

<Mickey Macintyre> This was all mostly news to Mickey. He'd heard the term paths, mentioned by some of the other family members, but he'd been too weirded out by them all to ask. "I don't think so," he said, and scratched his jaw. "I don't really know much 'bout dis ****, 'cept for y'all --" He winced, corrected, "we -- drink blood. No sunlight. Humans can't know, blah blah."

<Jesse Fforde> "Humans can't know, yeah. That's the one you need to remember," Jesse says, that smile disappearing for the few seconds of seriousness. Though it does mainly stay gone as he goes into teacher mode; the things that Mickey needs to know. Or should know, to get by. "They call them paths. It depends on which abilities you end up with first. Powers, as you will," he says. "I don't know who came up with them but there is a pattern to the madness. Six paths: Necromancer, Shadow, Telepath, Killer, Mystic, Allurist. I am a Necromancer, obsessed with all things Death. No other path can eat or drink, but Allurists. Allurists can hoover that ****, after some practice, and can taste it too. But they can't get drunk. Though there are others who seem to have been able to learn how to eat and drink human food, but they can't taste anything. But can apparently get drunk," he says, thinking of a few that he knew. "So as far as your organs are concerned, I don't know. Mine I assume are all dead as a doornail," he says. "But I can still procreate. Go figure."


<Mickey Macintyre> Mickey's head spun with the new information. He had no idea which path he'd be on, how it would affect his life from here on out -- and the idea of his heart stopping, his lungs refusing to work, was terrifying. For now, he still had his pulse, but he'd felt it slowing, bit by bit, day by day, until finally it would creep to a stop, he assumed. "How do we fuckin'... walk around if nuthin' works? And how the **** can you make kids if you dead? Would they be half-vamp? Why can't we eat food?" His questions came too fast, and he got a headache, and he had to rub at his skull with inked fingers.


<Jesse Fforde> "Magic? I don't know, we just do," Jesse says. That's what he can put it down to. Maybe something to do with the Fae. He really has no idea how they all walk around with dead bodies but it works and, even better, they have extra abilities to go with it. "At least we're not rotting corpses, like the zombies," he says. He takes a breath he does not need and releases it, wondering whether he wants to broach the next topic. But he does. Because it is something else that Mickey needs to know. "They're not living kids. Ever seen a Fadebeast? Big hulking shadow monster. Yeah? That's what happens when vampires have kids. They rip out of their mother's stomaches like some **** out of Alien, kill them dead," Jesse says. He shudders. He hadn't let Grey get that far. "And maybe we just prefer blood? Our bodies reject food. Probably because they're mostly dead, aside from the rare few."


<Mickey Macintyre> Vampires. And now magic. What was left? Fairies? Santa Claus? Mickey grunted, pinched the bridge of his nose. For ****'s sake. God, are you listenin'? It's me. Micky Macintyre. Are you fuckin' high? "That's... a lotta **** to swallow," he said, honest, gruff. "'n' honestly all sounds like a load'a horse ****, but I guess you don't got a real reason to lie to me 'bout it."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse shakes his head. "That, and a whole lot more," he says, though at the moment he's finding it hard to think of things. He needs a notebook for this ****. A checklist of all the stuff he needs to tell his newborn. A lot of it doesn't apply until later, however, and even Mickey says it. It's a lot to swallow. There's no point inundating the guy and overwhelming him. Like a sponge, there's only so much he can absorb in one sitting, right? "A whole lot of good stuff, too. Don't you worry," he says.


<Mickey Macintyre> Mick was worryin', but there was nothing he could do about it just yet. "Yeah, alright," he said, and scrubbed at his cheek. "Guess it ain't like we don't have... for fuckin' ever to figure it out, huh?" That was a scary thought. Just the idea of it made Mickey's stomach churn, again, and he grimaced. Maybe the fever wouldn't be so bad, tonight. Maybe the thirst wouldn't claw at his throat. Maybe he'd ******* sleep without seeing his father's ghost glaring down at him. "I'll figure it out. Ain't as dumb as I look."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse shrugs. "I don't believe you're dumb at all, really, otherwise I don't think you'd be here," Jesse says. But then what all did he really know about Mickey Macintyre? Not much at all. He just liked to go on gut instinct with these things. Most of the time it worked out. Sometimes it didn't. He just has to roll with the punches - and the consequences of his own actions and addictions. Try to make it look like he meant it, every single step he took. "You'll figure it out but you also have plenty of people to help you along the way," he says. He can just imagine how excited Kaelyn'd be to help, if she could.


<Mickey Macintyre> No, Mickey wasn't dumb. He played the part. He did what he had to, and he'd never gone to college. It wasn't for lack of his teachers trying. They knew he had the grades, the brain behind the punkass mouth, but he'd had kids to feed, his siblings, because their father was a fuckin' no-good sack of **** who lived off disability and whiskey. So Mick worked. And he didn't go to college, and when he'd killed his father, he'd left the kids to his older sister. And now? Now he could never go back. ****. His stomach roiled again, for an entirely different reason. "Yeah," he said, distracted, looked at a wall. "Yeah, it'll be fine."


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse nods. There goes that silence again, spreading out between them. There's the hum of the refrigerator, the small one with the bags of blood kept inside. There's a larger one upstairs that has other supplies in it, for those who are able to consume them. There's the sound of a clock ticking, somewhere. But there's the sound of not much else. Maybe Mickey's slowly struggling heart. Jesse's staring again. He can tell there's something else going on in Mickey's mind, but he doesn't pry. He's not one to pry.


<Mickey Macintyre> That silence stretched on for a long time, and Mickey realized, all over again, he was tired. Again, slumber called his name. Maybe tonight, it would be better. "How much longer til I'm done?" he asked. Time was blurring. He didn't even know how many days had passed, not really, the hours slipping into each other, endless save for the staccato moments when it stopped, when Jesse was here, with that thing he needed most. "S'it almost done?"


<Jesse Fforde> "Almost done, Mickey Mack," he says, reaching forward to pat the guy consolingly on the shoulder. Jesse stands, then - probably best to let the guy get some rest. "Two more nights. Maybe three. Nearly there," he says. He does believe that Mickey will make a good addition to the family. Of course he hopes that Mickey won't resent it forever; or that he at least won't take it out on the rest of the family. Mostly, really, Jesse just hopes Mickey sticks around. Plenty of the others don't seem to want to. When's the last time he had seen Cosette? Bastion? Maybe they have a point. Too many too soon, and they'd slipped away due to feeling unwanted. Maybe he should text them, later. Later. "Get some rest. I won't be so late tomorrow."


<Mickey Macintyre> Two more nights. Maybe three. They were so close, and then he'd be done. Free from the hell of his body rejecting every swallow he took. Jesse stood and Mickey watched him, quiet for a moment, lost in thought. His mind reeled like a goddamn Ferris wheel, over and over. Replaying the same tune on repeat. Mickey rubbed his mouth, nodded. "Yeah, yeah," he said, yanked the sheets back over him. "See ya then." He turned, back to the man before he left. Was that trust? To allow the man who killed you to see your back, so soon? Mickey didn't think about it for too much longer, waiting to hear retreating footfalls before he allowed himself sleep.

--The following transcript was a live chat roleplay--
<Jesse Fforde> There were only two or three nights to go before Mickey would be fine. At least, that was Jesse's hope. Unlike the night before, he did not leave the guy hanging. As soon as the sun set, Jesse got up and got dressed; he kissed Grey goodbye, pulled on his boots and his jacket, and used his tome to get back to Larch Court. Although the place wasn't all that far from the Towers where there apartment was, the tome was just easier. He was dressed for work, then, where he would go after he had given Mickey his 'medicine'. Which he was going to go about in a different way, tonight. Jesse sauntered out of the rituals room and down the hall; he knocked a couple of times on the open door, alerting Mickey to his presence. "Hey, Honey. I'm home!" he called in his usual raspy tone, chuckling a little as his gaze swept the room, looking for his nearly-childe.

<Mickey Macintyre> It was going to get worse, before it was better. And now, more than before, Mick was feelin' that hunger. It wasn't the sickness, so much. Not no more. No, now it was just hunger, biting at his stomach, a thirst he couldn't quench. All day long, while Jesse was gone, Mick would lay in that cot thinking about it. That red medicine. He could fuckin' taste it, just imagining it. It was better than any damn drug, any wet dream, any addiction. No damn comparison. Mick wasn't throwing up, anymore, but he still had that fever he couldn't shake, and he was getting tired, during the day, slipping into a coma-like sleep. But he'd been awake a few hours, now, when he finally heard footsteps, and it made him sit up in his bed. Fuckin' pathetic, the look on his face. So goddamn needy. Starving. "Fuckin' finally."

<Jesse Fforde> "Aw, darlin'. Did you miss me?" Jesse asks, cocky as ever. He moves further into the room and, though he does take off his jacket to drape it over one of the chairs, he doesn't immediately go to Mickey's cot. He doesn't immediately take a seat beside the guy; doesn't immediately offer him an already-bleeding wrist. "Tonight we're going to do this differently, Mickey. You look robust enough to stand and move around. So - pretend I'm human. I'm that meal you want and you have to feed from me without making a scene. I'm not gonna break skin tonight. You can do it," Jesse says. He stays where he is, standing there in the middle of the room with his hands shoved nonchalantly into his pockets.


<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse talked some ****, but Mick's eyes were already distracted, falling to wrist, then up, to throat. He blinked at the request, confused, but stood up. He felt stronger, spurred on by that itching in his skull, that need, that thirst. "I don't.... ****. I don't know how to do that, man. Without makin' a scene? Wouldn't somebody scream 'n' fight 'n' ****?"


<Jesse Fforde> Jesse shakes his head. "Well, I'm not going to. It's all about timing, and place. You find them in alleyways, away from crowds, abandoned buildings. Parks. You triple check that there's no one around. You are stronger than them, remember? Hold your hand over their mouth and hold them still. It's easy, once you get the hang of it. Unless they think they're getting lucky, and then it's easier still. Get me?"

<Mickey Macintyre> It was easy, eventually. Once you got the hang of it, once you got them someplace quiet and secluded. Mickey almost laughed, but his stomach hurt, and he clenched his hands into fists. "Yea, I got you," he said, but he wasn't sure how to do this. Awkwardly, unsure, he stepped closer, just a little. "So, what? Just pretend we was mackin' in an alleyway and chomp away?"

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse laughs. He wouldn't have been macking in an alleyway with Mickey to begin with. "If I met you in an alleyway I'd probably go the brute force route rather than the ... mackin' route," he says with a shrug. "But whatever floats your boat, man," he says. He doesn't want to give too much instruction. He wants to see whether Mickey's body gets it, instinctually. Whether, once he starts, it all just falls into place naturally.

<Mickey Macintyre> Brute force. Mickey liked to fight. Did it too fuckin' often, honestly, but he hadn't in a few weeks. Liked to brawl, liked to get bloody and bruised, like to beat in other people's faces, sometimes. Jesse doesn't explain it anymore so Mick doesn't ask any more questions. He lunged forward, then, forcing all of his weight into the action, to pin Jesse tight against the wall. Jesse was stronger than him but he said he'd play the part, so Mickey played his, clamping an inked hand over the other man's mouth, tight enough to cut off any sound, twisting Jesse's head to the side to expose the column of his throat.

<Jesse Fforde> It's an interesting experiment, to say the very least. Jesse had said he would play the part, but he realises as soon as Mickey has him pinned that he'd never been in this kind of situation before. His own siring hadn't happened with too much brute force. A little, but there were no walls involved, and no biting either. Phoenix hand't ingested any of his blood. Instead she'd let it swirl down the drain. What a waste. Jesse's instinct wants to fight against it; he does push back, just a little. Just enough, so Mickey might know how much force is required. But otherwise, does not wrench himself free.

<Mickey Macintyre> Jesse pushed back, just a little, and Mickey increased his hold double-fold. He pressed the entirety of his weight into it, trapping, easy if Jesse had been human, if he'd been smaller. If he'd been drunk. Easy if he hadn't been expectin' it, if this had come outta no where. That's how Mick would do it. But Jesse doesn't pull himself free and Mickey's stomach tightened with his hunger, and Jesse's neck is exposed and he could feel the warmth of the blood in the other man, and damn, if this wasn't an addiction. Damn, if it wasn't a need. Mick leaned his head down, mouth finding throat, right over the artery, where the blood beat pounded the hardest. His mouth hinged open, and his fangs were heavy, and they parted skin like goddamn butter, like they were fuckin' made to be there, and blood filled his mouth and coated his tongue and Mickey groaned, jaw snapping shut to cut the bite open wide.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse isn't too sure how he feels about the situation, even though he had brought it upon himself. He realises that he doesn't exactly like being the victim, never has, never would. Who would? But he reminds himself that he hasn't lost control. He has control. He has superior strength and if needed, he could throw Mickey off. So instead, he relaxes. Teeth pierce the skin in a way that Jesse's not experienced from anyone else other than Grey. And it feels ******* awesome. In a different way, of course. It's still the building of that bond. It's still someone taking his blood. It still feeds his own addiction. So he goes slack, as a human might. Slack like a dog with the scruff of its neck in a tight grip. His hands slide against the wall behind him, but otherwise he remains upright. Thinking, thinking... would he take this all the way? Act like a human might once too much has been taken, and give up his weight completely? Maybe.

<Mickey Macintyre> Mickey sure as hell knew how he felt about this situation. It felt ******* amazing, and the blood rushed hot down his throat, and ****, he was starving, starving like a man who'd just come back from a coma, tasting his first steak. Jesse went slack and didn't fight anymore but Mickey kept his grip hard, pressing his weight up against that wall, kept him there, trapped, like he would a human, like some poor fuckin' victim on the street. But this wasn't a poor victim. This was Jesse Fforde, his destroyer and his maker, this man he hated but respected, who -- for some goddamn reason -- he wanted to make proud or impress or strangle or all three. For now, Mickey just took what he could, mouthful after mouthful of that sickly bitter medicine, warmer by the second, stronger by the swallow.

<Jesse Fforde> If anyone wanted to know what Jesse's weakness was, in order to take advantage of him, it was this. Someone had only to get him into this kind of sitatuation and he would mellow, slack, dazed and basically uncaring of anything but that bond. It gets stronger every night. He's not sure whether he prefers it this way, or whether he prefers it how it used t be. There's something to be said about immediate satisfaction, but this week-long turning? It prolonged the bliss. As selfish as that is. Which is maybe why Jesse hasn't tried harder to try to get himself fixed. Jesse swallows. He does pretend to be human. Or maybe he just feels like sitting down. But he goes slacker, still, dropping all control of his own body. Depending on Mickey, he'll either slide heavily to the floor or remain pinned, limp and seemingly lifeless.


<Mickey Macintyre> Prolonged bliss. This was so much better than a goddamn wrist. The blood felt hotter, here, ran faster, filled him up quicker. But Mickey was realizing, as each day passed, that his hunger wasn't abating. He wasn't feeling full, satiated, at all. It was like there was a hole in his belly and all the blood in the world couldn't fill it up. So he took and he took, and when Jesse went slack, limp in his hands, Mick didn't let up. He used all of his weight to hold up all of Jesse's, keep him pinned against that wall. A hand came up, fingers twisting in the other's man hair, to yank his head to the side, expose more throat.
His fangs ached and he turned his face, pressed them into a new location, farther up the column of Jesse's throat, ripped into flesh once more. Again, that pulse of blood. Again, a groan, drawn straight from the depths of Mickey's chest. Better than any drug. Better than any ****. This was the true pleasure in life, this give and take, and until Jesse was drained or shoved Mickey away, he wasn't gonna stop taking. Jesse took everything from him, everything. So Mick Macintyre took back, greedily, a glutton. Starved.

<Jesse Fforde> Jesse could have allowed Mickey to drain him dry. That's the thought, on the surface, though it's not really a thought. It's just a drifting notion that he's quite happy to stay there, limp and held up by Mickey, to sooner or later pass out due to loss of blood. To become a zombied husk. It was a notion that Jesse is happy to drift away on; the one that has him prolonging for way too long. Deep down, though, he knows he has to make Mickey stop. He has to establish some kind of boundary, doesn't he? There are those words in his head, first uttered by those he once trusted. And although his trust for them might be gone, the words remain, echoing and resonating. That he lets his family get away with too much and that they don't know he's boss. They walk all over him. They take advantage of his one weekness - which is them. His family. Regardless of how he had argued that it was perfectly fine, that no one knew about how his family worked but himself and his own family, he still reacts to those words. They bubble up from deep inside until Jesse, nearly drained (or mostly there), comes to life. His fists curl into Mickey's shirt. He pushes, shoves, knuckles slamming into Mickey's chest. At the same time, his knee rises, ready to knee Mickey in the family jewels if he doesn't shift.