Addicts Unite [Jameson]

[Adley Reed]

<Adley Reed> The nights seemed to be longer, these days. There was less joy in them, too. Vamprism had lost its shine; the novelty had worn off. Adley was starting to think he preferred it when he was a blood thief. At least if he didn’t find anyone to buy blood from, he wouldn’t suffer too much. Sure, he went through withdrawals, but it was nothing like the hunger of a vampire. Yes, he could boost himself, but it just wasn’t the same. There was a thrill to be found in the feeding, and he had realised that it was far preferable when the donor was willing. When there was some kind of enjoyment to be had, from both parties. That joy was tarnished when one knew one could be killed just for their preferences. Cannibalism? It was such a ******* rort.

Regardless, Adley had done some research; he had listened to rumours and asked specific questions. He had followed the bread crumbs to a club that was supposedly known for its back-room blood-letting practices. A gothic, industrialist establishment that hummed with dark energy, the music a loud synthetic vibration that penetrated to the bone. Adley probably stuck out like a sore thumb; he wore a grey jacket over a white tee, his dark jeans offset by a pair of leather boots. He didn’t look like a punk, or a goth, or an emo, or anything in between; most everyone else had to be wearing leather of some description and it wasn’t just their shoes.

Adley, far too confident, didn’t see the way they were looking at him. And if he did, he assumed it was because he looked ******* amazing. He slowly started to meander, slipping in and out of the crowds, ears pricked and eyes sharp; he was looking for something, anything to give someone away as a vampire. Something, anything, to indicate that they might be willing.


<Jameson Dade> The nineties had hit vampirism hard. Specifically, the place looked like something out of the Blade movie. Jameson didn't quite fit in, with his black hoodie and Night Lords cuts. Yes, it was leather, and it was black, but it didn't have the heart of the gothic scene. He had arrived some time before, in search of a blood thief or something similar. The club took itself a little too seriously, and there were some people with fake fangs, others with real ones. Of course, a real vampire was likely to stand out in a crowd for one reason or another. At least to another vampire. There were surprisingly few of them there, for an establishment meant to cater to his kind. He found that wasn't uncommon though. People seemed to enjoy the enigmatic and dark nature of his kind without all the fussy bits that went along with it. Like having to feed every day (which got a bit monotonous), or urges that one didn't quite understand, or weird body stuff. It was kind of like puberty. Actually. It was a lot like puberty, less the acne.

After arriving, he'd set himself up at the end of a long booth. The seat was polished red leather, and there were several circular tables running along its length. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that they were plunked against the wall opposite the makeshift bar, and it looked less thrown together than the rest of the industrial feel. Polished diamond in the dirt. He didn't really notice though, because irony was occasionally beyond his scope of understanding. Thus far, there had been no thieves to play with, and he'd been there a solid hour, nursing a tumbler of gin, watching the crowd. He looked like a mess, but that wasn't uncommon. He always did. Not that he was filthy, but his hands were paint splattered and his hair was a little greasy, and left unkept. He caught sight of someone. Vampire. Maybe. Probably. He wasn't quite sure at first sight, so he waved the guy down with one hand.


<Adley Reed> The plan had been simple enough. Go to the bar that catered to their kind. Find other vampires – preferably someone in a frisky mood, with loose morals, and no adherence to some archaic, fucked up law. Charm them, make an offer. Maybe have a little fun. Adley wasn’t stupid. He had a roll of cash in his pocket, in case he had to pay for the thing that he needed. He’d been a blood thief, once, though he hated the moniker. Thief. He never stole what he needed. He paid for it, good and proper.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone wave. Adley spared a glance over his shoulder, but determined that the male must have been waving to Adley. Did Adley know this person? Didn’t matter. Adley approached; he dropped into the chair beside the guy who’d waved him over. Adley gave the stranger a once over; not because he was judging his attire, but because he was trying to place him. And looking for the signs, of course. Leaning in a little closer, seeking the tell-tale heartbeat. Some vampires were easier to pick than others; Adley, for example, was a Necromancer whose skin was pallid beneath its natural dark mocha hue. “Do I know you?” he asked the stranger, a humoured tone to his voice and a curious gleam to his blue-green eyes.


<Jameson Dade> Jameson was stuck somewhere between the standard vampire appearance and human. He couldn't properly have passed for one unless he put in a lot of effort, but even then, he lacked the warmth that would have declared him mortal. He was nearly there, but just a little left of center. Just enough for most people to excuse him as a junkie without thinking much about it. They weren't entirely wrong, so it all fit pretty well. To those who didn't immediately dismiss him, that subtle difference between life and death was just enough to be exotic. Very meth chic. And so Jay got the opportunity to watch the approach, a hand lifting off of the table so he could let long, slim fingers flatten under the chin which rested on them, the fingers relying on a hand, arm, elbow, and table to stay propped up. The vampire looked a bit like he was staged. Like he was the dead guy out of Weekend at Bernie's. His other palm slid up to slick his hair back as much as possible, dark locks attempting to obscure his vision.

"Yeah. We met a few years back at a party. You give some mean head." He said plainly, very deadpan. He then lifted the gin to sip from it. He liked the familiarity of the action, and he could get a little bit buzzed if he chugged enough of the stuff. Apparently that was strange. Usually vampires didn't feel the effects of their alcohol, even if they were like him. But it always came with a price. The pleasant tipsy feeling was always the prelude to a pounding headache. Like he got 1 part drunk to 9 parts hangover. "I mean it was brutal. Like one of those beavers chipping away at a log." He said, though towards the end, he lost his tone and began to laugh. Softly. He reached a hand up. "Name's Jameson." He finally said.


<Adley Reed> Adley remained aloof. Although he had never indulged in oral pleasure with another man, he claimed the compliment anyway. By claiming it, it was almost a challenge. A slick smile broke Adley’s inquisitive expression as he slid his fingers into Jameson’s grasp. The skin was cold, hard – the skin of a vampire. Except, the man was drinking. He was drinking something other than blood, which only confused Adley. Was he a human who’d done all that he could to pretend? As far as Adley was aware, vampires could not drink anything other than blood. Any time Adley had tried, he’d tossed his guts up into the sink.

“Adley,” he said, by way of return introduction. Was he wasting his time with this guy, if he wasn’t a vampire? What could a human possibly offer? Adley, though relaxed, was still searching for all the signs. What else was there? What else could he look for? Again, he floundered internally. Was there more that he was supposed to know? Should he know more, to be able to pick the vampires from the humans? Whatever uncertainty he felt, it never showed upon his features. “I can quite confidently say I’ve never ‘chipped your wood’, but I know I’d blow your mind,” he said. Cocky, as per usual.


<Jameson Dade> "Knew a girl named Adley once. Odd thing had a face like a trucker but hair like a barbie. Used to say it was her best feature." He replied. Adley had been one of the people he had met at NA. Terrible addiction to Oxy. Said it kept her calm and mellow when she needed it to. Sad thing was she looked like she had been abusing meth for years, but that had all been genetic. Fucked up teeth. Less than pleasant facial features. But she had been nice, and she'd brought cookies along with her every time she made a meeting. Was one of those people with a huge personality, who knows that if you aren't attractive, you've got to 'make up for it'. Shitty world they lived in, where a perfectly good person had to turn to Oxy and cookies, and loud anecdotes, and jokes to pay for the fact that they didn't warm everyone's loins. But that was the world they lived in, and Jameson had liked her well enough until she'd stopped going to the meetings. He never did catch up with her, but that was the plight of the addict. Selfishness. He had his own **** going on.

He fiddled with the rim of his glass of gin, lightly tapping on it as he leaned across the table. He looked like he was about to lay right over it, slouch across the surface and try to sleep. "That's what they all say. That and five inches apparently equates to about eight if you're to believe certain bathroom walls." Not that he ever bothered to check, but it was one of those old standard jokes like 'Why did the chicken cross the road?' "I'm going to guess though, that you're not here for the ambiance." He was referring mainly to Adley's lack of goth-wear. "So what brings you to the house of...Seduction? Sin? Den of Iniquity? What is this place even called?" He asked, fairly sure that most clubs of the variety they were in, happened to have painfully stereotypical names. Might as well call them the Dracu-café.


<Adley Reed> First, Jameson compared Adley to girl. Second, he didn’t believe Adley’s confession of greatness. The slights slid over Adley’s shoulders like water off a fish’s back. Someone trying to prove themselves might have ducked under the table to make true their boasts. Adley, however, was secure in his confidence. He didn’t have to defend himself when he knew what he was capable of. Anyone who failed to believe him? Well, that was their loss.

“Ah… Raw,” he said, glancing toward the front door and the neon light he remembered burning above the low front door. “R, A, W. I suppose it has a carnal feel. A lot of people like their sustenance raw,” Adley said, turning his narrowed eyes back to his new companion. Again, completely unsure. What did he know? Did it matter? He was in a place that survived due to its word-of-mouth advertisements. It catered to the creatures of the night – or those who thought themselves to be creatures of the night. If this guy wasn’t the real deal, he at least believed in the existence of the otherworldly. “I’m here for raw sustenance. One must stoop low to satisfy the cravings that are… condemned,” he said. It was both illuminating and vague – Jameson’s response, he hoped, would be equally illuminating.


<Jameson Dade> He listened to the name, but didn't commit it to memory. He was the sort of person who cared about people. Not places. The effects of his disposition generally made themselves known in the form of shoddy directions. 'Yeah, you know that place where we met John and Amy. No, I don't remember the ******* na—' a snippet of a day in the life. Which was to say he'd remember Adley probably forever, and never have more than the fuzziest of details about the actual location. Adley also had the benefit of growing more interesting with each passing second, where the club was just one of a dozen of the same variety. Eventually places just ran together. There were only so many trees a person could look at before saying 'you know, it's all ******* forest'. But Jay picked up on certain cues. Not that they were particularly subtle, but Jameson doubted they were intended to be. He knew how it was. When you had the itch, and needed something in your veins. You just sort of lost the double talk and pressed at odd angles, hoping for someone to pick up on your desire, feed it, nourish your self-destructive behavior.

"If you start talking all flowery like an Anne Rice novel, we're done here." He said, and then grinned. And then more bluntly. "You're looking for blood, or something else? I'd wager the latter if you agreed to chat me up when there are plenty of healthy folks around here with strong enough pulses." He commented. Though he couldn't have guessed what Adley was after. Drugs? That was the first assumption, but only because Jamie suffered from the delusion that everyone either was on, or should have been on something.


<Adley Reed> Adley had no idea who Anne Rice was, but he got the gist. Within seconds, all the innuendo was dropped. No more jokes, no more teasing, no more introductory clauses. Straight down to business. Adley leaned forward, his elbows on the table, leaning in as if the two were conspiring against the government. Really, they weren’t talking about anything that anyone here would arch a brow at. Adley half wondered whether these fakers knew exactly what they were getting into. Which half were fakers, and which half were the real deal?

And then it dawned on Adley. Of course Jameson wasn’t living, otherwise he’d have been weakened by Adley’s touch. It’s something that had been there since Adley was turned, but had slowly grown stronger with time; it had reached its peak, as soon as he’d returned from the Shadow Realm. Everything living that he touched withered and wilted, humans included. Whereas Jameson had weathered the touch, unaffected. Adley was suddenly very interested in what the other man had to offer. Just thinking about it aroused Adley’s thirst; a pink tongue travelled over the crenulations of his teeth, feeling the canines begin to sharpen. “You assume wrong,” Adley said, and shrugged. “Blood tastes just as sweet without a pulse to quicken it,” he said, head canted to the side. “That something you’re into?”


<Jameson Dade> Jameson would have liked to have said he was the sort of person who was not easily surprised. That was one of those classic masculine traits, the sort that was established in old fashion detective noir films, filled with hardened men and gangsters. Jay was not that kind of guy though. He was frequently caught off guard by people, and what they could do, and how they either never seemed to quite meet his expectations, or totally surpassed them. He supposed Adley happened to fall into the furthermost category, on principle alone. So Jamie attempted nonchalance, but it was a bit ruined by the way he leaned a little closer and inhaled, as if he was trying to inhale the coppery grave smell from a mouth. In truth, the vampire enjoyed a good bite in both directions. He needed to feed to survive, but he also enjoyed being fed from; it nourished some dark part of him that craved sharing addiction with other people. The only time he ever really shared anything, and even that was selfish.

"You could say that." He replied. He didn't even stop to think about how impractical feeding from other vampires was. He'd certainly never tried it, never assumed it was possible. His sire, for lack of a better word, had not really covered that. Thus, Jameson was forced to assume that one could only feed from the living. Or at least, had believed that. But he'd been looking for a little bit of fun, and since there was nobody biting, he had no problem letting another dead thing do the job. There was something missing, because Jameson doubted he could reciprocate the gesture, but that didn't really matter. He focused for a second on a tongue. Maybe later his senses would come to him, and he'd wonder more about the situation. Until then..."It don't cost do it?"


<Adley Reed> Adley laughed. When he laughed, the expression flooded his features; it had a tendency to do that, when one’s mouth seemed too large for their face. It wasn’t unnerving, though. It could be quite charming – except now that dinner was served, Adley’s teeth had lengthened to predator size. Was Jameson new to the game? Adley assumed there might be a cost, but not one that Jameson would have to pay. “You’re the one providing the goods, man. If there’s a cost, it’s on me,” he said. He was already standing, the chair’s legs scraping the floor, though the sound was lost in the dull beat of the music that blared through the club’s speakers.

“Let’s go somewhere more private…” he said. It might have been something he’d once have uttered with a wink and an avalanche of suggestion, but tonight Adley’s intentions were dotted with common sense. He’d been killed for this before. Although he had been ninety-nine percent certain that when he’d bitten unwilling vampires, there were no witnesses, he’d still been reported. Although he assumed it must have been the vampires themselves that had reported him, he couldn’t be too careful.

Adley led them to another booth – this one hidden behind a black, sheer curtain. It was equally as loud within the booth as without, but it still felt apart from the club, somehow. The booth was arranged in a small semi-circle, the booth chairs a plush red velvet worn from years of overuse. Adley stood in the middle of the space. “Though, before we begin – you have no intention of reporting this, do you? I’ve already died once, and it’s not something I’m keen to try again…”


<Jameson Dade> Well that's a welcome change. Jameson was used to having to pay for his vices, or resort to less than legal means of sating his hunger for oblivion. He would hardly have been the first. Even amongst humans, it was fairly common for one junkie to sabotage another, by swiping his stash, or fighting for Iit. Jay was just like that, if a bit more violent. He hadn't been the angry sort in life, at all really. Recently he had killed a girl when he was working with the Motor Club to take the territory in which the Handle Bar was located. The woman had just been a dealer, but he'd stabbed her a dozen or more times because he'd wanted to collect what she was selling. In the grand scheme of things; it probably hadn't helped the club all that much. But Jameson had enjoyed it. He had liked the blood on his hands, and at unexpected times, he would hear her gurgled, muffled whimpers again. He had been a thief by trade for most of his time as a vampire, but he'd been expanding with the times.

He found himself led to a new area. There were no tables, just a large semi-circle of a booth with a veil obscuring what was happening. Jameson had no delusions as to what normally happened on the seat, and he found himself carefully looking for, and avoiding any suspicious stains, even as he plopped down. He stripped his cuts off then, the leather vest laid down beside him, because he didn't want to get it bloody. And then he began to work at his hoodie, because he suspected the extra layers would make biting him all the more difficult. "I. What?" He asked, taken off guard by the question. And then he leveled a look. "Snitches are bitches." Which wasn't quite the 'thuglife' phrase, but it was close enough. He cleared his throat lightly, because the words settled oddly on his vocal cords. "You got nothing to fear, man." He finally amended.


<Adley Reed> Jameson looked like he was stripping – but Adley knew that he knew that wasn’t what was happening here. He had smarts enough to know that the other man was removing only enough clothing to make the neck accessible; and it was the neck that Adley couldn’t stop looking at. He managed a vague nod as Jameson told him he had nothing to fear – the words took a few seconds to settle, and Adley laughed two seconds too late. He was preoccupied, imagining what the blood would taste like. There was a glazed look to his eyes as he struggled to pay attention.

“I’m not afraid,” he said, not sure himself whether he was lying or not. The longer he spent out of the Shadow Realm, the less nightmarish it seemed. Death didn’t cling to him anymore, though the wound still hadn’t healed – there was still a mean gash, ragged from hip to knee, slashed diagonally across the front and side of his thigh. “Death is just an inconvenience,” he said, though he was reassured by Jameson’s obvious confusion. Did he know nothing about Necuratism and its taboo, either? Adley sat down beside Jameson, facing him, one knee crooked and laid flat against the upholstery, and arm resting on the back of the chair, the other hand fisting and unfisting on his knee. The hunger was a palpable thing, now. The satisfaction so close at hand. “It ah… apparently there’s some archaic law. They call me a cannibal, and I’m a disgrace to our kind,” he said, flashing a toothy grin.


<Jameson Dade> His head briefly got caught in his hoodie, as he was shoving it off, and he had to push to get it over his chin before he carefully nudged it to one side as smoothly as one could manage when their hair has been mussed by a garment. He lifted a hand then to once again smooth the dark tangle back and away from his eyes – which were unusually clear and blue. Not the deep waters of cerulean, they were closer to gray, and had been perpetually bloodshot in life. Sometimes they still were, but ironically, only when he was completely sober (which wasn't often). As more of his skin was revealed, it seemed as if those paint splatters ended at his hands, little speckles of red and blue, and a lot of black. He had some of it embedded in his nail beds. His hair perpetually looked as if it had not been washed in a few days – even right after washing it. As far as he understood, that should have been impossible, even for a vampire, but he didn't much care about it. His neck was the center of attention, and he benefited from it being long and slender, an effect unruined by a faint Adam's Apple.

Jameson was not the sort of person who was immediately attractive. He was the type of guy who a person learned to like because of his nature, and the way he talked. The looks were secondary, and he had no issue with that. However, Adley was extremely pretty. Unfairly so, if you asked Jameson. Thankfully nobody did, because he probably would have said something embarrassing. "You know I think I know what I'm gonna charge. I want to know more about death. Never done it before. Figure a first hand account is better than the experience." He ventured as he slumped back. He didn't know what to do with his arms. For a moment they curled behind his head like a pillow, then they slid to his sides. Finally his thin fingers rested on his knees, one set giving a tapping motion. "Never have been good with laws. Don't understand half of them, and they only apply if you get caught, so that seems kind of like a loophole, broken system or something." He rambled before sucking lightly behind his lips. And then finally. "Get over here, you."

[Jameson Dade]

<Adley Reed> Adley didn’t give a **** about Jameson’s looks. He wasn’t there for a quick lay; attractiveness played no part in this. This was a meal. This was a way to sate Adley’s hunger while also providing satisfaction. If a human could choose between soup and a double bacon cheeseburger when they were starving, they were going to choose the ******* burger. Blood boosting was soup. It was worse than soup. It was slightly tepid water and did nothing to soothe the real hunger. Jameson was the double bacon cheeseburger, and nothing about his mussed hair or paint-stained hands could change that.

As the seconds passed and Adley waited for Jameson to give the go-ahead, he looked more and more like a predator. The way cats change; the way they flatten themselves, their tails twitching and their pupils dilating. Had Adley’s pupils dilated? He imagined he could only hear the sound of his own heart in his ears, but of course that wasn’t the case. It was probably just the club’s music, trying to intrude. He only gave a vague nod as Jameson named his price; he hardly listened as the guy rambled about the law. As soon as his permission was given, Adley accosted the guy. Or, started to. He always had to remind himself not to act like an animal. He’d moved swiftly – his knee remained on the seat beside Jameson’s knee, though his other foot found the floor. He straddled Jameson without actually touching him, his lith body towering over the other.

He pushed his fingers into Jameson’s hair to nudge his head sideways, the fingers of the opposite hand curled into the velvet of the back of the chair. He stopped himself just in time – he’d been about to rip into the skin, but managed at the last second to bite cleanly, sharpened canines sinking into the skin over the vein rather than tearing it, lips closing around the wound to keep any of the blood from escaping. He breathed it in. Closed his eyes. Might have even moaned, as a person is wont to do when they consume something utterly delectable.


<Jameson Dade> The way that Adley looked at him should have rankled a little bit at least. He was a vampire himself, and by all rights, should have been just as predatory by nature. But that wasn't really Jameson's style. He'd learned shortly after being turned that, unlike other vampires when he bit someone, they always remembered. Always. The problem with that was pretty obvious. Leaving a bunch of witnesses to an assault was a bad move for a criminal. The vampiric laws didn't really play into it all that much. They did, only from the perspective that Jameson didn't want to end up as a blood smear on some wall. All in all though, he'd had to learn to be more careful due to a sense of preservation not born when he'd become a vampire, but long before. He normally purchased blood packs. Expensive things that they were, they were better than leaving his thrall (an important local figure), perpetually drained. Before that, Jameson had relied almost exclusively on donors, but that could be messy.

It didn't rankle, though. The look in Adley's eyes made something tingle in Jay's belly. There was a mixture of different feelings. First, there was fear. Fear of pain and harm, and death. However, that emotion was quickly swallowed up by the need to feel teeth sink into him. Maybe it was Jamie's way of saying that he was the master of his own destiny, and he wouldn't let terror control him. It seemed to him like so many vampires, moreso than humans, had to deal with the idea of being killed almost daily. Death is just an inconvenience. Adley had said. But why? Why did vampires have to die? What was the ******* point? There probably wasn't one. So what was the point of being afraid? There probably wasn't one. The man's arms lifted from his knees so he could grip against sides. His nails dug into clothing and he pulled Adley closer as if to say. 'I see you, wolf, now show me what those big teeth can do'.

There was a sting, and something inside Jameson spasmed. It was like getting a tattoo. The pain. He owned that part of him that loved being fed from, and it made him stronger for it. He heard a moan and his own voice was strangled in his throat, but it rumbled none the less. As for his taste? It wasn't really the flavor that mattered. He felt like morphine, and oxy, and heroin. Droopy. Fuzzy around the edges. Tired. Like floating into the best dream a person could ever imagine. That was what he tasted like if there were an equivalent. He swallowed, and felt lips on him. It was like a shared high, because felt the pinpricks of hurt wash away in a sea of endorphins.


<Adley Reed> Adley wasn’t shy. He wasn’t picky. He lived loudly, and tried everything once. Yes, he’d kissed a man before. No, he hadn’t given head, but it was a gift that he himself received. Honestly, it was better than when a woman did it. Men knew what they liked, so they knew how to give. Jameson’s clutching fingers did not disgust Adley; touch from another man was not something that Adley shied away from, even if he considered himself straight. He preferred the company of women but wasn’t going to deny the boost of ego proffered by attention from another man. The tug of Jameson’s willingness had Adley relaxing into position; both knees now rested against the seat, one thigh pressed to Jameson’s thigh. There was a difference in height that kept their torsos from touching, but they were close enough.

The grip on Jameson’s hair was released, his hand subconsciously shifting to cup the side of Jameson’s neck. The vampire’s blood tasted like a party. It tasted like a Saturday night out. Somehow, with just one taste of his blood, Adley could now believe, without a doubt, that he didn’t have to fear Jameson or any damage that he could do. This was what Adley had tried to convince Zaleski of. This was ******* pleasurable, right? This was erotic. This was the best kind of ******* foreplay, and yet she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Because she wasn’t allowed. **** her. **** it. If he could find someone who actually enjoyed this as much as he did…

How long did he stay there? Two minutes? Five? His hunger, at least, was able to be sated. He knew when to stop; he was no glutton. As soon as he had had his fill – no more than a pint of blood, he figured – he pulled back. His tongue swiped Jameson’s skin, clearing it of any stray drops of blood, before he collapsed back into the plush velvet of the booth’s chair. His own Adam’s apple bounced as he swallowed the remaining remnants, his head tilted back as he rested, body slumped and eyes still closed. There was a satisfied smile on his lips, his hands laid palm flat on the chair on either side of him, legs splayed. “… mmm yes. That hit the spot. Thank you.”


<Jameson Dade> He could feel weight against his own body. He registered, though barely, that it was not warm, at least not at first. There was no body heat there. He thought for a second he might miss that, but that feeling quickly dissipated, like fog on a gradually warming day. In fact, it hit him like a punch. His entire body felt hot suddenly, and Jamie decided to blame it on the feeding. It was like he could feel his blood being sucked out. Humans naturally had a pump that made it easy to drink from them, but vampires were not the same. Effort had to be made to get the thick fluid out of their veins, and for some reason, that felt like a flame lapping at his ribs, in his chest. Where his heart was, it felt like little sparks were going off, a trick of the hormones, or something. He ended up with fingers loosening briefly, dropping towards hips, slipping to grip against the swell of an ***. That part was practically Pavlovian. He squeezed firmly and released by the time Adley pulled away.

Before that happened though, he exhaled a groan, and pressed himself closer. He didn't nestle in though, the movements were sharper than that. A shove of thighs together, the weight of something new entering the scene. And then it was over. Adley was sliding away from him, and Jameson felt a lot like he really had just taken a heavy shot of something good. He could easily have focused on just one point for a solid hour or two, and stared at it without concern. As it was, he leaned fully back against the velvet and then slid to rest against the other man's side. He was good. He was really good. He could barely tell that he'd been drained, which attested to Adley's skill at the very least. Or his restraint. Jay licked over his lips as the wound on his neck began to disappear, fading like dents in soft wax. His legs twisted, pressed together at the knee, sliding in an attempt to tuck under him. They never quite did, instead strewn part on the seat and part off the edge, angling towards the floor. He recalled having called for a cost, but didn't really remember what it was. Or. Why it was even necessary. "No problem. You should do it again sometime." A bit slurred.


<Adley Reed> Adley laughed, though it wasn’t the same open laugh as before. It was a low vibrant hum that clucked at the base of his throat, his canines still sharp and pressing dints into his lips; lips that were still stained red. He managed to lick them once, twice, lifting an arm as Jameson slumped closer. Adley couldn’t say that he had any interest in Jameson’s body beyond the blood that occupied his veins, but the proximity was yet another layer of compliment. If this was how Adley could repay the stranger, then so be it.

The reason Jameson might not have felt like he had been drained at all was because Adley had assured it. If he didn’t boost his own blood, he could at least boost the blood of those he fed from; he could repay them in kind. He could keep their hunger from assaulting them, rather than passing his own hunger forward. He could do it so smoothly that they’d never even know. Adley nodded, enthusiastic. “Yes. ****. You have … I used to be a blood thief,” he said, assuming the other guy knew what those were. “Except I didn’t really like being called a thief. I never really stole anything… besides the point. It was easier, you know? You’d think being a vampire wouldn’t change much but apparently feeding a vampire as compared to a thief is just unacceptable,” he said. As if the blood-letting had opened a line of communication that hadn’t existed before.

“Point is… it’s hard. To find anyone willing. So if I could get your number or whatever, that’d be fuckin’ fantastic,” Adley said, eyes now open as he turned his sharpening attention to his delirious companion.


<Jameson Dade> He listened. Well he tried to. He was kind of out of it, so how much he absorbed versus what was said might have taken a bridge to cross. There was some talk about a blood thief. Jameson personally liked them for much the same reason he liked Adley. The biting. It didn't bother him that he was passing his powers along to a human. But all of the blood thieves he'd ever met had been friends, or ended up as friends, or more. So in his experience, they were no different than anyone else, just had different needs. Maybe it was because he was a vampire. He sympathized with the desire to drink blood and wasn't about to deny someone else a chance, if he had some to 'spare'. Or maybe it was just mindless hedonism, because he doubtlessly enjoyed the whole thing. Whichever of the two was true, a vampire feeding from another vampire didn't raise his hackles any.

"S'an odd contradiction." He noted. Why was a blood thief drinking from a vampire somehow less 'illegal' to other vampires than a vampire doing so? They were logically, essentially the same weren't they? But that was the problem with 'laws', as far as Jameson saw it. He made a vague gesture with one hand after lifting it. "Legal systems are ******** living or dead." He said. When you were alive, you had to deal with pointless bureaucracy, outdated laws, and spotty enforcement. Cops were given too much freedom to do what they wanted, and many laws were too conservative. As a a vampire, laws were jokes. The only way they would work is if people saw their use. Social contract theory or something something. Jameson couldn't have explained it Iif he wanted to. He wasn't schooled in philosophy or anything like that, but he knew unfair when he saw it. And he knew ******** when he saw it.

"Yeah sure." He finally said before lifting his butt enough to reach into a back pocket and yank a marker from it. Thick and pink. He liked to occasionally modify certain things he saw on the streets. "Where you want it?"


<Adley Reed> “It’s a law but it’s not, y’know?” he said, waving his hand at nothing. Zaleski had described it as a law, hadn’t she? But she kept rabbiting on about ‘cannibalism’ which, in Adley’s opinion, was absolute ********. “They treat it like we’re not already cannibals, which is fucked. We’re still human, at the core, right? We were human. We were born human. We… you… they have to drink human blood to survive. There’s no more cannibalism in a vampire feeding from another vampire than there is in a vampire feeding on a human,” he said. It felt so ******* amazing being able to get all this out. Why hadn’t he before? Why was he now? Was it something in Jameson’s blood that was fuelling Adley’s motor mouth? Or was it just that he’d had no one to vent his outrage to, until now?

“Like… their whole thing is this masquerade, right? That’s what most the other ‘laws’ deal with. One would think they’d accept vampire on vampire feeding. Less human involvement then, right? Less ******* ‘laws’ broken. But what the **** do I know?” he said, before he realised what Jameson had pulled out. He had expected a phone. Something. Not a pink marker. Adley scoffed, laughed, and reached into his inner jacket pocket. He had a new Samsung Galaxy which he’d bought after he’d lost his old phone after dying. He unlocked the screen and passed it to Jameson. “In the phone. Don’t fuckin’ scrawl it on the screen or anything. Type it in. Where it won’t get lost or y’know, accidentally smudged and indecipherable.”


<Jameson Dade> Jameson had heard that term before. Masquerade. He thought it was lame. He actually hadn't known the reference until Dr. Ozzy had told him about it, but that was ages ago. Mora had told him about it, how vampires were careful to keep themselves secret so humans didn't figure them out. Apparently it was this really big deal because something had happened years before when vampires got wiped out or...something. Except when vampires died, they didn't really stay dead, so Jay didn't really get it. It seemed hypocritical. Like why did some people have to die? Like wasn't that just doing what everyone was supposedly trying to avoid anyway? To Jay, it just seemed like a repetition of life. Some cops were legit (not that he trusted them), but some were really shitty, and did things like plant evidence, or rough a guy up when arresting him. To Jameson, those people were just bullies who had never grown up, and vampires who attacked other vampires over an antiquated ideology were the same. Living in fear because of the past was stupid. The world wasn't the same as it had been. End of story.

"I don't truck with all that. I joined the Night Lords in part because they make sense to me. The rules, I mean. I don't mind rules, but they have to make sense." He rambled again, even as he wriggled to get a little bit closer. "Whole thing's a joke anyway. Buncha kids with the only hall pass in the class." He shrugged then, and took the phone. It was a good thing Adley specified that he not write on the screen. He was going to. He glumly shoved his marker back into a back pocket before he added his number to the phone and then added 'Dominoe's Pizza' as the contact. "My number changes pretty often, but I'll always tell you when it's about to." He relayed a moment later. He still felt fuzzy, but he at least remembered that. He had to use disposable phones because he didn't want anyone tracking his whereabouts. It was a little paranoid, but it kept him off of criminal records mostly. And then he went right back to leaning against Adley. "Don't let bitches getcha down. They ain't got any real power on you. S'like prison. Just get better at doing what you do when you get out and don't get caught."


<Adley Reed> Keep getting better at doing what you do. Yes, Adley agreed; drop the dead weight and those that couldn’t – refused – to support you, and instead surround yourself with people who did. Give up on the sire and the lacklustre bloodline that you apparently belonged to, and forge your own path. For a week or so after he’d come back from the dead, Adley had been rattled. He’d been flotsam, bouncing around on waves that he didn’t understand. Now, he was an anchor, steadily heading for the sandy bottom, ready to sink in to the mud and stay his course. Steadfast and confident.

After tonight, the last pieces of said confidence fell neatly into place. He had a solid contact; he had someone who didn’t only allow themselves to be bitten, but in fact seemed to look forward to it. What would be the terms and conditions of their arrangement? Would there be any? Adley just nodded. “Yeah, yeah. No ***** is getting me down. Couldn’t if they tried,” he said with a broad and devilish grin. “Never heard of the Night Lords,” he admitted. He hadn’t heard of anything or anyone, really, but he had a feeling that was about to change. It had been so easy, in the end, to find Jameson. And Jameson didn’t have to be his only contact. He could accumulate. He could gather. Zaleski wasn’t the be all and end all. “How often will you consent to being bitten? I mean… every night? Maybe? Is that a possibility?” he asked as he glanced at the phone and snorted. “… a man’s gotta eat and so far, you’re the only pizza joint in town…”


<Jameson Dade> Briefly, and only barely, Jameson noted that Adley appeared to be energized, or at the very least content with things. Mission accomplished. As far as Jay was concerned, the world needed a hell of a lot more chill. Like the issues in the Middle East, and ISIS, and the Syrian Refugees and...everything. Violence wasn't something exclusive to vampires, but when vampires did it, it seemed even more pointless because you couldn't rightly do away with them forever. There was no magical way to get rid of a pest. So if people just got high, or fucked, or hugged it out, or whatever the hell it was they really wanted to do, the world would be a better place. Or something like that. Jameson was pretty sure he'd seen a bumper sticker to that effect somewhere. Confidence oozed off of Adley, and Jay was more than happy to suck it up through osmosis. If they were going to keep meeting, what did that mean though? He could already tell he liked Adley. The man was easy to talk to.

And he had a nice ***. "Night Lords are a motor club. We run Redwood, have a little bar there." He said, but that was as much as he planned to talk about it. If Adley was interested, he could inquire some more, but caution and need drove him to other topics. "Sure. I can do nightly." He answered, attempting, and probably failing, to come across with a certain nonchalance. "Like you said. A man's got to eat." And Jameson wasn't going to get weaker from being fed from. He could just go and nab an extra bag of blood or something. He more than made up for the cost every day. Most ridiculous milionaire in the history of ridiculous milionaires. But being a thief paid well, so he wasn't lacking for cash. "No cost really, you just gotta talk to me. I like to be close to people afterwards." He murmured.


<Adley Reed> Jameson only reminded Adley how much he didn’t know. How many such groups existed in this city? There was a movie he watched, once; he’d like it for the historical aspect of it, for the anarchistic crime of it. Gangs of New York. The Five Points. The rag-tag groups of gangs, who ran different parts of the points. Blood was often spilled, gang wars as they fought for possession of land. Of buildings. Of prime watering holes. Was this happening around Adley without him being any the wiser? Suddenly, he had a hankering to be involved. Not because he relished the violence, particularly, but because he wanted the pictures. What would those kinds of pictures sell for?

He was brought back to ground by Jameson’s mumbled finisher. He liked to be close to people afterwards. Adley arched a brow. “You indulge in this kind of thing often, then?” he said, laughter evident in his tone. Even now, the music was loud; although Adley wasn’t shouting, he was still struggling to focus; his gaze kept drifting to the curtains and the shadows that moved around behind them. On the other side, the club continued to thrum with activity. A veritable beehive. And it was so public…

“Sure, darling,” he said. He hadn’t forgotten what Jameson had requested; he’d wanted to talk about death. Adley held out a hand – they could shake on it. “Death. Yes, I know. You wanted to talk about it but I don’t particularly feel like doing it here. Tomorrow night? My place. I’ll text you the address,” he said. “For blood and talking,” he clarified. “I’ll give head only as a really special favour,” he added with a gleaming grin.

[Adley Reed]

<Jameson Dade> He had on his goggles again, the variety of which had been fashioned out of a set of watchmaker's glasses, so that Jameson could see the finest detail in the machinery he was working with. He had a screwdriver in one hand with an end so small that it looked almost like a toy, a miniature. He was gradually and painstakingly tightening a screw when he heard a buzzing all of the way in his bedroom. He knew it was his phone, but he was focused on work. Then there was a crash as Bucket began to bark. Then there was a low sound of displeasure when the dog jumped onto Jameson's bed, and several muffled curses while an unknown figure was having his face licked. Chase, Jameson's thrall, had visited the night before, and gotten intensely drunk.

So much so that he'd passed out on Jay's couch. In a bid to be nice, Jamie put the man in his bed and had slept off his own libations, during the day, in the living room.

There was a creak of the door and then footsteps as Chase approached. The man was still in the remnants of a now wrinkly, and once pressed, expensive suit. "You got a text." Came the sleep roughened rumble. Jameson put his project down, because it was mostly done anyway, then he was up on his feet and moving to grab his phone. He recognized the number, partially because he had been waiting for more word from Adley. A grin blossomed like a spring flower, and he pushed his phone into his pocket.

"Be back later." He replied briefly before tugging on a zip up hoodie, and exiting. He normally would have put on his Night Lords cuts, but he intended to make a private call. It took him about twenty minutes to get there. The building looked like a repurposed warehouse, and Jameson was certainly familiar with those, considering he spent a lot of his time lifting high end goods from them. Soon he was knocking at a door, straightening his posture some.


<Adley Reed> It wasn’t exactly that Adley needed the blood. He wasn’t starving. Peckish, really. But the apartment was empty and lacked any remaining evidence that Zaleski had ever been there. The apartment was sparse, clean – a few things out of place but not much. Not because Adley was some kind of neat freak, but because he really didn’t have much to his name. He was a minimalist at heart, and didn’t believe in materialistic clutter. There were a few things that he’d collected, here and there. Mementoes. A framed image in the lounge room that he come from a national geographic magazine but which reminded Adley of his childhood. Things of importance.

The books on the bookshelf were mainly photography books – mostly of people, some of landscapes and other oddities. He especially liked the national geographic wildlife ones. There were a couple of the night sky, too – the competitions that ran every year, books published to include all the best work. If Adley stopped focusing on crime scenes, he might be able to do something artistic. That had been the plan. But he was lazy, and he liked getting paid.

It wasn’t too long after sunset that he texted his address to Jameson, like he said he would. It wasn’t exactly that he was starving, but he wanted the company. Of course, he told himself it was for nourishment. Dinner, as it was. But who was he kidding, really? When he opened the door, he was wearing jeans and an old, ragged tank. The heaters were on, even they didn’t feel the cold. It was a comfort thing. He stepped back and held the door wide, gesturing into his abode. Welcoming. “That was quick…”


<Jameson Dade> He was hit with warmth. The inside of Adley's home was several degrees higher than outside, which was fine by Jameson. He was a stoat at heart, and tended to literally nest when he was at home, frequenly curled up with multiple layers of sheets and blankets around him at all times. Of course, he didn't actually have body heat, so it wasn't like the blankets had anything to insulate. Or rather, the insulation was pointless. However, he liked the comfort of it, feeling like he still needed heat to keep himself alive. That was one of the most basic needs of humanity, the Promethean fire.

"A boy's got needs." He said shortly, and grinned in a way that would have, had he been at a Catholic school, probably gotten his knuckles smacked by a ruler. That was when he caught sight of Adley, and another type of warmth hit him. His brows, which ware unkept and messy, furrowed together for a moment before he brushed right past the other man. Or he tried to. The second his feet attempted to cross over the threshold, he found himself running into some kind of invisible barrier. Really the way it played out, was he stubbed his nose.

And he cleared his throat a little bit, his adam's apple bobbing. Suave. "So uh. Gonna invite me in?" Way to go, Jameson. First time. Every time.


<Adley Reed> “What?” Adley asked. He probably sounded a bit like a caveman given his confusion. Truth was, Adley didn’t know too many people. He’d never been to Zaleski’s place because, as he’d recently found out, Zaleski didn’t have a place. And given a complete lack of any other vampiric acquaintances, as well as a complete lack of any kind of education on all things vampiric, he had no idea that needing to be ‘invited in’ was a thing. It had him laughing. It seemed ludicrous. Absolutely ridiculously insane that that was one of the things that the popular had got right.

“Are you serious?” he asked. Maybe Jameson was some kind of adept mime – a fact that Adley surely wouldn’t have found out in the short time they’d had to get acquainted. It could be some kind of prank. Was Jameson a prankster? But also there was half a solid certainty that Jameson wasn’t playing a game. And it was amusing, to keep him outside, on the doorstep. Oh, the fun he could have.

In the end, he decided that there was far more fun to be had inside. So, laughter tapering off, he affected a posh, British accent. “Please, sir. Won’t you come into my humble abode?” He said it with his shoulders squared and his back straight, one hand hooked around behind him, the other, palm up, gesturing to the inside of his apartment. It was still funny.


<Jameson Dade> He was being laughed at. That wasn't really uncommon for Jameson, who inadvertently amused just about everyone at some point or another with his uncanny ability to accidentally mess things up. To Jameson, the tones of laughter were a good thing, even if they were slightly at his expense. None the less, he fixed a 'look' on Adley. It wasn't a particularly effective look, if only because the effect was ruined by the tugging at the corners of his mouth and then the eventual break of his façade when he joined in on enjoying the humor of the moment. "Sure thing, Downton." He murmured before he finally slid into the apartment, which gave him the opportunity to properly look around.

The place had a lot of exposed brick, which gave the place an aged feel. The thing had probably been a warehouse in the early 1900's, or even before that. He could practically feel the age in it. His hoodie was unzipped, and he let it slip off of his shoulders. The thing slumped onto the nearest piece of furniture without much thought. He also happened to be wearing a tank top. The key difference between he and Adley was that Adley could actually pull the look off, whereas the whole thing just emphasized how scrawny Jameson was. But it was comfortable, aka the only thing Jay really cared about.

"Prithee, lord. Uh..." And that was about as much 'British' as he knew. And he only really knew it because he'd recently read Pratchett's Wyrd Sisters. The Fool had made quite the impression. "I finally remembered what I charged you last time."


<Adley Reed> The door swung shut as soon as Jameson was inside. It was heavy and wooden and clicked satisfactorily. Although there was a coat rack just inside, Adley didn’t make a move to shift Jameson’s hoodie. He really wasn’t that pedantic. He circled in behind Jameson, trying to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans, but they were big hands, and he could only really fit four fingers in each. He half hummed, half growled under his breath as Jameson mentioned his ‘payment’, but he grudgingly nodded.

“Yeah. Grim prospects. Death. It’s really not all that exciting,” he said. At least the nightmares had stopped. At least he didn’t wake up every night still, terrified that his eyes would open on that place. At least he wasn’t as exhausted as he had been. People might think it was a nice, restful walk in the park but it was like getting absolutely no sleep for a week. At least Adley had gotten used to the perpetual wound on his thigh, and he walked normally, as if he weren’t wounded at all. The constant ache and itch was ignored.

“Help yourself to whatever’s left in the kitchen,” he said, nodding toward the now-unused part of the apartment. “I noticed you could drink last night – there’s some rather expensive and prime alcohol that I can’t drink in there. Help yourself,” he said. Was it a ploy to distract Jameson? Maybe. Probably. Not that he wouldn’t open up and talk about death eventually, it just wasn’t a topic he was all thrilled about.


<Jameson Dade> Free booze? Hell yeah. Okay, so Jameson's drug of choice was. Well. Literally a drug, but he wasn't about to turn down something high end. Too much of his mother in him, and Mrs. Dade had been a real booze hound, the variety of which began drinking at dives as early in the morning as she got up, and didn't stop until she passed out. Summer vacations had been interesting when Jay had been very young, because a lot of the bar owners she'd gone to had let her drag him right along with her. As far as they were concerned, it was better than him being at home alone. At the very least, they could keep an eye on the boy. For a short time, Jamie had been the child mascot of a few of those local places, with their piss for beer and run down buildings.

He ambled towards the kitchen so he could begin to go through cabinets and the freezer. He always tossed his drinks into the freezer because alcohol didn't have the same freezing point as water. He wore jeans, though they were ratty, torn, and paint stained, not precisely messy, but they were snug on his lean form, emphasizing his too thin legs. His feet were stuffed into too big black boots which had not been tied, and were therefore left open. It looked almost like he might step out of them with each movement, but he never quite did.

He also picked up the aversion to the topic of death. "Yeah. I decided I wanted to charge something else." He called from the kitchen, even as he made his way back, bottle in hand. "I decided I want you to take your shirt off instead." Not that there was much shirt there to begin with. He was letting Adley off the hook though. That's what friends did with uncomfortable situations. Well. New friends. Good friends didn't, but they weren't that close yet.


<Adley Reed> Adley had long since given up on regret. The lamentation at the loss of the alcohol had passed. Or course he had tried to drink it himself, but it had only ended up swirling down the drain, mixed in with bloodstained vomit. It was such a waste, watching it curdle into the pipes, which was why they all remained in the cupboards. The Jägermeister and the Cognac, the Whiskey and the Rum – the Vodka in the freezer. There was even some wine somewhere. Adley reasoned that he might eventually have company that might want something to drink, and he’d be able to provide. It’s not like it could really go bad.

While Jameson rifled around in the kitchen, Adley had dropped onto the couch that doubled as his bed; from afar, it just looked like an ordinary old couch that may have seen better days. But it folded out into a bed. The space, for all intents and purposes, was actually really very small. He was dubious when Jameson said he’d changed his mind. What was this crude ****** going to ask for?

When he named his price, Adley laughed. But, being the egotistical, megalomaniacal man that he was, he just shrugged and complied. It didn’t matter how seedy it might be. How strange, to be taking his ‘shirt’ off for some man he’d just met when Adley himself didn’t swing that way. Was it cruel, tolead him on? Or was Jameson savvy enough to realise Adley was more into himself than anyone else? He sat up so he could peel the tank top off, tossing it over the back of the couch. Although he was toned, that’s all he was. Tight, stringent muscles the melded to his frame. There was no spare flesh, none at all.

“Does that satisfy your ‘needs’?”


<Jameson Dade> Jameson approached the old couch, dropping to sit on one of the arms. He had grabbed the Jagermeister for the sake of memories; it had been his mother's favorite. Licorice flavored; it had been the first thing Jameson had ever tried. He leaned back, his backside dropping onto the couch propper, his legs stuck over the arm, boots hanging in the air, even as he flopped, laying back to take up as much of the furniture as he could. One arm dangled off to the side, holding the bottle. The other lifted to rest against the back of the couch. He wore a rubbery band around his wrist in the color black, which said 'WWKCD?', on the other side, it said 'What would Kurt Cobain do?'.

On his other wrist he wore a similar band, though it said 'Fangs for the love blood!' Also set on black. He used the new perspective to eye the other man for a moment. Not necessarily a ton of muscles, but Adley certainly had definition. "I suppose, though what, praytell are you going to use to pay this time?" He asked and then he dug an elbow under himself so he could lean up and cross an arm over his body, twisting and tugging a cap. He could have dirtied one of Adley's glasses, but the thought literally never occurred to him. He used a thumb to flick the lid off in another direction. Not intentionally rude, Jameson just didn't much care for tidiness.

So he lifted the bottle to his lips, and sipped. Briefly. Before he put the thing flat on the ground and once more got comfortable. He nudged his fingers towards Adley's face. His intention was to offer up a wrist to feed from. However his hand went of its own accord and suddenly pressed against a pectoral and squeezed down. He glanced to his hand as if to say 'really', and then decided to let it drop, in case the thing got any funny ideas.


<Adley Reed> If Adley had every been desperate for money he’d probably have had no qualms turning tricks on the streets. Though his would have been a specific kind of style – he’d have whored himself to those who liked to be used, rather than the other way around. This, though? Showing off his body for another’s obvious pleasure – it was feeding Adley’s ego in the worst kind of way. He couldn’t see anything wrong with it.

[Jameson Dade]

<Adley Reed> The body he had was attained by daily visits to the gym and a lot of walking. Even though he had his jeep, in his line of work Adley also did a lot of walking. He took to the paths and the alleyways if it was a slow news night; he weaved in and out of the buildings, the danker, darker areas of the city. Sometimes he’d had to run from those he pissed off. Sometimes he had to chase a good story. He probably could have been a track start if he hadn’t pissed his schooling years away. Gym was the easiest class to skip – and those uniforms were for pansies. Although he had eaten a lot of fast food, he didn’t eat much of it, and it never took him long to burn it off.

Adley watched as Jameson reached out; as he touched his chest and then let his arm drop. Adley had positioned himself in the middle of the couch, his legs up on the coffee table in front of them, one arm up over the back of the couch. He arched a brow and shook his head. “What am I going to use to pay? I don’t think I understand the question,” he said. He had formerly been mesmerized by the arch of Jameson’s neck as he took the swig of Jägermeister, watching as the muscles undulated, as the tongue swallowed. Soon, he told himself. Soon, he would eat.


<Jameson Dade> The scene was far more intimate in appearance than it really was, but that was the camaraderie of addiction. Jameson was used to it, finding himself sprawled against someone, or tucked close, even if he didn't properly know them, even if he might not have liked them. If they had what he wanted, then he was their best friend. Why? Because it was more than chemical dependency. He loved getting high in the way Romeo loved Juliet, how a mother was supposed to love her child. He loved getting high a lot more than he loved himself, and about twice as much as almost anyone else. That was the hidden truth behind Jay and his antics, and his kindness, and that raw sincerity he brought to life nightly. Getting bitten was just another way to get to get to what he wanted.

"Well I mean. If you paid for the last pint with your shirt, what are you going to pay for tonight's with?" His tone was not obviously teasing. His hands could not be trusted to stay where they belonged, so he decided against offering a wrist, instead shifting, sliding to sit up so he could swing his legs around, and off of the arm of the couch. His boots stayed on as he flopped right back into place, his shoulder pressed against one of Adley's biceps, the two of them close as conspirators. "I do have to ask though. What do you do with your time when you're not chewing on unsuspecting vampires?" Because he knew surprisingly little about the other man. It wasn't a pre-requisite that he did, but there was something seedy about just turning up to get a little bit of enjoyment, and then leaving.

But maybe that's the way Adley wanted it. Jameson wasn't likely to complain one way or the other, so the balls was in the other vampire's court.


<Adley Reed> Adley nodded with a barely discernible ‘aaah’, before he shrugged. “I have cash. It’s how I was going to pay you last night. I used to be a blood thief, and it’s how I used to do it then. I figure the rates would be the same regardless of whether I’m human or vampire,” he said, and then smirked. “You have to work your way up to full frontal. What would I have to offer if you got it all so soon, eh?” he asked. Now with Jameson so close, it was really, really hard to focus on the guy’s face rather than on his neck. As a human, you’d have three meals a day. As a vampire, it was just the one. And Adley craved that one meal every day. Coveted it.

“I uhm… freelance photographer,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of the small desk tucked into the corner; to the filing the cabinets, where his camera was stored. There was a garage downstairs that he had converted into a darkroom, for when he was feeling old school and fancy. The jeep lived out on the street. The garage was also where he’d set up the forge. “And swords. I try to make swords. I’m not very good yet,” he said, forcing his gaze to Jameson’s face.

“You? What do you do?” he asked. It seemed like the kind of question one should echo.


<Jameson Dade> "Nah, I don't need cash." Jameson had plenty of that between selling what he stole from factories and warehouses around the city. The right parts could turn a tidy profit at the auction. Oils especially. For some reason, there was a huge market for them, and they could go for a pretty penny. Of course, Jay knew basically nothing about rituals, so he assumed there were quite a few grease monkies getting their hands on the goods and using it for...well, God (or whatever higher power applied) only knew. Then there were the regular deposits from Chase, who liked to treat Jay regularly. At first, it had started off as small tokens here and there, but when Jameson had confronted the human about it, things had only gotten worse. Specifically, the frequency and amount had gone up.

Not that Jamie was complaining. He'd grown up never having enough cash, so having it in abundance was good by him. He just tried not to blow it too often. Like when he dropped something like $300,000 just on hydroponics equipment for the fungus he used to make bombs. He also didn't believe in banks, but that was beside the point. He grinned at the mention of full frontal, but didn't comment. "I think that's it then. I'll charge you conversation. At least that way I won't be lying when I tell people I'm going to meet a friend." He decided. It would get Chase off his back at the very least.

"Freelance? Do you do like...news stuff? Like that one movie with Jake?" He asked as he let his own legs slide out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle so the heels of one could rest on the table in front of the pair. His arms loosely folded over his chest. "If so, you might have heard of a guy I know. Chase Charmody?" Media mogul. Local big wig when it came to the news. He was a night anchor who had eventually purchased one of the local news stations. High powered. Young. The whole 'virile' male thing applied. Naturally Jameson and he had a difficult relationship, because Chase was basically everything Jay was not.

"You'll have to show me some of your swords sometime. You've got the body for them. A blacksmith, I mean. The muscles." He tacked on, gradually adding more to his comment, as if to explain. "I uh. I'm in acquisitions? And I belong to a motor club, but you already knew that part. I help out around the Handle Bar. But mostly acquisitions. You have something you want, I'm usually your guy to get it." He also did some petty dealing, but that was beside the point.


<Adley Reed> Adley laughed and nodded. “Yeah. Like that movie with Jake. But I’m not as creepy or as… persistent,” he said, though he wasn’t sure that was the right word to describe the character. Adley hadn’t yet stepped into the territory of creating his own crime scenes to make a good news day – but he had once meddled with evidence to make a shot look better, and he had no qualms about getting up close and personal. It got him into trouble, sometimes – especially if there were witnesses around, or if the cops showed up. Or if the cops were there. Adley was very good at pushing boundaries.

“Chase. Sure. I don’t sell to the news studios too much – mainly to the papers. It’s how I met my sire. She owns and runs Harper Rock News. Though, she’s gone and fucked off without a word,” he said as he shrugged his shoulders. A couple of weeks ago, he’d raged at Abelle for disappearing. Now, it was just a thing. He was numb to it. Even if she came back – well, he wouldn’t be overly happy but nor would he care. She’d be the person she sold his photographs to, and nothing more. He nodded.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Sword parts? If you get your hands on those, I wouldn’t mind giving them a look. But, hey. I’m hungry,” he said. This conversation was exhausting when that itch started to climb the back of his throat; when his teeth ached, wanting only to sink into flesh. “I’m happy to talk. Whatever. We can talk all night. Can I eat first?” he asked. He didn’t even bother to shift. With the way Jameson was situated, it wouldn’t be hard to just… lean in. To bite from behind.


<Jameson Dade> Jameson had liked the movie. He'd loved Jake's character in it, because he'd been one shady mother-******, and had ultimately come out on top. Jay respected that kind of thing, a man who knew what he was about, knew what he wanted, and could make it happen, even if things went unpleasant for everyone else. Of course, Jamie didn't quite fit in with that crowd. He had moments of rare brilliance, but more often than not, he just stumbled along and got lucky. Usually he wasn't all that successful, or when he was, he fucked it up for himself.

Ozymandias, Jameson's old psychologist, had said he had a fear of success, because of the way he had been raised. Growing up in the house of an alcoholic and a drug dealer had quashed his sense of self-worth, and while he didn't lack for confidence, or at least affected confidence, he didn't see himself as a winner. So he would never really be one. Jameson had thought Ozzy should go **** himself with a hammer at right about that point, but he couldn't begrudge the man's perceptiveness.

"I know how that is, but in reverse." Jameson had not talked to his sire for months. Of course, there had been no effort to contact him either. Not from any of the Daradasi. None of them had reached out to him, called, emailed, texted. And then Jameson had been booted from the Daradasi CrowNet. He was a little bitter about it, because he assumed it was the sort of thing where you just were part of it, even if you wandered off to do your own thing for a while. Oh well. If they didn't want him, he could find people who did.

He didn't have too much to say about it otherwise. People came and went in Jameson's world. He tried not to hold it against them too much. He certainly took them for granted when they weren't around. If someone wasn't on his mind, they usually didn't exist to him. "Sure, I have been gathering parts for guns for myself, so I can do that too." He offered.

And then his grin grew a little bit, ends of his lips tightening before he tipped his head to one side, a hand lifting so he could tug hair out of the way. The curve of his neck was exposed and he wiggled to get just a little bit closer, twisting only enough so he could press his spine near Adley's back. "I'm always down for a good suck before chatting. You just had to say." He commented. In truth, it just made Adley more likable for Jameson. He could never trust people who tried to make small talk when they really wanted something else.


<Adley Reed> Adley arched a brow. In reverse? Jameson had fucked off without a word? Though – he didn’t stop to ask any questions, yet. Not about that, nor about the sword parts, though he did nod in thanks. A nod that Jameson might not have been able to see, given the trajectory of his gaze. He had revealed to Adley the thing that he wanted, and there was going to be no talking while it was sitting right in front of him.

No time was wasted. At first Adley didn’t touch Jameson. He kept one arm looped over the back of the couch, the other nestled into the fabric of the couch’s seat as he leaned forward, as his lips curled back to reveal the lengthened canines. Lips, tongue touched skin before the teeth pierced the vein, the first rush of blood always the best. Always such a surprise to the senses. And so very, very superior to the blood of humans. If human blood was savoury, vampire blood was sweet – and Adley had one hell of a sweet tooth.

It was only when he was lost in the moment that his body reacted; the predator taking from its prey, his arm dropped and wound around Jameson’s torso, holding him there as if he were a rabbit who’d soon kick and squirm to release itself from the jaws of the lion. Fingers curled into Jameson’s hair, not really pulling his head to the side but holding it there. It could have been perceived as intimate, but it really wasn’t. But then, some people did like to watch predators take own prey, didn’t they? Some people liked to be treated that way.

Breath hissed from Adley’s nostrils as his eyes closed, as he sucked at the twin wounds he had created, as he pulled the blood from Jameson’s body. And, again, while he did so, he was conscious of giving back what he took – of infusing the other man with the blood and vitality that he was so willing to give up.


<Jameson Dade> The talking abruptly stopped, but that didn't shock Jameson. The two of them had something to experience, and feeling it was more important than chatting about it, or shooting the **** about something else. Who they were when they were out on the strets. That. Well that was one version of themselves. Sure, it was valid. Adley was a photographer. Jameson was a thief. But there was a whole other world for them, a whole other identity whichch was defined by the need to feed, or be fed from, or to sate some primal urge. People, in general, wore masks. That was just the truth.

The reason it seemed so intimate was that those masks were removed when someone blindly took what they wanted from someone else. It was an illusion of affection.

Jameson felt the pain of teeth sinking into him. It was a little bit like a needle. You didn't notice it at first, not until you looked down and saw the metal sticking out of your skin, and then suddenly it was a pin prick. The feeding was like that. He didn't feel it right off. There was moisture against his flesh, and pressure. There was the sensation of being bitten into, like when Jameson had been a little kid and one of the other boys in class had chomped on him, to get a crayon or something. The sensation of the fangs slitting him open came later. It was a sharp sensation that sent a shiver down his spine. It tingled.

His breath caught, and he swallowed a couple of times as his eyelids grew a little heavier. He pressed back, closer to Adley. He wanted more. The truth of the matter was that the other vampire could have drained him bone dry and he would have been okay with it. He would have just slid into a coma and dreamed of far away places, and flying to heaven, or floating along the Nile. Fingers were in his hair, and there was a sound at the back of his throat, like a cracking.

He tried to control his breath grew more erratic and then mellowed out, until it was almost completely gone. Like he was holding it all in. In truth, he'd forgotten to keep it going. His stomach felt warm. His chest. Those feelings were fake, of course, some sort of 'phantom limb' or psychosomatic heat that said he should have been embarrassed to be affected so easily. He completely forgot about talking. Or any conversation. His entire world was right there, in the flex of a jaw, and the feeling of being torn open. And still the same, he could feel that every bit that was taken, was also returned. A nice gesture. "Keep going." He finally croaked.

To be continued...