Path of the Vampire forum

<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> 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.