killing time - if you want me to be your vampire (Johnilyn/Deppson)

death is as certain as the moon

The following dates back to the period when I still had motivation and ideas, meaning about a year ago (?)

So I had this idea while listening to If I Was Your Vampire, but while writing it - or rather while writing the smutty parts - I listened to Wight Spider and I think it really gets the mood of this whole thing across. I'll insert the song at the point where I began to listen to it while writing.

Have fun with this :) Looking forward to comments, as always <3
Btw: beware the smut, it begins pretty much right where I placed the vid. And I am sorry for writing this crap but I am not actually sorry because I am pretty drunk and don't really care.
Sorry.

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-late 90's-

So here I am, a night just like any other. Sitting at the bar of some rather empty, shabby club. The Gin is not good, but the soapy taste doesn't keep me from downing my fourth glass within half an hour. At least it's cheap and strong – not as strong as absinthe, but what can you do? Prohibition's been ended over sixty years ago and still you can't get a decent drink at a bar.

"Double of whatever he's having for me and this gentleman." A voice next to me says.

A man around thirty, good-looking and dressed in a black suit, sits next to me. I didn't hear him coming.

"Thank you." I address him while the barkeeper refills my glass, somewhere between charmed and weirded out at being called a gentleman.

I'm puzzled, not just because a complete stranger had just bought me a drink before I had even seen him, but mostly because he is wearing a suit. As I already mentioned, the club had seen better days. Well, no, it hadn't, the business had never been good and I'm pretty sure that the smell of vomit and stale beer had filled the rooms from the day the inn had opened up. But you get what I mean, he didn't fit in.

"Cheers." We toast and he empties his Gin even faster than me, waving at the bartender for another round. Taking a sip from his glass he looks at me questioningly. "I presume this is not your second drink tonight. Care to share?"

"Not really. Just the usual, you know? Break-up and getting fired in the same week."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Let's take your mind off of this, shall we?" His eyes are of such a dark color, it's difficult to distinguish iris and pupil in this dim lighting. But I am sure that he did wink at me before softly patting the pocket of his jacket, producing the sound of crackling plastic.

He gets up and takes my hand, leading me into the men's room.

Now, don't think I am a slut. Or stupid. I just wouldn't ever refuse free drugs, especially not on a day as fucked up as this. And he is extremely hot with his pale skin and the black hair, allowing me free view of his ass as he guides me into a cubicle, locking the door behind us.

He takes a surprisingly big baggy out of his chest pocket and – after cleaning it with disinfectant from the dispenser – prepares four solid lines on the toilet lid, each a good three inches long. He hands me a silver tube, inviting me to go first.

I bow down – which isn't easy due to the smallness of the stall – and sniff two of the lines pleasurably. Passing on the tube I get back up, enjoying the feeling of the coke kicking in. He snorts his lines as well and leans against the wall, his head tilted back and eyes closed, absorbed in the moment. He looks so good – his lips, painted in the color of blood, slightly parted. I would kiss him – and why not? I know that I am getting drunk and I can feel the blow kicking in, warmth washing through me, but why should that keep me from doing something imprudent? Just because I know I am not fully accountable? I should use it to make stupid decisions and mistakes. At the end of the day we're nothing but the sum of our fuck ups, because they're the only way we can learn to act better. And yes, I know that I know what to do, I know that I made this mistake over and over and over again – but honestly, I don't give a fuck.