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veiledndarknessTitle: A Human Link
Author: veiledndarkness
Rating: R
Pairing: Deacon Frost/Scud (Josh)
Summary: He’s caught in their world, trapped in the middle of their fight.
Disclaimer: The characters within are not mine, no harm is intended, and no profit has been made.
*I’ve messed about with the storylines from Blade & Blade 2. For now, let’s pretend neither movie went as we’ve seen it.*
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
X
Scud knew without asking that he wasn’t allowed to do much of anything. He’s the pet of a powerful vampire and in a sense, very much like a lapdog. It’s expected that he just sit, sit and wait for his Master and be grateful for any scrap of attention he’s given.
He resents the hell out of it until the venom flows into his veins, and even then the resentment lingers far under the euphoria. It makes the invisible collar around his neck feel tighter. And now, having been banished to Deacon’s bedroom, he feels more dull rage than anything else. His Master had made good on his threat to keep him confined here and that makes him itch.
There isn’t a single window in the room and he hates it more than he thought possible. He can’t tell if it’s daytime or not and he misses the sight of the sun in the sky something fierce. There’s no clock in Deacon’s bedroom and with no sense of time, he feels like climbing the walls or clawing at the expensive fabrics that cover the surfaces.
It’s maddening, being trapped like this, and after a few hours, there’s a disturbing amount of cigarette butts in the fancy glass ashtray, far more than before. There’s packs of cigarettes brought to him daily by the same rotation of guards, though he doesn’t always sees them come or go. He’s taken to biting his nails again; a bad habit of his from childhood, one that he never quite shook.
He moves from the chair by the bed, to the thick carpet on the floor, back to the plush bed, a lit cigarette trailing from his hand at all times. Hours pass and he feels his sanity beginning to unravel. There are no panels to count in the ceiling, no sharp objects to tempt him, no computers, not even a fucking pen to draw with.
Food comes for him at regular intervals and he supposes he should feel gratitude that his Master remembers to feed him; that Deacon remembers that humans can’t live on a diet of blood. He’s heard whispers from one of the guards to the other that drops food off in metal boxes for him, and they remark on the fact that Deacon actually seems to care about his health.
There’s a box waiting for him on the end table that sits next to the chair that he often sprawls across. He hasn’t had much of an appetite yet today, if it even still is today, in fact, he feels downright lethargic and weak. There’s a flicker of fear that maybe his food is poisoned and he kind of wants to ignore the food in case it is, but hunger wins out eventually, and he picks at it, forcing himself to eat at least a bit.
There’s nothing for him in this room, this jail cell that feels more confining than a coffin, and he hears little laughs from time to time and it’s with a creeping awareness that those laughs belong to him, and it’s then that tears sting his eyes. He’s trapped, well and completely trapped, and on the brink of losing his mind.
X
Hours pass, though it might have been days, before he hears the door open and there’s a swell of relief that flows through him at the sight of Deacon in the doorway. He sits up from the lush carpeting where he’d been lying, eyes overly bright in the dim lighting.
Deacon’s studying him, clever eyes looking him over and there’s a somewhat cruel twist to his lips that has Scud catching his breath. “Miss me, pet?” he asks, and there’s a hint of a sneer in his words.
Scud thinks of several witty responses and discards each one as quickly as they come to him, his mouth dry as he feels his head bob up and down obediently. His fingers itch for a cigarette and he darts a glance at Deacon, hoping he looks submissive enough for the moment.
“I’m sure,” Deacon lets the door shut behind him, black shirt shifting with the darting movements he makes as he crosses the room. He’s cupping Scud’s cheek with one hand, cold fingers digging in this side of painful. “You’ve been pouting again.”
Well there’s no denying that.
Scud stares at the carpeting between Deacon’s expensive boots, his mouth compressed to a firm line to keep any sarcastic quips from escaping. He shrugs a little, wishing he could tell him how much seeing the sun means, but the words fail him. He hates to beg and if this is his punishment for rising to Quinn’s taunts, then he won’t be the first to crack.
“I don’t enjoy a pet that sulks,” Deacon says, his tone light and verging on thoughtful. “I don’t have any use for a pet who doesn’t appreciate the gifts he’s been given. I could have just as easily walked past you in that alleyway.”
Scud bites his tongue, tastes blood, and winces. He doesn’t want to be a pet, he never did but there’s gratitude under his resentment. Deacon saved him, kept him locked away from worse things than horny female vamps, and he touches Scud with a reverence at times that steals his breath but he can’t block out the memories from before, his life no matter how bleak it had been before all this and he realizes too late that Deacon’s staring at him, correctly guessing his line of thought.
“Maybe I should have left you there, let them feed on you,” his nails are digging in harder, pinpricks of pain in Scud’s cheek, but still he bites down on his tongue, refusing to rise to the baited words above him. “Maybe that’s where you belong, down in the gutters with the rest of your kind, the rest of the cattle.”
There’s little pink streaks on Scud’s cheek from Deacon’s nails, marks that feel icy hot to the touch, and he stares down at the carpet, his breath coming in quick pants between his ears. He can admit to being afraid, terribly afraid of Deacon’s moods and he seems more irritable today and that’s never good news. He chews on the inside of his cheek, fighting the quivers that run between his shoulders.
Deacon drops his hand with a snort and paces near him, muttering under his breath, his pale hands fisted tightly. “Senile motherfuckers,” he spits as he paces one length of the room, then down another length, his face scrunched with anger. “And they’re happy, oh so happy to keep things the way they are!”
Scud lifts his eyes, watching Deacon from under his eyelashes, and even though he knows it’s a bad idea, the questioning words are tumbling from his lips. “…What, uh…that is…”
Yeah, it’s a mistake and he tries not to cringe when Deacon glares at him, that cold harsh glare that makes his skin crawl when it lands on him. “Did I tell you to speak?!”
His throat bobs as he tries to swallow over the sour lump of fear that’s blocking his air and Scud feels his fingers shake. Deacon looks more than mad, more than pissed, more than furious even and he’s never looked so angry before this moment. “No…”
Deacon’s lifting him clear off the floor in a movement that’s too fast for human eyes and Scud’s clawing at the hand around his throat, any trace of the man Deacon once was is washed away in the fury that’s etched in his expression now. He hisses that terrible sound that Scud knows isn’t English and his eardrums throb with pain, thundering with each twisted word.
“You don’t know,” Deacon rasps finally, his voice flowing back into English as he brings Scud in closer, his lips curled back in a vicious snarl. “You don’t have a fucking clue, human, what it means to be afraid, not yet. If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it.”
There’s a feeling of weightlessness before Scud hits the floor and he’s laughing that horrible laugh again, those pained, almost hysterical giggles wrenching up his abused throat and even though his eyes are watering, he can’t hold them back. Tears well up over his lashes and he’s got his eyes squinted tight but the crazed laughs don’t fade, not even when he’s cowering from the vampire above him. He’s afraid, terrified really, but he can’t help it. This is his saviour, the one who didn’t let him die, who won’t let him leave, the one who’s punishing him for some imagined transgression, and yet, he’s cowering at his feet and laughing like nothing matters.
“You think this is funny?!” Deacon demands coldly, watching Scud’s fit of hysteria with detached anger.
Scud bites down on his bottom lip, stifling the laugh until he’s laying there, his throat burning, finger marks marring his skin. Blood wells up and beads down his lip, falling to his chin and he feels all amusement fade away as Deacon’s eyes flash, that look of bloodlust that he knows all too well.
Deacon’s kneeling over him, cradling his head in both hands, his lips parted, sharp white teeth exposed to the dim light and Scud holds his breath, feeling the slick trail of blood welling under his lip and then Deacon’s there, his tongue flicking up and over the red stain on Scud’s chin.
He hates the moan that escapes him, the sign of weakness that betrays him and he’s closing his eyes as Deacon’s teeth graze his skin, those cool lips brushing down over his chin, down to his neck and he’s sighing into the sting of the teeth that slide into his skin, into his body and the euphoria sweeps over him anew and he forgets why he was afraid, why he had laughed like a madman only moments before.
X
Deacon’s calmed by the feeding, his fingers trailing through Scud’s hair, brushing the messy strands this way and that. Scud lies as he’s been arranged on Deacon’s bed, submissively sprawled over the sheets, his head on Deacon’s stomach, his skin on display for his Master. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, slow and steady, and the pain in his throat is minimal. He’s floating on the venom that drugs him and he smiles a little as Deacon’s fingers expertly rub along his scalp.
“They think I’m reckless,” Deacon murmurs some time later, if its minutes or hours, Scud’s not sure. “That I’m not the same, not on their level.”
Scud gazes at him, his lips quirking a little. “Who does?”
Deacon smirks and tugs a lock of Scud’s hair playfully. He’s too sated to be annoyed by the question. “The Elders,” he says with great disdain. “Those ancient pricks, they’re so far behind the times, it’s a fucking joke. All this blah, blah shit, let’s all co-exist, let’s hold hands and be friends and keep up the back alley agreements and promises with the humans. They’re delusional.”
He runs his thumb over Scud’s ear, somewhat pleased by the shivery reaction of his pet. “They want things to stay the same, pretend that things haven’t changed, that there’s no risk this way, never mind that Daywalker bastard. We’ve got bigger problems, but let’s pretend that humans can still be our allies.”
Scud stills at the word ‘daywalker’, his breath catching despite the bliss that courses through his blood. He listens to Deacon ramble on about the Elders, about one in particular, one named Dragonetti, and it occurs to him that he’s probably not supposed to know such things, but he listens anyway, and when Deacon stops talking, he turns his neck up in offering, having felt the renewed tension grow in his Master’s body.
Deacon growls with approval and he leans in, licking at the sensitive spot below Scud’s ear and Scud closes his eyes again, gasping in arousal despite his curiosity. He thinks briefly of the words Deacon had let slip and there’s a frisson of fear that slithers up his spine nonetheless.
X
Author: veiledndarkness
Rating: R
Pairing: Deacon Frost/Scud (Josh)
Summary: He’s caught in their world, trapped in the middle of their fight.
Disclaimer: The characters within are not mine, no harm is intended, and no profit has been made.
*I’ve messed about with the storylines from Blade & Blade 2. For now, let’s pretend neither movie went as we’ve seen it.*
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
X
Scud knew without asking that he wasn’t allowed to do much of anything. He’s the pet of a powerful vampire and in a sense, very much like a lapdog. It’s expected that he just sit, sit and wait for his Master and be grateful for any scrap of attention he’s given.
He resents the hell out of it until the venom flows into his veins, and even then the resentment lingers far under the euphoria. It makes the invisible collar around his neck feel tighter. And now, having been banished to Deacon’s bedroom, he feels more dull rage than anything else. His Master had made good on his threat to keep him confined here and that makes him itch.
There isn’t a single window in the room and he hates it more than he thought possible. He can’t tell if it’s daytime or not and he misses the sight of the sun in the sky something fierce. There’s no clock in Deacon’s bedroom and with no sense of time, he feels like climbing the walls or clawing at the expensive fabrics that cover the surfaces.
It’s maddening, being trapped like this, and after a few hours, there’s a disturbing amount of cigarette butts in the fancy glass ashtray, far more than before. There’s packs of cigarettes brought to him daily by the same rotation of guards, though he doesn’t always sees them come or go. He’s taken to biting his nails again; a bad habit of his from childhood, one that he never quite shook.
He moves from the chair by the bed, to the thick carpet on the floor, back to the plush bed, a lit cigarette trailing from his hand at all times. Hours pass and he feels his sanity beginning to unravel. There are no panels to count in the ceiling, no sharp objects to tempt him, no computers, not even a fucking pen to draw with.
Food comes for him at regular intervals and he supposes he should feel gratitude that his Master remembers to feed him; that Deacon remembers that humans can’t live on a diet of blood. He’s heard whispers from one of the guards to the other that drops food off in metal boxes for him, and they remark on the fact that Deacon actually seems to care about his health.
There’s a box waiting for him on the end table that sits next to the chair that he often sprawls across. He hasn’t had much of an appetite yet today, if it even still is today, in fact, he feels downright lethargic and weak. There’s a flicker of fear that maybe his food is poisoned and he kind of wants to ignore the food in case it is, but hunger wins out eventually, and he picks at it, forcing himself to eat at least a bit.
There’s nothing for him in this room, this jail cell that feels more confining than a coffin, and he hears little laughs from time to time and it’s with a creeping awareness that those laughs belong to him, and it’s then that tears sting his eyes. He’s trapped, well and completely trapped, and on the brink of losing his mind.
X
Hours pass, though it might have been days, before he hears the door open and there’s a swell of relief that flows through him at the sight of Deacon in the doorway. He sits up from the lush carpeting where he’d been lying, eyes overly bright in the dim lighting.
Deacon’s studying him, clever eyes looking him over and there’s a somewhat cruel twist to his lips that has Scud catching his breath. “Miss me, pet?” he asks, and there’s a hint of a sneer in his words.
Scud thinks of several witty responses and discards each one as quickly as they come to him, his mouth dry as he feels his head bob up and down obediently. His fingers itch for a cigarette and he darts a glance at Deacon, hoping he looks submissive enough for the moment.
“I’m sure,” Deacon lets the door shut behind him, black shirt shifting with the darting movements he makes as he crosses the room. He’s cupping Scud’s cheek with one hand, cold fingers digging in this side of painful. “You’ve been pouting again.”
Well there’s no denying that.
Scud stares at the carpeting between Deacon’s expensive boots, his mouth compressed to a firm line to keep any sarcastic quips from escaping. He shrugs a little, wishing he could tell him how much seeing the sun means, but the words fail him. He hates to beg and if this is his punishment for rising to Quinn’s taunts, then he won’t be the first to crack.
“I don’t enjoy a pet that sulks,” Deacon says, his tone light and verging on thoughtful. “I don’t have any use for a pet who doesn’t appreciate the gifts he’s been given. I could have just as easily walked past you in that alleyway.”
Scud bites his tongue, tastes blood, and winces. He doesn’t want to be a pet, he never did but there’s gratitude under his resentment. Deacon saved him, kept him locked away from worse things than horny female vamps, and he touches Scud with a reverence at times that steals his breath but he can’t block out the memories from before, his life no matter how bleak it had been before all this and he realizes too late that Deacon’s staring at him, correctly guessing his line of thought.
“Maybe I should have left you there, let them feed on you,” his nails are digging in harder, pinpricks of pain in Scud’s cheek, but still he bites down on his tongue, refusing to rise to the baited words above him. “Maybe that’s where you belong, down in the gutters with the rest of your kind, the rest of the cattle.”
There’s little pink streaks on Scud’s cheek from Deacon’s nails, marks that feel icy hot to the touch, and he stares down at the carpet, his breath coming in quick pants between his ears. He can admit to being afraid, terribly afraid of Deacon’s moods and he seems more irritable today and that’s never good news. He chews on the inside of his cheek, fighting the quivers that run between his shoulders.
Deacon drops his hand with a snort and paces near him, muttering under his breath, his pale hands fisted tightly. “Senile motherfuckers,” he spits as he paces one length of the room, then down another length, his face scrunched with anger. “And they’re happy, oh so happy to keep things the way they are!”
Scud lifts his eyes, watching Deacon from under his eyelashes, and even though he knows it’s a bad idea, the questioning words are tumbling from his lips. “…What, uh…that is…”
Yeah, it’s a mistake and he tries not to cringe when Deacon glares at him, that cold harsh glare that makes his skin crawl when it lands on him. “Did I tell you to speak?!”
His throat bobs as he tries to swallow over the sour lump of fear that’s blocking his air and Scud feels his fingers shake. Deacon looks more than mad, more than pissed, more than furious even and he’s never looked so angry before this moment. “No…”
Deacon’s lifting him clear off the floor in a movement that’s too fast for human eyes and Scud’s clawing at the hand around his throat, any trace of the man Deacon once was is washed away in the fury that’s etched in his expression now. He hisses that terrible sound that Scud knows isn’t English and his eardrums throb with pain, thundering with each twisted word.
“You don’t know,” Deacon rasps finally, his voice flowing back into English as he brings Scud in closer, his lips curled back in a vicious snarl. “You don’t have a fucking clue, human, what it means to be afraid, not yet. If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it.”
There’s a feeling of weightlessness before Scud hits the floor and he’s laughing that horrible laugh again, those pained, almost hysterical giggles wrenching up his abused throat and even though his eyes are watering, he can’t hold them back. Tears well up over his lashes and he’s got his eyes squinted tight but the crazed laughs don’t fade, not even when he’s cowering from the vampire above him. He’s afraid, terrified really, but he can’t help it. This is his saviour, the one who didn’t let him die, who won’t let him leave, the one who’s punishing him for some imagined transgression, and yet, he’s cowering at his feet and laughing like nothing matters.
“You think this is funny?!” Deacon demands coldly, watching Scud’s fit of hysteria with detached anger.
Scud bites down on his bottom lip, stifling the laugh until he’s laying there, his throat burning, finger marks marring his skin. Blood wells up and beads down his lip, falling to his chin and he feels all amusement fade away as Deacon’s eyes flash, that look of bloodlust that he knows all too well.
Deacon’s kneeling over him, cradling his head in both hands, his lips parted, sharp white teeth exposed to the dim light and Scud holds his breath, feeling the slick trail of blood welling under his lip and then Deacon’s there, his tongue flicking up and over the red stain on Scud’s chin.
He hates the moan that escapes him, the sign of weakness that betrays him and he’s closing his eyes as Deacon’s teeth graze his skin, those cool lips brushing down over his chin, down to his neck and he’s sighing into the sting of the teeth that slide into his skin, into his body and the euphoria sweeps over him anew and he forgets why he was afraid, why he had laughed like a madman only moments before.
X
Deacon’s calmed by the feeding, his fingers trailing through Scud’s hair, brushing the messy strands this way and that. Scud lies as he’s been arranged on Deacon’s bed, submissively sprawled over the sheets, his head on Deacon’s stomach, his skin on display for his Master. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, slow and steady, and the pain in his throat is minimal. He’s floating on the venom that drugs him and he smiles a little as Deacon’s fingers expertly rub along his scalp.
“They think I’m reckless,” Deacon murmurs some time later, if its minutes or hours, Scud’s not sure. “That I’m not the same, not on their level.”
Scud gazes at him, his lips quirking a little. “Who does?”
Deacon smirks and tugs a lock of Scud’s hair playfully. He’s too sated to be annoyed by the question. “The Elders,” he says with great disdain. “Those ancient pricks, they’re so far behind the times, it’s a fucking joke. All this blah, blah shit, let’s all co-exist, let’s hold hands and be friends and keep up the back alley agreements and promises with the humans. They’re delusional.”
He runs his thumb over Scud’s ear, somewhat pleased by the shivery reaction of his pet. “They want things to stay the same, pretend that things haven’t changed, that there’s no risk this way, never mind that Daywalker bastard. We’ve got bigger problems, but let’s pretend that humans can still be our allies.”
Scud stills at the word ‘daywalker’, his breath catching despite the bliss that courses through his blood. He listens to Deacon ramble on about the Elders, about one in particular, one named Dragonetti, and it occurs to him that he’s probably not supposed to know such things, but he listens anyway, and when Deacon stops talking, he turns his neck up in offering, having felt the renewed tension grow in his Master’s body.
Deacon growls with approval and he leans in, licking at the sensitive spot below Scud’s ear and Scud closes his eyes again, gasping in arousal despite his curiosity. He thinks briefly of the words Deacon had let slip and there’s a frisson of fear that slithers up his spine nonetheless.
X
