Indentured
[ deacon frost/scud . AU ] R
for the CLM metaphorically hot/cold challenge
Much to Scud's surprise, the back room of the tattoo parlor, where the actual inking happens, is nothing like the rest of the place. He half expects it to be a continuation of the decor upfront - a weird blend of bondage, thrift, and 1970s drug culture - but there are no wooden bead curtains or shelves lined with unidentifiable devices made of rubber and leather. He finds no incense burning (the heavy scent of patchouli and rosewood) and no ratty couches with threadbare upholstery (cloth the color of nicotine stains). There is no clutter inside the room, no useless knickknacks or drug paraphernalia, and there is no real furniture - just four bare walls of mint green tile, a chair, and a Spartan metal cart furbished with a tattoo artist's equipment.
There is also a large, ugly drain set in the middle of the bare cement floor and it makes Scud hesitate slightly in the doorway. The place reminds him of an abattoir (a strange hybrid of industry, death, and sterilization). Beneath the sharp chemical mask of too much disinfectant, he can still smell the lingering traces of dried blood (dull and rusty against his senses). He can only imagine what other uses they have for this place, late at night when the sun's on the other side of the world and even the darkest shadows of all the alleyways are painted grey by the moon.
"Come on in, man," someone says.
Deacon is inside, waiting for him, leaning up against one of the pristine walls and smiling - the tips of his incisors beautifully exaggerated against the curve of his bottom lip. A woman is waiting there with him and Scud assumes she must be the one who will mark him because she gestures for him to sit. Her strikingly androgynous face is adorned with metal hoops and tiny studs of various sizes and her pale white arms are criss-crossed with stunning patterns of lacy, intricate inkwork. When she turns away from him to ready her equipment, he notices a small glyph (Deacon's) tattooed on the back of her neck, almost completely obscured by the edge of her dramatic, sweeping hairline.
"You're not one of them?" Scud asks, his eyes darting back and forth between her and Deacon in the corner.
She doesn't answer, only says: "This is going to hurt" with a dark, satisfied mirth glittering in her eyes. The tattoo gun makes a horrible high-pitched grating sound when she turns it on, her spidery, latexed fingers scuttling across his face before taking hold of his bottom lip. A bitter, metallic taste fills his mouth, coupled with an acute pain that spreads throughout his body in bright, shivering waves.
When the process is over and done with and the woman is gone, Scud spits a pinkish black blossom of blood, ink, and saliva onto the floor. He wants a glass of water, something to rinse the harsh taste out of his mouth, but Deacon stops him before he can spit again, taking hold of his face with insistent hands. He gently pulls at Scud's bottom lip to expose the fresh tattoo, his eyes filled with some indistinct want, burning like pale fire (a faintish blue, like the hearts of glaciers).
Deacon watches for a moment as the tiny red droplets well up along the lines of the glyph, delighting in the site of his name etched in blood against skin. "Nice," he says, his voice little more than a smooth purr in his throat. It hurts when Deacon finally leans forward to kiss Scud, his tongue lapping hungrily at the inside of Scud's mouth. His teeth pinch against Scud's nervous, anxious lips, and Scud winces despite himself, pulling away slightly with a sudden jerk.
Deacon smiles (another pointed, vicious grin) and pulls Scud closer, whispering quietly, "very nice," with a small red smudge at the corner of his mouth.
...
Scud wakes as the sun starts to disappear between the buildings, the last slivers of light pouring over the city in sweeping rays of yellow and orange and deepening pink. The bedroom is filled with a golden darkness as he walks groggily over to the windows, the muscles of his body stiff and weary. He doesn't dare open the blinds when Deacon's in the room, so he just presses one of his hands against the shuttered slats, trying to feel what little bit of sunlight he can through the wood against his palm.
It's been two and half weeks since Scud last saw the sun, but he doesn't mind it all that much. When he tries to recall the feeling of it upon his face, the sensation returns to him as a muddled and blurry memory (a faint tingling across his cheeks). He remembers that standing in the sun used to remind him of being with Deacon, a kind of overwhelming burn that festers right beneath the skin and lingers long into the dimly lit moments of the night.
"You're up early," a voice whispers in his ear, and it's Deacon, his bare chest pressed up against the curve of Scud's back, his hands pulling him back to bed with sharp, biting nails. Everything is still damp from the sweat and sex of the night before, a beautifully familiar musky scent clinging to the sheets and Deacon's immaculate skin as he crawls over Scud's body, Scud bowing upwards to meet Deacon's hands and his mouth and the caress of his unrelenting tongue.
"Fuck fuck fuck," Scud mutters between gritted teeth, his lips raw and swollen from the ferocity of Deacon's kiss. When they fuck, he bites down on the heel of Deacon's palm pressed against his mouth, and a sweet tang blooms upon his taste buds - an addictive wash of bitter orange and copper red. Deacon mumbles something in his ancient language (a strange, sick satisfaction in his voice) and Scud drinks the words greedily, like licking honey from the edge of a razorblade.
Scud feels the brilliant sensation of Deacon's teeth scrapping against his fluttering pulse point as he murmurs against his flushed skin and Scud shudders deeply, thinking that if this is what life is like with Deacon, he never wants to see the light of day again.
