Work Text:
Beckett normally doesn’t give a shit when he catches Ebrietas staring at him, but there’s something weird about the way he’s doing it tonight.
He raises an eyebrow at the taller man, but Ebrietas doesn’t come over to where Beckett is seated. He only gives him another fleeting glance and then looks back down at his sister, Desiree. He mumbles something that Beckett can’t read from his lips this far away. He isn’t shocked that Desiree can hear him, though, even though the club’s music was louder than most – Desiree hears everything.
Next to Beckett, Kash and Lars remain oblivious and continue to spit their usual bullshit to one another – something about who owes who money. Beckett is only half-listening. He adjusts on his barstool, puts one of his soles on the ground, and looks over at Ebrietas again, just waiting for him to meet his gaze for the umpteenth time.
And yes, the tall shadow of a vampire is usually watching—he’s security, it’s his job—but he has this soft spot for Beckett (that Beckett can’t entirely justify), which means he always lets him know when something is about to go down. Naturally, Beckett can’t help but think that’s what this is – a quiet signal. A warning. And yeah, maybe he’s being paranoid, but maybe he’s right, and it’s just taking him too long to get the fucking hint because he’s already pretty buzzed.
The realization makes Beckett hold off on his next swig and glance around to see if he can catch anything out of the ordinary.
Novec Six is packed with mortals—like every Friday night—and it’s even more crowded due to the holiday – the Summer Solstice. The club is bumping, crowded with sweaty humans full of alcohol and rushing blood. This includes, of course, Beckett, Kash, Lars, and every other lackey that management keeps around to discreetly make sure the club-goers aren’t getting out of control. They’re in charge of monitoring regulars – breaking up fights, collecting drugs, smashing the phones of people trying to record shit.
Ebrietas, though, and his sister, Desiree – they’re a part of the boss’s inner circle. As vampires, they’re in charge of monitoring the club’s premium members: other vampires who pay good money for a drink.
Because that’s what Novec Six is – a club run by vampires, for vampires, that allows in humans to both donate their blood and get the living daylight fucked out of them.
Even just thinking about it makes Beckett’s stomach turn.
His paranoia can’t help but recall his last conversation with his boss, which spurs Beckett into throwing back the rest of his drink, anyway. The movement catches Lars’ attention, who finally manages to look away from Kash for more than a second.
The blond nods his chin at Beckett and shouts, “What’s up?”
Beckett shakes his head. He looks back over at Ebrietas, and what do you fucking know? He’s staring at him again. He sucks his teeth, and not bothering to explain, ditches Kash and Lars. They won't give a shit if Beckett lives or dies, anyway, so long as his ghost would still pick up their slack.
Beckett makes his way past the dance floor. His ears start to buzz as he nears the DJ booth – the lounge is right off of it, and for good reason. As he approaches the dark hallway, he can already start to hear it. The sound of explicit, raging sex and the keens of mind-blowing, earth-shattering orgasms.
To Beckett it just sounds like conscious surgery.
He can’t help but find this shit so incredibly unserious. Performative. He understands that vampires need to feed, including Ebrietas, Desiree, and everyone else here that he’s become acquainted with. But dropping thousands on a drink? On one night of sex? How good can it fucking be? The donors are always either coked up, masochistic fucks, or just plain stupid – adrenaline junkies that were seeking the so-called pleasure of donating.
Beckett scoffs. Yeah, right.
He bypasses the line of eager donors waiting at the VIP lounge and nods at Dimitri—another member of their boss’s circle—who opens the velvet rope for him.
“Hey Beck,” he says smoothly. He walks his dark gaze down Beckett’s front. “Finally popping your cork?”
Beckett rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”
Dimitri laughs and pulls one of the maroon curtains back. As Beckett walks in, he leans down to whisper by his ear. “When the day comes, I call first sip.”
“You’re fucking annoying,” Beckett says, though the corner of his mouth tugs up. He shoves Dimitri away, then enters the lounge. The vampire’s resulting deep laughter is then drowned out by an intoxicating wave of sex.
The VIP lounge is a long, dark hallway that branches off into a dozen rooms. Their sheer black curtains are half-heartedly drawn, and visible through them is the endless rocking of bodies, copious sweat, and blood. It’s fucking everywhere. Dripping, squirting, splashing. Beckett cringes away from the heavy smell of metal and sex as he walks by. He rounds the corner at the end of the hall and finally finds where Ebrietas has disappeared to. Desiree is gone—maybe she slipped into one of the rooms—but her brother is here, speaking quietly with Wade.
Beckett can barely make out their conversation as he approaches.
“...supposed to fly out to New York...”
“...had to push it to next year…”
He taps the back of his hand on Ebrietas’ arm, like he hadn’t already sensed him approaching. Ebrietas turns toward him, his long, inky black hair draping on either side of his face. Beckett still shivers as he meets the red iridescence of his eyes, even after so long.
“The hell was that back there?” he asks Ebrietas, glancing at Wade. The only other mortal around not getting fucked into oblivion offers his fist in a bump. Beckett meets it half-heartedly.
It’s Wade who answers him. He coughs the smokey exhale of his cigarette into the elbow of his suit, then says, “Boss is looking for you.”
Beckett inhales slowly. He speaks through clenched teeth, “When is he not?”
“Watch it,” Ebrietas says darkly. Beckett gets it – he’s worried about him. He’s always fucking worried about him. He rolls out his shoulders, shoving off Ebrietas’ concern, but the vampire keeps going. “He’s in a bad mood tonight. One of the members went too far. A girl started fading.”
Beckett’s eyes narrow. So that’s what was wrong. “When?”
“An hour ago,” Ebrietas explains. “Desi and I took her upstairs. She’s alright.”
“Still bleeding?”
“Yeah. Still human.”
Beckett adjusts on his feet, feeling slight relief. “Who drained her?”
Ebrietas licks his fangs. “This group of vampires visiting from the south. Boss already dealt with them. Cut their business deal – thirty thousand down the drain.”
Alright, so Beckett’s relief was premature. Their boss is going to be in a foul fucking mood. But what did losing 30k have to do with him?
He glances at Wade, who holds Beckett’s eyes with a heavy expression. It confirms his suspicions – something else is going on.
“Fuck is it?” he asks. Wade swallows tightly, then takes another drag of his cigarette before offering it to him. Beckett accepts, feeling his stomach start to turn with bile. “Tell me.”
“Boss found out about last week,” Wade mutters. “Ebri tried to cover for you, but…”
Beckett whips his head up toward Ebrietas. His eyes dart around the vampire’s pale skin for bruises he knows he won't find, but Ebrietas looks away. The dark shadows of the hall cover his face.
“Fuck,” Beckett mutters. He brings the filter to his mouth, takes a deep lungful of smoke, and thinks. His mind tries its best to sharpen beneath the nicotine and alcohol, but ultimately fails. “I’m just gonna ditch.”
Wade laughs breathily. “Yeah, piss him off more, man.”
Beckett shakes his head. He takes another drag before offering the cigarette back to Wade, who declines it like he’s bad luck. Beckett huffs, flicks it to the floor, and stomps it out. He’ll probably get shit for that too, but what did it matter, at this point?
“Fuck it,” he says, shoving past them. A small part of him feels bad about being so cold toward Ebrietas, but Beckett can’t find it within himself to give him anything else.
The two don’t say anything as he makes his way toward their boss’s office, but it’s fine, Beckett gets it – he’s fucked.
—
Beckett pushes into his boss’s office without knocking, as usual, knowing that he either hears him coming, sees him on the cameras, or just knows the mere word of his summoning will bring anyone to his feet.
Law is standing by his desk.
Monday is with him, dutifully wiping their boss’s bloody knuckles clean with a cloth. It takes everything within Beckett not to roll his eyes, but he manages, mostly because he’s grateful Monday is there – Law is typically more calm when they’re around.
Monday doesn’t look up as Beckett enters—they only focus on finishing their task— but Law does.
His gaze slices over to Beckett. Slowly. Beckett meets his eyes and feels them like a flame to his skin.
“You wanted to see me,” he states, leaning against the wall. He shoves his hands into his pockets, a futile attempt to hide any evidence of his inebriation.
Of course, Law doesn’t answer. Not at first. When Monday’s around, he only ever focuses on them. He looks back down, watches carefully as they finish wiping the group of southerners’ blood from his fists, and then dismisses them once they’re finished.
Monday looks over at Beckett, then, and he has to work to suppress his unease. They're the most feral vampire Beckett has ever met. They were pure white - their skin, their waist-length hair, their eyelashes. The only drop of color across their entire form is their bright red eyes. They move like an animal – angling their head to observe Beckett, and fuck, they even sniff the air. Law does as well, his nostrils flaring, and Beckett knows they can scent the alcohol on him. Can hear his heart pounding. He grits his teeth and, within his pockets, habitually cracks one of his knuckles.
Monday keeps their eyes on him as they pass, unblinking. Their gaze communicates something Beckett can never decipher, and he almost wants to snap, “What?” But everyone learns, very quickly, to never disrespect Monday. He keeps his mouth shut.
The door closing behind them sounds like a gavel on a block. Once Monday exits, Law begins.
“Is your compensation not enough for you?”
Beckett fucking hates him. He wishes Law would give him what he was used to: punishment, right off the bat. But he doesn’t. The sick fucking bastard is always leisurely at first, instilling the thought that maybe this time around, the pain won't come. But it will. It always fucking does.
“What are you talking about?” Beckett drawls. He allows Law his moment. Oddly enough, he dwells in it, too.
Law humors their game. “You’ve resorted to selling drugs.”
Beckett swallows tightly and takes a slow, steadying breath through his nose. Law finally looks over at him after inspecting his hand. The way he flexes his fingers is almost robotic, like he’s made for breaking shit.
Ignoring his statement, Beckett answers his first question. “You know it’s not fucking enough.”
The curse is Law’s cue. With it, he stalks over to Beckett, his movements fluid like the predator he is, despite his tall form and packed muscle. He stands before Beckett and holds his gaze, the look within his own a calm sea of crimson fury. He inclines his chin toward the door.
“Lock it.”
Beckett closes off, unable to do anything but listen. He pulls his hand from his pocket, reaches blindly for the knob, and turns the metal latch that adorns it. Law prefers it this way: anyone can leave—if they can manage—but nobody can come in to save them. What’s worse – Law knows what a locked room means to Beckett. The only difference between his past and now is that his punisher is right there with him.
“You know how to make more,” Law states. His right eye flashes – only ever his right. Beckett stares into it, shooting for unaffected, as though Law doesn’t already have his heart in the palm of his hand.
He knows exactly what Law is referencing: not only their last conversation, but the one before that, and the one before that. Law wants Beckett to turn and join his inner-circle. Beckett both knows why and doesn’t understand him at the same time – his own fucked up sense of self-hatred and self-respect. He’s smart. Really fucking smart. Law could use someone like him, but he doesn’t invest in things with an expiration date.
Beckett shrugs. “Not interested.”
Law stares at him. Beckett struggles to hold his intense eye-contact and almost breaks before Law brings his hand to his collar. Before he can even process it, Law yanks him closer, then slams him back against the wall. It’s padded with velvet, but Beckett’s head still knocks back, and he bites his tongue. Immediately, he tastes the metallic rust of blood.
“Selling drugs in my lounge,” Law says quietly. “Were you a visitor, your body would already be in the sewer.”
Beckett turns his head and spits blood onto the floor. He made a vow to never swallow a drop of that shit, and he wasn’t planning on starting now. It’s probably symbolic – spitting Law’s own violence back at him. The vampire’s eyes grow dark, but Beckett can no longer find it within himself to care. On the contrary, some sick, self-destructive part of him actually wants to see just how bad it can get. His blood rushes with adrenaline – the most emotion that Beckett has felt since their last conversation.
It’s why he says, “Why the fuck would I want to become one of your blood-sucking bitches and be stuck with you for the rest of eternity?”
Delight sparks within Law’s eyes. His fangs flash under the lantern’s light as he laughs, and the amused sound makes Beckett’s heart drop. He realizes how far he’s taken this a second too late, because then, Law grabs his left hand—his dominant one—in his strong, unyielding grip, and then fucking crushes it.
Beckett’s mouth falls open as all of his breath leaves his lungs in an agonized cry. He immediately forces his jaw shut and drops his head against Law’s shoulder as he shudders through a trembling groan. Searing pain radiates up his arm, so severe he almost can’t believe it. With each pulse of his racing heart, he hears his bones crack all over again.
Law reaches up for his jaw and forces his head against the wall. Beckett hisses, his sounds falling into muffled whimpers as he attempts to suppress them. “L-Let go– fuck–” Blood collects between his teeth as Law only tightens his grip on his face. Beckett meets his eyes, because he can’t look anywhere else, and realizes what Law is doing.
He’s robbing him of his choice.
“Now you’re understanding,” Law says. He flexes his fingers around Beckett’s broken hand, causing him to cry out again. Beckett scrambles to grab onto his bicep and squeezes it tight, and Law’s resulting smile is barely noticeable. “Remember this pain. Even once your bones heal.”
“Please,” Beckett rasps, and fuck, he starts shaking. He feels submission uncoil within himself, eager to make an appearance. “Stop. Stop.”
His words are hardly a pathetic, broken whisper, but Law doesn’t care in the slightest. His smile only grows. It’s dangerous – wicked like a shark. He inhales deeply, scenting Beckett’s blood pooling in his waters, then loosens his grip.
Beckett gasps, panting, sounding no better than every other mortal down this hallway. Suffocating embarrassment swirls throughout him, and he discards his grip on his dignity and groans deeply before he can help it, chasing the cathartic release.
“I’m going to drain you now,” Law states, a reaper delivering a death sentence. “Your life is mine whether you survive or not.”
Beckett’s head swims with panic. “N-No you fucking aren’t–” he starts. Law lets go of him, and he stumbles, his legs weak, the world no longer beneath his feet.
Law stares down his nose at him, inhales deeply, and then sighs as though disappointed. “Your drunken state will make it easy.”
Beckett’s head hangs as he forces his eyes to focus. Then he catches sight of his hand’s warped appearance and feels all blood leave his head as his vision swims once more. “Y-You’ll be drunk, too.”
Law ignores him as he turns away. He moves toward his bookshelves and retrieves something from one, though Beckett can’t tell what. “You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You’re as good as a corpse, Beckett Miller. Perhaps once dead, you’ll have a little more life within you.”
“Fuck you,” Beckett spits. He watches as Law’s boots approach again, crushing the carpet beneath their soles. He stops in front of him and lifts Beckett’s face once more, his strong grip digging into either of his cheeks.
Beckett is completely at his mercy, which he knows doesn't exist. He can only stand still as Law plucks his glasses from the bridge of his nose and, still holding Beckett’s eyes, crushes them within his fist. There’s a fateful crack of glass and metal, and then the thump of broken frames falling to the floor.
Terror digs its claws within Beckett’s back. He still fights it. “I won’t sell my shit in here anymore,” he grits out stubbornly, a last-ditch attempt at receiving a final warning.
“You won’t sell anything anymore,” Law says. “You will not need to. Your potential is too great for drugs. Alcohol. Suicide. I am only killing you to help you reach it.”
Before Beckett can argue, Law grabs him by the hips and forces him over to the arrangement of lounge chairs at the center of his office. Instead of throwing him down onto the black leather, he kicks the coffee table out of the way, then shoves Beckett down to the rug. He falls to his knees, then elbow, still holding his broken hand to his chest.
Law squats down over him as he rolls Beckett onto his back, splaying him out. He then drops to a knee, grabs Beckett’s throat, and forces his jaw to the side. His pulse is pounding – Beckett can hear his blood rushing in his ears. He can’t suck in enough air to keep up with it – not before Law leans in toward his face.
“Most beg for their soul to be received before death,” he says darkly. “But you already have my favor.”
Without another word, Law ducks down and sinks his fangs into Beckett’s neck.
It’s hell.
Law is not careful with his fangs. They’re longer than any Beckett has ever seen, and he scrapes bones clean. Law does not bite and suck. He bites and chews. His teeth sink into Beckett again and again, piercing through flesh and muscle. Tearing. It’s over in seconds – when he gets to Beckett’s artery, his blood begins to spurt.
Beckett is nothing – reduced to a bleeding body. His world begins to fade around the edges. He stops screaming. His heart slows and sinks into his chest, empty and failing, and his mind drains of every mortal complication he’s ever had. In a second, all of it is over. Was for nothing.
Death turns out to be the only satisfactory moment of Beckett’s life. For a moment, he hangs onto the edge of reality, his consciousness still tied to the blood flowing down Law’s throat. The last thing Beckett can hear is him swallowing before everything else fades away.
It’s dark. Quiet. The pain is gone. It’s just Beckett, alone, in limbo. He begins to experience strange visions. Around him, there’s a ripple of his soul – the pieces of him that exist within other worlds. Every single one echoes misery. Pain. And Beckett knows then that he was always meant to be a tragedy. That this is it.
Then Law grabs his knife.
Beckett is gone – three quarters to death. Distantly, he hears the flick of a knife, then a blade jam into skin, drag, and split it open. Two strong fingers then force their way between his teeth and hold his jaws apart before hot liquid is gushing into his mouth.
Beckett chokes. He feels his body twitch and gag from far away, his soul trapped behind a thick, shadowy veil. He feels it swallow. With each deep gulp, light sears into the darkness around him. More, more, more, until it’s blinding. Beckett feels sensation return to his limbs. He’s being brought—forced—back.
No. No, no, no–
Law holds his bleeding wrist over Beckett’s mouth and lets his blood pour down his throat like wine. Beckett feels the delirious pull of being roused from a deep sleep before he jolts, his eyes shoot open, and he's tasting the best shit he has ever tasted in his life. Satisfaction hits him deep in his stomach. For the first time since he can remember, Beckett is euphoric. Desperately hungry. He craves something.
Blood.
Law only gives him enough to bring him to his senses. Then, he seals his wound, stands, and stares down at Beckett, satisfied.
“Welcome back.”
Beckett writhes beneath him. His organs shift. His thought patterns change. Both discard the useless. He feels the scars along his arms burn into smooth skin. His broken hand stretches, pops, and fuses back into place. There’s pain, but his brain no longer receives it the same way – it’s a warning signal, not debilitating. His fingers mend, straightening, and Beckett rolls his head toward his shoulder to watch it happen.
He sees it happen.
He can fucking see everything.
As blood seeps back into his veins, Beckett’s senses expand tenfold. He can make out fibers on the rug beneath his body. He can feel every crease of his clothing – can sense every item in the room and where it is in relation to another. He hears moans from the hallway, thudding bodies as they meet, and past that, the steady sound of music, the stomping shoes of the dancefloor, and an endless series of thrumming, overlapping heartbeats.
Beckett clenches his left hand into a fist, gasps for air, and then clutches desperately at his seizing throat. He sucks in air, but filling his lungs feels like an uncomfortable stretch. He forces it back out, but there’s still something missing.
“You’re thirsty,” Law explains, turning away. He strides over to his desk, and Beckett hears the released suction of what must be a small fridge. He’s still trying to unlearn how to breathe when Law comes back over with a blood bag. From what – his personal stash?
Beckett can’t even look at it. Sickened, he shoves away, then quickly pushes up to his elbows. He doesn’t even have to think about moving his limbs – he only has the mere thought, then suddenly, he’s where he wants to be. It’s as though he’s drugged. He forces his mind to accumulate, to adjust, anything to starve off panic and rush through to the process of acceptance, but he cannot.
He looks around, his eyes darting from surface to surface, observing what used to be such a boring life from a vibrant new perspective. The dimly lit office, deep within the VIP lounge of Novec Six. Law’s office.
Beckett looks over at him. Of course, Law is still steadily observing him, though he looks different. As a vampire, Beckett can now make out Law in his full potential. His sharp fangs. His strength. His allurement. Beckett was so fucking stupid as a human – talking down to a God. He hadn’t even known what he was dealing with. His mortal eyes couldn’t even see it. But now?
Without thinking, Beckett crawls backward, instinctively shrinking away from the threat standing over him.
Law only appears amused. He tosses down the blood and grabs Beckett’s shin in an anchoring grip, preventing him from moving back further. “You make for a remarkable vampire, Beckett.”
Beckett growls. “Shut the–”
Law yanks him closer, a tiger with a mouse. Without thinking, Beckett grabs him too, causing Law to let out a pleased rumble. Even as two immortals, Beckett can still tell his strength is nowhere near Law’s. And he's thirsty. He knows what it's like for vampires who need to feed - they're weak. Stupid.
“Show me,” Law requested.
“What?”
“Bare your teeth.”
Beckett snarls and pulls away, but Law grabs the back of his neck and forces him close once more. With his other hand, he reaches into Beckett’s mouth and pries his jaw open.
Instantly, he grins.
“Nearly perfect,” he says, admiring Beckett’s fangs. “Sharp. Polished. And in sets of two, almost like a female.”
Beckett manages to push away, coughing. Law laughs and stands once more. “You belong to me,” he states, as though finalizing a business transaction. “We share the same blood. I will not remind you again.”
Beckett turns onto his hands and pushes up, stumbling with new, endless agility.
“Take your time to get used to your immortality,” Law says, rounding his desk. “Then find me.”
Finding his balance on one of Law’s bookshelves, Beckett forces himself to stand, no longer weighed down by mortal fatigue. He catches a glimpse of himself in a gilded mirror, then tears his gaze away, horrified. His newly slitted pupils cut over to Law. “Bullshit. This doesn’t change anything.”
“You’re not showing good manners,” Law states, as though he’s simply teaching Beckett how to behave, and not belittling him. “It’s impolite to snarl. You’re hungry. Eat something, then we can discuss what this means for you.”
Beckett recoils, rejecting every word. Feeding himself has never been easy, and now, he was supposed to–
His eyes cut to the blood bag again. Then, dreadfully, he drags them away, his nostrils flaring, because it’s unappealing, the sac of cool plastic. What Beckett wants is blood. The hot stream that Law had fed him. He feels his fangs lengthen and stretch from his gums. His ears perk at the sound of the dancefloor again. Of bodies and bodies. He catches a trace of the hallway’s heavy scent and shivers.
“Go,” Law says, losing patience.
Beckett briefly wonders what Law would do if he ran. If he kills himself. If he falls into permanent hibernation because he refuses to drink. Beckett looks at him, burning with anger and feeling more powerless than he ever has in his life, and Law only gazes at him as though through glass – Beckett is a controlled variable in his live experiment.
If he could, he’d be sick.
Beckett unlocks the door, unable to think of anything but filling his stomach. He forces his way out of Law's office and back into the lounge.