#yandere!deacon frost

[charlizekkelly]

little mortal

Yandere prompt: “Let me go, please.”

Pairing: Reader x Deacon Frost (Blade 1998)

Word Count: 923

Authors note: Guess who rewatched Blade and needed to write something for this man because he’s criminally unappreciated…yup. Me. I’m clearly a whore for murderous vamps.

Silence clamoured in her ears, deafening and resolute as her heart collided with her ribcage and her gaze darted across the room in search of an escape. The white walls were devoid of windows, the frigid tiles beneath her bare feet polished and gleaming as her stare locked on a door moulded into the walls and she rushed toward it.

Her fingertips skittered over the seamless design, trembling despite the tight grip she held on her emotions as she tried to find a way to open it–to escape. To live. The white-bathed room unnerved her, drenching her mind with a terror she longed to dispel because she knew it wouldn’t save her.

Not now.

Not when his lackeys had tossed her into the simply furnished room, left to await his appearance like he hadn’t been waiting months to drag her into his domain.

Moreover, she knew she shouldn’t have hesitated in fleeing the city when she’d had the chance. She should have left without looking back. But she didn’t, instead, she’d fooled herself into believing that he’d lose interest. That he’d forget about her. That Deacon would let her go like she had foolishly assumed. How wrong–naive–she’d been to believe that he’d discard his twisted interest, that he’d lose sight of what he’d set his mind on. 

Her head swivelled to locate a phantom sound, focus shifting away from the door as she crept around the simple seating area and her footsteps echoed across the room. Something shifted in her peripherals in the same moment she froze in the middle of the room, the open doorway bathed in the room’s white light as she turned to face the slate-eyed brunette who leant against the door frame. 

His features seemed sharper, more intense than the last time she’d seen him from the opposite side of the club. His irises were as grey as the ashes of an inferno, alight with a disconcerting quality that trailed across her skin when he stepped into the room and his navy-blue dress shirt rippled with the fluid movement.

A sharp breath shuddered past her lips, ghosting the walls as she skittered several paces back with each step he took in her direction. Desperate to create space between herself and the dark-haired vampire who’d tracked her every move in the months after he first laid eyes on her at the club–his club. Her heart jolted in the caverns of her chest as Deacon’s lips curled into a dangerous grin at the sound. 

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re not afraid of me, are you?” He drawled, continuing his approach like she sought to keep the distance between them.

“N-no.” She said, shaking her head as if it’d purge her body of the terror she felt. 

Deacon cocked his head, gaze sparking with a baneful glean. “No?”

“No,” she repeated firmer than before as she squared her shoulders and her back collided with the wall.

Dread borrowed within her chest as she glanced at the wall, turning ever-so-slowly back to Deacon when the weight of his gaze seemed to sink into her and she startled as his proximity registered in her mind. Mere centimetres separated them as she swallowed nervously and moved to slip away from him before he moved quicker than she could comprehend. 

A mocking tut filled her ears as his hand wrapped around her bicep, steering her backward until he caged her between himself and the wall, elongated canines catching her eye as he peered down at her with a grin. Deacon released her bicep in one breath, and in the next, his fingertips trailed a salacious path from her arm, across her chest, to the column of her throat.

Her eyes widened a fraction before she schooled her features into a mask of frigid disinterest. Like his hand wrapped snuggly around her throat or the way his opposing hand rested upon her waist and bracketed her against the wall didn’t scare her. That he didn’t scare her.

Deacon’s stare appraised her silently, chest pressed to hers as his scent of cedar and cigarette smoke filled her lungs and his honeyed voice reverberated in her ears. “Not so fast. You don’t get to leave now that I have you.”

“Please.”

His dark eyebrows arched, head lowering so his lips brushed the shell of her ear–the danger of his proximity shunted to the forefront of her mind. “Please what? Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“Let me go, please.”

A low hum emitted from the depths of his chest as his lips pressed a possessive–claiming–kiss to the junction beneath her ear and the beginning of her jaw. “I can give you anything else, little mortal, but I won’t give you that.”

Her gaze darted across the plains of his face, searching for the answers she sought as if it was etched into the ivory tone of his skin. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t do that.”

“You can. Just–please let me go.”

His head lifted from the crook of her throat, eerily grey irises locked on hers. “No.”

“What?” She pressed, a frown etched across her forehead.

“You’re mine, little mortal, and you’re not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

And before she could react or try and fight him off, his grasp tightened on her. The hand wrapped around her neck tangling in the tresses of her hair, tipping her head back as his unnatural canines sunk into the flesh of her throat and her screams of agony rented in the marrow of her bones.