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Buck has been in LA for a grand total of 3 weeks when he gets buried.
He thinks he went hiking, but everything is dark when he wakes up, and all he can smell is dirt and decay. Also, there’s dirt in his mouth.
He panics, then, tries to move and realises that he can’t, not really. There’s a heavy weight on his chest, his legs, his arm, all around him, in fact, like he’s been buried alive.
Buried alive.
His panic mounts, and that, perhaps paradoxically, perhaps not, makes him panic more. Panicking means heavy breathing, which means running out of air faster — it’s a wonder he hasn’t already.
Except… Buck tries to pull in a deep breath of air. His chest rises slightly, where it had been deathly still before. He wasn’t breathing, before that. He wasn’t doing anything, before that, he realises — nothing moves unless he tells it to, and that includes every last inch of his body, inside and out. He should be able to hear his own heart beating, but he can’t, because it’s not.
He doesn’t remember how he came to be in this grave, and it feels like he should. There should be some indication as to something wrong, even if that is just stumbling and hitting his head to the point of hallucinating being buried alive. Because that’s the most logical explanation, right?
He hopes this isn’t real. And if it isn’t real, he should be able to just dig himself out — he can control what happens in his own mind.
He starts out small, and it goes slow. Little bits of dirt shifting to allow his hand to move up, or at least the direction he hopes is up. It feels like it should be, with all the weight above him, and nothing below him, and slowly but surely that proves true, his hands moving easier and faster the closer he gets to the surface.
A cool breeze wafts over his fingers when they breach the surface. It bolsters him, has him digging faster and with more strength, and then finally, finally, his head is free.
He has to pause a moment, then, to catch his metaphorical breath, and take in his surroundings. It looks like he’s still on, or somewhere close to, the trail he remembers hiking. It’s the same open landscape with a distant view of Los Angeles laid out in front of him.
But he can’t remember being buried.
There’s nothing in his immediate surrounding except for the disturbed dirt to indicate that something happened here, nothing to clue him in to his missing memories. Maybe if he can get further away there’s something, which just leaves one thing: getting out.
He’s halfway out, his arms and torso finally also free, when he hears jogging footsteps. He freezes, entirely clueless as to how to explain his situation — and that’s assuming it’s not the perpetrators that have come back to finish him off.
It’s not, he assumes, when the jogger gets within ranger, not if his reaction is any indication. He doesn’t notice Buck right away, but when he does, he stumbles a few steps before coming to a standstill.
For a few moments they only stare at each other.
“Oh my god,” the man exclaims, and stumbles over to Buck. “What happened?”
He starts digging at the dirt before Buck can answer, and even if he’d known what to say, with the man this close Buck can’t focus on that.
He can hear his heartbeat. A second later, a wave of hunger washes over Buck with such strength he knows he’d fall to his knees if he wasn’t already on the ground.
The man, while continuing to help dig Buck out, tells him that his name is Tommy. He says he’s gonna call for help, then asks again what happened.
Buck is afraid to open his mouth.
Tommy’s heart is so loud.
While continuing to dig with one hand, Tommy fishes out a phone from his pocket, presses a few times, and lifts it to his ear. Calling for help, Buck assumes, distantly. He only catches bits and pieces of Tommy’s side of the conversation in between the sounds of his heartbeat.
Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump.
“I don’t know what happened, I found him half buried in the ground, and it looks like maybe he clawed-”
Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump.
“-his neck is bloody and he seems a bit distant, but-”
Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump.
“The reception is pretty bad but I’ll try to stay-”
Ba-dump ba-dump ba-dump.
His heartbeat taunts Buck. He can almost smell it, from this distance, maybe if he just leaned forward a little bit…
Worlds explode in Buck’s nose when he falls forward into Tommy’s neck. It’s amazing, tantalising, deep and warm, and it makes the hunger in Buck gnaw deeper into his very soul. He opens his mouth to see if he can taste the smell, and something about it makes Buck’s teeth ache. It feels like they get pulled out of his gums, and the only thing to stop it is to bite down on something.
Tommy’s neck is right there, so very inviting.
Buck aches with hunger.
A world of flavours, new and old and never before existing, explode on Buck’s tongue when Tommy’s blood begins to fill his mouth. His teeth stop aching when they tear into flesh, and his hunger slows down to a low simmer as Tommy’s blood fills his stomach.
Silence settles in his mind for the first time since he woke up in the dirt. It also allows him to clearly hear when Tommy breathes out, “Fuck.”
He grips onto Tommy’s shoulders to keep him from moving away.
Tommy’s hands come up to grip his wrists a moment later, but either he can’t, or won’t, move him. It’s exhilarating, but also a little scary. Tommy is a big guy, more than likely supposed to be stronger than Buck, but whatever fucked up thing is happening to him is… fucking that up.
He doesn’t hear anyone else come up until multiple pairs of hands tear him away, much too preoccupied enjoying his first meal, his first prey.
Wait, what?
Maybe it’s the combined strength of several people, or his mind momentarily being too stunned by that thought, but before he knows it he’s several feet away from Tommy’s still bleeding neck, and cuffs are being slapped onto his wrists. He thinks he’s been arrested, for a moment (it would make sense, after all), but it doesn’t look like regular police cuffs. They feel similar, the parts around his wrist, but they’re connected by a stiff rod that prevents his fingers from even reaching one another, and it’s all connected to a chain that is being looped around his waist.
He looks up, at Tommy, for help, and finds a paramedic wrapping a bandage around his neck. Tommy’s eyes stare at him, wide, and filled with pity.
Buck doesn’t want his pity. He wants his help, his blood, his own freedom.
Someone shoves a bag into his hand, and he finally realises, when he sees the text and symbols on the blood bag.
Oh, he’s been turned into a vampire.
They lead him down the track with steady grips on his arms, one person on either side. When they get to the ambulance in the parking lot, he’s left alone in the back, which he has a fleeting moment to think is strange, before the siren song of the blood bag pulls him in. It’s not as good as Tommy’s blood, but he thinks maybe nothing will ever taste as good as Tommy’s blood.
He’s trying desperately to reach the last few drops of blood, hunger still a low simmering, when the ambulance slows to a stop. He expects to see a hospital when the door opens, but that’s not the case. They’re in something that looks like a garage slash operating room — there’s a garage door directly in front of him, but shelves of tools and containers above stainless steel benches along the sides.
Someone new, dressed in hospital scrubs, steps up and slots a muzzle over his lower face before he can even begin to panic over where he’s ended up.
—
When Tommy shows up, Buck has spent two days in what he has learnt is a facility for newly turned vampires. He’s allowed to move mostly freely through the building and the fenced in grounds, but the modified cuffs and the muzzle stays on — for his and others protection, they say. He has no idea when he’ll get his freedom back.
He regularly gets blood to drink, more if he says he needs it, but nothing seems to fully remove his hunger. He’s craving something, and slowly going mad with not figuring out what, when Tommy steps into the room and his scent sings at Buck. That’s what he’s been craving.
“Hey,” Tommy says from the doorway, a little awkwardly.
“Hi,” Buck says, the first word he’s ever uttered to Tommy. But he knows what Tommy tastes like.
“Maybe this is… weird, and I promise I’ll leave if you tell me to, but I just wanted to… see if you’re okay?”
Buck doesn’t want him to leave. He steps closer, tilts his head to see if he can catch a deeper whiff of Tommy’s blood.
He can hear Tommy swallow, and the stutter his heart makes.
“Can I taste you again?” Buck asks, impulsively, knowing there’s no way, knowing there’s no way around the muzzle.
Buck swears he can smell Tommy’s blood rushing south. That’s weird, right? He can’t help it, though, has to chase it, has to step closer to see if he’s right.
He ducks his head, looks up at Tommy and blinks. The heat that spreads over Tommy’s cheeks is pretty, and now he’s certain he can smell it. When he looks down he can see that he’s right.
He wants to touch, even if he’s never had interests in that before. Does being turned into a vampire also make you gay? Or has Buck just… never thought about it before.
He licks his lips, tries to ignore the way the muzzle keeps his jaw from moving much. “Can I… can I touch?”
Tommy nods, but looks surprised at doing so. It makes Buck hesitate, but then Tommy nods again and says, “Yeah, please.”
He’s not really hard yet, just a little firmer than flaccid. His jeans hide most of it, so Buck fumbles with his button and sipper (cursing silently at essentially having to do it onehanded), and tries to push the jeans down. Tommy is quick to help, pushing them down to his knees, followed a moment later by his boxers.
Buck doesn’t know what to do, now that he’s faced with Tommy’s naked cock. He never touched the other men’s cocks the two occasions before this when he had threesomes.
He wants to feel what he can smell, though, wants to feel Tommy’s blood fill out his cock, so that’s what he does. It doesn’t really feel unlike touching his own, just a different angle. He’s conscious of how dry his touch is but unable to do anything about it, so he’s slow when he begins to stroke. He wants to touch with his other hand as well, maybe cup Tommy’s balls or the head of his cock, or sneak underneath his shirt to touch his chest, but the cuffs keep his hands firmly separated at a set distance.
He loses himself in it, the slow rhythm of his strokes, of the feel of blood flowing under the skin — it’s more addictive than anything he’s ever felt before, except maybe Tommy’s blood. Tommy is letting out little pleased sounds, head tilted back against the door. He has his eyes closed, and his face practically glows — Buck doesn’t know what to look at, that, or his own hand on Tommy’s cock.
He’s looking down when it happens, doesn’t notice until Tommy has hooked one finger through a small gap in the muzzle.
“Hey, I- ah- what’s your, uh-huh, name?” His question is interspersed with little grunts, like he just can’t help himself.
“Evan,” Buck says, breathless.
“Thank you,” Tommy says.
His finger pushes against the corner of Buck’s mouth, and his jaw falls open as much as the muzzle allows. Tommy pushes in, meets Buck’s dripping tongue, then the corner of one of his fangs. He hesitates, then twists his finger and pushes up until he breaks skin.
Buck sucks greedily, sees heaven behind his eyelids, and comes.
He goes boneless almost instantly, held up only by Tommy. He keeps sucking, wants to get as much of Tommy’s blood as he can while he still allows it, and just about manages to keep his fist formed enough for Tommy to fuck into.
Tommy comes, further dampening Buck’s sweats, just as Buck floats back into his own body. He pants for a moment, then pulls his finger back, with an almost apologetic loon on his face.
“Wow.” Tommy’s laugh sounds amazed. “I didn’t… expect that when I came here.”
“Please come again.”
Tommy makes a little sound, almost protesting, and Buck’s non-existent breath hitches. Then, “Hopefully they won’t keep you here too much longer, you know. Maybe we can see each other somewhere nicer next time.”
Warmth blooms in Buck’s chest.
Tommy’s fingers brush over the cuffs. “And without these in the way.”