Ughghgh okay so I can’t get enough of the vampire pet AUs that @textsfromhannibal and now @cruise-in-your-glow-bus put out, which promise to be delightful and sweet and wonderful and weird. And I’m really sorry, but because there is something wrong with me I felt greatly moved to make it Primo and make it fucked up. So I did. I am not pretending this is in the same universe as theirs, it's just a thing.
Thank you to my partner @inkstars1138 for helping me with the title and also for being very enthusiastic lmao
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Primo/gn reader, about 900 words, complete. Will be on AO3 later.
CW for vampire stuff, blood drinking, sadism/masochism, suggestions of degradation, crying, pain, rough sex, total power exchange.
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He is the oldest of the brothers, and perhaps the most powerful. And, some would argue, the cruelest. His features are knife-sharp, his mouth unsmiling, his mismatched eyes cold. His touch is cold, too; perhaps that’s to be expected of a vampire, but you don’t know. You’ve only ever known his touch, and you know no other vampire would lay a finger on you.
Because you? You are his.
Some vampires coddle their pets, treat them like royalty, or at least a precious and cherished thing, doting upon them. You are certainly pampered in your way. A room of your own overlooking the elaborate grounds, and the flowers that bloom at night beneath the watery light of the moon. The furniture is rich and expensive. You haven’t felt the touch of polyester or rayon in years—nothing but the finest for Primo’s pet, after all.
You know the other pets pity you. Because his tone is seldom soft and kind and sweet with you. His words are not often wasted on you, anyway. You have the finest room and you are often in it alone. And when he does come to you, he is not there for conversation. He is demanding.
You on your knees for him with your mouth full.
Or sprawled over his lap, your skin stinging under his hand.
Or your body spread for him however he wants it, whenever he wants it, moving into you, filling you.
All night, sometimes, some of these, all of these, until you are left aching and trembling and crying. You become something you might describe as a mess, but he might describe as a work of art. You are a canvas upon which his knotted hands have painted an image of a frail human body pushed to its limit.
In the midst of it some nights, when your heart is pumping and your mind is already cloudy from pleasure and pain in equal measure, that is when his teeth find your throat, tearing into the much-scarred but still-tender skin there. And your life’s blood spills into his mouth, and he drinks, as much as you can give and still be useful to him, leaving you groggy and weak and weeping softly. Ecstatic, for the moment he drinks from you, and then spent.
Those are the nights he tucks you into bed.
Those are the nights he strokes your hair.
Those are the nights you think you hear him praise you, tell you how much he needs you.
But then, on those nights, you aren’t entirely there. Perhaps that isn’t real, perhaps that’s nothing. And always when you wake, you are alone again, without so much as a note, nothing but a few drops of blood on the silk sheets and perhaps a long strand of silver hair like a forgotten spiderweb. After those nights, he leaves you alone for a while. You eat your fill for days, you take your iron supplements, you rest.
And then in a few days, or a week, he is back again, to take whatever else he wants from you. With tearing teeth, or aching cock, or grasping fingers, or a tongue sharper even than his fangs. Demanding, always demanding, leaving you sweaty and bruised and bleeding, one way or another, as often as not, until morning finds you sleeping as soundly in your expensive bed as he sleeps in his coffin down the hall. Unmoving, undisturbed, the sleep of the dead.
And so, the other pets pity you. Perhaps his brothers, too, for all you know. Because you are saddled with a master who is not gentle, or not often. A master who might give you every comfort, but only in exchange for your body and soul. Your blood gives him eternal life, and in exchange he gives you eternal torment. You are a human pet, infinitely weaker than him, and especially with all he takes from you.
Primo has never said he loves you.
But he has never needed to.
In a drawer of your room is a gift from him. The most valuable gift—more valuable than the jewelry he adorns you with, the clothing that graces your body. More valuable, perhaps, than the soft words you aren’t quite sure you’ve ever really heard from him.
In that drawer is a wooden box, which you keep closed. Within that box is a velvet cushion, on which sit four things.
First, a key to the room that holds his coffin. One key, of two; the other is on his person at all times.
Second, a rose, dried now. Its once-red petals are now nearly black, but fragrant as the memory of a thousand summers.
Third, a wooden mallet.
And fourth, a wooden stake.
You are Primo’s pet, and that is no easy task. He takes everything he can from you. But he will never take too much, and he will never demand more than you are willing to give. In that wooden box is that promise. He will push you to your limits, but never past them, because he knows what will happen if he does.
He is the oldest of his brothers, and the most powerful. He may well be one of the most powerful vampires in the world. His hands are cold, his eyes are cruel. He has killed more people than you can even imagine, and he has done it without remorse.
Mary hasn't been a vampire long enough to forget what it was like to be human. Having grown up in the service of the living dead, that's a hard pill for you swallow.
When your paths cross in a shitty bar downtown, everything changes.
Chapter 3 is up! I accidentally figured out a plot. Full chapter below and also on AO3. Previous chapters are listed here.
Primo/gn reader; vampire & pet AU; this chapter is about 1300 words.
Content notes for this chapter: mentions of vampire/pet dynamics; aging and health stuff; cliffhanger. Also possible cameo from Copia and the reader from @textsfromhannibal's Now We Pirouette In Fields of Rosy Sin but stands alone if you haven't read it or if you don't want to consider them the same universe.
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Whenever Primo feeds from you, he leaves you alone for a few nights to recover. And on those nights, sometimes, you wander the Ministry, or visit other humans. Humans are social creatures, after all, and you know you cannot live your life tucked away in your room with nothing but the occasional rough-handed visit from your master to break things up.
There are a few pets in the Ministry, but there is also a decent population of other humans. Some are servants or employees. Most are food. All are here voluntarily, for a while or forever, and even here, people are people: they form friendships and enmities, have petty arguments, and throw parties sometimes for no reason except that it’s fun. There usually isn’t much alcohol—this particular crowd has a tendency towards frequent blood loss—but there’s music, and games, and laughter, and a room full of bodies that are all warm and breathing and maybe that’s what everyone’s really looking for, here in the unbeating heart of vampire society.
You are at one of these parties, trying to have a good time, the night after a feeding. You usually enjoy the parties. That would be a surprise if you ever thought of your old life, but you usually don’t. Sometimes you think life before Primo was a dream. Sometimes you think this is one, and you’ll wake up at any time.
But tonight you aren’t thinking of dreams or your old life. You’re just tired. You lean against a wall, vaguely watching two people compete on a second-hand Dance Dance Revolution machine. Getting their blood pumping, you think with vague amusement, for whoever might feed from them next. You take a sip of your soda, and wonder if you should have stayed home. You aren’t usually this tired after a feeding, but maybe Primo had taken too much. Or maybe, you think, glancing at the clock on the wall, maybe you’re getting too old for this stuff. You’ve been here for years, and time does not stop even for a vampire’s pet. And you’ve been tired more and more lately.
You wonder if Primo has ever noticed the passage of time. You are still young, by many standards, and very young by his, but gray hairs pop up more than they used to. Does he notice that you aren’t quite so young anymore? Does he care? Will there come a time that he looks at you, realizes he’s drained you of your looks and vitality as much as your blood, and send you away?
“You’re Primo’s, aren’t you?” says a voice to your left, and you look up, surprised out of your thoughts. But you understand quickly why you hadn’t heard the approach. Most of the party attendees are clumsy, noisy humans, but vampires move much more silently.
“I—yes,” you say, uncertainly. One of Primo’s brothers, this one. Copia. You have never spent much time with any of them save Primo, and you know to show them respect, but you don’t know much else. “I’m…surprised to see you here.” Sir? Should you call him sir? You can’t remember suddenly. The DDR machine’s music is pounding into your head, chasing away any thoughts except that you really are too worn out and headachey to be here.
He gives a short smile before you have time to decide. “My pet wanted to come,” he says, and lifts his eyes to the crowd. You follow his gaze, notice one particular human with a collar getting a drink across the room, and when you look at him again, you also notice his eyes softening.
Imagine, a vampire’s eyes softening for his pet.
“Well,” you say, uncertainly. “I hope she has a good time. I was just thinking of leaving.”
“Good,” says Copia then, and his jaw is set in satisfaction. “It is about time, eh? The way he has been, all these years.”
You take a moment to puzzle that out, and then you realize the misunderstanding. “The party,” you correct. “I was thinking of leaving the party, not the Ministry.”
“Oh,” he says, and to your surprise, he looks embarrassed for a moment. You didn’t know vampires could get embarrassed, let alone from anything a human might say or do. And then he frowns. “The way he is with you, the way he treats you…we all know, you know. Everyone knows. He is an old-fashioned vampire and he never learned to change with the times.” His eyes flicker again to his own pet, and the lines deepen around his mouth. “You do not have to put up with that. No one should.”
You stare at him, feeling almost wide-eyed in wonder. Is this one of the Emeritus brothers, giving you life advice? You have hardly exchanged two sentences with him in the past, and now he’s staging an intervention? At a loud party, while your head hurts?
“You know you can leave him, yes?” he says then, looking to you again. “You know that you do not have to live like this. I know he seems powerful, and he is, but it is your choice. It’s always your choice. Even he knows that.”
You gape at him a moment. You want to say something, to reassure Copia that you’re very well aware that it’s your choice, and in fact, far more aware than he realized. But instead, you start to giggle.
You don’t mean to. But the image of the stake you keep in your drawer flashes through your mind, vividly. It occurs to you that with that particular possession, you are really in charge of Primo, and that makes you one of the most powerful people here, and that thought is so absurd that you can’t fight back laughter. And then it gets worse because he looks genuinely shocked, and the expression is so strange to see on a vampire’s face that you start laughing harder.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
You draw in a breath to try to answer, but you choke on your laugh and start to cough instead, and that almost puts you further into a giggle loop.
But instead you keep coughing.
And coughing.
Your throat seizes up suddenly, and your lungs. You drop your soda, which spills across the carpet, splashing your shoes and Copia’s. You should apologize, but the only reason you stop coughing is that you can’t seem to breathe in enough, fighting to suck down a sweet trickle of air. You gag once, loudly, as if that might help, but all it does is make everyone look at you as your vision tunnels brown at the edges, and you sink down into the sticky puddle of soda still fizzing on the floor.
There’s some kind of commotion, and you hear someone call for a doctor. Someone else says to call Primo, and you almost laugh again. If you could catch your breath, you might. If you could catch your breath, you’d tell them not to. Primo is a busy vampire, and you’re nothing but his pet, his plaything. Hardly worth bothering him about. You raise your hand to your face, but you’re shaking, and fighting for every aching breath, fighting against the darkness narrowing your vision, oblivion encroaching.
Your hand is cold, you think absently. Like his. And the last time he touched you comes to mind, gentle as he always is after a feeding.
The abandoned DDR machine is still blasting music, and your jeans are cold from the puddle of soda, and your lungs are burning, burning. You think you hear Copia’s voice again, and another voice that shouldn’t be here. No one should have bothered him, you think as you finally sink out of consciousness.
Society For The Prevention Of Cruelty To Humans AU – But, Wait! There's Goore!
My contribution to the AU that @textsfromhannibal @cruise-in-your-glow-bus @saintbowie @avocado-writing @vintageandroid and I have been messing around with. All of them are crazy and amazing and can write so much, so fast, and SO well.
Vampire!Mary Goore/Reader
Contains references to feeding, predator/prey dynamics, and petplay dynamics. This is really just a introduction, though. Enjoy!
Mary Goore has always known that beggars can’t be choosers. He’ll take what he can get, whether that’s half-coagulated, near-expired handouts from the blood bank, or a quick suck-and-fuck in a bar bathroom. It’s not the safest, sure – he’s had more contact highs and close-calls with bloodborne illness than he can count, but dying didn’t suddenly instill a fear of consequences in him. Still, it must be nice, knowing exactly where your next meal is coming from, having the assurance that it won’t make you puke your guts out in a back alley somewhere.
But, keeping a pet? That’s some high-born, rich-people shit. Not exactly his crowd. Those are the types that strut down Broad Street, in their garish mix of period and modern designer, a dolled-up human on their arm like a fucking handbag. They’re the kind you find at Haemos, gorging themselves on that free-range, cruelty-free shit that the influencers are always yapping about. They’re the Tepeshes, Bathories, and Emerituses of this world, the cream of the vampire crop. The Old Guard. Mary has been cursed to be a starving artist for all eternity, but it’s not all bad. He may be a vampire, but at least he’s not a filthy capitalist.
And besides, he’s never been big on commitment.
Running parallel to Broad Street, a few blocks to the east, is Church Street. It’s the domain of the common folk, mortal and immortal alike. During the sunlight hours, the coffee shops and fast-food joints are the main attraction, serving the busy humans that clog the grimy sidewalks. They’re always in a hurry, scrambling to get through their day as if time itself is hunting them down. At night, the clubs and bars reign supreme, the vampiric hordes on the prowl for something to sink their fangs into: a neck, a wrist, a thigh. The convenience stores never close, though their signage changes as the sun moves across the sky; ads for nicotine pouches and two-dollar slushies are swapped out in favor of promotions for pre-packaged blood and plasma, kept warm under the same heat lamps they use for hot dogs and pizza slices.
A-Pos, 0.5 L – Get it while it’s “fresh!”
It’s in Movers and Stakers, one of the few half-decent bars on Church, that Mary’s world turns upside down. Like most spots on this side of Broad Street, no high-born would be caught here alive, so to keep the lights on, it caters to humans and vampires equally. There’s no blood on tap, and the mortal grub consists mostly of frozen fare chucked in the deep fryer. Still, the bottled stuff is relatively cheap and clean, and so here he finds himself, stuffed into a booth with his bandmates, wasting away the last few hours of a Thursday night. They’re splurging, but it’s for a good cause, hyping themselves up for a gig the next evening – hemo-loading, they call it. If Mary’s lucky, maybe he’ll find someone willing to give him a fresh meal, but for now, he’s content, running through lyrics and chords in his head while the guys blather on about hookups, more successful bands, and God knows what else.
The sound of heated conversation catches his attention. He looks out across the bar, his gaze eventually landing on a table occupied by a handful of humans, their cheeks still rosy from the cold outside. One of them, a young man with long, dirty-blonde hair – not unlike Mary’s when he was his age – seems to be the dominant presence in the group, and the most worked up. Though vampires have sensitive ears, this guy is obnoxiously loud. Humans, Mary has observed, often struggle with modulation.
“You can’t be serious,” he says, glowering at a girl who’s more bundled up than the rest. Under the curtain of her black hair, Mary can just barely make out a bandage around her neck, likely to protect a fresh bite mark.
“It’s good money,” she says defensively. “Voldomyr is… eccentric, but he’s a nice guy.”
“He’s keeping you as a pet,” the young man argues. The girl scowls.
“I’m his companion feedee.” She sighs. “He’s old, and lonely, and just needs a fri–”
“Call it whatever you want,” he interjects. “If ‘companion feedee–’” his lip curls up in a sneer as he says it– “makes you feel better, that’s fine.” He leans in close, jabbing her shoulder with his pointer finger. “But you’re not his friend. They’ll only ever see us as fucking livestock."
It’s not like Mary can’t relate; he still remembers his time as a human, even if it feels more like a vivid dream with each year that passes. Society has come a long way from the days when his kind hunted theirs for sport, but that doesn’t mean they stand on equal footing. There’s a patronizing sort of bemusement with which most vampires regard humans, like they’re a bunch of apes learning to use tools, that only barely passes as respect. They’re at the top of the food chain, occupying the higher rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. They keep the mortals pacified with menial jobs, make them toil their short lives away so that the species may continue on, keeping them fed for as long as a stake doesn’t find their heart.
It's a never-ending cycle of bullshit and glass ceilings.
Finally, he notices he’s being watched. A frigid glare passes between him and Karl, who’s about to shatter his mug with how hard he’s gripping it. “Can I help you?”
“You got a loud-fucking mouth,” the bassist spits. “You should really pay more attention to who’s listening.” The kid just rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer.
“And you shouldn’t eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, bloodsucker.”
A few additional heads turn in his direction. Karl stands up, looking like he’s about to snap the guy’s fucking neck. He very well could, if he wanted to. It would be like breaking a toothpick.
“Hey, man,” Mary starts, leaning into his field of view. “Don’t get us kicked out of another bar.” Karl looks at him, takes a moment to consider his warning, and then sits back down, grumbling to himself.
“I never asked–”
“I know.”
Karl purposefully angles himself so that his back is to that table, and another hour passes in relative peace. Eventually, Mary’s bottle is empty, and Tom begins to bitch about how he “owes him one” for some vague favor he can’t recall, and so he begrudgingly drags himself over to the bar, where you’re waiting to cash out.
He realizes you’d been sitting at the table of agitators around the same time you recognize him, and you share an awkward nod of acknowledgement. The bartender comes and takes Mary’s order; you ask for your check. A beat passes, giving him the chance to study you out of the corner of his eye. You’re cute, he immediately thinks, though most of you is swallowed by a well-loved, black leather jacket. It smells of oil and cigarette smoke, masking your true scent.
Subtlety has never been Mary’s forte. You must catch him staring, because suddenly his gaze is met. There is a calculatedness in your eyes, a look that immediately tells him he’s being assessed. You’re gathering data, trying to decide if he’s a threat.
Dressed like this, in chains and corpse paint, he’s probably not doing himself any favors.
But the corners of your mouth turn up a little. “Sorry about that guy,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Travis – my friend’s boyfriend – he’s a fucking dick.” The fingers of your other hand drum against the countertop, somewhat impatiently. “She needs to dump him before he gets us banned… again.” Mary chuckles.
“I know the feeling.” He blows out a deep breath and decides to take a leap. “He’s right, though. ’S fucked up, the way some us treat humans.” The drumming stops. Your jaw visibly tightens.
“But, let me guess,” you posit, “you’re ‘not like other vampires?’” He opens his mouth, unsure how to defend himself, but you don’t give him the chance, letting out a bitter laugh. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve heard that one. I’m not interested in being your blood bag, buddy.” Sure, it would have been nice, but that wasn’t his aim, honest. The bartender places a receipt in front of you, and you nod, thanking him quietly. After slapping a few bills down on the counter, you turn, take a step towards the door, then stop, looking back at Mary. Your eyes smolder, like the flames of hell. “Travis is a dick, but I never said I disagreed with him.”
Okay, ouch.
He knows he should feel insulted, but the human inside him, the creature that gnaws on his ribs like the bars of a cage, would absolutely let you rake him across the coals.
“See you around.” You flick your head to the side, tossing your hair over your shoulder, and Mary catches a glimpse of the column of your neck.
And then, finally, he smells your blood, your true essence. Ripe fruit and spices, mulled wine on a rainy autumn evening, in the days when the cold still bothered him. For a moment, he swears his atrophied heart kicks, yearning to feel that warmth in his belly again.
But, Mary realizes with gripping urgency, it’s not wine he craves. He wants the good stuff, that rich, sweet-smelling lifeblood flowing in your veins, cruelly hidden away by your all-too-thin-looking skin. He wants to pierce it with his fangs, to savor that first burst of iron across his tongue. If he could, he’d drink you down until you’re limp from blood loss, unable to spit out those harsh words, much less form a coherent thought. Then he’d take you home, carry you through the threshold of his shitty apartment like his bride, and lock you away in that pine box so that no one could ever lay a finger on you again. He’d do his best to make you comfortable, pick up extra shifts to make sure you’re fed and clothed; fuck, he’d go back to playing on the street if that’s what it would take. You’d hate it, little spitfire that you are, but you would be his, and Mary would never want for anything else. He’s never felt the desire to keep a pet before, but you–
He blinks once, twice. You’re already long gone. A feeling of shame settles in his stomach. It took almost fifteen years, but that vampire possessive streak, it seems, has finally kicked in.
The bartender returns with his drinks. Mary orders an additional shot of O Negative, pounds it, and shuffles back to the booth in a daze. The guys give him curious looks as he approaches.
“Dude,” Tom says, glancing down at Mary’s crotch. “Put that thing away. You’re scaring people.” It’s only then that he becomes aware of the hard-on raging between his legs, stiff and uncomfortable. He’s been wondering how that’s physically possible for ages, but will probably never know.
“I–” Mary tries to banish the thought of you from his mind, and when that fails, he grunts, slams Tom’s drink down in front of him, and slides into the booth, pulling his shirt over his junk. He keeps his head down, not willing to look any of his bandmates in the eyes.
“Aw,” Sid teases, elbowing him, “did that human girl give you blue– er, bluer balls?” Fucker thinks he’s so funny. He’s lucky he has good rhythm, else Mary would have ripped his head off by now.
If you wish to follow up on the whole crazy vampire pet thing, you can check out Now We Pirouette In Fields of Rosy Sin on AO3. You should also very much check out the SPCH collection, featuring amazing ongoing stories from @cruise-in-your-glow-bus, @cowboyemeritus, @vintageandroid, @saintbowie, and @avocado-writing posted their own work in the same AU but hasn't added it to the collection yet. :D
Full chapter below and also on AO3. Previous chapters are listed here. Also there's a playlist!
Primo/gn reader; vampire & pet AU; this chapter is about 1800 words.
Content notes for this chapter: vampire turning and all that entails, smut, rough sex, mentions of pain play and blood play, lots of biting
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You hear the moment your heart stops, and fear floods your ears instead of your pulse. You take in a breath, and it hurts, a lungful of ice shards to tear into you, and you let it out again in a piercing scream so primal you do not recognize it as your own.
That is the last thing you remember for a long, long time.
Darkness falls, and not just darkness. Nothingness. No stars in the sky, no maroon behind your eyelids, no thoughts piercing your mind. No time, no space. This is the place before Genesis, empty of everything except absence.
And then suddenly you are back to yourself. You do not hurt. You are not tired, not even the grogginess of waking, and certainly not that deep tiredness you’ve felt for longer than you care to admit.
You breathe in, and it is not a struggle now, but it feels strange. The scent of blood hangs humidity-thick in the room, but the breath itself gives you neither pleasure or relief. You breathe to smell the air, to speak, to make a confused little sound that escapes your lips without your full awareness. But the air that had, a few nights ago, been such a precious resource now does nothing for you. There is no life in your body to need it.
You open your eyes, and Primo is there.
He is holding you, against the agony of death and rebirth. He is holding you, and he is the first thing you see.
You do not know how long you were out of it, minutes or days, until you realize he still has blood on his lips, and when you lick your own you taste it. It must not have been long, then. You open your mouth as if to ask a question.
And then his mouth is on yours, and his blood on his lips and on yours mingles. His tongue thrusts into your mouth, and perhaps you don’t need to breathe but you still moan into his. His teeth nip against your bottom lip and he pulls away with a sharp sound of his own. He swallows hard, closes his eyes a moment, then opens them to look at you.
“Nothing has changed,” he says then.
You stare at him. Everything has changed. You are no longer dying, for one thing. You’ve done that already. But more than that. You can feel new strength in your arms and legs. Your nose detects a thousand scents, your ears a thousand sounds. You can sense things you never could before, things you can’t even name.
“I will not be any gentler with you,” he continues. “I am still me.”
Is that all he meant? You look up at him for a moment, then smile at him, and shake your head. “When have I ever asked for something else?”
“You are still mine,” he says, confidently, but there is a question in his eyes.
“More than ever,” you say, and touch his wrist. It’s no longer bleeding, though it’s drying on his skin, brown and flaking like dried flowers.
“I will still…I will still push you to your limits,” he says, and despite his words, his hand comes up to cup your cheek. “But you know that I will never go too far, even now.”
“I know,” you say. “But I might have some new limits.” Because you feel different. So different.
A made vampire is never going to be as powerful as one born, physically or socially or by any other metric. But compared to what you were…
What you were. And that’s when you start to pull away. “But what about…” You look up at him, and now you are unsure.
He does not ask you to continue, but he watches you, silent, and you know that is his way of inviting more words anyway. He does not say much, but what he doesn’t say so often speaks volumes.
“You can’t feed from me anymore,” you say. And with those words comes a strange sense of loss. The one thing you had to give to him, the one thing he really needed you for, and now it’s gone.
He takes your chin in his hand, and tilts your face up so you cannot look away. His claws are sharp in your skin, and you think he is pressing them harder than he ever had before. You are stronger now; you can take more, and he doesn’t need to hold back quite as much as he had.
“I would rather drink cold blood for centuries with you by my side than have one more hot meal in your absence,” he says. “Do you understand?”
You don’t, but really you do. You look up at him, his features and eyes both sharper than his claws, piercing you.
But his hand no longer feels as cold as it used to. And perhaps his eyes are not, either. Never warm or gentle, but different. Matching you.
“I won’t…feel the same,” you say, uncertainly. “I’m not hot to the touch anymore, I’m not…”
“That was never what I wanted from you,” he says, and then he kisses you again, mouth too hard, and pushes you down onto the bed, and you let him. You welcome him. He cannot tell you what he feels; maybe he doesn’t have the words, maybe he doesn’t want the words. As he said, he is himself and nothing more, and as you said, you expected nothing else.
But he can show you.
His hands on your shoulders, pinning you, and then tearing at your clothes. The clothes you had put onto your weak and failing human body open like wrapping paper to reveal you now, whatever you have become. And maybe he doesn’t need to feed from you, but his teeth find your throat. He bites down, familiar and yet new, because now it is just for his pleasure and not for his thirst. His claws nick your skin as he shreds the fabric from your skin, and you moan again at the cold pain, at the faint growl in his throat that no human could make.
You are new, reborn, and your body feels strange and unfamiliar. But this is what you know, what you have always craved. His claws in your skin, his teeth. The way he shoves down his trousers, the way he fits his hips between your thighs. There is a wooden clatter as he spreads your thighs apart, and you realize you’d knocked the mallet and stake onto the floor, forgotten.
When he is ready he slides into you, one quick movement, body fitting into yours as if you are made for him, and for a moment you are sure that you were. You roll your hips against him, a sound in your throat, wanting more, wanting everything. Your mouth still tastes of him, and you remember that moment as he slides into you. His blood filling your mouth the way his cock now fills you. Spreading into you, everywhere, everywhere, flooding your veins until you are nothing but desire and his.
And now he moves, rough and sure, taking what he wants, taking what he needs, and what he needs is not your blood and not your obedience but you, just you. He is hard and forceful as ever, pushing your body to pleasure as he takes his own from it. The smooth slide of his cock, hard and fast at first, and then slower and deeper, delving into you until you can’t stand it anymore, almost shattering under him, against him, around him.
When you come you grip the sheets and, in your newfound strength, tear them. The sound of fabric ripping makes you gasp. He keeps going, keeps fucking you, pounding into you, and he makes you come again, again, his sharp face over yours and his chest against yours, still heart to still heart. You are crying out, whining, pleading, mad with pleasure and need, mad with the feeling of being his, his, as you have always been, and now forever.
And when he comes you let out another whine, and to your own surprise you wrap your legs and arms around him, making your own demands of him, keeping him there and with you for the moment. And he lets you. He stays, his body against yours, his body in yours, his blood in your mouth and veins, and yours in his.
Slowly, clinging to him, you spiral down from the high like a fallen leaf coming to rest, and you collapse back on the bed. You might have greater strength, but a rough fuck after a long couple of days is going to take it out of you.
He pulls out at last, but he does not leave like he usually does. He looks down at you again, unsmiling, stern-faced. But present.
“Aren’t you going to go?” you ask, not really thinking about it.
“No,” he says. Nothing more. No explanations, no niceties, no elaborations. He does not waste words.
“Oh,” you say. Because he might not explain, but he doesn’t need to. You understand, the things he doesn’t say that hang heavily between you, surrounding you. If you were still human, your eyes might fill with tears, but you are not. You are something else, something that does not cry, but you feel it all the way to your spine.
He lays down next to you, stiffly but without hesitation. You’ll have to get a coffin instead of a bed, you know, as is tradition. Or perhaps you’ll move into his. It’s a strange thought, but not an unwelcome one, and you let out a contented little sigh. He shifts beside you, and you look up to find him watching you again.
“What?” you say, self-conscious for a moment, out of habit perhaps.
His fingers come up to grace your cheek a moment. And he says, “I like the sounds you make.” He lets his hand drop again.
He is never going to say more than that.
You are no longer his pet, but you are still his, body and soul. He will teach you how to drink blood, how to function as a vampire; he will help you learn new limits, reaching them together, but never beyond them.
But he has also given you whatever he can. First the gift of his death, a box with a stake and a promise. And then the gift of his life, blood and forever.
You are his. But in his strange, ancient, taciturn, cruel way, he is yours.
Later, he fucks you again, and hurts you, and makes you make all those sounds he knows like a favorite song. The same thing he has always done, but different. Now you can take more, and you want more, you want everything, and with him perhaps you have it.
Later still, he opens the window to the night air, the only air you will ever know, now, for the rest of eternity. Moonlight spills weakly on the floor, dulled by clouds. When he comes back to bed you rest your hand on his arm, and he does not curl into it, but he doesn’t push it away.
Chapter 4 of Rose and Blood is up. Two more chapters to go; I'll probably end up posting them both tomorrow.
Full chapter below and also on AO3. Previous chapters are listed here.
Primo/gn reader; vampire & pet AU; this chapter is about 840 words.
Content notes for this chapter: some pretty frank mentions of mortality and illness.
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The doctor has some kind of diagnosis for you, after tests and discussion. Primo neither understands it, nor cares. It doesn’t matter what it is. He knows what it means.
It sticks in his mind, that image of you on the floor, face waxen and pale.
This whole thing is a mistake. This foolish newfangled nonsense of vampires keeping humans as pets. Of growing attached to them, as some younger vampires seem to. Humans are food. The vampiric possessive instinct is nothing more than the desire to keep prey away from competition. It’s a ridiculous notion to think it could be anything else.
Primo does not pace around the infirmary. He is not there the moment you regain consciousness, hooked up to something to help you breathe. He offers no comfort. He is in his own room, in his lidded coffin, trying to sleep as the sun rises, trying to forget that vision that won’t leave his mind.
The sun always rises, and falls again. The sun that could destroy him, set him aflame until there is nothing left of him. The sun will continue well past any concerns this Earth might have. A vampire’s life is nothing compared to the sun’s, and the sun does not care about anything that happens on the surface of its planets. And a human’s life is nothing compared to a vampire’s, so why should he care what happens to any of them?
That’s why it’s so foolish to grow attached to a pet. Humans are frail, humans are weak, humans are terribly mortal. Humans grow sick and die.
Better to stay apart, separate, to remember that humans are nothing.
Should Primo have tasted it on you before? But how could he? With him, you always taste of pain and adrenaline. That’s how he likes it. That’s how you like it.
He closes his eyes in his coffin, and tries not to think of your face, looking at him like you didn’t understand why he was there. He shouldn’t have been. He knows that now, and wonders why he had gone to see when someone told him about you. He should not have done that.
You aren’t dead yet. But if he were the type to get attached, that would almost make it worse. Maybe the human doctor can prolong the inevitable. Certainly they can give you some comfort. But they were very clear, speaking to him, that anything they did was a treatment, not a cure. Unless science should suddenly advance, then in a few months, a few years at most…
(Had he tasted a difference, and ignored it? Would the outcome have changed if he’d noticed sooner?)
But then, you’re a human. He should not expect that many years out of you even at peak health. A pity, he thinks to himself, the same wording he’s spare for a lost gemstone or a broken heirloom, nothing more. But he can spare that thought. You are, you were, such a good pet, and it would be difficult to break in another one.
He doesn’t want to break in another one.
His eyes snap open, staring in the velvet-dark interior of his coffin. The thought clutches his silent heart like vines growing over a tombstone, obscuring all but its shape. Realization grows from it, until it’s surrounding him in the darkness. The truth wraps around him, its thorns biting into his skin.
He does not want another pet.
He wants those sounds he knows so well, and the way you match his roughness and violence with eagerness.
He wants the feel of your hair under his fingers, the softness of your body tangled with his.
He wants the one person he’s trusted with his life, the one person who has never once tried to take it even though they had every right to.
He wants those sweet, contented sighs and the knowledge that, somehow, he has earned them.
He wants you. And a thousand years could pass and he will not stop wanting you.
And you are across the Ministry in the infirmary, alone, with a diagnosis he can’t remember because he had tried not to care. You, with your frail human body that can take so much from him. Maybe you can fight this, he thinks. You’re stronger than you seem, stronger than anyone realizes except him. Perhaps…
Perhaps this is his fault. Not just that he hadn’t noticed, but that he’d done this somehow. Perhaps he had pushed you too far, the entire time you’ve been with him. Perhaps you’re failing now because of him.
Or perhaps your body, so strong for him, is simply not strong enough against itself.
It doesn’t matter. Primo won’t let it matter.
Humans are weak and horribly, wretchedly ephemeral. To grow to care for one is an exercise in masochism, and not suited to a sadist like himself.
But as the day creeps on, an idea begins to replace despair. And when night falls again, Primo emerges from his coffin, unrested but certain of his next move.
