Chapter Text
For the past three months, Pete’s biggest problem in life has been hunger.
It’s not that he doesn’t eat. In fact, far from it. On the surface, his dietary habits are completely and entirely normal: He eats three meals every day.
But his relationship with food is complicated.
As they sit in the Agency mess hall, Porsche excitedly talking about their game plan for tonight, Pete chews on a bite of red curry. Though Pete salivates at the sting of pepper in his mouth, it’s more like chewing on flavorless gum, even though he asked for extra chili. Besides the burning pain of spice, the food tastes like barely anything. What a freaking waste. But it’s not like it’s the cook’s fault, and he’s got appearances to keep.
Pete swallows, bite by bite, but the somatic pulse of hunger is still there. No amount of this flavorless food will get rid of it. It's a dissatisfied chasm of an ache, an awful pit that grows larger with each passing minute, one that by now is bordering on the edges of nausea. He hates it when he gets nauseous.
Under normal circumstances, Pete would have found some decent fucking food by now. Unfortunately, he has simply not had the time. Even on a good week, Pete's special diet necessitates an annoying amount of time and effort to find food appropriate for his needs. And this week — this sucky, terrible week — their unit has been slammed with work. Between his job and food, Pete chose his job, because how else would he get food?
How is the work this week any different? Well, though all of their cases pose a real risk to human lives, some weeks are busier than others. And this week has been a busy week.
This case has been deemed urgent.
Not because there's an emergency threat or anything.
No, this case is urgent because it has, for whatever incomprehensible reason, become the newest pissing war between the two factions of the Agency hunters. Another one of the brilliantly idiotic competitions between Kinn and Vegas, no doubt. The first team would have never heard the end of it if they hadn’t tracked down this sucker first.
Luckily for them, they did. Kinn had been infinitely smug about getting to announce that fact to everyone.
Unluckily, the only reason they had gotten ahead is because they have been busting their asses. Kinn has had every last hunter in the First Team, even techies like Arm, out in the field for almost a week straight now, interviewing locals day and night. Also, it means literally nothing that their team has "beaten" Vegas's team. It does not change the fact that neither of their teams is off the hook yet.
They have established the pattern: All the victims are young adults, mostly women, all attacked in the early morning hours. The incidents all occurred in back alleys within the same mile radius in the general area of the Patpong night market.
And, of course, all the victims had two holes bored in their necks.
It has been about a week since the last incident, meaning that their perpetrator is due for another feeding, and soon.
Literally nobody besides Kinn and Vegas cares about the rivalry, but their dumb tradition carries on anyway.
Despite busting their asses, they will have no time to breathe.
Tonight is a hunt.
Fortunately, Pete is able to chip at his hunger before the hunt begins. While he and Porsche are on their way to the meetup spot, cutting through the crowded streets outside of the night market, Pete catches sight of a specific food name on a street vendor sign.
Despite how faint he feels, the sight is enough to inspire a small spark of hope. Maybe he will be alright tonight after all.
Pete points out the sign. “I'm hungry. Want boat noodles?”
“Sure,” Porsche says. “I could use a bite.”
As Pete says the words, “Nam Tok,” to the vendor, he starts to salivate.
And when Pete finally acquires his order and takes that first sip of the noodle broth, every other flavor pales in comparison to the soup that settles heavily across his tongue.
That chasm of hunger in his stomach is allayed, if only just a little.
But it is still not enough.
It is never enough.
Because pork blood is just not the same as human blood.
Three months having lived with this strange affliction, and Pete is no closer to understanding how he got into this situation, how his sanity is still intact, or how nobody else has found him out.
It is still nothing short of a miracle that not a single person in the TK Vampire Hunting Agency's menagerie of experienced hunters didn't notice anything strange. You'd think someone would ask questions.
Why is it that Pete immediately went into self-isolation for over a week after returning that solo info-gathering mission three months ago? (Despite the fact that Pete practically never gets sick or takes time off?)
Why did Pete suddenly start to wear high-necked shirts for a few weeks straight despite the hellish weather? (It was summer, and not his usual style?)
Maybe a, "Hey, is Pete okay?" Or a, "Is it just me, or does Pete look more pale lately?"
No? Nothing? Anything at all?
Is Pete is just that invisible to everyone else? Were his "I'm fine"s and "Don't worry about me"s really enough to curb all questions about his welfare? Or maybe it had to do with the fact that this was around when Porsche and Kinn had officially gotten together?
Whatever the case, during that transformative week of mind-bending agony and terror, Pete had contemplated killing himself more than once. To end the pain. Out of fear of what he was becoming. Out of a desire to protect those around him.
But in the end, Pete is a coward. He is brave only for other peoples' sakes, and even though he knew what was coming, he couldn't bring himself to justify leaving his grandma all alone. If he was to die, he thought, then let it be at the hands of someone else. In the latter half of that infernal week, as Pete regained his strength, he sat in dreadful anticipation of his new inhumanity, wondering when it would rear its ugly fanged head.
But when the hunger came and Pete still had not gone feral, Pete realized that maybe this situation was salvageable.
Sure, nobody knew Pete had turned into a vampire.
But maybe nobody had to know.
Over years in his line of work, Pete has seen vampires, and plenty of them. As any vampire hunter knows, not much distinguishes a vampire and a human being, but what little does makes all the difference.
What makes a vampire a vampire is hunger. Pete has seen exactly what hunger drives vampires to do.
Hunger transforms. Hunger changes. Hunger destroys.
At the mercy of the vampiric parasite, an infected person's biology is hijacked, turning them from a human being into a human beast against their own will. It isn't that vampires are suddenly not human anymore. Vampires are still just as human as anyone else. The problem is that the parasite makes it impossible for a turned vampire to survive without predating on other humans, and when the only satiation of hunger is the blood of fellow man, it creates a terrifying situation.
Hunger is the force that compels somebody who still looks and talks like a human being, who still is a human being, to become a monstrous predator that loses all reasoning and control. Once a vampire is hungry, if they have gone too long without a blood meal, a mind-altering madness descends upon them, and no amount of bargaining can be done to bring them back to their senses - not until they have ripped open someone's throat and drank the life out of them.
That is the new reality Pete was anticipating.
But it never came.
Pete is different. He's not really sure what makes him different, but he is thankful for it.
It's not that Pete doesn't need human blood, or that human blood tastes bad, or anything like that. He needs blood to survive just like any other vampire, and human blood tastes great, actually. What makes Pete different is that the core biological imperative that drives vampires to feed — you know, the one essential for their survival — doesn't work right in him.
Pete just... doesn't get hungry like other vampires do. Yes, he still experiences hunger... It's just that hunger doesn't make Pete go mad. It makes him sick and nauseous instead.
For someone trying to cohesively exist in human society, lacking that characteristic is objectively a great thing. No insistent and aggressive need to maul other human beings if you get too hungry. And it turns out that most of the old myths about vampires aren't true, so Pete can actually live a fairly normal life. He can walk in sunlight and be around garlic or religious relics, no problem. He still looks the exact same, just a little paler… except for his new inch-long retractable fangs. He can technically still eat normal food, though it might give him tummy troubles and generally tastes unpleasant.
For all intents and purposes, Pete's life is pretty much still the same.
He goes to work. He calls his grandma. He talks to his friends. He can exist with some degree of normalcy, clinging onto the rituals of everyday life from before, and nobody is the wiser to the truth of his changed biological reality.
But that is exactly Pete's greatest issue.
Vampirism is a miserable existence to face alone. And there is nobody Pete can tell about this.
The only two people Pete could imagine maybe telling might be his grandma and Porsche. But his grandma is of her mind that Pete is living well in the big city, and Pete doesn't want to bother her more than he already has his whole life. And he might tell Porsche, but both of his parents were literally murdered by vampires when he was a child.
Maybe Pete could tell someone else, but there is a non-zero chance that he'd be put down like a rabid dog. After all, he has a condition that makes someone go from totally normal to slaughtering people if they get too hungry. Worse than that, it's an infectious condition, and nobody understands how it even spreads, other than a vampire has to bite someone... In the case of every other vampire known, to knowingly keep them alive and running free would be like if a doctor just let someone with an active rabies infection out of the hospital to do whatever the hell they want. They might bite someone, they might not!
To keep Pete alive would be a gamble. Pete is not keen on finding out whether other people are feeling lucky.
So, that leads to now.
Pete is going on three months with an active vampiric infection. With no guidebook on what to do or how to do it, Pete has been stumbling through his condition one a day at a time. Somehow he is still alive.
So far, he has learned that:
A. He cannot go more than a week or so without fresh blood, or else he starts feeling sick.
B. In a pinch, animal blood (ideally pig blood) can help put off hunger for a while. Raw is best, but cooked will do.
C. ... but animal blood is not sufficient to meet a vampire's nutritional needs. Your body will get very mad at you if you try to ignore that!
D. The Agency’s infirmary is not secure at all, and apparently nobody keeps strict tabs on all the blood bags kept there???
E. If supplemented with copious amounts of fresh animal blood, at least a pint of human blood twice a month is enough to keep him from feeling sick.
So far, Pete has been very disciplined in consuming human blood at least twice a month.
Until this week.
This stupid week.
They’ve been way too busy for Pete to even dream of going off by himself.
Pete wonders how he will even have the energy to acquire any human blood after this. It will be a wonder if he isn’t bedridden from exhaustion.
“Oh, wow, Vegas is here, too?”
Pete could throw up.
He and Porsche have reached the rendezvous point a few minutes early, and there they are. Alongside the hunters of the main team are those of the minor team, all gathered nearly shoulder-to-shoulder under an overhang. Everyone is bathed in a wash of fluorescent lights from one of the numerous neon signs ahead; in a far corner, Chan and Vegas are discussing something, probably the logistics of the mission.
Vegas and Chan look up as they approach. Chan nods at them. Vegas smiles, though it seems more akin to the baring of teeth, with a little flourishing wave.
Just the sight of Vegas is enough to make a chill run down Pete's spine. Vegas was already intimidating enough before Pete was a vampire. And now...
A memory surfaces from the last time their teams collaborated on a vampire hunt, what Vegas did to the poor bastard they captured to get information out of him:
Vegas, standing within one of the interrogation cells, full-body protective gear spattered red. He holds up a pair of pliers, brandishing a single inch-long fang. It gleams wetly, covered in tar-like blood.
"He spoke.”
Pete can scarcely imagine what would happen, if Vegas were to find out about him. He hopes that never happens.
Pete and Porsche join the group of hunters at the margins by Pol and Big. Everyone converses for a few more minutes as they wait on a few stragglers, and during that time, very unwelcome thoughts bully their way into Pete's head. At some point, Pete has started thinking about that rumor that went around a while back, where Vegas apparently got so pissed off during a hunt that he bit a vampire clean through the neck before killing it.
Is that... even humanly possible? It can't be, right? The thing about people being able to bite through a finger clean like a carrot is a myth... but maybe if you bit at the joint, attacked the cartilage, twisted and pulled?
But a neck, though...? No way...
“Everybody, listen up!”
Conversations die down right away, and all the hunters swivel around to look at Vegas. The Theerapanyakul heirs really do command attention.
“Time for a gear check!" he announces. "Everyone bought their stuff? Watches? Gloves? Weapons? Yeah? Good. Split off into your groups. Get ready. Chan and I will come around to do final checks.”
The hunters collectively fiddles with their gear, naturally splitting off into two groups. Pete fastens his haptic watch and confirms the charge, slides on his gloves, and makes sure his utility belt is stocked. Safety-checks Porsche. Is checked by Big.
During the process, a new pointless thought floats into Pete’s head: Vegas doesn't usually come along on missions like this.
Metropolitan cases like this are easier, in a sense. More incidents, which is bad, but more data points, which is better for establishing patterns. More potential witnesses around to ask questions.
But Vegas is the sort of guy who likes a challenge. Difficult and moody as Vegas may be, he is very much good at what he does: Vegas's specialty is tracking down more elusive vampires.
Older ones. Stronger ones. Those that are typically best at blending in with humans.
Pete really needs to stop letting his nerves get to him.
Soon, everyone is fully suited up. Vegas and Chan launch into the game plan: The hunters will fan out across the night market, with each person assigned to a specific area to patrol. They are to keep their ears peeled for any sounds of distress, to pay special attention to isolated alleys and corners, to keep an eye out for any suspicious-looking people.
As is often the case with hunts, there is a chance nothing will happen tonight.
They might have to come out tomorrow, or the night after, or the next, until either someone is found dead or they find their vampire.
'It’s going to be a long week,’ Pete thinks.
It's only until after they have been dismissed that Pete can relax. But as he navigates alone through the throngs of people strolling about the night market, the cramping nausea is his stomach continues to worsen. He breathes shallowly, trying not to think about the flow of human blood all around him, probably enough to fill a swimming pool.
Pete has been stationed for what must be two hours when a smell hits his nose.
It’s distinct from the dank wet smell of the rest of the back alleys. In fact, it’s a smell so unlike anything else Pete has ever smelled before that he is brought to a stop.
The bright tang of blood, but... it's not right. Something about it is different. Strange. Pete sniffs the air, once, twice, trying to make sense of the aroma. The smell is fragrant and rich and decadent, but it is so complex and overwhelming that it might also be bad, like the cloying smell of roses?
Pete turns, taking a few steps, trying to figure out which direction the smell is coming from. Sniffs again and again, tasting the air. So confusing... What is it? Where is it?
That confusion quickly turns into something more, fast. Pete stumbles as if drunk, knees buckling and hitting a wall hard. Pete stands, dazed, for one long second.
And then, suddenly, like the snapping of a rubber band, something fires in Pete's brain. His mind tumbles. The chasm in his stomach fractures into a canyon, hunger surging forward like churning river water rushing forward from a dam that has broken. He feels a pang of clenching cramp that almost brings him to his knees, and his gums itch and his mouth waters, and it hurts, and he hungers, and before Pete can even process it, he's running, tearing down the street, almost slamming into people as he barrels through the crowds of people, bolting through alleys, even jumping over lower roofs.
Pete skids to a stop outside of a desolate alleyway. A dead end. Two people in it, fighting. One is tall and dark with sickeningly pale skin, the other small and dark and—
Pete’s eyes hone in on red. A bright, bloody gash, a shocking tear on the fair skin of the shorter figure’s forearm. Pete stares, panting, brain hazy, and as the tall figure crushes the smaller up against the wall, a sickening wave of jealousy and anger hits Pete like running into a solid brick wall.
Before the passing thought of, ‘Mine,’ is even processed, Pete has the taller figure crushed up against the wall.
Pete can't recognize the sound coming out of him, some sort of low rumble like that from a growling beast, furious and feral and from deep in his chest. His teeth distend and pierce flesh, not to feed but to kill, and there is a disgusting and offensive taste in his mouth, like something rotten, something decaying, and it makes Pete even angrier. He is so furious that this odious bastard would dare touch such a prize that all he can think of is how much he wants to rend this sickening and worthless thing to pieces.
It takes a while for Pete to phase back into awareness. The sensations process, one by one.
Pete tastes something fleshy and sour and disgusting, like rotten meat. Something wet and viscous is clinging to his face, rolling down his jaw. He opens his mouth in a huff of disgust, and a chunk of something falls out of his mouth. It falls to the ground in front of him.
Pete looks down. Stares.
On the ground is a figure. A crumpled, human-like figure, wearing dark clothing. A deep red pool of crimson red, growing on the pavement under its head and neck. A horrific and bloody bite mark exposes the shredded muscles of a throat, as if a large carnivore mauled it. The face is not visible, hidden by the broken angles of the body.
Now that the hazy cloud of anger and adrenaline is subsiding, Pete cannot at the moment remember why he is here, or how he got here, or what is on his face.
Pete has the thought to take off his gloves before touching his face. They land on the ground with a plop. Pete raises a hand to his face, then pulls it away to look at what's all over his face.
Blood.
Black blood.
Pete blankly looks at it, the way light gleams off the tar-like liquid.
Pete looks back at the ground again. Notices something. A broken watch, smashed into pieces on the ground. One of the haptic watches. A gun, on the ground beside it.
Pete stiffens. The wave of icy adrenaline that crashes over him is so strong that his knees buckle.
“Well, well. What do we have here?”
Pete knows that voice.
Really?
It had to be fucking Vegas?
Pete slowly turns to face the other hunter. “Khun Vegas,” he blusters out. “I...“
Pete pauses mid-sentence, eyes snapping to Vegas. Down to his arm. He has recovered enough from whatever just came over him that he is now starting to recall what drove him here. What is right in front of him, a few meters away.
The gash bleeds heavily, so much blood that it is dripping onto the pavement.
Pete's nostrils flare, and he unconsciously takes a step towards Vegas. Underneath the overwhelming stench of the slain vampire's stinking blood is the smell of something much better, that smell from before, Vegas's blood.
God, Pete is so, so hungry, his stomach hurts so much, and Vegas's blood smells so, so good, and…
Pete blanches. He wills himself to stop. It takes effort.
“No,” Pete says waveringly, more to himself than anyone else.
Pete again looks at the crumpled body on the ground. The vampire. You know, the one that he just mauled.
Pete has seen dead bodies before. Killing bodies is his job. But... never like this, not from him. No, this is the sight Pete has only ever witnessed in the aftermath of a vampire.
The contents of the throat are so mangled that Pete can't even decipher what he is looking at. The broken heap of the body. The way that blood covers the ground like an oil leak a car. It smells like iron, like metal, something pungent and gamey and intense. The sight makes him nauseous, dizzy, not from the gore but from the knowledge that he did this. He did this with his own mouth.
Pete steadies himself against the wall with an arm to steady himself. He fights back the urge to start dry-heaving.
“Oh, no,” he whispers, a torrent of horror and disgust and hunger and embarrassment and all manner of other feelings welling up inside of him. Tears pinch at his eyes, and he starts to pant. "No, no, no, no."
"You're not a monster,” Pete reminds himself. His fangs are protruding so much that the words feel awkward and heavy in his mouth. Saliva drips in thick ropes from his chin, tinged red. “You're not a monster,” he repeats, louder, trying to get the words to stick.
Pete wonders what he looks like. Does he still look like himself? Does he still even look human?
Or does he look like just that? A monster?
“A thespian vampire,” Vegas says dryly. “That’s a new one.”
The voice cuts Pete out of his thought spiral. Pete looks up to see Vegas vigilantly watching hi.
Right. His cover is blown.
It’s over. He’s over.
“Vegas,” Pete says, carefully. “I think I might be dangerous. I don't know what I'm capable of. You need to leave now, for your own safety.”
“Who would have thought that Kinn had a bloodsucker right under his nose this whole time?”
Pete opens his mouth to correct him, because technically he’s only been a vampire for several months — he’s been working for Kinn for years at this point — but the words dry up in his mouth as he notices that Vegas is now brandishing a silver dagger. That wasn't there before. Pete closes his mouth. He’s not suicidal.
“What just happened, that... This... It's not what you think,” Pete tries again.
Vegas remains silent, regarding him. His fingers flex around the hilt of the knife.
The silence makes Pete nervous. The fact Vegas has not fled, more nervous still. Pete talks more, occupying the quiet: “I mean— yes, obviously, I am a vampire, but it's complicated. I can explain later, but I need to calm down, so you need to leave, or I need to leave, or—"
“What a pity,” Vegas interrupts him, taking a step forward. “You were a good hunter, Pete.”
For what it's worth, Vegas sounds genuine.
And then he attacks.
Though excruciating hunger is gnawing a pit into Pete’s stomach, muscle memory has Pete dodging the first swing of Vegas’s knife. Vegas’s face is wild with exhilaration and dark with savagery. Does he view this as a stolen kill?
Vegas, one of the most savage vampire killers in all of Thailand.
And Pete is a vampire.
Damn. He’s going to die right here, isn’t he? It was a nice run.
As Pete drops to the ground in a roll with enough force that it will undoubtedly leave bruises, Pete feels the distinct lack of what in the before would have been the instinct of self-preservation. This is one of the quirks of his newfound biology. Pete jumps back up to his feet, trying to put distance between himself and the other hunter.
Unfortunately, Vegas is fast. He charges towards Pete, fast enough that he can't dodge.
The silver blade tears cleanly through Pete's shirt, slicing through his skin like paper, cutting through the meat of his shoulder, ripping through subcutaneous tissue, and the immediate searing pain has Pete hissing through his teeth. The wound immediately starts pouring inky blood, and the proximal smell of Vegas’s pleasant blood is diluted by the sour tang of his own.
Now that Pete is injured, he is starting to lose what little circulating blood supply he has. He's already hungry, and now he has even less borrowed blood for the parasite to eat, for his own body to use. Pete can actively feel his body getting weaker, the sense of hunger growing stronger, more painful.
Pete needs to get away.
But if Vegas is unoccupied, he might call for backup.
What can Pete do? Is there anything he can do? He's so cooked.
In the absence of a better plan, Pete keeps Vegas occupied. Even with an injured shoulder, Pete is still able to dodge many of Vegas's attacks. Afraid of injuring Vegas more, Pete maintains a strategy of evasion. Tries to maintain distance between them. Stays on the defense. Dodges, bobs and weaves, runs in circles. At one point, Pete even manages to scramble on top of a dumpster.
Vegas looks increasingly bewildered as their fight drags on.
But it's all over the second Pete actually lands a hit.
It's not even an intentional hit. Vegas has managed to corner Pete, and when he lunges, Pete panics and attempts to punch the knife out of Vegas’s hand. Unfortunately, the blade ends up slashing Vegas’s palm. Blood wells out of the cut, and Pete flusters. The smell is so good, and Pete completely forgets what he's doing, those damned fangs cutting into his lip—
And then Vegas is knocking Pete off his feet with a snapdown.
Too disoriented to catch himself on his arms, Pete belly-flops into the solid concrete. The smacking impact takes the breath out of him, and as Pete rolls into a fetal position, groaning, Vegas gives him several fierce kicks for good measure. Everything hurts. His shoulder is on fire, his ribs ache, his stomach feels like it's being turned inside out, one of his elbows got skinned through his shirt on the fall, and he's drenched in blood.
Pete is suddenly tired. Very tired. Beyond tired. He decides to just give up and accept his fate. Closes his eyes. Goes limp. Waits to be gutted like a fish.
“You must really want to lose.”
Talking is not what Pete was expecting.
Pete’s eyes snap open. Vegas is standing over him.
Pete isn’t sure why, but his eyes…
Why does it feel like Pete is being dissected right now?
“Just get it over with already,” Pete says wearily. "Kill me. Make it fast. I don’t want to fight you. I don't want to do any of this anymore.”
“Hm.” Vegas hums, considering him. Drops to a crouch beside beside Pete.
And then… Then he holds up his injured arm, right over Pete’s face.
Pete can’t tell if Vegas is mocking him or is just profoundly stupid.
Like a dog being shown a juicy steak, Pete’s eyes are immediately trained on the bloodied arm. Pete unconsciously leans forward, licks his lips, nostrils flaring, the heady scent of blood almost palpable… Vegas moves his arm side to side, and Pete’s eyes follow… but then Pete forces himself to wrench his head to the side, exhaling sharply through his nose.
No.
No, he is still himself.
He isn't like other vampires. He still has humanity. He isn't a monster, he…
He starts to salivate more.
“Wow. You’re so interesting, Pete,” Vegas comments. “How in the world did you hide it?”
Vegas sounds curious. That is never a good thing.
Of course, Pete is too busy covering his mouth shut to respond. He's clapped one hand over his nose and mouth, breathing as shallowly as he can. All the while, Vegas is studying him.
And then Vegas is prying Pete’s hands away from his face.
Pete's eyes widen. What the fuck is Vegas doing? This is dangerous. This is insanity. This is the equivalent of a child taunting a tiger in a zoo exhibit if there was no glass. There is no way that a vampire hunter as good as Vegas would be so stupid as to toy with a predator.
Pete tries to roll his head to the side, thrashing to get away, but suddenly, there’s one hand at his throat, gripping his chin hard and fixing his head in place, and another hand smothering his nose and mouth.
“Are you stupid?” Pete hisses, before realizing his mistake. Vegas used his injured hand to cover Pete's face.
Pete tries to snap his shut his mouth, but it’s too late. The flavor hits his tongue, and he's gone.
The instant euphoria smacks into him like a train, unlike anything else he has ever experienced in his whole life. A warm satisfaction spreads out from his chest, a pleasure that overshadows the hunger deep in his bones. Is this what drugs are like? Pete's tongue laves across Vegas’s palm, clumsy in his eagerness to lap up every drop of blood from the wound. The sounds are wet and sloppy, and Pete might even be moaning, but he could care less about the impropriety. Even as the blood from the wound runs dry, Pete keeps licking at the skin, at where the wound is actively knitting itself shut, hoping that maybe more blood will appear.
Eventually, Vegas pulls his hand back, drying his spit-soaked palm by wiping it across Pete’s cheek and neck like he's a kitchen rag. The corner of his mouth is up-ticked in a smile. Mean isn’t quite the right word for his expression, but it’s close.
“You act like you’re starving,” Vegas comments.
Pete's head follows Vegas’s hand, butting his cheek against it. “I haven't eaten in like two weeks,” Pete whimpers miserably, discontent with the absence of more blood in his mouth. Another twist of pain, though much milder now, has him folding in on himself.
“You want more?”
Pete finds himself nodding eagerly, but he stops short, going rigid. If he had enough blood in his system, he’d probably be flushing in embarrassment. Is he a fucking dog?
“NO,” Pete finally forces out, wrenching his head to the side, away from that hand, away from that blood like with liquid heroine. “No, I'm dangerous. I don’t know what I'm capable of, or what I might do to you. Just, leave, or kill me, or…”
He falters, feeling defeated.
“Haha.”
Vegas is smiling, straight teeth gleaming, but it is not a smile that would be categorized as friendly.
“You really think you could do anything to me? In this pathetic state?”
Of all things, Pete honestly feels a little offended. What more proof of how scary he is does Vegas need?
“I just fucking annihilated that guy, right in front of you,” Pete snaps, jerking his head towards the dead body on the ground. “He's literally right there. If you couldn’t tell, I’m a fucking vampire, Vegas. What if I hurt you? I—“
He cuts off, abruptly, as another cramp seizes his stomach. Pete winces.
“Haha.”
Pete wants to punch him.
“Well, if you try anything, I’ll just have to kill you after all,” Vegas warns him, suddenly leaning in.
Pete feels a shiver dance in his lower spine. Before he can do anything about it, Vegas’s forearm pressing at his mouth. Pete tries to frantically push him away, but he can feel the wet smear of blood against his nose. A whine, low and frustrated, rumbles in the back of his throat.
“C’mon,” Vegas says playfully, but Pete continues to struggle. “C’mon," Vegas says again, more insistently this time. When it becomes clear Pete won’t easily cooperate, Vegas climbs on top of him, moving up to straddle his chest. He uses this new leverage to hold his arm flush against Pete’s mouth, rubbing back and forth. "I know you're hungry."
He smells so nice. Pete’s fangs are swollen in his mouth, so heavy and distended that they roll painfully like rocks against his inner lip.
Pete purses his lips tight, snapping his eyes shut.
“Really, Pete?”
Pete says nothing, breathing shallowly through his nose.
“You’re ridiculous.” Vegas scoffs. “Fine. We’ll do it the hard way.”
Pete’s eyes open in alarm as Vegas applies painful force, crushing his wounded arm against Pete's mouth so hard that his head is pressed against the ground, using his free hand to meanly presses at the hinge of Pete’s jaw. It really fucking hurts, and Pete growls in protest, low in his throat.
“Open.”
Vegas’s tone is firm and menacing. Pete makes defiant eye contact, and Vegas stares right back. His expression reveals nothing, but his eyes glitter like obsidian, thoughtful and dark. Pete feels like a mouse in a cat’s claws.
Pete tries to hold out, he really does, but Vegas is relentless. No amount of trying to move his head will dislodge the other’s grip. Pete’s jaw burns with a dull ache, eyes watering from the pressure. Pete feels his resolve crumbling.
When Pete’s jaw relaxes, the second taste of Vegas’s blood crumbles any restraint he might have had left. He has no option but to give in.
Pete protracts his fangs and pierces the flesh of Vegas’s arm, right into the open flesh of the wound. There’s a pained hiss from Vegas above him. Pete tries to apologize, but ends up moaning instead as that metallic richness settles on his tongue.
Vegas's blood is incredible.
Time goes still as Pete closes his eyes and feels. This is his first time feeding directly from a human, and in that second, he can fully understand why this drives other vampires to ruin. He can feel the blood coursing up and through his fangs, how the blood spills onto his tongue in little pulses in tandem with a heartbeat, how the hollow ache in his body is filled by a deep peace, like reaching nirvana. With each suck and swallow, that gnawing pain abates, little by little; the perpetual headache and stomach cramps of the past weeks, past months, start to disappear under a pleasant buzz of satisfaction.
For the first time since Pete has turned, he feels sated. Properly fed. Like he's actually eaten.
Pete is not sure how much time has passed when Vegas finally pulls his arm away. He tries to follow Vegas’s arm with his head, starting to sit up, but Vegas shoves him down with a hand to his chest, pressing him down. Pete goes down obediently, his back landing on the ground with a thump. Pete stares up at Vegas wide-eyed, shocked back into his brain by the impact.
“What a good boy,” Vegas tells him. “Was that so hard? That felt good, didn’t it?”
Something about the way he says the words is off.
Pete blankly stares up at Vegas, and even though his brain is residually contented and syrupy, Pete has the vague sense he’s in danger.
“For being so good, I’ll let you lick up the rest of the blood on my arm,” Vegas says. “Can you do that, Pete?”
In the back of his mind, somewhere behind the haze, Pete is aware of how absolutely bizarre this situation is. A hot and shivery feeling that runs up his spine, like a licking flame.
Pete nods.
“Tongue out. Watch the fangs.”
Pete sticks his tongue out. His fangs feel fat in his mouth, scraping against his tongue.
“Good,” Vegas says, voice soft. The corner of his lips are pulled up, expression pleased. Pete feels warm all over.
The forearm returns before his face.
“Clean it up.”
Pete does. He first prioritizes healing Vegas's injuries, running his tongue gently along the groove of the deep gash, then over the deeper puncture wounds his teeth left behind. Under his tongue, Pete can feel the effect of his saliva, how the flesh is starting to mend itself closed as if by some ancient magic. The gash is deep, the puncture wounds deeper, and it takes a while for the forearm injury to get to a more superficial stage, but it gets there.
During this process, as time passes, Pete gradually gains more situational awareness, even if his senses are still buried under a blanket of endorphins. The way that Vegas tightly inhales every now and then. How Vegas's forearm jumps when something hurts. The wet sounds of him sucking on Vegas’s skin. His own muffled breathing and panting. The clicks of his throat.
After the forearm is attended to, Pete focuses on cleaning up the skin; though the open wounds are no longer actively bleeding, there is crusted blood all over Vegas's arm, so he starts to clean that up, too. It's the least he can do, considering...
At some point, Pete registers that Vegas is looking at him. Pete doesn’t know if he likes the attention, especially from someone like Vegas.
They make direct eye contact and there is that bolt like electricity down Pete's spine again, a fizzy and hot feeling deep in his stomach. Suddenly, Pete is hit with the realization that this situation feels obscene. Now that he actually has some actual blood circulating in his system, he can feel some blood rushing back into his system. His face. His neck. Other places.
Luckily, Vegas is straddling his chest and not further down. This situation is mortifying.
“That’s enough,” Pete stammers, suddenly.
Vegas obliges, rolling off of him. He then grabs a handkerchief out of his back pocket.
“You carry handkerchiefs?” Pete says in amazement.
Vegas ignores him and spits on the handkerchief. “Sit up.”
Pete does as he's told.
Then, the handkerchief is wiping at Pete’s face.
Oh. Right. His face was covered in blood. Dried blood, now. He probably looks like a wolf after sticking its head in a half-eaten deer carcass.
Pete feels sort of tipsy. His head limply rolls to either side under Vegas’s thorough ministrations as he's wiped clean. With each rub of the handkerchief against his face, Pete can feel his brain going somewhere far off and quiet.
And then Vegas stands up. He walks over to the lifeless mass on the ground in the corner of the alley. Crouches by it. Then, in a terrifying and swift motion, brings his knife down into the back of the body's neck with the grace of a butcher. Stabs once, twice, again and again, right over the place where Pete bit and tore, until the head rolls off. Then, he casually turns back to Pete as if nothing happened.
Terrifying.
“Well, are you going to get up?” Vegas quirks an eyebrow at him. "Let me see your watch. We need to call backup."
“Uh,” Pete very intelligently says. “Yeah. Okay.”
Pete sluggishly gets to his feet. Walks over to join Vegas. As he stares at the carnage on the ground in front of him, the mess of his own creation garnished with a touch of Vegas's brutality, Pete has the feeling that his life is going to get a bit more complicated from now on.