This was originally published on my ao3 in December of 2023, actually almost exactly two years ago to the day. It features Nero, my vampire warlord who happens to be a pretty chill dude.
Nero embodies the fantasy of the sugar daddy, the soft and kind dom. He is rich but austere, generous but undemanding. He showers you with gifts and affection and praise for doing the bare minimum. He is the power fantasy of having all the money and power in the world and all the sub(ject)s you could ever wish to dote on.
Less intimately, he considers his vampirism a terrible burden he must bear for the Good of Society, for only he is benevolent and savvy enough to deserve to rule, and only he is strong and cunning enough to shoulder the burden. At least, that's what he seems to think. This benevolent dictatorship is just another form of power fantasy, really.
———
There is the chime of a bell, the one that signifies that I have company. Engrossed as I am in my work, I ignore it for a moment.
It rings again. Injak, the castle guard currently guarding my quarters, says “It’s the weekly tithe, sir.”
I don’t look up. “They’re early. I wasn’t expecting a tithe until Monday.”
“Well, he’s here now,” says Injak.
I deliberately pause for a moment. “Send him in.”
The tithe walks in slowly. Without looking I know he’s scared. It’s in the clack of his shoes against the tile and the pulse of his heart.
“I’ll be just a moment,” I say, looking over another stack of administrative notes. “Have a seat on the pulpit.”
Nothing is really urgent at all. It’s admittedly a guilty pleasure, but I like making tithes squirm just a bit.
I pore over the latest trade reports for another minute, then get up. The tithe is sitting cross-legged, hands clamped together. A young adult, somewhere around twenty-six maybe. Looks to be from a northern province, though of course, with so much travel now it's impossible to say for certain. He’s wearing what tithes always wear, which is a simple wrap around their chest and waist, leaving the neck completely exposed.
No two tithes are ever the same, which is part of the point. Some are reverent. Some are resigned, or feel they have been punished, or believe it is their solemn duty. Most, like this one, are nervous. Service to the empire is rarely so intimately physical.
“What is your name?” I ask. The tithe meets my gaze, and shudders.
“Kinnan,” he says, then amends with “your honor.”
His heart race is increasing. He is here willingly; all tithes are; but he is still a human, and he knows that he is not the apex predator here. He fears for his life; his heart and mind bound by his traitorous flesh. Like we all are.
I step closer until we are almost touching, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You are brave for coming here,” I whisper into his ear.
“I… I know you won’t hurt me.”
I smile, flashing fangs, and I meet his eyes again. “No, I will certainly hurt you, dear Kinnan. But only as much as I need to.”
I circle around so that I’m facing the back of his neck, never breaking my touch. “Your emperor thanks you for your service.”
Before Kinnan can respond I bite into his neck, holding him against my chest. The blood he gives me, nay, the blood I take from him fills me with vigor and warmth no other meal could ever match.
Kinnan tries to say something, but doesn’t. The blood loss is getting to him; he wavers in my grasp. I release my bite and my grip, using a touch of magic to staunch the bleeding.
I stand there for a moment, simply holding Kinnan as he finds his bearings.
“There should be something hearty in the kitchens for you,” I say. “You will eat, and then you will rest.”
“Not sure I can walk,” Kinnan says. His voice is strained. “I’d fall over for sure.”
“Then I will carry you, generous Kinnan.”
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