#cw noncon implied | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

acursedworldofaus · 8 months

Text

Dragon’s Blood (Part 1)

Yandere AFO x Oblivious (AFAB) Reader

CW: implied non-con, implied somnophilia, implied trespassing, implied stalking, implied impregnation/breeding if you squint.

Gray dawn light streams through your window. You turn away from the unwanted brightness, trying to eek out another morsel of sleep by burying your face in your pillow, noticing sleepily that it smells oddly sweet, spicy, and earthy, somewhat like dragon’s blood. The scent is like a ghost of an echo, though, and the more you chase it the less you smell, as if you imagined some phantom fragrance. You write it off as residual imprints of smells from your shop in favor of pretending you aren’t conscious. Unfortunately, hiding only works for a few minutes before the uncomfortable feeling of wetness between your legs drives you to the bathroom for another early morning shower. Ordinarily, you would shower once before bed, but now you find yourself showering twice a day: once after work, and once before to prevent yourself from walking around with slick fluids caked onto your thighs and labia. If you don’t, it’ll congeal, dry, then flake.

Gross.

You glare at yourself in the mirror after you strip naked, wondering what the hell happened for your brain to have weird wet dreams every night this month. You keep waking up soaked with damp panties. The weird splotches dotting your skin from your collarbone to your ankles haven’t gone away either. If you didn’t know better, you’d think they were bruises, but that can’t be it. How would they get there after all? You sure as hell haven’t fallen recently. Maybe you have a blood disorder you don’t know about? Which, now that you think about it, isn’t random bruising a sign of that?

You decide to go see a doctor if it doesn’t change anytime soon, quickly washing away the night’s slimy residue before getting ready as normal and heading into work at your tea, herb, and spice shop. You grab a cinnamon roll along the way and make tea once you arrive, then sip and nibble as you prepare for opening. Hours pass normally as your regulars drop by for their orders. One of them, a gentleman by the name of Shigaraki, always comes by for something or other. He stops by today as well, all smiles and easy conversation, smelling faintly of something sweet, spicy, and earthy that seems oddly familiar, no doubt due to how often he visits. As per usual he has his charisma cranked to the max, and flirts with you nonstop as you package his latest order, aka the most recent tea you recommend he try.

“I can’t help but notice, Tea-chan, that you seem to be glowing today,” he comments in his lilting tone, just shy of purring.

”Really? I certainly don’t feel like it,” you murmur. “I haven’t slept properly for this entire month. I keep waking up feeling tired.”

And it was true, too. On top of waking up uncomfortably wet, you keep waking up feeling bone tired. Perhaps another thing to look into? All together, each individual observation sounds like a symptom cluster you really may be sick.

”Really,” Shigaraki-san insists. “You look even more beautiful than usual.”

His complement makes you blush. You finish wrapping up each canister and transfer them all into a colorful paper bag emblazoned with the shop logo. Your hands brush as you hand it to him, and he accepts it with a winning grin. His red eyes gleam like rubies in the brightness of afternoon sun, while his white hair shimmers with a golden tint. A halo of light surrounding his head lends to the illusion of an otherworldly being clothed in human skin standing before you. Something stops you from labeling this hypothetical supernatural creature as angelic.

“Well, if that’s the case, then thank you, Shigaraki-san. I appreciate such kind words even if I don’t feel they’re true.”

”I’ve told you that Hajime is fine,” he says, waving away any future attempts at distance or formality. “And of course they’re true, Tea-chan, whether you believe them or not.”

He’s tried getting you to use his first name without an honorific for his last three visits, but it feels too informal, too forward.

“Fine, fine,” you relent, reddening further. “H-Hajime. Thank you. Please take care.”

Triumph flashes in his eyes followed by amusement and affection before his features smooth out and return to normal. He tips his hat to you in lieu of a verbal response then departs for who knew where. It’s not as if he shares much about himself besides once telling you he helps people with their Quirks. You assume he means he’s a Quirk counselor. It explains his bespoke suits considering how much those counselors make in a single week.

You put him out of your mind as ninety-six year old Takeda-san hobbles in for an herbal mixture meant to help with arthritis pain. You have a duty to your clients to keep your head clear so you can meet their needs. You dole out teas and herbal remedies for upset stomach, for anxiety, for ear ache, for sleeplessness and headaches. You shove all thoughts of how handsome Hajime is, how good he smells, how soft his skin looks, and countless others down until they quiet, at least until closing. Unbidden memories of him spring to the surface as you lock up at sundown, ready to make the journey back home.

#afo x reader #yandere afo x reader #yandere x reader #all for one x reader #yandere all for one x reader #shigaraki x reader #villain x reader #yandere all for one #yandere afo #yandere bnha #cw noncon #cw somnophilia #cw implied impregnation

111 notes · View notes

whump-card · 7 months

Text

This Death That I Chose: Chapter 1

2507 words

CW: implied past noncon, derogatory language

Masterlist, Next

~~~

“My name is Lark.”

Joshua Tao studied their new captive carefully. The two of them sat opposite each other in the makeshift interrogation room – a back room in the abandoned house the Watch had set up in, the windows boarded closed. The prisoner had shackles on his ankles and wrists, and with his left arm in a cast from elbow to palm and resting in a sling he was forced to hold his right hand up awkwardly to avoid jostling it. Tao was deeply puzzled by him. The Watch had captured him purely by chance: they strayed too far into the ruins during a night patrol due to an over-enthusiastic new member, and spotted a Military transport van moving along an abandoned track. A split-second decision led to the van being stopped, boarded, and overpowered. When the fighting was over, the Watch headed home to their little rebel settlement with four prisoners – until the three captured soldiers cracked open their cyanide teeth and had to be left to rot in the ruins. That left them with one: silent, wide-eyed, with a broken arm, and clearly the transport’s primary passenger. The soldiers had fought wildly to protect him.

The prisoner was no soldier himself, of that Tao was certain. He had a slim build, hardly any muscle at all, clearly revealed by the sleeveless turtleneck he wore. He had pale skin and silky black hair that was too long and well cared for. Neither did he have the age or aura of an officer; the young man had put up no fight, and now stared down at the table between them, refusing to risk antagonizing his captors with eye contact. His face – which looked small penned in by the dark of mop of his hair and the high turtleneck – was ashen and slick with sweat, the result of the hours-long slog through the ruins on a hot summer night. He didn’t seem scared, though. Instead he seemed cold. Detached.

“Your name is Lark.” Tao echoed, drumming his fingers on the holster of his gun. Like the bird? “Okay, ‘Lark.’ What were you doing in a Military transport going through the ruins in the middle of the night?”

“We were returning from the Conservatorium to the Capital.”

Tao wasn’t expecting such a straightforward answer. The young man’s voice was quiet, with a smooth, controlled cadence.

“What were you doing at the Conservatorium?” Tao asked.

“I needed to see a doctor there.”

“For your arm? It doesn’t look bad enough to warrant a trip to the Con.”

“It was… Badly infected.”

Lark’s first hesitation. Tao made a mental note of that, and moved on.

“So you live in the Capital?”

“Yes, sir.”

‘Sir’? He really doesn’t want any trouble.

“What do you do there?”

Another pause. Lark’s eyes darted back and forth, searching the table for the best answer. Tao suppressed a smile.

“I don’t know anything useful to you,” Lark said carefully.

“That’s not what I asked.” Tao leaned forward. “You’re a scientist, aren’t you? Pumping out murder machines, getting top-notch medical treatment when an experiment goes wrong?”

Lark was shaking his head before Tao even finished talking.

“No, sir. I’m not a scientist. I don’t know anything.”

“Sounds like something a scientist would say.”

“I’m not. You shouldn’t keep me here.”

“Woah!” Tao laughed, “Giving orders already? And here I was, thinking you were a pushover.”

“No, sir, what I mean is, people will miss me, in the Capital. They will come looking.”

Emotion was starting to color Lark’s voice for the first time: a hint of desperation.

“They won’t find us,” Tao said.

“You think he doesn’t know you’re out here?” Defiance. And he.

“So you do know things.”

Lark finally looked up from the table, his eyes meeting Tao’s for the first time. They were dark bronze, like late-season honey.

“No, not anything useful, I swear.” Gone was his carefully measured tone and pace. His words flowed quickly and betrayed a slowly rising panic. “If you keep me here you’ll learn nothing from me and the Commander will destroy this place to get me back. You should trade or ransom me for something that’s actually valuable as soon as you can.”

“Aww,” Tao’s voice dripped with fake sympathy, “It almost sounds like you care about us.” He laughed, then grew serious again. “And it sounds like you’re pretty important to the big guy.”

Lark hesitated again before admitting it.

“Yes, sir. I am. In fact -” He gained a second wind of boldness, leaning forward slightly. “In fact, the Commander took a great risk in resources and political standing by sending me through the ruins to the Conservatory for emergency medical care. He has gone through great lengths to ensure my health and safety, and I know he’d be willing to offer you anything you wanted in exchange for my safe return. But… he’s not a patient man. You’d need to act quickly.”

“Well, what I want is my home, my country, and my brother back.” Tao stared Lark down. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, do you?”

Lark was left speechless, his open mouth trembling slightly. Tao stood.

“I’m going to give you some time to think. I’m sure you can come up with something interesting to tell me. If not… We’ll help you out.”

Tao started to leave, but heard chains rattling behind him.

“Um, please, wait!”

Lark’s tone was much different now. He was scared – clearly he hadn’t thought Tao would cut off their conversation so soon. Tao turned back.

“What is it, thought of something already?”

“No, sir, sorry, I – my arm,” Lark gestured weakly to his sling, “It’s not fully healed. I had antibiotics with me on the transport, I need them so that the infection doesn’t… come back. Please.”

Tao nodded slowly.

“We’ll see,” was all he said.

Tao left the room and found himself toe-to-toe with Becca and Vic, who had been listening just outside the door. They said nothing but made expressive faces as Tao mockingly waved them away and bolted the door – the lack of soundproofing went both ways. How Tao wished they had a real interrogation room, with an intercom and a slick one-way window. But buildings like that hardly existed anymore outside of the Commander's hold.

The three of them moved from the small hallway to what had once been someone’s living room, but was now the Watch’s meeting and strategy room. Vic, the Watch’s other leader along with Tao, practically exploded.

“This is crazy. Do you really think he’s a scientist?”

Tao let out a long breath, cracking his knuckles one by one. The whole thing had him more tense than he realized.

“He’s gotta be. I don’t know what else. If he was some kind of laborer or domestic servant, he could’ve just said.”

Becca, the rebel community’s de-facto “mayor,” snapped her fingers to get the two men’s attention.

“Hey. Did I mishear, or did you vaguely threaten him with torture? Because we’re not doing that. Ever.”

“Oh, jeez, no,” Tao put up his hands, “I was just trying to scare him.”

“Aww,” Vic complained, “Can’t we rough him up just a little? He’s part of a fascist regime!”

“No,” Becca insisted, “And Tao, you better track down that medicine he needs. We respect the Geneva Convention in this house.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Vic, how goes the data retrieval from the Military van?” Becca asked.

“It’s going,” Vic nodded, “We should know a lot more about who this guy is very soon.”

“Good. We’ll talk to ‘Lark’ again when we do. Until then,” she pointed to Tao, “Medicine, and,” she turned her finger toward Vic, “Guard him. No funny business.”

Vic gave a lazy salute. “Got it.”

~~~

Tao was going to get the medicine, he really was. But after being out all night and the skirmish over the transport van, he was exhausted, starving, and had a few bumps and scrapes that were begging for attention. Sustenance came first: he left the house that served as the Watch’s headquarters and walked down the cracked and weathered road to the cookhouse.

The little rebel “town” was modest. It was a ragtag collection of survivors that had set up in an abandoned semi-rural neighborhood, guarded and provided for by volunteer Watchmen who scavenged the nearby city ruins. The houses were spaced apart, and there was thick tree coverage that kept them visually shielded from any aerial eyes that didn’t know what they were looking for.

The cookhouse was a home that had been remodeled shortly before the war to sport a modern open floor plan. This made it the largest indoor space, and combined with its state-of-the-art kitchen it was the best mess hall they could manage.

Tao knocked back two cups of instant coffee and some watery eggs, fending off questions from other breakfast-goers about the Watch’s new prisoner. He only just got here. Yeah, yeah, we’ll make an announcement if he spills something juicy. Only the cook on duty cared to ask him how his food was, chuckling out a good-humored “Today is a disaster!” when he couldn’t fake a good enough smile.

Once he had some peace, he rolled the prisoner’s words around in his head. “Lark.” Yeah, right. But…

“You should trade me for something that’s actually valuable.”

The young man hadn’t sounded like he was lying.

~~~

Tao went to the infirmary next. Their doctor, Faye, was a bony old woman with an ornery personality, but she got the job done.

Once Tao had been patched up and downed some ibuprofen he asked her if his crew had dropped anything off for her. She unceremoniously shoved a shoe box of various supplies into his hands.

“I haven’t gone through it yet,” Faye said, “Looks like quality stuff.”

“Yeah, well…” Tao shuffled through the spare sling and packets of bandages to pull out a pill bottle – the antibiotics. “These were for the prisoner we took, and I think he still needs some of it.”

Faye scoffed.

“That’s good medicine, and we’re wasting it on some fash bastard? Tell me you’re not serious.”

Tao shrugged weakly in the face of her ire.

“Geneva convention?”

~~~

Tao escaped the infirmary without any new injuries and made his way back to the HQ with the shoebox tucked under his arm. Inside he found Vic, bouncing on his heels and practically glowing as he scrolled on a tablet.

“You’re never going to believe this!” Vic crowed.

“What is it? You retrieve the van data?” Tao grinned, certain his scientist theory would pay off.

“Yeah we did! And guess who our little friend in there is.”

“Just spit it out, Vic!”

“He’s the Commander’s whore. Listen to this.”

Tao found himself spinning between Vic’s infectious delight and a horrible sinking feeling. He opened his mouth but was cut off by a compressed, crackly recording emitting from Vic’s tablet.

“Home base, this is transport 562, we have departed Conservatory with the fucktoy, en route to home, ETA 07:00, over.

“Transport 562, this is home base, we read you, please be advised to keep your language clean on the coms, over.”

“Yes sir, revise to: we have departed with the… boytoy. Over.”

“…”

“The Commander’s main squeeze? Over.”

“Jeremy I swear to God-”

Vic stopped the recording with a cackle.

“Can you believe it? No wonder he didn’t want to tell us what his job was!”

Vic continued to laugh, slapping his knee, and Tao felt a hollow, automatic chuckle escape his own mouth. Because… it was funny… right?

“Can you imagine what kind of… literal ass-kisser this dude must be?” Vic wheezed, nearly tearing up, “Who in their right mind would fuck that Palpatine-lookin’ motherfucker-”

“Hey, let me see that.” Tao dropped the shoebox of medical supplies on the table and grabbed at the tablet. Vic handed it over, sinking into a chair.

“Oh shit, who fucks who? D’you think -” Vic’s words were consumed by his own laughter as Tao scrolled frantically through the info scraped from the van. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he found the Conservatory’s visit summary.

“Lark.” No surname.

Based on his birthdate, he’s… 22. Shit.

“Arrived with compound fractures of both the radius and ulna, and severe infection. Patient reports arm was broken twice and set improperly the first time. Patient is unclear when the infection set in.” …Twice?

“Pain management disregarded upon request of the payee.”

Tao dropped the tablet to the table with a clatter and scrabbled at the shoe box, upturning the contents and spreading them out with shaking hands. Vic stared at him, finally coming down from his hysterics.

“What’re you doing?”

“There’s no pain meds!”

“What?”

Tao grabbed the antibiotics and rushed past Vic towards the back room.

“Woah!” Vic jumped up to follow him, “Shouldn’t we wait for Becca?”

Tao ignored him, unbolting the door and flinging it open.

“Lark-”

Tao choked.

In stark contrast to his stiff, prim, upright posture earlier, Lark now sat slumped over, head on the table.

“Hey!” Tao shouted at him. Vic came in to stand beside him, cursing.

Lark didn’t move.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Tao darted around the table, stuffing the antibiotics into his pocket. He put one hand under Lark’s head and one on his shoulder and tried to lift him up without upsetting the broken arm, only to find it already pulled awkwardly out of the sling by the shackled weight of the boy’s other arm. Luckily the cast was holding strong. Lark’s head lolled back, and his eyelids fluttered. His color was even worse than it was earlier and his forehead was hot and slippery with sweat under Tao’s hand.

“Help me!” Tao waved Vic over, “Undo the shackles!”

“Are you sure-”

“Does he look like he’s going to escape, Vic?! Get your head out of your ass!”

Vic hustled over and Tao eased Lark’s broken arm back into the sling and held it steady as Vic sorted through his key ring and unlocked the shackles. Lark let out a tiny, pained whimper that made Tao want to throw up.

“Shit, okay, we gotta – we gotta get him to Faye!”

Vic kicked the shackles out of the way.

“Are you sure-?”

“Vic, I swear I will explain what I think is happening here, but he needs help first.”

Vic hesitated, but understood that stopping to argue would get them nowhere. He nodded.

“Thank you. Okay, Lark?” Tao placed a hand on Lark’s burning cheek to gently tilt his face towards his own. “We’re gonna help you walk a little ways, can you do that for me?”

Lark’s eyes fluttered open, and his unfocused gaze wandered over Tao’s face. His eyes abruptly filled with tears, and he took in a sharp breath.

“Please,” he whispered, “Please don’t break my arm again.”

Tao looked up and met Vic’s solemn stare. The other man had finally grasped that something was wrong.

This was going to be a lot more complicated than they thought.

~~~

Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #this death that I chose #implied noncon #cw derogatory language #past noncon

55 notes · View notes

cryptidcircusco · 17 days

Text

Hey guys. Basement fic brainrot.

#cw noncon #cw violence #cw sa implied #cw death

20 notes · View notes

noomyart · 2 months

Text

Jean's days at the Nest were rarely kind. Up to viewer whether it's another player come to torment him, or Kevin there to try and put back the pieces My gift for @sam-sational-stuff for the Fellow Exy Junkies Discord server exchange!

#cw: noncon #implied noncon #all for the game #aftg #violence #bruises #jean moreau #aftg jean #the nest #edgar allan ravens #my art

14 notes · View notes

whumpiary · 8 months

Text

technically a follow on from this piece. could probably stand alone. this piece has been 80% done in my google docs for three years so if you see any big holes in it uhhh. no you didn't.

if you've ever wanted some vague exposition on cass' powers or choices, then this is for you

content warning: mentions of death, victim blaming, aftermath of violence/assault, referenced dubcon/noncon, brief mind control

The common room at Bergen Estate gets quiet at night. Most of the charges prefer their own rooms as it gets dark. Hiding from the bogeyman.

But Harley liked the large, dark emptiness of the common room.

The curved chairs, the pillars, the rows of books and video games lined up along the shelves. The big oak tables. Bean bags in the corner. Rugs here and there. The whole place had the energy of some sort of bizarre combination between a kid’s playroom and a university library. But Harley wanted a space to think, and this was the easiest one.

Their intuition had been right and wrong in equal amounts tonight. They’d known they would be called to Christopher’s lounge tonight. And they were. And they knew that they would be fine after. And they are. But… if they were so fine why do they feel so God fucking awful?

“Harley can go, right? It’s not like we need them.”

Every time they try to push the memory from their head, it bobs to the surface again like an apple in water.

“I have to say, Harley… I really am so disappointed in you.”

They stare out the large bay window, at the leafless trees silhouetted in the mix of light from the garden and from the moon. The whole thing looks ghostly. Gothic. The dark through the glass makes the whole window reflective; a giant mirror just waiting to show them their face. But it’s dark in here too. It’s a dark room reflected on a dark night. That’s why it’s so obvious when there’s a shuffling flash of light behind them, making their heart skip.

The door opens, someone steps through, and then it closes. Dark again. Harley stiffens, freezes, trying to catch another glimpse of who it is in the reflection of the window but it's back to shadows on shadows on shadows.

They listen as the person shuffles to one of the cushioned seats. Shuffles. Like it hurts to move. They sit so carefully that Harley can barely hear them. Then there's quiet. Stillness. An exhale.

Harley doesn’t move. They know stillness. They know silence. Have known it for longer than they’ve been here.

But then there’s another exhale.

And another.

Any hitch of breath that might be happening in between is more or less silent. Which means, usually… crying.

Harley feels themself cringe. The Bergen Boys don't cry. Those are the rules. Not Christopher's rules but the deeper, unspoken ones between the lot of them. You don’t complain, you don’t ask for help, you don’t cry. Or if you did, it got beaten out of you quicksmart. Everything else was a free for all as far as Harley has ever been able to tell.

So the shadow person has come to the common room in the middle of the night. Assuming, like Harley had, that it would be empty. That it would be safe.

Guilt washes over them all at once, guttural and nauseating and they realise all of a sudden that intentionally or not just by sitting here, listening, they're imposing. Intruding. Doing the wrong thing. And then the fear beneath that, on top of that, around that, that if they wait too long and the shadow person notices them, they may well end up on the wrong side of thrown fists. Again.

Harley shifts on the couch where they sit, exaggerating the whisper scrape of fabric on fabric, and leans back on the left side where they know the leg creaks.

The shadow person's breathing stops immediately and Harley hears them stand.

"Who's there?"

Harley freezes again, regretting making their presence known. Cassius.

"I can see you. On the couch. Get over here." His voice is sharp and violent. Deeper than usual. There's a childish part of Harley, not as far beneath the surface as they’d like, that wishes desperately they’d just stay silent and hidden. Safe.

But, like they were told, they uncurl their legs. Stand. Turn. Start to walk.

Harley can see the moment that the light from the window must catch their face. Cassius' face softens, eyes fluttering closed and body sagging with what was maybe relief.

“Harls,” he says, running a hand over his face as he sits back down. Harley doesn’t miss the wince. “Jesus Christ, man, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” The apology flies out of them like a verbal flinch. “I’ll leave.”

“No, ple-” Cassius stops himself, eyes shuttering closed. Harley watches him take a deep breath, brow furrowing briefly. You don’t cry. You don’t complain. You don’t ask for help. “You can stay. If you want. I don't mind.”

Harley hesitates for a moment, glancing around half-uselessly, before choosing a seat across from the other charge and folding into it.

“What are you doing up so late?” Cassius asks, as though they’ve bumped into each other at a truck stop. At a bar. Fancy seeing you here.

Harley shrugs. “I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep. I kept…” thinking about what you were doing. They bite down on their tongue to keep themselves from saying more. It’s stupid.

They trail off as Cassius looks up at them and the dull light from the window catches the shape of his brow. At the blood smeared along his temple. The bruising already flaring up along his cheek. “Did… did Beauche do that to you?”

Cassius huffs out a half laugh, running his tongue between his teeth and the obviously bruised tissue of his cheek. He drags his hand up, knuckle brushing softly against his brow. “Yep. What a gentleman, huh?”

“But Christopher said he wouldn’t be violent.”

Cassius scoffs, “Yeah and Christopher’s such a shining beacon of truth, huh?”

Cassius sits back in his chair, eyes hard, and Harley holds their breath. With the shadows of the trees outside dancing across his face, the shading of the bruises and the swelling there, Cassius looks half monster.

Then his expression softens, his body relaxes. “Nah, it was my fault." He lets out a sigh, hand running back through his hair. "The guy wanted me to cry.”

“And did you?” Cassius’ glare is immediate. Has Harley slamming their jaw shut so quickly their teeth click together. “Sorry.”

Cassius shrugs a shoulder in acceptance of the apology and leans back in the chair. He closes his eyes and all at once it’s like some mask comes down. He looks exhausted and hurt and… young, actually. Harley always forgets that. He’s younger than them. About a three year gap between them.

“Why are you up?” Harley says, after the silence gets unbearably fragile. “Here, I mean. I thought you’d be…” They struggle for a tactful way to put it. “In the other wing.”

“Nah, he didn’t want me to stay, thank fuck. And Christopher doesn’t like me coming in af-... Um. He doesn’t like me coming in too late,” Cassius says, picking non-existent dirt out from under his finger nails. He clears his throat a little as his face flinches in and out of a frown. “Plus, the sooner I see him, the sooner I have to… you know…”

He gestures loosely at his face and Harley frowns. The sooner he’d have to do what? Get rid of the bruises? Get rid of the pain that keeps making him flinch and close his eyes? None of them talked about it but they’d all seen it. Bruises fading on Cassius just to bloom on his brother in minutes. Always after a visit to Christopher. Always without a word spoken.

Harley can’t help their own contempt, “Isn’t that a good thing for you?”

Cassius looks at them with an expression Harley can’t place, dark eyes flicking between both of Harley’s, as though searching for something. He looks angry. Murderous. Violent. Then he snorts and it’s gone. “Yeah. Sure.”

He drops his head, hands fidgeting between his knees. With the angle and the shadows, Harley can only just make out the shape of his nose, his eyes half hidden behind his hair. It sticks out at awkward angles around his head like a terrible crown. Frizzy waves in some parts, kinked curls in others.

It'll suit him more when he leaves and he grows it longer.

The thought comes unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. Like the predictions always do. Just a slice of truth falling into the head with the right prompt. An understanding that that's just… how things will be.

It's not the first time Harley's thought something like it. That Cassius will do much better once he leaves. The notion of it is almost horrifying. Cassius has been here longer than they have. It’s hard to imagine Bergen Estate without its golden boy.

Harley chews on their cheek and “If I ask you something, will you answer truthfully?”

Cassius shrugs. Smirks. “Probably not.”

Harley rolls their eyes and looks away, annoyance settling in their gut. They don’t even know why they bother with Cassius. He’s always the exact same. They're about to stand up to leave when Cassius clears his throat and-

“I’ll trade you for it,” he says softly, dark eyes shining with something unnameable in the dim light. “You ask me something, I ask you something. No lies.”

“Promise?”

Cassius just shrugs. Which is probably as good a promise as Harley’s going to get, really. They sigh and trace the patterning of the rug with their eyes before pursing their lips together and looking back up at Cassius with a focussed sincerity.

They swallow. Inhale. Hands grip the arms of the chair. "You hate it here.”

Cass’ eyes skitter to the side and back. "That's… not a question."

"Why don't you leave?"

“Same as you, dumbass. Legally binding contract.”

“No, I mean-” Harley bites down on their cheek and tries to figure out the right words to say what they mean. “You can make him do whatever you want, right? You can make anyone do what you want. So why don’t you just… make him get rid of you."

Cassius exhales in a way that could almost be a laugh. But probably isn’t. “It’s… complicated.”

“Because of Henri?”

He shrugs, looking bored as he meets their gaze. “Sure.”

“No lies.”

Cassius sighs, leaning back slouched in the chair. He shrugs. “Just because I can make someone want to do something, it doesn’t mean they’ll do it.”

“Like… he’d resist you?”

“No.” Cassius pulls a face. “I mean yes, maybe. But no… It’s like…” He makes a sound hallway between a sigh and a groan. He rolls his neck, eyes roaming around the room like he’s trying to figure something out. He leans his chin on his hand, fingers skirting over his lips before looking back to Harley. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

Harley stands instantly. They turn on their foot and move to the door and for the first time in their life everything is certain. Everything is clear. Everything makes so much sense and all they have to do is… Is to…

“Um…”

Cass half smiles. There's something vicious and cruel behind his eyes. “Dᴏ ɪᴛ, Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ. Sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

They step forward, compulsively, and for some bizarre reason they start raising their arms in front of them, as though their body can’t figure out a way to solve the issue even though they want to and as soon as that thought hits them the frantic desire starts to dissipate, filling instead with deep dread and panic.

They turn their head towards him, eyes wide. Frozen. "I…"

Cassius’ gaze is dark and heavy. Hungry and calculating. His jaw sets. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, ɢᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ Cʜʀɪsᴛᴏᴘʜᴇʀ.”

The feeling that floods them is white hot and immediate. Desire and rage running through them like lava. They’re not sure they’ve ever moved so fast, wheeling on a foot, making it to the door, but no sooner are they reaching for the handle then-

“Nah, ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ɪᴛ. Cᴏᴍᴇ sɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ.”

All at once the desire dissipates, and the panic sets in like shame. Like failure. They come back over. They sit back down. Then their thoughts catch up and they look at Cassius with fury. How dare he do that? How dare he go into their head and make them feel that?

Cassius just smiles. Shrugs. “Sorry. Figured I’d show not tell.”

‘’I could’ve killed him.”

Cassius shrugs, unshaded and unconvinced. “Nah. You would’ve got halfway down the hall and changed your mind.”

“But what if I didn’t?”

“Then you would’ve gotten to his room and realised you didn’t know how. You wouldn’t have killed him.”

“I might’ve,” they protest, still indignant.

Cass shrugs, smile lazy and tired, “But you didn’t.”

They try, for a few moments, to hold on to the anger. The indignation. It’s so, so easy to hate him when he’s far away. When they can’t see him or only see him at a distance. It’s much much harder three feet away from him, where the moonlight show the bags under his eyes as dark as the bruise blossoming above his temple.

“He takes you away from here sometimes,” they say eventually. “You could… when you were away from here. You could leave. Make him let you leave. That’s not that hard.”

Cassius just looks at them, chin resting on his hand, fingers covering his mouth. He raises his eyebrows at them expectantly, foot bouncing like a motor. He’s probably trying to look annoyed. Sarcastic. But he just looks like a sad little boy.

Understanding clicks in.

“But Henri…” Harley voices for him.

Cassius shrugs a shoulder. A tear manages to make it all the way to his cheekbone before he swipes it away with the side of his fist. The Bergen Boys don’t cry. “Told you. Complicated.”

This isn’t how things are meant to be. Cassius is meant to stay in the other wing, up on his damn pedestal and away in Christopher’s bedroom. He’s not meant to cry in the common room. He’s meant to be the golden boy in his golden room. It’s meant to be easy to hate him. He’s meant to be arrogant and selfish and mean and rude and-

“Your French isn’t better than mine,” they say suddenly. They can’t quite say where the compulsion to say it comes from.

Cassius blinks, “What?”

“In the office before, you said your French was better than mine. It’s not.”

He looks at them for a moment, frowning and annoyed and then suddenly he’s laughing, eyebrows shooting up in exhausted amusement, “You’re weird as fuck, you know that?”

“What? No I’m not,” Harley spits, suddenly self-conscious and antsy.

“Yes you are,” Cassius says. “I did you a fucking favour and a half tonight-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“And you know what, you’re welcome by the way.”

“I never asked you to-”

“Oh, save it. Yes you fucking did. You know what I can do. You know what I can feel. You were basically fucking screaming at me.”

And that, they do remember. Closing their eyes. Drowning Christopher’s voice out in their head. The huge loud static of I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this.

The air stills. The atmosphere between them settles like dust in the shadows and darkens again. Guilt creeps over Harley's shoulders and rests with heavy claws. They shouldn’t have said anything.

“My French is more usable than yours,” Cass mutters.

They’re truly unsure if he’s being genuine or just trying to break the ice that’s frosted over. They try for the latter, “Your grammar sucks.”

“Yeah, well we didn’t get much further than ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’, so I don’t think I did fine,” he gives them a dead-eyed smile that they assume is meant to cast the comment in humour. They don’t really find it very funny.

After a few awkward beats, Cassius gives up the ghost. He clears his throat, “Alright. My turn,”

Harley readjusts in their seat, straightening their spine, tucking their hair behind their ears to listen for the question. They wait one moment. And then two. The whole time the golden boy seems to scrutinise them, looking into their eyes as he sizes them up, makes some sort of assessment.

Cassius’ voice is low and jarringly sad as he finally lands on a question, “Why do you hate me so much?”

If it was possible for Harley to feel every cell in their body crystallise… that was what this feeling was. “I don’t hate you.”

Cassius smiles. Tilts his head. The blood along his temple catches in the light. “No lies.”

Harley frowns and looks away, turning their head to look out the window across the other side of the room. They wonder if he remembers the day they met as well as they do. It was in this room. Just a few feet from where they were sitting now. He’d been sitting on the arm of the couch making some smart mouth comment to someone and they’d thought he looked friendly. And then his eyes had met theirs and prediction hit like an epiphany:

You’re going to kill me one day.

Unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. A slice of truth falling into their head.

You’re going to kill me one day to save yourself.

They knit their fingers together in their lap, pressing knuckle to knuckle. They press their lips into a thin line. Something with wings — a bird or a bat, they can’t tell — takes flight from one of the trees outside the window. Darkness reflects darkness back.

After it becomes clear they’re not going to answer, Cassius prompts again, “Was it something I did?”

They shrug one shoulder. Like he does. Look down at their hands. The shadows across the room dance and shimmer.

“Is it because of…” out of the corner of their eye, Harley sees him wave a hand at himself. “You know. What I do.” A pause. They see his Adam’s apple bob. “The way I do it.”

Harley frowns, ducks their head lower so they don’t have to look at him, even in periphery. They manage to shake their head this time.

“Is it…” Cassius stops and starts. Stalls. Clears his throat. “Is it something I’m going to do?”

Harley finds themself looking up, despite themself.

They meet his eyes. Time stops for a second.

Cass looks so full of grief for a moment that Harley’s certain the rest of the world must’ve been robbed of it. All shoved into one person to hold for a second. His voice sounds wrecked, “I’m sorry.”

They almost believe him, too. And they hate him all the more for it.

Did he have to be so perfect at this, too? Did he have to be forgivable for this, too? Can’t they just hate him? Can’t they just hate his guts and let him get whadt he’s owed for the things that he’s done, does, is going to do? They want to ask him. They want to tell him. All of it. They want to see his face as he tries to figure out how to respond. They want to know how he feels when he finds out he’s gonna be a murderer.

“It’s okay,” is what tumbles out of their mouth instead.

“Yeah,” Cass laughs and another tear makes it out of him. They hate him for it. He swipes at it with the side of a closed fist. “No it isn’t.”

They hate him as he stands up.

They hate him as he cuts the conversation short.

They hate him as he passes and gives the back of their chair a pat.

“See you around, Harls.”

They watch the window for the flash of light as the door opens, a yellow glow spilling into the room for a moment like blood from a cut. And then the door shuts with a click. And the room is back to its inky darkness. And the golden boy is gone. And Harley isn’t.

And their hatred is an unspooled ball of yarn in the middle of the floor.

#harley #cassius #bergen estate #implied or referenced noncon #victim blaming cw #death mention cw #violent cw #wip to wob #this is your reminder that you can go back and finish an old piece and post it #for free #may your abandoned wips be more of a prodigal son to you #im mixing metaphors like cake batter babeyyy #we are the daughters of the wips you forgot to burn

37 notes · View notes

kenobster · 1 year

Text

A joke I made watching this with my mom last night....

#incorrect star wars quotes #anakin skywalker #anakin & ahsoka #anakin & palpatine #anakin #i have no self control lol #ahsoka #mine #edit #CW noncon #just in case bc i guess it's lightly implied

115 notes · View notes

justplainwhump · 11 months

Text

Morning

Bea/Blanca doesn't understand consent.

[Pet Safety Masterlist]

Content/warnings: BBU setting; BBU romantic; noncon/dubcon implicit; survivor initiating noncon/dubcon; dissociation; trauma response; guilt.

Adrian woke up in his bed, with a headache and the heat of another body close to him. Very close.

He pushed himself up in his bed, away from her, blinking his eyes rapidly until the room around him took shape in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

The pet - Bea - was curled up by his side, naked, except for the collar around her neck. She must've had stripped some time at night, after he'd carried her over, he figured. He himself, he - he looked down. Boxers, pyjama shorts, long sleeved sleeping shirt, all layers still on, all unmoved. He sighed in relief.

He hadn't done anything.

Bea grunted in her sleep, even that tiny, subconscious sound perfectly modulated, and her arm reached out to search for him, found his leg, and relaxed yet again.

Romantics weren't meant to sleep alone. There'd been experiments going on, permanently messing not only with their mind, but also with their perception of temperature. Make them crave another body, if only for their warmth.

Everything to make them dependent, cling onto their owner.

As this one, Bea, now was made to cling to him.

He looked at her, really now, for the first time. Long, soft brown locks, shimmering almost red in the spots where the morning sun fell onto it through his curtains. Underneath the fading bruises, her skin was pale, unnaturally so. It seemed wrong, he thought. She seemed like someone who would soak up the sun, lay on the grass in a park, someone to braid flowers into her hair and look at the sky to find intricate figures in the clouds.

Maybe he'd take her for a picnic, later today.

Her arm wrapped around his leg and she pulled up closer to him. Her breast brushed over his thigh and he felt himself react to the sensation.

Carefully, breath held, he angled his hips away from her.

Picnic, he reminded himself, trying to control his breath. Park. Flowers.

There were scars on her back, as well. A few older ones, pale against her skin. Slim parallel lines, like she'd been hit with a cane until it drew blood. The unmistakable circular shape of a cigarette burn on her collar bone.

Most of her scars, however, were recent. A few months old, at most. Bite marks, deep enough to stay. Abrasions. Cuts. A set of newer cigarette burns, still an angry red. Whip marks. Burns on her arms. The gas stove, he remembered with a shudder. She'd been through so much. Adrian hoped he could do her better.

She stirred, and her eyes fluttered open. "Good morning, Sir," she whispered, lifted her head and before he could even meet her gaze, before she herself was fully awake, one hand pulled down his pants and boxers and her face dipped down between his legs.

It was too much at the same time, her hair on his suddenly bare hips, her breasts on his thighs, and her lips, her soft, warm lips closing around his -

He blanked out.

He was sticky. Everything was. The bed, his body, his mind. Sticky, disgusting and gross.

He could feel physical relief, the echoes of an orgasm, and in return it made his whole body cringe in revulsion.

He choked.

"I'm sorry," Bea whispered, from the side, her voice hoarse, and it sickened him to know the reason. "I'm sorry, forgive me, I..."

Adrian didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to see her, to see what he'd done. He didn't want it to be real, even though every muscle of his body knew.

"Don't," he croaked. "It's... it's not your fault."

"I broke your rules. I... I thought I was good, but I was bad, I... it's what I do, it's what I'm made for, please don't send me back, I'll... I'll learn to be what you want me to be, please." She was sobbing. "Forgive me. It... it hurts my head."

"I forgive you," Adrian whispered. "I... I didn't even say no, did I?"

"You..." Bea paused. "You said nothing. But you... your body said yes."

He let out a broken chuckle. "Bodies can be fucking stupid, can't they?"

"I don't think so," she said. "Bodies are tools of the mind. They can be broken, but not stupid. It's the mind that can be stupid." She hesitated. "But minds can be broken, too. Sometimes it's hard to see the difference."

Adrian turned his head to the side and opened his eyes to look at her.

She sat on the floor, next to the bed, curled up with her arms wrapped around her. Not a WRU position at all, he noted. He didn't know if that was good. He didn't know anything.

Bea's head rested on her arms, tilted to the side so she could peek at him with one eye, careful and frightened at the same time.

"Do you hate me, Adrian?" she asked.

Weakly, Adrian shook his head. "I... I hate what happened. What we... what we did," he said quietly, swallowing against the bitter taste in his mouth. "I hate what made you do it, and I hate that I didn't stop it."

"Because you hate sex?"

Adrian laughed a little. "No, I... I like sex, actually. And I like you, too. But, uh. I like consent."

"I consent," she said promptly. "I signed up for it."

"First of all," Adrian said. "There's two parties involved. Right now, I didn't consent. I..." He broke off. He wouldn't go down that road, not his, not with her.

He cleared his throat, and started again. "I like my own consent, too. And second, did you, really?"

She frowned.

"Did you really want it?"

"I don't understand," she whispered. "I always want it."

"You just said that you wanted to stick to our rules. No fucking."

"Yes." She bit her lip. "But I... You were there and you're my owner, and that's what they-"

"They? 'They' is not you, Bea." Adrian held her gaze. "You were half asleep. You did what someone else told you to. Not me, not yourself. Someone else. That isn't consent. That's the opposite, that's-"

She shook her head, and for a moment Adrian saw a tear glisten in the corner of her eye. "It hurts," she whispered. "It hurts my head to think, I'm sorry."

Adrian pushed himself up to sit on the corner of the bed. "It's alright," he said. "It's..."

He looked down on himself, and cleared his throat. "I really think both of us could use a shower."

She tilted her head carefully. "Both of us... by ourselves?"

Jaw clenched, he nodded.

Adrian showered for more than twenty minutes, scrubbing every part of his body.

It didn't wash away the guilt.

It didn't wash away the shame and horror, nor his utter and sickening disgust at himself.

---

pet safety taglist: @gottawhump @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @highwaywhump @tauntedoctopuses @pigeonwhumps @whumppsychology @labgrowndemon @whumpinggrounds

#bbu #bbu romantic #noncon implied #dubcon cw #dissociation cw

45 notes · View notes

necros-writing-stuff · 6 months

Note

Ok! There’s something HOT about Eden using wolf/puppy PC as an actual dog, like hunting etc.

If you’re able write a small fic/HC? Love it

What about yandere wolf PC who comes to Eden in hopes of mating, only to find themself put in the place of a pet while they pine after the hunter?

They want to crawl onto the bed, burrow under the furs and nuzzle against his crotch. Get that delicious scent on their skin. But Eden snaps at them every time they try to get up and tells them to get back to their cage.

They want to sit in his lap and eat together, but they have to settle for eating from their bowl on the floor. If they're extra lucky, Eden will hand-feed them scraps from his very own hands that they get to lick clean.

They've given up their pack, their family, their life all to be his. To have their tail lifted and body used as Eden wants. Instead, he refuses to see what good mates they'd be.

Until he's just too sexually frustrated to ignore the golden opportunity in his home. The willing, desperate wolf person he's been using to hunt, to tamper his loneliness just a tad. But it isn't enough is it? A pet isn't enough.

There's still guilt and shame in his heart when he does fuck you in his bed. You're ecstatic, howling out your joy while he scrunches his eyes closed and presses his face against your neck. He doesn't bite. Even when you beg for it. He can't go that far - not when he feels ashamed for laying with a beastly creature in the first place.

It's not your fault he hates you so bad for what you are. You weren't a wolf that tried to kill him. You weren't a client looking to treat him as an animal. The same way he's now using you.

No - not the same. You at least revel in your place. He never had.

That can't stop Eden seeing himself beneath his body when he fucks you to sleep.

#spill your guts #anonymous #eden the hunter #gn reader #cw monster people #cw implied past noncon

54 notes · View notes

whump-card · 9 months

Text

Sunless Lives Part 14: I Can’t Die Here

~2370 words

CW: aftermath of implied noncon, vampire whump, vampire feeding, offscreen fighting, carewhumper

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

~~~

Ariella - which he was allowed to call her when they were alone - was kind.

She’d given him his own room in the main lodge of her sprawling ranch - home to more than three dozen vampires. She’d already bought him two books in the month that he’d been there, and the promise of more hung on his good behavior. She’d bought a whole wardrobe for him. Everything was soft and stretchy and skimpy for easy access, but she let him pick the colors.

He’d picked black, to hide the stains.

She still followed all of Lara’s old safety rules: no keeping the same wound open for too long, for fear of infection; and no bites near the ‘danger zones’ of major arteries.

She never made him scream. She never hurt him for no reason.

It could be worse.

That’s what he told himself as she got up from the bed, and he pressed a clean cloth to a fresh bite on his outer forearm. His bedroom was large, and ostentatious, all dark rustic woods and woven fabrics. A small window showed a glimpse of mountains, and a thickly starry night sky. A massive deer head loomed above him on the wall - another one of Ariella’s prizes.

It could be worse.

He reached down and pulled a sheet up to cover himself - but Ariella caught it and twitched it away.

“Leave it,” she said gently, “I want to look at you.” She smiled down at him, her face sweet and round. Unintimidating, if you didn’t know her, which is why she refused to show it around strangers. She preferred to radiate power; but she needed no veil around Simon for him to feel that. He was helpless in her possession.

It could be worse.

Simon lay back, exposed, closing his eyes to stifle the pinpricks of tears that were forming. He longed for Matthew. His smile. His laugh. His quiet acceptance of all the ways in which Simon was broken. The way he made Simon feel smart, and funny. Simon's heart felt like it was burning a hole in his chest. Matthew would be dead if Simon weren’t here right now - that had to be worth it.

It could be -

“What was that?”

Simon opened his eyes to see Ariella, posed with her flannel dressing gown half-pulled on and her head cocked, listening.

“I don’t hear -” Simon started. Ariella silenced him with a raised hand. After a second longer she sprung into action, tying her robe tightly and striding to the door.

“Something’s wrong,” she said, uncharacteristically serious, “Stay here.”

Simon sat up to watch her leave, not sure what to feel. Something being wrong on the ranch could be good for him - a distraction that would keep Ariella away from him for a night or two.

Or it could be very bad. He had yet to see her angry.

He tied the cloth around his bitten forearm and went to his wardrobe. He got dressed quickly, in flowy shorts and a wide-necked t-shirt, both black. He hoped that the problem was something silly she would laugh with him about later, like a horse escaping.

Then he heard the screams.

They came from the west wing, where the stables were, and ended quickly. They weren’t wordless screams - they were certainly frightened, but they sounded like they were trying to communicate something. From this distance, Simon couldn’t tell. Then there was a crash, and the unmistakable sounds of fighting. Shouts, gunshots.

Simon shrank back against the wardrobe, hope and fear fighting each other in his chest. It could be the VIU, they could be here for him - but that’s impossible. Yarl told Simon himself, before the trade: no one would come for him. Which left… an attack by another vampire family.

The fear won out, and Simon scrambled to open the wardrobe and hide inside. This muffled the sounds of battle, but he could still hear that they ended suddenly. A long minute passed where he could only hear his own quick breathing, then it started again, closer this time. Whoever they were, they were moving towards him.

What if they’re here for you.

Simon pressed himself further back into the wardrobe, his heart pounding.

What if it’s Mr Rhodes?

What if it’s Gloria?

What if it’s…

What if it’s him?

A single set of heavy footsteps passed the door to the room. Simon held his breath, and they continued on. Soon after, the sounds of fighting started up in the east wing. These defenders sounded more prepared, more organized, and it lasted longer. Simon couldn’t listen anymore, he pressed his hands over his ears. He had no idea who to root for, or which outcome would be better for him. Maybe they’d all kill each other, and he could escape.

He eventually lifted his hands from his ears to discover silence. He couldn’t hear a single sound coming from anywhere in the massive lodge. He eased the door open a crack. Still nothing. He emerged from the wardrobe, and moved silently to the door of the room. What if this was his chance? What if he could slip out in the aftermath?

Suddenly he heard the heavy footsteps, marching swiftly towards him. He stumbled back from the door, Hide! his brain screamed, but the footsteps had already stopped, they were already opening the door, and standing there was -

Was -

“Matthew?” Simon breathed.

Matthew, beaten bloody, with an oozing bullet wound in his upper left arm. He wore all black, as usual, a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. His knuckles were raw and red, and he carried a dented and bloody metal baseball bat that slipped out of his fingers and clattered loudly to the floor as he stood there, looking at Simon.

“Matthew!” Simon rushed forward, throwing his arms around Matthew’s neck and sobbing. “Oh my god, Matthew, how are you here, are you okay? Matthew, Matthew, I can’t believe it -”

Matthew seized Simon’s waist and sank his teeth into his shoulder.

Simon gripped the back of Matthew’s shirt tightly, sucking in a little hiss of air. His eyes stared blankly, wide and tearful, as the vampire wrapped his arms around him and fed.

“Matthew?” he whispered. But he knew it wasn’t Matthew anymore. Simon twisted slightly, trying to pull away, to no avail.

“Matthew?” He didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t think straight. His heart skipped a beat and he knew that much longer of this on top of what Ariella took would leave him unable to walk - or run.

“Okay, Matthew?” he tapped the vampire’s back rapidly, his voice shaking, “Mathew, it’s time to stop. You need to stop.”

To his surprise, Matthew - the vampire - Matthew - released Simon and stepped back, baring his new incisors as he ran his tongue over his bloody lips and teeth.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry in the least, “I haven’t fed from a human since I turned.”

Simon swayed on his feet, blood leaking from his shoulder. Old instincts kicked in: Keep him talking.

“Oh wow,” he said, his voice sounding like it belonged to someone else, “How long ago was that?”

“Three weeks. Listen,” the vampire clearly wasn't keen on conversation, “We have a long drive ahead of us. Pack for three nights.” He crossed his arms and looked at Simon expectantly.

Simon gulped.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home, to DC.”

“What about Mrs Peacock, and -”

“They’re all dead.”

“How -”

“Pack and put on your shoes or I’m taking you with nothing,” the vampire spat.

“I don’t…” Simon couldn’t process what was happening. There was no way Matthew could have killed nearly forty vampires all by himself. Many of them were grade As, too. And now he wanted to take Simon home? For what purpose?

“Am I… yours, now?” Simon asked.

The vampire laughed.

“I wish! No, human-me was smart. He put my smartphone, all of my IDs, bank cards, and stock information into a box and gave it to Gina for safekeeping until you were home safe. There’s no way I would have been able to torture the location out of her, you know how she is. Easier just to get you, and exchange you for my things.”

Simon’s eyes flitted over Matthew’s injuries, his bloody knuckles, and the metal bat.

“Easier?” he whispered.

“Pack,” the vampire ordered, suddenly stern again, “I'm going to shower. Clean yourself up too, I don’t want blood in my car.”

He brushed past Simon and went into the en-suite. He didn’t bother closing the door, but he was out of sight, leaving Simon alone in the bedroom.

Simon’s legs gave out, and he sat down hard on the braided wool rug beneath him.

Matthew. Matthew is a vampire. He… He set up a bribe, for himself, to rescue you.

Matthew turned himself into a vampire for you.

Simon began to sob uncontrollably. Matthew was gone. Matthew was dead. And it was Simon’s fault.

Matthew certainly had been smart about it - once the government confirms a person is a vampire, their accounts are frozen and Border Control is alerted to their identity. A top priority for a new vampire is draining their accounts, cashing in their assets, and - if they have no ‘family’ - possibly fleeing the country for somewhere with no organized agencies like the VIU. Whatever Gina has, Matthew - the vampire - must need it to start a new life.

Simon wasn’t thinking about any of that, though. The blinding grief had abated just enough to make him realize that he had to go with Matthew. There was no other option; if the vampire left without him, Simon would be stranded on the ranch in the middle of God-knows-where. Based on the mountains and forests he could see from the windows, Simon guessed somewhere in the northwest - he’d never been good at geography, and no one had ever informed him of their location. There were a few cars on the premises, but Simon didn’t know how to drive. And since he was never let outside, he didn’t even have shoes.

I don’t even have shoes.

“What the fuck are you sitting here crying for? Let’s go.”

Matthew stood over him, glowering down, his hair dripping. Simon hadn’t heard him get out of the shower over his own crying. He lifted his tear-streaked face. Now that Matthew was clean, it was revealed that most of the blood on him hadn’t been his. The various scrapes and bruises he did have, and the bullet wound, were already healing. Unusually fast, even for a vampire.

“I don’t have shoes,” Simon said, his voice high and strained.

“Ugh,” Matthew strode to the door - and left. Simon stared after him, his heart rate rising.

Did he just leave? Is he leaving me behind? What if I starve here? Me, and the horses, and -

The others in the basement.

He’d never seen them, but he knew from Ariella talking with her lackeys that all the other vampires on the ranch were sustained by blood drawn from a handful of humans kept in the basement. And… Simon didn’t like to think about it, but the few times Ariella had overfed from him, he’d been given real blood to recover. From somewhere.

He struggled to his feet, intent on chasing after Matthew as best he could, but there the vampire was, in the doorway. He held a pair of boots, and an empty backpack.

“Try these,” he ordered, tossing the boots at Simon’s feet.

Simon quickly pulled them on as he talked, doing his best to ignore that they were warm.

“There are other humans trapped here, in the basement, if we don’t let them out they’ll starve down there,” he babbled, “And the horses too, please, I don’t want the horses to die -”

“Stop,” Matthew interrupted, “Someone here’s gotta have a cell phone, right? We’ll call 911 on our way out.”

For a moment Simon was stunned that Matthew agreed to do something.

“Thank you Matthew, thank you so much -”

“Don’t tie yourself in knots, I just figure you’ll be easier to deal with if I’m nice to you. Now would you fucking pack already.” His voice grew harsh and he threw the backpack at Simon.

“Yes!” Simon yelped, “Yes sir, sorry sir!” His face immediately heated as he realized he’d fallen into old habits. He turned his back on Matthew’s delighted smirk and went to the wardrobe, but he had to grab the handle to steady himself. He cautiously turned back to the vampire.

“I need to take care of my shoulder first.”

Matthew huffed.

“Fine. Make it quick.”

Simon went to a bedside cabinet where all his medical supplies were stored. Matthew had left a clean pair of punctures; Simon pulled off his bloodied shirt and made quick work of cleaning and bandaging them, and the bite on his arm for good measure. He also stuffed handfuls of bandages and antiseptic wipes into the backpack, anticipating the worst. He felt Matthew’s eyes wandering over his body, and he went to the wardrobe and put on a new, identical top. Then he grabbed handfuls of clothes and stuffed them into the backpack.

“I like your new style,” Matthew commented.

“It’s not mine,” Simon replied. He didn’t want to sound argumentative, but he couldn’t let anyone think he was dressed like this by choice.

“It should be. I always hated how stuffy you dressed, all slacks and button-downs 24-7.”

Simon stilled. He knew how the psychological change into vampirism worked - contrary to popular belief, a vampire is not the same person as before but with no filter or moral compass. No, becoming a vampire changes you into an entirely different person.

But they keep all their human memories.

“You didn’t like it?” He couldn’t help his curiosity.

“No. Human me thought you were repressing yourself or something. I just think it’s lame. Let’s go.”

Simon pulled the backpack onto his good shoulder and jogged to keep up with Matthew. He’d have to be careful what he asked - he didn’t want to learn something that would ruin his memory of Matthew.

Having to hang out with what is essentially your boyfriend’s possessed corpse is pretty memory-ruining already.

~~~

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @sunshiline-writes, @seasaltandcopper

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #vampire whump #cw implied noncon #vampire feeding #carewhumper #caretaker turned whumper #sunless lives #sunless lives arc 2 #my writing

25 notes · View notes