you’ve never been a particularly superstitious person. you don’t panic at the sight of a black cat, you don’t worry about broken mirrors, and your only concern when opening an umbrella inside is that you might knock something off of its shelf. whatever rumors you’ve heard about these woods and what supposedly inhabits them were scoffed at, the warnings your grandmother gave paid no mind. there is no such thing as ghosts, after all, only tall-tales conjured to scare children, and keep drunken teenagers from trespassing.
still, you can admit that there’s something uncomfortably eerie about the absolute silence that overcomes the forest now. one moment, it’s filled with the cicadas’ cries and the birds’ croons, and then—nothing at all. everything stops, sans the rustling of the trees in the icy breeze and the crunch of rotting leaves under your boots. like the forest itself is holding its breath.
your first thought is coyotes, maybe some other predator, something you can’t see but the creatures that call this place home can. would a pack dare wonder so close to a human campsite? is it not known that they’re more afraid of you than you are of them? what does one do if they’re being stalked by a coyote, anyways? you cannot, for the life of you, remember.
the back of your neck prickles, your stomach churning, like someone, something, might be watching you. you’re being dramatic, you think. you’re tired, and hungry, and you spent the last three hours stuck in a car with a very chatty, excitable posse. you’ll feel better once the fire’s going and you’ve got a few drinks in you. you need to let loose, relax a little. that’s the whole point of this trip.
there’s no better way to take a load off than to separate yourself from the chaos of everyday life and enjoy the luxuries of nature — at least, that’s what sam, your friend and colleague, said when you tried to get out of it. you reckon he just wanted an excuse to get plastered and go skinny dipping, but didn’t want to do so alone. thus, your entire friend group was roped into it, you included.
somebody calls your name, and some of the tension bleeds from your shoulders. vanessa, likely wondering why you’re taking so long to find firewood. she must’ve followed you, as the shouting is closer than it’d be if she were still at camp. she’s always been the worrier of the crew.
“coming!” you don’t think twice about answering, not wanting to give the poor girl a heart-attack so early on in the vacation, turning around with your arms full of fallen branches, trying to ignore the silence that has yet to let up. vanessa doesn’t respond, but you swear that, for the briefest of moments, you can hear someone laughing in the distance. sam must’ve broken into the cooler in your absence, too impatient to wait.
you go back the way you came, cursing about the setting sun making it near impossible to see where you’re going. oddly enough, you don’t run into vanessa on the way—you thought she would have waited for you. maybe she got cold, or was simply intimidated by the forest. you can’t blame her.
the closer you get to your campsite, the more uneasy you grow. even now, it’s silent. the laughter’s ceased, there’s no chatter, no music on the radio, nothing.
and then a piercing scream, from your own throat, as you breach the tree line and find your friends dead in the dirt, eyes open and throats torn out. sam, vanessa, tatum, and ryan — all of whom were alive and well when you left them not ten minutes ago.
your findings tumble from your arms, knees buckling as you gawk at the horrific scene before you. not just dead, but mauled. how did you not hear them screaming? how did it happen so fast? you can’t make sense of it, any of it. your vision tunnels, and it’s all you can do not to hit the ground.
a twig snaps behind you, and you whirl around so quickly you almost give yourself whiplash.
a man, well over six foot and twice your size bodily, blond hair matted with blood, his chin slick with it, standing mere feet away from you in the same direction you just came from. his face is still as stone, sharp brown eyes boring into yours, bright with something like amusement.
you’ve never understood why deer freeze when caught in headlights until this moment. his presence renders you immobile, senseless, his gaze weighing you down like a tangible thing. it’s not until he moves, tilts his head ever-so-slightly, as if mocking you, that you find the will to run.
you bolt in the opposite direction, into the trees, not daring to glance back. the car’s no use to you, not with the keys still tucked in tatum’s pocket, and you lost service twenty miles before setting up camp. it’s only you out here. you, and him. you think so, at least.
until you hear it, the laughter, coming from either side of you, getting louder and louder the further you run. you try to escape it, dodge and weave with no real direction in mind, but it’s everywhere. in the awful shadows that blind you, the bushes that slice at your ankles, the trees towering over you. for a moment, it almost sounds like sam’s. then, it shifts, turns into something garbled and inhuman, something wicked.
something grabs at you, snags the back of your jacket and sends you sprawling across the unforgiving ground, forestry biting into the silky flesh of your palms. somebody coos, seemingly sympathetic, maybe even encouraging. you don’t look to see what, or who, it is. you force yourself back to your feet, and you keep running.
your lungs burn and your head spins, legs aching and throat sore with all the cold air you’ve been gulping. you can’t keep this up, and you’re sure that they, whatever they may be, know it. they’re toying with you now, waiting for you to tire.
just when you think you’ve reached your limit, that you can’t possibly play this game any longer, the trees part to reveal a dimly-lit cabin in a small clearing. hope blooms in your chest like the warmth from that fire you never got to light.
you barely make it to the front door, your legs giving out as you climb the front porch steps, pounding on the aging wood so violently that it splits your knuckles. you brave a glance over your shoulder, but find it pointless. there’s nothing there—the woods are quiet once more. that somehow makes it even worse.
a man opens the door, and you all but throw yourself at him. he’s big, burly, but soft around the middle, with dark hair, a thick beard, and a pair of eyes so blue that they’d be startling if it were not for whatever is waiting for you beyond the trees.
“please! please, they killed my friends! they’re chasing me!” you must sound mad. absolutely off your rocker. you’re practically dead weight as this stranger grabs you by the biceps, hauling you to your feet with little effort at all.
“shh-shh-shh, easy, you’re alright,” his voice is gentle, steady despite the way you’re sobbing, gasping, trembling in his arms. if you weren’t so distraught, you might have recognized that as suspicious. alas, the adrenaline drowns out any rationale.
a warm breath fans across the back of your neck, and you’d scream if you weren’t so out of breath. you whip around, and come face to face with the man from the campsite, close enough that you can smell the remnants of your friends on his breath. you choke, trying to scramble away, but those warm hands that helped you mere moments ago grip your shoulders so tightly you know they’ll bruise, his voice still so soft in your ear. “it’s okay, love, simon won’t hurt you,”
“no, no, no, no,” how could you be so stupid? they herded you, like a lamb to the slaughter, and you let them.
you crumple, though he doesn’t let you hit your knees again, as two more bodies emerge from the darkness. the first, with a windblown mohawk, and a smile that splits his face in two, laughs at you, teeth too sharp to be human. the other, a brown-skinned man with a face you might’ve once thought handsome, looks almost sorry when you catch his eye. almost.
“don’t mind them,” the man in the house soothes, petting your hair in a poor imitation of tenderness. “they can get a little overzealous. they mean well, though,”
the handsome one clicks his tongue, eyeing you with pity. “best get it inside before it collapses, cap’n. it looks sick.”
simon scoffs, lip curling in indignation. “if you two hadn’t insisted on chasing it through the fuckin’ woods…”
“god forbid we have some fun too,” mohawk butts in, his scowl doing nothing to dampen his glee.
you think you hear their captain scolding them, but it’s hard to tell, as your vision fades to black, and you go limp in his arms.
Summary: Being the only human on the task force is educational and entertaining- until you're compelled by the enemy to surrender information.
Task Force 141 x GN!Reader (implied??), Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x GN!Reader (implied), 1.3k words.
Era: MW2?
TW: Mind control, vampires (?), being tied up, compulsions, Price is a little... questionable when it comes to choices about his men lol. Don't mind control without consent if you're a vampire!
Trinket realizes he doesn't actually have to fully flesh out each and every prompt challenge, impossible.
Day 28 of my bastardized version of Russian Roulette Febuwhump/Kinktober for March that I'm affectionately calling Trinket's Cause of Death. It's basically 50/50 whump/kink where I generate a number corresponding to a prompt.
Day 28: Mind Control with Vamp!141 (whump)
For all intents and purposes, you’re the weak link in the 141. Not because of a lack of skills or experience or the like, nor because you’re younger than everybody else. It’s because you’re human.
You were assigned to work with the 141 task force both by Captain John Price and by the higher-ups within the SAS. It’s common knowledge that there’s something off about the boys within the force- eyes that look a bit too inhuman, canines a touch sharper than they should be. Reflexes quick enough to blur and a way in war that’s almost uncanny. Like a hunger buried just below the surface.
During your briefing to join the 141, you learned just what that was. Vampires. Not Twilight teen romance vampires, mind you, but the kind that’s just as likely to save an ally as to rip their throat out if they have a bad day. They needed a reminder of their humanity and that came in the package of little old you. Warm and human and so fragile.
Price looks at you as a tool- a way to realign his men with the good in the world, to jog their memories of what it was like to be so breakable. You don’t notice the way he looks at you at the end of a mission, the way he catalogues each and every injury on your body. Making sure you’re okay and not broken. Asset protection, he joked around his cigar when asked. “Can’t have the human go back in pieces, we might be next, love.”
Gaz seems uncertain about having you on the task force. He treats you well and is the one with the steadiest hands and most sated appetite when it comes to patching you up, but he looks at you as if thinking of a ghost, eyes lingering on bandages as if to make sure you don’t burn up and extinguish like a dying star.
Soap, to his credit, is utterly excited. Although his appetite is hard to keep in check sometimes, he adores having you around. He teaches you all the neat tips and tricks about vampires-compulsions, what it was like to be Ghost’s fledgling, things that can protect you and injure them. He’s trying to make you comfortable and feel at home simultaneously, always eager to soother over tensions.
Ghost is the scary one. How wouldn’t he be, huge and looming with those bloodred eyes and that skull mask staring you down without a word? You can feel the weight of his gaze on you every time you enter a room, thick and overbearing and begging for you to make a mistake that he can rectify by killing you. Even in your sleep, you can feel those eyes.
You don’t notice that he slips into the shadows of your room each and every night, eyes focused on ensuring you’re breathing. Making sure you stay tucked safe and sound into your bed, alive and warm and all too human. Or that he and Gaz take turns playing nightguard, memories of a long-lost loved one still haunting their minds. They won’t lose this one.
Nobody’s certain just how Graves and his Shadows got to you. You were never at Los Almas, spared from the situation entirely. There should’ve been no way for you to interact with the rival coven and the patch on your vest combined with the necklace around your throat marked you as coven 141 property and off-limits.
All the same, the room stinks of the American coven of vampires, the stench of a heavy compulsion laid by Graves rolling over you as you thrash and scream against the ropes keeping you tied down.
The look in your eyes is near-feral, hazed with the faint orange of Graves’s effect on you. The coven head himself somehow got around each and every protection laid on, in, and around you and mind-controlled you within an inch of your life. Your mission? Gather information, report back, and kill as many 141 men as possible.
You very nearly succeeded as well. Gaz is still patching up the hole in Soap’s chest from where you attempted to stake the Scot in his bed, still warm and sleepy from the night you’d spent together prior. He doesn’t have the heart to be upset with you, even as he curses and bitches at Gaz. No, Johnny is furious with whatever and whoever slipped up enough to put you in this situation in the first place.
When unable to obey a compulsion, the compulsed party goes insane, for lack of better phrasing. From the second that haze settles over you, the assigned task becomes your primary mission in life. It’s hard to complete a suicide mission when strapped to a chair.
Price works on freeing you of the compulsion while Ghost tracks down whatever information you may have already leaked to Shadow Company. It’s delicate work since without the ability to eliminate Graves, which would release you, John has to put you under a separate and stronger compulsion to undermine the first.
“Shhhh,” He tries to soothe your screaming, both hands holding onto your sweaty cheeks to keep you still while he works. “I know. I know, love, I know. It hurts, but you’re doing so well. So well, just listen, yeah?”
The pitch hits a new level as he lays your mind thicker and thicker with his own will overtop the Shadows’. Your body is rebelling, trembling and arching against the chair they tied you to.
Everything is screaming to kill, to obey Phillip’s order even while Price’s compulsion wraps around and tries to strangle it to nothingness. A gentle croon telling you to surrender your previous mission and sleep. Just sleep.
“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap curses to Gaz, looking over with worry and a pale face. “The lungs on that bird are going tae explode my head.”
You’re slowly giving into John’s influence, the sweet smells of black tea and cigar smoke soothing and washing away the foreign influence over you. It’s easier to give into John, to surrender yourself to the ancient vampire you trust with your life. “Sorry. I’m s… I’m sorry…”
“Nobody’s mad at you, love,” Price promises as he brushes sweaty hair from your face. “We’re mad at ourselves for not protecting you. They should have never been able to compel you.”
John would never admit it- not to you, not in court, maybe not even to his own men, but he’d compelled you ages ago. Nothing sinister, of course, but he’d placed what was supposed to be a barrier of protection against non-141 vampires in your mind. The only ones who were supposed to get in were them.
However Graves got around it is worrying and disconcerting. It spells less than savoury things ahead, for you and for the covens as a whole.
Graves’s influence finally snaps with a pained scream for you, entire body tensing and arching against your bonds before immediately passing out. John was successful in easing you into rest.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Price has to steady himself on the arm of your chair for just a moment, nauseous and dizzy from the amount of effort this took. He wouldn’t say he’s out of practice in the art of mind control, but it is certainly no longer one of his main skills. Compulsion does not hold up in court, as it stands.
“Are they going to be okay, Cap?” Gaz looks away from where Soap is bandaged and resting against the wall. The Sergeants are trying to hide their concern, but it’s a useless endeavour. He can see the shine of worry even from here- one their faces and on Ghost’s as the Lieutenant steps back in, nodding that he did indeed stop the flow of information.
“They’ll be fine,” Price confirms as he straightens up, back popping from the awkward position. “The headache’ll be one to write home about, but Graves’s hold is broken. Let’s find out what the fuck he thought he was doing then, hm?”
· · ────── ꒰ঌ· Forty Days and Forty Nights ·໒꒱ ────── · ·
"There is anger in you. You don't want to feel it, do you?"
+18+ Primordial Master List +18+
Edit c.w: graphic description of gore. Depiction of the aftermath and illusion to a lyching.
a/n: been a minute that i put a note in the start. it's a long one. We see how Simon is adjusting and he sees something he isn't supposed to see. Edit: added the warning for a lynching. The actual act isn't happening but the aftermath is shown.
It's month three of this fresh Hell called reality, and Simon isn't doing much better. The first month was spent doubled over in unbridled pain, teeth itching to rip out throats, fingers cutting crescent shaped scars into his palms as he grappled with his restraint. His head felt as if it were cracked open, brain matter, and matted hair sticking to him.
The last thing he saw before he knew he was dying was Johnny bleeding out, the light barely hanging on in his crystal blue eyes. He should have told him he loved him, actually liked how pushy he was to get him to open up. Simon died again, but hopefully, this time for real and not becoming some type of living ghost. He closed his eyes with the hope that whatever was coming next would finally be peace.
His head hurts, though, thoughts running wild, and they aren't his thoughts. In the present, he hears everything. A consistent soft chatter of voices humming in the back of his mind. Sometimes, it's the voice of the little girl that follows Johnny around, her sing-song cadence lamenting about how cool the Scot is. Sometimes, he hears his Captain’s voice, a ping-pong of chastisement and self flagellation on how they all ended up like this. If he concentrated enough, he could hear the insecurities that Price held about not being in command of anything and having to take orders from Aayana or Karma. He's even privy to Kyle, who thinks in disgust about the blood he chokes down at dinner with echoing chants of 'Don't hang yourself. Don't leave your team.' He hears the soft longing of Johnny's thoughts and how he yearns for his real family and how the brats that infest the house remind him of his own host of nieces and nephews.
And that's not counting the other thoughts that drift in and out of his head. The discordant sound of other people drives him crazy. It makes him irritable. It makes him want to kill and make it stop. He's never had the desire to actually want and crave to inflict violence upon others. The voices in his head hold his reasoning and logic hostage. Replacing them with images of bodies cracked open, blood spilling forth and into his mouth. He can imagine the taste as coppery and bitter. Overall, it's unpleasant and devastatingly unsatisfying. He sees fire sometimes when he is resting, eyes glazed over as he idlely listens to Johnny talk about how weird it is to be called Jackie, but it's growing on him. He will lay in his bed, no real motivation to move, and Johnny will curl up next to him, and neither of them mention how there's now no warmth between them. Those are the moments he is able to ignore everything in him and just exist in relative quiet.
Those moments are when he is aware and in the driver's seat of his body. When his right mind is shoved to the back by the unbridled rage and blood lust, he is kept away from everyone for his safety and everyone else's.
These times, like now on this muggy and warm day, he finds himself in the company of William. The grounds keeper of the property and Simon finds it eerie how similar the two of them are. William is just as silent and imposing as Simon is. They share the same build of raw muscle and stature. The only thing is that William doesn't hide his face's disfigurement. He appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but Simon knows better. The man is a vampire. His face is littered with scars and keloids that have been with him for all of his life. His left eye is permanently facing another direction, staring off to the side and hidden by a white milky film, his working brown eye in a semi permanent droop. A scar slashes down the left side of his face, and it's jagged and reaches his lips. A small sliver of flesh looks like it was hastily patched up on his lip, stitches maybe, long gone and leaving behind the scarification. Another healed patch of criss-cross keloids peaks just from under William's shirt on the back of his neck, and Simon sees it when the man turns his back to him whenever he is working. It should be noted that William keeps all of himself covered, from neck to the sole of his feet. He doesn't hide his face, but he hides everything else meticulously. Simon respects that and can relate because his skull mask stays on when out in public.
"It's particularly bad for you t'day, isn't it Simon?" William speaks as if he knows what he is going through. "Them noises in ya head." He doesn't turn from his task of feeding the hogs. The pen is kept far from the house, another safety precaution. Humans aren't allowed out here where Aayana has William raise the hogs and slaughter them.
Simon only grunts as he barely acknowledges the question. They are both out in the blistering sun, getting ready to butcher a hog for some gathering that Aayana wants to hold. The idea of the blistering sun is a conundrum because aren't vampires supposed to hate being in the sun? Isn't he supposed to be turning to ash? Even more so, he wants to turn into ashes because he doesn't want to be around a surplus of people for this gathering. He doesn't want to hear extra voices in his head. "Nothin' I can' handle." He talks barely above a whisper.
William pauses his task and observes the hogs that are milling about. Rooting their snouts in the troughs or the ground. Piglets are scampering about picking around the older beasts for scraps. "It ain't all yer blood lust ya know." He says finally after a long moment of silence.
Simon only grunts again. He's got no patience for empty platitudes of comfort. He just wants to enjoy the distance and silence from the house. Working with William, doing hard labor comforts his body and nerves.
"I don't reckon she even knows she's lettin' ya feel her. She hasn' hada new bloodied young'n in decades that could read thoughts an' feel folk's memories..." The good eye slides over to look at him, and there's no pity. Just understanding. "I ain't no good use of help'n ya wit the issue. Yaya, though, she's got it in her best interest to help you."
"What 'm I supposed to about these thoughts?" He asks.
"I 'spect ya need to learn to block 'em out. It can't be good for you." He trudged on to his next task, and Simon followed. They now have to pick out which hog to slaughter.
Simon, while he's been a butcher, has never done the process from start to finish. He's a bit interested in how they go about picking the right one. A new skill for his new lifestyle. "Do you have the same issue...with the rage?" He takes the risk of prying for information. For the knowledge that it isn't just him as the only brute holding onto his fraying humanity and self-control to not split flesh open and suck life out to fill his bottomless existence.
"I never had no blood lust in the hundred f'years I beens alive. All the anger an' any rage done been whipped outta folks like me... broken in for work so I don't push back." He doesn't say much more on himself, and that leaves Simon confused. He sees this man and sees himself. "Yaya is the one who overcomed her own blood lust. She tore herself right on out of it an' right in the middle of it too." He sounds almost in awe as he speaks of Aayana. "Was nothin' but God that saw her through them forty days and forty nights. Nothing but the spirit that stopped her dead in her tracks on the forty-first day."
The hog that William points out is male. More brown than pink, and William says he's big enough to feed everyone at the gathering and to send people home with leftovers. He mentions that Aayana hates wasting food and the scraps will be given to those with dogs. While it's not his cup of tea, William says he will help Aayana prepare the intestines for chittlins. Simon gags at the thought of anyone eating that, but he's had blood pudding, and he liked it, so who is he to judge?
"Aayana seems..." He trails off, not wanting to be rude. Everyone here seems to love the elusive woman dearly. He understands it, she is polite and from what Johnny says, actually funny in a dry kind of way. He's seen her laugh and talk with the people who come and go, and with children, she's as soft as she can be. With Karma, she is stern, especially when the man is arguing his case to let Simon learn how to feed from a person and to use him as practice, (she barely wants Price biting Karma from what she says). The few times Kyle mentions her, it's with annoyance and a begrudgingly sense of respect. John, while he won't say it out right (and he may struggle with it privately), likes how she tells him what to do.
William, though? He looks at Aayana like she hung the sky and all of the stars and planets in it. He is the only one to call Aayana 'Mistress' or 'Yaya' (Simon compares it to the same way he holds Johnny is such high regards). And he knows to be careful with how he speaks of her, so that he doesn't accidentally cause issues (Price has given them all plenty of warnings about respect).
"Yaya is young for a vampire. Born a vampire. It's all she's ever known. And she's had to control her rage and blood lust since the day she cut her fangs in that there house." William looks off towards where the property line is overgrown.
In that direction is the shack that him and his team found when following Kyle out for a late evening walk (it almost felt like they were scouting the area, as they took up their familiar formation). The shack was old, with vines creeping up the sides. Roof partially caved in, the few steps leading up to the door sagged in the middle. The rush of emotions that Simon got from that shack had been enough to make him angry, hurt, small, and scared. Those feelings he hadn't felt since his father had beaten his mother while she begged for him to leave the kids alone. It was visceral and scathing, and he couldn't get out of the thousand yard stare, not until Johnny had held his hand and pulled him back from the turbulent forces swirling in him.
"Come on." William says, "The quicker we slaughter this here hog, the quicker we can hang it to bleed out. It ain't no quick process."
Simon lays awake when he should be resting. It's late in the evening, and he's been out in the sun all day helping William. The ruthless gnawing of violence calls to him, and under it is pain. Since William had said the feelings and thoughts weren't all his own, he's tried deciphering who is who. He can tell the bubbly emotions and thoughts belong to Johnny. He's happy that Simon made it another day without snapping and that he joined everyone for dinner even though he didn't want to. The feeling of disgust and exhaustion belongs to Kyle, and thoughts of fresh human blood plague his feelings about morality. It has never been clearer that he hates the taste of animal blood, but he can't bring himself to drink human blood. His morality won't allow it. Just beyond that is John and some rather confusing feelings that he knows he is not supposed to know about. Those feelings of insecurity laced with guilt mixes with lust and fear and a deep seated satisfaction of not feeling hunger. He feels Karma next to him, and the lust is mirrored, Simon feels like he just walked in on his parents.
He finally closes his eyes as they are too heavy to stay open. Phantom fire licks at his skin. He's frozen in place. This time, when his eyes pop open, there is smoke.
Thick, black, heavy smoke hangs in the air and blots out the setting sun. Everything is bathed in a haze of red, and the feeling of violence permeates the air. In front of him is Aayana. She's kneeling. Her brown dress is covered in dirt and stained with blood. Simon looks off to the side and sees a pale pink rope of sorts that leads to a small white sheet. The white sheet is spread out, lovingly placed on top of whatever it is hiding. His eyes follow the rope back to Aayana, and he sees that she is holding someone. Her body is still and the person she holds lays limp, decay starting to rot her. It then dawns on him what he is seeing. He is seeing Aayana holding the corpse of a woman, her brown skin covered in her own blood, the swell of her stomach torn open and the the pale pink rope isn't a rope but an umbilical cord, and under that sheet is a baby.
It makes Simon feel rage and feel sick, but it's not his own.
William is there too, a quiet specter, watching as he takes off his shirt. Simon does a double take as he catches a glimpse of the scars and keloids that criss-cross and stretch across his back. They are everywhere on him, connecting and diverging like rivers and streams. Some are raised others are flat, all of them hint at the time he comes from. William places the shirt over the woman's body, he makes no move to budge the catatonic Aayana.
"It's been forty day's Yaya." He says quietly, "We gotta run, leave this place."
Aayana doesn't move from her crouched position. A sob escapes her and she hugs the body close to her. "Billy this wasn't supposed to happen." She barely is able to get the words out. "I told her and Zachary to leave with us. They didn't listen."
"...Yaya, Miss Abilene won't want ya to hold on to her like this. We gots to bury her and Zachary proper." William sounds close to begging. "You've beens here fora whiles now Yaya...please."
"I can't leave Abi like this... these people, these monsters didn't even make it quick." She screams and Simon feels the heat if a thousand suns in that desperate wail of anger. William frowns and sighs at the outburst. He can tell that the man wants to pull her away, but he keeps his distance.
"Do you want me to bury the baby next?" He decides on focusing on that instead. Even at the mention of the baby under the white sheet, his voice shakes.
"Bury them both together." Aayana rocks back and forth, "Put them next to Zachary, theys still a family. They would want to be together."
The next scene that Simon sees is fire, an entire town set ablaze. The flames reach up into the morning skies. People are screaming, buildings falling into themselves. An entire town being destroyed. Men, women, and children lay sprawled out in places. Throats ripped wide open, bleeding out. There are shadows moving about, hunched over bodies that are split open, claws digging into flesh. Simon feels the anger and hatred and blood lust gripping onto him. Up ahead he sees Aayana, standing over a man. His blue eyes wide with fear, blond hair caked with sweat, soot, and blood. He has soiled himself in his fear and he begs.
"Please we didn't know!" He shouts as she descends onto him. First Aayana rips him open, entrails spilling out everywhere. Her normally brown eyes are a light with pleasant black rage and Simon can feel the relief. He feels the relief when she bends his arms and legs to break them. Righteousness courses through him when he sees her aim her fangs and sink them into the man's neck. Right in the spot where the change is initiated. The man is screaming for mercy.
"You didn't give neither of my lovers mercy when you lynched them." Her voice floats through the air. "I will make you watch me eat your wife and boy. Eye for an eye." She stands slowly, ignoring the whimpers of pain and how the man begs for her to leave his family alive.
Simon isn't sure how he missed the two extra bodies that were frozen nearby watching the scene. Mother and son, holding on to each other, shaking in fear. There is a war of anger and remorse that he feels in his own chest. Aayana walks slowly to the two and she stands there watching them. The mother is trying to shield her son and Simon feels fear but it's not the woman's, it's the boy. He can relate to the unimaginable fear and its not him relating, it's Aayana.
"You shouldn't be here Simon."
Simon's eyes shoot open and he's back in his bed. He's panting, his lungs taking in air he doesn't need. Just what type of fucking night terror did he see? Sitting he runs his fingers through his hair and feels the soft cool silk sheets under him, anything to ground his mind. The voices are back, people's thoughts though less of them now seeing as it is late and sleep or rest claims people. There is the squeak of the bedroom door, and it makes Simon instinctively tense up for a threat.
She looks like a ghost standing there, the dim hallway light wrapping her in a halo, bleeding through her linen night dress. It's the first time Simon has been openly approached by Aayana. Her head moves side to side as she surveys the room's inhabitants. Kyle and Johnny are deep into their rest, piled on top of each other, limbs tangled together. She motions for him to follow when she leaves and he does.
She takes him to her sitting room and offers him a seat. If she is angry about what he saw, she doesn't show it. Her face is carefully composed and she watches him. The silence stretches between the two of them, great like an endless chasm. After several long minutes she finally speaks. "Simon...why didn't you tell me you were suffering with your gift?"
He's surprised at how soft and concerned she is about him. She sounds apologetic and her lips turn down into a frown. "I didn't want to bother you."
"A vampire that has that gift can go insane if not taught how to control it. Your resting and awake periods must be awful. Never mind the blood lust that comes with it." She adjusts herself in her seat and looks out the window. "Vampires who have been exposed to intense traumas in their youth tend to manifest this rare gift...first lesson is how to meditate."
He nods his head, "and then?"
"Let's learn to meditate, that will help shut out other people's thoughts, feelings, and the blood lust that comes with the stress." She smiles at him. "After that, we can go from there."
Simon isn't sure about this working. But he hopes it works. He can't afford to lose his mind just yet.
You shall know the truth, and it will make you odd.
+18+ Primordial Master List +18+
It's been two months since Kyle was turned into a vampire. He doesn't need to sleep, but he does rest his eyes and his mind. It's a skill that he's had to actually learn after he woke up for the last time two months ago. Resting happens in intervals, and the intervals don't make sense. The lights in the house are on a natural light timer, so he tries to time his resting periods accordingly for when it's dark, but he wants to be awake when it's dark. Karma tells him that his resting moments wouldn't be so often or long if he ate enough and not just what is in the food that the cook makes. He's been told that any of the humans that came and went would be happy to just give him blood. He would only have to ask and offer something in exchange.
The collection of blood is fairly new after trial and error. It's designed to be done with dignity, safety, and consent is built right in. Aayana takes pride in her family's system. She created it herself.
It's a clean process, sterile, safe, controlled, and watched carefully. New little fledglings that don't have their control do it. Full-grown vampires do it when their preferred human will be gone for an extended period of time. It's a fact of existence that blood is taken, siphoned from a warm body, and drained into a small mason jar. It is then labeled with the donor's name, date of collection, blood type, and finally, the vampire who is normally paired with that human (incase someone likes the taste of that person's blood and wants it from the source, there are social rules about biting humans that are protected). Then, it's stored in the specialty fridge, with each human person having their own shelf. It's a perfect system with medical tools, and everyone knows safe phlebotomy practices, knows how to avoid blood borne illnesses, proper storage, and everyone is very knowledgeable about the expiration of blood.
And Kyle Garrick doesn’t care.
He doesn't care how clean and efficient it is. He doesn't care if people consent to it. He doesn't care if the blood is put into food or drinks. He doesn't care if his lack of blood consumption makes him tired and makes him want to rest more often. He doesn't care that John insists at every dinner that he tries to eat more.
He. Does. Not. Care.
He doesn't want to drink blood because the fundamental truth is that it is gross. It is not human. Unnatural at its core. It reminds him that he isn't really alive and that he is just existing. The itching at the back of his throat, the aches in his fangs, the perpetual dryness of his mouth no matter how much water he consumes, all of it is a stark reminder that he is not Kyle Garrick. He is a ghoulish imitation of what he once was, and he didn't ask for this.
That's the worst part. Kyle didn't have a choice in this existence, and he hates Karma and Aayana equally. When he isn't in a state of rest, he is starving. His stomach aches, and he tries to ignore it. He eats just enough at dinner to keep that driving force, that nagging voice at bay. The voice echoes in his thoughts daily.
'Consume. Consume. Consume.'
His eyes will subconsciously track the humans that move about the house and property. He hears their pulse in a cacophony of drums. Beating. And beating. And beating some more. He scents them all, an array of different types of notes like perfume. All of this to say, his sharper senses also remind him that his humanity has changed.
"Kyle." Her voice calms the calamity in his mind instantly. He hates her. Loathes her very being. His body reacts even if he doesn't want it to, and he tilts his head in acknowledgment. She stands just outside of his peripheral. He catches a glimpse of her and sees that, like always, she's wearing a crisp white linen and lace dress. It hugs her gently, the neck line a not quite plunging sweetheart neckline, but it shows too much to even try to be appropriate. The sleeves drift off of her shoulders and are light and cinched three-quarters of the way down. The skirt stops at just above the knee, and it swishes about with a hint of a tease that she may show her upper thigh. Kyle has never seen her hair in the two months that he's been on the property. She keeps it covered in plenty of scarves and hats. He may catch a peep of her hair when a small stray slips out. Otherwise, he assumes it's dark like his own and coily in nature.
He hates looking at her, but he doesn't deny that she's alluring. It makes sense that she is, she's an apex predator, even to him. Alluring and utterly grotesque.
"Yes, misstress?" He sighs.
"Don't call me that if you don't mean it." She approaches him and sits next to him and adjacent wicker chair. She grumbles about the cushions needing to be swapped out for softer ones and praises the cool summer evening air.
They are on the back screen porch, it over looks a wide lawn. Gardens and large looming trees and the property has a chicken coop that houses ducks in the attachment. He knows the property goes farther out, and it's not maintained the closer it gets to the cemetery. He's seen one small one roomed house, rotting and decaying. Reclaimed by the kudzu vines that creep and strangle the veggitation that isn't maintained. He caught a glimpse of it during one of his many walks and wanderings when rest evades him when he eats too much.
"Garrick is an interesting last name, Kyle." She leans back and smiles at him. The sharp points of her teeth poke out just a bit. "Do you come from Scottish descent like Jackie?"
That's another thing Kyle has to get used to. People are calling Johnny, either Jack or Jackie. He loves his friend, but just letting these people rename him. Well, he won't be calling him Jack or Jackie, no matter how polite everyone wants to be about respecting his wish for only Simon calling him that, calling him Johnny. He can stick with Soap.
"Did you need something, Aayana?" He sighs. It's a habit because he doesn't need to breathe. Nobody needs to do that. It's just muscle memory for those who were turned. He watches Aayana's chest sometimes, and he is always surprised to see statue still unless she finds something particularly funny.
"Just trying to make conversation hun." She looks back out towards the backyard, "my mentor employed a man named Garrioch back in the day. Called him crazy when the man started spelling it G-a-r-r-i-c-k. My mentor said it was during a time when concepts like 'colonization' and 'us vs. them' were starting to take off. He always said humans were strange and obsessed with groups."
He squints his eyes at her, he never knew that tidbit of trivia. "Do you always lead with trivia facts for people you don't know?"
"My God and Heaven above." She whispers, "I just want to make sure you don't spiral farther into your depression."
"Well, I'm fine." He grits out. He avoids her stare and slight frown.
"Not eating properly and brooding with a fucked up resting cycle is not fine." She quips back. "I really am trying to have patience, but I can't allow you to drive yourself into a rampage. It will put those living here and those that come by at risk."
"You act as if I wanted this."
"No. But I don't believe your brethren would have survived the grief if even one of you hadn't made it through."
It's silent between the two of them, and he rolls his eyes with a huff and leans back into his chair. She's right, but he won't say it out loud. During his time changing, he thought he was going to die. Everything was hot and burning, and his body ached on even a cellular level.
"Here's the truth of the matter. Vampires can die. If you hate it so much, these trees are not new to strange fruit." Her voice has lost that playful edge. It's harsh and grating, and he doesn't like it. He kinda wants her to talk about his last name again, spout some useless trivia he can share with Soap. Not whatever harsh and uncomfortable truth she hisses at him.
"Why?" He whispers, and there's a bit of a cracking in his voice.
"Why what? Drink the blood offered to you?"
He nods his head.
"There are children who stay here. Their parents leave them for child care while they go out and work, be it daytime or nights. I don't charge them to watch their children." She leans against the arm of her chair, and those piercing brown eyes bore into his very being. "Some parents donate blood, and some parents offer services that my people can't get from the general public. I have all types of wayward youth and adults that come here for safety, both living and existing. I can not have you on the verge of blood lust and ruin what I've cultivated here."
To his horror that makes sense. To his absolute horror, he tries to reconcile that Aayana may just be a good being. Kyle has always been one for protecting others, and he isn't comfortable with knowing that for two months straight, he has been putting innocent people in danger. It doesn't matter if he spends his waking moments sequestered away from people. He ignores Soap and his requests to hang out and speak to the other vampires that come and go. He ignores John's orders to at least attempt to adjust properly. Hell, even Simon is doing better, even though he is closely monitored because his body ping-pongs between awareness and lucid. It causes him to become more aggressive and agitated as the poor man is more sensitive to those around him. Still, Simon tries even if it's only for Soap.
"I'm not asking you to bite anyone...if it's the idea of it being human blood, we'll there are residents who prefer animal. It's not my taste, but it's one that needs to be acquired." She gets up and moves, more like floats and kneels down in front of him. Her hands reach out and grabs his own. Her nails are painted a pretty pearlescent white.
He thinks white looks pretty on her and still finds it ironic. He looks her in the face and is startled by the look of trust and pleading in her. The underlying tension in her jaw lets him know that this conversation is going to be a one-time thing. In the back of his mind, that droning voice that chants 'Consume' quiets completely when they make eye contact. He thinks that maybe blood won't be bad if it keeps the living safe, even if he thinks it gross and wrong to eat. He doesn't like what he thinks. And even more so, he doesn't like that he thinks that when he stares into her eyes.
a.n: The residents of the house definitely refer to Johnny as Jack or Jackie because they draw the line at Soap, and Johnny doesn't like people who don't know calling him Johnny. Thank you all for reading.
A primeval, original, or fundamental thing; a beginning or origin; a first principle.
Anthology that follows TF-141 and their new lives as vampires.
+18mdni ⋘ Series Loaded ⋙ +18mdni
➺ Drip ➺ (J Price pov)
➺ Grotesque ➺ (K Garrick pov)
➺ 40days and 40nights ➺ (S Riley pov)
➺ Paradise ➺ (J Price pov) coming soon
➺ Artistic Eyes ➺ (J MacTavish pov) coming soon
➺ Birthday ➺ ( from the diary of Aayana) coming soon
Mood board
C.W: Primordial contains graphic depictions of violence and gore. Contains characters that have been a part of chattel slavery in the Antebellum period of the US. There is the use of slurs (none of it is glorified). This is a Southern Gothic genre piece. If you would like to know more about this genre, start here. If you would like something easy to dip into with this genre, I suggest starting with Flannery O'Connor 'A Good man is hard to find.' You can read it here for free.
cw: dark themes, horror, violence, blood mentions, non-con blood drinking and physical contact, stalking, mdni
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alt ending - takes place after apex predator
vampire!price can be patient, but he has waited long enough to take what is his.
his fangs feel like fire as they sink into the soft skin of your neck, the gentle suction of him pulling your lifeforce into himself, your hopes, your dreams, your desires being pulled away.
your thoughts are fleeting, like pages of a book flipping by faster than you can read. the manager, nik, had promised you would be safe, that it was a temporary thing, that the 141 wouldn’t hurt you after they requested you work their booth exclusively and you had told him you were nervous (a rare moment of vulnerability).
you hadn’t even known why you were running tonight, maybe the men from the bar were following you. maybe the woman with her smiles that were just a touch too friendly, her attentions just a little too well received by you. or maybe it was that feeling of being watched that you had felt for weeks, subtly looking over your shoulder to find no one there.
vampire!price let go of your hair, that hand snaking around to cover your mouth, muffling the feeble attempts to call for help. his body pushing yours against the chainlink, savoring the warmth of you, the softness, the gentle pressure of you pushing back, trying to escape.
vampire!price had spent decades in the cold dark, and you, his little bird, were the soft touch of first light, the sky brightening as the sun chases away the gloom of night.
your blood on his tongue was ambrosia, nectar that these other unnatural gods of the world would envy, covet, desire. vampire!price struggled to stop himself, it had been too long since he had indulged, had given in, and now that he had your life coursing through his veins he couldn’t help but think, a moment more, a moment more, a moment -
vampire!price pulls away, you head lolling back against the fence. your eyes closed, your body limp as he pulls you against him, easily maneuvering you until you are cradled in his arms.
your blood is still on his fangs, tongue running over his teeth for one last taste, savoring it.
cw: dark themes, horror, violence, blood mentions, stalking, mdni
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alt ending - takes place after little bird
vampire!price doesn’t have to explain himself when he stops the succubus from following you down the alley. she glances down the alley at you scurrying away, at vampire!price with his ironclad grip on her arm to the face of the vampire who has stopped her. she nods, backing away and deferring to the greater beast among them.
the apex predator.
vampire!price doesn’t need to use his abilities to snare you in a trap, you have trapped yourself in a dark alley, a dead end, what would have been your dead end had he not followed you. if it hadn’t been the succubus it would have been those idiot necromancers.
there's a code the vampires follow, something to ensure the world isn’t overrun by their hellish spawn or that they don’t drain dry the human race. but as vampire!price watches you, heart pounding hard enough he can see your pulse just beneath the skin of your neck; the code means nothing. it is like ash scattered on a breeze that carries your scent instead, your fear, your blood that is a siren’s song now that he is crowding you against the chain link fence.
vampire!price hasn’t felt warmth in decades, feeding only to sustain himself, never giving into the desire to linger, to indulge, to enjoy the warmth of a human against his ice cold skin. his fingers that loop around your arm, pull you towards him. his other hand, smoothing over your face, fingers snaking through your hair, guiding your head to look up, to see him for what he is.
you know who he is, you know jonathan price, notorious leader of the 141, sire of the two vampires who monopolize your time at the club. you think you understand what this moment is as he lowers his face towards yours. preternaturally beautiful features made even more alluring by the rugged beard and scars etched into his skin before his turning.
vampire!price can’t stop the feral grin that spreads across his face as he takes in your scent from the source, the sweetness of your blood, the tang of your fear, the spritz of perfume that lingers on your clothes. his grip in your hair is iron clad as he pulls your head back, exposing the long expanse of your neck to him.
vampire!price drags his fangs over your skin, enraptured by the shocked gasp as those razor sharp points leave a trail of crimson in their wake. he waits for you to panic.
vampire!price wants your fear and your spirit all to himself.
he wants you to struggle.
and struggle you do, the feeling of his mouth opening over the spot on your neck that he has staked out as his. your arms and legs flailing, you kick and hit blindly, trying to do anything that will soften the grip in your hair.
vampire!price lets his pretty little bird think that you can escape him, easing up on his hold so you can squirm in his grasp.
cw: dark themes, horror, violence, blood mentions, stalking, GORE, character death, mdni
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vampire!price is a bad man. he takes satisfaction in the look of horror on your face as he rips through the first necromancer, gripping the man's arm in one hand and wrenching his head to the side with the other. a quick death, more than he deserved.
vampire!price savors the second one. It isn’t pretty and it isn’t romantic. but it is a gift to you, his little bird.
you can’t look away, you’re in a trance as the man you know by reputation (and from whispers between servers at the club) beheads one necromancer and then rips the arm off the second, leaving him alive long enough to see who his killer is, eyes wide, mouthing words that fail to form on his tongue before that’s ripped from his head. you clench the taser in your hand, thumbing over the trigger for close range.
vampire!price drops the pieces of the second man at your feet like an offering at an altar.
you’re splattered with blood, hands shaking, body pressed against the fence.
you look so pretty in red.
vampire!price smiles at you, fangs flashing white against the dark smears of blood splashed across his face. he is an avenging angel, he is both your salvation and damnation. and he won’t ever forget the way your skin feels so warm, so soft beneath his fingers as he cups your face, his thumb rubbing the blood across your cheek.
he might have saved you from necromancers but who is going to save you from him?
