#cw dehumanisation

Vampires don't sleep during the day. You weren't sure why you believed that silly myth for childhood, but you did. You'd nearly jumped out of your skin the first time you saw Simon up and about right after sunrise. When he sees you, he grins at you with a deep predatory gaze.

"God, live for how your heart jumps when you're so scared." He groans, sniffing the air like he could taste your fear in the air. "Come here, pet." He beckons you closer, which you know better than to disobey.

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep? The sun -"

"You believe that old wives tale, love?" Simon leans back, studying your face with a slightly judgemental stare. "No wonder Laswell gave you to us. Can't think for yourself, can you?" You feel yourself flushing in embarrassment, looking away from him with a huff.

"I just thought -"

"Blood bags don't think, they bleed." Simon growls, the gravely tone that always makes you melt into him. Vampire mind control doesn't exist, John insisted it didn't, but you couldn't explain why their voices had such an effect on you. You instinctively bear your neck for him, whimpering in pain when he sinks his teeth into your veins.

"Simon, if it gets blood on the floor, you're cleaning up after it." John grumbles as he walks into the kitchen, stepping lazily around the two of you. You track him with your eyes, whimpering a little, but John just smiles at you. "He won't take too much. I'll get you some orange juice."

"Apple is its favorite. Told me itself." Kyle joins the kitchen for breakfast, grunting hungrily when his eyes land on you. "Mine turn next, Simon."

It was supposed to be a joke.

The snide little comment from Soap about Nik getting a dog bed for you. While you weren’t even awake to defend yourself, too!

But Nikolai has never been one to laugh off a good idea.

The team thought you’d be polite about the purchase at best, mildly offended at worst.

They didn’t expect you to bloody love the thing.

Suddenly you’re all over Nik, just like a new puppy, telling him how sweet he is— how comfy your new spot is. And soon it’s covered in pillows and quilts— things you’re too tired to ever tuck yourself into. But that’s what papochka is for, no?

Cooing about how he has to fold the crust over his little pie filling, that’s how perfectly you tuck into the round bed to him.

Suddenly those throwaway comments from Nik about stealing you away from the team to be his personal helper… seem a little more real.

The guard dog -> loyalty has been ingrained into their bones, following their handler around like their shadow. No one dares stand against the organization because of the legendary dread surrounding this living weapon. They hardly say a word but every movement is calculated, eyes always darting, always watching. (“You always were their lapdog.”)

The loose cannon -> dangerous for both sides. Always talking back and never predictable, their value is dependent on their skill. If it wasn’t for that, they’d be dead a long time ago. Their loyalty is earned, not bought. No one wants to be on their bad side, walking on tip toe whenever they show up. And they enjoy it. (“What’s everyone looking at? Aren’t you happy to see me? I even brought my rifle!”)

The broken down -> most common type of whumpee I’ve seen. They’ve been overpowered and forced into the commission. They hate their handler more than anything else but see no way out. When they’re told to shoot, they don’t even blink. It’s always “yes, sir” this and “yes, sir” that. If they feel any sympathy, they don’t show it. They’ll do anything to avoid punishment and flinch at quick movements. Nothing they face on the field is worse than the cards they’ve been dealt. (“I understand, sir/ ma’am. I-I’m sorry.”)

The dissenter -> Usually recruited into the organization or joined as a last ditch option. Not necessarily against using their abilities or skill, they just hate being told what to do. As time goes on and their disobedience is punished over and over again, they grow reluctant. Bitter. With every order, they slip in a snarky comment. Roll their eyes. Anything to assert their own identity. Or what’s left of it. (“ah ah ah, you didn’t think i’d notice? The middle finger was a bit much. I’m afraid it will have to go.”)

They treated you like you were an actual dog, but somehow, worse. You knew that the real K-9 dogs were treated much, much better.

Apparently, one of the other soldiers on base had reported how the task force was treating you. Some hybrid experts and some higher-up would be coming to inspect your living conditions.

"Wake up, mutt." Price grumbled, pouring freezing water on you in your bed. You startled awake with a muffled whine behind your muzzle. "Higher-ups are comin' today. If you're good, you won't have to wear the muzzle for two weeks, okay?"

You nodded eagerly. Maybe, just maybe, if you were good for the duration of the inspection, the task force would finally accept you. Your tail wagged happily. You'd finally have a pack!

Price stepper forward, unclipping the muzzle. You stretch your jaw, tail still wagging. You have a smile on your face.

Price pulled a collar out of his pocket. It was leather, black, and sturdy. "You need a collar. Makes us seem like we actually care about you."

Oh. Well, whatever. Price still got you a collar!

You bare your throat, allowing Price to clip the collar on you. It fits nicely. The inside is soft. That must mean that Price really cares about you!

TWs: dehumanization, mentions of suicide