Day 31 – Halloween Edition

Prompts: Somnophilia | Ghost Sex | Mpreg | Mind Break

Rape/Non-Con

Chapter tags: Percival Graves/Ghost, Somnophilia, Haunted House, House Elves, Sleep Paralysis, Sex Dreams, Wet Dreams, Non-Corporeal Entity, Ghost Sex, Paranoia, Mind Break, Mpreg, Mind Control

Read it on AO3!

The Graves Manor has stood for centuries.  Not the one in New York – that one, the home where Percival grew up, is as recent as everything else in America.  Built by those dead and gone, yes, but whose names are still remembered.

It is the manor in the Old World which Percival now visits, his by right though he has only seen it a handful of times, nearly lost to the distorted memories of childhood.  It had been a castle rising from the mists, a portal to the nether realm, a breathing force which had welcomed him home and threatened never to release him.

It it a house, albeit a grand one.  To call it a castle would be generous, though an easy mistake for an American child to make.  Even still, Percival cannot help but see an echo of that majesty as he approaches. The manor is well staffed even in the absence of any residents, maintained by house elves as well as a number of paid staff.  It wouldn’t do to let the ancestral home fall to ruin, even if only for posterity’s sake. As such it is immaculate upon his arrival. The stone floors shine, the entry hall is lit with hundreds – thousands? – of floating candles, and fires are lit in every room.  It’s clear that quite an effort has been made for his arrival, though when he’d sent word he was coming he’d asked them not to. He’s only staying for a week, just long enough to put in order the long neglected business which only he, as the master of the estate, can attend to.  The Graves line has no other direct heirs, or he would gladly have passed the task on; there is a whole collection of second cousins, plenty of people to inherit, but until they do the maintenance of the family legacy falls squarely on his shoulders.

“Welcome home, Lord Graves,” the steward greets him, and Percival does his best not to blink at the unfamiliar title which he does, technically, hold.  “Dinner will be served at half past, or sooner, if you desire it. May I show you to your rooms, so that your lordship can rest before the meal?”

“Thank you, Mr Bradshaw,” Percival agrees.  Merlin, but he’s not used to these ranks and formalities.  Not for the first time he thinks how glad he is that his stay will be short.

The room is well prepared and luxurious, dinner practically a feast, but by the end of it he’s more than happy to retire to bed.  The day of travel from London took its toll, and he all but melts into the mattress. The pillows are fluffed, the blankets warm and heavy, the sheets blissfully soft, and for once insomnia doesn’t plague him.

The next morning he wakes to thin sunlight filtering through the windows, warm and comfortable in bed.  He sighs, stretches – and feels something strangely damp against his belly. He frowns. His hand finds something tacky and drying against his skin, and when he lifts the covers to look his stomach is streaked with come.

It’s been years since he’s had a wet dream, not since he was a much younger man.  A twinge of embarrassment passes through him, and with a quick wave of his hand he cleans both himself and the sheets, removing any trace of evidence for when the house elves come to make the bed.

He can’t help but feel a little cheated that he doesn’t even remember the dream.

He puts it out of his mind as he dresses for breakfast.  The day is spent familiarizing himself with the estate’s affairs, speaking with Bradshaw, and reading more paperwork than crosses his desk at MACUSA.  This trip is overdue, he knows. If he’d come sooner there would be less to sort through. He’s brought this upon himself in a way, but it doesn’t make the chore any less tedious.

Falling into bed at the end of the day is a welcome respite, and that night he does remember his dreams.

He’s laying on his back, unable to move.  His muscles simply don’t respond, weighted down with a leaden heat which makes it impossible to tense or twitch.  And there’s something – no, someone – above him. A presence, pressing down on his chest as he lays trapped there, and so very, very heavy.  He can’t open his eyes to see it.

It should be a nightmare, but it’s… not.  He isn’t afraid. His heart doesn’t thunder in his chest.  He just lays there and accepts it, body tingling with erotic heat as the pressure spreads and increases.  The presence is innately sexual, and his body responds. The tingling grows, centering in his nipples and groin, his cock curving up eagerly over his belly even though he can’t move to stroke it.  The heat just builds and builds until he wants to beg for release, for friction, he needs to come so bad –

He doesn’t remember the orgasm, but the sheets are wet again when he wakes.  For the briefest moment after opening his eyes he feels the most all-consuming sense of calm, his whole body soft and weak, and he’s certain that he’s exactly where he needs to be.

The feeling ebbs along with the memories of the dream, growing cloudy and drifting from his mind until all he remembers are whispers of sensation, and he only ponders it a moment more before putting it out of his head entirely.

The next night starts the same way – the presence, the heavy weight – only this time he’s on his stomach, feeling the weight against his back and hips.  He isn’t entirely sure when he becomes aware of it, just that his body welcomes it back, and he relaxes into it as the heat returns, making his nipples itch with need and his cock fail to harden where it’s trapped against the mattress.

But it doesn’t matter if he can’t get hard, because it feels so good.  He leaks a little trickle of precome onto the sheets and his genitals feels so warm, he’s in absolute bliss.  The heat coalesces in his ass, rising from a smolder to a blaze with such intensity that it makes his mind go fuzzy.  If he could move he would be keening, bucking his hips and clutching at the sheets; but he can’t move, so he lays motionless and takes it as the heat sinks into him, settling deep in his belly.  It doesn’t thrust or pulse, it just rests inside him, and he feels complete as the warmth suffuses through his body.

He’s come to expect the damp, sticky sheets in the mornings, but what he doesn’t expect – doesn’t understand – is the slippery substance which oozes from his ass when he rolls over.

He freezes, going cold at the feeling.  That’s not right. How is it possible? He doesn’t want to move, to feel the slime deep in his guts, but he has to know.  He swallows hard, and reaches one hand back between his legs.

His fingers come away coated in something thick and white, and he wants to retch.  What the fuck, what – wasn’t it a dream? Something was here with him, preying on him in his sleep, while he enjoyed it.

He has to get out.

He throws back the blankets, and though his stomach turns horribly when he stands and the slime runs down his thighs, he doesn’t stop on the way to the bathroom.  He washes himself until the water runs cold, until his rim is chafed and sore, until every last trace of the vile substance is gone from his body and he almost can’t feel the memory of it.

He dresses quickly, in more layers than he needs for the temperature of the manor, and flees the room.

“Mr Bradshaw!” he calls, taking the stairs to the study two at a time, and sending a house elf scurrying out of his way.  He finds him quickly, not sparing time for a greeting. “Mr Bradshaw, I have urgent business in New York. Make the travel arrangements immediately and inform me when it’s done.”  He can’t bring himself to care about the surprise that flashes across Bradshaw’s face, or how harsh his words may have been. He needs to leave. He never should have come.

“Of course, Lord Graves.  I’ll do it forthwith.”

Percival nods, dismissive, and when Bradshaw leaves he locks the study door behind him.  He can only hope that the solid oak will be some good against whatever it is that – that – his mind gets stuck on the word, and he turns abruptly to the stacks of papers on the desk.  He’ll conclude his business here and put an ocean between himself and this house, family legacy be damned.

Bradshaw returns an hour later with a ticket back to London for the morning, and passage booked on a ship.  There was no sooner train. Graves takes the news with a grim nod, the relief at having a way out darkened by the heavy dread of spending another night in this twisted place.

“Sir,” Bradshaw asks, tone hesitant.  “Forgive the question, but… are you quite all right, Lord Graves?”

“Of course.”  Percival waves him off, unable to fathom where that conversation might go.  Either Bradshaw has no idea of the horrors that lurk in this house, or he knows all too well.  Either way, he’s no help whatsoever. “MACUSA business. Excuse me now, I’ll see to the remaining affairs.”

Percival throws himself into the work, as much to keep his mind occupied and stave off thoughts of the night as to accomplish anything.  He suddenly cares very little about what happens to the estate, the Graves name, or the inheritance. It can all be damned.

He works through the day, pausing only for meals brought to him in the study.  He’s warded the room as best he can, and he has no desire to leave it. He doesn’t know what he’s facing, he doesn’t know if it will help, but it’s better than leaving himself completely exposed.

He resolves to work through the night, unwilling to submit to the vulnerability of sleep.  Even when his eyes burn and his head aches he keeps the lamps burning. When the words on the pages blur beyond recognition he retreats into the armchair and keeps his wand at the ready.  He won’t be taken unawares.

He doesn’t know whether he truly succumbed to sleep.  All he knows is that the room is dark, and his body is so very, very heavy.  His breathing is slow, steady. His heartbeat is strong in his chest even though he can’t move a muscle of his own accord.  The familiar warmth returns to his groin, sinking into his ass as though he weren’t still fully clothed, and he melts for it.  He’s being filled again, filled to brimming, just like he should have been from the start, and it’s wonderful.  

But as much as he would have liked it, the heat doesn’t stay in his ass.  It spreads out, flowing through him and briefly lighting up his whole body before it starts to gather again.

It feels just as good in his mind as it did in his ass.  The pressure in his head is intense but not painful, melting away his thoughts as it grows.  Gradually, everything starts to make sense. This is what he’s for. This is right. He should never have been afraid.

Something gives in his mind and it feels better than any orgasm.

He is well rested in the morning, despite having slept upright in the armchair, and fully dressed at that.  Silly thing to do, really, but his body feels so nice it’s hard to care. He can tell at once that his ass is full, putting comfortable pressure against his insides and leaking a little damp spot into the seat of his pants.  He really should sleep naked from now on.

He clenches his ass when he stands, not wanting to lose a single drop of that precious fluid, and after casting around the room for a moment selects a paperweight to transfigure into a plug.  He makes it nice and thick, stripping down his pants to press it inside and moaning when he does so. It’s vitally important to keep the fluid in his body, and now he doesn’t have to worry. It’s a relief.

Before dressing again he takes a moment to admire the little bloat it makes in his belly, right where his children will soon grow.

When he leaves the study, it’s with a lightness to his step which he hasn’t felt for a long time.

“Good morning, Mr Bradshaw!” he says, finding the man in the middle of his breakfast.

“Ah, Lord Graves.  I’ve arranged for a carriage to take you to the station, it will leave at your convenience.”

Graves frowns.  Why did he want to leave again?  “Cancel it. Cancel all the arrangements.  In fact, have my things sent from New York, and let the staff know I’ll be staying.”

He doesn’t know why Bradshaw looks so shocked.  It’s as though a terrible burden has been lifted from him.  He knows his purpose now – continuing the Graves line is his most important task, and the way to accomplish it is to stay here and be bred.

He’ll send his resignation to MACUSA by owl.  They’ll understand.