Lost Cat, Safe Returned

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/52071067.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandoms: Super Sons (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Relationship: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Characters: Jonathan Samuel Kent, Damian Wayne
Additional Tags: Justice Lords Universe, Lord Jon-El, Vampire Damian Wayne, Forced
Vomiting, Blood Drinking, Dehumanization, Whump, Damian Wayne
Whump, Dubious Consent, Caretaking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, No
Smut, Poor Damian, Jondami
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-12-06 Words: 2,727 Chapters: 1/1
 Lost Cat, Safe Returned
by Kate_Sylvester

Summary

"I used to have a cat, you know. A real one," Jon said, his voice tinged with a childlike
nostalgia, "Light yellow and orange fur, and green eyes, just like yours." His slender fingers
traced over the other's eyelids. "I called it Goldie."

--

Jon brought his missing kitty home. Kitty had eaten a lot of strange stuffs and might got sick.
So, he needed to treat and take care of it. That's it, that's the story.

Notes

This fic is based on my friend alamp's 'Lord! Jon & Vampire! Dami" AU setting, you can
check her amazing artworks here !

So, the prompt is basically "Damian was Jon's pet vampire and since he's so accustomed of
being fed by Jon's blood, other people's blood would only made him vomit and got sick."
Poor Dami.

Although it mentions the events at the beginning of Superman(2016), the setting itself has no
connection to the main universe, nor DC's vampire setting. It's just for fun :D

Please leave kudos or comments if you liked this fic, those really make my days!

A translation of 走失猫咪回家后 by Kate_Sylvester

Damian was being dragged across the ground like a sack filled with wet cotton. His legs
twitching, throat emitting intermittent, strange choking sounds. Dark streaks marked their
path. Jon chattered on, "Dad said cats should be kept indoors, but Goldie – it used to be a
stray – always wanted to go out. Sometimes I let it." The entrance to the bathroom opened
before them. "One day, it was caught by an eagle while jumping over the fence, must
thinking it’s the dinner for the day. Well, it's a bit embarrassing to say, I couldn't control my
heat vision very well back then. Goldie's neck wasn't broken yet, actually, but I ended up
roasting them both to a crisp."

Recounting this particular memory made him feel somewhat embarrassed and frustrated. Jon
pouted, lifting Damian who was still trembling uncontrollally into the bathtub and sitting
beside the edge himself. His fingers gently stroked the vampire's neck, circling and tracing
along the line; soon after, the same fingers grabbed on the short hair at the back of Damian's
head, pulling him closer.

"Don't worry, it was an accident. I won't let that happen again,"said Jon with an earnest smile,
"I'll take care of you, but you need to cooperate."

Damian stared blankly at him, his lips quivering, a glimpse of white, sharp fangs flashing
amidst the dark crimson smeared over his cheeks.. His bloodshot eyes were wide open, the
irises no longer the usual Lazarus pit green, but the deep red that now stained his face, front,
hands, and boots. His pupils dilated incredibly large, subconsciously following Jon's gaze and
every subtle movement.

Jon huffed, fairly certain his vampire did not understand a thing he said. The hand that
lingered at the back of the head moved forward, rubbing over Damian's bloodstained face,
peeling off those half-dried, rust-colored flakes. He patiently caressed until the other's tense
shoulders gradually relaxed, his attention no longer sharply focused – Damian was still
shaking, his hands spasming into tight claws, but these issues would soon be resolved. Jon
paused his fingertips at the vampire's jaw, gently lifting it for the next action. This touch was
feathery light, almost imperceptible. Slowly, Damian blinked at the sky-blue smile hovering
in front of him.

"It might be a little uncomfortable," Jon-El said in a good-natured tone, "But trust me, Dami,
you'll feel much better after it finished."

Without warning, he thrust two fingers into the vampire's throat, the other hand gripping his
chin with a strength that could crush bones of any ordinary people. The hold was cold as
steel. His gloved fingertips pressed through the tongue, probing deep into the other’s throat
until reached the uvula, then the epiglottis. Jon curiously memorized the sensation of the
tight, slippery interior. Damian struggled violently, his legs thrashing wildly, much like the
reaction one might get from stabbing freshly dead snake corpses; his sharp nails digged into
sleeves of the Kryptonian’s black and white uniform, but unable to shake the birch-like arms
beneath. He attempted to bite him, an instinct, though it would do nothing but blunt his teeth.
Even so, the iron clamp on his jaw already sealed off this last option, leaving him in an
utterly helpless state, only able to produce a rolling, gurgling noise from his throat.

"You need to throw up," Jon explained, his face youthful and innocent, while continuing to
torment his tongue and throat, listening carefully to the different sounds emerging, "Or you'll
get sick. Come on, Dami, just like this." He pulled him forward, head down, his fingertips
pressing against the palate. Damian finally started to vomit with Jon’s fingers in his mouth.

Damian knelt in the bathtub, barely able to support his own body, spewing copious amount of
cold blood and clotted chunks. Jon withdrew his fingers – now coated with blood and salive –
from Damian’s mouth, turned on the shower next to them, adjusting it closer to room
temperature. The flowing water turned the deep ocher to red, then to light pink. "Yes, that’s
right, throw them all up." He half caressed, half pinched the exposed skin at the back of the
vampire's neck, his tone full of genuine encouragement. "Good kitty," he praised.

The vampire’s gagging sound gradually ceased after a while, apart from continuous dry
heaves and coughs. Thick crimson dripping down from his mouth, his shoulder blades rising
and falling. Jon hushed him softly, his free hand drawing circles on Damian’s back, then once
again lifting up his chin.

Damian's eyes were redder than before – this time it was the whites, while the color of the
irises had faded, now wet with reflexive tears. Jon touched the pitiful face sympathetically,
offered him a kind smile – a gesture that once had a calming effect on the vampire in the past,
though it had waned throughout the years.

"Feeling much better now, right?" he asked softly, his voice no different than coaxing at a
toddler. Damian looked at him, unresponsive. Jon sighed, "We have to do it again, okay?"
The red eyes widened slightly. His consciousness might not have been fully clear, but it was
enough to react to the tone and some words. Damian tried to close his mouth, but Jon
assertively pried open his teeth with his thumb, inserting the showerhead inside.

More tears came from the sting of liquid chocking his windpipe. Damian resisted for a while,
almost tearing the fabric on Jon's sleeves to shreds; the latter only calmly held him during the
whole time, unmoving like a mountain or fate. Eventually, Damian stopped fighting, his
hands tightly clutching Jon's wrists, red eyes staring at him. His throat numbly moving up
and down, swallowing the steady stream of warm water from the metal object. Jon nodded
with satisfaction, making a cooing sound like one would to a small animal.

"Poor Dami. I know you must feel terrible right now, but you shouldn't eat recklessly outside,
especially drinking blood from dead people," Jon removed the showerhead, placing it at the
bottom of the bathtub, replacing the foreign intruder in the vampire's mouth with his fingers
again. "Drink some water helps you clean it all out, or you'll get sick and die, silly kitty. You
don’t want to get sick and die, do you? ...Ah, what's the use of me telling you all this?" He
said, continued skillfully stimulating the base of the tongue and throat muscles, until Damian
involuntarily vomited again.

This process repeated several times: Damian vomiting blood from his esophagus and
stomach, mechanically drinking water from the showerhead, enduring the torment of Jon's
fingers, then vomiting again. Jon could not help but thought back of his cat – the real cat,
Goldie – the day when it died. Dad had made him look at the two charred animal corpses, the
smell of burnt flesh and fur filling his nostrils. Do you see? Lord Superman had asked. This is
what happens when you let it runs outside; it dies, even without your untrained heat vision, it
will die. Neck broken by hawks, or eaten by other predators.

I don't understand. Said Jon. If it's so dangerous outside, why does it always want to run out?

Most creatures can't realize they're choosing their own destruction. Kal-El told him. They
don't need freedom; what they need is a more merciful and just master, yet they don't realize
the truth themselves. That's why this is our responsibility.

At last, Damian could vomit nothing more than water mixed with transparent foam and
stomach acid. Jon cleaned the inside of the bathtub, raised the water temperature, and began
to gently scrubb off the blood residue on Damian's face, hands, and body. He handled
Damian with the ease of dressing a doll, peeling him out of his blood-soaked white uniform.
By now, Damian's spasms from pain and nausea had ceased, but Jon knew that beneath the
subsiding superficial agony, he was experiencing a more terrifying sensation – hunger, and a
never-ending hunger could drive a vampire insane.

"You've done really well, Dami, very cooperative," Jon encouraged, turning him around to
carefully wash away a small stain behind his ear, "No more discomfort. Just hold on a little
longer, and you can eat." At this, Damian sharply turned his head towards Jon in a sudden,
his pupils dilating slightly. Jon could not help but chuckled at his reaction.

"Yes, yes, I'll feed you," he laughed, tousling Damian's hair, now wet and drooping from the
bath, "I'll give you blood, and once you're fed, we'll both get cleaned up. A hot bath, bubbles!
Perhaps. And then you can go to sleep and rest. How does that sound? Not too bad, right?"
Damian continued to stare at him with a mix of wariness and confusion, then hesitantly
nodded after a long moment. The gnawing hunger made him shiver, instinctively drawing
closer to the warmth of the hot water and Jon's body heat. Jon's smile was as bright as the
sun. He gently placed the showerhead on Damian's knees.

"That's right. You'll get to drink some blood soon; I just need to get the preparation tools," he
said, slowly standing up, "So I have to leave for a moment, just a few seconds, and I'll be
right back. Can you sit here and wait for me? Just for a little while, can you do that?" A nod.
"Good kitty."

The knife was locked in a desk drawer, housed in a lead casing, no bigger than a thumb,
sharp on both sides. The kryptonite content was not enough to discomfort Jon, but sufficient
to slice through Kryptonian skin and capillaries. He returned to the bathroom with it, Damian
eagerly moving to the edge of the bathtub, splashing water all over. His fangs already
protruding over his lips, pupils narrowed to slits. Jon shook his head with a smile, sitting
down in the same spot as before.

Feeding a starving vampire was always a tricky affair, as their behaviors were completely
dominated by hunger. They could be docile like a house cat, skittish as a rabbit, or frenzied
like a tiger. But Jon always strived to be a kind and responsible master. Damian's gaze
followed his every move, and predictably, just at the moment the knife cut Jon's finger, he
pounced, baring his sharp, white fangs – only to be subdued with a grip firmer than before,
forced back into a kneeling position.

"No," Jon said sternly, "I know you're hungry, but I spent months training your table
manners, and I won't let you slip back into bad habits." Damian snarled at him, a hissing
growl came from the back of his throat. Jon tightened his grip. "Behave," he repeated,
patiently waiting until Damian finally gave up, either out of pain or some other reason, like
realizing the futility of resistance, as well as his desperate hunger.

The vampire's jaws clicked. Begrudgingly but obediently, Damian rested his head beside
Jon's knee. Jon patted his head.

"Very good, Dami," he praised happily. Two drops of fresh blood fell from the wound on his
finger to the corner of Damian's mouth, licked away almost instantly. The vampire made a
faint grunting sound. "Now eat," Jon said, patting his head again, lifting his chin up as before.

Jon pressed his pierced fingers to Damian's lips, and this time, they were eagerly enveloping
by his tongue.

"Gently," Jon reminded him, "No biting."

Damian, with eyes closed, focused on sucking Jon's fingers, using his tongue and teeth to
extract more blood from the wound, even allowing Jon’s fingers randomly fiddle with his
tongue, spreading the taste of blood over his gums and inner walls of his mouth. When Jon
tried to withdraw his fingers, Damian anxiously bite on his knuckles, a whimper mixed with
a low growl emanating from his mouth.

"Let go." He did not , his eyes fixed on Jon, the small amount of blood was already enough to
reignit the faint red glow in his irises. "Let go, I can't feed you enough with my fingers.
They're healing already." Damian hesitated for a moment, then released his teeth.

"My wrist?" Jon asked, watching him. Damian's pupils dilated for an instant, nodding
vigorously.

Jon rolled up his already torn sleeve, making two shallow cuts on the inside of his wrist, not
deep, just enough for Damian's fangs to sink into the blood vessels – which was precisely
what happened next. Damian's cool, soft lips pressed against Jon's pulse, his hands cradling
Jon's arm as if it was a chalice filled with ambrosia. He ate with an urgency, like a man dying
of thirst seeking rain. The sounds of his gulping was clear even without super-hearing, his
dark eyelashes trembling with each swallow. Jon continually stroked Damian's head, cheeks,
ears, and the back of his neck with his spare hand, murmuring sweetly, his tone light with
praise and encouragement. Pain was a foreign sensation to the young Kryptonian Lord, but
Jon was accustomed to this specific pain, tinged with a tingling numbness, oddly accelerating
his heartbeat – it was the effect of the vampire's venom.

Damian knelt there, feeding for quite some time. He seemed to have forgotten everything else
in the world, aware only of the blood - Jon's blood – how its rich, sweet taste sliding down
his throat, filling him, easing the sharp, burning thirst that had twisted his inside; fire, molten
gold, life flowing into his veins. He could remain like this forever, he felt this was forever,
except when Jon pulled him away, separating Damian from the source of everything, he felt
as if not a second had passed.

"That's enough for tonight, I think," Jon said, looking into Damian's eyes, now as bright and
hot as a funeral pyre. He patted his cheeks. "There will be more tomorrow, but now it's time
for a bath and sleep. You need rest to fully recover. I even changed to a new duvet, you
know? You'll definitely love it."

Throughout the rest of the night, Damian remained docile and compliant, caused by the
dazing state from his first feeding after severe hunger, which undeniably adding efficiency to
what could have been a difficult task. And Jon-El, always a kind and responsible little master,
made sure both he and his vampire were warm and clean. Hopefully, he'd know better than to
run so far next time, knowing it could be this painful. Jon thought, drying Damian's hair. He
imagined Damian became really sick or severely injured, writhing helplessly on the ground,
drenched in cold sweat, blood gushing out, his lips turning blue, unable to utter his usually
sharp words, those green eyes gradually losing focus – Jon would never let him ended up like
that, but he could not deny that he also wanted to nurse him back to health from such a pitiful
state. Maybe it would take such an experience for Damian to truly realize that being with him
was the safest and happiest.

He felt the moment Damian fully regained consciousness. He could not miss it; after all, they
were lying in the same bed, the soft duvet smelling of sun-dried warmth – as a vampire meant
to live only at night, Damian had an strange fascination with that scent – Jon was holding him
like a cat or a teddy bear, stroking the outline of his spine up and down, feeling the way
Damian accept unreservedly at first, then gradually stiffen. When that moment arrived,
Damian suddenly tensed; he probably wanted to wrestle off right away, or at least turn his
back to him, but Jon held him as tight as a iron cage, his arms forming an unbreakable circle.

"One day, I will kill you," Damian mumbled in a low voice. His face was buried in Jon's
neck, a position where he could easily sink his fangs in. If only he could bite through.

Jon's fingers gently scratched his scalp, continued smiling like an angel. "Oh, Dami, I'm so
glad you're okay." He happily sniffed Damian’s scent, freshly from their bath, almost
identical with himself, the scent of Jon's favorite shampoo. The scent of home. The scent of
correctness. "Welcome home, my good kitty."
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