#dissociation whump

[cpt-winters]

Okay, so I've Had a Whumpy Thought...

Upon their arrival, Team halts dead in their tracks, staring wide-eyed as Whumpee wraps the chains Whumper once used to bind them around Whumper's neck, pulling back with all their strength with a crazed, almost-animalistic look in their eyes.

Cue Whumpee collapsing to their knees after Whumper's body slumps to the floor. That thousand-yard stare falling over Whumpee's features as their mind refuses to register whatever following commotion unfurls around them.

Can't stop thinking about variations of this trope after reading this post

[whumpitisthen]

A Lesson in Selfishness

Previous I Masterlist I Next

Rest of cws in tags as usual, but this one deals heavily with dissociation, depersonalisation/derealisation (depending on how you interpret it) and self-hatred, so i thought id put at least that much up here too <3 Mori is not having a good time

By the time Auden finds the door left ajar from his failed escape, he is openly sobbing into his hands in distress. Awful, ear-splitting screams echo down the hall, bouncing off of every ornament, every pillar, disrupting even the humble flickering of flames lighting his way along the walls. Each decibel added grows the mountain of guilt splitting his soul in twain.

He couldn't do anything to help. He was even worse than a failure. He was useless. Powerless to do anything but watch on as they were tortured. Even if they were a creature of Hell, it has become entirely clear that the deer demon was only doing what it was told, and never planned on hurting him at all. They are in a similar situation to him, and all Auden managed to do was bring their tormentor right to them, and cause unnecessary trouble. Cause ruthless, avoidable punishment. His realisation came far too late, and it cost them so much.

Lord, they begged him not to yell.

He hurries past the ornate wooden doors, swiftly pulling them closed behind him with trembling fingers. His body has become awfully pale, blue veins visible through the thin skin of his wrists. It must be yet another side effect or symptom of being mortal, yet another need he does not know how to identify nor meet. It's cold, the dirty nails at the tip of his fingers are turning blue. It only became chillier since the Reaper arrived, sucking the warmth out of everything living with his presence. Auden swears he can still feel Death's touch clear as day — his hold on him is so great that he can feel those black tendrils of rot solidify and take root inside his throat. Those icy fingers left blue marks on his face, little red dots where his claws dug into him, colder still where his silver jewellery touched him.

Perturbation takes him when he thinks of his saviour, his voice murmuring inside Auden’s head. The mocking, the cooing, the promise of pain. That terrifying laughter corrupts his every thought.

Why would he have thought the Grim Reaper to be merciful? Death wasn't fair, Death wasn't kind or protective or caring; Death was ruthless, and efficient, and anywhere from a sudden stopping of the heart to the most painful, agonising, twistedly slow carnage. And even then, even if he was all of those things — why would he act anything like this towards a filthy Fallen? He took Auden to be a gift for someone else, nothing more. He only protects him as long as he is in the deity's care, and who knows what will happen to him once he is given away. He is property, now, and the Reaper will not hesitate to remind him of that. He was lucky enough to be allowed to leave unscathed.

Exhaustion strikes his body at once, leaving him gasping on his knees leaned up against the sturdy door. His soul breaks apart for what could only be the hundredth time since he found himself curled up on that wretched burnt pasture. At every turn, he cannot help fooling himself with even the illusion of choice, the possibility of mercy or the hope of finding anyone who could keep him safe, if not happy. He only experiences burning shame at having been betrayed by Death himself — though it was barely betrayal at all. He should have known all along he was not really saved. He should have known that he does not deserve to even be gazed upon by beings like him.

He found Death's presence to be a necessary evil. Who else could keep someone so helpless like him safe in Hell? His Lord has all but abandoned him, as painful as it is to admit. So, among all these dangerous monsters, who only bring suffering, how fitting is it that the only one who could keep him alive is Death? However menacing, cruel, scary, demanding and even unholy — no one would hurt Auden again as long as he decides to stick around and defend him.

So how stupid must Auden be to police the actions of not only a deity, but the only person on this forsaken planet who can protect him?

‘Downright sacrilegious, isn't it? How devoted you are to your new Lord. To call him a deity, when it is proposed your only God is the one ruling the Heavens. You have truly become a mortal, riddled with sin.’

“Shut up!” — Auden explodes finally at the endless mocking voice plaguing his every waking moment relentlessly. — “Shut up, shut up, shut up! Stop talking to me!”

‘Best you quiet down, mortal. You saw how quick your new God was summoned to your side to punish an innocent creature for you.’

He must be going insane, he is sure. He has begun talking to a voice in his own head. Yelling out in frustration and arguing with it, like some form of cursed soul wandering the scorched Earth endlessly, groaning and moaning to itself constantly. He thought it was his own voice for a while, so used to shame and self-deprecation that he didn't even think it anything else, but now he is certain it's not him. Or is he? He does not know which option seems crazier; that he is arguing with his own thoughts or that he now has another voice inside his already miserable head.

“I don't care, just shut up! Please!” — he sobs, pulling his knees up to his face to hide behind them. He can feel his headache growing the longer he concentrates on the voice. — “I'm not a sinner, I'm not betraying my Lord, I'm not being sacrilegious, I’m, I'm, I-I'm just trying to survive! Pl-Please forgive me, I'm so sorry, I'm s-so sorry, my Lord…”

He devolves into heaving sobs, no longer having enough water to spare for many tears in his body. He continues mumbling to himself, but the voice does not respond. It left him after a job well done, sending him down a spiral and finally acknowledging it. He sits on the floor like this for a while, trying his best to rid himself of all these anxieties, miseries and emotions. Angels really aren't meant to be here for long, and Auden, though not nearly aware of it enough, is quite strong to bear it like this. It's a shame no one will care to remind him.

Three knocks on the door behind him send all his muscles back to attention, tensing them like rubber bands until they burn from exertion like they are about to snap. He had quieted down, nearly falling asleep sitting on the floor as he is, but now he is clambering to stand and move out of the way. It must be the Reaper again, here to remind him how dependent on him he is and how easily this fickle shield he managed to gain can be shattered at the slightest misbehaviour. Or maybe it's his new owner, whoever it is, here to take him and do something like Miss Thu'lin wanted to — maybe it's Miss Thu'lin herself, come to take him back and execute him properly.

He waits, but the handle isn't pushed down, the door doesn't open. A minute passes before four more knocks are heard, a little quieter, more timid. This doesn't seem like anyone he has met so far. The Reaper would just barge in, or even just appear in the room if he wanted. Miss Thu'lin isn't coming back. Could it really be his owner?

He clears his throat, rasping out a similarly timid ‘Hello?’, hoping whoever is on the other side will leave him be, but being too scared of repercussions in case he manages to disrespect someone again to not react anything at all.

To his relief, a familiar, almost forgotten voice answers. — “Hey, uh, hello. I'm here t-, I was sent t-to, uh… I have food. For you.”

Mori. It's just Mori! The deer person, the one who seemed like him!

The one who he left to suffer on their own. Who must have got every bone in their hand broken. The one who screamed themself hoarse from the sounds of it. Who they got in terrible, cruel, agonising trouble. And after it all, they are the one bringing him food.

Through immense, heart wrenching guilt, he dares to feel relief that it's only them. He wishes he could take back all the misfortune he managed to cause to this one, even if they are a Hell being. If only he understood the situation sooner, or even if he just let Death do as he wanted instead of trying to plead for their safety, — seeing as their screams only worsened when Auden was finally made to leave, more frequent, more desperate — he could have so easily helped them. Heavy shame eats at him for letting any of this happen. He feels like a fraud as a Guardian for being the main cause of this.

Though a dizzying cavalcade of negative emotions have latched onto him like a tumour, Auden forbids himself to ever hesitate helping Mori, and banishes the thought of ever, ever resisting what they say is best. The sight of their broken hand under relentless force, their pained face, the kneeling and the whimpering and the begging and the torture must never leave his brain for the rest of his life; a reminder of the consequences of his selfishness.

“O-Oh, oh, I see, I'm sorry.” — The door still does not open, and he struggles to find the right words to say, — “Uhm… Sorry, uh… You can come in. I'm, I'm the only one here.”

Of course he's the only one, who else would be here? Nevertheless, the door finally opens, letting in the abused form of the deer demon awkwardly holding a silver tray of food items, water, cutlery and even a small vase with a single flower in it, and a black candle. They balance it with one unharmed hand, the wrist of the other arm where their hand has been ruined beyond use and their own torso, unsteady on their hooves. What catches Auden's eye before any of that is Mori's antlers — antler.

One of their antlers was snapped off of their head, leaving an open, oozing stump that covers half their face in dark red blood. Their face is harrowed, pale as a sheet, only contrasted by their own ghastly wounds. A sheen of sweat covers them, making them look sickly and frail. Their breathing is just as unsteady as their stance.

Did Death do this? Did Mori lose their antler because of Auden’s idiocy? Auden caused all this?

All previous worries and troubles of his own have been forgotten when Auden laid his eyes on them. Overshadowing his self-pity is a divine need to protect, to fix, to cheer up and hold them forever, to never let them be hurt again. To Guard, like he was always meant to. As Auden stares on in stunned silence, Mori only becomes more nervous. They avert their eyes and eventually ask, — “would, would you, uh… like to eat in bed or shall I set it on, on the table?”

Dear Lord in Heaven have mercy — their voice sounds even worse without the doors to muffle it. Every syllable quivers, some words barely audible as their tone disappears and turns to whispers. All energy, liveliness and personality has been removed, a pile of shattered glass existing where their certainty was before. All that remains of them is a terrified husk, trembling before him like he could just as well tear off their other antler if he wanted.

Auden says the only thing he knows to say, — “I'm so, so, so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't know, I didn't mean for any of this, I just, I just —”

“Please, may, m-may I put this on the table or would you like to eat in bed?” — Mori cuts him off with a huff of air, talking a bit faster. Their limbs are shaking. They avert their eyes towards the floor, swallowing. The glass vase is clinking against a glass of water intermittently. The light of the candle flickers dangerously close to the rose.

For a second, Auden assumes they are mad at him, so mad they don't even want to hear his excuses. He opens his lips to beg a little more for their forgiveness, but then his eyes linger on the awkward position they are in, and all the wounds, and the dark red circles under their eyes — he almost trips over his own feet trying to take the heavy tray filled with all of his food from them. — “Give, give me that. Sorry. Oh, I'm such an idiot. I'm sorry, I-I swear I'm not usually this dense.”

They gasp out a shaky sigh, relieved to have been freed from their stress position. — “Th-Thank you, sir. I am so grateful.”

Auden doesn't think he has ever been referred to like that before. His sense of smell does not let him chew on that for long, overtaken in such an unbelievable way by the sweet, delicious aroma wafting up to his nose he can barely keep his eyes on Mori. He does not recognise anything on the tray apart from the water. He can only assume that the vase and candle are not meant to be eaten, but he does not know that for sure. It is equally enticing and scary to be so clueless about something so important, because who's to say any of it is edible? What if it's demon food, not human food? Does it matter at all? What if it's poisoned?

His mouth waters excessively the longer he stares at it all, and that worries him as much as his churning guts. A wince snaps him back to attention finally, and Auden forces himself to tear his eyes away from the food to catch the deer flinch from something.

“Uh, I'll, I'll just put this down for now. Thank you.” — The angel hurries over to the table, setting the tray down carefully with the same quivering in his flesh that Mori has. He wants nothing more than to bite down on everything on that tray, to consume it all as fast as possible; a feeling so alien he feels sick and disgusted at himself for needing something in such a wild, animalistic way. He likens his hunger to hellish temptation, but he has never felt temptation as forceful and overwhelming as this. His eyes land on Mori once more, surveying them over and over. How could he ever expect them to forgive him? He has nothing to give, he is nothing at all. All that pain, just because of him. — “I, I-I’m truly sorry. I wish I could change what I did, I really, really do. I was just, I woke up and there was this big room with no one else around and I thought, I, I don't know what I thought but I didn't know that you weren't a threat, I always expect, I always expect to be, to be… hurt, here. And I, I should've listened to you, and obeyed and protected you and, and —”

“Pl-Please, it's… it's fine. It wasn't really your fault, sir. Please do not worry about it,” — they whisper in that broken voice, and there is that title again. This is not Mori, this is not how they were talking to him just an hour or so ago. This feels impersonal, lifeless, a tone reserved for authorities and power; not a lowly little Fallen like him. They are speaking to him like he deserves any respect at all.

They're talking to him like they were talking to their master.

“B-But, but I, I yelled for the Reaper, I called for his attention, I got you hurt —”

“Master Grim does not need a reason to hurt me.” — Mori states, following a line between two floorboards with their eyes with a melancholic expression. Their still working fingers dig into the grey fabric of their rugged potato sack of a tunic. They sound like how Auden sounds as he prays — almost in a trance, with a light tone and monotonous syllables, like they are recounting the same line they have repeated over and over again countless times before, — “I am his. I belong to him, and he is free to do as he pleases with my body and with my soul. If… If he wants to hurt me, and to, to t-torment me like this, he can, and he will, and he needs no further reasoning than that. I deserve it anyway.”

A horrid chill runs down Auden's spine as he listens to the most harmless looking creature he has ever seen parrot the words they must have been taught by their cruel master. Their very wording is so twistedly familiar to Auden, yet so alien — Auden feels devoted to his Lord, and willingly gives his everything to Him, while Mori was only forced to serve another, and bullied into the ground until they knelt and learned how to please him best. In the end, pure worship and devotion looks quite similar to fear of punishment, dependency and this forcefully taught ‘right’ behaviour. And the way to please Death is apparently to offer your body to be tormented for sadistic pleasure.

‘I don't see much of a difference. Devotion and control, punishment and mercy. Dependence, fear, worship. You and your Lord are much the same, however you twist it.’

Auden does not even entertain the voice. A huff of air leaves him, a wave of what could only be what his people call temptation. Sacrilegious thoughts cross his brain, but he never even thinks to come back with an argument. Not while in the vicinity of someone who needs his help. However, he also does not at all know how to respond to Mori's statement. Anything his mind comes up with sounds just so utterly hypocritical and hopeless. Subservience is the life of angels; what advice could he give to this poor creature who is forced to forget themself entirely in favour of pleasing a merciless overlord of the dead.

In the end, the blue silence is broken by Mori. — “I-I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir, please forgive me. Please help yourself to dinner. I hope it is to your, your liking. You must be famished.”

“I-I, wait —!” — Auden stutters, watching Mori walk past him and kneel next to the long dinner table with little grace, closing their eyes and tilting their head down in submission. They must be waiting for Auden to finish his food so they can take the tray and leave. While the situation is ever more unnerving, the angel simply doesn't know how to make it better. He lets out a long sigh, and walks over to one of the armchairs positioned at the end of the table, settling in it. His shoulders remain tense, but he is slowly unwinding, feeling safer every second the Reaper is away, and Mori is unharmed. He tries to ignore the awful, unbefitting position of having someone kneel next to him while he lounges around on a plush cushion with warm food, but he fails so quickly he almost slides right off the silky material to kneel next to Mori, if only the table wasn't so high to not allow him to reach it kneeling. Instead, before he takes a single bite, he clears his throat.

“Uh, um… you, you don't have to keep kneeling. There's more than enough chairs, you can, you can sit with me!” — Mori looks up at him, almost confused, before they turn their gaze right back down. Auden can see their shoulders have tensed up.

“Yes, sir,” — they say quietly, getting their hooves under them to limp their way over to the closest chair, sitting down next to Auden. They somehow look even less comfortable. They look so small in that tall backed plush chair, only making themself smaller as they hunch over, keeping their eyes trained on their legs bouncing under the wooden surface.

Mori took his question as an order, not as a simple offer.

Auden finds it harder and harder to focus on anything but the delicacies taunting him under his nose. His fingers twitch to reach, his mouth is drowning him. It hurts to deprive himself like this, it hurts so much more than he thought it was possible. It scares him, how swiftly he would turn into a wild thing, hitting and screaming and biting at anyone just for a single bite. He already has trouble just keeping himself in check, his hunger outweighing his guilt and exhaustion by a tonne, even with Mori in the same room. Falling has made him endlessly pathetic, leaving a hole inside him that only grows with each day, swallowing his worried little heart and any remaining grace he possessed as an angel.

The only thing stopping him from lifting the whole tray and slamming his face into it as fast as possible is a lack of knowledge — he must ask, however embarrassing it is that he has to; — “This, um… Is this edible?”

“Of course, sir.”

“C-, can I uh… can I eat this? All of it?”

“Yes, sir. It is yours.”

Tilting his head this way and that, he makes the decision to reach out towards one of the bowls. It has small green balls in it. A fruit? Looks plant-like, smells of nature and sweetness. They are connected by a dark branch. He takes hold of one, tearing it from the branch. It's just a little bouncy, soft orb. It smells divine.

Finally, he pops it in his mouth, his teeth demolishing it before he could observe it any further in instinct. It splits into wet chunks of cool, sweet, satisfying grape flesh. Such immense flavour, such incredible satisfaction! He tears up as he reaches for more, tearing more and more off and consuming them faster and faster, forgetting about decency and worries entirely. He shoves too much in his mouth at once and whimpers in delight and pain, not even caring as he chokes on the succulent juices flowing down the wrong pipe.

He could kill for this. He will kill for this, he's certain. This is the best feeling he has ever felt. Animalistic instincts be damned, he is ecstatic.

Mori’s attention is suddenly revived, a look of concern crossing their face as they see the angel suffocating himself in fruit. They hesitate, but make an executive decision in the end, standing and taking hold of Auden's wrists gently, but firmly. — “Sir, s-sir! Sir, please slow down! You shouldn't — I, I mean there is no need to hurry!”

Auden is crying tears of joy, hunched over, concentrating on swallowing the large mouthful he stuffed into himself. Sniffles and whines escape him as he slowly recognises Mori and the irritation of his poor throat. He gives a worried sound, signalling to Mori for help, so confused and scared on what to do now that he realised what he has done. Mori looks at him with purpose, a look that knows, a gentle hand holding Auden still on his shoulder.

“Just, just concentrate on chewing, yeah? It's okay, it'll pass, just chew and swallow when you can.” — Relaxing motions on his back from the palm warming him, going in slow circles. He finds unpopped grapes on his tongue, and slowly but surely works on munching them up into a smaller ball, swallowing bit by bit. His lungs lurch from the liquid trapped there, but soon enough, he finds the rhythm of his breaths again. — “That's, that's good. Well done.”

“Thank, th-thank you… so much. Thank you for helping me.” — His expression shows immense shame. Even after everything, Mori would still help him. He needs help just to eat… There is no one in the world who is any more pitiful than him, be reckons. He feels like less than nothing, like the most useless, disposable fool.

To Auden's surprise, a small, sad smile crosses Mori's face. — “Well, I, I guess I… have had similar experiences. I know how it feels to, to be allowed to eat after starvation. I'm, uh, I just had to help.”

Once Auden is feeling better, Mori helps him choose something else from the pallette. With their guidance, Auden discovers so many wondrous flavours he never knew before, finally satisfying his always churning stomach in a way he never knew was going to be possible. Different small bowls with different things he doesn't recognise, all filled with goodness. Some of them Mori names as they lift for him, like the cheese bowl. He isn't sure what a cheese is, but it tastes savoury and sometimes light, and it's easy and creamy and flows and melts and he is so glad Mori stops him before he could become too excited again and let the melted cheese stick to the inside of his throat.

After a few bowls of snacks, Mori suggests the main dish. Auden cannot even begin to guess what it is, or how to go about eating it. Something red-brown, warm, smells the strongest. It's soaked in something that resembles the thickness of blood, but when he asks about it, Mori is quick to reassure him it is only a sweet ‘sauce’.

With an optimistic thought, he lifts both hands and digs into the sticky sauce coating the ribs, lifting the whole thing to his mouth, managing to take a bite out of it. While the taste is immaculate, as he lets it rest against the plate while he chews, he notices Mori's puzzled eyes staring at him as if he grew another head.

His chewing slows, then stops and he swallows. He must have done something wrong, but isn't certain what. Mori does not really make it easier to understand.

He has sauce all over his… everything.

“Uh, I um… I did bring utensils.”

When Auden remained silent, looking back to the massive piece of meat and then to Mori, they grow nervous, clarifying immediately, — “b-b-but, it is not my place to tell you how to eat, sir. Please, pro-proceed as you wish. I was just… offering.”

When Auden still doesn't say anything, they revert completely to their submissive servant mode, hunching over and averting their gaze, only whispering a bare, fearful apology.

Now it's Auden's turn to worry, dropping the whole thing back on the plate to raise his hands in surrender, accidentally causing the poor deer to flinch. — “No, n-no, I'm, I'm not angry! I swear. I just, I'm… wh-what is a, a u-ten-sils?”

The red magma of embarrassment in his face is worth it when Mori dares to return his look of general worry and lack of understanding. — “What? Wha-What do you mean, sir?”

“I-I…” — he shakes his head, finally gathering the courage to admit, — “I-I don't… don't really know what, what that means… I've… This is the first time I've ever, uh… ever eaten anything. I know, it sounds stupid but, b-but… sorry, this is so dumb. I sound like an idiot.”

Mori only becomes more worried, downright concerned at that. — “You — What? This is the first time you've been allowed to eat? In your whole life?”

“W-Well, I mean, yes, but —”

“How are you still alive? Were you cursed?” — Mori questions, entirely forgetting their taught manners again. They sound fascinated, amazed, yet terribly confused and apologetic at the same time.

Cursed is more accurate than he will ever admit to himself the longer he spends indulging in earthly delicacies after so long of a lack of need for them. However, — “no, not cursed. I'm… I'm, I'm a Fallen. I didn't need to until now, that's all.”

“Oh… I see.”

An awkward silence arises again, and this time Auden is aware enough to break it himself.

“Your name is um… You're Mori, right? That's what, what your master called you? — he questions. Mori nods. — “My name is Auden. You don't need to keep calling me sir.”

Mori flinches again, remembering their manners. — “Yes, Master Auden. I apologise.”

Well, that's even worse.

“No, just Auden is fine!” — he says much too quickly, loudly, making sure he speaks as clearly as possible. His name sounds awful in that context. — “Please, you, you don't have to refer to me by any title. I'm a nobody, always have been, and I am one especially now. You, you don't have to… I'm not a Master of anything. Certainly not you.”

A second passes. Then another. Mori doesn't say anything. — “Isn’t, isn't that what you said to me too? That we're the same? I'm, I'm nothing like… like th-the Reaper. Please don't think I am anything like him. I'm so, so sorry if I made you think I was going to hurt you again. I'm not. Not ever. I am truly, terribly sorry.”

“… You didn't do anything wrong.” — Mori answers vaguely. Their ears never move from their flat state, looking limp and sad hanging from their head. Their arms snake around themself, twitching every once in a while, a distant look in their eyes. They must be reliving their recent tormenting, Auden thinks. The angel can only curse himself for being this inconsiderate, — of course they don't want to talk about it. It's still so fresh in their mind, it must not have been that long at all; a couple hours at most since he left. The blood has not even stopped flowing from their stump. — “And, uh, utensils are the silver stuff in front of you. Those three weird, slim shapes. You use them instead of your hands, so you don't, don't get dirty. You do not need to use them, of course. I'm sorry for not explaining sooner, si — Auden.”

The angel sighs, glancing back to his tray. Now that he isn't starving, he almost wants to leave the rest as a form of self punishment for being the way he is. He does not deserve it, not at all. If anyone, Mori does. They are so incredibly patient with him; another thing he does not deserve. They help him, and calm him, and ground him, and protect him — while he failed to do anything at all. Auden finds the utensils, grabbing onto the alien looking things. A round one, a pointy one, and a small blade. Just as confusing as everything else seems to be. He has seen these before, and recognises them as something humans always held in their hands when they ate. The small quadruple pointed trident was to stick into things and put in his mouth, he thinks. The blade must be for cutting, that much is clear. What the hell do you do with the round paddle?

“Um… Mori, I, uh, I don't really…”

Mori is already up from their chair. They quickly figure out his issue, moving to help. — “Oh, sorry… O-Of course, I'm sorry, I can help.”

As Mori explains, and finally gives back the ‘fork and spoon’, Auden already knows he will not eat a single bite more. He manages, after about twenty seconds, to pull a strip of meat off of the bones forcefully, sticking it on the end of the fork. He holds it like a child, gripping it tight in his fist. Mori tells him he did well, but he doesn't believe them.

“That's pretty much it. You did well. I'm glad I could help.” — They turn to skulk back to their seat without another word, only stopped by Auden grabbing onto them to stop them. Their eyes widen, tense and frightened already despite how non-threatening Auden has been the entire time.

“Would you like to have some of it?” — he asks, holding the fork proudly. They don't even hesitate to think before they decline, — “No, I can't, it is not mine. Th-Thank you.”

They try to pull against Auden's hand, but it doesn't budge. Auden doesn't notice their breathing quicken. — “Come on, for me? I, I can't just sit here and not share. Especially now… I saw how you were looking at the food. You're hungry too, aren't you?”

Their flickering eyes were too noticeable. Auden picked up on it, and now he offers food, and Mori will have to decline and risk disappointing Auden, or accept and be caught by Master Grim later for another round of punishment. They can't choose, they can't choose! How are they meant to do as they are told when their orders clash? It's not theirs, but they are starving, and it smells better than delicious, and Master Auden is offering so it must be fine — but it's meat, they don't like meat. Is it punishment? Master Auden wants to punish them, and then Master Grim will definitely punish them for taking it at all and, and —

“I, I, I-I am not hungry, sir. Thank you.” — Auden doesn't let up, not until it's too late, not until Mori is gasping and shivering and crying all over again, legs buckling under them, — “Please —”

Before Auden could understand, Mori has torn themself away from him with great force, almost falling over one of the chairs, letting it fall to the ground with a loud bang. That seems to only send them deeper into panic, clutching at their chest and hair. They back away from the angel until their back hits the wall, covering their eyes and trying their best to remember how to breathe.

“Mori! Oh heavens, Mori, I didn't mean to! Oh no, oh please —”

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” — is all that comes as an answer, Mori repeating that one phrase as if that's the one phrase they have ever known. They are crying, curling into themself. At the smallest movements from Auden they jerk like they heard a gunshot.

Through the gasping panic, their meltdown seems to suddenly thin, unnaturally quickly. As fast as they descended into complete horror, they now seem to stop breathing all together. Auden watches as Mori twitches up to the side, as if grabbed onto, hands falling away from their eyes to stare upwards at the ceiling, locking onto an invisible pair of eyes. A violent chill runs down Auden's spine, his heart filling with the familiar pressure of magic bringing mortal fear. A tendril of smoke grips Mori's neck, and a whisper inaudible to the angel coos at his helpless deer friend, forcing them to relax.

It's all gone before Auden could even comprehend what had happened, dropping Mori to their knees and disappearing entirely. Silently, they lift a hand to their throat to feel the leftover marks of icy claws that held them.

Auden is already on them, terrified, not daring to touch them at all in case it happens again. — “Mori, Mori, are you okay? Please tell me you're okay, please, please, you have to be — I messed up again. I'm so sorry, I messed up again —”

Blinking slowly, swallowing thickly, Mori returns to Auden. It takes only a few seconds for their eyes to find him, utterly devastated and near tears again, expecting the worst, and then even worse. He cautiously hopes they are okay when he sees them come aware again.

“Mori? Mori, it's me. I'm so sorry. Please, are you alright?“

They nod. They look… haunted. Their eyes are wider than ever, but their face is almost slack. Never before have they resembled a lost child like this. They look like they would shatter if the rain touched them. They nod, finally, answering one of Auden’s torrent of questions.

“Oh thank the Lord, I was so worried. What happened, do you know? I just touched you and then I scared you and then I thought the Reaper was here again, but he wasn't, or he's already gone, and you looked so scared and I was so scared and, and, I'm so so sorry, I'm so stupid —”

“What happened?” — Mori whispers, falling right back into the fragile voice of a ghost.

“Yes, yes, I'm not sure, do you know?”— Auden confesses, wanting to help so badly, but not until he knows he won't make things worse. He cares so much, and yet he keeps messing up, and he needs to learn he can't ever just run into whatever problem and expect a straightforward fix. He is in an illogical world, one he doesn't understand, and one that always has something worse in store for its denizens.

Mori stands abruptly, as if nothing had happened. Auden stands too, questioning Mori again. Mori turns to him, pauses, and only then answers. — “Nothing happened. Master Grim came to tell me I am allowed to eat with you, Master Auden. Thank you for granting me some of your food. I will be forever grateful for this mercy.”

Death visited them, just now. Not a stutter, not a pause — just like a robot. Are they brainwashed? Possessed? No, this is simply how they are. Still the same Mori, but under the constant threat of horrible, unimaginable consequences. This is normal for everyone here except Auden. This is fine. They are all tested and punished and stressed and stretched until they break and find the path of least resistance, the path of the least pain.

And for Mori, according to the Reaper, that path is complete, mindless submission. That is how they defend themself. That's how they survive.

Mori turns and sits at the table without another word, quivering all over. They do not touch anything until Auden follows, and once they are both sitting, Mori stares at Auden like he doesn't exist, and waits to be fed. It's eerie, how calm they have gotten. They shiver and fear as always, but they are like putty moulding into whatever shape Death wants them to be in the moment.

With great hesitance, Auden offers the fork to Mori again. Mori leans down and takes the bite instead of taking the fork in their hand, chewing and swallowing efficiently. They straighten once they swallow, continuing to stare in silence. Their breaths shiver, their flesh twitches, their limbs are wound as tight around their body as possible. They are far from relaxed, yet they never even give a whine of displeasure. Perfect obedience without a word. How they truly feel is irrelevant — all that matters is pleasing their Master.

The angel swears over and over again, both to himself and Mori, that he will protect them. That he won't hurt them again. That they don't need to be scared around him. And every time he has dared to even try helping, it has ended in catastrophe. It's like the Devil himself is punishing him for his decency and kindness. It's like all he touches becomes rotten and dead.

He simply continues feeding Mori in silence, his hunger having completely left him. He says nothing more, knowing Mori is barely even themself right now — they are the most bare bones version of themself that only knows how to please their Master. And they consider Auden one of their Masters.

They might calm down enough to dare being their true self after a certain amount of time has passed, once they find a safe place to exist in for just a minute — but for now, all Auden can do is make sure they eat as much as they want. He will have to make sure to ask when they are full, in case they just keep eating and eating for as long as Auden offers. They think they are nothing but property, right now. A thing. Something to use, abuse, and then throw away. Barely alive.

Auden will be here to remind them they are more than that, once they can truly hear him again. He will remain with them, and he will show the same endless patience they have shown him, and he will do his absolute best to comfort them once they are allowed to feel like a person again. Once they return to him, and regain that shine in their tired eyes that glows with purpose and life. He will be here for them.

Even if his saviour tries to interfere.

~

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long

[kades-whump-stuff]

recovering Whumpee prompts

Whumpee who NEEDS to see everything around them. They will not let anyone, even Caretaker, walk behind them, they sit or stand with their back to a wall if possible. They're always looking behind them, constantly expecting Whumper there, even if it's just subconsciously.

Whumpee who makes themself as small as possible. They know their posture is taking a hit, but they draw in all of their limbs and hunch over in an attempt to be as small as possible. They're most comfortable this way.

Whumpee who has periods of time where they lose speech - partially or totally. During these, if they want or need something, they find it difficult or impossible to ask for it, and god forbid someone ask them about Whumper.

Whumpee who dissociates - their eyes grow unfocused at times and they always look confused or lost. They mindlessly follow Caretaker wherever they go, even when they're completely out of it.

Whumpee who has lost touch with their own self and feelings, and who notices that their breathing and heartbeat are speeding up. They notice their symptoms of having, say, a panic attack, too late to stop the effects.

Whumpee who has to be their own caretaker, whether that means stitching up their own wounds while biting on their wallet, or forcing themself up and out of bed in the morning.

[jordanstrophe]

“What have they done to you?”

Whumpee breaks free from their captors grip - but not from the base they’re held in. They find a small desk against the wall and collapse underneath it, frozen with fear.

They hear footsteps hunting, looking for them, but they have yet to be found.

They don’t dare look, even when whumper's noises go quiet. Hours pass and they’re paralyzed, the footsteps have changed to not one, but many. Frantic, heavy, with voices shouting their name. 

Eventually, the desk gets grabbed and yanked from over them. The atmosphere changes from safe, to a cold wave of dread.

“Whumpee! Whumpee look at me!” A voice shouts. Two hands grab and shake them, trying to get them to uncurl.

“Whumpee it’s me, it’s me. Please look at me, I’m not going to hurt you. Look at me-” Caretaker frantically cries, wrapping them in their arms and pulling them out of the corner. They cradle them in hopes they’ll snap out of it, they can feel whumpee shaking and panting, but still locked away like they’ve dissociated.

“...What... Have they done to you?“

[whump-mania]

yo i love your whipped whimper caretaking prompts? could you do some more caretaking prompts for other random types of whump? whatever you’re feeling like, but esp wounds or hyper/hypothermia

Assorted Caretaker Lines

For sure! I’ll make some little sections for as many as I can think of:

Wounds

1. “Hold this down. It’ll stop the bleeding…for now.”

2. “Shit, I…I’ve never treated a would like this before, I-I don’t really know what I’m doing…”

3. “It’s infected. Someone get me a bottle of alcohol before this spreads to their immune system.”

4. “Don’t worry. We’re gonna close this thing right back up. You’re gonna be okay.”

5. “What do you mean, it already bled through? …Oh…shit.”

Hypothermia

1. “Jesus—is their skin supposed to feel like ice?”

2. “Whumpee…how long did they leave you outside…?”

3. “I don’t care if you’re cold, Whumpee’s gonna fucking die if they’re not warmed up! Give me your blanket!”

4. “They’re shaking like a leaf…I-I don’t know if they’re gonna be okay.”

5. “I told you not to go out in this weather, Whumpee. Don’t go risking your life for me.”

Hyperthermia

1. “I told you we needed to stop for water! Look at them now!”

2. “Whumper, please, just let them take a break. They’re gonna overheat like this. Let me go out there, I can handle it.”

3. “I know, I know. We’re gonna get you somewhere cool. Just hang in there.”

4. “Absolutely not. Your skin is hot to the touch right now, there’s no way you’re taking that punishment for me.”

5. “There’s no ice left, I’m sorry…it all melted. You’re just gonna have to sweat it out.”

Psychological

1. “Don’t listen to them. None of that was true, they’re just trying to get in your head.”

2. “Hey…Whumpee, you still with me? Hello?”

3. “Look at me. Breathe. You feel my hand? You’re here. You’re with me now, you’re okay.”

4. “They don’t have any physical scars. Whumper’s more inclined to leave…um…mental ones.”

5. “It scares me when you do that. When you…go somewhere else. In your head.”

[the-bar-sinister]

Whumpee has finally escaped. They've finally gotten their revenge. They visited all the horrors on whumper that whumper visited on them. Every dream of revenge that sustained them has been fulfilled. They are free. They are safe.

And when they're home. And they look in the mirror-- they see their whumper's face looking back at them.

They hear their voice. 'Look what you've become. I'm still with you, whumpee. You've let me inside'.

[newbornwhumperfly]

believing, if only for its sake...

so sad that this event is coming to an end but so eager to share this installment 😍👀🥰 this @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 27: delirium - was a tricky one for me but i cracked it with a desire to introduce y'all to a new cast member...💖💖💖

title insp. by the song "comes and goes (in waves)" by greg laswell - "this one's for believing, if only for its sake"

~

So...sparring on hard-mode with Morja might have been…a mistake. 

Listen, Cobi knows the guy’s as stiff as a starched shirt most days but he’s not a mean or aggressive dude. Just…very quiet. Cobi’s met a lot of muscley dudes whose frowny-cross-armed-silence covers a lotta I’m better than you and my dick is bigger than yours and what are you looking at cockiness, crowding personal space and slammed doors. Dollars to donuts, Cobi bets Morja’s just shy - he doesn’t even close the fridge loudly. 

So all-in-all it’s kinda surprising when Cobi finds himself ass over teakettle on the gym mat.

And he thought it’d been going so well too, Cobi thinks to the ceiling spinning over him, cupping a hand over his eye. Ow. That’s gonna fuckin’ bruise. Just cause Morja’s on the short side doesn’t mean shit (when Claudia’s your bestie, you learn not to underestimate) and Morja spars like it’s for money, grim and silent and fast and precise in that very nice black tank top (very sporty, nice muscles, what?). Cobi hadn’t gone easy on him or anything but he’d been flipped twice (double this guy’s weight and height at least, holy shit) cause the guy doesn’t dodge for shit but he doesn’t fall either and Cobi was getting a sneaking suspicion that this friendly workout wasn’t exactly loosening Morja up. 

It’s just that Cobi didn’t take Morja to spring his opponents, c’mon, they were taking a break, that’s dirty fuckin’ pool. 

Hey Morja, wanna go a few rounds of sparring in the gym? Hey Morja, you can go harder, not gonna break! Hey Morja, that dodge was pretty good! Hey Morja, how about a water break? Oh no, a kick in the head in exchange for a tossed water bottle, ouch.

It’s fine, Cobi can take a hit and it was but a glancing blow, really. A grunted damn, dude, warn a guy first and he’s on his feet again, still clutching his face, cause he’s fine, it’s all good, just ow. But really quick, Cobi’s got a whole different problem because Morja is swaying. Or maybe the room is swaying? 

Nope. It’s Morja who’s pitching and looks like he’s seen a fucking ghost. Eyes bugging out to the whites, mouth slack (is it trembling?), staggering back a step. 

“Buddy?” Cobi reaches out, worried, and there’s a horrible sound, a scream that can’t get any volume, falling from Morja’s mouth as his whole body jerks like he was struck. 

“Please-”

And he faints. 

“Shit!” Cobi lunges and barely gets his arms under Morja before his eyes roll back, slumping limp in Cobi’s catch. “Oh, shit- uh…” 

Morja’s solid and stocky and thickly-built and he’s way too fucking light when Cobi scoops him, arm under knees, that detail spinning in Cobi’s mind when he carries Morja over to the little sitting place leading to the showers, towels, water bottles, right. 

Morja’s head sags onto Cobi’s shoulder and, damn, he looks so small laid down on the little sitting bench. The lights are softer in here - yellow and fancy outside the bathrooms, not the white-brightness of the workout room. He tucks a rolled-up towel under Morja’s neck, so gentle, slow, carefully pulls back his eyelid to check - okay, pupils fine, good, concussion-less, he doesn’t have to run for Sarai. 

Maybe he got overheated? They had been going for a while and Cobi thinks, with a pang of guilt, how he didn’t see Morja drink much water - did he drink at all? Shit.  

“Ah, be right back, man, don’t go anywhere, shhhhh…”

Cobi ducks into the bathroom with big steps, grabbing some cold water from the dispenser, dampening a towel from the sink, kneeling back in moments at Morja’s side. Llays a hand against the back of Morja’s head, stroking his dark, sweaty hair back. His hand shadows the guy’s whole face and something sinks a little in his stomach. 

Yeah, this is one of those time’s Cobi doesn’t like being big. Fuck, Morja’s face has a lot of scars - Cobi’d never stare, like, other than checking him out. It’s hard not to notice how many there are when his skin is clammy and ashen, raccoon circles under his eyes, lids fluttering (gosh, he’s got long lashes up close, huh?)

“Heyyyy, buddy, ‘s okay…you’re okay…gonna be okay, man…” 

Cobi says brightly, softly, stroking his hair. Kinda petting his head like a puppy or something but oh well. He hopes it’s not creepy. Cobi just wants to put him at ease, so small and still laying there, dabbing the damp towel over his head as he says nonsense words. His talking, or maybe his petting, seems to be working, and Morja’s eyelids flutter, blinking awake, stirring with a shudder, looking up. 

“Heyyyy, shhh, don’t move, buddy, just lay back, okay?” Cobi soothes, stroking the guy’s hair back with the towel now, a gentle hand on his shoulder so he doesn’t try to spring up. 

Well, oops, that was a mistake, cause the guy looks like he’s about to cry and his face crumples up into the smallest, saddest, most scared face ever and he fucking whimpers.

“Sorry, ‘msorryano-, sirsirdon’pleasedon’t, amsosorry- ‘m sorry-”

Shit. 

Oh, shit. Right, refugee, political asylum, the whole shebang, got it, right. Cobi curses his own fucking insensitivity. New Athens probably isn’t super nice to their whatchamacalits and yeah, oops, Morja probably thinks he’s in trouble or something fucked-up like that. The juddering, dry sob and the way Morja seems to be trying to melt back into the fucking bench-plastic doesn’t do anything to disprove Cobi’s theory. 

“Morja,” Cobi says, clearly and softly as possible, like Morja is a hysterical toddler who skinned his knee. “Not in trouble, okay, you passed out? Just gotta lay still for me, don’t want you to fall again, okay?”

He strokes his palm over Morja’s head again and the guy chokes on what sounds like a retch and turns his face to look at the wall. He’s fucking shaking. His knees seem drawn up close to his belly like he’s trying to curl up and, oops, Cobi doesn’t like that. 

“Ngh- I- yessir-” Morja flinches violently at another stroke of his hair, his breath coming out way too fast, hard, hiccuping. “Sorrysorrysorry…”

“Didn’t do anything wrong, hon, you’re maybe dehydrated? Gonna be all okay, I promise, there we go…breathe deep, yeah?”

Drags air in deep through his nose and out again. 

“Can you do what I’m doing, Morja? I’ve gotcha, just gotta breathe with me, doin’ so good?”

That seems to be a right thing to do, hashem, and Cobi breathes a little thanks out as Morja copies him. Certain people are comforted by being told to stop panicking and Morja definitely seems like the type, following oh-so-well, whimpering a little but not being attacked by panics anymore. 

“Doing so awesome, Morja, that was a lot, huh? You’re crushing this breathing-thing…”

Dark, watery eyes blink up at Cobi and fuck, it’s hard to see such a miserable expression in his direction. His mouth is a solid line, curling at the edges, and Cobi can see his jaw ticcing, clenched, under his skin. He gulps and shudders under Cobi’s hand and he doesn’t know if this petting thing is helping or not but Morja looks for all the world like a kicked dog (or a dog that’s about to be kicked). 

“‘m…’m sorry for fainting.” 

The whisper is so quiet, so shaky and choked, and it kinda breaks his heart hearing that tone from this guy. Cobi shakes his head, smiling softly, and thinks back. It wasn’t just the lack of water. If he remembers hard, Cobi can recall a weird look shuttering over Morja’s face, kinda blank and frantic, when Cobi threw the water bottle Morja’s direction, right before he got round-housed. 

“Aw, man, that’s gonna happen when you don’t got enough water in you.” Cobi answers brightly, patting softly, softly, at the crown of Morja’s head and tries to ignore the little flinch that happens when he does that, oops. Okay, not patting then. That feels suspiciously close to nothing that feels like a slap and wow, ouch, huh. “I’m sorry if I startled you? Kinda…threw that bottle at you, huh? Probably your body thought we were still in spar-mode?”

Morja nods so hard, tight and small and desperate, eyes wide and brown and there’s that please don’t kick me look again under all that frowniness. 

“Yes, yessir, yes sir, I- I don’t know w-why, I- I apologize for getting it wrong, wasn’t an attack, sir?-”

“No, no, honey, I know,” Cobi rushes to reassure cause he can see the gears ticking up to panic attack time in the hitch of Morja’s chest. “I know you weren’t attacking me, Morja, you’re just very well trained! Probably got really strong fighty-instincts and that water bottle really came flying in hard, huh?” 

Right thing to say again, yay, cause Morja does that tight, sharp nod again and there’s a little tiny bit of hopefulness in the way he looks up at Cobi and, fuck, that shouldn’t be so sad.

“Yessir.” He sniffs when he inhales deeply, swallows, his eyes flickering to the side of Cobi’s face that’s currently throbbing, shudders, closes his eyes. “I’m very sorry.”

“You’re all good, buddy, was a total accident, okay? Like, really obviously an accident, nothing to be sorry for.”

Morja’s lids squeeze shut, his fists at his side following suit, and Cobi sees his mouth shape around accident very quietly. He looks like he’s trying not to cry again. Cobi can’t help but still do his hair-petting thing cause he’s worried if he stops it’ll make Morja think he’s mad or something. 

“Are…are you going to correct me now, sir?”

Cobi frowns to himself and then laughs a little cause geez this guy is little-a-lot too self-disciplined to want form-adjustments right in the wake of fainting and oops, that was the wrong thing to do cause Morja’s stiff mouth tries to crack its hard line again in a tremor, oops. 

“Nope, nope, absolutely not, man!” Cobi assures brightly, patting Morja’s shoulder gently before he can panic again. “Hey, I think passing out is, like, enough of a gut-check, don’t you?” 

There’s a long of silence broken by a choked whimper, a frown deepening on that serious, clammy face. 

“You’re not in trouble, buddy, you know how many times Claud’s almost cold-cocked me? Not even almost, the little gremlin. How’s about, uhhhh, you don’t tell anyone I fell on my ass and I won’t tell anyone you don’t hydrate enough, yeah?”

“I don’t…sorry. You don’t want me to do anything, sir?” 

The poor guy’s still shaking. Maybe he never stopped. Whatever the hell that means, Cobi doesn’t get a good feeling in his stomach again, so he just shakes his head hard and urgent. 

“You’ve been punished enough, buddy.” Cobi murmurs teasingly, softly, just his thumb stroking awkwardly at that soft dark hair. 

“I haven’t been punished at all.” 

Well, that’s awful! That’s not great. Oof. 

“Can you sit up a little, man? Wanna get some water into ya, there we go…” Cobi encourages by way of answering, cause how do you answer that, and uses one hand to leave Morja’s head, finally, and gently sit him up by holding his upper arms. Offering the cold cup of water, watching him sip it, offering another. The guy’s shoulders are hunched all the way in, a schoolboy outside of the principle’s office, and that won’t do at all. 

“You like Dumas bars?”

The look of confusion that greets him is a no and that absolutely won’t do either, hello. Cobi excitedly digs into his pocket because, thank you, he will take a victory lap on carrying candy everywhere, Claud. Triumphantly pulls out his prize, an only slightly smooshed chocolate bar. Milk chocolate is better than any other chocolate, so there, and Morja stands a ninety-percent chance of agreeing. 

“Oh, man, you’re gonna not want any other kind when you try this one, hand on my heart, it’s like biting a pillow.”

The look on Morja’s face is almost skeptical and considering how scared he looked a few minutes ago, Cobi will take that suspicion as a win. He waves the shiny silver wrapping in Morja’s direction, grinning, as the guy stares blankly. 

“I didn’t sit on it, don’t worry.”

Morja does accept it, as if he’s taking a knife blade-first from Cobi’s fingertips. After glancing up at Cobi with another swallow, he seems to make up his mind at the smile he gets. Ripping the scalloped edge of the wrapper right at the seam, peeling it slowly, neatly. When the silver-red-blue shell is shucked off, he kinda stares it down, weighing it in his palm - probably could guess how much nougat per square centimeter there is. 

It’s not great to be watched while eating so Cobi tries not to but it’s hard not to take note of how hard Morja’s hand shakes, how small his bite is, barely a nibble. He chews, bites again, swallows. There’s that weighing look on his face again as…he unstiffens a little tiny bit, tilting his head, bird-like, staring at the fluffy inside as he chews. It’s like he’s really tasting it, not just eating it. 

 “…What is this?”

There’s that laser focus flickering in Morja’s dark-brown eyes again, bright and assessing in that way of his, no flat distance in the little crease between his eyebrows. Cobi breathes a little secret sigh of relief, beaming, leaning a little sideways on the bench so he can be more open in Morja’s direction. Doesn’t push the distance between them - Morja’s still shaken - but stretches out a little, warm and languid. 

“Good, huh? It’s nougat, some…fluff with eggs and honey, I think? They whip it up and cover it in chocolate - saw a video about it in school.”

Morja swallows a mouthful of candy, another mouthful of water, and his trembling slows, slows, calming. 

“Oh. It…It is. Good, sir.”

Morja’s fingers fold the wrapper, halves, fourths, smaller and smaller. Frowns. Tongue moving against his cheek inside, collecting taste, chocolate, spare sugar. Cobi isn’t sure he’s ever seen the guy savor before and that’s a thought to have. 

“…I’ve…never had that before.”

“Glad this could be your first introduction! I mean, Dumas is the best bar out there, duh, but that’s my bias. I’m sure you’ve got your own favorite?”

The wrapper is a tiny teeny silver square gleaming in Morja’s hand, the foil pressed as flat and compact as it will go. The crease deepens between his eyes. He shakes his head, almost ducking, the strands of sweaty hair tumbling down to half-hide his expression. 

“I���ve, um, I n-never had.”

“A favorite?”

“…A chocolate bar.”

Oh. Damn, now Cobi wants to cry, a little, cause what the hell, man? He doesn’t know why he just…assumed? He kinda wants to send a strongly worded letter to anyone who was responsible for that absence, actually, cause Morja deserves candy bars. So fucking there. 

“Hey Morja?” He offers softly. “I’m glad you liked that and…I’m sure there’s a whole lot of flavors you’d find delicious. Now you’re not gonna stand up yet cause dehydration isn’t a joke but when you’re better, we’re gonna go find some at the vending machine. Okay?”

The silence behind the curtain of hair is long and heavy, like Morja is weighing that in his hand too, and Cobi waits. 

“…Does it- will it be now, sir?”

“Cobi. And nah, Morja, when you’re up to it.”

“Sorry. Um. Yes. Okay.”

“Okay, man?”

“…Okay.”

Hidden in clasped hands, the tiny foil square digs into Morja’s thumb, a streak of chocolate still stuck there, and a groove pulses, red and angry, in the callus as his only anchor, however small, of pain. 

~

so, so excited for y'all to finally meet my sweetheart, goldeen retriever, tank-sized boy, cobi!!! 💖💖💖🥰🥰🥰

(also, yes, in case anyone wondered - in this future, the three musketeers chocolate bar has been renamed the dumas in honor of the book's author, alexandre dumas. and yes, i am that pedantic and silly, thank you 😇😇😇)

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @whump-tr0pes @whumpzone @i-eat-worlds

@whatgoeswhumpinthenight @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain @whumpthisway

@kixngiggles @scoundrelwithboba @wolfeyedwitch @whump-me-all-night-long @stoic-whumpee

@suspicious-whumping-egg @tears-and-lilies @liliability @whumpster-draganies

have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly everyone! 💖💖💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[anguishmacgyver]

[whumpitisthen]

The Shepherd Wolf

Previous I Masterlist I Next

"I have a favour to ask."

The sky is cloaked in grey and misty with fog. The Sun — that bleeding, crimson orb watching over everything has hidden under the earth, bringing forth a colourless light painting every leaf of vibrant orange monochrome instead. The Moon shines whiter than Auden's holy robes ever did, barely resembling the rags held together by thin thread and caked in blood around his abused torso. It is interesting — how it almost seems brighter in the night than in the day. Another cursed consequence of Hell's invasion; reinforcing darkness and corrupting light.

It's quiet, almost peaceful. His bare feet drag along a stone path leading miles and miles into a more mountainous region of this Hell, as opposed to the flatter, hotter environment that surrounded Miss Thu'lin's residence. Charcoal and magma are replaced by nature, grey blades of grass tickling his ankles and thorns catching his robe on alien looking bushes. The temperature has changed greatly, chilling him deeper with every step nearing his new destination. His trembling hands keep him standing upright, gripping onto a black cloak fiercely. The coat of his new captor.

His grey, lost eyes observe his surroundings in a kind of muted wildness, failing to take in anything at all. He walks by the terrifying man leading him, floating in an ocean of numbness. Eyes flit about lazily with fatigue, yet frantic with anxiety; his body half frozen solid, half corroding away like rotted wood. His breaths wheeze just enough to sound concerning, shivering along with his skin. They almost appear to stop completely at random intervals before hiccuping quicker for just a moment, then returning to his long gasps like before.

Like before… He puts his face close to the worn, black fabric, feeling no warmth. In a way, the lack of heat coming from the Reaper grounds him, not letting him float away from this terrible place. This awful, horrible place, filled with murder and sadism and pain and cruelty. Where the rivers are red from the blood of slaughter and the animals transform into all kinds of horrid monsters from demonic influence. War, destruction, gore —

"A favour? After all of this, your reason for this show of destructive idiocy is a favour?" — Miss Thu'lin's voice booms incredulously through the room of corpses, making Auden flinch. 'The Reaper', as she addressed the canine skull-wearing, scythe-wielding, shadow-cloaked bringer of Death so casually, seems humoured by the insults flying from her mouth. He straightens with his blood soaked, silver adorned hands behind his back politely, a lazy smile peeking out from behind that terrifying mess of dark tendrils and bone. Auden has trouble taking his eyes off the prevent streak of dark red across his mask.

"I can't help but find an outright lack of hospitality whenever I come around to visit. I wonder why that is." — he muses aloud as if she wasn't even there, examining the horrid collection she seems so proud of. He finds interest in a wall of divine sigils, stepping to the side to gawk. A whine catches his ear.

"What makes you think I would do anything you ask of me?" — She seems furious, yet there is a newfound bravery to her voice that is not missed by him. He hums and turns around, his heavy, measured footfalls sending shivers down Auden's back. Something else has caught his eye. — "Did your owner finally grow bored of your annoying dog face? Are you here to beg me for another gift to appease him?"

The man wanders back to one side of the room, to a pedestal with a glass table. Halfway up the pedestal the body of a demon soldier lies. It's missing a leg. — "For someone who claims to be uninterested, you certainly ask a lot of questions, my lady," — he chuckles lightly, disinterested in her various attempts to hurt or humiliate him. He stops in front of the corpse, looking at it curiously. He leans down a fraction, letting long, snow silver hair fall from behind his cloak,  — "It's impressive how still you are despite your wound. Your hammering heart is the only thing giving you away."

Clearly aimed at the still body on the floor, his low voice rouses the half alive demon with panic, slowly lifting his head to find the menacing figure talking to him. His breaths come faster and faster. In a last ditch effort, he starts crawling away from the threat, instinct and adrenaline driving him forward. The Reaper lets him, watching happily as he draws blood across the floor tiles.

"The games you like to play so much have given me ample experience in spotting your horseshit from miles away," — Miss Thu'lin retorts, simmering more with fury the longer she spends in the vicinity of this man. She watches the show with mild disgust, only getting angrier by the minute, — "and I was in the middle of something before you ruined everything like you always do. So I would truly appreciate it if you were to be straightforward and drag your crusty ass out of here as soon as possible."

The Reaper looks positively mesmerised watching the poor demon flee with great difficulty. Auden's stomach churns at the sight half hidden behind his captor standing in front of him — he has never been so glad to have a demon standing so close to him, especially one that plans on stuffing him and hanging his corpse from the ceiling. The presence of this, this creature that finds such joy in agony and has such proficiency in causing it is overwhelming him with such an incredible horror he has never felt before. It's like kneeling before a giant.

"Oh, but you always find a way to cut my fun short, don't you?" — comes the whine of a reply from said giant, acting more exasperated than he truly is, — "So impatient. I know we are not quite the same age, but hundreds of years must have taught you by now the importance of finding bliss in the small things?"

His voice deepens once more and his expression darkens, overtaken by a lust so potent it sends a chill down Auden's spine, — "Like this little one here."

The scythe lifts again, and the panicked cries of the demon are heard past the slow steps of the Reaper nearing them. Auden would scream for him not to hurt them, but he is much more terrified of being shown similar interest in than to save an already half-corpse of a demon who would have probably hurt him just as much in another world where they weren't sliced in half. Still, to be witness to such blatant cruelty has the angel's guts in knots.

Frantic begging comes next, then sobbing, then the sound of a blade flying through the air. Finally, a wretched scream, long and agonising, shaking the core of everyone in the room. It does not end; the wailing continues and sharpens as the scythe digs into the back of the demon, the Reaper slowly, lazily pulling further and further down, opening up their spine to fresh air.

When the tortured voice ends, the Reaper looks positively bored. He kicks the corpse to the side and sighs. — "Stayed alive just to give me such a pathetic show. I expected a little more crying at least. What a disappointment."

"Reaper."

"I know, I know."

That same teasing smile is back on his face, the one that shows clearly how little he cares for the destruction he brings — or the amount of time he wastes.

In a moment, he is gone. Dissolving into shadow and then nothing at all in just a millisecond, his voice comes from beside Auden suddenly, — "I smell the Doctor's stench on you. It seems I came just in time."

Miss Thu'lin roars and strikes at him immediately, catching the corner of the table Auden is strapped to. The angel cries out, wishing with everything he has he was in any other position than helplessly tied down like this. The Reaper's haunting laughter taunts them as it echoes through the room like a chorus of spirits. — "Absolutely not! Don't you dare even look at it!"

He materialises behind Miss Thu'lin, and she snaps around with another hit, aiming towards the Reaper's head. He dodges, then dodges a second time as she keeps attacking, simply sidestepping and ducking every blow. The fifth must have been too much, as the scythe comes out from behind him to counterattack, catching a lock of her hair with incredible precision. The Reaper doesn't look angry, tired or even bothered. In fact, his grin only widens with each swing.

Auden doesn't think he's even trying.

"You must have been quite lucky to get your hands on one of these. He's quite the rarity, you see," — the Reaper says matter-of-factly when the Dragon Queen backs off. She hesitates, looking quite intimidated by Death's weapon. It must be that if nothing else, the Grim Reaper's very scythe must be able to reap even her soul, no matter how powerful she is.

"I know," — she spits, hands clutched tight. She watches his eyes stick to the angel again and spreads her wings threateningly, — "so keep your filthy hands off it. It does not belong to you."

A dangerous smile. Sharp eyes.  Intrigue. — "Why do you refer to him by it? You say it as if he's a corpse already. Like he doesn't matter to you at all." — That horrid, blood red glare leaves Auden for just a moment to spear her instead, and he gasps in a breath he didn't know he was holding, — "You wish to put him in my care then? Another lost little soul, to belong to me. How kind of you."

"I did not say that. Take something else, I don't care, but you will only take this one over my dead body." — Looking down at the Reaper with spite and pure hatred, she wishes she could tear off that condescending, devil-damned smirk of his the same way he tore her entire castle apart. The Reaper stares back at her just the same, though his disdain for her is perfectly hidden behind a façade of carefree, confident attitude and a beguiling, charming grin tailored just for her. Miss Thu'lin must be at least four feet taller than him, but height doesn't count for much when one of them could have the other's heart in his hand in an instant, if only he wished to. He must have had good reason to go through her unfortunate servants first — he knew already that taking this angel would surely let the Queen of Dragons loose, and even if he would still survive that, many others would not.

"Oh, well," — the Reaper chuckles lightly at her wording, — "You know just how to make the most enticing offers, don't you? See, I've been curious for a long time. What would happen to the order of things if the queen was buried? I reckon it should shake things up a bit. What does it matter to add another dead body to this ocean around us?"

No answer from Miss Thu'lin. She does not back down, but she doesn't entertain the threat either. She knows there is a certain possibility that the Reaper might decide to eliminate her right here, especially if she keeps refusing to give up the angel. She doesn't care. She has waited far too long for her collection to be finished, and she will not live with the embarrassment of letting it slip from between her fingers like this; like many other times.

After a minute of intense silence expecting an explosion of violence, The Reaper laughs again, letting his scythe drop lazily with a thud of metal on the floor next to himself. — "I must commend you, my lady. Quite the rock solid conviction to a direct death threat."

She breathes in relief and hopes no one notices her restlessness. — "I do not care for bluffs."

That makes him chuckle. It is a much more genuine sound than the maniacal war cry of cackles he had been letting out prior to this, yet the warm growl of Death's laughter is certainly less than encouraging.

"Naturally."

Auden's wide, glassy eyes snap up at the hooded figure, having managed to fish himself out of his own head. The man smells of death and blood. His breathing is slow and unnatural, almost nonexistent. He walks with a gait most resembling one of his superiors; perhaps even an archangel's — tall, precise, undeterred, powerful. At the same time, the way his balance dances from side to side could only be described as nonchalant, or even casual. In a way, Auden thinks, he walks without a care in the world while he holds in his hand the power to destroy it completely.

How could he not think like that, however, after what he was captive audience to?

His mind is filled with fuzzy images of red and pink, of splatters, of lightless eyes, of screams of terror, the shattering of spines and excited laughter. He can see, clear as day, as this man wearing a canine skull for a mask and cloaked in living shadow cuts through a crowd of creatures with such speed and efficiency that it takes a moment for his brain to comprehend. So quick, so sudden, that he is still trying to comprehend it all as he follows that same man to a place he does not even think to think about. His staring is noticed after a while, and he hides in the rough coat fibres from the vermilion gaze.

"It's always a pleasure speaking to you, Queen of Dragons. You must give me a tour of your collection sometime,"

"After today? In your annoying, idiotic, sick, boot-licking, wet fucking dreams. Get out of here already, before I burn down your entire world." — she bites out with endless venom, kicking the now shattered table across the room in rage. The glass equipment left behind does not break further, as it fell well beyond repair from the first kick.

A kind smile is on the face of Death, his gaze pleasant and gentle as he observes the little angel. He has managed to strike a deal with Miss Thu'lin — or rather, blackmail her into accepting it. In a sense, it's a mercy, leaving her soul to reside within her body, as opposed to the Grim Reaper's grasp. No more violence for Auden to live through.

Death does not drag him, he does not shout at him. His intentions are hidden behind his back, holding that massive weapon that has caused innumerable death. All Auden sees in that moment is a scary, powerful man who has saved him from becoming the final project to this awful museum. A protector, a saviour, untouchable, terrifying, an escape, safety. Finally, finally safe.

If he wasn't so exhausted from all he has gone through already, he would rethink those thoughts for certain; however, he cannot bring himself to untangle his brain from survival more just yet.

He shuffles up to the man uncertainly, looking between him and Miss Thu'lin. The Reaper looks down at him with curiosity, a tilt of his head showing interest. He is clearly observing Auden, and Auden is observing him in return. The angel isn't quite sure what to do, awkwardly shifting from one exhausted leg to the other, losing his courage as his eyes lower to the floor in silence, unable to keep up the staring contest. A hand dressed in silver jewellery and some form of black paint enters into his vision. It reaches out in front of him, palm to the ceiling. A greeting?

He holds onto the hand with both of his with such care that he barely holds it at all. He flinches from the first contact, the Reaper's skin feeling unnaturally cold, then shifts his vision from the hands to the eyes watching him and back again in quick succession, waiting to be told if he is doing bad. Truly, all he wants is to have something to hold onto, another body that does not hurt him. It's all he wishes for.

Death's hand twitches, causing Auden to flinch again, but all he does is pull a thumb across the back of the angel's hand in a comforting manner. He seems approving, yet surprised as he watches him. He clicks his tongue when Auden looks up at him with the wide, fearful eyes of a lost child, seemingly taking a liking to him at that moment. Finally, he pulls on the hands holding his, and leads the angel to his side.

The Reaper's eyes land on the Queen once more, — "Ah, always such a way with words, Miss Thu'lin. Awfully crude."

He flips his scythe, and Auden pulls his wings ever closer, afraid of losing them suddenly from a swish of the blade. Another bow of the head, and the Reaper turns to leave, Auden following quietly behind, — "May we meet again, my lady." — he sings, a haunting echo decorating every syllable like a chorus of the dead, or a church bell's ring.

 The Reaper looks at him with a certain fondness that doesn't truly match Auden's depiction of what Death should look like. He smiles at him kindly without those sharp teeth glinting from behind bloody lips. He never shoves, never grips, never pulls or touches or mocks or breaks, — his arm does not even flex under the thick coat Auden hugs so tightly. He merely lets him breathe in the smell of massacre, leather and cold, leading him down a path like a wolf disguised as a shepherd dog leading its lamb.

It's much colder now than ever before. The angel shivers not only from a muted terror, but the solemn winds of the night air. His wings do not cover enough of him to fully protect him, yet he barely even cares. He hasn't quite gone past the fact that he is still breathing. What his body feels and experiences is far away from him, almost like the world of a different person. There is no more space in his mind to care for such luxurious issues like goosebumps.

They come upon a large black iron fence — hard to see with the unnatural colourlessness of Hell's nights — stretching along into infinity on both sides. Behind it is a thick forest, going up and up, ending in a mountainous top miles and miles away. His ears, though he doesn't recognise it for himself, hear absolute silence. Not even the sound of wind dancing along the leaves of trees, or the buzzing of nocturnal insects. A deathly nothing surrounds them.

They come to a halt under the towering gates, locked tightly with chains connecting in a massive bond in the middle. It looks ancient, overgrown with roses, thorns adding protection against unwanted guests. Even through the cotton in his ears and the fog in his eyes, he can feel a bone-chillingly unnatural power emanating from the gate, and the woods behind it. Something powerful resides behind it all, nipping with its tendrils at his naked legs teasingly.

"A moment, dear."

The Reaper's sudden mellow voice jerks his shoulders, pulling them higher to hide his neck between them, curling his body towards the sleeve warmed with his own shallow breaths. The balance between manic fear and keeping his own consciousness alight is protected only by this veil of safety; this warm fabric that grounds him and shades him from everything, if only in his own mind. A single wrong step could send the angel down an animalistic, screeching, wild path of panic, where the only way the Reaper would be able to lead him where he belongs is through means of sedation. Auden is in a fragile state, and his saviour is more than aware of this.

However, his unrelenting grip on the man's arm and the whimper slipping out of him beckons a small, light-hearted laugh from him, — "I know it's scary, but I cannot open the gate with both my hands captive."

Auden only holds him harder, looking up at him like he's asking him to sever his very own hands just so he can continue hugging his arm. The man gives a small tug, hoping to gently shake him off, yet only succeeding in scaring the angel further. When those lovely blue-purple irises find his gaze, swimming in shimmering tears, smelling sweeter than anything, it is only a matter of millenia spent mastering patience and self-control that helps keep the Reaper's jaw locked tight as it is; rather than locked savagely around the flesh of the adorable angel's delectable neck. Nothing of the sudden lurch of hunger and lust makes it past the carefully disciplined expression of gentle kindness on his face, but a single sigh, disguised as fondness and nothing more, — "not a fan of returning favours, huh? Keeping me trapped like this when I just freed you — ah, but I'd lie if I said I'm so trustworthy. Perhaps you're right to keep me."

With a motion as effortless as if it were a simple walking stick, the Reaper stabs his heavy scythe into the earth. Its blade digs into the ground with no issue, cutting it apart like butter. He lifts his now free hand in front of him, armoured and coal black, enveloping the chains of the gate with tendrils of black, working them apart languidly. Auden never wonders how his magic works, what caused his arm and patches of his skin to turn so void dark, for his body to emanate such a thick mist of cursed fog to hide in. It's only fitting for someone like Death, he thinks, and he does not wonder further. What matters is that he is here with someone who fought — and slaughtered — an army to have him, and he can only thank his Lord for granting him the mercy of another chance. He only cares to stand at his side, the side of one who intimidated someone so powerful and feared as Miss Thu'lin with only his mere presence.

A familiar type of dread for someone like Auden; for an inhabitant of Heaven and the land of his Lord, to command people with the mere fact of His existence.

The lock clicks, snapping open in an instant. The chains flow apart like a parted river, opening the entrance to the forest flawlessly. The Reaper's blade swiftly finds its way back in its owner's hand, pulled out of the dirt just as easily as it went in. The silver claws of the blackened arm clink against it, drawing a shiver down Auden's spine.

They walk past the gate, entering the lush, mysterious woods of silence. Behind them, the gate closes on its own, locking itself tight. Auden feels a strange weight on his skin overpowering the already present weight of exhaustion, leaning more and more onto his escort. The man does not even spare a glance, — "We are almost there, angel. We have entered your owner's home; I hope it's to your liking. If it isn't, do not worry — I'm sure you won't see much of it ever again."

His owner's home. He guesses it's par for the course to be considered property; nobody down here has ever considered him to be anything but. He does not need to be anything more as long as he is useful. An angel only deserves mercy as long as he is useful — and Fallen, they only live so long as they are. He only hopes that whatever this man sees in him remains, and amuses him so for a long time.

They walk in silence for what feels like an hour. Auden struggles to keep his eyes open, and the Reaper does not talk to him any longer. At one point, he begins humming a haunting tune, lulling the angel deeper into a daze, stumbling along his side clumsily. The only thing keeping him on his two feet is his hold on Death's arm dragging him with endlessly.

He misses large portions of the journey, blinking in and out of awareness. One moment they are in a forest clearing, the next they are climbing a mountain path towards the top, and yet more time later, he spots a massive building hidden away on the other side of a stone bridge connecting the two peaks. The thick walls and tall tinted glass windows only rouse him for a second before he wanders right back into his own head.

"Just a little longer, love, a bit longer. Come," — the Reaper calls to him when his knees buckle, just a small distance from the bridge. His ears are buzzing, his eyes flow with more tears, his breathing is uneven. He cannot walk any longer. He is far beyond exhausted, having already pushed himself far further than ever before. His fuzzy vision finds his saviour, but his mumbled prayer does not make it far enough to be comprehensible even by the sharpest of ears. For the first time, Death's expression changes just slightly, not enough for Auden to decide if he is angry or concerned. — "Come on. Get up. I've already dragged you this far, don't collapse on me now."

The angel tries, truly tries his best, but he simply cannot walk any more. His legs do not work right, his head feels heavier than a boulder, his poor wings drag behind him like dead weight. He tries to plead, if only wheezing and coughing, — "Pl-please, mercy, ha-have — " — cough, cough. He finds his own throat to grab onto, experiencing human thirst once again as his voice catches on dry flesh. His tears flow freely, — "Can't…I can't…"

Auden only hears a sudden noise. A whistle of something flying through the air, the screech of it connecting with something metal, and then the explosion of debris as it burrows into the wall in front of him.

He freezes, but his reaction time is nothing compared to the Reaper's. By the time he realises what had happened, the scythe that protected him from being impaled by a desperate Miss Thu'lin has already been primed for another attack. The spear that was aimed at him was deflected precisely, a pair of crimson eyes pinning his attacker to the spot. If Auden could have seen the expression on the man's face, he might have passed out from sheer terror.

"Utterly bold choice, Miss Thu'lin," — the Reaper growls, his polite, melodic voice morphing into one low and dark, the purr of a predator, — "to swallow all dignity and crawl in the dirt like all your vermin, rotting beneath my blade. To fight with a nerved, audacious cowardice unexpected of someone your stature."

The silence that stretched between them was deafening. Auden was too scared to move. Miss Thu'lin was, too. Her daring final effort of shameless selfishness did not let her think far enough to think of the consequences. Now, she stands like a deer in headlights, without even the satisfaction of having torn the angel from Death's grasp.

The Reaper smiles, sharp lines of anger prominent, as if thoroughly amused by the queen's actions. He straightens his back, quickly returning to a relaxed, yet sanguine stance, letting his head flop back lazily as he grins at her viciously. — "Fascinating show of power, Queen of Dragons, truly fascinating. I will be sure not to overestimate you ever again."

With that, he turns and pushes the angel forward, leaving Miss Thu'lin to marinate in her shameful loss and blood of her servants.

It all disappears from sight again — every tree, the bridge, the building, his saviour. It all flows into a river of colours, melting away into nothingness and surrounding him in void. His hands slip from the Reaper’s coat, feeling sharp rocks under fingertips as his body lands on the ground. His knees scrape open, letting pure crimson soak into the earth. Through his irregular breathing and misty vision he cannot make out anything but the pain in his lungs and the terror eating him alive. The Reaper might be talking to him, or he might be left all alone, he cannot tell the difference.

He remains there and cries, cries for a long time. He feels Death's claws running down his spine, the intense observation of the Doctor warming the back of his neck, Miss Thu'lin's smoky breath on his cheeks — he cries out and pleads, yelling for the hellish cacophony to stop. For a second, he thinks he is going insane with all these images and sounds and feelings, and the next —

He feels plush duvets, a pleasant temperature and the smell of processed wood and fabric. The sharp pebbles digging into his skin are replaced with silken comforters and a delicate mattress that lets his legs melt out from under him.

The sudden change in gravity and circumstances distracts him from his meltdown, replacing hysterical delusions with what at first seems like more hallucinations. Upon further inspection, and a great deal of mental deductions, he decides that the lavish, pristine room he was plopped into was very much real. The ever gentle expression of his saviour watching him concur this fact makes it easier, grounding him further. He returns to a more manageable state in just a couple minutes, to the relief of his escort. His crying stops, his yelling disappears and his shivering lessens to the same rigid, wide-eyed, confused level he was stuck in before.

Auden is looking at the man like he is seeing things, and for all the Reaper knows, he might be. He comes close to him, leading his torso further onto the bed patiently, silently ordering him to lie down with a hand pushing him down. Auden does so, fearful of everything as ever, subconsciously letting his fatigued muscles relax. Death smiles at him, pulling a deep emerald blanket over him sweetly. — "Comfortable, isn't it?"

The angel stares at him, furrowing his brows. He looks like he is going to panic again, his eyes snapping around the room, his fingers gripping the comforter harder, another teary whimper climbing out of his throat. Before he could descend again, Grim leads his attention back to himself.

"Angel, angel, angel… Shhh. Look at me." — His hand, the one without armour and unnatural inky blackness enveloping it finds Auden's face, keeping him still. His voice holds no urgency, only patience. Unending, benevolent patience. — "That's it, keep those beautiful eyes on me. That's lovely."

A stray tear escapes his wild eyes, caught by a cold thumb. Those red eyes glint in that particular, non-safe way again, but the glint is gone as quick as it appeared, returning the blood red into a tame crimson. — "There is no need to fear, darling, none at all. I brought you here to rest. No one will bother you, I made sure of that. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Auden does not agree, but he doesn't cry either. His thoughts are slow, yet restless. Steadily, very steadily, Death feels his heart slow. He wishes he was any better at navigating these types of situations. Then again, he is not used to adoring, trusting eyes such as this newly Fallen's. — "I will leave you here, now. No, no, I will return later," — he quickly adds, — "once you are well rested. You are safe here, and I will not be far. All I ask is that you sleep well. From the darkness under your eyes, I assume that will not be much of a challenge."

The utter reverence he sees in the troubled little Fallen is simply divine.

"Poor blackbird; they taught you so well. It goes in one ear, and out the other. Mindless worship and endless submission." — His words cut, but Auden doesn't even flinch. In his deepest lows, one returns quickest to what they know well. For an angel, the veneration of power, divine or otherwise, comes as easy as their naïve trust. This one sees him like he is his new God. If he was aware enough to realise, such sacrilege would burn his face and consume his subconscious. The Reaper is sure it will, with time.

He summons charm to his eyes, growing bored of this abundance of useless grace. It's entertaining, for a while, to play along and show endless tact to those that do not deserve or appreciate it — Miss Thu'lin's lack of decorum in return to his sweet words always even manages to bring a smile to his old friend's face, for example — yet, even the undead tire of endless charades. His sudden cold look aimed at Auden has him pulling at the soft silk around him, using it as a pathetic shield to hide behind. However sweet it is to watch the angel's endless terror, Death is not known for his merciful deeds.

"Sleep for me, angel."

Auden passes out in an instant. His breathing eases out, his body loses all stress.

Grim turns to leave, stopping only to take one final look at the newcomer. The first Fallen in the last three centuries. He is endlessly curious why that is. A special case; it must be. He cannot wait to find out more about him.

He hopes, above all, that the angel will be a good enough gift for his Lord.

~

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Taglist:@whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long

[paingoes]

Destroyer - MK

(Masterlist)

they were doing some MK ultra shit to delta im ngl

(Content: medical whump, drugging, dissociation, living weapon whumpee, begging, needles, addiction implied)

Lights and colors. It was all dreamy in the void. How long had he been there? The question made no sense. He was always here. Always had been. Something milk white and slimy nuzzled up against his leg.

“Attention, Control. You’re drifting off again.” A voice cut through the noise. He hadn’t noticed the noise just until the voice had cut through it. What did it sound like? Water on rocks. A rainstorm heard from the inside of a tin chest. Mewling. Drool dripping. 

Something pricked at his forehead. He gasped.

“Tighten up.”

He nodded weakly. For a moment, he was back in the office. The faces surrounding him were blurry and tame. His body was nowhere, but his wrists were bound. A thin line of fire worked its way around his neck. Then the office was gone and so was he. Light and colors.

The sharp tip of a blade rose out of the water, held aloft by a hand whose flesh was slipping off of it. The skin debris dripped down into the lake. It floated there like broth that needed to be skimmed. Disgust rose up in his stomach. Had it been full, he thought it might empty itself. He’d have to have a body for that, though.

Pain replaced everything. He couldn’t tell the source of it. He couldn’t tell where it ended and began. 

Inside of you, something said. It’s inside. Get it out. 

He whimpered. From somewhere far away, someone sighed in disgust.

“Delta. One-oh-seven. Enough. Follow the rabbit.”

The instruction was only vaguely familiar. It was coming to him so slow this time. A sine wave hit him directly in the side of his head. It hurt. Abstract concepts soared over the pit he’d carved out for himself. He was helplessly lost. He was scared. Not how he usually was. It was otherworldly.

A snake bit his ankle. It winded and winded.

“Simon?” He called weakly.

Pain, sharp and hot.

“Dr.Leach isn’t here. And you are not to call him that.” 

He felt the firm grip on his face, but couldn’t see it. His vision was dislocated somehow. He did not know what he was seeing instead. It wasn’t nothing. 

The dragon had two tails. He made out the shape on its side.

“Yellow,” he managed, “Yellow, four-sided, decimal. Cobra. Holly.”

“Designation?”

“MK. Omega. Ow. Fucking ow.” 

He felt a hand come down hard against his cheek. He’d just been slapped. Even in his drugged state, he knew that that wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t procedure. He knew Dr.Martino hated him. Really hated him. It didn’t come as a shock everytime he remembered — but the slap had. He made a soft, choked noise. The drugs made the pain feel more intense; they didn’t numb it, like he hoped they would. Weren’t they supposed to?

“Again.”

Something electric and circuitous played against the flesh of his bound hand. The vision shifted.

“Threat level magenta,” he choked, “Seven. Spades. Diamondback. Juniper.”

“Juniper?”

“Pike,” he corrected. “Please make it stop.”

“You know better than to ask,” The doctor said. Something sharp. He couldn’t tell if it was a punishment for having begged or if it was just part of the procedure. They drew no distinction, expecting him to take either complacently. It burned against the inside of his skin.

“Again.”

========

When the drug finally wore off, he was shaking so badly that the chains binding his wrists rattled softly and continuously. He’d been bound up for too long, too tightly. His shoulders and knees ached from the pressure. All the spots on the body where the needle had jabbed him bled through the bandages. There was a dull and constant ache all throughout his body that heightened at each injection site. He tried desperately to subdue his crying, but the tears flowed freely and undisturbed. He couldn’t even roll his shoulder enough to wipe them.

Dr.Martino went about his business like he wasn’t even there. There was no reason for him to still be bound, to still be kept kneeling. The experiment was over. It had ended thirty minutes ago. He didn’t voice this, sure that if he did Martino would make a point to keep him there longer. He tried to readjust his position to relieve the tension. Nothing worked. He just wanted to sleep.

“That was pathetic,” Dr.Martino finally addressed him. Delta cringed. He still didn’t move to free him, which was all Delta could really focus on in the moment.

“Needless to say, I don’t think the Cytopline is a good match. We’ll run a few retrials with different dosages to be sure, but I’m not confident it’ll be to any greater effect.”

Delta tried not to cry again. He thought he meant today. He just needed a break before they started again, just a few minutes to get out of position. He wouldn’t be able to handle going under again.

“There’ll be a bit of a cooldown period before it becomes effective again. You might be inoperable the next few days,” the doctor clarified, much to his relief.

“I can write you a note, if you want.” 

========

Delta laid numbly on the floor of his bedroom, in the same position he’d been in for hours. The blanket was a tangled mess around him. He didn’t know exactly what time it was, just that it was well past when he was supposed to have risen. He drifted in and out of consciousness. There was a sudden banging at the door.

“You know you’re not allowed to quit, right?” Paris called from the other side of it. Delta closed his eyes. 

He was sure that Dr.Martino hadn’t told him on purpose. The unexplained absence would put Paris in a bad mood off the gate, make him totally unwilling to listen once Delta was forced to explain, and Paris was by no means obligated to comply in the first place. The excuse wouldn’t count for anything. He’d still be forced out into the field. He’d probably still be punished just for trying to get out of it. It was such an underhanded move. Delta resented whenever the doctor called him sneaky; if anything, he had learned it from him.

He braced himself up on one elbow, getting ready to open the door, when Paris opened it himself. Right. Not like it had a lock. Delta collapsed back. That was fine. He hated having anyone in his space, but he also didn’t think he’d be able to walk in a straight line all the way to the door.

 But Paris’s anger was always so visibly telegraphed that its absence was immediately obvious. If anything, he was annoyingly chipper. He had one hand pressed up against the top of the doorframe, leaning casually in the entrance. The end of a nicotine lollipop hung off to the side of his mouth. He let himself into the room.

Delta adjusted roughly, just barely pulling himself upright into a kneel. He was already on the floor, so that helped. His hair fell messily in his face. He reached one arm behind him, feeling around clumsily for the doctor’s note on the desk. He offered it up with one hand. 

Paris took it. He read it over slowly, trying to make out the nearly indecipherable doctor’s handwriting. Somehow he managed.

“Oh shit. Comedown?” Paris popped the candy out of his mouth.

“Yes, sir.” Delta stopped himself from rolling his eyes. It was technically true, but he would never call it that.

Paris winced in sympathy, giving Delta some indication of just how pathetic he must have looked. He glanced at the note again. His eyes hovered on the medication name.

“…Do you have any more?”

Delta pulled the pill bottle out from his desk drawer, tossing them over. He was glad to be rid of them. Paris caught them in one hand, letting the note drift back to the ground.

“Take oxitriptan,” he called over his shoulder. He slid the pills into his pants pocket and disappeared out the door. Delta collapsed back against the crumpled blanket. He wasn’t going to take anything. He was pretty content to just lay there. He pulled the blanket over his face, not sleeping, nor moving.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[fallenwhumpee]

Promise

• Part 1 • Part 2 • Masterlist •

Warnings: Medieval settings, blood, battlefield, dissociation.

"We are not taking that mission!" Healer shouted to Leader, their head stretched back to stare at Leader. "We don't take missions in villages. And this won't be an exception."

"Like it or not," Leader towered over them, putting a hand to their chest to stop them from getting closer. "We don't have any choice in that. We can't abandon our lands to the enemy. We will fight."

Leader watched as the anger got more intense in Healer's eyes.

"You will send us to slaughter! You know we don't do well in the missions involving civilians. The team..."

"No one will visit you after this." Leader cut sharply. "I promise. I won't let my team pull their usual stunts."

"You can't just stop them from taking a blow for some random stranger."

"Have more faith in me. When did I get us into something we can't handle?" Leader tried again. They needed Healer to see their point.

Healer looked at them for one more moment before sighing and averting their eyes. "But I'm not patching anyone after this."

"That's the spirit. Now pack up. We're leaving with the lunch."

Healer nodded, leaving Leader alone. Leader made their way to their room in the guild's barracks. They closed the door behind them slowly, letting their shoulders drop.

"I don't know what should I do," they admitted to the haunting heaviness hovering over them. A moment later, the familiar bone deep feeling of loneliness washed over them, and they had to lean on their desk to stay standing as their strength drained from their body for a moment.

"I can't  keep going on like this." They muttered to themselves  after it. This was getting beyond their control.

Stopping their thoughts to save their sanity, straightening their stance slowly. They walked over their wardrobe and pulled out a large shield, their sword and armour. They couldn't help but stare at them for a moment before starting to get dressed. The armour over their skin was the only thing that made them feel secure in those days. The only thing they felt like they belonged to.

Not their team.

Despite loving them dearly - and being loved back - Leader was not a part of the team. They were the sword and the shield between them and the enemy, but not a part of it. It was just according to the regulations. Leader couldn't afford to be among the people they were sworn to protect. It never ended well.

Slowly pulling the straps and locking the metal pieces into each other, Leader abandoned thinking altogether. A moment of peace was needed, and they found it relaxing just to do something and not think. They only left their helmet out, putting their long sword to its sheath on their back, placing the very large shield over it. Making sure it's secure, they packed two set of clothes and some water. They were ready to depart.

But their eyes lingered in the big room, checking it for a last time. Their bed was tidy, so the other... They averted their eyes. They forgot nothing. There was no need to torment themselves more.

Stepping out of the suffocating room, Leader felt heaviness linger over them for one more second, but they smiled when they saw their team and ignored the feeling.

"We are ready to depart." Right Hand walked a step forward. "Briefed about the mission. The place looks good for defence. I don't understand why they need reinforcements there."

"They need replacements. And I've heard it's nearing the end. The enemy is giving up. Just need some more pushing."

Leader walked past the team after glancing at everyone, the smile on their face not faltering despite the emptiness pulling their mouth down. They got into their house with one move, the shield messing with their balance a little. It was vast, even for Leader. They had never understood how...

No. Leader wasn't hoping to think about them. Leader had to keep their head there and then. They simply turned to the horizon and rode the horse.

"The battle will be already going on when we arrive," Leader said after they covered a significant distance. "I want you to stay close and work as one unit. You will just hold the defence until another order, either from the general leading the battle or from me. I need you to fight as long as you can, in the other words, do not try something idiotic because none of you will be useful if you're dead."

That gained some chuckles but also nods. Good. Leader needed them to stay alive and well. They made a promise, after all.

The rest of the ride was silent on Leader's part, listening to their comrades and keeping an eye on everything. They only slowed down once they reached the narrow gate, the last lights of sun already departed, leaving them in dark. The battle sounds began to give Leader goosebumps. They felt their heartbeat match with the distant clatter of metal and shouts, their hand instinctively reaching their sword.

The team hid the horses, getting ready to dive into the battle. Without a word, Leader drew their sword, the weight of it familiar in their grip. They blew out a breath and scanned the scene before them. Their focus shifted to their team.

"Stay close," they felt the need to warn.

Without further orders, the team advanced. The disgusting smell of blood-soaked soil once again filled their lungs, the ground beneath them shook. There was nothing, nothing that could distract them from doing what was right. They would not attack, never attack, but they also wouldn't hold back their sword raised to protect.

When Leader's blade met the enemy's for the first time, their focus was absolute, every movement precise and calculated. The clash of metal, the cries of the soldiers, and the roar of battle filled the air, a chaotic symphony that set their heart racing. They moved with a single-minded purpose, their sword an extension of their will, their body.

When their body caught up with their mind, they shifted their focus. Their limbs moved with the will to survive, while they could finally take off their mind from... all of that.

Their eyes found their team, which was holding themselves very well without any help. But Leader could see the telltale signs. Very few civilians were left on battlefield, but their team was already making a safe circle for them, but not as careful as Leader would like.

Still, Leader trusted their team. They trusted and went on, avenging their sword with swift motions. Their one eye was still on their team, and they could see the enemy finding more and more openings.

It was the last straw when they saw Teammate nearly dropped their sword under pressure.

"I hate doing your job," they muttered to the air, taking out their shield. They gripped the shield tightly, their focus shifting entirely to the task at hand. With practised precision, they positioned themselves between their team and the enemy, using the shield to deflect blows and create openings for counterattacks.

Blow after blow made Leader falter, their arms getting heavier from carrying the large shield with one and their heavy sword with the other. Still, they kept their footing as the shield absorbed blow after blow.

When the shield was slammed to their chest by another shield, Leader's breath were knocked out of their lungs, a crack sound lost in the loud clash of two sturdy metal. Leader gasped and relieved the pressure by stepping aside, the motion causing them to lose balance but gain some space. They swung their sword, managing to get under the armour of the enemy general— but also being the victim of the same move.

Their shoulder was stinging, the pain sharp and fresh and distracting, but Leader knew they couldn't afford that. They lunged forward, ignoring the strain they put to their shoulder as the pain only became another chaos in the background.

If it was in more friendlier terms, Leader could enjoy the fight with someone even to their strength, but on the battlefield, it only meant danger. A threat to get rid of. As Leader's sword clashed against their opponent's, their focus narrowed. They couldn't afford to be distracted against such opponent. With swift and calculated movements, they parried and struck, each blow getting harder to maintain.

Despite the burning pain in their shoulder, Leader pressed on, their movements fueled by adrenaline and the instinct to survive. With a final, decisive strike, they brought down their opponent, the clash of metal not banging in their ears for the first time as their sword cut the flesh.

With a weary sigh, Leader glanced around at the scene of the battlefield. The enemy forces were retreating, and the villagers were slowly emerging from their hiding places, cautiously reclaiming their homes. Their team, though battered and worn, stood strong beside Leader, thankfully without any injuries. Years of practised efficiency guiding them, they set up a small camp for their remaining, prioritizing the healing tents and such before finally setting up one for themselves.

Leader slid in without being noticed, a small basin of hot water on their hands. They didn't want to join the celebration outside when they felt so dirty after the battle, and they didn't have the strength to do so. Placing the basin next to their makeshift bed, they took of their armour, pain throbbing with their every move. They ripped the thicker set clothes they brought with them, soaking them with hot water and slowly but tightly wrapping their shoulder. They then wore the other set, hiding the handmade bandages. They didn't look terrible, at least.

Taking the remaining fabric, Leader begun cleaning their armour, the simple and repetitive motion calming their breaths and relaxing their muscles. While tending to their armor for what felt like an eternity, Leader's thoughts were empty, as if the cloth and water could wash away all of their problems. They set aside the cloth foe a moment before they took the shield, the metal gleaming faintly in the dim light of the small gas lamp, the blood over it turning to a dark coloir. They sighed heavily, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling.

They could wash their armour, their sword sloppily, but they could never think of doing that to the shield. Not their shield, the shield, that once belonged to Leader's dear friend, Caretaker. Leader smiled at the imaginary of Caretaker freaking over the possibility of their shield getting Rusty, but Leader's smile soon turned bitter. Caretaker would be freaking out, only if they had been alive...

Just as they were about to pick the cloth again, a voice broke through the silence of the tent.

"Leader?"

Leader glanced up to see Healer standing at the entrance, their expression a mix of concern and hesitation.

"Yes?" Leader replied, their voice as flat as ever.

Healer stepped inside, their eyes scanning Leader's weary form. "I... I wanted to apologize. I shouldn't have questioned your judgment earlier. I understand now that you were doing what you thought was best for everyone, and I should've teusted you not to pick up a mission that may compromise the team. You were right on your promise. No one from our team visited me tonight."

Leader stated Healer for a moment, progressing the words. "It's alright," they assured. "I'm just glad that this ended well."

Healer nodded, smiling with relief. "I also wanted to invite you to join the celebrations outside. The villagers are grateful for our help, and they want to thank us."

Leader shook their head slowly. "I appreciate the invitation, but I think I'll pass.."

Healer's expression fell slightly, but they nodded understandingly. "I... Okay... Just know that you're always welcome if you change your mind."

"Thank you," Leader smiled softly. I'll keep that in mind."

With a final nod, Healer left the tent, leaving Leader alone with their thoughts once again. With not much left to do, Leader cleaned the shield while listening yo the celebrations and ignoring their thought before curling up into their bed, the lively chatter outside serving as the lullaby to defend Leader's mind feom nightmarish memories.

[shes-some-other-where]

June of Doom Day 19, 27, 28, 29

Sobbing | Dissociation | Stairs | Display | Last Resort | Numb | Gag | “I’m so cold.”

Please heed the warnings. Dead dove: do not eat.

<<< previous | next >>>

Contains: lady whump, aftermath of noncon/SA, dissociation, helplessness, hopelessness, restraints, gag, suicide attempt

WC: 950

Wet-paper petals

The body on the bed was still. It could move, but moving hurt. Moving dragged skin, reddened and burned by friction, over wool and cotton that mercilessly scratched. Moving shifted the light, illuminating blossoming bruises.

Bruises—broken blood vessels—temporary, violent purple in their prime, but not eternal.

Involuntary shivers wracked the body, however: the tiny tremors of limp, exhausted limbs. Bluish lips formed soundless pleas to no one: Please. I’m so cold. Please.

If there was only stillness, then there was no pain. Frigid numbness, perhaps, but numbness was bearable.

It was a body on garish display: arms spread wide and bound in place, showing off tender skin now marked. Adorned. Pink and abraded beneath the ties.

A body, and nothing else.

A door crashed open, casting a resounding clang throughout the room, and the illusion was shattered.

The maidservant stirred, bringing her knees as close to her chest as she could, her eyes squeezed shut. Please. No more. No more.

Footsteps slowly approached.

She tried to hold back a sob and failed, mewling into the leather tied around her mouth. It tasted foul: dust, sweat, oil. She couldn’t remember when it had wound up there, or where it had come from. A belt from a uniform, perhaps? It didn’t matter. It had served its purpose, stifling her frantic cries when her enemies decided they’d had enough of her tongue being free—after it, too, had served its purpose.

The footsteps halted, and her eyes flew open.

The soldier. He’d promised to kill her one day. He’d dragged her before the prince. He’d kept his distance, he hadn’t touched her. But he’d stayed silent.

He’d done nothing.

He reached toward her now, and she flinched, unable to disguise how she wept, condemned again to the indignity of freely flowing tears while he stood by and watched.

“No,” she begged. Some dried substance at the corner of her mouth cracked with the movement of her lips. “Please.”

He didn’t answer, but simply reached for her bound hands again; silently, he untied them. Torn strips of red fabric, ripped from a mass that had once been a gown, fell away. The soldier stepped back.

The maidservant fumbled with frozen, clumsy fingers and found she could not untie the leather belt. She pulled it from her mouth instead, letting it hang slick and dripping around her neck.

“Get dressed.”

Two words, a simple command, brimming with unbridled disgust.

She coaxed her unwilling limbs off the bed, stumbling toward the heap of once-ravishing silk, now ruined, stinking of pond-water and sweat. She struggled into it anyway, hungry for the scant warmth and comfort it would bring.

Her arms screamed, as unhappy free as they had been restrained. Her legs ached. Trembled. Burned.

The soldier said nothing, offering no release from . . . wherever she was. A dungeon cell? Perhaps. Likely. She dimly recalled stairs and windowless corridors. She’d fought and screamed and cried. Earned welts and bruises for her efforts.

Efforts ultimately in vain, like everything else she’d ever done.

An unexpected weight, hidden in the depths of the dress, bumped against her leg.

“Come here,” the soldier said. She looked up to find him watching her with narrowed eyes. The scratches on his face had clotted to perfect, parallel scabs, muddy brown in the poor light. “Move.”

She obeyed.

“Give me your hands.”

She did.

He tied them together in front of her, not torturously tight but securely enough that she could not wriggle free. She watched numbly, pretending those dirt-and-blood-stained fingers belonged to someone else. He thought he was being clever and cruel, lording his power and control over her yet again, protecting himself from another attack.

Didn’t he realize? She was done fighting.

Another tear slid down her cheek, splashing against his hands as he tied the final knot.

With a scowl, he shoved her away from him, back onto the cot with its mattress still damp. She caught herself clumsily, whimpering in pain. “Sit still and stay quiet while I find out what to do with you.”

He turned away.

When the lock clicked, that means of escape barred—not that it had ever been within her grasp—the maidservant felt for the makeshift pocket she had made what seemed like lifetimes ago.

I’m sorry.

She’d whispered those words to the food taster, and she’d meant them. What had become of him? Had the prince found him? Was he dead? Imprisoned? Coerced into bending to the prince’s darkest whims?

I’m sorry.

If only she’d had the chance to say those same pitiful, inadequate words to her brother.

Her stiff fingers struggled with the knots in her skirt. She wept, forcing them to keep working until, at long last, the knots came free.

She laid out the crushed flowers methodically, inspecting each. They were beautiful, even in death: wet-paper petals of soft yellow, like summer sun dimmed by mist. That colour, warm and lovely, hearkened back to golden days of long, long ago—before her life had been upended, ravaged, and utterly destroyed.

Back when her life was worth something.

She found two flowers with their poisonous spines intact and lifted them reverently from among their fellows.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, but there was no one to hear, no one to see, and no one to mourn.

She sank the two sharp, spindle-like thorns into her fingertip; a cool sense of numbness spread outward. One prick, he’d promised, and you’ll be on the floor. What about two?

She fell, matted hair fanning out over the soiled mattress, poison coursing through exhausted veins.

A body, still living, but only just.

A broken heart, pulsing with strength enough to decorate her finger with a single, welling drop of blood.

June of Doom Masterlist

<<< previous | next >>>

@juneofdoom

All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Rinse and Repeat

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

Even moments of reprieve are no release at all. The cycle continues, endless and circling ever tighter.

Thank you so much to @whump-kin and @inscrutable-shadow for beta-ing this for me! 🥰

Contains: Explicit noncon, intimate whump, bathing, aftermath of torture, mind/emotion control, mind reading, dissociation, shame, manipulation, cockwarming

~~~

The feeling of being dipped into warm water pulled Elze’ith ever so slightly out of the haze of agonized semi-consciousness.

An instinctual part of him almost expected the water to sting, to lap at his flesh and scour his bones. But there were no open wounds to bring fresh pain; the aches and anguish that radiated from his core were just a visceral memory, the sticky blood on his skin having long stopped its flow.

He didn’t remember healing himself. And yet his body was intact once again. Once, that might have been calming, comforting. It wasn’t now.

The air smelled of iron and lavender, of steam and smeared gore. Though his eyelids weighed as much as anchors, he still tried to force them open, only managing a weak flutter. It wasn’t enough to see anything beyond vague blurry shapes; giving up, he let them close once again. The steady, solid hands that had lowered him into the water didn’t leave him as he settled into what he distantly recognized as the tub, instead holding him upright even as his head spun and his body sagged.

“I know, my light. One moment, and then you can relax.”

Lord Denholm’s voice surrounded him, filled his senses and his mind with reassurance and dread. The promise of rest was tantalizing, but he had long since learned that such comforts were not given freely. Maybe once Elze’ith would have been willing and eager to pay that price; now, he wasn’t so sure. For a moment Elze’ith was left to linger in that hope-uncertainty-dread, held in place by Lord Denholm’s unwavering grip, before the water around him shifted, and a cold body slipped into the tub behind him.

“There we are. Isn’t that better, light?” Joy and contentment radiated off of Lord Denholm, even as Elze’ith’s weary heart clenched in numb, exhausted fear. Groaning, he tried to shift, tried to extricate himself from his position against Lord Denholm’s chest, but Lord Denholm only hummed and folded his arms around him to hold him securely in place. “Shh, light, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Of that, Elze’ith had no doubt. It was what came next that worried him. He could feel every inch of Lord Denholm’s bare skin, the bulk of his muscles, the bulge between his legs. They were naked together; there was only one thing that could lead to. Even through the haze of exhaustion closing in on his mind, the prospect was still enough to horrify him. After all he had already endured, even his Lord’s careful ministrations would surely break him.

A soft whine escaped his parted lips as he once again tried to squirm, hoping beyond hope that he might avoid the inevitable. But Lord Denholm’s strength and his own fatigue won out, and he collapsed back against his Lord within moments. A torrent of emotions threatened to swell up and drown him, only to be whisked away as Lord Denholm pressed a kiss to the top of his head. The compelled calm was not unfamiliar, and not entirely unwelcome, even as part of him yearned for the briefest moment to be granted the dignity of resistance.

Elze’ith drifted in that docility as deceptively gentle hands caressed him with a soft cloth, letting all of the blood and sweat of the day run into the water. Each brush was done with such care, as much care as the subtle but overwhelming influence on his mind.He was afraid, and yet he couldn’t be. He was angry, and yet he couldn’t be. He was grateful, and yet he shouldn’t be.

Every tender swipe of the cloth had more and more blood removed from his skin, had more and more tension leaking out of him. There was something sincerely, uncomplicatedly relaxing about it; after so much turmoil, he was being treated gently. The blood and gore was being washed away. He didn’t have to do anything but let himself be taken care of. The more time passed, the less he was sure how much of the calm he felt was imposed, and how much of it was genuine.

A sigh left his weary lungs. Would it be so bad to just let himself enjoy this moment of peace? They seemed so few and far between, and he needed as many of them as he could get.

“My beautiful, precious light,” Lord Denholm murmured, almost absentmindedly. “So magnificent. So strong. And all mine.”

The water shifted. The cloth and its gentle, caring, undemanding caresses vanished. Elze’ith whimpered; dull, echoing agony still resonated through his bones, through his soul, and he wasn’t ready for the soft touches to leave in favor of something more insistent. But it didn’t matter what he wanted. It never did.

Was his Lord’s love truly worthwhile if knowing it made him feel as though he were drowning?

The thought threatened to slip through his fingers, to be tugged away from him, but he clung to it. He clung to it as Lord Denholm gripped his hips and grasped at the juncture between his legs, making him gasp in dread and desperation. There was no strength left in Elze’ith to struggle or squirm or try to wordlessly ask for mercy. All he could do, as he felt the soft warmth in the back of his mind pulse with uncertainty, was cling to the knowledge that Lord Denholm had tried to erase from him, even as the conscious thought was finally pried from him and only the deep, instinctual understanding remained.

This was no kindness. This was violation. And it was wrong.

Lord Denholm pushed inside him with a slowness that might have been tender, but was nevertheless nothing short of agonizing. Though his voice was raw and ragged from screaming, Elze’ith still let out a hoarse cry as he was made to part around his Lord once again. His exhaustion and the arms cradling him didn’t let him try to escape the intrusion; all he could do was arch his back and accept what Lord Denholm wanted for him.

For a moment, Lord Denholm went still, as though basking in the feeling of Elze’ith encompassing him. His satisfaction and joy was thicker than the steam that suffused the air, almost thick enough to choke on. And it was getting harder to breathe, though that might have been tied to the panic constricting his chest, the heat gathering behind his eyes.

Lord Denholm had never wanted to take him to bed so soon after something so intense. The agony of being pried open by Lord Denholm’s careful hands and seeking teeth still hadn’t left him, even after his wounds had been healed and the blood had been tenderly washed away. Elze’ith knew, he knew, that this would only make him feel so much worse, on every possible level.He wasn’t ready for this.

(He was never going to be ready.)

The light in his mind called to him, sang something that he couldn’t identify. And Elze’ith, coward that he was, shrank away, tried to shut it out, because he didn’t want Altair to witness him like this, even as distantly as whatever this connection allowed him.

The rhythm started, that steady cadence of movement and sensation that Elze’ith knew far more intimately than he had ever, ever wanted to. The water sloshed around them, barely louder than the almost-silent whimpers Elze’ith couldn’t hold back. Each thrust sent pulses of anguish through him as his muscles futilely twitched and his bones quaked in protest. He yearned for the peace of when Lord Denholm had been bathing him, for the comfort of it, because as awful as having his thoughts suppressed was, being ravished like this was simply unbearable.

“You’re perfect, my light,” Lord Denholm murmured into his ear, making him tremble despite the fading warmth of the water. “Perfect just like this.”

Perfect. Always perfect. His Lord was the only one to ever call him perfect. To always want him, no matter his faults or mistakes or transgressions. Elze’ith didn’t know who he would be without that love. It almost made everything else worthwhile.

Almost.

Because he didn’t want to be perfect. Not anymore. Not when this was the price of perfection. Not when he could never be sure how much the affection would hurt. Not when there might be something better waiting for him, even despite all his failings.

Lord Denholm’s hand between Elze’ith’s legs came to grasp his dick, and all thought shattered once again. There was only his Lord, and his Lord’s desires, and the overwhelming sensations and emotions and intent that threatened to smother Elze’ith in the process.

“Let go, light. I’m right here. Just let me take care of you.”

Elze’ith shook his head, but there was no resisting his Lord. He had never been able to, especially not in this. There was no pleasure, only misery, as Lord Denholm drew his release from him. Even if his body had not hurt so much, the violation of it would have been awful enough. At least now, with his hand no longer paying attention to Elze’ith’s cock, Lord Denholm could wipe away the tears that were starting to gather at his eyes.

The water was still warm when Lord Denholm stilled inside of him, holding him close with a groan as he spilled into Elze’ith like the vessel he was. Lord Denholm tucked his face into the crook of Elze’ith’s neck as he came, and though the contact made Elze’ith’s blood turn to ice, there were no piercing teeth. Just Lord Denholm’s arms, wrapped around so tight they threatened to bruise. The smallest of mercies, and Elze’ith didn’t even know how he felt about it anymore.

Awful. Relieved. Ashamed. Too many emotions warring for dominance in his mind, none of which he wanted to examine too closely, even if he thought he could.

But it was over now. It had been quick. He could put on his robe and crawl into bed and sleep and sleep and sleep until his Lord called upon him again.

And yet, Lord Denholm made no move to pull out. Though he relaxed his grip, his arms remained securely around Elze’ith. His aura thinned, though his delight still rang out through the air as strong as any cathedral bell.

“That was nice, wasn’t it?” he sighed, pressing a kiss to Elze’ith’s neck. “You are always so wonderful to be around, light. And we so rarely get to relax like this. I think we should indulge a bit, don’t you?”

All Elze’ith could do was whimper. He just wanted to be left alone. He just wanted to sleep. But his wants never mattered. What Lord Denholm wanted was to soak in the bath, the two of them inextricably linked in body and mind, and Elze’ith could not refuse. He was but a vessel to be filled by his Lord’s desires.

Lord Denholm rubbed Elze’ith’s arm in a soothing gesture. “There we go, that’s it. Just relax and enjoy this. You don’t need to worry. I’m right here. I’ve got you. And there is no one who cares for you like I do.”

Elze’ith knew his Lord spoke the truth. And that was the entire problem.

[whumpwillow]

Demon's Haven 16

a guy who is just an idiot

—  

masterlist

warnings: past torture, blood, whumpee thinking caretaker is new whumper, self-harm references (he's aggravating his own injuries), vague dissociation references

—  

I just wanted them to respect me.

Words he’d never dared to utter out loud before. Hell was a vicious place where weakness wasn’t tolerated, and vulnerability got you nowhere. So he’d learned to keep his thoughts to himself, and to manifest his more…envious desires in other ways.

He’d never have admitted it to himself if all this hadn’t happened. He spent long hours working in his study just to occupy his mind so that he wouldn’t have to think of such things. And yet there it was, the undeniable proof that he was weak. That he had to resort to base means in order to try and garner respect when his other siblings were capable of it just by virtue of their very existence.

Hah, virtue.

His brothers had the lesser demons looking up to them as if they were gods and all they had to do was walk into a room. Pride especially was a perfect example of this. He was like the sun—he drew attention to himself as if his presence was itself a gravitational pull. Envy hated it. He wanted it. He didn’t have the ability for that sort of thing and had to take the scraps of attention that he was owed, grasping and strangling.

He thought the other demons would be awed or at least cowed by his display of brutality in the human realm, but then Lust had gone and one-upped him without even trying. Envy, as always, faded into the background. His actions forgotten by all the people he wanted to have remembered, yet was brought up again now only to serve as a reminder of his failings.

It was such a stupid farce. All of it.

He clenched his hair in his hands, disregarding the broken fingers. He let the pain consume him. He wanted to disappear.

Throwing his hands down in frustration did nothing to stop the riotous feelings welling inside. Did nothing to stop the voice of the angel. That burning, stinging, cooing voice. It told him he was a sinner. That he should suffer, that he should be punished, that he should live his days in fear and regret and utter misery. The angel made him believe it to be true.

The angel’s voice played out in his thoughts, telling him to be afraid.

Warm hands wrapped around his thin wrists. Envy drew in a sharp intake of breath, his gaze locking onto the witch’s.

Oh, Haven.

Why had he told her who he was? She was going to hurt him now, surely. She said she wouldn’t—many times, in fact—but how could he believe that? How could she not want to?

And yet. She held his wrists in her hands but did not squeeze the bruises there. She did not yank him forward or send him tumbling to the floor. She continued to surprise him by showing familiar actions that usually preceded violence and replacing them with kindness and Envy didn’t know what to do about it.

He wanted to be free of pain. He wanted to be free of his thoughts. He wanted to pay for his sins. He wanted to rest.

He tried to think of what to say as an excuse for his actions, and what had tumbled off his lips were truer thoughts than any he had said in years. Perhaps ever. He struggled to think of anyone he’d ever told his deepest secrets to and came up blank. Such was his life, what he used to think so highly of and yet what crumbled in mere moments.

He was crying again, goddammit. His eyes stung and the back of his throat burned, the feeling distinct from that of holy water being forced down it. Sharper, deeper. Utterly humiliating.

Haven wiped a stray tear from his cheek. Envy allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he savored the touch. When had anyone ever touched him like that? Like he was something worthy of being held so gently, like he was more precious than all the gemstones in his court?

“You’re bleeding again.”

Envy blinked dumbly at her in response to the statement. Finally catching up after a moment too long, he processed the words and turned to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, the lashes from the silver whip had turned the gauze a cherry-red. He was in less pain than he’d been in since…well, the beginning of his imprisonment, so this could actually have been seen as an improvement that he hadn’t noticed.

“Ah, I see,” he said, with utmost intelligence. Clearly.

Haven settled herself on the bed next to him, more carefully than before. He knew it wasn’t because of his injuries, but because of who he was. She was afraid of him. He’d seen it in her eyes when she jumped from the bed, instinct urging her to run from him. He almost wished she had. He only wanted her to be happy, not afraid.

But he was a selfish creature, and he couldn’t stop himself from the need that raged in him, that which made him desperately not want to be left alone. It was the same desire that made him grab her wrist earlier, and what had compelled him to think he could order her to stay while he bathed even when he knew she would have preferred to be elsewhere. He just couldn’t stop himself from causing problems for her.

And know she knew who he was. What he’d done.

Worse, she was a witch. She was of the ilk that he had carelessly slaughtered for amusement and recognition, and now Envy was at the mercy of her decisions. He wondered if she would take revenge for her kind that had died at his hands, or at those of his brothers’. The thought made his chest ache something fierce, but he couldn’t tell her not to. He didn’t have the right. After everything, he was still the same awful being that he was always was and he didn’t want her to treat him any differently than she had been.

He knew he didn’t deserve her kindness. Oh, he knew. The angel had made sure that he believed every awful thing she ever said about him, but by everything he was borne of, he wanted nothing more than for Haven to remain as she was.

“I’ll need to stitch them. The wounds on your back,” she said to him.

There was no malice in her voice, nor fear. The second emotion, however, was plain on her face even as she tried to hide it.

Envy nodded listlessly. “Alright.”

He realized this going to be a long night and that he wouldn’t get to drift off so soon. If he got lucky, she’d let him sleep while she worked. He might even be able to—he’d gotten lots of practice in sleeping in uncomfortable positions while in terrible pain.

Envy nodded, the motion stilted. He braced himself for what was to come and whether or not the witch—Haven, lovely Haven, such an apropos name—would take this as her opportunity to turn on him.

She didn’t, at least not right at that moment. Instead, she pursed her lips, forming them into a mildly displeased moue. Envy winced and cursed his tendency to nod rather than reply with actual words. That must have been what had done it. She was angry with him now for not being treated with the proper respect, of course. Because he was a demon prince, fallen so far, now at the mercy of those once considered beneath him and of course, of course she would want him to demonstrate just how much their positions had changed. He was just so tired, so it was easier to opt for a nod rather than to force the sounds from his throat that was still so raw from begging, screaming, pleading, pleading—

“We should get some rest.”

Haven set her hands down on her lap and stood, then brushed off her skirts. Envy watched her. Blinked once, twice. The witch began collecting the bandages and rolls of gauze from the bed.

“What?” Envy asked, confused.

Haven paused, then looked at him. “We’re both tired, you’re not going to bleed out, and I’m sure you would appreciate not being stuck with a needle while I try to sew you up half-asleep. We can do it tomorrow.”

Envy couldn’t seem to process the information he was hearing. She was going to let him sleep? Not just that, but to let him sleep unhindered by additional pain? What was the catch?

Haven bent down to pick up a bandage roll that had fallen, but Envy slipped off the bed to get it for her. He didn’t account for the fact that he could barely use his legs, and ended up falling ever-so-gracefully to the floor like an utter disgrace. His knees hit first, cracking loudly on the wood slats, and the rest of him followed soon after, crumpling like wet paper. His chest pitched forward and he, thankfully, turned his head to the side so that his cheek hit the floor instead of cracking his chin on it, though it still smarted. The pain shot into his broken ribs had him keening, sending out a high-pitched whine as if he’d become a tea kettle. The angel had humiliated him plenty, but this really did it for him.

He at least managed to wrap his fingers uselessly around the stray bandage he’d meant to offer to Haven.

The witch herself had released her burden entirely, dropping her arms to her sides so that all the gauze she’d previously gathered now fell at her feet and rolled away, adding to the existing mess on the floor. She knelt in front of Envy and gingerly placed her hands on his upper arms, and she was saying something he couldn’t make out. The world was incessantly loud all of a sudden, ringing in his ears. Pain, his only sensation.

“H-help—” Envy croaked.

Fear rose in his throat, burned in his belly, and inflamed the space of his chest. It beat against the inside of his damaged ribcage, fighting to get free as if it were a trapped animal. Envy thought it was kind of funny, to think of it like that. To understand and sympathize with an emotion itself, because he too, was once a trapped animal.

His hands shook.

“-vy! Envy! Your Highness! Prince whatever!”

The witch called out to him. Envy struggled to take in a breath. He felt her rubbing her thumbs up and down where she held his arms, and that too, made an emotion well inside him. He couldn’t place the name of it.

“P-prince whatever,” he said, once he could take in a full breath.

His throat felt raw and scratchy.

“I didn’t know what to call you,” Haven replied, sheepishly.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave him a wobbly smile. Envy tried to maneuver his lips into doing the same, but he felt…odd. Disconnected from his body in a way that was not unfamiliar to his time spent in the cell with the angel, on the days where he would go someplace faraway into his mind when the pain became too much to bear. Even before, to a lesser degree, the numbness would come for him without warning. He saw it as being better than the torture, at least.

“Are you…” Haven said, but trailed off and bit her lip.

“Fine.”

Envy was not fine, had never been fine, and likely would never be fine again for as long as he lived. But he was just that—living, and that was all that likely mattered to the witch, if she even cared at all.

He regretted that last thought when he saw her face all scrunched up, appearing at once both sad and irate. Her eyes became red and misty, though no tears fell. She bunched her hands into fists at her sides and Envy thought she meant to hit him, though she only glared.

“Why did you do that?” she yelled.

Envy opened his mouth, but found he didn’t have an answer, or even any idea to what she was referring.

“I—” He remembered the bandage roll grasped loosely in his damaged fingers. “Oh.”

He held it up to Haven as far as his arm would give him the strength to, which to his dismay, wasn’t more than a few inches.

“I wanted to help,” he said.

Haven put a hand to her face and closed her eyes, then exhaled. When she looked at him again, her expression had softened. Envy noticed her unclench her fists and his shoulders sagged in relief.

“Just focus on getting better. Okay? That’s how you can help.”

—

next

(taglist in reblogs)

[fairyniceyeah]

🧭🐶Day 19: "This can't be happening."

Sobbing/Straightjacket/Dissociation

@juneofdoom

Day 18: "I'm fine."

Summary: Seungmin knew something was wrong.

CW: dissociation, panic

Whumpee: Seungmin

Caretaker: Chan + Minho

Seungmin knew something was wrong.

He had realized a few weeks ago. Or maybe it had been months? He wasn't sure. Time as an idol sometimes didn't feel real - switching between so many schedules was overwhelming and it wasn't easy to keep track.

Well, normally Seungmin did have a good sense of time and happenings, able to recall their schedules when members like Felix or Changbin or Han came home in the evening and barely remembered what they had done that day. But Seungmin supposed he had reached a point where he also couldn't tell.

Maybe it should worry him. It didn't.

He didn't even know what day it was. Monday, maybe? Or Thursday? It didn't really matter anyway. He could just look at his schedules and see what was planned.

At times, this indifference scared him. At night he'd lie awake, not feeling anything. He'd never been this indifferent before to anything. Sure, he wasn't the most emotionally open member but he also did feel emotions. Not to an extent like Felix did, crying with every moment of sadness and laughing brightly with every second of happiness. That wasn't who Seungmin was.

But the real Seungmin also wasn't as … detached as he sometimes felt. Maybe detached wasn't the right word. He knew where he was, who he was, when he was. That would mean he wasn't detached from the world. Right?

Just, at times, Seungmin would only exist. His emotions didn't connect with him. Nothing did. Third person view. It was happening more often now, that he would watch his members do something and feel like he was watching all of them - himself included - through a wall of glass-clear water. Like you'd watch colorful fish in a green pont. Trapped inside the confines of the water and the way to the top, to fresh air, a barrier they didn't need or dare break. 

The pont was a fantasy world and he was a cloud of mist watching from atop.

There had been that day during dance practice when he had first felt it. Seungmin had been struggling with the dance a lot for some time. He never was able to really understand the moves, struggling and tripping over his own feet.

Even Chan and Jeongin who had also struggled a lot had gotten the moves down two days ago. Still Seungmin made mistakes.

Minho had taken him aside, leaving the practice to Hyunjin and Felix, and had asked him what was going on. He'd been so kind, so understanding. But Seungmin didn't know - he just couldn't do it. His hyung had sighed, his hand resting on Seungmin's arm for a moment. Then they had done one on one practice - something Seungmin hadn't needed since their trainee days. He'd been too emotionally overwhelmed to care. 

Then, as he danced, following Minho's steps, he slowly started to feel weird. Like he wasn't really there? It was hard to describe. He watched himself dance like he would watch Minho dance - an outside perspective. It would have been scary if he had been able to feel that - or any - emotion.

But for the first time in days, he got the dance down. Not as perfect as Minho, not as fluid as Felix or as passionate as Hyunjin but he did it. Without even thinking about it.

Minho's compliments felt hollow. It wasn’t him who had done that dance, was it?

Ever since instances such as that happened. 

During vocal practice with Jeongin his mind had been so far away from his body, that he afterwards didn’t even remember learning the new technique the vocal coach had taught them. He pretended to know but he had spent a sleepless night of watching youtube tutorials on catching up with it. He still couldn’t really do it, didn’t remember how.

A photo shoot had been completely wiped from his mind. The photos had been so alien to look at - seeing himself in clothes he couldn’t remember wearing in a location he couldn’t remember being at and doing poses he couldn’t recall.

There had been several more moments and Seungmin knew how bad this was. Sudden memory loss? Feeling so far removed from himself that emotions didn’t seem to work? That were signs of something being very wrong with him. Yet, he never had been able to bring himself to tell anybody. 

He didn’t want to make a fuss, be benched during heavy, stressful schedules when the other members would be even more stressed if he was out. He didn’t want to speak with a manager, private person that he was. He knew all his members would gladly listen to him and try to help but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. This seemed so bad, they’d be so worried.

No, he couldn’t burden them. Though he had nearly broken down and told Chan after that photo shoot but he had seldomly seen the leader so stressed at that time. So he had stayed silent.

Yet truth be told - every time he came back to himself or saw evidence of things he didn’t remember doing, he was so scared. 

Ignoring was bliss, not having to face it was heaven. 

Seungmin had no recollection of making himself coffee that morning or going to the company but he blinked and was standing in the hallway holding a cup from home. Felix was by his side, watching TikToks on his phone. He seemingly hadn’t even noticed how absent Seungmin was. Or maybe they had held a full conversation without Seungmin remembering it.

“Felix?”, he asked timidly. 

“Yeah?”, the older answered distractedly. 

What should he say? Seungmin hadn’t thought this through. Sorry, but I don’t remember the past thirty minutes at least? What’s up?

… had they even arrived together?

“What’s on the schedule today?”, he asked instead. 

Felix furrowed his brow, looking up from his phone for the first time. “You okay? Since when don’t you know the schedule by heart?”, he asked, half-teasing, half-worried.

“Didn’t sleep well, didn’t have a chance to look at it”, Seungmin lied. Well, maybe it was the truth. He didn’t know.

“Oh no, I’m sorry. Let’s see, 3Racha want to record today. Let me pull up the schedule, you should be there … fifteen minutes ago”, Felix replied, looking up with wide eyes.

“Damn”, Seungmin cursed. He had never been late before, he hated being late. This was embarrassing. After a quick look at his phone - muted in his pocket - he saw he had five missed calls from Chan and Changbin and about fifty messages from Jisung. “Fuck.”

“Min-ah, are you okay?”, Felix asked, putting his own phone away and mustering Seungmin from head to toe, a hand on Seungmin’s wrist. It was difficult to have a conversation with the dancer without him touching you. Seungmin didn’t mind, it grounded him a bit. 

“Yeah”, he choked out, “yeah, I gotta go. Sorry.”

He turned around and fled towards the elevators that would take him up to the studios.

The hallway seemed to stretch on as Seungmin rushed to the right studio, like it didn’t want him to arrive. His chest felt so heavy from guilt and fear and confusion that it was getting hard to breathe.

Just as he arrived at the right door, a hand on the knob and an apology on his lips, the door swung open to reveal a frazzled Chan. 

“Seungmin”, he sighed, pulling the younger into the studio with him and forcefully closing the door behind them, “there you are. I was about to search for you. Han, text Minho back and tell him he can go practice and that we found our stray puppy.”

Shrinking into himself, Seungmin looked around. Luckily none of the three members looked angry but still he was scared. He hadn’t intended to make them wait. Changbin was sitting at the console, fiddling with the buttons but more out of boredom than with a purpose. Han was sprawled out on the sofa, rapidly tapping on his phone. Chan still stood beside Seungmin, looking him up and down with a frown.

“Are you okay, Min-ah?”, the leader asked. 

Seungmin nodded jerkely. “I’m sorry, hyungs”, he apologized, bowing slightly, “I … I completely forgot. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s alright”, Changbin called, “this is the first time this has happened to you. Knowing you, you are beating yourself up about this more than any of us could - not that we want to. Are you ready?”

“Yeah”, he whispered quietly and brushed past the still concerned Chan to enter the recording booth. 

The lyric sheet was already in position, so he took the few seconds he had to warm up his voice. Then he lifted the headphones to his ears and gave the others thumbs up through the glass wall.

He had practiced his lines often enough to already know them by heart - never mind that he still wasn’t really good at that particular technique. He knew he was doing a bad job from the start. The lack of warm-up and his own thoughts of guilt choked him, making him have to start over and over again.

Lost in the repetition he didn’t even really notice how he was slowly starting to lose himself. He closed his eyes in hopes that helped him hit the note but as he opened them, he was gone. 

Seungmin knew he was standing in the recording booth, he knew what song he was recording. He knew that Chan, Changbin and Han were listening and making notes, fiddling with the control console. He knew all of that - but it was just like he was watching the scene on television. It was like he couldn’t interact with anything surrounding him, like it was removed from him. Maybe a different dimension. It didn’t feel real.

Still, he sang. The words didn’t register in his mind at all. Fuck.

This can’t be happening - not now. The thoughts repeated themselves in his head, louder than the words he sang. Was he still singing?

He needed to record, he needed to make up for his lateness with a good take. He owed it to 3Racha, to the group, to Stay. 

Seungmin heard Chan speak through the speakers. Were the words directed at him? What was he saying? Was he speaking at all?

Everything felt so unreal.

Shit, Seungmin needed to snap himself out of this … episode. He didn’t want to …

Before he could think of anything that would help - nothing before had helped - Chan stood in front of him, taking the headphones off his dongsaeng. When had he come in? Chan’s lips were moving but Seungmin couldn’t seem to hear a word he was saying.

He was just watching. Everything was so foggy, so dream-like. 

Was this a nightmare? Suddenly, his chest felt tight. At least he thought so. Fear didn’t register in his mind. He just didn’t care, didn’t feel, didn’t exist.

Or maybe he was a shooting star. Passing by the earth, a moment of happiness for those who saw but doomed to die soon after, fade into nothingness.

Then he saw Chan wrap his arms around Seungmin’s body. He knew, he knew that he should be able to feel it. There should have been soft and warm pressure against his chest, comforting hands rubbing up and down his spine. He should have been able to smell Chan’s familiar aftershave from where his nose was buried against the leader’s neck. He should have been able to feel the soft rumbling of his hyung’s chest as he spoke. To him, maybe? Or to Changbin and Han? Seungmin should have been able to hear him speak. 

But he didn’t.

That’s when the panic set in. Before he knew what he was doing, he started to struggle against the arms holding him though he didn’t feel them. But even as Chan let go of him, everything was so detached. So removed. So far away. 

“Hyung”, Seungmin rasped, tears choking him up as he heard himself speak, “hyung, nothing feels real.”

Then, for a long time, he didn’t feel anything at all.

The first feeling that came back to Seungmin was coldness. He shivered, trying to get away from it. It moved away. A warmness came to the same place. Was that a hand on his cheek?

Seungmin blinked. Somebody was looking down at him. No, not just somebody. Chan. 

Chan’s hand was stroking his face. 

Seungmin opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

“Don’t try to speak if you can’t. Can you hear me?”, Chan asked then, gently and calmly. His presence was so comforting, like a warm blanket.

Seungmin nodded. He looked around, head still but eyes moving. 

The room was familiar, though the perspective was distorted. No, he realized then, he was just laying down. On the sofa in the recording studio. How had he come to be there? He didn’t know. He couldn’t muster the strength to care.

“Take it slow, baby”, Chan said, “it’s just you, me and Minho.”

Seungmin was allowed to drift for some time. Just exist. 

Slowly things became more noticeable around him. There was coldness on his wrists and feet. He shivered but the coldness stayed. A strange aroma caught his attention. Curry? Spice? Something like that. Soft voices spoke above him and then, as he was finally able to turn his head, Seungmin saw Minho sitting on the floor by his side, conversing quietly with Chan.

“Hyung?”, he whispered, reaching out with his hand before he even knew what he was doing. The coldness fell from his wrist. An ice pack. Minho caught his hand in his and smiled at him.

“Hi, Seungmin-ah”, he said quietly, “take your time. We’ll stay with you.”

“What happened?”, Seungmin rasped, lifting his head up. He was so exhausted. But he felt a bit more connected now.

“We think you dissociated”, Minho said, throwing a glance at Chan, “do you know what that is, Min-ah?”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to stay laying down like this. He tried to push himself up but realized he was too weak to do so. His arms gave up under him and he nearly fell back down. Chan caught him, his grip gentle and lifted him up. Then he settled himself on the sofa, pulling Seungmin into his lap. The leader’s strong arms wrapped around him. Never before had Seungmin felt so safe, so protected.

Minho climbed onto the couch with them, sitting down cross-legged across them and took Seungmin’s hands in his, the grip a bit tighter than normally. It was comforting.

“Basically dissociation means that a person starts to feel disconnected from their surroundings. Unable to feel things or see themselves in third person view, like they see others”, Minho explained, “there are other things that might happen but I’m no expert.”

“You said things didn’t feel real?”, Chan asked. 

Seungmin nodded. “Yeah”, he whispered. His tongue felt a bit too big and too awkward in his mouth and he stumbled over his words, “like Minho-hyung said. I saw myself but I couldn’t hear you or feel anything or … everything felt like I was in a dream. A nightmare. I think I should have been afraid but I wasn’t. I couldn’t feel anything, any emotion, at all.”

“Oh, baby”, Minho said gently, “I’m sorry this happened to you. How do you feel now?”

“Tired. Scared”, Seungmin whispered, “I don’t want that to happen again.”

“Yeah, I know. Dissociation is really scary. But I don’t think it has to happen again. It can be a one time thing”, Chan said, “well, the internet says so. I can understand it’s really scary when it happens the first time but likely it won’t happen again.”

“But …”, Seungmin said, voice trailing off and getting quieter with every word, “this wasn’t the first time.”

“No?”, Minho asked, surprised. Chan tensed behind him, causing Seungmin to tense himself. Chan immediately relaxed again, rubbing Seungmin’s arms to calm him down. It only slightly helped. Seungmin knew he was working himself up but as he went to speak, he burst into tears.

“It happened at that dance practice, when you showed me the moves one on one. It wasn’t like I was there but like I was watching myself dance. But it worked so I didn’t say anything. Then it happened again and again. I’d watch things happen like through a fog or a glass. And other times I’d … that photoshoot two weeks ago? I don’t remember it. At all. When I saw the pictures later I had no recollection of doing that shoot”, Seungmin whispered, breath hitching as he sobbed, “then today, again. That’s why I was late. I opened my eyes and was in the hallway of the company, holding a coffee I don’t remember making, next to Felix. Did I arrive with Felix? I … I asked about the schedule, I couldn’t remember it. That’s when he realized I was late, so I came here. And then during the recording I … I saw you hugging me but I couldn’t feel it. Hyungs, I am so scared.”

As Chan rocked him from side to side and Minho gently played with Seungmin’s fingers, he gradually managed to calm down again. He knew he could trust his hyungs and not being alone in his secrets and his fears was relieving. 

“Min-ah, why didn’t you say?”, Chan asked worriedly, “we would have helped you. This has been going on for so long. How did we not notice?”

“Well”, Minho started, his brows furrowed as he looked down at his phone, “Felix says, that you two talked about the show you watched yesterday? But you don’t remember.”

“No. No, I don’t.” Seungmin’s voice shook. “I need help, hyungs, I need help. Memory loss is so bad. Something is wrong with me and it’s getting worse, I think.”

“You’ll get help”, Chan said, moving Seungmin’s head so he was resting on his shoulder, “I promise, we’ll figure this out. The fact that the memory loss is going hand in hand with what seems to be dissociation probably means that it’s connected. It can be a symptom. Also, the fact that the ice and the strong smell helped you come back from this, also makes it likely you’re just dissociating.” 

He lifted his fingers to air-quote as he said just. Because it wasn’t. It wasn’t just a simple thing.

“Chan will call a manager later to find you a psychiatrist, okay? We’ll see what an expert says but we’ll be with you all the time to help you, okay?”, Minho promised.

Seungmin nodded in thanks. While he was still scared, the prospect of professional help calmed him down somewhat. He was so so grateful to his hyungs. Suddenly, he yawned and had to fight his eyes falling shut against his will. While he was indeed very tired, his curiosity was still bigger. 

“Where are Changbinnie-hyung and Hannie-hyung?”, he asked quietly, “and did the ice and the smell really help? How did you know it would?”

“Half-asleep and still thirsting for knowledge”, Minho teased. Seungmin felt Chan’s chest rumble as he laughed.

“I sent them to get Minho when we realized something was going on with you”, Chan explained, “I didn’t want Han to be scared or possibly have a panic attack when we didn't know what was going on. And yeah, the ice and the smell was Minho’s idea and it really helped. It was a bit unnerving to see you stare up blankly but soon after the ice touched you, you at least started blinking. I am also curious though. How did you know?”

Minho flushed a bit red under the attention. “Well, uh, I didn’t know but I thought it was worth a try. I , uh, well, I saw it happen with Namjoon-hyung when I was one of their back-up dancers. I don’t really remember why but it was just Namjoon-hyung, Suga-hyung and me when Namjoon-hyung went blank - kinda like you did. I was really worried so Suga-hyung explained it to me. Ice helped Namjoon-hyung a lot and well, Suga-hyung always carried around smelling salts for him, apparently. So I figured, since we didn’t have smelling salts, that the instant curry I had in my bag would also help.”

“You brought me back from dissociation with instant curry?”, Seungmin asked incredulously. 

“Hey”, Minho defended himself, lifting his hands, “it helped, didn’t it?”

“Yeah”, Seungmin mumbled begrudgingly and yawned again, closing his eyes and nuzzling closer to Chan. He was already half-asleep when he heard Chan mumble: “Sleep, baby. Hyungs are here, we’ll figure this out together.”

Day 20: "I can handle it."

Masterlist link: Fairy's Full Masterlist Fairy's June of Doom 2024

Notes: I have never dissociated before - so this is just based on what I read. I hope this is okay and doesn't play into wrong stereotypes!

[whump-about-it]

Solid Ground

@whumpril Day 6: Dizziness

CW: vomiting, trauma recovering, dissociation, mentions of kidnap, drugging, memory loss, mentions of shooting.

The room was spinning around Whumpee. Warping and tilting dizzyingly enough to make their stomach spasm with nausea. They wanted to close their eyes against the living kaleidoscope in front of them but they knew that if they did they’d be trapped in the darkness behind them. The inside of their head had never been a particularly pleasant place to be, but it had been especially torturous as of recent events. So they stayed staring ahead of themselves, not even daring to blink until they were forced to by way of someone shining a light directly in their eyes.

Whumpee had forgotten there were other people in the room with them. Well, forgotten may have been the wrong word. They had been hearing talking, even yelling at a few points, but they hadn't registered any of the human noise, tuning it all out in favor of the spinning existence around them and the screaming voices inside of their head. Remembering that they weren't alone oddly settled the voices a little and the kaleidoscope with it. After a few minutes Whumpee was able force themselves to turn their head towards the person who had had been examining them.

Caretaker stood out in blessed focus against the backdrop of the the still spinning room. They must have been on duty because their normally soft knit sweaters and baggy jeans were replaced at the moment with much more professional work scrubs. They still looked back at Whumpee with the same familiar, laughing eyes though, even if their smile was a little sad.

"Hi Whumpee. Are you back with us?"

Whumpee swallowed, a metallic taste in their dry throat, and blinked at Caretaker slowly. They weren't exactly sure they could speak yet, but they didn't want to nod to let Caretaker know they'd understood them. The act of moving their head a fraction of an inch had been dizzying enough to make bile rise in their throat, and they didn't think it would stay there if they tried any more movement. Caretaker seemed to take Whumpee's blinking as a good sign though. Because they smiled again and patted Whumpee's hand.

"Getting there." They said more to themselves than to Whumpee.

"Who did I shoot?" Whumpee asked suddenly, the words slipping out of their mouth in a blank voice before they knew they had thought of them. They couldn't remember having shot anyone, but they knew they had, just before they had ended up here with Caretaker sitting in front of them.

"No one," Caretaker answered quickly "You missed."

"Who?" Whumpee asked again. Caretaker's eyes darted around the room before answering.

"My brother."

Oh, that's right.

Caretaker's brother was Whumpee's boss. Whumpee had been trying to get cleared for field duty again after being kidnapped by Whumper's men. During the shooting test they had tried to imagine the paper targets were Whumper and their goonies, taking all their anger and fear out on them with each shot. But that was when everything had gone down hill.

Whumpee had been drugged the whole time they'd been kidnapped and couldn't remember most of what had happened while they were in captivity. The memories had been coming back fractured and slowly over the past couple of weeks and Whumpee had been trying hard ignore them. Suddenly focusing on the memories, the little fragments of faces and voices that Whumpee could conjure in their head, had caused a sudden onslaught of confusing memory to wash over them. It had been like a tsunami crashing down on them and leaving behind broken debris of memory, suddenly all there and all at once, but not together. The memories of their kidnap had mixed with memories from childhood, teenage years, even seeping into the present. Whumpee didn't know what they had done to cause Caretaker's brother to call out their name, but Whumpee had heard it in Whumper's voice. Of course they had reacted.

The room began to spin faster again, and Caretaker began to sway in and out of focus. Whumpee gasped at the memory of shooting at their boss, and their poor stomach gave out. Bile was rising in their throat again, and before they could control themselves they were vomiting all over the floor.

Caretaker just had time to jump out of the way of the splash zone and pirched themselves on the edge of the bed next to Whumpee rubbing their back soothingly as Whumpee began to uncontrolably sob and shake.

"S-sorry" Whumpee managed between sobs.

"Don't feel bad. Someone's already grabbing a mop."

Whumpee shook their head and resisted the urge to throw up again.

"You're brother."

"Oh. Don't feel bad about that either. You know half of his employee's want to shoot him anyway, my self included most days. Anyway he deserved it. I told him you weren't ready."

Whumpee pulled themselves out of their doubled over position and glared at Caretaker.

"Don't look at me like that." Caretaker retorted "I know you. You bottle things and pretend to be fine until you have the convenience of dealing with them at your own pace, which is never. Sometimes those bottles explode. I warned my brother, but you had him fooled into thinking you were ready."

"I am ready."

Caretaker gave Whumpee a significant look and gestured at floor.

"I'm fine." Whumpee tried to argue even thought there were still tears streaming down their face "I'm just... dizzy."

"We put you on a mild sedative, it could be that. Or, Teammate body slammed you into the ground pretty hard. I was actually checking for concussion when..."

Caretaker trailed off as Whumpee shook their head. Ironically, the room had stopped spinning around them, but the statement still stood.

"Inside my head." They tried to explain. "It's just been dizzying recently. I can't tell the difference between my memories and my nightmares. Even the memories that slip through, they don't tell me anything about what happened. And I shouldn't be reacting like this. The nightmares, paranoia, the vomiting. I've been through shit before, and I wasn't even hurt that bad this time. If I just get back to work, give myself something to distract me, I can get back on solid ground."

Caretaker was silent for a moment, rubbing Whumpee's back and considering their words. After a minute they slipped their arms fully around their friend and pulled them into a tight hug.

"That's not how these things work." They told Whumpee in a low voice. "Every trauma is different, and you've never experience anything like this before. You were kidnapped, and drugged, and have no idea what happened to you. Of course you're scared. Pretending it didn't happen isn't going to make it go away."

Whumpee sat stiffly in Caretaker's arms. They felt clammy and gross. Their skin was crawling and they were shaking like a leaf. They had just gotten their crying under control but they could feel the tears welling up again and a hard lump settling in their throat.

"But..." They whispered frogily "how do I make the world stop spinning?"

"You have to face it." Caretaker told them. Then hugged them tighter when Whumpee let out an involuntary sob. "You don't have to do it alone. There are lots of people who want to help you. Lean on us. We'll be your solid ground."

Whumpee finally relaxed into Caretaker's hug. Dissolving into tears again as they did. They let the tsunami wash over them. Soaking them until they were an embarrassing puddle of raw emotion and fractured memory left sitting in the aftermath. It was terrifying. It was painful. But it was the stillest the world had been in a long time.