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paingoes · 2 months

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Rubies

First Base

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past slavery, guns, dehumanization, broken bones, needles, conditioning, referenced child abuse, kinda ambivalent caretaking?)

“It’ll be okay,” Kitty whispered, “Levon pretends to be a hard-ass, but he’s actually really nice.”

Her voice was so low, Delta thought she must have been talking to herself. She ran her claw in circles over his palm. He’d woken up already clutching her hand; he would not have dared touch her otherwise. While his grip had since relaxed, hers had not.

He’d been lucid for such a short while before they had to go again. Kitty had felt so bad about it. There’d been so little time to explain. She explained the plan. He had already known the plan. She explained who she was. He already knew who she was. She explained he had been sick. He had known that simply from how bad he felt all over — his insides felt like they’d been cooked — but the delirium episode did came as a surprise. He had no memory of it, but when he had finally came to, he did not feel himself in a foreign environment. His surroundings had integrated themselves slowly into his awareness through a state of fever.

The ship was small, without enough seats for everyone who had come. The captain — Iza, he had heard the others say her name — sat at the helm. She was flanked by two others at their own stations. Everyone else was on the floor. Sunny — Apollo? — tossed restlessly in between sleeping and waking. He had not wanted to go out, but he simply couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. His brother(?) Lun(?) laid his head down in their lap, propping up their jacket beneath his neck. The mechanic sat towards the back of the ship, the only person visibly unbothered by what was about to happen.

Levon, Levon, Levon. None of them could keep his name out of their mouth. Kitty had not needed to introduce him to Delta. She knew there was no need. Even in the heart of Empire, they printed his face on t-shirts. He had been the revolution’s darling when he was younger. Now that he was older, he was the revolution. He had lived his entire life in its service. There was no single person Empire hated more.

“It’ll be fine,” Kitty insisted.

The ship pulled into the dock.

The boy in the chair next to Iza let out a low whistle, “Lotta guns.”

It was true. There was a ring of guards posted around the inert ship. All of them were armed. Iza stood up abruptly, throwing her helmet down onto the panel and slamming the ship’s doors open.

“It’s me!” She was furious.

Apollo shot awake, fumbling to put his glasses back on. He started talking before he could even see properly, “That’s not- uh-“

One of the guards entered the ship, putting her hands up in what was meant to be a pacifying motion. Just checking. Her gaze traveled to Delta’s collar. Delta flinched once from Iza’s outburst, again as the guard approached. Her finger slipped flush against the inside of the collar, checking the fit, the stability, the power level. She gave it a light tug to see if it would give; it didn’t. Apparently satisfied, she stepped back. She hopped back out of the ship, offering one hand out to Iza to help her down. Iza ignored her completely.

“So sorry,” Apollo muttered. It took Delta a second to realize he was speaking to him. Kitty guided him to stand, letting him lean against her. It was hard to move with the broken ribs and he kept getting dizzy whenever he stood. She helped him out of the ship. The others poured out soon after.

“Medbay,” A different guard said, “We only need him.”

“He can barely walk,” Kitty protested.

“Only you two, then.”

Apollo frowned, but she waved him away.

“I’ve got it,” Kitty made a little circle with her fingers. O.K. They were escorted away before Apollo could respond.

=================

For the third time, they recast Delta’s arm. It wasn’t that Apollo had done a bad job; just that it could have been better. They put a new splint onto his nose. Kitty was ashamed she had not even realized it was broken. In her defense, it was a bit overshadowed by the myriad of injuries that otherwise marked his body.

“Three of your ribs are broken. Did you know they were broken?” The nurse asked. Her voice was muffled through the mask. Delta nodded mutely.

Kitty hadn’t known. If Apollo had known, he hadn’t mentioned it. And that wasn’t like him.

“Is anything else broken? That you know of?”

Delta shook his head. The nurses went back to their hushed chatter. Kitty’s tail flicked from left to right. Delta wasn’t talking. He’d given the bare minimum response back at house, when he was still coming out of the fever. The only reason she even knew he was lucid was because his eyes had cleared up and because he’d stopped talking total nonsense. He did not give any indication that he was okay. Just that he was present again. Kitty pulled her legs up onto the chair, chittering aimlessly to fill the silence. Delta didn’t mind so long as she did not ask him questions.

=================

The nurse lightly tapped Kitty on the elbow, gesturing for her to follow out into the hallway. She did so unquestioningly. The other nurses followed them out of the room. It took Delta about ten seconds to realize he was completely alone in the room. That…was unusual, right? He did not have enough time to feel true apprehension. The knock came first.

Levon was tall. He had known that. It was a good bit of trivia, a good running joke, but that had not translated cleanly into Delta’s physical understanding of him. It was not adequate preparation. He’d had to duck his head a bit to step through the doorway. The door shut silently behind him.

Delta got off the bed and down onto his knees in an instant. It wasn’t adequate, he realized. He bent forward to press his forehead to the cold tile floor. It was deeper than he could ever remember bowing and it put too much pressure on his still healing ribs. He would have gone lower if he could. It was in surrender, of course. But more than anything else, it was in apology.

He stayed still and unbreathing. He felt the air swishing above him. Levon’s voice came much closer than he had expected.

“I appreciate the gesture, but you should probably keep the IV in.”

Delta slowly raised his head up, rolling back into a kneel. He took in his surroundings. The IV cannula had been yanked out of his arm from how quickly he’d gotten onto the ground. The post wobbled dangerously behind him. And Levon had bent down to Delta’s eye level.

He did not look the same as he did on the T-shirts. His eyes were darker. His hair was not as wild. There was stubble all along his jawline and a pure roughness to his flesh that the photos could not convey. In none of the posters had he ever looked so worried.

“Sit up, please.”

To his absolute awe, Levon extended a hard to him. Delta hesitated, certain he was misinterpreting the gesture. He cautiously offered his unbroken wrist. Levon slid up to grasp his hand instead. He carefully pulled him up to his feet.

Delta pushed himself back onto the bed. Even with help, it was still a lot harder to get up than it was to get down. He sat on the edge of it, resisting the urge to curl up. He kept his hands folded in his lap — as best he could with the cast on.

Levon towered over him. Delta bowed his head, both in respect and for the sake of his own nerve. He could not bring himself to look in his eyes. The shame felt hot and weighted. It was the first time he had ever been around someone he knew would not enable what he had done in Empire’s name. Before, all his shame had been wholly internal. Facing that same disapproval from someone else — someone he was entirely at the mercy of — was terrifying. He knew he deserved it. It did nothing to quell the fear.

“As much as I wish we could have met under different circumstances, I have to put the safety of my people first. I would not have had you siloed off like this otherwise, nor would I have to go through with this line of questioning while you’re still injured. Unfortunately, your friends have put me in a situation where I have to do just that.” He sounded very tired, but his cadence was clear and steady in spite of this.

Delta could feel the gaze on him without needing to look up. He did not know what it was Levon was searching for, but by the end of it he seemed a bit more certain of something.

“Your friends promised you amnesty. They shouldn’t have. It was never within their power to do so. Even if it had been, you did not tell them what you were when the deal was arranged. It’s void.” He paused.

Delta did not outwardly react. Levon’s voice was still conversational, not injecting any threat or anger into it. He glanced up to try and parse Levon’s expression. What he learned was that Levon had been staring straight at his face. He’d caught the glance Delta had intended to be discreet.

“Yes?” Levon asked. It was that which made Delta flinch. He hadn’t meant to challenge him, nor to draw more attention to himself. His voice was still hoarse from where the fever had pushed the blood up and his nerves were even worse. But Levon let the silence hang.

“A.” Delta’s voice caught, “Am I allowed to speak, sir?”

“Please.” Levon nodded. Delta gripped the fabric of the bedsheet tightly, absolutely desperate for any support it could provide.

“I did not expect amnesty, sir. I came to surrender,” Delta whispered.

He had never believed in their promise of mercy. It was ignorant. He did not care to be forgiven. What he had wanted was to be out of Empire — both his mind and his body, unavailable for them to take advantage of or to harvest. That wish had already been granted. In return, he would accept any punishment Levon deigned to give him.

Levon paused to consider this. After a while, he responded, “I would very much like to believe you. So much that I am willing to take you on the honor system. I want you to answer truthfully. Did you come of your own accord? Or were you sent here on assignment?”

Delta realized all at once how he must appear. He was a traitor to the heartland. He had bitten every master he’d ever had. He had lied to them all about who he was and what he had meant to do. He was a snake. He was too sneaky. Why would Galatea have any reason to trust him? How could they have known it was not just another plot?

“I came to surrender, sir.” It was all he could say. “I came alone.“

“Do I have your word?” Levon asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And do I have your word that you do not intend to harm us? That I will not regret letting you inside?”

“Yes, sir.” His eyes watered.

Levon’s expression softened a bit. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, extending it gingerly. Delta stared at it in confusion. He did not grasp its utility at first. He did not understand why Levon had noticed him crying and not immediately punished him for it. Still, he took it gratefully. He wiped away the dried blood and dabbed at the tears that threatened to rehydrate it. Levon was watching him closely.

“…How old are you?” Levon tilted his head to the side.

“Nineteen, sir.” Delta replied. It was only an educated guess. He knew he’d hit eighteen a while back because there had to be new legal paperwork filed. Some time had passed since then.

“And you’ve been active what? Five years, by our count?” Levon raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay.” He nodded, “I’ll have to sort out the particulars, but I will give you my assurance that you won’t be hurt. We can wait until you’re healed before we move forward. I think that would be in your best interest.”

Delta nodded. He played absently with the handkerchief Levon had given him, tracing his fingers along its embroidered edges. It was a lot to process. Too much, really. Levon said he wouldn’t be hurt, at least not yet. Levon wanted him to heal. It was too easy. Delta felt like he was getting away with something. It wasn’t right.

“Again, I’m sorry it had to play out like this,” Levon’s tone lightened considerably, “Appreciate your patience. I probably won’t bother you again until you’re feeling better. Do feel better.”

He left just as abruptly as he’d arrived. Delta was once again alone in the ward. The nurses soon filtered back in, picking up their work as if nothing had happened. If he had not kept the handkerchief, Delta would have thought the whole encounter was just a remnant of the fever.

==========

tags:

@catnykit@indigoviolet311@snakebites-and-ink@vivulapom@scoundrelwithboba@whatwhump@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire @micechomper

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thewhumperinwhite · 6 months

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WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

----

Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

#the winter king's ward #original whump #fantasy whump #royalty whump #broken bones #magical healing #painful healing #guilt #manipulative whumper #brainwashing and manipulation #<-it's not like Being Done in this chapter but thorne is. Feeling Some Cognitive Dissonance and he Doesn't Like It #back injury tw #burns tw #referenced noncon

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sunshiline-writes · 11 months

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A Rose Amidst Thorns #7: Anger Arrives

Oh boy, this chapter is ROUGH. PLEASE HEED WARNINGS THAT I POST BC THIS IS A WILD ONE. -- Miguel finishes his punishment and Solomon stands up to Xavier after seeing what has been made of his ward. CW: Whumper POV, deaf whumpee, defiant whumpee, ableist language, suggestive comments and actions but nothing super sexual actually happens, broken bones, nailed to the wall, removing nails from hands, Xavier being a CREEP, sadistic whumper, intimate whumper, threats, fingerfucking a hand hole (I am so sorry), whumpee is referred to as a kid but is an adult, dissassociation, blink and you miss it mention of disordered eating, Xavier doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself, uhhhh I think that's it.. but like... let me know if I missed anything -- Previous | Masterlist | Next

Xavier was not one to stay angry for very long. He released his anger once and it was done. This time however, he’d been holding onto the anger for a long time. Three years against Miguel, against Henrietta. It festered and bubbled and destroyed him. Now he would destroy them from the bottom of their souls, break them up, and then put them back together again. Xavier loved putting people back together. Molding them, shaping them. Humans were so malleable once they were broken down to their core functions.

Lately it seemed though, that Miguel was constantly needing to be broken down, shapened, and broken down again. Miguel was someone who took a little more finesse than what he was used to. Perhaps it was because he started young. Or perhaps it was because Miguel was just that stubborn. Whatever the case, it made Xavier’s blood boil.

When he made his way back into the barn, the anger was still there. Xavier walked directly up to the boy and sighed, taking in the sight. Blood ran down his arms, dripping from his elbows. His white undershirt was soaked in blood and covered in dirt. Every muscle in his body was wound tightly. He was still on the tips of his toes, trying not to hang from the nails in his hands, his calves shaking. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. It was his hands though, they looked the worst. His right one, the one he had broken, was swollen, purple and misshapen. It was so swollen he almost couldn’t see where the nail had been embedded in the middle of his hand. Xavier smiled to himself, admitting that he admired his handiwork. Miguel’s head rested on the harsh wood, the bridle still in his mouth, teeth clenched down on it. A good distraction, Xavier assumed, from the pain of everywhere else.

Slowly, he ran a hand over the bit, halfway in his mouth, pressing a finger against his tongue, this caused Miguel to open his eyes, breathing hitching. His eyes were cloudy with pain. Xavier pressed down harder on Miguel's tongue, just to see him squirm before retreating his hand. Miguel dipped his head low, staring at his boots.

Xavier watched him. An old memory of when he first met the boy flashed in his mind. Scared and hiding behind his father, having to be dragged away kicking and screaming from his family. It didn’t matter. Fighting never got him anywhere. Another memory of the boy holding the gun, pointed straight at him. Xavier wasn’t afraid then, but the anger flashed hot in his stomach now. The kid had always been a pain.

Reaching out, Xavier wrapped a hand around Miguel's throat, forcing Miguel's head up, grinning from ear to ear. The boy looked up at him. He was met not with pain or even a blank expression like Xavier had originally suspected. Instead he was met with an icy glare. A smile tugged at the corner of Xavier’s lips.

“Do you hate me Miguel?” he asked, enunciating, speaking slowly so he could read.

Miguel’s glare faded and he gritted his teeth on the metal bit in his mouth, the sound vibrating through the boy's throat and Xavier laughed. Pressing his head against Miguels forehead. The boy winced as he pressed his head farther into the wall behind him trying to get away. But he couldn’t get away. There was nowhere to go. His family was gone and no one wanted a defective person working for them. Xavier didn’t want him at first. But after the first time that the boy pointed a gun at him, Xavier knew that breaking him would be a fight well earned. It had been fun and interesting to see what broke the boy down, slowly, bit by bit. Sometimes it was successful, other times less so.

This was one of those times that it was a strange mix of the two. Xavier gave Miguels throat a little squeeze. “I asked a question..” he said, stepping back slightly.

Miguel nodded his head slightly, movement restricted by the bridle.

“Oh Miguel.. You don’t have to lie. I saw the way you looked at me. You don’t hate me, you fear me.” Miguel’s eyes were wide, tears starting to stream down his face. “I like you like this. Afraid, in pain, you’re so much less of a problem like this,” a choked sob came from the boy beneath him. Miguel shook his head and closed his eyes. Xavier could hear the way Miguel’s teeth grinded against the metal in his mouth. His grin widened. It was like hearing a real horse chew on the bit. The thought amused him.

Xavier squeezed again, a choking sound came from the boy but he still didn’t open his eyes. Stubborn mule. His hand retreated from his throat and instead went to his back pocket where the bandana hung loosely. He took it out. It was annoying how much he fought him. Fought what was about to happen, as if he could stop it. Well, if he wasn’t going to open his eyes to listen to him, he didn’t need them right now anyway. Xavier had thought about it before, permanently blinding Miguel, but always decided against it. There was no use in keeping around a blind and deaf person, not unless they wanted what was an equivalent to a corpse stumbling around. The blindfold usually did the job anyway.

Instead his palm connected with Miguel’s face, the slap loud but not nearly enough to make a lasting mark. However, it was enough for Miguel to open his eyes with a groan as he slipped and hung by the nails in his hands for a second. Another whimper escaped him and Xavier grinned.

“If you won’t look at me, if you won’t listen, I think you deserve the blindfold,” he stated simply. Dangling the blindfold in front of Miguels face, who was now breathing more heavily than before and shaking harder. He could almost see how he normally responded, the index and middle finger pressing onto the thumb. The simple ‘no’ sign. It was the first sign he ever learned. The first word he saw Miguel speak to his parents. “Shhhh,” he cooed, starting to wrap the black bandana around his eyes, tighter than he assumed was comfortable, and tied it around the back of his head, the knot tangling in his hair. It wasn’t about his comfort anyway, he ignored the way his stomach dropped at the way Miguel whimpered and shifted his stance slightly. Scared and unable to guage his surroundings. It was his favorite punishment for Miguel at times. It happened less often now. But he always loved the way his body tensed and he strained to understand what was happening to him. The stress of not knowing what was happening, it was exhausting to Miguel. Made his light go out faster. It was why it was a favorite of Xaviers. It was also the fact that Miguel just looked so good blindfolded and shaking like this. He trailed his fingers up Miguels Adams apple, pressing into the soft flesh under his jaw. Xavier dragged his fingers up to the side of his jaw and traced the outline of it. Cupping the boy's cheek, he kissed his forehead again. Sighing softly. “I’ll take you down now. Just a few more things..” he whispered, he knew that the boy could not hear him, couldn’t even tell that he was talking, but sometimes talking outloud helped with the thought process. Xavier left for a moment to grab the hammer. He thought for a moment about hitting his broken hand again with it, but at the look of it, it did not need to be more broken. It would be hard enough dealing with it the way it was.

It was hard to find where the nail had gone in, the hand was so swollen. But he found the area quickly and with an amount of gentleness that surprised himself, he used the claw of the hammer to pry the nail out. Miguel screamed as the nail left his hand and it was left dangling by the cuff Xavier had put on earlier. The boy groaned and shuddered lightly as he used the claw to pull the nail from his other hand. Then he let the boy hang from the cuffs.

Miguel was sobbing, barely holding himself up, head bowed. Xavier stared at him, just watching for a moment. How sad it was, that the boy had been reduced to this sobbing, whimpering thing. When he had first arrived at the ranch, he was all fire and all bite. Now he was a good little dog, hanging by broken hands. He took the boy down from the nails on the wall, positioning him on the floor.

“Good, good, you’re so good for me Miguel,” he cooed gently, running a hand in his hair as the man beneath him withered on the ground. He took a deep breath and pressed his forehead against Miguels, kissing the tip of his nose. Pulling back, smiling at the thing below him. That is, until he was hit with a sudden wetness on his cheek. Did he just.. spit on him?

“What the fuck?” He wiped the wetness off his cheek, looking down at the smiling expression on Miguel. “You never learn do you? Never. Fucking. Learn.” Every word was punctuated by Xavier forcing his hands above his head, straddling him, and then panting. “I give you clothes, shelter, a job. I make you fucking useful, and you still never learn. You’ll never learn. I should really just kill you. It would be a load off my mind. But..” one of his hands that held onto Miguels wrists, let it go, his other hand still held firm. With his free hand, he pressed a finger into the hole in the hand that wasn’t broken. The one that he could still hurt. “Does this hurt Miguel?” Miguel opened his mouth and the bit was pressed further into his mouth, making him choke. Xavier pressed his finger deeper in and finally, he heard what he wanted to hear as Miguel screamed again, choking on air. Coughing and sputtering on his own spit. Xavier pressed harder into the wound, slick with blood, now he was so deep into his hand that he couldn’t see his first knuckle. Still he pressed harder and further, until he could feel the dirt on the other side of his hand and he stopped when his second knuckle disappeared into the wound. He marveled that Miguel was even still awake. But he was kicking and screaming under him. Miguels knee slammed into Xavier’s back slightly and that only made Xavier angrier. His finger curled into the wound and he pulled slightly, feeling bone and tendons shift. There was a certain giddiness that he felt over it. Miguels hand clenched and he turned his face, screaming again.

The boy would not stop screaming. That didn’t bother Xavier, not really, it was what he wanted. There was a point after Xavier pulled his finger back and then pushed back in that Miguel stopped screaming. Instead opting to groan and sob quietly. Yes.. yes he was getting it now. The silence that Xavier often asked for. He was so close to being good again for him. He pulled his finger out so only the tip of it rested against the wound, then plunged it back in, curling it again.

“This is different from what I usually do. I think the difference is welcome though,” he said with a laugh. Then he continued to finger the wound, still not satisfied as the boy eventually stopped groaning and the only sound that came from him were quiet whimpers. Too weak to even try to fight back. Even Xavier was panting by the time he even thought about retracting his finger. He curled and pulled at the wound, widening the hole slightly, one last time before he looked up.

“What are you.. doing?” Solomon asked, voice tense, expression hard.

“Having a little fun,” Xavier responded cooly, despite the cold shiver that went down his spine. The anger that radiated off Solomon could be felt throughout the barn. It was thick in the air.

“You’re done now,” Solomon said, it was not a request. He was telling him that he was done.

“I am now?”

“Yes, you are. Uncuff him, take that bridle off and get your damn finger out of his wound. You’re going to cause an infection.”

Xavier sat there for a moment longer before licking his lips. He did follow the orders from Solomon though, retracting the finger and uncuffing the boy. Then he removed the blindfold and the horse bit. The boy was panting under him, eyes closed still and face stained with tears. Xavier gently stroked his face, tapping his eyelid gently.

When Miguel opened his eyes, his expression was different. Good that was exactly what he wanted. His eyes were full of pain and of fear. “Good. You did good,” and when Xavier kissed his forehead one more time, Miguel did not flinch. Then he stood up, using the bandana that was damp with tears to wipe the blood from his hands. “All yours Solomon,” he said to the man with a smirk.

*** Solomon was not an angry man. Not usually. But at the moment, it wouldn’t take much for him to snap Xavier’s neck in two. Especially after that smirk. It was the smirk that made him see red. He clenched his fists, clenched his teeth and waited for Xavier to pass him and leave the barn before he rushed to Miguel.

Gently he picked up the boys torso and held the limp body close. “You’re okay Miguel. You’re okay. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered softly, taking the boy's hands, covered in blood and grime. He looked them over. Purple, red, swollen. It was awful. He’d seen worse, but his right hand was something that he could never repair wholly. There was a chance that Miguel would lose all feeling in that hand alone. His left hand had a hole through it that would have “Oh god,” he whispered. Solomon shook his head and gently looked at the boy's face, he seemed to be staring far away. Not even registering Solomon's appearance, or the fact that Xavier had left.

“Miguel, look at me. You have to look at me,” he said to him, gently cupping his cheek and moving his face so that he looked at him. If Solomon didn’t know better, he would have guessed that the boy was dead. But he was still breathing. He blinked at him slowly and tears came to his eyes again. “There you are. You’re safe. You’re safe..”

Then Miguel was sobbing, curling into Solomon's chest, hands unmoving. He buried his face into Solomon's shirt, in the space between his shoulder and chest. “Shhh.. Shhh,” he begged quietly, one hand holding Miguel's head for support. Miguel pulled his face away, eyes glazed with pain. Hands twitching. “No no… don’t try to move them. I have to carry you now okay?” Solomon told him, the hand on the back of his head slid to his back, and his other arm cradling Miguel's knees. Then he lifted, staggering to his feet.

Miguel was surprisingly light and Solomon made a mental note that after he gave the morphine, he’d make Miguel eat something. Miguel cried out when his hands shifted onto his stomach, curling tighter. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” As he walked to the house, Solomon thought of Henrietta. He wanted to blame her. It would be so easy too. But blame never did anyone any good. The only blame that was deserved was Xaviers. He was the one that hurt them, he was the one that threatened them all into compliance, hurt them when they didn’t abide. It was all his fault. Every single piece of this was his fault. Solomon glanced down at Miguel who’s eyes were closed, his body was trembling.

Miguel was going to need a splint, antibiotics, pain control.. There was so much that Miguel needed right now. Solomon couldn’t possibly do everything all at once. Or maybe he could. If he could get the morphine at just the right dose to let him fall asleep… Yes that was what he would start with. The morphine.

Solomon walked up the steps of the house, walking through the open door. Then he immediately took Miguel to his room. Solomon’s room was small, only a bed, dresser and bed stand was in it. He never saw a reason to add anything else. He laid Miguel into the bed, letting Miguel curl in on himself for the moment. While Miguel made himself comfortable, Solomon grabbed his medical bag under the bed. Shuffling through it for a moment, he grabbed the morphine bottle and the needle he needed. He filled it to what he thought was sufficient enough, and he didn’t tell Miguel when he injected the needle into his shoulder. He just did so, stroking his hair until Miguel's breathing evened out and he stopped trembling.

“Will he be okay?” came the voice from the doorway as Solomon manuevered Miguel to lay on his back as gently as possible.

“Leave,” Solomon said, gently taking Miguel’s hands in his. “Now.”

“You’re in a mood right now so I'll let that go..” Xavier said, leaning against the doorway. “It was a simple question.” “No. He is not okay. You took his hands,” Solomon said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. From Xavier’s smirk, he wasn’t doing a very good job at that.

“So?”

“So, he can’t..” Solomon almost said communicate but that wouldn’t prove anything to Xavier. In fact, Xavier would probably laugh at that. Solomon could hear the snarky comment about how Miguel didn’t talk anyway. He didn’t need to communicate to work. All things he’d said before. So instead he tried a different route, “he can’t work. You destroyed his hands and he can’t work for the foreseeable future. He can’t grab the saddles or the leads for the horses. Let alone carry things with these hands for months at the very least.” As he spoke, Solomon cleaned out the wounds, disinfecting them with care so he didn’t cause so much pain as to wake the sleeping figure on the bed. “You put him out of commission as your saddle boy,” Solomon finished. Glancing up at Xavier. Xavier seemed to be contemplating his words for a moment, expression pensive, before it warped into a grin. “He has other uses.”

“No,” came the automatic reply.

Xavier let out a snort. “Get your mind out of the mud Solomon. I was going to suggest simple house work.”

“You’re disgusting,” Solomon said, returning his attention to Miguel’s hand as he set up the splint. Every touch of the boy's right hand made Miguel whimper and groan in his sleep. Pain shot through Solomon's chest and he shoved it down. He could deal with that later. He could try and understand this later. For now he had to focus on the here and now. Like right now, there was a new tension in the room. Xavier pushed himself from leaning against the doorframe. “Watch your words Solomon. I never had to hurt you before, don’t give me a reason to do so now. I know plenty of ways to hurt you without rendering you unable to do your job.”

Solomon finished the splint, gently placing Miguel’s hand down on the bed. Then he stood from his chair and stood up looking Xavier in the eye. “Here is what is going to happen. I don’t want you or Jesse touching him until I say. He needs to heal and if you or Jesse slow down that progress I will do unspeakable things. I am a doctor but I will not hesitate to use my knowledge to cause pain, instead of relieving it,” he watched Xaviers blank expression shift slightly, “do you understand me Xavier?”

The silence felt like it was eating him inside, but he did not falter before Xavier smiled again. “Ah, so you didn’t lose that backbone I admired so much back in the day.”

“Do you understand me Xavier?”

Xavier waved his hand in a dismissive fashion and glanced back at Miguel on the bed. “Yeah yeah. I understand you. No touching until he’s all healed up right?”

“Correct.”

“Understood doctor.” Xavier said with a chuckle, “he’ll have to make up for all the work he missed later. But it’ll never get this bad again. He took the punishment well and I’m sure you and Etta will make up for it too, yes?”

Solomon thought for a moment before nodding. “Yes. We can do that.”

“Good, good. Very good Solomon. I’ll let you continue your work then,” Xavier grabbed one of Solomon's braids and gave it a playful tug. It made Solomon's skin crawl. Like he had just touched a part of his soul. Which he technically did, but.. Solomon tried hard not to think about it. Xavier grinned, letting go of his hair, turning around and leaving.

Solomon collapsed into the chair next to the bed.

“I’m so sorry Miguel. I’ll get you out of here soon. I promise,” he said to the sleeping figure, rubbing a thumb along Miguel's forearm.

This time, this time he meant it.

This would be a promise that he was going to keep. Even if it killed him. Even if he had to sacrifice everything. Miguel and Henrietta deserved better than this. They deserved freedom. Solomon was going to do everything in his power to get them there. He just had to be patient and not let the anger in.

But the anger was already here. No, he just had to control it now.

He could do that.

Solomon had to do that.

For them. __

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paradoxolotl · 5 months

Text

I love seeing my bones. Love seeing the three little islands in my wrist that should be one. Love learning the pain is from them healing perfectly in every way but together. Bonus information discovered during the x-ray on my arm

Good news is that my arm is not broken as originally thought

Bad news is that it still fucking hurts like a break

#bones #xray #broken bones referenced

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whumpitisthen · 10 months

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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

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evilwriter37 · 47 minutes

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HTTYD Whump Week Day 6

Character: Fishlegs

Rated: mature

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, broken bones, blood, implied/referenced torture

Relationships: Fishlegs & Snotlout, Fishlegs & Meatlug, Fishlegs & Astrid, Fishlegs & Hiccup

Word Count: 2,482

Summary: Thor Bonecrusher tortures Snotlout and Fishlegs is left to deal with the aftermath.

#httyd whump week #fishlegs ingerman #graphic depictions of violence #broken bones #blood #implied/referenced torture #whump #angst #thor bonecrusher #the return of thor bonecrusher #httyd #httyd rtte #rtte #how to train your dragon #race to the edge #fanfiction #writing

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ratking-roleplays · 1 year

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"I can't do this-" Whumpee's voice breaks as they sob, clutching their own battered form. "Please- please, I can't-" Their entire body aches, all the broken fingers and bruised ribs blending together. There is blood on the ground, but they're not sure where it's from.

"Oh, honey..." Whumper smiled with mock sympathy, leaning the bloodied crowbar against the wall. "You can. And you will. You make such a pretty pet dear, and you're so resilient." They praised, kneeling on the concrete beside their beloved Whumpee. "You've done it before, and you can do it again, sweetheart." They cupped Whumpee's tear-soaked cheek and rubbed their thumb against the bruised skin, not mistaking how much their captive leaned into the soft touch.

"It hurts..." Whumpee whispered, letting their eyes falls shut under the guise of safety. "Please."

"I know," Whumpee smiled softly. "I know, dear. But you're taking it so well." They pushed down on the dark bruise, feeling Whumpee's breath hitch as they hiccuped a sob.

"I don't wanna-" The captive mumbled, whimpering as Whumper pulled them closer, cradled their bruised body. "Please, Whumper-"

"Shh..." They stroked Whumpee's hair, shushing them affectionately. "It's over, honey, for tonight. You did so well my love. I can't wait to see what pretty sounds you'll make for me tomorrow."

#whump #whump drabble #creepy caretaking #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #broken bones #finegr whump mention #hand whump mention #blood mention #praise #begging #beatings #referenced torture #hehe

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actress4him · 11 months

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Whumptober 2023 - Day 22 - Modern Brumaria

This is probably the future of the Soldier Boy AU, or any other universe with gang!Kamaria. Also it's much longer than my other Whumptober fills because I'd already been working on it before Whumptober. Bruno belongs to Izzy and is used with her blessing!

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

Masterlist

No. 22: Vehicular Accident

Contains: lady whump, broken bones, dislocation, mild gore, head injury, referenced panic attack, referenced trauma, hospital mention, kidnapping mention, delirium, whipping mention, romance

This day has completely sucked. Well, it started out normally enough, but then she’d been triggered in the grocery store of all places when she saw a bald white man who reminded her of Roderick. And trying to hold the panic inside because she was in public just made the fallout ten times worse when she finally gave in. Always does, as Bruno likes to point out. Never stops her, though, she’s too stubborn for her own good - another bit of Bruno wisdom that he needs to turn on himself.

He and Shadi have tried their best to make the rest of the afternoon not suck, they really have. But come evening, Kamaria is still feeling off. She needs air. She needs to just not think for a while, which is what she tells her husband as she slips into her leather jacket and boots and straps her knife to her hip.

“Be careful, love.” He kisses her forehead, then her cheek, concern etched into his handsome features. “And call if you need anything.”

“I will.” She’s not sure who looks more pitiful, Bruno or Shadi, as they watch her reach for the door. She gives one a smile and one a scratch behind the ear, then heads to the garage.

The rumble of her bike underneath her automatically eases a little of the tension in her shoulders. Driving it far too fast, zipping around curves and past cars with the landscape flying by in too much of a blur to decipher, is even better. All of her concentration has to go into handling the bike. She doesn’t have any time to think about anything else.

Once she’s way out of town and her mind isn’t so much of a swirling mess, she slows down and sits up straighter, raising her visor so that the wind can hit her skin. It’s nearing dark, and the roads out here are practically empty. Her thoughts slowly move back toward the grocery store, to Roderick and the feeling of being caught doing something she shouldn’t be that had overwhelmed her in that moment, but it doesn’t bring the same buzzing sensation beneath her skin as earlier.

What would the real Roderick actually think, if he could see her living this life, going out and buying groceries whenever she needs them instead of living off of stolen goods, peaceful and happy with a husband and two dogs and a house of their own and absolutely no one to punish them for their mistakes?

He’d hate it, that’s for sure. But he’s not around anymore, so what he thinks doesn’t matter.

She’s getting closer to being ready to go back home, but before she’s made up her mind to actually turn around, a rumble of thunder sounds above the motorcycle‘s engine. Kamaria glances up at the sky. While she was lost in thought, dark clouds had rolled in, looming heavily overhead.

Guess that’s my cue.

Checking for oncoming traffic, she U-turns and starts back toward home, picking up her speed just a bit. Fat drops of rain plop loudly onto her helmet. Within seconds, they’ve turned smaller and more and more frequent, until she’s being pelted in the face and has to use one hand to slam her visor back shut. The road is already soaked, so she keeps her pace around the speed limit.

A few minutes into the trip, headlights are reflecting in her mirrors. They’re too bright to see what kind of car it is, but whoever’s driving is clearly impatient, coming up close behind her and hovering. Kamaria just rolls her eyes and resists the urge to slow down even more. There’s no one else anywhere around, just the two of them, the wet road, and the trees, so it’s not like they can’t pass her if they’re that desperate.

Which they do, though not before tailing her long enough to make sure she understands their aggravation. Engine revving, the car pulls into the oncoming lane and comes flying by. She doesn’t even have time to react to slow down and let them get back into the lane. Just before they’ve fully passed her, they swerve back over, clipping the front of her bike with their back bumper.

Her front wheel immediately dives to the side. She jerks the handlebars hard back into place, but there’s not enough traction on the slippery road. In the blink of an eye she’s spinning out, careening toward the edge of the road and the trees.

The motorcycle tips as it reaches the grass. Her leg hits the ground first, pinned underneath the body of the bike, followed swiftly by the rest of her, head rattling inside her helmet as it slams into the pavement. That’s not the end of it, though. The bike is falling, dragging her with it, off the side of the road and down the steep embankment. It slams into a tree and she finally tumbles free from it, but by then it’s too late. She can’t stop. She’s rolling, violently, hitting trees, flipping, and rolling some more, everything a blur of brown and green and pain. Somewhere along the way she loses her helmet.

By the time she comes to a stop, she’s lost consciousness, as well.

…

It’s unclear how much time has passed when she wakes. She’s barely even aware that she was unconscious at all, only that she opens her eyes to a dark canopy of trees overhead and rain dripping in her face. Wincing and blinking it away, she tries to turn her head to the side and is met with blinding pain shooting streaks of lightning through her vision.

It takes a moment before she can see straight and breathe again. Moving very, very slowly this time, she cranes her neck to look back up the hill toward the road…the road that isn’t in sight at all. She fell a long way. She can’t see her bike, either, so she can only hope that it’s somewhere up top, still visible to passersby.

Coaxing the arm that hurts the least into motion, she fumbles for her pocket. Empty. No phone, of course, that would make this far too easy.

Okay, she needs to take stock of her body. Obviously her head is in bad shape, she probably hit it on a tree after losing her helmet. With the same hand, she reaches up and gently prods a wet, sticky patch on the back of her skull, gritting her teeth at the pain that responds.

The arm she’s using is in a familiar bit of pain, itself, though it takes more thought than it should to pinpoint why. Dislocated shoulder. Of course, that was to be expected. Her shoulders have been dislocated so many times in her life that it takes very little to do it again. The other arm is worse, though, it feels broken. With a bit of support from the dislocated left arm, she picks up the right so that she can see it, holding her breath against the pain.

Oh. Yep, that’s definitely broken. In a bloody, something is sticking out through her jacket sleeve kind of way. Right. She carefully sets it back down. There’s nothing she can do about it right now.

Her left hip hurts, too, where she landed on it when the bike tipped, but she doesn’t bother trying to move it or look at it. As far as she can tell, those few things are the worst. Everything else on her hurts, but it feels like scrapes and bruises, not broken bones.

It’s been a really long time since she was in this amount of pain. She isn’t used to it anymore. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? Not when she’s stuck in the bottom of a gulley with no phone and no one who knows where to find her. She highly doubts that the car stuck around to call for help. She needs to pull herself out of this situation, just like the old days, which means she’s going to have to embrace the pain again.

Slowly, though. This is one of the worst head injuries she’s ever had, and if she gets too eager she’ll just knock herself back out.

Inch by inch, Kamaria pushes herself up onto her left hand and the unbroken part of her right arm, stopping to breathe through her teeth and let the forest swirl around her after every movement. With one last heave, she’s sitting upright, clutching the sides of her head and squeezing her eyes shut.

Halfway there. Now she just needs to stand.

Her right leg seems to be in fairly decent shape - minus the long, bloody scrape she can now see on her thigh that tore right through her jeans - so she puts most of her weight onto it. She’s trying to move slowly, but it’s leaving her in awkward positions and she keeps almost losing her balance. Part of her wants to give up and collapse. Somehow, though, with the support of a nearby tree, she fights through the dizziness and pain and makes it to her feet.

It’s a really, really long way up to the road.

Her first step onto her left leg is nearly her only step. Fire shoots through her hip, she instinctively jerks in response, and her vision fills with lightning again. But she manages to fall into the tree trunk and stay upright, clinging desperately and gritting her teeth until the worst of it passes.

She has to do this. No one is coming to help her. Not because there’s no one who cares, not anymore, but Bruno won’t have any idea where to find her once he realizes that something is wrong. It’s all up to her.

With that in mind, she pushes onward, keeping her weight off a hip that’s likely broken as much as she can, and grabbing onto branches and trunks whenever they’re available to pull herself along. They aren’t available nearly as often as she needs.

But she’s dealt with worse than this before, right? She can’t think of any specific examples at the moment, but that’s probably just the concussion messing with her. There was the stabbing incident. That didn’t involve broken bones or head injuries, but it did involve a lot of blood loss and trying to get back to base without passing out. She survived that, she can survive this, too. She has to. Back then, all the incentive she had for making it was continuing her path of revenge. Now she has a husband, a home, a real life and someone who loves her and needs her as much as she does him. She can’t let him down.

Each step is agony. Her vision cuts in and out, her whole body throbbing. She has no idea how far she’s actually made it, only that it seems like the road should be much, much closer by now than it actually is. It doesn’t look like it’s gotten any closer at all. Maybe that’s just the rain pouring down her face messing with her perception, though.

She takes another step, reaches for a branch hanging just in front of her. It’s farther than it looks, though. Her fingers just brush the leaves as her foot slips on the mud and wet brush beneath her, and suddenly she’s falling.

She feels every bit of pain when her body hits the ground, but she’s unconscious before she has the chance to scream.

…

She’s been gone too long.

Bruno tries to give her the space she needs on days like this, he really does, which is why he didn’t protest her going out on her own or start worrying too much when the rain began. Even when the rain kept pouring and there was still no sign of her, he reasoned that she must have found someplace to stop and wait it out.

But she didn’t call. Didn’t text. And when he finally gave in and texted her, checking in just to make sure she was alright, she didn’t answer. Never even opened the text, in fact.

Which would make sense if she had given up on waiting out the rain and happened to be riding at the time. But she still didn’t come home.

Bruno looks over at Dante, who’s watching him pace the house with growing concern, and punches her name on his phone screen. There’s silence in the speaker for a couple of seconds, then the generic voicemail message that Kamaria never bothers to change drones to life.

He pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it. Her phone is off. Why would her phone be off? Even when they need alone time, they always keep themselves available, knowing their spouse will respect their needs unless it’s an emergency. It doesn’t make sense for her to have turned her phone off.

Something is wrong.

Without delaying any further, Bruno snatches his jacket from the closet and goes to his own motorcycle in the garage. He has no idea where Kamaria went on her ride. Just from their house there are two choices of directions to go, and from there it branches off into infinite possibilities.

But he doesn’t care. He’s going to find her.

…

Kamaria drifts in and out of consciousness. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she needs to get up and move, but she can’t really remember why. Everything hurts. She doesn’t want to move, she just wants to keep lying here until maybe the pain gets a little more bearable.

So she lets herself burrow back into the darkness. When she wakes again, she’s struck with a sudden sense of urgency. She can’t just lie here. She has to get up, her father will be waiting on her to return. He doesn’t care about missions gone wrong, he just cares about obeying orders to perfection, and she’s already late. She’ll get whipped for this. Ten lashes for each hour she was missing. How many hours has it already been? She has to get up, she has to make it back.

She tries to move, and passes out in a wave of pain through her skull.

The next time that she finds herself staring up at the canopy of trees, she has no idea where she is or how she got there. She’s wet, and she hurts. Must have been Roderick again. He probably beat and waterboarded her. She can’t remember what it was she did wrong this time, but chances are it doesn’t matter, anyway. Their ideas of punishable offenses are usually things she can’t avoid no matter how hard she tries.

Her last thought before losing consciousness again is, I want Bruno.

…

As he rides, Bruno calls the local hospital and police station, just in case. No one has seen or heard anything about a black woman with green eyes and a large scar across her face named Kamaria Stenberg.

He goes from fretting that she may have gotten into a wreck to wondering if somehow she’s been taken again. Kane shouldn’t have any way to get to her, right? And none of his cronies should have a reason to want to take her, they were just following orders the first time. Then again, maybe one of them is holding a grudge, or enjoyed having her in their clutches a little too much. Or maybe it’s someone from her old life, animosity among gang members dies hard and there were plenty of people back then that wanted to get their hands on her. Yeah, they’ve moved states to get away from all of that, but that doesn’t mean anything. If someone really wanted to track her down, they could.

He’s sick to his stomach, thinking of all the possibilities as he forges on through the pounding rain. It’s been hours. Her phone is still going straight to voicemail. The two-lane stretch of road he’s currently riding is one he knows she frequents, but he’s gone all the way down it without any more sign of her than any other street he’s been on. He turns at the end, riding around a few more blocks with his heart in his throat before heading back up that same road, back toward town.

There’s a skidmark on this side. He’d noticed it out of the corner of his eye coming past the first time, but it’s not like they’re uncommon. This time he pays more attention, though, slowing down as he reaches it. It, because there’s only one. Not two, like a car, but one single mark. Like from a motorcycle.

Bruno pulls over quickly, punching the button for his hazard lights, and tugs off his helmet as he climbs off the bike. Running over to the mark, he follows its trajectory with his eyes first, then his feet. It’s probably nothing. He’s trying not to get his hopes up and also fighting back dread at the same time.

But then he stands with the toes of his boots hanging off the edge of the pavement and looks down the embankment, and he sees the large rivet that something left behind as it skidded through the mud. He sees bark missing off the bottom of a large tree trunk, like something smashed into it at top speed.

He’s moving again almost before his mind has caught on, slipping and sliding to the tree line. He wants it to be her as desperately as he wishes that it’s not. Then he sees it, just a couple of yards past the first smashed tree - a motorcycle, lying on its side. He doesn’t have to see it up close to know it’s hers. But he goes over anyway, as fast as the uneven terrain will let him, eyes darting around the area.

She’s not there. It’s her bike, like he knew it was, and it’s scratched and dented from its fall, but there’s no Kamaria to be seen. No sign that she was ever even there.

Could she have gotten up, walked away from a crash like this? But then he would have passed her on the way somewhere, right? And he’s already confirmed she hasn’t been to the hospital.

Or maybe his second fear was correct. Maybe a wreck was just the start of it, just the method someone used to grab her, and that’s why she’s not here now.

Fingers buried in his hair and chest heaving, he takes a few steps back and looks around wildly. “Kamaria!” His voice echoes through the trees, down into the hollow below. “Kamaria!”

…

Someone’s calling her name. It must be her mom. She’s really, really tired, she must have stayed out too late again, playing in the creek in the woods behind their house. She didn’t mean to make her mom worry.

“Coming, Mama,” she mumbles, trying to find the energy to get up. Her head hurts really bad. She doesn’t remember why. Mama will make it better, though, she always does. She’ll probably give her some of the pink medicine that’s supposed to taste like cotton candy, and plenty of kisses.

Kamaria is about to fall back asleep, thinking of her mom’s kisses, when another noise jolts her back awake. Leaves are crunching and branches shaking somewhere above her, like someone or something is sliding down the hill toward her. Automatically her hand moves to grope for a knife at her hip, but comes away empty. She tries the other side - nothing there, either. Maybe there’s one in her boot, but she can’t make her body bend to check. Why is she out on a mission without all of her knives? If she was stupid enough to lose them all, and even her gun, then she deserves for whoever or whatever this is to get her.

“Kamaria? Kamaria!”

She still doesn’t know who it is until his face appears above her, fear carved into his handsome features. “Bruno,” she breathes, a smile spreading across her face. “What’re…you doing…here?”

“Looking for you.” His hands cup her cheeks, and wow, they’re so warm. He needs to keep doing that. She didn’t know how cold her face was before now. “You’re gonna be okay now. I’m gonna get you help.”

She hums a little as he pulls his phone from his pocket and punches buttons with his thumb. “Better not…let my mom see you. She says…she says ‘m not allowed t’ have…t’ have a boyfriend. ‘Til I’m thirty.”

He holds the phone up to his ear, looking down at her with a strange look on his face that she doesn’t quite get. “Wait until she hears I married you.”

He starts talking to someone on the phone and it’s a lot for her to follow, so she just stares up at the trees and enjoys the one hand that’s still on her cheek. It stopped raining at some point. It was raining earlier, right? It’s nice that it stopped now, and that Bruno’s here.

“Kamaria? Love?” The hand is patting her cheek now. “Open your eyes for me, love. I need you to stay awake.”

She didn’t realize she’d closed them. Wrinkling her nose, she whines a little. “Tired.”

“I know you are, but you have to stay awake for now. The ambulance is on its way. Come on, open those gorgeous eyes for me.”

She complies, but gives him her best unamused expression. “My head hurts.”

He grows even more solemn. “I know. I found your helmet way up there somewhere. Can you tell me what else hurts? Your leg is scraped up pretty good.” She feels him gently lift her shirt. “Stomach is, too. I don’t see any concerning bruising on it, though I’ll bet you cracked a rib, at least.”

“Head,” she repeats, trying to think past that all-encompassing, throbbing pain to see what else there is. “Hip. Arm.” Almost as an afterthought she adds, “Shoulder.”

“No, I don’t want to move her.” He sounds like he’s talking to someone else. The person on the phone still, maybe. “Hip…” He carefully prods at both, eliciting a gasp and jerk from Kamaria when he touches the injured one. “Left hip. I’m guessing broken, based on the reaction, but could be dislocated. Left shoulder is definitely dislocated. And, uh…” Leaning over, he touches her hand, but quickly pulls back. “Right arm has an open fracture. Yeah, I’m staying on. How far out are they?” He listens for a moment, free hand coming back to rest on her cheek. “They need to hurry up. I’m worried this is more than just a concussion.”

She really wants to go to sleep. Now that Bruno is here, she feels much safer. Maybe now that he’s asked his questions he’ll let her nap.

“Stay with me, Kamaria.” His face is close to hers again. Eyes normally blue like the sky look more like storm clouds in the dim lighting.

“You’re…pretty.”

She somehow expects him to smile at that, but he just keeps looking at her with that worried expression and lightly strokes her hair. “Thank you. So are you.”

“Mean, though. Won’t let…me sleep. And…lost my knife. Can’t…stab you.”

“We’ll find your knife. And if you try your best to stay awake until the doctor says it’s okay to sleep, then you can stab me all you want after, okay?”

“No,” she whines. She’d like to bury her face in his chest, but she can’t move. “No doctor. Hate doctors.”

“I know, love. But I’m afraid you have to go this time.”

“Will you come?” She doesn’t want to go alone. He just got here, and the doctor is scary.

“Of course I will. I wouldn’t leave you.”

“Can…Shadi come?”

“Tell you what, I’ll check and see if she can come visit you while you’re there. Alright?”

Kamaria sighs and lets her eyes drift shut again. “‘kay.”

“Eyes open. Come on.” He pauses, turns his head a little. “I hear the sirens. They’re almost here. I’m gonna have to let them work on you to help you feel better, okay? But I’ll be right here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.” Bending down, he presses a warm, gentle kiss to her forehead. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too, Kamaria.”

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stellarcoachman · 11 months

Text

Chapter 20 of Twisting Tracks

Prompt: Found Family | "You will regret touching them." CW: Injury, Infection, Referenced Torture, Broken Bones Summary: Akari and Rei discuss their feelings regarding everything that's happened.

#whumptober2023 #no.20 #found family #“you will regret touching them.”#submas #fic #injury #infection #referenced torture #broken bones

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serickswrites · 1 year

Text

Take A Break

Warnings: escape, referenced captivity, referenced torture, broken bones, caretaker and whumpee, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort

“Whumpee, Whumpee, let’s stop. Take a break.” Caretaker was tired. Their legs ached, their lungs burned from running for so long. Surely they had gotten far enough away from Whumper’s compound to be able to take a break.

“C-C-Can’t stoppp,” Whumpee panted as they collapsed against a tree. They cradled their mutilated hand close. Caretaker would never forget the sound of Whumper’s hammer coming down on Whumpee’s hand. Never forget the sound of Whumpee’s screams.

“We need a break. I need a break.” You need a break. Whumpee’s skin was ghostly under the moonlight. Caretaker wasn’t entirely certain that Whumpee wasn’t on the edge of passing out.

“O-O-Ok,” Whumpee whispered as they slid down the tree until they were sitting. “F-Few minutes,” their eyelids drooped.

“Stay awake, Whumpee,” Caretaker murmured as they sat down next to Whumpee. They feared that if Whumpee passed out Whumpee wouldn’t wake up again.

Whumpee had taken the brunt of Whumper’s ire. Had taken the brunt of the torture. All the while Caretaker could do nothing but watch. And the days of torture had weighed heavily on Whumpee’s body and on Caretaker’s soul. “Please, just stay awake. We’ll catch our breath, then we’ll keep going.”

“‘mkay,” Whumpee whispered. They leaned heavily on Caretaker, blinking furiously to stay awake. “‘m ‘ake,” they said as their eyelids drooped once more.

Caretaker gave Whumpee’s uninjured arm a squeeze. “Not too much farther. Just a few minutes. Catch our breath. Then we’ll be home. You’ll see.”

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ataliagold · 3 months

Text

If Love Was Contagious I Might Be Immune To It

For @steddie-week day 2, prompts "hands" and "touch starved".

Title from an unreleased Noah Kahan song.

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Rating: T

W/C: 1916

C/W: Referenced death of a grandparent.

Tags: angst, hurt/comfort, Steve is touched-starved, Steve has bad parents, platonic soulmates Steve and Robin, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart

Summary: Steve's early life is mostly devoid of love - until Eddie Munson.

___

He’s eight years old, and his wrist is broken.

It’s the first time he’s broken a bone, but it certainly won’t be the last.

Steve cries silently in the school nurse’s room. His father hated it when he cried, always told him to man up, to grow up, to act like a Harrington.

He tried to keep the tears in, he really did, but his arm is throbbing and his wrist is turning a funny colour and he wishes he’d taken Tommy up on his offer to sit with him and wait for his mom to turn up but he’d wanted to be tough, tough like his dad, and he’d told him he wasn’t a baby and he’d be fine.

So, while he loses the battle against the tears cascading down his cheeks, he stays tight-lipped and quiet.

His mom arrives eventually. Steve sits there, clutching his wrist across his stomach as the nurse explains to Janet Harrington what had happened, that Steve had fallen in P.E, that the bone was definitely broken and he needed to go straight to urgent care.

Janet nods. Turns to Steve, expression tight and unreadable, and gestures quickly for him to follow her out to the car.

Steve quickens his pace behind her, little legs carrying him along behind the click-clack of her heels.

He reaches for her hand with his good one.

Knows he shouldn’t, knows he isn’t supposed to keep trying to touch because he’s a big boy now, he doesn’t need to be held and coddled anymore.

But he’s hurting, and he wants his mom.

She tightens her hand around his almost in surprise, squeezing sharply.

“For goodness’ sake, Steve,” she hisses, dropping his hand again like it’s something bad, “do you want all your friends to see you like this? Act your age.”

Steve snatches his hand back to his side. Blinks through the new flood of tears in his eyes, swallows thickly, keeps his gaze on the hard tiled floor.

He’s eight years old, and his mother doesn’t want to hold his hand.

*****

He’s fourteen years old when his grandma dies.

Smoking with Tommy behind the bike shed at the school, they are quieter than usual.

The funeral is this weekend. Steve’s never been to a funeral before. His mom ordered him a suit the day after they got the news, the reality of it barely sinking in before he was being stood in front of the mirror in the store while a man wrapped a tape around him, taking his measurements while his mom tapped her foot behind him.

He wonders what will happen when his parents go away, now that he can’t go and stay with grandma. He’ll miss her. He’ll miss her like hell.

No more baking, no more helping her plant flowers in her sunny backyard, no more taking slow walks to the park with her little yappy dog.

“Sorry,” Tommy mutters eventually, stomping the butt of his cigarette into the dirt.

“Huh?” Steve asks, not looking up.

“You know. About your grandma.”

“Oh,” Steve waves a hand, cigarette between his fingers. Nonchalant. Unemotional. Harrington. “S’fine, she was just some old lady.”

Tommy sniffs, raises an eyebrow. “It was your grandma, man.”

Steve shrugs, forces a smirk. “Reckon she left me anything in her will?”

He burns as he says it.

He doesn’t want money. Doesn’t want things. He just wants his grandma back.

Tommy snorts out a laugh, shakes his head, punches Steve lightly in the shoulder. “You’re a dick.”

Steve takes a long drag on the cigarette, blows the smoke out towards Tommy’s face. His friend swears and shoulder charges him, wraps his arms around Steve’s waist and the two of them start to wrestle.

Here, with the stench of tobacco on his breath, grunting as he tightens his grip on Tommy and shoves him roughly aside, Steve thinks this is the closest he’s been to a hug for a long time.

A silent tear tracks down his cheek, and Steve wipes it away before Tommy can see it.

He’s fourteen years old, and his best friend would rather punch him than hug him.

*****

He’s seventeen years old and in love with Nancy Wheeler.

Nancy holds his hand, sometimes. She kisses his cheek, smiles shyly when he wraps an arm around her waist, lets him touch.

But only sometimes.

And that’s ok, Steve thinks. He knows he can be too much, that he asks for too much, that ever since he was a little boy all he wanted was for someone to hold him, and now that he’s older, to hold someone in return.

He had to keep that in check. Had to keep his touches few and light – just a brush of his thumb over Nancy’s hand where he wanted to interlock their fingers, where he wanted to squeeze her tight to his chest and burrow his head into her shoulder and turn himself inside out for her.

He dreams about the creature that came out of the wall, sometimes.

Wakes up sweat-drenched with his pulse galloping, feels across the bed for Nancy’s hand because he keeps sneaking into her bedroom at night to sleep because he can’t handle being on his own right now.

She wakes. Holds his hand briefly, tells him it was just a dream, rolls over, lets his hand go. Faces away from him.

Steve tells himself it’s fine. His heart is still pounding, he’s still trembling slightly, but it’s fine.

He wishes Nancy would hold his hand a little longer. Wishes she’d tuck herself closer to him, press her lips to the back of his head, hold him until he’s able to fall asleep again.

But he’s a man now. He’s a Harrington, and he doesn’t need to be held.

Nancy had nightmares sometimes, too.

She’d cry out in her sleep, and Steve would carefully wrap an arm around her, murmur into her ear, tell her she was safe, that he had her.

When Nancy woke, she’d push him away. Tell him she needed to breathe, that she needed some space.

Steve tried to give her space. Tried other ways to try and help Nancy feel better – then came Tina’s party, then came the drink staining Nancy’s top and a cold bathroom and bullshit.

Steve was seventeen years old, and his love was bullshit.

*****

Steve is nineteen years old, and he has the best friend in the entire world.

He and Robin are glued at the hip. She hugs easily, drapes herself across him, nudges him with bony hips and elbows and grabs his hand when the lights at Family Video flicker because she knows that still terrifies him.

Steve’s not used to it.

To having someone reach for him, to pull him into a hug, to voluntarily reach out and touch him like there isn’t something wrong with him.

And so, he never reaches for her first. Always lets her initiate contact, because he never wants to be too much, not like how he was with his mother, with Nancy.

She’s standing next to him at work now. Shuffling through returned tapes, letting out a bored huff, leaning back on her elbows on the counter.

The bell above the Family Video door chimes.

Steve doesn’t look up until Robin pokes him in the ribs, until she waggles her eyebrows at him.

“Look who it is,” she whispers, with zero subtlety.

He doesn’t have to look to know it’s Eddie.

Because they’ve been playing this game for a while, Robin doing her best to bring the two of them together, to nudge them from this painful will-they won’t-they situation into something more serious.

The truth is, Steve’s head over heels for the other man.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know where to put it, because he doesn’t want to half-ass anything ever again – if he’s going to love Eddie, he wants to do it with everything he has, but everything Steve has always seems to be too much for everyone else.

If he ruins what he and Eddie already have, this easy friendship, it would put a strain on his relationship with the kids too, and everyone had already been through so much, he couldn’t…

“Oh my god, dingus,” Robin groans.

Eddie’s wandered on past the counter after shooting Steve a grin, headed for the sci-fi section tucked away in the corner.

“What?” Steve huffs.

“I can literally see the little cogs turning in there,” Robin flicks her index finger against the side of his head. “For the sake of my sanity, just talk to him. Please.”

“Fine,” Steve harrumphs, tossing a case to one side. “But if this goes badly, I’m blaming you.”

Robin smiles wide, reaches for his hand, squeezes it gently, encouragingly. “Go get him, Stevie.”

Steve is nineteen years old, and he finally has someone to hold his hand, even if not quite in the way he’d been longing for.

*****

Steve is twenty-two years old, and sometimes he’s so overwhelmed by love for this man that it stops him in his tracks.

He’s draped across Eddie, the two of them on the couch with the TV quietly playing something in the background but Steve doesn’t hear it.

His head is on Eddie’s chest, ear pressed to his heart, listening to the soothing rhythm of his boyfriend’s pulse.

Eddie has his arms wrapped tightly around Steve, one hand tracing gently up and down his bare back, fingers tracing over moles and scars and the ridges of his spine.

Steve breathes him in. Presses his head further into Eddie, like he could burrow into him. Wanted to, sometimes.

Eddie’s chest vibrates gently as he chuckles.

“Y’ok there, Stevie?” he asks, and kisses the top of his head.

“Mmmm,” Steve manages, voice muffled by Eddie’s chest.

It had taken him a long time to realize that Eddie wasn’t going anywhere.

In the early days of their relationship, Steve had been…restrained. Muted, afraid to overwhelm the other man, trying to carefully seek out where Eddie’s boundaries were, work out just how long he could hug him for, just how many kisses were too many, when Steve was starting to step over into being too damn much…

Three years later, and he still hadn’t found that boundary.

Eddie took everything Steve had to give him and poured it back tenfold.

He’d smile into Steve’s mouth when he kissed him, run his tongue along the seam of Steve’s lips until he let him in, he’d trace every mole and blemish on his skin with his fingers and then his mouth until Steve was squirming and laughing under him, he’d stroke and hold and squeeze and give and take.

Steve had so much love to give, and Eddie was hungry for it.

They’d been lying here for hours tonight. Skin to skin, Eddie warm and pliant under Steve, humming happily when Steve tightened his hold on him, when Steve’s breath puffed over his collarbone.

“Stevie?” Eddie asks eventually, hand resting in chestnut locks, nails scratching gently over Steve’s scalp.

“Yeah?”

“You ready for bed, sweetheart? You gotta get up early for work.”

Steve sighs, tucks himself back into Eddie’s chest. “Little longer?” he murmurs.

Eddie smiles. Lowers his hand to the back of Steve’s neck, massaging the muscle there, feeling the moment Steve sinks further into him.

“’Course, Stevie. As long as you like.”

Steve is twenty-two years old, and he finally has someone to hold him.

___

#steddieweek2024 #steddie #steve harrington #steddie fic #steve x eddie

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merowkittie · 28 days

Note

Hiii idk if you are still taking requests but Poolverine has taken over MY LIFE haha I would die for a Logan/Wade/Reader where they just worship their tiny lil mutant gf who could 100% kick their asses if she wanted to

hi hii!! i’m always taking requests, as long as my pinned post says ‘requests are open’!

poolverine has taken over my entire being i fear.

Lil Ass Kicker — DP & WV

summary: due to ur size most of the time sometimes people under estimate how strong you truly are. besides your boyfriends; they like when you remind them <3

warnings: none besides canon typical violence =] !

notes: i didn't specify if reader had specific mutant abilities..maybe i'll come up with a specific one laterr for future fics / hopefully this meets ur expectations, enjoy!

at this point, you didn't get offended when people looked at your stature and thought you were some weak tiny human, when in reality you were just as strong as Logan.. maybe even stronger?

you could kick a grown mans ass in seconds! your boyfriends have witnessed it AND have been on the receiving end before. and lets just say,

they LOVE it.

"ohh, come on peanut!" wade yells from your far left in a somewhat disappointed tone, "I'll admit you look hot but that's just disgusting."

you'll admit this wasn't the prettiest site, even though wade just called you sexy. you were sweaty, kind of covered in blood, and had just broken a mans arm and was using it to make him punch himself in his face. it was very amusing to you until wade burst your bubble.

with a roll of your eyes and the slightest quirk of your lips tugging up in the corners you tossed the man to the side and skipped over to logan who was almost covered in blood completely; his knuckles were basically dyed red from his claws coming in and out and with the blood of half of the people he stabbed..

you guys were an odd trio, but you worked!

"looks like yer having fun, huh?" logan looked down at you with a smirk.

he can also admit that you look beautiful right now sweaty and kicking ass left and right. he'd definitely show you how much he enjoyed witnessing this when you three got home.

you nodded in response to his question humming out an "mhm".

once wade caught up to you two, you guys began to wrap up your mission. it went by in a flash with constant grunts, bodies hitting the floors, gun shots, and to many bones breaking.

yea it was a bit over the top but hey! wade wanted to be a 'good' guy today so this is the schedule! what wasn't on the schedule was watching wade get impaled in the head by his own katana.

logan was too busy fighting to come over and give wade a hand so you had to take matters into your own hands.

silently, you snuck over to where he was and took the guy who impaled your boyfriend by surprise. your elbow reeled forward and hit him in the back the head, causing him to stumble. quickly, your leg swept his feet from under him causing him to trip over his own two feet. right before he fell, you took your gun from it's holster on your thigh and shot him in the head just as he hit the floor.

"oh god, i'm so painfully hard right now, babe." wade's voice chimed in from the floor. he still had the katana sticking through his head and you could tell he was feeling that loopy effect of it right now.

with a sigh, you helped him to his feet and yanked the katana out of his head. he shook his head side to side and groaned at the feeling of it being pulled out.

"thank you my incredibly strong, beautiful, and tiny girlfriend." he made kissy noises from underneath his masks, wanting you to kiss him over it. with a bit of a grimace you stood on your toes and pressed a quick kiss over his lips.

"wha' about me?" logan said from behind you, referencing to the kiss.

with an exaggerated groan and playful stomps of your feet you turned around him and gave him a kiss too.

"I hope you guys know this is very unprofessional!" you shouted as you walked away from the two with a huff.

they were definitely going to show you how in love they were with you when you got home.

#deadpool and wolverine #deadpool 3 #deadpool #wolverine #logan howlett #james howlett #deadpool x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wade wilson x reader #poolverine x reader #poolverine #hugh jackman #ryan reynolds

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whumpitisthen · 10 months

Text

Mori

Previous I Masterlist I Next

CWs: broken bones, religious themes, self-esteem issues, fear, crying, torture, sadistic whumper, non-human whumpee/whumper, multiple whumpees, referenced murder/gore/violence

The first thing Auden senses when he wakes is a delightful softness surrounding him. Consciousness crawls back to him like a lover would into his bed, cradling him gently with care. Everything is perfectly warm and safe. He could sleep forever exactly as he is; snuggled under a heavy blanket, breathing in the smell of pristine sheets…

The quietest groan leaves him with a sigh in tow, a pleasant shiver running through him as he stretches. He doesn't know how long it's been since he slept this well. Half of him believes he is dreaming. He turns over, landing on his stomach. It's even more comfortable, which is almost the strangest thing. He doesn't remember any of his own bedding feeling this cosy.

Wait. He doesn't have a bed. Why is he even sleeping?

His brows furrow in deep confusion before he opens his eyes tentatively with newfound dread. His fingers grip onto an unfamiliar duvet. His eyes lock onto unfamiliar walls reaching high up in the air, ending in a ceiling covered in spectacular carvings. There is a large mirror on the wall in front of him, his own steadily more worried expression reflected back at him just as unfamiliar.

Black locks fall into his eyes, black wings ruffle behind him. Right. He has Fallen. This is Hell, then.

He sits up in the lavish bed, thinking of the worst possibilities for how he got there. His first half-formed thought is that he got… physical with someone. Perhaps charmed, or drugged, or bewitched. A cold sweat develops on his skin at the thought. If that is why he's in a stranger's bed, having no recollection of how he got there, of what happened once he did — he will never forgive himself. Panic rises along with nausea and shame, only embellished by the prolonged silence and lack of company. Where in Hell is he? Who brought him here?

The room is massive, ornate, expensive and spotless. He cannot even begin to imagine what powerful hellspawn it must belong to. The large paintings, statuettes, pillars, rugs — he has never seen a home even remotely like this; not in Heaven nor on Earth. He feels utterly out of place.

In his hazy mind, one thought materialises before any other; — 'I have to get out of here.'

The floor teases at his bare feet with a savage chill, raising goosebumps in a familiar, yet still so new, humanly fashion. He stands with little difficulty, considers bringing the comfortable blanket with him as more of his body becomes enveloped in the cool, strange, but pleasant smelling air. He decides to leave it, his angelic courtesy not letting him take anything without permission, and common sense stopping him from taking from an unknown demon.

He wrecks his brain, yet cannot manage to scour together a single memory that could help orient himself. He remembers falling and burning, he remembers the Doctor and its mesmerising eyes, the imp guards and his failed escape, Miss Thu'lin and her —

…He is alive. How is he still alive? He was going to die. He remembers he was going to be executed. No Fallen lives this long in Hell, how come he is still breathing?

How truly far he has Fallen. From Guardian to demon food.

Numb fatigue encloses his mortal heart as he takes another look into the black iron framed silver mirror. He looks pathetic. His robe is torn and ruined, caked in dirt and his own lifeblood. His feathers and hair have turned an ugly black, forever stained by sin. His eyes are bloodshot and dark, even after his restful, dreamless sleep. His body is abused, hungering, thirsting, changing in a way it didn't used to before he Fell; before he lost his status and the little power and dignity he held. A glorified human with a pair of ruined wings stuck to him, nothing more. Even worse in fact; because humans at least know how to keep themselves alive — he does not even understand his own needs enough to do that. All he feels is claws digging into his stomach and other, harder to conceptualise wrongs flooding his mind. He understands he should not be feeling this way, but does not understand what to do about it. How could he; his job wasn't to understand basic human needs. It was to protect his human from harm mortals cannot defend against.

With a miserable look on his face, Auden turns away from the mirror, trying to focus on anything but himself. A distraction, a goal, anything at all to stop the self-hatred and yearning for a more merciful fate bubbling inside him for a moment. His misty eyes land on a double door; massive, dark walnut wood. It must lead out of here. He hears no sound coming from behind it. He hears no sound at all, in fact.

He turns to the gothic window looking out over a large forest. He sees nothing but woods. No paths, no people, no hope. A fog combs through the woods; thick enough that he barely sees anything past the first couple rows of shrub. He doesn't even find the view familiar. He sees the Sun bleeding high in the sky. It must be in the afternoon right about now.

He pads across the room, looking into drawers and closets. Nothing but sheets and clothes, some old knick-knacks like a rusty old comb, random nails and screws that must have fallen out of the furniture. The act of snooping around, even if it's a demon's house, burns his lungs fiercely, but not enough to sit still and do nothing instead. He has to find some kind of weapon, or just something useful, something interesting. Logic plays small part in his efforts — Auden simply wants to move and forget about his awful fate for a while.

He decides, after enough searching, that he will open the large double door and leave this room. He hasn't even tried it yet, it could very well be locked. No one came to look for him yet. Good, maybe he can sneak away before anyone notices. Maybe he can find his way out of here and run as far as his legs can take him. Who cares, he is basically living on borrowed time anyway. A rested mind provides him not with clear vision, but foolish bravery, while the relative safety brings forth a layer of curiosity as well.

There is some strange power in this place, he can feel it. He must have felt it before he fell asleep here, as it, too, seems familiar. A presence, an aura. He truly does not want to meet the owner of this place. It's as if the walls are breathing the same way he is, exhaling a black fog that slowly suffocates his soul. It's unnatural, difficult to make sense of.

With a spectacular lack of self-preservation or healthy cowardice — truly unlike himself — he sneaks over to the copper handles and puts one hand on the right one. With great difficulty, he convinces himself to push, and manages to turn it downwards. The door pulls open without issue, its weight intimidating as it lazily swings behind him, and suddenly Auden is standing in a never-ending hall of the hellish mansion, all on his own.

The fresh air and immediate thoughts of rebellion and misbehaviour almost have him walking right back into the room he came from, ashamed of his brash actions. An angel is meant to be perfect, docile, obedient, useful. He is being none of those things. He never was any of those things, and he never learned to be since. His shame remains all the same.

He peaks past large vases of begonia flowers to the left and right, catching sight of absolutely no one. His skin itches with unfamiliar feelings urging him to move further into disobedience and leave behind the room he woke in. A battle of whims rages in his brain, where he tries and fails to convince himself that survival is more important than holding onto memories and rules of what his life was as an angel before all this.

'Who cares. I always tried my best to be good, and this is where it got me. Taken and violated and hurt, over and over again,' — he grumbles in his head. He never used to be so resentful.

Tainted by awful, sacrilegious, impure thoughts, Auden begins his journey down the hall of red candle light and dark shadows dressing each corner. The windows are just as massive as everything else seems to be here, tinted a similar crimson. He marches into unknown darkness as his fingers wind together, flinching at every small crack of the floorboards as if it were a gunshot. Silver candelabras reveal his nervous slouch in their misshapen reflections. His exposed skin shivers in distress, making Auden wish he had brought something to cover himself up with after all.

'Where are you even going?' — questions his fractured mind in a voice unlike his own. Doubtful of his own abilities, as always.

His next inhale catches in his throat accompanied by a choked sound. Frozen mid step, he stares at the outline of a figure walking right his way. He feels all of his bravery leak out of him through the soles of his cold feet. His legs snap to jump behind something, a vase, a door, anything — but the stranger freezes along with him, locking eyes for only a moment. Then, a demon is jogging over to him, and Auden is running in the opposite direction.

"Wait, wait — !"

His foot slips on a delicate hide as he turns a corner, and he is sent to the floor. He only hears a hiss of a curse before he is grabbed onto by his pursuer, catching him after such a short chase. Though he is finally well rested, his weak body meant for flying is not nearly as proficient at ground movement as the antlered fellow skipping up to him. Some kind of an animal hybrid, with hooves at the end of their twisted legs and a red sheen on their fur. Their ears flop around as they move. They wear… rags, just like him. Torn and filthy. He sees scars on their face as they lean over him with a distressed expression.

They yell for him, startled, only encouraging him to run faster. Another lie, another trick, that is all that demons do. This one pretends to be worried, sweet, helpful. And then it will take a bite out of him the moment they get close enough. He won't stop, not for anything, flapping his useless wings to give himself just a little more momentum.

"No, g-, get away from me! Don't touch me!" — Auden screams immediately, crawling backwards clumsily with wild eyes. His back hits a wall and his voice rises in pitch. — "No! No, go away! Please —"

"Shh-shh-shh-shhhhh, shut it, shut up!" — Their hand locks around his mouth harshly, muffling his cries. He quiets slowly, recognising his loss as the seconds go by, unable to form another word with their hand clasped around his lips.

'Always so weak and pathetic, aren't you? Overpowered by just about any demon you come across.'

The demon's whispered shouts confuse him — they don't sound nearly as confident or arrogant as he imagined the owner of this place to be. He also expected them to wear clothes similar to Miss Thu'lin; with jewellery enhancing every part of silk and satin outfits, one of a kind designs, spotless, expensive garments.

The hurtful, almost mocking thoughts come as they always do, always taking the opportunity to wear him down a little more. They have always resided in him, but since he Fell, they have become so ruthless, cruel, and uncontrollable. They sometimes barely even sound like his own thoughts anymore.

No, they don't look like the owner of anything at all.

"Would you shut up already! Fucking Hell, I won't hurt you," — they whisper, distressed, — "you're gonna get us both into shit!"

One final shove on Auden's head forces him to look into the dark eyes of the deer demon and he finally takes a moment long enough to allow him comprehension. — "Please, stop this. I'm not here to hurt you, yeah? I'm only here to help. Listen to me. You listening?"

Using the moment of relative calm caused by the snap in their voice frightening Auden, they quickly explain, — "I want to let you go, but you need to be quiet! If you can do that, I'll stop touching you right now. Okay? Can you do that? Just calm down for a minute, that's all you gotta do."

Auden's eyes hold distrust and sorrow, flicking across their face every millisecond. His breathing comes fast and irregular through his nose, and he feels like he can't really breathe with their hand over his lips, so he reaches for their wrist.

When his hand is grabbed in return, he whimpers and cries, truly lost in a way his façade of foolish bravery wasn't meant to allow as he almost begins to sob. He is tired of being touched, and dragged, and manhandled, and controlled, and hurt and hurt and hurt. He expects pain, squirming more the longer they hold him. Recognition flashes in his pursuer's eyes finally as they loosen their grip. — "Okay, wait, just listen to me for one second! I'll let you go, but — Just listen!"

Finally, uncertainty and unease aside, the angel's animalistic whimpers stop. His sniffles come slower, just enough to signal to the other he heard what they told him. Those long, rough, black nailed fingers leave his mouth tentatively one after the other, until his cracked, pink lips feel the cool air of the corridor and the menacing aura of this mansion on them once again. It's hard to tell which one of them looks more relieved as his lips are no longer sealed; Auden once he is let go, or Mori when he doesn't scream as soon as he is.

Once they are sure the angel won't start yelling again, they find their inside voice to ask once more. — "Okay. Thank you. Now, we gotta get you back to your room quickly. God knows how long we have before he returns."

Their hushed sentence barely ends before Auden is pulling away from them again, eyes wide with confused betrayal. It was a trick. Of course it was a trick. They just want to lock him up again, even using His name to lull them into some sense of familiarity. Tricks are all these creatures know how to do. — "I-I won't go with you! You can't make me —"

"What?"

"You can't, please, I'll scream, I'll yell again!"

He scrambles back up as he hugs the wall behind him, spiralling. He doesn't know what to do, but if he has learned anything during his time here, it's that he can never, ever trust anyone. Not the Doctor, not Miss Thu'lin, not any other Hell spawn he comes across.

The deer demon moves to hold him again, swiftly changing tactics and retreating as Auden opens his mouth to scream as loud as he can, — "no-no-no-no, no, please don't!"

"I am glad to see you two are getting along so well."

They back away until he finally slouches again, exhaling all the air he was going to spend on sabotaging them. A strained voice comes from them next. — "I-I'm… The only reason I want you back in your room is because I was told to keep an eye on you, okay? It was my job to make sure you don't go anywhere, and I left for just a second and now you're out here, and we're both gonna be in so much goddamn trouble if we stay."

Auden's face is a mix of belief and disbelief, wanting, yet not daring to believe them. The deer demon's ears flick and they flinch, turning around as if they heard something, but turn back to him quickly with slowly rising terror, quietly, but firmly finishing their sentence, — "I'm a slave, just like you. Please. I couldn't hurt you if I wanted to; I don't own you, I don't even own myself. They'll — He'll ruin me for this, don't you see? I-I just need to do what I'm told, that's all. Please, just do as I say for one second, and —"

Their frantic pleading ends in a yelp as they jump ten feet into the air at the sudden melody of a voice. Behind them, as if appearing out of thin air stands a familiarly beguiling man, clad in charcoal black and cutting silver. The clacking of the hybrid's hooves echo in Auden's ears as they kneel to the side with no hesitation, head bowed and hands to the floor. It looks painful to be in that position, especially when your knees bend the opposite way. Auden isn't focused on them anymore, however, but on the tall, sickly white skinned individual observing him with a gut-churningly kind smile. A smile he remembers well, now that it has returned to him just as ruthlessly as when he first saw it.

Auden realises his feelings of this man are highly polarising. His fear emerges now past his previous desperate worship and relief at being saved from certain death. Being saved from death by Death himself, with the kindest smile and gentlest hands, yet the presence of slaughter and fear filling the air wherever he goes. He is entirely overwhelmed every time he sees the man, it seems. On the flipside, the Reaper seems only too happy to see him.

In his mind, he wanders back to the sea of corpses, to the scythe of Death, to the spear in the wall, to black magic, to the magic lock and chains, to his rescue. He remembers bits and pieces of the day before, not given quite enough time to catch all those memories of the Reaper just yet; it's all too much to process. Death's face lights up significantly at his recognition, however, no longer hidden behind the grotesque skull of a mask he wore before.

His shadowy crimson eyes are piercing and sharp and intense, yet deceptively charming and intriguing. His face is gaunt, angular, a sickly hue to it that reminds Auden of deadly ill humans. Though still clothed in black, no battle armour or weapon is found, the lack of a coat revealing more intricate, void-black patterns on every inch of skin that shows. Auden's eyes are stuck to what he can only assume to be some kind of dark curse tainting the deity's skin, like the flames of hellfire have burnt their shapes into him, turning one arm a monstrous, clawed, unnatural charcoal black, the marks peeking out from the top of his dress shirt snaking around his throat. Taking a close enough look, the angel can tell that even the veins running up his neck have turned black.

"Not even a hello?” — Pristine white hair falls gently with the tilt of his head, doing nothing to cover up that ever present smirk, — “manners, angel, are truly not your strong suit," — he teases, barely even taking notice of his horror stricken errand servant shivering on the floor below. It's as if it was only the two of them present, an angel and Death, lost in each other's eyes.

In the silence that follows, the slave's voice comes out hushed and trembling, — “I, I really tried sir, I did, I-I only left for a second, I swear on my life!” — they rasp brokenly to the Reaper, not picking their head up off the floor as they grovel. Where there is no fur, their skin shimmers with a cold sweat. — “I was called, called away for only a single minute, and when I came back he was out already and, and — but we were on our way back! I was, I was just…”

“You were just doing what you were told,” — the Reaper supplies.

“Yes!” — they exclaim, a little more confidently this time, — “I really was.”

Finally, in the next moment of silence following their small voice, they are finally given the luxury of attention from their master in the form of a simple glance. They can feel it without needing to see anything at all; looked down upon like this by Death is a mortifying ordeal. One's own heart turns to icy stone, their blood freezes in their veins and their flesh tenses in an uncontrollably. There is no being, living, dead or in-between, that does not have a reaction to being near him. Silence follows him because of that, as even the woods cease their whisperings around him. Auden has felt this power acutely.

“Of course you were,” — the Reaper remarks, giving short-lived comfort to the poor fellow before crushing it under his heel with the merciless mockery he follows up with, — “you are just so good at doing exactly as you're told, aren't you, Mori?”

Auden can hear Mori’s harsh swallow from where he stands against the wall. Their ears flatten further. Their shoulders tense tighter. Their overly submissive, docile nature is a sore subject, that much is clear. The Reaper looks back to him without another word.

“As opposed to you. For a son of God, you are quite the disobedient child,” — he states. There is a fondness in his tone, almost invisible. — “I am much more used to constant prayer and perfect behaviour from your kind. I did not expect one that runs and yells as much as you. From a shivering, confused, lost little lamb to this in the span of only half a day.”

That grin and that knowing look on his face dries up Auden’s throat in a spectacular fashion every time he is confronted by it. He cannot help assuming he knows much more than he lets on with the way he talks. He does not doubt for a second that the Grim Reaper, of all people, would be knowledgeable in all things.

Still, there is only one thing he can think to say. It has bothered him since the first time he saw him, and even in such a dire situation, he cannot take his eyes off it all. When silence stretches once more and Death glares at him expecting some form of an answer out of him, his thoughts betray him as they slip clean through his lips before he could reconsider them.

“What… wh-what happened to your skin?”

Such an infinitely meek, unexpected, simple question stumps both others in front of him. Mori stops breathing entirely. The Reaper's smile slowly disappears, replaced by an emotion Auden didn't know to expect on the face of a living myth — confusion. Did he say something wrong? Of course he did, he always does. He already regrets saying anything at all. Why is the first thing that came to his mind a question about someone's appearance? He could have said anything else and it would have been fine. Self-hatred has taken root in the marrow of his fragile bones and squeezes him from the inside as he waits for the verdict — an explosion of brutality for disrespecting Death himself, no doubt.

A laugh bubbles out of the man in front of him, a truly giddy sound. He looks incredibly amused, to no small surprise from Auden, almost ecstatic. A fit of laughter develops, hiding behind a jewelled hand quick to conceal the flash of sharp fangs that Auden's eyes widen at sharply. His joy sounds genuine, pleasant. Auden is not convinced that that's a good thing.

“Angel, what are you even saying?” — his voice shakes with laughter, — “blunt, bold and nosy above all else. You really are just like him.”

Auden's face is tomato red. He would hide his face behind his hands if he wasn't so scared of letting the Reaper out of his sight for even a moment. He watches the powerful god-like being struggle to reclaim his cool, fighting giggles and running out of breath doing so. Once he finally takes hold of himself enough to continue, he takes one long breath to sigh contentedly. The smile that forms is more genuine and warm than the previously mischievous, empty one he wore. — “Heavens above, you are hilarious. What a rude little dove. I did not expect that.”

Now it's Auden’s turn to be confused. Was it really that funny? He thought it was an awful thing to ask someone, someone so powerful, someone who saved his life. Maybe that's why it was so funny. His wings ruffle in shame.

“I don't understand,” — he admits shyly. There are tears gathering in his eyes. He feels humiliated. — “I-I was just asking… I'm sorry.”

The Reaper's expression brightens again. — “Are you not joking? You are being serious?” — Auden nods, and he thinks he must be especially stupid to make such a being laugh so heartily in front of him. — “Oh, that is even better! You know, most people would greet me first, or ask why I came to see them. Maybe skip past it all and start begging in earnest. I must confess, I'm not used to being talked to like this. It is very refreshing.”

“Oh, don't cry darling. You did not mean anything by it, I know now. You just can't help but be this way.” — An ice cold hand finds its way to Auden’s cheek, comforting, yet so, so scary. A single shimmering tear escapes, and Auden sees clearly the focus it draws from the other man when his blood red eyes follow it perfectly and his pale purple lips open for his tongue to wet them. The light hold he has on Auden tenses just slightly, just enough for Auden to notice, but it's quickly withdrawn when they lock eyes again and the Reaper breaks from the spell that came over him. He notices the angel's concern, of course, and backs off of him entirely to explain; —

Auden's stomach drops. Meeting his new owner? He thought… he doesn't even know what he thought. Is that why he is here?

“Ah, you must excuse me. I haven't eaten anything yet today, and you are just the sweetest delicacy one could ever thirst for. Being so close is simply… maddening.” — The instantaneous jolt of speed in Auden's heart and the massive, horrified eyes staring up at him nearly hypnotise the Reaper. He wants nothing more than to clutch a clawed hand around the angel's throat and squeeze, hard enough to draw blood and break bone.

He hides his bloodlust behind a practised grin skillfully, looking at Mori’s small form instead. Perhaps his little fawn can make up for their shortcomings in a different way today. They can be a nice enough distraction after sufficient preparation. As he listens to Mori’s frantic breathing, he reassures Auden. — “But I won't touch you. Not yet. You are in perfect condition. I'd sooner tear my own head off than to ruin you right before meeting your new owner.”

‘Well, why else would you be here? To have a little tea party with the Grim Reaper? Did you expect for him to have gone through a horde of vicious demons and rescued you from the Dragon Queen only to whisk you away right back to your Heaven? To belong to him instead?’

His head reverberates with these blasphemous, pathetic thoughts running through it. They come so fast and so alien; truly like they aren't his thoughts at all. A headache forms suddenly, sharp like an arrow going through him. This isn't the first time this has happened, he realises, yet he is no closer to figuring out why it's happening. It catches the Reaper's attention when Auden lifts one cool hand to hold against his left eye to soothe the sting. His expression hardens just a little, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. The smile never falters — Auden starts to understand all depictions of Death with a human skull for a face, forever grinning.

“Perhaps some food would do you good as well. Have you eaten anything at all since you Fell? You look half dead."

Oh, oh, is that what he feels? Hunger? It must be the endless agonising emptiness that built a nest in his abdomen a few days ago. The offer has his mouth watering in preparation just from the thought of satiation, and his headache, along with the strange thoughts, is all but forgotten.

“Can, c-can I have food? Is it… how do I get food?” — comes the barely audible plea from the angel. His black locks shiver like his unsteady hands, forever fidgeting and pulled close to his chest. He wonders if that is normal for mortals; the constant shaking, or if it, too, is from the abuse. He never used to hide and cower quite like this before.

Death’s expression brightens, sending a strange, almost pleasant tingle down the angel's spine. He turns to Auden and beams. — “Tell you what. I will bring you something delicious if you go and retreat to your room. I believe you were already on your way back.” — Mori gasps with a whimper, their fingers forming a fist when they feel their owner’s leather boot touch the side of their hand. At that, the boot simply lifts, moves to the side to trap their hand under its sole, and pushes down until the fist is back in its original open, vulnerable position, resting between the cold floor and the shoe. Mori doesn't flinch away again. The Reaper grins, putting just a tad more weight onto their scarred digits, enough to hurt, and then twists, — “isn’t that right?”

With a whisper of a groan, the deer servant nods, — “y-yeah, yes, sir, we were, we were —”

“Splendid,” — cuts in the Reaper's voice, — “on your way then, angel.”

Auden’s expression shows bewilderment and unease as he watches Mori’s hand being slowly crushed under an almost nonchalant boot. The Reaper’s order was clearly aimed at him, yet his eyes remain on the trembling form of the creature he torments. A horrible chill envelops his soul at the sudden reminder of Death's casual proficiency in doling out pain, frozen as he simply stares, his eyes following the deer thing’s other hand shakily lift and hold onto the wrist connecting them to the source of their misery. They begin to lose the kneeling position they had learned to perfection, curling up on their side as they jerk and whine, their breathing becoming much too loud and strained. Auden presses himself against the wall that much harder.

“Angelll…”

The deity's haunting voice flows like magma and fills up his brain with black smoke. He does not even notice his own panic rising swiftly, finally led back to the present by Death's pleasant, chilling humming. He manages to tear his misty eyes away from Mori's hand, only to heave in a large breath and turn the other way, purple-blue irises hidden behind screwed shut lids. He swallows as if he is trying to keep his lungs inside his chest.

“Your eyes are fogging over again, dear,” — the Reaper tuts with a sympathetic smile on his face, referring to Auden's blind fear and cowering almost like it's some form of condition and not a very reasonable response to seeing such awful things all the time, — “Best get going now, don't you think? Your friend will be on their way momentarily,“ — he reassures him, glancing down at the whining mess under his foot, — ”I promise. You needn't worry about them.”

The first crack of tiny bones in the index finger of ‘his friend’ is followed by a broken yell, quickly dying down into a sob. Jerking to attention, Auden looks to the Grim Reaper. He witnesses his smile turning into a grin, stretching wider. He sees his eyes glow with malice, entirely fixated on the servant who always does as they are told and tries their best being made to weep and hurt. He listens to the bone-chilling, soul-withering, joy-filled, near breathless chuckle that bubbles out of him, an almost warm sound. He feels the air change, the presence of the Reaper reaching every corner of the corridor, slicing into the skin of anyone close enough to feel his power tainted by perverted bloodlust.

Auden understands now why he was told to leave. Clearly, the Reaper craves, and when he does, no one is safe from his whims. If Auden were to stay, he would be witness to yet more agony, and he would surely have to join in sooner or later; to be another body to toy with, another soul to suffocate in unending terror. An endless circle of keeping the creature who was made to maim entertained and docile. Surely, he would not be hurt? He was told just now that he will be given away; how he is in perfect condition and that the Reaper does not wish to ‘ruin’ him. Yet.

Still, as horrifying as it is to witness and endure, it goes against his very nature to leave someone to suffer like this. What sort of Guardian has the conviction and audacity to knowingly turn their back on someone in pain and live their life as if they hadn't seen a thing? The very thought of it immerses his self-conscious in guilt, and though he hears the voices screaming at him to leave, run, never turn back — he cannot obey. The magic in the air only serves to bring him to his knees in mindless paranoia and groaning lungs, the invisible force not quite managing to send him running. His expression hardens, a fierce concentration present on his face as he turns to the Reaper once again, his voice coming strained, quiet, desperate, but filled with purpose and bravery; —

Another crack comes soon after, and another wave of lust crashes into Auden’s very soul. It is incredible, in a way, just how powerful the Reaper is. His very emotions are capable of altering the atmosphere to such an extent, the angel can only endure the raw, unnatural, mortifying ordeal of being made to feel such uncontrollable, near artificial terror. His body is responding in a physical manner to just being in the same room as him — goosebumps, tender muscles, shivering, weakness, sweating, dizziness, nausea. The feeling of Death's tendrils caressing his very throat though there is nothing there, whispers in his ears, phantom touches along his skin, the feeling of being not only watched, but observed and scrutinised in every possible way. It is almost like an entire other creature, his power — a shadow that follows him around like a loyal hunting dog, jumping to action at the slightest provocation, locking its jaws around the throat of anyone at all who dares to even look upon it. He felt it when he awoke, the ever present pressure upon his skin he knew to be the controlling presence of a powerful being, but to feel it so close and intense was truly overwhelming. He has no doubt that this man could bring an entire nation to their very knees just by showing up in a particular mood.

“Please, have mercy on them, Mister Reaper.” — He avoids looking at the poor soul in front of him, only focusing on the intensity emanating from the man. Another bone cracks and Mori's wail overshadows Auden's pleading, — “Mister Reaper, sir, please, pl-please listen to me. I beg, just stop h-hurting them! Mister Reaper!”

His half sob, half yell finally catches the other's attention. There is nothing scarier than to demand of a deity to stop doing as they wish. Auden feels a somewhat familiar sense of inadequacy and powerlessness as he always did talking to Archangels. Though the Grim Reaper is an independent creature that barely acts like a divine being, he is still on a similar level to his Lord — and so, talking to him in such a demanding, disrespectful, crude way makes him want to shrivel up and turn to dust on the spot all the same. Auden reckons he would feel the exact same way speaking to his God or the Devil himself.

‘It is as if they are not so dissimilar in nature.’

“Do you wish to take their place, little dove?” — he questions Auden. The Reaper does not sound amused any longer, but neither does he sound truly furious. His tone resides somewhen between the two, daring Auden to continue bothering him. He is no longer smiling, and that sends an icicle of fear through Auden's heart. His lips do not work right, his tongue grows heavy and useless in his mouth — that consuming, cutting sanguine glare silences him indefinitely. Mori's fear only grows, now forcing wheezing begging out of them. However, they do not beg for mercy from their tormentor — they beg Auden to shut up instead. Finally, with great hesitation, he shakes his head, his black locks bouncing along.

“You do not? Fascinating.” — He steps off that inflamed, shattered hand, but it's as if it brought no relief whatsoever to the servant. They hug their useless fingers to their chest and cry, but do not move otherwise. No tension leaves them. They expect more pain to come their way. Auden, however, begins to deeply regret catching Death's attention. His presence only becomes more suffocating, so much more than he imagined possible, and he looks at him in a way that feels downright lethal. — “You mistake my cordial nature for safety, angel. You also must think my patience is infinite.”

He corners him again, leering down on him from above as he cowers pitifully on the floor behind his useless wings. Auden’s breaths barely manage to make it past his lips. Shame builds once again inside him, flooding him like a river of mud at the Reaper's words. So he has noticed; how could he not. He knows well just how badly Auden hopes to find repose from all his misfortune in someone like him. Someone powerful, fearsome, kind, gentle, merciful, divine. A replacement for what he has lost; a new being to lift above everyone else and worship, so in turn he may deserve to live a more pleasant life. It's a wretched thing, this obsession Auden develops. It would be less so if at least it didn't happen with even the most dangerous, unholy beings he comes across down here. It's second nature for an angel to be submissive to higher ranking beings in their Heaven; but why is it that he just cannot muster up the decency to act like a good angel would?

‘A pathetic winged fraud, that is all you have ever been. Even before your Fall, you just couldn’t stop disappointing everyone around you. And now, you are even disappointing Death himself, despite his merciful nature.’

“I-I am so sorry, I'm sorry.” — He has done it now. Pissed off the only person who took mercy on him. His string of apologies break down into sobs, muffled by his hands. The longer the silence stretches, the more he believes his death is approaching.

“Angel.”

He expects to be torn apart like all those demons he watched be slaughtered helplessly. He expects roaring, agonising magic slamming into his flesh, corroding it away from his bones. He expects unending misery. What he feels is a cold hand taking hold of his face. Claws dig into his cheeks like teeth.

“Look at me.”

Charm pulls his hands away from his face, forcing him to make eye contact once again. He can barely see through his tears, the Reaper's face a mess of smudged colours. However, judgement doesn't come. On the contrary — what Death gives is an invitation.

“Go to your room.”

Another chance. Another chance. Always another chance, because he never manages to do anything right the first time.

In his shock at being offered one last opportunity to do as he is told and avoid certain horrific consequences, his mouth hangs agape. Blinking away some tears, Auden can tell Death still isn't smiling. His expression shows a careful balance of danger and neutrality. It is hard to read exactly, but it's certainly not a mischievous, giddy expression — it is serious. He cannot squander this opportunity again. If he fails to do as he is told, as he is directly and clearly ordered, he will not get another one.

He tries to nod, finding out quickly that struggling under the clutches of Death is nigh impossible. He can only force a squeak of a response out of his poor throat drowning in the fog of magic; — “Y-Y-Yes, sir, I'm sorry. Pl-Please, forgive me.”

A good few seconds pass, the Reaper's sharp eyes observing his expression in silence. Finally, mercifully, he hums a deep sound, letting go of his face and straightening back up again. He steps back to allow the angel to clamber to his feet, which he does, giving quite a pitiful show for someone who hasn't been hurt at all, knees buckling and hands slipping off of any support they may find. Despite his preconceived notions about the deer hybrid lying on the floor in front of him, as he glances at them now, the slave looks much more similar to a newborn fawn than any other ‘demon’ he may meet down here.

Once he manages to stay on his feet, he only spares brief glances towards the others, not daring to look in any way besides terribly apologetic and pitiful, lest the Reaper think he deserves a lesson in humility after all. With raspy gasps of rigidity, he slides off of the wall he was holding onto all this time and hurries past the two of them, hoping he still remembers where he came from. The last mistake he ever makes would be missing the door that leads to his room and getting lost after this whole ordeal.

He can feel Death watching him intently as he shuffles away shamefully, an indescribable yet unmistakable feeling.

He hears desperate yells and pleading as he turns a corner. He flinches at another ear-splitting, hopeless wail cracking from agony louder than any before it as he fights the urge to look behind him. It's not his fault. It's not his fault. It is not his fault.

‘What a pathetic excuse for a Guardian Angel.’

He does not disagree.

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