#tw religious whump

[writingphoenix]

Religious Whumpee

-a religious whumpee who is kidnapped and can't do their prayers and rituals like they are supposed to.

-religious whumpee trying to keep up their prayers at certain times but they can't because they don't know what time it is.

-religious whumpee feeling guilty over not being able to keep up with it even though they know their god(s) will understand

-or maybe the god(s) won't and they are scared of that too

-religious whumpee's only comfort are the prayers they know by heart and say over and over, focusing on them through the pain.

-religious whumpee who is comforted by their deity but the deity can't do anything more to help

-religious whumpee being rescued but struggles to return to their church/place of worship because of all the people

=maybe whumper was a part of their religious community and now they have religious trauma because of that

I feel like religion and faith is such an integral part of many people's lives and I would love to see that woven into more stories, whether it's a fantasy setting or something more normal.

[sugarsweetwriter]

┇(Cult) Whump Recovery… (Whumper is referred to as The Leader/God)

"Do you remember what you were like before?" Caretaker asked gently. Too gently—and Whumpee hated it. Whumpee absolutely despised the softness, the kindness they always held in their voice as the sweetly coaxed Whumpee's secrets out of them, to, of course, use against them later—Whumpee thought. It was the same voice that The Leader would always use; Whumpee wondered why it scared, angered them so much to hear Caretaker take on the same tone. How could they dislike the same tone Their God would use? It all confused, and immensely bothered, Whumpee.

"Yes, I do. I was sinful." Whumpee seethed. Their eyes darted around the room, before settling on the white, floral fabric, draped over their bruised thighs. The dress was apparently Caretaker's cousin's, and it was the only clean clothing they had when unexpectantly taking Whumpee in, only about a week ago. Since then, laundry had been done, but Whumpee seemed attached to the dress, and Caretaker wanted them to be as comfortable as possible. It was much prettier, silkier, than their previous, everyday-garment; a gray, modest dress which covered them from head to toe. It sat on them loosely, and was itchy at the shoulders, but that had never mattered.

Caretaker frowned at the response, but Whumpee hadn't dared to look up to see it.

"How were you sinful—if you're comfortable telling me?" Caretaker questioned—again, far too tenderly. Having sat at the foot of the bed for around 10 minutes now, Caretaker kept conversing with Whumpee—though it felt more like an interrogation for them.

Whumpee hesitated for a moment before answering:

"I.. I wasn't holy yet. I hadn't found The Leader yet—I hadn't found God yet. I hadn't begun worshipping them- and, so, I couldn't have been-.. righteous," Whumpee paused briefly, then continued.

"I would've.. never been forgiven if I had continued like that, but... Now, I'm sure I'll never be forgiven again… no matter how hard I could ever pray." Whumpee practically whispered the second half of the sentance, taking in a shaky breath before muttering the very last part—they sounded as if they were about to sob.

Caretaker sighed, sorrowfully, before slowly—very, very slowly—moving over towards Whumpee, to which Whumpee only stared at them for a moment before looking back down at their thighs. Hesitantly, Caretaker spoke:

"I know, I know it's scary—but none of that's.. true. Please.. know that you're safe. The Leader.." Caretaker hesitated, "God—can't hurt you, anymore. I promise. You're far away from them all now and I won't ever let anybody from back there hurt you ever again. You're safe" they finished.

Caretaker, now sitting knee to knee with Whumpee, looked back into their eyes, only to be met with a small, scarred, terrified, baby deer. Their eyes, yet again, frantically searched for a focus of interest around the room as tears spilt freely now, quiet sobs racking through their chest as they attempted to mutter a defensive response—but to no avail, as they could only let out pitiful whimpers.

How could Caretaker challenge The Leader? How could Caretaker challenge The God—the only being who knew true virtue? It went against all that Whumpee had known for the past four years. And deeply, it both shook and absolutely terrified Whumpee.

Once more, Caretaker moved towards Whumpee, little by little, attempting to look back at Whumpee's face—failing, since Whumpee's head was now lowered and pressed against their thighs, still covered by soft fabric.

"Whumpee… Can I touch you?" Cautiously, Caretaker asked—unsure as to whether Whumpee could even heard them through their now, much louder, sobs. Although, even through Whumpee's hysteric crying, Caretaker could've sworn they'd heard something among the lines of "Yes, okay". And so, steadily, they wrapped their arms around Whumpee, who quickly lifted their arms as well, almost instinctively, wrapping them shakily around Caretaker and burying their face in Caretaker's neck, breathing heavily and smearing their tears everywhere. Whumpee had been deprived of touch for so long, of course they’d take it now that they got the chance to.

After the shock of it all, Caretaker dotingly whispered sweet confirmations, holding Whumpee firmly yet tenderly, making sure to comfort Whumpee yet not trap them.

Words of "It's okay, it's all okay. I promise—you're safe. The Leader can't get to you here" were spoken, caringly.

Eventually, the cries died down, and Whumpee was left in Caretaker's arms, whimpering quietly, their arms now drooping down Caretaker's back.

"How... You're- you're wrong" Whumpee sniffled, well aware of how weak the defense was.

But they were so tired, and still, scared. Desperately, they just wanted to believe Caretaker—believe that they were safe, and believe even that god—not The Leader—but god, either didn't care—or know—about them, or didn't even exist to begin with.

Still terribly unsure of whatever the real truth of it may be—they feared The Leader was right, it was what they'd been taught for so long anyway—they just hoped, so wholeheartedly, but exhaustedly, hoped that they'd be okay. That they'd be safe, that they wouldn't be punished—not for leaving, or for daring to doubt The Leader, and even god.

At least now, in Caretaker's warm arms, they did, indeed, feel safe—for the first time in a very, very long time.

In response to Whumpee's defense, Caretaker only hummed affectionately. Truthfully, Caretaker was proud, so proud, of Whumpee. For the first time in the week they'd been staying with Caretaker, instead of hiding in the closet, or just uncontrollably sobbing and praying while pushing them away, they accepted touch, and comfort, help.

Caretaker knew it'd take a long, long time to work with Whumpee and work towards recovery; Whumpee was still working on processing the very notion that it all, that all of the punishments could've been for nothing. It wasn't as if they had never considered it before. They did at the start, and later on they wondered if—regardless of whether The Leader, or any god was real—anything could've made all that they had been through worth it. Eventually though, they became far too fearful to ever even consider any of it ever again.

Yet here, they slowly fall asleep on Caretaker, their weak body slumping onto them, head awkwardly positioned at their neck; to which Caretaker gently—not too gently this time; without saying anything in fact—positioned Whumpee's body in a more comfortable position, and as Whumpee slept, safely, and warm, Caretaker was sure of it now; they will never give up on Whumpee.

┇A/N: First writing on here! Posting this before my intro as well... it's 3 am now but I just had the urge to write and came up with this (touch starved Whumpee my beloved)... I haven't seen any cult whump recovery drabbles before, so here's one! Hopefully someone enjoyed my writing! ^^

[justbreakonme]

Hi! I don’t know if you’re taking asks right now, but if you are, could you maybe write some whumpee deconditioning?

Oh this is right up my alley…

Caretaker sat outside on the porch, looking out over the dry grass and gravel drive. There was no one around for miles, well, no one but Whumpee.

He still didn’t know much about where he had come from, mostly that it was not a place he ever wanted to visit. He’d found him curled up in the barn, wedged in between hay bales as tightly as he could managed, like that was gonna do much against the below freezing temperatures. Caretaker was glad he’d thought to double check on the cats, otherwise, who knows if the kid would have made it through the night.

He’d yanked him inside and ripped into him, saying his parents were probably worried sick, and only when he’d ran out of breath did he see the hand shaped bruises, the burns…the belt marks. All through everything, whumpee hadn’t managed a word, merely stared blankly into the middle distance, trembling like a leaf.

That was almost three months ago now, and snow had given way to dead grass and the beginnings of spring, and Whumpee had stayed with Caretaker.

He slept in a real bed, not in a barn, and they ate meals together at a proper kitchen table, and he helped out around the property like he’d lived there all his life. And that was where the normalcy ended.

It was like he couldn’t remember, not in his mind at least. But the things he did were a different story. As horrible as it was, he had expected the flinching. The skittishness, the way he avoided fireplace pokers and belts like the plague. But there were other things that he just hadn’t puzzled out yet.

The biggest problem was that there was something about books that set him on edge. Caretaker was an avid reader, and there was not much he liked better than cracking open a book and sitting back on the porch, but whenever he did, whumpee acted…odd.

He’d watch from the kitchen window, then duck away when he’d look back, and if, after he looked back, he got up and came inside, it would trigger a panic attack like nothing else.

Usually, when whumpee got scared, they went still, and silent, aside from quick, short breaths, his head ducked and his hands clasped in front of him. Those were…easier, in some ways, to deal with. He had worked out that whumpee was needing forgiveness, or reassurance that he hadn’t done anything wrong, or that no one was mad at him. Once that “sunk in”, he would be able to calm down, slowly, but better the others.

The “book scares” as he had started to refer to them in his own mind, would have whumpee scrambling for cover, his hands up in a defensive position, and he would beg and cry that he was sorry, that he would be better, that he didn’t mean to, but he would never say what he was sorry for, and no amount of questions, in the moment or after it, would help caretaker figure it out. It was like even whumpee wouldn’t know.

He didn’t even know how to really calm whumpee down, all he was ever able to do was help him crash safely. He’d tell him to go sit in bed and calm down, and that he wasn’t in trouble, but he would still hear him crying for hours, and would find him passed out, exhausted, on top of the covers in his bed, tear tracks still drying on his cheeks.

He just…couldn’t figure it out.

Caretaker could feel whumpees eyes on the back of his head through the open window. He fought the urge to turn around, and instead, had an idea. He faked a yawn, and a satisfied sigh, and closed his book. He stretched, and snuck a sideways glance over his shoulder to see him watching.

He looked…hopeful, but still ducked away Was that a good sign? He took a deep breath, and decided to try something else. Very gently, he called. “Hey, Whumpee? Could you bring me a pen?”

He didn’t know what to ask for, but Whumpee hadn’t had any reactions to pens or the like, and it was something he could find easily.

“Y-Yes sir!”

Caretaker winced at the eager panic in his voice, and the way he practically ran for the cup of pens by the phone. He was out the door, presenting the pen, in seconds, his hands shaking but still lucid and not lost to panic yet.

“Thank you,” he takes the pen, and gives whumpee a smile, “would you feel like joining me?”

He gestured to the other rocking chair, and Whumpees breath hitched as he darted a glance up for just a second, searching Caretakers face.

He seemed to determine it was the right answer, and nodded, quickly. “Thank you sir.” It was like watching someone held at gunpoint, the way he sat so carefully, the white knuckle grip he held on the armrests.

“It’s nice weather out here, huh? Finally starting to warm up…” he didn’t know what else to say, hell, they’d probably had less than ten conversations that weren’t about what they were going to do or how to do something.

“Yes sir, it is…” He moved his hands to his lap, still not relaxing even the slightest, but his tone seemed less…stiff.

He wished he’d thought this out a little further, thought of more to talk about than the weather. In a way, he hadn’t planned because he didn’t really expect to get this far.

He took another deep breath, figuring he might as well not beat around the bush. “When I come and sit out here and read, I can tell it makes you worried…” Whumpee flinched, hard.

“Look, you aren’t in trouble, you didn’t do anything wrong, I just want to understand why…” caretaker added quickly, shifting to turn his full attention towards Whumpee.

That proved to be a bad idea. Whumpee shrank back in the chair, eyes wide and blank like a deer in the headlights, his mouth open but no words escaping.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t bring it up because I was annoyed or anything… you’re a good kid whumpee, and I don’t want you to always feel like you’re in trouble cause you’re not. Alright?”

It didn’t seem like Whumpee could even hear him. He still just stared forward, his back pressed painfully hard up against the back of the chair.

“Hey, whumpee, you’re okay, you’re good. Can you hear me?”

The question at least seemed to trigger something, and he nodded quickly, tears starting to pool in his eyes. “Good, good, you’re doing great, kid. Look, I just want you to know that you’re okay, right?”

Whumpee nodded again, and Caretaker could tell he was holding his breath.

“It’s okay if you feel like crying, you can, you won’t be in trouble… I just was hoping to find a way to…I dunno, not scare you so much.”

There’s a moment of silence, whumpee still not breathing, then, it was like it all flooded out at once. A sob seemed to rip out of him, and he sank to his knees in front of caretaker, clasping his hands together as if in prayer.

“P-please… I don’t know what- what to do. What do you want me to d-do? I will, I will, I promise- Please, ju-just tell me, please!”

He was shaking so badly that it was making his teeth chatter, and though Caretaker couldn’t see his face from this angle, he knew it would be screwed up in fear and grief like it always was in moments like these.

Shoving his own chair back, Caretaker sank down to meet whumpee on his knees, putting a hand over his clasped ones. “I want you to be able to relax, okay? I want you to trust me. Trust that I’m not going to hurt you, that you’re safe here with me, okay?”

“I can’t!”

Whumpee immediately clapped his hands over his own mouth in horror. “I’m sorry- I didn’t- I- I-“

Caretaker could hear the way he was winding himself up, the reedy, wheezing breathing that was starting to take over, and he couldn’t let him keep going.

“Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

The tone of his voice was calm, matter of fact, but it seemed to stop Whumpee dead in surprise. He was still struggling to breathe, little hitches interrupting every breath, but at least he was still breathing.

“I’m glad that you were able to be honest, and so that we can work together, okay? That was really, really good kid.”

“R-really?” The look in his eyes was both awestruck and disbelieving, but Caretaker would prefer that over terror any day.

“Yeah. Really. Now, when you said you can’t, did you mean you couldn’t relax, or that you couldn’t trust me, or both?” Caretaker cut himself off, raising a hand gently, “It is okay, whatever answer it is. I just want to know.”

Whumpee was starting to panic again, his eyes darting from the ground then to Caretakers face and down again.

“Both.”

“Okay! Now, we can start off on the same page,” Caretaker gently squeezed his hand around both of Whumpees, “Is there anything that I can do that would make you feel more safe?”

Whumpee just cried harder for a moment, and he wondered if he had pushed too far, when he finally managed a weak “I don’t know…”

Caretaker opened his mouth to speak, but Whumpee kept going. “I want to, I want to, you’ve been nothing but good to me and I want to obey- I don’t know how- I’m so sorry…”

“Hey- Hey, kid, the last thing on my mind is obedience, I just don’t want you be afraid all the time… You’re a good kid, you shouldn’t have to feel afraid.”

To caretakers surprise, whumpee laughed, a quick short burst before seeming to get himself under control. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I just, I doubt I’ve ever been ‘not afraid’ my whole life.” He sneaks a glance at Caretakers face, the drops his eyes to the ground again.

Caretaker sighed, feeling his heart pinch. “That’s okay… I’ve never had anyone else on this farm. We’ll just have to learn together.”

Whumpee nodded quickly, seemingly trying to get himself back under his own tight fisted control. “Whumpee, how about you sit out here with me for a bit?”

Whumpee nods, and caretaker relaxes a bit. But, he still wants to know why reading set him on such a narrow edge.

They both ease back into their seats, and caretaker looks around for a change of subject. To his delight, just at that moment, a bird flew into view and perched on one of the trees nearby.

“Hey, look at that! That’s a robin, it’s really starting to warm up. They start to show up in the spring, and that’s the first one I’ve seen this season.”

Whumpee squinted, then nodded, but, caretaker could tell he hadn’t actually seen it, only pretended to. Could he see it? The way he squinted made caretaker wonder if he could need glasses…

“Here, it’s far away, I’ve got a better picture,” slowly, he reaches for his book, and flips it open to the right page, “See?”

Whumpee still tensed up, but, didn’t panic. He looked, genuine interest showing on his face for the first time he’d ever seen.

“It’s a beautiful bird sir…” Whumpee managed, looking up again before letting his eyes fall back to the book.

“Yeah… and there’ll be more, soon.”

He nods, the slightest grace of a smile on his face.

“Is this the book you thought I would be reading? A book about birds?”

Whumpee tensed further, but still didn’t panic, thankfully. “No sir.”

“Is that…good?”

Whumpees breathing stopped, and Caretaker backpedaled. “That’s a bit to open ended, huh? Could you tell me what you thought I might be reading?”

That was better. Whumpee took a deep breath. “The Bible, sir.”

Caretaker felt his heart sink, but also relief. That explained…a lot.

He forced himself to keep the conversation light, knowing the next few questions he was going to need to ask would be hard. “No, just the bird bible I suppose…” he laughs, setting it back down, and though whumpee didn’t laugh, he did relax slightly further.

“Where you were before, after they read the bible, would you be in danger? Is that why it scares you?”

“Yes,” he takes another deep breath, then another, winding himself up once more, “We’d- We would have a sermon, after, and then… sins would be- would be forgiven.”

“Oh…” So that’s why caretaker could never figure out what Whumpee had thought he’d done wrong. He hadn’t been told yet what sins he’d committed.

“I sh-should not be afraid. Sparing the rod spoils the child, I understand, but-“ Whumpee sniffed, and tears dotted the knees of his jeans, “Sometimes I thought I was going to die…”

“Whumpee…” was all Caretaker could manage, horror taking over everything else.

“I d-didn’t want to die with- with sins unforgiven.”

“Kid… that’s- you don’t- that’s not forgiveness, that’s not fair at all…”

Whumpee just shook their head, wiping their eyes.

“Do you- do you still feel like you need to hurt to be forgiven?”

“I do. That’s- that’s what it takes.”

The uncharacteristic steadiness of that sentence made Caretaker very, very worried. “No, no that’s not right. Whumpee, have you been- when I tell you to go to your room, what do you do?”

“I-“ Whumpee had picked quickly on the shift in his tone, the underlying accusation, and seemed to brace himself for the answer he had to give, “I deal with them myself.”

“How?”

Whumpee just shakes his head again, pulling back further, and he wraps his arms around himself like a hug.

“Whumpee, you have to tell me, what have you been doing?” He needed to know, needed to stop this, stop it now.

He shook his head harder, and now Caretaker was caught with an impossible decision. He doubted he could force the answer out of whumpee, but he also couldn’t just let this go, not something like this.

“Whumpee, please, please just tell me. Please don’t make me have to ask again…” He wracked his brain for what was in his room, how any of it could be used in the wrong way, but he was drawing a blank…

“Are- are you going to make me stop?”

“Yes, I have to. You can’t- it’s not- I’ll forgive you, okay? I’ll do it, if you need to be forgiven, I’ll do it. Okay?”

Whumpee looked up, not just a quick glance but held his eyes for a moment. Fear, relief, sadness, all flashed by, but the one that held steady through it all was this bone deep, haunting sense of exhaustion… Whumpee looked defeated.

“I unscrew the top of the bed post… the screw in the bottom is sharp, but, it’s not enough. Please…” Whumpee reached forward with both hands, grabbing one of Caretakers, “please forgive me, please!”

“You have to tell me what you did wrong…” he’s stalling, trying to avoid having to deny Whumpee the “forgiveness” that he wanted so badly.

“I don’t know- I don’t know but I know I have done wrong, but I always do- I know it!”

“Whumpee-“

“You said, you said you’d do it-“

“But I have to know what you did, because I don’t think you did anything wrong.”

Whumpee let go, hitting his forehead with the heels of his hands as he sobbed. “You said! I n-need- I need to be forgiven- I need to be punished!”

“No you don’t!” Without realizing, he had reached over and grabbed Whumpee by the wrists, shaking him, “You don’t need to be hurt, you don’t have to!”

Whumpee shook his head over and over, practically howling as he struggled to free his wrists.

“Please, whumpee, please stop, stop! Listen to me kid, you don’t have to do this!”

“I do, I do, I do I do I do!”

“No, you DON’T!”

Caretaker hasn’t meant to yell, and he instantly regretted it. Whumpee stopped, his chest heaving as he tried to stop crying.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he loosens his grip on whumpees wrists, “Forgiveness doesn’t mean you need to be hurt. I need you to trust me on this. I need you to try.”

Whumpee drew his hands away, hugging himself again, and nodded. Caretaker didn’t know if he nodded because he agreed, or because he was afraid not to. At the moment, Caretaker would take either, as long as whumpee would be unharmed.

“Whumpee… Just sit out here with me. I’ll get us some tea, and we’ll watch the birds. You won’t have anything to be forgiven for.”

He shakes his head again.

“What is wrong about that?”

“There should be…no joy except through God.”

“So, you think you need to be forgiven, for being happy?”

He nods quickly. “You- you’ve been so good to me, and- It means I need more forgiveness.”

Guilt settled in a heavy layer over him, even though there was no way he could have known.

“But-“ he wracked his brain for half-forgotten Sunday school lessons, “God created everything, right?”

“Every leaf, on every tree.”

Caretaker had never believed in God, but, now he knew he had to speak for him.

“Every bird? Every breeze? Every sunset?”

Whumpee nodded, eyes on his knees.

“He made every leaf of tea and every grain of sugar?”

He nodded again, eyes still down.

“Then, how could it be wrong to sit outside, and admire his creation?”

Whumpee looked up, stunned, and then out to the dry grass, the gravel drive…

“So, how about that tea?”

“Okay..”

“Great,” Caretaker felt like he could breath again, “I’ll be right back then.”

When Caretaker came back, Whumpee accepted the glass of tea carefully, and, when his eyes met Caretakers, some of the exhaustion had melted away.

They sat, and watched the birds, until the tea glasses held nothing but ice and they had looked through every picture of every bird in his book.

It would take time, and it would take work, and trust, and lots and lots of questions, but, things would get better.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

GIVE US A WIP SNIPPET YOU ARE PROUD OF!!

I mean... I guess I could...

CW: Amputation, religious homophobia, religious fanatics, horror

-

The Singer herself leaned down, to look him right in the eyes. She held him by the chin, forcing him to look at her. “I will forgive that. Fear is powerful, and sometimes we make mistakes in the grip of fear. We will agree that it is natural to fear for your life, when you have sinned so greatly against your goddess.”

            Aidan screamed, wordlessly, as loudly as he could, right into her face. She didn't even flinch. She barely even blinked. Aidan's own vision blurred with tears.

            “I understand,” She said, softly. Her voice oozed with delight and she could barely keep the smile off her face. She reached out and took his left forearm in her hand. “Your price will be paid with blood as well,” She said, this time projecting for the crowd. “Aidan Garnes, you have used your right hand to sin against the Mother of the Rock by seeking carnal pleasure with another man. In penance for this perversion, we will remove your left.”

            Aidan’s vision, his entire existence, suddenly became centered in the fingers on his left hand. He had never seen his fingernails, with dirt underneath them, in such detail. He’d never realized how long his fingers were, never even really thought about his hands beyond their usefulness. He let out a muffled groan behind the gag.

            “Pay the price," The Singer said, almost gently. "You have already lost your family, given them up for the sake of momentary pleasures and the sickness in your heart. Now... you will go into punishment for the time it takes you to recover. Return to us an outcast, and live your days alone knowing that your perversion will be visible to anyone who sees you. You will be given a new name. You will never speak to your former family again. You will live among us in shadow.” She looked back up at the crowd, pitching her voice higher, effortlessly projecting. “As the Mother herself ordered written, those who seek unnatural carnal knowledge will make all of Morlofte unclean! As it is written, the price to purify us is the blood of the criminal!”

            “He pays in blood! It is as written!" After a moment, the crowd began to repeat it, over and over, it is as written, until they were pressing forward, jostling to be at the front of the crowd. Their words ran together as Aidan stared at his hand.

            The Singer leaned down and gently closed his fingers into a fist. It didn’t even occur to him to do anything but obey her, even though he shuddered at her touch. Then, she laid his arm down, with the inside of his wrist facing up, on the wooden block. Aidan’s breath came faster and faster, dark spots dancing at the corner of his vision, threatening to grow into blindness. The third guard stepped in to hold it down and she pulled back and away. 

One of the original two guards handed the Singer an axe.

            “It is my solemn duty to mete out the sentence declared by order of the Mother Herself. I weep for you,” The Singer said, smiling so broadly he could have counted each and every one of her teeth. The fire danced and sparkled in her eyes, making them something more than human. Something less.

            She swung the axe up, holding it for a moment that seemed to last an eternity. Aidan heard a scream, as if from very far away, and realized belatedly he was the one screaming.

“My people belong to me,” The Singer whispered. "Only me. Always... me. You belong to me."

The pendant of the Mother’s Hand over his chest suddenly burned like a brand.

She brought the axe down so hard it stuck into the wood and she could not pull it free again.

There was a hush of one second, two seconds, three-

            Aidan’s eyes suddenly bulged. His scream became a high-pitched, animalistic thing. He thrashed helplessly but the guards held him fast. Blood poured from the wound, the hideous open flesh and bone that had been a secret to him all his life, now laid horribly bare for all to see. The crowd stared, suddenly wide-eyed and silent, children beginning to wail in earnest. Their mothers held them tight, but still no one turned away. No one wanted the Singer to notice them unable to bear the sight.

            Lars stood right at the front of them all, just off to the side. His jaw was set, something like determination in his expression. He had not flinched when the axe came down. Aidan saw nothing there, in his expression, but he knew too well the fire in front of him didn't burn half so hot as the fire inside Lars now.

            The Singer leaned down and picked up Aidan’s left hand, fingers still curled tightly into a fist. As though the hand that had been attached to his left wrist just seconds ago was a strange and disturbing toy. One finger twitched, and Aidan could have sworn he felt the movement.

One of the guards pulled something from the fire, metal bright red in color laced with orange, and Aidan stared, jerking back a moment too late.

The flat, hot metal pressed to his wound. Aidan felt only a moment of agony before his eyes rolled back and he collapsed forward in a heap.

The Singer quirked a smile down at him, then tossed the hand lightly into the fire to burn.

[unorganisedalienrubbish]

Whumper dialogue

“Darling, if you still believe in a god, get on your hands and knees and pray. Because if you’re lucky, and They decide you deserve it, They are the last person who can save you now”

[loonybun]

ok screw it oc introduction be upon ye

hi guys this is Rosé!!! I do have an in depth thing regarding his relationship with Adonis (another character of mine) and his whole transformation on my other blog so if you’d like to read that in more detail it’s right here.

CONTAINS: Cults/religion/sacrilege (evangelical nature), religious trauma and guilt, shunning, old timey homophobia and religion-based intersexphobia, historic stuff and some fun facts about the 1920’s, verbal abuse, manipulation, coercion, power dynamic (god and mortal), a really shitty partner and a shitter relationship, body horror, chronic illness, attempted suicide (multiple times multiple methods including overdose), rot and decay of the body, and love potions but for all the wrong reasons.

Rosé, formerly known as Roe Labat, was born in 1898 and raised in an evangelical cult. Ironically enough this has actually nothing to do with the wings and whatnot. That’ll come later. Being both intersex and albino, he was never truly accepted by the people around him. Some were kinder than others, sure, but it was all out of pity. In their eyes, he was already damned to an eternity in hell for the simple sin of existing.

He was a very docile and quiet child, rarely ever stepping out of line regardless of circumstances. He lived inside of the church, as his parents didn’t want responsibility of him. From an early age Roe understood that he was not something worthy of love, as even God had forsaken him. He was cared for out of obligation rather than actual genuine love, having religion almost constantly drilled into him.

When he was 18 (1916), he ran away from the cult’s village. He figured that he’d never make anything out of himself within it, and never be able to prove himself. Roe was also sick of being a burden. He had never been able to make friends due to the constant ostracism, and even though the people he was around changed to be a lot more open-minded, this remained a constant throughout his life. He started living in New Orleans and often frequented various parades and bars. Also he learned that he was queer and that messed him up for a bit. Despite being forsaken, he still tried his best to be a good follower given his circumstances, but the more he learned about the world around him, the looser his faith became.

Roe took an eventual interest in the “pansy performers” (drag queens in the 1920’s), though felt a lot of guilt and shame regarding considering the concept as a career. The more he thought about it though, he realized he didn’t have much else to lose.

He was a natural performer, able to say and do just the right things in just the right ways to provoke a positive reaction from the audience. Considering the more niche community at the time, he never really drew in big crowds, but what he had was enough for him to live off of in a nice 3 room apartment. He was able to afford relatively nice clothes for his performances when they weren’t provided, and quickly became skilled at makeup and wig styling. He also began dying his hair (yes hair dye was a thing in the 1920’s) and using mascara and heavier makeup in order to conceal his albinism, just because it drew some unwanted attention here and there. While he rarely encountered any trouble with the law, he had a few close calls given what he was doing was pretty illegal at the time. homophobia am i right…

Around when he was 24-25, he met “Don”, who claimed to be a cab driver, yet was almost always dressed to the nines in stylish and at times anachronistic clothing. They hit it off very quickly, relating over the strange feeling of being isolated from their peers. They started going out together soon after. It was Roe’s first real relationship, especially with another man, so to say he was a bit nervous would be putting it lightly. Regardless, Don was always very kind to him and patient with him. He was a bit suspicious of Don though since he was always very dodgy about his home life and really any personal details, however he just assumed they came from similar situations. Roe did theorize where his money was coming from and thought him to either be a bootlegger or a member of the mafia, though he never brought it up because in full honesty he didn’t care too much. He was already head over heels and a little illegal activity wouldn’t stop that.

The last thing he was expecting was Don— or rather, Adonis, to claim he was actually a god. And really really wasn’t supposed to be talking with Roe but just couldn’t help himself. Roe was shocked to say the least, and a little incredulous, but Adonis was very quickly able to prove he was telling the truth. Roe, despite having his entire worldview and years of his life shattered by this one man, decided to try and make things work between them. And it did, for a while. The gaps in Adonis’s visits made more sense now, since he couldn’t be away for too long without the other gods getting suspicious. And it was nice to not have secrets. Roe was able to open up to him about his childhood as well, and Adonis provided sympathy for him.

But good things can’t last forever. As time passed, their relationship grew progressively worse. Adonis got upset over increasingly small things, and while Roe understood his perspective and tried to accommodate him, it didn’t mean he was exactly pleased about it. Adonis began to grow concerned over the prospect of something happening to Roe. After all, he was mortal. Frail. Weak.

His solution to this? Well, get rid of the mortality. Roe wasn’t exactly on board with the idea, considering he quite enjoyed being able to perform and live in the city, and accepting Adonis’s offer would make that nearly impossible. Adonis was persistent though, bringing up the idea at any time despite how many times Roe tried to gently shoot it down. Roe eventually grew tired of this cycle and hesitantly accepted. Adonis claimed that this would make things easier— They could see each other more often, they wouldn’t have to hide, the chances of his whole relationship with a mortal being found out by the one person who could end his existence from breaking the rules moved close to 0, no real drawbacks! for him.

this is where the stuff in the post i mentioned earlier comes in. if you’ve already read it, yeah it gets bad. if you haven’t, here’s the brief explanation.

given the fact that mortal bodies aren’t exactly capable of handling literal godly essence, Roe’s body began to decay and break down. At first, it mimicked some sort of disease. His skin became dry and flaky, and his body felt oddly hot and uncomfortable. Painful sensations overtook his body and became almost constant. By the time things started melting and his organs began to fail, he already knew it was too late to reverse any of this. Any hope of continuing his career or life normally vanished completely. Adonis, however, was very happy about this new development! It had worked! yippee! so so much fun. Of course, he obviously remained as sympathetic towards Roe as possible, regardless of any underlying excitement.

Roe became agitated and frustrated because of the amount of pain he was in and how much he had lost. He wasn’t able to leave the house anymore. He began to snap and lash out at Adonis, picking a fight or making a snide remark whenever possible. Adonis hadn’t exactly seen this coming, but he still kept trying to de-escalate things, often in the form of telling Roe that he was acting unreasonable or hysterical (smart move!). Despite all of this, they stayed in their relationship. Roe was too terrified to be alone, knowing that whatever was happening to him would completely destroy any semblance of respect people had for him, and Don because he wanted to see it through.

Their fights got worse until Adonis finally snapped back, calling Roe an “ungrateful cunt” for not appreciating the love and support he’d oh so generously provided. He made it clear to Roe that nobody would recognize him as human anymore. Nobody would love or care about him. He’d be a freak to anyone other than him, so he’d better stop complaining or he’d lose him too.

This got through to Roe, and he stopped shouting. In fact, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. It hurt too much to speak, to move, to breathe. Every step was agony. His body had contorted beyond recognition. Was it even worth it to continue like this? Would this be what the rest of his existence was like? Did he really want to live if it meant being in constant, unbearable agony?

Even if the answer was no, he hardly had much of a choice. He tried more humane methods at first. Overdose, drowning in the bathtub, smashing his head against the wall— Nothing worked. He was still alive. He was still alive. Why was he still alive? Was he alive? Was this what it meant to live?

He got more desperate. Stabbing at his stomach, burning his flesh, only it would only leave little splotchy marks that quickly faded. Or so he thought.

The area around the wound he’d made on his stomach began to rot, eating away at any organs or skin or muscle in its path. Eventually, his entire torso from the bottom of his spine to the top of his pelvis was gone save for his spine and a few bits of spare viscera.

When Adonis returned, he wasn’t happy to see what Roe had tried to do. He became incredibly upset with him for trying to leave the relationship in the only way he possibly could. Still, as long as Roe promised to stop, he’d forgive him. Roe obliged.

The fact that Roe wouldn’t talk to him became a source of frustration for Adonis. It felt intentional, spiteful. And it hurt. Every single question was met with a dulled response, as if he barely heard him. As if he hardly cared. It became a bit like spending time with a rock when he stopped responding all together. No matter what Adonis tried, he couldn’t seem to get Roe to react. It was at that point he realized that both physically and mentally, the person he’d fallen for was gone. Far, far deep down, he knew it was his fault. But still, there was hardly any point in staying. Roe would probably rot there forever, and what good would it do to watch over that?

And so he left. Roe realized that it was permanent maybe only a week or so later. Initially, he blamed himself. If he had put in a little more effort, he could have tried to respond, but the pain was too much to bear… The pain— The pain that had begun to fade now. Maybe a month after Adonis left, Roe began to regain his mobility, his strength, and while he was still in pain, it was no longer unbearable. It seemed more like a dull nagging now. The fog that the loneliness and agony had inflicted upon him began to lift as well, and all of that guilt quickly shifted and simmered into pure hatred.

Hatred that the new immortal would begin to inflict upon the world and the ones surrounding it. That would continue to build for years with only the set goal of revenge against the man that had wronged him. And while it cooled over time into a tepid resentment, it never truly faded. He was able to continue with life, though hardly on the same plane, confining himself to a dimension that only certain desperate souls could access. Souls desperate to save their relationships, souls desperate to have their so-called beloveds fall for them, wretched, vile souls. And he’d help them regardless. After all, what’s a worse offense to a love god than bastardizing the craft? Who cares if a few… Hundred lives get ruined? It’s fun to watch. It’s not his turn to suffer anymore. And he won’t be made a victim again.

ANYWAYS more extra info i DONT think i put on the other post but dont rlly wanna check:

Adonis is the god of Lust, Beauty, and Vanity

Roe took on his stage name Rosé after his transformation to distance himself from his past

Rosé has been collecting magic. For what purpose? Let’s not worry about that.

Rosé has the abilities to siphon magic and the life force from people. He doesn’t do this often unless something catches his eye that he wants to harness. It does mean he’s incredibly powerful though.

Rosé’s main abilities he gained directly from Adonis’s essence or whatever include being able to alter the emotions of others (he can force people to think certain ways and even do certain things), pocket dimension stuff, and object conjuring.

Rosé has a lot of side hobbies but his favorite is cooking. He really likes savory dishes, but he also likes sweet things.

Rosé is able to travel between different dimensions and such, and only exists as a “god” in (this) one.

Rosé has built up a reputation among a lot of magical creatures. None of them are quite sure what he is or how he seems to defy certain laws of existence but most see him as a relatively trustworthy supplier for love potions.

Every so often Rosé gets bored and chooses to single people out to mess with. Maybe he should stop doing that.

Rosé is VERY prone to breakdowns, and while he’s mostly able to stay professional, if someone’s around him for a prolonged period of time and something causes him to spiral he regresses into an incredibly different and much more desperate person.

Rosé (name aside) considers himself a liquor connoisseur (RED FLA) and does collect rare alcohols. he does have a tendency to drink heavily but considering his body can’t really process food or drinks it sort of just magically disappears. he is a talkative and very mopey drunk though. like will start full on venting about his life story.

He’s friends with Aisling!!! Friends is a very strong word!!!! Maybe the wrong word!!! But they they hang out sometimes and Aisling seems to enjoy his company a lot even if he can’t really understand why he keeps coming back if not out of fear or trying to use him so he keeps his distance. Aisling is honestly just worried about him and has sort of been able to slowly break down that Rosé maybe isn’t as absolutely terrifying as he first thought and is indeed just very. very lonely and maybe even a bit pathetic

[rocks-whump-stuff]

ghost whumper who haunts the shit out of whumpee!!

slamming doors around whumpee's house

playing music out of nowhere/ turning the tv on while whumpee's trying to sleep

shocking whumpee with electronic devices — "no, it is not a 'faulty outlet', it was an attack!"

Possessing objects and harming them — "My hair straightener bit me!" "My sewing machine attacked me!"

Possessing whumpee and making them hurt themself

Possessing whumpee and making them hurt others

Talking in whumpee's ear and driving them crazy

Whumpee sleeping with a cross on their chest every night (or any other protective symbol)

Whumpee being terrified of ouijia boards

Horrid nightmares every night

Whumpee being constantly paranoid and needing therapy

Bonus points for atheist skeptic Caretaker who truly thinks whumpee is delusional:

"It was just a mouse, you can go back to bed."

"You need to be less clumsy, you're covered in bruises."

"Did the cat scratch you again, you've got clawmarks. What did i tell you about touching her food?"

"The straightener most definitely did not bite you. Let's get some burn cream on that."

"You really need to sleep, the devil is not after you."

[leechysmile]

Angsty Nu: Carnival idea because I started playing it like yesterday and love the angst potential.

Imagine some super religious group goes around kidnapping Incubi to make them repent for the sin of their existence. They bind them and essentially starve and punish (torture) them into praying forgiveness. And they're only forgiven in two situations: Death (if they've prayed convincingly enough) or if they've broken so badly they swear themselves to a life of holiness within the church.

Which would still lead to death eventually unless one can manage to sustain themselves 100% off of human food, potions, etc. Which likely isn't impossible, but is probably unlikely.

Anyway, imagine they capture Morvay and he's so so hungry by the time he's rescued, but also can't help but be nervous around Olivine because even though logically he knows Olivine is safe there's that fear Morvay associates with religion now.

Not to mention his captors eventually got to him, using twisted logic to convince him he's a creep and a rapist and that by definition his existence is sexually manipulative so now he feels guilty for eating. But he's so hungry he can't resist and just cries afterwards and—

[thesoulesscollection]

Beat The Hand That Sins (Thsc Choc Fic)

Heya! Here's a little writer's blurb. I wanted to write a piece depicting the turbulent dynamic between Candy with her grandson, Choc. 

By the way, please read the tags, Candy isn't a good person, she's very flawed, traumatized even, and downright abusive, most if not all having it directed at Choc.

Choc ‘fun fact’ is he's ambidextrous, is able to write with both hands fluidly yet naturally born a leftie and has a better preference for it. 

Choc's the type of person who will talk about his trauma in a almost positively cheerful way, brushing it off as a joke he could laugh at now while anyone around him is highly uncomfortable and concerned by

^ Although at first, his advice would come out as helpful, if some were to really think deeper into what he says, it's far from so. It's one that's twisted up by trauma under the fatherly guise of ‘knowing what's best’ for people. 

Tw/Tags: Heavy Angst, Whump, Graphic Child Abuse/Neglect, Corporal Punnishments, Physical Abuse, Verbal Insults, Dehumanizing Language, Abusive Familial Relationships, & Implied Religious Themes 

1967: Choc, 11yo & Candy, 66yo

On the ground, curled up in a tight little ball, Choc's wheezing, his good eye not swollen shut is fixated to the wall ahead. Breathing ragged he stayed still, emotionless, crying won't protect him. Soon thereafter he goes imaging happy thoughts, more a sweetened escape from cruel reality until it breaks apart by the fantastical seams once he hears her voice. 

“Get up you inept brat” 

It's what kept him relatively sane for the most part. Until his grandmother hovers above his twisted little form with clear disdain. The ugly sneer on her wrinkled face, her strong french accent clipped in impatience at his sorry state, and gloved fists tells him it was far from over. 

“G-grammy… Please” 

A harsh scoff and her cold hand pinch around the back of his neck, immediately it shuts him up. Choc should've known better than to talk back, past experiences such as this reminds him as only pain will come to him if he chose to be stubborn. When he's made to stand on unsteady feet, nearly buckling under him, he does feel himself sway a little. Though that is when the backhanded slap across his face on the good side, not yet badly bruised such as with the other, elicits a startled gasp. 

“How many times do I have to remind you to not be so careless? To not speak unless you are spoken to?” 

Wincing at the sting freshly blossoming in his round cheeks, Choc swallowed back the pain, silently nodding along. Best not to show what hurts, always better to tough out, pray that it won't be too bad. Last time around the age of six, stupidly having been brought up through heavy wails, he was in pain and couldn't feel his legs. His grandmother decided to give him a plentiful amount of lashes on his back, on each corresponding limb, and left him to sleep in the mess that's meshed with his tears, snot, and other ungodly bodily fluids. 

After a while the punishments, getting severe with each passing year, eventually do tend to blur together. Is it bad he stopped caring or rather no longer felt a thing?

Choc pushed it back to the recess of his mind. 

“I shouldn't be expecting anything highly from you, should I?” 

Once again the boy responds mutely, keeping his gaze locked on the ground, fingers digs in the old unwashed shirt worn daily, smelling of rotting stink. She barely allows him to clean in the idea he was at fault for his messy disarray so he shouldn't be rewarded with cleanliness or anything remotely caring. Unless he pleads his case to her, pathetically miserable it may be to earn her forgiveness which would never be granted, he still does it and will do chores galore, even if it would last from dawn to dusk to do all. But desperation called upon so, he'll work down to the bone, exhausted terribly he can sleep anywhere. 

“You're a freakish imp in disguise of the devil's making. How can I be so blind not to see this. Your underhanded antics and cynical attitude” She rambled in vile anger. “What you wrote to deface me, our family and over what we believe” 

This whole (one-sided) argument and physical discourse started because the elderly woman had taken note of his left hand at work, writing in a little journal in his room. A raggedy book yellowing in aged use was his only safe place to scribble away his inner worries. She read it, every page detailing his feelings, his thoughts on her, the family's fight over social standing, and the religion she prayed on her knees so rigorously over. Now it's been torn to shreds and he was beat for it. 

“What you wrote was deplorable. Sinful. You don't dare begin to understand and know what I've done for you and your sister to be where we are now” While the woman firmly persists, her wide frame easily shadows his who's back is pressed flat against the wall. “You shall be thankful you are here in the first place, to be at mercy you aren't completely feeble such as with your mother. If it wasn't for our holiness, you wouldn't be a thing” 

Choc curled away, his shaky hands clenched to fists, fighting the weak urge to cry, took this as a cue to speak, “I'm sorry” 

“And what did I tell you, boy, about using your left hand?”

His right protectively covered the left hand, his cheeks were lit on the fire of shame. “I-I don't like writing with my right hand… It's. It's was un-u-uncomfortable” 

“Give me your left hand” She orders, given no room for argument yet Choc resists, laying his left hand deep into his chest. “Now” 

“I-I forget! Please!”  

No matter what he says or goes to do, she is quicker to grab him by the ear, neck, arm, or in this case, his matted blond hair. Then she went for his left arm and got roughly yanked behind him, Choc for sure heard the bone in his shoulder pop. A pained hiss presses out his clenched teeth when she decides to throw his thin body on the nearest table. He faintly hears past the ringing in his ears, the rattling of a chest drawer open, she's in a desperate search for something. The tingling ache in his limp arm already tells him she dislocated it, he panics over the realization. Breath caught in his throat Choc squeezes his eyes shut.

Though in hesitancy, he cracks one eye open a smidge to see what his grandmother literally brought to the table, being a long slender stick made from smooth metal. Anxiously switching his blurry sight to his left hand as it lays on the table, palm flat on the bumpy oak surface. 

“You made me do this. Take this as a learning experience as it hurts me more than it will for you” 

Eventually Choc is pulled away from the table, his free hand, his right, the proper respectable one, grips the corner for dear life. In a sudden he was close to doubling over, bruised knees knocking together, almost giving out once the metal hits skin. Not his left hand but instead it is directed at back, likely used as a sly tactic to surprise him to alertness. She knows the boy slips into another state of mind. 

“I want you to at least be conscious with me to learn your lesson. So stand up proper, I ask of you to keep your eyes on the wall and repeat to me the number of lashes I give you” 

With a shake of the head, tremors is what it's called, Choc simply does what's asked of him, straightens his slumped posture and he blinks away the tears. Arm outstretched, hand ready to take the lashes, he steadies himself to take the punishments given. Rather he should be thankful she's merciful to primarily give his left hand and back the treatment. Although having been beaten to an inch of his life, she can no doubt be crueler about it. 

“O-One!” 

Voice cracks to an inhuman pitch which Choc grew embarrassed by, biting down at his lips hard enough to bleed. Grandma Candy is at his side, hearing his groggy whines with keen precision, no considerations, and it earns him another hit. This time, probably miscalculated, though it wouldn't really take him by surprise if it wasn't, she aims for his upper arm, a sliver of a long cut slashed across his forearm. 

“Two!” He calls out. Then another two right after. “Three! Four!” 

Soon he loses count. Mind went cloudy with time and intensity. However she won't lighten up. All Choc knows is how his voice follows in repeating the number of lashes the metal ruler gives him. Musky sweat profusely seeped out cut pores, the sour scent lingers heavy in the air. 

In due time, she tires herself out, her old body can't keep up as it once was in her younger years. 

Choc heaves a broken sigh, unable to pull his locked gaze from the wall. 

Whatever his poor ailing mother had to deal with when she was alive, in her own childhood must've been ten times worse so he doesn't think harder on it. He wanted to do his best to preserve a positive memory of his mother and not sully himself into the idea his treatment was worse than hers. 

“Do you apologize and reap for what you sow with bad intentions?” 

“Yes, I have” Choc stumbled a little. Left hand was swollen and bruised like a bad fruit. Any movement whether small or big, even with an involuntary twitch caused him to wince. Likely the bruises will last for a couple weeks and he can take it in if it's broken. Either way he isn't looking forward to anything in the future. The side eyed glares and his need to give them half baked excuses. 

“Good. You do realize I do this for you to learn that you can't keep biting the hand that feeds and cares for you? One day and it always will return to slap you back down to the fiery pits of hell” 

As she dutifully promised he wouldn't be able to write as well as any remaining sinful deeds with said hand. It took a longer period for him to get remotely accustomed to using his right hand; it still was like a chainsaw to butter but he got there to garner less scrutiny. 

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

Burial Rite

Disclaimer: minoans didn't do human sacrifices as far as we know, otherwise this is mostly historically accurate (there's very little information available on minoans, since their writing hadn't been deciphered yet), all my info is from the archaeological museum of Heraklion and the tour guide that led us through the remains of the palace of Knossos

masterlist

word count: 3,3K

TW: human sacrifice, death, religious whump, historical setting and historical inaccuracies, waterboarding, restraints, stabbing, nudity (non sexual) bleeding out

The wind was strong, as it always had been near the seashore. The sun shone bright, not a cloud in sight, but the air was the perfect temperature.

Nashuja would have given everything to enjoy it. He had been locked inside a small room, with cool walls, and just enough space through the bars on the door to let the fresh air through and keep the temperature even.

A true architectural wonder, he had not been willing to believe in before he arrived. In the village he grew up, farther from the sea, up in the mountains, there were no buildings with double walls that reigned in the wind for the people to utilise and cool their homes with. The open spaces and windows sufficed, but not like this. They could never live up to the standards of the palace, the wonderful breeze that gave some reprieve from the scorching heat.

Nashuja had seen the palace from the outside, only once or twice in his lifetime. He was a poor goat shepherd, providing for his mother and sisters, entering the palace of Knossos had been an untouchable dream, before servants of the royal priestess came to collect.

He saw the men from afar, dressed in skirts adorned with blue and golden beads, with necklaces and bracelets clinking as loud and clear as they moved. Their hair was long, beautifully kept and oiled up curls that Nashuja could barely believe were real.

They told him to herd his goats back for the afternoon, and say his goodbyes. He was eager to obey the messengers of the palace. Of course he was, they chose him of all people to invite with them.

It was only when they arrived, after a long way of walking, when he realised something was wrong. The servants led him to the workshops and shut the door on him. He caught a glimpse of others facing the same fate.

The workshops were a complicated array of rooms and hallways, under the court and the throne room, away from the royal quarters. The size of the rooms could be extended by the removal of some wooden planks and doors, to accommodate multiple craftsmen working, but they could be cut off, into nooks like the one Nashuja was pushed in, to make them feel like a prison cell.

He didn't know what he did wrong, if he did anything at all. He had no choice but to wait it out.

He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, the sunlight didn't reach his cell so deep in the heart of the palace.

The servants came back for him later, they were silent, unwilling to provide any answers to his questions. They led him upstairs and out in the open, to the courtyard. The main building of the palace had five floors at it's highest point. There was an impressive set of alabaster stairs leading down on the other side of the yard, beautifully decorated, both servants and people of high importance - Nashuja judged, by their heavily decorated clothing - were rushing around. As the servants led him towards a gate, he overheard that it was the king and the queen's quarters at the bottom of the alabaster stairs.

He was led past the throne room, a surprisingly simple hall, with red walls and a stone chair in the middle, now empty.

Only upstairs did he notice the strange build of the palace, thick wooden beams, that spanned the entire width of walls gave support to the large stone bricks it was built with. Nashuja had to wonder how the stone didn't crush the wood, but the building stood sturdy, and it survived hundreds of earthquakes sent by the gods to test its strength.

They led him into a large dining hall. There were heaps of the most delectable foods the poor young shepherd could imagine.

"Eat!" the servants instructed coldly and left him there. He wasted no time rushing to the table and started eating whatever he could grab. He found fresh bread and baked lamb, there were all kinds of fruits and vegetables, some of which Nashuja had never seen before. He'd left those alone.

He jumped and whipped around with a shriek when his back was touched. A woman stood behind him, who he was too preoccupied with the food to notice entering. She wore the same decorative clothing as the other servants, but more elegant, with more jewelry. She must've stood above them in status.

"Stop that, boy, you'll be of no use, if you get sick" Her words were harsh, her soothing deep honey tone did nothing to soften them. She was right. He didn't think he ever ate this much in his life. But he looked back at the piles upon piles of delicacies longingly, easily losing his focus on the newcomer.

"Alright, just eat slower, then" she sighed "You still have plenty of time"

"What am I here for?" Nashuja asked between two careful bites of the lamb.

"I can't answer that, the priest will tell you what you need to know" she answered flatly.

"I thought" Nashuja gulped down a chalice of wine he poured himself to wash the first overly excited bites down "It was the high priestess, I would be here for?"

"A misunderstanding" she waved a hand dismissively.

She let him finish his meal, and led him out of the room, to a lower level, behind the throne room, there was a pool.

"Cleanse yourself well, I'll be back for you" With that she left.

Nashuja dipped a hand in the pool before he undressed and submerged himself fully. It was the perfect temperature, he didn't feel as cold as he did in the cell and he soothed the scorching heat of the sun that was a constant in these warm summer days.

He didn't know what was expected of him, still, the rich meal and bath led him to believe everything was going just fine.

The woman came back and took the pile of clothes he folded neatly in her hand.

"Get out! The priest is ready for you" she announced. Nashuja climbed out of the pool reluctantly, and stood in front of her covering his privates with both hands.

"My clothes-?" he asked cautiously. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself everything was alright, ever since she told him it wasn't the high priestess they were taking him to he had an odd, worrisome feeling.

"You don't need them" His stomach dropped. "You will get your ritual garments. Follow me"

He became painfully aware just how much he ate beforehand, though he was sure the nausea he felt wasn't entirely the result of that.

The servant led him to a door, through dark and complicated halls, off towards the side of the palace, where the labyrinth of workshops were, but a floor higher. She knocked three times, and told Nashuja to wait.

The heavy wooden opened up with a loud screech, and Nashuja found himself staring at a man, in white and blue embroidered garments. He was slightly taller than the shepherd boy, though not as tall as a greek. He wore his hair in long waves adorned with gold beads and a myriad of colourful semiprecious stones.

"Don't be scared lamb, come on in" he stepped away from the doorway and let Nashuja step in. The door closed from the outside with a loud bang that made him flinch. He was still naked, a large contrast with the noble he stood in front of. Heat rose to his cheeks as he tried to make himself as small as possible under his searching gaze. The way the priest watched him shook him to his core and he had no idea why. He just stood there with a warm smile, covered in all sorts of symbols of the goddess.

Nashuja finally managed to rip his gaze away from the man and looked around. The room was spacious, but not as big as the dining hall had been, off to the side he saw a large bathing tub filled almost to the brim with some liquid, that looked a lot like oil, infused with herbs and flowers. In the middle of the room, another clay larnake with it's lid on the ground next to it. Across from the tub there was a table, with burning incense, and an array of flasks and jugs.

Nashuja swallowed eyeing, what seemed to be the centerpiece. He had never seen a casket such as this one. It was ornately decorated with a painted ship on the side, to wish the deceased a safe journey to the other side. Only those in the highest ranks had the privilige to be buried in one of these.

He peered over the side and was glad to realise the larnake was empty.

"Don't be so scared, lamb" the priest repeated and placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him towards a chair he had not noticed before by the tables. It was the darkest corner of the otherwise well lit room, but there were no windows and torches could only do so much.

"Sit" he pushed him down by the shoulder, and grabbed a pile of shiny golden chains from the table before he knelt down in front of Nashuja, and grabbed his hand. The young shepherd noticed in time what was about to happen and he bolted past the priest, almost knocking him over to try and open the heavy wooden door. It wouldn't budge. He hit and scratched at the sides trying to find a lock or an opening mechanism.

He didn't need to look back, to know the other man had stood up, fixed his garments and jewelry. It was defending in the horrible silence. He couldn't get out.

He felt the priest's commanding hand at the back of his neck, he was pulled away from the door and had to face him.

"I know you're scared, lamb, just sit for a moment, and we can talk" he explained with the endless patience only those of high ordnance could talk with "That door won't open until the ritual is finished. Don't bother with it!" he suggested sternly.

"What do you need me for?" he asked with a lump in his throat. He knew his lips started to wobble as he tried to keep the sobs, he felt coming at bay. "Who are you? Why am I here?"

"One question at a time, lamb, one question at a time" he waved a finger in Nashuja's face as if he were a child "I need a little help for a ritual, I needed a strong young man like you" he smiled, again warm, again accompanied by a bone chilling glint in his eye. He lifted the golden chains again. "This is for your safety, will you let me put it on?"

Nashuja shook his head. "Tell me who you are first, please your Highness"

"Good instincts, lamb, but there's no need for such formalities. Those should be reserved for the Priestess and the royals. It doesn't concern you, but my name is Jadikira. Will you let me chain you, now?" Jadikira asked with a soft sigh.

"No, sir" Nashuja shook his head again. He scanned the room for another way out, but he didn't see as much as a crevice between the pristine white stones of the wall.

Jadikira frowned, and reached for one of the clay flasks, next to the heap of chains and lifted it to Nashuja's chin.

"Drink this then!" His patience didn't seem to fade. The liquid inside smelled sweet, like honey. He had no way of knowing what it actually was, but the priest didn't relent, tilting the flask until the liquid touched his lips, and he couldn't help but taste it.

It was thick and heavy on his tongue, it slid down his throat without him meaning it to. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Jadikira placed the flask back on the table and grabbed the chains again.

Nashuja tried to wipe the remainder of the liquid off his mouth, and to his horror, he couldn't lift his hand. He tried looking up at the priest, but his neck was just as locked in place as his arms. A week whimper left his mouth, involuntarily, it was meant to be a scream.

"It works so quick right? I'm sorry, lamb, but I have to get these on somehow" he sounded genuine in his apology, but his excitement over the paralytic liquid didn't go without notice. He wrapped the chains around his wrists and ankles, tying them together. He still had no clothes on, and now he couldn't cover himself, when Jadikira pulled him up by the chains to stand.

Before the priest made him take the first step he regained control in his hand and just as fast as it took over his body, it disappeared.

He made a run for it again, but only got a step towards the door, before the chain connecting his ankles pulled taut and made him fall over with a shriek knocking into the heavy larnake in the middle of the room.

He swore he heard Jadikira laugh before he threw himself on his back trying his best to scramble back. The priest's expression was soft, with a tinge of disappointment. He didn't seem bothered by his attempt to free himself.

"It's a pity it doesn't last longer" he said and grabbed him by the chains again, and dragged him to the tub.

He easily lifted the young shepherd and lowered him into the tub. He stared at the priest with terror, not daring to move anymore.

"Don't look at me like that, lamb, you don't even know what's in store for you yet" he soothed and grabbed a sponge.

Jadikira started drawing circles on his back with the light liquid that filled the tub. Nashuja's best guess was that it really was oil. The priest washed him with it with careful motions, almost reverently while muttering a prayer, he couldn't understand.

With a sudden movement the sponge was lifted to his face and he flinched away. The priest just sighed.

"I need you to be pure, lamb, I have to wash your face" He shook his head even though he knew his wishes didn't really matter to Jadikira.

The priest grabbed a piece of cloth from the bucket where he kept the sponge and wet it in the purifying liquid. He lifted it out, with the other hand grabbed the chains connecting Nashuja's wrists and pushed them underwater so he couldn't buck away and put the cloth on his face.

He couldn't breathe, he couldn't scream, his mouth gaped like a fish on land. He was sure he splashed out so much of the sacred liquid from the tub, but that was the least of his worries.

He felt Jadikira pour more of the liquid over the cloth. It stung in his eyes and burnt his nose from the inside.

"You brought this on yourself, lamb, stop fighting me and I don't need to do this" He had no choice. He reluctantly stopped kicking and yanking on his hands and the priest did let up. The cloth was removed from his face.

"What are you doing to me?" he asked, unable to hold his sobs. Jadikira just shushed him and wiped the oil off his face so he could see again. He refused to answer.

The priest brought the same flask to the tub and lifted it to his mouth again. Nashuja didn't fight the paralytic. He knew it would be over in no time.

The priest lifted him out of the tub and undid the chains as he lay uselessly on the ground. He seemed to whistle a tune that reminded Nashuja of a lullaby his mother used to sing to him as a child. He couldn't help the streams of tears that left a shiny streak on his cheeks.

When he could move again Jadikira stood him up and grabbed a pile of garments from next to the tub. It was slightly damp with the liquid all splashed on it. Nashuja cringed as he put it on.

It was a hateful feeling as the canvas stuck to his sticky skin. At least he had clothes on.

"I'll need you to say this prayer with me" Jadikira grabbed his hands and pulled him closer to the larnake in the middle. It was the brightest spot of the room. Nashuja didn't know the prayer but held onto the priest's hand as if his life depended on it and repeated word for word.

"Thank you, lamb" he let go finally, the shepherd boy's hands dropped to his side uselessly. Was this what he was brought here for? It made no sense.

He locked his eyes on Jadikira's face, scanned it for anything that would give away what was about to happen.

Nashuja didn't notice when the priest unclipped a bejewelled dagger from his belt. He moved too quickly for the boy to notice and buried it in his stomach to the hilt.

The young shepherd's hands flew to the handle of the dagger, he tried, powerless to pry Jadikira's fingers off it. His mouth fell open in a scream, but there was no sound coming out.

The priest relished in the betrayal on the boys face then gently pushed him back to sit in the coffin. He ripped the blade out, drawing a spraying splash of blood dirtying the side of the larnake and the floor. He frowned, it wasn't supposed to look violent. The boy was only supposed to rest.

Nashuja managed to lift his head enough, without moving and of his limbs entangled in a foetal position in the small space in the larnake.

"A-am I the- the ritual?" he asked weekly. Jadikira leaned down and smoothed out the locks that stuck to his face. The boy would slowly lose consciousness, he didn't have to answer. It was a dumb question anyway, something only a poor shepherd boy, who knows nothing of the goddess' ways would ask.

"No, lamb, the sacrifice I needed, is your pain. This is my mercy" The boy barely noticed as he got up and returned with another flask. It was smaller than the other one with the paralytic. He poured the contents of it down Nashuja's throat, who sputtered and coughed but didn't manage to get it out of his throat. This liquid tasted like nothing, it was light, almost as if he drank air. Only the forceful coughs and a slight sourness stayed where it hit his tongue.

"Shh, it's alright" he petted the boy's head gently, as his coughs started again, though for an entirely different reason. There was some blood dripping down his chin now.

"The goddess will take you with grace on the other side" He saw the blood starting too pool around his body, filling up the bottom of the coffin. The second liquid made his body helpless to close the wound, Nashuja will bleed out quickly.

Jadikira grabbed the first flask and made the boy drink some more. It was mostly out of habit, Nashuja didn't need the paralytic anymore.

He arranged the boy's limbs in the proper position for burial. His cries softened to pitiful whines and whimpers.

Jadikira muttered one last prayer and reached down to close his eyes, with a slow reverent stroke.

He put the lid on the larnake and knocked on the door five times. The servants opened it from the outside and four of them grabbed the clay box, heavy with the boys body.

The sobs and whimpers from the casket only died down when they placed it down in the tomb in the side of the palace.

Jadikira looked around for a moment, all over the food and drinks, all the gold and precious stones decorating the room.

The little lamb is the luckiest of shepherds. Noone in his village would ever pass to the other side as rich as he did.

[i-eat-worlds]

I wish you would write a fic where an immortal (vampire, angel, elf, etc) got disemboweled?

-Abraham ♡♡♡

Here’s some disembowelment for dismemberment!

cw: evisceration, medical whump and torture, suicide ideation and wishing for death, vague religious vibes, dissociation

“You know, I’ve always wondered what was inside one of you.” The demon smiled widely as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves, bright surgical lights glinting off his pointed teeth. “Do angels even have intestines? Or are they too perfect to shit?”

The angel squirmed against the restraints, cold metal pressing into their back, heart pounding with fear. Their breaths were too deep and too fast, but they still couldn’t get enough air. It felt like their throat was closing up. The strip of cloth stuffed in their mouth wasn’t helping either. The demon plucked a scalpel from the table. “Let’s find out.” With no warning, he pushed the scalpel into the angel’s skin, cutting a semi-circle across their abdomen. They gasped in pain, cries garbled by the gag. The edges of the wound burned as he cut deeper, passing through the fat and into the muscle. Oh, god, it hurt. Their back arched o the table, and their limbs pulled against the restraints as they tried to push themselves away from the demon's knife. “Oh calm down, it’s not like you’re going to die.” He taunted as he plunged his hands into the incision and tore their abdomen open.

The angel shrieked, tears falling down their cheeks. It was true though, they could feel the divine already trying to knit their body back together. Light pulsed through their veins, trying to pull their skin back across the gaping wound. “How pretty,” The demon cooed as he wrapped a loop of their intestine around his finger. His gown was splattered with blood and tissue, sleeves absolutely soaked. He was elbow deep in their abdominal cavity. The angel would’ve been disturbed by this, but all they could feel was the piercing, all-consuming agony that saturated every fiber of their being. Black dots started to cloud their vision, but before they could pass out the divine dragged them back. Their voice was hoarse from screaming, but they couldn’t stop. “You really ought to see how beautiful they are,” he said, and the angel braced themself for the onslaught they knew was coming. It didn’t matter. Nothing could prepare them for the demon wrapping his hands around several loops of intestine and pulling.

His fingers dug into the mesentery, tearing their intestines free. Pain spread out across their lower back, and blood gushed into the now empty cavity. “Take a look,” he sneered as held their intestines close to their face. They wanted to die.

They wanted to die and they couldn’t.

They wanted to die and they weren’t allowed to.

The divine was straining to heal their damaged intestines and surrounding vasculature, but there was little it could do in the face of such overwhelming damage. They could feel their brain starting to detach from their body, pain numbing as their eyes turned vacant and their jaw went slack. A least the divine couldn’t stop them does disassociating. It wasn’t death, but it was as close as they would ever get.

[pleasestaywithmedarling]

Sin of Purity, Purity of Sin: Part IX

previous masterlist next

see end note for full content warning

Kiri’s breath hitched when she heard the Chamber of Vessels’ iron door creak open. The High Priest’s sinuous voice called out, “I presume you had good reason for summoning me?”

Emitis’ presence never boded well. Her eyes flickered over to Anden, and he met her gaze guiltily.

Why had he attacked Edric like that? He shouldn’t have gotten involved; he should have just ignored what happened. But then, she should have ignored it too. She should have just let the guard do as he wanted to her, and then they wouldn’t both be bound to the cold slabs of stone, awaiting whatever awful punishment Emitis would choose for them.

But she’d been in such a daze all day, like nothing was even real, and then suddenly she wasn’t and everything was far too real, and she’d panicked. Even now she could still feel Edric’s callused hand on her breast and it made her throat fill with bile. No, some more compassionate voice within her—it sounded very much like her mother, she realized—told her that she was not the one at fault here. And neither was Anden.

Emitis was unlikely to see it that way.

“This one didn’t want to come quietly to her cell,” said Edric. His voice had taken on a nasal quality; his nose had likely been broken, but she was much too frightened right now to find any satisfaction in that knowledge. “And then that piece of shit tried to help her by attacking me.”

Suddenly the High Priest was beside her, bending down to look her in the eye. Tenderly, he reached up and brushed her hair from her face; she recoiled, but chained prostrate on the table as she was, there was no real escape. “It seems a lesson must be learned tonight,” he said, the gentleness of his voice belied by the way his eyes narrowed dangerously.

He stepped back out of her line of sight. “Since our Vessel of Sin wants to be so helpful, I have a proposition.” Kiri heard one of the cabinet doors open and shut, and her stomach dropped. Emitis stepped to the other side of Anden’s table, and she watched in growing fear as he took a knife to the man’s tunic, slicing it open and exposing his heavily bandaged back. Anden grimaced as the bandages were roughly torn away from his body.

Emitis began mixing the contents of a small jar into a pitcher of water. “Your healer is certainly knowledgeable, but I’m afraid that her modern methods are not always helpful. I do believe what these wounds really need in order to heal is to be washed in salt.” Kiri paled as Emitis poured water from the pitcher out on the back of Anden’s shoulder; his cry of pain tore through her heart.

Emitis waited until he’d quieted, breathing heavily around his gag. “Now then,” the High Priest continued, “what I propose is quite simple. You are to keep quiet as your wounds are tended. Each time you cry out, the Vessel of Purity will be cut open. You wish to help her? You may do so; you’ll merely need to keep quiet.”

Anden’s eyes widened as he looked at Kiri in horror. She tried to will some sympathy into her gaze, to let him know that her inevitable torture wasn’t really his fault, but the fact was she was terrified to her core.

Emitis held out the pitcher and a rag to the guards, and it did not surprise her when Edric stepped up to take them. The High Priest calmly strode over to the other side of her table, and she tried to turn her head to see what he was doing. “No, no,” he chided gently, turning her to once again look over at Anden. “Let him see you.” The back of her gown and shift were cut away from her, and she shivered as the cold air met her bare skin. “Now then. The Vessel of Sin has already cried out once, so let us begin.” As the flat of his knife traced lightly up her spine, panic flooded her body. “Keep your eyes on her face, boy,” he warned. “And remember this, the both of you: you deserve this. This is what comes of your disrespect to the will of Vato.” The knife came to stop just above her right shoulder blade, and made a small, slow slice.

For one infinitesimal moment, she thought that perhaps this wouldn’t be so awful as she’d feared. There was a stinging sensation, but she thought she could simply grit her teeth and bear it. And then as the knife finished its journey through her skin and was pulled away, the stinging bloomed into a harsh red pain, and her face crumpled as she stifled a whimper.

Breathe—she just needed to breathe. It still hadn’t been so very terrible, she told herself. But the pain did not subside and, gods, this was only the beginning. She could do nothing but lay here and allow Emitis to carve into her again and again, and if it wasn’t so very terrible yet then she knew it soon would be.

At the High Priest’s signal, Edric poured a liberal amount of the saltwater over Anden’s upper back. Biting down hard on his gag, he breathed in sharply, but otherwise made no sound. But then the guard pressed the rag into his skin and scrubbed at a wound, and a strangled groan escaped his chapped lips. Before she had time to prepare herself, Emitis’ blade was expertly slicing through her skin, and she cried out just as much in surprise as in pain.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the burn of the new cut grew more radiant after the initial shock. Fisting her hands in her skirts, she opened her eyes to Anden’s green ones fixed on her in mortified guilt. She watched helplessly as he braced himself just in time for another horrible splash of the saltwater.

This time he made no sound beyond his heavy panting, even when Edric scraped at a wound with the coarse rag. Twice more, the process was repeated while Anden maintained his silence. But he was visibly shaking, his skin covered in sweat, and Edric was clearly growing impatient. In a dreadful cascade, the guard dumped the entire contents of the pitcher over his back, and the resulting howl that resounded through the chamber was inhuman in its anguish.

Kiri’s heart broke at the sound, and for a moment she was entirely overcome by her desperate desire to somehow take his pain from him. Gods, did she wish he hadn’t been so reckless tonight, but he didn’t deserve this. He could never deserve this. But then Emitis was teasing the knife lightly over her skin as though searching for the perfect place to carve, and she whined through her clenched teeth as panic overwhelmed her. Before the edge of the blade had pierced her skin, though, Anden let out a low moan as the rag was pressed hard into his shoulder, and Emitis made two cuts in succession, just below the previous two.

She couldn’t suppress her cry; the entire right side of her upper back felt like it was on fire. But she could handle this, she told herself as she tried to blink back her tears. This was fine, really it was no different than when she’d cut her hand while preparing dinner back at home. It was no different. It hurt—it hurt so much—but it was fine.

But the pitcher was refilled and refilled again and the cycle of pain continued, and she was far from fine. By the time the series of cuts had extended down to her lower back, she was breathlessly begging Emitis to stop, please, just stop.

And then it was over. Emitis stood between the two tables and looked at each Vessel in turn. “I trust that you both now understand the consequences of rejecting Vato’s will. But Vato cannot forgive you until you’ve shown Him your repentance.” He smiled as Kiri failed to stifle a sob—would this day never end? “Guards, summon the healer to clean up this mess. Then take them to spend the night in the Chamber of Contrition.”

Emitis left, the healer priestess came and dressed their wounds—before she left, she removed Anden’s gag and lectured the guards about letting his mouth heal—and new garments were procured for them so that they could enter a holy chamber with the required degree of modesty. All too soon, she and Anden were being led stumbling out through the halls once more. She forced herself to ignore the touch of Edric’s hands as he pulled her along.

In the Chamber of Contrition, she was ordered to kneel at the right hand of the immense statue of Vato, and her wrists were bound high overhead to the arm of His throne. It pulled at the wounds on her back, and she teared up at the burning pain. But there would be no chance to reposition herself; her ankles were tied together, and the end of the rope was looped tightly around her neck—if she made any attempt to stand and relieve the strain on her arms and back, she’d only strangle herself. The legs of the statue blocked her view of Anden, but she was sure he was being strung up in the same cruel manner.

Edric crouched down next to her, his face mere inches from hers. As he gripped her chin and forced her to look at him, every muscle in her body went taut. “From now on,” he warned her, “you do as I say and you don’t cause me any problems, you little bitch. You understand?”

A terrible chill swept through her down to her core. From the other side of the statue, she heard Anden’s sharp inhale, but he said nothing. Evidently, he’d learned his lesson, and so had she. Edric squeezed her jaw more tightly and she quickly stammered, “Y-yes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Though she wanted to throw up, she forced out the words. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” With that, he and the other guards left the chamber, its heavy door closing with an ominous thud. Her tears began to flow in earnest.

“Kiri?”

She bit down into her lip, not trusting her voice to answer him.

“Kiri, I—” Anden gasped in pain. She could hear him breathing hard for a few moments before he tried again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Kiri, I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t think, I just. . . just made everything worse.”

She inhaled shakily. “So did I.”

“What? No. Gods, no, you—”

“Yes, I did. You shouldn’t have reacted, and neither should I.”

For a long moment, there was silence. The burn all down the right side of her back was excruciating, and both her arms and knees were already beginning to ache. Trying to stay calm, she focused on listening to Anden’s breathing; the sound was comforting.

When he spoke again, his tone was tinged in anger and sorrow beneath his exhaustion. “You shouldn’t have to let him do that to you.”

“Yes, well—” She sniffed. “I don’t think that normal ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’ apply here. Maybe they don’t apply in any temple. Priests just decide for themselves what’s right and what’s wrong for the whole kingdom, never mind who it hurts.”

She was babbling, she knew, and it hurt so much to talk—all but the shallowest of breaths sent a shot of pain through her back. But for some reason now that she’d started she couldn’t seem to stop. “I thought I was going to be a priestess, you know. I wanted to be a priestess. And you can hate me for that, for wanting anything to do with any of this. Not that I wanted any part of this—I always hated hearing about the—the sacrifice. But if I—if I’d taken my vows, in a way I would have been part of this. I know that. And I think I knew it then too.”

Her grim laugh was half-choked with tears. “Sometimes I think that’s really why I’m here. That maybe it’s some sort of divine justice. If I was selfish enough to want to join the temple, despite—despite all this, then maybe, maybe if anyone deserves to be here, maybe it’s me.” She pressed her face into her arm, trying to muffle the hiccoughing sobs.

She didn’t know how long she cried; it could have been minutes or hours. But this whole day had been so unbearable, and the nagging thought that she deserved such brutality was simply too much.

As her tears at last ran dry, she was startled to hear Anden’s voice. It rasped with pain, but underneath that its tone was gentle. ���Why’d you want to join the temple?”

She shifted uncomfortably on her aching knees. “I didn’t want to get married,” she confessed.

“Not to anyone?”

“No. I—I used to, when I was a girl. But then I got older, and I found out what—what men do with their wives, and I didn’t—I didn’t want that. My friend Nella, she kept telling me I’d like it once I tried it. And I tried, or I tried to try, I guess. I tried with a few boys—I kept thinking maybe it had just been the wrong one. And I always liked it, until I didn’t, and then when I didn’t want to go any further, they always lost interest in me. I tried with Nella, too, and it was the same thing. And then she got married, and she told me about how her husband—” Kiri’s hands tightened above her, and she took in a shaking breath. “He would make her lay with him, even when she didn’t want to. And it scared me. So much. I didn’t—gods, I didn’t want that. And my father hadn’t said anything yet about a marriage, but I was almost twenty, and I thought it must be coming any day. I didn’t know what else to do, so I—I told him I wanted to take the vows to join the temple.”

Her voice was hoarse, but it was as though a floodgate had been opened, and she could not stop. “I spent the past three years in training. And I used to sneak into the Chamber of Priests to read the sacred texts, and I loved them—they were all so strange and beautiful. But then everything my father said in temple was so awful and it felt so wrong that it made me ill. But I stayed anyway. I knew better, and I stayed anyway. Just because it felt safer. Gods, I’m so selfish.”

As she took in a deep, uneven breath, it hit her exactly how much of herself she’d just spilled out, and her face grew flushed with more than the exertion of her bound position. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Who else you gonna tell?” asked Anden, just the faintest hint of teasing in his tone, and she exhaled a humorless laugh.

“Priests are full of shit,” he said suddenly. His voice was so tired that it sounded frayed, but he kept on. “They tell you there’s ten things you do to be good, and there’s ten things you shouldn’t do or you’re bad. Like that’s all there is to it. It’s not that fucking simple. I mean—shit.” He let out a sharp hiss of pain.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Look, I’m not good at this, so just let me get this all out now, okay?” He sighed. “Yeah, sure, it was selfish to try to become one of these bastards, just so you don’t have to fuck some asshole husband every night. But sometimes you get backed into a corner, and all you can do is look out for yourself, and it doesn’t make you a shitty person. Because you know what sounds way more shitty to me, is some asshole husband fucking you every night when that’s not what you want. Gods, Kiri, you deserve better. No one deserves to be where we are! No one could ever fucking deserve this! And you sure as hell don’t.”

No words would come to Kiri as she clung desperately to his like a lifeline. Some voice within her—it sounded terribly like her father, she realized—whispered that Anden was wrong, that she was a terrible person who deserved every terrible thing that had happened to her. But her father had been wrong about so many things. And it was so freeing to think that maybe he’d been wrong about her, too.

“Besides,” continued Anden, “I know you don’t think I deserve this. And if either one of us did, it would be me.”

“No, you—”

“You’ve never asked me what I did.”

“What do you mean?”

He scoffed. “The Vessel of Sin is always chosen from the prisons—I’m sure you know that, you just told me you were halfway to being a priestess. But you’ve never asked me what I did to end up there.”

“I—I can’t say I’ve never wondered,” Kiri admitted. “But I’ve never thought it really mattered.”

“Yeah, well—” Anden took in a deep breath. “I’m sure it mattered to the man I killed.”

next

This chapter was supposed to cut off much sooner into this conversation. But then it occurred to me that I could end on that line, and I couldn't resist. Sorry lol

Thank you so much for reading!!! It blows my mind that so many of you are enjoying this fic; I'm so happy I get to share it with y'all!

taglist: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams @little-peril-stories

content warning: captivity, religious abuse, restraints, torture, knives, victim self-blaming, and mentions of consensual sexual activities, non-consensual groping, rape, and murder

[justbreakonme]

I’m sneaking my younger sister to a Pride prom without telling my parents, and…

It feels like the longest, heaviest thing I’ve ever been a part of.

My parents are “love the sinner, hate the sin” types, and while they aren’t dangerous, it’s not ideal.

Some of her friends are less sure. It’s hard to know, and dangerous to assume.

I get texts from people, kids who I don’t know, asking for advice. Essentially strangers, but, my sister gives them my number so they had someone to ask these questions, to just…talk.

And it throws me back immediately to when I was sitting in my room crying, texting my uncle who I barely saw, because there was no one else I knew that was an adult that was out. No one who was living proof that I could grow up and things would be okay, that things wouldn’t feel this way forever.

It feels like a long chain of people, holding hands reaching back into history, and I didn’t realize my link in it until I was no longer the tail.

This isn’t meant to be a depressing post, not really. As awful as the need for it is, the idea that this multi-generational chain exists is…overwhelming.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter Three

CW: Drunkenness, alchohol in general, some implied dubcon starting at *** and ending at the next ***, magical mind manipulation, restraints, religious talk

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

-

One year prior to present-day

He still thinks of himself as Brother Grigori, in his mind, even though he walked away from the temple in the middle of the night months ago. He abandoned his goddess and her open arms in a fit of rage and grief, in the aftermath of a week’s worth of nightmares. 

In his mind, he’s still Brother Grigori. To the world outside, though, he’s Greg. Or, well, mostly he’s the drunk over there.

He keeps his white robes carefully wrapped in canvas and twine, hidden in a bag on the bench beside him. He’s anonymous like this, just wearing a simple linen shirt and pants, rope sandals to take the edge off the boiling summer heat. His skin’s tanned to a constant warm, light brown now and his hair’s a mop he doesn’t bother to brush more than once every few days, grown out and streaked from sunshine. 

No one would know him for a priest. Dromada’s Chosen seclude themselves in the temples, spend little time in the light. Priests are pale men in white robes who smile without pain or bitterness, and they certainly don’t hate themselves and sit up at night wishing they were dead. They absolutely don’t drink themselves into a stupor every single night so they won’t wake up screaming. 

He looks nothing like the hero they made of him through well-intentioned lies and constantly expanding gossip, and that’s exactly how he likes it. 

There are already four separate popular songs about his supposed courage and bravery. Standing up against the wicked bandits who want to tear the kingdom apart in the name of his goddess, his stalwart and true faith terrifying the evil men and women back into the dark of the great, thick woods. 

None of these songs tell a story he recognizes as anywhere close to what happened.

He’s come to this tavern every day this week because it’s the one place where he never has to overhear any of the tripe they’ve made about his life. The barman, who also owns the inn upstairs, hates him - or rather, hates the idea of him from the songs, and has banned all the music that mentions his name, or even the thought of him.

Grigori is deeply grateful for him for it. 

All the pretty nonsense played on lutes or sung in warbling voices about Dromada’s son, who stood up to the evil spat out by the Kaila trees… It’s all just lies, pointless lies to comfort the people. They want to think one man can make a difference. What could he even tell them? He couldn’t even save his own brothers in the temple. The men who had raised him from his infancy, and taught him to be holy and pure. When they could have used him, he wasn’t there.

If I had been there, I’d just have died with them.

The thought brings no comfort. It’s what should have happened, but didn’t. 

He takes another drink, letting the liquor burn hot down his throat. He had never had anything stronger than watered-down wine in the temple before it all happened, and now he isn’t sure when he’s last been sober at all once the sun goes down.

Sobriety, for him, comes in bursts of hangovers - headaches and nausea and a stomach desperate for bread and butter nonetheless. Sobriety is the return of his self-hatred after he had spent the night before successfully drinking it away. Or sometimes not as successfully, but on those nights he just drank more and sooner or later he fell asleep with his head on the bar.

As long as he keeps paying, the barman doesn’t mind mopping up when ‘Greg’ spills a tankard or two when he forgets to keep holding onto it. Even if he suspects the man goes through his things when he’s passed out, he hasn’t said anything and he hasn’t kicked him out for being a priest who broke the vow of sobriety.

Grigory lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. So many vows. He’s broken, what, two of them? To always wear his robes and make himself known as a Chosen of the goddess, and to pursue always sober living, staying away from wine that isn’t watered and all alcohol otherwise. 

That leaves… poverty, chastity, obedience, and serenity. 

He’s probably broken serenity, too, actually. Is being drunk all the time serene? Or the opposite? His hair brushes against his cheeks, and he wonders if blood vessels have begun to break, if he’ll get ruddy like the drunks he saw sometimes as a child, leaving offerings to Dromada and begging her forgiveness for the sins they confessed to the priests.

Dromada forgives, you have only to ask. So you have requested, so Her forgiveness is given. Walk in new peace and be free of your chains. 

He hasn’t confessed any sins since the day the temple priests died and he didn’t. Not that it matters, not anymore.

Dromada isn’t listening. He isn’t sure if She ever did.

A cheery voice speaks entirely too closely to him, making him jump as his heart skips a beat. The voice is bright, slightly raspy and deeply masculine. “Well, don’t you need a haircut, a bowl of stew, and some clean shoes? Not necessarily in that order, of course.”

He blinks his eyes open, wincing a little as the light stings - even as dim as it is in here, the light stings. He needs to drink more. “What?”

A handsome man smiles down at him, a knit hat pulled low on his head, until it covers even the tips of his ears. White-blond hair sticks out the bottom over his forehead like hay, straight as a bone and every which way, but there’s a hint of closely-shorn hair just above his ears that suggests the sides are shaved. Unusually, his eyes are a thick and glossy black, with no sign of the shift between iris and pupil. It’s all one color, and seems to suck light in rather than reflect it. The stranger’s tall, having to lean over just to talk to Grigory where he sits, but he’s also lean, like a sapling ready to bend in the wind rather than break. “I said, you need a haircut.” The stranger reaches out and twines a bit of Grigori’s curly brown hair around his finger, letting it brush against his cheek.

He watches Grigori shiver with a slight, half-cocked smile, black eyes sparkling with a kind of good humor and interest that feels as dangerous as a threat. 

“You also need a bowl of stew and some clean shoes. Sadly, only one of those can I be of assistance with. Bowl of stew, bit of bread? My treat, of course.”

“I… are you asking me?” The stranger nods, and Grigori hesitates… then sighs, and looks down, eyeing his sandals. Are they that dirty? They look fine to him. “No, but thank you. I am not hungry.”

“Don’t eat much these days, do you?”

Grigori’s frown deepens. “I eat when I am hungry.”

“No, you drink when you’re hungry. But you’re going to eat now.” The stranger laughs, bright and kind of beautiful, and Grigori blinks, his frown fading. He watches the man cross the room, calling out his order to the tavern’s owner, who looks over at Grigori with eyebrows raised. Grigori just shrugs, and goes back to his drink.

Or he tries to.

He has to stop when the stranger swoops in with two bowls of stew and a plate of bread balanced on the inside of one elbow, like a man who has waited tables in inns all his life. He then swipes the tankard from Grigori and chugs it all down, drops running from the corners of his mouth down over the long line of his throat.

Grigori’s mouth feels, suddenly, rather dry - for reasons Dromada would frown on, but Dromada already allowed his brothers to be sacrificed. He’s not sure he believes in her forgiveness and mercy anymore. No goddess who cannot protect her most devoted can be much of a goddess at all, can she?

“I see you undressing me with your eyes,” The stranger teases, and Grigori blushes even more deeply, dropping his eyes hurriedly back down to the steaming bowl of stew on the table before him, picking up his spoon with fumbling fingers and getting a bit of meat - cheap cut of beef cooked slow over a fire until it tasted as good as the richest man’s steak - and faking a consummate interest in the shimmering fat that had settled atop the broth. “None of that until we’re done getting some food in you. And no more beer until you’re full, either. Try dunking the bread in, it’s great.”

Grigori nods without looking up, afraid to see the sparkle in those eyes again. He’s never had anyone look at him like that before. Being raised by the priests, well… when you’re wearing Dromada’s robes, the people know you’re pure.

He feels like the stranger isn’t very pure at all.

“What’s-... thank you, for the stew,” He says around mouthfuls, discovering once he starts eating that he can’t seem to get himself to stop. His stomach growls after the first bite and somehow he finishes the bowl and starts sopping it up with bread in record time. “What’s your name?”

“Ooooh, he’s curious now that he can think,” The stranger says, still bright and cheerful. Grigori watches the line of his body as he sits back, fingers interlocked behind his head and elbows bent, kicking up his feet to rest his heels on an empty chair. “The formal name is Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, which I hate. Call me Bohli.”

“You have a nobleman’s name?” Grigori’s curiosity gets the best of him and he looks up, eyebrows raising. “Or… partly. Maks is a noble house-”

“My mother was quite the little lady indeed,” Bohli says, and his smile twists sharp and cynical. Somehow it suits his equally sharp features, and Grigori feels an unsettling, unfamiliar shiver roll through him at the sight. Something about the room feels a little overheated, but when he glances over, there’s no fire in the fireplace, no reason for it. “My father… well. Ygridsen-”

“I know what it means.”

“You do?” Bohli’s smile stretches somehow even wider. 

“Yes. We do training, in such things at-... at school.” He catches himself almost too late. He doesn’t share that he was a priest - no priest leaves his order, and they might find out who he is. He couldn’t stand it if that happened. He’d shrivel up and die, if the people had to see what their great hero really is. “Ygridsen means ‘god’s son’. You don’t have a father.”

“Well, I mean. Technically I have one. Just not the one my mother was married to when I was born.” He winks, and Grigori’s eyes narrow more in confusion than distaste. Bohli must misread it, though, because he sighs almost dramatically and grabs a hunk of bread himself, spreading it with thick butter. “Oh, what. Listen, my mother had an idea. It didn’t pan out for her, and here I am. Besides, you should be happy with me being a bastard.”

Grigori finds himself oddly fixated on the sight of Bohli’s long, thin fingers as he lifts the bread to his mouth and bites. A bit of butter sticks to one lip, melting against it. There are crumbs at the corners of his mouth. Grigori wants to do… something to it. But he doesn’t know what. “Why?”

“Because the man my mother was married to was ugly as a dog with mange and about half as graceful,” Bohli says, bright and cheerful, and then grins at Grigori’s shocked half-laugh in return. “There we go. See, I knew you’d be fun, given the chance.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let me buy you another drink, since I finished yours.” Bohli lifts a hand and the barman finds his way over, pints of beer already ready to go.

Bohli pays for it all, seemingly no end to the coins he has on hand. At some point beer becomes whiskey, heady and too strong, and the room runs together along with all the people in it. Grigori opens up, a little - he doesn’t tell the truth about who he is, but he and Bohli talk about the dangers of travel in the countryside. Bohli nods sympathetically as Grigori explains how careful he is to avoid the Kaila and the bandits within, and how it means that he must always take the longer, winding route everywhere he goes. His words slur but Bohli seems to understand, or at least is polite enough to pretend to.

Grigori hasn’t realized just how lonely he is until he has someone to talk to and discovers himself utterly unable to stop.

Couching his words carefully, he even shares with Bohli that he is traveling because of the untimely murders of his family a year ago, and Bohli nods and murmurs comforting things and puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing one thumb back and forth in a way that sends a strange heat deep in Grigori’s stomach. He tips his head, looking at that hand, a little confused by its placement there. And far more confused by the fact that he doesn’t want it to stop being placed there, unless it moves down. 

“I think I know how to help you,” Bohli says, and Grigori doesn’t know when it happened but the man’s lips are moving against his ear. His breath is hot and Grigori has to hold back a sound, something odd and helpless. 

Is this-?

This is temptation. Sins of impurity, unchastity. This is his body wanting another’s, more shameful than the nights he wakes up in damp sheets from sweat and has to furtively clean and purify himself after the impure dreams that the priests say are natural, but will fade, in time. 

Dromada’s priests are dead. The men who found him, raised him, made him one of their own… slaughtered by the Kaila-born bandits, destroyed. What use is chastity to a priest with no temple?

Grigori has to hold back a groan when Bohli’s fingers drift up to graze up the side of his neck, up into the nape, into his hair. 

“You have a room here?” Bohli asks, all hushed voice and too much breathing against thin, sensitive skin.

Grigori nods, not trusting his voice, and grabs his bag and stands so fast he knocks his chair over, making Bohli laugh that beautiful brilliant bell-like laughter, drawing the eyes of the room. 

Everyone knows what they’re about to do.

Everyone.

Just by the sight of Grigori all but fleeing to the stairs and the back half of the building, Bohli hot on his heels, still laughing.

****

Grigori has barely dropped his bag and closed the door when Bohli slams into him, surprisingly strong for such a lithe body, shoving his back against a wall and kissing him with a fervor that steals every ounce of willpower he might ever have had to resist.

The world is still spinning, from desire or drink he can no longer tell, when Bohli drops to his knees and yanks Grigori’s pants down until they tangle around his ankles. “Stay still,” Bohli orders, and takes him - already half-hard even not quite knowing what comes next - into his hand. The heat and grip makes Grigori shudder and let out a sound like a cry. It’s nothing like his own hand, nothing at all.

“Ssssshhh, keep it down,” Bohli says, but that teasing smile is back and his hand starts to move, stroking languidly. Grigori has to grit his teeth against the urge to simply spill right here and now, before anything has even gotten started. He swallows and closes his eyes so he can’t see the incredible sight of Bohli’s black eyes as his mouth closes slowly over him.

Grigori probably cries out again, but at some point Bohli stops shushing him and he no longer cares. He comes once and his knees buckle, but Bohli refuses to stop and brings him back to hardness again too soon, his back on the floor and the man straddling him, before he strokes him off a second time, laughing in a way that would be sinister if the pleasure weren’t so overwhelming.

Somehow they find their way into the bed, and Bohli brings him to his peak a third time, a mix of hands and mouth.

“Three,” Bohli whispers, when Grigori is boneless and sated. “That’s a sign if there ever was one.”

“Sign of… of what?” Grigori murmurs, eyes closed, drifting somewhere just before sleep claims him. Bohli is still fully clothed next to him, murmuring sweet soft things and tracing little patterns on his skin.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bohli whispers. “Just sleep, pretty man.” He kisses Grigori on the cheek, sweet and soft, and Grigori falls into the darkness, content in his sin, reveling in the broken vow. He can feel guilty and go to Confession tomorrow. He can worry about that when he wakes and has to feed the hangover again.

He sleeps without dreams, grateful for the peace he’s been given by this stranger he only just met, how his body’s release unlocked some rage and horror he’d been holding tightly within him and gave it the freedom to go.

***

He wakes with a groan, finding his arms stretched above his head, arching his back as he stretches further.

“Oh, damn,” Bohli’s voice says, husky and low. “Now that’s a pretty sight. They breed all your priests to look that good with your robes off?”

Grigori’s eyes fly open, and he moves to jerk himself upright, but his wrists catch. Wide eyes roll back to look up, and he finds his wrists tied with firm knots to the headboard of the bed. His ankles are tied to the posts at the end, forcing him to lie spread-eagled, naked as the day he was born. 

“Wh-... what-”

He turns to look, wincing against the stinging headache and the hangover throbbing behind his eyes, and sees Bohli standing over in the corner. He’s surrounded by the contents of Grigori’s bag, the white robes laid out on the floor, picking up the first hints of dust, along with everything else he has brought with him or bought since he left.

“Why-... I have nothing to steal,” Grigori starts, his body washing cold with something close to fear. He broke his vows for a man who will rob him? What a small mean awful thing to commit such a sin for. “Nothing worth buying!”

“Mmmmn, beg to differ, but I could see how you might think so.” Bohli steps carefully over and around Grigori’s only possessions, until he sits next to him on the bed. He leans over, patting him on the stomach as if soothing a frightened animal. “You have lots to offer, though, Brother Grigori.”

His heart skips a beat. “Why-... why did you call me?”

“Oh, silly holy man. I’ve been looking for you for a year. I’ve been following you for a month. I guess I owe you the twenty marks, though, since it took me this long. Guess I didn’t know where you’d go. Never occurred to me you’d just… fucking stop being a priest. I’ll pay you later.” Bohli grins. “In kisses.”

Grigori’s eyes widen. In a burst of panic and rage, his vision blurs and then clears again, his headache fading. “You!”

“Me!” Bohli grins. “Me indeed. You didn’t forget me completely, then?”

“You… you bastard-”

“Right again!”

“-you killed my family-”

“Technically, that wasn’t me, but Harren did it on my orders, so I guess kind of-”

“Why?!” The cry is one of sorrow, a barely-human wail. Grigori’s grief wells back up and washes out of him, tears burning and running down his cheeks. “Why?!”

“Damn,” Bohli whispers.

Grigori can’t tell if he sounds guilty or like he wants to bed him again.

“Listen. I’ll explain later, once I get you back home.”

“Home?” For a second, Grigori stupidly thinks of the desecrated temple and its empty halls.

“To the Kaila. We live there-”

“Never!”

That just makes Bohli sigh, as if disappointed in him for his lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, hush. You’re going with me whether you like it or not, you know, Brother Grigori. I have need of a priest.”

“You… no.” Grigori struggles against his bonds, the ropes pulling tight, red marks growing on his wrists as the skin rubs raw. “No! I will go nowhere with you!”

“Now, see, you’re lying. I guess if you don’t realize it, it doesn’t count. But, look. You’re going. And you’re going to tell everyone who you are on the way there.”

Bohli leans over, slipping something over his head. A chain with a pendant on the end, simple stone with a runic mark carved in the middle. Grigori feels the burst of elven magic, his mouth dropping open in shock, and then-

His mind feels cool, like slipping underneath the water in a pond, only he has no need to breathe. He can’t imagine needing to breathe. His thoughts are still and calm, contented. Bohli leans close and Grigori wonders how he could ever have felt anger at such a lovely, kind man. The trap spell in the pendant, the elven magic that takes hold of him, feels like being held in such a sweet and soft embrace. It feels like the water closing over his head.

“There we go,” Bohli murmurs. “Pretty-pretty. I’m going to untie you. When you get dressed, make sure you put your robes on, all right? I want everyone to see who you are. I want you to show them off.”

Grigori swallows, nodding. 

He can do that.

“Good. Then we’re going to my house, and that’s where you’re going to live now.” Bohli’s fingers made quick work of the knots on the rope, and Grigori sat slowly up, blinking as if he had to push through a haze to do it. 

When Bohli hands him the robes, he dresses, clumsily. Bohli has to help him tie the belt at his waist.

“Good. You look great. I’m going to pack your bag back up, and then you’ll come with me and be my useful little traitor to the crown, won’t you, Brother Grigori?”

Another nod. He’s not even sure he hears what Bohli is saying. Or cares. He just likes the sound of his voice.

“Good,” Bohli croons. “Very good. Let’s go. I have a king’s reputation to ruin, and you are going to be my secret weapon.”

Grigori follows him downstairs, smiling when the people there eating their breakfast gasp at the sight of his robes. He’s happy to tell them exactly who he is. 

Happy to tell them he’s the Hero they sing about.

Happy to tell them he’s joining the bandits, now, in the Kaila, because the king cannot protect them.

Happy to get on Bohli’s horse, sitting just before him with Bohli behind resting his chin on Grigori’s shoulder, and ride away.

The pendant bumps against his collarbone, and when Bohli whispers, “Sleep upright,” Grigori closes his eyes and lets himself sleep deeper into the pool in his mind, until all is dark and quiet and calm and he knows no more.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @sunshiline-writes @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @befuddled-calico-whump

[whumpitisthen]

A Lesson in Selfishness

Previous I Masterlist I Next

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

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

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

Lord, they begged him not to yell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, sir.”

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

“Yes, sir. It is yours.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He has sauce all over his… everything.

“Uh, I um… I did bring utensils.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-Well, I mean, yes, but —”

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

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

“Oh… I see.”

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

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

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

Well, that's even worse.

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

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

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

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

“Um… Mori, I, uh, I don't really…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if his saviour tries to interfere.

~

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

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

[3-2-whump]

About the Author, or Adoption Trauma and Whump

Hi dear readers, this is 32W. Author, casual artist, and transnational adoptee, and as we reach the 28th anniversary of my adoption, I’m here to talk about adoption trauma and how it relates to whump.

TW/CW: adoption trauma, geopolitics, religious trauma (briefly mentioned/implied), gaslighting (briefly mentioned), objectification (briefly mentioned, sexual acts against a minor (briefly mentioned), metaphorical light gore

NOTE: The experiences of 32W with adoption are their experiences alone and cannot nor should be representative of every adoptees’ experiences. I love the people I call my parents, and I will always see them as such, but that does not change the basic facts that I will lay out below. This author also does not claim to be a geopolitical expert, nor a communist party expert, nor a Chinese spy -my god, I can’t believe I think I need to write that! Reader Discretion is advised.

I have been writing whump stories since my high school days back in 2010, and I have been writing pretty much the same story on and off for the past fourteen years. The names have changed, the faces have sort of changed, and the contexts have varied widely depending on what genre I had a phase in at that time, but a few core elements stayed the same:

Loss of culture

Loss of family

Loss of country

Loss of mother tongue

Forcibly living with someone who, though they could be worse, is still being forced to live with someone

Forced assimilation

Objectification

Losing trust in someone you trusted, respected, and loved

And while I have been writing whump with these themes for the past fourteen years, it only just occurred to me a couple months ago that all of those elements are also present in my personal experience with adoption. Basically, I process my adoption trauma through whump.

My parents wanted a baby. They wanted a baby after they had finally gotten my brothers out from underfoot, those problematic and troubled young men who are now strangers to me. My parents wanted a baby, preferably from another country, because of a recent court case in which the birth mother won back custody of her blood child and broke the adoptive parents’ hearts, so they wanted a baby from a place far away, where the chances of that happening were basically zero.

My parents wanted a baby.

And they got one.

From 1980 to 2016, the Chinese Communist Party implemented the One Child Policy in order to curb their country’s ever-climbing population. Consequentially, for many rural, agricultural, and often traditionalist families, this meant prioritizing sons over daughters, and thus hundreds of thousands of children –mostly girls- were scattered like stars, eventually landing in the arms of the richer, affluent Western countries. Though our circumstances of “abandonment” varied, we were all dispersed across the globe, unwilling, unaware, and now with different names and with parents that looked nothing like us.

Some of us ended up in good homes. I know I certainly did. My parents adored me, and I loved (still love?) them. They were a little weird sometimes, borderline objectifying me since I was a toddler and using religion to gaslight me into believing everything about our family situation was fine, but they also taught me about my culture, made me go to Chinese language school as a kid, and overall did their best. I’d like to think every kid, adopted or not, can say that about their parents. They did their best.

That said, this does not change the fact that they essentially bought me. This does not change the fact that I was forcibly separated from my home, my family, my culture. This does not change the fact that I have no official records and all but cease to exist until they got me. This does not change the fact that my birthday is a guess. This does not change the fact that they severed my tongue and stitched it back on, training it to speak their words, so that even after six years of Chinese school, I still cannot carry a conversation in what should be my natal tongue. That does not change the fact that I deliberately tried to lighten my skin with heavy makeup during the more cringe years of high school. That does not change the fact that my grandpa tried to molest me when I was eleven, and to this day, I am absolutely sure he never would’ve tried that shit with his blood grandchildren.

Their love and good intentions do change any of it.

So, I write whump to cope!

Please don’t feel sorry for me. I am not writing this for random internet strangers’ pity, I am just explaining rather graphically why I write the kind of whump that I write. Writing whump is cheaper than therapy. Exploring dark themes through fiction is a safe avenue for me to discover truths about myself that I did not even know before. And hopefully, my perspective may shed light on issues other adoptees may be facing that they did not have the words to express. And to those adoptees, I hear you, your feelings are valid, and my inbox is open if you want to talk. So, with that, I will conclude this essay, and promise you more good 32Whump content! Stay safe, yall!