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hightro · 7 days ago

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sören growing angel wings 🤯 (graphic text, gore, blood, emetophobia (not descriptive, just mentioned) , just thought id throw that out there lmao)

Sören noticed them one morning while getting dressed, between his shoulder blades—two hard, evenly spaced, coin-sized lumps beneath his skin.

He pressed over them, lightly at first, then harder, frowning. They didn’t shift or dissolve into the muscle. They ached, but he stayed silent, distracting himself.

By evening, they had begun to throb.

Jaska didn’t notice. Sören kept his tunic on more than usual, lying about being cold or too tired. His movements grew slower, more careful.

By the second week, the lumps had grown.

The skin over them was red, taut, and hot to the touch.

He started flinching whenever he brushed against anything, his sleep becoming restless, his breath catching in pain whenever he twisted the wrong way.

One night, he woke up completely drenched in sweat, curled in on himself, breath shuddering. Jaska stirred beside him, reaching out, but Sören jerked away, his face hidden.

“What is it?”

“…Nothing.”

By the third week, the skin began to split.

No blood, no pus—just a strange, glistening ichor seeping out, almost pearlescent in the light. The skin parted, revealing hard, white, bonelike ridges twisting outward. The pain was relentless.

Sören hid away during most of the day, curled up in the dark of their tent or deep in the forest to muffle his cries.

He began to pray quietly to himself. Desperate apologies.

Jaska caught a glimpse one morning when Sören’s shirt clung wet to his back.

“Sören, what—"

“Don’t—don’t look.”

His voice cracked, shame flooding every syllable.

The nubs became stunted wings by the fourth week. Not graceful—twisted and asymmetrical. Wrong. Bone jutted out like broken fans, wrapped in clear layers of membrane. Every pulse of blood through them was utter agony. Every nerve screamed.

Sören couldn’t carry any weight. Couldn’t sleep. He crawled on all fours at times, sobbing when the pain spiked. He vomited from it. Lashed out at nothing, bit into his own arm to stay quiet. The wings moved on their own, twitching.

He hid his face from Jaska. Hid his body. Refused to eat unless begged. The panic began to eat him alive.

Week Five.

The forest was still, heavy with the hush before a storm—but it was torn apart by Sören’s screaming.

Jaska found him like this.

He was on the ground, writhing, clawing at the dirt. The wings—mangled and radiant—twitched and jolted like they’d been struck by lightning, flaring erratically in pulses like a heartbeat. Bone clicked and ground together. They were bigger now. Nearly the length of his arms. Curved backward like the early beginnings of something divine. Something holy.

But to him, they were sin. They were rot. The price of trying to play god.

He clawed at them in blind desperation, trying to rip off the membrane. Blood sprayed. Bone snapped. He shrieked, toppled forward, vomited, tried again. He was drooling, barely breathing between choked gasps, panting so hard his chest convulsed. Tears streaked steadily down his face, mixing with dirt and blood. His voice was wrecked from screaming.

“Cut them off—Jaska, cut them off, cut them off, PLEASE—”

His face was twisted in pain like a wounded animal begging for death.

Jaska dropped to his knees beside him, grabbing Sören’s scrambling arms and holding them, pinning him down as gently as he could. But Sören was fighting, blind in his agony. He thrashed, dug his fingers into Jaska’s chest, clutched him like he was salvation.

“I cannot—I cannot—it hurts—Jaska—it—hurts—it hurts!”

He was completely drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified.

“Shh,” Jaska whispered, his own voice trembling. “Sören—Sören, I’m here, I’m right here, love—look at me.”

He forced Sören to meet his eyes with shaking hands, one holding his jaw, fingers slick with his blood.

“I’ve got thee, I’ve got thee. I’m here.”

Sören sobbed, coughed, convulsing against him. His arms clamped tight around Jaska’s waist, so hard it felt like he was trying to crawl inside him, to hide in his body and escape what was happening.

The wings jolted again—one of them snapping audibly. Loudly.

Sören screamed so hard it tore the inside of his throat. Blood spilled over his tongue.

“Please—please, Jaska,” he wailed. “Make it stop—cut them off—cut them off, cut them—”

Jaska kissed his forehead, trembling, then reached quickly to his belt. His fingers found his hunting knife, drawing it with a faint whisper of steel against leather.

“I’m going to help thee,” he murmured, even though his stomach turned. His heart felt like it was splintering. “I’m right here, Sören. Just hold on to me, please. I’m right here, love.”

Sören nodded frantically, pushing his face into Jaska’s chest, keening. His nails dug sharply into Jaska’s back, breaking the skin. The wings spasmed violently again, lifting and stretching upward, alert, as if they were sentient. Knowing.

Jaska positioned the blade, gripping one of the wings at the base firmly.

“I love thee,” he said, voice shaking. “Just—hold on to me.”

The knife sank in.

Sören screamed.

The membrane split open—taut, quivering. Underneath was tendon, bone laced with veins. Blood spilled over the curve of Sören’s back.

He let out a cry that barely sounded human. He shook violently in Jaska’s arms, eyes wide and unseeing, his scream shattering into broken sobs and panting gasps. His body bucked, and Jaska had to hold him down, murmuring frantically—

“I am here—I'm right here—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—just breathe, breathe, Sören—hold on to me—”

His hands were soaked in blood and something faintly metallic. His knife pressed into the base where bone met shoulder, and severed it with a sickening crack.

Jaska dropped the limb into the dirt with a wet sound. It flapped on its own, twitching like a dying animal. Then it stilled, curling into itself. From the joint where Jaska cut, gold fluid oozed slowly from within the hollow bone, thick and shimmering.

Sören collapsed against him, sagging into his chest, arms still locked in a death grip. He was trembling so hard Jaska could feel it in his teeth. His face was smeared with saliva, blood, dirt, and tears, his jaw clenching and unclenching, lost in a painful delirium.

“One’s gone,” Jaska breathed. “Thou’rt doing so well. I’ve got thee, I’ve got thee.”

His voice cracked near the end, the terror of it all finally slipping out. He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.

This was wrong. This was holy and wrong. His blade was desecrating something sacred.

He swallowed hard. Moved toward the second wing.

It thrashed as he reached for it, slapping him hard across the shoulder, the bone nearly yanking out of his grip. It was strong in its resistance. Sentient. Twitching like it still believed it belonged to Sören.

“Stay with me, Sören—please—just a little longer—”

He grabbed the base with a firm grip. It fought. Spasmed.

Sören sobbed again. “Jaska—cannot—I cannot—!”

But his hold only tightened.

Jaska lifted the blade. His hands were slick, and the knife nearly slipped. He braced against Sören’s back, teeth clenched in a silent snarl of grief—and began to cut.

The second wing fought harder. It thrashed with a strength that almost knew. The membrane snapped taut, lashing violently, smearing streaks of crimson and gold across the forest floor and Jaska’s chest. The scent hit him clearly—overripe lilies, something perfumed and utterly wrong.

Jaska shoved all his weight into its base. His blade found the sinew, slicing deep.

Blood flooded over his hand—deep red, but threaded with thick, gleaming gold. It seeped from the bone like marrow, hissing where it hit the ground, curling into soft smoke. The scent grew thicker. Sickening. Almost sweet enough to taste.

Sören went slack partway through. His breath shuddered. His arms loosened. His grip on Jaska slipped as the pain surged through him. His strength gave. His head sagged against Jaska’s shoulder, hair falling into his face, lips parted with shallow pants.

“Gone… is it gone…?” he mumbled, barely audible, voice raw.

His eyes fluttered—half-lidded, glassy with tears. He couldn’t scream anymore. The tears flowed without sound or resistance, carving channels down his cheeks.

Jaska finished the cut with a final hard yank—bone snapping, membrane tearing—and the second wing crumpled beside the first, twitching once before curling in on itself like a wilted flower.

Sören sagged entirely.

“Sören—hey—hey, no, stay awake—” Jaska’s voice cracked, loud and desperate. “I’ve got thee—I have thee—”

He dropped the knife. The blood-slick blade hit the earth, forgotten.

Jaska pulled Sören into his arms, scooping him close. He buried his face into Sören’s neck and held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head like he could shield him from a world that no longer deserved to look at him.

“Thou’rt alright,” he choked out, though his breath was starting to unravel. “Gone—gone now, Sören. They’re gone.”

His voice faltered. The sob hit him hard—hoarse, guttural, quiet. Torn from the place where fear, love, and helplessness lived. He shuddered against Sören, letting out a broken sound—one he barely recognized as his own.

Then another. A sob.

And another.

He wept openly, mouth pressed to Sören’s neck, arms locked around him.

The hours that followed were slow, brutal, and eerily quiet.

Sören did not wake.

He breathed—shallow but alive—and Jaska clung to it even as he worked in silence. His hands were slick with blood, shaking, his face pale with exhaustion and terror. The wings lay still and crumpled in the dirt a few feet away, curled inward and shriveled. He could not look at them too long. He wanted to retch.

He built the fire higher.

The smell of incense hit as he dropped the first wing into the flames. It flared with unnatural light, crackling loudly—almost screaming. Gold wept from the bones, popping and hissing. The sparse feathers melted in an unnatural way, the fire struggling before finally swallowing it.

He burned the second wing without thought. Watched until there was nothing left but ash.

—

He cleaned Sören’s back with warm, wet cloths, careful but firm. The wounds where the wings had been severed were deep—much deeper than he had expected. The flesh was mangled, tissue torn inward. Jaska wiped and washed and held rags against the bleeding until his arms ached.

Then, the iron.

He heated the blade in the fire, watched it turn orange, then white. The hiss of metal meeting open flesh was too loud.

Sören did not scream—but his body jerked, once, hard. Muscles clenching in recognition. Jaska flinched.

“I am sorry,” he breathed over and over. “I am sorry, I am sorry—”

The smell of seared flesh lingered long after the blade had been set down.

Jaska ground herbs with trembling fingers—making a tincture that numbed and calmed. He poured it into Sören’s mouth slowly, held his head steady, whispered gently to coax him to swallow. Sören barely reacted. Only stirred faintly.

Jaska bandaged the wounds—layer after layer. Clean cloth, tight to the skin but not restrictive. Sören’s whole back was wrapped, shoulders and all.

By the time Jaska finished, the fire had burned low.

He sat beside him on the floor of their shelter, legs crossed, hands slack in his lap. He did not speak. He did not cry. His eyes were wide, haunted, locked onto Sören’s face, terrified he might vanish.

Sören slept.

His breath caught now and then. A twitch here, a shudder. But he slept.

Jaska watched him. Shell-shocked. Blood still dried in his hair, on his clothes. On his hands. His heart in pieces.

He did not blink. Did not rest.

He just watched. Endlessly. Hours on end.

—

The first sign Sören was waking was the soft hitch of his breath.

It barely caught—a change from the shallow rhythm that had filled the tent for hours. Then again, a longer, strained inhale. Slight movement in his legs. His fingers twitched.

Jaska’s head jerked up, eyes locking on Sören instantly. He did not speak, frozen, afraid that hope would shatter into grief again.

But then—Sören stirred.

His eyelids fluttered open weakly. His mouth moved without sound, his throat too torn to give him voice. He tried to sit up, failed, and winced.

“Sören—” Jaska was already leaning forward, on his knees, palms flat on the ground near him, eyes wild and wide with disbelief. “Hey. Hey, I am here—gods—”

Sören’s eyes met his. Groggy, bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion—and then they softened. A faint smile quirked the corners of his mouth, gentle.

He reached out, slow and trembling, fingers fumbling until they found Jaska’s. Fingers interlaced.

Jaska let out a breath like he had been underwater, his chest heaving.

Sören squeezed. His lips parted, straining to speak but mouthing something—over and over. It took Jaska a moment to read it.

“I thank thee.”

Then again. And again.

He kept whispering it, barely audible—a rasp dragging over his raw throat. His hands trembled but they did not let go.

Sören shifted slightly, using the limited strength he had to drag himself closer. His forehead pressed lightly against Jaska’s knee, resting there, as if in apology, in fragile peace.

Jaska froze.

He was stunned—staring down at the man who had begged, who had screamed and sobbed in his arms, who now clung to life and touched him with such quiet affection it almost did not seem real. It made his chest ache painfully.

Something broke inside him—like glass shattering under pressure.

He wrapped his arms around Sören before he could stop himself. Not rough, not desperate—but full. Careful to keep his hands off the wounds. Full of everything he did not have the words to say.

“Thou scared the hell out of me,” he whispered, breath shaking. “Thou—Sören—I thought I would lose thee.”

He buried his face into Sören’s hair, his shoulders trembling as he tried to breathe him in steadily, but his voice kept catching in his throat.

“Thou art alright,” he said softly, more for himself than for Sören. “I have thee, love.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks, hot and silent.

He held Sören too tightly. And Sören let him. Even though it hurt.

—

Morning broke slowly, light filtering through the canvas of their tent, soft and golden. The fire had long since burned to embers, but the warmth lingered.

Sören woke before Jaska.

He blinked, slow and groggy, but clear-headed. His whole body ached like he had been ripped apart and stitched back together. The pain was distant now, dull. Manageable. There was still tightness in his chest when he breathed deeply, and the bandages pulled at the torn skin across his back, but he could finally gather the strength to sit up.

He shifted, grunting, and it stirred Jaska, who immediately jolted upright with a sharp inhale.

“Hey—lie thyself back down—what art thou doing?” Jaska blurted, leaning in to steady him before Sören could topple over.

But Sören was smiling—genuine. Soft and boyish, even as his body trembled faintly.

“Good morrow,” he rasped, voice dry and low but more there than yesterday. “Thou look’st like shite.”

Jaska stared at him for a beat. Then he huffed out a breath—a laugh.

“I look like shite?” he muttered, eyes scanning Sören carefully. The relief was obvious in every part of his face.

Sören’s smile grew, giddy. He did not hide the way he leaned into Jaska’s arms as they guided him back down slowly. Did not hide the way he watched him—like Jaska had hung the stars in the sky for him.

#happy yaoi day

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