#Mori oc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whumpitisthen · 5 months ago

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Foreboding Intermezzo

Previous I Masterlist I Next

CWs: blood, broken bones, nudity (nonsexual, dubcon), multiple whumpees, carewhumpee, referenced torture, referenced captivity, slave whumpee, angel whumpee, religious themes, vampire whumper, creepy whumper, bleeding out, loss of consciousness, conditioned whumpee

The silence is unbearable.

When Mori had explained to him that he would need to clean off before he could be brought to ‘the lord’ — Auden, while vaguely uncomfortable with the notion of being ordered to bathe before meeting someone, was completely fine with the idea. He was nearly impressed when he saw the pristine, polished pale aloe tiles and wall-length bathtub he had access to. He was looking forward to finally washing off the weight of layers of grime that had accumulated on his aching skin, and to truly relax for just a moment before The Reaper could return and take him away to who knows where — to meet this demon lord, apparently.

He was a lot less enthusiastic once Mori had sheepishly explained that they would not leave him to his business, as they were ordered to accompany and help him.

They would run a bath for him, sit him in the tub and wash him down personally. They would touch his holy angel body, drag their demonic hands over his pure skin, look upon him fully, as someone who he barely knows, and catalogue his bareness away in their brain forever. This would be supremely uncomfortable for anyone, no matter how they rationalise it in their own head; but for an angel it would not be exaggeration to call this sort of bathing downright traumatising.

“I'm really sorry, but I must. Master will know if I hadn't. Please, you have to understand.”

That's what Mori had said, and at first, Auden outright refused. Angels are not meant to be touched, certainly not bathed, definitely not by a demon. Undressing and letting a hellbeast feel and grope around his body as they want, intimately reaching every crevice their hands fit into, tainting every single bit of flesh they reach — he could not let that happen. It's too much, even for a Fallen, to just allow it to happen. It's scary and humiliating and unpleasant and he would not let it happen.

But then, upon watching Mori so desperately assure him how they would be quick and gentle, how they would keep their eyes closed and their head turned away the whole time if he preferred, how they would surely be punished again and how they may not survive disappointing The Reaper twice in such a short period of time, — Auden had relented. He had closed his eyes and swallowed his remaining pride, quickly beginning to feel childish and privileged to be worrying about being touched by the most trusted person here, instead of keeping his promise in the forefront of his mind: the promise he had made to himself and to them; to keep Mori safe, to not be a nuisance and a danger to them. What more could they taint anyway? He has been abused and manhandled and even bitten by all manner of demonkind since the day he Fell; how could this dirty his soul any more?

Shame still burns his cheeks now as Mori’s gentle hands help warm water onto his abused flesh. They are touching him as if his skin was the thinnest layer of ice in the centre of a frozen lake, worried he may crack and swallow them under frigid water. They barely curl their palms, only the tips of their fingers sliding along him in careful strokes. It's ironic how careful they are with him, — Mori is the one whose antler still bleeds and whose ruined hand remains close to their chest, trembling in agony. Auden should be the one taking care of them, not the other way around. He is being slowly freed from filth, yet he only feels more and more disgust at himself for being under the careful care of a tormented bondslave as if he were of any kind of importance. He does not deserve such care.

He looks to his friend, who seems to be lost in the repetitive motions of their own soapy fingers. — “Hey, Mori?”

They stiffen and jerk, startled by his sudden call. They tend to react to the quietest noises as if he had screamed at them. Their neck twitches and they flutter their eyelids closed, blowing free a frightened exhale. — “Yes, M-M-Master?”

“Just Auden,” — he reminds, trying his best not to sound accusatory or threatening. Mori watches wearily anyway. — “But it is fine. I was just wondering. Could we… talk?”

“Talk?”

“Yes. I um. Really do not enjoy silence. Is it okay?”

Their expression softens, a sense of understanding replacing their nervousness. — “Oh, okay. Wh-What would you like to talk about?”

What could they not talk about? He has so many questions about everything. He wants to ask about The Reaper. About where exactly he will be taken. Will he be killed if he is inadequate? Who is this lord he must be so tidy for? He doubts this lord is the same as his Lord, but the possibility of being taken to his creator once again by the Grim Reaper, like a simple mortal’s soul reserved for judgement, terrifies him more than any demon lord could.

His prolonged silence quickly becomes unpleasant as he tries and fails to ask any one question. His hand moves to scratch at his cheek, partly there just to hide behind. Mori’s expectant gaze brings fresh blood to his face.

They resume their work, massaging a little more soap into Auden's shoulders, and offer their own words after a little while, — “w-would you uh, like me to start instead? I have some things I am curious about as well. It isn't every day that I get to… see a Fallen Angel. Or well, not like you, at least.”

Auden is so glad Mori is somewhat more sociable than himself. He never did find it simple to just strike up a conversation out of nowhere, even less so to hold it.

One bit of what they said interests him the most, so naturally he latches onto it first. — “Not like me? Are there other Fallen here?” — An image of Miss Thu lin's twisted museum appears in his mind then, deepening a crease between his brows raised in excitement. — “Are they… alive?”

“Uh…” — Mori seems a little uncomfortable answering. They turn away to cough when their voice cracks. Their throat must be atrocious after all the wailing they were made to do. — “Well, yes. They are. Just the one, though. And they probably won't be too uh, happy to see you.”

“Oh.” — That sounds about right. He is in such a pitiful state, it would make sense for them not to like him. — “I see. C-Can I meet them still? It would be nice, even if they dislike me. Perhaps I could prove myself worthy of their tolerance.”

“You will meet them sooner than you probably think. They're… hard to avoid.”

Mori struggles to their hooves, walking over to the vanity to produce a glass bottle filled with a bright purple gel out of one of its cabinets. They press its cool surface to their chest as they hold it, careful not to let their shaky muscles splatter it across the floor. They seem so uncertain on their legs — their now missing antler must not make it very easy to balance. Auden hopes the wound will close up soon; they are losing a lot of blood.

“What is that?” — he asks, a slightly concerned crease in his brow. Unknown liquids in clear sealed bottles remind him of The Doctor a little too much.

“Avina’s Grace shampoo,” — Mori answers promptly, no hesitancy, — “to clean your hair? I hope it's sufficient?”

“Oh, yes, okay. Go ahead.”

His blackened hair has burned together, sticking into clumps of sticky charcoal at the ends. The angel has barely had time to mourn his transformation — the ashes will come out from in-between each feather and hair, but his locks and wings will remain just as tarred as the day he fell. His pristine white plumes and soft walnut curls are gone for good, replaced forever by a reminder to him and a sign to others of his irreversible shortcomings. It's easy to forget about this in the midst of chaos; out of sight, out of mind — but during quiet moments, it will become hard to find a reason to keep breathing.

Mori lets the sweet-smelling water flow through his tarred hair, shielding his eyes from any stray drops with their broken hand. The angel's heart clenches every time Mori uses their wounded body just to accommodate him like this. Not a question asked, no thanks expected. Like they do not even matter at all.

“Mori, can I ask you something?”

They wince when a shattered finger knocks against his forehead, stealing the air from their lungs, — “mhm.”

They run their unharmed hand over his scalp, helping free every speck of dirt. They massage the shampoo in deep, letting it foam and cover all black with purifying white. Any matting they find is eliminated by soft twisting motions between two fingers, separating the wretched filth from his body. It is relaxing; so relaxing, that he nearly forgets to feel embarrassed about his precarious nakedness, and the intimacy of this act.

He never had the opportunity to be pampered like this before. Angels do not touch each other often, if at all. They are meant to be pristine, untouchable beings, pure and holy so that no light can be trapped behind a single speck of foulness. Letting anything, especially an unholy being like Mori hold them is tantamount to being plagued and invaded by Hell’s temptations and tainted forever. Auden never realised how horribly he craved this unlawful closeness to another. Or perhaps he always knew, and only now does he let himself realise this.

He closes his eyes, leans back. He trusts Mori to be gentle, to not hurt him in any way. It's sinful, the things he allows himself to think. Letting another touch his body like this, enjoying this connection, wanting more…

A content sigh falls through his lips. Such pleasantness cannot come from Hell; it's not possible. A demon slave cannot soothe him. It's sinful, terribly sinful.

“How did you end up here?” — Auden nearly moans his question, overwhelmed by scary, alluring, alien sensations that cloud his judgement.

Mori's hand pauses its rubbing. They do not say a word. Maybe he should not have asked this so suddenly, so directly. He probably should not have asked at all. He made it too awkward, it's a personal question; oh he just cannot bring himself to shut up, can he?

When Mori doesn't reply immediately, he hurries to apologise and change topic, but their hand finds its rhythm again under his foaming hair before he could utter a word, whispering, — “you want to know more about me?”

“I would like to,” — Auden mumbles, no longer sounding quite so delirious. — “I-I’m curious. You seem very nice, and I don't think you deserve, um… any of this. The torture, and the, the… forced servitude. You know, all of that.”

Mori says nothing. Something seems wrong about them, but Auden does not know what exactly. The water is steadily turning darker, enveloping Auden's body in its murky colour.

“Do angels have families?” — they ask belatedly. Their tone has taken a melancholic, almost morose shade. Auden shakes his head.

“Not in the way mortals tend to,” — he elaborates, — “angels do not have parents, and we do not bear children. We are created by our benevolent Lord for a purpose, and we are taught by the purest of us our whole lives, so we may one day reach our full potential, and be used by Him in any way he requires.”

His thoughts travel back to his Heaven. The majestic painted Cathedral where he spent so much time praying, the purifying, breathtaking Tree of Life crying holy water from its roots to create a crystal river leading through endless fields. The western regions where the Sun glows gold and warms the air, blessed souls dancing in the gentle wind, the gorgeous night sky haloed by blue light and countless stars.

He sees angel wings flapping in the sky, humans greeting their relatives at the gates with tears in their eyes, he hears the sound of laughter and joy. It is so beautiful. His brows furrow then. He took it all for granted; and now all he will ever witness is vermilion skies, death and depravity.

“For us, family is a vague concept. It is different for everyone — some of us call their closest companions family, some consider Heaven as a whole a family they are a part of, some do not consider family something they want or need.” — He thinks for a moment. Trust, love, companionship, bond. He doesn't truly use the word ‘family’ often when referring to anyone, but he does consider some close enough for it to be fitting. — “I suppose I consider my family to be the Archangel who taught me — Seraph Raviath, — a few others that were of a similar age to me that I shared a lot of my time with, my Lord — a father to all, of course — and my human.”

His human… he hopes they are doing well. He misses them so much. Every time he thinks of them, in his mind’s eye he sees their deep brown eyes look back at him fondly, as if greeting him. They can still hear their pleasant voice. The violin they loved to play. He can even smell the breakfast they had every day — a fresh Pain au Chocolat with warm milk.

“Do you love them the way mortals love their family?” — Mori’s voice rasps enquiringly, breaking through his thoughts. Another drop of blood hits polished green tiles.

“Yes,” — Auden replies instantly, — “I miss all of them every day. And since I have Fallen… I suppose there is no other way I could love but the way mortals love”

A pause stretches out uninterrupted. Mori must be deep in thought, Auden thinks.

Auden listens to the soap bubbles popping on the surface of the hazy bathwater as it steadily cools around him. It's remarkable how quiet this manse is. With its long, echoing hallways and sky-high ceilings, for it to be so well kept must require plenty of manpower, yet it’s hauntingly empty and calm. The air out in the haunting corridors reminds Auden of a large, empty church. Cold, but certain, almost heavy. It leaves a hand shaped imprint tingling on one's soul. It wants to be felt and remembered. Here in this wash room, steamed up and hot, smelling of artificial flowers, in a way, the air is just as heavy.

“We’re the same then,” — Mori whispers finally, glancing to the side to observe a drop of liquid on the pale jade tiles, their eyes shimmering, — “I never knew my parents. If I had any siblings, I never got to know them either. They all might as well be dead; makes no difference to me. They probably are by now. Served their use, killed off like duffer cattle. ‘S what tends to happen.”

There is a lack of empathy, an overwhelming sense of numbness surrounding their words. There are thick layers of it over a deep, painful scar that will never heal. They curl forward weakly, none too eager to sit with their back straight as their blood flows freely down their face.

“I wasn't made to be their child — I was made to be a servant. All my life I had masters, owners… sometimes nobody. Some of them were crueller than others. I tried running, a couple times — I really wish I hadn't. They made certain to make me regret it each time. I'm, I’m s-still back there sometimes, during bad nights. I can see them prepare th-, the branding iron, th-that fucking dog noose, I can still feel it around my nghn, m-my neck, pinning me — ”

Mori can tell Auden is staring at them, watching them unravel with his big, empathetic eyes. They can feel his gaze linger on their fingers, watching them twist their tough nails into their own flesh and leaving dark marks next to countless slices of white and pink and red in a sea of purple across their arms. They know he hears every crack in their voice, the sob cutting off their sentence. If only they could see him past the blurry figures closing in around them; shadows wielding tools of torment, yelling, whispering, taunting.

They take a few seconds to settle their breathing. They aren't there anymore; they aren't living in a dog kennel, they are not chained to their owner’s bed, nor are they cramped into a small cage with a dozen other diseased, wailing slaves. They are here in Master Grim’s domain with his new precious Fallen, telling their story. Auden is listening.

He had asked them a question; so they answer. Not because they will be punished if they don't. Not because they are scared. Not because they don't know how to not do as they are told anymore. — “I died so many times back then. Nh-, not actually, though I came v-vh, very close. But I remember very little of who I was before. I remember I was taught subservience, then given to a slaver, bought a few times, changed owners. I have the scars, a-and I have the night terrors, but that's about it. ‘Was just too much to retain, clearly. T-Too bloody much.”

Their whispers fall quiet once again, stuck in the dark clutches of a dreary memory. The voice of their once owner flings orders at them, they feel the phantom sting of a slap, the sticky surface of their tear-soaked face, the taste of iron. They can smell the wretched crimson tobacco in the air.

Their expression is blank, but Auden knows that haunted glaze of emptiness stretching over their eyes.

“That's how I met Master Grim. I came so close to death so many times, he began to take interest in me. Every time I was beaten unconscious, or bleeding out o-oh, or — I would see him standing over me, watching me die. Only for brief moments, but I would see him watching me. His, the, the mask, his eyes… I still see them, all the time.”

That feeling of being watched never truly left. Even now as they speak, they feel The Reaper's piercing sanguine eyes burning holes into the back of their neck, they can feel the menacing air he carries weighing on their head from over them, as if he were standing right behind them, towering over his little fawn. They never feel truly alone anymore. — “It was terrifying. I thought that, that that was it, every time. I really thought I would be killed, and that he would take my soul away. I sometimes wished he would. I began to… look forward to seeing him.”

“He grew to like me. I kept visiting him, whether I wanted to or not, so it only made sense he would eventually visit me.”

As they trail off, the wet bathroom tiles return into focus. They recognise their own trembling fists held close to their chest, — a defensive position they learned when they wore handcuffs for months on end, — and force them to loosen. There is sweat running down their back. They find Auden's wide eyes, his mouth ajar with dismay, and give a small, empty smile through the curtain of blood and perspiration framing their steadily paling face. — “Th-That's uh, how I ended up here.”

The angel is horrified. How do they find it in themself to smile at him? How can they bring themself to smile at all? Is that something they learned in captivity too; to smile through their sorrow?

“I'm sorry,” — is all Auden can really say. His lips move around ghost syllables as he tries to think of comforting words, finding none that are sufficient.

“It's alright. You didn't do anything,” — they reply, blinking slow, — “and it's better now.”

Their missing antler, their broken hand, rivers of blood, all for the smallest of transgressions — Auden refuses to believe they have had worse. — “Is it really?”

Mori nods. — “Yes. He saved me. I am thankful. Always.”

Auden decides not to push for any more answers. It is troubling to listen to them. Far too troubling.

“I never thought I could be so similar to a demon,” — Auden muses instead. He has learned a lot about demonkind in the short time he has shared with Mori already. From the sounds of it, hellborn are not exempt from Hell’s punishments, nor are they necessarily more deserving than mortals who happen to find themselves here. Mori was born into slavery, sold and abused, never given a choice, never given a reprieve from hellish torments. They do not seem evil like how Auden always imagined every demon in his head to be — only unfortunate, and it leaves a bitter taste in the angel's mouth to know that the poor thing’s only sin was being born here.

“What do you mean?” — his tormented companion asks.

Auden scratches at his neck, hesitant to dwell on this topic much longer, — “Well, neither of us has a true family, it seems. And we both got um… saved, by The Reaper. And we both ended up here. I-I am glad I am not on my own, at least.”

Mori looks… very confused.

“Wh-, wait a minute.“ — Their expression turns from confusion to disbelief to disappointment in quick succession thinking over his words. — “So, do, do you — Y-You called me a demon?”

Now it's Auden's turn to be confused. — “Y-, yes? Should I not have?”

Their expression falls so suddenly Auden needs a second to recognise it for what it is: sadness. — “I-I’m not a demon.” — A half-hearted whisper. Their intonation lifts towards the end innocently, as if afraid to stand up for themself. — “Do angels… You see me as a demon? I'm… I'm a demon?”

They seem genuinely hurt by this, yet begrudgingly accepting in a way that makes Auden's heart bleed. The way they can barely bring themself to disagree with him on what must have been an accidental insult on Auden's part is heartbreaking.

But Auden doesn't understand. They are in Hell. They were born here. They are a demon.

So why does that sound so wrong to say suddenly?

“I-I think I misspoke again,” — Auden scrambles, lifting his hands in surrender, but only manages to bring a flinch out of the other. — “I'm sorry, I-I, I’m just… I am just an idiot in a world I clearly don't understand as well as I thought I did! I would never intentionally say things to harm you. I am really sorry.”

Mori doesn't really believe him until they make eye contact with the angel once again and see only a genuine look of compassion and a bit of innocent naïveté. — “You really… you really don't understand.”

Auden shakes his head. It sends foam flying off onto the floor from some of his lankier locks, mixing with the red sheen. Mori never did rinse the shampoo out, did they? They forgot. They are very dizzy.

“I need to continue,” — they say vaguely, grabbing hold of the edge of the tub, their grip shaky. They find it hard to keep eye contact. — “would you turn back around, please?”

The water is slowly running cold, no longer burning on the angel's neck as Mori lets it flow in rivers down his back. Auden wonders if Mori will be ordered to clean up after the bath is done. There are feathers floating on the murky surface among the foam; they will surely plug up the drain.

“Why did you think I was a demon?” — Mori asks quietly.

“I did not realise there were alternatives,” — Auden shrugs, glad that Mori is still willing to talk to him. — “I-I assume that's, that is what I got wrong. That, that there are others, here, that are not demons? Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yes. May I ask, um… what, what —”

“What I am?” — Mori interjects, now slightly amused. They have trouble trusting anything that comes out of other people's mouths, but Auden's clumsy fumbling of his words helps them believe he truly just does not know better. His instant apologies also make it clear that he still tries. Mori appreciates that, even if it's hard not to expect anything but condescension from others’ words.

Auden nods. His hair still sticks and tangles, falling in waves over his shoulders like black tar over the edge of a cliff. It will need another round of shampoo. And a lot of conditioner, by the looks of it.

“I'm not sure, to be completely honest with you,” — they mutter, working another layer of gel into the angel's matted hair, — “no one ever really thought to, to explain it to me. I have heard of the Sylvan people — apparently they’re pretty similar to me, with hooves and antlers. I may be some bastardised descendant of them.”

Master Grim spoke of them a while ago, not too long after he had taken them. He had remarked how they looked similar to Mori. A people of forests, who worshipped pagan gods, held many intricacies and lived peaceful lives. They were never interested in anything but the preservation of their own culture, and only fought wars in self-defence.

They went extinct a long time ago.

‘The angels’ ever merciful God may have had a hand in that,’ — their master had said while he casually played a short blade on their bare belly, letting them shiver against its edge.

They had been called over and ordered to sit with him. They could not remember the last time they were allowed up on a couch, especially such a large, luxurious one. He even asked them if they were comfortable once they settled onto it. Then he laid their head against a velvet duvet, led them to lie across his lap. They were not being punished, they were told, yet they could not stop trembling.

‘The Heavens had come up with a word: impiety. Disrespect; to their Lord, to their moralist ways and to their winged people. They simply could not stand the Fauns’ lack of devotion. Perhaps that contempt is what gave their battle angels the conviction to wrench each of the harmless creatures’ heads off their bodies. I was present for it, of course. I saw Archangels dressed in red, setting forests aflame. The sky you see outside today does not look so dissimilar to the sky the angels had painted bloody with guts and viscera all those years ago.’

The blade had travelled up the length of their torso as The Reaper spoke, landing right over the hammering pulse in their neck. Against their better judgement, Mori had let the smallest whimper slip free from behind their lips, and begged not to be killed, promising they would be useful. Their then new master had only chuckled, a fond expression on his face, and pressed the dagger harder against their flesh, not letting up until their blood rose from beneath it. His eyes glimmered at the smell of fresh pain.

‘You could be the very last of your kind, little fawn. The last living Sylvan spirit. I had led every Sylvan soul on to the other side; and now the last one has fallen right into my lap mere millenia later. Lost in an inferno conceived by the ones responsible for their people's extinction, the little fawn wanders into the jaws of a predator, unknowing…’

One of his hands — the one not tarred charcoal black and dressed in a silver gauntlet of claws, — took a hold of one antler then. The knife slowly slid across the thin skin of their throat, stretching the wound wider and catching their blood on its surface. Only then did Master Grim lift the cold steel away from them, holding it right up to his lips. That was the first time he had tasted them.

He would take his time observing their tears and mulling over the drop of blood on his tongue. Purring, he would add; — ‘Fate is a curious thing, hm?’

The scars from that day cross over their skin like a memento. At the time, they had barely understood why The Reaper would be interested in such a nobody. They were far too scared to dwell on anything their new owner was telling them, only capable of thinking just far enough to provide short, agreeable, inoffensive and polite answers sandwiched between two pleas. Since then, the anecdote stuck with them, haunting them with its implications.

Sometimes they ponder if Master Grim only told them all this to send them down a puzzling path of infatuated, senseless self-discovery. He could have just made it all up; he does that sometimes. He is thousands of years old. Few can truly confirm or debunk everything that comes out of his mouth, and he finds great amusement in that.

Their brows furrow. — “Or it could just as well be that someone thought having a deer-man mix for a slave would be cute, and had my creation commissioned — making me a runt, or a mutt per definition. Some people just refer to me as ‘the hybrid’, so I guess that's what I am. Better than being called a dog. I think this option is much more likely anyway.”

The black waves part between the teeth of a wooden comb as Mori gently slides it along each lock. It's so different from Auden's own comb back home. It's heavier and rougher, impossible to use gingerly.

The Sylvan, mutts, hybrids… Auden only knows of angels, mortals and demons. He has never heard of people that did not belong to any of these three groups. He must learn more.

“What kind of dark magic allows demons to help conceive of beings like you?” — Auden asks rather rudely. Mori only sighs, running on an amount of sleep far too low to be engaging in theory crafting — or thinking at all for that matter.

“I don't know. I'm not smart enough to understand. Demon lords can do it. Some witches can do it. Powerful ones,” — they mutter, working through a particularly nasty knot as gently as possible, — “nearly always made to be servants. Some are made for their strength, some to be pretty lap dogs, some just to see what would happen. Like some science experiment.”

“Do you know what you were made for?” — Auden asks.

“Not for what I was used for, that's for sure,” — Mori replies, an exasperated tone catching their voice.

“What were you used for?”

“Bad things.”

“But what specifically? Like, like murder or — ?”

“Auden,” — Mori cuts him off, exhausted, sharp, — “please.”

The angel’s eyes turn away, flustered. — “Oh, sorry. I-I just… I got too excited. Sorry.”

Mori raises an eyebrow. — “Excited about slaves?”

“No! No,” — he cries, nearly offended, — “not — n-not that. That is terrible. I meant, um… interested. No, that sounds just as bad. I-I just want to learn!”

“Then you better learn when it’s a good idea to ask questions, and when it ain't.”— They set the comb aside. It falls to the ground following the path their heavy hand takes. The floor tilts and stretches like the bottom of the sea. They don't bother picking it up. — “Running your mouth like th-, th-that is a surefire way to get beaten. If you think asking Master Grim about his, his markings like you did, for example, is even remotely allowed just because he thought it was so fuckin’ ridiculous he let it pass, I gotta tell you; it is definitely not. Your c-comedic genius won't save you next time.”

“Do, do you know…?”

“He didn’t answer, so I'm not answering either. Lean back a little.”

Once Mori has rinsed all the shampoo out of Auden's hair, they step away to retrieve another decorated glass of something; something that shines white and smooth like the blood of a pearl. It smells of almonds and feels very slippery upon his curls.

Mori looks half dead.

Every time they force themself up on their hooves, they must experience such vertigo that they nearly pass out. Their steps are slow and calculated, but just as sloppy while they struggle their way across polished tiles slick with their own darkening blood. Auden can feel their hand shivering as they work the conditioner into his roots. As their movements become more sluggish, Auden worries they will fall and smash their bleeding head off the edge of the tub.

Mori’s skin starts running colder than Auden's, and that's when he can no longer allow this to go on without a word.

“Maybe you should take a break?” — the angel tentatively asks, — “I can finish up while you take a nap; surely he wouldn't mind — ”

“No,” — their voice cracks and trembles, but it is filled with certainty, determination, desperation, — “he would. He will know. H-He always does.”

Auden jerks his head around, throwing their already hard to manoeuvre hands off of himself to find Mori’s exhausted, shadowy eyes. His concern is infuriating. — “But you are badly hurt! Your wound still bleeds, I can see how pale you are and I am not a healer; if, if something bad happens to you I will not know how to help — “

A shaky exhale, somewhat frustrated, somewhat desperate, definitely losing patience. A single spark. The littlest, thinnest, most afraid-to-exist flame ignites in their eyes and furrows their brows. — “How you can help, is by staying fucking still and letting me do my job, you — “

Auden’s mouth snaps shut right away, but his eyes fill with emotion. Mori sighs. A deep, already regretful exhale.

He doesn't quite get just yet how much worse it can get for the both of them. Obeying is a must, a requirement so they may keep breathing, and punishments are plenty. They are just frustrated that Auden cannot seem to grasp that concept. They are so similar; how can he not understand this?

“I will be fine,” — they whisper anyway, having to physically strain themself not to fall back into their submissive, terrified shell and beg for Auden's forgiveness instead like they did before. — “I know what I can take. This, this is n-nothing.”

“Doesn't look like nothing…”

“Well for you it probably wouldn't be n-nothing, what with your f-fancy wings and perfect skin and your, your weird eyes… Do all angels have pink eyes? What is with those things?”

They don't sound angry anymore, the single drop of vitriol in them having evaporated immediately. Auden turns around again, to Mori's bother. His eyes sparkle like a mini galaxy. — “They are not pink, they are purple!”

“Mm.” — Mori takes an index finger and twirls it in the air, to which Auden turns right back around, muttering another apology.

“And, um, no. It is not very common.”

“Then I’m even more baffled you’ve made it this far without getting fuckin’ mutilated. Special eyes, healthy wings, bein’ a Fallen in general — that kinda stuff gets you picked off the street in under ten minutes. In, in a good neighbourhood. In a bad one you'd start a serious street riot. You'd, you'd…”

They trail off. Auden cannot feel their hands on him, so he turns around to find them staring blankly at the crimson painted floor in front of them, the darkness under their eyes turning more than just worrying. — “Mori?”

They lift their head to look at Auden, but can't seem to find him past the dark spots in their vision. — “F-fuck…”

They suddenly look very scared, eyes wide and breaths swift. Auden reaches for them — their skin is ice cold and paler than a sheet. It's sticky with cold sweat. One of their eyes is squeezed shut, filled with the blood flowing right into it.

Their breathing becomes funny. — “Auden? Can you, um… can you do me a favour?”

A direction; a way to help! — “Yes? Anything!”

“I uh… Dh-, don't panic, alright?”

Mori goes limp and falls to the side.

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