#powerful whumper

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (XXI)

Keep your friends close

Read part one here // masterpost // continued from here

As promised besties!

~*~*~*~*~*~

When they arrive at Kit’s apartment, Kit leans forward and frowns. “I think that’s Superhero’s car.”

Ambrose doesn’t respond as he parks the car and the pair get out. Superhero does the same, but it’s more of an effort for him. He opens the door and then kicks it open with his boot, grabbing the top of the door with his hand and pulling himself up and out of the car. Only when he closes the door does Kit see why.

“Superhero…” Kit said, looking for the words. Superhero looked like shit. As if he had just been caught up in a sudden all-out brawl with an army of villains attacking at once. He tried for a dim smile, but the effort seemed to aggravate his black and blue bruised eye and jaw.

He walked with a limp, his movements slow and staccato-ed, as if he were a hundred-year-old man and not the best active Superhero in the city. Kit went to him, despite his protests and threw his arm over Kit’s shoulder, helping him towards the steps of Kit’s apartment.

Ambrose went ahead and opened the door for Kit and Superhero, holding it open while Kit half-dragged Superhero inside and to the kitchen chairs. Superhero shrugged Kit away. “Stop with the fuss, Kit. I’m fine. I can walk on my own.”

Kit frowned, stepping back. “You look like shit, what happened?”

“What do you think happened?” Superhero snapped, wincing as he shifted his weight to one leg. “Mentor happened.”

Kit glanced at Ambrose before speaking. “The new Supervillain? No, Superhero it’s not Mentor.”

“How do you know!” Superhero spat. “You weren’t there, Mallory! Where were you?”

“I was—” Kit began, but was cut off when Superhero was in his face a second later, curling his fingers into the fabric of Kit’s shirt and slamming him back against the wall. The effect stealing his breath for a moment.

“WHERE WERE YOU?! I called and you didn’t come! You didn’t answer, and you call yourself a Hero?!”

The words were like a slap in the face, burning Kit as Superhero spoke them. “That’s enough,” Ambrose said, his voice hard.

Superhero didn’t look at him. “This doesn’t concern you. This is a work matter.”

“And if you don’t want to get more bruised up than you already are, I suggest you step back,” Ambrose said, his voice oozing with cold authority. Kit’s wide blue eyes went to Ambrose who was defending him. “Now.”

Superhero scoffed and pushed against Kit’s chest before releasing him and turning in place, his hand going to the back of his neck.

“Why didn’t you pick up?” Superhero asked again, his voice hollow.

It was as if lightning struck his heart, splintering it down the middle. “I didn’t have my phone.”

Superhero laughed, a dry, humourless thing. “You didn’t have your phone,” he repeated. “Is that what I’ll say to the Mayor when she questions me about the new supervillain? Sorry about the damage, Mayor, my heroes didn’t have their phones so we were short-staffed.”

“It’s not Mentor,” Kit told him. Superhero looked over his shoulder at Kit, his eyes burning.

“What?”

Kit took a breath. “It’s not Mentor. We just confirmed his alibi.”

Superhero laughed again, turning to face them, this time loud and hysterical, unhinged. It left Kit feeling a little colder. Superhero spread his arms out wide.

“You just confirmed an alibi? Of the only man in the city’s history that uses telekinesis?! That’s where you were! Not worried about the Supervillain, or the threat posed, or fucking Tides!” Superhero roared, slamming his fist out against Kit’s wall and putting a hole in the plaster. Kit flinched. “He took Tides, and where were you? Hmm? Having tea with Mentor?”

“Where were you.”

It was Ambrose who spoke that time. His voice carrying like the cold sound of reason through the volcanic eruption of emotions between the two heroes. All eyes turned to Ambrose, a beat of silence passing between them.

“What?” Superhero asked, voice tight.

“Where were you,” Ambrose repeated, tilting his head. “You’re Mentor’s replacement, shouldn’t you have been able to deal with the threat? Or are you just that incompetent?”

Superhero’s nostrils flared. “How dare you—”

“Kit wasn’t on duty last night,” Ambrose continued, his voice unflinchingly even. “In fact, he had just gotten off shift before the Supervillain attack. So my question is then isn’t are you incompetent, because I know you are if you expect overworked and exhausted staff to try and pick up your slack.”

“You didn’t see him,” Superhero said, livid. “You weren’t there.”

“I saw the footage,” Ambrose replied without missing a beat. “He’s strong, but he’s not unbeatable. Kit’s been having problems of his own with his powers, but I doubt you know anything about that.”

Superhero’s eyes went to Kit who swallowed, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. That wasn’t exactly something he wanted Superhero, or anyone, really, to know.

“And if he had been fighting last night then there could have been more damage done to property and people. How would you explain that to the Mayor?”

The words felt like a punch to the gut. Kit knew they were true, but it didn’t make them any easier to swallow. Ambrose was right. He didn’t have control of his powers, and if he went up against Supervillain he didn’t know if he would kill them. He could even mistake friend for foe in that state, when the power just wanted to claim everything near him. Indiscriminate chaos would be unleashed, and then Kit would become the new threat to the city.

They’d lock him up in the Super prison and throw away the key. He didn’t want to go there… he heard horror stories of the guards from that prison. More monsters than men.

“Mentor was once the strongest hero in the city,” Ambrose continued. “And look at him now.”

Superhero scoffed. “Yeah. Let me just phone up Omen real quick. I’m sure he’ll be magnanimous and help us fight another villain and all will be fine,” he sneered.

Kit crossed his arms over his chest, one hand going to his lips and picking at the dead skin over his bottom lip. He hadn’t considered using Ambrose to fight Supervillain. If it worked the first time then surely Ambrose can just use his voice to order the new Supervillain to surrender and stop.

Kit felt black eyes burning a hole in the side of his face, and he glanced back at Ambrose, shoulder lifting in a half-shrug as if to say: it’s worth a shot.

Ambrose didn’t answer, he just huffed a breath out his nose and turned his attention back to Superhero.

“The news said that Tides was kidnapped,” Kit said, quietly. Superhero tensed at the mention of her name and Kit felt guilt that wasn’t his pool in his gut.

A muscle in Superhero’s jaw clicked as he shifted his weight again, leaning back against the counter in Kit’s kitchen with a wince. “Supervillain took her,” Superhero said, his voice low and raw. “It was in the heat of the battle and he backed off after he fought— after we fought and I lost. He took her…”

“Do you know where?” Kit asked. Superhero met his imploring gaze with frightened, guarded eyes. Superhero shook his head. “Shit.”

Ambrose’s black eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say a thing.

“I need every available Hero working tonight, Kit. I’m calling in retired Heroes and old friends I know can help fight this monster. And when we do we’ll beat the shit out of him until he tells us where Tides is.”

Kit nodded, his mouth set into a firm line. “Okay,” Kit said. Ambrose wanted to protest, to caution Kit about his powers because what if that other version of Kit appeared? Then they’d have more problems than one maniac destroying the city.

Kit walked Superhero out the door, but that’s as far as he went. “Keep your phone on Mallory. We’ll start patrols after rush hour when everyone’s gone home.”

“And hope he doesn’t strike before that?”

Superhero grimaced. “I have a feeling he won’t.”

Kit didn’t agree but nodded nonetheless and Superhero left. Kit closed the door behind him and grabbed his phone from the couch where he had thrown it with his keys last night after work.

He had a million missed calls from Superhero and… Tides… Kit’s grip tightened on his phone, turning his knuckles white as he stared down at her name.

Ambrose sensed the mood shift, popping his head out of the kitchenette. “What? What’s wrong?”

Kit swallowed thickly but it didn’t replace any of the moisture that evaporated from his mouth. Was it her? Did she call me or was it Supervillain?

Kit searched the call log against Superhero’s. Superhero called two hours before Tides did, which meant that it was before the fight, or at least during it, but Tides called way later. Twice.

A taunt?

Did Supervillain want to make him mad? Did it matter? If Supervillain wanted to talk to him, it could only be about Tides, right?

His thumb hovered over the call button. “Don’t do it, Mallory.”

Kit didn’t look up. “Why not?”

“Because you’d only be feeding his ego. That’s exactly what he wants, so don’t do it.”

“And if I don’t?” Kit demanded, his head snapping up to look at Ambrose, blue eyes locking with black. “What if he hurts Tides?”

Ambrose kept his voice infuriatingly neutral and calm when he said: “he probably already has.”

Kit’s hand shook and he wanted so badly to just throw his phone across the room and scream. Why couldn’t he get a break! Just fucking once! Ambrose’s footsteps trailed off into the kitchen, a plug in a socket, then the gushing of water filling the kettle and a soft click followed by a rumble.

Two ceramic mugs hit the countertop. A drawer opened and a rummaging of cutlery. Ambrose was making coffee. Kit wanted to laugh, but he was afraid if he did it would open the door for all his other emotions to flood out and he would end up crying instead. He didn’t want to cry anymore today.

He walked to his table and sat down heavily into one of the chairs, sighing, locking his phone and putting it on the table.

“What do we do?” He found himself asking. When did I become we?

Ambrose’s kept his back to him as the kettle boiled. “I think you patrol tonight. Follow Superhero’s plan. It seems like the most logical solution.”

Kit nodded, though Ambrose didn’t see. “I’ll look for more information on this new Supervillain,” Ambrose said, turning and bringing two steaming cups towards the table.

Kit tilted his head. “How?”

Ambrose smiled a secretive smile. “I have friends.”

Kit scoffed. Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not,” Ambrose laughed, sitting down opposite Kit. “I have friends, civilian, and Villain contacts. I can ask around to see if anyone knows anything about this new Supervillain.”

Kit nodded, grabbing the cup between his palms. The metal power dampeners clacked against the wood like bracelets on his wrist. His brows pinched together and down on his face.

“You control your powers, Kit,” Ambrose said. “Not the other way around. It’s like when you first discovered your abilities all over again. You have to disconnect your emotions from this new stronger electricity.”

“Easy for you to say,” Kit grumbled. “You have no skin in the game.”

A thick silence blanketed them, not uncomfortable just noticeable. They took a sip of their coffee, Ambrose grimacing at the taste and sat back, Kit letting out a breath through his nose.

“This Supervillain is dragging my father’s name through the mud,” Ambrose said eventually. Kit looked at him. His sharp features were pulled into an expression of contemplation, as if this was an abstract idea he hadn’t explored yet, but knew to be true anyways. “Only I’m allowed to do that. I destroyed his legacy, and now some other villain is trying to feast on my sloppy seconds. I don’t work with other Villains, and I won’t be insulted by them either.”

Kit raised his brows. “So we have a mutual enemy.”

Black eyes met Kit’s blue. Something soft smoothed the harsh edges in Ambrose’s face. “We do,” he agreed. “We’ll take him down, kill him, and all will be well.”

Kit blanched. “What!”

“What?”

“We can’t kill him!”

Ambrose blinked. Considered, then spoke. “Okay. I’ll kill him.”

“You can’t just kill people, Rosey!”

“I can do whatever I like, Mallory. You should know that by now.”

Kit narrowed his eyes. “I guess we’ll have to see who gets to him first, then.”

Ambrose grinned. His black eyes like two pools of ink drawing Kit in, his lips a flash of red. Kit blinked and they were their normal colour again. He must’ve imagined it.

“I guess we will.”

*~*~*~*~*

Kit was patrolling the third district. Superhero put him a little further out than he would’ve liked. When Kit tried to protest, to tell him he should be in first where Supervillain attacked last, Superhero shot him a tired look and Kit begrudgingly accepted.

It was nice to be back in his hero outfit. It always felt like a second skin, not spandex like spiderman, he couldn’t rock that. Instead he opted for more practical clothes. He wore his black jacket that Tailor had made specially for him, the material was as light as a cotton t-shirt but knife proof and more conductive for his electricity. The upper arms were the same shade of electric blue as his powers with white in the shape of a lightning bolt detailed in the centre.

The jacket fit him snug and kept him warm without being bulky or restrictive. The first time he tried it on he shot Tailor and unimpressed glance when he zipped it up.

“It’s too light, wait… what're you do— TAILOR!” Kit cried as she came at him with a knife. It went straight into his chest and he didn’t feel a thing. Kit glanced up at her to see her smiling. “ARE YOU CRAZY?!”

“Ah, don’t be dramatic,” she said, waving the knife all blasé. “I made it myself. It’s perfect. Look,” then she swung the knife into his neck. Kit gasped as he took the impact, though he had to admit, it was far less than what a knife to the throat should have been.

He glanced down at the grey undershirt she had given him, that went all the way up his neck. Now he looked impressed. “What? Even the grey shirt?”

“Of course,” she replied, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “It’s not bulletproof but hopefully any bullets flying your way won’t be fatal.”

“Hopefully?” Kit asked.

His trousers were black combats, lined with trace amounts of silver that Tailor somehow wove through the fabric. All he knew was that he was strong when he wore his suit, and his power was potent. He had a new set of power dampeners hanging from his belt (along with the old ones locked around his wrist), his walkie talkie and a taser gun just in case he needed a little extra juice at any time.

Though he presumed he wouldn’t need to use the taser tonight. His red lightning was a monster, powerful and dangerous, but like Ambrose said, he controlled it. Not the other way around, as long as he stayed calm he would be fine. The further you got from the inner city the less crime there was. At least, superpowered crime. That’s all the jurisdiction the Heroes had to go after anyways. The police handled the regular criminals.

Kit had to go back to Tailor to get a new mask, after Ambrose did who knows what with his old one. It was the same design as before, a black mask that went over the lower part of his face. It had a ventilator so he could breathe, and a voice changer that made his voice cackle as much as his electricity.

The radio cackled to life at his hip and Sawyer’s voice came through. “Anything over there?”

“No, it’s quiet,” Kit replied. “Nothing to report. What about you?”

“Same.”

“Where are you stationed?“

“Further out than I should be, I’m on the outskirts of old town.”

Kit frowned. Sawyer was a better Hero than Kit was. Where Kit was speed and power, Sawyer was precision and finesse. He could probably secure Supervillain better than Kit could, and his powers were basically a match against telekinesis with his shadows and crows.

“Strange.”

“Tell me about it,” Sawyer huffed. “Look, just radio me if anything happens and I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Crowe.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Kit clipped his walkie back into his belt and let out a sigh. He wished he was in the first district where the action is. Ambrose was the reason Superhero was going easy on him, making him appear to be sick with his ability malfunction. Leaving Kit to patrol the quiet district instead of being in the thick of it.

He wandered along the rooftops, taking his time, straining his ears, enjoying the wind on his face and hair. He missed the cool, crisp air of nighttime. He missed being able to feel the electric currents in the air from televisions and people’s appliances plugged in. From the roof he could feel the electric currents in the air, flying faster than during the day when it’s warm out. Or at least, when the sun’s out.

It gave him a little buzz that made him feel antsy for a fight, his skin thrumming with energy. As if his prayers were being answered, Kit heard a sharp cry from below and he bolted towards the fire escape. He was down within a minute, feet hitting off the tarmac of the alleyway. Then he was taking off down the streets towards the sound. His body hummed with the flowing currents, coming more alive as he pushed his muscles faster.

God, he missed this.

“Stop! Stop! Henry, stop!”

Kit heard as he took a sharp corner to take in the scene in front of him. A woman stood behind a young boy, maybe 11 or 12 who stood with their hands up, palms facing a man dressed in all black.

“Nah, go on, kid. I’m quaking in my boots,” the man said.

“Please! Just take my purse and go.”

“No, Mom!” The kid protested and a small spurt of water flowed from his palm and squirted the thief in the face. The same effect of a clown’s flower spraying water in their patrons face, harmless.

The thief laughed and patted the boy, Henry’s head. “You’ll be one of ‘em heroes one day, ain’t that right?”

Kit stuck to the shadows, remaining unseen for now. “I wouldn’t sign up to them, kid. What you really wanna do if you wanna use your powers, is join Supervillain…”

“I’ll be a hero!” Henry cried and went to punch the thief. The thief caught his fist and tilted his head, glancing up at the mother.

She held her hands out placatingly. “Please, please he’s just a boy. Don’t hurt him.”

“Stand down, little hero,” the thief said. Instead Henry bit the man. The thief cursed, retracting his hand sharply and went to slap the boy. Kit caught his hand before it could make contact, smiling eyes meeting the thief’s.

“Alright there pal?”

The thief’s eyes widened. “M-malyn.”

“Thought you were just about to hit that kid, you know, the one half your height. My eyes must’ve been playing tricks though right?”

The man’s face contorted with rage. “You! You can’t interfere in this crime! You’re powered, your jurisdiction is powered criminals.”

“I know,” Kit shrugged. “That’s why I called the cops. Although, I don’t need my powers to do this.”

Kit punched the thief square in the face and released him. The thief cried out, but Kit didn’t stop. He stepped in close and sent a couple quick jabs to the thief’s stomach, ending with a sharp knee to the solar plexus. The thief gasped and fell to the ground with a groan, trying to get the wind back into his lungs.

Kit turned to the boy and his mom and saluted them. “Sorry you had to see that,” Kit said, his voice changer distorting his voice. He turned it off and crouched to be face to face with the kid. “You were so brave protecting your mom like that. Thanks for holding him off until I got here.”

Kit held his fist out and the kid blushed and bumped it with his own. “Great. Next time though, maybe listen to your mom.”

The boy nodded. Kit stood and turned his attention to the woman. “Would you like me to walk you home?”

“No,” the woman said, shaking her head, wide eyes only half focused on Kit. “No. I think we’ll wait for the police.”

“Okay. No problem.”

As if on cue, sirens sounded close by. Kit waited until the lights were just outside the alleyway before he turned back to the thief. He grabbed him and punched him one more time to keep him down before dragging him down to the mouth of the alleyway.

“Malyn,” Detective said with a disapproving stare. Kit passed the thief to her partner and switched the voice changer back on.

“Detective.”

“You’re not supposed to interfere with regular people.”

“I didn’t touch him. Not a single electric pulse in his body was harmed.”

“Mmhm, and what about his nose?”

Kit shrugged. “He walked into the wall.”

Detective hit Kit’s arm and Kit held his hands up. “You’re not too old that I can’t call your father, Malyn.”

Kit shook his hands side to side at Detective. “Uh, no need. I’m going. Look? I am walking away, ma’am.”

“Yeah, keep walking.”

Kit took off into a half jog just to make sure Detective didn’t follow through with her threat.

The rest of the night passed quietly. Kit radioed Tides. “Any update, Sawyer?” He was on the roof of the local supermarket, it was tall, letting him see a wide part of third. When there was no reply Kit frowned and turned towards the Old Town Clocktower sticking out of the sky. “Sawyer? You there?”

Anxiety gripped his chest the longer he went without an answer. Then, static and: “Malyn! Are you there?”

Sawyer?

“Malyn,” Sawyer called over the radio, his voice cutting out and crackling. “Get down— first— ambush.”

Kit took off with a curse. Shit, how was he going to get to first in time to help the other heroes? Kit grabbed his walkie as he veered onto main street, sprinting now, his electricity sparking him forwards at inhuman speed.

“Superhero! It’s Malyn, listen. Crowe said there’s an attack in first.”

“What?” Superhero asked. “I’m at the tower, Malyn.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Kit replied. “Superhero? Superhero! Fuck!”

Kit clipped the radio to his belt as he got closer and closer to first, passing through second towards the inner city. Sawyer was meant to be patrolling fourth tonight… maybe he should— No, forget it. Keep moving to first. They needed him, they needed backup. Kit ignored the warning bells ringing in his mind as he passed from third into second before his energy expired and he caught his breath leaning on a wall.

God, it and been so long since he exerted himself like this. It wouldn’t take long for his cells to replenish, not on a perfect night like tonight where the conditions were ideal for him. He decided to walk the rest of the way to conserve the energy as he built it back up, but then that would mean getting there slower than he’d like.

His radio crackled to life at his hip and he quickly grabbed it, bringing it to his mouth to speak when another voice beat him to it: “attention all heroes, I repeat, attention all heroes.”

Kit paused, his steps faltering to a stop. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” the voice continued, distorted over the radio. “But since nobody else will roll out the welcome wagon I figured I’d do it myself.”

Kit started running again, his ears open and his eyes peeled as he ran towards First. He didn’t recognise the voice. Which, obviously he didn’t, that’s what voice distorters were for, but… there was something in the back of his brain that twinged familiar.

It’s not… it’s not Omen, he knew that for definite. Omen’s far more flashy and open, not fearing being known, this new villain was… more cautious.

“I proved too much for Crowe poor dear, and Tides… well, she’s had a night of fun with me last night. But I think I know what these heroes need… like, a Hero for heroes.” Kit grit his teeth at the slight as he passed from second into first. His eyes zeroed in on the Hero tower looming in front of him and he paused, looking around.

“What do you say, Malyn? You wanna test your luck with me, hmm? Tick-tock.”

Come on, Kit, think.

If I were a supervillain, I wouldn’t attack close to the Hero tower so the heroes could get reinforcements… as little ease of access to help as possible.

“Tick-tock,” Supervillain said from the radio again and the realisation dawned on Kit. He turned to the right where old town was and took off once more.

Old town would be the perfect breeding ground for villains to make a name for themselves too. No heroes were ever really appointed here anymore, not since Superhero took over. So why did he appoint Sawyer here tonight? Just covering his arse? Mentor looked after the people who lived in old town, the people who earned an honest living and couldn’t afford to move away from the new slums of the city.

Kit knew the winding, narrow streets like the back of his hand, it was his home once upon a time. Maybe that was why Mentor took extra care of it. The place basically self-regulated itself, and most of the people were good as long as didn’t cross them. They were all in the same boat after all.

Kit didn’t have time to reminisce, or take a moment to breathe in being back here after so long. All that could wait until later, after he beat the shit out of Supervillain and saved the day. If everything went well.

Kit stopped outside the clocktower courtyard, staring up into the clock face high above him. The clocktower had been out of use for years now, Kit only vaguely remembered it working when he was younger.

The courtyard in of itself was walled in like a garden, a meeting place if ever there was one. Kit walked onto the cobblestones, turning as he searched for any sign of Supervillain or Tides, or Sawyer.

His radio buzzed to life again, Supervillain’s voice crackling to life: “ah, good. You’re here.”

Confirmation. He was in the right place, which meant— Kit glanced up at the tower, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, I’m here. How about you come out of hiding, coward?”

“How cute, trying to bait me with petty insults. Unfortunately, Malyn, you have no bargaining power here. Come up or Crowe here dies. If you’re not here in two minutes, I’ll take it you mean to forfeit his life. Ta-ta.”

Kit cursed and ran for the clocktower door, shouldering it open and running through, taking the stairs two at a time, climbing higher and higher up the stairs, passing the first platform and the second. He quickly unclipped the power dampeners from his wrist which almost winded him when the flurry of his abilities roared like a sleeping Dragon that was wrestled from a deep slumber.

Kit groaned, hand on the railings taking in a deep breath. He didn’t have time for this. The structure was mostly wooden, it was fine. He’d be fine. Red lightning cackled around his hands as he reached the clocktower room. This room was bigger than the rest, the clock face let in the moonlight from the night sky.

“NNGH!” Tides cried out into her gag when Kit emerged onto the fifth floor. His breath was stolen from him a second time seeing her alive. She was alive.

A man stood with his back to Kit, facing the view of the city, hands behind his back. Kit’s eyes went to Tides who was kneeling on the ground behind Supervillain, her hands locked in power dampeners above a rafter. Blood trickled down her face from her hairline, her right eye and jaw bruised and a cloth tied so tight around her mouth that it cut into her cheeks, not letting her mouth close properly. Crowe was unconscious on the other side of Supervillain, hands cuffed behind his back.

“Good. You’re finally here,” Supervillain said turning, his voice distorted through his mask that hid every inch of his face from Kit. There wasn’t even any features carved into it, but a flat surface, like a robot or a wall, split down the middle; one half solid silver, the other crimson. “I was getting bored of waiting. Don’t worry, though, Tides kept me entertained while you were making your way, and then Crowe came to her rescue. Misguided boy.”

“Let them go,” Kit said, electricity sparking to life in his hands forming gloves of lightning up and down his arms.

Supervillain tilted his head. “You only got here. If I release them, you’ll leave.”

“Just who the hell do you think you are?” Kit spat, taking a step forward. “The entire Hero tower is following me here, or are you really so stupid as to think you’ll get away with attacking my friends?”

Supervillain laughed. It was entirely too calm, a light chuckle, eerie, making Kit’s hairs stand on end. “You think you’re the only one with friends, Malyn?”

Shit. This was another ambush. He had to warn Superhero. Just as he reached for his radio, a gun cocked and Tides whimpered. His eyes locked on Tides’, frozen in his movements. He looked up at Supervillain, eyes wide and weary.

Supervillain held his hand out for the radio. Kit’s frown etched deeper into his face, why wouldn’t he just take it? “Let’s not spoil all the fun yet, hmm?”

Kit hesitated. Supervillain pointed the gun to the right of Malyn’s head and pulled the trigger. Kit hissed, his hands going to his ears as Tides screamed. The ringing tilted everything in the room and Kit stumbled to the left, pulling his hand away from his ear to see blood staining his fingers.

“The radio, Malyn.”

Tides cried out through her gag again, but it was muted compared to the screeching noise of the bullet’s aftershock. Kit unclipped the radio and tossed it at Supervillain’s head. He caught it, unfortunately.

“What do you want?” Kit barked, glancing back at Tides. She looked like shit but her eyes were wide and scared.

“What do I want,” Supervillain mused, dropping Kit’s radio to the ground and crushing it under his foot, drawing Kit’s attention back to him. “I want an actual challenge. I want a worthy opponent.”

“So you attack new heroes to find them? Sounds like you’re scared to me.”

“Think of this more like an audition for an opponent. I want someone to make me sweat, it has been an age since I fought.”

“Let me radio Superhero for you then,” Kit tried, risking a step forward. “He’ll give you what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t want a number two Hero who got promoted by chance. I want you,” Supervillain told Kit. Tides cried out again, pulling against her restraints.

Her eyes were wide and frantic as she tried to tell Kit something through the gag, but it was garbled speech. “Ffs… mm. mmOm!”

Kit shook his head not understanding anything that was coming out of her mouth. Supervillain stepped into Kit’s sight line, obscuring Tides from him and he wanted to just beat the fuck out of this guy.

“All this talking,” Supervillain said with a sigh. “I tire of it. Tell you what, Malyn, if you can lay a finger on me, I’ll let your friends go free.”

Kit stopped at the phrase, his mind reeling as a memory played back in his mind. The first time Mentor came to the academy. He set a challenge to find the best student in the academy, Kit could remember it like it was yesterday. Mentor looked more like a god than a man, with his warm smile and larger than life confidence.

When it was Kit’s turn he stared up at the man, awestruck. When Mentor said: “try to land a blow on me.”

Kit blinked. “What?”

“Try and lay a finger on me, a hair, a breath. Get close enough to touch me.”

Kit frowned, looking out to the other training area. Everyone got a turn one-on-one with Mentor, he assumed they would be training. Not fighting the number one Hero in the city.

“You want me to fight you?”

“I want you to show me what you’re made of.”

Kit stared at Supervillain, falling back a step as he took in the man’s build. Broad shoulders, tall, strong build and yet lean.

He hadn’t fought in an age.

Kit’s heart thundered in his chest as blood rushed like a tsunami through his skull, thumping against his ears and chest like a hammer striking an anvil.

It was just a phrase, Kit told himself. It was just a phrase, he repeated, hoping he would believe it because it was impossible. Mentor couldn’t— he wouldn’t— he was in hospital right now for crying out loud. Locked in a secure ward! There’s no way it… he confirmed his alibi just this morning

“MM���” Tides screamed at the top of her lungs. “FFFS… mm-mm.!”

The room seemed to zero in on Kit as horror descended quick and sudden on him, like a bucket of ice water was thrown into his face. He stares into the masked man’s face — the same height, stature, build as Mentor, and asks in a voice like a boys: “Mentor?”

Supervillain laughed again, his voice harsh and distorted. “No time for chatting, Malyn. Fight me. Show me what you’re made of. Or I’ll kill your friends.”

Kit’s lip drew back into a snarl. He clicked his fingers and electricity cackled to life around his hands. He threw a bolt towards Supervillain, who sidestepped the energy hurtling towards him. Kit ran at Supervillain, throwing a punch to his face. Supervillain tilted his head away at the last second. While Kit was stuck in the motion of his punch, Supervillain put a hand on Kit’s chest, the other on his back and swept his legs from under him.

Kit’s eyes went wide as he fell straight onto his back, leaving him slightly winded. He recovered quickly, swiping at Supervillain’s legs with his own. Supervillain danced out of Kit’s range, sending a swift kick to Kit’s chin that rocked his brain.

“Come on, Malyn. I expected better from you.”

Kit shot forward, grabbing at Supervillain’s leg with his hand but before he could make contact one word uttered above him and he couldn’t move: a cold, soft “freeze.”

The world rushed around him, his ear ringing, his mind fizzing, his powers cackling around him. “My my, look at this,” Supervillain said, bending to a crouch. Kit’s eyes followed him, wide and red and frozen with a cold terror because that… only Omen could do that, only… only Ambrose, which meant— which… which meant.

“Sssh, ssh, shh, Malyn. I know you’re scared. Now, kneel.” Kit let out a noise from the back of his throat as his body obeyed the command. “Oh look at you, so good for me. Raise your hands please.” Supervillain praised, eliciting a flurry of shivers down Kit’s spine.

Supervillain reached forward and unclipped Kit’s power dampeners from his belt. Tides cried out behind him but he couldn’t do anything, his body glistened with a cold sweat as he fought against Omen’s Supervillain’s hold on him. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he spoke, his voice hoarse.

“You… all… all along it was you?” Supervillain tilted his masked head at Kit. Same build, same height as Mentor. It couldn’t be, but his mind was screaming at him to accept the facts in front of him.

“I thought we— I thought you were—” I thought we were a team, he wanted to scream. I thought maybe we were… not friends but— but… we had a common enemy!

Why! Why! Why!

“Oh sweet boy,” Supervillain purred, snapping one of the cuffs around Kit’s wrists, hissing as he got a jolt of electricity in the meantime. “You recognise me, do you? I’m honoured. Hands behind your back, now. There’s a good lad.”

Kit flinched when the second power dampener locked behind his back, dimming the crackling in the air, the currents from the night locked away from his touch. Ambrose said he’d kill Supervillain when he found him, but…

“There, now. Look at you. So much more docile when you’re not bursting with lightning at every word, aren’t you?”

Supervillain placed a hand on Kit’s head and rubbed his hair, patting him like a dog. He wanted to be sick. What was it Ambrose called him? Puppy? Puppet? He clearly had no brains in his head if Ambrose had been playing the long game this entire time!

He let his guard down. He opened up to Omen. To the villain that destroy his life and look where that’s got him. An explosion lit up the room of the clocktower, illuminating every grain and plank of wood. Kit flinched as Tides screamed, rattling her cuffs like a lunatic, her tormented screeches turning to sobs..

Kit glared up at Supervillain, which was all he could do. “What did you do?”

“Oh, nothing, really. That would be my friends, causing some chaos so we can get away safe and sound, never to be found.”

Kit let out a shuddering breath. “L-let them go,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “Please. Let them go, please! They have nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, Malyn, dear. No. I need them to keep you in line, so we’re all going together. But don’t worry, the next thing you’ll know, you’ll all be reunited. Sleep. Nighty night now.”

Kit fought the compulsion. He really tried, but with the contact on his head, his efforts were in vain and Kit found himself whirling in the darkness, a scream drifting him off to sleep like a lullaby.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Continued here

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie e @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer r @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath h @theonewithallthefixations @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland @mononeigbour @tippytappytyping @shinokoro @bedtimescenarios @whatwhump @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @ehobep @acer-whumpstuff @fa1rie

[wintertimewhump]

Power Source Whumpee

Power Source Whumpee my beloved..

Whumper carefully crafting a machine to fit Whumpee's body and hold them in place.

Whumpee hooked up to the machine nearly all the time, only allowed a four hour break to sleep each night.

The power being extracted by hundreds of needles attached to wires, sticking out of Whumpee like a pincushion.

Whumper telling Whumpee that this is their only purpose and to just be good and fulfill it. Whumpee technically not needing to eat, as the produce their own power, so Whumper doesn't even bother to feed them, causing Whumpee to feel lightheaded and dizzy.

Whumper using the power they extracted from Whumpee to hurt their friends, blasting them back with the same energy Whumpee had once used to fight Whumper.

A reluctant Whumper placing a damp cloth on Whumpee's sweating forehead, saying they're sorry, but this is necessary for the plan.

Bonus: Bad Caretaker

Caretaker defeating Whumper, about to pull Whumpee out of the machine, but then realizing how useful the power is, and thinking about how much their city needs it.

The hope in Whumpee's eyes fading when Caretaker, who was about to release them from the machine's grip, steps back and turns it on again.

Caretaker guilt tripping Whumpee, telling them that if they were to be released, a whole city would suffer in darkness.

Caretaker thanking Whumpee for their involuntary sacrifice, telling them it won't be forever, but it sure seems to last that long.

Caretaker telling Whumpee that this is what they were made for, sounding just like Whumper now.

[mintflavouredwhump]

A whumpee that everyone tries to possess or control the second they realise what Whumpee is capable of

[jordanstrophe]

Whumper was interrogated while caretaker watched from beyond the glass. Whumper gleefully spoke about everyone they tortured, recalling in great detail. Whumpee in particular was a prominent subject; they seemed to be whumpers favorite.

Each word ate at caretaker; whatever whumper spoke of, caretaker imagined a worse thing to do as revenge.

The interrogator comes back and caretaker demands "just 5 minutes alone" through fuming tears. The interrogator notes caretakers hands in fists, their body shaking with anger, their eyes pure hatred.

"No." They gently shake their head.

"Why." Caretaker spat.

"Because I know what you can do in 5 minutes and I need them alive."

[uuuhshiny]

Vladimir Verevochkin in Double

Premises: A man that looks a lot like the main character (Artem) is a debt collector, because of him doctor lost his home, his family left him. Artem is soon taken by police for stealing he didn't do, and as he keeps saying that it wasn’t him but a man who looks like him, is sent to the mental hospital. Doctor finds out what he’s accused of and plans revenge.

Next

[whumpanini]

Okay so picture this... a line up of heroes, all bound and forced to their knees in front of whumper.

Whumper paces in front of them calmly. They have their hands clasped behind their back as they begin to threaten or make demands of Leader. Then they slowly stop in front of our whumpee. Maybe they look the youngest, most inexperienced, or the most scared but something about them catches whumper's eye.

Leader's eyes go wide as they try to redirect whumper's attention back to them, but it's too late. Whumper places a hand under Youngest's jaw and lifts their gaze to force eye contact. They see the barely hidden fear behind a shaky mask of indifference and they *smile.*

[whumpitisthen]

Limbo

Previous I Masterlist I Next

CWs: dissociation/derealisation [whumpee thinking they aren't really alive], mentioned torture, mentioned character death, a candid conversation about death with Death the jolly fellow himself, angel whumpee, deity whumper, religious themes, carewhumper, the poor boy has no idea what's coming the boy is not doing so well :/ if only there was someone who cared :pensive: ( <- actively making him worse)

“Am I dead?”

The angel looks far away, grey, foggy under his skin. He perches on the bed he was provided, in the lavish guest room he was given. It's an emperor-size bed; it makes him look little with his bruised-up legs hanging off the edge.

Sitting at the long dinner table, legs propped up as he leans back in his chair, Grim hums distractedly. — “Hm?”

“Am I dead?” — Auden repeats after a swallow of consideration, this time at least managing to sound like he wasn't just talking to himself.

The Reaper’s lips curl with a slow hum. He forgets about the pen he was twirling — always playing, always busying his hands with something. A pen, a blade, someone's hair. His hand pauses only briefly, then he continues spinning it between his fingers like he never stopped. — “Mm. It feels like that, doesn’t it.”

There is the sound of thunder, far away, but close enough that Auden can hear it rumble. The sound of his Fall. It scares him so much he can barely breathe. His hands dig into the heavenly soft sheets, feeling undeserving. A moment passes.

“Mori,” — he starts quietly, voice breaking, — “they um… I did not mean to, I really didn't, but I asked them how uh, h-how they got,” — he gestures vaguely in the direction of the intimidating double doors leading into the bedroom, — “...here.”

He feels so similar to how he felt on the day Grim brought him home. Weak and hazy, no particular colour to him. Just tired. Shaken, commanding about as much presence as a ghost.

“It was really stupid, I know. It would be insensitive to ask anyone that, right? Especially so out of the blue, like I did. But I did not m-mean it um, literally. I just thought — I thought they were so nice. So kind. They, I, I did not expect anyone here to be nice. Not to me. I-It surprised me.”

They never found out what he really meant. He meant it to be a compliment. They took it as an order. — “That is what I had meant,” — he tells the Mori in his memory, a small murmur, as if they could still hear him, still trying to explain himself.

“They had gone quiet, and I um, I told them they didn't have to t-tell me anything they didn't want to. I felt horrible. But I asked them, so they answered.”

Now Auden is the one going quiet. He doesn't know how to continue, or if he even wants to. His melancholic rambling isn't even fully directed at the Reaper. Grim’s interest has been piqued, however. — “And what did they tell you?”

Auden squirms, frowning. — “Not pleasant things.”

“Is that so,” — muses the deity, expecting this to be the end of the conversation. For a minute it was, but then the angel finds it in himself to continue.

“They told me they came close to dying, many times. They told me they did die, but not literally — that confused me a little, but I’m, uh, I think I am starting to get it.” — Stealing a glance at the Reaper, he sees a bit of humour glint in his vermilion eyes. He must know the story as well as Mori, though, unlike them, he clearly finds the tale a lot more amusing. — “They said they barely remembered who they were before… before you um, saved them.”

The way he is saying all this makes it seem like he has some sort of conundrum he must solve. Like every bit of information Mori had relayed to him is a puzzle piece. However, while it is fun hearing about how Mori remembers their meeting, Grim does not enjoy long roundabout tangents that go on forever. Setting aside the pen, he stretches, swinging those heavy boots off the table, and fixes Auden with a questioning look. — “This is a lovely retelling darling, but is there somewhere you are going with this? Or did you just feel like sharing with me something I already know?”

The thunderstorm flies ever closer. Static ruffles the feathers on Auden's wings. His shoulders hitch higher, hiding him.

“You saved Mori…”

“Mhm.”

“And you saved me, from the, the dragon lady.”

Grim laughs. — “I did.”

“S-So, since Mori was saved by you when they were dying, and I was saved when I was near death, and we both ended up here, here w-with, well, with you…” — he trails off, hesitant to finish his train of thought. It's like he can't even bring himself to say it.

Finally, Grim's expectant gaze forces the words to tumble out of his mouth anyway.

“I was wondering if maybe… I did die.”

The silence is so loud Auden doesn't even dare to look up, afraid that all he would find is a pitying, mocking grin. His guess at the Reaper's expression is not far off.

“Are you asking me?” — Grim asks belatedly. The fanged smile is clear enough in his voice.

“...Nothing really felt real since then,” — Auden finishes vaguely, weakly, eyes stuck to his own shaky hands clasped around each other in his lap. He feels silly, now. Saying it all aloud made it sound like it's either the most obvious or the most stupid assumption in the world. He can't tell which one it is from the Reaper's mood, but shame sears his cheeks nevertheless.

It takes another moment of cruel silence before he is granted a curious reply; — “Where do you suppose you are right now?”

Auden curls up a little more. — “Somewhere between alive and dead.”

Oh, the poor thing is lost, in more ways than just one.

Grim thinks for a minute, leaning his temple onto his fist. The angel's reality has been all but turned upside down, and now his mind is fracturing. Perhaps the shards could be built into something vastly different. His Lord does find moulding minds especially enjoyable, though such a process can be unfathomably delicate. Still, for now, the safest way forward may just be care and patience. The angel is confused enough as it is, and while hilarious, he doesn't want his lamb losing all touch with reality before meeting his new master. He will have a difficult enough time keeping track of what is real under his care anyway.

“Where do angels go when they die?” — he inquires instead, half interested in Auden's answer himself.

“They don't…”

Grim rolls his eyes. Of course. — “Where do Fallen go?”

“To Hell,” — Auden answers promptly, but then thinks further, and finds the answer insufficient. He doesn't really know what happens to Fallen Angels besides ‘eternal damnation’, since that is just a sentence, not reality. He just never thought to think further than that. Because Fallen can die. They do die, swiftly, once they reach here, once demons find them and tear them apart. — “But, but when they die… I am not sure.”

“Would you like to know?” — the Reaper asks with an easy smile.

Auden lifts his head, a little surprised to be offered to be let in on such secrets of life and death. Asking questions rarely lead to straight answers back up in his Heaven. Most of the time, he was met with disdainful expressions and waved off, told that these kinds of matters should not interest him, or, more humiliatingly, that he should already know the answer. Embarrassed, he learned not to ask questions, and only now is he starting to realise how much of his present knowledge is made up of his own assumptions.

To think he would be learning of death from Death himself — and for his silly question to be met with an unexpectedly straightforward desire to answer; no mocking, nor judgement, nor annoyance…

A small glimmer returns to his eyes as he looks to the deity intently. — “Yes please,” — he whispers, amazed, a little reverent.

The Reaper lifts a claw and beckons Auden over. The angel slides off the mattress and begins walking over obediently, only to stop in his tracks all of a sudden, hesitating.

“W-Wait, no, no I don't,” — he stutters, waving his hands out in front of him, seemingly swiftly having changed his mind. — “You don't have to, to show — I'll, I'm sorry…”

Grim is confused for a moment, not understanding the sudden reluctance, his outstretched hand sinking ever so slightly. Then, he chuckles, light as a cloud. He waves his hand dismissively. — “Oh, no, not like that. That did sound somewhat threatening, I will admit. No need to fear; you are a smart boy, you do not need such demonstration.”

Being beckoned to come closer by the Reaper after inquiring about what happens to Fallen when they die — Grim can't exactly fault the angel for hesitating. Nevertheless, with a small bit more encouragement, the nervous dove sulks up to him cautiously in the end, keeping his hands close in front of him.

“Choose one,” — the Reaper says, motioning to the jade porcelain vase filled to the brim with fresh roses set in the middle of the table. Auden saw so many bouquets arranged in large pots lining the hall as he was looking for a way out. He wonders just how much work it takes to keep every one of them filled and replenished in such a massive mansion.

Once he has made his choice — sliding free the flower that least upsets the balance of the rest as he takes it out — he looks to the Reaper. The Reaper picks one for himself and lifts it to his nose.

“When angels die, their souls float towards Heaven.” — He flips the rose downwards, letting it flop on the table. — “When demons die, their souls remain stuck here. And when Fallen die — ”

The radiant red petals are suddenly wilting, growing limp and dark, then dry and ugly in the Reaper's hand. Auden watches the healthy, beautiful flower rot, and then finally completely erode into black ashes, floating in the air like smoke after a wildfire, leaving nothing behind. Some sort of twisted awe leaves his mouth open and raises the hairs on the back of his neck in seeing the effects of Death's touch. Obliteration, destruction, extinction — with just a single touch…

He held that same hand from Miss Thu’lin’s palace all the way here.

“When Fallen die,” — Grim repeats as he rubs the pads of his fingers together to rid them of the flower's remains, — “their souls have nowhere left to go, so they disperse, just like that. Like a warm breath on a cold winter night.”

Auden clutches his own rose close to his chest, far, far from those deadly talons of shadow. — “Do they just… cease to exist? Permanently?”

The angel's wide eyes bring fondness to the Reaper's smile. He asks, instead of answering; — “do you think you exist?”

“...I don't know,” — Auden admits, a hushed whisper.

The fondness remains as he puts his hand out, scaring a flinch out of the angel. Auden goes to carefully place his rose into Death's hand, but he takes hold of Auden's wrist before he could, plucking it from him and returning it to the vase. He holds his hand gently, but firmly, feeling resistance. It's hard to tell the difference between his silver jewellery and icy skin.

“You are alive, my dear,” — assures Grim, making sure Auden hears him, looking directly into his eyes, — “you are here with me, and that should be all the evidence you need that you still exist as, if you didn't, I could never find you again.”

The young angel's lips quiver, his eyes growing misty, but he listens, and tries in earnest to believe those words. His eyes flicker down as the Reaper's thumb runs across the back of his hand. Back and forth, slow and gentle. Auden's face never crumbles fully, his tears silent as they flow.

Death's frigid kiss presses onto his knuckles like a curse, and the angel forgets to pull away.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpifi @sordayciega @a-miscellaneous-number-of-rats

Taglist (tagged in everything I write): @morning-star-whump @whumprince @a-living-canvas

[paingoes]

Destroyer - Marks

(Masterlist)

girl help i can't stop making bonus content

this is set right around Part XIII, in regard to the “I should probably give you more visible marks.” comment.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, obedient whumpee, somewhat reluctant whumper, dehumanization, power imbalances, physical abuse, minor blood, brief drug mention, death mention)

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

He got approximately ten million fucking emails calling him an arsonist, or telling him that the experiment is an accident waiting to happen, or asking why he was letting the A-bomb walk around off-leash, why he was letting the bomb walk at all. Accusations he wouldn’t dare repeat. It was all so stupid. Delta was good. Paris never worried about him fragging. But the appearance of insubordination was damning all on its own. It was not a good situation.

Unfortunately, the messages kept coming. From staff he actually respected, too. People he needed. He didn’t even know how word reached them that quickly. He sometimes forgot just how scared they were of Delta. It had never been a popular project. That night, he received many requests for him to be killed outright. Not fucking happening.

Fucking Nezu telling him what to do with his fucking psychic. He was more mad about that than he ever could have been at Delta. That was why he’d gone easy on him. It gave him serious pause whenever his wants overlapped with Nezu’s — sometimes enough to evaporate them completely. He really wasn’t in the mood.

Something had to be done though, by the time the next meeting rolled around. They had to know that Delta had been punished for it, that Paris didn’t just let him get away with everything.

Delta didn’t fight him on it — not that he’d expected him too. He kneeled in front of the desk like he’d been asked. Paris leaned back against it, hitting the pen a few more times than he needed to. 

Delta looked bad. That day had been the only time Paris had ever seen him cry — even weeks later, he hadn’t seemed to recover from it. His eyes were still so pleading, in a way they’d never been before. It was unsettling.

Paris readjusted the only ring he wore on his right hand. It was sapphire — and it was clean. There wasn’t any reason to drag it out. He tilted Delta’s face up a little, tucking the slick hair back behind the webbed fin of his ear. 

“Hold still.” He didn’t want to hit his eye by accident. The jewel was sharp.

He backhanded him hard across the face. Harder than he would have normally. It needed to bruise.

Delta’s head was forced sharply to one side. His hair fell back in his face, totally obscuring it when he looked down at the floor. He didn’t outwardly react, but his next breaths came out shallow and shaky. Yeah, that hurt. 

Paris cupped his face again, moving it back up to examine the injury. It’d landed where he wanted it to — a thin cut right along his cheekbone. He could see the spot where the bruise would form over the next couple hours. Delta winced. Paris gently smoothed over the flushed skin with his thumb. 

“I’m sorry.” Delta’s voice was quiet. It was all he would say recently. 

“I know.”

It was hard to be mad at him when he was so clearly repentant. When he was being this good about it. Paris released him. He’d planned on hitting him across the other side of his face as well, in the interest of covering all his angles. It didn’t feel worth it anymore.

“Hand.”

Delta placed his hand gingerly into Paris’s own. Paris tightened his grip around it, supporting the palm beneath so that it’d absorb the full force of it. Knuckles facing up. Paris reached back for the ruler left out on the desk.

It cracked down hard against his knuckles, fast enough that he didn’t really have time to flinch. His injured hand reflexively tightened around Paris’s in the aftermath; it was the only real physical reaction he’d had. His claws dug painfully into Paris’s hand, not yet breaking the skin.

Paris released his grip on the hand. Delta’s hand relaxed and the claws withdrew, but he didn’t pull it back like he’d expected. He just left it resting there in his grasp.

“Other one.” 

He offered it without resistance. Same routine. Paris brought the ruler back down over his other hand, watching as the first signs of bruising appeared upon them. He placed the ruler back down and released his grip on Delta’s hand. 

“Done.”

There wasn’t much else to do, really. Delta was always dressed in long sleeves and ceremonial garb. For the most part, only his face and hands were exposed on vanguard days. It was enough, though. His expression alone was enough. If he just stayed like that, he’d be fine.

Delta folded both of his hands back into his lap, bright purple and blue against the pale white of clothes. His hair fell messily in his face, but parts of his eyes were still visible. He was still looking at Paris in that desperate, shell-shocked way.

“…Easy. You’re fine.” Paris didn’t know what to say to make him normal again. “The sting will be gone in a few minutes.”

For the hands, anyway, though the numbness would remain. The mark on his face would hurt a lot longer. 

Delta nodded slowly. A small amount of blood appeared by the cut. 

Paris gestured for him to lean forward again. Delta did so, cringing a little. Paris pressed a tissue against his cheek to stop the bleeding. He sighed as it bled straight through.

“…You want a bandaid?” He offered. The bruise would still be visible beneath it. 

“Yeah.” His voice was barely audible. He took the tissue from Paris, keeping the pressure there. 

Paris disappeared for a moment, loudly knocking shit over in the overfilled medicine cabinet. He came back with the split bandage. Delta held still as he applied it over the cut, smoothing it out against his cheek. It was pale white, the same color as his clothes, standing out sharply against the dark blue of his skin.

“…Thank you,” Delta said quietly. Sweetly. It fucking killed him sometimes.

Paris felt something strange in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it. He made a small, noncommittal noise as he discarded the paper into the trash. 

Delta touched the side of his face gently with the newly discolored fingers. Bruises on bruises. He put his hand abruptly back into his lap when Paris looked at him, as if he’d gotten caught. 

“We’re done.” Paris waved him off, sliding the ruler back into the drawer. The pen was starting to kick in. He was getting lightheaded. 

Delta rose slowly, giving something like a curtsy before he left. Or maybe his legs were just unsteady. Paris didn’t really care. 

The door closed quietly. Paris slid the lock shut. He pressed his forehead against the wood grain. Definitely lightheaded.

……

tags:

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

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[patchworkorphan]

Heroic betrayal: part seven

“You must let me show you where you’ll be staying, Hero,” said Supervillain, releasing the chains on Hero’s cuffs and stepping back away from them. Hero narrowed their eyes into a glare, keeping their hands close to their chest as they blinked at Supervillain.

“What do you mean, where I’ll be staying?” They snapped. Supervillain tilted his head as he regarded Hero, a small smile on his lips.

He shrugged. A gesture that should have conveyed a casual thing, but Hero saw right through it. “You can stay in the cellar if you like, though I’d say a bed would be far more comfortable.”

“I’d rather you let me go, or keep our contact to a minimum,” Hero told him. What the hell was he talking about, keeping Hero here? Forcing them to stay? They couldn’t… their brain wouldn’t let them comprehend exactly what this meant. The words just kept repeating in their mind drowning out all sense and reason:

Where you’ll be staying…

Supervillain had planned this, every detail, and Hero didn’t notice. They didn’t know, they didn’t see. Supervillain didn’t let a hint slip about this! Taking Hero captive and not letting them go, and it – though Hero would never admit it – it terrified them.

What if they weren’t as good as a detective as they thought they were? What if… Hero’s eyes studied Supervillain’s face. What if they had only seen what Supervillain wanted them to see?

Supervillain hummed thoughtfully, hands going behind his back. “I’ll show you the room anyways. Give you the tour while we’re at it. We’ll see if you have a change of heart.”

Hero’s nostrils flared as Supervillain turned his back and opened the door Hero initially came through. Supervillain’s knowing smirk remained on his face as he glanced back at Hero. “Come along now, I’m not a patient man.”

“I’d rather stay right here,” Hero told him, voice low. A pathetic attempt at stubbornness. Supervillain inclined his head.

“You can walk out the door, Hero, or be dragged out. Either way, you won’t be staying here. Would you like to keep your dignity intact?” He asked, his tone light and charismatic, his words anything but. Hero hated the way he spoke as if everything was certain. As if he could control everything and it would all work out his way.

Though what Hero hated more was the fact that they knew it was better to comply than to rile him up, so they stood and walked through the door Supervillain held open. They turned their head, looking down the long hallway to their right, where Flynn and Villain were. The door at the end of the hall must be where the kitchen is, but beyond that Hero didn’t know.

Maybe it would be better to know the layout of the house, Hero mused, they could plan their escape more effectively if Supervillain was stupid enough to offer a tour.  Supervillain, instead of turning towards the kitchen, went left, back the way Hero and Flynn came, back towards the cellar.

Hero followed Supervillain cautiously, one eye tracking his figure, the other careful to take note of the layout and the route back to the kitchen if they needed to flee on short notice.

Flee to who? To Flynn? A nasty voice mocked in their head.

At least I know what to expect with Flynn, Hero argued back.

Oh yeah… like how you knew he was a lying, backstabbing villain all this time right?

Hero bit the inside of their cheek instead of fighting with their smug, know-it-all side of their brain. At least when they tasted blood in their mouth, they could justify the pain. They could take their mind off of Flynn and the ache in their chest that they fought so hard to ignore.

Hero’s eyes zeroed in on the door to the basement as they stepped into another hallway. They were half expecting Supervillain to open it and shove them down the stairs before laughing like a cartoon villain and slamming the cellar door closed.

Instead, Supervillain walked past it, and Hero followed mutely, swallowing as they passed the cellar door. Now that it was so close, Hero really didn’t feel like going back there. Back to the cold and defenceless cot in a cell where any of them could come down and gloat.

Where Villain could come back and hurt them again and nobody would stop them.

Maybe a room would be better. At least Hero could barricade the door and break the window or something. They could have a better defensive position. Not be subject to their hosts moods when it takes them. Their nose throbbed at the thought of Villain coming down to their cell again and they shuddered.

Supervillain continued down the hall to another heavy door that looked solid and stiff. There was something strange about it, something Hero only noticed after Supervillain stopped in front of it and raised his hand to a keypad on the wall.

Hero stopped in their tracks. They didn’t want to swap one cell for another, and this one didn’t look as escapable as the cell in the basement. At least there Hero could see out all around them, except for the back wall, but a heavy metal door with an electronic lock would prove far more difficult.

There was a small beep ahead and Supervillain glanced back at Hero over his shoulder. A sly smirk graced his face when he noticed that Hero had stopped following altogether, probably standing six feet back.

“Oh Hero, that’s adorable. Are you frightened?”

“No,” Hero said a little too quickly. A denial. They both knew it. While Supervillain chuckled lightly, Hero wanted to punch themselves. “Where are we going?”

Supervillain’s smile was friendly and carnivorous all at once. “I told you; I’m giving you the tour of the house. Here,” Supervillain said, holding the door open for Hero and gesturing for Hero to walk in first. Hero’s throat went impossibly dry, as if Hero inhaled a pound of sawdust. They swallowed to try and restore some moisture in their mouth because what else could they do?

If they refused to comply, Supervillain would just drag them along anyway and there was no way they could fight back with their powers dampened and their hands cuffed in front of them. The weight of their blades on their back felt heavy in a way they never were before. They were right there… if only they could reach them.

Hero jutted their chin up, steeling their expression as they stormed forward and passed Supervillain, vowing that the moment they got free they would commission thigh braces for their daggers instead. That way they could never be in a humiliating situation like this again.

The room coming into focus drowned out Hero’s plans for new sheaths. Once inside the keypad locked room they stopped short and just stared. It was like the meeting room in the Hero headquarters, except, well… bigger. It was shaped like a hexagon with a domed ceiling that came to a point to let in some light through three skylight windows. The wall in front of Hero had two screens imbedded into it. One played the news on mute that was reporting some local event.

The two walls beside the back one had doors that led off to God knows where, but Hero’s gaze skimmed over them, and went instead to the corkboard on the wall to the left. Pictures of all the top ranked Heroes faces were pinned to the board; Superhero’s, Other Hero’s, and Hero’s were pinned to it. Tears pricked the back of Hero’s eyes when they saw Sidekick’s photo pinned to the wall too, a big red X painted over their face. Hero’s hands shook slightly at the sight… they should have never left Sidekick’s side. They should be at the hospital right now.

Instead, they were knee deep in enemy territory, on a tour of Supervillain’s house. Hero had to pull their gaze away from Sidekick’s face, to study the rest of the room, screwing their lips up tight to try and stop them from trembling.

Hero’s gaze dropped to a desk below the corkboard, where a hero scanner and comms sat, both of them were switched off for now. One Flynn must have stolen… been given. Hero’s hands tightened into fists at the sight. All this time… all this time Flynn was betraying them, betraying the Heroes and he had the nerve to be upset that Hero hated him?

Hero’s gaze flicked back up to Sidekick’s face again and they quickly turned away, looking instead to the giant circular table that dominated the middle of the room. A map of the city was printed on top of it. Hero recognised some of the marks that divided some of the city up. Territories that were occupied or controlled by different groups. Some good, some bad.

Hero stepped closer to the map table, noticing the chess pieces that were spread across it. There was a cluster of white on Hero HQ; the King, two knights, a bishop, a rook, but some other white pieces were dotted throughout the map. There were no black pieces, something Supervillain removed no doubt before Hero walked in. They couldn’t give away all their secrets.

Hero searched the table, making note of the pieces, trying to figure out who they were. A pawn was placed on top of central hospital which made Hero feel sick. They felt Supervillain step up beside them, but Hero didn’t bother to look at him.

“Should I take your silence as a good thing?”

“You can take my silence however you want,” Hero replied. Supervillain hummed beside them. He reached forward and plucked the pawn from the hospital and ran it between his fingers.

“Mmmm, does it have something to do with this?” Hero looked away from the map, lifting their head to stare at the news instead. Supervillain continued undeterred. “It is unfortunate what happened to Sidekick.”

“Don’t talk about them,” Hero snapped.

“What had to happen to them. They were interfering. Hot on Flynn’s scent, we had to dispose of—”

“Shut up,” Hero snarled, whipping their head to Supervillain, and stepping back away from him. “Stop fucking explaining everything you’re doing, or have done, to me like I want to hear your excuses!”

Supervillain cocked a brow at Hero’s outburst. He put the pawn back on top of the hospital, not taking his eyes off of Hero as he did. Hero searched Supervillain’s face, reading it for what he was thinking, and they didn’t like what they found. Realising their mistake too late they took a step back, trying to put some more space between them. Once they could put their weight on their back foot they could kick at Supervillain if he came at them.

Instead, Supervillain clasped his hands behind his back, chewing on words, looking for the best ones before he spoke. Everything was so measured. So controlled. It put Hero off, as if Supervillain was more machine than human.

His gaze wandered to the map, eyes running over everything with a critical eye. “Did you notice anything about the map?”

Hero frowned at the question, their attention turning back to the map as Supervillain walked around the table, stopping directly opposite Hero. They did a quick scan of it, their eyebrows knitting together. Did they miss something? No, they didn’t. The heroes know about the different territories. Maybe Supervillain giving away what heroes they thought were important with the chess pieces but other than that…

Hero’s eyes were drawn to the chess pieces, to the Hero HQ. King, two knights, a bishop, a rook. They saw the other rook and bishop somewhere else, but when they scanned the map again Hero realised what Supervillain was alluding to.

Hero hardened their gaze. “There’s no queen.”

“Very good,” Supervillain praised, and it felt like cockroaches crawled down the back of Hero’s neck. “The queen was far too meddlesome for my liking. Your perfect Sidekick you’ll note is still on the board, that was intentional.”

Hero raised their eyebrows at Supervillain in silent question and froze at his expression. There was no hint of anything human left in him, it was as Hero had imagined Supervillain to look like. Devoid of emotion and yet alive with a vibrant authority that made Hero want to hide away, to cower from — as if Hero was looking directly into the sun, eyes burning but they couldn’t look away.

“An incentive for you, Hero,” he said, his lips twitching up into a cold mockery of a smile. “A gift while you’re here, to make sure you follow the rules.”

Hero recoiled back a step, horror painting their features, as if Supervillain had killed a puppy in front of them and punched them at the same time instead of spoke.

“As long as you behave, well,” Supervillain continued, sea-green eyes drifting down to the pawn over central hospital. Hero’s heart thrummed in their chest and seemed to stop at Supervillain’s next words. “Let’s just say, Sidekick can remain on the board.”

Hero let out a shaky breath that was trapped in their chest, shaking their head. The chain between their cuffs rattled as their hands shook, tears pricking the back of their eyes as their gaze turned accusing and filled with a helpless-fuelled hatred.

“You— you’re threatening Sidekick’s life if I don’t do as you say?!” Hero demanded, voice teetering on the edge of hysterical.

Supervillain tilted his head, as if trying to understand Hero’s emotional response.

“I told you, Hero,” Supervillain began, walking around the table back towards Hero who was too focused on the pawn over the hospital. “We can be civil, this can be a beneficial relationship for us both. I can have you far away from the city, where I know you can’t interfere in the next stage of my plans, and you can rest easy knowing you’re saving Sidekick’s life.”

It was as if the world crumbled underneath Hero’s feet. They wanted nothing more than to collapse there and then, their body flooding with adrenaline as the weight of Supervillain’s words hit them.

It was all too much.

It all felt like too much.

Hero wanted to scream and cry, and punch something— no they wanted to punch Supervillain and Flynn because…

Hero flinched as a comforting hand came down on their shoulder, eyes widening slightly because when did Supervillain get that close.

“It’s a win-win, Hero.” Hero shrugged his hand off their shoulder and stepped back. Wet eyes filled with unshed tears met Supervillain’s sea-green eyes with a helpless kind of hatred. He smiled politely. “You’ll see,” he promised, “in time.”

Hero half expected Supervillain to gloat further, or press Hero on why they were nearly crying, maybe even be cruel and make fun of them. Supervillain walked passed Hero to the door that opened with a beep. Hero followed him with their eyes, biting the inside of their cheek and re-opening the wound.

“Let’s continue the tour, now that we have the unpleasantries out of the way.”

Hero stared at Supervillain, blinked and took a breath and started walking out the door without being prompted this time. They could feel Supervillain’s hungry gaze following them as they submitted compliantly, but what else was there to do? Now that he had threatened Sidekick, who was already in critical condition.

They wanted to be sick. After everything, Sidekick was only in hospital because Supervillain wanted to get to them. They wanted Flynn and Villain to capture Hero and bring them back here, where they— Hero swallowed the sob that threatened to climb their throat — where they would be… staying. Until Supervillain says otherwise.

It all felt so final, so formal, so decided when Hero didn’t make a decision. Supervillain was in control, that’s why he wanted to give Hero the “tour.” Not to show Hero around and let them see all the exits and escape routes, no. He wanted Hero to know that even if Hero knew the way out, even if they knew what doors would be locked and where the keys were, even if escape was within their reach — it didn’t matter.

They couldn’t leave.

If they left, Sidekick would be killed and it would be all their fault.

Again.

“Ah, Flynn,” Supervillain said behind Hero. Hero pulled themselves from their thoughts, raising their eyes to see Flynn standing at the corner between the cellar hall and hall that led to the dining room. He looked worried, his eyes not leaving Hero, who couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Perhaps you’d like to show Hero to their room?”

Hero felt Flynn’s eyes on them, searching their face, imploring them to look at Flynn but they couldn’t. Their stomach was flopping like a fish out of water, threatening to throw their dinner up any moment.

“Uh, yes. I will, thanks.”

“No problem,” Supervillain replied, mirthful as he strode past Hero and down the hall towards Flynn. He clapped a hand on Flynn’s shoulder as he passed and shot one last look over his shoulder at Hero. Hero met his gaze once, fleetingly, then turned their head away again.

Flynn was the first to move, walking closer to Hero who stood like a kicked puppy in the middle of the hall. When Supervillain turned the corner he smiled a satisfied smile to himself.

It was so easy to get Hero’s defence to crumble, and now that Hero wasn’t a threat to his plans, well… the city was about to change.

Whether it wanted to or not.

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll-call: @princess-bubble-blossom @morning-star-whump @revrevrew-personal @altvaggie

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (XVII)

Unforeseen Side-effect

Part One // Masterpost // Continued from here

~*~*~*~*~*~

Kit sat up with an effort, his entire body tensing as he moved. Aftershocks still singed his nerves as he moved, eliciting sharp hisses of pain.

What the hell was that thing, that red lightning? And why did he only get it around Ambrose?

“I assume that it’s a wild manifestation of your abilities,” Ambrose said from the kitchen. Kit rolled his eyes, about to curse the villain out if a sudden wave of nausea didn’t hit him and stop him in his tracks.

The world was spinning, lethargically slow, and closing his eyes didn’t exactly help matters. What the fuck was that red lightning? Why did it leave him so… weak?

Kit stopped beside the couch, pressing his back against it while he caught his breath and stifled the whine that threatened to spill from the back of his throat.

“You are as pale as a ghost,” Ambrose told Kit with a smirk. “Except for those eyes of course. And your veins.”

Kit’s eyes widened. His veins? What was Ambrose talking about now? Kit brought his hands in front of his eyes, any colour left in him draining as he saw the same angry, neon red colour had permeated all of his veins. Kit rolled up his sleeves, and there they were. Then the cuffs of his jeans, and the veins were there too.

“You’re like a walking glow-stick.”

“For fuck’s sake, just shut up.” Kit said with a groan, gfalling to his hands and knees and pushing himself to get up. He froze, hitting an invisible wall and plopped back down to his arse again. Red eyes met Ambrose’s black ones. “Can you let me stand up?”

I thought you told me to shut up, Ambrose’s voice sounded in Kit’s mind, the same stupid smirk on his same stupid face.

Kit banged his head against the couch with a groan. “You’re such a dickhead! You can give commands through thoughts! Why are you even here?! Why do you love to torture me?” Kit demanded, his voice turning hysterical. “Is this all part of Supervillain’s plan? To drive me mad too?”

The humour vanished from Ambrose’s face in the blink of an eye. “Do I look like I work well with others, Mallory?”

Kit blinked, his eyebrows pinching together, forming a furrow between. “What?”

Ambrose walked forward, closing the distance between them, stopping in front of Kit’s outstretched legs. “Do I look like I take orders from people?”

“No?”

“Then why,” Ambrose began, his voice darkening. “Would you think that I would throw my lot in with Supervillain of all people?”

Kit bent his knee and pushed himself into a straighter sitting position. He threw his hands up in a helpless gesture. “Then what the fuck were you doing on the docks that night?”

Ambrose’s features hardened. “The night I met you?”

“No, the other night on the docks.” Kit deadpanned.

“That wasn’t my fault,” Ambrose said with a shrug. “You can blame that preppy little water hero, what was her name again?”

“Tides.”

“That’s it,” Ambrose said with a click of his fingers. “Tides. The perfect foil to your electricity, Kit. Maybe I should bring her over someti—”

“If you touch her, I’ll fucking kill you.” Ambrose raised his brows, slightly taken aback. Maybe it was the vibrant crackle in his eyes or the echo in his voice, but something about him at that moment didn’t feel like Kit. It felt like something else. Something… wild.

“Promises, promises,” Ambrose said with a wave. “You can stand, Mallory. Clearly, we need to have a long overdue conversation.”

Ambrose walked back to the kitchenette, and grabbed two mugs from the cabinet preparing their coffee and tea. Kit slowly, achingly slow, got to his feet, his entire body zapped of energy. He dragged himself to his table and settled heavy into the chair, ignoring how breathless he was from such a light movement.

Ambrose joined him a few minutes later, neither of them speaking to each other. Ambrose set the coffee in front of Kit, and Kit said: “thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ambrose told him lightly. Ambrose stood again and walked towards Kit, reaching out.

Kit flinched back, throwing his hands up, red eyes pleading. “No, Ambrose no more, please.”

“Relax, Mallory. I’m just undoing the tie.” Ambrose told him. He waited until Kit relaxed, his hands lowering, a wary glint in his eyes as Ambrose started forward again. He quickly undid the knot in the tie, Kit refusing to look at him, instead focusing on the wall behind him. He could smell Ambrose’s expensive cologne from the space between them. It smelled nice, but it was deathly silent.

It was awkward, to say the least.

Ambrose finished with a flourish, gently pulling the fabric from Kit’s throat, sending shivers down his spine. Ambrose folded the tie neatly as he sat down again opposite Kit. When his black eyes flicked up to Kit’s he let out a low whistle, his eyes going to the red bruise around Kit’s throat. It would fade in an hour or two.

“What?” Kit snapped.

A ghost of a smirk flashed over Ambrose’s lips as he picked up his steaming mug. “Let’s just say you have a necktie of your own, now.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “Oh fuck right off, Rosey.” Kit took his own mug and took a sip of the steaming black coffee. His arm spasmed as the liquid met his tongue and spilled coffee all over his arm. Kit hissed, cursing as he wiped the liquid off, humming the pain away.

Ambrose’s dark eyes narrowed over his cup. “Aftershock?”

Kit shook his head. “I don’t know what this is,” he said weakly.

“Hmm.” Ambrose set his mug down on the table, clasping his hands on the table in front of him. “In any case, we need to discuss your theory on Supervillain.”

“You said you’re not working for him.”

Ambrose didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not, but I am interested to hear your theory.”

“That night on the docks,” Kit repeated.

“I didn’t start a fight with Tides on the dock, Kit. She started a fight with me. I was simply defending myself.”

“And I’m sure you forced her to radio for help, right?”

Ambrose blinked. “No.”

Kit scoffed. “Sure you didn’t.”

“No,” Ambrose said again, straightening his spine. “I didn’t. If I did, I would tell you, Mallory. I’m an honest man.”

“She radioed Superhero and I while we were fighting a fire Villain that was threatening to burn down the residential area in seventh.”

“I never told her to do anything like that, Mallory. I wanted a quiet night. Tides somehow recognised me, and then I had my fun with her.” A shadow of a smirk passed over Ambrose’s face. “Though she wasn’t half as fun as you were.”

Kit frowned. “But that night there was— it felt like there were a series of co-ordinated attacks across the city.”

“Except I didn’t attack your water hero. How many times must I repeat myself?”

“Sorry if you’re a little hard for me to trust right now, Rosey!” Kit growled, slamming his hand on the table. The red in his veins pulsed and burned brighter. Even the blood vessels inside his mouth were emitting light, as if he had just swallowed the sun. “All you’ve done since I’ve met you is torture me, use my own powers against me, broke into my apartment—”

“Kit—” Ambrose said, but sparks flew from Kit’s body as he continued, getting angrier and angrier. Burning hotter and hotter, the light getting brighter and brighter.

“Laughed at me while you beat me, terrorised my every waking moment, kidnapped me and tied me up so you could hurt me some more, or shall I go on?!” His voice crackling at the end like static over an old radio that had lost signal.

“Kit, you need to calm down.” Ambrose said softly, eyes weary at the sparks and heat that was coming off the hero in front of him.

“Wow, look at you, Rosey. How far we’ve come. You’re scared of me for once,” Kit said, planting his hands on the table and rising to his feet. “Good.”

Kit raised his hand, pointing his index finger at Ambrose and raising his thumb, curling his hand into a finger gun. Then he lowered his thumb with a soft: “pew.”

Ambrose went hurtling back against the wall to Kit’s room, cracking the plaster on impact. Ambrose groaned as he fell to the ground, forcing his eyes to focus, but his brain was fried. Everything was coming too slowly for him to react.

Kit stepped around the table, following the telepath. Each step sent jolts of energy through his limbs but Kit couldn’t help it. He kind of liked it. This raw power coursing through him. It made him feel in control.

He ignored the voice in the back of his head telling him to stop. That this was wrong, that this wasn’t him. Oh this was Kit alright. This was all of Kit’s bottled up emotions, finally breaking free and showing Ambrose who really had the power in their relationship.

Kit stopped in front of Ambrose, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and yanking him to his feet. He shoved him against the wall, not shocking him, not yet. He just wanted to savour the look of fear in the villain’s face for once. The villain’s disheveled state, where strands of his perfect hair fell over his face, out of his control.

“Mallory, this isn’t you,” Ambrose told him.

Kit tilted his head. “Aww, is that really all you can think of in your defence, Rosey? It’s hard to think with electricity shocking your nervous system, isn’t it?”

“Kit—”

“Kit’s not home right now,” Kit cut in, chuckling darkly. The sound echoing in static across the apartment. “Or, well, he is. He’s me, I’m him. Let’s just say, his compassionate, heroic side isn’t steering the ship at the moment.”

Ambrose clenched his jaw. “Then which part am I speaking to?”

“The one that you created, Rosey.” Kit told him with a threatening purr. His smile widened as Ambrose paled. “The beaten, pathetic, powerless one that gathered every time you told us — not to use our powers. Every time Kit reached for them and couldn’t find them, guess what happened? I was born. A well of kinetic and potential energy, bubbling under the surface, safe in Kit’s subconscious.” Kit laughed and Ambrose flinched. “I liked you, Rosey. You just kept building, and building, and building me up until I spilled over. But y’know what? I like being in the driver seat. It’s fun being conscious.”

Ambrose didn’t know what to do as he stared at the monster in front of him. The monster that he created? Nobody had ever had side effects like this before, well, none that he of. Certainly not enough to make another personality emerge in the subconscious, but then again…

Ambrose set his mouth into a thin line. Kit was top of his class for a reason. Mentor chose him for a reason, and if Kit wasn’t lethal enough with just his skills his ability — electricity — was pure energy, pure force. It would take a lot for Kit to be able to control it, let alone suppress it. Ambrose vaguely recalled studying electricity in school, and all the different types of it.

No, that’s not what he should focus on.

His mind quickly poured over Kit’s words again until he found it, the important information. “Kit’s not home right now. Or well, he is. He’s me, I’m him. Let’s just say, his compassionate, heroic side isn’t steering the ship at the moment.”

Perfect. That meant all Ambrose had to do was reach in and pull the real Kit out to the forefront of his mind. Put him back in control.

Ambrose reached into Kit’s mind, quickly searching the strange cavern until he saw him. Not Kit, but a pulsing ball of blue electricity buried deep in the darkness.

“Mallory!” Ambrose called, his voice echoing in Kit’s mind. “Mallory wake—”

Ambrose screamed as he was pulled out of Kit’s head. It felt as if his body was burning under a stream of molten lava, singeing every nerve and fibre of his being. Every muscle seized and contracted, robbing every thought from his brain before eventually it stopped and he fell forward. His head fell onto Kit’s shoulder, his body riding out the aftershocks with a cry.

“Naughty, naughty Rosey. It’s rude to ask for someone else to join us when the fun’s only beginning! You get to play with Kit all the time, I never get to play with you.”

“Kit—” Ambrose said with a breath, his voice coming out weaker than he had ever heard it.

“Don’t worry. I know how much volts it takes to kill a human, and I only used a fraction of that on you, Rosey. See? We’re still friends! I would be nothing without you.” Kit grabbed Ambrose’s head and straightened him back against the wall. “So, how about we make this party really fun and use half the amount it takes to kill—“”

Kit shut up suddenly, stepping back. Ambrose slid heavy down the wall, mind racing. He had the right mind to glance up at Kit to see a resolute expression grace his lips.

“Ambrose, put me to sleep. Now! Fucking—” Kit dropped to his knees, screaming as red and blue sparks erupted around him. No, not around him. From him. Ambrose looked away, throwing his elbow up to shield his eyes. “AGGGGHHH! NOW! DON’T—”

Ambrose took a sharp breath and slammed his hand out. He reached into Kit’s mind and pulled the plug. Kit’s muscles went rigid, his arms dropping to his sides before he fell to the ground. Ambrose let out a gasp, falling forward to his hands and knees.

Ambrose sucked in a breath, his muscles trembling to keep him up. Fuck.

He pushed himself back onto his arse, eyes locked on the unconscious hero in front of him. His body still pulsed with energy, but at least he was out cold. Ambrose pressed a hand against his chest, still feeling the burn from Kit’s hand on his chest.

He glanced down, brows pinching together when he saw the char mark in the shape of a handprint on his shirt. Ambrose scoffed. “You little shit,” he said to Kit. “This shirt costs more than your apartment.”

Ambrose got to his feet with a groan. It has been a long time since somebody hurt him like that. Well, not counting all the times when Kit had surprised him. He let out a breath, that sounded eerily similar to a laugh, when he remembered Kit knocking him out and waking up tied up and gagged. Oh, those were the days.

He walked over to Kit’s coatrack by the door and rooted around in his overcoat pockets until his fingers touched the metal rings. He pulled them out and released them with a dull thunk.

He personally preferred not having to use Kit’s power dampeners. They weren’t exactly a tool that Ambrose needed. Besides, it was much more fun to force Kit to inhibit his own ability, but Ambrose had told him not to use his powers. He had done that, and somehow, the other Kit somehow managed to access his electricity to overpower Ambrose.

Ambrose walked over to the Hero, staring down at him with something unreadable crossing his expression. This was the kid that Mentor took under his wing, huh? He could see why Mentor would choose him, of all the heroes in the world, never mind the city, he’s the Hero Ambrose chose too, coincidentally.

Entirely coincidental.

It was strange.

There was something about Kit, something about him that drew people in like moths to a flame, but looking down at him now, Ambrose took in how young Mallory looked.

He was everything Ambrose wasn’t; where Ambrose was pale, Kit had a honeyed tan to his skin, and where Ambrose was dark haired, Kit’s hair was light brown. Not to mention the differences between Kit’s ridiculous haircut and Ambrose’s. Honestly, would it kill him to run a comb through his hair every once in a while?

Then again Mentor always had a soft spot for broken things, and who could ever compete with some scrappy orphan?

Ambrose sighed as he crouched in front of Kit, reaching forward to grab the boy’s wrists. A jolt of electricity passed through Ambrose’s arm and he cursed, yanking his hand back and shaking it.

“Even unconscious you’re still a pain in the ass,” Ambrose muttered, carefully reaching forward again and snapping the cuff around Kit’s wrist without touching him. The brightness in his veins dimmed and went out completely after Ambrose snapped the cuff on other his wrist.

He touched Kit’s hand again, testing the waters, and there was no shock or jolt that ran through him. Good. Ambrose got to his feet, satisfied that Kit wasn’t a live wire anymore and walked towards Kit’s bedroom. He opened the wardrobe and grabbed one of Kit’s sweaters, then paused, stretching the fabric.

God. The boy didn’t look this skinny. Ambrose had broad shoulders, something he was proud of, but at the moment he wished he was the same build as the young hero. He put the sweater back in and pulled out a larger hoodie. It was ugly but it’d do.

All of his insulators were back at his house, which meant he’d have to take Kit back too. He needed answers. He needed to understand why Mentor chose Kit, why he took him, why he raised him to follow in his footsteps.

He needed to know why Kit thought Ambrose was working with Supervillain. Too many unanswered questions for his liking, too many variables, and all of them hinged on the volatile hero in front of him. Well, Ambrose never got to where he was today without a little hard work.

At least, he noted, it was dark outside, so he could throw the unconscious hero into the backseat without too many questions.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie e @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland @mononeigbour @tippytappytyping @stefaniesblogs @shinokoro @bedtimescenarios @whatwhump

[villainsandheroes]

Hi, I like your writing, and I really liked your "A Discussion" idea with the hero and villain jailed together! I would love to see any other writing you have on that, though only if you want to post it. Have a wonderful day! 💜💜💜

Aw thank you so much! I love you anon :)

Here is that post

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hero paled a little. “What?”

“You heard me.”

They all eyed each other for a minute. “What happens to the other person?” Villain frowned. 

“Well, I’m kinda bored of two pets.” Supervillain pouted. “I think it’s time I get to know one of you more closely.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Supervillain left to give them time to decide, Hero thought Villain would have gotten up and gone to get free. Making a sneering comment to Hero which was supposed to be a joke but in actuality hurt.

But instead, Villain carefully settled back. Moving his chained hands to his lap. “You ready to get out of here?”

“What?” Hero mumbled.

“I’ll stay.” Villain offered quieter.

Hero frowned. “Hold on. Wait-”

“Discussion over Hero.”

He winced at the harshness. It had been a while since Villain had shown such an attitude towards them. Despite it all, they had grown close. They used to fight each other till blood was drawn. Now they were the ones patching each other up after a torture session with Supervillain. 

Hero stayed quiet for a minute, knowing time was running out but trying to figure out what to say. “My job is to help and protect others. If I have the chance to help you and I don’t-“

“Hero. You have the chance to go help hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. I'm not gonna be a hero after this. I won't go out of my way to save people. I won’t return the favor, I'm not like you.”

Hero held back a whine of sorts. “Villain, you are important.”

Villain quietly considered that. Looking down at his arms and legs scattered in scars before over at Hero, some were the same, others were different. They’d been tortured together for years now. He didn’t know why the supervillain was doing this, or why now he wanted one of them gone, but he knew it wasn’t for any good reason.

“Hero. You need to go.”

“B-“

“Ssh.” He mumbled softly. He moved closer before gently wrapping his arm around them, careful not to tangle their chains up. 

Hero looked at him before carefully hugging him back. “I hate you.” He mumbled, gently pressing his face against him for comfort. 

“I know.” Villain chuckled softly. “Hero? Just… don’t forget me. I know saving me may not work-“

“Oh, I will save you.” Hero hissed quietly. 

Villain laughed at that, harder than he had in a long time. After a minute grinning. “Alright. I’ll give you that. Just. If you can’t- please don’t forget me?”

Hero frowned. “I would never.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Supervillain took Hero away Villain could barely watch. Just praying he hadn’t made a mistake and Supervillain was going to kill him.

Supervillain didn’t though. They kept to their word.

They took Hero outside the facility and even took them on a plane flight before going to a random street. Hero’s hands were tied and he was struggling to keep up with Supervillain’s longer stride.

Suddenly he stopped and Hero ran into his back. “Now. I wanted to try this new power on you.”

Hero frowned, looking around at the streets that were full of people. “Wha-“

Supervillain released his arms and held Hero’s head. “I can take away memories.”

Hero thrashed suddenly while trying to get away but Supervillain pinned them onto a wall.

Hero’s memory was wiped in seconds flat.

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

cw age gap, implied kidnapping, implied torture, intimate whumper, power dynamic 

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

They glanced at the doorway, a cigarette between their full, pink lips. They raised an eyebrow and smirked at Whumper, blowing out a cloud of smoke before replying, “What makes you think I have a bedtime?” 

Whumper smiled and leaned against the wall next to them. Leaving enough distance between them to be casual. “I don’t mind,” they said, not answering the question. “I mean, we do all ages shows for a reason. I think it’s great for kids to see live music.” 

Big, innocent eyes narrowed into a glare. “I’m eighteen, actually. But thanks for your concern.” 

Oh, this one was going to be fun. “Sorry, you just look young is all. Didn't mean to insult you—maybe we could start over? I’m Whumper.” 

“I know, I came to see your band.” Another drag on their cigarette. “I’m Whumpee.” 

Whumpee. The name suited them perfectly. Whumper could imagine saying it tauntingly as they did horrible things to Whumpee. Or whispering it as they comforted them afterwards. Whumper didn’t expect to be so lucky tonight. “Well, Whumpee,” they said, testing it out. “I haven’t seen you at any shows before, but you seem cool. There’s an after party at my place if you wanna come.” 

The kid looked hesitant. “I don’t know, I have class in the morning.” It wasn’t a no. 

They watched Whumpee stub out the cigarette on the wall behind them and flick it over the porch railing into the grass. They imagined lighting one of their own just to put it out on Whumpee’s skin. They would probably scream so beautifully as it burned into their wrist or their neck. Delicate, unmarked skin. Oh, Whumper was going to have so much fun breaking them. “Your call,” they said with a shrug before closing the space between them. “But I'd really like it if you were there.” 

Whumpee looked up at them, visibly nervous but making no move to back away. “Yeah?” they breathed, seeming to catch the unspoken implication in Whumper’s statement. 

The other people milling around outside paid them no attention as Whumper placed one of their hands on the kid’s cheek, cold from the winter air. Their nose was red, too—how cute. “Yeah—come party with the rockstars. I promise you’ll have a good time, honey.” 

What Whumper didn’t mention was that once Whumpee made it to their house, they wouldn’t be leaving. Not for a very long time, at least. 

“Okay. I'll come,” Whumpee agreed without much convincing. God, they were easy.  

Whumper smiled, tucking Whumpee’s hair behind their ear. Fingers ghosted down their neck, picturing a collar around it. Imagining how that sweet, young face would look covered in tears. “Awesome. Let me pack up my equipment and then we’ll get going.” 

[letitbehurt]

Powerful Whumpees who are absolutely capable of killing Whumper, but are kept from doing so through magic, threats, or similar means.

[uuuhshiny]

Vladimir Verevochkin in Survival game (Игра на выживание)

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

HI!! okay so with the magical euphoria thingy i screamed into my pillow like twenty million times while reading AUDHSHXH /pOS YOUR WRITING IS AUAHDHAHX!!:?:!;!;:!, ANYWAY.

whumpee uses WAY too much magic in a fight. they’re completely giddy, out of it, and have just horrifically defeated something/someone.

looks around and notices that everyone is silent and terrified of what whumpee is capable of, because holy fuck. they did not need to go that far????

meanwhile whumpee thinks they were doing the right thing and, still incredibly excited from winning, runs over to caretaker!! and doesn’t understand why caretaker flinches away from them!! ^_^

sorry for the heinous grammar its like almost midnight rn :(((

(context)

I’m glad you liked my writing! I’m grinning like a fool rn.

And yes!!! Not every battle ends with Whumpee exhausted and ready to collapse. Sometimes they’re still sparking with energy, too deep into the high to realize they’re acting oddly, but not deep enough to be entirely gone. And honestly? For the people who care about them, for the people who are afraid of them, I think that state would be far, far worse. Awake but not quite aware. Unpredictable.

So like, hear me out.

The squadron is returning back to camp after a long day of missions. Their mage is still with them, in both senses of the word. They’re not fallen into total lunacy yet, still conscious and mobile. Whumpee’s bouncing on their toes, head swiveling on their shoulders like an excited puppy. They’re chatting excitedly, near incomprehensibly, at a soldier that made the mistake of getting too close. The soldier can only nod along to the stream of consciousness leaving Whumpee’s lips.

Caretaker is keeping a hold on Whumpee’s arm, making sure they don’t run off. They know Whumpee will be fine after a night’s rest.

It’s a rare moment of calm. They’re sore and exhausted, but the warm pride of a job well done leaves them feeling satisfied. The atmosphere is light as they trudge through the forest. Peaceful, all things considered.

But then Whumpee freezes, body stiffening all at once as something catches their attention. They turn, eyes focusing on something. A flash of enemy colors flicks in their vision–

Whumpee’s moving before Caretaker can react. Light bursts from their hands, illuminating the dark forest, and the squadron freezes on instinct. Whumpee’s attention, fractured and fleeting moments ago, has sharpened into a deadly edge to focus on a single figure.

Whumpee reaches out a single glowing hand, fingers curling as if grabbing something.

Flanked by two petrified guards, hands shackled behind his back, is a single enemy soldier taken as prisoner. His eyes widen as Whumpee’s attention focuses on him, the man’s bruised and exhausted face contorted in terror. His mouth is open in silent, terrified scream.

Just as Caretaker is reaching out to stop them, Whumpee reaches out with an open hand. Their fingers curl inward as if grabbing something. With a sharp movement their hand is pulled back, fingers clenched shut. The prisoner’s body lurches forward in response.

The crackle of energy cracks through the air, and suddenly something red and dripping and squirming is hovering mere feet from the man. He’s never laid eyes on it before, but the emptiness in his chest tells him exact

The human heart, still beating, falls to the forest floor. Its owner falls a moment later.

Silence follows. Fear and shock runs through the squadron, their minds struggling to comprehend what had just unfolded. Some freeze like a deer in the headlights, terrified that moving will bring Whumpee’s wrath. Others are inching their hands towards their belts, looking for a weapon. Others still are simply trembling from shock, suddenly and violently reminded of the danger in their midsts.

The terror that grips Caretaker is different. They’re afraid for Whumpee. Training kicking into overdrive, Caretaker’s eyes dart over the scene, calculating. Assessing the panic, assessing how long they have until fear turns into action.

They know they have to take control of the situation. Caretaker’s footsteps are firm as they approach Whumpee, exuding confidence they don’t feel, and praying it's enough to keep the situation from escalating.

Caretaker places a hand on Whumpee’s shoulder. Whumpee turns to face them, expression blank

“Whumpee,” Caretaker speaks with trained calmness, voice gentle yet firm. Their smile is a weak, trembling thing, doing little to mask their anxiety. The smile Whumpee gives in return is genuine and bright, oblivious. “We need him alive. We’re taking him in for questioning, remember?”

Whumpee doesn’t respond. Their eyes are more clouded than they were a moment before, their sanity strained even further by that display of power. For a long, breathless moment Whumpee simply stares, a vacant smile plastered over their face.

Caretaker keeps their expression calm, but the tension is suffocating them. All they can hear is the gurgling of a dying man.

And then the moment breaks. Whumpee blinks, and awareness flicks back into their eyes. A tittering giggle creeks out from between their teeth.

“Oh! Right, yes. We need that one alive, don’t we?” Whumpee laughs.

The clearing is still as Whumpee all but skips over to the twitching body. They grab the heart from where it dropped.The muscle is still pulsing weakly, spilling blood over Whumpee’s arms. They don’t seem to notice.

Whumpee calls their magic again, the organ vanishing in a flash. In that same instance, the prisoner’s eyes fly open, bloodless lips widening with a desperate gasp. His next inhale comes out as a sob. He curls inward, limbs close to his chest, as if desperate to keep his heart in its place.

Whumpee doesn’t even give the man a second glance. As their would-be victim sobs, broken and terrified, on the ground, Whumpee happily returns to Caretaker’s side. They reach their hand, now coated a deep red, expectantly towards Caretaker. Caretaker holds Whumpee’s hand with a trained smile, and tries not to flinch at the warm wetness.

Caretaker starts walking, not daring to look back. They know the terrified, hateful, dangerous looks they’ll see if they did.

Whumpee doesn’t notice the way Caretaker's grip tightens, or how they’re maneuvered to walk some distance away from the other soldiers.

The rest of the trip is done in silence.

[whumpitisthen]

Blasphemy

Previous I Masterlist I Next

7.4k words....... my brain is mush but i wanted to finish this so badly so here it is!! i need to stop looking at it, you look at it now i dont want it >:( CWs: blood, referenced torture, broken bones, unconsciousness, self-esteem issues, crying, begging, self-sacrifice, bleeding out, religious themes, angel whumpee, nonhuman whumpee, multiple whumpees, nonhuman/vampire/deity whumper, bad caretaker, carewhumper, slavery mention, death, psychological whump, emotional whump, power dynamics, Grim's inability to be normal about his little guys, Auden's inability to be normal about anything, nudity (nonsexual)

Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.

Of course he panicked.

How could he not? He just watched someone slowly bleed out in front of him, now lying in a pool of their own blood on the floor, motionless and gone, — and right before they pass out, all they ask of him is not to panic? What kind of request is that!

He told them to stop, he told them to take a break; why would they not listen? He doesn't need to be a healer to know that blood needs to stay inside a body, mortal or not. Blood means pain, blood means danger, blood means something is wrong. Blood covers every single inch of the floor.

Are they dead? He doesn't know, he doesn't know! They stopped moving, they fell to the ground like a corpse. They look dead, with the darkness under their eyes, and the sickly cold paleness that took hold of their skin. He should know, should be able to tell, he's an angel, how could he not know if a mortal is dead or not?

He has never needed to know. Healing is not a Guardian’s job, it's the sign of a Guardian’s failure. A Guardian protects, a Guardian shields, a Guardian prevents hurt before it could even occur. If their Dependant needs healing, that means they have failed in their duty.

He cannot have let this happen to them. He cannot have failed again. He cannot have failed them again.

All he knows to do is what feels right. The way he scrambles out of the bathtub is akin to a wild thing. He slips onto his knees, cradling Mori's unconscious body, barely feeling the wet tiles under his bony limbs. He holds them close, calling to them, shaking them gently.

They are cold, but mortals are only cold when their bodies die. He looks around frantically. A towel of some sort, large, folded neatly on a dresser near him. He leans over to tear the one he can reach out of the tower, not caring about all the rest falling to the floor after it. He drapes it over the both of them, hoping to achieve some sort of tent to trap the heat under.

Mori doesn't stir. No matter how much he warms them, no matter how many times he calls their name, no matter how much he begs them to remain alive; they show no aspiration to live. He grabs another towel and wraps it around their head, trying to stall the bleeding of their broken antler. That must be key; blood is finite, he has to stop it.

He isn't sure if mortals feel pain in their sleep, so he works carefully around the wound, putting far too little pressure onto it to cease the flow. The towel just keeps languidly swallowing up their blood, but it has to help, it must be better than nothing. Maybe if he holds them closer, if he cleans off all the crimson from their face. He wipes away the curtain of blood from their forehead and eye. He fixes their hair — it was a little dishevelled, but they kept it out of their eyes, carding through it habitually any time they got nervous.

There, they look a little better. That must have helped.

It has to help.

Please, please help.

They aren't moving. He holds them a little closer, shakes them, pleads with them. No response. The tent of towels and black wings aren't warming them at all. The blood still oozes.

He doesn't know what to do; he doesn't know how to help!

They need help.

He shouldn't…

‘They will die if you don't, and it will be all your fault.’

The only healer he knows of here is the Doctor, but he doesn't know how to contact it. He has seen absolutely nobody else in this silent mansion of endless corridors, and he fears leaving Mori's side for even a moment to go look. He wants to help them, but he needs help to do that.

So, in his weeping desperation, he calls to the one person he knows will answer.

Tears of worry pooling in his eyes, scared and helpless like a child, he wails for the Reaper.

Mori told him not to yell when they first met. He hadn't understood yet just how dangerous it could be to draw attention to himself. He was scared, just as scared as he is now, and now here he is, yelling again, listening to his own voice echo back at him, waiting for Death to arrive. This time, he makes noise on purpose, with purpose, and that only scares him more, because then if things go wrong, it won't be an accident anymore. He chose to do this all on his own.

He needs to, he has to. The Reaper has to understand. Mori will understand.

Even if they don't, at least they will still be alive to be angry at him for it.

The Reaper isn't here yet, and Auden tries his best to be patient. He counts the seconds, managing to make it past sixty, up till seventy. At around seventy-two he touches the towel wrapped around Mori's antler. It's heavy with blood.

He decides to try calling again.

It takes him another minute to psych himself up to raise his voice again and scream, his lungs filled with a convoluted mess of desperation to save Mori no matter the cost. The knowledge that he is demanding a deity to hurry up and answer him — his Lord would have erased him just for thinking he was entitled to His time.

But the Reaper isn't his Lord. Calling him a deity feels like sacrilege in itself, but Auden doesn't know what else to refer to him as. Anything lower seems unfitting, but he will absolutely not for even a moment think them coequal in status, power, or any other metric. He is powerful, and terrifying, and vicious and cruel, a force, necessary, but the angel only sees a twisted sanctuary every time he thinks of him. He is all those terrible things, and he saved him. He has to save Mori.

Auden fidgets under Mori. He rustles his wings. Tries to swallow the growing lump in his throat. The quiet fills with the gentle sound of rain droplets landing against the windows. Three large windows, with a double cross of thin black iron running up it to end in a pointed top elegantly. Should he open the window, let in some fresh air? No, it must be cold outside, Mori would get even colder. He holds them a little closer.

Where is he? Last time it barely took a minute for the Reaper to show up, popping up out of thin air like he never even left. It has to have been at least ten minutes, maybe twenty. An hour. A long time. He keeps having to reorder his black-blue legs under him, going numb on his knees with the extra weight.

He shudders out a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a sob, getting dizzy with how much he cranes his head from wall to wall, hoping to catch his black-cloaked saviour leaning up against it. Why is the Reaper not showing? He has to be coming. He looks down at Mori, sniffling. Whines pull at the corners of his lips, wobbling his chin.

Auden yells again, as loud as he can. The end of his cry wanes off into a miserable sound, muffled into Mori's hair.

Maybe he misunderstood. Maybe it wasn't the noise that had caught the Reaper's attention before. Maybe he is just so far away that he cannot hear. Maybe he heard and he doesn't care. Maybe he isn't coming at all. Lord, he isn't coming at all, is he?

Auden is all on his own, and Mori will die, or they are already dead, because Auden is a useless, winged fraud. Just a weak, pathetic nobody, getting people hurt and making fake promises. Mori died because of him. They died because he couldn't do as he was told.

“I am sorry. I am so, so sorry, Mori, I'm sorry,” — he blubbers through his tears. If he wasn't holding them as he does, he would draw blood with how deep he wants to dig his overgrown nails into his palm.

He wonders if Mori's soul can feel the force of his sobs through his chest. If it can hear his pitiful apologies. His ridiculous weeping.

He is so preoccupied with his self-loathing that he fails to notice the change. The candles giving a gentle, warm light flicker with an inexplicable gust of wind. The air cools and thickens with dread, filling his throat with a wicked black fog. The feeling of being watched is ignored. The suffocating terror starting up inside him is not much different than his grief. Past the curtain of his half-washed hair, a pair of heavy boots appear. A cloak of darkness. The smell of rot follows.

Then, a dark, haunting voice.

“Peril finds you good company, doesn't she?”

Auden jerks at the Reaper's insincere lamentation, his gasp loud in the otherwise silent room. His crying quiets immediately, frozen in his throat. He can't decide if he should be relieved or even more scared upon finding the Grim Reaper had heard him. He brought with him his deadly scythe and cloak of shadows. Auden cannot see under the canine skull, and it makes him nervous that he doesn't know what kind of expression it hides. Was that a tone of disappointment or indifference? Boredom? What if he is angry? Angry at him for yelling, for not doing as he said, for letting Mori die; oh, he must be angry…

His mouth opens and closes, suddenly dry of all sound. His eyes switch wildly between the deity and his maybe-dead companion, eventually filling with new tears and looking up pleadingly at his saviour, hoping for a little more mercy. — “I-I’m sorry, I yelled, I sh-shouldn’t, I know, but I-I-I didn't, I didn't know what else to do ah-and — Help, please help them, please help, I-I do not, I do not kn — I am not a healer, please don't let them die like this, I beg you, I beg you…”

The plea is soft, a quiet prayer. He is begging earnestly, deeply and perplexingly distraught at the misfortune of someone he hasn't even known for a day. His grief is raw and true. Kneeling in a pool of blood like this, weeping unendingly, painting the fawn with his sorrow, holding onto the tortured soul in his arms like they are the most precious treasure he has ever known — Grim finds it all such a pleasant surprise to come back to. Far more interesting than whatever the Hell those mortals were bumbling on about at the parley.

He expected Mori to have passed out, naturally; that part doesn't surprise him. But the angel… oh, this angel is surpassing all of his expectations. He is terrified for them, holding their unconscious body as if they will disappear if he lets go. And this beautiful red sheen across the floor, wall to wall; the overwhelming flavor of Mori's blood dancing in the air…

His footfalls remain measured as he approaches the two. He considers them silently, letting the pause eat at the angel, making up his mind on where to go from here. Finally, he sighs.

“The irony of calling me of all people here to save your friend cannot be lost on you,” — the Reaper says as he removes his mask, casually untensing every muscle that was primed to roll heads upon arriving at the angel’s desperate call, — “whatever made you think I would help them? Do you know me to be so merciful?”

The angel seems a little crestfallen at that, a little confused. Can't the Reaper see the person dying in his arms? Why would he not help? He has to help! — “Th — Mori, did — They need help…”

“Do they deserve help?”

“Yes!” — the Fallen cries, manic in his own uselessness, — “they, they did it right. They said you, you told them to help me, and they did, they kept going until they fell, even though I told them not to, and, a-and now you won't help them?”

Death tilts his head at him, brows raised and eyes laying him bare. A look of faux-confusion, like Auden is not making any sense, as well as something a little dangerous underneath peeking through at Auden's last words. — “They did not do it right. They have failed.” — He gestures at their unconscious body, still slowly oozing blood onto the floor, a puddle having been made to halo their head. — “I asked them to feed you, bathe you and get you ready for your new master. You are soaking wet and naked, distressed, kneeling in filth on the floor. Nowhere near ready. They have failed in their task.”

He isn't angry with them; there is no fury in his voice. He is stating this like it's a fact that they deserve to die for not meeting his impossible standards. The chilling conviction in him stalls the angel’s breath.

‘Convince him. Try to convince your saviour that he is wrong. Beg for his favour. He is testing your faith.’

His bare shoulders jerk, the sudden weight of the persistent voice landing on them like a pair of heavy hands, guiding him further into desperation. Grim narrows his eyes.

Any other angel would have taken the straight refusal of help and backed down, bowing their head and apologising for asking for something so untoward. Angels do not argue. They do not plead; they pray and hope, and if their wishes aren't granted, then it is the will of God, and so there must be good reason for it. It's part of their culture, something that most of them do not even notice about themselves as strange or naïve. It's just how they operate in Heaven, and only once removed from their palace of ignorance do they start understanding all the intricate little ways in which they are taught to obey and never question much of anything.

Auden never found this particular skill to be so self-evident or natural to weave. Even if he did, his Guardian nature will not allow him to let go so easily when Mori could very well die in his arms any moment, and it's on him to try to plead with the Reaper to save them. —“Please. They do not deserve this. It, it isn't fair.”

The Reaper smiles. It's an empty smile that doesn't reach past his lips. — “Is that so?” — Pretending to be in deep thought, Grim hums, then leans down as if to whisper to the angel about something forbidden, the blade of his heavy scythe floating above him like a crescent moon as his hands move to cross at the small of his back. — “Is it fair, up there?”

The angel pauses, swallowing. — “Whu — What?”

“Was it fair when they deemed you a sinner? When you were cast out? When you landed; burnt, bruised, defenceless on the earth as a mortal? Was it fair?”

His eyes widen. Auden remembers when it all fell apart. He remembers vividly every pair of eyes that turned hateful, the friends he lost, the time he spent praying, begging for another chance. He thought he was invincible back then. He thought that as an angel, a Guardian, no matter how weak or clumsy he was, as long as he kept his faith close, there would be nothing more he could want. He worried about such insignificant things, spending days with worry etched between his brows because of an off-handed comment someone more capable than him made, trying so pathetically to prove himself to people who couldn't care less about him.

He was trying so desperately to fit in, while failing to follow the most simple of instructions given to him by his Seraph.

He thought he knew better. When he was told his human no longer deserved protection, he thought there must have been a mistake. When he kept watching over them despite clear orders, he thought he was doing the right thing. When his human got into trouble, real trouble, and he had to help, he had to, but there was no way to do it lawfully, not without breaking the most unbreakable of rules; — when he locked eyes with his human for the first time like he always dreamed he could, when he saw recognition in theirs… He was arrogant, selfish, unfit to be a holy servant. He was told as much when his sins were tallied by the cold voice of the Council during the ceremony of his banishment.

He wonders if he could visit his human sometime now that he is stuck here. He hopes they are safe. He hopes they don't remember him at all, but he wonders sometimes, — if they do remember him, do they think of him often?

Maybe he shouldn't visit them anyway. He would much rather they keep the image of who he was back then instead of who he is now.

“It w-was…” — His head droops. He tries to consider the Reaper's question, but the more he thinks about it, the more it confuses him. He huffs frustratedly. It should be the easiest answer to give. His Lord is fair and just. Every angel lives by strict rules, orders, responsibilities. His punishment was fair. He takes it to be another failing of his own; just how much it hurts to believe this. — “…It doesn't matter if, if it was. Mori doesn't deserve this.”

‘Your crime was not sin. It, too, was inadequacy. Failure. You were not malicious. You were weak.’

He may have been weak, but Mori isn't. They are stronger than he ever was.

‘They failed their Master like you failed yours.’

That's different, the Lord is not Auden's master — Mori wasn't made to obey —

‘Were they not? They told you what they are. A slave from birth. Made to serve.’

“Mori doesn't deserve any of this, they, they — “

‘They are hellspawn. They deserve everything they are given.’

“They don't! — he nearly shouts, overwhelmed and manic with grief, trying to drain out the malevolent voice inside his head. — “They did everything as well as they possibly could, they made no mistakes, they were kind and brave and helpful and they for-forgave me, even after, after I messed up, over and over again! Just, if,“ — his voice breaks in preparation for what he is about to ask for, — “if they deserve punishment, let me take it! If they failed, it was because of me, and I will, I will take it, no matter what it is. I won't let them — please don't punish them for my mistakes.”

The Reaper's expression hardly changes in reaction to Auden's outburst. The angel's choppy babbling doesn't really phase him, though the corner of Grim's mouth catches on that almost threat; — ‘I won't let them.’ As if the angel had any power over what happens next. The thought is amusing.

It's hilarious how little he knows of pain. He would not be so eager to take it otherwise.

Grim's polite smile quickly vanishes, eyes narrowed to slits. Leaning back in a slow, assertive manner, he straightens his spine to stand tall once more, looking down upon Auden like a judge. His head is haloed by the light of the chandelier behind him, casting an intimidating shadow over the both of them. — “I am not deaf, angel. If I wished to hear your shrill screeching, believe me, I would have plenty of ways to drag it out of you.”

The angel's mouth snaps shut instantly. This sudden change in the deity's tone freezes him to his core. The way he fights himself to speak so he may apologise reminds Grim of a fish out of water, mouth agape and gasping. — “I-I didn't… I am sorry, I didn't realise I was —”

“No, you did not. Perception eludes you like oil does water.”

It's that little righteous incredulity that crawls its way into his tone. That disappointment, but a lack of expectation to begin with, that sears Auden's heart like venom. It's a familiar pain, and so he does what he has learned to do all those other times he felt this same shame — he bows his head and remains silent, letting the self-loathing eat up any stray thoughts that could distract him from his shame.

Truthfully, Grim is not so angry. Maybe a little, — after all, this is the second time he has come to the angel's rescue, only to find him perfectly fine — but it does irk him, this… shadow, behind every word he says. Something bothers him, clearly. Whatever it is, it muffles his true thoughts, distracts him, diverts his attention; and well, Grim has never been very good at sharing with others. He wants to rip open that silly skull and pick at his brain until he finds what he is looking for.

The angel shivers under his gaze. In allowing Auden a moment to steep in his misery, he also allows for the mouthwatering aroma of Mori's spillt blood to overwhelm his focus. With the crimson smeared so thoroughly in this small room, the smell of it is near impossible to ignore. In the angel's arms, Mori is angled just so, their veins supplying drop after drop of crimson for the floor to collect. The sound of wasted nectar could drive him mad. This lovely scene coupled with the angel's pleasant vanilla-scent, and his beautiful sorrow on display is a perfect cocktail mix for all his senses to drink up.

He inhales deeply. Eternal hunger is a hell of a curse.

Eventually, the angel's sobs quieten. Softness carries Death's next words; — “Were you scared for them?”

Auden nods, sniffling sadly. His only friend, perhaps already dead. It devastates him. He loosens his hold on Mori, breaking under the voice telling him over and over that he is holding onto a corpse.

“You have grown so close to them already… a foolish mistake, but you couldn't have known. You know so little.”

A backhandedly sympathetic assurance that only serves to drive the edge of that searing shame deeper into his chest. The tent he holds sinks as his wings do, pooling the towel around himself and uncovering Mori's cold body. They look so small and defenceless. A sea of scars, old and new. Deep bruises that will never have the chance to heal. Tired eyes that will never open. A shattered wrist and a snapped antler, his own contributions to the collage of their suffering.

He is truly the most pathetic being in all of existence.

In the soft candlelight, Grim watches him unravel with great excitement. Though he says nothing, his lips curl and his eyes light up in amusement. This Fallen is a funny one. A large golden heart hidden beneath the thinnest layers of skin and bone. Naïve. Easy to mold, to trick, to scar. Passionate, even now, during a time most would consider too unbearable to be worth holding on for. And the taste of his sorrow; the sweetness of his tears… Such a darling little lamb.

Though the sound of footfalls were not silent, Auden still flinches from the silver claws entering his vision. Dropped to a crouch, Grim had sat aside his scythe and attempted to lower himself to the angel's level, now reaching for Mori.

Numbly, Auden watches those clawed fingers sink beneath the sticky brown locks of the unconscious servant. They massage tenderly, avoiding cutting into the skin underneath. The closeness has Auden’s skin inadvertently crawling, his already cold flesh chilled even deeper from such proximity to Death. Like this, he finds himself paying that much closer attention to every little detail about his saviour.

The Reaper's skin is truly pale, its hue only surpassed by his snow-white hair. Auden's gaze catches on the small dot right under his left eye — do beings like him have such flaws? Mortals have plenty, birthmarks and such, but Auden has never imagined deities could have such mundane imperfections. His left arm is where the void-black markings on his skin begin — downright monstrous with sickening veins popping out of wicked muscles, fully corrupted by the darkness, a gauntlet of silver claws enunciating its role being a weapon of slaughter. From the tips of the fingers, to the wrist, shoulder, then presumably up the chest and crawling all the way up under his chin, drawing confusing, intricate shapes that remind Auden of an all-consuming hellfire.

The hand carding through Mori's hair is jewelled as opposed to armoured, the markings there more… unnatural. Man-made would be a better term to use. They remind Auden of some of the painted pages of his codices in their pattern, as opposed to the fuller, consuming, almost infectious spread running up his neck. Parallel lines, symbols, some sort of language. They run along each finger, disappearing under shining metal rings, ending in sharp black nails. Auden never noticed before, just how marred the flesh under those rings are. It's like they were welded into him. Deep, sickening scarring that is red around the edges under each iron band.

He wonders just how much influence Hell’s infection has had on the Reaper. As far as he is aware, Death has been a neutral, non-conforming being since the beginning of time. Because his job requires him to be a bridge not only between Heaven and Earth, but Hell and Earth as well, and because of his independent nature, angels have grown further and further from conversing with him, and Auden has only really been taught that the Grim Reaper is a necessary evil, and that it's not his place to be inquiring about things that do not pertain to him. But he has to imagine, with how much of Earth has been swallowed up by demonkind, the balance of things changing must have had some sort of effect on him.

His brain feels like there are a thousand ants crawling all over it. His train of thought halts upon contact with those iron claws, holding his chin to direct his wide eyes toward the Reaper's. The claws are sharp, an ornately carved glove of icy blades. His breath halts completely, and the Reaper grins.

“You are fond of them,” — the Reaper states, jerking Auden's head to lead his gaze back to himself when he tries looking away, — “did you get to know each other well?”

Auden finds it hard to care, right now. Even through his fear-indebtedness-adoration for the deity and Death's cursed aura snuffing out any breath of disobedience with a chilling sense of terror, he just cannot bring himself to respond. His eyes are red and empty and tired, similar to Mori's — their gaze is always alert, fearful, but tired, missing their spark. They hold no flame in them anymore; that is, if they ever did. A wilted rose.

He cannot nod, but the fresh tears and a lovely shudder are enough of a response either way.

Grim tuts sympathetically, feeling a great urge to kiss away those beautiful tears. While it is a mere fact that angels are not exactly made to deal with loss, this one is young and so very tenderhearted. It very nearly breaks his heart to watch the darling dove shatter like this.

It is the angel's most endearing quality; how strongly he feels. It's like all rational thought escapes him as soon as his heart fires up. When he is frustrated or sees some sort of injustice, he forgets himself, and becomes foolishly unafraid. When he is sad, he cannot bear to exist at all, shutting down completely. And Grim does not doubt for a moment that he becomes the most bouncy, passionate, energetic critter when he is happy. It almost makes him curious to see just how much joy can fit into this broken-winged-broken-hearted darling. It clearly doesn't matter who witnesses, if the little thing behaves like this even in front of him, someone he is well and truly afraid of.

“Do not weep,” — he settles on, the soothing murmur coupled with a kind expression, — “It will be okay. It will all be okay. I will make sure of it.”

It isn't a lie, depending on a given day. Somedays, okay means content and safe. On others, it will mean just enough mercy to keep his lungs working so he may live. However, it doesn't matter what it means to the angel. Right now, what he hears is what he needs — supporting words, kind words, caring words. He could forget about the blades at his throat for those, like he has already forgotten the godly being comforting him is the same one that wounded his friend so deep and cruel, then forced them to work themself bloodless and unconscious.

A tear slides down his claw, glimmering tantalisingly as it rolls down like a pearl of glass. It's so perfectly silent. His pointed ears twitch at the sound of the drop splattering on the floor.

He cannot resist lifting a hand soaked in Mori's blood to wipe away the rivulets of sweet sorrow from the angel's red cheeks. Hopefully his tears blind him to the condescending expression on the Reaper's face. — “There there. Come, let me help.”

Wiping, petting, caressing, pinching, ruffling, — his hands do not leave him until Auden starts reacting, once he realises he is being teased, weakly pulling back from all the unwanted, giggling attention. It should really not surprise him at all that Death would find the passing of a mortal so uninteresting, but his stomach still flips at just how unbothered he acts. Mori spoke so reverently of him…

With one last pull on his still slippery hair — the conditioner was never rinsed out, it seems, though the strong yet pleasant smell coming off him in waves should have been a dead giveaway — Grim rescinds. Gently, he takes hold of Auden's wrists, pressing his thumbs flush against his pulse there and massaging. He feels so wonderful. — “Let go of them, angel.”

Belatedly, Auden draws back from Mori's body, letting the Reaper cradle them instead. In the tall deity's arms, they look even smaller. As he stands, Auden finds himself reaching after them, watching Mori's legs swing in the air limply, their body held in a bridal carry. The unshakeable urge to protect eats at him relentlessly. He feels like a dog growling at passerby above its owner's corpse.

“Whe-Where are you take-ing them?” — Auden croaks tiredly, cursed with the after-cry hiccups.

The towel the angel had wrapped around Mori's head falls to the ground with a wet splat. The stump where their antler used to be is still weeping, though much slower, demanding attention from the vampyric deity. He may have gone a little overboard with that one, he ponders, humming himself; —  but really, it's his little fawn’s fault for making the most adorable sounds when he threatened to rip the antler off by grabbing onto it and slowly twisting their head by it. Their ears pulled back, their eyes turned as large as dinner plates, and they trembled, so small, so sweet against the floor, pinned and vulnerable, squirming under their master to escape, but too scared to actually try. They do so well with threats, so proficient in begging for mercy, so perfect soaked in terror.

There is no wolf that could hold its jaw slack around the throat of its prey once its fangs have drawn blood. It is fun for a while; the squirming, the whining, the pleading and crying; — but it is only a matter of time until those jaws slam down and shatter the vermin's spine.

Gently, with so much care, he presses his lips onto the wound, kissing it closed. His fawn’s delectable blood could send him into a frenzy on the best of days, but unfortunately, they might really not survive if he doesn't concentrate, so he makes sure not to lose himself in his violent thirst.

Miraculously, the bleeding stops. Grim purrs, perfectly content as he licks his teeth clean of the divine crimson.

Auden is… mortified. What did Death just do? Does he do that often? It looked like he enjoyed it, and the very thought of taking pleasure in the taste of someone's blood — someone who is dying of a lack of it! — sends a horrid shiver down Auden's spine. Perhaps it's some sort of ritual, for the Reaper to drink the blood of the deceased? That sounds like some sort of demonic ceremony. He called Mori a demon, before… He can't really make up his mind about this, so he just stares at the deity like an idiot, a somewhat questioning-disgusted look on his face.

Auden is so stunned that Grim cannot help the laugh that bubbles out of him. Those big wet eyes are so perplexed at what they were just witness to; he is reminded of a baby seal. — “What is it? You look positively aghast.”

The big grin on his face is tainted with smudges of red. Auden opens his mouth, but he ends up closing it anyway. He blinks, shakes his head. It's nothing, he signals.

To that, there is no response. A moment stretches between the two, listening to the sounds of rain and Auden's hand rubbing at his face. There is blood under his nails.

“Well, to answer your question, since you won't answer mine — I am helping them,” — he states, bouncing them carefully to get a better grip on their body, — “is that not what you wanted? Would you prefer me to leave them here to rot?”

Auden shakes his head vehemently, though his eyes water and his face falls again at the confirmation of his perceived situation. He is going to dispose of the body. — “No, no, I do not want that, I am sorry, I’m, I-I just…”

Grim can see his throat closing up from where he stands. The angel’s sobs are choking him, barely letting him speak. What comes out is a fragile, quivering breath. — “Could… Could you please tell them that, h-how, that, that I am sorry? I, I am sorry that I could not save them? Please. A-And that I nev-ver, ever meant to hurt them? I-I, need them to know this, please…”

Oh, now that is just precious. He is so scared they won't forgive him. It warms Grim’s heart. — “So I am your messenger pigeon now, am I?”

Auden could never live with the thought that Mori died because of him and that they never even heard him apologise. The crushing guilt he feels will kill him if the last thing Mori was allowed to do was clean his body of filth, a slave from birth ‘till death, as they bled out, and Auden could never let them know how much more he thought of them, how in the short time he spent with them, they have entirely changed how he sees the world. Auden wanted to ask them so many things, he wanted to hear them talk and see them smile and help them and protect them, and he cannot keep living if they will never even know how much they meant to him.

It was only a few hours at best. Half of it was spent in terror, pain and confusion. But, Auden cannot help it; — when he sees an innocent, good soul suffer, he would give up everything he can to preserve their life. If Mori deserved half of what was done to them, then Auden deserves a hundred times worse. It's no wonder in his mind that he feels so strongly for them, even after such a short time; to him his duty is clear as day. That must be why he hurts so much, watching Death take them like he would any other perished mortal.

He sounds like he's demanding again, and he is starting to feel like that might be true. His thoughts vacillate. He goes quiet for a moment.

He's already kneeling. What else does he have to lose?

“Angel…” — the Reaper gasps, scandalised by what he sees.

The boy just keeps on thinking of new, outrageous ways to surprise him. He is bowing in front of him, putting his hands together in humble prayer. At his feet, showing obedience and loyalty, he supplicates to someone other than his Lord. He breaks another rule, disobeys another law, because what does it matter to follow divine law when he will never get to gaze upon his Heaven or be grazed by God's holy light again? What does anything matter, all that he does and thinks and finds right, in this upside down world of torment and perdition? Why was he even created, allowed to live, if he cannot even fulfill the one purpose he was made for? He is a failure, through and through, if he truly would rather hold onto dignity and loyalty to something he will never have the opportunity to be part of again — if he ever was — over what truly matters.

The Fallen closes his eyes, hiding from his own act of sacrilege. Behind his eyelids, he sees Mori, scared and alone, stuck inside their body, in darkness, feeling only the frigid touch of Death nearby. The image provides inspiration to continue what he began. — “I ask you, Grim Reaper, you who governs death, who ferries mortal souls to the beyond, to hear me. I need you as much as I fear you, but more than myself, I fear for the blameless soul in your arms, and ask… beg, that you find it in your endless might to allow my message to be heard, before they leave here and never return.”

This is prayer. He is praying to him. The angel has thrown away everything this very moment, broken down and empty, and prays as he would have — should have — done for no one else but his Lord. The rule, one that cannot be broken, of faith above all else, of belief and reverence and worship for nobody but their one true God, a law engraved so deeply into every angel's soul that even after death they cannot help floating towards light, no matter how far they have fallen; — he would betray his divine nature so easily; for a slave of Hell. For a single, inconceivably small speck of dust he barely knows. Absolutely astounding.

He wouldn't dream of cutting short this beautiful show of veneration. He waits patiently until the angel convinces himself to spit out the Amen, sealing the prayer as is customary, and waits longer still to see if he will say anything more. Temptation drives him to keep waiting until the Fallen crawls forward to kiss his feet or start making other desperate offerings of submission in the hopes that he grants his wish. Alas, time is not infinite.

“I think I may have a supposition about what the reason you were cast out may be,” — he crools belatedly,  — “I have to ask, angel; — are you mad?”

He must be, Auden is certain. He hears voices that aren't his own, he cannot understand things that are obvious and clear to anyone but him, he would give up everything for the smallest of rewards and do it all over again if the opportunity arose, he is an outlier and a failure and he is the only angel in existence that would choose to worship a bringer of death over spending all that is left of his life begging the Lord for forgiveness. No sane angel acts like this. No sane angel even thinks of doing this.

It feels impossible to squeeze any sort of a response out of himself. Lacking any other way to proceed, he bows low, all the way to the floor. His forehead touches the cold, sticky layer of Mori's blood below. It surprises even him, how little shame he feels. He doesn't really feel much of anything, unable to see past Mori's teary face in front of him. All he cares about is making sure they know someone will miss them, and remember them.

He is as close as he can physically be without touching the deity. His hair reaches for the toe of Grim's boot. He remembers how similarly Mori bowed before Death when they met, right before their hand was shattered bit by bit. He forces his hands still.

“I cannot tell if you were made too well, or made to fail. Your sense of duty flares so bright, it supersedes your faith. A disloyal angel: how paradoxically peculiar…” — Grim wonders aloud. Despite himself, he is a small bit awestruck at this rather sacrilegious turn of events. An angel that would willingly serve another god — oh, he knew this one would be special, he knew as soon as he had laid eyes on him! His old friend will have plenty to nibble on with this wretched little dove, what with all their mirrorisms. He cannot wait to finally introduce them.

With this, he wonders — what kind of angel would do something like this for someone like Mori? A fierce sense of protection, responsibility and righteousness, enough to rival faith. He does not have to think for long.

“You're a bit small for a Guardian, aren't you?” — he beamed, his tone patronising and wicked. — “A protector of the innocent. Justice is your flesh and self-sacrifice sweetens your veins. Mori is more than a companion to cling to in your darkest time of need, I see now. You chose them as your Dependant. What a brashly unfortunate decision that was.”

It wasn't a decision — he wants to scream those words at Death, for seeing through him so effortlessly, like he knows exactly what goes on in Auden's head. A decision would require conscious thought. It can be abandoned at any point. What he has made is a pact, and while he may have been somewhat conscious of his initial urge to protect, it's become something he cannot let go of, something that drives him crazy every day as long as it lasts, and that haunts him long after it's broken. He cannot help it, he can love no other way.

He wants to scream, but all that makes it out is a sound similar to a miserable choked off sob. The wings on his back are lopsidedly sliding off his back to soak on the floor instead, too exhausted to be kept neatly folded behind him.

The Reaper's laughter is a haunting melody ending in a good-natured sigh. — “Mm, well. I must admit, you have given me a taste of something new. My name is only spoken to pray me away by most. I am so used to ignoring pleas — but one so beautifully spoken I cannot ignore so easily.”

There is a pause, the sound of rain. Then, Death steps closer again, finding grip under the angel's chin with the toe of his blooded boot. He doesn't stop lifting until those gorgeous lavender eyes find his own; wide, frightened, full of life.

They look so alike.

“I will let them know,” — he promises, a fond smile telling of something sinister under his sincerity, — “you need not worry about a thing, little lamb.”

The angel crumbles like a house of cards, gratitude and grief spilling forth from him uncontrollably. Near unresponsive with his pain, he can only nod to show he can hear the Reaper's orders. Finish bathing, dry off, put on some clothes — further teasing about how unangelic it is of him to be bare in front of others so unapologetically — and wait for the Reaper to return.

Backing off, Grim watches the little one reach for the blood-soaked towel to drag close and bury his face in. He keeps the fabric close, reminded of his precarious nakedness so suddenly. He pulls his knees out from under him and up to his chest, shuddering with the force of his weeping, but so quiet, quieter still than Mori’s slowly beating heart.

Sorrow looks beautiful on him. Why else would he have been made this way, to feel so strongly, if not to show off all the beauteous shades of his torment?

The next time Auden lifts his head, he finds himself alone in the crimson bathroom. His cries have died down, his lungs have emptied themselves of anguish, and the Reaper has long disappeared into a black mist, bringing with Mori's body and soul, as if they were never even here to begin with. The water in the tub has gone cold, but he only notices after a couple minutes of numb soaking.

Mori will understand. They will know. The Reaper promised. That is all that matters.

<3

Mastelist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @sordayciega @a-miscellaneous-number-of-rats

@letitbehurt @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

Taglist (tagged in everything I write): @morning-star-whump @whumprince @a-living-canvas