#self deprication tw | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whumpitisthen · 1 year ago

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Mori

Previous I Masterlist I Next

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wait, wait — !"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Angelll…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Angel.”

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

“Look at me.”

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

“Go to your room.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What a pathetic excuse for a Guardian Angel.’

He does not disagree.

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

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

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seldomscilence16 · 1 year ago

Text

Whumptober Day 3:

"Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon."

Journal | solitary confinement | "make it stop."

Fandom: Voltron

Prompt used: All

Soooo this ones a little intense- at least to me as I write this. Its never specified but Lance is alone for awhile, so tread carefully just in case. I think I may do a continuation on one of the other days for this one so keep a look out if you like this one.

TW for self harm, and Torture

...

There was little light in the room. He'd tried to figure out where it was coming from, scratched at the lips in the walls until his nails were broken and bleeding. He'd decided they simply glowed.

There was no window, and the door disapeared- no it blended in, it had to be there still it had to, it could just be gone that made no sense- after that first day. That first day when he'd woken up, confused and in pain, and had a strange alien come in and speak to him. He couldnt tell you everything they said, broken translator glitching every couple words or other sentence. But it was an experiment, and a punishment.

Lance wanted to go home.

"Journal entry uh… whatever. The water and bread like stuff appeared when I passed out again, I dont remember falling asleep… It tastes weird, but they got angry when I didnt consume it before… the walls are still glowing… or maybe it is dark and Im going crazy… how many days has it been journal? Why… what did I… its not like your gonna answer anyway…"

His head hits the wall with a solid thump, the sound better than when all he can hear is bodily functions, so he does it again. And again, until his ears ring and his head aches, and the noise has blended in too much to be different and he stops. His heart and head beat to the same toon, he holds his breath to stop hearing the inflation of his lungs only for the beating to get louder. Frustrated tears come to his eyes as he releases the breath in a shout, which turns into an angry yell as he turns and pounds his tender fists into the wall.

Its not the first time, there are smears of blood- old and new- from his many little moments. He thinks hes allowed such moments after all, locked up for who knows how long with no interaction. He cant even talk to Blue, the thin connection in his soul the only thing telling him shes okay. In the beginning, he equated his moments to Keith, when he went ham on the training gladiatiors. But now… staring at his ruined fists, and wall still intact besides the smears, he feels as pathetic as ever.

He knows for a fact the rest of the team would have found a way out by now. Pidge's curiousity and spite always leads her to solutions of some kind. Hunk would have found out how this box worked and rebuilt it ten times over. Keith would have samuraied his way out of course, and Shiro would probably find this childs play. But really the main difference… is they arent him. Lance did something wrong. Lance was stupid and weak and easily caught. Lance hasnt been able to find a way out. Lance- is referring to himself in third person. Again.

He deserves to be here. The team hasnt found him yet, blue is out of range, and Lance is being punished for something. He wouldnt want any of them in his situation anyway, theyre probably off saving the universe still, probably relieved hes gone. He… he hopes theyre getting enough sleep. That Pidge isnt stuck with her face in a screen, refusing to sleep. That Hunk isnt spreading himself thin, and bottling things up. That Allura is recharging her quintessence, and taking care of herself and not pushing too hard on her own mind and the teams. That Coran isnt lonely and doing everything by himself. That Shiro is remembering to laugh and relax and chill. That Keith isnt isolating himself and training to death and…

He misses them.

Lance thought that… even if he never saw Earth again, never saw his parents again, thatd at least, the last thing he saw would be his friends- his space family- safe and alive. Not some creepy alien, or the four same walls, but the people he cares about. He knows… he knows he wasnt their first choice. That Blue deserves better, the team deserves better. But… he still loves them so much. He just wanted to know they were okay.

A stinging sensation disrupts the static ache hes fallen into, his motions drag like paper through water and he looks down at his arms. His nails, brittle and broken and cracked, have still managed to drag angry red lines across his arms. Blood and that watery fluid have bubbled to the surface in some areas, and he feels a detached sort of dissapointment. His nose whistles.

The not bread and the ucky water have appeared again. Hes on his side, he doesnt remember falling asleep, from how tired he feels, hes not even sure he can call it that. He knows they get mad when he ignores the susstenance, but he can only stare at it blankly. What was the point anyway? If he was just gonna keep waking up here, he didnt want to anymore.

He thinks he counts for moment, to determine how long it takes them to get mad, but when he tunes back in to his own brain hes simply repeated the same line of lyrics over and over. He cant recall the song, or any other lyrics, and all its really doing is annoying him, but he cant find the energy to yell at his brain to stop.

'One. I can count to one. Two. I can count to two. Three. I can count to three. Four. I cant count no more. I can only count to four, I can only count to four, I can only count fooouuuurrrr-'

The room brightens and Lance tenses as a noise fills the room. But the noise was always there, a ringing in his ears, but it grows louder and higher until everything is screaming. He hold his hands over his ears, finds a warm wetness with undertones of crusty, his mouth is open his throat feels shredded, hes curled up as much as his ribs will allow- they poke out, he can see where theyre wrong, they warp as the noise increases. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, tears streak his face, he cant see anything, theres red in his blurred vision before it whites out completely, a warmth below his nose. Shivers wrack his tense body as the cold he'd been trying to ignore sets in bone deep.

"P'ease…m…m-make it… st…stop…"

He doesnt know when he went limp, eyes open but seeing nothing, the ringing is everywhere, the feeling of liquid drying on his skin makes him itch, but he cant even twitch.

"M'ke it st…stop. Make eh stop… make it stop." A sob from deep in his chest, voice hoarse, everything hurts. "Make it stop please."

He couldnt even tell you if he'd actually spoken, or if wordless noise escaped a ruined throat. The pounding of his heart, the ringing of his ears, nothing seemed to exist past that.

Warmth on his cheek, he must be crying again…

Pressure on his back, his shoulder thanks him for rolling over, he cant recall doing it.

Something touches his neck.

He flinches violently, surprising himself and whoevers touching him. He throws his arms up, his back now against the stupidly familiar walls.

"Make it stop! I dont want to anymore! Just kill me already, Make it stopmakeitstopmaKEITSTOP!!"

Something rumbles in his mind, loud enough to block all the stupid noises, filled instead with crashing waves and warm sand, foreign yet familair.

"Lance." He flinches, he can only half hear what was said, head in a fishbowl of water and one ear clogged, but it was definetly his name…

"Leandro, please look at me hermano."

Tears bubble in his eyes as he realizes what this is.

Hes lost it completely.

Hes halucinating now. Maybe it really is finally the end-

"Lance please." It sounds so broken, she should never sound like that-

He looks up.

The door. It did exist, lying in sparking pieces as it is. Shiro is in the doorway, face drawn in concern, galra arm still smoking from whatever he used it for. Behind him Keith is glaring down his sword at something Lance cant see. Infront of him however, curled up in the too small room, knees an inch from his own, back bowed so his head wont hit the ceiling, arm brushing the smaller one next to him. Two sets of warm eyes, wet with tears and dark with bags, look at him with mournful sadness and yet, tentative hope, relief.

The tears spill over, his lips wobble as he sobs,

"Make it stop please. I cant handle it if youre not really here. Please."

"We're here buddy. Hermano, we're here. Give me your hand Lance, I promise we're real." Hunks voice wavers with emotion, Lance knows he's seconds from breaking down.

"We're late, but we're here Lance. Please." Pidges voice is small, hand held out beside Hunks, both tremble.

Lance is going to regret it. He is. He's gonna regret it.

His hands- cold, achey, maybe broken, filthy- meet the warm calloused palms of his friends. He slumps forward like his string have been cut, but the two dutifully catch him. Warmth. Not from blood or tears, but from real people. Lances eyes slipped closed, feeling safe for a moment, if he wakes up alone… at least he got to see their faces one last time…

>>next

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