Sorry for the time between updates, blame my friends as they are forcing me to take care of myself, take breaks, and work at an actually reasonable pace lol.
Can you tell why I called this part Old Wounds yet? XD so many past grievances from multiple people! We got Adam (who may be projecting about Lucifer a little bit), Emily (who's known these two for a majority of her life), then Lute and Vaggi (an eye for an eye...)
CW: female whumpee, female caretaker, painful wound cleaning, non-sexual nudity, burns, major injury (more details in tags to avoid spoilers)
Masterlist
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"It's over," the demon crooned, her voice a mockery of comfort.
She took her belt out of the angel's mouth, displeasure evident as she eyed the deep gouges their teeth left in the leather. "Your wounds are cleaned. I'm going to dry you off now."
It seemed that the angel didn't get a say in the matter. They were so weak that this demon could do just about anything to them, and they wouldn't be able to stop it.
But instead of any number of unpleasant things she could have done, what the demon did was just what she said. She patted the angel's skin with a soft towel, her touch more gentle than they thought demons capable of.
It was still agony. The angel was used to a form that didn't experience such sensations. Being forced into an approximation of the human form, with its exquisitely sensitive sensations of touch and pressure and pain, was a new experience for them.
It wasn't kindness. What use was a punishment, if the condemned couldn't fully appreciate it? The newness of the sensations made their entire body feel like a raw, flayed nerve.
The angel shuddered as the demon ran her claws through their hair and pushed it in front of their shoulder. The wicked sharpness of the claws made even a gentle touch feel like a threat.
They tried to remain silent as the demon began drying their back. Without the gag, they didn't quite manage to stifle their pitiful mewling noises.
"Sh," the demon admonished. Her voice didn't raise. It didn't need to, to get her threat across. Not when the slightest touch from her already sent shockwaves of pain through the angel's body. "I'm nearly done."
They did their best to keep quiet as the demon continued her work. She finished drying their back and came around to their front. She dried their arms, holding them so the angel couldn't flinch away as she dabbed at the pink-tinged water beaded on their skin. Then, she moved to dry their legs.
Seeing a demon kneel in front of them was an unexpected sight. How confident she was in her power over them, to put herself in such a vulnerable position! Her every move said I see you as no threat at all.
She patted their legs with the towel, soaking up all the moisture without chafing the fabric against their skin. She moved from their feet upwards, stopping before she reached the apex of their thighs.
She stood and dropped the damp towel in the angel's lap. "You can get the rest. I need to get a chair so I can start seeing what all needs treatment."
They grabbed the towel clumsily with stiff fingers and worked to finish what the demon had started. She hadn't touched the front of their torso, leaving the area from collarbone to groin for the angel to tend.
They pressed the towel against their skin and gasped in pain. Though the injuries here were less severe than those on their back— scraped skin from where she'd dragged herself along the pavement, rather than burns from her Fall— they still hurt. The soft skin of her chest and abdomen was somehow even more sensitive than the livewire feeling of her back and limbs. On top of that, her hands were more clumsy than the demon's, injured and unused to such tasks.
The angel set her jaw and kept going despite the tears it brought to her eyes. If she ever wanted to leave? To escape, when the demon finally showed her true intentions behind this front of kindness? They would need to be able to care for themself.
They clumsily patted at the unfamiliar curves of this form with the towel, ignoring the pain as best they could. The towel wiped away blood and water both; on the black cloth, the two were indistinguishable.
They finished the job to the best of their abilities just as the demon returned.
"I got some supplies, along with the chair," she said, holding up a hand. Dangling from it were several pendants that pulsed with magical power. "Healing charms. They won't fix you, not with as much damage as you've got, but they'll make the process easier."
The angel nodded, unsure of how else to respond.
The demon set down the chair and draped a fresh towel over it. "Out you come, dove. Let's see what the damage is."
She carried the angel out of the shower with the same unexpected care she'd used to carry them to her home. She arranged them on the chair so that they were sitting backwards, straddling the seat. Their chest rested on the towel-covered back of the chair, and their back was exposed to the room.
The demon sighed heavily. "Well, it's all clean now, at least. That's about the only good thing I can say about it. You've got partial-thickness burns across your upper back, and superficial burns extending onto your arms and lower back. Do they go…. yup, all the way down to your hands."
The angel fought down the urge to hide from the demon's assessing gaze. This was help, for whatever unknown reason it was being offered, and she couldn't jeopardize that.
The demon clicked her tongue. "The superficial ones aren't a long-term concern; they just hurt like— well. I suppose it would be insensitive to say that they hurt like hell."
She laughed. The angel didn't.
"Hmph. Anyway," the demon continued. "It's the partial-thickness burns that will need care. You've got blisters that need debridement. The charms will keep any infection at bay, but this is going to need cleaning and care for… a while. And then, there's your wings."
"They're gone," the angel whispered. "I know."
The demon's voice was grim when she replied, "No. They're not."
The angel jerked in surprise, then let out a yelp of pain. She bit her lip with a whimper, but turned to look at the demon. "They're not? I still have—?"
"No," she interrupted. "You don't still have them. Not all of them."
"What?"
The demon's mouth was set in a thin, hard line. "You have. Remnants. Whoever removed them didn't do it cleanly."
They felt the phantom grip of hands on their shoulders, forcing them down to their knees. They remembered the feeling of their feathers being ruffled out of place as they were gripped roughly, and then—
They swallowed down bile.
"And those remnants can't stay. They need to be amputated."
Imagine hitting a tiny winged whumpee with a flyswatter or even a badminton/tennis racket while they’re flying... their wings bent out of shape and body bruised from hitting the ground or table. Also imagine tying a tiny winged whumpee to a ceiling fan blade by a rope around their waist or attached to their collar. The fan is turned on and they have to fly fast to keep up. If (when) they get exhausted the fan will dizzily fling them around, maybe choke them too if they’re tied by the collar.
Oh no, poor baby! I love the mental image of this poor tiny whumpee desperately trying to avoid being hit, only to get whacked head on and land on the carpet, totally stunned. In my house, we’ve got this bug zapper that’s shaped like a tennis racket, but it electrocutes things... I can only imagine how that would go O.o
I recently gained some memories, maybe they’re familiar? When we were born, we weren’t born with wings. They would show up at varying ages, between 10-16 (using human years as a kind of reference). They would start to grow under the skin for about a year, and the process of them sprouting was long and painful, usually required about 4 angels, and the angel who did sprout wings was incapacitated with fever for a while. They always had mucus and blood and needed to be cleaned lots (1/2)
(2/2) The wings had to be cleaned up by an older angel to make sure the blood didn’t stain them forever, and it was somewhat tradition. The wings would move w/ the angels arms until they eventually got control of the wings, which varied for each person. The wings also shed Lots for the first year. Lots of clothes for the newly winged had large open backs to keep from irritation and making it easier to sleep w/ them
Can you tell us more about your wings? Like shape, how many, type of feathers, size etc. You’re really cool btw :)
I only had one pair to my knowledge!
They were black faded dark blue at the tips
When they were folded they made sort of a heart shape
But fully stretched it kinda looked like this?
I suck at explaining sorry
My feathers were really soft before I started to fight more often, but as I faught they became brittle and almost featherless (didn't help I plucked my feathers out of anxiety) and I was almost unable to fly
It was upsetting because despite the fact I was never very prideful I took great pride in my wings
But I loved them anyway and I occasionally draw them when I miss them
In the darkness of the attic, Thariel could hear voices. A conversing pair, one with a softer voice, and the other more stern.
“Didn’t realize aunt May had so much junk.”
“Now now, she was a collector, you know. Most of these figures could be sold for a pretty penny. Help me get these boxes opened up, will you?”
Footsteps, movement. Small talk of whatever trinkets they’d found interest in.
The angel curled herself tightly in the corner. Her back ached, a dull and distant throbbing, but that was the least of her concerns. There were people here. Mother’s family.
For hours they shifted through the house, all the while the angel cowered in her attic prison. She should have escaped when she had the chance, she’d just been a coward, and now they’re going to find her.
She was going to be chained up again. Those chains, they were going to burn, she was going to lose another part of herself, and it was her own fault.
One of them came up the stairs.
“Hey, I’m gonna see if she kept anything up here.”
“Let me know if you need help, dear.”
The door opened, and Thariel cringed, pressing herself harder into the wall. Like it could hide her, like it could do anything but box her in.
False light cut through the dark.
There’s a pause, a lull of silence where Thariel could only stay very, very still and pray that she wouldn’t be noticed.
The figure in the doorway was a human woman somewhere in her early thirties. Her attention, right now, was on the pair of shackles that were drilled into the ground. Two thick metal chains that were clasped around dried out, dead wings, with a handful of broken feathers scattered about them.
For the first time, Tharial saw the damage in its entirety. The base of each wing was burnt black, with jagged bone sticking out where she’d broken them. That must be what her back looked like right now.
“Uhh...mom? I think you should come see this...” The human came in closer, kneeling down to inspect the wings. They crackled when she touched them. “What the fuck...?”
Then, as if sensing Thariel’s gaze, she looked up.
A strangled gasp left her, and talons of ice coiled around the angel’s heart. Anger, she was angry, she was angry and Thariel would be punished for it.
“I-I’m sorry!” It comes out in a rush, and Thariel is on her knees, head bowed, her hands trembling on the hardwood floor in front of her. “Please, please, I’m sorry, I-I’ll behave, don’t- I didn’t, I just wanted out, I know that was bad, I’ll stay here, you don’t have to- please don’t, please, I’m sorry-”
“Woah, woah, what- who are you? What are you...oh God, you’re hurt.”
It hit the woman, all at once, what she was seeing. Those broken wings on the floor. The darkened, jagged bones sticking up out of this stranger’s back.
She came closer, and Thariel buckled, falling completely to the ground in a shaking, sobbing heap. “Please, please...”
The human softened her voice, lowering it to little more than a murmur. “Hey, it’s okay. What are you doing up here? What happened?”
“I’m sorry-!”
She put a hand on Thariel’s shoulder, just letting it rest there. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
The other woman came through the door, stopping mid-step when she caught sight of the attic’s contents. She was older, in her fifties, younger than May but not by far.
“...Sam?” she asked, the tone of her voice hitching upward in alarm.
The girl with her hand on Thariel’s shoulder, Sam, answered. “I think this is an angel.”
Sam’s mother reacted in much the same way as Sam herself. “Oh, God...what happened here?”
Her words rang in the air. She didn’t get an answer.
