#SCREAMING TO THE HEAVENS AND PRAYING

[suez-enirehtak-all]

three week break = choso gets to live for three more weeks

[beheamothscreamoth]

Clearing out my phone space, and I came across this fanart of Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji that I wanted to share! :D I remember that I saw this hanging in an airport in Italy-

(Credit to Hailey Morales, the original artist! Their name is cut off in the corner askjsfa-)

[boxwinebaddie]

oh freckle, freckle⠁.. what makes you so s p e c i a l?

[kavehayati]

Ppl be like oh injecting whatever drug into my veins or whatnot but for me I’m just injecting Kaveh in my veins

“I need him so bad😆” I need him in my veins 👹 now I’m not sure exactly what that constitutes and what me injecting him in my veins even looks like but I just know it’s something I have to do 😓

[jasanis-world]

I want to scream!!!!!

Scream to the clouds there they say the heavens is at.

I pray!!!

Pray!!!!

For this problem goes away,

For us to win this stupidity claim,

For our name is clean from this snake of a people,

For our family to have strength.

[blood-smiles]

𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐇𝐘𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐖 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 — NSFW!! Reader doesn’t use any pronouns but is described to have a strap . Sex in a field . Exhibitionist yandere .

You originally thought that Briar, your weird cow-man was just a dumb bimbo. Turns out you were sorely mistaken. He was a bimbo with an exhibition kink.

You thought all was good for a while, it was just a normal day on the farm for you. You know, like fixing brooms that Briar accidentally snapped in two, feeding the cows and now watching… Briar dry humping your pillow.

The bed boards shrieked in pain under his heavy weight, one of your precious pillows stuffed between his meaty thighs, the Jean fabric of his overalls now dampened with a wet patch.

He didn’t even notice you standing in the door way, he was far too busy chasing his high. Pathetic whines and gasps fell from his mouth, his hands tightened so hard around your pillow you heard the fabric rip.

That was your last straw, you kicked off your boot and chucked the thing at the back of his head.

“BRIAR!!” You growled, stomping up to him and grabbing the same boot and holding it above your head to beat him with it.

He cried out, his hand holding the back of his head in mock pain, he didn’t even notice it was you.

He had gotten so close to cumming and you just had to ruthlessly take it from him. He let out an impatient whimper, his ears pinned back against his head.

“Whyyy!!” He cried, still rocking his hips on your pillow. You gasped, appalled. You raised your foot and kicked him off your pillow.

“You degenerate cow.” You seethed with fury, grabbing him by the horn and forcing him out your room. 

He moaned at your rough treatment of his horns, trying to steer closer to you, hoping to at least be allowed to hump your leg.

You muttered under your breath, searching the cabinets of your kitchen for something he couldn’t quite see, before stuffing it in your hand and shoving the drawer closed with a loud bang.

He allowed you drag him all the way out to the pastures, where you kicked him straight in the knee and pinned him to the ground, your chest heaved with adrenaline and anger.

Briar’s eyes glimmered with unshed tears, desperate and aroused. Begging, praying for just the smallest taste of heaven.

Your knee was pressed right below his crotch, you were basically giving him what he wanted—No, what he needed. 

He grinned his hips on your knee, biting his lip to stifle the soft sounds that were bound to come out if you moved your leg.

“Fine. Is that what you want?” He nodded his head fervently, letting wrists fall limp under your hold, submitting himself completely to you.

The grass blades underneath irritated his skin, but he couldn’t care less when he had you exactly where he wanted you.

It was like Briar blinked and his clothes were gone, the bell attached to the collar around his neck tolled with his movements.

Briar let you grab his legs, gently resting them on your shoulders even though he doubled you in size, his cock rested on his stomach, pearls of pre cum dribbling down and pooling into his navel.

He let out a little scream when you gently pried his ass open, letting him think that you were going to let him get his way until you mercilessly shoved the fake dick inside him.

It really was surprising how loudly he reacted, for being so big you thought that your strap would feel like just putting a finger inside himself.

You pressed your body on the back of his thighs, slowly driving your cock deeper into him, just about stopping at the knot, thinking that he might not be able to handle it.

You raised your gaze away from his twitching holes, to find that his expression was just so incredibly beautiful.

He looked ruined, absolutely debauched from a single touch. His eyes rolled so far back into his head you could see most of the white of his eyeballs. Drool seeped out the corner of his mouth, lips parted open and choking on air.

You scoffed. What a fucking loser.

You had stopped moving in place, debating whether or not to even dare speak to him. Huffing, you decided that he didn’t deserve the slightest bit of praise or respect for taking you so well despite it being his first time.

Not after he had ruined your newly washed pillow. The memory of him bucking into your pillow like he was entitled to your things just made fury sap through your being.

You hugged his thighs, hips moving forwards at a constant pace, not even giving the cow any time to rest. He didn’t respect your fucking pillow, so why should you respect him?

Briar grinned in bliss, tears flowing down his cheeks in pleasure, his long, mismatched eyelashes sticking together when he blinked.

This was what he wanted, you forcefully taking what you wanted from him. his head lolled to the side lazily, mewling pornographically when you hit that one spot inside him.

He wanted you inside his warm pussy, but even he knew that he didn’t deserve it. Not after purposefully ignoring your orders and disrespecting you.

His gaping cavern pulsed painfully, he wanted more, more. His fingers dug into the dirt, soil entering the underside of his nails.

His tits started leaking from the stimulation of his ass, his brain was melting into mush in your hands, he was too lazy to think, he didn’t want to, Briar just wanted you to take control from him.

He saw a man.. Was it that guy that visited you too often? The man barely peeked from behind the fencing, eyes wide and face flushed in embarrassment at the scene.

Briar smiled sluggishly at the figure, slowly sticking out his tongue at the onlooker. This feeling was strange but exhilarating, having others watch how he and his darling made love.

He watched through bleary eyes as the other man ran away, not being able to handle a second longer of such view.

Briar’s eyes came back to watch you, finding it adorable how much you wanted to bury yourself deep in his guts.

Briar screamed even louder this time, you kept pummeling his g-spot harder each time, it was like you were angry with him.

He laughed between tears, he loved it. He loved you. The sun shone brightly, as if in approval at the degenerate scene below it.

You grabbed his horns again, Briar felt a hot flash of pain and pleasure below. His hole stretched around the knot of your strap, now fully taking you to the base. His full ass pressing against the bones of your hips.

You grabbed the flesh of his bottom roughly, kneading the taut meat with your palm before slapping it roughly and observing it recoil from the hit of your hand.

You watched with thinly veiled awe how his fat hole took your strap completely, You didn’t wait to slam into him yet again, waiting to see what his reaction was.

“mmmnnnn yes!!~” he whimpered, his body beginning to move too, eagerly meeting you halfway, the sound of skin slapping filled the peaceful silence of the green meadow.

With one final thrust of your hips, Briar lost all sense, his legs dismounted from your shoulders, wrapping around your waist and forcefully pulling you deep inside him.

The stretchy muscle of his rectum opened wider to swallow you completely, he squirmed and gasped at every ridge and bump of your strap.

He came all over his chest, his semen mingling with watery milk, making a strange, disgusting concoction of bodily fluids.

If Briar thought that this was over, he was sorely mistaken.

You didn’t let him catch a breather, you hoisted him up, Briar helping with lifting his body up, blindly trailing behind you like a faithful follower.

He found himself between the gap of a fence, tail wagging between his legs excitedly, waiting for your next move.

Your hand gently massaged his clit, drawing circular motions on the extremely sensitive bud. Briar’s muscles tightened, wanting now more than ever to be filled up by you.

He knew that anyone could walk by right now and catch the both of you once again. But that was what made it so much hotter for him, the adrenaline of a risky situation burned through his veins like electricity.

The tip of your dick teased his pussy, spreading his folds open and letting him feel the soft breeze of air combing through the pastures.

Then he felt the searing pleasure of your cock parting him open, this felt so much more different than being fucked from behind.

His tummy felt full, his thighs trembled and felt as if his legs would give out from below him at any moment. He was about to start crying again.

Your hands held onto his hips firmly, coercing him into pounding himself back onto your strap. You spanked his ass again, this time so hard that your hand left an apple red mark on his skin.

“Haa—ngh.. Harder!!” He pleaded, holding onto the white fencing for dear life. You listened this time, speeding up your thrusts.

Briar felt the tip of your dick kissing his cervix, bruising his insides, he was sure that his needy pussy has already molded into the shape of you.

His tongue lolled out, saliva freely spewing from his mouth, webs of drool sliding down his chin and neck.

“Please—Please..Cum inside!! Nnnhhh— Make me a mommy!~” 

You let go of his hips, your illiacs were flushing dark shade, a warning from your own body that your hips would be bruised later.

His wet, gummy walls tightened around your strap, he was going to cum soon. His pussy pulsed and squelched with juices, contracting so hard that you could feel the plastic bending inside him, his tail twitched and twisted, wrapping around your thigh and squeezing snuggly.

Briar saw stars, oversaturated colors danced in his vision, and with one final scream of your name he came, he came hard and fast, your hands held onto his broad and full chests, squeezing so hard that milk sprayed everywhere.

You counted, it had been… what? Two minutes?

His body slumped against the fencing, you gently pulled out of him, cleaning your strap off with his flannel.

Your hand gently patted his back, helping him out and back onto his feet, your fingers gently pet his ears in an attempt to console him while helping him dress.

“You okay?” You gently asked, trying to peek at his expression, which was covered under his thick locks of hair.

He nodded a little, raising his head the slightest bit. His eyes were slightly wide and dazed, as if he had discovered something and he would not let it go.

“I’m..I’m going to misbehave more frequently.” He giggled, leaning onto you and almost squashing you under him.

“I’m never touching you again.” You scowled, pushing him away “..freak.” You smiled subtly.

“You smiled!!” The easily excited cow announced, his finger poking your cheek “That was the cutest thing ever!! Smile again! Cmon!!” And just like that, he forgot about misbehaving ever again.

“I did not.” You deadpanned, frowning.

“You totally did!! I’m going to keep that picture in my mind forever!” Briar beamed brightly, messing up your hair with his hand.

“Whatever..” you looked away, not letting him see that you had, in fact, smiled once again behind his back.

[sunnyjeon]

Jagiya?

(Wonwoo Imagines) A drabble, fluff!

Inspired by the video below and my alarm-Wonwoo's Jagiyaa, during a concert! This is so random, sorry I miss Wonwoo a lot. Thank you for all the love on my recent drabble! I hope you like this, Wonwoorideuls. Fighting! ⋆˚ 𝜗🐈‍⬛𝜚˚⋆

Wonwoo accidentally discloses your relationship during a game on set. Everyone is left in stunned silence before bursting into laughter and teasing him relentlessly. Embarrassed but taking it in pride, Wonwoo’s slip-up leads to some fun moments and a lot of ice cream.

“Park Bo Gum!” Hurriedly, Seungcheol answers.

The group erupts in celebration. This was not new to them– a game where you had to name the picture within three seconds after being presented by the host. What’s new is that more than half of the team are somehow getting worse at this no matter how many times they play. And for some reason, the box of free ice cream makes them act like it's a prize worth a million dollars.

Feeling pressured, Wonwoo’s heart beats rapidly. The tension in the air thickens and the members hold hands in anticipation. If they continue to get the last few right, it’s a win. There’s still a few more cards left to identify and he prays it won’t be enough to reach him. 

Dino got it barely on time. But he still got it, nonetheless. Seungkwan went next and as expected, he got it right. Mingyu stood tall beside him with arms crossed as he answered confidently. The group goes into chaos as the staff reveals that they’re left with the last card– Wonwoo’s card. 

The members circle around him. Jun and Minghao thank the heavens that it didn’t land on them. Dino laughs at this sight. 

Vernon pats Mingyu’s back congratulating him. Jeonghan soothes Wonwoo’s arm as Seungcheol massages his shoulders like he’s preparing for a fight. 

DK holds Wonwoo’s collar as he shakes him, “Hyung, jebal. My mouth is watering.” 

“Hyung, you got this.” Seungkwan emerges beside him. “Let’s get it!” Joshua adds.

“Yaa~ Wonwoo let’s gooo!” A tiger roars, hugging an annoyed Woozi. 

The staff motioned them to get ready. Getting dizzy because of the tension (and from DK’s shaking) he closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. The group clings to Wonwoo, both of his arms being held by the members. He gulps and nods as the staff picks the million dollar picture. 

They take the card, showing it to the group of producers who are nodding and giggling for some reason. His manager peeks a glance and shakes his head. This sends him sweating. Is it someone he doesn’t know? An international artist? Are they going to lose because of him? 

He grits his jaw, nostrils flared, ready to give it his all. He’s going to try, he’ll get it. He just has to focus. His zeroes out, head empty, ears ringing, eyes glued on the card as it’s being passed on. It reaches to the host, it turns. And the card reveals— you? 

Meaning to say your name, he shouts the first thing that comes to mind. 

“JAGIYAAA!!!” 

Silence. Everyone stares at him in disbelief.

The host– who was about to start counting, closes his mouth, aghast. Like everyone in the room, they all stood rigid. Surprised? Confused? Amazed? Astonished? The air conditioning rings louder than their breaths.

But Wonwoo? He’s ecstatic. His arms break free from his members’ hold as he fists the air in victory. His smile is bright and wide as the picture stares back at him– it’s you at a recent award show. He knows, because he was there. He clapped and cheered for you when your name was announced, he shed a tear with you as you gave your speech, he gave you an “I told you so,” at the after party because he knows. He knows you, more than anyone in this room does. 

His hopeful expression falters as the silence stretches on, his mind catching up with the confusion in the room. Seungkwan was the first to speak, through gritted teeth he asked “Jagiya?”. 

Wonwoo’s eyes widened. Pabo! he thinks. “Y/L/N! Y/L/N! Y/L/N! ” He screams your name on repeat, hands clasped as he pleads for consideration. Technically, they haven’t done the count down and he did correct it within three (it was five) seconds. So they didn’t lose, right? 

A bewildered Mingyu pouts. “Hyung, how did I not know! I feel betrayed!” Wonwoo looks at him, head turning–  confused. He didn’t know you? Impossible! You did a challenge together! 

Vernon interrupts in amazement, “Jagiya? Wow, Michyeosseo.” 

Wonwoo’s face flushes bright red as the realization hits him. “Oh.” He hasn’t told them about you yet. Jagiya? He must be out of his mind! On camera too! He covers his face in embarrassment, face burning hotter the more he thinks about you. He he holds his breath, feeling all the butterflies weaken his knees, he dramatically pretends to pass out. 

His reaction sends the room erupting into claps, whistles, and laughter. The teasing is going to be relentless. But at least they know now. The hard part is over. He shuts his eyes, resigning to his fate. Still lying on the floor, he slowly uncovers his face, his cheeks still flushed bright red. 

He looks up at the camera, a sheepish smirk drawn on his face. "We still get the ice cream, right?” He winks. 

They absolutely lost it that day. 

[nxtaliaistyping]

Dick Grayson recording you both having sex

18+ nsfw, like one spank

He's the kind of guy to get off on noise, whether it's in person: you screaming his name as he can hear beneath your whimpers the squelch of your drenched cunt as he thrusts deep inside you. Or when you both are apart: phone pressed tight to his ear so he can hear your fingers rubbing tight circles on your sloppy clit, breathy and whiny as you tell him how much you miss him, how much you want him home and in your bed, touching you instead of having to touch yourself.

So when the topic of sex tapes and the like came up, you joking that he's gotta have made a sex tape at some point in his life, he smirks as he asks if you wanna try. But not a visual one. At your confusion, he seeks to show you what he means.

His phone lays just at the side of your shoulder, jolting with every movement of the mattress as Dick fucks you rhythmically. Thighs pressed against your chest, the speakers of the phone pick up all the whines and moans being pounded out of you as your boyfriend keeps thrusting over and over again. He moans too, never a quiet lover, feeling the heaven which is your pussy wrapped so tightly around him.

"Come on baby, tell me how it feels. It's good, huh? Tell me." he practically begs you, hair sticking to his forehead as he keeps moving, relishing in your verbal confirmation; the little whiny gasps of it's so good dick, as you slur your words a little when he hits a particularly good spot.

"Yeah that's it, that's my pretty girl. Takin' my cock like a champ, you always do."

He prays in that moment the phone is picking up the soft plap plap plap of his hips slamming into your ass, the wet noises emanating from your cunt joining them in a sinful cacophony. Just for added effect, he spanks your ass for the loud noise that rings out from his hand, as well as the small shriek of surprise that falls from your lips.

Turns out the recording is useful, as two weeks later he's in Gotham for a few days helping Bruce tie up some loose ends with some weapons caches belonging to Penguin, but the need for you grows after a couple of lonely nights in the manor without you there warming his bed. So he stuff his earphones in and presses the audio recording you both made, and the result is instant.

He's hard as a rock in his pants, and while his plan was to palm himself at the first few minutes of the audio, all it takes is a particularly delicious moan after a hard thrust from you to have him shoving his boxers down impatiently. Hand around his shaft, he starts to pump in time with the recording's pace, imagining you there with him as both of your moans and words fill his ears.

He cums with a long drawn out moan, spilling all over his chest, grateful he pulled his shirt up just in time. While he catches his breath, he turns the phone camera on and snaps a pic of the mess he just made, before opening up your message logs and pressing send, along with the caption

'How i get from hearing my pretty girl being fucked <3'

[kidicaruslover911]

a/n: I put wife/gf on these women depending on how much I personally like them and on some it’s just fitting for the situation but girl feel free to imagine whatever you want 😭

gf!vi who, whenever you’re outside and need to leave for a second or have to take care of something even if minor, insists on holding your purse for you often trying to figure out how to not look like she just stole it, gf!vi who blows air into your ear to tease you and gf!vi who gets all proud and won't stop smiling whenever a kid swoons over how pretty you are- eyes turning soft yet envious green as soon as it's followed with an innocent marriage proposal, because hey! so that's not how things work; sorry, she has to inform the child that this lady right here, is taken. believe it :p

gf!sevika who is sick and tired of your need to be hyper independent (she understands dw) and who literally has no idea how she’s supposed to be courting you if you won’t even let her hold the door for you. “FREE YOU” (she will) she screams, begs and prays internally every single day, trying to ease you into letting her handle things for you and gf!sevika who’s trying to make you understand that she truly isn’t your enemy and quite literally is on her hands and knees, ready to dote to your every need 24/7 (when she can)

gf!mel who will literally be letting you in on all her products and shares them with you, gf!mel who will also be applying lotion and oils onto your skin to have you radiating just as much as her if not even more. plus she has you smelling like heaven so- gf!mel who will be (if you have any) retwisting your locs whenever it is needed and gf!mel who loves to go jewelry thrifting with you and will apply your lip combo for you

gf!lest who affectionately refers to you as her miss/lady, many times also when conversing with others, gf!lest who you share cigarette kisses with, gf!lest who gently scratches your back with her long onyx colored nails and gf!lest who will trace and kiss all over your moles, pointing out how you must’ve had an indubitably fierce and fiery lover in a past life, joking about how she’ll have to kiss you all the more for you to be covered in thousands of them in a next lifetime…

wife!ambessa whose silver kinky locks you love to comb through lovingly whenever she’s getting ready for the day, wife!ambessa who has you putting on a fashion show for her whenever she’s bought you another few tons worth of clothes, wife!ambessa who keeps a leg between your thighs when the two of you share a bed- not always in a sexual manner, it’s simply a habit of hers, it's comfortable and your legs often end up tangled with one another, and wife!ambessa who has a thing for neck tattoos, especially those that rest at the base of the nape

gf!jinx who'll be in a full blown fight with someone talking about how she really can't be messing around with them for too long this time around because she promised her girl she'd be back at xy o'clock, gf!jinx who’s eyes bulge out after throwing her jacket onto a puddle just for you to walk around it😭, gf!jinx who will be experimenting with crazy makeup looks on you and gf!jinx who seems to sleep like a dead person, yet who's grip tightens as soon as she feels you slipping away from her; either that or she instinctively moves closer to you whenever she senses some sort of unwanted distance between your bodies

wife!caitlyn who places her hand on your knee/thigh, thumb caressing slow circles on it while repeating she will be paying that damn restaurant bill- and everything else actually; put your purse away girl, what do you think this is??? wife!caitlyn who isn't the best at posing for pictures and who every single time opts to find your eyes, using them as a point of focus as she always ends up getting lost in them; like this, she never has a bad photo, especially when you're within the frame, always looking at you, a stare that is ever loving and tender

[svelish]

2 with pregnant!reader unable to get her cravings

⤷ god I love these types of ideas 🙏🏻

˚₊۶ 𝑃𝑅𝑂𝑀𝑃𝑇 𝐿𝐼𝑆𝑇 ৎ˙⋆

2. "Your pouts ain't going to work on me." , "If I kiss you, will you stop pouting?

It’s 2:47 a.m.

You know because you’ve been staring at the digital clock for the past seventeen minutes, hoping—praying—that your craving would just magically disappear.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach twists in protest. Your body is warm under the covers, but your tastebuds? They’re screaming for something specific. And by specific, you mean irrationally impossible.

You roll over with a groan, belly full and round, and nudge Billie with a soft, “Babe…”

She doesn’t move.

You try again, more desperate this time. “Baaaabe.”

She stirs, making a soft little grumble, voice thick with sleep. “Wha’s wrong? You okay?”

“I need chocolate-dipped potato chips.”

Billie blinks blearily, one eye barely cracking open. “…What?”

You pout.

“I need them, B.” You’re not whining—but you are. You shuffle up into a seated position with effort, hand resting on your bump, trying not to cry about something that would be completely ridiculous if you weren’t 32 weeks pregnant and operating under the hormonal chaos of carrying a tiny human.

Billie finally rolls onto her back and rubs her face. “Baby, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.”

She squints at you. “The stores are closed.”

“I know.”

“Do we have any at home?”

“No,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I ate them yesterday.”

Billie sighs, long and slow, but not annoyed. Just adjusting to the situation like the seasoned partner she’s become over the past few months. She turns her head toward you, blinking up at your pout in the dim light from your nightstand.

“Your pouts ain't going to work on me,” she says, voice scratchy, lips curling into a half-smile.

You blink at her, lip trembling. “I think I’m gonna cry.”

“Oh no, don’t do that.” She shifts up immediately, groaning as she sits. “You’re seriously gonna cry over potato chips?”

“I don’t want to,” you murmur, lower lip jutted out. “But I want them so bad. My mouth hurts.”

Billie chuckles and scoots closer to you, cupping your face with both hands. “If I kiss you, will you stop pouting?”

You nod slowly, big eyes pleading.

She kisses you. Gently, sweetly. Her lips brush yours with the kind of love that makes you forget about all the frustration for a moment. And then she kisses your nose. Then your forehead. “There,” she says. “Better?”

You sigh. “A little.”

She stands up and stretches, yawning. “Alright, gimme a sec.”

You blink. “Where are you going?”

“To the kitchen. I’m gonna try to make some. We have chips, and I think there’s chocolate somewhere in the cabinet.”

Your eyes widen. “You’d do that?”

She looks at you like you’ve just insulted her. “I carried you to the car in the rain last week because you wanted a Slurpee. You think I wouldn’t melt some chocolate for my pregnant wife at 3 a.m.?”

You watch her shuffle out of the room in nothing but her boxers and one of your oversized sleep shirts that barely covers her thighs. The sight makes you giggle softly, despite the ache in your belly and the ridiculous craving still tormenting you.

Fifteen minutes later, Billie returns triumphantly with a plate. It’s a mess—chocolate half-drizzled, some chips broken—but it smells like heaven. You gasp, reaching for it like it’s a sacred offering.

“Don’t judge the presentation,” she says, crawling into bed beside you.

You take a bite, groaning dramatically. “Oh my god.”

Billie watches you like you’re the center of her universe. “Good?”

“Heavenly.”

You rest the plate on your bump and feed her one. “Here. You deserve it too.”

She smiles, licking a smudge of chocolate from her thumb. “You better save me a couple. I didn’t walk across cold tile in the dark to be left snackless.”

You lean into her, full and satisfied now, the craving finally quieted.

“You’re the best,” you mumble against her shoulder.

Billie kisses your temple. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You giggle, mouth full. “And you’re lucky I love you too.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can I request headcanons for Vergil, and Dante react to his gn s/o who always makes it a habit to tell him that they love him whenever they can like when they wake up, before going to sleep, before they leave, and when they return please?

Dante

heaven is real and it goes by your name.

he loves nothing more then coming home to you waiting for him, holding his face in your hands as you tell him you were happy he was home safe, how you love him, as all he could do was hold you tight and praying that you don't slip from his grip.

never let him wake up from this beautiful reality he mamanged to fall deep into, this beautiful reality that you had made beautiful by just a few simple acts.

dante reciprocates you 'i love you's' with his own eagerly, treating each and every 'i love you' that escapes your lips as though it were made of pure gold, like he would never hear it again, and how does he reciprocate them exactly? by kissing your lips in thanks.

you say 'i love you' in the morning, head rested on his chest, looking gorgeous in your early morning mess, voice barely above a whisper? Dante is quick to peck your lips repeatedly as you laugh at how silly and loveable he was being, yet it was one of the many things that left you warm ans smiling for the entirety of the week.

you say 'i love you' to him before he leaves for a mission, confident in his abilities and know for certain he was coming home to you, holding his calloused hand between your own, showing him that while you believed in him and his unique abilties after so long.

you still had your worries as his lover, his other half, his soulmate that only showed him how deep your love went for him, deeper then what words could ever convey. Dante would reassure your worries with a few well placed hisses as he hold you to his chest, muttering against your head 'love ya too cuddle bug, keep the bed warm for me, wear my old coats, anything if it makes you feel better.'

all before forcing himself to pull away as he mourned the loss of your warmth for the duration of the mission, wishing for it to hurry up so he could go back home to you, even going so far as to make his thoughts known vocally. 'can we finish this right now? i've got a date with the warmest, most comfiest bed to make promise of.' the bed in this scenario is you.

you tell him you love him before drifting off to sleep? feeling so warm by his bodily heat and inable to let him go even an inch? Dante will coo and cuddle closer to you as he pepers kisses across your face before finally your lips.

'don't wander too far sweetheart.' he'd murmur in a tone unlike his usual and overused one. he means it when he tells you not to wander too far from him, for he fears that this is all a dream he'll never truly got to live out entirely.

and dante didn't want that, he wanted to stay here with you for as long as he could, to finally get a taste of the domestic lifestyle in your own uniue way of having strawberry sundaes and pizza to your heart's content. sure it's not healthy but it's what makes you both happy.

Vergil

Vergil is probably the type to say 'you too' after you say 'i love you' those words are strong and emotionally charged words to be saying as frequently as you do, he's not going to say them so quickly.

not unless he was certain that you weren't going anywhere, not unless he was certain he wasn't going anywhere becuase until then he wont say shit.

it's not something i can see this man doing unless he's 100% certain he can't see himself anywhere other than your side.

so he admires your ability to be so open about your feelings, about how you feel towards him without making him think deeply into your every action towards him, knowing he nver has to second guess you as you said what you meant and meant what you say.

whenevever you said 'i love you' to Vergil he feels like he doesn't deserve a love as pure and as unconditional as yours, he feels like a fraud and it sometimes make him want to scream and ask what could you possbly love about him so freely and without judgment?

it doesn't make sense to him at all, but yet he still lets you claim you love him until he finally begins to feel the effects of every 'i love you' you had ever said to him.

during missions, his mind will wander back to you, wanders back to the 'i love you' you said to him beforhand as he wonders what you were doing without him, wonders whether you were waiting for him in his makeshift study reading one of his many books just to feel closer to him

like he knew you did whenever he came home to you sleeping with a half open book in your hand. suddenly his resolve to being done with the mission swiftly became to one of finishing the mission to see you again,

his glacier heart had softened enough by your warmth at long last as he reconciles with the idea thar you love him with no known bounds to speak of, you love simply becuase you do.

your words are no trickery but a simple proclomation, a reminder that his place within your heart had not changed nor wavered. it has not soured, it had ripened and blossomed like a beautiful flower and he had the audacity to question it, foolishness.

so the moment he got home, you ecitedly greeted him from the study, hold his hand by the fingertips, telling him you love him and for what felt like the first time out of many to come, he smiled softly at you and greets you with a small 'hello again little dove.'

'hello again little dove' or just 'hello little dove' is his version of 'i love you.'

you admit your love in the morning to him, having been protectively tucked into the crook of his neck, arms latched to his waist as his back was to the door out of a habit to protect and keep you safe. He'd say 'hello again little dove' in response, his heart softening more when you smiled brightly at him afterwards.

you admit your love when seeig him off to sleep? voice soft as a feather as your voice lulls him into a sense of saftey, sense of belonging with you by his side. he'll say 'i'll see you soon little dove.' reminding you that even in your dreams, he'd follow like a protective second shadow.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

HE SAW FOREVER SO HE SMASHED IT UP

katsuki bakugou x reader

the times bakugou broke your heart

heavily inspired by mbobhft

1) the denial

“are we breaking up?”

“…yeah.”

“oh.”

his reasons made sense. he had a job, a goal, a burning drive to prove himself as the best. he was burnt out, his fingers worked to the bones. he couldn’t give you not just what you wanted, but what you needed. and that killed him more than it did you.

it made sense. the gears turned. the writing was on paper. like almost everything he did, it worked out. of course it worked out for katsuki bakugou- he’s the best.

it wasn’t all that set in stone for you, however.

he could have given you a million more reasons before the tears spilled. “i’m an asshole.” true. “i don’t treat you right.” fair. “you deserve so much fuckin’ better, [y/n.]” yeah, he was right.

but you always liked to challenge the acceptable.

at first, it didn’t hit you as hard as you thought it would. you walked through your room, too numb to pay mind to the tears that rolled down your cheeks, and silently packed up his sweaters into a box. the necklace he gave you, the ‘k’ pendant, came off your neck like a butterfly lands on a branch, knowing that its death is inevitable and doing nothing to stop it.

at night, you cried, and cried, and cried. you called him about 27 times. he never answered. he texted you to make sure you were okay, but your tear-blurred eyes kept you from seeing the keyboard clearly. you left him on seen and prayed that he was worried, prayed that his heart would explode at your lack of an answer, prayed to god that he would come over just to check on. suffice to say your prayers were left unanswered.

you thought he’d call. but he didn’t. but your soul remained devoted, eyes glued to your phone screen and hands shaking. he has to call. he has to tell you goodnight. he has to tell you that you’re an idiot. he has to tell you he loves you. he’s going too, idiot.

right?

2) the anger

if he wanted you dead, why didn’t he just say?

your heart burned for anger. for salvation. for revenge. you knew katsuki bakugou knew anger well, but he had no idea the way your soul flared like a whole new depth of hell.

you laid in bed, awake, eyes excruciatingly drive from crying your tear ducts may as well have been burnt off. memories of him haunted your brain while your fists tightened.

you regretted giving him your heart. your love. your late nights and early mornings. your fights, your passions, your 2ams and your smiles. you hated the way you let him draw the laughter out of you, how he showed parts of himself to you he had never shown anyone.

and those little things that made up your love, he was going to use on someone else. you knew it.

he was going to cook them his special fried rice his mom taught him how to do. he was going to teach them how to punch because he doesn’t want them to get hurt- something he did for you. he was going kiss them how he kissed you, love them in a way that should have only been you.

but he shouldn’t. in fact, he should look back at what you had, and regret every. single. thing. he did to let is end. he should regret everything he didn’t do to keep you. he should burn alive from guilt. scream. cry. fight for his life while his body is doused in gasoline. attempt miserably to tear the fire off his skin while it burned him to a crisp. he should die screaming.

he should deserved it, after all. because he heard your screams, and put his headphones on.

3) the bargaining

please. you wailed. who do i have to talk to? what do i have to do to get him back!?

you suddenly thought of so many scenarios in your head, scenarios fuelled by false hope. things you’d do to kiss him one last time, to hold him, to love him and be loved by him. you’d dry the ocean water. you’d turn stones into gold. you’d bring him to heaven and back. you’d get out of bed. you’d compromise more. you wouldn’t forget to kiss him. you’d love him. you’d love him so much harder. please.

suddenly everything seemed possible. if someone answered your calls, if someone made a deal with you, you’d offer up everything. you were sure you’d place everything on the line for him. you want it all back- his yelling, his snark, his nicknames, his attitude, his everything- no, your everything. you’d pluck out your own eyes for his red ones, or your heart for his heroic soul that loved you brighter than anyone else. being loved by katsuki bakugou was something you wouldn’t trade for anything- turns out you couldn’t trade it either.

4) the depression

everything smelled like him. your sheets blossomed into his sweet, burnt scent, the one that he’d leave behind whenever he slept over simply because he left you. all your jackets felt like his chiseled arms, wrapped around you as if you’d be gone in a moments notice. his voice was everywhere. the songs on the radio, the words you read on your phone, and the memories that played like your favourite movie soundtrack.

you wondered if he knew you couldn’t get out of bed. sometimes you imagined him calling your ass lazy, and then dragging you out of bed with a kiss to your forehead and a breakfast he cooked for you. maybe then you’d rip off the sheets and face the day. but right now, your bed was the only place you could mourn.

it was cruel, in a sense. letting you fall in love with him only to leave. letting you fall in love with his stupid smug smirk, his laugh, his teasing, his anger, his unreasonable handsomeness, his millions of pet peeves and trigger words, his clinginess, his distance, his days and nights, ups and downs, his hate and love all tied into one. he made you love him, knowing you would never get to love another katsuki bakugou.

5) the acceptance

acceptance was bakugou realizing how badly he fucked up.

part 2 soon!

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | "single mom" au | masterlist

metamorphosis

tw: medical talk, pregnancy, abortion mention, non-con, smut, piv, oral, breeding kink, somno, sedatives

You wonder if Mary of Nazareth felt like this when she was told she would have God’s son. When Gabriel came down to the heavens to give such sour news, was she as scared as you are now, trembling, hardly able to stand on your own two feet? Did she feel as violated as you do? 

Three pairs of parallel lines haunt you from the bin in the bathroom. They stare at you each time you enter to wash your hands or pathetically pray that there is blood to soak your underwear. You were certain the first time was a fluke. A false positive so cruelly given to you simply to see if you would keel over from the heart palpitations it plagues you with. So you take a second one, hopes high but mind reeling. It only rubs salt in the wound. 

By the third test, you sob. Crumbled on the floor, clutching your knees to your chest as if you were a school girl sniffling in the stalls again. Alone—terrifyingly alone and without guidance. 

You spend your night wallowing in bed, unable to sleep. Trembling fingers plug search after search into your online browser, looking for an explanation to your miracle pregnancy. You’re faced with the idea of miscarriages, of ovarian cysts, or possible cancer. Psychosomatic disorders, memory loss after violent sexual assault. 

The pink flesh in your brain splits. Cleaved clean in half, you’re presented with two terrible realizations—that something terrible happened to you—something that your mind purged in order to protect yourself—or you are simply crazy. You are lying to yourself to save face. So you don’t have to admit that you made a stupid choice, and are now suffering the consequences. 

In the morning, you call your gynecologist. The soonest she can get you in is in five weeks. 

Though you try hard not to, you cry on the phone to the receptionist. You babble about how you don’t know what to do, that you need help, that you can’t wait that long. Taking pity on you, she tells you that she’ll add you to the waiting list, and that you’ll be seen as soon as possible when there’s an opening. 

It takes them four weeks to call you to tell you that there’s been a cancellation. Four excruciating long weeks. Each time your friends invite you out to drink, they stare at you with narrowed eyes when you decline with restless hands. Countless nights are spent sleepless, or with Ghost pinning your body beneath his, allowing you no rest in the day or night. You think about abortion. You think about raising a child on your own. You think about wasting away in a cancer center with no one to hold your hand. 

Dropping everything, you rush to the clinic with sweaty palms and greet the receptionist with a smile that screams please do not congratulate me. She gives you two pages of paperwork to fill out, but your hands shake too bad for your writing to be legible. 

It takes them twenty minutes to take you back to the exam room. The clinical assistant asks you questions, but each syllable sounds fuzzy on your eardrums. What are you here for today? When was your last period? Are you taking any medications? What makes you think you’re pregnant? She takes your blood pressure and notes that it’s a little high, and leaves the room to let you sit in silence. 

Another fifteen minutes pass before the clinical assistant returns and says your doctor wants to do an ultrasound. She leads you down the hallway and into a darkened room with an exam table and a woman sitting in front of a machine that whirs enough heat to make the room suffocating. She looks up at you from over her glasses, hands you a gown, then leaves you to undress. When the technician returns, she wastes no time getting to work. 

Her small talk makes your teeth ache. Maw grinding teeth into brittle dust, you answer her questions with short, sharp responses. You are not here to receive the joyous news of a child, or the prospect of becoming a mother—you are simply here to get answers. To look at your options. You grit your teeth throughout the entire scan as the sonographer presses the wand deep into your pelvis. Her eyes look dully at the monitor before her as she taps away at her keyboard; she reveals nothing. No pity for a tumor, nor excitement over a foetus. 

When the scans are done, she lets you clean up before leaving you to sit back in the exam room. The walls are adorned with paintings depicting motherhood and children. Each stroke feels like a punch to the gut as you sit with your hands in your lap. This room is a cell, and you are on death row. The weight of it crunches your shoulders until you’re bent forward—broken. Your trial was held without you present—fate decided long ago. 

Your doctor enters the room with a simple knock. Several papers and sonograms sit in her hands as she takes a seat in the rolling stool next to you. She asks how you are, and though you say you’re fine, you can’t rip your eyes away from the items in her grasp. 

“You’re pregnant.” 

There it is. The killing blow. The lethal injection. You’ve been strung up, noose tight around your throat, and you swing in the breeze to be laughed and gawked at. All the blood in your face drains elsewhere, leaving you dizzy and lightheaded. You place a hand on the counter next to you to steady yourself. 

“You’re about nine weeks along, judging by the scan,” she continues. She finally relinquishes them; sets them next to you so you can view the proof for yourself. There it is, floating inside of you; a clump of cells slowly morphing into something that will soon walk and talk. “Everything looks healthy, and there’s nothing to be concerned with at this time-” 

“This can’t be possible.” Your voice fractures. It slices your throat from the inside out as your fingers extend to touch the terribly tangible proof before you. “I-I can’t be… I haven’t…” 

Taking pity on you, her face melts into something softer—something understanding. “There are many options we can look at. We’ll help you through this.” 

As soon as you get home, you toss the sonograms and every pamphlet your doctor gave you onto the kitchen counter and out of your sight. Cupboards fly open as you fix yourself a cup of tea through the blur of tears pooling in your vision. You have been crying nonstop for the last four weeks that you’re impressed you have anything left to give. 

Your nighttime tea doesn’t taste as good this evening. It scalds your tongue, powdery and bitter, but you chug the whole thing despite the burn. You slam your mug down in the sink and promise yourself that you’ll clean it in the morning after you’ve glued yourself back together. You do not want to think—you do not want to suffer through this right now. Over countless years of failed medications and meditations, this has been the only thing that allows you to sleep through the night. 

Well, as long as Ghost doesn’t visit you. 

And he does—he always does. 

A quarter past ten rolls around, and Simon is unlocking the door to your apartment with the same clandestine care he always does. The key slides into the lock as silent as a moth's wings on the wind, and then opens up with a creak in greeting. He stands in the doorway for a moment, toes inching close to the threshold that bars him from you, and listens. Everything is stilly. Not a single sound reverberates along the walls. 

He finds you in the same place he always does—curled up in bed. Your duvet is tucked under your chin as you keep your arms pressed to your torso as if hugging yourself. Avoiding the creaky spaces in the floor, he creeps to the side of the bed before bending down and rubbing the pads of his fingers over the apples of your cheeks. Each inch of your face is silky on his roughened skin; it’s a sensation he wishes he could capture in a bottle and pour out from time to time so he can savor you. 

Despite his touch, you do not stir.

Leaning forward, Simon presses a kiss against your mouth through the fabric of his mask before getting to work. 

Tonight, he decides to let you stay on your side when he fucks you. The mattress dips beneath his knees as he straddles you, thick thighs caging yours. After working your bottoms down your legs, he presses one of your knees towards your stomach. You are nothing more than a ragdoll beneath his touch. Every whim he has, you obey—as if you ever had a choice. 

Pussy now bare and on display, he rubs a warm palm over your rump before working his thumb over your slit. There is no arousal to aid the entering of his fingers, but he presses forward anyway, collecting any stray slick before rubbing it over your cunt. Once he retrieves his cock from his trousers, he does the same to himself before lining his head up with your entrance. 

His eyes flutter shut the moment he sinks into you. Lips parting, he grunts the moment he bottoms out, then rolls his hips as his cockhead kisses the slick surface of your cervix. Even in your sleep, you pulse around him. Faint, fluttering little kicks as if to draw him in—as if to confirm how much you truly want him. When he pulls out, he watches the way your pussy clings to him, how he comes out glistening even in the dim lighting of your bedroom. 

He never drags this out for long, though he wishes he could. Putting work over pleasure, he begins to rut into you with meaningful thrusts as he keeps ahold of your hips. If he had more time—if you weren’t swimming in sedatives—he would start you off on your back. Legs held to the side, he’d bury his face in your cunt before letting anything prod at your pussy. He’d draw out every whimper he could, and leave you a writhing mess before even letting you set eyes on his cock. 

He would wait until you begged for him, then he’d force you to keep eye contact as he makes you take every inch. Eyes widening, back arching, he would refuse to hold himself back. After all, he’d have to give you what you begged for. Nails scratching, cock pumping, sweat dripping, teeth digging, jaw clenching, mouth parting—reverently, he’d take you and he wouldn’t stop. 

And he won’t stop. 

Not until you give him what he needs. 

When Simon comes, his forehead crashes against your shoulder as the muscles in his taut core begin to shudder. He ensures that he stays sheathed deep inside of you so that nothing goes to waste; that he has the highest chance of success. Once he’s softened inside of you, he pulls out, returns your bottoms to their rightful place, then leaves you tucked into bed without so much as a kiss goodbye. 

Sighing, he rubs at his face through his mask as he wanders back to the exit, body too warm beneath his jumper and jeans to be comfortable. His skin itches. Mites tingle and burrow into his skin with each step he takes. The air feels different in your flat than it usually does—thick with some lachrymose cordolium that whispers from the baseboards. 

He doesn’t understand why that is until something on the counter reflects the dim glow of the stove light into his eye. Detouring into the kitchen, he approaches your counter where he finds a plethora of pamphlets, discharge papers, and sonograms haphazardly bunched into a pile. 

Snatching one of the sonograms, Simon quickly raises it to the light and then freezes. There it is. A tiny, muddled creature in the mix of amniotic fluid. Beneath his mask, he grins as he beholds the very first image of his child—the baby he’s so desperately been wanting from you. Something swells inside of him. Pride; ardor. These last countless months have finally given him the fruit he’d sown long ago.

Enraptured by the picture, Simon almost doesn’t notice one of the pamphlets on the counter as he turns to leave. Still, he catches the title out of the corner of his eye: Abortion - Your Options and Right to Choose. 

His throat constricts. Whatever mirth he held on the tip of his tongue vanishes the moment he sees that. Indignation broils deep in his stomach at the thought of you ever considering doing such a thing to him—to his child. Deciding to choose for you, Simon carefully places the sonogram in the pocket of his jumper before snatching the pamphlet off the counter and marching off through the door. 

Once he’s locked it behind him, he begins to shred the paper to pieces before tossing it in the recycling bin on the corner of the street, leaving it far out of reach.

[enviedear]

ON MY WAY TO HEAVEN, TOOK A DETOUR TO MY VICES

｡𖦹° M.GRAYSON

🎧ྀི it was meant to be an easy mission, something mundane—but the second you and mark wake up feverish and desolate, you put those hopes of ease to bed. something's in your bloodstream, festering, begging to be let out—soothed. the worst of it all—whatever the hell’s in your system has infested itself in mark as well. and you’re not sure how long he can bear it.

wc 3.8k | minors dni, 18+ CW | S3X POLLEN FIC so, dark content (i'd say. they're close pre-fic but not this close), main!mark also, college!mark, college!reader & superhero!reader, cursing, ominous villian, they're drugged, pain from battle, body discomfort, characters horny under duress, fevers (is that a warning), mentions of yakking, plot—what plot? smut: piv, unsteady consent (see; s3x pollen), hints of voyuerism.

the ground beneath you doesn’t feel real. just jagged rock and cold dirt, and your heat-slick skin pressed to it like it’ll help. it doesn’t. nothing seems to. you're not sure you even remember when the effects started, but you're sure you've prayed to every god within the span for it all to stop.

you groan, roll onto your side, and blink up at the burnt orange sky. your fingers shake as they press the comm at your ear. nothing. just static. the sound of your own ragged breathing, like it’s echoing from somewhere deep inside your chest.

across from you is—mark—INVINCIBLE. suit torn, chest rising and falling like he ran the globe and back. he shoots a look at you—eyes blown wide. his stare hold recognition first, then confusion, and then something else. something hazy, almost delirious. until he bends forward, on his hands and knees, coughing hard.

his shoulders twitch, wings of tension mar his back. he spits onto the ground, breath steaming in the cooler air—there's too much heat pouring out of him.

you breathe out his name, a weak, inquisitive tone. he flinches like it hurts.

"think i—" he tries, then swallows the rest. “it hit us. during the fight. whatever it was.”

you nod. you don’t say anything. you already know.

because your body feels wrong.

burning. wriggling. like every nerve is two seconds from misfiring. like if you moved the wrong way—against how your body is craving—you’d tear something open from the inside.

you sit up almost impossibly slow, every muscle screaming. mark collapses back onto the dirt beside you, blinking fast. skin flushed. chest heaving.

you don’t meet his eyes. you can’t, instead, you clear your throat, trying to hide some of the discomfort you're feeling. if mark's already far gone, one of you has to keep a clear(er) head.

for a split second, you can hear cecil reprimanding you for getting caught in this situation—whatever it is.

"maybe it’s some kind of toxin.” you mutter, trying to keep it clinical. detached. “we have a fever. we can just wait it out.”

“yeah,” he says, voice low and hoarse. “sure. just a fever.”

except it’s not—and you both know it.

the burn behind your ribs, the pressure deep in your hips, the way your pulse stutters every time you hear him shift beside you—it’s not pain. it’s something else.

something archaic and primal, something utterly abysmal.

you shift, just slightly, and your breath catches—pain threading sharply through your core. it’s not the injuries. not bruises, or sprains, or broken skin. it’s deeper. like an anatomical pressure valve being tampered with from the inside.

mark’s hands twitch where they rest in the dirt. his fingers curl into a fist. his jaw’s clenched tight, like he’s trying not to make any sound.

you follow suit—you don’t speak. the silence stretches, and stretches.

and then—mark's voice, “don’t touch me.”

the words come from somewhere not right. too low, too strained, practically rehearsed. but his words are clear. and they make your stomach drop.

you blink, “i wasn’t going to.”

his adam’s apple bobs, head nodding, “i know. i know. just—don’t.”

the two of you sit there, breathing in tandem, a vile cadence. the feeling, a ribald fever—it’s escalating. second by second. beat by beat. breath by breath.

you try your comm again, the same static greets you.

“we need to move, we can't stay here.” you say. it’s more head-strung than true plan. “get somewhere safer. a building. cave. anything but open ground."

mark shakes his head, scanning the sandy terrain, “don’t think i can fly right now.”

you look over. he’s shaking. his hands, his shoulders, his mouth. he’s not meeting your gaze anymore. his pupils are nearly black with dilation. his lips are parted, breath shallow.

you open your mouth to say something—anything—but your stomach turns. a wave of heat rolls over you so strong it knocks every bit of air from your lungs. like you’ve been anesthetized with pure fire. like your body’s burning up, molecule by molecule.

you fall back onto your elbows, gasping, "fuck—"

mark startles at the sound, eyes snapping to you. but this time…he doesn't look away.

you finally see it—not confusion, not resistance. just raw, scorching lust trying so painfully to wear the face of shame, disgrace, humilation.

his voice is practically a whimper, “hmm—it’s getting worse.”

you nod once, voice coming out unnecessarily gritty, "yeah. i know. it got me too."

and that’s when it hits you.

you weren’t meant to die in that fight. you were meant to survive it. long enough to get away—together. long enough to fall apart—together.

long enough to complete whatever sick, calculated, and meticulously planned sequence someone else set into motion. the thought has you reeling away from the dark-haired hero. your body cries out at the movement, but you force it anyway.

the barely-there logic left within you is screaming at you to get away, to not succumb to the lurid visions invading your mind, to realize that this isn't right—it's warfare of your own body, your autonomy.

you dig your own fingers into the dirt, trying to anchor yourself to something that isn’t your own body, that isn’t his breathing.

you shouldn’t look at him again. you know better. but your body doesn’t listen, and your eyes drag back to him like they have to.

and he's trembling—trembling—like he’s the one doubling over in both need and humiliation. as if this is breaking him, the unbreakable—like it is you.

and maybe he is. maybe this thing, whatever it is, doesn’t care that he’s half-alien, that he’s strong enough to break worlds. right now, he looks damn near breakable.

"we have to fight it.” you say through your teeth, but it sounds less like an order and more like a plea.

“i am fighting it!” he snaps back, but there’s no venom, only pain. he drags a shaky breath in through his nose. “i’ve been fighting it since you said my fuckin' name.”

you flinch. not because of what he said, but because of how much truth there is in it. you're both trying, both failing.

something curls inside you—tight and electric. want, not yours, not entirely. it's something layered, ancient—synthetic. something meant to reduce thinking things to base instinct.

“we must have gotten tagged,” you say out loud, trying to organize your shared chaos, trying to drag reason into your mess. “during the fight—maybe tech, some compound, i don’t know. it’s designed to keep us…compliant. distracted.”

mark breathes out a ragged chuckle, “yeah? i think it’s working.”

you don't laugh back.

because you're terrified that it is, indeed, working. that whatever you were hit with, doesn’t need to be permanent. it just needs to last long enough to make you too weak to resist. the various, "why's" all but lost on you. you just know it can't happen—you can't succumb.

“i don’t know if i can move...” mark murmurs. he’s curled inward now, knees drawn slightly to his chest, like he’s trying to keep something inside. “my body is—i don’t know how to describe it. everything’s too much. you feel that too?”

you nod, far too fast, like it’ll stop the shudder building inside you, “like it’s crawling under my skin. like i'll...lose it if anyone touches me.”

mark exhales, slow and bitter. “yep. like that.”

your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. you taste copper. maybe from biting your cheek. whatever—it tastes rancid.

you can’t stay like this. you can’t.

you scramble onto your knees, nearly retching from the sensation alone, but you stay up, teetering. “we have to get somewhere. underground. shielded. wherever this thing can’t—find us. we’re not safe out here.”

mark doesn’t respond. not at first.

then, faintly, like it’s killing him to admit, “i don’t know if i trust myself to be anywhere alone with you.”

that hurts worse than anything. not because he’s wrong. but because he’s right.

you stare at him, raw and quiet, and your voice cracks like brittle glass, “mark—it's not just you going through this. do you think i even trust myself right now?”

he lifts his head, finally. eyes still wild, but there’s clear guilt beneath it now, a thick and ugly weight pulling down the corners of his mouth. “i’m trying, okay? i’m trying so hard not to think about what this is making me want—from you. i’m trying not to want it too.”

that’s what makes it worse.

because he said it. he feels it. wants it, he does. you do too.

you can feel impulse pulling at the edges of your self-control, grinding your mind down to something basic and desperate. all of it—every broken thought, every sharp-edged craving—leads you straight to him.

your voice wobbles, barely a whisper, “what if it’s not just trying to…divert us?”

mark’s breath catches, you hear it so clearly, too clearly.

“what if it’s trying to make us…” you swallow, the word tastes sour, thick, “bond.”

you don’t need to explain. not to him. not to the guy you shared an anatomy course with last spring. not to a half-viltrumite who knows what it means when instincts override reason. he knows, same as you.

his arms twitch. he covers them over his face as if he can block the thought out of existence. “fuck. that’s—”

“inhuman,” you finish. “which makes sense. we’ve fought worse.”

“but nothing that’s…used us like this.” he shakes his head. “nothing that’s made me want to—oh, god.”

you look down at your hands at his outburst—how they tremble like they’ve got a will of their own. how they ache for something, but nothing you can give them. not without losing everything else.

you whisper, “we need help.”

mark groans, “but no one’s coming—are they?”

you glance back toward the horizon. no sign of movement. no hum of backup. no smoke flares or jets. just the buzz of static and your own ragged breath.

no. no one’s coming.

you and mark are on your own.

and whatever’s been done to you—it’s not done yet.

"maybe we just...touch? something...i'm sorry—just, please." he sounds desperate, and you know he is. equally as needy and out of it as you.

Dismissal passes across your mind, gone in a flash, "just touch?" your question comes out so soft, you wonder if he can hear you over the wind.

"yeah—here," he grabs your wrist, and for a second, you're overcome with solace. in your belly, your heart, your head—pure relief. but then the small touch becomes far too little, far too fast.

he pulls you closer, straddling him now, and you can smell him—sweat and saccharine sin. his breath fans across your neck as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“here...” he says again, and this time his voice is low, guttural, like he’s barely holding himself together. his hand slides from your wrist to your hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, possessive and demanding.

you shiver, your body betraying you as heat pools low in your belly. his other hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, and you can’t stop yourself from parting your lips, letting out a shaky breath.

"this is so fucked up," you manage. you don't pull away, but you give him the most serious look you can muster, "i'm so sorry."

mark swallows, "i know, i am too. i just want to make you feel better—make us feel better."

you nod—because he's right. you believe him. it’s not a lie, not a trick, not some smooth line he’s tossing out just to get laid. it’s him. desperate, aching, more human than you’ve ever seen him.

and still, it’s wrong.

but so much of you doesn’t care. not now, not when you feel like this and he's staring at you like you're the only oasis in this desert.

his thumb trails your lip again and you don’t even flinch, don’t even blink. instead, your mouth opens for him, and that’s when something in his expression fractures. his breath stutters like a heartbeat skipping a step and he exhales your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

then he's kissing you. the contact brings a new kind of pain and pleasure—sharp and bittersweet. you gasp into his mouth, your hands finding their way to his shoulders. it hurts. everything hurts. but it also feels…so good. like coming home to something you’d never known was missing. he tastes addicting—it’s overwhelming in the best way possible.

his kisses are wet and demanding—hard enough to bruise, and you let him. god, you let him. you need him to. you can't stop yourself from moaning as he drags you in closer, fingers sinking into your hips and waist, pulling you flush against his own body.

your core throbs in time with his heartbeat as he presses against you, free hand digging hard enough into the the ground that the dirt beneath cracks. his lips move down your jaw, teeth nipping at your earlobe, "you feel—really, fuckin' good. Feels good to touch you."

you can tell by the way his words run on, he's rambling. if it weren't for the need in your own system, you'd try to pull this back—make him realize how stupid this is.

but you don't, "does it make you feel any better? am i helping?"

he groans, eyes half-lidded, "not anymore—" his head falls to the crook of your neck, nose inhaling your scent, "i need more."

he says it as such a plea—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say. it wrecks you.

"okay..." you breathe, fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "okay, mark."

he shudders, your name desperately falling from his lips again as he kisses at your throat, open-mouthed and hungry. like he’s starving and you’re the only thing he’s ever even wanted to taste. when he drags his teeth along your pulse, your hips jerk against him, and the answering grunt punched out of his chest feels like a prize.

your hands are tearing away at his suit before you even realize it, palms skating across much too warm skin, the heat from his body almost intolerable. his muscles jump beneath your touch as he pulls back just enough to look at you—flushed, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen. he’s shaking. quivering. trying so hard to hold himself back.

"please don't hate me for this. i need you," he pants, voice breaking. "i want—i just want us to get better."

you nod again. not just because you can’t speak, but because you feel like you had given in to this the minute his skin touched yours. every pulse of your body is screaming for him, every synapse firing off his name. you drag his mouth back to his instead of answering, and he whines into the kiss, his hands slipping off your suit like he’s done it a thousand times before.

his fingers are clumsy, yes—but they're reverent. like you’re something sacred and holy. something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.

you feel his restraint slipping, fraying at the edges the longer you’re pressed together, the more your bodies align. he’s trying so hard to be gentle, to be careful, but his hips keep rolling against yours like they have a mind of their own, like he can’t help it—like he’s fighting himself just to keep from tearing through every physical layer between you.

your head falls back, and he takes advantage, licking into the valley of your neck, hand sliding over the swell of your chest. the contact makes you whimper and arch into him, needing more, needing everything, and you feel his grip falter as he breathes against your skin.

"you don’t—fuck—you don’t know what you’re doing to me," he grits out, forehead dropping against yours. "fucking unfair really—"

"stop—stopping. you're the one being unfair." you whisper, and that’s what shatters him. your rebuttal is all it takes.

his resolve crumbles—and he’s on you like he was made for it.

his hands are everywhere, frantic and greedy, yanking at the fabric of your suit like he can’t stand the damned thing. his mouth crashes into yours again, this time with no hesitance, no restraint—just pure, crude need. his tongue explores every inch of your mouth as if he’s trying to put the taste of you to memory.

you can feel his cock pressing beneath you through his torn suit, and you roll your hips against him, needing to feel more, needing to feel him.

"fuck," he groans into your mouth, hands gripping your hips so tight it almost hurts.

you don’t even think anymore. your hands are fumbling with the yellow and blue material covering him—exposing more and more of his red-tinted flesh. he lets out this broken little laugh at your effort, a desperate sound that only makes you want him more, but then he’s helping you, masks is thrown to the side, then the vibrant colors of your suits follow—leaving both of you bare. taking in eachother—the rise and fall of his chest, his toned stomach—down, to his cock. and fuck, is he perfect—thick and hard and already leaking, tip glistening.

you wrap your hand around him, stroking him slowly, just to hear him moan. he doesn’t disappoint. his head falls back, his mouth falling open as he lets out this low, guttural sound that goes straight to your core.

"holy fuuck," he breathes, his hips jerking into your hand. "you’re gonna fucking ruin me."

his words only prove to egg you on, because then you’re pushing him down into the ground, clambering onto his lap like a woman possessed.

your hands are on his chest, skimming over the hard planes of his body as you position yourself over him. he grips your hips tight as you sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch—until he’s buried to the hilt inside you.

he chokes out your name, his head lulling as you start to move. his hands are everywhere now—on your breasts, your ass, your thighs—like he can’t decide where to touch you first. but it doesn’t matter. all that matters is the way he feels inside you, the way he fills you so perfectly you swear you’ll never need anything else.

and then you’re riding him like your life depends on it—hard and fast and needy, your hands bracing yourself on his chest as you take what you need from him. and he lets you—he lets you use him like this, lets you take control, and all the while he’s watching you with this look in his eyes—like you’re eden personified.

"fuck," he groans again, his hands tightening on your hips as he thrusts up into you, wild. "you feel so fucking good. so fucking perfect."

the air’s dry and scorching around you, sun sinking low but still brutal, painting everything in a haze of gold and sweat and dust. your knees dig into the sandy dirt, scuffed and trembling from how you’ve been riding him, but neither of you let up—not when his hands clutch you like you're the only thing tethering him to earth.

“can’t—can’t stop,” he pants, voice rough and cracked from the heat and how hard he’s breathing. his pupils are blown wide, sweat sliding down his temples, dark hair sticking to his forehead. the usual softness in his expression is long gone, replaced with something animal—something ravenous. “feels like i’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

he shifts, steadies himself with one arm on the ground, and drives up—deeper—hard enough that you cry out, your body jerking in his grip. you go limp in his grasp, falling forward into him. it's the closest you've gotten to relief yet, and your mouth is expelling every sound of pleasure it possibly can.

and god, the look on his face when he hears you. it’s ravaged, desperate, like he’s starving.

“again.” he breathes. “make that sound again. please, fuck—i’ll give you anything.”

your body responds on its own, hips rolling to meet his thrusts, dragging him deeper, tighter.

the compound is still thick in your blood, turning every brush of skin into a live wire, sending every moan into something that echoes inside your skull.

“i wanna come with you,” he moans, almost frenzied now, head tipping back again. “wanna feel you lose it around me. you’re—shit, you’re so wet, i can feel you shaking—please, just—come on, come on, please.”

he thrusts up into you again, snapping his hips. your body gives in before your mind does—tightening, clenching around him, and his whole body jerks beneath you. you're both a mess, just grasping at eachother like you're one. your vision is overcast, blurred and your ears seem to be dialed in on every sound falling out of mark's lips.

his mouth drops open. he shouts your name, follows it up with a slew of curses, praises, prayers.

he grabs your waist like he's afraid you'll vanish, grinding up into you through the wave of it, chasing your high as if it's a storm.

“that’s ittt.” he groans, burying his face against your chest as he spills into you, hips still twitching, breath ragged and rough. “that’s it, that’s it…”

he holds you like he doesn’t know where he ends and you begin, arms wrapped tight around your back, heart pounding against your ribs. both of you shaking, ruined, covered in sweat and dust and heat—but still not entirely satisfied. not really.

you pull yourself off of him slowly, wincing at the sudden absence of his warmth. the ground feels like ice beneath your skin, the coolness juxtaposed with the burning heat that radiates from the two of you.

neither of you speaks at first. you can hear him trying to steady his breath, but it’s labored, like he's still unsure whether he's waking up from a dream—or a nightmare. you sit next to him, not quite looking at him, but not able to stay away either. the weight of the air around you presses down, heavier than the sand and dust under your hands.

mark shifts beside you, the sound of his movements dragging you back to the moment. he looks at you, eyes wide and confused, but there's something else there—something darker, almost desperate.

"we can't tell anyone about this," he mutters, the words catching in his throat.

you nod, your hands shaking slightly as you pull your knees to your chest. the weight of the situation presses down on you like a vice, but his words, though simple, offer some strange sense of clarity. there’s no going back now.

"i know." you whisper, voice strained but firm.

he runs a hand through his hair, fingers raking roughly, but it’s clear he’s struggling to pull himself together. "we can’t let anyone find out what happened," he says again, this time more to himself than to you. "not yet. not until we figure out who—or what—the hell did this to us."

you meet his gaze then, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. there’s a quiet understanding in the air between you, a silent agreement forged in the mess of everything that just happened. the rawness of what you've shared is terrifying, but it’s also…something only the two of you know. and that means, somehow, it’s yours to carry.

"we'll go back." you say quietly, though the words feel like a weight in your chest. "just… we go back home. like nothing happened."

he nods, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders. "yeah. no one needs to know about this. not yet."

with a deep breath, you both stand and grab your suits. the haze feels as though it’s slowly slipping away, but in its place, doubt is bubbling. neither of you are too sure what you got yourselves into—but you know it changed everything.

writer's note .☘︎ ݁˖ this is so unlike anything i've ever written so i hope i did okay—i just had to write something for mark. he's captivated me. also i got through the entire series so fast i had to write just to quell my invincible brainrot LMAO. this fic isn’t beta’d, so if there are grammar mistakes and such i’m sorry! if you enjoyed this—reblog or comment (or both and i'll love you forever)

dedicated to @inthehystericalrealm to hoping we find our own mark variants in this life <3

🖇️ masterlist | askbox | recent works

[seyvith]

" STAINED IN RED "

OBSESSED WORSHIPPER — an angel who used to be numb without your existence . . .

gender neutral reader / yandere (??) oc x reader / obsessive / unhealthy asl / emotional dependency / he hasn't even met reader yet and he's suppper down bad

masterlist | intro post | character info . . . a/n: I wrote this a while ago in a big rush for my friend's birthday, so please excuse if it's repetitive or a little bad!!

Crimson streaked across pale ivory, seeping into the ridges of Abrin’s back like veins of molten gold in fractured marble. If his hands were not bound in chains, he might have traced his fingers over the scars, felt the raised edges of old wounds and the fresh sting of new ones. Yet, no tears would well in his eyes.

Not because he thought himself strong, nor because he believed pain was some holy trial to endure. He simply just did not care. If that celestial glow bestowed upon all angels at birth still flickered within him, dim and faltering, who would mourn its loss?

Nobody. The thought echoed in the hollow of his chest. He had wept once. Had cried, had screamed, had begged. But now, he no longer knew the difference between thought and voice, silence and sound. Whether his anguish spilled from his lips or curled within the confines of his mind, it changed nothing.

And he was not alone.

Row upon row of iron cells stretched into the shadows, each holding an angel just like him—bound, broken, fading. Their clipped wings twitched with every tremor of pain, their whispers of despair dissolving into the damp air. Even among them, Abrin felt out of place. They wept for freedom. He prayed for death. Life had emptied itself of meaning long ago, so hollow that not even a blade to his wings could carve a feeling into him.

A sliver of light spilled through the narrow vent above his cell, pooling in pale, shifting patterns across the stone floor. He watched with a vague, detached amusement. Even the sky mocked him, offering glimpses of freedom just beyond reach. If he could break loose, if he could spread his wings just once, he would not fly to escape. He would ascend only to fall. Higher, higher, until the heavens blurred behind him, until gravity reclaimed him, until he shattered upon the earth below. How many times had he longed for that? To fall, to crash, and to end?

A metallic rattle tore him from his thoughts. The heavy door groaned open, spilling dim light into the cell. Abrin turned his head, already expecting the sight of the guard. And there they stood—shadowed against the flickering torchlight, clad in indifference. But there were no chains in their hands this time, no tray of tasteless rations.

They hesitated, shoulders stiff. Then, in a voice as cold and impassive as ever, they spoke. "Someone’s bought you. You’ll be leaving in a month."

Abrin blinked. The words settled over him like distant thunder, low and rolling, incomprehensible in their weight. Someone had bought him. Someone was taking him away. He should have felt nothing. He had long since forgotten how to feel. And yet, his chest twisted.

Twisted with something raw, searing, unfamiliar. A feeling more visceral than the wounds burned into his skin, clawing up his throat and lodging itself deep beneath his ribs.

He had never known anything beyond these walls, never believed there was anything beyond them. No possibility of escape, no future beyond the loop of his waking existence, each day morphing together.

Yet now—someone would take him away. Someone would pull him from this pit, from the cold, from the endless hell he had grown accustomed to. Someone…

His savior. His mercy. His answered prayer.

Abrin’s breath came sharp and uneven. He barely registered the guard’s lingering glance before they turned on their heel, footsteps fading down the corridor. The door shut with a hollow clang, sealing him in once more.

For the first time, the walls did not press so tightly around him. His mind did not compress, suffocating under its own doing. Instead, it reached outward towards the unknown, toward the one who had spared him.

He wondered what they might look like—the shade of their eyes, the way they would be something new for him to grow used to. Would their gaze be sharp as cut glass or gentle as twilight? And their skin… would it bear the weight of scars, marred and broken like his own?

He hoped not. No, he would never wish such a fate upon the one who had reached for him, the one who had would lift him from the dark. They should be untouched by suffering, unmarked by cruelty—something untainted, something he could call grace.

My savior, my savior, my savior, my savior.

Ever since the news, Abrin had not been himself. The change unsettled not only the guards and the other prisoners but even him. After so long without feeling, without even a drop of emotion stirring in his hollow chest, a flood had overtaken him; an unstoppable tide crashing against the walls he had spent years building. And yet, he did not resist. He let it consume him, let it pull him under. He drowned in it, and for the first time, he did not mind.

He spent his days adrift in thought. How was it possible to be so wholly devoted to someone he had never even met? He knew—knew that the moment they stood before him, he would not remain standing for long. His legs would fail him, and he would fall to his knees, to the cold, filthy stone floor. Would they like him that way? Bent, broken, trembling beneath them? Pathetic? Everyone here seemed to.

Only three more days. The thought pulsed through his skull like a heartbeat, relentless. He traced the tallies carved into the stone wall with trembling fingers, ignoring the sting of his ragged nails, the gnawed-up skin around them. Pain no longer mattered. Hunger, exhaustion, none of it mattered. For the first time in his life, there was something beyond the endless monotony of waking and waiting. Something to look forward to. Something worth opening his eyes for.

My savior, my savior, my savior, my savior.

Stop. Stop it. Abrin could not contain it, this swelling, aching thing inside him. Love, devotion, obsession—whatever it was, it filled every hollow space in his body, too vast for him to hold. He was terrified that the moment he saw them, he would spill over entirely, empty himself at their feet, and drive away the only thing keeping him tethered to life.

The clang of metal startled him. A guard passed his cell, tossing a tray of scraps onto the floor, the same as every day. But before they could leave, words slipped from Abrin’s lips, sudden and unbidden.

“Can… Can I have a piece of paper and a pencil?” His voice was hoarse from disuse, barely louder than a whisper. “I want to write a letter… for the one who is taking me away.”

The guard stopped. Stared. Abrin barely spoke, never even asked for anything. After a pause, they gave a slow nod before turning away, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Not long after, they returned, pushing a thin scrap of paper and a worn-down pencil through the bars. For a long moment, Abrin simply stared at them, hands trembling. Then, carefully, reverently, he took them into his grasp.

“To the one who has reached for me,

I do not know your name. I do not know the sound of your voice, nor the shape of your face, and yet I think of nothing else. I whisper to you in the dark. I see you in the flickers of light on the wall. You are everywhere, even though you’ve never stood before me.

Since I heard of you, of what you’ve done, my thoughts have not belonged to me. They are yours now. Every breath I take is in anticipation of yours. Every second stretches like a lifetime, and yet three days feel too little time to prepare myself for you. I do not know how to contain this. This ache. This reverence. This need.

You’ve done what no one else has. You’ve chosen me. You saw the ruins of something once divine, and you reached for it. For me. Why? I don’t understand it. I cannot. But I would give you everything. Everything I have, everything I am, though it may be broken and bloodstained and pitiful. I would crawl to you if I could. If you asked, I would press my forehead to your feet and stay there, unmoving, until you gave me permission to rise.

I’m scared. Not of you, never of you, but of what I might become in front of you. I am afraid I will fall apart the moment you speak. That my voice will shatter. That my heart will give in. That I will beg, not even knowing for what.

You must understand: you are the only light that has ever reached me. And I… do not know how to survive brightness without burning.

Please. Whatever you do when you see me, do not turn away. Do not leave. If you knew what you mean to me already, what I've imagined you to be, perhaps you would. But I pray you won’t. Even if I disgust you, even if I’m not what you wanted, let me stay. Let me prove I can be good. I will be anything you need. Anything.

I don’t know how to stop this. This obsession, this devotion, this desperate, aching worship of someone I’ve never met. I only know that when I do meet you, I will fall apart, and I can only hope you’ll hold the pieces.

Even before you asked for me, I was already yours.

Abrin”

He could only pray that the words he had so carefully etched, each letter trembling with devotion, would reach them more clearly than the fractured whispers of his voice ever could. That his unsteady hands might be worthy enough to place the paper into their divine grasp. That they would cradle him gently, or break him apart and remake him at their will. He would not resist. He would thank them for it.

And if he faltered, if he ever angered them even by the smallest breath or careless misstep, he would carve the mistake into memory and never repeat it again. He would beg for their forgiveness, over and over, until they no longer had to hear it.

Please, his heart sobbed as tears slipped silently down his cheeks. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t cast me aside.

[paymechildsupport]

Thinking about Sukuna and Deity!Reader

— ┉┈◈◉◈┈┉—

The first he ever heard of you was on one of his rampages. The scent of blood hung heavily in the air, along with the stench of burning flesh. The entire village a burning, raging inferno to the heavens. The last of the screams had burnt to the ground along with the city, and all that was left was an ugly scorch, a scar upon the earth. Sukuna towered above one remaining survivor, one quaking man paralyzed in fear. He lay weeping on the ground, blood caking his clothes and face. He prayed to the gods above, to Sukuna, to anyone who would listen. It was a very familiar ritual to Sukuna, and he had no qualms about splitting the man’s head in two. His pleas for mercy only grated upon his nerves.

And then something the man said gave him pause. A name, one he had never heard before. In his blood-hungry rampages Sukuna had heard prayers screamed to every god in the sky earth and sea, and yet he had never heard of this name before. The man uttered it again and again, mumbling it like a mantra. Surprisingly, Sukuna found himself not wanting him to stop. The name was something nice, something warm to his ears, even if it was from the shredded throat of a dead man.

“Who is this you speak of?” Sukuna demanded,- but the man gave no answer, only repeating the name again and again, “Who do you pray to?” Sukuna stipulated, growing irritated now as the man continued to ignore him.

One cleave and the man’s head toppled to the ground. Sukuna scoffed, curse him and whatever foolish deity he devoted himself to.

Some god, he thought, who was just the same as any divine being: wholly indifferent to the pleas of mortals. Sukuna found himself slightly frustrated as he left the burning inferno. Although plenty of blood was spilt, he felt… unsatisfied. The fact he did not know of whoever the man had prayed irritated him more than he’d like to admit. He hesitated at first, but eventually tried saying the name himself.

He was surprised by how much he liked it, how nicely his lips fit around each sound, how the weight felt on his tongue, the way he could almost taste it. It was an odd, foreign sensation, albeit not unwelcome.

Sukuna shakes his head, frustrated at something so trivial and simple as a name bothered him so greatly. He moved to walk ahead, but something suddenly stopped him.

He stared dumbfounded at the figure on the path in front of him. He could’ve sworn he had killed every last mortal in the village. But no, this wasn’t a mortal, Sukuna could instantly tell upon a second glance. Nothing about the being in front of him was even remotely ‘mortal’.

The way the figure carried itself, from the imprints- or lack thereof- that their feet should’ve made in the ground, from the way they almost seemed to glow against the smoky night sky. Everything about whoever this was screamed ethereal

They looked to the embers, the last remains of the village behind Sukuna, and almost seemed to sigh softly,

“It appears my timing is still a bit off” and their voice,— Sukuna had heard many beautiful things in his time, from the finest music to the softest chirp of a bird, but the words that left the figure’s lips had to be the sweetest blessing his ears had ever been graced with, “Unless,” they add, “you were the one to summon me”

Without even needing to think about it, Sukuna uttered the name,— it tumbled from his lips before he could even stop himself,- but something about it just seemed right

You tilted your head, smiling when he says your name, and Sukuna felt that for once in his sinful, accursed life that he had been lucky, lucky to ever have the privilege to witness such a divine and wonderful thing

Never once had Sukuna ever witnessed a god answer a prayer. In the thousands he had slaughtered, out of the hundreds upon thousands of pleas had heard being tossed up to the heavens, never once had he ever seen one answered. He found it a bit ironic, how you ceased to answer to the dying’s mantra of your name over and over again, yet were summoned the second he muttered your name. But Sukuna found he’d rather prefer it no other way.

”Was there someone else here?” You asked, seemingly searching around for whoever had called your name

“no,” Sukuna replies casually, if not a little smugly, smirking perhaps just a wee bit too much, “just me”

He watched you shrug nonchalantly, “oh well, I’ll catch them some other day”— as if this was some casual everyday occurrence for you.

As you turned around Sukuna can’t help but notice how much the absence of your gaze bothers him. Now that he had been bestowed with your attention, he suddenly had no desire to give it up

He can’t help but notice the lack of disgust in your eyes, the look of disdain for such lowly curse scum noticeably absent from your face - and for the first time Sukuna doesn’t feel like the almighty King of Curses- he doesn’t even feel like a curse. In your presence he just simply was. Perhaps the disarming feeling should have alarmed him, perhaps being stripped of his power and crushing presence should have scared him, but he just didn’t care. He oddly didn’t feel powerless at all. The paradox of feelings was all so foreign and new to Sukuna, and it wasn’t something he really wanted to give up right now.

But there was nothing he could do to stop you from leaving. And yet he somehow liked that fact too. He held no power over you, and he liked the sudden shift in power dynamic

“Feel free to summon me anytime” you waved back over your shoulder, “not like I have anything else better to do”

That got his attention. Really? Call you anytime, and you’d answer?

“Alright” he grunted in response, and he found himself believing you.

The grin you offered before turning around and suddenly disappearing had Sukuna almost collapse to his knees and start praying himself.

Sukuna turns around and faces what was left of the village. Charred remains and burnt wood. And, in a split second decision, began walking back towards it

He decided he wanted to build a shrine.

—————┉┈◈◉◈┈

[A/N] ohhhh he’d build so many shrines and dedicate so many poems to you and just think about the sacrifices - the atrocities -he’d make in your name… im so normal about this 🙏 m’most likely to do this with a male reader in the future, but if someone requests otherwise m more than happy to write for fem or nb as well