#he's the symbol of peace and hope

[loadingbnha]

THE MOMENT NAOMASA REALIZED THE EXTENT OF WHO ALL MIGHT ACTUALLY IS

For refrence; a side by side comparison of how Naomasa knows All Might vs how Toshinori is when he actually lets loose

[skrunksthatwunk]

thinking about how eiji's a pole vaulter and how ash talks about eiji "flying" and how eiji's associated with bird imagery and how eiji's free (unlike ash) and how eiji comes in on a plane and leaves on a plane and how ash cannot fly, ash cannot be free, how nyc is ash's prison, and how ash is the leopard who dies climbing the mountain, unable to live at such elevation, how he was trying to reach the sky and be free but was always stuck to the earth, how he chose to die instead of climbing back down, how he chose to die where he could see the sky and hope and freedom almost like a bird with eiji's letter right in front of him rather than letting everything go wrong and ruin it once again, how eiji's a failed pole vaulter anyway, how a bad fall ruined his career and grounded him (physically and emotionally), how it took flying to america and meeting ash and needing to save him and skip for him to try flying again, how he landed hard and harsh and still the thought of that escape compelled ash to protect eiji at all costs because if he could fly that means something to him, even if he doesn't think he can fly, how eiji is the manifestation of his hope and how when he breaks and asks eiji to stay with him a while he folds himself over his legs and weighs him down and traps him and grounds him, how ash fights like hell to keep eiji alive not because he thinks he can be like him (hopeful, flying, innocent), but because he makes him forget the gravity of his situation, and so he can see eiji fly again. how he wants to see him escape. how eiji is a bird and ash is a wildcat and how ash never once saw eiji as prey. how eiji never saw ash as a predator. how it is eiji's naivete that first endears ash to him, how it is his freedom and flight and removal from darkness and his ability to leave that darkness that really roots eiji in ash's blood as something essential to him keeping on living in this hell of nyc. how it is that distance from the violence and that hope for the future that ash chooses to surround himself in as he dies. how ash dies in a dream because he feels more than anything that he can't fly like eiji, that he can never leave. how his violence is a part of him and will be forever, how it weighs him down. how he wants to enjoy the view from the mountainside rather than looking up from the ground below. as if they can both fly. as if he is with him up there and not grounded. eye-to-eye with what he can't have, seeing eiji's homeland: the sky. how he dies trying to reach the top because he couldn't take retreating and trying again. how ash, tired and tired and tired and convinced it will go on forever if he crawls back down the mountain, chooses to close his life deluged in eiji, in eiji's insistence that they can fly together, in eiji's hope for him and for them, in eiji's beautiful dream. how ash dies without trying to realize that dream. how ash, in dying, destroys it.

[artsy-imogen]

I wanted to quickly delve into the inspiration behind my Faust design before I post anymore art of him :D I’ll do my best to write out my thoughts, I’ll definitely ramble a lil haha

So for his outfit’s palette (the main ones I’ll go into being “teal” and “yellow”) I looked into a bunch of colours and the meaning behind them. Teal (from the info I found on it) represents morality and renewal, which for this au I believe complements his appearance as he’s changed himself for the better and has learned a lot from his past trauma and mistakes. The colour teal also represents logic, sympathy, calmness and enlightenment, which I believe would suit Faust a lot with his growth and self acceptance. The colour also has it’s negatives though, with privacy and apprehension, which again correlates to his tragic past.

For his tie it was a pretty simple addition. I wanted to add a splash of yellow to it which represents positivity, energy, joy, and his secure/warm personality :)

Moving onto his style. His fingerless gloves and brown vest were inspired by his scrapped strive design. The stitches decorating his coat and the leg of his pants represent him “putting himself back together again.”

The broken heart locket pinned to his chest symbolises him feeling alive and like his old self again, but it still has him carrying the burden of a damaged past. The “crack”symbolises that while he’s moved on and is in a better place, he won’t forget what he’s been through.

He still wears his paper bag, especially in combat, but he does walk around with it off, on occasions. It’s become a strange signature for him, how he’s both learned to accept himself and the lives he’s lived. He’s become a symbol of inspiration at the new hospital he works at, inspiring the hearts of many and gaining their trust.

[an1muuarts]

the slayer and the voices as birbs:

the slayer - a silhouette of an owl, in an anthropomorphic form

hero - crow

cold - vulture

contrarian - mockingbird

opportunist - seagull

smitten - swan

skeptic - owl

hunted - finch

cheated - cuckoo pidgeon

stubborn - woodpecker

broken - dove

paranoid - starling

narrator - raven

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

god tywin lannister deserved worse

just remembering elias death and i wanna puke and the way tywin talks about elia and what happened is so damn gross

but rip tommen and myrcella we all know what’s about to happen in the next book :/

the cycle of violence just keeps spinning and damn you tywin for beginning it

(i got a bit crazy in the tags 💀)

[zeb-z]

mfw I sacrifice my vision for knowledge of power. surely this isn’t a metaphor for anything

[angy-grrr]

I really dont know what hori has planned for the next chapters n the evolution of the characters I talk about 99% -is himiko alive? if so, where is she? why the mystery surrounding her character? if she is dead, is that why ochako is acting like her old self?

Is ochako actually, genuinely doing good and happy? is her conclusion going to involve a love confession and end up with deku after all of that? did she lie to himiko? how is she copying with it all?

Is izuku thinking of leaving UA again? Will he get a new quirk? Will he get support as a quirkless hero? what is he thinking about? what about his feelings, why the mystery?

What about katsuki? why is he able to do so so much after dying? is his heart going to be okay? what will his future as a hero look like with heart problems and an explosive quirk? What does he feel for izuku, why does he get all the classic love interest tropes?

[depressedhatakekakashi]

Me: *tries to talk about the ways the Shinobi system has changed and bettered*

Some random person: Urge but these things didn’t change and even though we know why they didn’t change (even though the reason’s are 100% bs i agree) it means NOTHING CHANGED EVEN THOUGH WE SEE CHANGES HAVE BEEN MADE WAYS THAT THEY COULD BE DONE WITHOUT CREATING PLOT HOLES AND TAKING AWAY THE NEW GEN STORY FROM KIDS

[willosword]

this movie has actually broken into my house and smashed a barrel over my head killing me instantly. oh my god

[ismails]

Please help me rebulid my Bakery

Vetted here by @90-ghost

I'm Ismail Almughanni an entrepreneur from devastated Gaza trying his best to rebuild his Bakery 🍞🥐🥖

On a quiet morning, the aroma of freshly baked bread filled the street, signaling the start of a new day at your small bakery, a place you took immense pride in. For years, this bakery had been a haven where people from all around would gather to enjoy the warm, delicious pastries and bread that you carefully crafted. It was a symbol of hard work, a beacon of hope, and a destination for anyone seeking a taste of comfort amidst life's challenges.

But one day, in the blink of an eye, everything changed. The sounds of bombing began to shake the city, and it wasn’t long before the fires of war reached your neighborhood. There was no warning, no chance to escape or save what you could. Shells rained down on the district that housed your beloved bakery. You watched helplessly from a distance, unable to do anything.

Minutes passed like hours. When the noise finally subsided, and the thick smoke that blocked out the sun began to clear, you looked towards your cherished place. It was destroyed.

The walls that once protected you and brought you closer to your customers had collapsed, and the oven where you had kindled the flames of hope had turned to ash. Everything was shattered, broken, as if that place had never been a sanctuary of peace and comfort.

But the destruction wasn’t just physical. The pain in your heart was far greater than any material loss, a place filled with beautiful memories now reduced to rubble. The moments when you saw smiles on people’s faces as they savored your bread, the laughter that echoed through the bakery—those were now just memories, dissolving in the ashes of devastation.

As days went by, you tried to piece together the fragments, not just of the bakery but of yourself as well. You knew rebuilding wouldn’t be easy, and the wounds left by the war wouldn’t heal quickly. But you also knew that the hope you had infused into your bread would remain alive in your heart, even if the tables and chairs were destroyed, even if the bakery itself was gone.

The bakery may have been destroyed by war, but its spirit lives on in you, in everyone who tasted your bread, and in everyone who walked into that small place and found a slice of happiness.

Here the pictures show Ismail doing his job as a baker, but in the harsh war, after he had a large bakery, he started baking and helping people in an old oven made of clay. His first and last concern was to help people.🌾🥐🥖

Vetted here by @90-ghost

[yujateaandpi]

Hi guys! Yujatea here! If you enjoy my work, I’d like to please ask for a moment of your time to consider helping this family I’m supporting! Shaima is a mother of four children, Abdul Rahim, Walid, Majdi, and baby Amal. Shaima is struggling to support her children since her husband disappeared, and needs urgent help with providing food and resources for them, especially as winter sweeps through Gaza! This family’s fundraising campaign (@familgazaamal1) is completely vetted and I’m trying to use my platforms to raise awareness on their behalf. I’ll be opening my commissions to raise funds for their campaign so keep your eyes peeled! I’ll also post their fundraiser link in my highlights as well! Thanks guys! Let’s do our part to reclaim kindness and uplift each other!

Here's a message from the family:

In Gaza, where conflict looms over daily life, children’s dreams remain a ray of hope. Abdul Rahim, a young boy, dreams of becoming a famous artist, using his drawings to tell the world about the beauty of his homeland. Walid, on the other hand, dreams of playing football in a big stadium, representing his country despite the obstacles around him. Majdi, a cat lover, dreams of becoming a kind person and helping children. Majdi, who dreams of opening an animal shelter to care for animals in Gaza. Even in the midst of war, these children cling to their dreams, believing that one day, despite the difficulties, they will achieve their goals. Their dreams are not only about personal success, but also about shedding light on a world filled with darkness. These dreams symbolize the resilience of Gaza’s children, showing that hope and determination can survive even the most difficult circumstances.

In the heart of the ongoing war, Shaima lives with her four children, constantly struggling with pain and waiting. Her husband, who was once the source of security and happiness, left a long time ago, facing the challenges of war far from them. Every day, Shaima makes earnest efforts to keep life going despite the hardships. She strives to provide food and shelter while trying to instill hope in the hearts of her children, who are still waiting for their father’s return, a father they know little about other than his absence. Her four children, despite their young age, carry great hopes in their hearts. The eldest, who everyone sees as the "little father," dreams of their father returning to embrace them as he did in the past. The youngest, on the other hand, wakes up at night searching for his father's voice, wishing for his return to feel safe again. Shaima's dream is every mother’s dream in this war: for her husband to return safely so they can live together again in peace and security. She dreams of the days when her husband filled their home with joy, and she prays for the end of the war so their family can reunite once more. Yet, amid the destruction and tears, hope remains their strength. Shaima knows that her patience and resilience are what keep the family going. Despite the difficult days, she continues to resist, dreaming of the moment when her family will be whole again, with her husband and the father of her children back home.

[huda-pls]

Save What's Left of My Family in Gaza.

In the heart of Gaza, where daily life has become a constant challenge amidst the siege and continuous bombing, we experienced unforgettable moments, filled with love and hope despite the pain. This is my story, and the story of my family, which may not differ from hundreds of other families in Gaza, but it holds special memories that will forever be etched in our minds.

Yazan, my dear nephew, was always a symbol of courage and joy in our family. Since childhood, he loved to wear his elegant blue suit, always made sure his hair was neatly styled, and smiled at the world as if to tell us that tomorrow would be better. On the day of a family member's wedding, Yazan stood proudly beside us, radiating happiness, sharing his smiles with everyone, as if he knew that these moments would be among the last memories we would have of him. Just a few days later, in a merciless airstrike, we lost Yazan. He left us while dreaming of a tomorrow filled with peace and joy, leaving behind a void and indescribable pain.

As for Suheir, my beloved niece, she is the sun that rises in our lives every day. Suheir is still with us, full of life and hope, dreaming of wearing her white dress on her special day and living a life filled with joy and success. Despite the harsh circumstances, Suheir carries the spirit of childhood and is the source of hope that we cling to amidst all this pain. Every time I see her, I feel that life still offers us a chance to witness its beauty and happiness.

We lost Yazan, but we thank God that Suheir is still with us. She is a symbol of hope and resilience. Although life has become more difficult and harsh, I believe there is always light at the end of the tunnel. We have endured these bitter experiences together as a family, but we still carry in our hearts a passion for life, seeking safety and the opportunities that can grant us a new beginning.

For this reason, I have launched a fundraising campaign to help my family escape this harsh reality. My goal is to secure a better future for those of us who remain, especially the children who deserve to live their lives without fear of bombings and airstrikes. All I ask for is a chance to give them a future filled with peace and opportunities, far from wars and destruction.

With hope and faith, I ask everyone who reads these words to contribute to our cause. Together, we can build a better future for our children, keep Yazan's memory alive as a symbol of courage and hope, and continue to support Suheir so that she can live the life she dreams of, filled with safety and happiness.

Vetted by @gaza-evacuation-funds @nabulsi @irhabiya @bilal-salah0

Sorry for mention you

@claudiasescapesubmarine @neptunerings @malcriada @timetravellingkitty @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @northgazaupdates2 @rhubarbspring @watermotif @kyra45-helping-others @gaza-evacuation-funds @appsa @emathystg @transmutationisms @lonniemachin @retvolution @rairikka @a1m3v @bookn3rd-cartoons

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@transmutationisms @kitty @khanger@pomodoko @shakira @determinate-negation @a-shade-of-blue @therealmsdarling @opencommunion

[artstaeus3600]

So some people have requested a part two for the Danny is Conner's Dad prompt/one shot? I did and it's been in my head since I'd written it so here ya go!

Danny's been living in Central City for almost a year now and things have been great with Conner! Dan finally gets to meet the little ghostie and finds him acceptable (read adorable) Conner seems to love going outside and napping so they have been doing that for nap time, he's finally seen the "Flashes" that Dan and Clockwork were complaining about so much and he gets it, it's a little irritating figuring out what changes in the timeline when he goes places.

Dani came by with her latest gift, a blue and red wrap with stars on it, that Danny now wears everywhere with Conner, so when Danny and Conner were having their nap walk around the City Danny got Summoned by a cult just from the smell of blood it's not going to be great... So Danny in his more eldritch form of endless stars and glowing green eyes and fire crown (still human sized), with the bonus of baby Conner with his wrap, he gets pulled to the summoning and finds the cult wearing green robes with some of the superheros he's seen around beating them up and suddenly stops when they notice him and the baby.

The leader of the cult who for some reason was still conscious starts speaking

"Oh Great One, Ghost King, Ancient of Space we ask for you to cleanse our world of the filth that has...", and that's as far as he got before the Superhero with a Kryptonian symbol for hope knocked him finally unconscious, then all focus is back on Danny with the baby and well Danny didn't really wanna reveal his human identity to the heros cause he can just tell the edgy dark one is a nosey type of hero, and he's finally having a semi peaceful life and he's rather not get involved with heros again, so he breaks the summoning circle faster than they can protest and dips out only leaving a green sticky note with a summoning for him and written "use only for emergency"

Part 1

Hopefully this is good for part two? This was what I was imagining for the Justice League to figure out Danny and Conner and trying to track him down.

[logaenhowlett]

TEACH YOU HOW TO GET TO PUREST HELL - L.H.

Summary: On the way to one of his cage fights, Logan's truck begins to break down and that's how he meets you, the owner of a repair shop in Northern Alberta. He promises to pay you with his winnings - but what he ultimately offers is far more interesting.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+ only, Fluff, Flirting, Dirty talk, Praise kink, Fingering, Unprotected sex (against the cage), Aftercare, Logan's a snarky motherfucker (but secretly a softie)

A/N: The filthiest 4k I've ever written. I just know he was a menace during his cage fighter era. It's okay though, I'll still be clawing at the enclosure. Title creds to Radiohead. Hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST

Smoke curls around him, bearing a semblance of warmth against the biting wind. Logan's grip on the steering wheel is loose, the other arm draped lazily across the window. He flicks his fingertips ever so often, the ashes of his cigar disappearing into the falling snow. Mile after mile, the same barren landscape stretches before him.

He's lost amidst the silence, having turned the radio all the way down in frustration at the nonsense plaguing the stations earlier. As sunshine glares through the windshield, he scrunches his eyebrows, vaguely entertaining some ideas swirling in his mind.

Hours pass by painfully slow. He tries to ignore the low rumbling that interrupts his flow of thoughts, body firmly protesting against this all-alcohol diet he'd unintentionally adopted. Logan skims a hand into the glove compartment, clicking his tongue when he discovers only a few wrappers lying inside. Slumping back into the seat, he takes another drag, disappointment etching onto his features.

An orange, flashing icon on the dashboard snaps his attention. His eyes dart to the blinking light, a sense of irritation washing over him when he recognises the ‘check engine’ symbol. In a haste, he pulls the truck over, slamming the door shut behind him as he ventures into the cold to inspect the issue. Though he has an extensive knowledge of motorcycles, by no means does that expertise carry over to whatever mess he finds beneath the hood. Logan returns with a sigh, recalling a faded road sign he'd passed ages ago - at least he isn't awfully far from his destination.

In the distance, the town welcome monument brings him some sort of peace. After driving by plenty of dimly lit diners and pubs, he reluctantly asks a stranger for directions to the nearest repair shop. Logan arrives shortly thereafter, parking at the entrance of this seemingly empty building. Curious, he scans the place, sliding out of his seat in search of anyone.

The distinct ring of metal hitting the floor has him spinning around. He fights back the amused huff at the sight of you, bottom lip slightly caught between his teeth in an attempt to stop the smirk threatening to break free. His eyes rake over your figure as you come closer - appreciating the way your overalls perfectly capture the slopes and curves of your body - before finally, rising to meet your unimpressed expression.

"What're you here for?"

There's a smidge of annoyance in your words, a reaction he very much enjoys being the reason for. He nods towards the truck parked out front, "Problem with the engine."

When you brush past him, Logan spots a name neatly embroidered onto your otherwise soiled clothes. Smiling, he follows after you, shamelessly dropping his gaze to your ass for a moment.

Waiting patiently while you poke around the hood, he steals glances at your profile, filled with the sudden urge to wipe away the grease stain remnants off your cheeks, "Yeah... looks like the head gasket needs replacing."

Logan groans to himself before agreeing with your judgment. He runs a hand across his face, stilling in brief confusion when you chuckle quietly.

"Somethin' funny?" He asks, noting how you browse the insides of his camper with a flair of barely-masked mockery.

"Just admiring the interior design."

That one almost draws a scoff out of him. Logan knows his living quarters are rather bare-bones in nature, at best, providing decent shelter for when he's on the go. Inside, a makeshift bed large enough for a man of his size and basic kitchen appliances - though he rarely uses those. It's all he cares for anyway, yet there's a tinge of self-consciousness he shakes before gruffly responding, "You can do it by tonight?"

"Tonight?" Your eyebrows raise in surprise, "Fine... but it's gonna set you back about three grand."

"I got half for now."

A sharp laugh pierces his ears. And even though it's undoubtedly fake, he thinks you look pretty like this - shooting what can't be anything less than a deadly glare just for him. The corners of his lips tilt up when your tone suddenly becomes stern, "That's not how it works, buddy."

"Listen, I got a fight later, I'll be good for it."

"What? You that sure you're gonna win?"

You're teasing him. You know it, and so does he. Logan studies the way your hand rests against your hip, a challenging glint behind your eyes while you consider this ridiculous suggestion. He moves one step closer and proudly welcomes the surge of satisfaction at the slight crack of your demeanour.

"Darlin', I always win." It's a whisper that leaves him, hushed and dangerously low. Giving your shoulder a playful nudge as he walks by, he circles to the trailer behind the truck, retrieving his motorcycle. He smirks, pleased to witness such a glimpse of weakness, "Eleven-thirty. O'Malley's. I'll see you there."

The engine revs with each twist of his wrist, the movement so precise and natural. As he sinks onto the bike, the suspension adjusting to his weight, he sends you a wink.

"And if you lose?" You shout over the blaring sounds.

With one final grin, "Just fix my truck, alright."

Even from outside, O'Malley's is deafeningly loud. The wooden door creaks lightly with the gentlest push, and a mixture of overly enthusiastic yells paired with the clashing of glass greet your presence. You're no regular here whatsoever, but the fights that occur in this bar are usually the talk of the town. And despite its reputation, you've never had much interest in being surrounded by a crowd of angry, intoxicated men - all drowning beneath the crude insults and empty threats tossed into the air.

Some of the patrons, customers you recognise from work, acknowledge you with a polite smile while you settle into a booth near the cage. As you observe the utter chaos around the room, it only cements your distaste for this so-called form of entertainment. The current match's loser staggers past your table, barely walking on two feet even with the support of his friends.

All you can think about is returning home with your hard-earned cash. It was a rather tiring day, running around salvage yards scouring for spare parts to tend to the old piece of junk he'd called a truck. Not to mention the unforgiving weather, which seemed determined to make your day more miserable. And to top it all off, the jerk wanted it done by nightfall - the audacity! Just the simple reminder of today's events has your body tensing from restlessness.

Behind you, a group of men sneer amongst themselves and between their slurring, the words "pretty boy" and "his ass kicked" grasp your attention. Turning around, you watch as they hand over money to some younger fella, taunting others to join the bet. Oh, that makes your blood boil. This Logan had strolled into your shop with nothing but a superficial promise for your services, and now, he's presumed to lose?

You stand up abruptly, peering across the space in search of him. A rush of fury courses through you at the same time you spot him casually lounging in the corner. As you approach, the faint glow of the bulb illuminates his face, a cloud of smoke momentarily hiding the smirk playing on his lips. His chuckle cuts through the hum of the jukebox he's leaning on, eyes crinkling with a kind of smugness at your arrival.

"You're joking." The bottle of whiskey between his fingers shocks you the most, "Are you seriously getting drunk before your fight?"

Logan grins at your concerned expression, eyes tracing you up and down, "You fix it?"

"Yes, I fucking fixed it. Took me all day!" Fists clenching, you stare at him intently, "Look, I did my job - you better do yours."

"Don't worry 'bout it, darlin'. I'm a man of my word." He dismisses you completely, taking a prolonged swig of his drink. A beat passes before he lazily holds up two fingers right to your face, "Scout's honour."

He laughs again when you roughly shove his hand aside, not sparing another second for this cocksure attitude. You grumble under your breath, making your way back to the booth, "It's three fingers, asshole."

A few matches take place over the next hour, and you're only getting more antsy as each of the competitors exits the cage with nothing short of bloody faces and broken bones. The audience roars all of a sudden, some even rattling the fence as this new person strides into the threshold.

Of course, he'd stripped his shirt off and the sight of his muscle-toned chest only serves to further fuel your irritation. Logan's eyes find yours immediately, looking past the crowd of hecklers now whistling at him. With a nod, he throws you a confident smirk and turns to his rival.

The man he's up against is much more burly and has a couple of inches on him. Though that doesn't seem to faze Logan in the slightest, instead he's flexing his arms almost playfully before adopting a fighting stance. Every punch and kick has you twitching in your seat, your feet firmly stuck to the ground in anticipation.

Remembering how he'd chugged an entire bottle of liquor earlier, you're astonished by the ferocity with which he attacks his opponent, dodging most moves with deadly precision. As he lands more jabs, the spectators begin to jeer and boo, swarming the enclosure of the cage in a tantrum. You peek over their shoulders, ducking away from the things they're flinging around. There's a collective gasp when he knocks out the other man, and you sigh in relief.

Leaning towards the cage, a cigar lightly pressed against his mouth, Logan's focus shifts to you. His chest is heaving from all the physical exertion, skin damp from the sweat. As he exhales the smoke, blowing a kiss in your direction, a satisfied expression returns to his face. He runs a hand through his wet hair, leaving the arena with no regard for the protesting crowd.

You follow after him, squeezing through the tightly packed space. He's settling a score with the owner, a wad of rolled cash passing between them as a reward. After a nod of mutual agreement, Logan faces you, tossing his leather jacket on. And while you're ultimately happy he won, there's also this urge to smack the cheeky look that seems to be glowing as you come closer.

What's more upsetting is the fact that he is undeniably gorgeous - especially like this, all sweaty and wound up from the adrenaline rushing inside. And of course, he doesn't miss how your gaze wanders to the sliver of skin peeking through his jacket, every slight movement only revealing more.

Logan grabs a few bills from the roll of money and stuffs them into his back pocket, holding the rest out towards you. As you reach for the cash, he swiftly draws his hand back with a teasing smile, "Have a drink with me."

"No."

"C'mon." He drags out, repeating the same thing when you try again, "No one needs their cute, little mechanic right now."

Watching you sigh triggers a thrill of excitement, an unspoken victory he claims with no shame. With a simple gesture, he leads you towards a secluded booth, determined to make this a worthwhile exchange. Despite your hesitation, he maintains a sort of relaxed energy, draping his arm along the seat - his eyes not straying from yours.

Two shots of vodka are placed on the table and Logan mirrors your action, slowly raising the glass to his lips. In no time, the air of unease dissipates, replaced by a comfortable silence while the drinks keep coming. As the night wears on, casual conversation flows between you and he asks a few things like how long you've lived here, why you became a mechanic and eventually, when he slides you the money, "What now, darlin'? You gonna leave?"

His voice, dripping with honeyed sweetness, sends a shiver down your spine. You can't exactly place the feeling, but it's a tangle of exasperation and something else - something you're not quite ready to define. Instead, you blame it on the drinks, the late hour, and the fact that there's an incredibly attractive man just inches away.

As frustration envelops your thoughts, you suddenly excuse yourself and head towards the bathroom. The alcohol, previously a gentle companion, now seems to be taking its toll. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you try to fight against the sensations running through your body. The splash of cold water does little to your state of mind, yet you're back outside in what feels like a tilted world, using all your strength to walk straight.

As you brush past the cage, someone collides into you. Desperate for balance, you reach out to grip the fence, but a strong hand lays steady on your lower back. With a gasp and a tilt of your head, you're caught off-guard when Logan comes into your view. His arm snakes around to gently hold your waist, his body now pressing into yours.

Overwhelmed by the sudden proximity, you tear your attention away from him and glance at the wire pricking your fingers, "This is fucking sharp."

He doesn't break the eye contact. A low hum vibrates through his chest as he leans in, the warmth of his breath dancing with yours. The space between you slowly shrinks, whatever lighthearted facade he'd worn earlier vanishes only to be replaced by something raw and inexplicable.

"How're you not bruised?" You whisper, remembering the way he'd been thrown against the cage earlier.

"Call it a special talent."

Despite your better judgment, you find yourself captivated by him, the intensity of his gaze reeling you in. And so, you decide to play his game, "Can you teach me?"

Logan pauses, "You wanna learn... how to fight?"

"Just a little punch or something."

A faint smile spreads across his face, you're absolutely sure he can feel the way your heart is pounding. When his lips lightly brush against your ear, a quiet rumble escapes and something flickers in your gut - a twist of exhilaration laced with a hint of caution.

There's barely anyone left in the bar at this point besides the one or two stragglers hanging around. Logan and you stand alone in the cage, seemingly tucked away in a little pocket of your own. He doesn't wander too far, remaining within an arm's distance while demonstrating the proper technique for a jab - the motion so fluid and effortless.

Your initial attempts to mimic his movements are clumsy and awkward, his amusement only growing more evident with each try. Slipping behind you, he sheds the jacket, once again exposing his glorious muscles and the thought of tracing his vein-riddled biceps with your tongue leaves you dazed for a moment. This time, he circles his arms around you and guides your hands into the correct position.

As you practice, your bodies nudge against each other, his breath fans across your neck and ignites a fire within you. The tension is palpable, the air thick with implicit desire. You can almost feel his gaze burning into you, every second posing a challenge to cross this imaginary line.

The rest of the patrons are ushered out the door, the owner nodding at Logan before disappearing into the back room. And the silence settles in, a stark contrast to all the commotion that lingered for hours prior. You notice the difference, inching towards the exit, "Looks like they're closing up."

Before you can move away, Logan's hand shoots out to catch your wrist, "And we got it all to ourselves."

"What?"

"Might've slipped the owner a little somethin’."

His fingers trail up your arm, thumb gently pushing your soft skin. Slowly, he brings you closer, his words just a whisper of heat on your cheek. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, a rhythm echoing your own racing heart. Your voice, hoarse and strained, barely manages a response, "Is this how you budget? No wonder you're broke."

It's his laughter that breaks you at first, followed by, "You got a smart mouth, darlin'. Tell me, what else can it do?"

His lips hover mere inches above yours, there's a moment of hesitation hanging in the air - an out, if you don't want this. But, temptation is a dangerous siren and you're already ensnared by her song.

Fuck it.

Logan's dog tags hang pretty between the slopes of your breasts, his mouth moving against yours in a rough, demanding fashion. It's sloppy. It's wet. And it's goddamn heavenly when his fingers thread through your hair, the gap between you now completely erased. You cling to him as if he's an anchor, nails digging into his shoulders while he pins you to the cool metal of the cage.

He wants to touch you. To feel the warmth radiating straight off your body. The straps of your overalls fall from his force, he takes the opportunity to slide one hand through the side, kneading your waist with a kind of tenderness that surprises him too. When you take a second to breathe, Logan peppers kisses along your jawline, then some beneath your ear before grazing his lips on your neck.

The pulsing vein he finds nearly has him growling in pleasure, "Fuck, darlin'... feel so good already... can't wait to taste you when I'm done..."

He stills when you gasp, glancing up through his lashes and then quietly chuckling at your flustered expression. Yet, he can't revel in his victory for any longer than a blink, your palm tilts his head back before you fiercely capture his mouth once more.

His name rolls out your lips, drawn out and glazed with an obvious need. Taking a deep inhale, Logan feels the bulge in his jeans growing with each passing moment. You're only getting restless as his hands roam over your body, becoming nothing more than a whimpering mess all from his doing.

"Lemme hear you for real, baby... don't be shy." His fingers latch onto the cage, using it to thrust forward and deepen the kiss. Your clothes end up pooling at your feet, the barriers between you peeling away with every layer gone. Now, skin to skin, sweat glistening on your brow, you're left bare and vulnerable to his touch.

Logan reaches down, spreading your thighs wide enough till he can push your panties aside, stroking the outside of your entrance. Clenching his jaw when he's met with a distinct wetness, "Hidin' all this for me?" He almost laughs at how you curl forward and then whine his name, craving for any part of him to be inside you, "Hm... what'd you say to me before? Three fingers?

With no warning, he slides exactly three inside your cunt, pumping in and out as best as he can, "So fuckin' tight, darlin'... c'mon... show me you're ready for the real thing." He knows he's doing something right when you squirm at his actions, jumping at the invitation to delicately flick your clit before sinking his fingers back into you.

"Logan-"

Pain consumes you as he continues, tears springing to your eyes. You've never felt pleasure like this, so intense and so profound, words lost amongst the moans trembling out your lips. Your knees begin to shake under the pressure, and his free hand immediately cups your thigh, securing your body to his. As you call out for him, urging him to fuck you senseless, he tugs his fingers away.

The belt flies, jeans tossed behind in an instant and he grunts, freeing his hard length from his boxers. The tip of his cock teases your folds, the precum slicking down from the head. His nose presses against your cheek when your hand runs up and down - getting him all nice and ready. Breath hitching at the sensation, Logan involuntarily bucks his hips, your eagerness carrying him over the edge.

He's careless about lining himself up, giving it no more than a fleeting thought before thrusting into you. Whatever floods your brain at that moment is much more potent than anything you've ever experienced. It's vigorous, almost animalistic in nature, how hard he fucks you. The veins on his arms become more apparent as he hoists you up, pushing you against the cage. He can hear the little fibers of your skin tearing because of the friction, yet he does little to ease that pain, knowing you're enjoying the hurricane of emotions whisking you away.

Logan pants into your tits, nipping at the soft flesh, "Wanted to ruin that pussy since I saw you this mornin'... all dirty and pissed off at me - god. Thought 'bout somethin' else on your face too."

"Logan - don't... fucking stop. Feels amazing... wanna feel all of you." The words escape you - laboured and breathless - your eyes soften in delight, watching this sort of enraptured expression wash across his face, "So good for me, Logan."

So good.

For me.

And boy, if that doesn't spur him on.

Picking up speed, his movements turn greedy, grinding into you with a degree of passion he's never felt before. As you tug his hair, fingers raking through the dark tresses in a frenzy, Logan taps into the primal energy swelling within. His hands squeeze you further, your thighs constricting his waist as he drives up into you, "That's it baby... fuckin' perfect. Takin' all of me like a good girl... mhmm."

The way your body helplessly arches has him grinning, but that quickly gets swept away when his cock twitches inside you, aching to burst at any given moment. He tries his hardest to control himself, longing for your cries of pleasure as you finish. Thrusts weakening to a leisurely pace, Logan grunts into your neck, mumbling a string of curses while he rides out this wave. Thankfully, you're on the precipice as well, your body reaching its peak with a shiver.

His cum trickles out of you, thighs getting sticky as it seeps lower and lower. Lost in a daze, Logan thinks he can see the damn sun in your eyes. With a gentle swipe of your cunt, he sheepishly licks his own fingertips, a smile brightening his face.

The mattress, once a source of great discomfort, now feels like paradise as you cuddle into the crook of his neck, the soft rhythm of your breath soothing him to a state of peace. He'd carried you to his truck earlier, threatening you with a barrage of kisses when you dangled his keys in front of him. There was a rather short game of tag before you relented and collapsed into his embrace, tiredly blinking up at him. He'd tucked the loose strands of your hair back then tenderly caressed your cheek. It took all but one affectionate grin to convince you to spend the night in his camper.

Not a single inch of your body is free from his touch. He pulls you even closer, tracing patterns around the tiny scratches spreading across your shoulders. If you'd asked him yesterday, he would tell you he has no plans of sticking around this town, grown used to a life of impermanence. Yet, as he rests, tangled in your arms, Logan finds a reason to stay.

[sculptorofcrimson]

The dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed. 

Now not even in death can duty end…

Snowfields

Synopsis: A cold walk atop the mountain with Valdor.

Relations: Valdor x female Emperor shard

Warnings: Suicide attempt

This is relatively tame for what I write, and I wrote it in one sitting when I had roughly 20 minutes to spare. Ty for your time!

“Do you remember Ararat, my liege?”

No. No, she didn’t remember Ararat. She has never heard the name before. But she will. By the gods, she will. 

The air was cold. It rattled through her lungs when she tried to breathe. The white seemed to stretch forever, like malignant bones, the wind laid bare and rattling its screams. It would rise like a frosty howl around the two of them, wailing like a soldier who had lost a limb, weeping its cries for eternity. The cold bit at her, tore at her, the snow would have frozen mortal blood solid in mortal veins. Thunder grumbles in the distance. A crack of lightning splits the sky in half, purplish white against the ghoulish grey. 

His cloak was warm when he wrapped it around her. But his touch, without doubt, without even question, was unfathomably cold. Without even thinking of it, she had shrunk away.

Valdor’s grip had only tightened then. He fastened the clasp of the too-large cloak, the stench of incense and parchment wafting from the silk. A small smile, the emotionless movement perfected by a mind that could not actually smile, flashed briefly across his visage as he took her wrist, trapped it so effortlessly between his fingers and kissed the soft skin there.

“There was a Primarch once. A magnificent man. One that even I respected, in some regards.” Valdor led her, slowly and patiently, holding her up when she stumbled through the knee-high snow. The mountaintop seemed to rage against her. Well, too damn bad. She hated mountains, and she hated snow, and she was about to teach him a lesson out of spite. It was pure pettiness, but it was hers, it was one last plan she held to herself, one last wish she was certain was hers and not his, and if she was going to die, drowned limb by limb into the unseeing gold, she wished to at least pain him with it. 

How had it gone so wrong? How had angels of such glorious aurite turned into nightmares wrapped in gold and crimson? 

She yanked her arm away. Valdor let her go without struggle, simply rising back with a singular, elegant motion, as if he were a dancer performing a long-awaited waltz. When she stumbles over another snow-covered rock mere moments later, he was there, as if he had never left, one arm gently wrapped around her waist as he hauls her upright. This time, when she tries to pull away, his grip only tightens, as if he was defying the very storm itself.

“The snow reminds me of him. The Cataegis Primarch of the IVth legion. You watched us duel atop a mountain not so unlike this one, my liege, when the storm ended. It felt like the top of the world. We were in a deadlock when you appeared, your attention straying just for a moment to our fight. I snapped his wrist with a twisting motion, and slammed him into the ground hard enough to snap part of his spine. Your attention had departed by then, but it was enough. You still remember the frost, do you not?”

No. No. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Valdor’s hand, so gentle, so damnably gentle, placed itself under her chin. It stroked her hair, his gauntlets’ touch heavy yet tender, the jewels flashing dully through strands of hair that were quickly becoming darker, swallowed first by brown and then by black. He had not forbidden her to cut it. Out of spite, she had ordered him to cut it for her. 

It didn’t matter.

The strands had grown back, with an unrelenting zeal, glossy and luxurious and flowing like ink over water. She was innocent once, she was mortal, she lived among men and walked amongst mortals, and she will never be again. She will never live again, and that truth was simply so jagged, so broken, so horrifyingly caught between her chest and her throat that it was as if something broke a little further every time she took a breath. Valdor had only quietly polished, brushed and glossed over her hair, his movements methodical and calculated, even when silent tears rolled their way down her cheeks, her vision blurred by the salt and the water but just visible enough to see the flakes of gold swirling in her pupils. Still clear enough to see herself die.

She had felt Valdor’s fingers through her hair then, braiding it carefully in an intricate style she had never seen before, but one that tugged at familiar roots she had never felt before. 

Her hair. Some mewling, broken part of her(was it her dream or His? Was there a difference anymore?) instinctively felt like it should be darker. Longer. Wreathed with gold, and weighed down by a crown. But it was her hair. It was her hair, once upon a time, and she had lost it strand by strand, inch by inch, as the gold swam up through her vision and blocked out her eyes.

A rock clattered over the side of the mountain, followed by dull, distant thunder. It jolted her back to her mind, to her body, to the world that she did not rule over and should have never ruled. 

Numbly, she felt herself shake her head. Valdor only raised an eyebrow, and adjusted the clasp.

“I remember the rock, my master.” Valdor was saying. His voice rose and fell like a litany, carefully retracing steps the Emperor had once guided him through, when He was a king and gods walked the earth. She felt so small against him, so tired, so far from the invincible god-warrior he had once served, but that was alright, He had returned to him, and he would shepherd Him, guide Him, protect Him, through this life and through this death till the last. “Even the rocks felt cold. It was black, and it glistened like oil whenever the sun shone. There were storms every day of that campaign, as if the heavens themselves were against us, as if the gods had conspired to strike you down, but yet you gave us the order to march. And the wind. You told me that you heard it screaming. Malcador jokingly asked that if you should live again, you would choose to enact Ararat during the summer instead, if only out of sheer annoyance from the wind.” Valdor’s smile was nothing more than a reflex. There was no humor in it, nor human emotion. “Do you remember it then, my master?”

The wind. Had it screamed then, as it screams now? Had it screamed, beneath the weight of the betrayal, wailing with the sheer horror of what it had taken? Did it scream, singing a threnody with the thunder, as the skies growl and hail shudders from overcast clouds ahead? She shivers underneath her layers. The finest climate suits had been prepared, coupled with the Custodian cloak over her shoulders, but she felt cold, so unspeakably cold that it was nearly painful. 

Oh Throne. She was cold, so cold. 

“Constantin?” she rasps. Her voice was not her own. It was rusty from disuse, and cracked, and weak, but yet some part of it resonated, it echoed like the tongue of a god, speaking through the plaintive shell of a mortal, just enough to hiss like a shadowy undertone. It should have been more sonorous, it should have been softer, it should have been the voice of a conqueror, it should have been the voice of a girl snatched away from her home by an angel and transformed into a god. It should have been hers, but it was His instead. She licks her lips and tries again. “Constantin.”

“Yes, my lord?” he was at her side(was he always so close?), the memory jarringly left unfinished. The hand once gently guiding her and became more insistent as he knelt down until they were eye to eye. 

“I don’t remember the mountain.” she replied flatly. Her voice was weaker than a whisper. She didn’t care. She knew he’d hear it anyway. And if he didn’t, she no longer cared enough to ensure he did. She no longer believed she had the strength to stomach that voice any longer. 

The cliff looked dizzyingly as she peered over the edge. She wondered if even a Custodian could survive a fall at such a height. 

“I don’t remember the snow, Constantin.”

“That is alright, my liege.” He was so sweet, so sickeningly sweet, so unerringly gentle. It made her want to claw at him, to crack him, to see what could finally burrow under that invincible flesh and make him howl. It made her wonder how the Emperor broke him to make him the man he had become, how deeply He must have laid His tongs in the forge of flesh and fire. 

She wondered what his screams would sound like, if he could scream at all.

“Do not trouble yourself, my liege. Your form is still young.” Of course, he could afford to wait. He had waited for ten thousand years, and he would gladly wait for ten thousand more. In that broken, delusional mind of his, it was only just, after all. He’d speak litanies of loyalty, roaring them over the screams of her brethren, he’d speak praises so numerous that they’d drown out the sobs of her family. “Your memories will return, when given due time. I can tell you about them. The preliminaries, the campaigns, the plans you undertook.”

Of course. They’d have to return. They must return. They will return, and He will live again, born out of this mortal shell under Valdor’s guidance. Valdor simply could not be, must not be, could not accept, could not live in a world where his liege has fallen forever. 

The snow was no longer biting her. It seemed to have been cowed, laid low beneath the vengeful eye of its rightful master. Even the storm seems to have settled, briefly, at least for now. For the eye of the King, the Emperor, the god-sorceror. 

It was so cruel, the revelation, the realization that welled up in her when she gazed dully back at him with listless eyes. The revelation that came for her, and not for him, for he would be nothing if not for his delusion. How quickly she understood the truth beneath why she had called him here, why she had suddenly finally accepted his offer to visit the mountain, when she had been delaying it, dreading it, putting it off for weeks upon months. 

The edge. 

The end. (And not the death).

She wondered if even a Custodes could survive a fall from this height. She wondered if it mattered anymore. 

The plan had been formulating itself for weeks now, brewing like boiled flesh in a cyst, nursing itself, grieving its wounds, growing stronger, gaining weight. First she had refused to eat, then to bathe, then to move at all, all the dreary, listless days crushed into the same monotony as brass as she had sat still upon a throne she did not want and stared off into oblivion, as he occasionally knelt by her and asked for her commands while she numbly stared off in the distance, her eyes a thousand yards away. Her gaze had been lost in a time beyond time, beyond memory itself, and not even dreams could steal her away. 

First it had only been how she stopped even trying to hide from him. She simply let him follow her, on her aimless, little walks aboard the massive ship that had become her only location. Then it had been how her tongue had stalled and she no longer even greeted the serfs that occasionally came by to deliver her food she did not eat, water she did not want, utensils she did not use, how she simply stared ahead, as reactive as a corpse, about as conscious to the world as the dead. Valdor had cared after her then, when even her memory had failed her, when she lay still and sullen like ash, the weight of the world upon broken shoulders, silent, painful tears trickling a cheerless trail from her eyes to her duvet. How he had lifted her up and cradled her to him, asking which stories she wished to hear, which glories she wished him to recount. Which memories that were not hers but soon will be, tales he regaled her of His conquests, of His victories and His lessons, His mantras drilled into her bones as they have been drilled into his.

She had left the world, bit by bit, husk by husk, until she felt as if she weighed no more than one of His eagles’ feathers did, frailly clinging onto the world with a whisper and a dream. It was as if she was sinking into some calm, clear, colorless water and feeling the waves close in above her, but there was no sensation of drowning, no voiceless cry in the deep. Simply the noiseless struggle in her own dreams, as she prepared herself for the final breath before oblivion. 

(Did she have the strength? Did it matter any longer, when he could overpower her no matter the answer?)

It was so beautiful, up here, at the edge of the sky. She could hear the storm breathing in the clouds. It was close enough that she could close her eyes, and dream of Ararat, listening to Valdor’s words. An end. An end, just like the Thunder Warriors He(and she?) slaughtered so long ago. The final unraveling. She didn’t want to die, but was she truly living? An immortality without life, without passion, without even joy itself, was that truly living when she was little more than a corpse, kept alive through obsession?

If the Emperor had loved them, He would have never created them at all. What merciful god would create such grotesque angels? 

If the Four were merciful, they would have sought Valdor, as they sought the Primarchs. They would have whisked him away, upon winds of change, tainted him with their mark, made sure He would never accept him as a servant again. They would have saved him, corrupted him, broken him, taught him what it felt like to dream, before the golden light shone again, and His dream took over his. 

But he was a servant, not a master. He was not a leader. He knelt, instead of ruling, and the Emperor had sunk in His claws so deep even the Four could not pry it out. And so he was His, forevermore.

He died ten thousand years ago. And somewhere, inside that twisted, broken Palace that was a mind, His dog was still waiting loyally at the door, waiting for Him to return. 

He was kneeling beside her now. She had never even heard him move. With infinite reverence, he cups her features, admiring the black strands falling over his gauntlets, the golden eyes - so broken, so gorgeous, so His - staring back at him.

“It was the end of the Unification Wars, my liege. And the start of your rule. The Imperium was born that day, your coronation happened atop that bloodstained snowfield, when Malcador held up that laurel, and crowned you King. How could you forget how I, the first of your Custodes, knelt first and rose last, when the ceremony ended?” 

So careful. So gentle as not to hurt her.

“Tell me about them.” a small, cruel smile had found its way onto her face. She was no longer looking at him, instead smiling serenely, blankly staring out upon the sky. The mountain truly was beautiful. It was such a shame this was where she would die. She should have felt something then. A sense of guilt, perhaps. A moment of horror for what she had become, for taking advantage of something so deeply broken into him that it was written into his very bones. Obedience was carved into his blood, seared into his marrow. He would know no other way but to obey. 

“The Unification Wars?” Valdor asks, the question poised so effortlessly, head tilted like a loyal dog, perfectly prepared to obey his master’s every word. 

It would be almost easier, she thought, if he had been a crueller man. Easier to break him, easier to hate him, easier to gaze upon that perfect, immaculate features and wonder what if he had lost those duels. If he had been taught to be mortal, what his screams would’ve sounded like, what sounds of pain he might wheeze out when his perfect, immaculate dancer’s grace falters and he learns, he learns the price for immortality. 

He was never meant to love. 

Not for the first time, she wonders if he can feel pain. If she’ll even care, if it’ll even matter. For a creature who loved no one but his master, would it even be a sin?A sin, to teach him what it meant to fear? To taste the copper tang of terror, to twist the knife in him as he had twisted the knife in her. And to die, exalted, knowing she would have hurt him, knowing she brought down a demigod. 

You can’t reason with a mad dog. You can’t plead with someone who knows they’re right. You can’t gaze into the eyes of Constantin Valdor and expect to see reason back, when his master was right in front of him and alive, so sickeningly alive he would rather kill than forget Him again.

Would he even mourn this time? Did he even know what mourning felt like? She had an inkling that he did, however twisted it may be. Because, for him, the tale isn't over yet, the tale must not be over. His Emperor is not dead, it cannot be, he cannot be, in a world without the Emperor, it simply is not possible. Without Valdor, the Emperor could not lead His Custodes, but without Him, the Custodes could not live. 

“No.” she replies. “The mountain. Tell me of them.” The smile that stretched across her face felt nothing like her. It did not belong to this life. It was too old, too heavy, too sad and too cruel for a face that was once joyous and wide with mischief. She had an inkling of the words Valdor was about to say, the bitter, treacherous words she would weep to hear, and regret ever having forced him to speak. 

“The Thunder Warriors.” she murmured. She had closed her eyes again by then. The plan was formulating, inking itself together with the same mindlessness of crawling, squirming things beneath the earth. And she didn’t want to see what the ground would look like when she fell. She didn’t want to see what it felt like to die a second time. This was only a distraction, a charade, a pitiful illusion built by a mind almost broken. There was no one here but a madman, a broken girl, and the ghosts of the storm calling out its mournful rage overhead. 

“Tell me what became of them. Of that Primarch you spoke so highly of. And no lies.” she sighs, and the voice that whistles out of her is too old, too broken. She brushes his hand away. This time, he doesn’t even insist on remaining. “Tell me what happened on Ararat. I want to hear the truth from your lips.” 

If there had been anything left of her heart, she might have mourned for him. For what he had become, living not for himself but for another. Living His life for Him. And when He died, what could become of him? What could become of him except to endure? When he had slaughtered brothers, lovers, children upon the snowfields, betrayed loyalists and watched life fade from their eyes, all in the name of Him, what could be left of him if not to serve?

He served, and loyalty was its own reward. Loyalty, unyielding, unbreaking, even in death his duty would not end.

Valdor tilts his head like a confused dog. “What good will it do now?” 

She utters a dry, raspy laugh. It had no inflection within it, no actual human emotion. 

“I command you, Valdor.” she spoke. There was nothing behind it, nothing even when the command hurt him. It stirred nothing but a deep, dull ache and the brief knife of guilt, which was quickly surpassed by the lasting numbness that did not seem to leave her bones. “I command you to speak of them. On Ararat. What happened on Ararat?”

She turns from him, walking slowly, and without care. She needed to be on a ledge. Distantly, thunder shrieks, and the storm crashes down. Lightning briefly illuminates her features, skin half-tanned, black hair flowing and golden eyes peering through the brume, and in that radiant flare of lightning she looked positively divine, a half-god caught on earth, if not for the weary, haunted gaze of a hunted animal. Her shoulders were hunched, her movements withered, as if her bones could no longer support her weight. She walked without a singular care in the world, and Valdor trailed immediately afterwards. She knew to jump was no longer an option. Even the stormclouds seemed to mock her. It was foolish, so foolish, she knew. He could not let her die. He would move faster than she could even think, he could catch her, snatch her around her waist and carry her to a safe distance before she could even advance an inch towards the edge. 

She could not die here. He would not allow her to die.

And they both knew that.

Voicelessly, soundlessly, she gazes up upon the stormladen sky. Its grey dances across her golden irises, the stormwind playing with her hair. Thunder crashes, and she feels herself scream back, wordlessly, soundlessly, without even conscious thought. Dully, she knew she was raging, screaming, that her mind was seizing at the clouds and tearing at them, begging them to save her, but physically she made not even a single move. Her body was frozen, the snow pelting her shoulders, Valdor’s cloak swirling from the wind. She felt frozen, too. Her mind was no longer wreathed with such self-pity it once had, it was churning, clawing, raging like a caught rabbit in a trap, desperately wishing the ground would open up and swallow it whole, not as a kind of freedom, but as a final form of spite to the hunter.

Thunder crashes around the two of them. Neither of them move. The edge was close, so dizzyingly close that she could feel the wind gusting around her. Valdor was watching her closely, the same way a starved wolf may watch a weakened deer.

When Valdor finally speaks, unable to resist the bluntness of her command, his eyes were still distantly focused on the memories of Ararat. And his voice was passionlessly dull, carefully kept neutral and utterly without pity. 

“I slit his throat.” he confesses dully, flatly, without even a hint of inflection. “The Primarch. I slit his throat on Ararat, from ear to ear, then from ear to clavicle. I only stopped when I felt bone scraping against the edge of my knife.”

Surprisingly she laughed, and the sound was garbled, as grim and as dry as bones. “I suppose you killed him then?” she asked. One more step. One more step and she would be at the edge. He would not let her. He would move faster than the earth could drag her down anyways. But it did not matter. Slowly, incredulously, she could feel herself smiling. It was going to be alright. She could feel it in her bones, the static, the storm. Even the snow seemed to be on her side. For a moment, she felt like a god, standing at the top of the world, the conquered earth groveling beneath Him, knowing that even the elements would fall beneath His gaze. 

She could taste the ichor then, sweet and lifeless and pouring from the sky along with the snow, the charge in the sky and the thunder. The vengeance it held. The sheer rage, an echo of her own. She would rule them. She did not want to rule. She would rule, for one singular moment in her wretched life, she would rule, and she would hurt him, as he had hurt her. For the serfs he terrorized, for the Sisters he slaughtered, for the martyrs he first betrayed and then hung out to die. All in her name. All for her wishes. She no longer wished to wish. She no longer wished to reign. 

Let her abdicate the throne of skulls. Just once. Just once, she prayed. 

“No.” Valdor shook his head. He was already moving, one hand reaching out to grasp her arm and drag her back before she could approach the edge. “It would have been a kinder fate if he had died then. It would have been a kinder fate if-”

“-if you had granted him an honorable death.” she finished for him. She spoke softly, plaintively, as if this was a comfort. She had turned her face a little, just enough to see him, just enough to see his elegant features illuminated by the storm. To gaze upon him, one last time. The way he held himself, like a dancer, his lean features accentuated by the lightning as the thunderbolt carved the sky open and struck the ledge beside her. The way his auramite had shuddered from the lightning as he had, for the first time in her memory, stumbled, his gait not utterly perfect before the divine rage. The first word she had heard him say that was not perfectly calculated.

The lightning snaps the ledge like bone.

The surprised intake of breath she had uttered, a squeal that was nearly a gasp as the rock beneath her feet had caved in, and then crumbled as she had desperately hoped, the weathered stone no longer capable of supporting its own weight bending and breaking and shattering as the lightning arced through it, the smite separating the ledge like the same way Valdor had carved through that serf. That poor, poor serf who had slipped her a kiss upon her request. It was little more than a peck, that poor thing. And he hadn’t even been able to scream when Valdor separated his bones like paper. 

In a silent vow to him, in a wordless vow to them all, the corpses he laid so she could climb atop her throne, she promised she wouldn’t scream as she fell.

Grimly, lips drawn in a tight line, she only felt the distant thunder as she descended like a one-winged eagle, her face utterly expressionless, lightning briefly dancing sparks against her hair as if in reverence. 

Valdor’s cloak, still wrapped around her, its silk as crimson as spilled blood, unfurled around her as she fell.

Distantly, from somewhere beyond the mountaintop, thunder roared. 

~~~~

It was warm, when she finally awoke. She muttered something, tried to turn, and decided to burrow deeper against the warmth instead. There was a rumble, a purr-like sound, and the slow, drifting scent of incense as one titanic hand came up to rest against her hair. 

With careful reverence, it adjusted the master’s laurel. 

“Welcome back, by lord.” the voice purred. “You expressed quite the interest in the Cataegis Primarch.”

She groaned. Golden irises flickered back and forth, as if in distress, beneath her lids. Valdor’s other hand reached up to stroke through her hair, careful not to upset the laurel.  

“I had thought you would have recognized him, my lord. It was, after all, his grave that I showed you that night upon the mountain.”

He makes a long, slow chuckle, almost like amusement, if he had been capable of it. “I had expected you’ve greeted him already, my master. You were standing atop his bones.” 

Somewhere, distantly, thunder growled. And without even being conscious of it, she shivered, and tried to burrow closer to his warmth.  

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[godjo]

✮ — altar girl.

hasn’t it been written that wherever the fire of evil blazes, a god will be there to douse it? but who saves the damned if a god kindled the fire?

tags — true form!sukuna x concubine/f!reader. 3k wc. explicit smut. dubcon at first (trust me in this one pls). exhibitionism. thigh riding. doggy style. manhandling. rough sex. womb fucking. humongous cock!sukuna (hello???). multiple orgasms. mindbreak. drool. cunnilingus bordering on tongue-fucking. orgasm denial once. he carries you. creampie. lots of cum. fuckton of religious symbolism. physical violence against the reader but not from sukuna. sukuna calls you brat like one time. minors, ageless, and blank blogs dni.

from hunter — not to be dramatic or whatever but i do feel like this fic took a huge chunk off of my sanity … the things i do for sukuna omg … if this flops i will officially retire from tumblr /j + also it's 3 am for me so i didn't proofread the last bits and i prolly got lazy ... ha ha ... ✮

gods exist. 

the annals of history tell us so.

they exist in a way that no mortal can comprehend, for a god is more than a face. they leave their imprints not with their feet but with the rise and fall of dynasties, the ruination of empires, and the death of kings. they materialize as the birth of a deluge and they rise as the reason for war. it is not the body that proves their existence but the carnage they leave behind. 

they have manifested before human eyes through myriad guises, and once again incarnated in the flesh of ryomen sukuna. 

many have met their untimely demise at his hands; he walks the earth with their tormented souls at his feet. from village to village, their numbers increased until a procession of weeping thickened behind him. hundreds of graves mark the land since his advent, and yet the heavens remain deaf to the hysterical prayers for justice. only he can hear the prayers; only he laughs at them. 

they say he is a devil. you say he is a god. because only a god can saturate the earth with blood and emerge unpunished from such transgression. hasn’t it been written that wherever the fire of evil blazes, a god will be there to douse it? but who saves the damned if a god kindled the fire? 

ryomen sukuna, in a form of some twisted mockery, decides to act the part. and so like every famished god, he demands a sacrifice to satisfy his voracious appetite. you would think that a house of gold would placate his hunger for blood, but riches mean nothing to him. his appetite needs flesh and it is flesh he got. 

“have i been too lenient that you’d dare fight amongst yourselves when i’m not around?” his voice reverberates inside the room. low, guttural, and pregnant with malice. it is enough to scorch everyone’s lungs with tension. 

you want to run away from this nightmare. go back to the peaceful bliss of mundanity when sukuna is only a piece of horrifying tale used to frighten children and not an absolute being seated cross-legged mere inches away. you try transporting your mind back to the days before his pillaging, before your village succumbed to his authority. yet his pervasive presence obstructs all your pathetic attempts at nostalgia. 

“look at what you did to the poor girl.” two of his four hands sweep you from your position to his lap, parading you to the rest of tearful eyes looking at him with entreaty. 

and it stings— their eyes. you’re in the claw of a savage hound from hell, ready to be devoured, with only your hadajuban as protection. even in this pitiful state, they offer no sympathy. their tears are for themselves alone despite their cruelty being the reason for your shared plight.

selfish bitches. 

“was it jealousy that caused this infighting? have i not divided my attention to all of you equally?” sukuna continuously taunts, lacing his voice with poisonous prudence. he fools no one and that’s what urges him forward. everyone knows that his seemingly laidback attitude is plain derision. nonetheless, he tastes the lingering hope in each of your faces before dragging his teeth along such pathetic daydreams.

“y… you have, my lord,” one of the women answers, her voice betraying a noticeable stutter. “if you would permit me to speak, i can offer his lordship an explanation for what transpired in the courtyard.”

sukuna emits a languid sigh as he rests his cheek upon his fist. he runs a rough hand down your arm, triggering vibration in the pit of your stomach. his hand is as huge as your face, his fingers long enough to snap your neck with ease. despite the surge of terror, you fight the urge to retch.

after a moment of battling your dread, it’s repulsion that filled you afterwards. repulsion rising from the woman’s explanation for your wretched state. the rest of the women nod their heads along with her account of how you tripped on a slippery stone multiple times, causing your current injuries, as if you’re a toddler who cannot orient her legs properly. 

they will save themselves with falsehood. 

sukuna yawns after the woman’s narration. his set of eyes seeking you after in the silence. 

“this matter is of your stupidity, then? you’ve wasted my time, brat.” he dips his cadence in amusement and disgust. 

anger flares within you, filling your nose and ears with the bitter scent of hatred, yet its heat descended down your throat, dampening your ability to defend yourself. what is one against many? there are twenty concubines in this room and nineteen of them just sold you to your demise for unintentionally raising this trifle to the lord of the land.

all of this— all of this merely because they have immersed themselves in playing a game in which you’ve been excluded since your arrival. after all, you’re just another competition for sukuna’s attention. 

“have mercy, my lord,” you whisper, on the verge of losing your sentience. “i… i mean no disrespect. it’s… it’s stupid of me—”

sukuna drawls, “speak no more of your nonsense. i have heard enough.” 

distressed apologies race past your mouth, along with entreaties that he spares your life. but you should’ve known that a god won’t turn his back on the sacrifice of blood. 

thus, when his enormous body finally moves to encase your fragility, you close your eyes and with jittering teeth have accepted your fate. you wait for the final release of death, a snap or his fist through your heart, but none came. instead, at your feet lay your torn garments, casting your nakedness before the other concubines in a humiliating display. the crisp air blows against your nipples, causing them to pucker tight. the same air turns your blood gelid, your bones immovable. 

“now, let’s see what all the fuss is about.” from behind, sukuna gropes your breasts, swirling the tips of your nipples with his fingers. “i’ll kill anyone who looks away.” the warning is vehement, ripe with threat, that even mere insects won’t dare defy it. 

is this the ultimate act of worship? to be stripped of all your layers? to be eaten?

his lips latch onto the bareness of your neck, sharp teeth dragging across the skin. the silence is thick, saved for the sound of your uneven breathing and the rustling of fabric as the concubines shift uncomfortably on their seats. sukuna’s wet and unusually long tongue starts licking the base of your shoulder to the back of your ear, before placing his thick and robust thigh between your quivering legs. 

your exposed cunt sticks to his skin, pussy folds flapping open. with practiced ease, as if manipulating the strings of a marionette, he subtly guided your movements. he has your pulsing clit riding the ridges of his thigh as if gushing all over will save you from inevitable demise. 

“m… mhm!” no longer entirely in control of your own form, you turn and sway in a helpless dance to his hands’ command. a gasp tinged with surprise and undeniable pleasure, escapes your lips and echoes softly in the confines of the room. you feel the searing heat of the concubines’ gazes drilling into you, a tangible weight of disapproval and something more primal — a flicker of envious fascination.

“for a condemned woman, aren’t you loving this too much?” sukuna takes the reins to your body. with speed that has your heavy tits bouncing, he secures your waist and drags your slick pussy faster and more recklessly. 

pleasure, sharp and electric at first, surges through your core, blossoming outwards like a firework. your cunt clenches and unclenches involuntarily, a delicious tremor wracking your body. the world narrows, sound and sight fading at the edges as every nerve ending sings with a single, glorious purpose. slowly, the intensity ebbs to leave a pleasant afterglow that paints your limbs with a newfound weight.

you’re but a tiny speck compared to sukuna’s imposing body; a feeble creature under the jurisdiction of a god. 

possessive hands have found you in your fleeting refuge, scooping your lower body up like you weigh nothing. with the tip of his finger he traces the curve of your spine, pressing enough weight to flatten your stomach against the tatami mat. 

“even your back is filled with lacerations,” he points out brusquely.

sukuna’s hefty cock drops to the base of your spine, its puffed up cocktip lazily pulsing to leak his thick liquids of pre-ejaculate. it must’ve been a whole arm laying heavy against your spine, warm with a gluttonous desire to ram itself through the sloppy confines of your pussy. 

and you lay there, waiting for his teeth and his claws and his animalistic hunger to devour. he presses his chest to your back, filling your ears with promises that he’s going to feed on you, eat you down to the marrow of your bones— and you’ll love it. 

“look at them,” sukuna hisses as he tugs at your forehead, “i want you to look at them while i fuck you.”

with your flesh you’ve received him like some kind of communion from root to tip. he hammers your cunt with his cock, until the heat of his savage lust reaches the pit of your belly. you feel his warmth soiling your cervix and uterus with every vigorous thrust. 

“oh! m… mhm!”  completely overtaken by sukuna, your thighs can only twitch as he destroys your insides. 

“you’re soaking wet,” he groans in your ear, deliberately adjusting his pace so he can coat his thick girth all over with your creamy hole, “and so fucking tight.” 

sukuna grunts like a wounded animal each time his cocktip kisses the smooth spot of your womb. a sheen of sweat glazes his body, tattoos aglow in the lanterns, from manically fucking your cunt. he bares his fangs whenever you tighten around his shaft enfolded with prominent and proud veins. 

the once vibrant forms of the concubines, their faces alight with prurient interest, dissolve into a sea of indistinct shapes as fog descends upon your sight. you’ve been reduced to a babbling and drooling mess, unable to grasp the reality that you’re being mounted and fucked to madness before several witnesses.

sukuna extends his hand, searching for your abandoned clit during his primal need to turn your pussy to pulp. 

“there it is,” he breathes against your clammy cheek, satisfied at his discovery. 

“n… no! not there…!” you pant as the last thread of reason frays and snaps. 

a tempestuous force of pleasure sweeps through you, leaving behind a tremor that has shaken you to the core. around you, a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations spins until a guttural moan runs from your lips, delivered by the exquisite torment of rapture. your nails scrape desperately across the tatami mat, clinging at the remnants of spilled sanity. 

sukuna cackles at your desperation to find a moment’s reprieve. the roughened end of his fingers dip into your yielding flesh as he forcefully slams your pussy back to his cock.  

“you’re not going anywhere,” he pronounces frenziedly, his eyes blowing wide. sukuna’s desperation for release intensifies to the point where he’s blatantly manhandling you, brutalizing your cunt and his cock during the process of reaching zenith. flesh meets flesh, fervid thrusts after fervid thrusts, until he feels that familiar coil in his own stomach. 

sukuna plugs your abused cunt with inconceivable amounts of cum. his cock pulses wildly, shooting globules straight to your womb it’s almost physically possible to feel his viscous cum filling every crevice of your uterus. when he’s finally pulled out, ropy cum still links his raw cocktip to your pulsing pussy hole. despite such a mind-numbing culmination, sukuna’s cock refuses to yield. it springs up proudly, aching for another taste.  

“what a sight,” sukuna issues with cavernous and demonic utterance, pertaining to your body lying inert upon the tatami mat. he sweeps the sodden hair from his brow with a lordly air, his pride evident in the contemptuous curve of his lips. 

look at the state he’s reduced you to. his thick ejaculation pools around your lower body because your little pussy can’t hold all of him. with an indifferent shrug, sukuna lowers his formidable body to your level. and only when the malevolent glint in his eyes becomes apparent does the gravity of the situation dawn upon you.

he starts fucking your cunt with his tongue.

you grit your teeth in response as sukuna places your knees upon his shoulders, burying the slimy width of his tongue in your heated pussy. it’s no mere licking— he’s practically shoved his tongue up your gummy walls, toying with the warmth of his cum pooled in your poor cunt while simultaneously licking your puffed up clit. 

“o… oh! c… can’t— please, please!” drool seeps between your gritted cuspids after your hysterical plea.

pearlescent tears warm the corner of your eyes. your sensitivity from his rigorous fucking has not yet abated, but another swell of release approaches at a hand’s reach. down to your heart, the bundles of nerves and veins constrict painfully because it’s too much. you have nowhere else to put the pleasure— the imminent pinnacle will utterly ruin you.

i’m losing my mind

i’m losing my mind

i’m losing my mind—

when ecstasy is but a heartbeat away, sukuna withdraws, denying you the finality your body craves. as if saved from drowning, you suck in and grace your lungs with air only to be propelled back to the brink of delirium when he lifts you up from the floor like a breeze. 

with carnal ferocity, he seizes the meaty flesh of your haunches with two of his limbs, while the others secure your torso. there and there, sukuna slots his insatiable cock in your dribbling cunt; an act that he’s accomplished without effort because you’re so wet, he’s slid right in. 

everyone has witnessed sukuna’s cock abusing your tingling pussy; all can see how he bounces your tingling cunt along his stiff length without strain. 

“yes… squeeze my cock like the obedient girl you are,” he sibilates on your face, followed by a harsh chuckle. “you can’t hear me now, can you?”

the voice is a distant echo, barely perceptible to your waning senses. your body, devoid of strength, limps completely in sukuna’s embrace. he buries his face in the crooks of your damped neck, groaning and babbling as he ruts into your swollen pussy. 

“how come you’re still so fucking tight?”

hasn’t he prepared you for his sheer girth? hasn’t he stimulated your pussy enough to hug his cock smoothly and effortlessly? you’ve already coated his balls shiny with all the slick your cunt has produced, but sukuna’s chest tightens because you’re milking him with a viselike grip. 

yes, it is human that he’s even affected by this carnal desire. what more can he do? he feels faint with exultation merely by fucking you. 

sukuna pumps your pussy to the hilt with slow yet profound thrusts. he bares his teeth down the blade of your shoulder as the maelstrom of release engulfs him completely. battered by waves of ecstasy, he grunts with your flesh between his teeth, the rough sound reverberating deep from his belly.

you must’ve reached the peak with him— you absolutely cannot tell. the only thing that your puddled mind can grasp is the swirl of his potent cum in the pit of your womb and the endless pulse of your cunt as you struggle to accommodate his release. 

petrified and silent, the remaining concubines are as fixed in place as if struck by an immobilizing spell. yet they watch— they watch intently while sukuna’s cock throbs with white strings of cum dripping from your cunt hole down to his balls and thighs. a hefty amount pools beneath him, oozing from where the both of you are connected. 

the envy that consumed them is a silent, suffocating thing, a palpable presence thick enough to choke. this envy deepens as they witness the delicacy with which sukuna has placed your dormant body on his own tatami mat. they grit their teeth secretly, throwing every known curse your way. may your womb not bear the fruits of sukuna’s seed, they vehemently pray. 

for ryomen sukuna, it’s nothing but a moment’s weakness, a foreign string of unknown emotion that you’ve managed to evoke from him. and even though he’s beyond human grace, he’s wasted your body to his own satisfaction, it’s only right to touch you with his claws retracted.

“performance is over, my dearests,” sukuna announces while a smirk tugs at his lips. facing his concubines, he dons his fundoshi haphazardly that it barely covers what it means to hide. 

“w… what will become of her, my lord?” one dares to ask. 

a fleeting, imperious gaze from sukuna sweeps over you before ushering the women from the opulent chamber. “you shouldn’t worry yourselves about such trivial matters. she will meet her own reckoning by my hands.”

a wave of malicious satisfaction ripples through the group as they exchange covert nods. you’re already a dead woman. with poisonous glee, they bow before ryomen sukuna with their faces shaped in unbridled mirth. 

“make sure that my wives are accompanied home safely,” sukuna orders the nearest guards. he tastes their fear hanging heavy in the air just by being in his presence. oh, humans. 

as the group began to retreat, they cast over their shoulders a flurry of flirtatious farewells to the imposing sukuna. however, before they could vanish entirely from sight, his deep voice cut through their progress.

“guards, before i forgot…” sukuna displays a grotesque smile filled with malice. “kill them all. i want nineteen heads on my feet tomorrow.”

they say he is a devil. 

you say he is a god. 

and despite all the names, sukuna has found himself a place of worship, with you as his altar.