#its hard for me to make him really mean sorry suo bby ill make u a monster next and let u kill ppl

[littleplantfreak]

Word Count: 847

Suo x Reader (drabble ig?)

I wanted to write something with fallen angel suo and originally I was gonna make him mean but for some reason I can never do him dirty T-T I didn’t check it for errors so ✌️

Cws: Blood, maybe implied corruption? idk

Every time you meet Suo, he plucks a feather from your wings. He laughs as you pout, grumbling that you should do the same to him and he agrees, inching them closer to you. You never do grab one, nor do you ask why he does it.

 Are angels supposed to meet with fallen angels? Of course not, but if nothing else, you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He doesn’t tell you why he fell, or what happened to make him cover his eye with a patch. The answer is nebulous and changes by the day, but that’s also part of the charm isn’t it? It’s part of the allure that led to you meeting with him every week, sitting under a heavy canopy of trees or slipping into a dimly lit cave a trail of flower petals led you to. 

He’s a pinprick of red, crimson in your otherwise white, colorless life of working to watch over people who can’t see you. A thankless task, but necessary. Your way of living has been ingrained in you time and time again like water eroding mountains to follow a path out to sea, so by now the words come automatically.

“I don’t need to be thanked, Suo. I was made for this.” It’s an assurance you make time and time again, even if you sigh sometimes when you think about the monotony of it all. 

Help, bless, pray and repeat. 

Suo recently showed you laundromats, and the way the washing machine spins the water and soapy clothes in circles is how your job has started to feel. The trance you fall into as it spins is the very trance you slip into easily completing your assigned tasks. 

“I think it’s natural to want to be thanked for your work.” His words eat at you sometimes, because you can tell they’re sincere. Regardless of his status, of what he is, and how he’s fallen, you can tell with certainty he believes it. You would say that, is what you want to say back, but he doesn’t deserve cruel words when he’s been nothing but kind.

No one’s questioned your absences, or your missing feathers. Both are sparse in the grand scheme of things and if anyone has noticed or made note, it’s been filed away as a transgression so minor you feel like screaming. 

Why doesn’t that matter? Why shouldn’t someone be concerned? Why do they look at you funny if you even so much as think to ask a question that goes against what you’ve been taught? The word ‘why’ is small but stark. It stands out in your mind like the small dots of blood that replace the feathers Suo plucks from you over and over. The empty spaces have started to fill, but by the time you realize what’s happened, your wings have splatters of black against what was once a pristine white canvas. 

You paint over them every morning one by one trying to bury the evidence, but you can feel the difference in how you think and see the world. When it comes time to meet Suo again, you can tell he sees through the effort you’ve put in to make yourself seem normal. Whatever normal was is not your normal now, but when he places his own black feather in your hand, you realize it’s just as soft as your own. It weighs the same, probably even has the same chemical makeup if you tested it in a lab, but the color is growing on you the more you look at it. Maybe this normal is better. 

For now though, you bring the feather with you, shoving yourself back into the wash cycle. It can’t be much longer before someone starts to notice, but by the time they do, you’re sure it will be too late, and you’ll be long gone. It seems silly now to say an angel has fallen when they keep their wings, you think. 

Suo hears that comment from you himself too, smiling as if he knows a secret. Would you believe him if he told you the truth? That the black feathered wings usually only grow back after their old ones have been torn from their backs, blood flowing and staining skin and lost plumage like a waterfall?

The first day he saw you he could tell right away what your course was meant to be. The look in your eyes was the same as his right before he was grounded and left flightless in a heap, not a hand to help him up in sight. 

It’s good that he found a way around that. A way to save you from the pain and shame of not just falling, but being crushed under heel by the very entity that made you who you are. You’re happy now, looking through the garden he’s brought you to as you use an old botany book to search up what the flowers are. Your words from a lifetime ago ring true, if only for him. He doesn’t need to be thanked, he’s sure he was made for this.