Hi everybody! Wren/Bunny/Vex all names i go by. I am 29 yrs old, ace/non-binary polyamorous, use all pronouns. Married to halferidankind. Don't be afraid to say hi, or send me an ask.
I had some requests for this pattern last year, and as I don't think I will ever put it up for sale, I thought I'd put it out as a free PDF for anyone who wants to try it. Have fun!
Hi! This is my first ever ask on Tumblr after years of lurking in hashtags of fandoms, so I hope I'm doing this right 🥹🙏
Could it be possible to write headcanons of the OM characters with a reader that tends to ramble on without noticing? Bonus if the reader says smt like "Tell me if I'm talking too much" or something!
Hope I did this right!
yes this is so cute!!! i'm just writing the brothers but let me know if you want p2 with the others!
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There aren't many people that ramble around Lucifer, his often serious expression makes it intimidating to continue the conversation without wondering what he's thinking. When you start rambling to him, he ensures that you don't feel that way at all, nodding or occasionally interjecting so you know his listening to you. His expression softened as you start to explain to him an online mystery very popular from your realm.
So when your words come to a halt, heading hanging low with embarrassment as you suddenly become aware of just how much you've been talking.
"Oh sorry I'm rambling a lot..." apology coming from your mouth. He wastes no time reassuring you.
"Please continue, I'm interested to find out your theories on what happened to this human." He likes listening to you speak and wants to continue hearing what you have to say. So please ramble as much as you like.
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Mammon thinks it's funny how you can start off talking about one thing and then suddenly you're talking about something crazy you witnessed in the hallway. He might've feigned annoyance about your tendency in the beginning but now he's using your ability to his advantage to have you spending more time with him.
Originally you were talking about an idea you had for an essay for the Devildom History assignment, now you're going on a full on rant how you're pretty sure Solomon is teaching you to spell cast the complicated way because he finds you stuttering over spell incantations funny.
You pause with a sheepish expression. "Sorry I'm talking a lot." He shakes his head.
"If I had a problem I'd tell ya." Which is true, if he didn't want to listen he would say something. "Besides sounds like Solomon is being a jerk and doin' it on purpose." And he wouldn't grin to himself as you continue your rant, ensuring that you'll be with him for a little while longer.
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Leviathan is a fellow rambler (1), ask him about any of his interests and you'll be sat listening for as long as he has air in his lungs. If the two of you manage to share an interest you’ll both be locked into a seemingly eternal conversation loop. But given his own tendency to ramble (and his tendency to be embarrassed by it), he does try to ensure he listens to what you’re saying.
“And then I told her that she can’t just leave a trap hole in the middle of the hallway, but I don’t think she listened because there was an incident…” Levi is trying really hard to follow along with your story but he’s also trying to win this raid that is taking a lot of conversation. “Which speaking of incidents the other day there was…” the story keeps off shooting onto different tangents and the enemy boss is requiring more of his attention.
“Sorry you’re trying to do something and I’m rambling.” The second the words leave your mouth, his game is shut and his undivided attention is on you.
“Nononono it’s fine! Tell me more about what happened.”
“Are you sure? What about your raid?”
“I can do it later.” And he will when you eventually finish your story.
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Satan is fellow rambler (2) but he loves listening to you talk. Because it’s not the inconsiderate kind of rambling of someone who wants to hear themselves talk, it’s the words of a person who has many thoughts in their mind and talks to let them out. At least that’s how he sees it anyway. He’ll sit without much fuss and listen to you ramble about whatever you like, something that happened to you today, a new interest, a new show or an assignment idea he’ll nod along with every word.
“You can tell me I’m talking too much…” you tell him one time, after being uncharacteristically silent. He frowns.
“I’ll never tell you that because I like hearing what you have to say.” You perk up slightly.
“Even if it’s all rambling?”
“That’s my favourite.” He smiles. “After all who will tell me about crazy human conspiracy theories?” You laugh at that, using it as an opportunity to tell him about a new one you saw online.
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Asmodeus isn't a rambler but he loves talking. He'll happily talk your ear off when given the chance, so it seems only fair he lets you do the same. Sometimes he might not be familiar with the topic but he’ll ask questions to make sure he’s following along. But there are times where he recognises you just need to be let ramble without interjection, so he’ll take a moment to reapply his lipstick or check his hair in a small mirror.
He doesn’t intend for it to come off as disinterest when he does it.
“You can tell me if I’m boring you.” But when you become deflated, sentences stopping in their tracks. He understands why you’d get that impression.
“Boring, you? Never in a million years! I just didn’t want to interrupt while you were getting to the juicy part.” He puts his mirror away looking you straight in the eyes. “You have my undivided attention tell me more.”
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It’s hard to tell if Beelzebub is even paying attention to what you’re saying, as while you’re telling him about the latest twist in your current favourite TV show, he’s snacking away. The only affirmation you have is his nodding and occasionally grunting with a mouth full of food. You’re about midway through explaining some of the backstory of the two main characters to explain why the twist that one of them was the villain all along is so crazy when you realise he hasn’t actually said anything for a while.
“Sorry Beel, am I boring you?” He almost chokes hearing the question, especially hearing the slight sadness in your tone.
He swallows his food quickly, rapidly shaking his head until his mouth was empty. “No. I like listening to you talk. Tell me what happens next.” You smile at his words, a gesture that makes his next bite of food taste even better than before, especially combined by your retelling of what happened next.
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Belphegor isn’t falling asleep because what you’re saying is boring, it’s because he finds the sound of your voice comforting. Yes, there have been occasions where he’s dozed off while you were mid ramble. Does he feel bad? Yes. Does he vow to make up for it by making sure to listen to you next time? Also yes. But he does find it important to note that the times he has fallen asleep is when you were talking as he was preparing to nap.
“Sorry are you trying to sleep?” There aren’t many people he’d let talk to him when he’s trying to nap, but you are the exception, even if he knows a simple conversation can divulge to quite the story.
“It’s fine. Tell me what the Chihuahua did.” He keeps his eyes shut, but sleepily hums as you tell him about Luke beefing with some random demon in your class today. Even as sleep tries to take over he fights it off to at the very least make it to the end of your story.
Although you’re now starting to give him an entire backstory of how the grudge started over a month ago because of a passing comment in the hallway. Belphie will see this through. The thought of you being sad enough to drag him out of any tiredness.
❥ Summary: Y/N found themselves magically within the territory of the angels known as the White City. They have no idea what happened to them or how they got there, though quickly ushered in by a warm and friendly face. A face who identify himself as Azrael, who didn't want any chaos to unfold from the other angels if they find out a single human is found within their territory. How Y/N bypass the detection, no one seems to know. Particularly Azrael, who found Y/N.
Bright.
Sunny. Always sunny.
Like a noon's sunlight falling around you and your surroundings constantly. At first - while wandering the area you assumed to be under construction in a city you couldn't identify right off the bat with walls stretching to the skies and blocking your view to see what else this city contained - it didn't click on what's wrong. What seems like forever with your phone going haywire as if you left it overheating and your watch ticking away, it processed in your mind. There's no sun in the sky. No dipping in the skies to indicate when the night will be approaching. No clouds in the skies. Not even a single shadow casted. It made you feel uncomfortable by no sun or no shadows, not even yours. The way you constantly checked the time, glancing upwards before muttering to yourself, reminding yourself about the small details that you grew accustomed to back on Earth where the skies turned colorful before a sun rise and fell beneath the horizon.
Even the brightness made your skin itch and crawl.
The thoughts wondering your mind wandered off to the what if scenarios. To the thought that, perhaps, this is all a dream and some strange entity will pop up in front of you to tell you that you shouldn't be here. Perhaps a strange monster will come crawling around the corner, send your heart pumping, and your legs moving to get away. That's how it usually works, right? In these types of situations.
It had to be a realistic dream where your thoughts is your own and you could move your body freely until something happens and you get awaken back in your cozy bed. If one deems it cozy. A bed is bed after all. It's nothing special. As long as your head gets placed on a pillow, a blanket to pull over your shoulders (and eventually your head when the morning light tickles through the curtains of your bedroom's door), and a mattress to throw your whole body on.
And this is taking forever.
Each moment of trying to wander through the long streets - never narrowed as it seems the distance between each building is a good distance for some odd reason yet felt so clustered at the same time - build up frustration. Frustration that started off as a shimmer beneath your skin and at the bottom of your stomach before raising to a boil. Much like water being boiled when the knobs of the stove was turned in a certain way for the temperature to climb up. Between the brightness of the whole place and the maze of streets - sometimes where you had to backtrack and find a different way to get somewhere because some areas wasn't meant for your feet and made for what seems like a mighty jump or wings - you couldn't help yourself with the frustration. Let alone what to do next.
Sometimes you could catch the beat of what seems like wings, the chatter of someone talking, and what seems like a lively city, but it sounded far away. If it sounded close enough, you could never spot the source of it or find a way to get a closer look or to hear better. Again, the streets took you to places where you had to backtrack and, by the time you reached to what seems like a familiar area, the source of the noise is gone. It left you back to square one of wondering what to do next.
Perhaps you are left here to starve to death.
Something that both crossed your mind and didn't cross your mind. Rather, the thought was more so wondering what is your next meal rather than the starvation being your downfall.
After all, you could feel the faint ache and growl of your stomach, reminding you that you need to eat. Your lips felt a bit dry from wandering this place for who knows how long, having to lick your lips to moisture the dryness and having to add to the list of things you need soon.
Exhaustion will come later. Hopefully. Although your legs and feet ached from walking so much and you felt the need to rest (and rightfully so when you placed yourself down in the middle of the street to rest), you kept going until you get somewhere. Every building you checked didn't have anything in it. Under construction.
What seems like forever, you hear the flap of wings. No mistaking it now. Not a soft flap that you might hear when birds fly from one bush to another or from a bush to a tree, which was lost to the city noises. This noise felt loud. Close by too, making the adrenaline to flood in your blood system and made you not want to stop for another rest, pushing you to the source. It took a bit of twist and turns, trying to figure out where to go. The noise kept steady, only moving here and there, but never leaving, which is a good sign.
Hopefully.
Let's hope it's nothing bad. Nothing like a flesh and blood eating monster, wanting to tear you apart.
You rounded the corner, only to come to a screeching (but quiet) halt, having to push out your arms in a certain angle to ensure you didn't fall face first into the ground. Your gaze sticking to the wings you could see, which had to bend slightly to fit into the streets of the construction area. Large set of wings with every other feather being label with a blazing light blue symbol or writing. You couldn't make it out from this distance. It left you speechless by the beauty as well as curious, though you could feel your heart beating against your ribcage, thundering against both that and your ears, unsure if you should be relieved to find somebody or to be hesitant in approaching in case of danger. And, as you approach with caution in your steps, there's no mistaking where the wings belonged to.
An angel?
An angelic being?
From the looks of the person - man - you could tell he's an angelic being. Or maybe some being with wings that could be mistaken as an angel. You never know. After all, you consumed many medias where species were always twisted in a way where they are offended if you call them by something a human grew to know, only to say something else entirely. That kind of situation.
You didn't want to be in that embarrassing situation where the heat flamed your cheeks from attempting to guess what the person is. If the person is considered as a person.
So I had an idea. The horsemen all believe it would be safer for the human when traveling through hell together that they were magically disguised to look like a demon. They still look like themselves but still very demonic, pretty ram horns that curl back, a sater like body with cloven hooves, a long tail with a fluffy tip, and leathery wings. It works for the most part, but the human doesn't know the language or the customs. They come across as more polite than usual. Amongst the demons, they are considered very beautiful. Some new problems occur when demons keep trying to offer gifts. Jewelry for the horns and wings, silks for skirts, etc. The human just thinks they are being nice, not that they are being courted. This makes it difficult, especially when they go to meet Samael, he can see through the magics but doesn't call them out. He likes the display, the human looks good as a demon. The Horsemen are regretting their choices.
OOOOH I love this!! You’d awaken on your side after the magic has been cast, groaning as you come back to your senses, a dull throb in your head. You attempt to stand but your legs wobble beneath you like a newborn fawn, the four quickly rushing to your side to help steady you. Holding tightly onto War’s arm for support, you begin to gingerly walk around and get accustomed to your new stride.
Your mouth hangs agape when you finally get a look at yourself.
The disguise is indistinguishable, save for a few up-close features like the shape of your eyes that only those who truly know you could recognise. You really look the part.
If only you could behave like it.
Despite your true form being hidden, the horsemen are still just as on guard as usual, especially when the first demon approaches you. To their astonishment, they make no efforts to attack, instead offering you a gold piece of jewellery. As pretty as it is, you have no idea why they’re giving it to you. Maybe as a peace offering? Albeit with clear uncertainty, your acceptance makes the demon’s chest puff out with pride. You even thank them for it, flashing a sharp-toothed smile their way.
Before you know it, you’ve been thoroughly bedazzled by several suitors, each one making the horsemen feel increasingly unsure of their decision. Who out of them could have guessed that fighting off any demons who dare attempt to bring harm upon you would be easier (and less provoking) than watching them try to woo you?
“Wow! If only they were all this friendly with humans!”
“Friendly is not the word I’d use…"
Seeing you in this form is such a treat for Samael. It’s foolish to think the demon prince would be none the wiser. He knows it’s you, he can smell it. That, and your whole demeanour is far too gentle. As alluring as you are in this form, he prefers you in your natural state. Soft and completely harmless to anything. Just the way he likes you.
He can’t wait to see the look on your face when he calls you by your true name. He may even undo the spell himself, eagerly waiting for you to realise that you’re no longer hidden from him. Although, you never really were in the first place.
Summary: The End of the World has come and gone, and Humanity is picking itself out of the ashes, overseen by species you only believed to exist on the pages of an old book written over two thousand years ago. You're the proprietor of a pub that you built from the ruins of your old neighbourhood, never dreaming that you'd catch the eye of the Four's largest and most carnage-craving member.
This is a real stream of consciousness fic, tried to write in a few days instead of my usual turnover so you can probably tell the difference, but it's been far too long since I've written anything War-centric.
Warning: Contains mention of alcohol, threats with a gun, threats without a gun, Fury gets her own tag, and one-sided infatuation.
The first time you saw a Horseman of the Apocalypse in person, he was hunting down one of your patrons.
Each of the Fouris distinct and recognisable, but War seemed doubly-so that night, storming into your little pub with a face like roaring thunder and his eyes so bright with arcane light, they could’ve powered the whole town.
Your entire establishment almost turned to stone the moment he burst through the door so violently, the poor thing snapped clear off its hinges. His blood-red hood was tugged back to pool around his fearsome shoulders, revealing the pale, white face and ferocious snarl you’d only ever seen on the news.
To this day, you can still remember the shock that stole the breath in your lungs, then the unmitigated horror of registering that an Apocalyptic Horseman was inside your pub, scanning wildly over your regulars until his gaze landed distinctly on Joseph Carr.
‘Oh, Joseph,’ you’d grimaced to yourself, heart sinking into your shoes, ‘What’ve you done now?’
You’ve kicked Joseph out of your pub enough times to know he’s got a bad habit of riling up the wrong people. Brazen, bold, and downright foolish at the worst moments... But he’s also twenty-four. Frightened by the new world you’ve all woken up in. And prone to doing stupid things if his so-called ‘friends’ put him up to it.
As war had started lurching across the room towards the babbling young man, he’d sent tables, chairs, and people scattering like papers knocked from a desk.
Wood splintered, everyone was shouting or gasping, and with murder written plain as day across War’s snarling face, you’d thought nothing of scooting out from behind the bar and jogging directly into his path, head tipped back to look him right in those weird, glowing eyes.
“Can I help you, Horseman?” you’d asked disarmingly through gritted teeth, less surprised at your own gumption, and more that he’d come to an abrupt halt just before crashing into you.
War stops for nobody. You and everyone in that room had heard the mantra repeated a thousand times before by various sources.
The glare you were subjected to at that moment was almost hot enough to melt through solid steel. But even beyond the rage, there was the flicker of a blink and a fleeting glance from left to right that betrayed one thing; He was just as shocked as you were to find you standing there.
You thought he’d knock you aside. You thought he’d simply bulldoze right on through you like he had the rest of your pub.
Hell, you thought he’d just straight up kill you for the crime of getting in his way.
Which is why it came as such a shock that the hulking, stoic brute didn’t immediately resort to violence, and instead chose to speak.
“Stand aside, human,” he boomed authoritatively, raising his eyes over your head to stare down the kid behind you, “This is none of your concern.”
You must have had a death-wish that evening because you’d drawn yourself up to your full height – still woefully small compared to the Nephilim – and snorted at him, the over-friendly smile on your face wavering like a mirage.
“Actually,” you bristled, “This is my bar. That was my furniture…“ Here, you throw an arm out in gesture at the destruction he’d left in his wake, and War actually turned his head to look, blinking as if he was taken aback by the ruination behind him.
“And these-“ you added sharply, jabbing a thumb over your shoulder at the young man sinking lower and lower in his seat, “Are my patrons… So, I’m afraid it is my concern when a Horseman comes stomping in here looking like he wants to tear this place up from the foundations.”
Later, your patrons would ask if you were looking to die. Not really, you assured them, but the thing about dying is, after you’ve done it once, the next time doesn’t seem quite so daunting. And when it became public knowledge that a soul will go on forever even if the present host won’t, suddenly death stops seeming like the End.
But perhaps, more to the point, you’d been sampling the whiskey that evening, and a dose of the old liquid courage was enough to drown your inhibitions. What more could you say?
“Perhaps I should,” War had posited, leaning forwards to smother you in his shadow, a promised threat, “Perhaps I should raze this hovel to the ground for sheltering a coward and a thief.”
… The ‘hovel’ comment aside, what he said set off alarm bells at once.
You craned your neck over a shoulder immediately to send Joseph a withering glare of your own. “Joe? Why is one of the Horsemen accusing you of theft?” you asked, strained voice dripping saccharin.
To his credit, Joseph didn’t really try to deny anything, though he had gone exceptionally pale, eyes darting everywhere except for your face.
“I-… It was just a joke!” he insisted indignantly, sending a ripple of exasperated groans cresting through the pub.
And there came the dread, that awful realisation that this idiot might have just doomed your entire clientele on the back of a joke.
“I was gonna give it back!” he continued, floundering, “But then he chased me and threatened to kill me!”
“Fucking Hell, Joe,” you seethed through your teeth, turning around to face him, “Now I’m thinking of killing you. What the Hell did you do!?”
You can still recall the heat rolling off War and across your back as the Horseman swept his gaze to and fro between you and his quarry.
With all the reluctant concession of a dog giving up the bone is stole from next door’s yard, Joseph heaved a contemptuous sigh, peeling his rucksack off and flipping open the canvas lid, where he proceeded to pull out something long and –
“What the-… Is that some kind of drinking horn?” you’d gawped.
Behind you, War’s guttural timbre reaches your ear. “Earthcaller,” he groused, shifting his weight from side to side as if to move around you.
It was a long arm of bone, carved with strange, demonic faces. An instrument that definitely looked like it would belong to a Nephilim, not a human.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” you’d groaned, commiserated by most of the other patrons, “Do you want to die? Because pulling stupid shit like this is how you die.”
“It was just a joke,” he mumbled again as you snatched the horn out of his limp grasp, resisting the urge to rip out your hair.
“Jokes are meant to be funny,” you snipped, “If this is your idea of one, you might be comically challenged.”
That had earned a few uncomfortable titters from people who still had most of their attention fixed on War.
The Horseman in question was still livid, even as you turned back to him and held the horn out for him to take.
“I’m really sorry he did that,” you said with utmost sincerity. Because you were sorry, though even War seemed belligerent on your behalf.
“You were not the one who stole from me,” he pointed out in a deep, thrumming growl.
“Like I said; my pub, my patrons , my problem,” you offered pleasantly, shrugging a shoulder as the Nephilim reached out a gauntlet and all but tore the thing out of your hand.
You swallowed down the urge to ask how a young human had managed to pickpocket something so large from one of the Four.
“But, if he does something stupid like this again,” you added, “He’s on his own. Whether he tries to hide in here or not.”
The warning was aimed at a very contrite Joseph cowering behind you, who appeared to be quite literally shrinking under the burden of everyone’s attention.
War had regarded you for several, terse seconds during which you counted no less that seven, hard blinks – the only sign of uncertainty he’d ever offer - until eventually, his lips started to curl.
“I do not need your permission to exact justice,” he warned you, even as he turned his back on you and began to storm right out the way he came in, massive fists clenched into bludgeons at his sides.
He didn’t even attempt to pick his way around the debris, apparently riled enough to tread the splinters into your carpet and make the whole mess even worse.
But… against the odds, he left.
You survived. You stepped in the way of War and lived.
And most miraculously of all, nobody got hurt!
Well, Joseph might have disagreed with that one… He was forced to flee behind your bar with his arms slung protectively around his head, trying to escape the clips and blows landed upon him by several, righteously furious patrons.
But so long as they didn’t kill the daft bastard, you couldn’t care to intervene…
-------------------------------------------
The second time you saw the Horseman was the very next morning.
Once again, War’s recognisable frame had come striding into your pub, though in this instance, rather than kick the door off its hinges, he ducked beneath the frame you still hadn’t found a moment to repair, bowing his shoulders inwards so as not to scrape the wood with his massive pauldrons.
You just counted your lucky stars that you’d had the wherewithal to put up a sign outside declaring that the pub was unofficially ‘closed’ for the day, leaving it devoid of unsuspecting humans, save for yourself.
He looked so different from the rampaging beast you saw prior that you might have believed him to be a demon in disguise.
He spotted you at once, zeroing in on your stricken face where you hovered behind the bar with a dishrag in one hand and a smudged glass in the other, caught like a deer in headlights whilst the blood-red hood of a pickup truck comes bearing down on you.
When he started making his way over, decidedly avoiding the remnants of tables and chairs he himself had left broken, you expected some retribution for your boldness yesterday.
You didn’t expect a fist-sized sack of gilt to be unceremoniously dumped on the bartop, spilling golden coins all across the polished, black surface when the twine holding it closed came undone.
“To replace what was destroyed,” he rumbled, and when you peered up into his hood, you were staggered to find that he wasn't meeting your eye. The shadows cast by the scarlet fabric did much to conceal his complexion, though you suspected he must have been exerting himself just before he arrived because there was a ruddiness to his cheeks that hadn't been there the day prior.
Blinking stupidly, you glanced down at the pile of gilt, then lifted your gaze back up to the towering Horseman, gobsmacked.
Of all the impossibilities the Universe has ever thrown at you and proven possible, this was never even in the cards. You've seen angels, demons, the dead walking around like they still have a pulse. You've seen beyond the realm of what you thought you knew, but this?
A Horseman of the Apocalypse... War, no less. Trying to make amends for the damage he'd done....
You actually had to steal a peek at the glass in your hand just to check it wasn't suddenly full of liquor.
“I… This is… enough to buy a whole new pub,” you’d huffed out in an incredulous laugh.
War’s expression didn’t shift in the slightest. All he did was roll his shoulders once and turn his head to the side, glowering hard at a spot on the wall opposite as he declares, “It is of no concern to me what you do with it.”
“Oh, well then, you won’t mind if I give some of it back,” you replied crisply, pressing your knuckles to the bar top and watching his snowy brows creep together as he pivots his focus back to you.
“Seriously. This is…” Pausing to shake your head in disbelief at the gold glittering against the ebony surface, you finally scoffed, “Way too much.”
Once again, the Horseman got that look about him, like he was trying to follow a script and you just weren't sticking to your lines. He must have decided you were talking nonsense because after shooting a few glances between your face and the pile of gilt, he simply turned his back on both, likely deciding it wasn't worth his time to try and argue with you.
Bemused, you just watched him cross your bar, not missing how he - again - weaved around your overturned furniture... Not that it would have mattered if he'd bulldozed through it again. You could only chuck it out anyway.
You'd merely shrugged to yourself and resumed your task of cleaning the glass, the cloth squeaking against it as you wiped lipstick smudges from the rim.
“Well look, feel free to stop in for a drink some time. This-" Again, you nodded at the gilt. "- more than covers a pretty hefty tab!”
Your offer brought to a standstill, twisting his hood around to frown at you from the corner of a single, scrupulous eye.
"I am not in the habit of consuming human beverages," he scoffed.
"Then just stop in to say hi," you offered easily, "Everyone's welcome to walk through those doors... Even if it's just to escape the rain."
You very nearly swallowed your tongue to see the dreaded Fury strolling in through your doors, her hair aflame and her eyes roving the pub as if in search of something, much like her brother had before her.
When she spotted you behind the bar, through the throng of people who were just beginning to notice her presence and subsequently threw themselves towards the exits, her pale gaze lit up and she strode towards you,
"You," she barked, towering over the bar, "Are you the keeper of this shambles?"
Once again, you didn't much care for the assessment, but faced with a famously more volatile Horseman, you managed to swallowed your pride and gave her a tight-lipped smile. "That'd be me... What can I do for you?"
Scrunching up her nose, she gave you a slow, disdainful once-over....
... And then she promptly burst out laughing.
It was such a jarring sound that you stumbled backwards, crashing into an array of bottles behind you and sending one of them toppling off the side to smash on the ground.
This only served to make her laugh even harder. It was low, grating, a barbarous sort of sound that raised your hackles and left you wondering how many she's slain who have heard that same, mocking roar.
"This?!" she exclaimed to nobody in particular - almost all of your clientele had fled by that point - "This is the human who has my brother so ensorcelled!?"
By the time she'd cackled herself out of breath and draped her armoured forearms over your bar, the last of your regulars had slipped out the back door.
You let the silence seep back in from the corners as she heaved a satisfied sigh.
Only then did you pipe up. "Wow... Don't think I've made someone laugh that hard since I asked Dan Symes to the school dance."
Fury blinked across at you, her face falling open as if she'd only just remembered that you were even in the room with her, let alone actively speaking to her.
"So," you added, trying to ooze the kind of nonchalance you definitely weren't feeling, "Your brother's mentioned me, has he?"
You'd heard along the grapevine that Fury was the Horseman with most experience interacting with humans. Something about assigning herself the role of Protector to a handful of survivors after the Destroyer launched an assault on their sanctuary. Perhaps that's why she slipped into conversation with you more easily than her brother had.
"Mentioned you?" she parroted, clicking her tongue, "He hasn't shut up about you. 'The human who stood in his path to protect a young thief from his righteous wrath!' Ugh. It's beginning to drive my brothers and I to drink..."
You had to consciously stop your jaw from falling open at the knowledge that War hadn't been more unflattering in his description of you, or that he'd talked about you at all. With the other Horsemen no less...
Slapping on a commiserating grin, you gestured at the bottles lining the wall behind you and said, "Well then. Seems you've come to the right place."
She eyed your selection dubiously, even went so far as to curl her lip in distaste.
"I doubt you have anything strong enough to merit me spending the gilt."
"As much as I'm loathe to correct one of the Four," you ventured cautiously, "The amount of gilt your brother gave me to repair the damage he caused has pretty much bought him the next fifty rounds, so-."
Her head snapped up like the crack of her famous whip, eyes suddenly glittering with intrigue. "He... repaid you?" she demanded, incredulously, sparing a glance over her shoulder at the last of the broken tables you've since shoved against the far wall, "War?"
There was a deafening pause, and then swivelled back to the bar, brows raised high up her forehead as she muttered to herself, "Oh this is an exciting development..."
You just pretended you hadn't heard her.
"I could extend the offer to members of his family, if you like," you shrugged, bending down and reaching for the cupboard below the bar, notably out of your regulars' line of sight.
"Hmph," she snorted, "If Strife ever bumbles his way into this place, do not tell him the same. He will drink your whole stock dry."
"Well, he'd be welcome too," you grunted, stretching your arm right to the back and grabbing the neck of a black bottle that was always strangely ice-cold to the touch, "War isn't the first who broke some furniture in my pub, and I doubt he'll be the last. But he is the first and only one who actually tried to make things right. So..."
Popping up again in front of the Horseman, you slid a shot glass across the bar top until it bumped into her arm and held up the bottle for her to see. "As for something strong enough... I got this off a demon who owed me for a favour. I've been told that this stuff can knock a Trauma on its ass."
She glowered dubiously at the impenetrable darkness swirling within the bottle, opaque from top to bottom, no label, no year, just a simple cork in its top.
"Buying spirits from a demon? " she huffed, squinting at you for a moment before she added, "... What's it called?"
Pursing your lips, you replied, "He called it Hair of the Hellhound. Said it's got one heck of a bite."
"Perhaps it does," she conceded, though not before letting out a quick barb, "For a mere human."
You could see the cogs in her head churning around as she flicked her piercing gaze between you and the bottle, no doubt wondering if the consequences of taking the mystery shot will be worse than losing face in front of a 'mere human.'
At last, as you stood there waiting for her verdict, she rolls her eyes and lets out another petulant scoff. "Fine," she agreed, waving her hand at the bottle and beckoning you forwards to pour the shot, "I suppose I can at least tell you if you've bought a dud. What was the name of the demon?"
You screwed your face up as you tried to remember the shady merchant who you sheltered last year during a demonic purge carried out by a very vengeful angel. "Vulgrim? I think he said?"
In an instant, she looked a hell of a lot less eager to go through with the challenge. But in her own mind, she'd already committed.
When you tugged the cork free, an absolute deathly aroma rose into your nostrils, hitting your gag reflex when it settled at the back of your throat.
"Shit, that's rancid!" you gasped, pivoting your head away and watching the pour from the corner of an eye, "Are you sure you want to drink this?"
"If it's Vulgrim's, it'll be better than the rest of this swill you peddle," she admitted begrudgingly as she picked up the glass - comically small in her hands - and regarded it with a cautious glare of trepidation. "You're not joining me?"
Puffing out your cheeks, you blew a long, low whistle through your lips and shook your head rapidly from side to side. "Ah, I don't have a successor lined up in the event of my death," you pointed out with a lopsided grin, "And I'm pretty sure one sip of that stuff will bury me six feet under this place."
"Humans," she huffed, raising the glass to her lips, "Is there anything about you that isn't pathetic?"
You hadn't thought of a witty response in time.
She knocked back the entire glass, slammed it down on the counter so hard you nearly leapt forward in anticipation of shielding her from a wayward spray of shattered fragments, then proceeded to lean there with a focused look on her face, shoulders hunched, arms tense.
You just watched her, the breath in your lungs going still.
“It is good to find somewhere that serves real drinks for a change….” she rasped through a tight throat, turning on her heel and marching stiffly towards the door.
Before she reached it, she slowed to a stop, tilting her head around just enough that you caught a glimpse of her painted lips pulled up into a loose smile.
“Perhaps you should tell Strife that concoction is ‘on the house,” she smirked, “But make sure he doesn’t drink all of it. I might find myself coming in for a glass, if I’m in the area.”
And then she, like her brother, was gone, ducking through the doorframe and disappearing back into the overcast city beyond.
—— ————
The downpour started this morning.
People have been dipping into your pub all day just to escape the lashings of rain, shaking their umbrellas out in the foyer and squelching on sodden shoes all the way up to the bar.
Each person, you greet with an affable smile and a warm "What can I get you?"
"Quiet in here today," the woman you're currently serving chirps as you set about getting a round of beers for her and her friends.
Humming in response, you fall into the conversation easily. "Yeah but it's no surprise. People aren't keen to venture out in this god-awful weather. And it's not like any of us can drive yet."
"Ugh, I can't wait for someone to get cars working again," she commiserates, slouching her shoulders.
"Never realised what we had until we don't have it right?" you chuckle, placing the last tankard on a round, black tray. "Total's fifteen."
Smiling at you, she digs her hand into a pocket and rummages for a moment before extracting a handful of gilt. "Right... That's... Which coin means what again?"
You can't help but grin ruefully. Yet another thing humans had to get used to in the aftermath of the Great Awakening - using an entirely new and universal currency.
A palm slaps hard onto the bar top in front of you just as you're leaning forwards to point out the different glyphs on each coin.
"I'll be with you in a minute," you drone out on autopilot, barely sparing a glance at the trio of men who've clustered against the bar.
With the payment away and the till closing noisily shut, you help the woman pick up her tray and give her a parting nod.
"Cheers," the woman says before sauntering away towards the table where her friends sit waiting.
"Now then." You swivel about to address the newcomers. "What can I get for you?"
The one in front, flanked on either side by two other men sporting similar jackets with the hoods pulled low over their eyes, rests a palm on the counter, putting his weight on in and flashing you an unsettlingly wide, toothy grin.
"Nothing too difficult, love," he drawls, "Just after some information, that's all."
"You know, despite my profession, I'm not one for gossip," you tell him evasively, already on edge.
"Oh I'm sure that's not true. See me and my friends here-" He nods his head at the man on his left, then swings it lazily around to the man on his right, "Well, a little birdie told us that you're the reason we're short one rare artifact..."
Recognition snaps straight into place at the very forefront of your mind. You have the sneaking suspicion that these men are after the horn Joseph pilfered from War. Damnit, you knew Jo has been getting into some shady business lately, but this is the icing on a shit-cake.
Outwardly, of course, you just purse your lips and quirk a brow, moving forwards to brace your hands on the bar, mirroring the ringleader's posture.
"Artifact?" you repeat, "Can't say I've come across one of those. As you can see, my inventory is made up of liquid stock."
One of the man's eyelids twitches, and his friend's fists begin to clench and unclench in the corner of your vision.
You acknowledge neither.
"Listen," he purrs, "It's obvious you're the owner of this... fine establishment... And my sources don't get things wrong unless they want to answer to me. So cut the bullshit, and give me what you owe."
Ah. Takes a bullshitter to spot a bullshitter, you suppose. Still, it seems you won't be lying your way out of this one.
"Owe?" Scoffing, you narrow your eyes and add, "Not sure how you figure I owe you, all I did was stop a Horseman from tearing your man to pieces before he took his artefact back. Or perhaps you think I should have let the Horseman torture the poor kid into telling him who ordered the swipe."
The men on either side of the stranger shift their weight uncomfortably, and even their leader clenches his jaw, the smile falling off his face for just a second before he slaps it back on.
"Be that as it may," he says, fingers drumming obnoxiously on the bar, "Fact remains, your interference cost me a tidy sum. So, I'm not an unreasonable man-"
Something in the way he gestures to himself as he says that makes you doubt his claim very much.
"I'm willing to overlook your transgression if you're willing to ease my monetary troubles..."
God, he talks like a sleazy salesman, slow and casual yet somehow with far too much pomp and magniloquence.
"Maybe some of that liquid stock ends up coming home with me and my boys here," he chuckles, "Or maybe that till there opens up so we can see just how much we think losing that artifact set us back..."
Shit...
Nobody is coming up to buy another round yet, and most of the patrons have already been served, slowly nursing their drinks in the comfortable - strong - seats you'd purchased with War's gilt.
Nobody has even noticed anything is amiss. For all they know, you could be giving these people directions to the nearest safe house for how nonchalant he's being.
He must have seen your resolve wavering right in front of him, because his smile becomes a slimy thing, and he stares at you, his eyes unblinking.
"I think it would be in your best interest to comply," he murmurs under his breath, and as he moves an arm back, his hand just so happens to brush back the hem of his coat, and there within the shadows is the tell-tale glint of a short, silver barrel, "It would be such a shame if bad things started happening to your pub..."
Son of a bitch.
You're so busy keeping a close eye on where his hand is moving that you don't even register the shape moving under the doorway beyond your foyer, scarlet and gunmetal grey that would have alerted you to danger were it not for the clearer and more present danger taking up your allotted senses.
Ever since you built this pub up from its ruined foundations, you've tried to project a rather unflappable front for your customers. As it is now, that façade is starting to crumble. Heart in your throat, your breath hitches violently when the man's fingers slide around the grip of his gun, and when you dart a glance up at the face grinning out at you from under his dark hood, you realise he doesn't look like the kind of man who bluffs.
"... Would be such a shame," he repeats purposefully, "If bad things started happening to y- GHK!?"
For a man so immense, you're staggered that War could move in with such unparalleled stealth.
One second, you're watching a man pull a gun halfway out of the waistband of his jeans, and the next, that same man's head comes crashing down onto the bar, pinned there by the base of his neck by a metal gauntlet that spans the width of his shoulders as well.
"Christ!" you exclaim, leaping backwards and colliding painfully with the shelf behind you.
The remaining two men are already scrabbling sideways and away from the colossus heaving between then, blue eyes on fire, scarlet hood dripping dark with the rainwater from outside.
War's teeth are on display as he snarls savagely at the man trapped by his hand, whose limbs are flailing uselessly in an attempt to free himself, muffled shouts cried through a mouth pressed flush against the counter. Frantic palms slap against metal, grabbing at the Horseman's fingers to try - and fail - to shove them away.
"War!?" you blurt, drawing his eyes up to meet yours.
It's fast, blink and you'd miss it, but you could almost be convinced that for just a moment, the steely glare on his face softens by a fraction when he sees you.
It's gone as soon as it appeared however. A deafening 'BANG' rings out across the pub, people shriek, and those who hadn't already dived for cover the second War strolled in throw themselves to the floor, hands flying up to cover their heads.
Something pings off War's shoulder pauldron, tinkling to the bar and rolling to a stop just in front of you. You can see it plain as day, standing out against the black surface.
A bullet.
War's chest suddenly begins to vibrate with a thunderous growl you can feel deep inside your chest. Slowly, his head twists around, the tendons in his neck flexing with the grinding of his teeth.
Clutching your chest, you follow his gaze to the front of the pub near the entrance, where one of the men has paused, breathing hard, eyes bulging like they're about to fall out of their sockets.
In his trembling hand is another gun, a trail of smoke rising gently from the tip of its barrel.
The words come out before you can think to stop them.
"Did you just shoot War?" It's said as a scoff, a mote of incredulous hysteria. What kind of idiot would think shooting a gun at a Horseman of the Apocalypse was in any way a good idea?
The man's rolling eyes snap towards you at the sound of your voice, but by the time you realise you probably should have ducked behind the bar several seconds ago, your vision is blocked by an enormous bulwark of red and grey armour.
War, to your astonishment, has stepped in front of you, a very deliberate move that has him dragging the first man off the counter and letting him dangle by the scruff of his jacket from a clenched gauntlet, sputtering all manner of curses and threats to an impervious Horseman.
The third man, you note, is nowhere to be seen, having apparently decided that loyalty isn't worth as much as he thought it was. And his fellow lackey isn't far behind. The one who took a shot at War promptly turns on his heel and scrambles for the door.
You can't see the Horseman's face anymore, just the up and down heave of shoulders as wide as you are tall. To your surprise, he doesn't make a move to follow the runners, not at first.
Instead, his hood shifts slightly as he turns his head beneath it, angling it sideways in your direction.
"They will not evade me for long," he tells you resolutely, hoisting the first offender off his knees and onto his feet, "What would you have me do with this one?"
"You're... asking me?"
There's a pregnant pause, broken by the sound of wet, miserable blubbers of the man in question.
When War speaks again, you're caught off guard by the hesitation in his thrumming voice.
"This is... your patron?" he murmurs, "This is your bar."
Oh. You blink, recoiling slightly. He remembered what you told him when you first met...?
And he's trying to adhere to it? Granted, in a slightly misguided way.
... War?
"I... I mean, if he didn't have a gun, I would have told him to get out of here anyway, so... once he's out of that door, he's all yours."
You think you hear a subdued grunt of approval from somewhere within that hood, followed by an even quieter, "They will not trouble you again."
And without another word, War drags the man towards the exit, showing no signs of slowing as his quarry begins screaming in earnest and trying to yank his jacket free.
When the door swings shut behind the Horseman, you strain your ears to catch any sounds of violence. Part of you harshly tells yourself that you should be ashamed for letting that man be subjected to whatever punishment War sees fit to inflict.
But the other part of you, the older, sadder part, thinks, 'Well, he shouldn't have come in here to find trouble if he didn't like it when trouble turned up.'
It remains eerily quiet for several minutes whilst you watch the doorway, eyes fixed to the little window, through which you can only see a glimpse of the grey, rainy street outside.
The pub sits empty. Again. Nothing left behind but full glasses and spilled bottles that were knocked over on the tables as people fled, trickling alcohol all over the carpets.
What a mess... But you much prefer this kind of mess to the blood and carnage you'd been expecting...
You wonder if anyone will return to ask for a refund. 'Acts of Horsemen related hijinks' probably isn't covered by your policy....
Just as your rigid limbs start to unwind, the door is shoved open once again, and you snap back to attention in a split second, fingers digging nervously around the edge of the bar.
War steps back inside, rivulets of rainwater pouring off his armour and dripping to the floor.
You find your gaze immediately trying to seek out any sign of blood, but the vast blade he keeps perpetually strapped across his back doesn't trickle anything other than water onto your carpets as the Horseman strides towards you, his gaze as locked onto you as yours is to him.
"Are you hurt?" is the first thing he asks before he's even come to a stop in front of you on the other side of the bar.
"No," you tell him honestly, chewing on your lip as he gives you a none-too subtle once-over before you add, "Thank you, by the way."
The snow-white brows that had been screwed together into a scowl promptly spring apart, and he stares at you incredulously, as if you'd said something far more racy than a simple 'thanks.'
Breezing past his surprise, you let out a long, gushing sigh and spare a glance out the front-facing window, think aloud, "I wonder why they'd want your Earthcaller thing...?"
War just cocks his head to the side, confusion etched clearly into his expression. "Earthcaller?" he asks.
"Yeah?" Giving him a cautious smile, you add, "I mean I assume that's why you followed them here? Cos you found out they were the ones who wanted it stolen from you in the first place."
A muscle in his jaw twitches violently, nostrils flaring with barely contained irritation as he flings a filthy look behind himself at the door. "I was not aware that they were the culprits..." he spits.
Slowly, it dawns on you that a Horseman of the Apocalypse hadn't intervened to serve his own interests.
Had he really just stepped in to help you?
Bewildered, you shake your head and scrunch your nose up, asking, "Wait. If you weren't here for them... why'd you come back?"
Turning back to you, the Horseman's expression is once again marginally gentler than it had been a mere second ago. "It was raining," he tells you simply.
His response takes you a few moments to parse, but when you finally recall the context, your face brightens with a sincere, if baffled, grin.
"In that case, welcome back. Now, let me fetch you a towel. You're soaked through to the bone."
I'm trying to find one drawing of yours, and its sebsation with his uhmm gold regalia and he looks young and pretty again and everyone is reacting in shock and somewhat fear.
Do you still have that drawing? I'm just super nosy about the implications of sebastion basically have a fountain of youth kind of object.
Oh this? This is from my COTL au, I found it funny how him in game had passed away, so I had to quickly revive him and give him his immortality necklace. It's not my favorite art of him but I can't help but chortle at it from time to time
Thinking about my cats tonight. I have always had the Too Much gene thanks to having absolutely bat shit parents who both coped with life by...doing whatever their thing was far too much.
I've couldn't tell you the last time I wasn't living in a multi pet home, so it's not really new to me, but being able to care for them my way and have their care be my responsibility alone was a big leap.
And my connection with this family of cats is very different as well. Cats get such a bad wrap, are often considered fussy or disinterested, etc. but it's really just down to how intentional you can be with them. Momiji and Mochi being so uniquely mature and personable definitely helped create a home that additional cats could feel safe and happy in. Everyone has their own unique dynamic and somehow it's a balanced and happy home and with the help of a big ass air purifier and the right cleaning routine the house doesn't smell like cats...but if you're allergic you're cooked lol
They've saved me many times over. I always loved the idea of family, but for far too many reasons to list, a literal human family under my roof isn't for me. But having such defined, fun, interesting personalities in these damn cats gets me pretty close to the real thing. Probably as close as it'll get.
Almost losing Haru at the start of the year really shook me up. The immense amount of stress and ache really took me out. And i was already in a bad spot, so it was the knockout blow for me. I'm so happy he's okay, and fighting. He literally defied biology he fought so hard to survive. After fighting through a ton of other things earlier in his life. But he didn't give up, so whenever I'm feeling bad I remember how pitiful he looked when he was powering through and I think that I gotta fight too, because if that silly ball of fluff can push through all of that I can definitely tackle whatever I'm facing.
(It was at this point that in my teary eyed fumbling for the usb to charge my phone, I accidentally hit post lmfao)
Anyway, that's probably my sign to wrap this up. I just wanted to say how much I love my cats and how much they mean to me. Everyone is sleeping in the living room while Defunctland is on for sleepy time background noise. Every night gets to feel like a sleepover with my favorite four legged homies and even when I feel terribly lonely and isolated, my home is lively and theres no shortage of shenanigans.
I saw a tweet today that said ‘ “you feel me bro?” brother I haven’t felt anything since the scholastic book fair’ and read it in Wars voice and I cannot stop thinking about it
Strife: You feel me, bro?
War: Brother, I haven’t felt anything since the scholastic book fair.
Love your stuff so much! I was wondering what would it be like to have a child with Death? The other three horseman (and now Samael ☺️) have one, but Death doesn't. Have a great day, you're awesome 🤗❤️
I am so sorry for the delay with this! And I can’t believe I forgot to write Death’s version!! Alas, here it is at last!
✦•················•✦•··················•✦
Finding out-
★ It’s still unknown to Death how a creature of destruction like him, could have ever done anything to deserve your love — let alone to be gifted a precious new life by you. Nonetheless, he embraces such a blessing with upmost gratitude to you, the soon-to-be mother of his child.
★ Death has a bit of special way with children. You’ve seen the way he behaves around them. He always bends down to their height and speaks to them softly. Perhaps it comes from being in the caretaker role for his young siblings all those years ago, (and evidently still upholds that role today) but children bring out a special side of Death that he doesn't often display.
★ Because of that role he had with his younger brothers and sister, you worry that raising a child isn’t something he’d be up for, which is why you hesitate to tell him. You know how deeply he cares for them, but looking after three younglings does take a toll.
★ You aren’t able to hide it for long though. Death has the sharpest senses out of his kin and they are especially tuned to you. He never wants you to feel afraid to tell him anything, so his approach is gentle as he questions your recent sickness, coaxing out a quiet confession.
★ He cups your face in his hand, the other finding your hip and pulling you into a comforting embrace. Resting his chin on top of your head, he promises to stay by your side and raise this baby with you the very best that he can.
★ After your tender celebration, he wants to know every symptom that you’ve experienced thus far so that he can keep track of it and get ahead on learning what alleviates them.
Pregnancy-
★ He is the perfect insomnia buddy. It’s not like he sleeps anyway, so when you’re having a restless night he’ll keep you company and do what he can to keep you comfortable.
★ "Settle down now, you ought to give your mother some rest," he’d murmur to your belly, tsking when the baby kicks in defiance.
★ “Already ignoring what I say, they’re clearly going to take after their mother."
★ His dexterous hands give you the best massages whenever you're sore. Which is most of the time. No need to worry if you’re too stubborn or shy to ask for a little relief, he can tell when you need it and will quietly work his thumbs into the knots in your back or feet until you don’t feel so achey anymore.
★ “Death, do my ankles look fat?”
★ “What ankles.”
★ :/
Birth-
★ He's a great birthing partner. He's amazing at knowing what to do to keep you relaxed and knows all the right thing's to say to encourage you, especially when the pain really start to kick in.
★ Speaks to you so gently, reminding you of your own strength when you begin to cry and attempt to your bargain your way out of giving birth to the baby that is, whether you like it or not, on their way out.
★ He holds his tongue when you threaten to kill him once this is all over, refraining from reminding you of the impossibility of such a task. Instead, he caresses his fingers through your hair and tells you to take a deep breath.
★ Holding his newborn for the first time, you hear his low, affectionate chuckle, stuttering a bit at the end as the heart deep within his chest throbs with an overwhelming love for the baby.
★ The last thing you see before your exhausted mind and body conk out is your baby, not even an hour old, reaching up a curious hand to touch their father’s mask.
Everything after-
★ So patient with them. Never raises his voice or becomes frustrated… unless they are about to do something seriously dangerous.
★ Will begrudgingly cave to your requests for him to take you and your little one to meet your friends from other worlds, hovering like a watcher as you introduce them to angels and makers.
★ He can do ANYTHING whilst carrying the baby around. No need for a sling, he got quite the knack for making bottles at the perfect temperature and changing nappies one-handed.
★ When they refuse to go to bed, he’ll pick them up by the ankle like a misbehaving little monkey, making them shriek with delight as always. He’ll lower them down onto their duvet, peeling the covers back and offering a story.
★ His voice soothes them into a peaceful sleep long before the story gets very far. Once they’re knocked out, he’ll peel off his mask just momentarily to kiss them goodnight.
★ “Sleep well, little rascal."
★ Sends out Dust to watch over your kid whilst they’re playing or meeting with friends, ensuring that they don’t get into trouble and quickly swooping in if they do.
★ Imagine them returning home one day as a pre-teen, a displeased look on their face directed at Death (who’s quite comfortably reading as you doze against him on the couch) and Dust perched innocently on their arm.
★ "Dad, do you have any idea why Dust was following me around? Again?"
★ "No."
★ Your child accumulates a collection of trinkets and other small gifts that Death brings back for them from distant worlds, but as fascinated by them as they are, they’re always far more eager to throw their arms around their father’s waist and bury their face into his shoulder.
★ War is the go-to babysitter, much to Strife’s dismay.
I've added some of Darksiders 2 models while waiting to find a better solution to extract them. "no rig" means i've had to get the models while playing, so they are already posed and can't be changed. Enjoy the refs !
I've also re-added Strife's rigged version, and Usiel's textures.
As a transsexual woman 👩 who has had multiple experiences ‼️ I have found 🔎 that the biggest block of cheese 🧀 is usually the one ☝️ that has the largest size 📈
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