Inactive @lubiaa - Tumblr Blog

imagine-darksiders

Imagine experiencing a bit on demonic activity in your home….

Its Samael.

He’s the demonic activity in your home…..He tends to visit from time to time.

lubiaa

This tweet cursed me and now whenever I hear a strange noise I go “Samaeeeeeel”

#darksiders #samael #god dammit

imagine-darksiders

Imagine Samael being unused to genuine, innocent affection.

After he opens the portal to The Black Throne, you give the demon prince’s leg a quick hug without really thinking about it. “And just what do you think you’re doing?” he snarls.

Undeterred, you squeeze just a little tighter. “I’m saying ‘thanks’ for helping us out, that’s all.” “Oh, well then…” he rumbles, for once unsure of himself, “…You’re….welcome, I suppose…”

With a grin, you start to let go and head through the portal after War, but Samael’s commanding voice suddenly booms from above you, “I don’t recall telling you to stop.”

#im gonna cryyyy #i came to tumblr for samael content #and here it is #darksiders #samael

imagine-darksiders

Imagine experiencing a bit on demonic activity in your home….

Its Samael.

He’s the demonic activity in your home…..He tends to visit from time to time.

#can I request some demon dick activity in my bed?#darksiders #samael

imagine-darksiders

I need some sweet sweet fluff to rot my teeth. What if tiny (like little older then toddler) War would try getting Death to carry him, because he's a small radiator and he so badly just wants to keep his big brother warm for how deathly cold he is (all puns intended too)?

Oh man. I uH… I got a bit carried away <3

“Brother?”

Death lifts his head from the slab of cold stone that serves as a bed and whips his gaze towards the chamber door, alert and immediately on the defensive.

In the dim light of a wall sconce, he can make out a small figure standing in his doorway, shuffling on their feet and peering in at him with vibrant, baby blue eyes.

Releasing a sigh, Death relaxes, rubbing the pads of his fingers over the dark bruises underneath his brows. “War,” he mutters, “You should be resting.”

The littlest Nephilim is one of a mismatched family of four, consisting of Death, the twins; Fury and Strife, and now their newest member; War. All of them reside together in the sparse, modest home Death had built when his simple hovel had proven too small to share.

Bravely venturing into the chamber, War raises his chin, eyes narrowed in a challenge glare, daring his brother to deny him entrance. A pair of loose trousers hang off his hips, hand-me-downs from Strife, and one of Fury’s old cream smocks hangs just above the waistband. ‘I really must make him a larger one,’ Death tells himself absently, ‘He’s growing so fast.’

The older Nephilim wills his mouth not to tilt up at the corners for the sake of War’s pint-sized pride, more than anything. Ever since he’d pulled the youngster from Lilith’s possessive clutches, War had been practically adhered to his side. A problem in itself, not only because Absalom accuses his brother of being soft every chance he gets, but also because it made War a target for the bigger Nephilim - who assumed that since he was so small and has just a little more angel in him than most, he would be easy pickings.

More often than not, they got into a tussle only to come out of it sadder, but wiser. And Death, just that little bit prouder.

Which is precisely how he knows that ordering War back to his own chambers would be a fruitless endeavour, and it is far too early in the morning to deal with the tantrum that would inevitably follow if he tried to remove him by force.

One of War’s more impressive qualities is that if he wants something, there isn’t a thing he won’t do to get it.

Like now.

War’s small, stubby fingers find the edge of Death’s cot and he swings a leg up, heaving himself onto the stone slab.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you..” Death rumbles, laying flat on his back and raising a thick, dark eyebrow as the youngling rights himself and proceeds to crawl up the bed, eventually stopping to kneel beside his brother’s head.

The two of them stare at each other in the dark until Death’s luminous, fiery eyes droop into a languid blink. He lifts a hand and brings it up to War’s face, extending one, rawboned finger and tapping it gently between his snow-white brows.

“War, unless you tell me what’s going on in here, I won’t know what you want.” Be it from the time he spent under Lilith’s ‘care’ or his naturally procured temperament, War had always been a relatively quiet Nephalim. A blessing really, considering that the other two do more than enough talking for the entire household. “Did you have a bad dream?”

In an instant, War’s pout transforms into a vicious snarl and he shouts, beating his tiny fists down onto Death’s pale shoulder. “NO!”

Quiet or loud. War hasn’t quite found a happy medium yet.

His lips pull back to give Death a good view of his unimpressive fangs. Perhaps if he’d been a bit older, the sight would be very fearsome.

Stifling a soft chuckle, the older brother draws his hand back and rests it on his broad chest. “Hush,” he chides, “Don’t shout. You wouldn’t want to wake the others, would you?”

Judging by War’s expression, he couldn’t care less about waking Fury or Strife.

Still, he does lower his voice, forehead puckering under a grumpy frown which he aims at Death’s hand. “You are always so cold.”

The eldest’s other eyebrow slowly creeps up to join the first. “You’re only just noticing this now?”

In response, War’s scowl deepens and before his brother can protest, he promptly shuffles towards the hard, sinewy chest and clambers up onto it, shoving Death’s hand out of the way.

Taken aback, the firstborn simply stares wide-eyed as the little Nephilim lays himself down on top of him, bare feet tucked up into the hollow dip of Death’s stomach, arms spread out to either side, not quite capable of reaching all the way across his wide chest.

With War’s pale cheek squashed into his clavicle, Death hovers his fingers uncertainly next to the youngster’s ribs. “Now what are you up to?” he wonders aloud.

Wordlessly, his brother’s face screws up in concentration and ever so slowly, a soft red glimmer begins to spread through his body, starting at his heart and flowing steadily outward to the very tips of his fingers and toes until the room is awash in a warm glow.

“War?” the eldest rasps, sitting up so that his brother slides down into his lap and glowers up at him for the disturbing, “Did you just…Are you trying to Immolate?” He marvels down into the sleepy blue eyes blinking up at his.

Immolation - even at such a tiny fraction of its power - takes many fully grown Nephilim eons to master.

And his youngest brother just waltzed into his room, plonked himself down on his torso and did it as though it were the easiest thing in the world. Now, there he sits, all thirty inches of his body burning like an ember. Just a tiny, hot coal nestled in Death’s lap.

“You’re always cold,” War reiterates stubbornly and pushes both hands against the other Nephilim’s sternum, trying to force him to lay back down.

‘Extraordinary,’ he muses, ‘He learned to immolate. Without any training…And now he’s using it to warm me.’

Settling himself back onto the slab of stone, Death opens his mouth to tell War that he neither feels the cold, nor will he benefit from the unexpectedly thoughtful gesture in the long run. But then, who is he to discourage his brother from practicing this newfound ability?

Giving a metal shrug, he hums thoughtfully whilst War repositions himself again, nuzzling his glowing face into the cup of Death’s throat.

Perhaps tomorrow he’d remind War that Nephilim don’t typically display their affection so openly. Then again, in the privacy of their own home, among family, what does it matter? And who made that unspoken rule anyway? Certainly not him.

—

At some point during the night, War stirs and extracts himself rom Death’s powerful arms, slipping off the bed and onto the cold floor.

A very small part of the firstborn’s semi-dozing mind registers the absence of warmth, attributes it to an absence of his little brother, and sends an urgent jolt down to his chest.

Eyes squeezed shut, he rolls over and blindly sweeps an arm around in the darkness until his fingers brush against warm cloth and reflexively curl into it, illiciting an involuntary squeak that would surely haunt War later in the day.

With a resonant grumble, Death gently hoists his brother into the air, letting him dangle helplessly from the waistband of his linen trousers, thrashing indignantly before being plopped back down in his original spot above a heartless ribcage.

He tries to push himself up onto his elbows but a heavy arm is abruptly draped across his back and held there firmly, no matter how hard he shoves and kicks. The self-satisfied smirk ghosting over Death’s lips does little to soothe his frustration either.

The only solace is the knowledge that one day, he’ll be bigger, Big enough to save himself the humiliation of being manhandled by his larger brother when he doesn’t want to be.

Giving a final, halfhearted wriggle, he collapses into Death with a chuff. His brother is still fairly cold to the touch…Maybe a few more moments won’t hurt…

#IM CRYING #I LOVE THIS SO MUCH HHHH #darksiders #war #death #fic