So I figured it was time to create a masterlist of my shorter stories! These were pretty much all done as requests for chunky ten sentence stories, prompts, and ko-fi commissions. Please check my blog’s header for info on whether ko-fi commissions, free requests, and full commissions are open before sending any requests in.
Any content warnings are on the individual stories themselves, at the top of each one. I’ve grouped this list by reader x monster this time. Let me know if any links have broken/lead to the wrong place!
My main masterlist of much longer stories can be found here.
My Patreon masterlist (public/free to browse) can be found here.
My monster stories archive blog is @monstersandmawarchive if you want to turn on notifications or just have my stories with no other posts.
Enjoy! x
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Some stories (particularly older ones) might have funky formatting. Sorry - that’s a tumblr glitch!
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wlw
Female hellhound x female reader (sfw)
Shy female selkie x female extrovert (sfw)
Female deathclaw x female reader (nsfw)
Buff female werecat/rakshasa x female reader (sfw)
Chubby female werewolf x buff female reader (nsfw)
Female sphinx x female reader (nsfw)
Female centaur x female reader (nsfw)
Female orc x female reader (sfw)
Female naga x female reader (nsfw)
Female orc x female reader (sfw)
Female werewolf reader x female human (v. light nsfw)
Female werewolf x female reader (light nsfw)
mlm
Male tentacled monster x chubby male reader (nsfw)
Male werewolf x trans male reader (nsfw)
Male centaur x male reader (nsfw)
Male gargoyle x male reader (nsfw)
Male gorgon x male reader (very light nsfw)
Male tiefling x male reader (angsty, light nsfw)
Male orc x male reader (nsfw)
Male kamaitachi x male reader (light nsfw)
Male demon x male human (nsfw, monster’s pov)
Male mothman x male reader (sfw, fluffy)
{Footsteps in the Snow Masterlist (mlm Skyrim story)}
m/f
Male werewolf x female reader (light nsfw)
Large male demon x female reader (comfort after death of beloved pet, sfw)
Male ‘rabbit’ monster x female reader (sfw)
Big male orc x female reader (nsfw)
Male naga x female reader (sfw)
Male gargoyle x female reader (nsfw) (Alesh’s story Part One (nsfw) Part Two (nsfw))
Male faun x female reader (nsfw)
Male dragon x female reader (sfw)
Male orc x female reader (sfw)
Male werebat x female reader (sfw)
Male jungle troll x tiny elf girlfriend (nsfw)
Big male minotaur x small female reader (nsfw)
Male alien x female reader (nsfw)
Male satyr x female reader (sfw)
Male kelpie x female reader (sfw)
Male naga x female reader (nsfw)
Male shark merman x female reader (nsfw)
Male yautjia x female reader (nsfw)
Male dragon x female reader (sfw)
Male dragon x female reader (light nsfw)
Male naga x female reader (light nsfw)
Male alien x female reader (sfw)
Male fae x female reader (sfw)
Male minotaur x female reader (nsfw)
Male oni x female reader (sfw)
Fluffy male monster x girlfriend (monster pov, nsfw)
Male shadow monster x fem girlfriend (monster pov, light nsfw)
Female dullahan x male reader (nsfw)
Female banshee x male reader (sfw)
Female lamia/naga x male reader (nsfw)
monster x nb/gender-neutral readers
Male kitsune x nb reader (sfw)
Male fae x reader (sfw)
Male orc x reader (sfw) (Garek’s story (nsfw) can be found here - and that one has a female reader)
Female alien x reader (very light nsfw)
Male orc x reader (sfw)
Female naga x nb reader (nsfw)
Sea dragon pirate Captain x human stowaway (nsfw)
NB werewolf x reader (sfw)
Male gargoyle x disabled female presenting nb reader (sfw)
NB insectoid monster x reader (sfw)
Male orc x reader (sfw)
Mothman x reader (nsfw)
Female dragon x nb reader (nsfw)
Male vampire x reader (sfw)
Afab nb reader x afab bat monster (light nsfw)
NB werewolf x reader (angsty, sfw)
Male alien x reader (light sfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill* for Ornorx (nsfw))
Male alien x reader (nsfw, bdsm) *’smooch’ prompt fill* for Ornorx (nsfw))
Scarred male fae x reader (light nsfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill* for Winter from Gnoll boy Brenn’s story - Part One here (nsfw))*
Scarred male fae x reader (light nsfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill* for Winter from Gnoll boy Brenn’s story - Part One here (nsfw))*
Male gargoyle x reader (sfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill*
Female orc x reader (light nsfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill for Bronwyn - Part One here (sfw)*
Female orc x reader (sfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill for Bronwyn - Part One here (sfw)*
Male gnoll x reader (light nsfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill for Brenn - Part One here (sfw))*
Male gargoyle x reader (light nsfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill for Alesh - Part One (nsfw))*
Male hellhound x reader (light nsfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill for Ranek (nsfw))*
Male naga x reader (light nsfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill for Ascal - Part One (sfw))*
Male centaur x reader (light nsfw) *’smooch’ prompt fill for Iskandar from orc boy Khuruz’ story - Part One (sfw)*
Nb drider x reader (sfw, light angst)
Male rock troll x reader (very light nsfw)
Male dragon x reader (sfw)
Nb gargoyle x reader (sfw)
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Disclaimer:
- I don't own any characters, this is just a fan comic.
- English is my second language, so there might be mistakes.
Additional Infos:
Tools: Clip Studio Paint
This is my first long form comic. So far I only dabbled into 4 panel short comics, but for the longest time I wanted to start my own webcomic (with my own story to tell) - but seriously never had the guts to start. (Imposter syndrome *sigh*)
But back last december when I first watched Hazbin it sparked something inside me.
It inspired me so much, that I finally started this comic.
And I am so grateful this fandom pushed me into a new and exciting era <3
Thanks to everyone reading, linking, sharing and leaving lovely comments! This means so much to me! You can't even imagine - ha haaa,.. :>
Here's a request, how would Strife and Samael react to accidentally seeing s/o naked for the first time? Like they are getting ready to bathe or something and thought they were alone. They didn't know anyone would be there, and when Strife/Sam do see them, s/o is oblivious. Like they realize very quickly "aw shit, s/o is cute...", Inner monologue stuff about s/o and their new feelings. I have a thing for pining. Real romance fluff with a suggestive hint. Nothing happens, this doesn't have to be nsfw if you don't want it to be. I just want your take on their reactions cause I think they would both range very differently. I chose those two cause they are my favorite. If you don't wanna do this one, that's ok too. I just really like your writing and how you interpret things. Thank you again.
Samael:
It's a common assumption among those who don't know him personally, that the Demon Prince, Samael, is a debauched and lascivious snake who would only relish in the chance to catch a human unawares.
It's a common assumption. But so often common is confused with correct.
He's a prince. Be that of Hell or Heaven or any realm in-between, he knows how to behave like a gentleman when needs be.
To his own surprise, he's found himself falling more and more into that courtly conduct ever since he managed to get his claws on the Horsemen's little human, swiped by his own claws right from underneath their noses.
'Nothing personal,' he'd told you while you thrashed and beat at the vast, scaly fingers wrapped around your torso, 'This is all tactics, you understand.'
With the Horsemen focusing all of their efforts into tracking you down – they've yet to work out that he's behind your disappearance – Samael is free to move his players across an unguarded chess board. A classic – if risky – slight of hand.
Oh, he imagines they'll try to kill him once they discover you hidden here in his fortress at Shadow's Edge, but that's hardly of any concern to a Prince of Hell. If he thought the Horsemen were a genuine threat, he wouldn't have provoked them by taking their precious, little human.
They won't be able to deny, when they eventually find you, that he's been nothing if not a most gracious host. You aren't a political enemy, after all, you're an innocent bystander in his game of cat and mouse.
He's placed you in one of the Eastern towers - under guard and lock and key, of course – where every amenity has been made available to you. A spacious chamber, adorned by a luxurious bed with silken, ruby-red sheets. An adjacent nook that boasts a king-sized bathing pool for you to maintain your hygiene....
If anything, you're less of a prisoner, and more of an unusual guest, though such 'special treatment' has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that your affinity for story-telling far surpasses the talents of his own subjects.
All you have to do is recite Earthen fairy-tales to him, plots of films you can still remember, stories from the books you used to read at school, and every single one of them is eagerly eaten up by the demon Prince, specifically those that have happier endings.
Those very stories are the reason Samael finds himself striding down the corridor to your chambers now, with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, the impressive claws at the end of each of his toes clicking sharply against a black-stone floor.
Last night, you'd half-finished a tale of a caterpillar with an absolutely voracious appetite, but you'd fallen asleep just before the most crucial climax. He'd half a mind to shake you conscious again and demand you tell him how the gluttonous little insect earns his downfall through hubris and greed, but in the end, he permitted you your scant few hours of fitful sleep.
Perhaps the ending you have in store will have been worth the wait...
The phantom guards posted outside your room snap to attention as he passes them by, though their master doesn't spare either of them so much as a fleeting glance, stepping leisurely up to the tattered, scarlet curtain that separates your chambers from the corridor outside.
And that's when he hears it - a sound so seldom heard in Hell, it actually startles the Prince into slowing his gait as his scowl comes undone, softening the deep-set creases carved between his brows.
He pauses at the curtain and twists an ear towards the noise...
... Music?
Slowly, he eases his crooked knuckles beneath the curtain and lifts it aside, hesitating for another moment to discern that his ears really aren't deceiving him. That's music he's hearing. More specifically, it's singing.
You are singing.
He's spoken with you enough times by now to recognise your voice in spite of the melodious notes of a song that drift into his ears from somewhere beyond the bed chamber.
But then, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Of all the denizens residing in his fortress, who among them is the most likely to burst into song other than the human?
Eyes of liquid fire scan the room and find it devoid of his prisoner, until they land upon the arched entrance that leads into the adjacent bathing quarters.
He recalls how you'd been stunned almost speechless the first time he showed you the enormous pool cut out of an obsidian floor.
He'd taken the liberty to drain it of lava before filling it up again with clean, un-poisoned water – a rare commodity in Hell, given the rate of its evaporation.
“Why?” you'd asked, squinting up at him dubiously.
Samael's face had remained perfectly set like the stone underfoot as he hummed his reply, “I assumed humans preferred to bathe in water. Not molten lava.”
That wasn't what you'd meant, and he knew it, but you'd been sensible enough not to look a gift demon in the mouth, as it were.
Lifting his nose to take a whiff of the air, Samael pads like a graceful predator across the chamber, following the sound of your voice.
Until the day comes when he no longer sits on the throne, he'll staunchly deny that his footsteps fall just a little more softly against the stone in his endeavour to remain unnoticed by the room's occupant.
Deftly, he manoeuvres around a scattering of garments that have been strewn haphazardly about the chamber, quirking one solid, scaly brow at them as he passes. 'Odd,' is all he muses.
Under normal circumstances, you're never seen without your flimsy attire.
Finding his curiosity piqued, Samael ducks his crooked horns and steals into the dark doorway, casting an eye languidly across the baths, only to freeze in his tracks, his whole body going utterly still from the horns on his head to the tip of his long, sweeping tail.
As if the singing weren't enough of a shock, you suddenly come dancing into view, swinging your hips to and fro like a pendulum. You're facing away from the doorway, thank the Void, but that's hardly what the demon Prince is focused on.
Standing there on the first step of the bath, bobbing your hips to the tune of your own song, he sees you.
All of you.
There isn't a shred of clothing present to preserve your modesty, no undergarments, nor a single strip of cloth, not a thread to your name.
Samael's silvery pupils dilate, expanding out of slits until they sit soft and round in his yellow eyes.
Rather perplexingly, he doesn't wheel himself backwards out of the entryway as soon as he registers your state of undress, though he chalks this up to being struck with simple, scientific curiosity at having stumbled upon a human in their most natural state.
Why, any second now, he's sure he'll feel that familiar wave of disgust surge up like bile and turn his stomach, because what is the human body if not a small, featureless sack of squelching meat?
Any second now...
Surely...?
Despite the weak-willed voice in the back of his head trying to convince him to turn away, the demon's eyes remain firmly adhered to you, and his ears twitch and flick towards the sound of your voice, anxious to catch every note you sing.
What is the human body...?
It's very.... gentle, he observes through a sudden haze that knocks him ever so slightly off-kilter.
A golden stare roll up the length of your legs, tracing the path of your spine and lingering on the back of your fragile neck.
There isn't a single, sharp edge to your body. No jagged horns or spines jutting through your skin, no tough and unforgiving scales to protect you from the elements, no natural weapons in the form of fangs or claws.
A body like yours was never intended to cause hurt.
What a flawed design.
What a brave design.
Before he can keep it at bay, a memory of Lilith pushes to the forefront of his mind – of her cruel lips that twist into a smirk and her hateful glares that try to poison his heart as she lays underneath him on their shared bed, claws like knives cutting into his scaly forearms to draw as much pain from him as she can, all in the name of 'making love.'
But what if....?
As the demon Prince gazes down at you, transfixed, the image of your naked body slips seamlessly in to replace Lilith's in his mind's eye. Her feral snarl gives way to something kinder, something sweeter, welcoming.
And suddenly, there you are, spread out in his Queen's place on the red, silken sheets, surrounded by the treasures he's draped you in during a wild and scandalous courtship. For the first time in his life, he doesn't want to ravage the body under his, though maybe he'd remind you that he could, if you'd only ask him to.
No. Perhaps, instead, you'll prop yourself up against the mountain of pillows he'd given you to nest in, and you'll cradle his head in your lap, your clawless fingers stroking gently up and down the space between his impressive horns as you tell him stories well into the night, listening to the crackle of the wall sconces together.
'Is that what it must be like?' he wonders, 'to take a lover who has no interest in power or status?' That must be what the stories mean, when they talk of love for love's sake.
Ah... But that kind of love has no place in Hell. The selfless kind. Altruistic. Here, one either loves to gain power, respect, and to rise through the social ranks, or one simply doesn't love at all.
In all the years he's sat on the throne of Hell, never once did he think he'd find himself so captivated by the sight of a human with no clothes on.
The leathery membrane folded between his wings starts to creak as they gradually spread open, driven by an ancient and well-buried instinct to appear bigger, stronger, more suitable than any other demon in the fortress...
He doesn't even notice that his tail has begun to sweep silently from side to side in perfect tandem with the swing of your hips.
Regardless of his imposing presence lurking just behind you in the doorway, you still don't seem to have noticed that you have an audience, and you likely would have gone on with your oblivious dance had the demon Prince not sabotaged himself moments later.
He never meant to do it. He's certainly never been caught doing it before, not even when he was trying to court an impassive Lilith.
Somewhere deep inside his almighty chest, the demon's muscles begin to quiver, pulsing together as they work to push a strange sound up through his throat - something between a contented hum and an unmistakable, mortifying purr.
You notice the sound before he does, but his reactions are sharper than your own.
Your song trails into uncertain silence, there's a whoosh of air and an enormous shadow flits backwards through the doorway just as you turn around to investigate, curling your arms around yourself in anticipation of finding a peeping-tom.
… The entrance is empty.
The Phantom guards scramble to attention when their master suddenly comes storming out of your chambers, his tail lashing like a whip and his mighty chest heaving in and out as if he's trying to stoke a fire in his lungs.
Gleaming fangs crush themselves together as he thunders aimlessly down the corridor, his only concern in distancing himself from the room of his prisoner.
What was that?
What the Hell was that!?
Of all the ridiculous, humiliating, puerile things for a Prince to do.
A purr...
A purr!
At his age! And one directed at a human no less.
He's Samael! Accuser, Seducer. Prince of Demons and Lord of Darkness. He's well above the feeble allure of the flesh.
... But it wasn't just your flesh that tempted him, was it?
Samael's lips curl to bare his teeth as he viciously swipes the thought away with another lash of his tail.
It doesn't matter, he tells himself resolutely. You hadn't seen him, nobody witnessed the event, you'll carry on none-the-wiser while he strikes the whole mishap from his memory.
The Horsemen will come and take you away, as he intended.
Yes... Just as he intended.
EDIT: Holy shift I just realised I got so caught up in Samael's story, I never wrote Strife's!!!!!!! I'm so sorry!!!!
EDIT - I've added Strife's. Sorry it's late, Anon. Also that it's bad. I wrote this in 20 minutes without proof-reading. Still, enjoy a little humour at Strife's expense.
This is set during a later point in my fic Exposure Therapy, where Strife hasn't quite grasped the concept of privacy just yet. :)
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The Horseman is getting much better at understanding human social cues. Ever since you agreed to 'show him the ropes,' so to speak, he's learned that you generally prefer it when he knocks before entering your home, and that typically, he's supposed to wait for you to invite him in.
Inviting himself in before you can answer the door has lead to all sorts of trouble.
Case in point...
The big, city building you've claimed as your home has a lot of incredible features, but by far, Strife's favourite has to be the handy, metal fire escape that leads him right up to the window of your flat.
It definitely makes for easy-access into your home, and the pair of you agreed unanimously that it's better than causing a block-wide panic if the Horseman ever tries to use the building's front entrance again, stuffing himself into the lift alongside a number of your unwitting and highly unimpressed neighbours.
A chuckle tumbles out from behind Strife's visor at that particular memory as he shoves your window open and hoists himself into your empty bedroom.
Man, you'd been so angry with him after your elderly neighbour came banging on your door to complain about the Nephilim almost giving her a heart-attack.
Strife's boots clunk down on top of the bristly doormat you'd placed underneath your window in anticipation of another impromptu visit, and he dutifully takes a moment to wipe the soles of his dirt-caked shoes across the rough texture, casting an inquisitive eye about your bedroom.
Empty...
But the lights are on, and the air smells sweet with a gentle aroma that wafts through the open door leading out into your adjoining hallway.
Curious, the Horseman begins to traipse out of your cozy little nest and into the corridor, coming upon a door on his immediate left that stands slightly ajar. Through the gap, steam rolls lazily out into the hall, carrying with it the same delicate scent he'd caught a whiff of in your bedroom.
He sucks down a long, slow breath, nostrils flaring behind his helm as he approaches the door.
He recalls you bypassing this room entirely during the initial tour of your domicile, how you'd seemed awfully reluctant to explain its function beyond labelling it your 'bathroom,' and swiftly moving on.
But what are you doing in there now?
The Horseman's ears perk towards the sound of you moving around inside. Cocking his helm, he places his fingertips on the edge of the door and gives it a gentle push.
Silently, it swings open, allowing him to take a decisive step inside a steam-filled room, but any subsequent exploring is swiftly aborted and a rushing pulse of warmth nearly sweeps the breath from his lungs as his eyes fall upon the very reason for his visit.
The very naked reason for his visit.
Creator... He can't move! It's as if his boots have been rooted to the tiles underfoot.
Through a haze of steam and half-hidden beneath a layer of soft, soapy bubbles, you stand before him under a cascade of localised rainfall, bare as the day you were born, from your pretty, little head down to the tips of your toes.
The intimacy of seeing a human naked isn't lost on Strife.
According to what he's observed so far of your species, it usually indicates a show of trust.
It means something to humans.
It's certainly meaning something to him right now.
Your eyes are slipped shut, hands in your hair as you work a flowery concoction into a lather with your fingertips.
Strife's golden gaze trail after the white suds that roll gracefully down the column of your neck, over your collar bone and travel onwards over the swell of your chest.
Beneath his mask, the Horseman's lips begin to twitch into a disbelieving little grin.
Glistening skin, a dainty smile on your lips, eyelashes sparkling with droplets of warm water that cascades from a device fitted into the ceiling... The overhead lights shine down from above you like a beacon drawing him in.
You look so... unfathomably tranquil.
You don't look a thing like the human he sees when you know he's in the room with you. When he's around, there's always an air of hesitancy, of fear about you, no matter what he tries to do to reassure you that you're in no danger from him. No matter how hard you try to hide yourself.
A wall goes up when Strife is around.
There's no wall here now.
The lines between your brows are nonexistent, the rigidity in your limbs has vanished, leaving them relaxed and limber. Tipping your head back, you begin to rinse the suds from your hair. You're content here in your most vulnerable state.
This is what you look like when you're not afraid, and for the first time, he's lucky enough to see it.
You're...
“Beautiful...” he breathes, blinking dopily through the condensation that's starting to fog up his visor.
One day, he'll learn to keep his big mouth shut.
Your eyes pop open in a snap and you jolt violently at the sight of the hulking, silver mass looming in the door to your bathroom.
Suddenly, the warmth that had been caressing the Horseman's cheeks drains away and he's overtaken by an icy, spine-chilling dread, recognising the thunderous glare that falls across your face like a dark storm cloud.
“Uh oh," he utters.
All at once, you twist your body away as if you can hide what he's already seen, opening your mouth and unleashing a cry of scandalised outrage. “STRIFE!”
Oh yeah. You're mad all right.
“WHAT THE HELL?! GET OUT!”
If ever there was a bad time for his body to freeze like a block of useless ice, it'd be right at this moment. But freeze he does.
Peeling his tongue from the roof of his mouth, the Nephilim feels his brain start to chug back into gear. “Uh, I... uh...”
Numbly, he fumbles over his words, blinking at you in a trance as you bend down and snatch up a hefty bottle from the smooth, white floor of your personal waterfall.
“STOP LOOKING!?” you squawk indignantly, and without further ado, you pitch the bottle forwards at him. It sails through the air and smacks against the Horseman's chest, spattering water-droplets and soap suds up his front.
That, at last, seems to snap him out of his stupor.
Strife's gauntlets fly up and he splays his fingers out wide, as if to placate a wild animal. “Hey! Wait, I'm sorr-”
'THWACK!'
This time, a bar of soap clonks him on the chin of his helm - a direct hit. He'd be proud if he weren't so alarmed.
Strife opens his mouth to try and apologise again, failing to pick up on the very obvious solution to this problem – to simply leave the room.
However, before he can utter a single word, he suddenly finds himself coming under fire.
All manner of strange concoctions hurtle across the room at him. Bottles and pots and brushes, so many that he has to wonder where they're all coming from.
“Ow, hey! Stop!” he protests, back-peddling through the door until his armoured spine hits the wall behind him with a thud.
He isn't given reprieve to dive for cover. A sud-laden loofer bounces off his forehead in what would be an ultimately harmless attack, were it not for the flecks of soap that dribble through the open socket of his helm and slip straight into his eyes.
Typical of Strife, his reaction, of course, is appropriately dramatic.
Reeling back so hard that his skull cracks against the wall, he throws his hands up to his face and begins to frenetically swipe at his stinging eyeballs. “ARGH! Goddamn! What the Hell is that!?”
“Serves you right!” he hears you bleat over the squeak of a tap, "Can't a person have a little privacy without some peeping-tom getting fresh!?"
Seconds later, he's nearly deafened by your bathroom door slamming shut with enough force to rattle the paintings that hang on your walls.
Scrubbing the sting from his eyes, Strife blinks them open and squints at the now firmly-closed door.
Compelled to repair the damage he'd unwittingly done, the Horseman sighs roughly and steps back up to the barricade, wary of any more projectiles that might come hurtling through it.
“Doll?” he calls, rubbing a palm over the base of his neck, underneath his spiked, black hair, “Ah... m'sorry. I didn't-”
Your muffled voice is quick to cut him off. “What is wrong with you!? Who the Hell just walks into someone's bathroom while they're naked in the shower!?”
“I didn't know you were naked in there,” he murmurs back, pressing a palm to the door as if he can soothe you through its wood.
Flatly, you retort, “... You didn't know I'd be naked.... in the bathroom.”
“Well! You never told me what a bathroom is used for!” he argues.
“It's heavily implied in the name, Strife! Good god, you wanna guess what goes on in a bedroom!?”
.... Fair enough.
“Sorry,” he mutters again, “Wasn't thinking. I was just excited.”
“Excited about what!?” you snap, incredulous.
Without missing a beat, the Horseman softly replies, “About seein' you.”
There's silence on the other side of the door for a time before he hears you heave an aggravated sigh. “Ugh, just... just give me a minute, okay?”
And obediently, the Horseman retreats into the relative safety of your bedroom.
Author's note: Oh @moodymisty! Come get your food, bestie XD I've loved the Darksiders games for many a year now so I figured it was high time I threw my hat into the fanfiction ring, and who better to start with than the Red Rider who started it all?
Title: Growing Pains
Length: 4,197 (jfc this was supposed to be <2k)
Relationship: War x Fem!Reader
TW/CW: None (idk does War's emotional ineptitude need a content warning? XD)
“Oh my god will you stop? My baseboards can only take so much abuse, big man.” War stopped momentarily, eyes flickering from your tired face to the proverbial rut he’d been pacing into your floor. You just sighed as the permanent scowl on his face deepened, his stormy mood apparently only getting worse at your exhausted scolding. The armchair you were curled up in had a perfect view of the fuming behemoth stomping around your poor house. He almost reminded you of Ruin, the colossal warhorse would snort and paw at the ground when he was irritated or anxious. He’d done quite a number to your front yard the last time War came to visit and you hadn’t broken a land speed record to reach the door and shower the poor “neglected” beast in love and affection. Wrathful steed of the apocalypse-bringer my ass. Ruin could act as tough and stoic as he wanted but just like his rider, all it took was some very persistent and well-placed affection and he would crumble like a house of cards.
Another sigh from you snapped War out of his no doubt spiraling thoughts and his pacing slowed to look at you. There was no counting the number of times he’d given you a once over since his little fit kicked off. He was looking for any injuries or abnormalities, anything to actually justify the level of irritation he was feeling. He couldn’t find any. That just made him look harder. Which only served to further irritate you. This was all Strife’s fault in War’s mind, even if that didn’t entirely make logical sense. It wasn’t that he hated his second-eldest brother, far from it though he loathed to admit that. Strife was just… aggravating and irresponsible and reckless and nosy and and and-
You finally groaned, sitting up properly to fix War with a glare that would’ve cowed any human. Unfortunately you were not dealing with a human, you were dealing with the youngest, most emotionally inept Nephilim available. “Are we actually going to talk? Strife and I hang out without you once and you fly off the handle and drag me back home? What the hell, War?” When yet more silence was the only answer you got you flung up your hands in defeat, rolled your eyes, and made to walk out of the room.
It wasn’t just that Strife had absconded with you, off to somewhere dangerous to indulge your endless curiosity, no of course not. There was vital context to this situation only War was privy to at the moment. A conversation he’d had with his brother not long ago.
Strife had noticed how distracted War had gotten, his usual taciturn scowling having a more contemplative air to it. That coupled with his more frequent disappearances to Earth? It wasn’t a difficult puzzle to put together that the little human who’d accompanied his baby brother throughout his quest was now what was tormenting his every waking moment. How cute. He had met you a handful of times, much to War’s dismay, and his general fondness for humanity very much extended to you which just made matters worse. It was no secret Strife enjoyed messing with his siblings, especially War, but somehow his younger brother never managed to actually see it coming. Maybe one too many blows to the head over the millennia.
War hadn’t been paying attention to whatever his brother had been prattling on about but the mere mention of you from Strife’s lips had raised his hackles, pulling his focus to the older Nephilim’s smug face. “Y’know she likes you just as much as you like her right? Though I don’t know if she spends all day thinking about it like you do.” Strife guffawing at his little brother’s affronted glare certainly did not help the situation. “I am not some smitten youngling constantly preoccupied with such things,” War growled, “I’ve no time for frivolities with a human so put such ludicrous accusations from your mind, brother.” The scoff that answered him had further soured the Red Rider’s mood, because almost nothing grated on War’s nerves more than Strife being right about something. It was an infrequent occurrence in his opinion, and all the more infuriating because of it.
Strife had idly thumbed Redemption’s cylinder, spinning it to occupy his hands while he thought was a habit of his. Strife thinking was never a good sign in War’s mind. The clicking of the cylinder stopped and Strife stood, “Well if by some miracle the mighty horseman War was feeling some kind of way about a hypothetical human who shall remain nameless,” he’d paused hearing War’s breath halt. “My positively sage-like brotherly wisdom would be to make those feelings known and fast,” he had nudged him as he walked past flashing War a fanged smirk, “You never know who might try to snatch a cutie like that up first.”
War’s hand had twitched toward Chaoseater at the very implication before he could collect himself, and Strife had waltzed away like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on his brother’s psyche. His words had been bouncing around War’s skull for weeks. Did he actually mean it or was this just another jab meant only to annoy him? War couldn’t tell, he could never tell with Strife. Even without his mask he was near impossible to read. So when he heard Strife had snuck off with you somewhere, someplace dangerous… alone. Well War was not famous for his social grace and even temperament.
So now here he stood, watching you walk past him, stormy expression on your usually smiling face. Because of him. Because of his petty cowardice. It stung something fierce to even admit that in his own mind, that he had been running from something. Fear was an impulse War did not accept in his life, he was above it, not ruled by such a dishonorable emotion… But what else was he to feel when faced with the unknown? The warmth in his chest when you laughed? The twist in his stomach when the last rays of a sunset caught your eyes? The bone-deep ache he felt when he was away from you too long? His life had been simple once, before you stumbled into it covered in ash and blood and seemingly burning from the inside out with grim determination.
He was beginning to think that “simpler” life was far less worth living. That scared him. It pushed him so far outside the neat boundaries he’d been given to exist in for countless millennia. He had tried, creator help him he’d tried, to compartmentalize it. Just as soon as he would think he had a handle on his feelings a crack would appear in the facade and he would race to paper over it. They just kept getting bigger though, and more and more appeared. The Red Rider was crumbling and he had no idea how to cope so he simply did what he knew and buried himself in stoic anger. Tried to step back into the boundaries as if those weren’t falling apart too.
You’d noticed him being testy recently, something was clearly bothering him but like usual he’d brush off any concern calling it misplaced or worse, coddling. It was driving a wedge into a relationship you cherished, one that was irreplaceable, one you’d secretly hoped would grow now that the Apocalypse was over. It pissed you off. War was being impossible to deal with. Stewing in his own thoughts like a moody teenager and lashing out randomly. Hell, he’d pointed Chaoseater at a delivery driver who had “an unsavory air about them”. Overprotective was an understatement but given who he was and his unofficial status as your guardian of sorts, it wasn’t too weird at the time. Then he put wards around your house. Then he ignored you for days. Then he came back like nothing happened. Then he’d glared holes in every person within a 15 foot radius of you. Then back to the silent treatment. It was a nightmare of mixed signals, so when Strife had popped up randomly offering some casual adventure, it had been an easy ‘yes’. Time away from home to distract your aching heart and troubled mind was exactly what you needed. An opportunity to not think about War for five minutes.
Except you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Even Strife’s magnificently awful jokes couldn’t pull you all the way out of your head. It felt like what you two had built was slipping through your fingers day after day. War was around more but he didn’t feel like he was there. Time that once would’ve brought you joy just felt tense. War wasn’t exactly ever an easygoing guy but when you two were alone it used to feel like he’d… relax a bit. He wasn’t like that now and you didn’t know why, he wouldn’t tell you, so the worry and pain just built and built until today. Until you’d tried in vain to forget the aching in your chest, until you ended up trying to stomp past him with burning eyes and a clouded mind.
Until he grabbed your wrist and you were forced to stop, knowing there really wasn’t much you could do until he decided to let go. “Wait.” He said. Not a request, not an apology, not good enough. You twisted in his grip, glaring up into his cold, glowing, eyes, and finally decided to let loose. “WAIT FOR WHAT? Wait forever for answers and apologies I’m never going to get? Wait ‘til you, the literally millennia old horseman,” your free hand jabbed at his chest for emphasis, “finally grow the fuck up and speak your mind? Wait for my hair to turn grey as life passes me by? Sit here just waiting and stewing and wondering what the hell I did wrong for you to act like this?” The tears finally spilled forth and you couldn’t even muster the energy to care to swipe them away. So instead you kept going, voice quivering between rage and grief, “you want me to wait, War? Then give me a reason!”
He was stunned silent, his eyes wide as he stared down at your seething form. ‘What you did wrong?’ You hadn’t done anything wrong, he just… He hadn’t known what to do. Playing over the last few weeks in his mind he felt shame crawl up his back at the images of your smile becoming more and more strained. Your time together becoming so irregular and fraught. He’d been worse than neglectful, every time he came back you would brighten at first before his erratic behavior dimmed you again. What in all the realms had he done?
When he yet again remained silent he saw the fire in you dim once more, your shoulder’s slumped and he felt the wall in him crack further. “War just… you can’t keep acting like this, I can’t handle it. The rapid swings, you’re here, you’re not, you don’t seem to care, you care WAY too much. You dragged me back here like I was a wayward fucking child, do you know how demeaning that is? That you apparently think you can make those decisions for me?” You paused to catch your breath, shaking your head in disbelief as your face turned solemn. “Either this,” you gestured vaguely at him, “stops or we stop, and I mean it, War. This is not how friendships work and I am done dealing with it on just the slimmest hope you’ll decide one day I’m worth you being honest with me.” The implication that you didn’t have forever like War did wasn’t lost on him. The mere reminder of that fact felt like a lead weight in his stomach.
The room fell into a deafening silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle from you and some random noises outside. To War though, the entirety of creation had narrowed to just this room, just him and you. The End War could’ve started again outside and he would not have noticed. He had sworn to protect you, a solemn oath he said he would carry with him forevermore, and he’d broken it. It wasn’t some demon or rogue angel, no he had hurt you. Far more than he could ever truly understand. Humans were fragile physically but mentally? Emotionally? Your people could withstand greater pain than any other race thought possible for a species so young. Yet he had managed it. Realization came like a knife to the chest that of course he managed to, you let him so close to your heart. You welcomed him into the most vulnerable parts of your soul and in return he’d shut you out of his and tried to bury you. The very person he… War had to fix this.
His grip on your wrist loosened, and his eyes dropped to see the red marks he’d left on your skin. “I’ve hurt you.” It wasn’t a question, but there was something odd to his expression you couldn’t place. At least he was actually talking now. You finally wiped at the tears to clear your vision and muttered out quietly, “Yeah, us humans tend to bruise a bit easier than Nephilim.” You eyed the damage yourself, imprints from War’s gauntlet that would start to bloom purple soon enough. Even when he tried to be gentle there really was no denying exactly who and what he was. A Nephilim, a horseman of the apocalypse, somebody very capable of hurting you even by accident.
War shook his head, stony expression cracking more, “Not this- I mean- yes this,” his thumb brushed remorsefully against your marred skin, “but I meant in the sense that my behavior recently has harmed you… emotionally.” Oh. Well he wasn’t wrong. His eyes remained locked on the mark he’d left on you as he collected his thoughts and you watched the minute chips in his metaphorical armor grow. It was honestly a little scary, War was smart but he usually didn’t think this hard about what came out of his mouth. ‘Charmingly blunt’ you’d once charitably called it when you crossed paths with Azrael. The angel had some… concerns about the company you kept but you were quick to assuage his fears back then, confidently asserting that War would never hurt you. That memory coming back into his mind at this particular moment seemed a cruel joke to the horseman himself.
He was thinking very carefully now about what he would say and how. He owed you that and so much more. When his eyes raised to meet yours again there was something different in them, something raw that usually hid deep inside him. Seems his older brothers weren’t the only ones fond of masks. “There is no adequate way for me to atone for breaking my oath. I swore nothing would harm you so long as I lived… and yet I am the one who hurt you.” His breath stuttered for a moment, like admitting it stung as fiercely as a wound. In his mind War was still trying desperately to hold onto himself but as he looked at you, the tentative warmth he so adored blooming in your teary eyes again… it was worth so much more than his status quo. Worth more than he could ever explain or understand.
It was like a weight slid off his shoulders when his gaze softened, eyes brimming with every emotion he’d tried so hard to contain. Guilt, sorrow, hope, love. Your heart fluttered like a bird yearning to take flight, finally soon to be free from its cage. “There is no excuse for my actions, so instead I would simply ask you allow me to make my oath anew. You have given me something infinitely precious.” A ghost of a smile pulled at his lips, “you have given me compassion, friendship, nearly endless grace and patience. Things I was not worthy of receiving, yet you gave them freely all the same.” War’s eyebrows raised when he felt your smaller fingers curl around his, searching for the seams in his armor to get closer to him even through hardened steel. By the creator was there no armor of his you couldn’t find your way through?
His eyes searched your face for any sign of rejection, any remaining shred of pain or anger, but he found none. There were still tear marks on your face, redness in your eyes, and for that he would atone as well in time, but for now he continued. “I have been a coward, returned your kindness with cruelty however unintentional and hurt you so deeply it brought you to tears.” For the first time in a long time he wished Death hadn’t cut off his arm, he itched to wipe the remaining tears from your face but his artificial limb was not exactly made with such purposes in mind. Even beyond that, he refused to relinquish the feeling of your fingers against his other hand.
Your voice finally couldn’t be held back, bubbling up as War’s openness soothed the rage and hurt you’d been feeling. “Apology accepted, War.” A wry smile quirked your lips as you looked up at him, “I think this is the most I’ve ever heard you say at once.” The Red Rider huffed a bit at your jab but he shook his head, “I am not simply apologizing. Just an apology would not be enough, I am also trying to… explain my actions.” He felt your hand give his an encouraging nudge as you spoke, “floor’s yours, War.” He was fairly certain the floor belonged to you, it was your house, but this was probably another confusing human turn of phrase.
A deep breath and a further steeled resolve later he started again. “For a long time now I have noticed something changing. Something in myself. I was suddenly… wanting things I’d never before considered.” Your eyes widened and he tried not to take that reaction as fear. “I am deeply unfamiliar with such things, I am a horseman, I’m not supposed to…” His eyes darted away from yours for a second as he swallowed down the word he knew he meant but for the moment couldn’t say. “You changed something in me and it kept changing, kept deepening and growing. I had not even the barest inkling how to respond to this feeling and so I-“ once again the words seemed to catch in his throat.
You took a step closer to him, the hand not adamantly holding onto his raising tentatively as you spoke. “So you ran?” It looked like it physically hurt him to nod in response, but the hurt eased when your hand touched his chest. War didn’t even bother to hope that you couldn’t feel his heart hammering under your fingers, he’d been hearing it in his own ears like Ruin’s monstrous hoof beats almost this entire time. “But you didn’t stay gone.” His expression was unreadable as he sighed, “I couldn’t. When I would leave all I could think about was wanting to come back, but every time I saw you the feeling would well up again and the cycle would repeat.” The feeling of your hand in his, your other thumb drawing absentminded circles above his heart, was all very distracting but he still had more to say. “When I was around you suddenly everything looked like a threat. I wasn’t thinking clearly, simply looking for any distraction from my own mind and heart, and so I found it in the familiarity of cold anger. Yet even that clearly couldn’t last. It was like the very foundations of how I viewed the world and myself were crumbling under me so when I heard Strife had spirited you off somewhere I… panicked.”
The frustration scrunching up his face was almost cute but you kept that comment to yourself, stowing it away to poke at him later. War’s voice dropped to an agitated growl as he recalled what exactly his brother had threatened so casually, “he’d made a comment about you not too long ago, something about making my feelings known and quickly because I could never know who might do so before I could finally muster the courage.” The thought of War being afraid of his brother, for lack of a better word, stealing you from him was absurd enough to almost pull a dumbfounded laugh from you. But considering the situation a bit further some puzzle pieces started to fit together. The White Rider wasn’t nearly as brainless as his siblings liked to think, you’d have to prod him a bit to see if your sneaking suspicion was right the next time you saw him. In the meantime, you’d get a little payback on his baby brother. “Sooo,” your fingers tapped on his chest and the teasing lilt in your tone warned him of what was coming next. “Making your feelings known, huh? And what feelings might those be, exactly? Just out of curiosity.” Your head tilted and a small smirk pushed mirth up into your eyes.
After several weeks of emotional pandemonium, the tormented groan that came from your ridiculous horseman was sweeter than honey to hear. “Have I not made it obvious? Are you truly going to make me say it?” War was all but begging. Your hand drifted up to grab his cowl and he let you drag him down closer to your height, eyes boring into his with a sudden seriousness, “Oh I think I’ve more than earned you saying it, War.” You stared him down, gaze and grip on him unwavering in equal measure. War had no reason not to say it, realistically, but the very thought of the words leaving his lips, making it all real, made him hesitate. Heat crept up to his cheeks and a light dusting of pink made itself very known on his pale skin as he floundered. You were right. He owed you this, full and complete honesty, he couldn’t hide behind allusions and implicit meaning trying to save his pride. What once was would never be again, there was no returning to the time before he’d realized exactly what he felt for you. He didn’t want to return to that time. Internally he looked at the last stubborn barrier between his heart and your hand, and tore it down brick by brick.
The final wall turned to dust as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours and a curtain of his silvery hair fell from his shoulder to brush against your cheek. He was so close now, close enough to- He whispered against your lips, “I love you.” It was so uncharacteristically quiet, but it was a message meant only for your ears. Nobody else needed to hear it, nobody else mattered to him in this moment. Just you. Here in this little house on a slowly rebuilding Earth, staring down into the eyes of the woman he loved, War let himself be soft. The normal tension leaving his body and a small, tentative smile, touching his lips as he was content to just leave it at that, finally having truly bared his soul.
You had other plans though, now that you knew exactly where you stood with him. Now that you knew you weren’t the only one drowning in this feeling. “God you made that so fucking difficult.” Before he could respond you pushed up onto your toes, closing the scant distance and pressing your lips to his. War froze for a second, unsure, but your hand slid from his cowl up to trace over his jaw and up to caress his face. The sensation stole the air from his lungs but just as quickly he recovered and reciprocated the kiss, reveling in this new feeling. It was like a giddy warmth was blooming in his chest. Little did he know your heart was echoing his, pulse racing as if to say finally finally finally. Your lips moved together shyly, clearly unpracticed but now there was the promise of a future to learn together, so much time to explore and experiment. For now though this was all that needed to be. A little rough around the edges, a little messy, but brimming with a love that had already survived an apocalypse. You broke away to finally answer his declaration with one of your own, “I have loved you for so long, War. And I love you so,” you kissed him again, “so,” another peck just for good measure, “much.”
War sighed, eyes closing as you both simply rested in the moment, “and I you, I shall spend my days striving to prove it to you to make up for the time lost. You’ve given me your heart, so you shall have mine.” The words sounded so right to his ears. He saw your eyes start to water again but you quickly hid your face in his chest. “I’ll be sure to take care of it,” you managed to choke out.
You felt his chest rumble as he answered, “I know you will, my love.”
Author's note: I enjoy the dynamic of animal partners showing emotions for their owners, and after doing something like this for Death and Despair, I decided to do War and Ruin too.
'Strife is my favorite Horsemen' I say as i finish my 1800th War drabble
Summary: The Horsemen's steeds are infamously wild; However it seems the brimstone warhorse shares the same soft spot for you that his rider does.
Relationships: War/Fem!Reader
Warnings: Fluff, Subtle hints at canon typical violence, Pre-established relationship,
Ao3 Mirror
Sometimes, it's a bit of a bummer having to constantly be stuck waiting.
Stay here. Hide. Stay put. Don’t follow.
War always insists on your being close at hand, and while it's endearing that he has your safety at heart, Death had put his foot down in regards to having you around the other Horsemen. War acquiesced, but having you out of arms reach has his fingers twitching over the handle of Chaoseater. He doesn’t have much patience, and it is very much being tried.
But so is your’s; As its had to have been well over an hour at this point, and you're more than getting bored trying to keep yourself occupied.
At least the lake looks pretty; The way the sun shines against the soft ripples of water, where fish are playing little games just underneath the surface. You can't see your own reflection from your spot on the muddy shoreline, but it's a good enough spot that you can skip rocks with relative ease. It's not much, but it keeps your mind off of the things you may not want to think about.
Thankfully your dwindling interest in small pebbles isn't a concern for much longer, as something begins to approach from behind and take your attention.
The ground is shaking, and with a very familiar beat. You have a feeling what could be causing it.
Moments later then hot air suddenly puffs against the back of your neck, pushing around your hair and the collar of your top. Embers float down to the ground flickering with their last bit of heat, landing onto the ground and singing the grass.
"Hey, Ruin."
The horse seems to snort in response, inquisitive glowing eyes watching you as you look over your shoulder. Ruin is far smarter than the average horse, though he still sadly lacks the ability to vocalize that intelligence. A shame, as he'd probably have quite a few stories to tell, if the steed was able.
"You bored?"
The smoke of his mane flickers and waves along with the soft wind, the unreadable(at least to you) markings on his neck highlighting his crackling hide. Ruin lets out a whinny, shaking his head and neck as one front hoof moves slightly closer to you.
"Yeah, me too."
Turning away from the lake you swivel on the large boulder you'd made your seat, looking head on at Ruin. The horse towers over you even with you're standing, with an incredibly stocky body that give the horse his overwhelming power. When Ruin gallops it feels like a league of horses shaking the earth, not just one, as his hooves tear at the ground and pull up clumps of dirt.
"War really left us both in the dust, huh? Feels like I've been sitting here forever now." The warhorse lets out a soft, slower whinny that you take as agreement, or at least some level of understanding.
Ruin is, odd. He's far smarter than most animals that much you know, but you've yet to figure out if he can actually understand you. He listens to War, but is he listening to particular words and sounds, or can he actually comprehend it all?
A ponder for another day, clearly, as Ruin moves his snoot to push at your shoulder when you don't respond for a short period of time.
"Hey, gentle. I'm not as sturdy as War, remember?"
The horse doesn't take a step back, but does push his nose against you a bit more gently. And in return, you give it a good rub, watching the way his nostrils flex as he lets out a happy snort. You know War hates when you treat him like this; Pet Ruin and coo at him as if he's some sort of tame creature.
'He is going to grow lazy if I let you continue coddling him.'
Phooey; If you want to pet the horse, you're going to pet the horse. Especially when said horse seems to like it.
"You're such a good boy, Ruin."
If only you'd have known a few years ago that you'd be standing here, after an apocalyptic event, talking to a horse made of ash and fire. The horse that in partner with his rider, represent the endless toil of battle.
He sure does love having his nose petted, however.
It sparks an idea in you, and shortly after you perk up at the thought, Ruin does as well, his ears flickering in various directions at the sound of your voice growing in curious pitch.
"Say, how would you feel if we went for a ride?"
Ruin doesn't recoil in disgust, so at least he seems somewhat open to the idea. Slipping off the large, cold boulder beneath you it puts you a little bit more at eye level, though only because he has his head drooped low.
"We could go find War, see if he's done doing, whatever he's doing?" Ruin blows a little raspberry at you, watching as you move around to his side.
You make a test of it first; Gently grasping the side of the saddle as if you were going to get on, to see if he'd react poorly. But it seems Ruin is at least somewhat accepting of your idea, watching with one eye, so then you move to grasp the sides of his saddle for real the this time.
Getting onto the giant horse proves to be a much harder feat than you’d thought in your head; As his considerable height makes the saddle almost out of reach without War to lift you into the stirrup. It ends up taking a considerable jump to grasp the saddle-horn, heaving and pulling yourself high enough to get a foothold. That gives you the leverage you need to heft yourself the rest of the way into the saddle, and finally sit on top of the warhorse. He's far too large for you to ride properly, as once again your feet can barely touch the stirrups, but at least you have a good hold of reins.
Ruin watches the entire time with his neck turned to look at you, as if amused by your attempts. Even more so when he shifts on his hooves and it momentarily startles you, making the horse whinny.
"Alright, let's go tour the scenery and look for that grump."
Your thighs are spread wide because of the sheer size of Ruin's barrel, making it hard to really get a good amount of stability with your legs. But thankfully Ruin seems in an almost lazy mood- maybe due to his owner not being here to scold you for pacifying him.
He settles for a casual trot until you're past the tree line and into the clearing, slow and steady. You've ridden on Ruin before, but never without his rider firmly at the reins. Never had it dawned on you before to ask for them, but surely War would’ve said no.
It's hard to keep steady, the reins made of chains are heavy in your hands, but you manage to get the rhythm of it while looking around at the scenery.
The Maker's Realm is so beautiful, you can't fathom why War doesn’t like being here.
But then again, War isn't fond of being anywhere, it seems; At least as much as you've gathered being around him.
There they are up ahead; You can see the silhouette of War from miles away. It makes you perk up, noticing the more unfamiliar shapes of his siblings. The sight of them, particularly Death, makes you decide to stop Ruin a good distance away and patiently wait, in the hopes that War eventually notices you.
The last thing you want to do is irritate Death; Or any of the Horsemen, really.
"Lets wait here," You lean down a bit to speak to the horse despite him being to able to hear your just fine with the turn of an ear.
"I really don't want to interrupt whatever they're doing." Too late however, as you freeze like a timid deer when Death's head turns and spots you in the clearing, his body raising from his poor posture slightly.
He's very clearly spotted you, and in your hesitancy at that you accidentally lean up a bit too far, and the ever so slight tug on the reins makes Ruin do one small back step. He snorts at you, but has no reason not to obey the request. Even if the horse seems to think it odd; He can quite easily feel your sudden nervousness.
Then again Ruin isn't fearful of the White Rider, in the same way you might be.
I can feel his stare even from here… It’s like ice.
But it's much too late to try and leave now as the rest spot you as well, the familiar sight of a fiery warhorse instantly catching Strife's eyes. He's the one who speaks up as well, as Death is largely silent at the sight at first.
"Uh, War?"
Strife speaks up accompanied by a gauntlet hitting War's chest, catching his attention. Displeased by his smack War looks in the direction of his brother, giving an irritated:
"Hmm?"
Strife needs to only jerk his head in your direction however, before War turns and sees what's happening without his knowhow.
War is normally quite stoic, but even Fury can't contain the smirk she grows when War visibly bristles from shock at the sight of his steed trotting around with a little human on his back. And quite pleased by it too, if the horse's leisurely body posture has anything to say about it.
"It seems the human doesn't have a good sense of fear, does she?"
War doesn't respond, and instead they watch him storm away, Strife shortly behind. He refuses to acknowledge the varying states of amusement the others are looking at him with.
At least for Fury and Strife; Death however doesn’t find much amusement in War’s human once again proving she has too much of a grasp on him.
It doesn't take you long to notice, nor does it take a genius to see by War’s posture he isn't pleased. Meanwhile Strife is just behind him getting endless entertainment by this whole thing.
"You've got yourself in one big mess!" His tone seems far more happy than anything, and you smile while Ruin trots closer.
"Hello Strife!"
That sets the gunslinger well off guard, as well as when you say it's nice to finally meet him. He moves closer presumably to try and talk to you, but gets interrupted by Ruin turning on his front hooves and snorting ash at the gunslinger, until he stops his approach.
Both War and his steed are glaring at the gunslinger for getting even somewhat close to you, even with only the mildest of intentions.
'The human is only around until I can be rid of her to her kind.' Strife mentally scoffs.
He shouldn't be surprised that was an excuse, in all honesty.
It may not be obvious to you but it is to Strife; War never acts this way around anyone. And even through his stuffy exterior, Strife can tell he has a soft spot for you. He likes you, a lot, and it ends up coming out as aggressively stoic as he attempts to seem as unmovable and steady as ever. But even then, a keen eye can spot the way his eyes don't lock with yours for very long, nor does he have any good responses to the more upfront things you can say so casually.
Letting out a slow breath through his nose War looks up at you, while taking a side of Ruin's reins from your grip.
"Get down."
He doesn't react at your disappointment, even as you move to slowly slide your way off the saddle. War doesn't help, and instead watches as you slowly maneuver your way off and fall back onto the ground. He does manage to mostly contain a flinch however, as your body drops the considerable height onto the grass. Ruin watches the whole time, head following ears pricked up as you move to his front.
"Thank you for the ride, Ruin."
In an attempt to wrap your arms around the horse's neck you don't get the entire way, but his head does bow slightly to make the awkward gesture a bit easier. Meanwhile, War stands and watches.
"I'm taking your horse, War." The red rider's glare could melt you, but at this point you're largely immune to it's affects.
"You will not." Pulling back from where you're nuzzling Ruin's neck, you give him a smirk.
"'Will' implies I'd be able to if you weren't stopping me."
Strife can't help but let out a snort at that one, and the glare War gives him is positively soul shaking. Enough so that he finally raises his hands and gives in, moving away to a respectable distance before leaving outright. In doing so he leaves you and War alone, and it only takes one of your glances up at him before War looses a tiny bit of the stoicism that he was currently wearing.
Not much, however.
Hands still on Ruin's neck you coo at him; Calling him a ‘good horsey’ while War stands back. Your attention is away from him, and in that silence he has just a moment to contemplate.
War's almost relieved you don't seem to realize how tremendous of a feat you had just done; As in all of his years War has only ever seen one being besides himself ride that horse, and that was after 100 years of confinement by demons.
But all you had to do was smile at him and be kind, and the steed lets you trot him around as if being ridden by a learning child.
In a way it's the exact same thing you did to him; All you'd done to War was show him kindness and softness and now he's willing to slaughter whole armies at your mild inconvenience.
War sighs.
Death was right; He'd absolutely grown a soft spot, as much as the youngest Horsemen had tried to deny such a seemingly ludicrous thought.
He just, doesn't know how to deal with it. Even if he does know what the choice is, the idea of leaving you back with the other humans makes his brow furrow for no reason.
No good reason; As he refuses to accept the actual one.
“Looks like there’s a storm coming…” Your talking suddenly breaks his wandering train of thought as he glances at the darkening clouds.
“You should go to the Makers.”
“Should I start walking?” War at first looks at you almost insulted at the thought he’d leave you to fend for yourself; But when he does, he notices your little smile.
You knew what he’d meant, but sometimes it’s fun to poke at him sometimes. He doesn’t respond, but you can tell he’s a bit exasperated with your teasing.
Taking one look back to his siblings you notice only Death remains; Not returning the little wave you shyly give him.
Phew, cold as ice.
You know Death isn’t fond of anyone really, but it’s surprising to feel it even from here.
But Ruin’s snout pushing at the back of your head distracts you from pondering your less than favorable place in Death’s mind, and so you decide to hop back on his saddle. When you remember the amount of work you’d had to do to get up the first time, you look to his rider with a sheepish expression and mumble:
"Since you made me get down for no reason, can you help me back up?"
War is still for a moment seemingly thinking, before turning fully in the direction of Ruin's side. You grasp the saddle and War shifts his metal hand underneath your foot, enough so that you can put your other foot in the stirrup and throw a leg over. Now properly sat, War holds Ruin's reins with one hand while you grasp the saddlehorn.
Given how large the saddle is compared to you there’s still plenty of space left, and with one heft War easily slings himself onto the steed’s back right behind you.
It may not be the first time that you’ve ridden on Ruin like this, but it still is a little nerve-wracking to have your back pressed against the expanse of War’s chest. Even through the armor, it’s quite easily to feel how much raw heat he exudes.
Though, maybe it’s just Ruin.
It's only a few minutes of silence before you speak up again.
"I hope I didn't make Death angry, showing up like that." War continues looking forward, as you both move across the plains. Human perceptiveness when it comes to emotions still surprises him, especially when you seem to care despite never having ever spoken to the elder Nephilim directly.
“He has no reason to be; As to my knowledge.”
She’s distracting you; And your presence is only going to get her killed.
War furrows his brow.
You have no idea if you two are actually going to the Makers; But War is riding with purpose, so you figure he has a concrete destination in mind.
“You really think so?” War partially sighs. Humans are exhausting sometimes.
“Is it of any importance?” He can’t see the way your lips purse, nervously trying to find the words. It takes a bit longer than you’d like, but you finally manage to concoct a sentence.
“Well, I like you, so I’d like them to like me.”
Ruin’s ears twitch in reaction to the sudden change in emotion from his rider, who’s gone from his normal irritation to subtle shock.
How can you possibly say such a thing, after all that I’ve done.
“Are all humans this concerned over one another?”
He hears your exasperated breath. It’s a struggle to love War sometimes, as his walls are built up so thick. You’ve kissed him, hugged him, brushed his hair from his face and got his blood on your fingers, yet he still attempts to be so stoic.
“Well, yeah. At least with people you care about.” Leaning back against his chest more so than you’d been previously you look up, smiling as War glances down at you.
“You care about me, right?”
You’re teasing him again; He’s been around you enough to know that smile. You don’t do it often; War too often associates it with his siblings having the roundabout on him when it comes being sharp tongued.
“I-” Your laugh rings in his ears, a chunk of white hair brushing against your cheek as he looks up and away from you.
“Of course.”
For once he’s glad he can’t glare at you, as then you’d be able to see his face getting a little warm. He’s thankful his siblings aren’t here to see him fumble.
“I guess it is just a silly human thing.” For a few minutes, you’re content to watch the scenery roll by as Ruin walks through the tall grass, shoes clicking against hidden rocks.
Then suddenly, you can barely feel it; But for a split second War leans his head down, and presses his lips to the top of your head.
Not that you’d ever dare hate it, but his action does have you looking up with a smile.
“What was that for?” His hands adjust hold on the reins, while Ruin snorts at how uneventful this trip is being.
“I, do not know when I will see you next.”
“I’m sure we can find another moment alone soon.” You awkwardly attempt to turn around, quickly pressing a kiss to his lips. There is a very clear undertone to what you’re saying, even he can catch it.
Now he’s extremely thankful his elder brother isn't here, his tongue feels like it weighs more than Chaoseater.
War is used to being a battering ram, a wall, a ruthless tactician; Not... flirting.
Thankfully, you change the conversation before War steeps in his own armor any longer.
“How about next time, you teach me how to ride Ruin? Earlier I just kinda, pointed and he went to you.” It’s odd how the soot coming from Ruin’s mane doesn’t burn your nose, nor linger or on your clothes as the wind pushes it in your direction.
“As long as you don’t continue to coddle him.” Crossing your arms you roll your eyes, knowing that even if you agree, you’ll probably still end up petting the horse anyways.
“Fine, I won’t.”
After War agrees you fully relax against his chest and lean back, content enough to close your eyes for a bit. He looks down at you, seeing how comfortable you are.
War never believe it was possible to love a horsemen, especially him; And for a human to after what he had done? Part of him still struggles to believe you’re even truly here.
But you are, and War wouldn’t dare let even the Council pull you from him.
Authors Note: Always remember to hold your Horsemen.
Summary: You end up getting attacked by a demon, and War ramps up to 103.
Relationships: War/Fem!Reader
Warnings: Canon typical violence, light blood and injury, and a massive amount of tooth rotting fluff at the end
Words: 7412
AO3 Mirror
In hindsight, you probably should’ve acted on that odd feeling in the back of your mind when you’d first felt it. The way the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end-your guts twisting. Nothing had happened, but the feeling remained all the way until you’d opened your front door and scuttled inside, locking it tight with shaking hands. It left not to long after, but that night it had been a little bit harder to sleep than usual. That feeling had brought back bad memories; Apocalyptic ones.
Three nights later, the same thing had happened again, but when War had come by to visit you’d neglected to tell him.
He had been in a particularly foul mood-you couldn’t figure out what through all the overly vague answers and grumbling, and you hadn’t the heart to pile something you considered minuscule in comparison onto him. Knowing War he’d go trouncing around, going to one hundred and one when you were at a three.
War had left that next evening on the behest of Death, who had apparently ordered him to do something requiring his less than delicate nature. You’d watched him go, giving him a hug; Gave Ruin one too.
And not even an hour after he had gone, you’d felt it again. Zapping up your spine like a jolt, you caught yourself staring out the window.
It left again soon after, but it just kept happening.
A cup of hot tea would prove to be a nice enough distraction, even if one might disagree given the quickly warming weather.
Putting the kettle on and leaving it to heat, it was too hard to stop yourself from taking a quick peek out the back door, lips pursed and pushed to one side as you scanned the tree line. Body weight leaning on the handle, your head curiously poked around. No birds were chirping, but it was starting to get into the evening, even if it was still bright out.
You’d managed to water the newly planted apple tree in your back yard before the kettle startled to whistle, walking back inside and trying to fish around the cabinets for a suitable mug. The few you had were dirty, and you didn't have the desire to clean them.
Finding a clean one and tugging the kettle off the heat, it poured into the cup filled halfway and billowing a delightful smelling steam as you threw a tea bag inside. Taking the cup, you were hard pressed not to go into your bedroom and enjoy it, looking between the living room and the door to your bedroom.
It wasn’t exactly late, but a cup of tea was the perfect excuse to be lazy...
click click click
It was a soft scuttering noise that made you turn your head, turning to see a mass of black and orange in the doorway you’d forgotten to close. Eyes having taken a second to focus on what was now clearly a demon, prowling through the entrance. One that hadn’t noticed anyone was home yet, given his wandering eyes. Your mug ever so slowly hit the countertop with a ‘tink’ but even that tiny noise pulled the demon’s eyes, multiple pairs, right up to lock with yours.
While it was larger than you it was the smallest demon you’d ever seen by far, more so in length than width. It was quite a scrawny demon-you’d call it malnourished if it wasn’t hellspawn.
After managing through the back door once it finished it’s, abit short, investigation, the demon’s entire body tensed. If it was looking for you intentionally or just happened upon a distracted human, you didn’t quite have the time to question.
It burst forward before slipping on the kitchen tile slamming into the wall, slowing down to a stumble as it righted itself. An odd home field advantage, but it gave enough time to bolt for the dagger on table beside your couch.
Granted War was the one who had called it a dagger; To someone of a human size it was more of a short sword. It had been a gift, for this exact purpose. Though now it seemed he hadn’t even the time to teach you how to properly use it before it would get it’s first chance in your hands to taste flesh.
With it’s bearings gotten and unaware you were now armed the demon, vocalizing inhuman words that sounded both like a mutter and a screech, pressed its back feet into the floor to propel into a run. You barely had enough time to partly step behind any sort of cover before it slammed body into you, both tumbling to the floor.
A disadvantage to its gangly limbs was how they got tangled with your own and bent in odd ways, surprisingly light against your body. Having thrown its whole weight into the run and stumbled, it was now wriggling and frantically trying to right itself through a mess of largely uncoordinated limbs. The dagger had been tucked against your chest in the most prepared posture you could think of, leaving it somewhat in the same position with you’d fallen to the floor with it. And with the demon far to busy trying to wretch stuck claws from the floorboards, a material far weaker than the stone it was probably far more used to, it left enough opening to drive the dagger straight upward.
It would pierce the scaled skin, you could think of no other closer adjective to describe the texture, with an almost sickening ease; Going through with less resistance that you’d have thought. Maybe it was the blade itself, or maybe the less than protective hide.
Driving the dagger up through its jaw made it screech an absolutely awful screech, piercing your ears and making them ring. In the process of doing so it left your midsection open, and in a last ditch effort for life the began demon thrashing wildly, trying to grab your arms and dislodge the weapon. Long claws caught your shirt and the skin underneath, slicing long lines from the middle to front of your left ribs. The sensation felt almost like a boiling heat, a hot kettle of water against your side. It somehow managed to miss your other side and stomach, leaving smaller scratches on your wrist as it attempted to remove the sword.
It’s body weight however only managed to drive itself deeper onto the blade, and eventually, all of its weight fell onto your with a lifeless limp. Using what leverage you could muster to push the demon off and to the side you did, laying on the ground for a few moments and catching your breath. The blade stayed in it’s jaw, forgotten for the time being.
“Maybe I should’ve just taken that damn apartment...”
Adrenaline really was one hell of a drug, as you only when you started to try and get up, did you truly realizing that you were actually hurt to such a degree. Though the demon oddly enough didn’t seem too adamant on wanting to kill you outright, and part of you almost could almost question if it had wanted you alive. Something to think on when your shirt wasn’t quickly staining with blood.
It wasn’t absolutely gushing, the claws only having just gone deeply into the skin, but it was more than enough to quickly feel a little dizzy. The first thing you could think of was a rag, scurrying to the kitchen and finding one to press hard against your side despite the pain. But it wasn’t stopping, quickly staining the fabric while you stumbled around for another. The kitchen was a mess of toppled dished and droplets of blood, almost slipping once one a few that had made it to the tile floor. With the way you were already having trouble stopping the bit of blood, trying to make the hike into town was an absolute no go. You could try, but the fear of losing steam halfway there in the woods...
It needless to say didn’t fill you with the most confidence. But, it wasn’t like you were swimming in options.
There had been a first aid kit around here somewhere, and while it wouldn’t heal you per say, it would probably do enough that you could stop the bleeding. Almost every human had become a bit of a first aid expert, given everything that had happened over the past few years. With fresh rag you began to frantically dig around the cabinets for it, shaking a bit from the adrenaline leaving your body and holding a hand firm to your side.
Ruin had been in the middle of a hard sprint when he suddenly started thrashing his head and neighing as if in a panic, kicking up dirt with all four hooves. War reluctantly gave way, stepping deep into the stirrups when Ruin skidded to a halt.
He needn’t even ask the horse what was wrong, not that he would’ve gotten a verbal answer, as the flash of black darting past the corner of his eye through the tree line more than clued him in. It was going the exact opposite as them, so with a hard press of his leg against Ruin’s right side he pushed the horse into a left turn directly after what they’re seen.
That couldn’t have been more clearly a demon, chasing it through the tree line and managing to cut it off halfway. The creature had nary a chance of outrunning a horse as powerful as Ruin; Hooves digging so deep into the dirt with each gallop one might think he was trying to bury himself. Dropping the greatsword from his back the tip of Chaoseater formed lines in the hard dirt, dragging along as they gained ground on their target.
He raised it just before reaching the demon, deftly slicing it in two and halting whatever the creature might’ve had in mind.
Though cautious eyes kept look for more, as these spindly demons hardly ever traveled alone.
And indeed this one hadn’t either, as at least one more managed to catch his eye. Leaning deep into the right stirrup he held his sword aloft, able to spear the other demon on his sword before it scurried off.
While the kills had left Chaoseater crying out for more, War was more so still thinking in a tactical mindset than a bloodlust fogged one. He hadn’t seen demons in this area for awhile now, after he had cleaned them out weeks ago. But he really didn’t like the way they’d been running, keeping Ruin in the same direction and allowing the horse to pick up speed. With suspicion in his mind, not one thing would be able to stop him from going back for where he’d came.
Another person might’ve called it peace of mind, but that would’ve only gotten a scoff in response.
He just had to be sure.
You almost hadn’t heard it over the rustling of various different half empty bottles and other under the cabinet common items.
The deep snort and galloping of hooves could only belong to one monstrous horse, sounding like an army when it was only one. Left hand against your rib holding the soaked rag you rushed to the door, opening it and leaning against the frame.
“War! You’re back!” It hadn't been long since he'd left, you shouldn't have been too surprised. He seemed to see your frazzled frame and stained clothes from meters away, falling from Ruin’s saddle and stomping close, then right past you. His right hand held Chaoseater fully brandished, storming inside. Your face was distinctly off, your skin losing some of its healthy flush. Blood had begun to lightly stain your fingers, not quite enough to drip, but more than enough to strike worry. It least it seemed to have slowed down, somewhat.
Beyond that overwhelming taste of bloodlust from within himself and seeping from Chaoseater, War felt guilt creeping up on him.
He’d made sure that there wasn’t a single, not even the tiniest demon within leagues of your home. The idea of him missing something wasn’t one he was going to take easily, and he almost refused to outright.
But it had at least confirmed his suspicions that they were indeed intentionally going after you now. He knew it would happen but, it surprised even him that they had caught on this fast.
He had warned you that being affiliated with him, especially in this regard, would be a target on your back; One that you had accepted, but the guilt of your constant danger still ate at him.
“Where are they now?” It might’ve been a question, but his tone was so venomous that it sounded like a demand. Still holding tight to the door frame and pointing at the singular demon on the ground, you weren’t exactly fond of the possible implication of more with War’s ‘they’. And with the way War gripped Chaoseater, he would’ve wrung it’s neck; Provided it had one.
“There was just one, but it’s dead. I stabbed it not to long ago…” You furrowed your brow and continued to speak, knowing well War probably wouldn’t answer back.
“You think there’s more?” Giving your head a shake, War pulled the gift sword the corpse of a demon, blackened blood staining the end. This had played out so eerily similar to how you’d first met; He hadn’t cared much at all when you’d first met, but looking back on it now...
War turned from the corpse swords in hand and eyed you, seeing the way you cradled your ribs. Putting Chaoseater against his back along with the other sword, he quickly stormed over to you.
In moments a giant gauntlet cupping around the back of your thighs and even uninjured it would’ve made you a little dizzy, wobbling around and using your free arm to try and hold onto his neck.
“Don’t struggle.” It wasn’t like you had been to begin with. You wanted to see where you were going, one hand still holding onto the sloppy rags against your ribs. Just outside Ruin pawed at the ground, aggravated in part by how War was feeling. The horse was antsy, feeling the emotion radiating off of his rider. He grabbed the horn of the saddle with one hand and wrenched himself on the horse’s back, grabbing the reins with his free hand.
“War, I’m not going to die. Seriously; It’s not that deep.” As if your slightly wavering voice did anything to reassure him, along with the way you were unstably clinging to him. He neglected to respond to you, giving Ruin a strong kick and sending him into just short of a full sprint. It was enough of a jostle to tighten your grip on his scarf, armor hard and unbending against your body as you placed your forehead against his shoulder. Trees and other sights whipping past your field of view you watched, turning from familiar to unfamiliar it incredible speed.
Of course the one time War actually uses the Horsemen’s ability to ride between the realms and you were too dizzy to enjoy it.
The whole thing blurred almost into a blob of colors, then lack thereof, as War’s overwhelming silence didn’t do much to soothe.
With the Horsemen refusing to respond to most of your curious questions you relegated yourself to picking at the fraying strings of his hood, you had zoned out for most of the ride, the movement of your hand on his scarf enough to reassure War that you were still awake. Before you knew it, the two of you had arrived at where ever he was so insistent on taking you.
Sliding off Ruin with as much grace as he could muster to avoid jostling you, War made haste towards where he assumed Strife would be, and ignoring your groans of protest. But often times Strife was like the wind itself, and it wouldn’t be a far fetched thought to assume he was no longer here.
If he wasn’t, well, he’d deal with that when he got there.
It reassured War to feel you try and make a fuss in his grip, smacking his back with a hand wanting to be put down. It was good you still had vigor in you, he’d be more fearful if you didn’t.
“War come on just put me down. For god’s sake I’m just cut a little bit, not missing a leg.” He wouldn’t never considered it to begin with, but your fight against his grip and wince as you moved didn’t do anything to sway him in your desired direction. He kept going right on forward, barely remembering that door handles were a thing.
War burst through the doors with boots stomping like he was trying to put holes in the ground, your eyes just blurry enough that had to squint a bit. You couldn’t turn your torso very much without pain, forced to only look over his shoulder at the bright red of War’s armor, and the sound of him speaking to someone who you could only just barely see, when you turned your head a bit. Another man’s voice rang in your ear, but you didn’t know who. You attempted to get a better look, but War moved to gently sit you down on something and ruined the angle. But it gave you a better one in return, seeing both of them turn to face on another.
“War! What the-” The shape of a tall but thinner, clearly Nephilim, came into view, seeing him whip a glance down at you before back to War as he cut him off. Strife had been able to tell by the thunderous footsteps that War was coming for him with a vengeance, but not in a million years would he have guessed this was the reason.
He had mostly just assumed he'd done something to piss off the Red Rider, and just hadn’t remembered.
“Heal her. A demon attacked not long ago.” The unnamed Nephilim stuttered at the complete absurdity of the situation, still for a moment before spurring into action. By the time he was out of your view, you were attempting to lean up and look around. He gawked up at his brother even as he gathered something, pointing downward at you.
“You didn’t take her to a human healer instead? They have plenty!”
In hindsight that might’ve been a better idea; But War wasn’t in the right of mind seeing you so pale like that, so he’d done the first plan he could think of. And Strife was delicate enough that he could do this sort of work, at least when Death wasn’t around.
And even with as much of a morally ambiguous dunce Strife could be, he trusted him far more with you than any random human.
War watched and seemingly displeased with the lackluster pace, took a step closer towards you and looked down. You didn’t look nearly as bad as one might’ve expected, but your face was strained from the stress of everything, and dribbles of blood were still slipping between your fingertips.
“Faster, Brother.” So he was War’s brother. It really couldn’t have been many other people in hindsight, but you were still curious. War had spoke about him a decent bit and with the description matching what War once said, you assumed it was Strife. In an attempt to be amicable you tried to lean fully upright and off the hand you’d put behind your hips to support you, but Strife pushed you back when he returned with whatever he had needed, gesturing for you to pull away what was left of your shirt. The entire left side was torn almost to ribbons, so it wasn’t going to hurt you any more to just tear away those pieces after moving the bloodied rag.
“If War hadn’t stampeded on in here, I would’ve properly introduced myself.” You couldn’t help the hiss in pain as you moved, seeing the three large gashes against your side unimpeded by your shirt.
In hindsight it didn’t feel as bad as you might’ve thought, and you could breathe ok, so you tried to reassure yourself it wasn’t as bad as it looked. It largely didn’t work, but your new companion helped with distracting. You threw out your name anyways, trying to smile.
“Strife; You’re going to have to tell me how this all went down, when your not bleeding out all over my stuff.”
Well now you felt a little bad, not that you’d be able to really much about the blood leaking from you.
“Heh, sorry. I’ll try my best to hold it all in.” It got enough of a chuckle from Strife that it lifted the energy in the room a bit, but War’s stern face instantly brought it back down again.
He had a tendency to do that, even if you had learned over your time he didn’t necessarily mean to.
Each time you attempted to look down at what Strife was doing it seemed your view was far to obscured, and any more movement would prompt him to push you back; Seemingly insistent at either keeping his work area flat, or still. It forced you to look upward and count the cracks in the ceiling, them blurring together as you grimaced in pain at whatever Strife was doing. You had been looking at War, but his pacing and tense body didn’t do much to help anything.
You’d only known Strife for a bona-fide half hour, and he was doing some sort of unknown things to your wound that burned like Hell itself, and you had to grit your teeth to avoid letting out a yelp. War was already worried enough as it is, you didn’t want to make it any worse for him.
But goddamn, did whatever Strife was doing hurt worse than the Dickens.
It was starting to hurt so much you couldn’t much contain the whines and groans of pain, lips drying and throat feeling sticky. But thankfully by the time it was almost to much and you’d want to push his hands away, Strife took his hands off your ribcage. War took it as an opportunity to come in close, seeing you smile up at him.
He leaned over slightly and pushed a piece of hair that was stuck to your forehead away, Strife catching the intimate action as he turned around. Strife looked at his brother and War could feel the smirk, even from behind his mask. It was, embarrassing to be caught expressing a more fragile emotion by one of his older siblings. He quickly stood back upright.
“So, this is where you’ve been off to.” War didn’t respond, to busy watching you decide to fully lean onto your back, sighing now that everything was over. One hand took a curious feel, and felt a thick bandage-like fabric where the gashes had been.
Death was more of the magic healer of them all, and many of those spells were probably far too potent to use on a human. So Strife resorted to the more basic way, given it wasn’t as if your wound was that grievous.
“You know I’m going to tell Fury and Death, right?” War stood up and firm, taller than his brother. Strife had been all jokes and giggles until War’s surrounding energy suddenly changed, and he took one oh so hesitant backwards step. He was still casual, but Strife had long since learned not to mess with War. Too much.
“You will not.” He paused for a moment, seeing your hand grasp out to try and bring him back. One giant gauntlet moved towards you and you gripped it, now satisfied. Strife glanced to your hand and noticed it, how War’s was gentle around yours until he pulled it away.
So you were the reason why War had seemed more, calm than he usually was.
“I will. When I choose to.” Strife sat in what he would call an uncomfortable silence for a short while, going back closer to you sneaking a glance at your side. When he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he spoke up once again gesturing at you with an open hand.
“Surprised it didn’t do worse. The demon, I mean.” War responded and through the long since faded adrenaline and oncoming tiredness, you could swear he sounded, proud?
“She killed it first.” Strife whistled.
“Damn, really? Must’ve been pretty small demon…” With a cross of his arms, War looked down at Strife with a more furrowed expression than usual.
“Are you trying to demean her victory?” You’d give more of a prize for War so vehemently defending your honor, however you could really only give a soft noise from your throat, and a thumbs up. Throwing your arm over your face and groaning at the intense headache you’d started to get, it wasn’t long before you’d passed out.
Everything had since calmed down and with the adrenaline drained from your body, it caused a crash strong enough to send you right into a dreamless sleep. Strife wanted to laugh, but with War hovering over him, he chose to hold it in.
He wiped the blood from his hands and turned to War, noting the way his eyes moved over you.
“It wasn’t even that bad, honestly. The stress of it just knocked her right out. Humans just do that sometimes.” Strife had learned a lot in his time in the Maker tree, in Haven. War didn’t directly answer him, but Strife knew well he was listening.
“Go on and take her home.” The change in his tone and a small chuckle however was enough for War to divert his eyes away from you and back to his brother, who was clearly smiling behind the mask. War hated that damn thing, especially now.
“I’m sure you know where that is quite well by now.” The aggravated grunt he received from War before he turned and began to pick you up was more than enough to please Strife, who crossed his arms across his chest and watched. It was the same cradling pose from when he had carried you in, sitting on his gauntlet. The only difference was your body was now completely limp, having to use his other hand to keep you from sliding one way or another. Strife pointed at the air, intent to get out one more sentence before his younger brother stormed off again.
“Humans take awhile to heal so it’ll need a bit more time, so no strenuous movement, ok?” War had been in the process of turning around to leave, but now turned his head to throw daggers at his brother. Some innuendos might go over his head at times, but that one had been far too obvious.
“Keep your thoughts of her clean, or else I will punch your head clean off.” Letting out a click from his mouth and holding up hands in mock surrender, Strife’s eyes remained bright gold and trained on War.
“They are they are! Clean as an angel’s.” He didn’t miss the way Strife let out a soft tch, irritated War didn’t like his joke.
You probably would’ve had you been awake, he thought. Humans were always so friendly.
War squinted at him, before taking his leave. He’d set Strife straight another day, for now the main concern of his was to get you back to your home. At first thought he hadn’t wanted to take you there, but as he walked back while glancing at your form every few steps, he assumed you would want something familiar to wake up to after such an event. Your home would be as safe as it could be with him in it, able to watch over you until you awoke.
However when you were able bodied, the discussion about where you should stay could begin.
War couldn’t be with you all the time, as much as he always wanted to. He could barely visit you every now and again, if Ruin rode like the wind right when his duties were finished. You always felt bad to see the horse out of breath, heaving for air and embers blowing from his nose. But you being on Earth didn’t feel fill War with any sort of reassurance, especially now.
It might be an issue best consulting his eldest brother with, as much as the idea was, somewhat embarrassing.
Getting back on Ruin the same way he had the last time, he went at a slower pace to avoid jostling you back awake. A slower pace being a slightly less intense sprint, but still less. Each little adjustment you made in your sleep reassured him that you were ok, even if you were silent.
But this whole situation had served War a reminder of just how much danger you were in, now that you had associated yourself with two of the Horsemen. Three soon, as Strife had a big mouth and War could count the days before Fury came sniffing around. You were fragile, even with as much fire your soul had you stood not a chance again a demon any bigger, no matter any amount of training or powerful weapon. It was unfortunately the cards you’d been dealt being human, and being around the Horsemen had added quite a few to the deck.
Ruin had some amount of fuss to say about stopping back in front of your home, but he quickly quieted once War tugged at the reins. War slipped off the saddle and the horse followed for a few steps, before stopping to paw at the ground. The horse could still feel War’s turmoil, and took it out by running circles around an open area.
You’d left the front door wide open when War had snatched you up, and he hadn’t much cared at the time. As he walked through said open door War couldn’t help but notice the frame was scratched to oblivion, eyeing it firmly before moving onward. He somewhat struggled to get through especially with holding you gently, the house simply not made for someone of his size. Once he was in, bright eyes looked around for a place to sit you down.
Your chambers was the first thought in his mind of where to let you rest; The second being a memory from not too long ago. He had once mentioned it during a conversation and you had struggled to contain a giggle, before saying you’d never heard that word used before unironically. War had such a proper English way of speaking it almost reminded you of something out of a Shakespearean play. But it was so uniquely him, and you never once thought it bad.
Eyes glancing around the room he remembered where your bedroom door was, the Nephilim walking his way for it and having to bend over to clear the frame.
The room was very uniquely, you, War noticed. Drawings stuck to the wall, clothing in the corner, it was a clearly human occupied space. Humans seemed to love having things around them remind them of their intricate little lives.
War had a small braided bracelet hidden underneath layers of armor to prove that logic didn’t just apply to spaces.
Tearing his eyes away from the curiosities around the room War walked close enough to the bed that he could set you down upon it, the blankets molding around your form. It relieved War to know that your wound was superficial, and while you’d probably have a nasty scar, it was far better than the alternative. But he still remembered the blood pouring from your side, wet and hot slipping through the fingers of your hand.
What would he have done if your wound had been far worse?
War looked down on your sleeping body and tried to remove the gloomy thought, looking at your face. While your complexion had improved, it was still enough of a sickly undertone that War grunted with displeasure.
He’d just stay for a bit, if only to make sure you were still well before he left.
When your eyes finally managed to peel open and look around the room, the first thought was how sore you were.
It felt like your whole torso ached, a dull throb that almost made it hard to breathe. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was bruised to hell and back. The second thought was how you managed to get home, and into your bed. Granted you were laying atop messy un-tucked sheets you hadn’t done up in days, but you didn’t remember coming home at all.
Granted, you didn’t remember quite much of anything beyond bits and pieces, groaning as you slowly leaned to sit up. When you tried to sit up suddenly you almost rolled sideways, a giant dip in the mattress sending you sliding sideways right into-
War.
It was close to one of the biggest frights of your life, a split second of your heart pressing against your sternum before you realized it was just the Horsemen. He was sitting on the edge your bed; A creaking bed, struggling to hold the weight of a full grown Nephilim. One leg off boot on the ground and the other bent on the mattress, his back was leaning on the headboard as his head tilted downward. He had taken some off his armor off, bits and pieces like a part of his cuirass sitting at the end of the bed. To see it off of him was surprising, as he normally seemed quite adverse to the idea. As if something would attack him at any given moment, if he let his guard down. He must’ve just been resting his eyes as the minute he felt your movement jostle the bed, his chin tilted upward and eyes opened. They look towards you and you could swear they got brighter, staring down.
“You’re awake.” Mind still a little foggy you nodded, leaning up just enough to put your back against the pillow.
“Yeah, back with the living. How long was I dead for?” War was still sometimes confused at just how much humans used hyperbole, his always furrowed brow relaxing just the slightest bit.
“A day.”
A bit longer than you’d expected, but with events from the previous day fresh but blurry in your head, it wasn’t incredibly surprising.
“Ahh well, I hope I wasn’t too boring.” Pushing the hair from your forehead you watched War’s blue eyes drift over your entire body, looking for anything that worried him. You seemed somewhat perky already, trying to lean up and poke the scar on his lip. Before your finger got to his lip however, he gently pressed his good hand to your shoulder and pushed you back to laying down.
“You should rest. Your wound is still fresh, I do not want you aggravating it.” Prompted by his mention of it you curiously looked down towards your side, pulling at the torn fabric of your once good shirt, to see the damage. Indeed your side was bruised quite heavily, but it was far less ghastly than you’d expected. What wasn’t as nice was the amount of blood still staining your clothing and parts of your skin, and overall you felt quite disheveled and dirty. Like your hands, which felt sticky and overall just filthy.
A shower was on the mind, though you didn’t know how you’d get overprotective War to let you get up. And to no surprise when you did attempt to move, he instantly grabbed an arm to stop you. Looking up at him you sighed, and gave a hesitant smile.
“War, I want to just wash the blood off and change into something more comfortable. Then I promise, I’ll lay down and not move a muscle.” He didn’t let go instantly, looking over you and seeing the blood staining. Some of it was quite obviously yours, the rest being clearly demon. If being clean made your more comfortable he’d let it slide, as well as not minding the removal of the main reminder that you were wounded. He hesitantly let go of your bicep, and allowed you to slide off the bed.
“Be careful.” You threw a casual hand at him.
“I will, I will. I’ll be quick, I just want to not be so sticky…” Pulling at the front of your shirt and feeling it almost resist moving from your skin, grabbing some clean clothes before going to your small bathroom. You stripped down and looked at the mess, cleaning as much as your body as you could without touching your side with water. Your hair got a quick wash as well, but not enough as you might’ve liked in order to relax. Being extra careful getting out of the shower, you took a quick glance in the mirror.
Damn, you’d really gone through the wringer.
Quickly slipping on the fresh clothes you felt far better than before, as well as smelled. But you could hear War pacing around outside the door, serving as a silent ‘hurry up’.
And indeed the minute you opened said door, War stopped pacing and looked down at you. He was silent, but you walked around him and went exactly where he expected, him shadowing you the entire way. If you had tried to go anywhere else, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d just pick you up and bring you back.
“I’m going I’m going, geez.” Shuffling back to your bed and gently slipping onto it, under the blankets this time, you sighed. While the comfortable blankets and caress of the mattress was intoxicating, one thing was missing…
Patting the other side of the bed War watched for a moment, before seeing your expectant look. You wanted him back in the spot he had been before you woke up clearly, smile widening as he approached. War sat back down once more, though much more slowly.
It was far more awkward with you watching, the feeling of vulnerably. Very, very few people had seen him without every piece of his armor on, sitting on the bed as gently as possible. The back of your head laid on his upper thighs, smiling as you adjusted to the perfect spot. When he tried to move, you stopped any attempt by holding onto the fabric against his stomach.
“You probably don’t know, but it is a very important part of human healing to have a large Nephilim around in order to hold.” War stared down at your face pushing into the soft muscle of his torso, clearly struggling to not smile. His mouth kept twitching at the corners, feeling your tiny hands pull at his clothing. It was still odd to him, the sheer amount of emotion humans exuded without shame. Part of him didn’t like it; He didn’t want others to see things like this.
“Then your species must be struggling, given there is only four of us left.” You gave an over-dramatic sigh, holding him even closer.
“Yes, well it’s quite the lost art.” That time War couldn’t hold back the tiny smile, a giant palm gently placing itself on your shoulder and pushing you until you were facing the ceiling.
“Your lying could use some work.” Insulted, you threatened to bring on the waterworks, wiggling your bottom lip in an exaggerated fashion.
It didn’t work this time, far too obvious as War shook off your attempt.
You had laughed at him, smiling and playing with a frayed string from your blanket, but War distinctly stiffened, eyes looking to the side and lips pursed. He was about to stay something, the fingers on his good hand tensed into a soft fist.
“Once you are rested, you should gather your things.” You turned to look him in the face better, while not aggravating your side.
“War, I’m not going to pack up all my stuff and haul it to another realm.” Displeased at your instant refusal War grunted, refusing to budge. But you had no intention of budging either on this regard. And in hindsight, War didn’t exactly have a plan in mind of where would even be the best place for you, beyond away from here.
You weren’t a Nephilim; Being human meant you needed far more to survive. Realizing his plan quickly wasn’t going to work out, he had to hold in the growl of frustration.
War couldn’t help but think of Death again, reminded of his grim little home that had once hidden the Abomination Vault all those years ago. He had surrounded it in wards and other necromancies, granted an absurd amount, but it could be a sound enough tactic here.
War had never been fond of necromancies and other magics; But, they had their uses.
It also wasn’t like he had many other ideas or options, as much as it infuriated him.
“I, suppose Death could put wards around the forest.” Hearing the Reaper’s name noticeably perked your ears.
“Finally going to reveal the secret?” War’s already hard set brow furrowed.
“I am not keeping secrets, I-”
“Am neglecting to tell the truth?” The disapproving scowl War gave you could’ve broke stone, but his skin was too pale to hide the light dusting of pinkish red. He didn’t formally comment on your retort, instead blowing air out of his nose in an almost snort. You were right; He had been keeping a secret. After all, he’d only brought you to Strife because you were in a moment of distress. If you hadn’t been, there was no way he would’ve told him.
You decided to quickly change the subject before he dwelled on it to much, and ruined his own mood.
“Just tell Strife I said hi for me, now that I’m not bleeding all over his stuff.” The fingers of War’s good hand, gauntlet removed sometime in your sleep, ever so softly fluttered over your skin, back and forth as an almost mindless motion.
“I will deliver the message when I see him next.” Such an overly complicated way to just say he would; You snorted before adjusting your head against his thigh. War looked down on your a bit harder now, but he had a somewhat relaxed expression on his face even with the confusion.
“Do all humans find everything amusing?” His hand continued to move, even following you after you adjusted again. “Or is it just you?” It was rare for War to be so mirthful, even if only slight.
“I mean, we are pretty easily amused...” Gesturing with a hand for him to come closer War watched for a moment, before hesitantly leaning downward. Eyes staring at you with no small amount of confusion he watched, even as you grew frustrated and tried to tug his head down. Finally close enough you managed to lean up steal a quick kiss, white hair falling to pool around your face. War pulled back after surprised.
Random displays of affection were still wholly unknown to War, and he never seemed to get over them. It always left him almost flabbergasted when you’d kiss him without any sort of reason.
But it was impossible not to want to, with that tiny bit of red on his cheeks and the way his hair framed his face, unconstrained by the fabric of his hood. You couldn’t quite remember when he’d pushed it down, but it was only ever done in moments of complete calm like this.
“You are staring.” A response flew out of your mouth far faster than you could catch it. “You’re cute. Can I not?” Once again caught off guard this time War let out a harsh breath through his nose, an embarrassed flush just barely there dampening his seemingly irritated look.
“You should rest more. Your wound needs time to heal.”
“Wow, not even a compliment back?” War could always think of a million different compliments for you;
Beautiful, soft, radiant; Strong, kind.
But they always seemed to get caught in his throat.
“Do you want me to stay?” To the unrehearsed one might assume War was asking if you wanted him to stay in your home or not. But you knew War-he was staying here, it was just a matter if he was going to be on this side of the room, or the other.
Strife speaks up and catches you attention, pointing to the Red Rider's massive warsteed with a thumb. Holding onto the saddlehorn of Despair’s tack you look in Ruin’s direction, pondering while Fury watches this interaction with a small amount of amusement. It's better than staring at the trees, for sure.
War, realizing he's suddenly the center focus of three sets of eyes, looks up confused and glances around, but doesn't actually say anything.
"Ya know, with the bigger saddle and all."
Not as if Despair is a small horse by any means, but you wouldn't mind riding on Ruin, if only just for a bit of fun. But before you have the chance to even ask War if he'd let you join him, Death shoots the prospect down with a stern glare in all of your general directions.
Instead of heeding that very obvious warning however, Strife saunters right through it with the nonchalance of a Nephilim who’s done it a million times before.
"Then how 'bout you join me?"
Strife does a little jerk of his head and his shoulders push back just a bit to give him better posture, while he acts as if inviting you to the cool kids table at school. Death however, fed up with having his thinking interrupted as he stares out past the steep overlook and scouts their next move, turns and scowls at Strife with Despair's reins still tightly wound in his right hand.
"Will you stop?"
As if Strife would actually heed Death's warning, he looks over at you, while Fury and War rest on their own horses behind you both. You stay sitting on Despair simply because of the effort required to get on and off the giant horse, and Death considers you safe there. The horse is an extension of himself in a way, and he trusts the steed to keep you safe even if you’re only a meter away. It also helps that it limits your ability to wander off and get into trouble, as you've proven far too curious for your own good multiple times.
"Aww come on, you're really gonna listen to him?"
Death turns at you and give you one look in response to Strife's whine. You have no real desire to go against his wishes just to upset him, even though you know he'd let you ride with one of them anyways. Despair is more than fine, you have no real want to swap horses. You look towards the gunslinger and shake your head in refusal.
"Whatever Deathy wants." Your voice is singsongy and smile sickeningly, saccharine sweet, and you can't help but look down at Death the moment the words leave your mouth.
His glare isn't just sharp, It's hell fire; It would've boiled you alive if you were affected by it.
Instead of calling you out on it however he simply sighs, before looking away from the overlook.
"Let's go."
Death lets go of Despair's reins for a moment as he rounds the shoulder of the horse, but quickly gets stopped by Strife's guffaw. He extends out one arm, pointing at you with an armored finger.
"Woah woah woah; You're just gonna let that slide?" He moves his finger between the two of you, to further point out.
Strife is so clearly smirking behind the mask by the way his eyes and pushed upwards, leaning against Mayhem with arms crossed as if the horse is a wall. Upon hearing Strife call speak up Death bristles, knowing he'd been caught red handed giving you such blatant leniency.
He can even hear Fury snicker, which makes his lips purse tighter together behind his mask. Thank the Creator he wears the ugly thing, he thinks.
That was supposed to be reserved for when no one else is around, but of course he slips up at the worst possible moment.
"It was a momentary lapse in judgement-" Strife scoffs, and you try to snuff a laugh behind your palm. The Reaper turns and points upward at you.
"One more word out of you and I slap this horse's hindquarters and send you straight into whatever realm he wishes to visit."
When you roll your eyes Death grasps the front lip of the saddle, putting a boot in the stirrup and leaning the saddle to one side when he hefts himself up. Once he settles in the saddle behind you he doesn't say a single word, but you can feel his irritation from a league away.
He can feel your contentment as well, watching the scenery pass by as you sit unawares of just how much you'd pointed out his habitual favoritism.
Hi hi! I have a request if that’s ok! Death is such a grimy and grumpy old man. Could we maybe have a soft moment with him? Maybe a rare cuddling moment where he opens up a little or maybe even a soft moment the human/reader brushing his rats nest called hair or just taking care of him? Thank you!
Author's note: While I love all the Horsemen Strife I absolutely love writing Death. I especially love writing cute prompts like this for the Horsemen. Anyhoo, this idea popped into my head when I read 'soft moment', and thought it'd be cute. Enjoy :3
Summary: It's pouring down outside; And with Death taking a rare rest, you decide to ask him about a few of his old wounds.
Relationships: Death/Fem!Reader
Warnings: Not really any, just some cuddles and looking at Death's scars
The storm outside cracks the sky with a large boom of thunder, shortly after lighting up the room. It’s one of the most intense storms you’ve seen in quite awhile, and it doesn’t seem to have plans for letting up anytime soon.
Not as if it matters however, as you sit snug safely in bed.
“If you prod anymore of them, I’d well believe you’ll reopen one.”
Death comments on your curiosity over his scars but doesn’t make any sort of actual effort stop you, feeling the soft skin of your fingertips ever so gently graze over his marred skin. He can barely feel your touch at times it’s so soft, as if you think merely brushing them will somehow hurt him. While the gesture is pointless, Death surprises himself by being pleasantly buzzed at the idea that you would care about such a thing.
It’s an intoxicating feeling; Death finds himself greedy and feeling pleased your interest in his healed wounds hasn't faded yet. You sit behind him, legs tucked to one side while you look over his back.
“They all look so different.” Death sits facing away from you, taking in an extremely rare moment of genuine relaxation. Had you been anyone else, he’d never allow himself the luxury.
Meanwhile Dust lets out a content little warble; He's been perched on the headboard of your bed this entire time, fluffed up as he sits almost as round as a crow can get. The bird is content as can be, and if you were within reach, the temptation to pet him would be too hard to ignore.
“Rarely do I meet the same weapon twice.” One could take that as a cocky declaration of skill, but he is more than likely referencing the sheer amount of beings he’s fought, over the years.
“How did you get this one?”
Death sighs. He can feel your fingers under his left shoulder blade, jolting slightly when a large crack of thunder startles you; Dust as well, the bird abruptly stands and lets out a squawk at the sudden noise. The rain is battering down on your window with such force that he's glad he botched your efforts to play around in it. He doesn't understand why you would even want to to begin with.
“Do you truly think I remember each any every one?”
When you mumble something snide about his age under your breath, he grabs a firm grip of your ankle and you let out a small squeal as he tugs you closer.
“Keep talking like that girl, and you’ll get in trouble.”
He lets go of your ankle and you adjust your legs so that you're crossing them instead, and resume your mapping of his skin in silence. He can feel the curl of your lip as you glare at the back of his head; But you're not genuinely displeased. He enjoys irritating you, though if he's good at hiding that fact. At least most of the time, there's been a few instances where you can tell he goading you, as you can see the bottoms of his eyes push upward as he smirks behind his mask.
Your curiosity still hasn't been sated, feeling your index finger against what he assumes is an old burn. The feeling is dulled, but still soft against the bottom of his ribcage. When you lose interest in that one your fingers brush against the middle near his spine, over a long, wide scar.
He remembers that one.
“That is from Chaoseater.”
You halt for a moment, partly from the fact he actually is indulging you; The other being the realization that you very much so recognize that title. You furrow your brow and stare at the back of his head while you speak up.
“Wait, War’s greatsword? When did he stab you?” Death shifts his body, toying with the wraps around his wrists as his black hair parts over his neck.
“War was not always able to control his temper.”
You hesitate to say 'temper' is an adequate term to use when someone decides to nearly gut you, but since Death is fundamentally immortal, perhaps he has a looser definition of the word.
"Geez. I hope he at least apologized for nearly putting you in two pieces." Death lets out a short, harsh laugh. His shoulders move when doing so.
"I would be more surprised by him apologizing, than attempting to gut me."
You would be too, if what little you've seen of the red rider has anything to say for it.
A hard burst of rain batters down on the window for a moment, the wind shaking the trees outside. You're glad Despair can vanish like he can, you'd feel awful if he was stuck out in this dreadful weather. At least Dust can come inside and preen himself.
Rising up onto your knees you wrap your arms around Death's shoulders, leaning forward enough to sick your head around and see part of his masked face.
He has to push down a feeling that tenses his shoulders, at the act of someone suddenly coming up on him from behind so close to his head. A deeply ingrained habit of defense; He doesn't need it when it's just his little human climbing on him.
"Too bad none of my scars are interesting," You say, showing him a tiny little white scar of your own. Death gently grasps you close to it, before you can tell his brow is furrowing behind his mask. His hand tightens a bit as he speaks, though his grip is still incredibly gentle.
"I hope you aren't implying you want to rush into battle." You laugh, and lean your chin in the crook between his shoulder and his neck. Death's tone was incredibly warning, not even going to entertain the thought of you getting hurt. His lazy crow lets out a little warble at the stern tone of his master, but doesn't make any real effort to move away. He's gotten too comfortable again, laying on his legs and puffed up like a little black orb of feathers. A few are scattered on the pillow; After he's preened and plucked them.
"No, but saying 'I got stabbed by a living sword that feeds off of bloodlust' is far more interesting than 'I cut myself with a kitchen knife' or something like that."
His hand is still on your bare skin, feeling the warmth radiating from it. He hesitates to pull his hand away, just because he wants to enjoy it. He does so silently for a moment, before looking away from you. His fingers tap on your skin in succession as he thinks, feeling the way your body lays against him.
"If it will keep your mind off of those sorts of ideas, I will sate your curiosity one more time."
It takes a second to realize what he means, before he feels you tense against his back as you exclaim: "Really?!"
Death quite visibly rolls his eyes at how oddly seriously you're taking this, but he doesn't actually say anything. Not often does he get to see someone happy, let alone because of him. He shakes his head and you feel his hair brush against your arm, before he sighs.
Hi! I really love you work! I just finished Tree in Bloom on AO3, it’s so cute, I can’t wait to see where the relationship between strife and the human takes them! I was reading though your fics about taking the horsemen’s horses for a joy ride and was wondering if you could do something similar for Strife and Mayhem where we/the human takes mayhem on a little joy ride? Thank you!! 💖
Author’s note: Are we connected? lol but no joke, I’ve had this idea for a bit since someone on Ao3 was also interested in this idea, but I never went full ham on it since I had some other projects take precedence. But hey, here it is! Time to steal Strife’s ride too.
Also I'm glad you like tree in bloom so far! Your comment will fuel me for the next week while i finish blocking out the next chapter. I have a pretty decent idea on where to take it, but I won't say I'm not flying by the seat of my pants lol
Relationships: Strife/Fem!Reader
Warnings: None, unless you consider horseback riding and brief mentions of weaponry worth warning about
“Don’t wander off too far~”
You can’t help but sarcastically mimic the Horsemen, as you kick around small rocks and pebbles that are unfortunate enough to come into the path of your worn old boots.
You wouldn't have had to wander off, if this whole day hadn't been so tediously fucking boring.
The Makers are some of the only beings alive who can even attempt to fiddle with Nephilim weaponry, and even then, they still have trouble. Lots of it, apparently; As what sounds on paper like a quick fix, had turned into an all day affair.
It’s a lost art, sadly. But Alya and Valus are willing to try, which is more than enough considering the circumstances. Even if Strife tries to maintain an attitude of eternal nonchalance about Nephilim relics, even he can't deny the importance of safe guarding them from being used; At minimum, if his sentiment on the matter is long gone.
Not for their lack of trying, fixing the weapon seems to be taking quite along while however, as you’ve long since wandered out of the Tri-Forge. You've since taken to wandering the wooded paths surrounding, while you wait for Strife to have the knife finally returned to him. He refuses to let it out of his sight, so he stays. He says Death would throttle him all the way to Hell if he lost it.
At least the Maker’s realm is so pretty.
If you look high and far off in the distance, you think you can see the Tri-Forge, but it’s hard to tell. Maybe if you started walking, you could make it there before it got too dark. Probably what you should do in all honesty, but the temptation of spending some more quiet time out here is to strong for you to actually make any effort to move.
This patch of soft grass has become your pleasant little spot, brushing it with your palms as you breath in the woodsy scents of the forest.
Suddenly, a rustle in the woods makes you perk up from where you’re sitting on the ground. You're hand instantly reaches for your hip, while your eyes scan the surrounding area for the source of the movement. It couldn't have been too far away.
You have your knife, but not much else. Most of the aggressive wildlife in the forests around the Tri-Forge only come out at night, or they’ve been pushed far back now that the Makers have a better hold on the realm. Either way, you aren't exactly interesting in having a tussle with anything that might try to start one with you.
Thankfully however, it isn’t an angry creature looking for a meal.
“Mayhem?”
The ghostly looking horse is standing about two meters away as he breaches a set of closely knit together trees, curiously looking at you. His hooves are muffled by the dirt as he walks closer, staring dead at you during the entire approach.
“Something didn’t happen, did it?” The horse looks at you, black eyes staring; Before then giving one indignant snort that is powerful enough to shake his head.
“Guess not.”
Looking away from the horse your watch your feet, tapping the ground with a toe as the grass bends beneath it. As you do you suddenly see a front hoof enter your vision, having to move said foot to avoid it being accidentally stepped on. Shortly there after you can feel the harsh snort of hair blow your hair around, as his head comes even closer to you.
He’s curious, looking around and watching the way you seem bored. For a moment his upper lip just barely brushes the top of your head, before he moves his head lower to your front.
“Hey, gentle.”
His snout presses into your stomach, making it easy for your arms to wrap around his large head. You do so loosely, before putting your cheek to the top of his head in a gentle hug. You're surprised he let you, honestly. His fur is warm in the few areas where you can feel it, while the rest is covered by armor. When he pulls back, you shake your head of at him.
“You are a strange horse.”
Strange but, nice. Over time you’ve found yourself becoming less scared of him like you had been on first sight. Mayhem is intimidating on first glance, but soft on the inside. Much like his rider.
After giving you a curious sniff Mayhem takes a few steps sideways, getting enough space between the two of you that he can safely pivot, pawing at the ground a few times while you watch.
Gently he gets down on one front hock, and then the other, before he then flops onto his side with an ungraceful ‘thud’. He’s now laying down and looking right at you, nostrils flaring as he lets out a harsh breath while his legs are curled inward. He looks remarkably comfortable like that, laying in the grass and crushing a few flowers underneath his weight. A few manage to avoid that unfortunate fate, and stay upwards brushing against his legs or belly.
Mayhem at first was incredibly finicky and distrusting of you- much like his rider in some ways, but it seems over time he’s gradually opened up. As such he doesn’t much mind when you get up to move and sit down beside him, right in front of his chest, putting your back against it. His neck brushes against your right arm while looking at you.
“He’ll be done eventually, I hope. I can feel myself aging.”
Mayhem gives an uncaring blow of his lips, much like a raspberry, in response. Your fingers absentmindedly play with the fabric of your pants, trying to find something to occupy your mind as you relax. The ghostly horse meanwhile just watches, his armor pieces clinking against each other whenever he does any significant adjustment of his body.
You reach up and feel at the soft fur behind his ear, eyes hooded, feeling it flick in your hand. He doesn't move away from it, and if anything, drops his head a bit lower so you can get a better reach until the hand pull away. You scoot your body downward ever so slightly, now leaning onto the horse a little bit more than before.
“Shouldn’t be much longer,” You hope.
Suddenly jerking upright, your muscles are tight at being moved so quick, eyes still blurry as you yawn and look around.
Shit, you’d fallen asleep.
The sky is now turning a pretty orange, but it still isn’t quite dark yet.
Meanwhile Mayhem whinnies at your sudden movement, having been startled but not enough so to move. Guess he didn’t mind being a pillow for awhile, if at no point did he decide to get up. If anything, he seemed to have gotten a bit of a nap in himself. Or whatever the ghostly, distinctly un-horse-like creature equivalent is.
That also meant at no point had Strife called for his steed, which does manage to worry you slightly. Then again, it probably just means that damn weapon is taking even more time that had been originally thought.
Maybe you should head back to the Tri-Forge, especially now that it’s getting dark. Even if the woods are wonderful, it still might not be the brightest idea to stick around them when you have no source of light.
Still a little stiff from sleep you groan as you pull away from Mayhem, slowly getting to your feet. Given his stature it takes Mayhem a moment longer to do the same, but it’s not long after you that he’s all the way upright. He gives himself one good shake, rattling all his armor and letting out a loud snort.
Mayhem is perhaps the most lithe of the Horsemen’s steeds, though it’s not to say the horse is of smaller size by any means. He still towers over you more than almost any normal horse could dream of.
He's also your best chance at getting back to Strife before it's pitch dark, and you'll only have the moon to light your way. Not nearly enough light, by your human standards.
“The forge is a decent walk away,” You’ve ridden Mayhem before, but never without Strife, so you know this might be a bit of a tough sell.
“Mind giving me a ride?”
Cold eyes stare you down- but he didn’t recoil in disgust, or anything similar. Then again, can he even really understand what you're asking of him?
Stepping closer you grab the side of the saddle and attempt to hop on, but end up coming quite a bit short. Getting quite quickly keen on what you’re trying to do Mayhem bends his front legs before laying back down, putting his back low enough for you to throw a leg over and hop on.
Good to know you don't need Strife for a boost, if he insists on being an ass about it again.
“Thanks for the assist.” The horse whinnies.
He also begins moving much to your surprise, though he already has the right direction in mind.
Your feet sort of dangle uselessly close to the stirrups, unable to actually put any weight on them. They were adjusted for someone with quite a bit of height on you, after all. Though at least the saddle itself is comfortable, with a comfortable curve meant for long hours of sitting and stability. The reins in your hand stay loose and floppy, unused, as Mayhem just seems to be going where ever you’re looking anyways.
It’s getting pretty dark now; The sky is now a deep orange fading into purple, with rays of light drastically retracting themselves from the scenery. With it getting so dim you decide to pick up the pace a little bit, sending Mayhem into a light run.
It’s wild; Having to hold on so tight without Strife here to be a brace against your back, but it’s invigorating, for sure. And Mayhem is being quite the good soul, not throwing you off to leave you in the dust. He could've quite easily done so at any point, especially since when you two first met, the horse was distinctly not fond of you.
“We’re here!”
Slowing back down to a walk you reach the front of the Tri-Forge in nowhere near record time, but you at least beat the sunset; Which was the main goal. Doing it fast was just a bonus.
As cobblestones slowly peek up more and more frequently between tufts of grass you move closer, listening out for anything familiar. The sound of hooves on the paving stones is such a nice sound, gentle and even paced as you enter. You could maybe get used to riding a horse everywhere, if it was always this peaceful.
Knocking you out of your thoughts however Valus suddenly stops you, and with quite the look, too. Not that you can blame exactly blame him. He's always been the Maker that seems to have it out for you- but in a overprotectively caring sort of way.
“And uh, what are you doin’ there lass?”
You glance from side to side for a moment before responding.
“Looking for Strife? He’s been gone awhile and it was getting dark, so I decided to head back.”
You speak about the Horseman with such familiarity, more so than any of the other three. He sighs, watching you intently.
“He's by the inner forge with Alya. Givin' her quite the stare down as she fixes that nasty ol' dagger for him.”
Nasty more so in the sense that it's apparently an old weapon of mass destruction, than dirty.
At least you assume mass; You don't know any of the details, as Strife unsurprisingly beat around them when you inquired. He still has some problems telling you about the Nephilim.
You smile at Valus, wide enough to nearly show teeth. Feeling Mayhem shift underneath you, you decide to sit up straight and keep moving.
He says one more thing, however.
“Be careful, lass.”
You don’t know what Valus sees in Strife that you don’t; But then again, he could say the same sort of thing right back at you. You know that the Makers don’t have a fond view of the remaining Nephilim, and while you might be understanding, you’ve been too close to Strife to even think ill of him. Or any of his siblings, for that matter.
Riding forwards you pass Valus and don’t look back out of just a little bit of nervousness, and seeing Alya indeed working at the forge. You see Strife once you get close enough that one of the pillars no longer obscures him, and you call out his name and hope to catch his attention.
“Strife?”
You can see his back is turned, but he noticeably perks up the moment he hears his name. Quickly taking the knife from the Maker he moves away, down the half flight of steps right towards you and his horse.
He tries to hold back the look of surprise when he sees you sitting astride Mayhem, but you still manage to notice the way his eyes widen behind his mask.
“Hey gorgeous,”
He comes closer, slotting the dagger safely back into the the sheathe he has on his hip for it. Heavy boots hit on the cobblestone paths as he crosses his arms, hip cocked slightly out to one side.
“So uh,” Strife takes a look at Mayhem, who has his head held low and relaxed. His ear twitches as he hears his rider speak, eyes moving to look towards the Horsemen. “He just let you get on, huh?”
You nod. “Yeah." Your face suddenly becomes a bit more unsure. "Why, was he not supposed to let me?”
Strife shakes his head and laughs you off.
“Nah, you’re fine. I was just surprised you managed to even get in the saddle, that’s all.”
Insulting your shorter stature than his own manages to sway your attention for just a moment, and he can look over the scene.
The amount of times you've ridden on Mayhem with him has made you significantly more comfortable around him that you had when you'd first met, as your legs dangle comfortably, arms at your sides. Mayhem rests as well, body loose as he waits for something interesting to happen.
Creators, she’s even got my horse wrapped around her finger. I’m fucked.
Stepping closer he grabs along the front of the saddle, before using his other hand to hit your hip softly.
“Let me on, will ya?”
It’s not like you have any issue with him taking his horse back, grasping the saddlehorn and sticking boot in the stirrup, the weight of him putting pressure on it leaning the saddle towards him. Once he finally seats himself behind you however he puts his hands on your legs, rather than taking the reins from you.
“Well now that you got here, how about you let me have a break for a second? Not like Death'll notice me being a few minutes late.”
Of course he’ll take the opportunity to be lazy; Not that you blame him, his lot in life doesn’t exactly leave many opportunities.
You gently move Mayhem forward, walking out the same way you entered as Strife lazily lays against you. He’s massively overdoing it and with how ungodly heavy he is, especially in his full armor, and it’s hard to not just crumble forward. The chin of his armor rests on the top of your head, and he feels content as can be.
Once you’re out of the Tri-Forge and back out into open land you still keep moving with no clear destination in mind; Strife hasn’t given you one, so you largely just steer towards whatever catches your interest.
Before you have a chance to reach any of those interesting points however, Strife gently grasps the reins with one hand for caution, while then talking close to your ear.
“Now, wanna try going for a real ride?”
You barely have a chance to answer Strife gives Mayhem a good kick to send him barreling forward, forcing you to hold onto the reins for dear life. Strife's right here however, and even going so fast nothing would even happen with him and Mayhem both looking out for you.
So he watches you in front of him as you learn on the fly, even if he’s helping to tell Mayhem when to turn with pressure from his legs.
You’re laughing like mad and the wind’s blowing in your hair, even on a horse meant to bring suffering and unrest to anyone who catches even a glimpse.
Strife had thought he was fucked before, but now he realizes he really is; Holding onto you tight so you’ll never leave his vision.
Omg first of all: CONGRATULATIONS!! This is a giant milestone and you should be very proud of it, I'm still catching up to your works but from what I've devoured read off your masterlist so far, you're amazing!
Second: You write for Darksiders?? Please imagine I'm laying a thousand roses at your feet and throwing petals after your every step. I kiss your forehead. May your pillow stay always cool on both sides and your socks always be fluffy.
Now, may I put in a request for Strife (or Death if you prefer), with the prompt "Finding out they have a memento of you somewhere on them they bring everywhere"?
Remember to sip some water and check your posture <3
❀ Milestone prompts list ❀
Author's Note: You like Star Wars and Darksiders? You have impeccable taste. But AAHHH thank you so much!! So many kind words I'm so honored you've enjoyed my stuff so far!! I live for Darksiders tbh, I enjoy it so much and I really hope the next game comes out before I turn into dust. strifegamestrifegamestrifegame
Relationships: Strife/Fem!Reader(because of the usage of the word 'princess')
Warnings: Very brief mentions of canon typical violence, Fluff
The world is a hazy, blurry mess, and any dream or nightmare you'd been floating in is forgotten the moment you open your eyes. Once you do so your heart is racing and your muscles are tight, as if ready to fight; Your body jerks, before freezing once you feel the soft fabric of a blanket over your stomach, and the gentle dip of a bed beneath your back.
Your first thoughts are of fire- Demons, and... Running. Everything else after is too much of a blur to remember. Whatever it was, it probably wasn't something you'd really want to remember, beyond just needing to have the answers.
"Hey, princess. Welcome back."
Strife is sitting right at your side, leaning forward with his elbows digging into his thighs. His body is perked up in response to your sudden movement, watching you turn towards him. His helmet is off, and you can see the way he's looking over your entirety. The voice he uses seems almost gritty from unuse, and judging by his stalwart spot, it would seem like he's just been silently sitting here for an unknown amount of time.
"What happened?"
The injuries you'd sustained must've made you lose a small bit of your recent memory; Not incredibly surprising. Strife only recalls those moments for you because you ask, as much as he'd rather forget them.
"A group of demons managed to corner you. And," HIs eyes drift away for a moment. "I wasn't fast enough."
He clearly was, if you were still here. But Strife always lets these sorts of things eat away at him, like termites in an old home until the supports crumble.
"I haven't been sleeping on the job for too long, right?" You smile at him and Strife makes a small noise, his leg bouncing as an outlet for whatever he's feeling.
"Few days. I really thought it would be longer," He runs a hand over his hair, letting out a sigh. One that sounds both ragged and relieved. It’s an odd sight to see Strife in any emotion other than happy or angry, he rarely allows them to peek through.
"I, shit- Whatever Death did, it worked."
He'll never mock Death's use of magics and necromancy again, not after this.
You shift to lean on your side a bit reaching for one of his arms and pulling it to lay over your stomach. Once you do your hands wrap around his fingers, silently observing how much larger his gauntlet is than your own hands. If he fully outstretched his entire hand, he'd covered more than a significant portion of your stomach.
With his arm fully stretched out however, the plates of his armor separate just enough to reveal something you'd not expected. They slip from in-between the seams of metal along his wrist, the cute and bright colors clashing with the scuffed gunmetal grey of his armor.
"You... Kept them?"
Your smaller hand keeps holding his and it takes him a second before he realizes you're talking about the bracelets. He hasn't taken them off once, and the wear and tear makes it obvious.
He remembers the moment you gave them to him; The look on your face and how you'd so casually gifted them to him, not even realizing how significant your insignificant little human gesture was to him.
They don’t, get gifts. Not monsters like him.
"Why wouldn't I?" He replies. They're a reminder of the very moment he realized he was irrevocably, inescapably in love with you; But he doesn't say it out loud.
"They remind me of you. That I have someone to come back to now."
You don't know Strife's backstory, no more than a few bits and pieces that allude to him doing things beyond the killing of the Nephilim. His guilt about it eats him alive every moment, and even if he shoves it off with jokes, he always acts like he's making up for it. You'll probably never know everything, maybe part of you doesn't want to, but it's not as if it'll change how you feel about him at this moment.
"Were you always this much of a romantic before I got knocked out?" Strife smirks at your compliment but when you decide to lean up and let out a soft groan of effort, he quickly jolts.
"Hey hey! Just cool it, don't hurt yourself." You finish leaning upright and roll your eyes.
"Strife, I'm just a little tired, not bleeding out." You look over your arms. There's a few bruises and scrapes along your elbows and hands, but nothing that a small bandage wouldn't cover. If they'd been worse, you couldn't tell.
"Mind thanking Death for me next time you see him? I'm assuming he's long gone by now." Strife nods. He'll thank him for you the next time the wind brings the Reaper and him in the same place; It's the perfect excuse so he doesn't feel the embarrassment of doing so himself.
He looks down at the way your hands are still wrapped around his own, and you notice it, leaning forward enough to press a kiss to his cheek.
"Now quit being a worrywart, and tell me three of your favorite colors so I can make you a new bracelet once I get the chance."
Strife's long life has made him weary, but at least now he has you as a port in the storm; Someone that makes him feel alive. He smiles, his hand trapped in yours and the lingering feeling of your lips on his cheek, and ponders.
Author’s Note: Totally don't expect anyone to like this but me, was just goofing around and making something quick
I’m writing/queueing to post this before THQ Nordic’s presentation, and in honor of possibly getting a Darksiders game reveal. I can’t wait for that not to happen and I get absolutely CLOWNED on watch this AN age like whole milk
Btw if anyone knows a darksiders discord(besides the offical one) that would welcome little ol’ me hit me up i'm totally alone in my obsession sob
Summary: How does one fix shoulder pain that’s older than your species existence?
Relationships: War/GN!Reader
Warnings: None, apart from War being adorable, and mentions of scars
Words: 1807
It had started from a totally offhand and random comment you’d made about your back after stretching tall and hearing it pop, grumbling to yourself about wishing for a massage. It had perked the ears of a curious War, who after stewing for second and deciding if it was worth asking, questioned what you’d meant. When you prodded around and realized he had absolutely no idea what you were referring to, you tried to see if he’d just maybe not remembered. When that didn’t seem to be the case, it was a little bit too hard to not be surprised.
“Wait, so you’re saying that you’ve never had a massage? Like-” You made vague, awkward gestures similar to massaging shoulders, only for War to watch them move with his usual furrowed brow and a confused face. There’s a flash of light from the thunder storm outside, but neither of you pay any mind to it. Thank goodness Ruin can disappear, or else the poor horse would be a smoldering mess.
“No. I am, not familiar with the concept. We Nephilim had no such thing.” That couldn’t possibly be true; Maybe War just never had it first hand. That at least wouldn’t be too surprising, given his history.
“What about if you get sore muscles or just, wanting to relax?” War seems almost confused about why you’re so up in arms about this, responding in the most ‘matter of fact’ tone. Maybe you should've expected it, given you mentioned 'relaxation' in the same sentence you were referring to the Nephilim with.
“Magic can heal most wounds sufficiently enough.” That’s enough outta him for you; And you decide that if anyone in all the realms needs to experience a good ol’ fashioned massage, it’s War.
But given that War is pretty heavily resistant to any large amounts of affection, it’s also a sneaky little way to do so without him getting all huffy about it.
“Do you want one? I can do it to show you what I mean.” While War is often trepidatious regarding anything that’s unfamiliar to him, he can’t help the feeling of curiosity largely about your insistence. Instead of blindly accepting however, he takes the cautious path and probes for anything that might cause alarm bells in his head. Which is a lot of things, but you’ve always been kind to him, and in return he gives you the same amount of trust he would his siblings.
“What does this entail?”
With him deciding to entertain you you're already trying to get him to sit down more to your level; Though moving a wall like War largely requires him to want to be moved. But he shuffles in the way you’re shooing him, watching confused.
“It’s hard to explain. You’ll need to take off all your armor, like your chestplate. Just the top half.” That sentence does not get a positive reaction, and you didn’t know why you hadn’t expected it.
The armor is a part of War, and taking it off is a huge sign of him letting his guard down. You say he doesn’t have to after he comments once again on humanity's over-trusting nature, and that you were just being silly about the whole thing.
But War doesn’t do silly; And so after some deliberation he still moves to lay Chaoseater against the wall right beside him, still well within arms reach. And slowly pieces of armor come off, and get sat right next to each other on the floor, until he’s bare from the waist up.
Part of him still thinks this is a bad idea, and he probably wouldn’t have even entertained it if not for having such a soft spot for you. He looks at you expectantly now, waiting for your next move.
“Just sit down, facing away from me.” The couch groans and complains from the considerable weight of a full grown Nephilim, but still allows you and War to both sit upon it while you stare over the vast, scarred expanse of his back.
War is built for pure strength, and while to someone who’s probably only watched Hollywood movies and flicked through magazines of men with stretched, dehydrated skin might think he’s not, you know underneath that outer layer of softness there’s enough muscle to fist fight demons, angels, and any of threat you could possibly think of, and win. By a considerable margin. He doesn’t need a constantly visible six pack to prove it.
It’s not your first time seeing War without his armor anyways, but given how rare it is, it always makes your breath hitch a little bit; His scarred skin hidden by long locks of white hair flowing downward. It’s a bit of a wonder how throughout everything, his hair has managed to stay so perfect, compared to say Death’s; Who’s ratty mane to himself is seen as nothing more than a hindrance.
It’s not as if War sees it any different however, as the Red Rider also has little vanity, but it’s amusing how wildly different the two ended up. The oddity made you once end up subscribing to the theory that out of all of the Horsemen, War is the one that has the most angel in him.
War ends up having to resist the small jolt of surprise as your soft skin touches his bare shoulders, an incredibly unfamiliar feeling. Not often does he ever have his armor off, even around you, so the sensation of someone touching his bare skin is almost unfamiliar enough to be off-putting. Though your gentle hands quickly make the feeling fade away, as they drift along his shoulders and the cords of his neck.
They feel as tense as can all be, and you find yourself having to press quite hard, though it doesn’t even make War wiggle an inch. If anything you end up pressing as hard as you can even to get through to muscle, just because of how massive of a Nephilim he is. It’s also a bit of a wonder if it’s just because his muscles are so neglected, or because he’s confused on what the hell you’re trying to do to him.
While at first that might’ve been the case, uneasy about what you were doing, soon enough even the most cautious parts of him began to completely melt. He can’t explain exactly why, but your human hands are far more enjoyable than any sort of the nasty healing magics he’s experienced, even if he needed nothing healed to begin with. Though it certainly felt like he had, now that you’re doing this. Maybe he just hadn’t realized. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he had.
You weren’t exactly an expert, but one would figure if he’s gone an uncountable number of years wearing armor and wielding massive weapons, that it would surely be hell on tense muscles. Tense may not even be the right word to describe it.
He seems to at least somewhat tolerant of the whole thing, even if you’re mostly just replicating motions from a one off hobby lesson and old pre-Apocolypse videos that now only existed in your head.
Though it seems tolerant is quickly turning into enjoyment, as you notice as the time passes and you move from his neck to his shoulders, that his head has drooped forward slightly. His hair was sliding forward to pool over his shoulders, long enough to almost touch his stomach. Other than during far more intimate moments, this is the most relaxed you’ve seen the Red Rider, feeling your small fingers drift over ages of healed cuts and burns. When he’s no longer making any noises or trying to look backward, you can’t help but speak up.
“Still awake?”
You joke, only to hear him grumble in response. You’d probably be relaxed to if you are in his shoes; The storm going on outside was rumbling as rain pattered against the windows, with gentle thunder.
“I see why you insisted this.” The comment makes you laugh, pressing your fingers against the edge of his shoulder blades.
“There’s so people out there that are masters at this; humans have been doing massages for longer than we’ve been keeping track. I just did a few lessons.” He just hums in response, and you can’t help the feeling of pretty immense pride, that you managed to make a horseman melt like this. At least with just your hands; War’s surprisingly easy to make blush, if you know what to say.
Moving downward over his spine however what interests you is a particular scar that catches your eye over all the others, looking down at it. It stretches a good way across his left side, just under his lower ribs. It’s large and ragged, quite distinctly something from a large what you would assume blade.
“This one scar is really nasty; how’d you get it?” War had to think for a moment, trying to remember each one like recounting stories from a book. He almost doesn’t remember, until your fingers drift across it again and the moment comes back to him.
“That one was from the leader of a phalanx of angels.” That certainly peaks your interest, as your hands move pieces of long white hair that had gotten in your way of his shoulders. The tips of your fingers were so soft against his skin, just barely brushing his hair aside. He silently marvels at it; How gentle you can be.
You continue the mindless motions for a little while longer, while along the way curiously prodding at scars and asking their origin. He doesn’t remember most of them, but a few stick out among them. Mostly the most ghastly of them, ones that look like they could’ve kill him. But once you run out of ones to find and your own arms start to hurt, you pull your hands away and rest them on your thighs. War noticeably perks up after you did so, and when he turns around to peer at you, you’d dare say he seems almost disappointed.
“Do you see what I mean now? And I’m not even that good at it.” Tilting his neck to look at you War is secretly impressed, and vows to remember this new human curiosity for a long time coming. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever ask you to do it, given how intimate the whole thing sounds.
War moves to turn around now and face you, raising a hand up to cup the back of your head and lean down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. It’s quite the surprise, and you can’t help but smile wide the entire time. The moment he pulls away and sees it, you rush forward to wrap your arms around his neck. His body instinctively leans back slightly and so you end up partly laying against his chest, smiling up at him.
There’s not many words that War can conjure up to describe how you look to him, but he supposes endearing would work well enough. He’s never been good at translating thoughts to speech, as much as it infuriates him.
But since it’s just the two of you War can let just the tiniest smile warp his features, his brow slightly less furrowed than usual.
“If you ever want another one, you just need to ask.” War watches the way your nose wrinkles as you smile even wider, resting your chin on his sternum.
——————
Flash forward to three months later after War tells Strife about this human phenomenon, he comes over demanding you do it to him and now you’re walking on his back like a tightrope walker trying to crack it in eight different places. It pops like a 4th of July firework and he gives you a 5/5 on Yelp
Literally anything fluffy with death or war. Your writing for them is amazing!!!! The darksiders is such an underrated fandom. Love your work!
Author's Note: God Darksiders really is so underrated, and I will never shut up about it. (Also ty so much ❤) But I swear my simping for Death took over me like some sort of Holy Spirit and this ended up twice as long as I intended
Of course Death was busy speaking to one of the Makers, meanwhile you were just stuck kicking rocks around and waiting around.
You swore if you didn't like him so much, you'd just ditch him there and go find Karn or something.
Despair, standing beside you and pawing at the ground but making no headway in digging an actual hole, snorted ash from his nose. You heard the sound of multiple metal parts from both his halter and saddle clink together as he shook his neck, left eye locking onto you when you stepped closer. He stilled somewhat, watching you curiously.
"Want to just bail on him?" You smiled at the horse and leaned in as if plotting a scheme, only to be surprised when he seemed to respond back.
Despair threw his head back in the direction of his saddle; Once, twice, then three times. He almost smacked you in the process, but you'd managed to lean back in time. Glancing up at his back before looking back at the horse's face, you asked the horse another question, not at all realizing how odd the whole interaction really was.
"Wait, I can get on?" The undead horse whinnied. You probably would've thought about this for a bit longer, possibly about the repercussions of it, but you were far too bored and far too excited about the idea to do so. You’d only ever ridden on Despair with Death in control; You weren’t about to pass this up even if you were kind of nervous.
When you tried to put a foot in the stirrup however, you quickly remember this was a horse ridden by a nephilim, not a human. You'd need a boost. That was normally something Death would provide, but he was still preoccupied.
So you decided to use the stone half wall nearby instead, standing on it as Despair followed close behind. After hopping on it you turned and the horse was there, and with a bit of adjusting, you had a foot in the stirrup and hefted yourself fully into the saddle.
Considering the ill-advised nature of what you were doing, it all went quite well, and the split second fear of Despair suddenly throwing you off seemed unwarranted.
You walked around for a few moments, enjoying the sound of Despair's hooves on the stone path. It seemed the horse was quickly becoming bored though, and you decided to negotiate.
"Ok, just don't go too fast, alright? I can barely hold on as is." It was hard to keep balance with your feet barely able to touch the stirrups, along with his barrel being wider than a normal horse. Letting out a snort Despair quickly sped up when you gave a soft kick to his middle with your heels, sending him trotting forward.
But with his dealings involving the unnamed Maker now finished, Death suddenly heard the snorts and whinnies happening in the background; Surely from Despair. When he turned around and noticed what was happening, he would've been a liar if he'd said he wasn't a little surprised.
He was content to watch for a few moments, seeing your-in all honestly-shoddy riding skills, but granted, you were on a horse that you could barely straddle without effort. You were having the time of your life however, smiling as you rode in different little patterns; Despair sometimes pawing his feet and throwing his head also playing around.
It seemed since Death was trusting of you his steed was as well, and had much to his surprise allowed someone else to ride him.
After a few minutes had passed Death decided to get his horse back, walking up and coming within close enough distance that you realized he was finished. Your hands were shaking the chains that served as reins, them jingling and making noise as you meandered closer.
Death sighed; Though more so at distain for the horse than its current rider.
"Are you truly so pliant that someone can just up and take you?"
He glared daggers at the horse, who for all intents and purposes, was having a joyous time. You trotted circles around the horsemen, who was on one side insulted by his mount, but on the other hand somewhat impressed by you.
If Death had been human, he probably would've been a little more mindful about mounting a horse such as Despair; For fear of both the horse and its owner.
You had no such fear however, and this was apparently the next step after you got used to constantly coddling the damn thing.
Death gestured with one hand while looking up at you, not used to having to do so.
"The time for fooling around is over. Come down." You kept trotting circles, pulling your feet from where they'd been just tip toeing the stirrups and letting them dangle comfortably.
"Um, one problem." Death sighed again. "What?"
"I can't really get down." 'Then why did you get on in the first place?' he wanted to say, but bit his tongue.
"Come here, then." stopping in Death's line of sight you turned by just barely tugging on the reins, trotting up until you were close enough to Death that he pushed his hand on the bridge of the horse's nose; Stopping him when you'd failed to do it in time. It made you suddenly jerk forward, hands darting to Despair's withers to support yourself and avoid crumpling over.
"Careful. You're lucky the horse knows better than to try and run me over."
You couldn't help but laugh even as he rounded to the side and stood at your leg. Circling his finger you threw both legs to one side, siding off and Death catching you by the waist. Once you were back on solid ground, you adjusted your clothes.
"Have your fun?" Death spoke it to both of you, watching as Despair pushed you forward accidently when he went to nuzzle your shoulder. You turned and pet him, rubbing against the bone and sinew despite it not being the most, pleasant texture.
"We did, thank you." Starting to walk where Death was going, you stayed firmly in-between Death and Despair as they both walked beside you.
"Perhaps next time, you'll pick a horse more your size?" You faked contemplation, humming as you continued to try and keep pace with him.
"Maybe." He sighed, one loud enough that it shook his chest; Though he had to purse his lips quite tight under the mask to avoid letting them crook upwards.
Once you both emerged from the Tri-Stone and into the field surrounding it Death suddenly stopped moving, Despair doing the same beside him. Since there was nothing but open field ahead and not a creature in sight, he figured there wouldn't be harm in entertaining your curiosity again.
You took a few extra steps before realizing they'd stopped, turning around to look. When you asked what was wrong, he gestured to the saddle.
"Well?" It took a second to realize what he meant, before your face suddenly lit up. Quickly you rushed back and now standing beside Death gave him a quick excited kiss on the cheek, before reaching up to try and grab the saddle horn.
He only faltered for a split second, before taking your foot in both hands and easily boosting you up and onto the front of the saddle. Deaths's hands lingered for a moment, before he grabbed onto the back of the saddle and hefted himself up with significantly little effort. He filled the space behind you, even sitting still towering a good bit over you. If the sun had been to your back, you probably would've been completely covered by his shadow.
"How fast can we go?" You turned your head over your shoulder to look up at him, his hair almost tickling your cheek.
"Just don't be reckless." A cautious arm around your stomach and a hand just barely gripping the reins just in case, Death felt you kick and send the horse into a full sprit, adrenaline filled laughter quickly filling the air as Despair kicked up chunks of dirt.
Death had never thought himself that good of a teacher, but if you were so keen on this, maybe he could give it another shot.
Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.
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Surprise! A story out of the blue! Hope you like it.
Content: a human who faces daily discrimination for being one of the only humans in a relatively isolated society of non-humans, non-explicit/detailed mention of unwanted sexual/physical contact (it’s brief, but it’s in there - paragraph beginning ‘Still, they couldn’t be any worse than the naga…’), a reader who was orphaned at a young age, a dread pirate captain who’s actually a total softie, a motley crew of pirates who are also all secret sweethearts, and a tiefling friend who wants the best for you. And a briefly spicy ending. Enjoy?
Wordcount: 8710
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For all its pretty beaches and steady flow of gold and goods, Cutthroat Cove was hardly the kind of place that people aspired to reach, and it wasn’t the kind of place people lingered once they washed up there, humans least of all.
To get off the island, you had to find a pirate ship willing to take you, and the price of passage was usually dearer than it first appeared. Most of the crews didn’t like humans aboard either, which was another odd stacked against you.
“To the Empress!” A shout went up from the furthest corner of the dingy tavern, and tankards were raised in a jeering chorus of howls and inhuman noises. You glanced up from where you’d been drying off the wooden mugs that Harrow had just finished washing, and you watched as the crew of the Blackbird, flush with fresh plunder, began a familiar toast. “May she continue shitting out shiny gold coins for us to keep plucking out of her fat little merchants’ hands!”
Their laughter filled the small, low-ceilinged common room and made your ears buzz. There must have been a siren among them, you thought distantly as you shook your head to clear it. No one else seemed affected, but a nearby patron — a triton leaning heavily on the wooden bar — leered toothily at you and flared the fins on the side of their head in a mocking sneer.
As you turned away to diffuse the situation, your elbow caught a bottle of rum on the edge of the counter. It teetered and would have smashed had Harrow not grabbed it with his prehensile tail and shunted it back to safety. He shot you a warning look and rolled his dark eyes affectionately. A creased dimple appeared in his cheek and the tiefling smirked a fanged smile at you before throwing a wet dishcloth in your face. “Watch it, clumsy,” he snorted playfully. “Honestly. What are you like?”
“Thanks,” you mumbled and tried not to watch too closely as his purple tail uncoiled slowly from the bottle. Perhaps it came from being raised on a mostly non-human pirate ship, or perhaps you’d just been made differently, but your fellow humans had never done much for you, and in fact, the less human someone looked, the more likely you were to find yourself tripping over your feet around them.
With another sigh, you turned to see to a goblin with blood red hair who had just leaned over the bar to yell an order at you above the clamour in the room, a gold ring glinting in her nose, when the door flew open and a small harpy boy flapped inside, with his feathers all ruffled and his chest heaving from a wild flight up the hill to the tavern.
“The Widow’s Web docked down on Rum Quay fifteen minutes ago!” the boy panted, wide eyed and sweaty faced. “And they’re coming ashore!”
For a moment, the entire, packed tavern went completely still. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Someone set down their tankard with a loud clunk but for a good ten seconds, that was the only sound in the whole room.
Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.
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Commission #2 in the list of 5! Thank you for trusting me with your prompt! I hope you like it!
Contents: gay centaur bestie, orc mercenary, not too graphic injury (cut, blood, and stitching up mentioned but not described in huge detail), cottagecore vibes with gender neutral village alchemist and healer, mutual pining, rather inept flirting through banter, and light and fluffy non-penetrative nsfw at the end.
Wordcount: 4417
The scent of sweet marjoram and chamomile filled the cottage as you ground the dried leaves in a stone mortar, humming a work song to yourself that was as old as the hills.
Mornings like that had a special kind of peace, with the lingering winter mists still lapping at the edge of the woods like sea-foam, and with a knowing smile, you wondered just how long that peace might last.
Withy Grove had welcomed you into its arms five years ago that very Spring, and like the willow trees that gave the place its name, you’d put down roots and thrived under the care and friendship of its people, very few of whom were human.
Some time after midday, the irregular clop of a centaur’s hooves sounded on the hard-packed, dirt track that led to your cottage from the village just across the sheep pasture, and you looked up from your work with a frown. That syncopated rhythm spoke of lameness in one leg, and a moment later, there was a knock at the door.
Still, a whole morning without interruption was almost a record for you.
You wiped your hands on your apron, adding another watercolour smear to the green and yellow patches all over it from the plants you worked with, and the darker berry stains from the previous autumn which had now faded to a pale blueish colour, and opened the door to find Alasdair and Guthlak standing there, both looking comically sheepish for such an enormous and intimidating pair.
“Hi,” Alasdair began with a nervous whicker in his voice, shifting his weight on his enormous, feathered fetlocks. There was a hint of blood on the centaur’s nearside hind hoof, and you rolled your eyes.
“What have you done to yourself this time?” you asked him, hands on your hips. In truth, you were pleased not to see any worse injuries, given what these two did for a living. Turning to Guthlak, you raised an eyebrow. “And what about you? You return to us in one piece this time?”
“Eh, more or less,” he shrugged.
The orc on the path outside your house stood at almost eight feet tall, had thick, double tusks with both outer ones cuffed in glinting, engraved silver, and he wore his black hair in two thick braids that dangled down his back over his armour. He had a large, mottled scar on his neck from a warg bite, and a series of geometric tattoos that began at the hollow of his throat and went all the way down his torso and out of sight under his belt. You weren’t sure how far down the rest of his body they went, and every time you thought about it, you got hot under the collar and had to distract yourself before you said something foolish.
The metal plates on his leather armour flashed in the sunlight and he leaned his weight on a giant, double-headed axe like it was a walking staff. “More or less, huh?” you said. “Let go of that axe and let’s see how long it takes you to keel over.”
Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.
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Commission #4 in the list of 5! Thank you for trusting me with your prompt: female reader saves a dying fox on her way home from work, who turns out to be a fox spirit. I hope you like it!
Contents: Fox suffers a spinal injury when hit by a car (not the reader’s); there’s some magic; some domestic fluff; oral sex, fingering, him coming on her; and a sweet, fluffy ending.
Wordcount: 4400
Driving rain greeted you full in the face as you shoved open the main doors of the building and burrowed down into your coat, drawing the hood tight around your head in a vain attempt to keep the weather out. Nights like this — cold, damp, and at the tail end of winter before Spring took a proper hold on the land — were truly miserable.
Your fingers were half frozen by the time you had fumbled the keys out of your pocket and clambered into your car, and you fired the old thing up with a hopeful grimace that it would start. It coughed to life and you uttered a little prayer of thanks to whichever gods or spirits out there might be listening. “Now if only you could do something about my pathetic love life as well,” you said to yourself as you reversed out of the parking space and headed towards the main road. “Wouldn’t that be perfect?”
Half an hour outside of town, your headlights flashed over something lying on the side of the road, sprawled halfway across the white line, and you swerved instinctively to avoid it. Mercifully there was nothing coming in the other direction, or you’d have caused a serious accident. Adrenaline spiked through you and you slammed on the brakes.
The flash of golden-red you’d glimpsed had told you it was a fox, but it had had its head raised and it had been looking at you with its eyes flaring yellow in the headlights, but the expression on its face had struck you to the core. It had looked… resigned. Like it knew you were going to hit it. Like it knew it was going to die.
“No,” you said through gritted teeth.
You had some old work gloves in the back of the car from when you’d taken a load of stuff from the garden to the dump a week before, so you put your hazards on and slid out of the driver’s side door and into the worsening storm. You cursed softly, squinting amid the stinging rain as it struck your face like little iron nails in the gusty night. You cleared a space in the trunk for the fox, spreading an old picnic blanket out and grabbing those thick leather gloves. No need to get rabies if the thing bit you before you could get it to an animal clinic in the morning.
You knew it was a stupid thing to do, that cars hit wildlife all the time, and you really weren’t equipped to deal with it, but you couldn’t just leave it there when it had looked so sad; black ears drooping, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.
OH boy, this is a personal one for me on a number of levels (which usually means it's gonna tank), but here's the first of my five new commissions - this one is for the incredibly supportive and sweet @doomfisthero.
It features one of the Supernatural Biker Gang I mentioned in this post, which a lot of you seemed to like, so I hope you're keen to meet the cheeky, goofball dullahan with a heart of gold! Not gonna lie, I went way over the agreed wordcount for this one because it's the world I've already started building, and it's got characters I've already been thinking of for a while.
Content: gender neutral reader who experiences severe anxiety around being pranked/practical joked, which occurs at one point in the story. There’s no malicious intent or bullying behind the prank, and it gets discussed afterwards. The reader is a writer, doing research for a story about bikers, and has no idea that there's something a little 'extra' about this gang. Their friend, Adi, is dating one of them already, and I hope to write their story soon too.
Wordcount: 9216
“God, this was such a stupid idea,” you muttered as you approached the only shop on that wide, empty side street. Its metal sign swung gently back and forth in a light, autumn breeze, displaying a full moon on a black background, with a cruiser-style motorbike silhouetted in front of it, and the white, artfully-distressed font underneath it read ‘Full Moon Motorcycles’.
A second later, your friend stepped out onto the pavement and you knew there was no turning back. Adrianne grinned at you, so you kicked your feet back into motion and closed the distance between you, offering her a small hug. Your leather messenger bag bumped against your hip with the movement, and you wondered if perhaps you should have left your notebook and stuff at home for this first time. It felt more like an interview than getting to know them, and you were worried the group of unfamiliar bikers might take offence that you essentially wanted to study them for your novel.
“Ready to meet the gang?” she laughed, sweeping her messy, dark blonde hair back out of her eyes. “God, you look terrified. Come on, they’re nice! Except maybe Pixie. Don’t mess with her, but she’s not here today. Or Demon, but even he’s ok when you get to know him, I swear.”
“Not helping, Adi,” you grumbled.
Ever since she’d started working for Dahlia Ink across town about six months ago, Adrianne had been hanging around with the group of bikers who all got their ink done there it seemed, and it had almost felt like serendipity in action when she’d told you about them over coffee last weekend. You didn’t tend to talk much about your writing, even with your friends, but you trusted Adi, and she’d always been supportive of your career as an author, so you’d shyly opened up to her about your latest idea for a story featuring a group of bikers. You did leave out the part where the bikers in your story were mostly vampires and werewolves, with a few other supernatural species thrown in as well. Fantasy had always been your comfort-genre, but people had snickered in the past and made you feel like it wasn’t a ‘serious’ genre that ‘serious’ writers pursued, so you’d omitted it this time while telling her about it.
“It’s the perfect excuse for you to come and finally meet Țepeș then!” she’d blurted excitedly into the foam of her cappuccino, her green-brown eyes going wide with excitement at the idea of including you in her group of new friends. They all had weird nicknames, and you had no idea if it was a ‘biker’ thing or just a ‘them’ thing, but you’d been burning up with curiosity about them ever since she’d first started dating the one called Țepeș. “I’ve been dying to find an excuse for you to come meet him. Plus you can ask him anything you want to know for your story, and — oh…”
Her face had fallen, and you’d frowned, heart dropping already. “What?”
“Eh, he’s… he’s not completely non-verbal, but Țepeș doesn’t exactly find talking easy. Maybe you could come to the shop and meet the rest of them instead though? I’m sure Pickle or Pumpkin would love to talk your ear off about their bikes…”
“I dunno, I don’t want to get in the way,” you’d said, trying not to let that tiny, kindling ember of hope in your chest wink out completely. “But if you wanted to ask them…?”
She’d run it past her boyfriend, and Țepeș had said he’d ask Hank. Hank, apparently, was the guy who ran the bike shop where they’d all met and first formed their group, and two nights later, you’d got a text in all caps from Adi saying ‘BASIC BIKER 101 FOR WRITERS IS ON!!!! When are you next free?!!!’
A week later, you and your messenger bag with notebook and pens had shown up outside Full Moon Motorcycles, with little clue what to expect, and a heart full of trepidation.
Adrianne giggled as she ushered you inside, and to your relief, you found there were only two other people inside instead of a shop full of strangers. An array of bikes for sale was lined up around the right hand side of the space, and against the back wall there was a wooden counter almost like a bar, where the vintage till and a few key chains were displayed, while the left side of the space appeared to be a more general spot for tinkering and hanging out. Even with the light flooding in through the two huge, picture windows on either side of the door, the lighting was soft, and the polished concrete floor created a mellow atmosphere. The scent of coffee and motor oil hung heavy in the air, and you found it oddly comforting as you soaked it all up.
Behind the counter, a stocky man with greying, wavy hair that wasn’t quite long enough to tie back but was too long to look tidy smiled you and raised a meaty hand. His blue tartan shirt stretched precariously over a hearty paunch, and he exuded a jovial kind of warmth as his honey-brown eyes crinkled. “Hey there,” he said. “I’m Hank, though most people round here just call me Dad —”
“— he adopts literally everyone who walks through that door, so congrats on joining the family,” Adi laughed.
“Take your pick on names,” Hank chortled. “I understand you’re a writer…” He seemed interested and a little impressed, which was a bit of a confidence boost.
“Yeah,” you croaked and cleared your throat. “Yeah… uh… thank you for letting me hang out here for a bit. I don’t know anything about bikes… I’m just looking to learn a bit so it makes sense for my novel, you know? I’m not going to get in anyone’s way.”
“Oh, you’re fine,” he smiled, gesturing dismissively with his massive paw of a hand. “You just ask what you like and we’ll do our best to help you out. You must know Țepeș already if you’re Adi’s friend?”
You shook your head and Hank looked across the room to where the other person was lurking at the back of the space. You hadn’t noticed Adi leaving your side, but when you turned around, you found her standing with both hands pressed fondly against the chest of the tall, imposing biker dressed all in black and wearing his helmet too, which you thought was an odd choice. But what did you know about the habits of bikers? You were there to learn after all; learn and observe.
Adi waved you over, and you swallowed your nerves and cast Hank a farewell glance before approaching. When Adi stepped back, Țepeș pushed himself off the wall and held out his hand to you to shake. It, like the rest of him, was covered in leather or padded gear. There wasn’t a scrap of skin showing on him anywhere, and with your own face reflected in his black visor, it was impossible to get a read on him.
As if she’d read your mind, Adi smacked Țepeș in the chest with the back of her hand and said, “At least put your visor up, you big, intimidating doofus.”
He snorted a silent laugh and lifted the catch on his visor to reveal a sliver of pale skin and irises as black as the rest of his leather gear. Like Hank’s though, his eyes were kindly, and he closed them briefly as he inclined his head in a kind of apologetic bow. You shrugged, and he laughed breathily.
Hank chose that moment to come over, and you jumped as he clapped you on the shoulders. How a man built like a grizzly in autumn had moved so quietly was a mystery. “Come on, Țepeș, why don’t we give our new friend a demonstration of how a bike works? Since your Ducati is in, why don’t we use that?”
Țepeș gave a quick nod, and ducked away through the door that stood in the centre of the back wall, and a moment later, he pushed an absolute monster of a bike out into the empty space. He jutted his chin towards the front door, and Adi nipped over to open it for him, and when you frowned, she laughed. “That Streetfighter is so fucking loud,” she snorted. “You do not want him starting it up in here.”
“And nor do I!” Hank called, now mysteriously back behind the till though you hadn’t heard him leave. You made a mental note to weave something like that into your story for the supernatural biker characters, and then nodded, feeling sheepish, and followed the two of them out of the shop and onto the quiet side-street outside.
Until six months ago, Adi hadn’t known anything about bikes either, so she used your introductory tutorial as a kind of test for herself, interspersed with little glances up at Țepeș to check that she’d got it right. He either nodded or pointed to correct her, but he didn’t speak. She hadn’t been kidding about him being mostly non-verbal.
After Adi had shown you the basics of the bike’s anatomy, Țepeș patted the seat of the bike and gestured to her to get on it, but she laughed and shook her head. “No way, babe. I’m way too short.”
He put his fists comically on his hips and shook his head, then patted the seat again like he was trying to get a wilful cat up onto a chair.
She made a noise of protest, but did swing a leg over and then hoisted herself evenly into the seat, both legs dangling freely a good way off the ground.
“Happy now?” she shot at him and he nodded emphatically, bringing both hands to the sides of his helmet in a way that mimicked a person losing their mind over a cute kitten. “You’re lucky I love you, you overgrown dork,” she muttered. “Anyway,” she said, turning back to you. “Since this beast has made me get up here, I’m going to start his bike. Not so funny now that I could actually fuck it up, is it?” she grinned.
Țepeș remained perfectly still, and you got the impression it was a comical warning.
“I can’t flat-foot it,” she said to you, “So I’m gonna rest my left foot on the curb after I’ve flicked the kickstand up,” she said. “You can’t start most bikes with the kickstand still down.”
You noted that down, and let her get on with the rest of the sequence uninterrupted, which seemed a lot more complicated than you’d imagined.
Near the end of your tutorial on how to start a bike and the basics of clutch control, and the apparent struggle to find neutral, the sound of a number of approaching engines tore through the quiet afternoon. You looked back over your shoulder to see three sports bikes round the corner and make their way towards you.
The three riders couldn’t have been more different. The one you noticed first was riding a big, brash, bright orange bike that reminded you a bit of a sporty looking dirt bike, and he was wearing, of all things, a black and white cow onesie, with a cow helmet cover complete with fabric horns and ears.
“Fucking Pumpkin,” Adi laughed. “Honestly. I think you’ll love him.”
“Pumpkin?” you asked, wondering how on earth he’d got that name. Then again, Țepeș was a pretty unusual nickname. Perhaps he was a vampire under all that leather, shielding himself from the fury of the sun with his biker gear just so he could spend more time with his human lover during the day… You yanked your over-active imagination back into the present and out of your fantasy novel, and watched the trio of bikers approach down the quiet side street.
“Yeah, Pumpkin’s his name. It’s because he’s a —” Țepeș elbowed Adi in the ribs sharply enough that she had to grab the handlebars to stop herself toppling off his bike. Her eyes went wide and she instantly clicked her jaw shut.
As an author, you were used to watching and studying people, and noting your observations for later. Another writer you knew online had called it ‘cataloguing the everyday’, and it was an apt description. Adi had very nearly given away something huge about Pumpkin, and Țepeș had given her a silent but stern warning.
“Because he loves pranks, like on Halloween?” she finished a little too quickly. “He dresses up with silly helmet covers all the time and he likes to play jokes on people.”
Maybe he wasn’t your kind of person at all. The very idea of having a practical joke pulled on you was enough to make you feel sick and shaky all over. You'd always hated them, and they’d always left you feeling devastated and on-edge if they happened to you. The more you trusted the person, the worse it felt afterwards.
Țepeș’ huge hand landed carefully on your shoulder joint and you looked up to find him smiling reassuringly at you. At least, you thought he was smiling reassuringly. All you could see were his glinting black eyes that were creased at the corners, and the way the apples of his pale cheeks were slightly more squished than usual behind the padding in his helmet.
You tried out a smile of your own, and then realised that Adi was talking again.
“He’s such a goofball, but that’s got to be his craziest outfit yet! You should see his other helmet covers; they’re all bonkers. My favourite is the pink rabbit one.”
Țepeș nodded once in agreement and let go of your shoulder. You swayed a little at the loss, feeling untethered.
“The guy on the red Ducati is Demon, and the short one on the Ninja in the middle is Pickle.”
When the newcomers spotted the three of you standing around Țepeș’ bike, Pumpkin revved raucously, almost seeming to make his bike laugh with joy at the sight of you. Then he hauled it up into a massive wheelie, only dropping back down once he’d torn past you in a near-vertical pose. Your heart was in your mouth the whole time, but he looked relaxed and even amused behind that absurd costume as he landed it and swerved the bike around to make his way back towards you while the other two came over in a more sedate fashion. In fact, they were so sedate it reminded you of two sharks approaching, and your mouth went dry. Adi had said they were cool with you being there and asking questions, but just then, it didn’t really feel like it.
The one riding the lurid, neon green bike was so short that you wondered for a crazy second if maybe they were a child. The owner of the red bike revved his something wicked as he cruised to a stop, and you had to fight the urge to step back. It felt like being roared at full in the face by a lion, and it didn’t help at all that the guy had curling ram’s horns adorning his black helmet. Even though it was a nippy autumn day, he was wearing a white t-shirt that showed off a golden tan and a truly impressive physique, and his black jeans had a rip in the knee that added to his tough-guy appearance.
Standing beside his own bike, Țepeș folded his arms and jutted his chin in a warning. Demon revved his deafening bike once more though, and the back wheel skimmed from side to side on the tarmac as blue smoke churned up into the air.
Țepeș shook his head and a few seconds later, Demon stopped his mini burnout, and instead leaned forwards on the bike, resting one arm casually on the tank. His whole attention was fixed on you and you tried hard not to regret all of this. It was research. You were here for your story. It was fine. His visor was tinted like Țepeș’ was, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze through the plastic just as clearly as if there had been nothing blocking his eyes from yours.
“Just giving a welcome to your new friend, Țepeș,” the guy purred in a silky baritone that made you think of teeth in the dark.
As the brief puff of acrid smoke from his tyres cleared, the short rider flipped their visor up and regarded you with beady, golden eyes that had to be contacts, surely? Even the pupils were slitted like a cat’s.
“Who’s this?” came a reedy, tenor voice from under the helmet. Definitely not a child after all, and their skin had a strange, greenish tinge to it that you initially took to be makeup until you realised it went all the way down their cheeks as well. Tattoos? Some kind of condition? You tried not to stare.
Before either you or Adi could respond to their question, the cow onesie rider screeched to a comical halt beside the other two, locking up the front wheel and making the rear of his bike kick up like a bronco, and Adi shook her head. “Pumpkin, honestly. What are you like?”
“I’m Legen-dairy!” he grinned, gesturing wide with both hands. “Oh, hey! New friend?!” he exclaimed, waving enthusiastically when he saw you standing awkwardly beside Țepeș’ bike. He had a lilting Irish accent and a playful intonation that warmed you to him immediately, despite knowing about his penchant for practical jokes.
“Don’t mind Pumpkin,” Adi smiled at you. “He’s… something else.”
“I’m highly a-moo-sing, is what I am,” the guy chuckled. His words sounded clearer than the others behind their helmets, and you wondered if it was something about the design that made it easier to hear him.
“Oh god, please stop with the cow puns,” Pickle groaned, casting him a withering look with those unusual eyes.
“But Pickle, I’m udderly fantastic!”
“Stop.”
“This is just plain bull-ying!” Pumpkin whined, and then he started to bop up and down on his bike as he sang, “My milkshake brings—”
“If you howl one more out of tune word, Demon will eat you for breakfast, and not in a fun way,” Pickle said, casting a glance at the biker with the horns on his helmet.
For answer, the biker in question cocked his head just a little to one side, and Pumpkin slumped in his seat, arms and legs dangling comically, head lolling forwards so that the soft horns on his helmet cover flopped. He let out a long, sad mooing noise sound that dissolved into giggles at the end, and Pickle punched him on the arm.
“Loser,” Pickle snorted with obvious fondness.
“Anyway, I want you to meet my friend,” Adi cut in, turning to you. “I’m sorry you had to meet Pumpkin when he’s in this mood, but —”
“Moo-d!” Pumpkin interrupted triumphantly and immediately burst out laughing. He almost tipped backwards off his big, orange bike. Even you managed to crack a shy smile at that one. It was infectious.
“I give up,” Pickle said, and hopped down off his green Kawasaki, disappearing into the shop without a backward glance just as Hank stepped out.
“How’s that lesson going?” he asked you.
“I’m not planning on riding solo any time soon,” you smiled, “But I’ve got enough of an idea of how things work to start writing, I think.”
Hank nodded and, glancing around at Pumpkin who was still bouncing up and down and making his suspension creak a little, said, “Ah, they’re all idiots, but they’re kind, and they’re my idiots.”
He introduced you by name, and told Pumpkin and Demon why you were there. Pumpkin seemed intrigued, tilting his head to one side and calming his crazy energy a little as he regarded you through the tinted visor, but Demon growled softly as he pushed himself upright again and folded his arms across his ripped chest, muttering something about letting their guard down again.
Țepeș moved away from his bike, petting the back of Adi’s blonde head in a fond, distracted gesture, and then signalled for Demon to follow him inside, which, to your surprise, the big guy did. He walked like a Greek god — like he owned the place and not Hank — but it was clear that he had respect for Țepeș.
Pumpkin took advantage of their absence and leaned a little way off his bike towards you. “So, you’re a writer? That’s pretty cool. And you’re writing a… a book? A story? About bikers?”
You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not the main focus, but it’s a big part of it.” If you hadn’t wanted to open up to Adi about it being a supernatural fantasy story, you sure as heck weren’t going to admit it to a bunch of intimidating, high-octane bikers. “It was Adi who suggested I come and learn a bit more about it all from you guys though…” you said, not wanting them to think you’d just inserted yourself into their group without invitation. Especially given Demon’s weird reaction.
“Awesome,” Pumpkin said, fist-bumping Adi then turning back to you. “You gonna ride with us? We’re all heading out in a bit so you should come too!”
“I… maybe?” you faltered. That had not been on the cards for the day, but the more you thought about it, the more your heart began to race.
“The KTM has a passenger seat,” Pumpkin said, gesturing behind him and patting his pillion seat. “You can be my backpack if you like! I promise I won’t wheelie. I’m not taking the onesie off though,” he added, mooing and shaking his head so that the fabric horns waggled comically.
His energy and enthusiasm really were infectious. He bounced up and down again like an excitable, cow-print puppy, and you bit your lip. The idea of holding onto him, of being perched on the back of his mad, orange bike, was oddly… enticing. Even with his embarrassing costume.
“Come on,” he said. “It’ll be fun! It’s only a short ride because Coco’s Honda’s playing up for some reason,” he added. “Is she here yet? I don’t see her little bumblebee…”
“Bumblebee?” you asked.
“Coco’s bike is a Honda Hornet,” Adi supplied. “She’s got these little antennae for her helmet too. It’s so cute. And no,” she added to Pumpkin. “You guys are the first.”
It didn’t take long for the rest of the day’s riders to arrive, and soon you watched a screaming pink bike roll up, with its rider wearing baby pink leathers and a pink helmet. Her name was Barbie, appropriately enough, and a few minutes later, a skinny guy in all black leathers with a black helmet bearing a decal like a maw full of teeth pulled up, alongside Coco on her black and yellow Honda Hornet that looked very much like the Transformer.
“I see why you call it Bumblebee,” you said to Adi, who was standing on the pavement with you, chatting and slipping you random bits of information about both the bikes and the bikers. The others had all gone inside, leaving you with Adi still casually sitting astride her boyfriend’s enormous, black Ducati Streetfighter outside in the sunshine, and honestly it was nice to catch your breath and let your heart rate settle again.
Pumpkin, apparently, was only a few years older than you, and he had moved to the city to get away from his family and their career expectations for him. His name was actually Callahan, or Cal, but literally everyone called him Pumpkin.
Pickle was non-binary and surprisingly a full decade older than you. They lived with their mother, who needed a bit of extra care these days, and had taken up riding only a year or so ago. Demon, Adi didn’t discuss at all, and she said little about Barbie other than that she kept herself to herself a lot and was pretty shy.
Coco came out to soak up some autumn sunshine a while later, and was one of the only bikers who actually took off her helmet. Beneath it, she had thick, wavy, chocolate brown hair and brown eyes that made you want to drown in them, and a smile so pretty it made your heart skip several beats. She gave off the kind of energy that made you feel safe and relaxed, and you let out a long, slow exhale, feeling the sun wash up over your skin.
That peace lasted until Demon stormed out of the shop, followed by Pumpkin, Țepeș, and Pickle.
“Everything ok?” Adi whispered to Țepeș when he came over and hugged her tightly from behind before passing her a spare helmet. He nodded and jerked his thumb towards his bike. “Yeah, I’m good to go. You coming?” she asked you, and you found yourself nodding before you’d even realised.
“Yes!” Pumpkin bayed in triumph and you startled, not having heard him return to his bike. “You’re mine! I claim you. You’re my backpack!”
“Like anyone else wants a human for baggage,” Demon muttered so quietly you weren’t sure you were supposed to have heard it. As he passed, he slammed his visor back down and you could have sworn that he’d had completely scarlet eyes. You wondered if you were losing your mind a little bit, or if the fantasy of your novel was beginning to bleed into the real world through your over-active imagination.
Pumpkin practically vaulted back up onto his orange bike and he held out his hand to you. “Alright! My precious and beautiful backpack,” he said, “Hop on!”
Easier said than done, you thought, ignoring the compliment. You watched your reflection distort in his visor as he turned his head when you faltered anxiously.
“I’ll look after you, I promise. But I’m gonna rely on you to tell me if Pickle’s coming for my killswitch, ok?”
Recalling your brief lesson with Țepeș, you eyed the red switch on his right handlebar and said, “That?”
“Yeah, that. Protect it at all costs,” he giggled. “I mean, not all costs, obviously but… Actually, scratch that. It’s Ninja you wanna watch out for. He’s a sneaky, sneaky boy. He blends in so no one sees him coming…” A few of them laughed in a way that made you feel like there was more to it than just an inside joke, and your stomach churned.
A glance back at the skinny guy on the black bike behind you revealed Ninja tilting his hands outwards in a ‘who, me?’ kind of gesture. Hank came over and gave you a helmet, taking your messenger bag from you and promising to keep it safe behind the counter. You slid the helmet on and buckled it up, trying not to feel like an impostor.
Getting aboard wasn’t as hard as you’d thought it was going to be, with brief instruction from Adi and Pumpkin on how to put your feet on the pegs, though you did clunk your helmet against Pumpkin’s when you leaned too far forward, but he made things easier by telling you to hold him round the waist. He turned back over one shoulder and said, “It’s kinda forward, but I don’t mind. You’re cute and I don’t want you falling off.” He had such a lovely voice — warm and rich and reassuring — and you found yourself laughing softly.
“If you say so.”
Pumpkin talked a mile a minute and you really had to work to process everything he was saying as it tumbled out of him in a wild, happy torrent. “You are cute! You’re gonna have a blast today. I can’t believe I’m your first! Oh, and watch out for silly string too. I don’t think Pickle has any in their pocket today, but last time they got me good and it was all over my helmet and my orange baby,” he added petting the tank of his bike.
Your heart lurched at the idea of these pranks maybe escalating, and you tried to swallow down the nausea; you did not want to be sick in a motorcycle helmet. The cold sweat took a while to evaporate and you were sure Pumpkin would feel your heartbeat as you clung onto him before he’d even started the bike. The cow onesie did add a little levity though, and you tried not to feel too silly.
When Adi was safely aboard Țepeș’ bike, Țepeș revved his readiness a few times from the rear of the group, and Pumpkin nodded. “Forward!” he yelled, pointing like he was leading a cavalry charge as he nudged up his kickstand and prepared to draw away.
Adi had been right.
The ride was amazing.
Terrifying, exhilarating, wonderful, and, in the strangest way possible, it made you forget everything.
All you could focus on was the way Pumpkin moved with the bike like it was a part of him — almost like a rider and his horse — and on trying to move with him as he leaned into the corners. He was slim and fit beneath your grip, and he didn’t seem to be wearing any kind of padding under the onesie, but he was wearing biker boots instead of ordinary shoes. There was something alluring about the fact you’d not seen his face and he’d not taken his helmet off. Țepeș had a similar vibe, but it was Pumpkin and his wild, silly energy you found yourself drawn to. It was almost euphoric to be able to press the front of your body against this kind, funny stranger’s back and let him sweep you along the roads.
Of course, there were shenanigans at the first red light you came to.
Pickle came for Pumpkin’s killswitch immediately — almost like they were testing you — but you tapped Pumpkin on the shoulder when you saw Pickle stalking up the line of bikes. Ninja covered his killswitch and waggled a finger at Pickle, and when Pumpkin saw who was coming, he patted your thigh a few times. “Nice one,” he said with a grin evident in his voice. “Best early warning system and best backpack ever! You can ride with me every time!”
You glowed with pride, even though you knew it was probably only fun and games, and when Pickle failed to catch Pumpkin’s killswitch and the lights changed, you laughed with the rest of them as Pickle bolted back to their Ninja and hopped comically onto it at the very last second while Pumpkin sped away fast enough to make you yelp and grip him hard around the middle. You felt him laugh and held him tighter.
He petted your hands where they were laced securely in front of him, and even though you didn’t have comms in your helmet, you got the message: ‘I’ve got you’. You did feel safe with him despite his love of pranks, and you were literally trusting him with your life as you rode behind him.
When the ride came to an end about an hour later, and the group drew to a halt at Full Moon Motorcycles again, you were shaky with the aftereffects of adrenaline and from simply holding on, but beneath your helmet, you were grinning wildly. Secretly, you already couldn’t wait for the next ride and prayed he would ask you again.
Pickle pulled their bike up on your right, the green Ninja 400 idling gently, and when they killswitched Pumpkin’s bike at last, Pumpkin guffawed, but without missing a beat he extended his right leg and tapped the gear lever down to put Pickle’s bike into first, making the bike stall and lurch forwards.
“Gotcha!” he crowed, and then helped you off the back by letting you steady yourself on his shoulders. “And for the pièce de résistance,” he said, fishing in the pouch of his onesie, and he turned something cylindrical in your direction. “I was saving this for Pickle, but since it’s your first ride, you deserve a decent celebration!”
With a loud bang and a flurry of coloured squares of paper, a confetti cannon went off in your face and you screeched in shock, tripping over your heels and landing hard on the pavement behind you. The pieces of paper fluttered down around you while panic and fear and everything you hated about being pranked exploded out of you. Your heartbeat went through the roof. You just glimpsed the horns of Demon’s helmet in the doorway to the shop, and your heart dropped when you saw he was laughing.
Pumpkin was laughing too, and pointing, and beside him Pickle clapped their gloved hands and crooned, “Oh man, he got you good!”
He had got you good, and you hated it.
You hated that it was just a silly, harmless prank, but you were reacting like he’d done something serious. You hated that you couldn’t just laugh it off the way they all did. You hated that you took it so seriously; that it felt like the worst kind of betrayal of that fragile trust you’d started to put in a stranger. And then, behind the visor of your helmet, the tears began to flow uncontrollably.
A huge figure appeared in your blurred vision and you looked up to find Țepeș kneeling down beside you. He blocked the others from your sight with his massive body, and he lifted his visor to show his black eyes full of concern.
You nodded, trying to pull yourself together and grateful beyond belief that the helmet was still covering your face, even though it felt like you were running out of oxygen in there. Pulling yourself together was like trying to hold a bag full of sand with fraying seams. You were seeping and spilling out all over the place and you couldn’t stop. You tried to tell yourself it was just a confetti cannon. You tried to tell yourself it was just a bit of fun.
You tried, and failed.
“I’m… I’m ok… I’m…” you gulped, aware of how choked your voice sounded.
Țepeș stood and held out a hand, pulling you to your feet and ushering you carefully inside. You didn’t miss the way he put himself between you and Demon, who was still snickering in the doorway, and you let him lead you into the shop and into the back room.
He snagged a box of tissues from under the shop’s counter in passing and guided you into a chair. He signalled for you to undo your helmet, which you did with shaking fingers. “I’m sorry,” you gulped as you drew it off over your head and set it on the floor. “I’m sorry I’m overreacting.”
Țepeș shook his head and squeezed your shoulder, offering you a tissue.
“It’s just a prank, I know that, but…”
Again, he squeezed your shoulder, and you took a deeper, steadier breath.
“I hate pranks. Even the harmless ones. I always overreact like this. I’m sorry. It’s not his fault, but… I thought… I thought maybe he… he wouldn’t…”
A knock on the door made you jump, and Țepeș made a ‘stay there’ gesture with his hand and ducked out of the room. A short, seemingly one-sided conversation passed outside while you fought to control yourself again, and then Pumpkin ducked inside.
“Hey,” he said, and your heart broke a little at the change in his energy. It was like he’d completely deflated. He was still wearing the cow onesie though, which brought a slightly hysterical chuckle to your lips before you could stop it. “I’m so sorry,” he said, dropping to one knee in front of your chair. “I… I didn’t think you’d react like that.”
“It’s not you,” you said, sniffling and turning away, cuffing at your eyes. “I just overreacted.”
“You didn’t overreact,” he said, and your brain screeched to a halt.
“What?”
“I shouldn’t have done it to you. I didn’t know if you were cool with it, and I just assumed that… that because everyone else likes my pranks… that you’d be ok with it too, and I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll never ever pull anything like that on you again. Ever.” He crossed his thumb across his heart. “I swear on my True Name.”
The wording was odd, but the air seemed to crystallise around you for a second, and your breath caught. “Like a Fae,” you mumbled without thinking.
He tilted his helmeted head a little. “Yeah,” he said and his voice had an odd ring to it. “You… You know about… about the Fae?”
“I’m writing a book…” you croaked, not really thinking about what you were saying. “Supernatural theme… I’ve always written fantasy stuff… Look, I’m sorry. I’m over-sharing about stuff that isn’t even real. I’m good,” you said, and stood up abruptly, setting your borrowed helmet down on the chair and turning to look at him. He was on his feet again, but he was just standing there.
You walked out into the main shop but he called your name and you halted and turned back around. “Yeah?”
“Are… Are you gonna come back?”
You bit your lip. You probably had enough to write the book now — the biker part of it wasn’t even the main focus after all — but until the prank, you’d felt included and welcomed, and, as you thought about it, the prank had also been meant to welcome you into the fold. It wasn’t Pumpkin’s fault that you had reacted the way you did.
“You want me to?” you asked.
“Please,” he said. “Please, I’d love it. I’ve… I’ve never had anyone I’ve wanted to be my backpack before, and you rode like a natural today,” he added, taking a step towards you. “Please. I promise no one will do any pranks when you’re with us. No silly string, no confetti cannons.”
“I don’t mind it… With the others, I mean,” you said, the words grinding out of you like a boulder uphill. “I mean… So long as it’s not me.”
“Ok, we’ll dial it back,” he compromised. “I’ll even give you one of my little stretchy sticky hands if you like so you can team up on Pickle with me. We duel at the lights sometimes. Does that count as a prank?”
You shook your head, fighting back a resurgence of emotions, mostly good this time.
“Ok. I’m really sorry,” he said again.
“I believe you,” you said.
“Thank you,” Pumpkin replied, his whole body looking relieved. It was amazing how expressive someone could be, even without being able to see their face. “Let me give you my number and I’ll text you when we’re going out next. Or… Or maybe we could go out just the two of us?”
That seemed like way more pressure than you’d been expecting, but you nodded all the same when you realised you weren’t put off by it at all.
As you left the shop not long afterwards, having recovered enough to let the red fade from your eyes, Demon looked you up and down and then approached Pumpkin. You glanced back over your shoulder to see him looming down over Pumpkin, and you just caught him growling, “What happens when you need to take that helmet off eh, Dullahan? You think that cute accent is going to be enough to hide the fact you don’t have a fucking head under there?”
Your breath caught and you tripped, turning away before either of them could notice your reaction.
For a moment, when Demon had spat the word ‘Dullahan’ you’d thought he’d said ‘Callahan’ — Pumpkin’s real name — but the instant he’d said Pumpkin didn’t have a head, your mind made the connection.
Dullahan.
A Fae without a head, traditionally a headless horseman.
The way Pumpkin had moved with his bike, like it was a living creature, had reminded you of a horse and its rider, and you had to wonder if the nickname ‘Pumpkin’ had come from the cartoonish depictions of Dullahans on Halloween with a pumpkin for a head instead of their real one. They did have a head, you knew from research for your writing, but they tended to keep it hidden since that was where their power resided. They could only be harmed if you hurt their head, or if they were wearing it when you attacked them.
But that was all fantasy, right?
Then Demon’s red eyes flickered across your memory, and the weird emphasis he’d put on the word ‘human’ in his snide remarks, and the way you’d thought maybe Țepeș was a vampire because he kept his skin covered up, and the fact that Pickle’s skin was entirely green and they had gold eyes with cat’s pupils… it was all way too much of a coincidence. Right?
You walked home in a daze, not even saying goodbye to Adi who was talking quietly with Țepeș in the long, late afternoon shadows cast by the bike shop’s wall.
Over the next few rides with Pumpkin, you tried to figure out a way to broach the topic. If you just blurted it out, you had no idea how the others would react, so you dropped little hints to Pumpkin that you were writing a supernatural story and that you’d been researching the supernatural for a while, and how you’d always hoped there was more out there than met the eye. You even mentioned it a couple of times on group rides to see how the others reacted, and predictably, it was Demon who bristled, and Pumpkin who looked uncomfortable. Like he had a secret he wanted to tell you.
Each time you did it, he looked torn, like he was right on the cusp of telling you the truth.
It finally came to an ugly head one afternoon as the riding season drew to a close in late October and you all came back from a huge group ride that had included a few more riders whom you’d not met before, but who evidently knew the rest of the group.
As you went inside to return the helmet that Hank always lent you, you caught the sound of an argument and hung back in the small storage room behind the main shop to avoid it, heart in your throat and the helmet forgotten in one hand.
Pickle was standing in the main area of the shop with their helmet dangling from their hand this time, and you gasped when you saw sharply-tapered ears and a row of pointed teeth in their mouth, and green skin that went all the way down below their collar. Definitely not a tattoo. They looked sharp, their features inhuman; like one of the goblins in your novel. If you’d needed confirmation that they weren’t human, this had to be it.
Pickle was arguing with Adi and Demon, and Pumpkin was there too, looking helplessly from one to the other of them.
Demon was shouting, and he didn’t have his helmet on either. Perhaps they’d thought you’d already left. The horns that adorned his helmet were… actually attached to his head, not his helmet. He had horns. They obviously grew from his hairline, his black hair waving around them like a river of oil that had a rainbow sheen on it, and his eyes were a luminous, blood-red with slit pupils too. He rounded on Pumpkin like a Wolf on a rabbit. “You think just because we let Țepeș’ little human blood-bag in, we can risk exposing us all to just anyone?” Demon snarled. “I thought you wanted to keep our kind a secret? Now you’re siding with him?”
“Hey!” Adi exclaimed, but Pickle’s lip curled and they turned to her.
“He has got a point, Adi, though the blood-bag comment was way out of line,” Pickle said. “We have to be careful, but —”
“This is different,” Pumpkin interjected. “Ok? I’ve never been in love before, and I love —”
“No. It’s not fucking ok! This is the one place we get to be who we are,” Demon countered, his deep voice cracking as he clearly fought off tears. He sounded afraid and upset in a way that went right to your heart. “This is the one place where we can be safe, Cal, and you’re jeopardising it for all of us. And if we start letting humans in, if our secret gets out —”
“I think it’s a little late for that,” Pickle said faintly, staring straight at you watching the argument unfold, stunned. They were arguing because of you. Because Pumpkin had taken a liking to you — in fact, he’d just said he loved you…
A pair of gold eyes and a pair of scarlet eyes stared at you, while Adi stood there hugging herself and looking hurt and unsure, and Pumpkin was standing stock still with his black helmet still on but you knew he was looking at you too. Was he going to defend you, or discard you and stick with his friends? They weren’t human. None of them was human. Demon’s eyes were blaring a violent red and he had horns growing out of his black hairline and curling back over his head, and there was a watercolour patch of red creeping over his golden tan as if he was losing control of his form. And Pickle was apparently some kind of goblin?
“You’re a Dullahan,” you said quietly, looking at Pumpkin. “A Fae.”
“You know?” Demon hissed, taking half a step towards you. “How the fuck do you know?” and then he shoved Pumpkin back with a hand at each shoulder. “You’ve taken your helmet off already? Did you disclose your head’s location while you were at it?”
Pumpkin shook his head vehemently but then he lifted his shiny, black helmet off in what looked like an act of defiance to Demon.
In the void where his head should have been there was a swirl of bluish-green smoke emanating from the stump of his neck, like the aurora in the night sky, and his skin was a dark, slate-blue colour. Your mind struggled to accept what you were seeing, but with the additional evidence of Pickle’s green skin and Demon’s horns, you knew it all had to be true.
Walking closer, as if moving through a dream, you ignored Demon’s constant, caged-animal growl, but you did jump when the door flew open and Țepeș burst in. He strode straight over to Adi and wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders, tugging her close and putting himself between her and the others. He cocked his head in an impatiently curious manner and Adi answered his silent demand.
“Demon’s laying into Pumpkin about flirting with a human while hiding what he is,” Adrianne said, glaring flatly at Demon. “And he called me your blood-bag,” she added.
Țepeș’ fists curled, leather creaking, and he took a long, slow inhale, as though he was trying very hard not to lose control and launch himself at Demon.
Before anything else could happen, someone clapped their hands abruptly from the side of the shop where the till and the bikes were arrayed, and you all jumped.
Hank was standing there and his eyes were glowing golden. “This family is built on trust,” he said in a low, gravelly bass, and you saw that his canines were chunkier and longer than they usually were, and his hair seemed thicker and fuller, his beard a little bushier around the chops. “And if we welcome each other into it, we must be prepared to trust each other’s judgement.”
“We’re just a little research project!” Demon said, rounding on you. “Adi told you what we are, didn’t she, so you thought you’d come and study us like a science experiment?”
You were still staring at Pumpkin’s empty collar and wondering in an odd, detached kind of way where it would be considered polite for you to look now — did you look at the point where his eyes would be if he had a head, or did you look at his chest? Only a second or two later did Demon’s words filter through and you blinked. “What?”
“You’re writing a fucking book about us! How does that count as trustworthy?”
“I’m not — It’s not about you,” you shot back. “The book isn’t about you. The protagonist is dating a vampire who’s in a biker gang, but… Adi didn’t tell me anything at all about you. I didn’t know you weren’t human until… until I overheard you accusing Pumpkin a few weeks ago. You said something about not having a head under his helmet, and you called him a Dullahan.” You swallowed thickly and watched the shock filter through everyone’s expressions at your words. “At first I thought you were saying his name, but then I realised you said ‘Dullahan’, not ‘Callahan’, and because I’ve looked into supernatural stuff, I put two and two together. I’ve known for weeks,” you said, chest heaving as you fought to maintain some semblance of composure while you finished your defence. “I could have said something, or I could have just not come back, but I trusted you guys.” Tears finally blurred your vision. “You treated me like family. Why would I betray you?”
Pumpkin moved first.
He strode across he space, dropping his helmet on the floor with a loud crack that would have made anyone who needed a helmet to protect their head wince, but you figured his was purely for decoration and disguise anyway. He wrapped you up in his arms and pulled you close to his body. His arms almost lifted you off the ground and he cradled your head in one hand while his left arm curled around your waist and squeezed you so tight you gave a little wheeze.
His voice came from nowhere in particular, just like it did when he had the helmet on, and he said, “You are family. And I love you. If I have to leave this one to be with you, I will.”
Your heart stopped for a moment before you hugged him back, desperately. “Don’t. Not for me.”
He only hugged you harder.
From somewhere off to your left, Hank gave a low, rumbling growl and then muttered, “Kids. Honestly.” Then a little louder, he said, “Demon, go and cool off somewhere. Țepeș, for God’s sake, stand down, and Pickle, go and put the fucking kettle on. I need a cup of tea with half a bottle of whisky in it after all this drama.”
Pumpkin drew back at last, and you looked up at the haze of blue-green smoke that seemed to swirl upwards in a constant stream, like a recently extinguished candle. “How can you see me?” you asked. And then, with a little more alarm in your tone, you yelped, “Wait, how can you see where you’re driving?”
He laughed and leaned in close enough that the aurora-light swirled across your vision and caressed your face with a feather light breath, and you shivered. “Magic,” he whispered.
Demon hadn’t gone anywhere, and was regarding you with a more level gaze. His eyes were still red though. “You knew?” he said. “All this time?”
“Yeah,” you croaked as you refocused your eyes from the magic of the Dullahan’s body to Demon’s very much corporeal body. “I mean, I suspected.”
He sighed, still staring you down. Pumpkin stepped a little in front of you, much as Țepeș had for Adi, but Demon shook his head. He worked his jaw for a second and then slowly held out his right hand. His skin was red instead of the golden tan it had been, and his nails were black and claw-like, but the gesture was one of reconciliation all the same. “Welcome to the family, I guess,” he muttered hoarsely.
You smiled faintly, and Pumpkin took your left hand in a show of solidarity, sliding his gloved fingers around yours while you briefly shook Demon’s hand. “I really didn’t know what you guys were when you said I could come and hang out with you, I swear.”
“I know,” Demon bit out. “I can taste a lie, and you’re telling the truth.”
With that, he stalked away and carefully slotted his helmet on over his horns. You realised that there were specially-tailored holes in the crown of it for the horns to fit through, but when it was on, some kind of glamour made it look like the horns were just attached to the surface of the helmet. Outside, he swung a leg over his Ducati and started it up, revving it and launching away amid a scream of tyres and over-worked engine.
“Give him time,” Pumpkin said as he looked down at you. In the swirl of the smoke at his neck you thought you could make out the features of a face for a moment, but you blinked and it vanished. “You’re family now though, so he won’t give you any more trouble.”
“He did just insult Adi pretty spectacularly,” you pointed out.
“And he’ll apologise to her,” Pumpkin said. Țepeș loomed threateningly beside Adi in silent agreement. “For now, you want to come for a ride with just me? Come back to my place maybe?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“Bet you have questions too…”
“You going to fact-check my novel for me?” you asked with a playful smile, and Pumpkin laughed. It felt right to hear his loud, giggly laughter filling the space again.
“You’d actually have to let me read it for that, love, and you said you didn’t like showing your work to anyone until it was done.”
“I could make an exception for you, I guess,” you admitted with a bashful smile.
With Pumpkin still holding your hand, you paused on your way out to check on Adi, who looked a little hurt but otherwise alright, and you promised to check in with her later. Țepeș handed Pumpkin his helmet, and you let yourself be led from the shop. Your helmet was still in your slightly numb fingers, never having put it down, so you slid it back on with shaky hands.
After climbing with familiar ease back up onto the pillion seat of Pumpkin’s orange KTM, you snaked your arms around his middle and squeezed.
“I’m sorry it all came out this way,” Pumpkin said before he started up his bike. “This was not how I planned to tell you. I had no idea how I was going to break it to you, but that… that wasn’t it. I know you hate surprises, and that was a big one.”
“Not all surprises are bad,” you admitted. “And this one turned out ok in the end. Come on. I want to find out how much I’ve got wrong about the Fae.”
Pumpkin guffawed, his laughter audible even after he’d started up his bike and pulled away.
Turns out, you’d quite a lot wrong about the Fae after all, but Pumpkin was only too happy to put you right over pizza and a movie on his sofa that evening.
I really hope you folks enjoyed this one. If you did, please consider reblogging to show your support as well as leaving a like and/or a comment.
Do you want to see the other members of the group? Remember you can find out more about them here in this early post if you're curious. Tepes already has a love interest, and Ninja the mimic is claimed too, but if you're curious, lemme know!
Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere.
Here’s part one of that dremora idea for you. I wanted to write him differently, but he flat-out refused to be anything other than a scary-looking, seven foot cinnamon roll with an obvious submissive side, so… that’s what you’ve got. *shrugs and looks questioningly at my muse. Apparently I don’t make the rules around here anymore*
A dremora is a daedric creature from skyrim, but you don’t need any knowledge of Skyrim or the Elder Scrolls to read this.
Contents: female character escaped from captivity, summoned dremora who is technically bound to her will (to be explored later, but there won’t be any dub- or non-con in the nsfw section, fear not), freezing in the snow, shared clothes, and a seven foot softie with horns.
Wordcount: 2890
Art for dremora boy can be found here
She knew summoning a dremora would be a really, really, really, catastrophically, suicidally, incomprehensibly dumb thing to do, but when a girl is at the end of her resources, running barefoot through two feet of snow, and has four warriors, one of them a spellsword, on her tail, what else is she to do?
Alys ducked behind a snow-spattered rock, chest heaving, sweat rolling down her spine despite the biting cold, and tried to rally her roiling magicka. There were rituals; there were particular substances needed to yank a dremora from the plane of Oblivion and have it not be feral on arrival; there were protocols you had to follow so you didn’t get torn apart by a seven foot tall, rampaging Daedric monster just for drawing them from one plane to another.
She had neither the time nor the resources for any of that, and began the incantation.
At least, she thought as she watched the swirling mass of congealing magicka rotate in front of her, at least when he takes me out, he’ll probably want to take them out as well. At least they won’t live to trouble anyone else.
In the centre of the crackling sphere of light, a looming shape began to form. Dark, glinting, Daedric armour adorned with spikes of blackened metal harder than the finest steel in Skyrim loomed in a perfect silhouette, and out of the purple cloud of magic, her dremora emerged.
Tall and hulking, with red and black skin and two slightly curved horns that jutted backwards out of his long black hair, and eyes that seemed as black as onyx, the dremora stared at her for a long moment. In his hands he carried a great sword that would have been too heavy for her to lift, let alone wield in combat, and she cowered back against the rock. The reality of what she had just done hit her and she cowered.
Dremora despised weakness, but this one tilted his head slightly, as though simply confused.
“Help me,” she sobbed, just as the sound of shouts came through the trees behind her. Her bare feet and legs were red and raw from exposure to the winter, and she was in danger of losing toes at the least if she didn’t warm up soon. “Please.”
In one swift motion, the dremora sank to one knee in the snow and bowed his head, sword point buried in the ground.
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