darkdemeter

[darkdemeter]

(Spoilers if you haven't watched so...) So, I just got into Agatha All Along a bit and now I had this little idea in my head: Death with male S/O who's like a witch that has lived for hundreds of years, similar to Agatha Harkness and Lady Death.

CHARMED TO MEET YOUR CENTURIES OLD ACQUAINTANCE Death x Male Witch!Reader ・2.1k words ・

Rumour has it that a witch hides in the Crimson Forests. A powerful sorcerer of dark magics that incites a threatening challenge to the balance. Poses hostility to humanity. Vile incubus, a heathen of malevolence. Scorned of name and renounced of belonging. Thus why you dwell in hiding. 

And the reaper comes for you, intending to do what he does best. Kill. 

So why did he not wander in through the leather flaps of your large tent, your humble abode, with his scythes drawn? Instead wearing a tightly bound drawstring bag to his belt that swung with each powerful stride he made. His sense of touch was muted yet it was felt as the flap brushed over his knuckles, hand raised to push his intrusion forward. In the subtle coziness of the tent a strong perfume hung in the air, smoked trails of incense wafted above like scented waterfalls. Despite his mask he was still suffocated from the smell. Lanterns were strung up and gave off a low ambient source that flickered to an unspeakable tandem. 

The  reaper found himself ducking beneath the bound herbs and accessories of beads, reed-grass dolls and bones tied to leather strips that hung from the wooden branches fashioned into support beams above, his stature inside the tent uncomfortably too big for the space. In the tent’s center a fire cracks and spits a flurry of embers that waft upward, the devourer of wood coughing up the ashen remnants like bones and fat not belonging to the stomach of its hearth. Above it a dark cauldron froths and bubbles with a swampy pigment, any form of appeal long since taken from the water. 

Not even Death would drink it. 

He continues to trace around the open space, skeptical to sharply turn and face the fleeting shadow he swore moved and followed him behind his back. A cunning and vile demon stalking him. 

“You look lost, Reaper.” Death spins with a jerked pivot on the soles of his worn, tattered boots, hand braced to his side and to Harvester’s hilt. You had not been standing at the entrance before. The lashes and skin around your eyes fold thinly, pointedly as if to press him with glaring study. But your lips twist into a coy, almost beguiling smile. “I’m awfully flattered if one of the Four deigns to grace me with his presence.”

“Perhaps it’s to bring your witchcraft to an end,” drawls the reaper. His answer makes you laugh, cynical. “Really now? And why, may I ask, the reason? I surely pose no threat reading one’s fate through the splinter of their offered mind.” 

You stalk closer and the ruffled cuffs of your robe trails behind you, its fabric doing less to conceal the sight of your chest. Around your neck hangs those same adornments of beads and bones, attached to thinly woven threads of leather, some fitting perfectly while others loosely extend down your sternum. 

Your hands reach out, the prickly nature of your short, sharp nails attempt to scratch at his mask with intrigue but Death recoils from you. He arches his face higher and out of reach to which your lips falter, forming into a displeased sneer. No fun. 

“That is what you came here for, is it not?” 

For a face so placid and made of bone, the reaper’s gaze is so… revealing. The transparent gloss of amber that hides the yellowish iris shrinks and the dark, purplish bruised skin wrinkled and furrowed release that tension of his well guarded glare. “You think too highly of your magic if you think my reason would to be here is—”

You wiggle your fingers with a musing motion and tut of your tongue, pointing down at the drawstring bag at his hip. “And yet… you bring the required offerings to know your future.”

A noise hitches in the Grim Reaper’s throat as his hand clenches tautly at the bag as though your very gaze on it will pry it from him, sealing himself into having his fortunes told… He was caught. His purpose was known. You give another powerful and rich laugh. 

“So what exactly do you seek to know in your future, Pale Rider?” 

Around the fire, you each slowly circle the pit, your shadows dancing upon the tent’s canvas like an ancient story being foretold through their sauntering waver, loosely camouflaged in the dimmer portions of the light and accentuated in the brighter tones. 

He unties the sack from his belt and drops it to the mat placed before the cauldron with a heavy, rumpled thump of the cloth being pummeled by its contents. 

His eyes, however, remain locked on you. Transfixed. “Is that answer mandatory?” 

“Do you doubt your future?”

“No.” His answer came far too quickly to be valued as anything other than urgency. “And yet you hide something from me. Even now.”

His eyes thin more into a pointed glare. “Not everything is yours to know.” 

You each stop in tandem with the other and your hands clasp together in front of your sternum. Your head moving to tilt slowly aside and the trick of the light captures a sight most horrifying for a human to wear. Golden eyes, fearsome hues of hellfire with obsidian slits. But then it vanishes just as quickly as he’d seen it. 

“But my lord does,” you coo with a scoff lurching in your lungs, lips pursed coyly. He states factually with an air of skepticism, “You work beneath the demon lord, Samael.”

Your fingers gently rap the contour of your palm with a slow, beating clap. “Bravo. You’re a clever one.” 

“And what do you get out of that arrangement?” He had reason to speculate that the font of your power stemmed from Samael. That the lord bestowed upon you some essence of his power so long as you conducted duty under his whim. You both continue to circle around the fire and you feign a grasp at your chest, wounded by his intrusive question. As if you’d ever tell… 

“A witch does not kiss and tell, rider. But I wonder…” Your chin tilts higher and your finger flirtatiously points, bowing in indication to him. “Has anyone ever kissed you?” 

Somehow you’ve drawn closer to him now and he doesn’t know how. Like a dance, you arch forward and he bends back, reluctant to allow you to touch him and toying with reckless abandon, you hand flitters and hovers over the bust of his wide chest. But ever by the caress of your fingers that manage to run over his skin, you are poisoned by a chill that shrouds him like a cloak. The longer you would have held there, that cold would spread through the length of your fingers and into your palms like venom taking over. 

“So the tales are true,” you sigh under your breath, “Colder than the grave. Not even ash and soot want nothing to do with you.” 

Death studies the twitch of a smirk that spreads through your lips and a silent chuckle emanating from your shoulders, your very touch haunts the place on his chest where that sensation lingers. “Come.” 

You beckon the rider to sit before the fire and though reluctant given the hesitant shift of his boots that stomp and shuffle about, your eyes watch him like a keen feline, a thousand secrets within your piercing gaze. A million answers no mortal should be capable of knowing. 

You sit on the mat and take hold of the sack he dropped there, retrieving from it the offerings. 

“Wonderful,” you hum in an unknown tongue. It’s one that scratches at the back of his mind like a feverish itch. Though the bag remains unopened you can sense the presence of the offerings as though they call to you and that is enough to suffice. Death’s body coils back when you rise to your feet, perhaps concerned that you would pounce into his lap, but you walk towards your altar and retrieve a large, milk-clouded orb. A leviathan’s eye and bring it back to where you both sit at the fire. 

Upon a chant in that same, unknown language the fire grows cold and black, embers of a dullened blue fluttering up as you place the eye into the flames. The dark gradient of your fingertips becomes a blur to his eyes, almost falling into a state of hypnosis. “Look into the eye, Pale Rider. Open up that sliver within your soul… and let the future’s vision intrude.” 

The moment your hands lifted away, Death was pulled into the vision through a blinding light that made his eyes physically wince and shut almost completely. 

He stands atop a platform with a swirling current beneath him in the depths, energies that soar in a churning well. He feels himself fall, the wind tousling his hair and against his naked face, his mask no longer one with him, a calming serene comes over him but through it, he continues to fall as he’s then consumed by hot, molten fire. The force of impact fractures the world around him as he lands amidst the Kingdom of Man. 

Death shoves his weight back, catching himself abruptly by the skin of his bandaged and braced hands with a hiss and his chest rises and falls quickly. The third kingdom. Did he… gaze into the future of the apocalypse?

“I trust you will not say what it is you saw,” you say, languidly grasping the leviathan’s eye and the moment the orb is plucked from the swirl of flames, they flourish with that bright yellow and orange, painting the tent with its warm colour once more. The reaper watches you silently return the eye to its place at the altar and then face him, your eyes narrowed slightly but your smirk still ever present. 

“What… did you do to me?” he growls only for you to raise a hand. “I did nothing. I merely… hold the door open for the future and present to meet.” 

Death pushes himself to his feet and takes hold of his scythes the moment you take another advancing step towards him. “Don’t you dare come any closer, witch!”

Your lips purse into an ‘o’ shape. “Ooh, that’s a new one,” you scoff. The raised threat of his blade that’s poised directly at you is one you show the absence of fear for. Not a single, weary flinch of your body nor casted glance. 

How were you so calm in the presence of Death? 

“What are you?” 

“I am many things.” Your hand coasts down the middle of your ever revealing sternum, only pausing at the fabric of your belt that wraps around your waist. You cock a teasing brow at the reaper when you notice how his eyes follow your hands. “Some… which you are not ready to know.”

You hum a soft tune, a long-since gone lullaby robbed from you the day they burned your family on those pyres. You chuckle and tickle your fingers, wriggling them along the blade’s edge, creeping closer to him. “You’re cute when you’re scared, Reaper.”

Death’s eyes widened and that translucent layer that hides a faint pupil shrinks. His body falls back and under the poison of your magic, his hands go numb. He’s powerless as the scythes in his hands drop to his side and his body falls back suddenly on a pile of pooled blankets and cushions, teleported to another space of the tent within the blink of an eye. You lower yourself to straddle his lap. The drapes of your robes fall loosely down your shoulders, revealing the bareness of your skin and chest further. Death squints his eyes at you, warning you. 

“Samael has told me many things about you, Pale Rider. And I must say… you have my intimate intrigue,” you purr lowly. You raise your hand to once again rake your nails down the mouthless shell of his mask and he hisses, jerking his head away from you. “I’ve always wondered what’s under there~” 

“And you never will,” he seethes. Death grabs hold of your wrists and you cutely gasp before he flips you over and stands up from the pile. You coo and pout after him as he walks away. Death storms out of the tent, shoving aside the flaps with an angered ruffled that almost tears them down but he is chased after by the whistle of your words, even as he mounts Despair and rides off into the realm, through the Crimson Forest. 

“I’ll be seeing you around in a century or two, Horseman. Of that… my master promises.”

Your dark magic knows no bounds truly. And you find yourself eager to supplant yourself as his new haunter now that, unknown to him, he has an open wound in which you can manifest. You’ll be making yourself very well acquainted with the Horseman soon enough.

[darkdemeter]

Fem Child Reader Fluff! After Mammon’s fight, S/O sneaks to grab the golden toy horse for Strife. She wonders what to do for War and gets a small bag of gems and gold. She tries giving the items to the Horsemen. Strife is ecstatic and War refuses. S/O talks to Vulgrim what to give to War as a gift and he suggests giving the bag to him in exchange for a free upgrade to War’s powers. While sweet S/O is asleep, Strife and War go to upgrade their gear and War’s surprised by the free upgrade.

GUIDE HER WAY HOME SIDE ADVENTURE: GOLDEN TREASURES (platonic) War and Strife x Female Child Reader ・1.7k words ・

You have never seen so much sparkles in your life before. Mammon’s hoard of golds and treasures beyond any imagination encapsulated you with wonder. The coins your small hands would brush against slip and rattle with a gilded crinkle that rattled like those snakes with the shakies on their tail ends. 

A platter was so shiny and clear you could make out your reflection and whilst your noble guardians talk with one another regarding what to do with the hoard, you giggle at the bulbous form in which your reflection took. Your eyes were boggly and your head warped this way and that, poking your tongue out you blow a teasing raspberry. 

“Tch, leave it,” War says as he strolls past you, his steps formed strong and resistant against the treasures that try to draw his attention. He was above it. No price or weight of gold could betray his honour. Your gaze lingers on him for a moment. Strife kneels down not to far from you, his hands grasp at the gold, nursing the shiny baubles in his palms. 

“Samael knows about this place now,” he says, “there’s probably enough here to rebuild his army ten times over. We’re good with that?”

By the way War’s gaze sears a penetrative lock onto Strife and his incessant probing and questioning, he tsks under his breath again and Strife relents. You watch, padding along behind them to hurry after them. War did not want the gold? But… couldn’t they use the glittery coins to buy things from Vulgrim? Strife stands up with an almost airy weightlessness to his motion, yet powerful all the same. 

“Okay, fine. Let’s go. But I’m taking this souvenir.” 

The horse souvenir that Strife had eyed the moment he caught it when Mammon was flinging treasures at them, attempting to buy his life with the trinkets, is proudly displayed in his hand before War’s hand jerks up. He knocks it from Strife’s hand and your eyes grow wide, watching the way it flies into the air only to fall with a harsh clatter into a pile of coins. 

Now that was just mean! You pout and immediately rush towards the horse, your hands fiddling over it in your own study. It looked like a toy. Strife must really like it and so, as their shadows wander through the opened doorway, silhouette in a blackness orbited by an imposing red of the light, you take hold of the golden horse. 

You won’t let the Horsemen leave empty handed. And so you quickly locate a sack and begin to use your arms to sweep as many coins and gems into the bag until it is so full you heaved and grunted as you pushed it up, tying the strings tightly so not a single jewel or gold piece fell out. 

“Little one,” War’s voice booms loudly and you jump, flinching as though you were caught sneaking out of your cot past your bedtime. You spin to face the Horsemen who stare down at you, their forms a powerful presence and tall. “What are you doing? We don’t need the gold.” 

You begin to babble your reasoning as you point at the sack, patting your hand on it. “You don’t?”

War shake’s his head. “Or that.” War’s single, large finger points at the golden horse tucked under your arm only barely. You shift uneasily on your own two feet from trying to support it. “But uh… mmm…” An embarrassed heat floods your cheeks and you use both arms to hold up the toy, a noise hitched in your throat like an eager giggle. Bouncing on the toed boots of your feet, you hold up the toy for Strife. 

“Strwife wants it!”

Strife’s gaze softens visibly through his helm. “Aww!” Strife accepted the horse from you with a bow of his head in thanks much to the disdain of War’s pressing glare. Strife, now hyper fixated on his precious toy, War has to be the voice of reason. 

Your name falls from his lips with a sigh and you fear you’ve upset him terribly this time. War is now at your level, the bulk of his body compressed in around himself. He peeks at you through the shadow of his hood. Your tiny lips form into a pout and your eyes threaten to well with tears. “It is kind of you, but we have no need for this… any of this. It is… materialistic.”

“Huh?” Your head curiously tilts to its side axis. “Mat… matweelistwic?”

War’s ashen brow eases at the adorable tone of your attempt to say that word. Of course you didn’t know how to articulate such a word, nor understand its deeper meaning. He offered you a faint twitch of his mouth, a small and warm smile and he nodded. 

“It is… complicated to explain. But what I mean to say is that…” Hm, how could he put it so simply in the form a child could understand? 

As much as Strife adored to have his precious golden horse toy, his brother needed a little help. Strife kneels before you as well, coming to your level. 

His taloned thumb caressed the apple of your cheek and just below your eye, rubbing away a smudge of grime. “What he’s trying to say is that… have you ever wanted something, maybe a toy just like this one, but your mother and father said you couldn’t have it because you did not need it?”

You slowly nod your head, trying so hard to understand the lesson being taught. “And so, if you were given that toy regardless of not needing it, that is materialism. Needless items in your possession. Toys and objects without meaning… purpose.” 

“I… I think I understwand.” War gives a stern nod of his head with a huff. They got that matter cleared up. His armour shifted and clattered as he stood up, the leathers twisting with coiled winding from the press and release of weight around them. “Now, come along now.” 

“But… can we keep the toy and trweasures? Please?”

War and Strife both continue to stare down at you. You were adamant. War doesn’t answer your question exactly, merely sighing again and turning away to walk out of the hoard room. With a scoff and roll of his eyes, Strife turns to you and with a simple gesture, encourages you to leap into his arm. You clutch hold of him and crawl up, snuggled there and your hands grip hold of his scarf as he then slings your collected treasures. 

“Thank you for the horse toy. I really appreciate it,” Strife says as he walks out with you. That sentiment alone is enough to have you beaming and shyly twisting your head away from him, hiding your face in the bundle of his scarf, causing the rider to chuckle. 

The Horsemen return to Samael to report their work to him and in that window of time, you decide that a certain warrior needs upgrades. “Vulgim? Vulgim,” you call out to him. The familiar jingle of chains rattling together in dark symphonies and the fluttering rustle of fabric. 

The smoke beneath him puffed out with a majestic cloud. 

“Childling,” Vulgrim greets with a coiled, intrigued sneer. His voice tried to match that same pitch as yours and it makes you grin, giggling. “I want to buy something for Wawr but… he don’t want anything. What can I get him?”

Vulgrim had already laid his eyes on the mysterious sack which laid off the side, its shape plumply round and he couldn’t deny the chinking of gold and jewels he heard from it when Strife carried it in. But he feigned to contemplate what you could buy for the red rider, tapping his taloned claws to the horn of his chin for a moment before slyly alluding to, “Well… I could take that gold off your hands and in turn, I could grant War some special upgrades the next time he sees me.” 

“Okey!” You agree suddenly and quickly with a nod. Vulgrim is almost astounded by your eagerness to accept. You must really want War to have some upgrades.

Dis kept you safe and comfortable in a makeshift nest of sorts, a bundle of blankets and fabrics that swaddled you, formed into a cushioned spot for you to sleep. Meanwhile he added the odd mixture into her bubbling cauldron. Your softly laced coos an ambience that both riders are inclined to hear constantly, for losing that sound for even a second will set them off into a panic.

“And here we are, Horsemen. Your upgrades,” Vulgrim says, tossing down the metal, diamond framed plates that harbour the energies that increase their powers, minus all the extra baubles they purchased. 

But as War moved to pay the demon who practically salivated at the deliciousness of souls War was about to offer, hands trembling in his hunger, he instead rattled his hands to shake in refusal. 

“No, no, Horseman. You’re upgrade is free.”

“What?” War almost sputtered and Strife’s head spun on a swivel, ducking back and forth between his brother and Vulgrim. “W-wait, wait— he gets a free upgrade?”

“You have the child to thank for that. A hefty pouch of gold, and exquisite gems that will fetch a fine price to other buyers.”

War and Strife looked to each other before they gaze equally turned to see you, happily asleep and wrapped up in the confines of those blankets, sleeping soundly and safe as Dis took watch over you. Occasionally her hand ghosts over your face, brushing aside some hair that fell into your nose and tickled your nose, causing your face to scrunch and eyes try to peer open, stirring. 

Your heart was… pure in your intention. It was by no design that you coveted treasures and hoards of your own back in your own world. War saw it in your eyes when you nodded slowly when Strife explained that example. 

You knew nothing of greed. It was not materialism in your heart. You only thought about the wants and needs of others. Golden treasures that could easily sway the most noble of minds could not touch you, not affect you.

Your kindness in turn was the only treasure the Horsemen found true worth in.

[darkdemeter]

Strife: *after killing a difficult demon* Goddamnit, that fucking thot! Child Reader: What’s a thot? Strife: *panics* Oh, uh…it means a really thoughtful person! Child: Ok! *Later, after Death gives her a gift* Thank you, Death! You’re such a thot! War: 😨Fury: 🤣Strife: 🤣😅😱 WAIT WAIT DEATH! I CAN EXPLAIN-

Strife! We talked about this in the last post! (sigh) At least he tried... How many brutal matches of beating up Strife does it take to get our spiky haired boy to listen?

[darkdemeter]

Strife: FUCK! *Realizes that Child Reader was nearby and heard everything.* 😨*grabs her by the shoulders gently* Listen. You didn’t hear anything, alright? Child Reader: 😊Okay! …Strife, what’s fu- Strife: NO. *Later, while resting* Child Reader: *turns to Death* Death, what’s fuck? Strife: 😱 Death: *simply stares at Child* Strife: *tries sneaking away* Death: *continues to stare at Child and grabs at Strife’s scarf without looking* Strife: 😵😵😵😵😵

Aw Strife, you're in trouble... Strife learns pretty quickly to watch his mouth after this. That scarf grab means the reaper is pissed.

[darkdemeter]

Death: *Meeting Child S/O first time* Strife! War! What are you thinking?! We can’t take care of a human child! Return her back to her parents and- (Sometime later) I’ve only known her for less than a day and if anything happened, I’ll kill everyone in this room, Strife first, and then myself.

Yup! Once Death gets attached, he is rather quick to lay down some new ground rules. Reader is a cute little sister. Strife: WHAT?!

[darkdemeter]

I actually wonder what would happen if Child S/O inhabited a different Eikon? Besides Leviathan, I could see her potentially being the Dominant of Phoenix, Bahamut, or Garuda. Phoenix because of their healing properties and S/O’s kind heart, Bahamut due to their light elemental and how S/O has a strong amount of pure aura and more pure than the racist “corruption” angels have on humans, or Garuda bc the wind element could be winds of freedom for the Horsemen for a new peaceful life.

I'd like to think that child reader would be the Dominant of Phoenix? I just find it much more suited for her character out of all of them

[darkdemeter]

Did you know there’s a theory that Eikons’ eye color changes based on who’s in control? When orange, the Eikon itself takes control and is feral, but when they’re blue, the Dominant is in control? During the Leviathan fight against Moloch, I could imagine Leviathan itself taking control most of the time while a slight flicker of blue eyes indicated Child S/O took control for a brief second to protect War and Strife.

I was not actually aware of that theory... huh. Interesting.

[darkdemeter]

Inbox is open to requests!

NOTICE: Requests will be closing on the 29th of Dec 2024, so if you want a written issue request put it in now. It's currently unknown when requests for issues will be accepted again after the 1st because I want to begin focusing on art related and personal projects.

[darkdemeter]

@scarletknightreterns don’t forget the rubber skull Duckie! *squeak squeak*

giving him a bath

[darkdemeter]

STRIIIIIFEY!!!

Oh I am BLESSED by this post, I wanna cuddle Strife so bad 😭😭😭

Strife never not being on guard until he meets you and you show him all the things humans do to relax.

Strife learning slowly what cozy is, and being unable to resist the calm tranquility you can instil with just a few, fluffy blankets and the low light of your television murmuring in the background, running cooking shows as you potter about in your kitchenette.

Strife getting drunk on your specific brand of comfort, having been starved of any compassion for millennia. He finds himself coming to you more and more between missions, finding you half asleep on your sofa with your back against the arm and a blanket over your lap. He’s too big to fit on the furniture, but that doesn’t stop him from falling onto it anyway, the wood sagging and groaning in complaint as he wriggles himself under the blanket and crawls up between your legs until his head pops out right in front of yours, and you greet him with a bemused, “Good evening, Strife.”

His voice is rough and deep when he offers a soft, “Hey,” then retreats under the blanket once more and flops his head down onto your stomach, heaving an almighty sigh.

It’s the closest thing to drowsy he’ll ever be; pinning you to the sofa and breathing in the heady scent of you whilst you sigh fondly and reach inside his hiding place to drag your fingernails across his scalp.

Strife who grumbles throatily if you try to scooch away from him. He wraps his powerful arms around your thighs and tugs you back down to let the cheek of his mask sink into your belly again.

You always joke, ‘can you even breathe in there?’ And Strife always responds by nuzzling into your shirt, his massive shoulders rising and falling as he takes the deepest breath yet, relishing the startled laugh he pushes out of you.

[darkdemeter]

So this was something I put up in the Darksiders discord and thought I'd share a bit of it with you guys here. I'm doing a bit of cooking here: I'm thinking of reworking this concept from another fandom I was doing it for and instead make it a Darksiders villainous au. Cause who doesn't want the four in their Nephilim/villain era? haha. I'm still tinkering with the story a bit but I'm kind of thinking it's a bit of a fantastical roman empire/Olympus aesthetic? But the story takes place that the Nephilim lost the war of Eden so the humans (which are more like gods and goddesses) and the four did not become the Horsemen.

In the temple guarded by her majesty’s moonlight, you slumber soundly. The woods creak and moan with the open breeze sweeping through the pine canopy, pillars of pearly stone shimmer and shine under the powerful, pale rays of night. 

Moon and Mother watch over you, her sleeping beauty of this world, a much beloved child she sees fit to only be graced with happiness and never be touched by pain or corruption.

In conjunction, there is darkness to match the light, at times to best it. A devouring and ravenous beast, its villain counterpart that takes the name of Wolf. A tarnished variant of a moniker now since taken. Stolen from him. 

____ had always envied the silver queen. Renowned as a stature of grace and love, adored by her worshippers. Where her temples were treasured and praised with gifted offerings left at the foot of her divine pedestal, his temples resided in caves marked in voided pockets of emptiness. Outcast priests vying for his audience perform rites of ancient black magics and light candles to illuminate the obsidian ruins of his long-desolated empire. 

There is only one thing he seeks to see the queen become unraveled, to see her poise stumble and watch the creed of her pious nation fall as his own did. 

To gain the upper hand in this battle where middleground shades fade in the blur between. And how would he achieve this? Why, by invoking you through your dreams like he always does, a sanctum that hides and resides a power he can do as he pleases with. How he can craft the most wicked of nightmares from the purest of dreams — and yours cause a delicious hunger to burn him from within, his cock strained in the confines of his loins as he devises and desires.

Now, he moves between the marble pillars as a swift shadow momentarily passing over you. He invades the sanctity of your bedchambers located in a tower cast high towards the heavens. Your body is the focal point of a picturesque landscape, the widely cushioned bed draped in a balanced hue of darkened silvers that glow and pulsate in the moonlight, the almost transparent adornment of your white dress serves as little protection for your modesty from his wandering eyes. He pulls you with masterful ease of a puppet on his strings through the fabrication of your dream, leisurely he stalks forward. He twists and turns your slumbering reality into his darkest vision. A fantasy all his own. One that you cannot deny. 

Released from your lungs is a sigh on your whispered breath and ____ feels himself stir, the bulge of his aroused cock making itself evident as his hands, clawed with adept knives of a hunter, move with a minstrel’s lead to a rhythm that strokes you with a phantom touch.

Your legs shift and rub together, your hips moving to rotate in a slow grind upon nothing, much to the disappointed whine you make in your sleep. Dreams of innocent tender are defiled by the honey of temptation. You whimper softly, growing restless as your body becomes infected with this need that pools a moistened glaze between your thighs, clenching them tightly together. 

His fingers flick with a snaking tsk of his tongue, summoning his power to ensnare you further and driving your legs to part under his will. Like an angelic cord plucked within your throat, you gasp and the pinkish bow of his lips pinch open, mouth dry in his desire for you. You beg for this impurity to stop, to release you. ____ does not let you go, he refutes your internal denial, lusting for what comes after: your inevitable acceptance. Your submittance to his divinity that shall wrack you most uncontrollably.

The high and revealing slits that part your dress open so intimately at the thighs move in thinned fannings across your skin with tantalising display, hiding you from him. In your dreams, you answer to a voice steeped in mystery that calls your name. In the labyrinth of the dark woods, you are lost and only he can serve as your guide. He has broken in your shyness, a coy game that earns your compliance. 

From the mists, he offers you an inviting grasp with claws that promise to harm your skin with the most sensual scars and callous palms that speak of undeniable pleasures to caress, hold and strangle you.

[darkdemeter]

SERVER UP!

A serpent hole has opened up on the blog...

I'm happy to announce that it's here: IVHorsemen Studios, a discord server dedicated to Darksiders content and its community members, is OPEN! The server is in a form of debut mode and there will be more stuff coming in the Version 1.1 update which I will have notes up about on the server's webpage and in the discord too so you guys can get an idea of what's to come. I'm so excited to meet all of you!!

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[darkdemeter]

Child Reader Fluff Crossover Darksiders/FF16 AU! What if S/O is the new Eikon of Leviathan, most known as Leviathan the Lost? And yes, I actually have seen the Rising Tide DLC, but this is just a What If AU. Anyway, S/O still originally came from the Earth version of Darksiders, but her Leviathan Eikon ancestor must have traveled from the FF16 Dimension and lived peacefully in the Darksiders Dimension, their descendants never once awakening the power...until now. What if she had awakened the power for the first time against Moloch? Like War and Strife were down and gravelly injured and S/O tried to save them with Potions and everything she can and Moloch spots her and is about to tear her apart while Strife and War watch in fear and rage, ready to force Anarchy and Chaos to come. Before Samael could step in, S/O, out of fear and wanting to protect War and Strife, transforms and is completely out of control with her water powers, damaging Moloch but obliterating the rest of his army and turning a lot of Hell into a steam bath. Despite being out of control, one thing she never let go was her desire to protect War and Strife, curling around near them to not let harm. In the end, after Samuel finishes off Moloch, S/O returns to normal after gentle coaxing from War and Strife, but is exhausted and deeply asleep and doesn't remember anything. Vulgrim and Samael examine her soul more closely and discovers a terrifying power hidden. Strife and War knew they can't return her back home just yet now.

・What If issue: Secrets Of The Deep・ GUIDE HER WAY HOME

⚤ (Platonic!) Strife and War x Female Child!Reader Depictions of violence and blood, angst ✎ 2.5k

✎ So this was originally going to be a comic, but then I changed my mind cause… *looks at script* my art isn’t there just yet. So yeah!

↳ MASTERLIST ・ ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

Deep in the dynasty of your family tree, there is a secret. A well kept and preserved one. It was to remain as such because of its potential to be used in the sway of Heaven and Hell.

Elrikka, the long since past matriarch on your mother's side, fled from her world when they came after her. The Empire. More so they were after what she was. The Eikon of Leviathan. Through the ripple of the void between worlds, she came to this one. Only then, was she and her babe safe. 

Each first born child carried the mantle to inherit the Eikon when their time is right and their predecessor returned to essence. But by generation, the secret was lost to the depths of the dynasty. Leviathan once again became The Lost in the bloodline you carry on…

“It’s a pity, Horsemen. I was expecting so much more.” 

“K—geugh!” A grunt muffled but the spittle of blood is forced from Strife as his chest is kicked into, pinned beneath Moloch’s foot. 

Strife’s unarmed hand clutches hold of his ankle to no avail. Any attempt he made to dislodge the master’s weight atop him was met by a sharpened talon embedding itself into his shoulder and ripping into his chest. 

“For a privileged pack of wolves meant to be feared… you’re just mutts chained in a yard.” Moloch’s words breath hard that the stench of his rotten breath causes Strife’s nose to recoil into a wrinkled sneer. 

Moloch only pushed his taloned feet deeper, earning a sharper, higher pitched whine from Strife as his body contorts, straining under the duress. Redemption right at his fingertips. 

Moloch’s grizzled mouth twists and spirals into a mangled, off centered grin capable of making any stomach churn. “What’s wrong, Horseman? No witty comeback?” 

“I–I’m gonna— Keugh!” Strife’s cut off by the vulgar slam of Moloch’s hand wrenching hold of his head, clasped hold of him as if he were already a skull to be admired in the palm of the master’s hand. 

“Save your breath,” Moloch tuts, “don’t bother making threats you can’t keep. You’re already dead… I’m just enjoying making it last.”

War’s body staggers in his attempt to even rise to his knees, elbows shuddering under the weight he intends to holster in his shoulders. His blood spills from his torso like sore splutters of a volcano ready to erupt, oozing and spaying out into a pooling heap around him until his armor is stained. 

Through the gaze of his blurred vision, terrible bruising and cuts sustained from the battle make it hard to see Strife’s predicament. It makes it harder to reach his brother. His hand reaches out only for his body to stagger and falter forward with a heaved grunt far too much of a burden for his lungs to carry. 

His sword… right there, Chaoseater lays before him in the dirt and mingle of its wielder’s blood, tasting it. He can taste the bile of it in the back of his throat, coughing until it coats over his tongue and tickles down his chin. 

“St–Strife…” War wheezes out just as he falls forward. His chest expands with a violent fit of coughing and then… he sees you. The last potion and you’re caught between who to give it to. It would be wise to give it to War. But it was in your best interest to get out of there. War sees that through your fear of what you see, your heroes brought to their knees, you’ve the look of determination to reach him. To give him the healing potion he needs to recover and save Strife. 

His very brother’s life weighs in the balance. His life does. 

But so does yours if Moloch sees you. 

War’s cowled head droops, shaking adamantly the moment you make to run to him. His eyes plead for you to run. 

You have to run. 

“L-little one…” War whispers, the verse of his plea dying into the wind. “Go…” 

Your bottom lip screws tightly inward into that pout and War knows far too well what it means. Your eyes glazed with a fat streamline of tears, you push through it with a huff and you run to him, the bottle you carry slowing you down considerably given that it’s practically the same size as you. But you heed not to the danger of Moloch. You cannot bear to see your heroes falter.

To see your older brothers defeated.

“B-baby! No!” Strife yelled out, his hand that was still tugging at Moloch’s leg to pry him off reached out for you to the point his fingers clawed the air in their strain to get to you. 

Moloch’s gaze was drawn to you. “Ah, a lamb to the slaughter. How fitting.”

The grotesque nature of his face marked by that ominousness that only a demon of his class was capable of. It makes both War and Strife’s stomachs churn. 

And as his newly acquired prey, with no Horsemen to protect you, he pounced. 

Anarchy and Chaos are at the end of their tethers, willing to be unleashed as Moloch’s shadow overtakes you. The force of his landing sends the dust against you, whipping you viciously and knocking you back. You clutch tightly to the healing potion and you land with a contorted jolt. Your arm stings and the fabric of your sleeve is torn, ripped into by the sharpened narrow of Moloch’s claws. Your mitten hand dabs at the wound and hiss.

That momentarily fleet of pain spurs within you the courage you need. For so long your Horsemen have been the ones to protect you. When you were the one to get knocked down, they lifted you back up. When a thousand swords rose against you, they were the first and only ones to shield you. No matter the blood and bruises, there was always a calm campfire, a warm supper to fill your belly and a bandage to assure you that you would never go without aid. 

It was your turn now to save them. Now more than ever, they needed you to shield them from the swords, to provide the bandages and assurance of safety. 

“Don’t you dare touch her!” War growls as he pushes himself up onto one knee, hand just curling around his blade’s hilt when Moloch beats him do it. 

No other being or creature could lift that blade other than the red rider. So Moloch got creative. He used whatever strength War had to his advantage and pivoted his own blade against him. Through his back, Chaoseater divided through flesh and bone until it breached the other side covered in a slickened layer of blood and embedded itself into the ground; pinning War to his knees.

Moloch moved in a dance of carnage with the symphony of pain he wrought. The agony reflected in your eyes and highlighted by the fire, that illumination of fear… of despair… It's empowering. 

Strife’s hand raised Redemption’s barrel with a wincing eye squeezed shut to take aim at Moloch’s head. Just one shot. That’s all he needed but the tension in his arm made his aim quiver, unfocused. 

“I won’t have you spoiling the fun now.” Moloch swung his body around and with ceremonious exalt, his tapering garb flowing around him, he spears his sword at Strife and its blade shatters the Horseman’s last resolve by striking him in the shoulder. 

Redemption is knocked from his hand with a curse yelled to the heavens. “I’ll fucking kill you, Moloch!”

How endearing it was to make petty, empty threats from his position. “Don’t be so hasty, Horseman. I want to revel in the pure, raw anguish in your failure to protect your little ward as I tear her apart.”

Moloch’s head turns slowly to look at you, followed by the pursuit of his shoulders and his body. He stalks towards you now and your eyes meet the blare of devilish depravity. Of cunning evil. 

“Sometimes… The heroes die in the end. And I like stories that have a tragic ending.”

“Baby!”

“Little one, run!”

So many voices from around you call out to you. Deep within a voice beckons you. Summons you to heed a call. That voice deep within calls your name but it is one you have never heard before. It sounds… familiar and yet, its cadence is not of your mother or grandmother. But she sounds… familial. 

“Leviathan… awaken.”

The current of that phantom winds manifests into something visible and very much powerful. Like a storm that envelops around you, Moloch is sent flying back before Samael could intervene to come to your aid. 

The master slides and skids to a halt as he drags his claws deep into the ground and his visage twisted into a scowl. You dare rebuke him with such… pathetic, mortal sorcery? 

But he is cruelly mistaken. For it is not sorcery you harness before his very eyes. Something ancient, mystical and unseen before. A power unknown takes possession of you, your body its vessel to be unleashed. Your eyes burn with a brightened luminescence of pale blue that spreads about your body in twirling, spiraling tendrils as you’re covered by a breach of water that materialises from nothingness. 

“Stop… don’t hurt… my bwrothers!”

The column of water becomes a tsunami around you, pouring and flooding as the creature before their very eyes is no longer a child… but the scaled body of a leviathan. But not one they are familiar with. The body is much too lithe and the head is shaped differently, the large, fanged maw revealing hundred upon hundred of teeth is billed with a sharply pointed horn akin to a spear. Closer to the head and neck is a crown of fins and whiskered appendages. 

It all happens far too quickly to recognise what it is you’re doing. You’re not… you’re not the one in control. You are merely a spectator in your own soul, a body trapped in the engine of the depths. The vessel given over to Leviathan the Lost. Awakened. 

Crashing waves are sent throughout the field, washing away any who are incapable to battle a tsunami and Moloch among his army. But unlike them, he manages to breach the surface and survive the storm of water, the oceanic scene that swallows his kingdom hole in the bowels of your own making. Out of the one and pure instinct to protect Strife and War, Leviathan huddles them in, forming a protective bubble to cover them as a dome. 

The spectacle around them. The mesmer of water crashing over the dome’s surface, unrelenting to wash away all doings of evil outside. Samael had sought higher ground and watches, eyes aflame with renewed fascination. You hid your secret well… if you even knew of its existence prior. But the way the leviathan acted of its own accord, lost to the temper of the oceanic storm within its heart, he doubted that very much. 

You were just a passenger in the creature’s form. 

By the time Strife and War manage to recover their strength, they find Moloch, lashed by the crushing waves. War swings high and just as Moloch had done to him, he drives the master’s own sword through his chest. Moloch heaves a wheezed grunt as his blood pools around him, washed away by the lapping puddles of water and each breath he tastes is laboured. War’s grip on the blade’s hilt grows intensely, easing the blade to rub and push against any internal organs or to further mince his flesh. 

But the sudden turn of smugness of Moloch’s death gives cause for concern. 

“You played right into his hands, Horsemen.”

Strife pushes Redemption’s barrel right to Moloch’s brow, eyes narrowed into a golden glare. “Don’t bother making threats you can’t keep, Moloch.”

“I tire of demons and their threats,” adds War with a growl. 

“There are no more threats to make…” For his demise was nothing more than the ultimate power play. And Moloch’s warning to the Horsemen about the company they keep was met by a brutal finish by Samael. His weight promptly crushing Moloch’s skull just as he tempered War and Strife with the prodding mystery of the Animus. 

“That demon would not shut up.”

“Yeah… who knows what he might have said next. I think you do, Samael.”

“What is the Animus? What are you hiding—”

“Horsemen!” Samael barks and his gaze drifts upward. Strife and War do the same to find Leviathan… draped and tired out, resting yet still in the prime of releasing more tyrannical waves should you be provoked. 

“Baby…” Strife slowly approaches and your head sharply turns to face him. “You remember us. Strife, War… we wanna take you back with us. You’re okay, Moloch’s gone now… he’s not going to hurt us.”

“Come back to us, little one.” War’s words are softly laced and that tiredness releases Leviathan’s hold on you. The body dissipates into a glittering nebula of turquoise and blues, your body slowly drifting downward until you land in Strife’s arms. 

“She’s exhausted,” he says to her brother who fixes some strands of your hair behind your ear. You cuddle into Strife’s chest, cheek pushed against him as your breaths come and go heavily and slowly. 

“Through the portal, Horsemen. It would be best to get her to Vulgrim and I suppose… you are owed the truth.” 

You lay swaddled in blankets and your head plushly laid against a pillow. Under the watchful eyes of Dis, Vulgrim assesses you with careful evaluation, sensing the now revealed and raw power you hold within. 

“Interesting… most interesting,” he would hum between pauses of silence and hum thoughtfully to himself. 

Strife paced back and forth as War sat himself against the formation of stone, waiting as patiently as he could for a behemoth about to implode into literal Chaos. 

“Is she okay, Vulgrim? What’s going on with her?” Strife asks once again for perhaps the millionth time in the span of an hour. 

“Hush!” Vulgrim raises a hand and with a tilt of his head, he then turns to face the Horsemen. “She will recover, although that may take some time. A few hours at most. The power she contains is… most curious. It’s a power that does not exist in our universe.”

Strife asks as he crosses his arms, “So then… how could she have gotten it?”

Samael waves a hand over you and within a matter of seconds, his omniscience senses the mystery behind this power of yours. “Leviathan the Lost.”

“Who?” Dis drawls, voice low and audibly with her skepticism.  

“The Eikon of water. He has been lost for some time… it would appear that an ancestor of hers was also the bearer of his power before she must have fled here… to our world.”

“She? Wait, wait— what is this whole mambo-jumbo shit? I don’t get it— what is going on with our girl, Samael?!” Strife’ own patience was wearing thin at this point. No longer did he care for the pester of his wounds and healing bruises even if a certain jerk of his body meant he was almost keening over. 

“The ancestor was female. As have the others who carried the Eikon's legacy. But I sense that some time ago, it went dormant. Until now…”

“What does this mean for her?” 

Samael hums with a gravelly tone. “She can’t go home just yet.”

[darkdemeter]

Yo I am HYPED ABOUT THIS SHIP LET'SSSSSSSSS GOOOOOOO!!!

Araluc!

Who are they?

ARALUC!!!

She should be shorter then him even still, but maybe she is standing on some steps XD Had to draw him somehow, and NO WAY was I gonna struggle for a century on the ARMOUR Lucien wears. NO way. I will design some casual stuff for him later on ^^

[darkdemeter]

yes..... YESSSSSSS! GLORIOUS!

I might tweak his markings a bit, not fully pleased with them, but I am happy with how my version of Archon Lucien turned out :D Golden boi-- his hair is gold and shiny :D

[darkdemeter]

So, requests are closed until all other requests are fulfilled?

When I have a good amount of them done and put into the drafts, requests will then reopen.

And requests will be opening up again soon!

[darkdemeter]

War: trying to clear his name

Me: running at him trying to get a look at his silver pauldron

I thought I was onto something when I noticed an almost striking resemblance between the pauldron and Ostegoth's face wondering... theorising... if there is a connection there somehow...

But no, I think I was looking too far deep into hard dirt that can't be used to dig a hole. There are quite a few gaps that would prove otherwise in this "theory" 😂