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darkdemeter · 6 months ago

Note

War and Strife x Fem child reader Platonic! Takes place during Genesis! A sweet, curious, and kind child managed to find herself in Hell, probably bc of a random Serpent Hole back on Earth, and is now under Vulgrim’s care due to curiosity himself…until War and Strife spot her talking with him. It’s now part of the Horsemen’s mission to get her back home to Earth, after Strife “adopts” her and convinces War that she’s their priority now, for the Balance.

GUIDE HER WAY HOME

◤✘DARKSIDERS COLUMN | (Platonic!) Strife and War x Female Child!Reader

NOTES: ↳ Yes Genesis content! 👏Let's go! WARNINGS! ↳ Just sort of general fluffy content — Reader is a small bean — Vulgrim has to fix some serpent holes, be wary of falling through some of those when you're out and about — I think that's it

✎ 1.9k ────────────────

How fragile mortality is. So sweet and pure, innocence surreal. You wander through this unknown place with a target on your back, a beacon for the darkness to find you amidst its clawing grasp of shadows. But thankfully, one with astonished confusion finds you before any other hellish dweller. Your eyes peer up and up, meeting the greenish pupils of the ghoul that floats amidst the gravity of his ethereal form. His claws tap together in thought, face morphed into a puzzled sneer with a sound rattling in his throat like a grotesque snort.

Ever mindful of your manners, being the good and well behaved girl your parents brought you up to be, you softly clear your throat. “Hello.”

Vulgrim’s eyes somehow manage to soften in the slightest of wrinkles. How did you get here?

He arcs his body to lower himself, nearing to your eye level but still raised some height above. His nose moves back into a revealing snarl when you attempt to reach a hand out to grab hold of one of his horns, eyes sparkling with a grand cosmos of curious wonderment. Vulgrim, amongst his own similar feeling, finds your reaction most interesting. Your perception of him unhindered by the reaction of fear or caution.

When an echoing shriek bellows from the spired graveyard over yonder, you gasp shortly, and Vulgrim is a witness to this fearful emotion. He watches, properly posed in his towered clutch as your head and eyes move across the surroundings before you shrink away with a small whine, feet pattering in hard succession until you hide behind the floating shades of his belted tunic.

“Come, child,” he says, “stay right here with me.”

Humans are a species emphasised about their fragile yet cunning adaptability. And while Vulgrim has taken to studying them here and there, not once had it ever struck him that a child’s soul could harbour so much light. So much pure and raw energy that it almost blinds him whenever he looks at you.

You nod up at him. Your hands clutch hold of the darkened purples of fabric, your fistful grip is harsh much like how you would to your mother’s tunic whenever the roar of thunder scared you.

Vulgrim can only suspect that you somehow arrived here through the work of his serpent holes. There are a few scattered around earth, though not many, but you must have stumbled upon one.

“Man, if Vulgrim sends us off on another fetch quest, I’m going to happily plug a bullet through his ugly ass—” Strife tapers off in his rant.

Both him and War tug the reins of their steeds to bring them to halt. Horses voicing their huffed whinnies, the steadfast beasts comply.

“Is that…?”

“A child,” War finishes his brother’s question. He could hardly believe his own eyes, having to share a glance with Strife to confirm what it is they see in the distance. With a harsh nudge of their heels, they hurry off towards Vulgrim who glides idly around a rocky cluster, almost pacing back and forth.

Meanwhile, you are seated atop the rock with your head tracking the spirited demon’s movement.

“My mama makes the best-est swoup in the village. Do you like swoup? It’s yummy. I always eat it when I feel a hurt in… my belly.”

“Vulgrim,” Strife barks out, “What the hell did you do?”

At the call of his name, the lanky merchant scowls with a hoarse, soured sigh. “Horsemen, it is not I who did this. She somehow found her way here, most likely through the use of a serpent hole.”

The Horsemen dismount, boots clubbing the dirt mercilessly. In your excitement, you leap off the rock. Vulgrim and the two nephilim brothers flinch forward at the sight of your stumble but you brush yourself off.

Sturdy, they note in their examination. You move swiftly that it catches War and Strife unawares despite their eyes keeping a sharpened focus on you.

“Horsies!” you chortle loudly, beaming brightly with a smile, arms outstretched. Both continue to stare at you like you’re a newborn faun stumbling on its legs for the first time.

It’s Strife who kneels down to your level. The shift of his armor clatters together and your eyes meet the flare of gold brimming from his eye sockets.

“You like ‘em, huh?” He means of their loyal horses. He sees your smile turn higher into a grin, nodding eagerly. He smiles beneath the placid face of his visor and merely shuffles aside, his hand beckons Mayham to trot forward.

The heavy push of Mayham’s nose nestles into his rider’s palm and he directs your own hand to rest there. You giggle as the horse sniffs and huffs large winds of breath that blow your hair back and cause your lashes to flutter wildly. Your hand smears a gentle caress against Mayham’s nose, his lips mouthing the soft surface of your palms, tickling you.

War finally breaks himself away from it, instead turning his attention to Vulgrim, bearing upon the merchant a fearsome glare. “Just how exactly did she end up here, in Hell of all places?”

Vulgrim shrugs. “I cannot say for certain, Horseman. All I know is that she found her way to me. And perhaps by a play of fate, with the less than favorable fiends she could have encountered instead.”

Strife and War bristle at that. They find the implication that any of hell’s creatures could have found you disheartening. They can only assume that it is what Vulgrim suggests: fate. And greatly fortunate for you.

Strife remains close at your side, not yet ready to return to the level of his feet, far too entranced at the abrupt pause in his breath whenever his eyes flicker away from you. This instinctive drive to protect you from all harm falls on him like a blanket weighing him down in water.

“So you have been spying on the humans.” War’s skeptical tone is not appreciated by Vulgrim, followed by the bevelled snarl and recoiling of his lipless mouth that bears his jagged fangs.

“Studying them. They are fascinating, and I only meant to observe them from afar. However, it would appear that not all my serpent holes on Earth are very… secure.”

“War…” Strife says, voice sunken low in his determined drawl. He finally stands but his head lags behind, momentarily watchful of you before he raises it to meet War’s gaze. “We can’t just leave her here.”

“Strife, we cannot forsake our mission. It is our duty to—”

Strife tries but he’s unable to bite down a growl, the golden dance of his eyes thinning angrily. “You keep going on about the Balance, fine! But right now, she is part of that balance. She is our priority to see her home safely.”

If there has ever been a reason to pull the trigger, Strife now sees it. To protect you. If any threat so much as taunted him with laying a finger on you, he would lose himself to the identity of that killer he tries so hard to escape from.

“If anyone finds out that she’s here, they’ll come for her. And I’m not going to let any of these mongrel pieces of shit get that chance.”

War’s mind is taken under by the case his brother makes. The consequences to follow if such a scenario were to occur, then balance would only tip further into universal chaos.

Still, what of their task?

Both are torn from the heat of their argument when you coo, Mayham pushing his head a little further against you to muzzle into your front. Strife lays a hand firmly on the metal plating guarding the horse’s neck. “Easy there, pal. She isn’t as tough as me.”

His voice has turned cool, less frantic than it had been before, fired into a flare of emotion just teetering on the edge of lost control. Mayham snorts and complies with his rider’s command, easing his weight and instead embraces the form of your body leaning into his large, armoured head. Your arms wrap around his elongated snout. His breath jostles your breath, his nasal pants match in time with each little heartbeat in your chest.

Ruin’s nose bows down and with a sharp, deep snort he sniffs at you. The thick skull of his head then pushes into your ribs with a loud whicker, ears prickling about as if to beg for your attention as well.

“Strife, it will be too dangerous to take her with us,” reasons War, though his brother can easily tell he isn’t so convinced by his own words.

“It’s too dangerous not to take her with us.”

Vulgrim motions with a dismissive cast of his hand, spatting a puff of air, “Pah! If none of you will take her back, then I suppose she must be left under my charge until otherwise.”

War doesn’t give a second thought to his next threat. “Touch her and I shall cleave you into two, demon.”

“Seconded,” growls Strife with a slivered glare.

“Very well.” Vulgrim’s claws scratch at his chin thoughtfully, defeated. “Then you will take her back to Earth and reunite her with the other humans.”

Strife and War glance down to find you happily coddling their steeds. “There’s lots of apples at my home. Would you like apples, horsies? Will you be my fwiends?”

“And Lucifer?” War asks the demon trader. Meanwhile, Strife bends down and his hands swoop around you and pull you into his arms. You let out a cheerful cry at the sudden pull of gravity that hoists you up.

“Vulgrim can work on it while we’re taking her back home.”

Turning you to face him, Strife gets a good look at you now, a bubbly and excitable soul despite your circumstances. Your head tilts curiously as you take your time observing him, small hands reaching out to run over the cover of his mask and your eyes filled with that distinct fascination and curiosity humans are known for.

With a huff, War passes off the artefact to Vulgrim who clasps his greedy hands over it like a cage, gruffly chuckling a darkened note. “Yes, yes. Now go, get her out of here!”

You cannot see the small smile Strife has, but it's there. “We will take you back home, little one. You excited to go for a ride?”

You gasp with a widening grin. “Yes pwease!”

With that, Strife and War turn back to mount their horses. Vulgrim’s face drops, going blank as you softly whine over Strife’s shoulder, waving your arm madly and your fingers curling into your palm as you wave. “Bye! Bye-bye!”

Strife is careful as can be, for the first time in a while exercising greater caution in handling you into the saddle of Mayham. You eagerly grab hold of the chained reins and the saddle horn, legs swinging back and forth before Strife sits behind you.

“Where do we even begin?” War asks, looking at Strife who returns his stare. The question poses a bit of a challenge. Just which village are you from, who are your guardians and can they actually get you home as they promised?

“Little one,” War calls and you turn your big, blinking eyes to him. “Where is your village?”

“Uhh… erm…” Your voice has grown small, an uncomfortable sense of uncertainty laced within it.

Strife takes a moment, thinking hard. It’s not until your head moves back and your eyes look up at him that he answers almost wistfully while he holds you securely.

“I guess we’ll figure that out on the ride there.”

#headlinesxcomics publishing #happyfic hour #darksiders #darksiders genesis #darksiders war #darksiders strife #platonic darksiders war x reader #platonic darksiders strife x reader #darksiders x reader #darksiders fluff

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imagine-darksiders · 22 days ago

Text

Exposure Therapy - Chapter 5.

House Guest.

Strife x Reader.

Summary: When it rains, it pours...

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When you agreed to assist the Horseman by lending him your ‘expertise’ on all things human, just to fuel whatever hare-brained scheme he’s been concocting in his isolation, you had no idea there was an unspoken caveat to the arrangement.

The short but very critical ‘starting right now,’ had gone unsaid.

Perhaps it was optimistic of you to assume you’d have more time to prepare, to come to terms with your strange new reality. At the very least though, you thought you’d have had the opportunity to go home and collapse on your bed, whittling away a couple of hours in blissful ignorance of the world spinning on without you.

If only.

Instead, Strife had rather disconcertingly taken it upon himself to follow you back to your apartment building, apparently dead-set on ‘getting you home safely,’ despite your insistence that he does anything else at all.

You’d even conducted a little experiment to try and get to the bottom of something that's been nagging at you ever since you left him in that alleyway all those days ago. It had worked a treat, and you caught him out spectacularly when you tried to lead him past your apartment complex. The Horseman, sharp as he is, had regardless shown his hand by drawing to a halt in front of the entrance, cocked his helm at you and called, “Uh, where’re you going?”

And oh. Oh! The speed at which you whirled around to face him, mouth pressed into a tight line and your hands planted squarely on each hip, told him exactly where he’d made a mistake.

At least he had the common courtesy to act like he knew he'd done something wrong, ducking the chin of his mask and averting his gaze to avoid your wide-eyed glare.

“So,” you began primly, “You did follow me home that night.”

You didn't pose it as a question, and the Horseman was well aware of that.

Strife’s luminous eyes flashed in the darkness before they drifted sideways towards his left shoulder. “... Yeah?” he posited, as if what you said was odd, which makes sense when he followed up with a quiet, genuine, “You were hurt?”

And at that… your ire had receded. Only by a fraction, mind.

Perhaps to him, your question-turned-accusation was odd.

You were hurt...

He… probably meant well… you reasoned, giving your head a shake and heaving out a sigh that sent clouds of white condensation billowing through the air. “Okay, well, consider this lesson number one,” you huffed, stalking back the way you’d come and dragging yourself up the steps to the front door, “Humans generally don’t like being followed home. And speaking of home…”

Shoving the door open with an elbow, you hurriedly stepped into the lobby and basked in the curtain of warmth that whooshed over you when you moved inside, humming as the heat prickled at your frozen fingers.

Without turning to spare the Horseman a backwards glance, you released the door, letting it swing shut behind you as you called out, “I think it’s time you went back to – Wh-? HEY!”

The solid mass of armour and leather had bulldozed straight inside after you, catching the door on his arm and shouldering it open again to admit him. Like the giant he is, he'd had to stoop considerably underneath the frame, huffing out a loud grunt and leaving you to back hastily towards the lifts with your eyes on stalks as he unfolded to his full height, the tips of his spiked, black hair brushing the ceiling.

You’d forgotten until then how much larger he is, a titan looming amongst infrastructure made for humans, not Nephilim. You’d forgotten that this is a Horseman, beholden to nobody, especially not to you. And so, your hands fell uselessly at your sides, resigned to the fact that if a Horseman wants to be in here, you're all but powerless to remove him.

“Who’s that?” he’d asked after taking the briefest of glances around the lobby.

You’d almost tripped over your own feet in your haste to scramble back over to him, realising immediately who he was referring to. “No, no! Shh!” you hissed, skidding to a clumsy halt in front of the Horseman and holding your hands up to try and slow his advance into the building, “I-it’s just Steffan! He’s security!”

Strife’s helm angled down to give you a curious squint before he returned his gaze to the human snoring away behind a desk on the other end of the room, dirt encrusted boots propped up on the wooden vinyl and a book laying open on his rotund stomach. The pages fluttered gently, disturbed by each laborious exhale.

“Please,” you continued, voice reedy and tired as you cast a rapid glance over your shoulder at the guard, “Please, don’t wake him up.”

Because Steffan is famous for his twitchy trigger finger, and you were well aware of the handgun strapped to his hip.

“Security?”

Chills prickled up and down your spine at the sudden dip in Strife’s voice, thick with disapproval and borderline malice.

“This guy’s s’posed to protect you,” he’d growled, “And he’s sleepin’ on the job?”

He took a heavy step forward, his metal boots clanking heavily on the carpet until his armoured torso inadvertently pressed against your palms, stopping the Horseman in his tracks and sending a twinge of pain up your splinted fingers.

You were too focused on flinching at Steffan’s nonsensical grunt to register the discomfort, nor the fact that you were pressing your weight against Strife’s abdomen, anything to keep him from moving closer to the security guard.

Unbeknownst to you, Strife had noticed. His golden eyes dropped to your injured hand and widened considerably, like he knew that moving forward again and exerting any more pressure on the tiny appendage would only cause further damage.

Shooting another glance over your shoulder, your heart dropped like a stone into your shoes at the sight of Steffan’s mouth peeling open into a wide yawn - a sure fire sign that he was mere moments away from waking up to find a silver giant in his lobby.

Of course, it was then that you panicked. Anyone would panic in your place, you reasoned. And that panic had you switching up your plan in the blink of an eye.

If Strife wouldn’t leave the building…

Out of ideas, pursing your lips and squeezing your eyes shut, you threw caution to the wind and made… a decision.

“Hey?” you whispered urgently, snatching your hands away from his armour and scooping up the first thing you could reach – his gauntlet's forefinger. You tried not to think about how you couldn’t even encircle it entirely with your fist. It was too large.

“You wanna see what a human apartment looks like?” you breathed out in a rush.

And as you’d been dreading, the Horseman suddenly seemed much more compliant. “Can I?” he blurted, blinking down at you in apparent astonishment, but all the same allowing himself to be tugged towards the lifts.

It went unsaid that you wouldn’t have been able to budge him an inch unless he allowed it.

The lifts opened to permit you just as Steffan’s boots slid off the desk, and by the time the doors rumbled shut again, much to Strife’s audible surprise, you caught a final glimpse of the man reaching up to fumble back the rim of his cap, only to find himself blinking wearily out into an empty lobby.

You don’t know whether the Horseman was insulted when you jerked your hand away the very instant those doors closed, but if he cared, he made no mention of it, evidently more intrigued by the interior of the lift.

And you thought he seemed big in the lobby.

In the lift’s awfully limited area, boxed in by three walls and a door, you found yourself squashed right into one of the corners as far from your unwanted chaperone as you could get whilst he filled up every inch of space, even hunching in on himself some to keep his head from banging against the roof.

The whole while, you silently berated yourself for getting inside an enclosed space with a gun-toting Nephilim of all things. What possessed you!?

But later, you’d look back and realise it might have been your only option. He clearly wanted in. And something in you knew it was easier to lure him away from Steffan than it would have been to coax him outside again.

The lift’s weight limit on the control panel flashed amber in warning, but after a whispered prayer to a supposed Creator, the faithful pully system engaged, groaning miserably as it hoisted both you and the exceedingly heavy Horseman all the way up to your floor.

-----

Which leaves you in your current predicament; seated at a tiny, wood-wormed table in your tiny, ramshackle apartment with your tiny hands clenched into tiny fists in your lap.

Tiny… God, it’s all you can focus on.

This is your apartment, you shouldn’t be feeling so small inside it. But with a Horseman actively lumbering around your kitchenette with his sizeable shoulders knocking against the cupboards or the fridge every time he moves, you really can’t help it.

Stiff-backed, you keep your lips pressed into a firm line whilst Strife investigates… everything. Numerous sighs have been swallowed, as have countless yawns.

He’s been at this for some time.

Of all the stupid ideas, throughout all of human history, you think this one might just claim first prize. You all but invited a Horseman into your apartment. You opened the door, gestured inside and followed after him like you'd asked an old friend to come for a visit. And you really thought you might be the one who could bridge the divide between Humanity and Nephilim?

Jesus, your species is doomed. Again. Only this time, you're the one who pulled the trigger. Oh, what a grand plan this was; Get the Horseman into an enclosed space after you just got him out of one, and hope you don't say or do anything that might piss him off enough to level this building, the entire city and - worst case scenario - the rest of the planet.

Tony is going to kill you.

But... perhaps you're just catastrophising again... It's rather common to find yourself doing that. Once you've lived and died in the Apocalypse, anything seems possible. Even the worst things you could possibly imagine.

However - and as much as you're loathe to give the thought too much traction lest you jinx it - despite your fears, Strife has thus far been... suspiciously docile.

And endlessly curious.

“What’s this doo-hickey?”

You straighten up slightly in the chair, blinking back sleep as he turns to you and taps his silver finger against an appliance sitting innocuously on the kitchen counter.

“… That's a toaster,” you supply wearily, braced for his inevitable follow-up question.

“Oh… What’s it do?”

There it is.

You have to make sure the breath you draw in through your nose is completely silent so as not to offend him before exhaling your response.

“It toasts.”

And because you know by now that he won’t be satisfied by that alone… “That means it cooks slices of bread.”

Strife’s eyes glow brilliantly in the dim light of the apartment, almost brighter than the bulb buzzing overhead. If he wasn't an ancient Nephilim armed to the teeth, you'd dare say he looks entranced by your explanation.

“And then you can eat it, right?”

In the corner of your eye, you can see the door leading to your bedroom. The soft, freshly washed pillows have been calling your name since you left them this morning, the little temptresses, and they certainly haven't let up now that you've returned, not even with a clear and present hazard currently loitering in your kitchen.

Plastering on a strained smile, you ignore the siren call of ‘bed,’ and blink up at the Horseman, retorting with a curt, “That’s right.”

Comically fast, his chest sticks out with an overabundance of pride at getting a bit of basic human knowledge right, and his gaze burns even more hotly than before. A splash of colour set against an otherwise monochrome canvas of metal.

You don’t know whether to be perturbed or pleased that you can tell what he wants even without him having to say it aloud. Eventually, you chalk it up to intuition.

Then again, perhaps it’s more of an educated guess.

He likely wants the same thing now as he wanted with the kettle, the microwave, the light switch by the door, the fridge, the inside of the fridge, the light inside of the goddamn fridge…

A demonstration.

You’ve been at this for a while.

You nearly forget yourself and heave a put-upon sigh before you remember who you’d be sighing at. Cramming your lips together instead, you push yourself out of the chair and stiffly move over to the bread bin, squeezing past the Horseman who continues to take up most of your kitchen while his eyes burn a curious hole into the side of your head.

Paranoid as you are to have your vulnerable back turned to him, you refuse to look over your shoulder, instead rolling up the lid of the bin and clumsily swiping up a slice of bread. Then, shuffling sideways, you keep your back to the Horseman as you sidle around the circumference of your kitchen until you reach the toaster, where you’re quick to slip the future toast inside and jam the lever down until it sticks.

Strife makes a sound in the base of his throat when the bread disappears.

“And now,” you exhale, gathering yourself for a second before you twist about and lean against the counter, trying not to gulp at your proximity to the massive Horseman, “We wait.”

“Wait?” Strife parrots, only a little impatient.

“Yup.” Popping your lips on the ‘p,’ you stare at a spot just below his chin, counting the tears and holes in his cowl in favour of making eye contact. “Just like with the kettle.”

Knocking his head back, Strife lets out a petulant groan. “Ugh.”

“Ugh,” you agree succinctly, though yours has little to do with the cooking process of bread.

For quite some time, the pair of you simply hover at opposite ends of the kitchen, stuck in a silence that's only broken by the analogue clock ticking away on the wall above your bedroom door. You've allowed your gaze to drop even further to flit between Strife's weapons, the gun in its left holster, and then the one on the right. Both stark reminders of the peril he brings just by being here. But studying the guns is all you can do to distract yourself from feeling his attentive stare on your face. He was so curious about your apartment before, why has he stopped to stare at you now?

An uncomfortable heat starts to spread from below the collar of your dress, creeping steadily up the back of your neck as you're observed. Surely there's something in here that would take his fancy far more efficiently than you do.

Softly clearing your throat, you shift under his scrutiny and try very hard to feign indifference by leaning against the counter and folding your arms loosely across your chest.

“... So,” the Horseman announces abruptly, studying your pose for a few seconds before he tries to mirror it, leaning his metal backside on the counter opposite yours and crossing his own arms, “How long do we have to-“

.... A lot of unexpected things have been happening to you lately. Most of which are awful and alarming.

So, you think you can be forgiven for jumping and letting out a startled scream when, without warning, the buzzer on your intercom cuts across Strife’s question with a harsh, grating, ‘BZZT!’

And whether in response to your fright, or to the buzzer itself, Strife is suddenly moving.

In a whirlwind of motion that occurs too quickly for you to keep up with it, there’s a Horseman planted quite squarely between you and the intercom, guns flying from their holsters and levelling at the little box on the wall near your front door.

That in itself is far more distressing than any visitors calling at this ungodly hour.

It takes a hard blink for you to come to your senses. And another to register the living wall of metal that's appeared in your way.

If you weren’t awake before, you certainly are now.

“S-Strife!” you sputter, lurching off the counter and grabbing thoughtlessly at one of his arms, “It’s okay! It’s just the intercom!”

Christ, it’s like trying to tug at the anchor of a ship with your bare hands. The Horseman’s arm doesn’t move an inch as you attempt to lower it from behind, and in fact, Strife hardly acknowledges the effort, canting his hip to the side and sliding one of his massive legs backwards until the rear side of his calf finds you, and you’re nudged further back into the kitchenette.

“Stay behind me,” he utters in a deep, sonorous tone, half his attention lingering on the tiny fingers slipping off his elbow.

“Oh, for god’s sake - there’s just someone at the door,” you snap, realising whose appendage you've got a hold of and nearly smacking yourself in the face in a hurry to whip your hands back. The explanation, however, doesn’t seem to settle him in the slightest.

If anything, he only grows more agitated, shoulders bristling to a staggering size as he angles his helm away from the intercom and towards the entrance to your apartment.

“The door downstairs – Ugh, you know what....Forget it. ” Throwing up your hands in exasperation, you duck around his side and scoot your way past the bridling Horseman

You see him balk immediately out of the corner of your eye, flipping his guns up towards the ceiling and away from you, though the gesture is lost on you as another buzz rips brazenly through your apartment.

“What now?” you breathe to yourself, ignoring the sound of Strife holstering his pistols and urgently telling you to, ‘Get back here.’

Stabbing your forefinger onto the ‘talk’ button, you lean against the wall next to your intercom and bark, “Hello?” far more sharply than you intended to.

But really. Of all the nights…

“Finally! God.”

Your finger leaves the button just as swiftly as it had arrived, all so the person on the other end can’t hear your forehead thud miserably against the wall.

Not now… Not him.

You wish you'd just stayed silent. Now he knows you're here. Swallowing hard, you press the 'talk' button again just as an enveloping shadow falls across your back, blotting out the light from your ceiling and casting you in eerie darkness.

“Noel,” you sigh curtly, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

You don’t like being curt with people but… it’s Noel. And you have a Horseman in your home. Curt is a damn sight better than hysterical.

“Yeah, it’s ‘I don’t give a shit o’clock,” the man on the other end retorts, “Now shut up and pay attention-”

“- The Hell?”

You let out a tiny yelp at the sound of Strife’s voice tickling your ear.

“Is there some jackass living in your wall?” the Horseman asks behind you, his question amusingly genuine. His guns may be holstered, but he still sounds like his feathers are dangerously ruffled when he growls, "And did he just tell you to shut up?"

Floundering for your words, there’s the briefest pause before Noel filters through again. “Hey.... You got a guy up there with you?”

It's barbed. A question with spikes and snarls. It puts your back up immediately. As if he has any right to ask you something like that, even if the 'guy' is a Horseman of the Apocalypse.

“That's... the TV,” you think on your feet, batting harmlessly at Strife’s visor when it appears over your shoulder and glares daggers at the intercom, “Um. Why are you calling?”

You can hear the sound of a tongue being clicked sceptically. “Tch. Whatever,” Noel mutters.

And then he raises his voice to add three dreaded words you’d have given anything in the world not to hear tonight.

“Got another one.”

The blood swiftly turns to solid ice in your veins, and suddenly, half of your senses pivot straight to the giant hovering at your back.

Noel's joking…. He has to be. It’s piss-poor timing, and not funny in the slightest, but you can forgive all of that, if only he’s-

“- Six years old, his name’s Oscar, both parents bumped ‘emselves off after dumping him in the hostel,” Noel rattles off as casually as you’d read your shopping list, confirming your fear and bringing all the fatigue flooding back into your weary body, “But the hostel told me they’ve got no more beds for him. So, you’re up.”

“… Noel,” you begin, a hardened edge to your voice you hope he’ll pick up on, “This is really, really not a good time.”

And oh god, if that isn't the understatement of the century.

“Hey, you volunteered.”

You did. You did volunteer. You went to the town hall like so many other people and put your name down for services that would help society get back on its feet. It wasn't a permanent thing. Once or twice a month, at most. You said you were open to the possibility of working with children. God knows they were the ones who needed the most help after the Great Awakening. The hostels and pop-up orphanages were - and still are - packed to their absolute limits with lost, abandoned or runaway children.

Some of the kids were those who were in the city for a school trip or visiting distant relatives when the world ended. They died, and were resurrected where they stood, only with no conceivable way of returning to their families back home.

Those cases were slightly easier. Even without the Earth’s transport services up and running, it’s still possible to reunite families. It just takes a lot longer to get between locations nowadays.

Then, there are the other cases.

Not everyone learned how to live with the horrifying new reality they woke up to.

Parents were no exception.

Sometimes it’s just one, a person who can’t shut themselves off to the horror of how they died. They’ll take back control the last and only way they know how, leaving the rest of the family behind to pull together and try to survive without them.

Sometimes… it’s both parents.

That’s when you and a handful of other volunteers dotted throughout the city are called forth. When the hostels are full. When the safehouses are packed to the rafters with strays. When there’s nowhere else for a child to stay for the night whilst it’s decided what to do with them.

You volunteered your home to serve as a temporary refuge until a solution could be reached.

It isn’t much. Typically, strays only stay for a few nights before they find something more permanent. You don’t share your apartment with anyone, and you have the extra room, so it isn’t a problem.

Or it wouldn’t be a problem if this were any other night.

“I’m sorry, Noel,” you try to breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth, “You’ll have to get one of the other volunteers to-“

“-Hell no!”

You just about jump out of your skin at Noel’s indignant shout, and again when the Horseman behind you snakes his arm over your shoulder and pokes sharply at the speaker, uttering a grunt of confusion.

Luckily, Noel continues to rant over it, drowning out the sound of you swatting at the underside of Strife’s wrist and shooing him away from the intercom. “-I’m freezing my ass off trying to find this brat a place to stay, and you’re the only person who’s come to the door.”

‘Because it’s the middle of the night, and most sane people are asleep,’ you almost say.

“-And I ain’t traipsing around the city trying to find someone else to take him when you’re right here. Ain’t my fault you’re up there fucking around with some douchebag while the rest of us are actually trying to do their jobs.”

You violently recoil at that, a soft yet affronted gasp breezing in through your lips.

“… The Hell is a douchebag?” Strife pipes up unhelpfully.

Ignoring him, you stew for a moment, then consider telling Noel exactly why you can’t do what he’s asking. Setting aside personal grievances, you want to tell him that it’s dangerous up here, that there’s a Biblical being hijacking most of the space between your floor and your ceiling right now. Then you want to tell him that if he so wants to do his job, why doesn’t he give the poor kid a room for the night…?

But you know Noel.

Unfortunately.

If it weren’t for the extra rations he gets as a volunteer himself, he wouldn’t be seen anywhere near a child in need of help.

Something in that thought sparks another, and you’re suddenly pressing your finger to the button again and asking in an urgent tone, “Noel, is the kid with you now?

“Yeah, no shit he is. What? You think I’m just out here to be your messenger boy?”

Adequately horrified for a secondary, less-severe reason, you admonish, “Jesus, Noel. Watch your language, yeah? You said he’s only six!”

There’s a very deliberate scoff from the other side of the speaker. Then, “Fuck this. Look, I’m leaving him in the lobby. I’ll tell ‘em you said you could take him, so whatever happens to this kid is on you now.”

Yes, that’s precisely what you’re afraid of.

Wait… What did he just-…?

“- Noel!?” you ask urgently, pressing yourself closer to the speaker, “Noel, are you still there?”

… Nothing.

Only a cold, empty silence stifling the air of your apartment.

“That son of a –“ You swiftly check to make sure your finger is off the button. “- bitch! Oh my god! Is he serious!?”

This can't happen. Not now, not ever. You have to get down there. If you could only stop him and explain-!

“What was that about?” Strife pipes, cocking his head at the intercom as if he expects it to start talking again at any moment, “Did Wall-Guy say something about a kid?”

You really don’t have time for this.

Making the executive decision to ignore your house guest, you march purposefully towards the front door, only pausing long enough to fumble with the chain lock. “Of all the irresponsible, idiotic, asshole things to do!” you seethe, grabbing the doorhandle and wrenching the whole thing open with as much strength as you can muster, “I’m gonna kill him. I might actually kill him this time!”

You don't even make it past the threshold before a cold chill creeps down your spine and stops you in your tracks.

“Need me to take care of it?” a dark voice growls.

Sinister, the words crawl like venomous things into your ears.

Whirling around, you clutch the doorframe and let out a stifled gasp when you find Strife standing just a foot away from you. It's hard to miss the near murderous gleam igniting his stare, and the readied stack of his shoulders, as though he’s committed wholly to fighting a battle on your behalf, all because of a figure of speech.

Horrified by the prospect of accidentally unleashing a Nephilim on the unwitting residents of your building, your frustration at Noel promptly evaporates like water off a frying pan. “No!” you blurt out loudly, almost throwing yourself back into the apartment at Strife with your arms outstretched to form a pitiful barrier between him and the world beyond your home. “No, no, no! It’s fine. I just misspoke!”

You can feel him scrutinising you from underneath that angular visor. There's a steady rumble coming from... somewhere on his person. Deep down in his chest, perhaps.

On the verge of a total nervous breakdown, you fumble for the door handle again, keeping your splinted appendage raised like you’re trying to ward off an angry dog. “Just! Just you – you stay. Here! Okay? Please?”

And without waiting around to hear his response, you hastily yank the door shut – barely remembering not to slam it at the very last second lest you wake up the whole floor. All you can do is offer a quick prayer to whoever might be listening that Strife doesn't follow you this time.

Bolting down the hallway in your rush, you leave behind a very perplexed Nephilim who stands stock still in your apartment, blinking down at the spot you’d just vanished from and wondering what in the nine circles of Hell has you so spooked.

Emitting a soft hum, Strife rocks back on a heel and allows himself a moment to consider his options.

Of course, no sooner has he started contemplating whether it'd be worth the risk of incurring your ire than a metallic 'cha-chunk!' suddenly rips across the silence of the apartment.

It'll be a cold day in Hell if Strife ever admits that he'd been so startled by the explosion of sound, he'd jumped violently enough that his head nearly cracked the ceiling, and he'd whipped towards your kitchenette and pulled Redemption's trigger in a motion too quick to follow with the naked eye.

Your poor, faithful toaster never stood a chance...

#Darksiders #darksiders 3 #Strife #Darksiders Strife #Strife x Reader #female reader #Fluff #protective Strife #Oh this is going to take a direction

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