#Imagine Darksiders

[imagine-darksiders]

Sometimes a grown Horseman

[darkdemeter]

Hi! Can I request the four horsemen reacting to an s/o who makes them hand Crafted Gifts (Like a lot of them!) Everything from protection charms,to mugs to portraits of them and their horses (prefferably a gender neutral s/o!)

Ty in advance and do take ur time!!

HANDICRAFT

◤✘DARKSIDERS COLUMN | Death/War/Strife/Fury x GN Reader

NOTES: ↳ This was a fun request to write for, I enjoyed it so much, thank you @screechinginthevoid and I hope you enjoy! WARNINGS! ↳ The slightest hint of spice? but mostly just fluffy, wholesome content

✎3.3k ──────────────── ◆

You always had a knack for creating things. Dabbling in this and that, you were raised on the ideology and principle that true gifts come from the heart. That the effort and love is what makes the present all the more special, sure, but it didn’t hurt knowing a thing or two about knitting a pretty snug scarf and hat during the whole apocalypse ordeal.

Losing your friends and loved ones did bring a dark cloud to loom high over your head constantly. Your love to create things for people had been robbed from you, leaving your set of skills as a means of survival. Until you incidentally bumped into the fabled Horsemen of the end times. From then on, and sticking to the four like a stray cat tagging along, they came to take care of you. 

And you found your loving spark to create gifts again. So…

DEATH

A gift. For him? 

“Why?” 

Poor, sweet… grouchy and sassy Death, like his other siblings as you come to find, doesn't exactly understand the concept of gifts that have no practical purpose other than sentimental value. The fact that every time he sees you, you’re nearly always making something for either him or his siblings. This occurs quite a bit, if not a lot. So in the beginning, Death was receiving a lot of gifts that you made, most of which he had little clue what to do with, so he’d cast them aside, muttering how humans were just as bad as the Makers.

The brand new scarf you made after having scoured the desolated Earth in search for the finest, softest fabric you could find, isn’t meant to help him ward off evil forces that seek imbalance? Well, if you don’t count warding off the age-old rag he was wearing around his shoulders for who knows how long. But hey, that’s just your opinion. 

You know deep down he appreciates the garb upgrade, very deep down, it’s one present that he hasn’t immediately disregarded, but he remains placid about showing any form of emotion that may be perceived as weakness. But the fact that he hasn’t tossed it aside makes your stomach flutter and your heart skip a few beats, seeing that Death can be fond of your hand crafted gifts. He’s just particular. Minimalistic, you could say. 

That doesn’t stop you from cracking the odd joke here and there, yeah you’ve seen him scowl and sigh in his dismay at the ever increasing numbers of little handmade bracelets on Harvester. 

Another example: mugs. 

Was not keen at all, but he slightly warmed – after some major prodding on your part – of having a special mug all his own whenever he and his siblings drifted through. The first mug you created was a hard effort won, since you were a little rusty with the pottery branch of your handicraft. With a finishing touch you painted the label: Bone Daddy. 

To this day he still doesn’t grasp the logic behind it, and with a scarlet blush, you brush off the subject entirely and invite him to sip from his brand new mug: Sass To The Bone.

When you first created a protection charm for him to wear as a pendent, this nephilim gave you the most critical and harshest lecture that you almost cried. He put teachers who demanded your overdue assignment to shame by a hundred levels. 

In the end, you sniff loudly with a pout and cry, “Just take it, okay?! I want you to be safe!”

Up until that point, you always approached him with a newly crafted gift with a bounce on the balls of your feet and a wide, bright grin. The sight ever so slowly wearing him down until he came to find it endearing how bubbly and excited you were to present a gift meant for him. To see you on the brink of tears with your confession sort of broke something inside him. Something he didn’t know he was capable of feeling and took the charm. 

It doesn’t bother you how he chooses to wear it, whether it be attached to the metallic limb of Harvester or threaded over to dangle alongside his wrist. All that matters to you is that he wears it somehow, assuring you that he knows how comforted you are in seeing it on his person. It makes you feel heard and that your love for him came from the heart when toying with potentially dangerous wells of magic just to ensure his safety. 

He’s risked himself to save you from danger many times. Whether that be because of his sworn duty to uphold the balance or some estranged level of love all his own; you find it only fitting that you return the favour – the want to protect him. And though unknown to you, he knows this. 

On the note of drawings, well uh… let’s just say you don’t want Death seeing those anytime soon, lest he questions your entire state of mind. Maybe you should draw a few tame ones sometime soon, so then he stops judging you everytime you hiss like a soaked cat and dive atop your sketchbook you left out the night before. 

But he’s mighty impressed with a painting you did recently of Despair, and you don’t know much about the rider’s steed, but you won’t put it past the beast taking a liking to it too. 

STRIFE

This nephilim has a treasure trove of your handmade gifts. Hands down. And he fucking loves it. So do you! Alright, at first, Strife was rather hesitant, but he warms to it quicker than his siblings, though it still takes a considerable amount of time, and dammit, this gunslinger soon begins a rule that each time you see each other, you either have a gift made or he gets to see the work in progress. No ifs, buts or look out there’s a demon behind you. 

Good news for you is that if you need a specific material or artefact to create something like a protective charm, he is on it. He will scour the known and unknown realms in search for what you need, and you’re more than happy to tinker away at the charm while he washes himself off in the shower, because whatever he had slain reeked a scent so foul you had to air out the entire house for hours. It did bother him at first when he discovered you were dabbling in magics so advanced, but you assure him you’re being careful and have been undergoing tutoring by the Makers. Though Strife would much rather you learn from either him, Fury or Death.

“Just be careful with that stuff, ok? I don’t want you getting hurt from it.”

You breathe a sigh of relief every time you see the little horse charm dangle on the leather cord attached to his scarf with a small, bone pin.

Overall, he is in awe that you make something to aid in protecting him when he’s away, and he adores the ever-living shit out of all your gifts and there is no force in all the universe that can alter that way of thinking. 

The first time you made a knitted beanie for him, he was reluctant to remove his helm, but after the amount of time you’ve known one another, through thick and thin, he trusts you. The way his golden eyes seemed to brighten even more made you realise in that moment how much you loved him. Of course, you couldn’t refrain from taking a polaroid of you both with him in his new hat and you make a copy of the photo so that he had a version that he can reflect on wherever he happens to be that’s away from you. 

Jealousy is a cute fit on Strife. From how he carries on and scowls childishly sure has its charm, and being envious of Death’s mug, Sass To The Bone, you once again try your hand at crafting a mug all his own. He finds it mighty impressive what you can do, despite the multitudes of failures, you’re determined. Strife’s pride skyrockets every time he sips from his printed cup, #1 Sharpshooter with two – dare you say terribly doodled variants – of his dual pistols. He gets a kick from his siblings reactions to his mug, but he just elbows you gently in the rib and mutters lowly, “They’re just jealous because it's true.”

Okay, so about those drawings. You drew a few of them, albeit you were very critical of these rare and few gifts, but Strife was intrigued and encouraged you to draw more. So you did, obviously, but still you mostly drew in secret… and he caught onto that. He’d first catch you scribbling away in your little sketchbook when either at home and he was relaxing, or if you both were out on some venture together. The way you’d poke your tongue out slightly and your brows come down in a concentrative manner. Oh, be still his beating heart. 

But then he caught sight of some rather tasteful, and less cladded poses of himself. The moment he whistled over your shoulder with a purred, “Oooh, what’re these?”

“Strife no—!”

He’d plucked the book from your hands before you could do much else, your pencil dropped to the floor with an echoing clatter that snaps the lead. 

You felt ready for Death to tuck you into a permanent sleep forever with Harvester. Because of the large and ever-world changing event known as the apocalypse, it put your school on persistent hold and you were in the midst of your visual arts major, studying nude figure art when havoc and calamity ensued. Ah yes, the fine artistry of studying the anatomy is a tricky one but also one of mystique and astounding beauty. 

“You know, if you need a model reference, you can always just ask,” he growls playfully with a fanged grin. All you can do is press the sketchbook to your flushed, burning face with a sigh. 

WAR

Maybe because he’s the youngest of his siblings, but you spoil this nephilim with gifts, though at first he was quick to brush them off with a cold turn of his shoulder or scoff, but over time you managed to worm your way under the thick hide of his stubbornness and the more he found it nye impossible to say no to you or your handmade gifts. 

It was an overwhelming occurrence for him to adjust to but now, he secretly finds himself almost excited to be given something new. You’re just a considerate human, always thinking about what you can make and give to others, he ponders to himself often if you stop and consider creating things for yourself.

“I make stuff for myself, don’t worry. Now, I made you these mittens!”

You may have a way of crafting, but you're still human. Making anything of considerate size to even fit this Horsemen’s pinky takes a good amount of time, so knitted wares only come around a rare few times a year. 

Despite being a volcanic mass of producing his own body heat, he accepts the mittens, the few scarves and other knitted accessories – and the very, very large sweater for Christmas. Making four of them had to be a major plan in the works a few years prior, it took that long. 

He finds comfort in the scarves mostly rather than actually any sort of functionality. Just dipping his nose to muzzle into the softness of wool reminds him of you and your scent that faintly lingers on it. It grounds him and gives him something to look forward to once his mission is done. 

He got defensive about it once when Strife dared to tease him. “You missing the human, little bro?” 

Geez, that’s the harshest glare that’s been inscribed across War’s features, and the witty gunslinger won’t be forgetting it anytime soon. 

He’s rather curious about your process and quite a bit, he will take a moment to study what you do, how you do it and will occasionally ask questions.

Every gift you make for War is precious to him and though he may not be able to carry them all with him, you ensure that they will be safely kept. Those that he does have on him, he will spare a moment when he can to look upon it, to feel it and to just bask in the knowledge that you hold him so near and dear to him. 

Humans and their traditions, War never really got his head around it, and his initial lack of knowing why you were presenting him with such offerings, only to be told that it’s just something humans do. You give each other things, especially those who you care about. 

“You care about me?”

“Of course I do, War,” you’d answer simply with a smile. 

Eventually making a mug for the red rider, you did get a bit too in your head about it. 

“It’s too small…,” became a mantra at this point as you morphed the pottery clay. Your so-called mug basically became a large bowl with a handle, let’s be honest. You at least had a bigger canvas to work with for the print and paint. 

And painting it was a beast! You decided to kill two birds with one stone, to really test your abilities and did a pattern of War astride his steed, Ruin around the mug’s perimeter. War’s fascination with the design never ceases to bring a smile to your face, sometimes you see him turning it over and over again just to watch the seemingly galloping images.

With your drawings, you just love doing portraits of War and Ruin. Out roaming together, you may catch a beautiful landscape and you call for War. “Stand right here with Ruin, I gotta draw this out!”

You save the largest sketchbooks for these two exclusively because there is no way you can contain so much detail into a sized down sketch. Nuh uh, you gotta go big or go home. Whether it’s a finished piece or just a quick sketch to have down for later, War is drawn to it, you notice the faintest blush dusting over his cheeks as he asks, “Could I keep it once you’re finished?”

For all that brawn, there is for certain a keen eye for detail. War notices all the finer points you seem to pick out, capturing just the right angle, the posing, he is definitely a fan of your artwork, especially when you give them to him. 

War has become quite the collector of your handmade treasures and he is honoured deeply by your affectionate gifts made from the heart, all for him. 

FURY

“Human— ugh, what is it you wish to give me this time?” 

Need more be said? In the beginning of this dynamic, approaching Fury was a very tricky gamble all its own. In fact, the first few handmade gifts you did make for her, you either would ask either one of her brothers to pass it off in your stead, or leave it in a spot which she occupied so that she knew it was for her.

Her face betrayed her obvious distaste for your human antics, often times she would sneer as she inspected whatever it was you made. 

Colourful, rainbow bands of friendship — perhaps your attempt of silently asking for her companionship — to knitted wares of a shawl to protect her from the elements. You believe she’s taken the latter gift well considering you’ve seen her on numerous occasions sporting it, and when you do point it out, her eyes thin slightly, narrowing in your direction.

“I-I just… mean to say, I’m glad you’re wearing it… it looks good on you.”

Over time, she’s become more comfortable about the concept, though at this point, you practically throw handmade bits and bobs at her and she’s forced to concede to it. Days where it’s just you and her lounging about your home, she may strip down from her armour and replace it with that sweater you knitted for her last Christmas, her reaction to it upon unwrapping it was priceless. A genuine, “You made this for me?” 

You could just hear the sheer surprise and dare you say it, amazement. She does appear to relax just the littlest bit when that soft wool wraps around her torso, and if you’re lucky, she will serve you with a compliment that brings a prideful hum to you and a smile.

With any sort of protective charms, Fury is wary, and she inquires exactly who, when, where and how. She wants all the details so she can make sure it’s safe, but she’s not opposed to taking over as your new teacher when it comes to the very advanced sort of magic. “Let me teach you, before you get yourself killed. Now what are you making for me this time?”

She knows that look in your eyes by now. That creative, human glint you get when your mind conjures up another idea. When explaining you want to make her a charm bracelet that will aid in protecting her, she doesn’t know what to say. For a powerful being such as herself, she doesn’t often take a moment to exactly assess the danger she’s about to pursue. 

The fact that from your perspective, you feel the need to somehow protect her, is… something of endearing to her. She’s still discovering herself but you two have known each other for some time now, she has become attached. Though she was nonchalant about it, she accepts and wears the bracelet always when out on a mission, and she is proud of your efforts and accomplishment to create a rather powerful artefact. 

Creating a mug for this nephilim was a bit of a challenge, but you settled on a more tea-esque style, a soft and round base and a bit of an intricate handle with a deep purple as it’s main colour, with accents of gold and white swirls in a marble design. She thinks it’s pretty cool what you’ve done and she enjoys sipping from it, flaring at Strife as he flaunts his own mug, she merely rolls her eyes. She knows she’s got the best cup, that’s just her opinion. 

“Um, Fury, I made this drawing for you.” With a tilt of her head and quirk of her brow, she took the handed piece of paper from your hands and… smiles? A genuine smile? She is rather critical of humans and their entire existence, how they plot along, seemingly living pointless lives; but she is mighty impressed with the rendition of her and Rampage overlooking the sunset on a cliff side you both had gone to about a month ago. 

“That is… quite talented, human. You drew this?” 

When telling her about your major arts degree before the entire world falling into a giant shithole of hell, you expected her not to fully understand or care, until you feel her hand rest on your shoulder. “You should keep at this art of yours. You have potential.” 

“Oh, er— thanks!” That was a boost of encouragement, no matter how lacking her tone was at the time, you know her better by now she isn’t the most forthcoming with her more intimate, softer side. At least not so readily. 

But you do. You continue pursuing your art and she does at times indulge you in being your model, as does Rampage, when he’s not trying to either run you over because he wants more pats and treats. 

Fury has amassed a private collection she will reflect on with fondness, her own little treasure trove of gifts that she’s come to adore; because they represent the kindness and love you put into them. 

———

Overall, your skills have expanded quite a bit, and these four may not admit it outright - might try and hide it - but they appreciate each and every single one of your gifts, and you: their little human. 

[latadarksiders]

Сразу же выложу второй день, Всадник

Повторюсь, мне так лет нормально рисовать, я наткнулась на пост ближе к 12 ночи :³

[askthedarksidersfam]

Can you imagine the memes to come out of humans after the apocalypse??

We’re all traumatized but fuck if the funniest memes aren’t gonna come from this turn of events.

[raccoonqueen90]

My christmas Darksiders wish

MORE SUB DARKSIDERS SMUT, COME ON IK IM NOT THE ONLY ONE ON THIS HILL,WHOS WITH ME, please send this to darksider fic writers please 

its all i ask for christmas , REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

[fanfictionanonymous]

@imagine-darksiders, I feel like this would be something Strife posts after figuring out social media.

[trek-tracks]

Come on, Spock, what mysterious relative is it this time?

[anxiously-sidequesting]

i haven't played past arc 3 and forgot most of my playthrough so i may be incorrect about this but it's so interesting how like only two people in the entire game so far have ever acknowledged the unfair situation the wizard has been put in, and those people were Motherfucking Morganthe and Motherfucking Grandfather Spider

[eoieopda]

interlude: sundown (myg)

pairing: min yoongi x reader summary: as it turns out, your boyfriend can take as much as he gives. au: darksided (masterlist), established relationship type: drabble | smut + fluff word count: 1.9k rating: 18+ cw: pov switch, min yoongi gets pegged 🙌🏻, afab!reader, needy & subby yoongi, v soft dom!reader, praise kink unlocked!!, anal fingering, sex w/ strap on, k*ss*ng (eek!) a/n 1: you thought i’d get through a(u)gust without a yoongi fic? pleaaaaase. this is part of the darksided series, so i recommend checking out the other installments first, just so you have all the context. this can be read as a stand-alone drabble, though! this one takes place after blindsided, btw. a/n 2: i don’t spend much time talkin’ ‘bout prep due to the word limit, but it is both implied & v important. be safe! 🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.

You can’t say what came over you. It wasn’t a conscious decision, you know that much. The only explanation you can fall back on is that the feral part of your brain simply took over, and your inner construction worker popped out to say hello — but that’s not entirely accurate.

In reality, it was less of a greeting and more of a “Damn, baby! That ass.”

Mere meters away, your boyfriend is bent over the bookshelf he’s been working hard to assemble — a task you were politely banished from executing, not thirty minutes ago. When he finally registers what you just blurted out, he stands back up to his full height and glances over his shoulder at you. His expression lands somewhere between bewildered and tickled fucking pink.

“Did you just catcall me?”

“I — I think…” You’re more shocked than he is, it seems. Blinking slowly doesn’t help you process your actions any quicker, so you give up and grimace through your admission. “I might have?”

Of the two of you, it’s Yoongi that truly has all the audacity in the world. After setting his screwdriver down onto the coffee table, he crosses his arms loosely over his chest and bites back a smug grin.

“You think you know a person after seven entire years of dating,” he tuts. “Then, they turn around and harass you — in your own home, no less.” Sucking a breath in through his teeth, he shakes his head and sighs, “Life comes at you fast.”

For a second, all you can do is stare at him with your incredulous mouth halfway open. It’s the most that anyone should expect from you at a time like this, when he’s looking at you like that — characteristically semi-flustered, and still so unshakably self-assured. With narrowed eyes, you opt to hone in on the former.

“You’re out here smuggling cake in broad daylight — looking downright bite-worthy —”

Peeling yourself off the couch, you cross over to him with your hands raised defensively. When you reach him, you plant those same hands on your hips and heave an exasperated sigh.

“What was I supposed to do? Pretend otherwise?”

Yoongi arches an eyebrow but says nothing, simply aiming his flat-lined smile your way. All it takes is your slow, expectant blinking for him to take the hint. Just like that, you fall into a well-practiced routine: him opening up to pull you into his chest, you lacing your arms around his waist, his chin resting gently against the top of your head.

And even though you haven’t left the house all day, this is the first moment that truly feels like home. It’s quiet, it’s calm, it’s —

“Bite-worthy, huh?” 

You can’t see his smirk, but you can hear it. 

“Surely, this is not the first time this is being brought to your attention.”

“It’s not,” Yoongi concedes. His low chuckle tickles every vertebrae on its way down your spine. The tingling only intensifies when he presses a kiss to the top of your head and murmurs, “I just haven’t heard it from you before. You’re behind the curve, so to speak.”

You pause for two reasons: the subtle genius of his phrasing and the new bit of trivia he seems to be alluding to. Is he — ?

“You’ve pegged?” You ask, glancing curiously up at him. 

The answer wouldn’t surprise you one way or another. More than anything, you’re impressed that the two of you still find things to learn about each other. That you can spend the better part of a decade with someone, side-by-side, and never run out of new conversations to have.

When he tilts his chin to look down at you, his expression is a perfect mirror of yours.

“You haven’t?”

Yoongi’s head crashes back against the pillows before his sigh can slip fully from his mouth. The impact seems to knock it loose; it floats away, above your bowed head. The sound gets lost somewhere underneath that of your open-mouthed kisses trailing so fucking softly across the bare skin of his chest. 

If his heart stops with every flick of your tongue over one of his nipples, you resuscitate him just as quickly with praise.

Apparently, being told he’s beautiful has the same physiological effect on him as a shot of epinephrine.

“Oh, fuck,” Yoongi groans from deep in his chest when your mouth ventures far enough to kiss the tip of his cock. That action is fairly chaste, all things considered, but the way his pre-cum shines like gloss on your lips is beyond obscene. 

You smile with your eyes alone as you take him into your mouth — and you think he’s beautiful? 

He can’t think of a single prettier sight than you and your fluttering lashes, looking up at him like he’s the one that hung the stars in the sky. Ridiculous. It’s him that frays a little further at the edges with every glance down at you.

Pulling away with a lewd pop, you murmur, “You can be more vocal than that, can’t you, baby?”

Oh, god. 

The smile tugging at your mouth makes his heart leap and his cock twitch. Untouched, it jumps and re-settles against his abdomen.

“Yes.” He fires off his response like a bullet at point-blank range, and you chuckle quietly at his eagerness. Breathless already, he amends, “Fuck yes.”

One eyebrow arches just enough to indicate that you expect a more detailed response. He should know better by now, shouldn’t he? He’s teased you this way a thousand times before, and it’s about time that he tastes his own medicine. Acknowledging that fact, he stoops to begging.

“Please. I want you to fuck me open with your fingers.”

Nodding appreciatively, you trace your finger along the underside of his shaft and leave him on the brink of losing his goddamn mind. He’d gladly let you drive him insane this way, but you take that hand away and gesture for him to turn over. As you do, you hum, “And I want to see you on your knees, love.”

Yoongi takes your instructions and runs with them, barely careful enough to avoid knocking you backwards off the bed in the process. He settles on his knees, then looks back over his shoulder just in time to watch you pop the cap off the bottle of lube.

You look nervous, though you try to hide it. He’s no stranger to that worried crease between your eyebrows; and he can’t help the downward curve of his mouth when he sees it.

There’s never been — and will never be — a person he trusts more than you. Careful, perfect, sweet. You couldn’t hurt him even if you tried, and he knows without question that you never would. You, however, seem less sure of that.

Yoongi has to twist back around to do it, but he cradles your jaw in his hands and kisses you deep, with everything he has. 

“I love you,” he whispers before pressing his lips to yours a second time. It carries more meaning than that; he suspects you hear each one.

I trust you.

It’s okay.

Already reassured, you whisper back to him with darkening eyes, “Elbows on the mattress, then, Min Yoongi.”

To say that he collapses against the comforter would be an understatement. He’s certifiably boneless the second your fingertips trace down the length of his spine, though his hunger for your touch starts him shivering.

“Relax, sweet thing,” you tell him. To encourage him, you lean forward and press your lips to the small of his back; instantly, you soothe the tension his body holds as if you’ve flipped a switch. It’s automatic, just like the low groan he emits when you murmur, “Good boy.”

The quiet that follows is ultimately interrupted by the faint slosh of liquid. He has to beg himself not to clench at the mere thought of your slicked fingers, so he instead lets his mouth fall open when he feels them glide over his rim. Needier than he’s ever been in his whole fucking life, Yoongi whimpers. 

It’s a pathetic little sound, but he doesn’t dare to try and swallow it down. He’ll give you everything; every pleading sigh and shuddered moan, all of it.

And — as a courtesy — he’ll refrain from calling you a liar because there is no fucking way that you haven’t done this before.

It’s simply unbelievable with how expertly you navigate the intricacies of his body, applying perfect pressure where he craves it. With the way you translate his incoherent whining to a plea for more, giving him exactly what he wants.

Two fingers deep, you tease, “So greedy, aren’t you baby?” 

But there’s no harshness to your tone, so soft around the edges. In fact, your little snicker suggests that you’re impressed. It takes all he has not to cum at the sound alone.

“Just for you — ” He responds through gritted teeth, blissed-out eyes squeezing shut. “— F-fuck. I can’t get enough of you.”

When you slip away from him, he proves your point, whining petulantly. You soothe him with an affectionate squeeze to his ass cheek, chuckling all the while. “Should we fix that, then?”

Yoongi has no idea what words he slurs in an attempt to answer that question, but he hopes he tells you how badly he craves your cock. He must, he figures, because he hears the telltale glide of the nightstand’s top drawer when you pull it open.

His head lifts from the blankets below to catch a glimpse of you settling the harness over your hips. For a moment, he forgets when, where, and who he is. The only reality he can currently comprehend is the one in which you’re running your fist down black silicone as if it’s a part of you, spreading slick from a bottle. 

But then you disappear from his line of sight, leaving him disoriented. He misses you already.

“I wish you could see how pretty you look on your knees.”

The mattress dips under your weight, signaling to him that you’ve settled behind him once again. You tap the length of the dildo against his skin, prompting him to groan. Still teasing, you ask, “Gonna fuck yourself on my cock, angel?”

Shit, shit, shit. 

Yoongi feels the tip hovering near his hole and he can’t keep his racing heart in check, so desperate that he’s practically vibrating. Your next words pull him further apart; they sound especially filthy in your light, almost reverent tone.

“Show me how well you can take me.”

He plans to do just that.

Slowly pushing back against you, Yoongi sinks down your length until that indescribable fullness leaves him starry-eyed and keening. After a few measured breaths, the ache subsides and gives way to pure pleasure.

Your praise is gentle, though the effect it has on him is earth-shattering. “Just like that, baby. You’re being so good for me.”

Withdrawing, he leans forward onto his elbows just to repeat the motion, losing himself more and more with every pass.

“Shit,” he hiccups, head drooping so that his forehead meets his forearms.

He only grows more eager when your hands claim his hips. You guide his body back to yours every time he leaves; whispering little wishes that he fuck himself the way you swear he deserves. 

You must hear his ragged breaths over the clap of his skin against yours and sense that he’s close because you hum, “Sweet thing. Are you going to make yourself cum?”

Yoongi shakes his head fervently, although not for the reason you might think.

“Want you to,” he begs on an exhale. “Please, make me cum. N-need you deeper.” 

Small hands flatten against his shoulder blades and press him further down against the bed. With fists full of the sheets, Yoongi gives you a desperate nod, signaling you to take over. 

And you do — without the hesitation he saw in you earlier, proving for the millionth time that you know exactly how to make him fall apart.

And he does — with a cry, so delirious and fucked out that he goes boneless underneath you.

When his body eventually stops trembling, Yoongi feels you pull out of him. He hears the quiet click as you unfasten the harness. Shortly after, his senses are overwhelmed with the warmth of your body coming down gently to cover his, warding off the emptiness that started to settle in your absence.

“You’re perfect.” You mumble with lips pressed to his sweat-slicked neck. “So fucking perfect.”

Funnily enough, he was just thinking the same thing about you.

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[guardianoftheotherside]

Pov: Strife introduce guns to War

[sketch-guardian]

I finally finished the New exchange students' true celestial forms sketches😭it was a nightmare and now I need to get some sleep😞I apologize if they are disappointing, but here they are🙈:

"NEW EXCHANGE STUDENTS' TRUE CELESTIAL FORMS"

REMIEL X MC

NATHANIEL X MC

URIEL X MC

plus some close-ups to show their faces better:

REMIEL

NATHANIEL

URIEL

[imagine-darksiders]

Strife: Ah, that demon’s claws scraped my shoulder.

Y/n: Want me to kiss it better?

Strife: …. Humans can heal with kisses?

Y/n: Sure!

(Later)

Strife, out of breath as he skids up to his brother: WAR! I NEED YOU TO PUNCH ME IN THE LIPS RIGHT NOW!

War, already winding up: I thought you’d never ask.

[darkdemeter]

WATCH IN SILENCE

✘DARKSIDERS FILED CLIPPINGS | Death x Female Watcher!Reader ────────────────────────

To the eldest as your charge, Death remained a permanently perplexing sort. This, from the wit of his banter and blunted sass, often leaves you fixated on the nature of his estranged and cold personality, however much you see the confliction of his inner turmoil within. But that is a personal affair you dare not intrude upon.

Most curious for a Watcher, Death often scowls in the closeted nest of his deepest thoughts. More so than not, Watchers tend to make a grand show of their power over the Horsemens’ leash, whichever sibling they hold to, it is but a taming of a trophy. A display, that in comparison to the feared Horsemen, the Watchers are the ones in power.

Darkened, boastful entities. Infectious, shadowy wisps that are bound and loyal to the Charred Council. Yet compared to the likes of your other wrist-shackled counterparts, you remain out of the way of his carnage-paved path. You don’t conduct yourself as a mouthpiece of sarcasm and venomous snark. Death already covers that trait and far more fittingly if you’re forced to confess. But no, you allow him his way without the threat of restraint, and maybe because he is the eldest of his siblings, he is granted that right.

But for you… well, the reason is not like that at all. At least, not entirely. You revere his strength and might, but in fact, you are also rather ‘young’. By this, you have very little experience amassed when chosen to govern a Horsemen; moreso that this is your first venture in doing so. You could also say you’re an admirer of Death. How precise he is in the midst of his outward battles, the radiance of his exuded power, it’s of little use to convince yourself otherwise by accompanying him as his so-called Watcher that you feel safe in his company.

And that is why you remain to that of a voiceless shadow. Quite literally. Upon first bindings to the one known as Kin-slayer, he has not so much as heard you utter a single word. And he knows not if he should be grateful or reserved. A Watcher that is silent?

He tries to not let it overcome his mind. But it's hard when he takes time of momentary rest such as this, to contemplate the path he treads and his next course of action, and then to lift his burning amber eyes to find you. Either staring at him or providing a level of cared attendance to Dust, adoring the crow’s purring chirps as his dark, crisp feathers quiver and fluff out.

When involving the former, all he can do is glare in return but that does little to deter you, gaze almost dream-like, as if you marvel at the sight of him in your muted presence. Though you may harbour a surmised amount of fear for Death, the dangers of other creatures scare you, and that fear only drives you closer to his side. Nights like this there crawls something sinister in the dark. It lingers there like a beast on the prowl. The wispy form of your blackened silhouette dances in hunched uncertainty, perhaps cowardly to the likes of his perspective, before a simple clutter of rubble ignites the last of your incited panic and you huddle to his side. Who better to protect you than Death? His scythes ring the song of victory without so much as a breath, the task of delivering those unto their demise one he is born and created to do.

Has been for many aeons. But he is still and undisturbed by the shifting of pebbles. He scowls, that much you can tell by the thinning of his amber eyes that burn with a thousand blazes of molten and fire.

“It’s nothing, little Watcher.” His voice is strung by the hoarseness of his remark, reprimanding you and your swiftness to scare easily. How often he’s marked you with such belittlement but you find yourself yearning for it. You interpret it as his term of endearment beneath that coarse exterior of his. Head fluttering in the direction of any miniscule note that sounds in the distance around you, you finally come from your hiding place, tucked close to his ribcage with a curious tilt of your head. Glancing from him to where you’d heard the noise, the trail of black at the end of your torso dances over his lap, stirring him with a chill that leaves a disgruntled noise to rise from his chest.

As ever the curious thing you were and that he’d come to know, your arms raise to bend at the elbows, nervously your tinged fingers ring together within your silent inquiry, Death takes an unseemly approach this time around; that of thoughtful gentleness.

“Nothing will come and harm you.”

This answer calms you. He tells by the fall of your shoulders that ease at his promise, and the way your head turns to view him with your eyes, glowing brightly as if you share with him a kind, thankful smile.

“So long as you don’t draw attention,” he quickly snips and that crinkle of your eyes wears away, that once illuminated smile within your gaze dims.

He’s not entirely sure if that was a necessity to add. By what logic would you draw attention to them? Half the time, your presence is invisible to the masked Horseman. Only made known in times where you guide him through his journey, a suggestive wave or push of his body to indicate a point of interest that may be of some use in his quest.

But other than quick outings to help him, watch over him, you don’t exactly serenade him with a chorus of banter he can combat with his own, and thus, enemies don’t take notice of your being there until you show yourself.

But nevertheless, he watches you hover towards him before coming to curl against him. Though he means to protest and brush you aside, you make yourself comfortable at his side and he’s forced to concede that this is where you plan to stay until you both are on the move again.

You sigh, the sound quiet and echoes faintly in the chamber of your enclosed, unmade mouth. Yet your jaw grows down in length as if to copy the motion to yawn and you rest your head against his shoulder.

“You know, you’re a very odd sort of Watcher,” he says to you, yet your eyes dwindle, slowly closing as you remain untainted by his words. They are not new to you. He’s commented a few times about your oddities. And you’re inclined to agree with a sluggish nod.

Still, he watches you, eyes cast upon you with a glare meant to intimidate you. But seeing the serenity of your peace when pressed to him, it comes to soften his gaze. Unexpectedly, something in his heart… beats. Blooms. A strange force threatens to dominate.

The blackened outline of your form fits to the line of his body, the fading tail at the end of your torso rests over in his lap.

Once certain that you’ve somehow drifted into some realm of slumber, his hand comes to rest along the ridge of your spine, he feels the pulse of energy within your shadowed, ethereal body.

The framing curtain of blackness that shrouds your head moves timidly like hair taken softly to the breeze. Much like a human, it is another quality that sets you far apart from the other watchers to relish in their power below the Charred Council’s will.

What Death finds himself now evermore torn and confused by, is the utterance of one word as you drift off into the sleeping abyss.

The quietness disturbed by a tune harmonic - angelic - that it fits not the occupation you find yourself in servitude under.

It is a word he often claims is in the interest of the balance only. That nothing else restrains him to such an esteemed and honourable title.

“Protector…”

[latadarksiders]

Вот и новый день, персонаж в Апокалипсиса, знаю не густо, мне было лень рисовать, и возможно нарисую ещё один, только там мой персонаж не человек

[underscorewriting]

Coming back home.

Chris Redfield x reader

Warnings: angst (literally just angst)

Word count: 1538

Weeks. Maybe even months have passed since he last returned home. At first it hurt him to stay away for so long, but now? He was more unsure of how he should even explain why he stayed away for so long, why he couldn‘t have returned home. How his last mission made him have to leave a man, a friend, alone to die. How he had to pretend to kill his friends wife and kidnap his baby just to get him to go there.

How could he ever return to his family after ruining theirs? What gave him the right to have a perfect family at home when Ethan died trying to protect his?

But his family was back at home waiting for him ever since he stepped out of the front door. Leaving his wife with his baby alone. Leaving the responsibility of a loving husband and father behind him. He thought he could return soon after he left but the way things turned out to be made him dread to come back home, to tell her about what he did, what kind of man he had become and how he killed someone, sent someone to their death, for a mission.

So he turned to the only thing he knew, alcohol. He has been sitting in bars for over a month. Drink after drink in his hand. Drinking the pain and worries away the way he did before Piers found him. Only this time he can‘t forget anything, he can‘t forget the pain in Mias voice as she thought Ethan would come with Chris onto the plane, that Ethan would flee. But he went back. Nightmares haunted him ever since. Seeing himself walking back, her, his love screaming his name, sobbing. Then he‘d wake up. Drenched in sweat. He started hating himself each night a little more.

It hurt him to keep his wife in the dark about all of this, to not tell her where he is right now. Her messages got shorter, but the pain and hurt in them grew. He felt her desperation through the screen. He felt as if their connection grew weaker, not his love for her though. It wouldn‘t go away. It couldn‘t. and after everything he did these past years, her feelings didn‘t grow weak either, not even after how he was treating her right now. He didn’t respond to the texts, not one. He could imagine her hurt whenever she saw the little ‚seen‘ on the bottom of her messages. It didn‘t feel great to treat her like this, how could it? She was all he adored. And he knew he wouldn‘t stop adoring her, not for a long time.

But as her messages grew more desperate, so did his need to drink. His need to forget. His need to come home.

He couldn‘t come back. What would she think of him? Think of his actions?

As Chris was in his misery so was his wife. His wife back at home barely had any sleep, she couldn‘t, because what if Chris would come back? Text her back? Tell her that he needs help, that she should contact Leon, Jill or maybe even Claire. She had to be ready. Not one time did she think she could find her husband anywhere near a bar, not after his history of drinking. „I don‘t care what happened, please just come home. Just come home to me.“ Seen. Oh how she wished, he‘d just write the smallest respond.

Each day she cried herself to sleep, each day she only woke up to take care of their child.

„Claire stopped by today, she said I should give up on you.“

„I can‘t give up on you.“

„I don‘t want to.“

Her messages grew sadder.

„Chris, I need you home.“

„I need to know you‘re safe.“

Seen.

Seen.

Seen.

A small sign that he‘s still alive.No, a small sign that he night be still alive.

„Caroline just turned four, she misses her daddy.“

Seen.

Then one night. 6 months had passed since he first left. One night the front door opened. Loud banging was heard from downstairs, scaring her out of the little sleep she could get. She was scared, because at this point the idea of someone breaking in was more realistic than Chris coming home. It was sad, that the first thing that came to her mind was someone breaking and not her husband coming home. The banging continued, it might‘ve even grown louder, but in her state of shock she wouldn‘t be able to tell. Slowly she took one of the pistols Chris hid in their drawer. She couldn‘t handle guns. She never had to. Chris always assured her she wouldn‘t have to use it. But right now she needed it, the thought of someone hurting her, hurting her baby, filled her with fear.

Her feet quietly took her to her daughters room, stoping at the door to check on her. Nothing. A sigh of relief left her as she continued her way. At least her daughter was asleep safe and sound. Walking downstairs she heard quiet curses, causing her heart to drop.

“Chris?”

Her voice was filled with pain, she did not look like the girl, no the woman, he had left behind. In her place was a Wrack, only barely could you recognize the beauty in her. It was his fault. All of this was his fault. He did not just ruin the Winters family, no, he ruined his own. The one he worked so hard on. The one he should’ve protected and came home to.

It all dawned to him. If he would’ve just come home when the mission was done…

And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to feel.

To feel the guilt.

The anger.

The pain.

It all hit him like a truck. Crashing into his open arms, wrapping its fingers around his heart and just started squeezing. Squeezing until his eyes welled up with tears and he cried. He cried for the winters. He cried for his own family and he cried for her. For the woman he ruined. For the mother of his child. His wife. The person that supported him by everything he did, everything he ever planned. Everything he was. And him? He left her, left her alone to rot , knowing she had a hard time without him there, had a hard time in general with even just talking to people. He left her alone and ruined her. How could he do this to her?

To their daughter?

To their family?

A soft hand on his cheek made him flinch, the common touch of a lover scared him. Made him fear that he ruined it, Made him fear that if he’d open his eyes again, she would be gone. Fearing that none of this is real. That she‘s not real.

How did he even end up back at home? He didn‘t know, he didn‘t care.

He could only remember some snippets of how he got here. How the taxi driver looked at him disgusted.Had he looked so bad? He hadn`t shaved since he left home, probably reeked of whiskey. That fucking whiskey.

But nothing mattered, not now. Not the whiskey or how he got here. All that matters is the way her touch felt in his rough skin, how he was barely worth being under her gentle gaze. A sob ripped through him. A repeating mumble of apologies left his lips over and over again, tears just continued to fall, continued to soak her fingers, but she never took her hand away, she wouldn‘t dare. „Shh… it‘s okay, you‘re home. You‘re safe.“ Her whispers felt like prayers that could safe his soul, could make him forget his pain and his troubles… But they could not undo his sins. Could not undo how he killed his friend.

„I did something…“ His sobs broke her heart, the way the words left him made her heart stop for a second. „I couldn‘t safe him.“ His fingers were clawing on her arm, desperately trying to hold her closer, she did notwithstanding it, she kneeled down next to him and let him embrace her, use her for his own comfort. It did not matter to her that she was hurting in this moment or the past months. All that mattered to her was that he was there. it felt like a dream and if it was, she wouldn‘t want to wake up.

His head was nestled in the crock of her neck, the tears wouldn#t stop falling. Both of them weren’t able to tell who they were from. The pain they shared in this exact moment made them feel something, feel alive for the first time. Chris felt sober, his mind was clearer than ever before. And her? She stayed quiet, let him talk, eat him cry as tears fell from her eyes. She wasn#t crying for her broken heart, no, she was crying for the broken little boy in her arms. The boy that clung onto her like she wold disappear if he just let go.

Minutes, maybe even hours passed before both of them realized that Chris was finally home.

[darksiders-scenarios]

In the Garden of Eden, War trails behind you, maintaining a deliberate distance rather than walking at your side. It dawns on you that his distance is rooted in guilt—for the role he played in the destruction of humanity's haven.

You turn to face him. He halts.

With a bright smile, you exclaim, "Don't be a stranger."

War remains stoic, his noble face giving nothing away.

"In fact," your tone softens. "Never feel like a stranger."

No immediate reaction comes from the legendary Horseman; his demeanour unchanged. After a prolonged silence, War's eyes subtly narrow, and his gaze falls to the ground, but not before you catch the briefest shimmer of wetness beneath his hood.