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wrimpr · 30 days ago

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Darksiders AU Riders

Damn, i just had a Darksiders AU idea for a story i could implement with the original i had in mind. Keep reading to have the start of the story after the description of the AU Horsemen, and if i have the time, i'll even draw the concept arts, but for now, i'll just put some pictures to better undertand how they look.

Okay so picture this,

You were on a mission (wether alone or with one of the horsemen), when all of a sudden, the relic open ups a weird portal, and only you get sent into this AU. Also, depending on the horsemen, if its War, Fury or Strife they would have different reactions, like Strife being bff with AU Death, War being bamboozled by the whole situation like Y/N and Fury asking to the AU herself on how to get the lead or talking about makeup and clothes cause let's be honest, vintage motorcycle style with black leather would look good on her. But they would have normal reactions. Death would be straight up pissed that a better looking version of himself would try and steal you from him. But for now, you are alone in this AU.

There, you meet the Riders, to which obviously are the horsemen, but they ride bikes instead.

Also, Fury is at the commands, her hair is darker and less floating. She holds the title of reaper in this AU. Which means she is dual-wielding scythes attached to chains. She still has her same personality, but regularly holds it back to be more reflected. She wears black leather clothes and is the most powerful of the riders. Her other form is nearly the same as normal , but it’s visible bones through the flames and her scythes can be joined to look like the cross-blade Salvation given by Usiel in the game.

Strife is the second in the line of power, he dual-wields big katanas look alikes. He’s also stronger, wears an iconic red leather jacket, has shoulder long hair and has War’s personality, but at least he can understand jokes. His other form, is a four wielding swords biped monster that has spikes everywhere (like Anarchy’s form, but with more spikes, and two more arms to hold swords). Also, instead of a helmet, he wears sunglasses when not on his bike.

War is the magic-wielder one instead of Fury, which means he has the hollows, he’s still as big, maybe even bigger because he fistfights. His right arm is metallic instead of the left one. He lost it during a fight against Fury to try and overthrow her. He looks nicer with a little smile from time to time, but it’s only to fool his enemies to lower their guard because he is actually a maniac. He still tries to remain zen when he can but can easily be brought to lose temper. He has Death’s haircut and has white hair with black stripes. He wears dark purple leather clothes and a black bandana to his neck. His chaos form walk on his four limbs and charges everywhere, depending of whether he has activated a hollow, he’ll either be aflame, crystallised, electric, or heavily armoured. His chaos form also has two bio-technical cannons on top that also changes depending of the hollows.

Death is the irresponsible one, he is still very smart and knowledgeable, but has flaws and thinks more with emotions. He is stills very much sassy though. He has no mask, but face paint similar to it. He has a sort of wolfcut, but instead of curling down, it spikes up, like if Strife had longer hair, but badly cut. He wears black leather clothes, a sleeveless jacket and silver rings with one silver gold embedded with a diamond ring. He wields two revolvers, but also a very powerful crossbow. He has Strife’s personality and is lovely. His other form is a floating being with multiple arms holding big skeleton guns. Obviously, everyone has a cowboy hat, except Fury, her hair is too beautiful to be hidden under a hat. But everyone has some sort of face protection when riding. Also, in this AU there is no council, the riders work for another entity that upholds the balance, a powerful one, strict but just, with her childrens, the watchers, silent beings for those that are not worthy of the knowledge they detain. And Lilith's dead, not the Nephilim, cause here, they are not a threat, Lilith was. They just banished the riders for killing her because they were ordered to.

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You first drop in the desert. While walking for a while, you perceive a bar in the distance and decide to go and get some informations on the place and how to get back home. The bar is empty expect for the barman cleaning his glasses and a few drunken demons and angels in the corners. While ordering a drink, the barman’s gives you the stinky eye and reluctantly gives a drink. While being sat, the doors of the bar swings open and gets propelled to the floor due to a powerful kick. You turn around to notice Fury, but she seemed different. Fury looked paler, and had darker hair, but you could still recognise her by her overall stature, floaty hair and clear eyes. While ordering a drink for herself, she turns around and her face distorts in what looked like…fear ? Incredulity ? Disgust ? She kept looking you up and down like she’s seen some sort of ghost. You kept to your glass and started feeling uneasy while Fury got closer to get a better look and instantly cheered at you and hugged you really tight. She then put you back on your chair.

Fury kept talking of all her adventures like it’s been a long time. She narrated stories you never heard before and everything was going alright until she talked about Death and how thrilled he would be to see you. Death…being “thrilled” to see you… "What ?!"

“Yeah, because you know…he loved you so much. How could you forget that ?”

This sentence hit you like a train.

You didn’t have the time to process it, when three other strangers entered the bar. But they weren’t strangers, at least not entirely. While getting closer, they stopped in their tracks, not believing what they were seeing. While War got closer to also scrutinise you better. Strife looked at you and then at Death, he had a look of distress and disbelief, his eyes fixed on you, unmoving. He looked like he was about to faint, so Strife led him to sit down at the other side of the bar to relieve his nerves.

War lifted you up from the seat and also hugged you with a big smile on his face, swinging you around in ecstasy. But you were too blown away by the previous statement that you didn’t even notice when War put you down.

Fury noticed of the tremendous overall stress and ordered a round for all 5 of you and brought you to the table where Strife and Death already sat, Strife having his hand on his brother’s shoulder while Death looked down his hands, nervously spinning one of his rings…his most treasured one.

While you, War and Fury approached the table, both of the riders lifted their gaze to stare at you. Where Strife’s shifted to the drinks brought by the barman, Death’s remained on you, staring as they all sat, you being at the opposite side of him.

They all started counting stories to you, Death still silent, still observing, still playing with the ring. When all of a sudden he slammed his fist on the table, rose up, and exited the bar. Everyone was shocked because they have never seen such a display coming from him, then Strife also sat up and followed him out, drink in hand. Looking back at War and Fury, they were also in disbelief but soon shifted their expressions; they looked more apologetic, and were now silent. The air, the chair, the place…THE HELL ! All this situation was uncomfortable ! It all felt both familiar and uncanny.

After what felt like hours, Fury put her arms on the table and asked :

Fury : "Death's right, we cannot act like nothing happened. But it's hard to believe what were seeing, so i'm gonna be clear with you. Are you who we think you are ?" You : "And who do you think i am ?" Fury : "Y/N." You : "Then I am the one you though of." Fury : "Weird how you say that, yet you act like were strangers to you. You haven't said a word and...I mean, you looked quite puzzled when i told you about Death, yet you were head over heels for him before you..." War stopped Fury by giving her the elbow and they both looked at each other. After a long sigh from Fury, they both sat up and readied themselves to go. You looked completely clueless, when all of a sudden Fury started talking again. Fury : "Come, that's not the right place to talk." You followed them both outside, where Death was sat on a bench, elbows on his knees, face down and his hand pressing against it. His hair helping hiding his emotions like a curtain to an open window. Strife was also sat besides him, again with one hand on Death's shoulder, and the other the drink. He turned his head, while Death barely lifted his head towards Fury when she first exited the bar, you and War following. Strife giving a light push on Death's shoulder to indicate departure and everybody lifted their arms to summon their horses...if they were, but from the ground weren't animals, but rather, motorcycles, each personnalised to their rider. They looked like each of their horses, but made bike. War's bike had wheels aflame, Fury's had sparks of electricity flowing around, Strife's had a purple miasma coming from it and finally, Death's had a green little fog and under the wheel, you could see the few strands of grass dying. After all, there was still a lot in common between them and the Horsemen. You : "Hold on, you don't ride horses ?" War looked at you with a grin on his face and gently slapped what would be the fuel tank, before talking. War : "But we do ride horses, can't you see ?" With that he revved his motorcycle by turning the throttle while imitating a horse's neigh. You where staggered at the fact that War was the one to make a joke that you couldn't say anything. War : "Weird, you were always the first one to laugh at any of our jokes. Was it really that bad ?" Death : "Yes." War : "That's low coming from you brother. When you'll get to my level, maybe i'll allow myself to even smirk at YOUR jokes." Death : "Or maybe you are just so tasteless in term of jokes that you haven't even noticed that i've surpassed you a long time ago." Fury : "Stop it the two of you ! No one cares about whether the both of you makes the worst jokes." They both stopped talking and then she turns to you.

Fury : "YOU... sorry, Y/N, take that." She clearly emphasised your name, like she wouldn't believe that this name would be yours and then handed you a helmet. You : "Where are we going ?" Fury : "Home." With no other words said, you ride with Fury to who knows where, but you know that it's not going to be for a warm embrace, but rather, a stressful interrogation. ___________________________________________ Here are the pictures for some references. Don't take them literally, some are just a few parts for the concepts.

I swear someone made a version of War as a punk and i can't happen to find it on the internet but i fkn loved it.

#darksiders #darksiders strife #darksiders death #darksiders fury #darksiders war #bikers #darksiders au #my first time posting a story

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alexatheris-44 · 2 months ago

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His First Gift

(Darksiders, Against Creation AU)

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CW: Talk of surgery and stitches, nonsexual nudity, dysphoria

Summary: Looking to bathe safely and in peace, the Hound wonders out at late night to a hot spring in the woods… though isn’t there long before being in unsurprising company. Death plays a bold hand�� to an unexpected, reciprocal outcome. And in the end, the Reaper finds the heart to lift the Hound’s greatest burden from his chest.

> Writing this one,,,, did things to me. I hope it does things to whoever reads it too 🫵👁️👁️

vvvv Start Reading Below the GIF :D vvvv

Other than the general unease and vulnerability of the dark, the nights were often quite peaceful. Though he was expected to stay close to the encampment, the Hound had made a habit of wandering when the sun went down— usually for no other reason than to stretch his changed legs to a change of scenery. The horrors always stayed fresh in the Reaper’s worktent, but he’d long grown used to the sight of all that gore, even his own. Especially his own; his overseer certainly seemed to be focusing more and more of his experiments on the Hound recently.

And of course, think of the devil—

“What are you doing all the way out here?” Death’s gravelled rasp sounded at the Hound’s back, startling the man nearly right out of the water. The Hound thought if he waited until long after nightfall —and was careful in his tread of the woods to the hot spring he overheard mention of earlier that day— he could enjoy a nice bath without fear of being seen, of being caught vulnerable. Of course his overseer would find his way out here after him, peering down at the Hound with those fiery eyes emitting their soft glow against the dark. The Reaper had seen -even meddled with- nearly every inch of the Hound’s flesh, inside and out, but still he felt the urge to cover himself in his state of complete undress. Doubtless that despite the pitch of night, Death’s most keen eyesight could see him… all of him.

“Cleaning up,” the man kept his answers short as he turned his back on his intruder, going back to scrubbing his arms though now holding them closer to his chest.

“Could this not wait until daylight?” The Nephilim’s tone fakes casual, inquisitive; no doubt he felt so smug that he caught the man technically breaking a rule.

“Or had, Creator forbid, any supervision…”

“You know why I can’t.”

“I know why you won’t,” he corrected, ignoring the way the Hound spoke more vulnerable over his bare shoulder, “You have also neglected to make anyone aware of your whereabouts. Someone could have mistaken you for attempting to flee again…”

That damn arrogant smirk, practically audible alongside his words… The Hound paused his light scrubbing, if just to roll his eyes at a false retelling of an event long since past. It just delighted him to bring that up every now and again, didn’t it?

“I’ll be out in a minute, the moment I’m done.” He returned his eyes to his forearms, though planned to move on to his legs before the Firstborn became impatient. Surely, it was this kind of mindfulness of his precious time that continued to afford the Hound grace.

“Nonsense, I’ve only just arrived.” Confusion froze the Hound solid at the light clinks of metal buckles, then the disturbing of the warm water’s surface as he was made no longer alone. Death made no secret of his entrance in the pool; each step forward as certain as the next, pushing the churning water out of his way with complete disregard how much it stirred in response. Now, there was no reason for him to —the spring had plenty enough space to host a few of the more sizeable Nephilim comfortably— but as he marched past the petrified Hound, the Reaper came close enough that he’d feel the contrasting cold of his pallid skin. Death sat down along the edge nearest his charge, who out of the corner of his eyes could see the water lapping up to that sculpted chest.

“You will stay to keep me company.”

The Reaper was many things, bold certainly among them— but never before had he been this bold, at least not with his charge. The Hound could hear his heart drumming hard in his ears, grateful the heat of the spring would mask whatever colour now warmed his face. Now more than ever he and his master stood on some form of equal ground… if it weren’t for the fact Death held himself with such pride, while the Hound had lowered in the water to have his chest submerged— something of only a small comfort.

“Well?” Again Death’s sudden address startled his company. The Hound managed to freeze before he’d fully turned Death’s way, wary he might see something he was not meant to.

“Don’t stop on my account. Finish up, or we might be here until sunrise.”

The smaller man obeyed and willed himself to move once more, slow and stiff. He felt far too aware of every nerve in his skin as he tried to continue bathing, everything now on edge and too attuned to the world to be comfortable. The silence didn’t much help, the world falling to an eerie quiet save for the water lapping at the Hound’s prolonged movements. Death was far too still for his charge’s liking; what was the point of being in here if he wasn’t going to wash?

“…Surprised you can stand the water.” Somehow the words fell out of his mouth before he fully formed the thought, that learned comfort to quip while under the knife kicking in as reflex. Death found the Hound’s eyes despite the long strands of hair always falling over the smaller man’s face, his piercing stare soon deciphering the meaning behind the message.

“I have bathed before, Hound.” His knuckles brushed the water with his outward gesture, fingertips lightly wetting as his arm returned to rest over the spring’s edge.

“I damn well know how.”

The Hound couldn’t help but scoff, pointedly muttering under his breath as a shy smirk curled the corners of his lips.

“Sure never smell like it.”

Death, who often postured with hunched shoulders or a slouched spine, suddenly straightened— a deep, almost guttural chuckle growling the air as he made himself comfortable… too comfortable, as if a king upon a godly throne.

“Then go on, wash me.”

The moonlight chose the worst possible time to piece the dark overhead; catching the glimmer of Death’s teeth through his arrogant grin, head cocked back to look down on the Hound as pure authority. He basked in the power he needn’t lift a finger to prove— it radiated from him like the mirage of heat waves, decidedly not the ones lifting from the spring. No, those ones cowered from him; the heat from the pool would never dare try and obscure his aura, nature itself feared the consequences of the Reaper’s displeasure. And the poor Hound, who simply came out here at such a late hour just to clean himself in peace, now caught in Death’s entire focus, naked before an ancient being of unbridled strength and pride… a small insignificant thing, commanded to heed a titan.

“What?” His voice failed him, the air stolen right out from his lungs. The water trickling down the Reaper’s chest was veritably mocking of his stupor; some drops falling off the ledge of his pronounced diaphragm to drip dramatically back into the pool below.

“If my scent offends so greatly, rid me of it. Bathe me, Hound, and spare nothing.”

His words were not a command, but a challenge. Doubting that, if his charge was so flushed and flustered simply sharing the water, he couldn’t possibly have the stones to come any closer… seems he underestimated him yet again. Though he knelt stock still and gawking in a statuesque silence for longer than a minute —maybe even two— the Hound eventually crawled out of his stunned state, actually approaching the Reaper. Death found himself surprised; something about the way the Hound moved, not frightened yet still skittish. How the smaller man’s lowered eyes dared not meet his own, going back and forth between averting from his form entirely and drifting back… As if he couldn’t help but look. Not anywhere indecent, he almost made it a point not to have his gaze travel to anything below water. The Hound nearly stumbled right into the Nephilim’s uncrossed leg; Death had adjusted how he sat to be in the most dominant manner he could, his feet now planted in a wide stance. Correcting his trajectory, the Hound hurried his slink over to the Reaper’s side, now in a position where —had he the desire to— Death could move his hand to the Hound’s back with ease. It seemed the Hound had the same thought, with the way he was eyeing that hand with a periodical, distrusting side glance. It was in this proximity that his hesitation returned, a slight tremble to the hands that eventually needed to move away from his chest if he truly wished to follow through. His mind appeared torn, rising anxiety having him hug his ribs a near imperceptible bit tighter.

“I will not touch you, unless permitted.” Death spoke low, quieter, almost like he was making the effort not to startle a third time. As if he’d cast a spell, or said precisely the right words of a passphrase, the Hound lost his trembling. His cleaning rag gripped in his claws, the Hound made himself partially more vulnerable as his chest lost an arm to cover it, the attached hand slowly moving to begin at the Reaper’s forearm. He turned his back to the rest of Death, willing himself to focus. He never noticed how the Nephilim’s natural cold made his skin feel like a soft marble, untouched, even by the hands that carved his form into being. It’s difficult to say which rang louder; the quiet, the excess water dripping from the cloth, or his own pulse. Meanwhile, Death took in the feeling of his charge’s oddly gentle touch, his eyes tracing each line and scar he’d added to the Hound’s back. No matter how many times he tampered, no matter what or much he took out and replaced, his flesh still possessed that slight warmth of life. It was a caress to his cold soul, and as the Hound’s other hand came to help him move up Death’s bicep —absentmindedly pressing palm to the Reaper’s elbow as to hold him in place— the limb now felt as if teased by that warmth. Death focused on it, completely ignoring the heat from the water surrounding him in favour of his current company. It was… strange, most noticeable when the Hound next tackled Death’s marked shoulder.

Doubtful it wouldn’t take a realm’s worth of soap and a near sandpaper-like rag to truly dislodge every grit of grime and ageless stain, but the Hound’s scrubbing hadn’t been all that rough. His every touch felt light and careful; impressive how he could make the brush of his gained claws feel nearly the stroke of a feather. As he guided the cloth into the grooves of Death’s mark the Hound felt fearful it might be sensitive, as if he’d just had it carved… His worry flashed so fast and without warning that Death could read it in his eyes, in the slight knit of his brow. He was so concentrated on not bringing Death harm he didn’t even notice he’d raised himself slightly from the water. The Hound now knelt in an awkward slight lean barely a breath from Death’s torso, and he’d have to lean further still if he hoped to do a complete job. Even after that, he’d have to crawl all the way to the Reaper’s other side to finish his upper body.

There… was a way he could continue without needing to brave the travel around those legs… one that had his heart absolutely pounding in his ears.

“Go on, proceed.”

To hear that scrape of stones of his pitch so close made the Hound’s very bones shiver. Death was a mountain, one that spoke in earthquakes and thunder. A slumbering volcano half awake, the haunt of the world-ending magma within seen through his eyes, glowing fire in the surrounding gloom. Each slow breath moved his form, and the Hound with it. The air was his to claim, it belonged to Death— that enough was spared for the Hound to draw upon in shuddering short bursts… yet another of the Reaper’s graces. With oddly calm hands and body, the Hound kept eyes locked to the Nephilim’s chest as his leg swung slowly over and knelt on the other side, effectively hosting himself in Death’s lap. He stayed frozen —stabilized by a palm against the Reaper’s shoulder— for a solid moment until he found the courage to move. The rag returned to its work, brought to carefully wipe each groove free of what dirt and dust might reside. It put strain on his legs to hold himself upright, terrified of any additional part of himself coming into contact with his overseer’s flesh. But he held strong, trying desperately not to think of how… intimate this situation was. Death, on the other hand, did no such thing. He watched his charge’s hands as they drifted across his chest, astonished that his touch continued to be so careful, despite having every reason not to; centuries worth of reasons, really. But no, never once had the Hound ever shown any sign of bitterness or disdain for what was being done to him. Death had grown, well, comfortable with this subject; their share of a dry wit and fascination for the macabre —of unveiling the potential hidden in every fiber of life, every atom of Creation’s promise— made him an odd but pleasant company, even among kin. There was obedience -of which the Reaper has grown most familiar with over his years- and then there was… his Hound. As his claws caressed their way to Death’s left shoulder, rag dripping water down his bicep then over his forearm, the Reaper desired to feel him closer. He waited, patiently, until the Hound had finished with his wrist.

“May I?” The request came out in husk, his best attempt to let it be known this was, in fact, a choice. As the Hound stilled, not frozen but certainly not about to move, Death elaborated.

“I require your permission.”

The Hound took a moment to think before looking up, finally meeting those eyes that had followed him the entire time. Instantly, in the infinite burn of a warmth he’d never seen from that fire, he was lost.

“…You have it.”

The words felt too private for the Universe to hear; if there were any way he could be certain only Death would know them he’d have shouted from the mountains themselves— instead his voice came as a whisper. The Hound's eyes turned downward as a hand found his back, guiding his body to lower so his legs could rest from their strain. He tried going back to cleaning Death’s chest, but by virtue of being fully seated in his lap the Hound found himself a touch distracted. How could his cold be so loud against the pool's steaming? Not in any unpleasant way, that was in fact the problem. It surrounded him, beckoning him in a siren’s song of curiosity and comfort. His claws wandered on their own down Death’s ribcage, trailing either side of his torso to his waist— a pitiful attempt at pretending he was still helping the Reaper bathe, given how the rag now sat abandoned at the bottom of the spring. It was so surreal to be allowed in this reciprocal space. Though still in darkness, his hands were let to wander and learn of every nick and scar, to feel each perfect imperfection on a body so foreign yet familiar. The intimacy only a sculptor would know of their craft, but it was the Hound's role to be Death’s clay. His was a body that -for the obvious most part- the Hound had seen but never felt, save for those calloused hands. Yet here he sat, in the embrace of an authority letting him be the one to explore…

Death abstained from mirroring the Hound’s touch, content with letting himself watch and enjoy the curious contact. His charge may not have noticed, but Death observed as the smaller man’s face softened from that skittish expression, how his eyes instead became hungry to learn, hungry to know. That was a trait Death found most intriguing, perhaps even attractive. If not as a commonality, then at the moment it certainly worked to stroke his ego.

Then the Hound’s hands travelled upward, past Death’s abs and chest, slowing to a crawl at his bony clavicle. The Hound made no move for any hostile action, a different hesitation returning to his expression as he shyly caressed. The smaller man felt a muffled pulse under his fingers as his claws gently crept up the sides of the Reaper’s neck, disturbing the peaceful curtains of his abyssal hair. Of his own volition the Hound once more found Death’s gaze, discovering it had never left him. That inferno should be daunting —was daunting— but it pulled him in as a moth to the flame. Death’s hand came to brush the strands of hair from the Hound’s face, thumb stroking his cheek along the line of his very first scar.

Whatever possessed him to, the Hound could never name, but from that touch he brought his own hands to hold Death’s imposing face, still carved in a stern expression though oddly less so than usual. He didn’t even realize he craned his neck forward, much like Death hardly noticed himself leaning down. One moment they were in each other's eyes, then the warmth of the other’s breath blew against their lips…

Finally, the Hound’s heart drummed as loudly in his ears as it did against his sternum— a rhythmic, heavy thudding against Death’s own chest as the two held their bodies together. The Reaper could have laughed, he could have howled in his amusement at such a turn of events; him and his Hound —wielder and weapon, maker and craft— embraced in the night as if clandestine, lovestruck fools. He could have indulged in a fit of mirth, though to remain lost in the taste of his company was a far more delicious thing.

As for the Hound… In that one long moment, all his struggles were forgotten— those past, and those very much still present. Only the man before him resided in reality as scarred mouths continued their acquaintance, his claws invited to resume their exploration as Death’s own hands guided the Hound by the wrists, that he know where the Reaper desired his caress. Though his size made the Nephilim rather difficult to encircle, the Hound still managed to find the protruding vertebrae of Death’s spine, following it down as far as his arm could reach in a slow stroke.

And Death made no effort to be shy in his shared desires; once the Hound moved again with asserted confidence, the Nephilim felt for the curve of his smaller spine, jagged nails made to press to flesh in his possessive grip. He drew back for a moment —that he might take a breath while he lounged more comfortably— yet his company immediately shifted with him, moving up his seat to follow Death’s pull away. The dam had been broken, and out poured an ocean’s worth of yearning the Hound —and the Reaper, for that matter— was unaware he possessed. Sure there was affection; a repressed curiosity to heed the pull of his overseer’s magnetism, to do and offer more than he was ordered. But now his small body felt afire, so at home in the embrace of Death he wondered why he’d run from it all his life.

Unfortunate that the Universe need always be so cruel; at the stir of something in the water —an awakening of flesh beneath his seat— the Hound froze, and all came crashing down around him. Death’s welcoming cold turned hostile to the parts of him he hated most, opening a pit as if to the very Abyss in his stomach which just moments ago felt filled with fluttering wings. The Nephilim felt it just as suddenly, how the feeling of silk against his palms changed to stone when the Hound turned rigid and guarded as before. Death was no fool, and the answer was no secret… at least not to him.

“I-I—” The Hound tried to apologize, heartbroken, but the lump in his dried throat would not let the words even be thought. “I can’t—…”

“Then it ends here,” Death assured his Hound he would not push beyond his limit— as promised, he’d only touch where permission had been given. Forehead to the Reaper’s clavicle, back arched to keep their respective chests from touching again, the Hound at least had that to be thankful for.

“I guess… we get out now…” He began with such a crestfallen air and averted eyes, beginning to move off and away from his overseer’s embrace—

“I don’t recall you ever finishing.” Swift and silent, gently yet with an amount of force that his pull would not be denied, Death spun the Hound to have his warm back at his cold core. The smaller man was caught and encircled as Death’s legs were pulled back in to cross, the Reaper once more making his imposing size known in how he dwarfed his dearest charge.

“I forbid you leave this pool half riddled in filth.”

He would not hear another word on the matter, evident in how took the Hound’s arm in one hand and fished for the rag with the other, bringing the two together to pick up where his charge left off. The Hound did not fight the peel away of his limb; as his knees were now folded up to his chest in the way he’d been made to sit, he felt adequately covered enough to be comfortable. Time and time again Death proved himself an ally in the Hound’s plight, the only one he’d ever actually come to trust would not treat him any lesser for it… Any less of a man. He was no more gentle with the cloth as he was with a knife; ever a being for precision and efficiency, the Nephilim cleared away any grime that dared stain the Hound’s patchwork flesh, even where he’d already tackled before Death’s arrival. He had full faith even his most recent stitching would hold under the Reaper’s touch— no reason to question the effectiveness of his work now. And as no skin split open from rag or quick-run palm, his faith in his overseer held just as strong.

The Hound nearly wished threading would break, however— that he’d be explored inside and out right there in shared water. A perverse fantasy he quickly tried shaking from his mind, face flushing a bright unseen crimson. Though as Death’s hands found and lingered over recent cuts near his charge’s hips, the smaller man could have sworn those fingers lightly searched for spacing between the sutures… though about as swiftly did he stop, going back to the task at hand.

There were only two areas Death would not travel the rag, holding to his word above and beyond the Hound’s expectations. As he was finishing up, guiding his charge’s hair over his shoulder to expose the back of his neck, it was not the cloth that came into contact— but rather the unexpected surprise of Death’s warmthless lips. A deep, deep breath in and out shivered against the Hound’s skin, against the scarred mark of his soul’s ownership— caressing an intimate claw all the way down into the very depths of his soul.

“Hmm, better~” The Reaper purred, that voice of primordial omens Infiltrating the Hound’s very mind as if the god to his racing thoughts.

“Now, we may get out.”

Though Death could have risen on his own, quick to tower and watch his charge slowly stand after him —made to pass his face by the all of bare flesh— he instead held the Hound’s hand and rose from the water together. He moved as the Hound moved, leaned forward to be nearer his level even as they crossed the spring to shore. Each step was a possessive stalk, that his body would be ready to serve as shield should their peace be intruded. Nothing of such occurred of course, it only took seconds for both to reach their clothes.

As Death redonned his pants and began securing his belts one at a time, he spied the aged and tattered cloth the Hound finished wrapping around his chest, looped over itself as many times as length allowed to create a sort of compression.

…Why did he still have that? Had it not been centuries...?

“All that trouble to bathe,” the Reaper pointedly mused, a mocking curl to his smile— “You would undo my efforts in favour of that worthless thing?”

The Hound's eyes shifted downward to the fabric, claws gently stroking against its surface in a vulnerable moment of thought. It wasn’t as soft as it once had been, and there was a faint smell he’d been unable to wash out for some time… but…

“You… gave it to me,” he began, quietly, “at one of the worst moments of my life…”

“And so you kept it?” A crude mirth cruelled the words, as if the man thought treasure of nothing more than trash.

“It was a gift… the kindest I can recall.”

A gift? The night air grew cold in the silence, though it was hard to say if that was the fault of the breeze or being out of warm water while still wet.

“That certainly was not my intention.” The Nephilim’s admission felt owed, given how attached the Hound appeared to be to that torn cloth.

“If it bothered you—” the Hound now felt defensive— the tone of his tired voice reflected as much, “—why are you only asking about it now?”

“You kept your cover from my way, and so I allowed for it. But don’t think I haven’t noticed how it affects you.”

Clearly Death had encroached on a sore subject, but he simply had to know. Now that it was evident he held some modicum of care towards his charge, he had a grievance he long wished to air.

“It slows you, brings you short of breath. I see how it pains you the longer you have it on, and I’ve not once witnessed you go about without it.”

The Hound was quiet for a long, long moment. His knuckles whitened as he tighter gripped that fistful of fabric, forcing back whatever emotion urged for him to bite. And it had been such a nice night… of course it had to be ruined twice.

“Unless you know a better way to hide my shame—” his voice trembled but stayed the course, “—pain is my price to pay.”

Though he was not dismissed the Hound signaled the conversation over by marching past his overseer, and Death allowed for it. The Nephilim stayed his place by the spring as he watched his charge disappear down the path back, silent in all but his thoughts. You’d never know it by how his expression didn’t change nor his body even slightly shift, but in his inner musings the Reaper stumbled upon a brilliant idea…

—

Some hours later, when the sun anchored its place high in a bright amber sky, the Hound was summoned to Death’s private operating room— though not by the Reaper himself. He was busy pouring over his table of tools and materials, the sight of his back greeting the Hound as he passed the curtained partition. Without so much as a sound, the smaller man crept to the table with hesitant footfall. Death certainly knew he entered, though made no effort to pause his current endeavour to offer any proper acknowledgement. Just as well, the Hound was at an utter loss as to how he’d engage conversation after the events of the previous night, so he fed the silence as he slipped free of his tunic. He’d been unable to get even a wink of rest in the time since they last were in company, and sleep did not come to offer any respite between fits of tears. He felt he had wept his eyes dry as daylight broke over the horizon, and so, while a little red —in what way an already crimson eye could be— he believed himself safe from showing any further signs of lingered distress. Conflicting thoughts and emotions danced a deadly tango; whether to be resentful of Death’s callousness, to voice regret at blaming him -somehow- for the error of his birth, to offer apologies for ending their time together in unfulfillment and bitterness… He spared himself none of the curses directed inward, for not being stronger than an irrational self-loathing; that if he’d only been strong enough to bite down and push through, where would they be now instead of this oppressive tension?

“…What’s your plan for today?” All he could force to voice was a question he posed nearly every time, eyes averted in guilt. He moved to secure himself in the table’s restraints —a task he took upon himself every operation to help save the Reaper time— when Death’s halting hand took his wrist out from the leather binding.

“Whatever I had planned can wait.”

A sharp sting found the Hound’s neck before he had time to react, vision already beginning to blur as Death drew back his other hand— holding what vaguely appeared to be a long, coated needle. Whatever poison he’d been pricked with, the last thing the Hound recalls before losing his battle with unconsciousness was the Reaper’s cold hands beginning to unwrap the cloth from his chest…

—

Waking up wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience; a dull throb across every synapse of his brain, all senses buzzing with a droned static as if limbs that could fall asleep, that same static prickling little needles across his entire body… The Hound could now assert he knew how it felt to host a mind without thought, as the quiet inside his skull roared deafening in his ears. It took a far longer moment of staring than he would admit to recognize who stood beside him, wiping bloodied hands clean on a familiar fabric.

“Now this is a proper gift, that you will remember as such.”

With how casually the words were announced he might as well have not spoken at all, but Death made sure to catch his charge’s slow blinking eyes before gesturing his way, suggesting he look down. A panic unseen —unfelt— in decades flashed across the Hound’s face as he went to grasp at himself, going to cover bare and bulging flesh from view when instead he found… nothing.

Nothing. No teardrop mounds of unwanted tissue, no uncomfortable heft or sag as he sprung to sit upright, no added folds or creases or ballooned fat… they were gone. His chest —now flat with flesh drawn taut over his ribcage— now only bore fresh wounds already beginning to mend, to make for new and likely pronounced scars.

He’d been wrong; for as much as the water flowed before dawn graced the world, his eyes began to sting with the welling of small tears— likely all he had left to spare.

“W-why?”

“Why?” Death’s gruff rasp parroted with an air of offense, as if there couldn’t be a more obvious answer.

“I cannot perfect my craft if my best subject insists on sabotaging his own condition.”

With naught but a sharp flick of the wrist the Nephilim tossed the Hound back his bruise-blue fabric, now muddied in his own crimson.

“You can keep that if you wish. However, if I catch it at your chest again, you will see it burned.”

The Hound could think of nothing to say— frankly the thought of speaking at all threatened to break the hold he had over his tears from falling. He only gawked as Death came over, a palm serving as his body’s pillar of support while he leaned in close. The thunder of the Hound’s heart felt louder, now with little in its way to muffle the drumming from finding the Nephilim’s attentive ears.

“Pity you could not be awake for it,” Death’s primordial purr rolled with tease as his knuckles brushed the Hound’s line of stitches.

“But— you put me to sleep!”

…Why, of all possible things he found the will to speak, did it have to be that? Not a gratitude —of which would be undying— nor a reproach for springing this on him completely without warning… It seemed to make the Nephilim laugh at least, his hand coming up to lift the Hound’s chin.

“There would be no fun in simply telling you. Now is there anything worthwhile you wish to say, perhaps in gratitude?”

Once more locked in the Reaper’s gaze, the Hound searched feverishly for an explanation— a hint as to how spending the time and resources in any way benefitted his greater cause. Every change had purpose; claws that would shred and pierce even through stone, vigilant eyes to keep all approaching danger in sight no matter how it moved, endless cutting and swapping until his assortment of organs could outperform past the wildest of conceivable expectations. The Hound could not be sure how many of his own bones remained untouched, he’d long stopped keeping track. Death had painstakingly picked him apart and reforged him better, stronger, in a monstrous form he could actually be proud of… Only once it was missing its largest obstruction could the Hound see how beautiful he had become. He met Death’s gaze with an undeniable determination, claws coming to rest against the Nephilim’s either wrist in desperation for his message to be heard.

“I’d die for you.”

He did not stutter, nor falter, nor break. The Hound swore his oath exactly how he wished it to be known— and in the face of that intensity, the Reaper was made to blink.

“I more expected a thank you, but… noted.” He drew away, mulling over the Hound’s words carefully. That was not a sentiment he was accustomed to; one that brought sparks of emotion against a kindling bed of attachment, threatening to light a fire he was even less familiar with. He would not let as much be known of course —not even to himself— for the time being; there was work to be done, and his best subject was clearly recovered enough to stand back on his feet. He ignored how his own hand brought the healing draught he’d prepared to the Hound’s claws, just as well did he ignore the Hound’s odd look.

”I leave you in charge of the others while I find someone for you to spar with. Today will be spent in training, nothing more.”

The Hound sat puzzled as Death left the room and, assumedly, the worktent entirely. That strange man, ever difficult to read as always… it's not that he turned cold, Death was hardly warm to begin with. Perhaps distant would‘ve been a better term; but when the Reaper returned with another Nephilim for the Hound to train against —where previously those under his charge were made to severely limit any interaction with kinsmen— he oddly seemed to hover within line of sight. Whatever the reason, whatever he left unsaid, the Hound couldn’t help but beam with pride when his overseer witnessed his victory that afternoon, a warmth fluttering his heart at the approving nod he received in return.

-x-

#Against Creation AU #Darksiders AU #Darksiders Death #OC: Anathem #Darksiders #Darksiders 2 #AtherisWrites

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