#darksiders AU

[deygodraws]

Always good to know a mask maker when your mask gets broken. Too bad she happens to be your lover’s nemesis lmao

Against Creation AU main cast are vibing!!

The lovely Hiraeth (lady at the front) belongs to my good bud @voidwritesstuff uwu. Shes’s so soft and sweet i love her ;;w;;

[imagine-darksiders]

Strife's abyssal armor gives him such a knightly look, like a dragon knight. Would make a great knight/princess au with the human. He turns up making everyone think he's here to pick a fight but imstead pledges loyalty to the princess, who just in a state of shock the whole time.

I’m in love with this potential au.

Strife, a wandering knight with no fixed home and a moral compass that spins erratically and never points due north.

If rumour is to be believed, he’s a monstrous nightmare of a man, loud and brash and boisterous, well-hated amongst the outlaws of the land and feared by its citizens.

He's the very last person your mother, the Queen wants to hire to rescue you from the clutches of a vicious revolutionary who stole you away for leverage over the kingdom. But, every other knight she's sent to save you hasn't returned, feared dead.

Strife is called upon and offered a handsome reward for your safe return.

When he inevitably catches up to you and your captor, you're initially terrified of him, especially after he slaughters the revolutionary with brutal and unbridled fury. You've heard the legends of the armoured man with the soul of a monster, but this is the first time you've ever seen him in person.

You're reluctant to go with him, but despite his teasing tone and brusque nature - and his petrifying horse - he's surprisingly gentle when he lifts you up onto the saddle and settles behind you, caging you in with his bulky arms and sheltering you from the night's winds.

Arriving back at your home, you're bustled away into the arms of your mother, casting brief glances back at the giant hovering a respectable distance away.

Tersely, the Queen orders a hefty satchel of gold to be fetched for his efforts. But to your shock, and dismay, Strife interrupts her with a different request.

You're clearly in need of a bodyguard, and he needs a roof over his head and a stable for his horse. There, in front of the Queen and her court, he offers his services as your personal guard, and although you try to hiss that you don't want him babysitting you every hour god sends, your mother thinks its a better idea than allowing you to get kidnapped again. And Strife is the only knight who managed to rescue you from the hands of that outlaw.

Better get used to having a pair of eyes constantly watching your back, Princess. Strife is here to stay.

[deepfriedhopesanddreams]

Leave him alone!

The frames

And the sketch

I know I don't want to focus on my scrapped infection au, but I gotta feed curiosity, so here, the only art of that botbots infection au! It's still a scrapped au, so don't expect me to make more

[scarletknightreterns]

Cinder as a Centaur for an AU I’m cooking up with my friend :3

She.... she is such a pure and innocent bean in this AU ;0; Not a scratch of trauma on her soul.

She lives in a realm where winter comes by only once every 100 years, and inhabits a forest and it’s ruins she’s always known, always lived in. She has never stepped out of that forest in all her existence because it’s a terrifying experience, and she doenst know what’s outside the relative safety she’s always had.

She eats fruits only, being very much against hurting animals or killing in any way. She simply cannot fathom hurting a single soul in all of Creation for self-gain. Also because of this, and her lack of knowledge to do so, she is always top bare with only her hair to cover her at best. The cloak she wears is for if she gets cold, and she found it in a chest in the ruins she lives in, but it was the only piece of cloth worthy enough to wear, anything else was pretty damaged and gross.

She fears fire and never has once used it as a light source. Instead, she will catch eternal fireflies in pretty little jars and hanging lanterns to light up the place and provide comfort, but not often because the forest at night lights up with swarms of twinkling fireflies and bioluminescent plants and mushrooms under the moon.

All she’s ever known is herself and she doesn’t even know what she is. Never has she seen another being. Because of this, she also doenst know how to speak or use her voice, simply has never tried. She will communicate through motions with her body and hands at first, but later on start to learn speech by the help of some other centaurs and colts.

[alexatheris-44]

Grave Lord, Drenched in Blood

Technically Part 2 to this amazing piece by my awesome homie @voidwritesstuff :DD

-

CW: lil bit of blood, description of body horror

Summary: Creation has its Four Horsemen, but the Pale Rider carries the name of Ataraxy… Where is Death? And what company could he possibly be keeping?

> Made for the Against Creation AU !! It’s probably a good idea that you’ve read Darksiders The Abomination Vault before this, not for spoiler reasons (yet) but for more insight on Death’s history. You won’t be missing any important context if you haven’t though :3 (yet)

vvvv Start Reading Below The GIF! :D vvvv

He was there long before the beginning.

From the moment there was light to cast brightness, shadows danced at the edge of all things; a clinging spectre that sowed naught but pain and misery. For all who found their end alone and in the dark, the cruel nature of life to be taken sooner than was ever planned. The restlessness, those brief moments of such despair, felt as the final weight of all that was to be -now to be left undone- bears itself in full upon the soul. The heartache, the bitterness, the loss…

If she was the gentle end of Life, he was the After.

Age did nothing to weather his battle hardened visage, his severity reflected in every line on his face, every crease in his skin. While his face wore his horrid mask -hiding his prominent facial features save for his hollowed cheeks, invoking the imagery of a glowering skull but lacking any mouth or teeth- his permanent scowl was unmissable. He held himself with such certainty, an almost palpable sense of strength. If not visible by his composure then in the sculpted definition of his muscles, only further defined by how taut his skin -the very hue of undeath- stretched over his pronounced frame. He was thin yet indisputably strong, sinewy but long since his last meal. One could mistake him for a living corpse, the reanimated body of a most ancient and formidable warrior now haunting the halls of some lesser lord’s castle he had since painted in their blood.

And yet Death very much still lived in vigor, despite whatever rumours tended to flit about between each corner of Creation. Something about how only four remained of the warmongering race known as the Nephilim; how they rode under the new title of Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and committed a genocide of their own people. He remembered the massacre all too well, scarred into the very archives of his unending memory. The smell of it, the vile taste to the air -simultaneously acrid smoke, bile and blood. Death was rather more familiar than most with the sight of gore, but to know he once called those eviscerated corpses his kin… his brothers…

“Anathem!” Death’s voice barked from his throat under a growl, his hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist against the dark stone table he hunched over.

A sound of stirring came from the shadows of the corridor before him, the scraping of metal against rock following a light-weighted thump, as if something had fallen from the rafters. An odd pattern of footsteps began approaching from the dark; one step carrying the clicking of claws against solid ground, the other just a muffled tap, as if bare, easily missed unless actively listening for it. The reason for this unique footfall became quickly apparent as the individual entered visibility, though their appearance would only call for more questions. His left leg sported the structure and talons of a raptor or bird of prey, while his right appeared much more porcine. This mismatching of limbs also applied to his arms: the left as much flesh as it was bone, sporting spaces in the palm as if a cartilaginous web leading to angular fingers; the right sporting only four spindly fingers that each ended in an elongated claw, thumb and pinky roughly at the same height in their placement on his chitinous hand. In a universe teeming with abnormality -life running rampant to craft itself in nearly every shape, size and colour- it was clear to any whose eyes fell upon this being that this was an abomination, something once -perhaps- born but since unmade. Short and slender horns grew above an otherwise plain humanoid face, unlike any demon ever perceived. He was a patchwork of stolen flesh, so much so that his scars were hardly distinguishable between surgical in origin and a hard lesson learned in lethal combat. Looking at him prolongedly instilled a sense of unease, stirring thoughts of dread at ever meeting whoever so cruelly crafted and carved him into this blasphemous form.

“You called?” Anathem’s voice croaked as he rolled the words from his yet unfamiliar tongue, his most recent bodily acquisition. Death had assured him the tongue of the demon polyglot would give him its proficiency in the infernal languages, and while that proved to be true for the moment it felt as if an unwieldy serpent whipped about inside his mouth when he tried speaking in his native language.

“Tell me there has been a development from our latest endeavour.” The frustration the Nephilim presently felt laced his gravelly tone in a misdirected reproach, as if his current company held any blame to their situation.

“I grow tired of all this inaction.”

Death’s ire was a difficult thing to earn, usually so cold and calculated it would take a true and continuous push of his buttons to evoke the flames of his wrath. And oh how brightly it burned in his fiery orange eyes, twin stars in the midst of collapse for eternity. Despite being the centerpiece upon which fell the Firstborn’s glare, Anathem merely shrugged.

“I only just came back from my visit to Hell's Underground.” The roll of his shoulders disturbed the peace of the ghostly green chains anchored into his shoulder blades, each heavy link rattling only once against one another all the way down to the thick cuffs shackled at either wrist.

“I’d say another day at the most before I hear back. After all, we are hoping for discretion.”

Death’s eyes narrowed sharply, near warning, though Anathem knew him well enough to stand where most others would cower and fold to their knees. The Nephilim let free a hiss of breath as he straightened, a rare moment to revel in his full and towering height -nearly a metre taller than Anathem even if the shorter were to stand on the tips of his mismatched toes- before comfortably slumping his shoulders, clearly making the effort to calm his temper.

“I trust that the message was clear? We have no room for ambiguity.” His tone was now much cooler, near icy if not for the faintest hint of a cruel mirth.

“The severed head of their leader is a hard thing to misinterpret.” As fluidly as a languid housecat, Anathem closed the distance between them and brought himself up on the dark stone table, stepping to its edge to take perch before the Nephilim at eye level.

“As well as their matron’s, just in case.”

“A fine touch,” Death let slip a chuckle. His eyes snagged to the tear in the cloth wrapped around Anathem’s abdomen just below his ribs, something the creature likely would've tried to conceal had he even noticed. Death’s eyes turned sharp again as he grabbed nearly the entirety of Anathem’s waist in a single hand, a finger forcing the fabric to reveal the ugly gash hidden beneath.

“And what is this?”

“A Hellion snuck up on me, must’ve been reckless.”

“You are not meant to be reckless. You are meant to be untouchable, that is how I made you.”

Anathem hissed as Death prodded the wound, a fresh trickle of inky blood oozing from under the weak scab.

“Yet I lived with hardly a scratch,” he stared back into Death’s infernal glare with such an unshaken resolve, his pupils a golden marble completely still despite swimming in the deep-red bloodshot of his eyes.

“As you’ve taught me.”

His fingers raised to brush against Death’s arm, in the best way his inhuman limb could deliver a caress. His fresh bleed had dried about as quickly as it began, once more closing the wound that it may heal into a new scar adorning his pallid flesh. While the manacle at his wrist pressed coldly against Death’s equally chilled skin the chains themselves posed no obstacle or obstruction, their arcane nature merely phasing through any limb or object in the way of their wearer’s intent. Death’s grip lessened only slightly, not yet satisfied to release him just yet.

“I trust this misstep will not be repeated,” he warned, his hold relinquishing the site of injury to reestablish higher against his ribs. His thumb brushed against the scarline of Anathem’s pectorals as he leaned in. Anathem was now cast in Death’s shadow, the warm candlefire of his eyes a beacon in the dark of his sunken eyes and the protruding sockets of his mask.

“Lest I level the Hells before Heaven ever gets the chance.”

Anathem lolled out his pitch black tongue, only to then flick it at the point of the mask’s absent nose. Death practically tore Anathem from the table, pressing himself firmly against the smaller being, feeling his ally’s legs instinctively hook around his midriff. The rattle of the spectral chains played their tune as Anathem weaved his claws in Death’s impossibly black hair, his Frankenstein’s monster of a body ready to take on Death in any form, in all his brutality, and stand all the taller after.

As if an objection sounded by the will of the Universe itself, a shrill cawwing pierced the air in interruption. The sound forewarned the sudden arrival of a large crow beelining to deliver urgent news to its master.

“Finally,” Death’s voice slithered under his breath, eyes tearing away from the being in his grasp to follow the flight of Dust.

“Another time then?” Anathem began to draw away but Death’s iron grip held him in place, his other hand catching Anathem’s thigh to pull it back up over his hip.

“They toyed with my patience, they can be made to wait.” The Nephilim’s rasp rumbled low in his chest -a dark purring- as he bent forward, resting Anathem’s back to the table below. Death could be made to be patient, but only on his own terms. He would not wait for anything nor anyone, had the power and drive to bend the world to his will. Anathem smiled, dusked fingers curling around the edges of the bone mask adorning his lover’s face.

“We will unmake the Balance yet.”

[voidwritesstuff]

Pale Lady,Clad in Snow.

Cw: Religious themes.

Summary: Ataraxy the pale rider and her siblings spend some time together before their Next mission.

>For the "Against Creation AU" By my friend @alexatheris-44 . Hiraeth uses all pronouns but for simplicity sake I went with she/her + female terms.

She was there from the beginning

A power that exists at the end of all things

She Walked without gods,and shaped our deepest beliefs.

A merciful nun by the side of your bed,a gentle embrace for the grieving, a harbinger of tranquility before your soul leaves for the  beyond, The saint to deliver you upon the Gates of heaven.

Fields become burials grounds in her wake. Every great atrocity every feebles passing she stands witness, weeping holy tears from which mournful flowers Bloom among the dead.

In our strife, revolutions and in our wars. She has left her Mark. The Repose and the melancholy of change.

And in the end hers Will be the last face you'll see. Weeping for you,and waiting patiently to guide you to peace.

She has Many names- Kinslayer, Mother of Mercy,the Pale weeping Lady...Ataraxy.

But in the end,she only desired on title: Sister.

Strife:

It had to be the tenth time hes tried to fix his scarf. It kept sitting uncomfortably on his shoulders,getting in the way of his pistols.

Frustrated,he throws it on the ground and stomps on it. For a good while.

Until he hears the gentle giggling of a woman, the sound soft like bells and windchimes,like the rustling of leaves. Ever soft,ever welcoming.

--Whatever did that poor Scarf do to you?--Ataraxy,Hiraeth,Snickered. Her armor and pristine white robes sat comfortably ok their form. Her mask is off somewhere and her ears are tucked to the side of her face.

Her gentle grey eyes look at him confused and amused, her hands clasped together and resting against her gut.

--I just...cant get it to sit right...-- strife said with shame, his head hangs low and he can feel his face Burning.

His sister cooed and Walked to him,she picks up the scarf and dusts it off. She takes a few minutes to mend a few holes with her silk that glimmers moonlight. She Mends what she can,knowing that Strife liked the ripped up look.

--Thats not how we handle our frustrations,by the way-- She reprimanded gently,her voice as soft as the silk she uses.--Its okay to need an outlet but lets not go to violence.

--I knowww....-- The white rider whined.

Her hands weave the threads together,masterfully quick and precise-- There we are...--She meets her brothers Fire-y gaze, who remains meek and embarassed.-- Do you mind?

Strife nodds and bows down for her comfort. Ataraxy Gently fixes the scarf upon her sibling's neck and shoulders,making sure his neck is kept warm and hidden. She spends a solid minute fixing each little fold and crevice so she can make sure hes comfortable.

The gunslinger can only chuckle and the child-Like care hes being provided. He always found it very amusing and funny.

--How does that feel?

--Better,thanks.

--Of course-- She pressed a kiss to his forehead and patted his arm-- Go finish getting ready, ill round up the others.

With a cheek hurting grin,Strife nodds and allows his sister to leave. Her own cape drifting behind her with a gentle wind,almost Like the wings of an Angel.

War:

His arm hurted.

He had tried to ignore the pain as he always did,but today it wasnt working. He kept touching his bicep,which was the dead giveaway. Aside from his face that held a deeper scowl that usual.

When he hears those gentle steps he knows hes been made.

Ataraxy approached him Gently,stopping his hand to from messing with his arm further-- Is it the phantom pains?

The conqueror sighed-- No...

--You cant lie to me,Little comet-- The petname made him blush furiously-- Take off the gauntlet..

--But..

--War- -- her voice hardened Like steel,a cold,black ice that left no room for discussion and that made the red rider tense his muscles like he had been electrocuted-- take off the gauntlet.

--Yes- Yes sister-- He unhooks the gauntlet from its spot,his sister takes it and leaves it Gently by the floor. For as thin and frail as she looked,she was strong.

She lifts up the sleeve of the undershirt he wore. And Gently she traces shapes with her nails,murmuring some sort of incantation.

"Magic was for the weak" He usually said. But not with Ataraxy,never with her.

Her magic wasnt to compensate a lack of strength,no. Hers was to offer relief,to offer solace to the hurting and the grieving.

Soon he begins to feel this gentle cold,Like the first snowfall of the year. Silks of fine moonlight wrap around forming shapes, that scent of lillies and white roses fill his senses and it makes him forget of the discomfort.

The freezing chill offers relief from the Burning pain of his nerves,like he was being hugged by snow.

--Better?-- the pale Lady asked,pulling back with this worried look on her glossy eyes. Her expression is soft,theres no wrinkles in her face or around her Many eyes.

--Yes...--He answered,a little sheepish-- Thank you.

--Its nothing -- she smiled-- remember to tie your hair back,okay?.

Now his face burns embrassed-- I...lost the hairband you gave me.

--Its okay-- She cooed--Let me make one really quick-- as she did with Strife,she weaves another. Her silk was pretty strong so she didnt need to worry about breaking off mid battle--Here.

--Im afraid ill lose it again

--If you do,ill make you another.

--Why waste your gifts?

--Its not a waste if its you,little comet. You know that-- Hiraeth offered a sunshine filled smile. Calm as moonlight,soothing as the night-- Finish getting ready,okay? Ill go find Fury.

--Very well -- was that the tiniest of smiles on his lips?

--If your pain acts up before we leave for the missions...--She whistled,sounding Like rushing wind on a stormy night-- Let Repose know.

On cue,The white dove sits on the horseman's shoulder pauldron and nuzzles his face. He almost giggles at the feeling of the soft feathers against his rough skin. The gentle coos of the bird fill the brief silence.

--fret not,dear sister. I Will.

--Thats what I like to hear--Hiraeth offered a little smile, then she kissed gestured her brother to bow down.He does,and he gets a kiss for his troubles.

And so, she left carrying that scent of flowers in her wake and the faintest sound of ringing,joyous church bells.

Fury:

Fury never handled frustration well. She either lashed out or curled up and sulked in her own Despair.

Today,however,she decided to pout and sit on the ground.

Her hair wasnt cooperating,it was all over the place, a matted mess that looked like a bird's nest.

Shes sitting there,arms crossed and grumbling like a cat. She didnt understand why her hair just wasnt playing along,she cant go out looking like this but she tried so hard with everything she could and yet...

--Bad hair day?-- Hiraeth asked,kneeling to eye level.

--Yes...--Grumbled the she- horseman.

--May I help?

--You'll waste your time.

--So be it--The leader of the horseman stands up and in her hand a bell materalizes. She rings it out and soon glimmering mist begin to fill the room,ghostly shapes of kind, half blurred faces shape themselves out of the mist.

Fury sighs, its just going to be one of those days.

--Thank you for heeding my call--Hiraeth said to the spirits-- May you help me with my sister?--The ghost nodded.-- splendid! Thank you so much-- she puts her hands together against her chest with this warm grin.

Soon,the spirits begin to haul around all manner of potions and grounded up herbs that act as hair products.

Hiraeth combs out the mess that was her sister's locks. And as the soft bristeled blush dances around and undoes the knots, the pale rider sings some human nursery song.

--Twinkle Twinkle little star,how I wonder what you are.

Up above the world so high,Like a diamond in the Sky. --Her voice could put a choir of angels to shame. It reverberates along the chasm Like a siren's haunting song.

The black rider couldnt help but snicker,she smiles a little and says-- Im not a child anymore,Sister. --but she does feel like a kid,one thats being swaddled by her mother before a peaceful nights rest. The echo of the melody, a clean,rushing stream,washes away her bitterness.

--Im aware-- Hiraeth answered with a smirk-- but as much as you fight me on It, I know you like it.

It didnt take long for her hair to be back to its usual state. Flowing there like a beautiful,deadly jellyfish.

--Thank you,spirts--Ataraxy said,standing up-- you May return to rest.

All around,the spirits bow with reverence and blurry smiles. That glimmery mist that made them evaporates into glitter like steam.

Fury Is helped up by her sister and the black rider adds-- You need not use your powers like this.

--Let me,i want to-- the leader of the horseman insisted-- Ill clean up, Get ready.

--Nonsense. You need to Grab your mask and sword,Ill take care of this. This mess was because of me. Waste no more time.

--Are you sure?

--Yes. Dont make me repeat myself-- Theres no Real threat, only a front that her sister was used to seeing and dealing with.

--Okay,thank you-- Hiraeth gives her sibling a kiss on the forehead and leaves as fury whines about not being a "Household cat" to pamper like this.

But she was,as much as she denied it.

-♡-

Ataraxy stood by the portal,Waiting on her siblings to show. She whistled again,the sound of Howling, storm born air filling the room around her.

Her siblings approach on their steeds just in time to watch the show.

The air around them grows cold,even in the charred chamber of the council with its endless heat. The Orange glow of the lava mixes with this blue light,cold anf warmth,joy and sadness.

It smells no longer of humid head and coal,but Rather fresh flowers and wet dirt.

Above them a cloud of constellations is brought forth form some Unseen rift. The Sky is a deep,endless blue and the stars shine bright. They move like a galloping Mare, that slowly descends in a spiral.

Melancholy trots around her rider,pace animated and pushing Hiraeth around with her armored snout like a playful child. The pale rider laughs,and when her horse comes to a stop she hops on.

The steed of the pale rider looked as if it was made of clouds,with pastel pinks,purples and blues littered about. Sparkling with constallations,decorated with flowers and gold armor.

The horse's hair billowed Like Rolling clouds across the Sky,her furred hooves and tail just the same. Her locks glimmered with stars and she smelled of that fresh Flora and sweet,baked goods.

Its very hard for the other horsemen not to smile.

--Are we ready?--Hiraeth asked,unsheathing her rapier (Solace) from its sheath on her right hip.

--Yes,sister--War said with his firm tone of voice,tinged with some endeared warmth.

--Lets waste no more time--Fury said,ill-concieved content in her voice and in the sparkling of her eyes.

--Lets get these fuckers!--Strife grinned all proud,hands on Mercy and Redemption.

Hiraeth nodded,and Repose sat on her armored shoulder,her feathers also glimmering with thousands upon thousands of constellations.

The leader of the horseman raises her sword,steel and gold shinning like a guiding beacon.--Onwards!--She barked,and the portal behind her roars to a firey life.

Four horseman united, they charge past the arcane gate to fight for the balance.

[artsolarsash]

Sketch of Cassandra (Darksiders)

for new Darksiders AU: Time Travel

[alexstarksblog]

Damn, something went to my head to do something like THIS OMG LMAOO 😂🤣🤣

@imagine-darksiders for u 💋

[darkdemeter]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[bloombird]

Is it a good time to tell you that there's a secret ending to the Darksiders au?

"Hope", the greatest ending

It's like a "Pacifist" route from Undertale

At the end of the "party", Burgertron just breaks down like Spinel from Steven universe movie, and just wanted to talk... To understand better... And says sorry

Everyone was not really sure to believe him, but Spud muffin forgave him, he forgives Spud, all is forgiven, and everything just went back to normal

I'm not sure how to explain this to you, I know it's a bit short, I'm still working on this ending

Awww that's nice! Way better than what I have in mind! Because I also have an ending for the Darksiders AU but it's pretty bittersweet.. So.. yeah, yours is pretty good ngl

Wow, I didn't expect Darksiders AU to have at least a good ending. A surprise to be sure but a welcome one (Get the reference?)

[deygodraws]

AC!Death and Anathem as a vibe~ (part 1 of a 2 part art collab uwu)

@voidwritesstuff i finally uploaded it asdfghjk

[monsuta127]

"Is that you?"

"... Not anymore."

HOW DARE YOU HIDE THIS IN THE TAGS??

Redraw of this meme, but it's a CHWH au where the Archon sends Death down to Earth, and the Horseman realises Reader was famous before the world ended.

[deepfriedhopesanddreams]

Burgertron and Burgertrons

[scarletknightreterns]

The past three days have been of my brain consisting of the drabbles my friend and I come up with for our Darksiders AU where our characters are apart of Mafia, and the horsemen are in the police force.

Cinder’s brother owns a Casino and she goes there often. The one time Death challenges her, he lost the game and his ‘car’ LOL 😂

[alexatheris-44]

Oh Horrid Mother

(Darksiders, Against Creation AU)

-

CW: uncomfortable situations, allusions to assault, descriptions of injury and gore

Summary: Anathem witnesses the Mother of Monsters and her special interest in Death and his works.

> It’s probably a good idea that you’ve read Darksiders The Abomination Vault before this, not for spoiler reasons (yet) but for more insight on Death’s history. The way his “relationship” with the Mother of Monsters is hinted at in the book is what we are playing with here.

Start reading below the GIF vvvv

She visited often in the early days. The mother of monsters, Mistress of all Masters -a title she was much more earning of at that time- would find the time between her paramours and plots to grace her greatest creations with her presence, and it would always cause quite the stir. But such was her influence, and she made no effort to hide how much she played into it, even when around her proclaimed “children.”

On occasion she’d take her time, linger and mingle with whoever would pay her the attention she felt she deserved. But on days she had a schedule to stick to, she’d make a beeline for the worktent without so much as a look towards the others. Worst were the days she wouldn’t even cross the ground of the settlement, simply apparate herself inside as if she owned the place; at least the commotion of pining outside forewarned her imminent entrance. She took such special interest in Death’s visceral endeavours even if her aura of want would completely derail the flow of work, always so eager to see the state of his current projects. Sometimes she’d whisk them away, something about wanting to personally oversee their development… not a single one ever came back. As much as he hated to admit it -both back then and especially now- Anathem would also fall victim to Lilith’s toxic charm whenever she graced the world with her presence. Want and desire exuded from her like heat from fire, her provocative attire leaving rather little to the imagination. But it wasn’t about wanting her carnally, though the thought certainly crossed the minds of those who witnessed her majesty; rather, above all it was a desire for her to want you, to acknowledge you. Anathem -just like the other projects- would find his hands shaking from the desire that she would even look at him, that a woman so far above would grace him -some lowly worm so far below her- with the most fleeting downward glance. It was a wretched feeling, to have her power so easily twist and warp his own thoughts, how it would make him lose ownership over his own mind. He fought a fearsome battle to keep control of his body when Lilith was around, as if she were a hunger for whom he’d been starved his entire existence. The sheer amount of effort it took to not throw himself at her feet, groveling, proclaiming her his dark and magnificent goddess; it was both agonizing and exhausting. Hell, had she so much as hinted that to be her desire, Anathem couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t slit his own throat that she may drink of his blood. A wretched and sickening feeling.

Despite everything that still held a pulse wishing, pleading, begging to be subject of her attention -from the Nephilim outside to the dying faceless viscera strewn on the discard table- Lilith only consistently afforded her priceless attention to one. And from what Anathem could recall, even in the earliest days, Death certainly did not seem to want it.

For all the unnatural charm she oozed and precious attention she doted to him, Death always seemed tenser with her around. The man hardly talked to those below him to begin with -hardly ever showed his assistants much regard even when he had his fingers deep in their innards, mere materials to test his theories- but Anathem felt the wall around him expand nearly tenfold the second her sickeningly putrid-sweet scent of sulfur hinted in the air. It’s not something he really thought to notice, perhaps the extensive amount of time he spent on Death’s table under his silent yet undivided focus -a cell under a microscope, being perceived bare, exposed, vulnerable- gave Anathem the impression he could glimpse back.

Once, Death was in the middle of replacing Anathem’s original left eye when the smell of Lilith tainted the air, and whatever organ the Nephilim initially planned to rehome in the human’s empty socket burst like a grape under a hydraulic press, so suddenly did Death’s entire body tense. Anathem was made to lay there, half blind and with an optic nerve stinging as it stayed exposed to air, until Death returned the next morning. Usually he wouldn’t be back to his affairs for at least a day, even on visits where he wouldn’t leave with her, Death would dismiss everyone and cease any work for a full day’s time. Doubtful he had come back for Anathem, simply that he happened to be in the one room Death could trust Lilith not to enter. He said nothing, hardly even acknowledging he left the human strapped down with an open wound and missing an eye, but the way he sat there was… haunting.

Anathem half wondered then if he should have spoken up, asked what was wrong or if he needed to talk, but how could the human have possibly helped when the Nephilim sat beside him with hollow eyes, their light burning an absent fire as if robbed of his own ghost.

Eventually Death broke out of his statuesque trance and finished what he’d started, returning Anathem’s full vision before wordlessly dismissing him. Anathem did not ask why the smell of sulfur clung to his pallid skin, neither did he speak when Death flinched away from his awkwardly offered touch.

At a much later time, as the number of Nephilim grew and there started to be distinction between Firstborn and later generations, Death had once again called for Anathem to take to the table, something he’d been doing more and more often. Anathem had actually managed to steal a chuckle from the Firstborn at a glib remark he let slip, the routine of it all beginning to feel comically mundane. The speed at which his demeanour then changed was entirely inhuman.

“Did I miss anything fun?” Her sultry hum pierced the air like a gunshot, the waft of Hell’s sulfur mixed with her indiscernible perfume filling the space like an encircling pack of wolves, cornering them both at the room’s centre. Death preferred to be alone when doing his more invasive operations, and so the space he’d do them in had always been off to the side from the rest of the worktent. No matter how the setup changed as they relocated, Death always had his private area, and she never entered it. There was no formal agreement in place, it would have been a strange stipulation to impose, but it had just been a fact that Lilith never came to this room.

“Why are you here?” Death’s voice was hoarse, barely audible, almost as if he feared being heard. But… this was Death, usually so cold and unbothered. What in Creation could he have to fear?

“Well I looked for you in the rest of your little workshop, dear.” Anathem felt it as did Death, the way her influence crept forward and washed over them like a tidal wave as she approached with each step, he heeled boots somehow still sounding an ominous click against the soft dirt ground. Anathem didn’t even have her in his sights yet when the aura of control enshrouded like water up to his neck, he could barely keep his head above the choking thickness of it. Death merely refused to turn around.

“You were nowhere around, so I figured you’d be hiding from me in your little, aha… personal space~”

Her mocking lilt rolled from her poisonous lips, coating those last words as if a child overfrosting a cupcake; far far too sweet to be anything but unhealthy. Death whipped around as her fingers raised to brush his arm, shoulders drawing back to make himself look bigger, more intimidating. Anathem’s head was swimming as he caught her face, unable to look away yet almost repulsed from staring at her for too long; as if he knew himself unworthy to look upon the Mother of Monsters but far too entranced to care. She had eyes only for Death, who wanted to recoil every second he was held in her gaze.

“That’s not what I meant.” Death forced the words out too harshly, Anathem‘s own voice in his head criticized; it was hardly the tone to take with such a woman worthy of worship.

“Why are you visiting now?”

Her laugh could melt stone and freeze over the Hells. Light and airy, but thick and choked like something caught in her throat. She places a hand to her bosom in innocent reproach… how soft would it feel to have your head lie there rather than her hand? While Anathem found it harder to focus the longer she stood in the room, she seemed to have less draw than usual. Perhaps it had to do with Death also standing in the picture; where she held herself at ease and comfort as if walking through air made of silk, the Nephilim was rigid, turned to bedrock, more real than the ground below him.

“I missed you. And I was just so busy last time I dropped by, you didn’t get to show me all you’ve been working on~”

She raised a hand to her crown of horns as if fixing her hair, eyes dancing oh so slowly down Death’s body, hungry. Death held too much self control to shudder, and thankfully she quit her pervasive trailing to look behind him… to Anathem. The moment her emerald eyes locked with his he felt petrified. If her influence was powerful before, now he was drowning in it. She was upon him before he knew it, bathing him in her shadow, close enough he could make out the pores in her lavender skin.

“And would you just look at this,” her purr throbbed in his head, a migraine mixed with the feeling of being hammered, teetering on blackout drunk.

“So much farther along than past projects. You’ve been honing your skills, my child. And it’s human no less! I haven’t toyed with one of those yet~”

He felt so alone in the reflection of her eyes, the only thing in existence held in her gaze. Yes, he was a thing; a new and shiny toy for her to break. He came close to wanting her to, when Death’s voice somehow shone enough of a light through the fog to keep him from becoming completely lost.

“I’m not done with him.” His growl rumbled the air, a soothing drumming against her deafening thunder. Somehow Anathem was able to tear his eyes off the Demoness to look to the Nephilim, catching a birthing ire in his eyes. Anathem should’ve felt afraid, Death’s anger was not something to deal with lightly. But in this moment it was his life raft, somehow it was bringing him back above water. For some inexplicable reason, Death stood as a lighthouse in a tempest, despite usually being the monsoon. Lilith clearly had no mind to pay to him that moment, dragging Anathem’s face back towards her with a clutch of his jawline. She turned it over in her hand, claws pinching against his skin, looking him all over for the smallest flaws and marks. Back in her eyes he felt the siren’s magic call for him again, luring him back to dark depths by a gentle pull of the leash she wove around his soul. He couldn’t move but at least now he could think. Maybe he could look away, or at least try. His eyes kept coming back to her smiling face.

“Your methods are still slow, primitive. You’re too soft, Death.” The way she pondered to herself how she would rip him apart and remake him were legible in her eyes, dancing horrible imagery of what she might’ve done to the other “projects” she took home. Her lightning smile widened, cold, serrated teeth peeking from her lips. There was that hunger again.

“If you’re good I might return it when I’m done… if it survives of course-”

“No.”

Anathem caught the very moment her softness turned cruel, and it terrified him. Her smile deformed to a snarl, the purr of her breathing now a hissing steam that perched untold curses at the very edge of her dark wine lips. If before she appeared a divine sin, in that fraction of a second before she turned away Anathem saw the worst that Hell could offer, tenfold. The way her hand gripped his face threatened to pull out his skull, her claws nearly so sunk into his skin he couldn’t be sure they hadn’t punctured. Whatever dream haze fogged his mind turned to frost, and he felt fear freeze him still. Lilith glared to Death, not one to be denied. Her small shoulders heaved as she took a breath as if a towering dragon about to breathe fire, but to Anathem’s bewilderment it somehow turned into a moaning sigh as if nothing had happened; so quickly, so suddenly.

“Oh sweetheart.” Her fingers slid from Anathem’s face like calloused eels, the fluidity with which she slinked away a cross between a hunting cat and languid serpent. Her tail twisted and flicked, twitching, a viper striking at the air in seductive patterns. His blood felt turned to ice at her tone; it was back to being honeyed.

“Don’t worry, my child. Do not be jealous, I have not forgotten about you~”

Death froze under her touch, every muscle in his body so tensed he threatened to burst out of his own skin. Perhaps that’s what he hoped to do, but under the full force of Lilith’s bewitchment he could barely force himself to breathe. Her talons teased from Death’s cheek to his chest, leaving a slight mark as she scratched though nothing that wouldn’t heal away. Anathem watched in horror as his face twitched between rage, disgust, and submission. Death was about the only one he’d seen not immediately fawn at Lilith’s coyest smile, but clearly it wasn’t without great effort. Anathem feared to move, lest the Firstborn be distracted and immediately ensnared. He felt helpless, what hope did a human have against a demon even the Nephilim couldn’t resist? But he saw how her hand continued to trail down, lower, going somewhere it had no business nor permission going.

“Don’t you want to please your mother?”

The world blurred as his sight turned red, he didn’t even feel his feet push off the ground as he lunged. Something akin to a feral roar rattled his throat before his teeth found purchase, and when they did he bit down hard. Her shriek was shrill, piercing, she tasted like soot and bile. Her blood burned against his tongue but Anathem would not release his hold. Wrath possessed him to crane back his neck and put a hand to her shoulder, that he could hold her still as he wrenched himself downward. He didn’t know the strength he possessed, but flesh tore around his teeth and gave further away to blood, the sickening wet snap of bone and shredding tendons ringing in his ears. He hadn’t the presence of mind to know what knocked him away, only that the sheer force dislocated his jaw as it struck, his shoulder then dislocated as he hit against the ground.

“You insolent WRETCH!” Her wail was like a banshee, the facade fully dropped as she clutched the gored stub of her left bicep. Anathem had the momentary thought to wonder where her arm went, or what tasted like charred, rotted meat in his mouth. She looked about to incinerate him in the white hot fury of her stare. Whatever possessed him to act previously now evaporated from his spirit, abandoning him to a fate of slaughter. He’d have to be picked clean from under her claws, if even that much was left of him… at least he made the bitch bleed first.

But to both their surprise -earning a snarl that threatened to bite off his hand from her and eyes wide like saucers from him- Death raised his arm and stopped Lilith from lurching forward to her prey.

He spoke too low for Anathem to make out, that or the ringing in his ears drowned out Death’s bass tone. When her glare tore from his crumpled body to turn to Death, Anathem felt like he could breathe again, as if her palpable anguish was so heavy it pinned him down. Death looked… calmed. The Mother of Monsters spat venom and violent curses at his face, her slit pupils like daggers poised to plunge, and yet Death’s body had relaxed. Through a blurring gloss that crept over his eyes -alluding that the ground might’ve found his head a little harder than he first thought- Anathem watched the Reaper seem to coo over her injury, placating her, distracting her. His body still held hesitation to make contact with her skin, but luckily for him the Demoness wanted nothing to do with his touch. Anathem couldn’t tell what was being said, adrenaline fading fast and bringing in a feeling of light-headedness. But he was present enough to follow her movements as she strutted over, her remaining hand reaching down to shove her blood-coated fingers into his slack mouth. He felt her claws grip painfully behind his bottom row of teeth, if only he had the moment to think and the presence of mind to try biting her again. He would have laughed, even if it coated his tongue in that disgusting acrid taste again. Then the pain hit, seconds after the sickening pop of his jawbone completely detaching from the rest of his skull. Her movement was too fast, too fluid, cleanly unnatural; she should not have been able to, given her slimmer frame and only one arm. The agony swallowed his mind whole, he couldn’t even register his own gargled scream. Anathem fell to the dirt blind in his pain, roof of his mouth biting into the slowly forming mud watered by his blood. He could taste the ghost of copper, the last of his senses to ring clear before he’d fully lost consciousness

…

And when he woke up, he was on the table again. No smell of sulfur stuck to the room, so there was no telling how long he’d been out. His memory was so foggy on what even happened, ears still ringing though now from the blood rushed by his heartbeat. He blinked slowly half a dozen times before the haze in his vision cleared. Through the confusion and scattered blank puzzle pieces of his mind, he knew that his cheeks ached something terrible.

“About time.”

Anathem startled at Death’s gravelly rasp, nearly leaping to his feet at the hulking sight of the Nephilim standing beside him, wiping fresh blood from some tool in his hands. Likely Anathem would’ve stood if it weren’t for a throbbing soreness in his back, and the jerk of his head sent a shooting pain at either side of his face. Death’s eyes flicked from his hands to Anathem, shooting a stern warning that he kept still, and then back to his hands. Given there was no sense of urgency or danger, Anathem complied.

“You took longer to wake than I expected,” Death noted aloud as casual as nothing, returning the tool to a spread of many before him in the exact spot he picked it up from. The Firstborn had a certain order he stuck to in everything he did, a peculiar spotlessness despite the inherent gore and mess of his projects. Anathem for one found it easy to stick to that regiment, all his tools had been kept in the same order to the point they wore an outline in the leather padding.

“We’ll have to address that at a later time.”

Perhaps it was a sound in his breath, perhaps he was simply predictable, but Death held up a silencing finger as Anathem had the thought to speak.

“Don’t. There was no visible damage to your vocal cords, but until I’ve secured this side I’d advise silence.” Death picked up a curved bone needle, threading it with practiced expertise. Even though his candlefire eyes cast down to Anathem’s face it somehow felt as if he wasn’t seeing him, fixated on something under his right cheekbone. He leaned in, hunched over the smaller being with such presence it was hard to not find him imposing, but Anathem only paid mind to the needle being brought close to his reddened skin. It was strange how his cheek was so flushed, it was hardly his first time awake under Death’s knife. But when did he get on the table?

He flinched slightly -despite trying to stifle it- when the needle punctured.

“I had other plans for this thread when we started today.” Death was not one to hold one sided conversations; he would certainly muse to himself out loud, breathing short words or observations when something particularly noteworthy came up in his work, but he could tell Anathem had a plethora of questions pervading his mind. He knew he held a captive audience, yet spoke as if he was alone.

“Though I’d imagine I won’t be hearing any complaints for letting this take precedence.”

In a smooth motion, as if it were all routine, the Nephilim brought his large hand to rest over the entirety of Anathem’s narrow throat, not in efforts to crush his trachea -though he most certainly possessed the strength necessary to do so with ease- but to hold something in place as he began stitching. Anathem quickly realized it was his jaw, a stabbing ache biting at the reattached nerves surrounding the hinge at either side. He hardly felt Death’s cold touch under his chin -as if he’d been numbed or his senses still slept- but the pain was all too real. His breath hissed, catching in his throat which felt raw. The hand tensed its hold, a wordless command for him not to move.

“Attacking her was an entirely foolish decision, be grateful I could convince her to be merciful.”

Anathem pushed down the impulse to either scoff or swallow hard. This was her being merciful? Death sounded a curt hum, as if he could hear Anathem’s thoughts. He threaded another stitch, careful not to sew Anathem’s cheek to his gums.

“You should never have been able to get that close, let alone draw blood. That you did speaks volumes of the progress we are making. You continue to surprise me…”

Strangely, Anathem felt the Firstborn was trying to compliment him. Something about how his harsh tone lessened, or the warmth in his gaze as he finally met Anathem’s eyes; how it feels to take a hot bath at the end of a cold night, or a bonfire in a damp and frigid cave. It wasn’t soft by any means, no part of him was made to be, but the silent appreciation communicated in that moment was louder than any words he could’ve thought to voice. Anathem bit down the pulse of discomfort radiating from his shoulder as he brought his hand to rest on Death’s wrist, the best way he thought to reply. Death stilled as his touch, needle poised to tie off the last stitch.

“Hhrg-had… to…” The words gargled like phlegm in his throat, tongue sitting in his mouth like a fat slug; heavy and numb to his instructions. Death sounded a dry chuckle, unsurprised Anathem chose the very last stitch to not follow his instruction to keep quiet. All to say something so simple, so unnecessary. Death tied off the end of the thread with a deft hand and released Anathem’s face carefully, that he might catch it if the bonds mysteriously let go. Purely a cautionary measure, Anathem always found the Firstborn’s work flawless. Who else could find a way to reattach a jaw that was quite literally torn off the hinges, expertly reconnecting every connecting nerve and most of the blood vessels? he didn’t look to push it, but Anathem knew he could’ve wiggled his chin and he'd only have to deal with the stinging afterwards. Knowing his cue to leave, he followed in Death’s shadow as they made for the rest of the worktent just past the partition.

“I expect you back here before first light, we have a lot of work to do. There was a price to be paid for showing such promise.”

Before Anathem could think to ask what that meant, Death flung open the curtain to reveal a room strewn with bodies, mangled and dismembered. He staggered at the horrendous sight of all the other experiments and assistants torn apart before him, Death merely stood stoic. There was that elusive last lingering of sulfur the human was looking for before…

“I’ve been informed I am to focus my efforts solely on your transformation for a time,” Death casually delivered as if he was looking out to an empty storage room, unblinking in the face of such sudden and violent loss. Anathem's heart nearly leapt as the Firstborn’s cold hand found his back.

“I trust you’ll prove more than an adequate return on investment, hm?”

Without another word, Death marched ahead and left the work area, ready to begin again come the next morning.

[yourfavoritehorseman]

Thank. You.

WIP human D_

Whoever brought up the grey sweatpants, I see you.

_