Darksiders - Brotherhood
Title: Brotherhood
Fandom: Darksiders
Characters/pairings: War/Death
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Even when they were enemies, they were still brothers.
Warnings: Incest, spoilers for the prequel comic, necrophilia depending on how alive you think Death is, amputations.
Notes: Siblings that willingly maim and attempt to kill each other? Fuck yes.
Back in port for a couple weeks. Watches are long, boring and empty, and I've written more in the past six weeks of watches than I have in the past six MONTHS. I carry a little notebook with me, and I've filled almost four of them since the last time we left.
And totes on a Darksiders kick right now. Fuck yeah, grumpy old men with huge swords. I ship War with everyone that's never happened to me about any character before halp
Table of Contents
o o o
Interestingly enough, it was not the most painful wound War had ever borne.
Death's power stretched beyond the amputation itself, killing the nerves in slow increments, deadening the area. It was no worse than the times he'd actually died on earth; evisceration was still the worst, followed closely by being crushed to death and driven to madness by the Voice of the Metatron. When a group of angels had once put out his eyes had probably been the most painful, not to mention the longest to recover from. Being a brother to Death had it's advantages when one was killed, but anything less than dying took time and magic and a lot of patience.
He examined the injury, outwardly dispassionate. He knew, on one level, that he had deserved the amputation, had probably deserved more. His actions had been driven by blood-lust and sheer defiance, without honor or justice. Defying the Council was bad enough; attempting to kill his brothers had only sealed the deal. The rest of him seethed; his arm! The bastard had taken his arm. No replacement could accurately mimic flesh, and though he could easily wield the Chaoseater with one hand, how was he supposed to ride? With the reins in his teeth?
No noise, no sign, but he whirled anyway, reaching for Chaoseater- damn. Still beyond his reach, still taken from him in a punishment almost as bad as losing a limb. Except it wasn't beyond his reach; he could see the distinctive hilt rising over Death's shoulder, mere feet away. Death's eyes were coldly curious behind his mask, and openly challenging. War set his jaw and met his brother evenly, troubled that his balance was so thrown off by the missing weight. Death's gaze tracked to War's arm instead, to the crust of blood and sprite-magic that kept him from bleeding out. "No bandages?" he asked finally.
"No chance of letting it grow back?" War countered. Death didn't answer and he snorted derisively. No, it would be too much to ask for, to request that Death withdraw his cold power and let the limb regenerate. Maybe after a few centuries, just as he got used to a replacement. Bastard. "It'll heal. Faster, if you remove the necrosis."
Death shrugged and pain lanced up his arm like a fire. He grit his teeth and rode out the initial wave. Just enough of Death's touch remaining to prevent regeneration, but apparently, he'd kept more of the nerves deadened than War had thought. "I don't expect you to thank me," Death said dryly. "Though I hope you will refrain from stabbing me again. You'd look ridiculous without arms." The Chaoseater fell to the ground at War's feet, clattering noisily, and War swiftly knelt to snatch it up before it could be taken again.
Amusement filtered into the elder's gaze, and War briefly considered running him through again out of spite. But he knew a warning when he heard one, and he had no doubt that Death would make good on it. Instead, he sheathed the sword at his back and rushed his brother, slamming him against the stone wall. Physically, he was the strongest of all of them, and his blood ran hot. He kept it hot, kept the fire in his veins stoked, kept it from settling in disuse and graying his skin, cooling his emotions. Brutality honed in anger was his strength, and that strength embedded Death a good inch into supernatural stone. War pinned Death across the shoulders with his arm, leaning in, and anyone else would have found his breath cut off by War's forearm. Death only raised his chin, challenging again.
War reached up with- damn! He needed a replacement as soon as possible; having only one hand would drive him mad. He leaned further instead, catching the bottom edge of Death's mask with his teeth and rudely pulling it away. Death's wasted visage was as inscrutable as his mask, dead-alive eyes glittering up out of sunken, bruise-colored sockets. Bloodless lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk. "Does something trouble you, War?" he asked.
"You took my arm," War growled, shoving harder, and the wall made interesting grinding noises. "Justified or not, I intend to make you pay for that."
"I still have it," Death said, almost conversationally, but his hands were hard on War's hips, digging into the narrow gap between thigh armor and belt. "I might turn your finger bones into a trophy to wear around my neck."
War bucked his hips forward, finding the one place his brother's blood still ran hot. Let the other races think what they would about a Horseman and earthly pursuits. There was nothing earthly in this, nothing natural, nothing pure. Nothing but rage and heat and cold, thin lips crushed against his own.
Fandom: Darksiders
Characters/pairings: War/Death
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Even when they were enemies, they were still brothers.
Warnings: Incest, spoilers for the prequel comic, necrophilia depending on how alive you think Death is, amputations.
Notes: Siblings that willingly maim and attempt to kill each other? Fuck yes.
Back in port for a couple weeks. Watches are long, boring and empty, and I've written more in the past six weeks of watches than I have in the past six MONTHS. I carry a little notebook with me, and I've filled almost four of them since the last time we left.
And totes on a Darksiders kick right now. Fuck yeah, grumpy old men with huge swords. I ship War with everyone that's never happened to me about any character before halp
Table of Contents
o o o
Interestingly enough, it was not the most painful wound War had ever borne.
Death's power stretched beyond the amputation itself, killing the nerves in slow increments, deadening the area. It was no worse than the times he'd actually died on earth; evisceration was still the worst, followed closely by being crushed to death and driven to madness by the Voice of the Metatron. When a group of angels had once put out his eyes had probably been the most painful, not to mention the longest to recover from. Being a brother to Death had it's advantages when one was killed, but anything less than dying took time and magic and a lot of patience.
He examined the injury, outwardly dispassionate. He knew, on one level, that he had deserved the amputation, had probably deserved more. His actions had been driven by blood-lust and sheer defiance, without honor or justice. Defying the Council was bad enough; attempting to kill his brothers had only sealed the deal. The rest of him seethed; his arm! The bastard had taken his arm. No replacement could accurately mimic flesh, and though he could easily wield the Chaoseater with one hand, how was he supposed to ride? With the reins in his teeth?
No noise, no sign, but he whirled anyway, reaching for Chaoseater- damn. Still beyond his reach, still taken from him in a punishment almost as bad as losing a limb. Except it wasn't beyond his reach; he could see the distinctive hilt rising over Death's shoulder, mere feet away. Death's eyes were coldly curious behind his mask, and openly challenging. War set his jaw and met his brother evenly, troubled that his balance was so thrown off by the missing weight. Death's gaze tracked to War's arm instead, to the crust of blood and sprite-magic that kept him from bleeding out. "No bandages?" he asked finally.
"No chance of letting it grow back?" War countered. Death didn't answer and he snorted derisively. No, it would be too much to ask for, to request that Death withdraw his cold power and let the limb regenerate. Maybe after a few centuries, just as he got used to a replacement. Bastard. "It'll heal. Faster, if you remove the necrosis."
Death shrugged and pain lanced up his arm like a fire. He grit his teeth and rode out the initial wave. Just enough of Death's touch remaining to prevent regeneration, but apparently, he'd kept more of the nerves deadened than War had thought. "I don't expect you to thank me," Death said dryly. "Though I hope you will refrain from stabbing me again. You'd look ridiculous without arms." The Chaoseater fell to the ground at War's feet, clattering noisily, and War swiftly knelt to snatch it up before it could be taken again.
Amusement filtered into the elder's gaze, and War briefly considered running him through again out of spite. But he knew a warning when he heard one, and he had no doubt that Death would make good on it. Instead, he sheathed the sword at his back and rushed his brother, slamming him against the stone wall. Physically, he was the strongest of all of them, and his blood ran hot. He kept it hot, kept the fire in his veins stoked, kept it from settling in disuse and graying his skin, cooling his emotions. Brutality honed in anger was his strength, and that strength embedded Death a good inch into supernatural stone. War pinned Death across the shoulders with his arm, leaning in, and anyone else would have found his breath cut off by War's forearm. Death only raised his chin, challenging again.
War reached up with- damn! He needed a replacement as soon as possible; having only one hand would drive him mad. He leaned further instead, catching the bottom edge of Death's mask with his teeth and rudely pulling it away. Death's wasted visage was as inscrutable as his mask, dead-alive eyes glittering up out of sunken, bruise-colored sockets. Bloodless lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk. "Does something trouble you, War?" he asked.
"You took my arm," War growled, shoving harder, and the wall made interesting grinding noises. "Justified or not, I intend to make you pay for that."
"I still have it," Death said, almost conversationally, but his hands were hard on War's hips, digging into the narrow gap between thigh armor and belt. "I might turn your finger bones into a trophy to wear around my neck."
War bucked his hips forward, finding the one place his brother's blood still ran hot. Let the other races think what they would about a Horseman and earthly pursuits. There was nothing earthly in this, nothing natural, nothing pure. Nothing but rage and heat and cold, thin lips crushed against his own.