Functionaldisaster - Mostly Confused

A Warm Welcome!

You can call me Tay. I’m a former chef with experience in fine dining, fast food, pizza whatever you name it. I spent a lot of time in my life experiencing food in all its forms. I haven’t used tumblr since I was a young teenager so I’m a little rusty here.

I’m gonna be completely honest here, I wanna post content and stuff on here but I have no idea whether there’s even an audience for it here. If you have any requests let me know, even if you just want cooking advice hit me up, otherwise imma just do me on here. If that appeals to you, chuck me a follow. DMs are always open aswell.

Hi hi! I have a request if that’s ok! Death is such a grimy and grumpy old man. Could we maybe have a soft moment with him? Maybe a rare cuddling moment where he opens up a little or maybe even a soft moment the human/reader brushing his rats nest called hair or just taking care of him? Thank you!

Author's note: While I love all the Horsemen Strife I absolutely love writing Death. I especially love writing cute prompts like this for the Horsemen. Anyhoo, this idea popped into my head when I read 'soft moment', and thought it would be cute. Enjoy <3

Summary: It's pouring down outside; And with Death taking a rare rest, you decide to ask him about a few of his old wounds.

Relationships: Death/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Not really any, just some cuddles and looking at Death's scars

The storm outside cracks the sky with a large boom of thunder, shortly after lighting up the room. It’s one of the most intense storms you’ve seen in quite awhile, and it doesn’t seem to have plans for letting up anytime soon.

Not as if it matters however, as you sit snug safely in bed.

“If you prod anymore of them, I’d well believe you’ll reopen one.”

Death comments on your curiosity over his scars but doesn’t make any sort of actual effort stop you, feeling the soft skin of your fingertips ever so gently graze over his marred skin. He can barely feel your touch at times it’s so soft, as if you think merely brushing them will somehow hurt him. While the gesture is pointless, Death surprises himself by being pleasantly buzzed at the idea that you would care about such a thing.

It’s an intoxicating feeling; Death finds himself greedy and feeling pleased your interest in his healed wounds hasn't faded yet. You sit behind him, legs tucked to one side while you look over his back.

“They all look so different.” Death sits facing away from you, taking in an extremely rare moment of genuine relaxation. Had you been anyone else, he’d never allow himself the luxury.

Meanwhile Dust lets out a content little warble; He's been perched on the headboard of your bed this entire time, fluffed up as he sits almost as round as a crow can get. The bird is content as can be, and if you were within reach, the temptation to pet him would be too hard to ignore.

“Rarely do I meet the same weapon twice.” One could take that as a cocky declaration of skill, but he is more than likely referencing the sheer amount of beings he’s fought, over the years.

“How did you get this one?”

Death sighs. He can feel your fingers under his left shoulder blade, jolting slightly when a large crack of thunder startles you; Dust as well, the bird abruptly stands and lets out a squawk at the sudden noise. The rain is battering down on your window with such force that he's glad he botched your efforts to play around in it. He doesn't understand why you would even want to to begin with.

“Do you truly think I remember each any every one?”

When you mumble something snide about his age under your breath, he grabs a firm grip of your ankle and you let out a small squeal as he tugs you closer.

“Keep talking like that girl, and you’ll get in trouble.”

He lets go of your ankle and you adjust your legs so that you're crossing them instead, and resume your mapping of his skin in silence. He can feel the curl of your lip as you glare at the back of his head; But you're not genuinely displeased. He enjoys irritating you, though if he's good at hiding that fact. At least most of the time, there's been a few instances where you can tell he goading you, as you can see the bottoms of his eyes push upward as he smirks behind his mask.

Your curiosity still hasn't been sated, feeling your index finger against what he assumes is an old burn. The feeling is dulled, but still soft against the bottom of his ribcage. When you lose interest in that one your fingers brush against the middle near his spine, over a long, wide scar.

He remembers that one.

“That is from Chaoseater.”

You halt for a moment, partly from the fact he actually is indulging you; The other being the realization that you very much so recognize that title. You furrow your brow and stare at the back of his head while you speak up.

“Wait, War’s greatsword? When did he stab you?” Death shifts his body, toying with the wraps around his wrists as his black hair parts over his neck.

“War was not always able to control his temper.”

You hesitate to say 'temper' is an adequate term to use when someone decides to nearly gut you, but since Death is fundamentally immortal, perhaps he has a looser definition of the word.

"Geez. I hope he at least apologized for nearly putting you in two pieces." Death lets out a short, harsh laugh. His shoulders move when doing so.

"I would be more surprised by him apologizing, than attempting to gut me."

You would be too, if what little you've seen of the red rider has anything to say for it.

A hard burst of rain batters down on the window for a moment, the wind shaking the trees outside. You're glad Despair can vanish like he can, you'd feel awful if he was stuck out in this dreadful weather. At least Dust can come inside and preen himself.

Rising up onto your knees you wrap your arms around Death's shoulders, leaning forward enough to sick your head around and see part of his masked face.

He has to push down a feeling that tenses his shoulders, at the act of someone suddenly coming up on him from behind so close to his head. A deeply ingrained habit of defense; He doesn't need it when it's just his little human climbing on him.

"Too bad none of my scars are interesting," You say, showing him a tiny little white scar of your own. Death gently grasps you close to it, before you can tell his brow is furrowing behind his mask. His hand tightens a bit as he speaks, though his grip is still incredibly gentle.

"I hope you aren't implying you want to rush into battle." You laugh, and lean your chin in the crook between his shoulder and his neck. Death's tone was incredibly warning, not even going to entertain the thought of you getting hurt. His lazy crow lets out a little warble at the stern tone of his master, but doesn't make any real effort to move away. He's gotten too comfortable again, laying on his legs and puffed up like a little black orb of feathers. A few are scattered on the pillow; After he's preened and plucked them.

"No, but saying 'I got stabbed by a living sword that feeds off of bloodlust' is far more interesting than 'I cut myself with a kitchen knife' or something like that."

His hand is still on your bare skin, feeling the warmth radiating from it. He hesitates to pull his hand away, just because he wants to enjoy it. He does so silently for a moment, before looking away from you. His fingers tap on your skin in succession as he thinks, feeling the way your body lays against him.

"If it will keep your mind off of those sorts of ideas, I will sate your curiosity one more time."

It takes a second to realize what he means, before he feels you tense against his back as you exclaim: "Really?!"

Death quite visibly rolls his eyes at how oddly seriously you're taking this, but he doesn't actually say anything. Not often does he get to see someone happy, let alone because of him. He shakes his head and you feel his hair brush against your arm, before he sighs.

"Yes. But do choose wisely."

ANTI-CAPITALIST AFFIRMATIONS

i am allowed to spend my time creating things, even if they are not beautiful.

there is no such thing as a "real job." all forms of work are real and valid.

there is nothing that i need to accomplish to be worthy. i am already worthy.

doing nothing is good for my soul.

i am not defined by what i produce.

my worth cannot be measured by my paycheck, my job title, or a list of professional or academic achievements.

i do not need to monetize my hobbies, it is enough to spend time doing something i love.

i will not let society decide what success looks like. i can define what successful life looks like for me.