#big knuckles and visible tendons

[honeymaki]

thinking about mikasa taking her anger out on you after a fight with annie 🥺 her being all mean and calling you all sorts of names as she’s fucking you with her strap but after you’re done she calls you her good girl and is so proud of you for taking her cock so well 🥺💕

Warnings: rough sex, strapon, use of petnames (baby, princess, love), implied fem reader, crying, praise, mentions of injuries and blood, ever so slight implications of dubcon but prior consent given.

Notes: please read my rules, I don’t like to write or read degradation in any form thank you 💕

This is such a 🥺🥺 so what if she just - is so angry, so flushed and puffy lipped and hard handed with how she mandhandles you on to your back, thighs up by your ears, dick hitting so deep and so hard. Her big hands still taped and bandaged from the fight, bruises littering the knuckles visible through the tape, one of her nails purple where it’s digging into the fat of the back of your thighs, keeping you rooted, holding you down, tummy folded and jiggling with every downward swing of her hips.

“Take it - nngh - take it fuckin’ -,” sweat drips between her breasts, strands of her black hair sticking to her forehead with effort, eyes squeezed shut and the little cut on her lip is all you can focus on. Between that, the heavy brush of her tits over yours, the yellowing bruise on her jaw and the nasty fuck of her cock stirring your insides,

“S-slow Mika please,” you’re halfway to sobbing, lip wobbling, fingers grappling at her ass to pull her closer or push her away, head tossing into the sheets and pillows tossed around you. She hoists a leg, adjusts her arms so they're fisting the sheets, doubling down over you, knees cradling her shoulders that bulge and strain with every mean nasty thrust. 

“Nnghnot gonna - won’t stop, I can’t - I know you don’t want me to,” Mikasa pants above you, eyes fluttering shut when the strap pinches her clit and slips and slides when she - “Right there, feels so good - can’t stop you just gotta fuckin’ take it,” it’s like she’s not even talking to you, jaw clicked and neck straining, that lickable tendon still baring the bruises of her fight with Annie. The practise fight with Annie, the silly little wager Eren suggested, the stupid playful fight where Annie got too serious and too boisterous when you were mentioned.

“So fuckin - ,” she punctuates an explosion of anger with a particularly harsh thrust, grinding and kissing so so deep, “Wish she could see you now, see how good you take it, how good you are - look at you baby,” her eyes squint open to look down at you, rolling back when all she can see is you, teary eyed, mouth open, throat bared and ripe for her to sink her teeth into. Maybe - maybe she should take a picture, show Annie what she can reduce you down to, how good you are for her - that she does in fact have someone to fuck, someone that loves her and lets her do whatever she wants, whatever she needs...

“Love you, love you nd this pussy - fuck, s’good baby,” she’s slurring, hardly moving her lips, catching then between her teeth when your whines grow louder, legs kicking out against the brute strength that keeps you in place. Tears explode from your eyes, mouth open and yelping with every hit to your cervix, every bash to your clit, every upward grind to your sweet spot. Little uh uh uh’s into her neck as she strains above you, lashes fluttering and body moving with every thrust into you.

The pace changes suddenly with a hand cupping the top of your head; changes when you shudder and shake and quiver all wet and drippy over her thighs, changes when you whimper her name and push at her clenching stomach, changes when you shakily pucker your lips in an ask for a kiss. Slow, long and strong, licking into your mouth and drinking your eager mewls despite how much you’re shaking and squirming beneath her. Mikasa noses at your cheek, huffing into your ear, groaning,

“S’good for me baby, beautiful aren’t you?” breathy but still with an edge, “Perfect little pussy, perfect little princess - hah,” she trembles into you, pinching just right, grinding at the perfect, collapsing against you with a sigh.

“So good baby, fuck - lettin me do what I want, letting me - fuck,” gasping, breathless Mikasa feels you twitch when she hitches her hips, another little orgasm shocking through your body when the rough fabric of the strapon catches on your swollen, slippery clit,

“Careful, careful love, I got you” she’s still inside of you, still all up in your tummy and she - doesn’t seem to want to move, “gonna stay right here kay? Right here,” fingers split around where you’re stretched around her cock, sending shivers down your spine and gasps to spill from your lips,

“Mika - I - ?” You’re still out of breath, squirming under her and managing to disconnect your hips with a filthy wet squelch, dildo smearing up against your thigh and tummy, “please - please can you put my legs down? I can’t feel them,”

Slicking her sticky forehead over your chest, Mikasa grumbles as she lets your legs flop down on to the mattress, still refusing to move from caging your body beneath hers,

“S’stupid,” lips peck your skin, brushing over your tits and down your belly, “she’s stupid,”

“Next time, next time just like - punch her maybe?” you moan when her calloused hands start massaging the tight muscles in your thigh, “And maybe - uhhh - maybe I can - huhhh,” you petter off, eyes fluttering shut when Mikasa slinks from the bed and replaces her body with a blanket, slipping off the strapon and tossing it into the bathroom with a huff,

“Don’t worry about that right now,” returning to your side, still naked, still sticky and a little shaky, but holding a bottle of juice and one of the cookies Armin made the other day, “you did good, considering -,”

“S’okay, I liked it yknow?” You turn on to your side, gazing at your girlfriend lazily, “unhinged, maybe you should loose more fights but only the practise ones cause I like it when you win,” Mikasa smiles at you, fondly, as lazy as your little slurs and grumbles,

“You just like the victory sex don’t you?”

“Maybe win again, nd I can figure that out,”

[volchitsa-of-winterfell]

debated whether to post this as it is, without contest, THE most deranged thing i have ever done in any fandom.  but this is the deranged fan website so without further ado:

The 2023 F1 Drivers, Ranked By Hands

ID and explanations are under the cut.  explanations are grouped by team instead of in the order of the chart above, because that’s how i typed this out in my google doc and i can’t be arsed to cut them up and shuffle them around.  enjoy.

[ID: a tier ranking list with the categories “✨perfect✨”; “very nice!”; “pretty good”; “Fine I Guess”; and “ugly.”  reading left to right, the photos shown in the “✨perfect✨” tier are george russell, valtteri bottas, and zhou guanyu.  the photos shown in the “very nice!” tier are oscar piastri, kevin magnussen, nico hülkenberg, max verstappen, alex albon, and esteban ocon.  in the “pretty good” tier we have yuki tsunoda, charles leclerc, logan sargeant, fernando alonso, lewis hamilton, and carlos sainz.  in the “Fine I Guess tier” are nyck de vries, lance stroll, and checo pérez.  in the “ugly” tier are pierre gasly and lando norris.  /end ID]

The Explanations

yuki: some nice hands!  smol and well-proportioned.  smooth, pretty skin that looks decently well cared for.  the overall shape gives the impression of a balance between gentle and sturdy.

nyck: similar to yuki’s in size, with the sturdiness & ruggedness sliders bumped up just a couple notches.  big, blunt, round fingerpads.  nothing too special but not unattractive either!

hulkenberg: lovely long fingers!  slight points detracted for the bulge of his pinky muscle which gives his palm an oddly lumpy shape that i personally find aesthetically unattractive.  still, quite pretty overall: a hand that’s clearly built for strength first but also looks like it could have a gentleness to it.

kevin: now just by pure aesthetics this one shouldn’t work, with the combination of the big sprawled-out square palm and the short, small, tapered fingers coming out of it.  but something about the quirkiness of the combo utterly charms me!

oscar: god, i so wanted to place him higher, because these are literally some gorgeous fucking hands.  perfect fingers: long with an elegant taper and a beautiful soft rounded tip.  unfortunately, this boy chews the SHIT out of his cuticles.  they’re not visible in the picture i included here (bc i went for one that showed the overall shape better) but i have other photographic proof where they literally look so fucking ragged and dry and NASTYYYY.

lando: listen i love my dumb little puppyboy but literally what the fuck is this.  the knobbly knuckles, the tendon bumps, the weird asymmetrical squat shape to the palm—absolutely none of it is to my taste.  AND, as if that weren’t enough, he also has the same ripped-up cuticles problem as oscar.  someone please sneak into the mclaren HQ and start sneaking gabapentin into these poor boys’ food like they give to animals to stop gnawing at their stitches after the vet.

logan: what can i say?  they’re good hands, brent.  long fingers, nicely shaped and proportional to the palm, no obvious detractions.  just a nice hand.

alex: minor points detracted for disproportionality—his palm is, like, way too long for his fingers somehow??  but he makes it up in other areas: the skin looks smooth and moisturized, and the fingers themselves are quite nice, long with a blunt pillowy pad.  bonus visual interest points for having a third and fourth finger that are nearly the same length!  willing to bet anything that those two are the fingers he uses for [*LOUD RAPID GUNFIRE*]

guanyu: long and lovely fingers, slim and delicate!  a slight knobbliness to the knuckles but the overall length and gracility of the fingers makes it look elegant.  back of the hand looks well moisturized and smooth.

valtteri: yes they’re so smol and stubby and MEATY but they’re also just very nicely proportioned and shaped!  this is a hand i would be delighted to hold and squeeze: just these cute, soft, almost pudgy little mitts.

esteban: would have loved to go even higher for the long slim fingers, and they do have a gorgeous gentle look to them—unfortunately they are just slightly on the wrong side of too-long, where they start looking almost spidery.  still, despite the slight unsettling aspect i’m nevertheless compelled to rate these pretty highly.  or maybe because of it.

pierre: there’s just really nothing compelling going on here.  kind of a knobbly/lumpy shape; not stubby enough to be smol and cute; not long enough to be elegant and pretty.  ig they look strong-ish but even that’s a reach.

lance: these hands i would call stubby in a cute way: not quite as much as valtteri’s, but still, i like the proportions on these.  points off for the skin looking a bit dry.  you’re literally a billionaire, my guy.  go get a manicure sometime with the paraffin gloves or whatever.

fernando: very well-shaped; smol and cute, a little less knobbly than lance’s.  definitely showing signs of age but i don’t mind that!

checo: yet another basic/“standard” hand.  a decent columnar shape to the fingers.  overall nothing too special for better or for worse.

max: soft-looking, with a lovely broad blunt pad at the tip.  little bit of a knuckle knobble but nothing too bad, and again, the length helps them look nice.

george: yeah so this is basically my perfect hand.  fine, elegant, long-boned fingers, matched by a perfect slim palm that’s exactly in proportion.  has a wee little bit of a nail in this photo, which is interesting; everybody else has had them rounded-off down to the quick, either from trimming/filing, gnawing, simple wear, or some combination of all three.  nothing wrong with that, though: the edge on george’s nail looks smooth (i.e. un-gnawed) and well-shaped.

lewis: these are similar to yuki’s—small and sturdy-looking in a cute way.  slightly lower than yuki since lewis has a slightly bulging/unsightly left pinky; wonder if he broke it at some point or something.

carlos: this is another story of two parts where the fingers are great but the palm shape detracts somewhat.  a very narrow tapered point on these long fingers, but the palm is far too broad to match, thus giving the whole hand a heavy and disproportionate look.

charles: you have no idea how hard it was to actually look at his hands and not get distracted by his face BUT.  sad to say, his palm is another kind of unshapely sprawl; too broad and the silhouette it makes i just don’t find aesthetically pleasing.  the fingers are beautiful, though, columnar in shape with possibly the softest and most pillowy-looking finger pads on the grid, and you can for sure tell he’s a pianist bc he keeps those things AGGRESSIVELY trimmed.

[idv-thespians]

💭 their hands and their condition after what they've been through

Elaine:

Her hands are surprisingly long, as compared to her palm

Her nails are slightly long, but cleanly filed to ensure it looks pretty. She isn’t too familiar with how to style her nails, but she tries anyway

her hands look rougher than expected, due to her often doing household chores when she was younger

There may be light scrapes, or even an occasional paper cut, but other than that, not many blemishes on her hand

Liam:

Liam’s tendons are almost always visible, and his knuckles are quite prominent. His fingers are long and slender, giving a somewhat elegant silhouette

his palms are somewhat rough, but the rest of his hand is quite smooth

He keeps his nails short, and ensures they are always filed down

This is more obvious of his arms and wrist, but his veins can be seen barely popping out from his skin constantly. They seem to get more prominent when he gets worked up

Quinn:

He has somewhat big hands, and his palm is surprisingly fleshy

if he flexed a certain way, his tendons can be seen on the back of the hand quite prominently

his nails are cut short, but they’re more haphazard, and occasionally, the thumb may have been chewed off during a moment of duress

his hands are somewhat rougher than the rest, with a writer’s callus on his finger, albeit a small one. Mostly this is due to his tendency to write everything down

Hugo:

His hands are small for a man his size, with slightly stocky fingers

He doesn’t have any prominent scars on his hands, but he also has a more prominent writer’s callus than Quinn, and often has paper cuts due to how often he handles paper

his nails are hastily cut short, barely filed to ensure he doesn’t scratch himself by accident. However, he does make it a habit to try and make his nails appear more natural

Shiloh:

his hands are somewhat small, and his fingers are slightly stubbier, giving his hand a somewhat fleshy appearance

his hands are free of any cuts, not even the slightest scar or injury

they’re also smooth with very few wrinkles, perhaps a few only within his palm

His nails are short, but neatly trimmed to keep a neat appearance. An actor must be presentable, after all.

[falling-hand-in-unlovable-hand]

draw what your ocs' + the order's eyebrows and/or hands look like :)

so a bit of a warning- i went fucking insane with this

[actual size chart!]

first up- nari! very tiny hands 👌thisss big

golden wood nails (retractable! thank u crow i totally stole this from minor arcana) very soft fingers, without much definition on any of the knuckles or joints, kinda like a small child’s hand but with more calluses

this bitch is spindly, fite me

most of his fingers are crooked, and long compared to his palm, and he’s got really defined tendons and knuckles- his nails are thicc, and a touch too long because cutting them is a whole thing (they’re so cracked😩)

and ofc the whole blackened frostbitten and rotting thing

the birddd

their hands are really square and strong and their fingers are thick, really calloused from training and forging- also what some of their scars are from (that and fights), speaking of that, their knuckles are often bruised

their nails are longer then’s practical but they’re more like talons tbh

bitterroot!

her hands are hella pale from always being in gloves, and her fingers are v long and crooked, esp her pointer- her scars are from being a dumbass with chemicals and smashing people across the face w glass beakers <3

forgive the reused art and the lumpy ass sketches😭

this wasn’t super visible in their main sketches but all their hands get paler at the palm-

bellroc, for obvious reasons, but skrael and nari have it visible too (except skrael’s fingertips where it’s all blackened and rotting)

oh and here’s the progress video

[faun-buns]

hello .. your artwork is very pretty and I love it with my whole heart and soul. i love the big meaty detailed hands you draw especially, they’re so tasty to look at;; do you have any tips for drawing those bad boys by chance?? if not, that’s cool ! just know they are very lovely and good and i can stare at them forever 🙇‍♂️

hiii THANK U SM! im glad you like how i draw hands, theyre my favorite part 🤲 drawing them sort of comes naturally to me for some reason and i rarely use reference so its sort of hypocritical of me to tell you to use reference LOL a lot of it is just muscle memory for me, though

im looking at some of the hands ive drawn and there are some consistent things that i can pick out in my own work that i do subconsciously that might help you

i usually tend to make the hands about as big as the face. if your hands are one of the main points of interest youre gonna want them to be big and eyecatching and just as expressive as the face. for beefy hands, you may be able to get away with making them even bigger than the face depending on the proportions of the character

when im drawing beefy or boney hands, i like to add visible tendons and i make the knuckles pointy. your index and middle finger have the most visible tendons so i usually draw one or both of those, and i try to avoid using straight lines when drawing the fingers; even a subtle curve can make them feel less stiff. you can make hands feel boney, beefy, or soft just from the curves u draw on the fingers

i try to make sure that i dont draw the fingertips perfectly round when im drawing beefy hands; instead, i have the top line curve upwards and then into a boxy fingertip shape. for soft hands i round it off more

not specifically a beefy hand thing, but i often "glue" the middle and ring finger with eachother. when youre using your hands, a lot of the time your middle finger and ring finger will work together in a way and grouping them together like this exaggerates that more. i also like to have the pinkie finger doing its own little fuck-all thing sometimes. doing this stuff just adds visual interest and you can add more or less Beef Vibes depending on the pose

and then lastly i like to draw hashmarks on the fingers sometimes bc i just think its cute, sort of like drawing blush on cheeks. depending on the pose, it can make the fingers feel more ragged or intense, too

HOPE THIS HELPS U 💜 if not, the best advice i can give you is to reference. reference your own hands, google pics of hands, look at how other artists draw hands, etc. i dont have a coherent process for drawing hands, so i cant really break it down any more than this 💀 you can even use the hands ive drawn as loose reference while keeping these things ive listed in mind if thats what would help you

[guro-giri-letters]

imagine... the dabi hair dye scenario but one of the league finds/sees him and decides to help? my heart

(SO, I totally meant this to be shorter but I got a little in my feels. Plus the lowkey Dabi and Mr Compress friendship is so underrated, I adore it. Anyway, here it is, a little comfort fic.)

The Boy Can't Cry - By Guro. ♡

/Dabi gets overwhelmed dying his hair to cover up his past and Mr Compress comes to his aid. Any fics like this where it’s just the league interacting together I’m going to lovingly tag ‘League of Family’. Hope you enjoy! ♡/

/Tags l Tw ; Dabi being emotionally unstable, some cursing, Mr Compress being fatherly, friendship, league of family. ♡/

“How can a man head a group of villains…” Sako murmurs aloud to himself, pulling another card from the messy pile upon the small table between his knees. Sighing, he flicks it into one of several other smaller piles he’s made around the main one, tsk-ing to himself quietly. “...but he can’t keep a pack of cards together. Really.”

Pure boredom, and an inability to get himself over to sleep, is what inspired one Mr Compress to take up and look through Shigaraki’s deck. It’s late in the night now, maybe early morning, and he’s sorting each of the cards into their respective groups by lamplight. It’s a comfortable, mindless task, the showman dressed down to his shirtsleeves and balaclava. In the rare quiet he lets his mind wander, and wonders where Shigaraki had gotten the cards from.

Had he stolen them? Or were they given to him? Gifts from his master, maybe. Either way dearly cherished, he decides, running his thumb over the faded face of an ace of hearts. He’s pondering still when the quick tip-tap of feet on metal steps reaches his ears.

“Mr Compress!”

Blinking, he lays down his hand and turns to find Toga halfway down the rickety staircase, hand cupped around her mouth dramatically as she whisper-yells. Her eyes are big and wide in the dim light, uncharacteristically appearing almost… frightened? What? Right away Sako is on edge, cards forgotten. “What is it dear?” He asks, lowering his own voice in response to her whispers. His worry only grows as Toga’s lips seem to tremble, looking over her shoulder before back to her elder.

“It’s Dabi…” She replies quietly, hugging her arms around her nightdress-clad self. “Somethings wrong with Dabi.”

Sako isn’t sure what he’s seeing at first as he nudges in the bathroom door. Toga is at his back, gripping his sleeve and peering around his side as the door falls slowly open. The old tiled room is lit by dim, yellowed light, and he can just make out Dabi’s shape hunched over the tub at the far end. “He keeps talking to himself-” She murmurs, only to jump at the sound of an open growl, Dabi’s form twisting to glare over his shoulder in their direction from the shadows.

“Get out, Toga.” The burnt man snarls, sending the girl flying away without hesitation. Sako watches her go, a little shocked at her fear in the face of her own comrade. Dabi doesn’t even seem to be looking right at the doorway, stark blue eyes wide and lost. Vacant. Thick, inky black lines run down his face and throat, dripping off of his chin. What the hell is he doing?

“What’s going on, man?” Sako demands, crossing the threshold and approaching Dabi where he kneels. “What’s gotten into you? You’re scaring Toga.”

“Fuck you.” Dabi snaps back, fingers digging into his hair. The same black sits in smudges over the back of his neck, staining his pale fingers. In the dark it almost seems like the villain has been infected, taken over by some dark, miasmic mess. Squinting up, Sako reaches and with a gloved hand, twists the hanging bulb around in it’s socket. Suddenly the room is filled with brighter light, everything coming into focus, and he looks down at Dabi.

His eyes widen a fraction.

Dabi’s coat lies discarded on the dingy floor at his side, the villain kneeling, almost unnaturally bent over the shallow bathtub. His body is shaking, chest expanding and falling rapidly as he scrapes at his own scalp. His hands are trembling, veins visibly risen up on their backs. It seems like he’s working the blackness into his hair almost desperately, hushed words falling barely audible from his lips. “-away. Get away.”

“Dabi?” Sako tries again. And this time he gets a reaction; Dabi’s head twisting to glare in a manner almost animalistic. The black has run in streams down his face and into his eyes, scleras bloodshot deep red and burning. He can’t even see right now, Sako realises, without the ability to produce tears to get rid of the chemicals. Being so close for the first time, he takes note of the sparse, white hairs appearing in his league-mates' thin brows. Oh.

“Get out, Compress. Get out-”

“Do you need help?” He ignores Dabi’s demands easily. The young man isn’t himself right now, and his voice is hoarse, even more gravelly than usual. In response to his question Dabi’s hands clench in his hair, tight, tendons bulging as his knuckles turn white. Sako can hear the strands tearing and grabs for Dabi’s quivering hands. “Good God, man. Stop it!”

“Get off of me!” Dabi practically howls, twisting out of the older man’s grip and slipping, slumping shoulder-first against the side of the tub. He seems to deflate all at once, his head hanging low. Sako can only stare at him, his heart pounding with adrenaline and hands still outstretched, Dabi’s breath comes quick and loud, his own hands coming up to cover his face. He’s an utter mess, what Sako has now deduced to be black dye staining his hands, shirt. Everything. A stretch of silence passes between them, and then Dabi makes the last noise his companion expected to hear.

For a moment he thinks Dabi is laughing, finding some kind of twisted amusement in all of this. But then it starts coming louder, his shoulders shaking, chest and throat convulsing uncontrollably. A dry, hacking cough leaves his throat before he presses his palms harder against his face, knees pulling in close to his body. A noise like barely concealed sobbing reaches Sako’s ears.

He’s crying.

Well… no, the boy can’t cry. He knows this; Dabi’s tear ducts have been damaged beyond repair for years now. But his body still betrays him, shuddering through bouts of broken weeping, dredged up from somewhere deep inside of him. It feels almost wrong, Sako thinks, to see him so vulnerable. It’s clear he’s witnessing something deeply personal. A moment of distress so jarring that Dabi holds fast onto his own arms and curls in on himself, almost like he’s trying to comfort himself.

Almost like he’s done this a hundred times before.

The feeling of Sako’s arm wrapping around his shoulders makes Dabi jerk, looking up with bleary eyes as he stoops down to his level. “What are you doing?” He snaps weakly, but there’s no real conviction in it. His nose is running, his voice broken up. Whatever kind of mental breakdown Dabi is currently having, the older man simply can’t bring himself to leave him. Doesn’t want to leave him to fall apart on his own.

“Quiet.” He admonishes, crouching before Dabi and pulling him closer bodily, so that his head comes to rest on Sako’s shoulder. Still breathing raggedly, Dabi stares at a space somewhere on the wall beyond Sako’s shoulder for a while before his eyes close, a worn out sigh leaving his lungs in pieces. No attempt is made to shove him away this time. He gives in.

At one point in his life, another entertainer had told Sako that when a child hugged them, they should never be the first to let go. ‘Because you never know how badly they might need it’, they had said. Keeping his arms around Dabi and remembering that message, he tightens his grip a touch, resigning himself to remaining in a crouch and getting sore knees. Not that Dabi is willing to be held for very long. He pulls away with a sniff, hand on Sako’s shoulder to keep himself steady. “Fuck- my eyes.”

He’s not wrong. His eyelids are irritated and swollen, both his regular skin and the grafts beneath. Sighing, Sako loosens his grip and lets Dabi lean back, against the side of the tub. “Put your head over.” He advises, straightening to his feet and pulling off his ruined gloves.

“Why?” Dabi rasps.

“To wash the chemicals out of your eyes, Dabi.”

Dabi considers this with a glance at the dirty tiles then nods his head once. He looks, to put it in a word, drained, straightening himself up and turning to rest his elbows on the tub's edge. Sako watches him as he finishes rolling up his sleeves, shaking his head slightly.

“Where on earth do you young people find the energy to get so worked up?” He chides, not cruelly, turning the faucet and cupping his hand beneath the sluggish flow of water. With his free hand he brings Dabi’s head over the lip of the tub with a nudge, and brings his cupped hand to the fire-user's face. Dabi hisses but doesn’t recoil as Sako rinses the remnants of dye from his face and eyes, pausing only to say; “I’ll do your hair.” and washing the remainder from his unruly mane. His skin will stain for a while, but it’ll wash away in time. He’ll be alright.

To his credit, Dabi has stopped shuddering and seems to be slowly coming down. Slumped against the lip of the tub he lets out a long, slow breath, sniffing and wiping his nose on his forearm. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“Hold it, I’m almost done.”

With the sting in his eyes finally dulling, Dabi cracks them open halfway to watch the blue-black water flow down the drain. His throat feels suddenly raw, aching. His face hurts.

“Compress.” It hurts to talk. Jesus.

Sako shuts the water off when Dabi’s hair is running mostly clear, a brow arching beneath his balaclava. “Yes?”

“...don’t- Don’t go telling them.” He manages, fingers twitching where he holds the edge of the tub. “I don’t-”

“I understand.” Offering the cleanest looking towel in the room, Sako gives Dabi a faint smile, nodding when he pulls it from his grip. “It’s not for us to know… Are you alright?”

Dabi rises slowly, using the ledge to pull himself up before rubbing at his freshly dyed hair. There’s a moment of hesitation, then; “Yeah… thanks, Compress.”

Sako smiles fully now, spreading his arms and giving a short bow. “I do what I can.”

Dabi snorts, pulls the towel down around his shoulders. “I owe you, I guess.”

“Well… how do you fancy aiding my endeavours to organize Shigaraki’s card collection?”

“No thanks.”

“Understandable.”

[wishingstarinajar]

I love the way you draw anatomy. Got any tips or pointers?

Thank you. This is a cliche answer but... putting research into practice.

It's is very okay to use references to gain a grasp on anatomy; drawn, photo and figurines/models are all helpful references as long as you take the time to examine them. While examining, try and figure out how certain things work because just copying what you see isn't enough. For example, everyone can draw/copy a finger but while drawing one, do you also keep in mind it can bend at two places and that you can't shape a perfect upside down L-shape with just that finger because the finger muscles don't allow it?

There are tutorials everywhere that focus on anatomy too (color-coded sections of different muscle groups are super helpful!) but don't forget about yourself. For instance, your own body can be the perfect reference like your hands. Take a moment to look at them and touch, feel and squeeze them, see where the knuckles and tendons are and how the fingers bend. Do the same with your feet, your knees, etc, etc to get a feel of things. (Just don't hurt yourself in the process xD)

As for drawing the anatomy of the whole body... Keep in mind how joints bend (how far and in which direction) and where exactly they are located, how long certain limbs are in comparison to another, how big one's head is in comparison to the width of their shoulders and chest. Don't be afraid to look into different body types either. Fat (and muscle!) can be a complete game-changer when it comes to anatomy, no matter the amount; it adds different shapes and curves one doesn't quickly draw if they usually draw the typical smooth 'anime' style. Learning to draw different body types is important because not everyone is a sex bomb with huge tatas or a six-pack (unless you prefer drawing that, of course).

When it comes to skeletal anatomy, you better start burning holes into those bones visible in refs or models by staring at them and drawing them xD

That said... while anatomy can be important, a lot of various art styles don't rely on it too much and that's okay. You have a lot of artistic freedom and you are allowed to simplify things.... unless your art grades depend on accuracy. But for your own art? You like to draw big heads on tiny bodies (chibis)? Go for it! You like legs for days (like me)? Go for it! You want to draw big or tiny skeletons with simplified bones? Go nuts! Just always keep in mind how the body works, where and how limbs/joints bend, how far things can twist and so on, and you're good to go.

Remember, art takes time, chop big undertakings into smaller pieces, and failure is okay because you can learn from it.

[crybabytoy59]

Resignation of fate .

Pt2.

I was taken back by Mistress Mummy asking me to Open Wide that I was going to be gagged? As I already was gagged with her soiled pants...?

As I looked at Nanny Bee she was holding a small bowl with something pink in it?

But I could not see what it was due to my new pink clouded lenses !

Mistress Mummy lifted a bit from the bowl pushing two fingers from her right hand she pushed in what felt like warm wax ? With her other free hand, pushing very firmly more & more into the space making my cheek bulge outward...the other side got the same treatment, then she lifted more pushing it between my teeth teasing it just over my teeth on the inside causing a ridge around them,this she did to the other side Also!

Nanny Bee handed her a long steel spike with a hollow end that was turned over to make a steel ring ? This she pushed Deeply into the wax TIL only the steel ring was projecting from the pink wax just at the corner of my mouth..

Next she pushed in a second pin to my left cheek wax....It seemed to be heating up ?...

As Mistress Mummy stood smiling at me she rubbed my cheek....

“Clever girlie Crybaby that’s good your almost there....Well done Baby Girlie !!....Say Ga’Ga for us Crybaby (Mistress Mummy was pulling out her soiled pants....

They both giggled....”Loudly as you can Baby Ga’Ga !!”.... Mistress Mummy patted my baby Dolly face, the wax had gone solid in my mouth, wedging it Open perfectly !! ..“Good baby nice quiet Crybaby that’s lovely ! let’s continue our preparations over at your bench”

All that had assed from my new oral tunnel was a Deep low sounding Ga’Ga....like some sort of creature in distress....

As I was turned waddling at the size of the Bulk between my legs ! Through the pink haze I could see a black bondage H-frame at the ready, all manner of straps hanging from it ! Also I could see a table with lots of items I just couldn’t make out !

But from my previous visits to Jessica I knew theses to be punishment items as she would always lay them out for me to see telling me how many I would receive from what items, she had brought to use on me that day !...This would often scare Me given I knew Jessica loved to truly use sadistic punishment as a Training method !

As they bent me over working around me I could smell them both pant less! The sex smell in the air unmissable....I was in for a long session as when Mistress Jess had gotten in this aroused a state once before ? That was what had led to my confessions during my submission outburst while I sobbed blurting out my inner feelings openly without a moment of hesitation.....

Mistress Mummy was tingling All over yes indeed she was going to take Crybaby back to that place at her WKD hand...but this evening she would do it with her best friend Bee.

Jessica & Bee had been friends since university a true friendship that had grown over the years....But only recently had Jessica told her of the bdsm lifestyle she led...A female led relationship with men for her financial gain...

Bee was quite taken back but not surprised given her friends Dominant personally.....So many nights chatting & Bee watching Jessica at work (Jess would blindfold her slaves & let Bee sit quietly to watch as she did her “Thing to the Slave”.....

When Jessica had mentioned she was going to take on something very special in her life Jessica was stunned by how very keen Bee was to have a part in the use of this submissive man...to remodel him completely...not a few kinky hours then return to the big world....No Jessica wanted to actually have an Adult baby, but also asexual pain Toy for her gratification....Bee had six climaxes at home that evening after Jessica asking for her help with “Crybaby”

Sweat poured from her every pour her legs shaking as she walked to the shower with her juices running down her thighs !

The hot shower was such a relief...she put her head on the glass smiled warmly, then spoke to her self gently...

“Yes Crybaby am going to help you be a Very Special Girlie....Fuck yes you little Pain Toy ...Jessica & I Are going to break you to a three year old ...As you sissy will not have a say in the matter !!l

Dressing for the drive to Jessica’s house Bee couldn’t stop smiling.....

As they bound me tightly to the frame on all fours they pulled my legs far apart behind me, I then heard clicking as my ankles were pulled hard by a pulley system both wider & more taught, my arms were pit to the belt over the small of my back into ball mittens then elbow cuffs added to pull my arms level at my sides"..

Mistress Mummy was unzipping my dress at the back followed by my petticoat, I could now feel the cool air on my back as I did Mistress Mummy started massaging my shoulders it was Devine her soft hands & softer voice enveloped me..

“Clever girlie Crybaby that’s a good Baby Relax....Now lift your headie for us ...that’s it but further back Cutie....Clever girlie just a bit further....Good Baby Hold still !!”

Nanny Bee was fitting some kind of posture collar on me that was holding my head Fully back in this position...I started whimsical pleading noises from my mouth but only gargling muffled sounds came from my new oral tunnel, the pink wax now glistening covered in my saliva as my tongue had probed the new invasion of my oral cavity I had started a chain of running saliva that now was pooling at the front of my mouth slowly spilling over my lower lip down my chin it hung like some obscene thread to my Now reddish face....

Mistress Mummy was massaging more firmly now, “Clever girlie all ready....Let’s get started on your “Transition” let mummy explain...You have it in that silly head of yours that your Big, well am sorry but your not....You are mummy’s Baby Girlie a three year old baby still in her nappies 24/7 who can only converse with the big world through two words Goo’goo & Ga’Ga....All other things will be in Baby signs for everyone to see, this will take time to “Transition” But Nanny Bee & I Are going to simply work on our girlie 24/7 until we have what we want of you ....An Obediently behaved 3year old toddler who will act as such at All times with who ever we choose to Put you with !”

This last part Mistress Mummy had said quite sadistic drawing her words out slowly, she was scary in her delivery of the statement !

The massaging of my shoulders now became painful (A few times in my life after heavy gym sessions I would go for a sports massage they hurt but were great to relive tensions....This ? This was different more painful as Mistress Mummy would pick up a muscle then pushing a knuckle up that muscle as if trying to detach it from its tendon, I shrieked out a painful yelp, but she ignored me doing a different muscle !

Nanny pulled up a stool at my face lifted a long black rubber lace she spoke to me..

“Now Baby As Mistress Mummy gives you your nice massaging I want you to look at me ! No closing those cute eyes !...Clever girlie Crybaby “

She pushed the rubber up my nose ! “Swallow Babyslave...Do it Swallow for Nanny !”

As I did she put long pliers into my oral tunnel withdrawing the rubber lace ! I could feel it sliding down my nasal passage!But she was not through yet..lifting the other end she put it up my left nostril...Again she barked at me !

“Swallow Babyslave !....My my what a Clever girlie you are !”

I suddenly pulled at my bonds to no avail as Mistress Mummy put a knuckle Deep into the tissues in my lower back pushing up the side for my spine the pain was incredible !...with her free hand she smacked my thigh with such force it lift a red hand print under my tight ! “Look at Nanny ! Don’t you Dare close your eyes Baby will only close her eyes when told to ! pardon Crybaby!”

Ga’Ga...Staring right at Nanny I knew better than to disobey Jessica !

“Clever girlie Crybaby that’s much better Don’t have mummy tell you Again !...Ok Nanny feeding time I think then Baby can show us how good she can be under pressure”

They both giggled at this ?

Mistress Mummy had a dummy with a black lower jaw mask that buckled around the head, but that was not what made me start welling up !

It was the 3” round 5” long cock teat ! With the open pee slit clearly visible...

This mummy pushed all the way in making me gag slightly as it went to the back of my mouth touching my throat !.....

Mistress Mummy knelt down at my face...

“Ok Princess Swallow slow & in time ok ? (Ga’Ga) Clever Baby We love manners, just do What You are Told..When you are Told & Everything will be fine don’t fight us Crybaby!!”

Suddenly something started oozing from the cock teat !! To the back of my throat but I couldn’t swallow with my mouth held open & so full...Mummy kissed my forehead..

“Just relax listen to Mummy....just open your throat & it will happen...Aawww Look Nanny Baby is shedding her Very first tears for us !...Relax Baby let it happen...Clever girlie Crybaby that’s the way !!”

As my throat had filled I thought they were going to choke me but my throat simply relaxed & the fluid slid down my throat...slowly a rhythm stared as again mummy kissed my forehead..

“Clever girlie you keep swallowing that down for us as we get a few things ready,   As you have been such a good Baby so far Mummy is going to let you smell how pleased she is with you !”

At that Jessica lifted her short skirt revealing she indeed had No underwear, she popped her skirt over my bonnet putting her sex inches from my nose...The smell was Devine as I now made suckling noises drinking the formula....

I heard Nanny giggle....”My my Mistress Mummy I think Baby like the smell of sexiness....That’s a Clever girlie Crybaby make cute baby sounds for us but Loudly Baby So we can hear properly sweetheart !!!”

They both laughed as I made more of an effort to sound like a nursing Baby !!!!!!

I could now feel my tummy swelling up due to the amount of formula I had consumed, at that mummy lent over me taking my nipples gently “Clever girlie Crybaby that’s it louder though Baby ! (Ugg...Ugg...Ugg...) Clever girlie Crybaby each time we have you Swallow Baby will make these noises as loud as she can, so everyone can hear our girlie swallowing !! Just a bit more your almost there princess ! Clever girlie baby!! All done !”

Mistress Mummy stepped off my face...her disappearing smell brought genuine baby whimpers...”Aawww Cutie That was just a wee treat...Now Crybaby has to be very clever for us ...Ok Baby?

(Ga’Ga....) Now Crybaby If your a brave girlie for us mummy will give you one of her special “Cuddles” would my baby like that? ( Ga’Ga) Ok Now Crybaby you know they are only for when you truly Breakdown for mummy, if she sees that baby is trying to fake her Breakdown ? baby Will be left alone after her Breakdown is that clear ? (Ga’Ga)...Clever girlie Let’s get on then !”

Mistress Mummy lifted a flogger running it over my back she raised it high then with one stroke flogged right over my back !

As she flogged me Nanny had a strange looking clear plastic ball large like a beach ball but as she got closer it seemed to have an oval hole ?

As I gasped from mummy’s flogging she pushed it onto my face over my bonnet, pulling a zip down the rear held it in place...she then spoke..

“Now Crybaby I want you to be ever so good & Take a nice Deep Breath for us Baby Girlie!”.....Mistress Mummy had stopped flogging me ?...

“Keep looking at me Baby...Now you will not bring up your feed...No matter what Mistress Mummy meters out....That formula stays down do you understand?

..(Ga’Ga)  Thwack !!!!....

I screamed as mummy belted me in my lower back !

She then barked at me as the pain subsided...”Deep Breath Crybaby Pain Toy !”

Thwack !!.....As I jerked in the bondage frame, I suddenly felt slightly nauseous....O’god No I was struggling to hold down my formula !!...just six strokes on my back later a white hot jet hit the ball out of the tunnel over & over ...I burst out crying as I knew what lay ahead....Jessica would be genuinely angry I had disobeyed a direct command from Nanny.......

I was Not wrong !......”Crybaby what were you told ? To keep your formula down ...So our baby girlie is going to show us disobedience ? Let’s show Crybaby what happens when she disobey’s us Nanny !”....

They each lifted a wooden paddle patting the back of my thigh!

Deep Fucking Breath Pain Toy !!!!!.....

Thwack..Thwack..Thwack Thwack. !!!!!!!!!!!

As they both paddled me a Maid entered the room dressed in my old pink uniform! She was quite Tell & very cute, as I jerked with each blow for some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off this girl wishing she would come closer as the pink haze would not let me see her fully...

My spanking suddenly picked up pace & ferocity !

I hollowed wildly from the tunnel Gagging tears now streaming from me...

Mistress Mummy rubbed my cheek Clever girlie Crybaby that’s the way let it All Out there is No shame here we all know you want to cry so very badly !

Is mummy wrong ? (Go’go) Clever Baby...Ok Maid Stefi Come here please & comfort Crybaby”

The pink maid stepped up bent down to kiss my cheek then started French kissing my mouth ..probing with her tongue on mine !

Sobbing now she stood up in front of me lifting her dress..

Maid Stefi was a transsexual her member fully erect was now passing into my mouth !

Mistress Mummy barked at me “Right Crybaby use your baby tongue on Maid Stefi  ! Mummy wants you to moan like a sissy baby in heat for cock !”

They all giggled as I moaned gagging for air as Maid Stefi started a slow skull fuck of my baby face ! Holding my ballon ball head pumping it in time forcefully with her hip thrusts !

“Clever girlie Crybaby suck hard here it comes ! Swallow cock sucker ! Yes Crybaby Swallow All my gift !....AAhhhhhhh Yes ....AAAhhhhhh fuck yes Crybaby!”

I passed out ...there voices fading into the distance......

[gardenstateofmind]

i've been thinking quite a bit about body image lately bc i'm still adjusting to all this weight loss, like i'm literally down to the size i was when i was like 16, except in a more adult version, it's an incredibly weird feeling.

also i have adult hands now and i've been having an existential crisis over it. up until recently i literally still had the baby fat look. i have the big squirrel cheeks, the little crease next to the bend of my elbow, and before this year, my hands were pudgy with lil dimples at the knuckles. literally when i worked at the elementary school, one of my third graders would tease me, saying that our hands were the same size. i had baby hands.

but now? no more dimples. my knuckles are becoming so defined that they stick out. my tendons are visible if i flex my hands. i literally have not been able to stop marveling at my hands, like i genuinely am so thrown off by this.

my family thinks i'm funny for freaking out about looking older, bc for the most part i do still look really baby, but ofc even minor changes feel really huge to me, so the fact that i'm finally starting to look like an actual adult? that i'm losing the last vestiges of a child like appearance? it's fucking tripping me out bro.

[honeymaki]

I think it’s so hot that when Hange gets some new, thick, heavy silver rings; they have to see how they make their fingers look by using you as a model. First with all their fingers closing teasingly on your throat, black stone glinting in the light; then two dragging from your mouth with spit shining on the intricate engravings on their forefinger; and then spending a little too much time grinning at how the big beaten one on their thumb looks hidden between the lips of your gooey cunt<3

[ruinousrealms]

Flayer

It was half past nightfall when we crossed the Rio Nuevo into Las Verdantes. Our outfit was fifteen men strong, pushing half a thousand cattle for Erlen Baymer, one of the state's lesser cattlemen. In truth he was a hard boss, a hard man who had captained a company of border raiders during the war and never tired of bragging about his service. 

A favorite story of his was the time he and his men came across a family of free black farmers in southern Kansas. Baymer had approached on horseback, riding through the fields with the self-confident swagger of a plantation overlord surveying his property. He asked the father whose plantation he had run away from, and for response the black said he had been born free. 

Now, Erlen Baymer was a devout Christian, and he knew the black race were descendants of Ham, son of Noah, and that for his transgression against God, he and his descendants were evermore cursed to servitude, to hew wood and draw water and be servants unto servants. He did of course explain this position to the black, as he ordered his men to strip him naked to find the truth of his claims. No man is born into slavery but he feels the whip, and so if he were born free, his back should be free from blemish. 

Indeed, the man's back was smooth, free from the lumpy scars of the lash. A novelty, many of his company had come up to gawk and ask questions. How did the negro know what to plant and when without any white man to tell him? How did he work the fields without a lash to urge his lazy, indolent soul? 

At length Captain Baymer ended this game and pronounced the sentence. The man was to be hung for his crimes against the Confederate States of America, those crimes being largely related to the color of his skin and the manner of his livelihood. It was understood that, if he were truly a born freeman, then surely his father and mother were somebody’s escaped property. Thus his very existence constituted the crime of theft. The children were brought back to Tennessee and dispersed among the slave markets.

The freeman’s remarkable back, Erlen Baymer had a leathersmith tan it and stitch it into a saddle. He rode that very saddle, decked out in silver dollar conchos and a rebel flag tied round the post, when we crossed the river that night in 1868.

Now, the facts of that night - I’m going to relate them to you here, plain and simple and just as they happened, like I’m some fancy New York journalist-reporter type. I grant you some of what I’m about to say may seem unbelievable. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. I don’t got any proof, any evidence beyond what I saw that night with my own two eyes. The way Erlen Baymer died, and the things that happened to us in his trail crew before and after… I tell you boy, it’s a curse, the things I seen with these eyes. It’s what drives a man to whiskey.

The country there was flat as flapjacks, and the only place we could find to camp out of the wind was in a dried up riverbank. There we laid out our beds, cocooning ourselves in canvas sheets and wool blankets and shivering in the chill night air. The southwestern desert is hotter than a griddle all day long, but come nightfall and it’s as cold as the north pole.

Well, it was cold that night, like I said, and the wind was howling and kicking up a whole storm of dust. Me and some of the boys, those being Joe Merwin and Caul Bretton and Micah Sanchez, we took turns digging a hole in the side of the riverbank. It wasn’t like a cave, just a dirt overhang a few feet deep, with the excavated dirt piled up to protect our side from the wind.

I wouldn’t say it was the hole we dug that saved us. It sure didn’t save poor Caul, and from what I hear Micah’s still out of his mind up at one of those New England asylums. I’d say it kept us from getting noticed long enough to save our lives, for whatever that's worth.

Now we’d been seeing the makings of a dust storm in the distance for most of the afternoon. They’re common enough out here and we didn’t make much of it beyond what we’d have to do to keep the cattle from scattering. A herd of dumb heifers can scatter to the four winds during a dust-up if you’re not careful with where you lay them down.

The cows stretched out for more than a mile down the riverbed, but they wouldn’t bed down quietly. Whips of dust kept kicking up and no sooner had they sat down than they were on their hooves again, bellowing out loud.

Erlen Baymer kept riding up and down the line cursing to high heaven, kicking the sentries when he came upon them and telling them to get off their lazy god damned bean-eating asses and put the god damned cows to god damned sleep. The only effect that had was making it impossible for any of us to get sleep - But that probably saved us.

It was so dusty at that point that when dark fell there wasn’t a moon nor a star to be seen. A man could just see the dots of cattle guards’ lanterns like the windows of distant farmsteads. Weren’t no use keeping your eyes open, the wind kept kicking the stinging dust up and there weren’t anything to see anyways. I pulled my bandana up over my nose and pushed the brim of my hat down over my eyes and tried to get some shuteye.

I might even have caught a wink of sleep. The cattle down at the far end of the line were getting riled up, bellowing and braying into the night, and that got the whole herd nervous. A nervous longhorner is a dangerous longhorner, and a whole herd of nervous longhorners is a stampede waiting to happen. Joe Merwin went out to see what was the matter and lend a hand if need be. That left just the three of us.

The screaming started soon after. I think it was Tadd Murfree, but from the sound it was hard to tell whose voice it was. There are sounds and intonations particular to men and sounds and intonations particular to animals, and only in the extremity of fear, agony or ecstasy can one make the sounds of another. I don’t think poor Tadd was in ecstasy that night.

More screams started up, and the horses neighing, and the braying and bellowing filled the night air with a mad cacophony. I wager nobody’s ever heard a sound like that before, that of half a thousand screaming and panicking cattle. The hoofbeats were like thunder, like cannonfire, like a thousand drummers pounding madly out of time.

The three of us huddled at the back of our shallow hole in the edge of the riverbank, wishing we’d dug in even deeper and almost thankful Joe Merwin wasn’t here, because he was a big man and there wouldn’t have been room to hide.

I had a small trail lantern whose flickering light we used to play cards. It took five tries to get a match lit, my hands were shaking so much. It lit up our little hole just fine; I saw Micah had his revolver out, and his knuckles were white around the oakwood grip.

“Put that thing away, Micah, do you mean to shoot something?”

“I intend to be ready,” He said, which was reasonable enough.

I crawled to the entrance of the hole. As we were digging we piled the dirt up at the entrance to serve as a wind-break while we slept. I crawled up to it like a trench’s parapet and peered over with my little lamp. It didn’t illuminate much, but in its glow I could see a rush of cattle, a torrent of bovinity running full-tilt down the length of the riverbed. A lot of the animals had raw bloody wounds, some so flayed they appeared to be covered in red patches like a hellishly perverse Holstein.

These animals were panicking for a reason, fleeing some unknown predator, but what on God’s earth it could be I had no idea. Suddenly a cow fell headlong into the side of the embankment near us, sending a shower of dirt down from the roof of our little dugout. It kept trying to get up, but couldn’t; And when it rolled over I could see one whole side of its hip had been laid open and the bloody pink bone was visible. Well, I put the poor bellowing beast out of its misery and hurled my dinner over the side of the dirt heap.

And you see, that’s when Erlen Baymer rode past us. God, if the sight don’t haunt me. I once seen a drawing of the Third Horseman, Famine, a rotting man riding atop a rotting stallion. That’s what I saw. That’s the scene I’ve got to describe to you, to make you understand why I can’t sleep at night no more.

The horse looked like it had been dead and rotting for a week. It had hardly a hair of fur left on its body, and the skin… It looked like somebody had taken a cheese grater to the poor beast. Through flapping bits of flesh I saw muscles moving like an accursed anatomical flipbook. The horse’s jaw was hanging on by a thread of tendon and it was screaming, just screaming with that stump of a tongue hanging out.

The poor girl had been beautiful, just absolutely beautiful, with a black coat that shone like oil in the sunlight. Thinking back on it now I wish I’d have drawn my pistol and put an end to the poor thing, but at the time I was too shocked to do anything but watch as it thundered past, carrying its shrieking, flailing load.

Erlen Baymer was naked as Adam in Eden, and it was plain whatever was happening to the horse was occurring to him as well. He was flailing like a man possessed, slapping at himself as if desperately beating out flames; There were no flames, just raw red meat that spurted every time he touched it. He raised his arm and I caught a glimpse of the frayed ends of muscles poking through a bicep.

Something fell with a wet thud near our little hollow, and leaning over just slightly with the lantern, I saw a withered human leg severed at the knee, as if the joint had been so weakened it simply fell off. It seemed to be writhing as if covered by a hundred thousand ravenous little insects, methodically stripping it down to the bone before my very eyes. It was wearing one of Erlen Baymer’s fancy gatorskin ropers. Once the flesh was gone, the carnivorous beasties went to work eating the leather of the boot, anything fleshy enough to be consumed, till all that remained were bones and a silver spur.

I crawled back in the hole, barely able to process what I had just seen. “Alright, boys, what in the hell do we do?” I asked, and Micah Sanchez said what we three all were thinking - Make a run for the horses.

Well, you didn’t have to tell us twice. We three all crawled up to the opening, and Micah and Caul took off at a full tilt. I stayed behind a second - I’d just glanced at the body of the cow beside our dugout. It had been picked to the bone.

Just as I scrambled to my feet, Caul fell and started screaming.

“No! God, no!” Caul frantically started beating at the lower hem of his pant-legs. We didn’t know what in the hell was happening; Micah rushed over with the lamp and pulled up his trouser leg. Micah screamed and dropped the lantern, bringing the infernal night down around us once more. Caul let out a kind of a long drawn-out moan, with notes of fear, sadness and resignation. At the time what it reminded me of, more than anything, was a deer that’s gotten itself trapped in some crevasse it can’t get out, and the more it struggles the more stuck it gets, till it’s exhausted itself and all it can do is bray and wait to die.

A gunshot lit up the darkness for a moment, and the afterimage stayed in my eyes for a long time, like looking too long into a fire. Caul’s body slumped down almost casually, but the upper part of his head sprayed across the sand. I heard Micah’s running footsteps and his heavy gasping breath, and he thudded down next to me and skittered like a rat into our little safe haven.

“Flies!” Micah’s fingertips dug into my shoulders like blades, his dirty breath blowing in my face, “It’s flies! Must be millions of them! They were eating him right up! Cleaned his ankles down to the bone, I’m telling you!”

I told him to shut up.

“That’s why he fell, there weren’t nothing holding his foot bones to his leg!”

Maybe the reader will judge me for what I did next. I hope you’ll take into account the things I’d seen, and the stress I was under at the time. Micah was raving mad, clenching me for dear life like a survivor of a shipwreck clinging to a broken mast. I’d just seen him blow a man’s brains out - Though thinking back to it, he may have been right. It would have been cruel to leave him to be eaten alive, and if Micah had tried dragging him back, he’d have brought the carnivorous flies with him. He put him out of his misery as you would an old cow. But at that time I was still in shock, and the only thought that came to mind was of Caul Bretten, whom I hardly knew, but with whom I’d shared campfires and kettles of coffee, and whose brains were steaming in the cool desert night.

Thinking only of justice, I reached for my lantern and brought it down on Micah’s head, extinguishing the light and silencing his ramblings. I didn’t know whether or not I’d killed him. He was quiet. We lay there together a long time. I must have nodded off and woken several times. At one point, I woke to see Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address in the corner of our cave. Again I woke, this time to see a skinless and eyeless cow wandering blind in the dim pre-dawn light. It walked past absolutely silently.

When morning came, the desert was still and not a thing moved. The sun was well up in the sky before I dared move. I was caked in dust from head to toe, cracking and falling as I stirred.

Micah’s face was red and my first thought, as the events of the night came rushing back to me, was that he too was being consumed alive by those unstoppably ravenous insects. But no; My lantern blow had split his scalp and dry blood painted his face red as an Apache warrior. He was still breathing softly, so I left him there and took a gander outside.

The dry riverbed at first seemed to be decorated with a vast elaborate network of ice sculptures, gleaming a blinding white in the sun. These were the bones of cattle and cattlemen, five hundred dead heifers stripped of skin and meat and life. A lot of them had broken and ran, and their bones shone white in the distant desert sand. Clambering up the slope, the impression one got was of an overflowing river turned to ice in the blink of an eye, as if by magic.

Here and there the bones of the sentries. I recognized Eustace Bagge from his cigarette case. The leather had been eaten away, but the copper badge bearing the name of the regiment he served in the war was still perfect.

Two or three miles down, laying near some scrub was the skeleton of a horse surrounded by silver dollar conchos. I picked one up, turned it over; It could only be Erlen Baymer’s horse and saddle. The saddle, however, was gone but for the metal pegs that held it together. The freedman’s dark skin, that nightmarish piece of leatherwork, had been completely eaten away by the swarm.

The man himself had crawled away from his dead horse and left a trail of bones. He lost a lot more than the one leg; Toe and finger bones poked from the sand like pebbles, and the larger ones, a femur, most of a hand and the arm up to the elbow. I found gold teeth, and his revolver with the tacks that had held together the holster.

A bit further on I found Erlen Baymer. I turned and went back down the riverbank.

Micah had woken up and I found him wandering dazed and confused amongst the skeletons. I spoke to him but he didn’t reply; He never said a word to me again, and from what I’ve heard those New England brain-doctors haven’t gotten him talking. There was something wrong with his eyes. I couldn’t tell you what. He just kept staring past me.

He followed me without resistance. We followed the riverbed. We must have walked ten miles the first day and ten miles the next. The whole time we were stepping around skeletons. A herd can go surprisingly far in panic; The only reason they hadn’t gotten farther was, well, they were being eaten alive at the time.

The sun was our enemy. We had our canteens; I kept pouring little slips down Micah’s mouth, worried he’d choke but even more worried he’d die of thirst. At some point the brim started falling off my hat and letting sunlight hit my forehead, searing the skin red and raw.

Round noon of the third day, we came to an old covered bridge where we took shelter from the sun for a while, then started out along the road. After two and a half days walking, we were near dead. I had to pull Micah along, but he’d only move at a snail’s pace. I was terrified that he’d eventually fall down and just refuse to get back up; It’d be the end for him, and my own couldn’t be far away.

And then, as if by magic, a carriage appeared. One moment we were walking and then, the sound and smell of horses and a voice crying out in Spanish, “Quitate de en medio, idiotas!”

Well, I spoke a peck of Spanish, just enough for him to understand that we were in trouble, and the kind old man stepped down and helped me load Micah into the back, building a little bed for him out of bags of corn, and setting up a tarp to keep him out of the sun.

We rode to a hacienda named Soledad El Aquelarre, and the women bathed us and fed us and fussed over poor Micah. There was a nunnery not far away and the old man sent for the holy sisters to tend his needs, but beyond keeping him fed and cleaning up after him, there was little they could do.

I never told him a word of what happened. My lack of Spanish helped in that respect; Whenever he asked, I could pretend not to understand. He was kind, too kind for the likes of us, and I do feel guilty about lying to him, but I didn’t think he could comprehend what we’d been through, let alone understand. I barely could, and as I lay there day after day I got to wondering if the whole thing hadn’t been some sort of insane dream. I could see the workers in the fields through my window and beyond them the bone white desert stretched out gleaming, a thousand miles of dust to the gulf of Mexico.

One night, however, I was visited in my room by one of the sisters. She spoke good English and introduced herself as Sister Clarita. She was one of the sisters tending to Micah. She didn’t ask me what had happened, because she already knew. There were stories in this region going back centuries, of caravans going missing in the desert night, and by light of day all that are found are the polished white bones. The monastery library held many such reports going back to the days of the conquistadors. Sister Clarita thought it must have been going on a lot longer; The native tribes shunned this entire area, considering it an unclean place to visit and avoiding the entire hundred-mile stretch of desert as we Americans avoid the cesspit or the slums.

There were other books, too. Books on biology and entomology, and the evolution and adaptation of species. Sister Clarita suggested that a species of small insect, like the tiny mites and fleas that live among grains of sand and are so small as to be almost indistinguishable, may have become adapted, over many centuries, to the consumption of flesh. That such a diet would cause changes in the bodies of the insects making them more adept at catching their prey; Perhaps their mandibles had developed a razor’s edge for slicing off bits of flesh. Or maybe they coated their victims in digestive acid and slurped up the liquified flesh. Sister Clarita knew of several insects that consumed their prey in just such a manner, though none that she knew had ever gone after so large a prey as a man or a cow.

“But Sister, if these really are man-eating insects, why do they stay out here in the desert? Every animal migrates toward its food source; These things could strip a town clean of flesh overnight! Why aren’t they swarming through the cities, just… Everywhere?”

“Perhaps they just like the weather here,” Sister Clarita said and kissed her rosary.

After a week of recovery, I felt well enough to travel. I collected Micah from the sisters, who protested, but I thought if anyone could help him it would be at one of those new asylums up in New England. The old man took us as far as the train station in Las Friolero del Resol, and there he bade us goodbye.

Two days later we were back in Texas. First thing I went to the barber to shave off the wild beard I’d grown. Then I walked into the nearest sheriff’s office to report the fate of the Erlen Baymer Cattle Drive.

Well, they didn’t believe a word of what I told them and locked me and Micah up for murder. To hear them tell it, the two of us got up one night and slit everybody’s throats. Didn’t matter to them what I said, nor the state Micah was in; They left us to rot six weeks before the circuit judge came ‘round to pronounce the sentence.

He had expected an open-and-shut murder case; When we were brought to stand before him, he saw my sleepless eyes and the empty shell of a man that was Micah. He listened to my story silently, nodding occasionally for me to continue, and when it was done he pronounced the sentence.

“I, Judge Howard Lorbbock of the Great State of Texas, do hereby declare these two men to be mentally insane. No doubt they were driven mad by the ordeal they suffered, of crossing the desert after their cattle drive was destroyed by Apaches.”

There weren’t any damn Apaches in that part of Mexico, but I kept my mouth shut. The sheriff was making enough noise as it was, imploring the judge that “What the people of this town need to see is a good old fashioned hanging!”

Well, we were sent to Houston for treatment. Micah was considered such a specialty case that he was sent up north to New England, to the asylum in some town called Arkham. 

I stayed behind at the Houston madhouse. The medicine they gave me made me sleep, but nothing can stop the dreams. When I close my eyes, all I can see are Erlen Baymer’s lidless eyeballs rolling round and round in his red skull-face.

[get-your-fics]

Suburbia - Part Two

Too Good to be True

Summary: You have the seemingly perfect life, with the perfect house and the perfect husband. But the illusion threatens to be unraveled when you start to have strange but familiar nightmares.

Pairing: Albert Wesker x reader

Series warnings: Smut, dub-con/non-con, breeding kink, sex pollen, blood, violence

A/N: please take a look at the updated warnings before reading. thanks :)

PART ONE

Albert decided to leave work early and work from home for the rest of the day in order to watch over you. That’s what he had told you, anyway. You finished putting away the clothes you had folded in the bedroom and walked out into the hall. One door you knew led to Albert’s office; you weren’t ever allowed in there. But the door across from it, you didn’t recognize. You tilted your head to the side. You couldn’t remember ever seeing what was behind it.

You eyed the top of the stairs and listened intently. You could hear him walking around downstairs, his heavy footsteps causing the floorboards to creak. Part of yourself knew you had probably gotten into enough trouble for the day, but the other part rationalized that this was your house too, not just Albert’s, and you had the right to go peeking around it as much as you liked.

You carefully crept over to where the mysterious door was. You held your breath as you tentatively reached out your hand. You wrapped your fingers around the brass doorknob. You waited a beat for any indication he had caught on to what you were doing, but you didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary. As slowly as you possibly could, you turned the doorknob. It didn’t budge. You furrowed your brow and tried again. Still, the result was the same.

Resigning, you called out, “Albert, honey, what’s this door up here?”

“What?” you heard him yell back. You listened to the thud of his feet as he clambered up the stairs, and he appeared on the landing, his hand on the railing. “What are you talking about?”

“This door,” you gestured to it, “what’s it lead to?”

He walked over to you. “Oh, that’s nothing, sweetheart. It’s just the spare room. Don’t worry about it.”

You stared up at him. “Why’s it locked?”

“Well, I’m doing renovations in there. There’s all sorts of power tools and dangerous stuff in there. I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.” He wrapped his arms around you. “Why don’t you start on dinner, little bird? I got you stuff to make your favorite - vegetable stew.”

You nodded and smiled at him. “Okay.”

He smiled back and leaned down to peck your lips. “I’ll be working on some stuff in my office. If you need me, just knock.”

He retreated to his office and slipped inside without a sound. You went downstairs to the kitchen and put on your apron, shaking your head as you tied it behind you. It was almost like you were hoping to unravel some big conspiracy. You were too lucky; sometimes, your life felt just too good to be true.

As you started on dinner, you were chopping up vegetables when your hand slipped and you accidentally cut your finger. A sharp sting spread throughout your hand, and you let out a high-pitched yelp. You clutched your finger in your other hand, feeling your pulse race in the veins by your wrist.

“Honey, is everything okay down there?” Albert shouted from upstairs.

You slowly uncurled your hand to reveal your finger, but it was unscathed. No cut, no incision. Just smooth, soft flesh. The only evidence there had been any damage done at all was a drop of ruby red blood on the cutting board.

“Everything’s fine!” you called back.

You grabbed a paper towel and wiped away the blood, willing yourself to forget about it. You occupied your mind with cooking, and once everything was in the pot on the stove stewing, you moved on to cleaning up. You grabbed the knife to wash it, and your thoughts once again strayed to your finger, how the injury you had caused vanished into thin air without a trace.

Without thinking, you positioned your hand on the edge of the sink with your fingers dangling over the basin and held the knife above in your dominant hand. You stared down at your fingers like you were possessed, almost like you were outside yourself watching all this occur while having no way to prevent it from happening. You adjusted the handle of the knife in your grip, and before you could change your mind, brought your hand down.

Hot, white pain shot throughout your entire arm as you cut clean through the bone. Two of your fingers fell into the sink, blood spilling out of wounds you had created. You bit down on the inside of your cheek to keep from shrieking, so hard that you split your skin open, and the copper taste of blood flooded your mouth. Fuzzy, gray dots formed over your vision, and you squeezed your eyes shut as you doubled over, your grip on the knife in your unharmed hand tightening until your knuckles turned white.

Suddenly, the pain subsided, and you straightened up. You forced your eyes open and stared down at the bloody stubs where your fingers had been moments ago. The blood stopped, and you watched in awe as new bone started to sprout up, followed by tendons, then veins and sinews and tissues and muscles and skin. It was like your cells were regenerating all on their own.

You were healing.

And then your fingers were there again. You raised your hand closer to your face and inspected them closely. You flexed and stretched your fingers. It was as if nothing had happened. The only thing out of the ordinary was that they weren’t painted with the same red polish as your others. ”What the fuck?” you muttered under your breath.

“Is dinner ready?”

The knife slipped from your hand and landed in the sink with a loud, metallic clatter, knocking your discarded fingers into the garbage disposal. You whirled around to see Albert standing behind you. When he noticed your shocked expression, his face fell.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

You plastered a smile on your face and shook your head. “Nothing, honey. Almost dropped my ring in the sink while I was washing up. That’s all.” You fidgeted with the diamond ring on your left hand as you spoke.

He gave you another once over before the tension visibly left his shoulders. “Be careful. That ring cost a lot of money. I wouldn’t want you losing it.”

“Of course not.” You grabbed a hand towel and wiped your hands clean. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you go wait in the dining room?”

“Okay,” he agreed. He flashed you a quizzical expression before turning and leaving the kitchen.

Once you were sure he was gone, you spun around and washed the blood down the drain. You finished stacking the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and served two bowls of stew. You picked them up and piled them in your arms. Before you left the kitchen, you made sure to flip the switch and turn on the garbage disposal.

Albert was sitting at the head of the table when you entered the dining room. You set the table with silverware and placed one of the bowls in front of him and the other in front of the seat beside him. You pulled out the chair next to him and sat down.

“It smells delicious,” he commented, laying his napkin in his lap.

“Thank you.” You picked up your spoon and fiddled with it in your hand. “How was work?”

“Good for the few hours I was there,” he said as he ate. “How was your day?”

“Fine. As always.” You poked at your food and pressed your lips into a straight line. “Albert... where am I from?”

He looked up at you. “What do you mean?”

“Where did I grow up? Who were my parents?” Every time you tried to recall the lost memories, it was like your head filled with tv static and a loud, persistent buzzing rang in your ears. You blinked and shook away the feeling. “Why can’t I remember?”

He sighed. “Does this have something to do with those two women across the street?”

“They don’t have any memories from before this place, and neither do I,” you pointed out.

“Does it matter? Why is it so important that you have memories of life before me?” He frowned. “Am I not good enough for you?”

“What? No!” You covered his hand that was resting on the table with your own and rubbed circles with your thumb on the back of his hand. “Of course you are. But what if this has to do with the nightmare I keep having? What if my subconscious is trying to show me something I don’t remember?”

His frown turned mean, and he recoiled his hand. “Your nightmare is just that - a nightmare.”

“But it feels so real!” you insisted. “And it keeps happening, over and over, night after night. It never goes away.”

“Do you hear yourself? You sound delusional,” he hissed. “Unless there’s something else you’re not telling me, I don’t know why you have any reason to believe your dreams are real.”

You considered telling him about your hand for a second, but held your tongue. Something was definitely wrong here - you had gotten confirmation of that. What had happened in the kitchen was unnatural, and as much as you loved your husband, you felt like he was keeping something from you. You decided it was better to keep your new knowledge to yourself for now.

“No. Nothing. It’s just the nightmare.” You stared down at your now cold bowl of stew. “You’re right. I’m overthinking it.”

He smiled at you and gently caressed your face. “Hey. It’s okay.” He laughed lightly and pinched your cheek. “You need to stop driving yourself crazy. You’re getting all worked up for no reason.” He retracted his hand and stood up. “Let me go get you your pill.”

“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot.” You chuckled. You had been on the pill for months now. He left and returned with a circular white pill, tiny in the palm of his large hand. He handed it to you, and you leaned your head back as you popped it in your mouth. You swallowed it whole and chased it with a swig of water.

You ate the rest of dinner in relative silence, making small talk now and then between bites about the weather or something else inconsequential. You subtly felt the temperature begin to rise around you. Your forehead broke out in a sweat, and your cheeks flushed a rosy shade of pink. When you both finished eating, you stood up and cleared the table. During your trips between the dining room and the kitchen, you felt a tickle in your nether regions that steadily grew to a full on itch. You tried to ignore it, but it wouldn't go away, desperately calling your attention to its presence. You did your best to conceal the way you rubbed your thighs together as you walked in an attempt to relieve some of the tension, but your efforts were to no avail.

Albert leaned back in his seat and watched you with amusement. The legs of his chair scratched against the floor as he rose to his feet. He walked around the table to stand behind you. You were too focused on the fire in your loins to notice him at first. You leaned forward to reach for your glass of water on the table and squeaked when his hands gripped your waist.

"Albert, wh-what are you doing?" you stammered out.

You froze as he pressed himself against you. You could feel his erection straining against the confines of his pants poke against your ass. "You look like you need something, little bird,” he huskily whispered in your ear. "I'm giving you what you need."

His hands ran up your body to grope your tits, emitting a quick yelp from you. The smell of his cologne and his aftershave and his natural, heady scent mingled together and filled your senses. The warmth radiating off of his body overwhelmed you, and your blood rushed through your veins as your arousal took over you. It took every fibre of your being to keep from ripping your clothes off and pouncing on him like a wild animal.

He smirked and pushed you so you bent over the table. Blush crept up your neck to your cheeks and ears. “Albert, here?” you asked shyly. “Why not?” He hiked up the skirt of your dress above your hips, exposing your lacy panties to him. He gripped your hips and pulled you flush against him, grinding his pelvis against your clothed core. “I can feel how badly you need me.” He slipped his fingers under your panties and ran them through your folds. “You’re soaking wet already.”

You whined with need and bucked your hips against his hand subconsciously. You didn’t know what had come over you. He hooked his thumbs in the elastic band of your underwear. “Don’t worry. I’m going to give it to you, little bird.” He dragged your panties down to your ankles.

He rose to his full height. You heard the metallic clink of his belt buckle as he undid it and dragged his zipper down. There was a whoosh of fabric as he shed his pants and boxers, and then his tip was pressed against your entrance. He held your hips in a bruising grip as he pushed into you.

You clawed at the table as your walls stretched to accommodate him. He sank in to the hilt and pulled his hips back, setting a breakneck pace. He repeatedly rammed into you, the table creaking beneath you as you jolted forward. You were sure the wood grain pattern would be imprinted on your smushed cheek by the time you were done.

“God, you feel so fucking good.” He threaded his fingers through your hair and jerked your head back. “So fucking tight around me.”

He grunted as the head of his cock slammed into your cervix over and over again. He had never been so rough with you before, and yet your body responded to him so intensely. You panted with every thrust and rocked your hips back against him eagerly. You couldn’t get enough of him.

The glass of water on the table tipped over from the velocity of his thrusts. The water splashed onto the floor, and the glass shattered into a million shards. Both of you were too engrossed in each other to care. He reached around to run circles on your clit, drawing you closer to your climax. “Tell me you need me,” he demanded. “I want to hear you say it.”

He dug his fingers into your skin and increased his speed. You were going crazy. Every cell and bone in your body ached for him, craved for the release only he could give you. “I need you!” you mewled pathetically. “Please, Albert, I need you!”

“Yes,” he growled. "Good girl." His low groans and the slap of flesh against flesh filled your ears. Your eyes rolled back in your head as your orgasm washed over you. Your thighs quivered and shook around him, your pussy clenching around his cock. You went limp, his hand on your hip the only thing keeping you up.

He let go of his grasp on your hair, and your upper half collapsed on the table. He didn’t stop his assault on your sensitive pussy as he neared his end. “I’m going to fill you up.” He leaned forward until his chest was pressed against your back and sunk his teeth into the smooth skin of your collarbone. You barely felt the pain through your haze.

His thrusts grew sloppy, and he spilled into you. He pumped in and out a couple more times, making sure you milked him of all he had, before pulling out. You felt his warm cum dribble out of you and smear down your thighs. He collected it with his fingers and pushed it back inside of you before pulling your panties up.

You pressed your palms flat against the table and slowly pushed yourself up. You wavered on your heels and leaned back against the edge of the table. Every muscle in your body felt sore, and you knew you would have a hard time walking tomorrow. Albert pulled up his pants and zipped up his fly in front of you. You brushed your fingers against your collarbone and, sure enough, the bite marks were gone, unmarred skin left in its place.

The air left your lungs as Albert wrapped his digits around your wrist and brought your hand to his face. He examined your two recently formed fingers barren of nail polish. His steely gaze met yours. Your heartbeat echoed in your ears, and for a second, you were convinced he had found you out.

Then, his face broke out into a genuine smile. “Need a new manicure, don’t you, dear?” He leaned forward and gave your lips a searing, lingering kiss. He pulled away and smacked your ass, causing you to yipe. “Wash up, sweetheart. I think it's time we went to bed.” He gestured to the puddle of water and heap of broken glass on the floor. "And don't forget to clean up the mess you made."

PART THREE

[brahkest-fr]

“I said I quit. You’re not that old, Taro, but you’re giving me second thoughts.”

Taro narrowed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. He glanced at the light egg sitting to his left in a scrapped together nest of cloth. He had been slow to sell it especially with the mother being of no notable bloodline.

“It’s because of this, isn’t it?” He grabbed the egg with restrained claws, “What surprises me is that this is what draws the line for you. Of all things, this egg is what calls for your resignation?”

Janus stood rigidly, crossing his arms as he spat, “I’m not as morally bankrupt as you’d like to think of me, boss. My contract has long since been paid and you don’t own me.”

The imperial stood, his knuckles white on the desk as he towered over the fae. Sparks of light fizzled from his bared maw. Janus raised a brow.

“You are not leaving my service, boy.”

“Big talk for emperor-fodder. I don’t mind taking another antler when you’re so eager to lose it,” he hissed and raised his arms, the air cooling around him.

Janus quickly noted the egg’s light dimmed and heaved a sigh, “Forget it, an old man isn’t worth my time.”

He strode to the door, stopping at the sound of scratching behind him. Turning, his jaw clenched as Taro teetered the egg in his palm. It wobbled gently as Taro lazily leaned back. Janus stepped forward slowly, his hands cautiously at his sides.

“Taro, whatever you do to that egg is not going to change my mind but it doesn’t need to get involved.”

His long whiskers twisted into contorted spirals as he juggled the egg from hand to hand, “Is that so? In that case, leave. This thing has caused me quite enough trouble.“

Janus crept closer. Spears of ice manifested at his side. “Taro…”

The imp examined the egg��s glimmering sheen and made long scratches across its surface. He dully growled, “You are about as soft as you look, Janus. I’ll give you a choice. Stay and you can have this egg and do whatever in Shade’s name you want with it. If you go?” The tendons of his hands visibly clenched. “Then I’ll let that sudden conscious of yours regret rearing its head.”

Janus’ scowl was impressively wide for such a small face. A wave of his hand dissipated the spears. He glared, fists clenched and body shaking. Taro held the egg close as Janus stepped up to his desk.

“Give me the egg.”

“Hmm,” Taro tapped his fingers across the eggshell, “I take this as you staying? That was far easier than I thought.”

Janus seethed but nodded begrudgingly, “I didn’t think you could possibly get this low.”

Wrapping the egg in a soft handkerchief, Taro gave a lasting stare into its golden surface and confidently growled, “And yet I’ll sleep soundly as ever tonight. I’m positive you will reek some vengeance upon me in due time and I’m betting my eventual comeuppance will be a great deal of misery, won’t it?”

Janus sorely wished his arms weren’t so short as Taro’s smug grin was all too punch-able but he huffed, “You know it will.”

Taro gingerly handed Janus the egg who had forgotten just how much it weighed for his small frame. Its warm glow stung his cold hands as he viewed himself on the now scratched but polished shell. Taro laced his fingers together and leaned in. 

“Do you even know a thing about eggs? What do you plan on doing with it?”

—–

A continuation of this

[cuorepietoso]

Il primo amore non si scorda mai.

ft. Alessio Rossi & Rainer Gersten Trigger warnings: graphic violence and choking, injury, blood, alcohol use

I. 2010, [LOCATION REDACTED]

     Gersten’s hands are pale, with veins so blue that they look like great stretches of river, sweeping through an icy landscape. The knuckles and tendons jut out, and his fingers are lean enough to look skeletal. They perfectly match the rest of him, pale and a little too long and sharp, right down to the near-white tuft of hair that sits atop his head. Those hands are sunburned, now, as are the high lines of his cheekbones, which Tahan only notices because his neck is so goddamn lily-white, where he’d kept his scarf tightly wound in the blistering sun. 

     He gets up out of his cot, and paces. Opens the chest at the foot of Rossi’s cot, where the man watches with knowing amusement, and gathers a bottle of aloe gel, which he slaps down in front of the older man with force. Gersten, the bastard, has the audacity to grin at him, his cadaverous hands stilled from their task-- sharpening a wicked-looking blackened steel knife. Without a word, he drops the knife and slathers a generous helping of the goo on his hands, rubbing it into the burn and the calluses on his palm alike, before sweeping them over his pinkend cheeks. Tahan turns back to his pacing, restless. 

     Rossi watches this scene pass with the air of a particularly pleased jungle cat, lithe and lean and dangerous, if he weren’t so lazy in the moment. The book in his lap lays open, ignored, no doubt some ancient novel in a language that Tahan doesn’t speak. The man insists they offer great insight into what he refers to as only, ‘the human condition,’ with his nose turned up like royalty. Gersten always laughs at that, and accuses him of reading racy trash in another language, just to hide the fact that he’s a pervert. It always turns him the prettiest shade of pink he thinks he’s ever seen stretching under the light array of freckles, and he can’t help but wonder if the German agrees, the way he ribs him. 

     His pacing is halted by one of those freshly-sticky, pale hands. Their gazes meet, warm cinnamon brown to the unidentifiable haze of blue-pale-red, and Gersten peels his lips from his teeth in a rictus grin, and the man’s dry rasp sounds like the scrape of a blade against sandstone when he murmurs, “thanks, flunky.” 

     Tahan makes to pull away with a heavy eye roll, but Gersten tightens his grip, gaze unwavering. The grin slips from his lips, leaving nothing but a vast, blank sea. All of the life drains from him for a moment, the air around them seems to cool until the hairs on Tahan’s arms start to prickle, and his heart skitters around in his chest strangely when he hears Rossi sit up a little behind him, shifting his legs under his blanket. Just one moment of suspense, as the wraith pauses, and then vigor pours back into him in disjointed bits and pieces as he murmurs, “no, really. I appreciate you.” 

     He does tug his arm away, a little more gently than he perhaps intended, and barely resists the urge to curl it close to his body and rub at the skin that seems to burn and tingle from the touch. It’s just the aloe vera gel. There’s a tense silence for a moment, before he remembers how to use his voice. “It’s just aloe, for the sunburn.” 

     Rossi scoffs behind him, setting aside his big book, and when he turns to see what the hell his problem is, the younger man is standing, stretching his arms above his head languidly. “That’s not what he’s talking about, darling.” His brows furrow at the casual response, but he remains perfectly still when Rossi leans against his back and settles his chin on his shoulder, draping himself like a particularly recalcitrant blanket. 

     Gersten watches them with a considerate look on his face, and then thoughtfully picks up the knife, testing the edge of the blade with his thumb. “Oh? And what did you think I meant, schatzi?” 

     Rossi’s arms tighten like a noose, a playful headlock that he lets himself fall into without a second thought. His voice is rich, warm and solid like rock heated by the late afternoon sun, and Tahan can feel the smile in the cheek pressed to his ear. “You know what I mean. He may not look it now, but he’s ferocious.” Heat floods his cheeks, and he splutters for a moment before Rossi shakes him once again into stillness, and continues. “And he’s sweet, like the loyal flea bitten stray you slip some meat to when your parents aren’t looki-- what are you laughing at?” 

     With a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking a little, Gersten waves the question away while Tahan grumbles about the rather unflattering word picture being painted about his personage. “Nothing, nothing-- haha, you’re just talking about slipping the man some meat!” The joined pair groans as one at that, Rossi’s eye roll so exaggerated that he drags his willing captive closer when his whole body leans back with it. 

     “Kiss my shapely ass, and let me finish--” Manfully, he ignores the quiet ‘that’s what she said’ that Gersten murmurs under his breath, and continues: “That-- that fierce kindness. It’s what we respond to.” 

     Another long silence stretches, as each man in their cramped little tent ponders those words, before Tahan finally mutters, “Good God, he’s finally cracked. Like a little nut. I can’t believe I’m going to have to file a section eight report. The paperwork is going to be a nightma-- ghghgk--” He’s cut off when Rossi finally tires of the bit and tightens his grip until he’s choking, a little, and then releases him, coughing, and shoves him to take a seat when he laughs aloud. But Gersten … Gersten looks as if he’s seriously giving it thought, eyes narrowed and head tilted like a bird of prey. 

          “Is there more of that little speech planned?” He asks, and then laughs when Tahan groans and flops back onto his cot, trying to smother himself with his own hands. 

     Rossi puffs out his chest, smug. “I’m glad you asked. I have an entire metaphor for it. The head, the heart, the hands. For the three of us.” He kicks at Tahan’s knee when he groans dramatically. “I’m the head, obviously. Because I’m the only one with any brains around here.” 

     Gersten gamely agrees with a swift, “Oh, absolutely.” Tahan sits up, alert like a wary mutt. 

     “Rainer is the hand.” 

     Tahan makes an ‘eh--’ sound at that, lifting his own hands and waving them meaningfully. 

     “Quiet from the peanut gallery, please. I thought about it, but Gersten is far better with a knife, and he’s about as empathetic as a brick of cheese.” The man in question pauses in his renewed quest to sharpen the blade, considers that, and shrugs-- a silent ‘fair enough’. Tahan gives him a mortally wounded look that implies he’s a traitor, while Rossi takes a seat next to him on the rickety one-man cot and settles a warm hand over his diaphragm. “Which makes you the heart. Isn’t that cute?” 

     The bastard is smirking at him. Tahan wipes the smug little grin right off his face with a powerful swipe of a pillow, initiating what may be the rowdiest brawl the forgetful little firebase ever saw. 

-

II. 2012, [LOCATION REDACTED] (TW graphic violence, choking, blood)

          It’s some time around three in the afternoon, he thinks, the sun is high in the sky when he feels the noose tighten around his neck. 

               Unfortunately, that’s quite literal. 

     He’s five steps behind Rossi, half listening to Rana mutter to himself about how boring overwatch is over the radio. They’re on a routine patrol. A boy steps into the mouth of the alley. Rossi waves, and the kid waves back. Tahan snorts softly, and Rossi starts to turn around to give him a Look-- this is when time slows, he thinks, because he can swear in this memory, he can see the rough rope descend right before his eyes, hands clad in black leather holding either end. He can see the faint bemusement change into cold shock in Rossi’s hazel eyes, the only part of his face visible under his black mask, and he can feel the slightest tickle against his throat before the hot burn of it sinks into his skin, cutting off air and blood. Things go a little hazy from there. 

     Time continues to drag slowly along. He knows he struggles, because he can feel his own fingernails dig into the skin of his throat briefly, and he knows he pulls out his knife because he misses when he stabs for his assailant’s head, and carves a long line along his own forearm instead, before it drops from fingers swiftly going numb. It takes ten seconds to black out when you’re being choked like this. He isn’t fast enough.

     There’s a lot of yelling that he can’t understand. The sharp report of gunfire. He isn’t fast enough. His knees weaken, he can’t breathe, and what little sight he had disappears as his eyes roll back into his head. Still thrashing weakly, even as he goes down. There’s no witty last thought, no valiant final move that allows him to free himself. One second he’s there, and the next he’s gone, limp in his captor’s grasp. He comes to again laid out flat on his back, Rossi looming above him, white as a sheet and haloed by the late afternoon sun as he curses him and begs him to wake in the same breath, trying to shake him back into consciousness. 

          One ragged gasp. Two. 

     Rossi’s own breath comes in swift gulps, before he visibly steels himself and puts a hand on Tahan’s cheek. His face feels strangely numb, tingly. He blinks up at the younger man and lifts a shaking hand to settle it against his forearm, but he’s too weak to hold it there for long. When he lets it fall, there’s a fresh trail of bright blood in the bared skin that they both eye for a moment in contemplative silence. Tahan realizes then that his arm hurts. And his throat. And his head. 

     For his part, Rossi mutters a quiet, “It’s always something with you, isn’t it,” as he drags him into a sitting position and runs a hand up and down his back to try and even out his ragged breathing. Tahan coughs hard, once, twice, tastes blood. Once he can get past the burning sensation of the rawed skin and the rapid bruising at his throat, he realizes he can breathe, albeit painfully. No collapsed trachea then. The thought makes him wheeze out a laugh. He’s probably going into shock. He laughs a little harder at that, choking on it when it gets caught in his chest somewhere. There’s blood on his lips, and Rossi makes a panicked noise and puts a steadying hand to his jaw once more. “Oh, quit that. You’re freaking me out. Can you talk?”

     Licking his lips only reminds him that the only thing he can smell and taste is a whole lot of blood. He can’t tell if he bit his tongue, or if it’s pouring down into his throat from his nose, or if he’s hacking it up. He can’t tell if it’s his own blood. He spits out a mouthful of it, and it takes him a couple of false starts to manage a simple, weary, “water.” 

     The cap is twisted off and the canteen thrust into his shaking hands. He almost drops it, so Rossi helps him lift it to his face. He swishes the first mouthful, and then spits it off to the side. An embarrassing amount of it ends up soaking into his pant leg. He makes a disgusted noise, and then goes back for a few painful, tiny swallows of water, trying to get his wind back. Every moment brings him more clarity. 

     Between this and the next: pounding footsteps. A familiar dark uniform, and head of frosty hair. Rossi reaches for his sidearm and then relaxes when he recognizes the man, waving him over without a word. Tahan lazily reaches over to clamp his right hand over the oozing gash on his left forearm. It stings like a bitch, but he can’t make himself do much in the way of cleaning it just yet-- not when it’s still bleeding. Not when he can hardly string a sentence together in his own head. Gersten slinks forward, his footsteps echoing strangely in the cramped alley. 

     “Oh, Jesus wept,” he mutters under his breath as he approaches, the words as much a curse as they are an exclamation. Tahan has seen him slit a man from prick to throat without so much as flinching, so he can’t help but wonder what exactly about the scene makes him look so wild about the edges. 

     “Not for me, he didn’t.” Tahan grinds out in response, clutching the long gash on his forearm, his voice sounding as though it’s being ripped up by millstones and scouring pads and a little bit of gravel, just to top it off. The joke makes the normally unflappable German look like he’d just been slapped. Another high pitched giggle escapes him, cut to silence in some places by the limited capacity of his vocal chords. He feels lightheaded. 

     “Shut up,” Rossi snarls, tucking himself under Tahan’s uninjured arm and then dragging him to his feet. His vision swirls again, and they would fall to the ground if not for the pale arms, the familiar skeletal hands that reach out to settle on each of their shoulders, steadying them. His head lolls, and he can hardly breathe until Rossi drags him up a little higher and the weight of his head falls to rest on his shoulder instead of with his chin against his chest. 

     Gersten shifts his grip so he can hold his chin there for a moment, eyes serious. “I’ll run point.” 

     He feels Rossi nod, and the effort of lifting his head from his shoulder nearly leaves his knees buckling under him again, but the younger man’s grip remains firm. Holding his head up hurts so much that it makes his eyes water until he can hardly see, the involuntary reaction making him curse incoherently as they make their way to safety. 

     By the time their EVAC gets there, he’s managed to get himself together enough to give vague orders to Gersten on how to clean, stitch, and bandage the long cut on his arm. He does a surprisingly good job. Rossi can’t quite look at him, ostensibly keeping watch for anyone that might be searching for them still. 

-

III. 2014 [LOCATION REDACTED] (TW alcohol)

     They drink, late into the night. Rain pounds on the canvas of their little tent, and the others have long since gone to bed, but the three of them are still wired. Today marked Gersten’s last assignment with the KSK, he’s going back to Germany in the morning and getting discharged soon after. The goodbye party was a little bittersweet-- he’s relatively well liked by the men on base, and in their little mixed unit, and a lot of people showed up to drink contraband booze and clap him on the shoulder and wish him luck. A younger soldier had nervously asked him what he was planning on doing when he got out, and Gersten had laughed aloud and replied only, “Oh, probably be a hitman. I only have the one skill.” Everyone had laughed. 

          Tahan wishes he could believe the other man had been kidding. Rossi had just sighed. 

     They’re all more than half drunk, now. Laying on the cool plywood floor in their little temporary shelter. Tahan has been counting the sandbags lining the walls, but he kept forgetting where he’d been at and what number he stopped counting because Rossi’s nails would occasionally scrape his scalp, and it would make his vision go funny. He has his head resting in the younger man’s lap. No commentary is made on how he’s basically petting him. Gersten’s legs are draped over his shins, long and lean, and he has a hand resting on Tahan’s ankle. Occasionally he’ll make a broad gesture as he speaks, their little triangle ill-formed and sloppy drunk. 

     It’s lulling him to sleep. He must be getting old, if he can’t make it to 5am like the rest of the party animals. The livelier of the two are helpfully keeping their voices down, until-- Gersten’s hand clamps down on his hip, and he roughly shakes him awake.

     “Fuck me--” Tahan starts into foggy awareness, jerking into a sitting position. Rossi lets him go with a displeased grunt, and he’s already turning to give him an apologetic look when he spots the bottle in Gersten’s hand. “What the fuck is that.” 

     The pale man bares all of his teeth at him in a grin. There’s a vague creeping sense of dread. “It’s all the rest of the alcohol.”

     A long pause, in which Tahan can only look helplessly between a grinning Gersten, and a nonplussed Rossi. Neither of them make a move to elaborate. Finally, he manages to find the courage necessary to ask, “How do you mean--”

     Rossi, unimpressed, cuts off both the rest of his question, and Gersten before he can start in on his bullshit. “He’s spent the last ten minutes meticulously pouring every last drop of the dregs of whiskey, tequila, vodka, vermouth, and absinthe into that bottle.” 

     Gersten, maturely, pouts for a moment, before brightening again. “And beer! I put beer--” A hiccup. “Beer in it, too.” He swirls it a little, as if to make a point. The concoction bubbles and fizzes menacingly within its confines. 

     “I--” unsure, he glances between the pair of them. Rossi’s eyebrows nearly meet his hairline, and Gersten continues to shake the bottle back and forth, as if to be enticing. He tries not to feel sick from just looking at the sloshing liquid, but he can’t help the dread tinging his voice. “For what purpose?” 

     The bottle of possibly toxic waste is thrust in his direction. Tahan takes it warily, and Gersten laughs out, “You and I are going to finish this off. Rossi says you’re a lightweight, and that it would kill you.” 

     “I’m not fucking doing that, because I am and it will.” Rossi lets out a relieved sigh behind him. 

     Gersten whines, “Aw, no it won’t, pussy. I dare you.” 

     The gauntlet has been thrown down. Tahan sits up straighter, suddenly set alight, and turns to him with narrowed eyes. “You dare me? Are you serious?” Despite his incredulous tone, he eyes the bottle and then starts twisting off the cap-- it smells like a sewer, and he coughs a little. Rossi makes a noise of abject terror.

     “Don’t let him get to you-- he just doesn’t understand that daring each other to consume disgusting and possibly dangerous liquids is an important part of male bonding.” Gersten leans forward, practically vibrating with excitement as the words fall out of him in a rush.

     Rossi, who was the eldest of four brothers, snorts, and puts his hand over the mouth of the bottle before it makes it all the way to Tahan’s mouth. “Oh? And what are the other parts?”

          “Poetic yearning,” says Rainer. 

          “Gay chicken,” says Battista.

    They glance at each other after their simultaneous answers and burst into wild laughter, collapsing against one another and nearly spilling the concoction. Rossi looks on, arms crossed, a smile poorly smothered on his lips. His voice is wracked with suppressed humor. “All of the literature and art and thought about male friendship and desire, and the two of you have pared it down to ‘drinking gross things’, ‘poetic yearning’, and ‘gay chicken’. Bravo, really. Whitman would be so proud.” 

     Tahan lifts the bottle as if to toast the observations, the advancements they have made in such heavy schools of thought, and Rossi throws himself against his side, nearly bowling him over, and drags the cursed thing from his hand. “You have had quite enough, I think,” he tuts at him, pressed warmly hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Tahan lets himself slump a little, blinking placidly at the line of his cheekbone. Rossi slams the handle back, and then chokes a little when it goes down, spluttering, “that is vile. You’re going to hell.” 

     The abrupt frankness with which he says it-- and the fact that such sentiments rarely come from him at all, staunch catholic boy that he is, forces a sharp, shocked bark of laughter out of his two companions. He spends the next ten minutes trying to force some of it down Gersten’s gullet, and Tahan… 

     Well, Tahan has little trouble letting their absolute racket lull him to sleep as well.

-

IV. 2019, VR Italy

     It’s nearing daylight. Battista hasn’t yet slept, and the flakes of crystalline snow tumbling occasionally to the ground tend to tangle in his eyelashes, and fall from the leather of his jacket. They bite at the tips of his ears and his nose, and they melt into his shirt at the nape of his neck. He’s been wandering the city for hours.Very few signs of life have popped up. They rarely do, this time of year, this time of night. The snow comes down a little fast now, and he lifts his head to peer about, trying to get his bearings, figure out just how far he’s wandered while letting himself get lost in his own head. He lets out a long cloud of breath-- backlit against the streetlight, it glitters like he’d just exhaled a cloud of diamond dust. Memories roll around in his head so violently that his feet pause.

     There, behind him, a single footstep, just the faintest scuffle on the uneven cobblestone of the street. Battista doesn’t turn to look, and forces himself not to tense, either. Instead he watches the cloud of his breath dissipate, and sets a meandering pace down the street. Now that he’s listening for them, he can hear the steps following along behind him. They’re menacingly quiet. Battista leads his shadow down the street, and then almost absentmindedly turns down an alley, stepping into the darkness of the nearest stoop. The figure, clad in black, steps into the mouth of the alley and curses under his breath when he finds it empty. The familiar voice makes Battista’s blood run cold. 

     He steps forward, probably intending to check down all of the side streets, and when he passes him Battista steps out of the shadows and pins him with the barrel of his m9, right between the shoulder blades, with a soft, “hands up. Turn around, slowly.” 

     Rainer Gersten looks as horrifically pale and skeletal as ever when he complies. In the dim light from the street behind Battista, he looks like a shade. He looks like someone that’s hunted him back to Verona, to drag him down to hell. Rainer’s lips peel back from his teeth in that familiar rictus grin, five years older and with a few more scars, but his voice holds the same rasp, the same vaguely wondering, good-natured affection, “well I’ll be damned.”

     “You already are,” the response rolls out of him, almost pre-programmed from how many times they’ve done this little song and dance. The barrel of his gun doesn’t waver from where it’s pointed directly at where Rainer’s heart is. The humor doesn’t leave the madman’s face.

     “Still sharp as ever, I see.” The smile on his face slips into something chagrined. “I’ve been looking for you, you know? But I didn’t think I’d actually find you here, of all places. And if I did, I didn’t think you’d be quite so… alert.” He gestures, vaguely, with his open palm, at the gun trained on him. 

      Battista lowers it incrementally, looking at him straight on instead of down the sights on the barrel. Dryly, he responds, “I have paranoia.”

     The other man’s jaw works almost imperceptibly as he visibly forces himself not to tout another familiar line: it’s not paranoia if they’re out to get you. It would land a little too close to home, now, and both of them know it. Instead, he lets a long sigh roll from him, and without lowering his hands he murmurs, “I thought they had buried you, too.” 

     Something in his throat constricts. Rossi. How swiftly the light had gone out of his eyes. The gritty feeling of dust sticking to the tacky, drying blood on his face. The cold cuffs, how the world had swirled just out of his own control for months. The emptiness in the life he’d left since then. “Maybe they did,” murmured like an admission of guilt.

     There’s a long stretch of silence. Rainer puts his arms down, slowly. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on top of the barrel of the gun, pushes it down and takes it from Battista’s loose grip. He puts the safety back on, shucks the bullet out of the chamber, and puts it neatly back into the shorter man’s shoulder holster, and then zips up his jacket. Pats him on the chest, and leaves his hand there for a couple breaths. The expression on his face is serious, brows furrowed, but his voice is light when he finally declares, “well, you don’t make the most convincing corpse I’ve ever seen. Say goodbye to your career in acting, handsome.” 

          It’s not really something to laugh about, now. So they don’t. 

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 7 - Diamond in the Rough. 

Summary: It's the age old adage that transcends species; Our hero doesn't believe in love at first sight until he sees 'The One.'

Karn had always considered himself to be the hero of his own story.

But then, you came along.

---

Far off in the western corner of the Forge Lands, beyond a ravine known to most as Charred Pass, where the ground has been burned black by a never ending barrage of fireballs spewed from the belly of an active volcano, is a lone maker, caught up in the rush of a heroic battle.

Or at least, he imagines it must look very heroic and extremely brave. Perhaps even the bravest a maker has ever looked.

Karn; by far the youngest maker in Tri Stone – if not the whole realm – has taken it upon himself to single handedly battle an army of Corrupted construct warriors; immense creatures of living stone that have been stitched and stuck together by thick, winding strands of Corruption, the inky substance seeping deep into their calcified bodies and connecting every boulder together like writhing, ebony veins. 

Surrounded by a moat of molten lava, the maker whirls gracefully across the Cauldron's stone courtyard, swinging left and right with one arm behind his back and the other clenched tight around his trusty, double-faced hammer,, 

Well.. Graceful might be a bit of a stretch.

There has to be dozens – No! - Hundreds of the reanimated golems, and he's ploughing through great swathes of them as if they were little more than glass figurines and he, a raging stalker.  

The young maker bellows out a whooping battle cry and brings the flat head of his gigantic hammer down on the eighth construct that hurtles towards him.

...So, he might have to embellish a few of the facts a little when he returns to the village. After all, a good story just isn't worth telling unless the hero – that's him; Karn – is pitted against perilous odds.

Why, by the time he's finished regaling the others with this epic tale, they'll be singing his praises for centuries to come, no doubt.

Head shaking to flick away the beads of sweat trickling down his furrowed brow, Karn raises a thick, metal boot and stomps it over the back of a downed construct, grinding the stone-fleshed warrior beneath his heel.

That is....if the others even believe him...

Not that they ever do. Even when he is telling the truth.

'Unreliable,' is what Alya called him once, among other things. And that was to his face! Maker knows what she's said behind his back.

Like air rushing out of a popped balloon, Karn visibly deflates, his ears drooping and face falling as he tries to swing at another construct on his left. But in light of his momentary lapse in concentration, he overshoots, misses, and the beast is able to duck beneath the hammer's handle, bringing it close enough to pound a vicious stone club onto his gloved knuckles. Despite the added protection of hardy leather and the construct's much smaller stature, those things can pack one hell of a wallop.

With a yelp, he recoils sharply, shaking out the bruised hand and shooting his assailant a snarl, lips pulled back to show off a pair of gleaming fangs.

Luckily, although numerous and fiercely relentless, the reanimated constructs aren't particularly fast. Or bright, for that matter. Releasing a prematurely triumphant gurgle, it lunges at his leg, this time aiming for an unarmored tendon on the inside of his knee.

Having pre-empted the move, Karn lets out a derisive snort, and simply steps aside.

The stone warrior flies past him and lets out a bewildered grunt as it crashes to the ground in a heap. Wasting no time, the maker swiftly dispenses righteous justice for his hand, raising the hammer high over his head and plunging it into the struggling golem with the force of a falling meteorite, garnering no small amount of satisfaction from the way its body explodes into smithereens, scattering rock fragments all over the courtyard.

“Oof! Bet that hurt!” he mocks, slinging his hammer over a shoulder and puffing out a rough exhale. Muscles twitching from the lingering adrenaline, he turns in a wide circle to survey the damage. 

Covering every inch of the hard ground are the splintered remains of a dozen or so ex-corrupted constructs, freed from their tainted bonds only by the cold embrace of death.

Heaving a weary sigh, Karn stretches out his back and grunts as several of his overworked joints click and pop in protest. Briefly, he laments being so thorough in his swathe of destruction and mayhem. There isn't a single, recognisable piece left intact that he could have taken back with him to the village as a trophy. A nice head or two would have definitely added to his story's authenticity.

“Ah well,” he announces to the lonely courtyard, “Can't be helped.”

Glancing around in the vain hope that one of the other makers had inexplicably turned up to witness his glorious victory, Karn’s ears prick forward, only to droop again when he realises that, no, he’s still on his own. 

As usual.

All of a sudden, motion from the corner of his silvery-grey eyes catches the maker's attention and he tenses, fists coming up to curl around his hammer and hauling it back into two hands. Lips curling and arms quivering with pent up anticipation, Karn wheels about to face the stone steps leading up onto the entryway.....

...and is promptly sent tumbling head over heels in love.

There's a girl standing at the edge of the courtyard, staring up at him, her eyes bright and wide and curious. On her feet, she wears a pair of big, brown, clunky boots which aren't at all in keeping with the rest of her tidy clothes. The hair on her head is a dishevelled, windswept mess, as though she'd been running flat out for hours on end and has yet to find the time to flatten it down. But by far the aspect that holds him utterly spellbound is her open face, beset just slightly by a shadow of nervousness and fatigue that lingers around her eyes and lips, but otherwise bursts with wonder. And the fascinated, inquisitive expression she’s aiming at him is no doubt a direct echo of his own.

Karn watches, dumbstruck, as her delicate lips give a twitch, then a cautious smile begins to lift her cheeks and as a result, his stomach does an involuntary somersault.  

Incidentally, having never actually been in love before, he can only guess that this must be what it feels like – stepping off the edge of a cliff in the pitch black of night with absolutely no idea what's waiting for him at the bottom.

In fact, falling in love doesn't seem at all like Eideard described in his tales. He never mentioned this sensation of tumbling into plummetless uncertainty. 

Thousands of years ago, when younglings were a frequent sight in the forge lands, Karn – too old and too proud to count himself amongst them - would linger within earshot as their elder parked himself on one of the stone ledges in Muria's garden and regaled the littlest ones with stories of grand adventures, world-ending battles and doomed paramours.

The latter stories interested Karn the least.

They just seemed so farfetched. All that nonsense about legends like Halldora and Eda, two of the most powerful shield-maidens in maker folklore whose eyes met over a blood-soaked battlefield and they knew – in a single glance - that they were destined to be together.

Karn remembers vividly scoffing at that one.

How could they know they were in love with just one look? And if that were the case, how did they manage it without their palms sweating and breath catching in their throats? 

Now though, staring down at the vision treading carefully in through the courtyard's entrance, he sends Eideard a quick, mental apology because evidently, the Old one had been right. Love at first sight isn't such a preposterous notion as Karn had originally thought.

So here he is, standing with his elbows pressed tight into his sides and feeling a lot like a deer in the headlights, rooted to the spot by her resplendent gaze. Suddenly, he blinks.

He hasn't got the first clue as to what she is.

He could almost mistake her for an angel, were it not for the obvious lack of wings, a total absence of self-righteous superiority and her face isn't schooled into that permanent, supercilious scowl the birds constantly seem to wear.

She's certainly not a demon, that much is undeniable. What’s more, she still has her skin, hair and she's surrounded by a healthy, radiant glow. So that ticks undead off the list.

Karn may not be the most intelligent of makers, by his own admission, but there are a couple of things he's almost certain of: Her face is etched with a story he's never heard, her eyes haunted by hidden nightmares and he is hopelessly, ridiculously smitten. Whatever she is, she’s got him. She’s got him good and all it took was one glance. 

She continues to regard him, a shy grin playing at the edges of her mouth until a moment later, his ears are perking up at the sound of her voice, vibrant and musical and chock full of so much ingenuousness, his heart gives a noticeable throb. “Wow,” she breathes, “Dude, that was amazing!”

To his rapidly increasing distress, all Karn can muster up in response is a doltish, “I – Er...Whu?” and almost instantly, he wants to go off, dig himself a deep hole and bury himself inside it.

But her friendly, open-hearted eyes only shine with mirth at his stumble and she gestures towards the piles of rubble strewn about his feet, growing increasingly more animated as she speaks.  

“Ah, sorry. S'just that we saw you fighting those things on our approach! When that last one nearly got you, but you just moved out of the way and pummelled it like it was nothing?” She emphasizes her point by smacking a fist into her open palm before looking up at him again, grin widening. “That was amazing.”

“A-...Amazing?”

'Oh Maker have mercy, now she's gone and done it.'

Karn has been many, many things in his life, but he's never once been amazing. He's been a 'pest,' a 'loudmouth, 'in the way,' and 'a danger to everyone around him.' But never amazing.

The young maker isn't prepared for the unexpected lurch as his heart throws itself against his rib cage presumably in an attempt to get closer to the object of its newfound affection. He actually has to discreetly slide a hand over his chest in case she notices the organ thrashing against his skin. Hell, he's half convinced she can already hear it.

Karn's tongue peels away from the roof of his mouth and he clears his throat to try and repair a remaining scrap of dignity. However, at that moment, a new voice twitches his ear and makes him jump, solely because he hadn't realised that anyone else had even been there.

“Not another one...” it grumbles brusquely.

Karn gives himself a quick shake to clear the fog that had settled like a warm blanket over his mind and finally manages to roll his mystified gaze from the woman to a much larger, much more ominous being at her side; one that he recognises almost instantly. The sight of a mouthless, bone-white mask snaps him out of his stupor and he breathes, “A rider? Here?”

No sooner had the words left his tongue than a rumble suddenly moves the ground underfoot and the strange woman throws her arms out, steadying herself on the horseman and exclaims, “Good god! What on Earth was that?!”

Any lingering wonderment falls from Karn's face. He recognises the rumble's significance first and groans aloud, eyes darting around the courtyard. “Ah, maker’s bones. Thought I took care of you lot already!”

As they had done before, the thick slabs of stone begin to shake and rattle as constructs burst through the cracks between them, scrabbling away at solid rock to force their own, vitrified bodies inlaid with ink black tentacles up and out of the ground.

Karn's eyes narrow, only to widen again moments later when a soft, gasped whimper leaps from the mouth of the little being beside the horseman. He glances down, ears flattening against his skull at the sight of the girl’s body turning rigid, her tiny chest heaving up and down as she fumbles with something at her side. He doesn't get to see what it is though because the next thing he knows, he's meeting Death's burning glare and a silent understanding passes between them, unmistakable in its meaning.

A shadow creeps over the maker's eyes, his brows drawing together into a tight, determined frown. Giving a hasty nod, he shifts, turning away and taking a few, gigantic steps backwards until both the girl and Death are bathed in his immense shadow. At the same time, the horseman whips out his formidable scythes and angles himself towards the outer wall. There's a small noise of protest from the girl that sends a beat shooting across Karn's chest when she suddenly finds herself being shoved, bullied and prodded backwards, crowded between the maker and horseman who stand fast and face the slowly approaching wave of corrupted constructs.

Chest puffed out and jaw set, Karn bends his head around to swiftly throw the petite thing a cocky smirk. “Stay behind me!” he winks, “I'll take care of this.”

The young maker can hardly believe his luck! Finally, a chance to prove he can be a hero. Heroes protect the small, don't they?

Just then, the boldest of the golems raises its stone club into the air and bellows out its gravelly rallying cry and the rest of them follow suit, pounding their fists against rock-hard chests and lumbering forwards all at once, straight at the trio in the centre of the courtyard.

“Come on then!” Karn stamps his metal boot on the ground a few times, hoping to intimidate, while the horseman merely rolls his eyes and plants his feet more firmly. As the first of the constructs charge within swinging range, Maker and Nephilim alike explode into murderous action.

-----------------------------------------------------

The new maker had to be the youngest you'd seen so far, though he's no less enormous than the others. Not from where you're standing, head just a few inches shy of his knee. Unlike Eideard and Thane, this one doesn't sport an impressive, luxuriant beard. Rather, any hair that might have adorned his face has been shaven close to the skin, leaving a dark dusting of stubble on his head and chin, sweeping along his jaw to the base of his ears. Around his neck is a striped cowl of deep viridian, the same colour as his tunic which is nipped in by a wide belt, strewn with all sorts of pockets, pouches and satchels. A heavy, leather backpack is strapped to his robust shoulders, both of which are littered with long, pale scars rather than the forge burns you'd seen on Alya and Valus.  On your approach to the Cauldron, you'd spotted him stampeding across a round-walled courtyard and flattening a vast throng of constructs with a gargantuan hammer, somehow larger than Thane's axe.

Even from a distance, the display was – as you'd said – amazing.

In fact, you'd much rather be watching this fight from a distance too, not sandwiched between the Grim Reaper and a literal giant.

You stand stock-still in place, half crouched and gawking as the horseman's arms whip through the air in an impressive whirlwind of motion. He hurls his twin scythes outwards, sending them spinning in a wide arc to cleave the heads from two of the golems before they curve right back into their wielder's hands, not dissimilar to a pair of deadly boomerangs.

He barely moves his feet, tilting on his heel every now and then which gives you the impression that he isn't used to fighting stationary like this. Three more corrupted constructs burst out of the ground a little too close to him, shifting one of the stone slabs he's balanced on and forcing him to jump to one side. The first grabs at his boot before it's even pulled itself free of the rock and Death's shoulders grow tense, rooted to the spot by one construct as the other two throw themselves into him at the same time, no doubt hoping to bring their opponent down by overwhelming him.

One of the remaining brutes that had been patiently hanging back from the carnage, waiting for the best opportunity to strike, realises that Death's attention is momentarily elsewhere. Its cumbersome head pivots slowly over to you and you watch as it tilts to the side, assessing you before attacking. The most unnerving aspect of the motion is that it implies this one is smarter than the others.

The construct has spotted its enemy's weakness within seconds, zeroing in on the soft spot, the vulnerability of the group. Even though it lacks any visible eyes, you still shudder, feeling rather than seeing its hateful gaze cut through to your soul, sharp as a knife. It stalks around to Death's right, allowing its corrupted brethren to feel the sting of his blades instead, until it lingers in the gap left bare between horseman and maker, your exposed flank. Realising its sinister intent, your jaw drops open around a scream, but it's as though your tongue has been coated in lead. All that comes out is a pitiful whine.

Like a gravelly bullet, the construct bounds into sudden motion and you blanch, frenziedly pulling your sword free of its scabbard and trying to bring the blade level with the creature's chest. It raises it's boulder of a fist into the air above you, ready to pummel you into an early grave.

Sucking in a gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and wince as a rush of air whizzes past your nose....

….An earth-shattering boom lifts you clear off the ground, only to crash back down again with a startled yelp. Blinking your eyes open and staggering for a moment, you glance up to see that in the few seconds between your gasp and the construct's blow, the young maker has swung around and smashed his hammer down hard on top of it. The hard, metal face of the weapon rests flat against the stone, mere inches from the toes of your boots.

Gobsmacked, your heart trembling away in a dark corner of your chest, you watch as he lifts the hammer again, chunks of debris falling like dry rain on your head. When you twist to meet his gaze, you're surprised even further to see that worry has replaced the confident smirk he'd tossed your way just minutes ago.

“You alright?” he pants, ears pinned back against his head.

On autopilot, you gulp loudly and offer a shaky nod, opening your mouth to reply, but movement behind him snaps your attention between his legs. Another construct, bigger than the rest of them with dark tendrils flaring from its shoulders and neck, is lurching straight for his exposed back. Instead of a club, this one wields a long, rusted blade in its oversized hand – a blade that's aimed straight at the base of the maker's spine.

For someone who tends to overthink a lot of her decisions after they've been made, you don't put a whole lot of thought into your next one.

An eerie feeling – the same you'd felt back in Father Michael's church – washes over you. You'd felt it when you saw Death, at the time who you thought was a fellow human, and you can feel it now. At a speed you hadn't known you could reach, you've gripped the sword in your hands and dived beneath the maker's cloth hauberk. “Oi! What're you-”

You're vaguely aware of a startled shout rumbling from the body above and the horseman barking your name, but you're already too far gone, too focused on the corrupt warrior to register the tight edge in Death's voice.

You burst out from between the giant legs and lift your sword, pointing it as steady as you can at the first vulnerability you find.

The neck.

Thick, oily tendrils dig into the golem's torso, stretching up and wrapping around its boulder head to keep the two connected together. It's into that stoneless gap between the body and face that you bury your blade up to the hilt, letting out a very unimpressive, garbled yell.

The golem, startled at the sight of a tiny, fleshy something barrelling towards it from under a maker's tunic, slows and all of a sudden jerks to a stuttering halt, finding a small sword sticking out the back of its neck. If it had any eyes, it would have blinked them, hard.

The sword and its wielder, though neither are at all daunting to look at, managed to sever the crucial strand of Corruption tying the head to its body and if the construct wasn't utterly brainless to begin with, it might have taken umbrage to meeting such a humiliating end. As it is, with nothing but a solid hunk of stone where a brain ought to be, it merely shudders once, teeters forwards and releases a final, rumbling moan. The heavy load brings it crashing to its knees, forcing you to stumble back and tug the sword out as you go, gaping dumbly as the golem's head wobbles, then tumbles down from its shoulders, bouncing off the huge chest before it drops heavily to the ground and cracks clean in two.

The volcano chooses that moment to give out a bellowing rumble, as if your impromptu slaying of a monster thrice your size had warranted a round of applause.

Gulping down desperate lungfuls of air, you hesitate a further second before exhaling loudly, your body folding in half as you rest your head on the pommel of the sword, tip stabbed into the ground for stability.

Corruption however, robbed of its host, is less inclined to suffer such a defeat.

All of a sudden, your head snaps back up as the black ooze begins to wiggle and squirm, a high pitched screech ringing out of an unseen mouth. It moves as a whole, coagulating onto the shoulders of the construct before it slips and pools into the depression where a head used to be like a sentient, bubbling puddle of viscous tar.

And then, it rises as one, stretching from the neck up and elongating into a thick, wet tendril, rearing back like a snake ready to strike. There are no eyes to meet, but you stare up at the rounded tip, knowing that it's staring right back, filled up with hate and malice as opposed to your horror and alarm.

You have all of a second to realise what it's planning before it suddenly strikes, moulding its head into a piercing spine that it aims directly at your vulnerable chest.

There isn't any time to think. Your hand remains frozen around the hilt of your sword, instinct screaming for you to move but your brain remains empty, a husk awaiting instruction from its host, and you have none to give it. There isn’t even the time to scream but you give it your best shot. However, as soon as your jaw drops and you suck down half a breath, a familiar, rawboned hand clamps around your shoulder and wrenches you backwards.

Death hurls you to the ground, out of his way and out of the rogue corruption's reach. You land painfully on your arm and cry out, dropping the sword with a loud clang.

Behind you, the horseman's scythes make short work of the liquid ooze. He drives them clean through its host's body until the rancid stuff gives out a final shriek, shudders and collapses in thick globules, splashing to the floor and seeping through the grout, finally silent.  

Placidity settles over the courtyard, save for the occasional hiss and spit of the lava flowing around in the burning lake far beneath your feet.

After a minute or two, a slow whistle to your left breaks the silence. “By the Stone!” the maker breathes, “That was....was-”

Suddenly, Death cuts him off, rounding on you with eyes brimming with explosive rage. “Foolish!? Idiotic!? Blindingly stupid!?”

Startled by his sudden ferocity, you try to back-peddle along the ground but he marches over to you and roughly grabs the scruff of your jumper, jerking you onto your feet, taking hold of one of your arms and lifting it away from your body, eyes narrowed suspiciously as they inspect you from head to toe.

“Death!” you try to protest, more embarrassed than nervous at this point. However, he puts one of his cold hands on your forehead and tilts it back, peering unscrupulously into your wide eyes.

“Death!” you bark again and grab his wrist, pushing it up to duck out from beneath it. Retreating to a safer distance, you brush yourself down and shoot him a wary frown. “What was that for?!”

His fingers twitch and he narrows his eyes back at you, thoroughly displeased. “That corruption came damn well near enough to touch you,” he retorts sharply, “I thought I told you not to let it close!”

“But-!”

“What if you'd been corrupted?” he continues, blatantly disregarding your attempted objection, “You know, difficult though it may be to believe, I wouldn't actually enjoy putting you down if that were the case.”

“If you would just listen-”

“You may well be the last human left alive. What were you th-”

“WILL YOU LET ME FINISH!”

The shriek that bursts from you without warning smacks the horseman square in the jaw, knocking any more words of anger off his tongue and startling him into silence.

Meanwhile, staying wisely out of the argument, the young maker winces at the volume, his ears twitching in time to your echoing voice as it bounces and reverberates around the mountainside.

You stick your chin out and tilt it at Death, chest heaving and glare hardening. “I was trying to stop it from corrupting him!” You jab a finger at the startled maker. “He didn't see it because he was busy saving me from a different one! What was I supposed to do? Just let it stab him first?”

Right as Karn opens his mouth to claim that he knew the golem had been there all along, Death's head snaps in his direction and he balks, glancing away from his fierce stare.

For several, tense moments, the horseman switches his focus from your timid face to the young maker, then down at the dead construct until eventually, his whole body seems to deflate. Eyeing you warily, he mumbles, “You're certain? You're certain it didn't touch you?”

You shake your head.

The horseman's chest swells and shrinks with a slow breath, aiming his harsh glare at the construct's severed head before his expression softens a little, barely enough to notice, and in a voice so gentle you can scarcely hear it over the distant rumbling from the volcano, he says, “Well done,” appraising you coolly.

Bowing your head, you rub sheepishly at one arm and turn to the maker, only to find him already staring down at you with a senseless smile pushing at the corners of his lips. When he notices you watching though, his titanic shoulders tense and he subtly snaps his head back to look up at the sky, eyes following the movements of a random cloud. “Oh – would you look at tha'....” he mutters distractedly.

Tentative in the face of a stranger now that the greater danger has passed, you stoop down, retrieve your discarded sword, pause to straighten out your jumper and venture a little closer, stopping once you're several feet from his metal boots.

His gaze roves down from the sky and he blanches at how much closer you've moved, looking up at him with those big, curious eyes. “Hello,” you chirrup.

“Uh...Hullo.” Drawn by a dull glint, he absently glances down to your hands. The moment Karn registers what you're holding onto, all the colour rushes back to his face, with a little extra it would seem, given the flush that tinges his cheeks and ears a soft rouge.

Rocking back on your heels, you force yourself to stand a little straighter so as not to betray your nerves and try to meet his eye, a difficult task considering he's no longer looking at you. “Hey, thanks for saving me back there.”

The maker doesn't say a word, only continues to stare at the sword in your hand.

“Um. You okay?” you ask, half as a general inquiry and half because he hasn't blinked yet.

Ever so slowly, mouth hanging slightly agape, he shakes his head from side to side. “No, no. I'm....M' Karn...”

You blink at him, thrown for a second before your lips quirk up and you snort.

At the sound of your amusement, he finally tears his eyes off the sword, realising what he'd said and immediately shakes his hands through the air, stammering, “Oh! N-No, I mean – I'm okay! You're Karn! Ach, no! I meant-” Mortified, he pinches his broad, flat nose between thumb and forefinger, slowly sighing, “I'm Karn.”

Your smile has been replaced by a full blown grin.

It feels good, having your mouth stretched open wide like that again.

“Well, it's very nice to meet you Karn. I'm Y/n.” Saying his name out loud clicks something together in your brain and you suddenly gasp. “Oh, you're Karn!”

“Ye'v heard of me?” he chirps, blinking in surprise before shaking his head and swiping a thumb beneath his nose. “I mean, course ye'v heard of me!”

“Yeah, Thane mentioned you. It's nice to finally meet you in person,” you reply warmly.

A pang of jealousy slugs him unexpectedly in the gut - jealousy that he hadn't been the one to meet you first.

Hesitant, your hands wring around the hilt of your sword until you finally hold it up for him to see. “Um, I think I found something of yours.”

“Heh. Yeah....yeah, you..you did.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he gestures at it with his chin, coughing softly. “How – er.  How'd you find that then?”

“Oh, well, Thane wouldn't let me leave the village without a weapon, so I dug around in a crate and just....sort of found it, I guess.”

The maker's eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Ol' Thane kept that? Huh. Thought Valus'd melted it down for scrap.”

Taking a breath, you're about to tell him that that's exactly what the warrior had said, but decide against it when you see Karn's pleasantly surprised expression. Instead, you purse your lips and shrug. “Welp. Apparently not!”

He falls quiet and gazes at you for several seconds whilst you chuckle awkwardly. It occurs to you that he might be waiting for you to give the blade back. After all, he did craft it and supposedly thought it lost. Now, he probably wants it returned.

Hurriedly unclipping the sword belt, you ask, “Oh, do you want it back?” and hold it out for him to take only to jerk back a moment later when the enormous man suddenly raises his burly hands and shakes them frantically in front of you.

“Oh no! You can keep it, s'yours!” As he speaks, he takes an involuntary step forwards, freezing with a grimace the instant you stumble away from him, worry etched between your brows.

“S-sorry!” he stammers and retreats again, tugging at the scarf around his neck, “Didn't mean to scare you! M'just..surprised!”

You quirk your head, heartbeat slowing. “Surprised? Why?”

“You could've chosen any weapon out of Thane's arsenal, and you chose that one?”

Frowning, you turn a quizzical squint onto the sword. “Yeah? What's wrong with it? You made it, didn't you?”

He gives you an incredulous look and glances from side to side, as though he's waiting for you to reach some sort of conclusion on your own. When you still look as lost as ever, he bobs his head and carefully drawls, “Aye, that would be what's wrong with it.”

Without missing a beat, you harrumph and take a step closer, brushing his self deprecating comment aside easily. “Ah, no artist is ever happy with their own craft. I happen to think it's great.”

Behind you, Death crosses his arms, sporting an expression that falls flatter and flatter with every passing second. 'If this maker turns any redder, he'll explode.'

Oblivious to the horseman's inner monologue at his expense, Karn audibly gulps. “You do?”

Tutting, your grin widens. “Yeah, course I do. It killed that golem, didn't it?”

“Aye-” He laughs breathlessly, glancing over at the pile of rubble. “-Aye, it did.” From the ground, you watch his face go through several different expressions as he stares at it, working a tusk between his upper lip before he looks back at you and simply blurts, “Can I ask you a question?”

Death has to resist the urge to throw his head back and groan.

A little self conscious under his sudden, excited gaze, you rest your hands on your hips and shrug. “Okay, I guess?”

Once again, he seems to struggle through another couple of expressions, from ecstatic to nervous, doubtful and back again, until at last, he drops to one knee so heavily, you have to throw your arms out for balance when the ground shudders beneath your feet. “What are you? Exactly?”

Now it's your turn to be surprised. “Oh! Well, I'm...I'm just a human. You've never seen a human before?”  

“Ach! A human! Of course!” He thunks a hand against the side of his head. “That makes more sense, sorry.” Resting one forearm over his bent knee, the young maker gives you a slow once-over, starting at your boots and ending at the hair on top of your head. “No, I've never met a human, heard about you though. Probably should have connected the dots.”

“Yes, and your ignorance doesn't show. At all,” Death grumbles, at last electing to break up whatever odd little greeting is happening here. He steps up next to you, eyeing the maker boredly for a minute before declaring, “You're different than the others...” Then, leaning back and placing a hand on his cocked hip, he adds, “Less pleasant on the eyes, for one.”

You shoot the horseman an exasperated glare whereas the maker simply huffs through his nose, brow drawing together. Not wanting to lose face in front of the first human he's ever met, he retorts, “Feh! I could say no less for you.”

“Death,” you interject before someone decides to take real offence, “this is Karn. He made my sword!”

Death casts his calculating eyes up and down the giant and hums dismissively. “So I gathered.”

Karn plasters a grin back on his face as he pushes himself upright again and stretches his arms up towards the sky, biceps flexing imposingly. Peeking one eye open, he's put out to discover that you're too busy trying to stuff the sword back into its sheath to notice his impressive display.

Faltering for just a second, he quickly drops his arms, hoists the thick, leather belt up higher on his waist and clears his throat, effectively getting your attention. “Aye, you've probably heard folks around town calling me 'Pup,' or 'Lad.' But, uh...” He scratches his chin stubble and sends you a shy smile. “But I prefer my own name.”

'S'pecially the way you say it,' he thinks to himself.

“Pup it is then”

Karn blinks, then shrinks.

Sparing the smug horseman a dirty glare, he stuffs his hands under his armpits and shrugs. “As you will. Matters not to me.” The dark scowl falls away as soon as he catches your eye again. “So, what're you two doing here?”

“We took a wrong turn,” Death quips, “Now it seems we're stuck here with the rest of you.”

“No, I mean - what're you doing here, at the Cauldron? Didn't you hear? It fell to Corruption fair long ago.”

A fleck of burning ash flutters out of the sky to land on the horseman's shoulder. He watches the feeble embers flicker and die as they touch his cold skin before raising a hand and nonchalantly brushing it off. “I'll take my chances. Your elder seems to think that I'm the best hope you have of restoring the mountain's fire.”

“That's why I'm here!” Karn exclaims and taps his chest enthusiastically, “I came here for that self same purpose!”

“Really?” you chirp.

The young maker practically glows under the warmth of your impressed stare. Lifting his chin and hooking his thumbs into the backpack's straps, he sniffs, “Oh, aye. Figured I'd pop the cork, so to speak. You know, be the hero.”

“So why haven't you?”

“Whassat now?”

Karn falters, his focus moving back to the horseman, who blinks languidly up at him and repeats, “Why haven't you then?”

“Oh..I – er...Well, I..” He trails off into an awkward silence, painfully aware of your curious eyes peering up at him. “Well, I tried!” he insists eventually, “But the Cauldron is locked up well and tight, and the way through is swallowed by fire!”

Just then, Karn's ears perk back up and he sweeps a proper look over the horseman. “Say...You look capable enough. Perhaps you can find a way. I'll wait here with...with Y/n and guard the entrance.”

An explorer at heart, first and foremost, Karn's natural curiosity has been gnawing away at his belly from the moment he first laid eyes on you and he'd be lying if he said he hasn't been itching to learn as much as possible - although the prospect of spending time alone with you sets his heart thundering and causes the palms of his hands to grow slick with sweat. Still, this could be the perfect opportunity to-

“Oh, I'm going with Death.”

Now, as most people do, Karn would like to consider himself a fairly composed maker, definitely not the kind that chokes on their own spit and has to thump themselves in the chest several times while a radiant human and glowering horseman watch on.

Coughing and spluttering, he eventually manages to blurt, “You what?”

Casting him a bemused smile, you repeat, “I'm going with him.”

“Are you now?” the horseman muses beside you.

Your fists clench and flex for a moment, glancing tentatively between the Cauldron's ominous front doors and back to him several times until your mouth sets into a firm line and you give him a tight-lipped nod. “Yup.” To stay behind means to be still. To be still means to think and to think means to dwell....You dread the stillness, dreaded it more than you dread whatever lies in wait within the Cauldron.. It leaves you no protection from your ghosts. You'll have to face them eventually, of that you have no doubt. But not yet.

“Are you sure?” he presses, turning to face you, peering down into your darting eyes, his own unblinking. It suddenly occurs to you that you might be undergoing some kind of test. “I never said you couldn't change your mind,” he continues, tone unreadable.

At your back, the maker shifts noisily, worrying at his lower lip. 'No, no, no! We've only just met! Don't leave now!' In a ditch effort to sway your decision, he pipes up. “It's dangerous in there!” Inquisitively, you swivel your head around towards him as he stammers, “S'pecially for a little feller like you. You thought that last fight was bad? It – It'll be ten times worse inside!”

“I know, but I said I'd help Death.”

The horseman snorts. “It's far more likely you'll be a hinderance. Particularly,” he emphasizes, raising his voice, “if you go haring off on your own to tackle something that's almost triple your size.”

Wringing your hands, you swallow down on your fear, insisting, “I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

Skeptical, he quirks a brow and peers down at you. “So, you'll stay close?”

“Yes Death.”

“But not so close that you'll get in the way?”

“No Death.”

“And you'll do precisely what I say, when I say it?”

Squashing down the urge to groan and roll your eyes, you mumble, “Within reason.”

One of the horseman's eyelids gives a volatile twitch.

“I mean, yes Death.”

The stern Nephilim scrutinises you for another long moment. Finally, he uncrosses his arms and nods slowly, the hard edge vanishing from his tone. “Alright then.. Good.” Jerking his head for you to follow, he spins on a heel and marches for the square, stone doors set into the mountain, calling, “Because I do not want to have that conversation with the Old ones if I return to Tri Stone without you.”

A little taken aback that he’d conceded, you stare after him dumbly.

“You've already failed the first step!”

You jump, shaking yourself and hurrying to catch up whilst throwing Karn a tentative wave over your shoulder. “It was nice to meet you by the way! See you around?”

Karn, for his part, wants to scream.

Instead, he can only seem to stare helplessly at you as you jog further and further away from him. His hand raises of its own accord to reach out while his heart, mind and soul shriek at him to just snatch you from the horseman and retreat back to the safety of Tri Stone.

But he doesn't.

Because he's a fraud, too ashamed for wanting to remain outside where it's safer while you – a human –  willingly head inside, armed with nothing but the shoddy sword he crafted almost five hundred years ago.

Once you've crossed the long portcullis and made it to the entrance, Death throws the door open and ushers you through.

Quite abruptly, Karn's feet come unfastened from the ground and he finds himself stumbling several, heavy steps after you, thoughts of just going with you leaping to the forefront of reason. If you can go and try to help, then why can't he?

As he reaches the foot of the bridge however, the young maker suddenly lurches to a stop, another, unwelcome thought springing up and cutting through the rest.

He already has tried...

He'd gone in another dungeon with someone before; Alya and her brother, guided them through a place known as the Shattered Forge.

And in trying to 'help,' Karn had almost cost the twins their lives.

His hand drops to hang limply at his side, mouth twisting into a dejected grimace as he watches the doors slide shut in Death's wake, sealing you inside and leaving him alone in the courtyard.

Perhaps...it would be safer for everyone if he did remain behind.....

As usual...

----------------------------------------------

“That...is a big cork.”

“Very perceptive.”  

Standing in front of you, rising from the hard floor of the Cauldron like an oversized bath-plug, is the very obstacle that needs to be shifted if Death is to restore fire to the maker's forge. The 'cork,' as Karn had dubbed, is about the size of a small house, made entirely of thick, dark metal and shackled to the bale on top are the most impressive chains you've ever seen, bigger and wider than the ones that cargo ships drop to weigh anchor.

You gawk at a pair of immense weights hanging from the ceiling while Death scouts out the room, eyes landing on an unassuming door in the closest right hand corner.

”How're we ever gonna shift that?” you wonder aloud, “No way you're that strong.” Then, after you feel the horseman's terse stare hit the side of your head, you flatly point out, “Death, I refuse to believe you have the same upper body strength as a maker.”

Giving you his best 'offended' glower, he scoffs and shakes his head, starting for the door. “Be that as it may, I doubt the ancients intended for this ‘cork’ to be removed....manually..”

“What're you saying, there's a button somewhere that can do it for us?” you ask, hopeful.

“Perhaps. We just have to find it first..”

“The solution's never in the first room, is it?” Blowing out a sigh, you trail behind him through to the next room, sweat already beginning to pour down your forehead. “Whoo boy! It is hot!”

“Is it? And here I thought we'd found ourselves back in the Crowfather's realm..”

Suddenly, Death tenses at the feeling of your fingers brushing against his tricep, a soft gasp pushing your lips apart. “You might as well be, how're you still so cold!?”

Groaning, the horseman thinks back on the days where he could travel in and out of dungeons like this one without the sound of inane chatter filling the silence. Conversation and Death have never gone hand in hand, a fact you seem to be blatantly unaware of. As you remark upon how lucky he is not to be suffering in this stifling heat, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “This will take some getting used to...”

---------------------------------------------

For the better part of the next, Earth hour, you and the horseman traipse, traverse and fight through the Cauldron's depths. Well, Death does all of the fighting and most of the traversing whereas you handle the traipsing.

Vast, twisting corridors stretch from chamber to chamber, their ceilings caved in or crumbling to reveal the blue sky above, rays of sunlight falling in through the gaps. Tiny specks of volcanic ash flit around in the air, perpetually lifted by the warmth underfoot. Every now and again, in the more cavernous, lava-choked rooms, you hear the call of strange birds echo from the leafy foliage and vines growing in and along the roof. Sometimes, Dust even issues an answering caw from his various perches. Once or twice, he's hopped from Death's shoulder to yours, then from you to the head of a statue resembling a strangely familiar maker.

Thirst tickles at the back of your scratchy throat every time you swallow, though you push through it, knowing that while Death may be a perfectly adequate line of defence against the beasts of this dungeon, you can't afford to lose focus for a second. Not in here.

The air is thick with heat and it had taken nearly ten whole seconds for you to peel off your thick jumper and tie it around your waist. Clad in a skirt, black tank top and the boots Valus made, you pad after Death beneath a stone archway into a rectangular room that falls away on one side into a deep pit filled with broiling lava. Your path continues on the other side but so far as you can tell, there isn't a way across, unless you fancy trying to jump and grab one of the thick, rusted chains that hang from the ceiling high overhead and extend down, disappearing into the lava.

To the left, a strange type of what you assume is the local flora grows on the wall, bursting out of the stone work and your eye is caught by a spiked, black ball with sickly-green light pulsating from several, deep cracks running along its surface. “Hey, what's this?”

Death turns from where he'd leant over the side to peer into the river of lava and starts to ask what you're talking about when his body suddenly freezes. 

“Y/n!” he snaps, “Don't!-”

But it's too late. You've already pulled the otherworldly football from its nest of sticky webbing and glanced over at him. “Don't what?”

If he had any time to spare, Death would have smacked a hand over his mask.

In three seconds flat, he marches over, snatches the growth out of your hands, spins on his heel and pitches it across the gap, not a moment too soon. It soars in a graceful arc before sticking to a long, metal bar set against a round platform unindented from the newel post at the bottom of a stone staircase.

A beat passes in which you open your mouth to protest. Then -

'BOOM!'

The spiked ball hisses once before exploding in a flash of blinding light.

Death pivots his head around stiffly to glare at you and he raises his forefinger, pointing it warningly at your stunned expression. At that moment, a grinding sound echoes throughout the chamber and you both look across the gap to see that the metal bar that had suffered the brunt of the explosion is slowly sliding into the newel, shrieking in protest against the tight confines of the stone notch. It slots into place with an audible click, and seconds later, a steady rumble jerks you on your feet as the heavy chains begin to clank and creak, raising up out of the lava and pulling something heavy up with them. In no time, a long, blackened metal bridge lifts into view, fitting perfectly across the wide gap and screeching to to a noisy stop.

You glance over at Death, just in time to see his scowl darken. For a moment, thick, impenetrable silence hangs over the hallway, until a grin brightens your features. “Ha, ha! You can't be mad at me. I solved a puzzle!”

He grumbles something under his breath and stalks across the new bridge. “It wouldn't have been difficult to figure out. Your idiocy just beat me to it.”

Put out by the harsh term, your smile fades and you kick at a loose stone, sending it tumbling off the bridge into the lava below. Death gives you a sideways glance and heaves an exasperated sigh. “Just...don't go grabbing any more shadow bombs. Emphasis on the 'bomb' part.”

Nodding sheepishly, you reach the other side and find your attention immediately snatched by something else.

“What about that? Can I grab that?”

He follows your line of sight to a small table, tucked away in a dark corner behind the staircase, illuminated by a lonely wall-sconce. Resting on the slab of wood is a round object about the size of a bicycle wheel. It glitters prettily in the fire's glow and casts tiny freckles of light all along the wall. Before he can tell you to leave the mystery object, you've veered off towards it.

“Y/n, no. We cannot afford to keep stopping to investigate every piece of rubbish you find,” he gripes, huffing as he's promptly ignored.“Honestly, you're worse than Dust.”

He receives an objectionable hiss from the crow perched on a finial by the steps.

“What is this thing?” you murmur, grabbing a pair of handles sticking out on either side and heaving it into your arms. Though made entirely of a green metal, inlaid with a coppery trim, it's surprisingly light. “It...It's a platter!” you exclaim to a thoroughly uninterested horseman.

“Marvellous.”

“It is!” you insist, running a hand over the inside of the bowl, your warped reflection gazing back at you from a solid silver interior. Curious, you flip it over to look at the back as well. Intricate, golden patterns circle the outer rim and scribed in the centre is a pair of hammers, one crossed over the other.

“I..I think this might be Karn's.”

Pausing midway up a step, Death's face twists behind his mask. “How in the world did you come to that conclusion?”

“S'got hammers on it.” Keeping a tight grip on the golden handles, you trot up the stairs after him. 

Scoffing, the horseman continues the ascent. “Most makers have used a hammer at one point or another. It's crafter is probably long gone by now. Leave it.”

Instead, you hug it tighter to your chest. “I will not. What if it is Karn's?”

“So what if it is?”

“Well, he'd probably want it back! I know I would.”

Death's face refuses to drop its incredulous expression. He shakes his head and strolls off the top step into a huge, empty room. “You don't owe him anything.”  

“He saved me from that construct,” you point out.

“And then you saved him. So, you're even.”

“You ever think about doing nice things for people without expecting something in return?

“....Quiet.”

“I'm just saying - Mmph!”

Without warning, Death has spun around and pressed a gentle finger to your lips, eyes narrowed in concentration and head cocked, listening. Pulling a face at the proximity of his grimy wrist wrappings to your taste buds, you pull away and throw him a questioning glance. In a flash, his hand moves from your mouth to his scythes, drawing them and spinning around in a slow circle, head darting in every direction, searching for an unseen threat.

Unseen, but not unheard.

You can hear it now, a low, steady hum, growing louder and louder until the tiny pebbles at your feet begin to dance and jump, skittering across the ground. Heart in your throat, you stare at them, whimpering quietly, “Something's coming!”

He growls, hackles raised. “Something's already here.”

But where? The acoustics in the room throw any sound around sporadically, rendering it nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact origin of the odd humming. Keeping his back to you, the horseman strains his sensitive ears and grits his teeth.“We need to move towards the middle of the room. We're too close to the w-”

Without warning, an explosion of dust and stone detonates just metres away and you're thrown forwards, letting go of the platter and landing in a heap on your stomach, cracking your jaw painfully on the hard stone.

Over the ringing in your ears, from somewhere nearby yet strangely far away, you become aware of Death's gravelly voice repeating, “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

Coughing up a mouthful of dust and grit, you push yourself onto shaking elbows, rolling over with a strained grunt and blearily squinting up at the out-of-focus shadow towering over you. Another slow blink or two and your vision clears, revealing the source of the explosion.

What little moisture is left on your tongue instantly evaporates at the gruesome sight.

A colossal construct has burst out of the wall behind you. This one...this one is bigger, much bigger that the rest you've encountered so far. It's covered from the dark barbute helm on its bulky head to stumpy feet in jet black corruption which rises in thick, wobbling globules from its back, breaking off when the strands are pulled too thin and sinking again like the world's most sinister lava lamp.

Patches of moss grow all over it's body, between the cracks in the stone and the massive spikes jutting out from the shoulder pauldron, blunt and weathered from age. It has an arm held aloft threateningly, the entire forearm made up of a rigid sphere of solid rock where a hand should be. Thick prongs of corruption stick up all over the rough surface, reminding you of the medieval maces they keep in museums.  

The giant construct rumbles low and menacing before it rocks back on its heels, spreads its arms wide and bellows out a sound that could be a name if it weren't so warped and garbled. “GHARN!” Several corrupted tendrils roiling between 'Gharn's' joints peel away from the stone flesh and begin extending down towards you.

All of a sudden, a flash of grey and brown obscures the golem from view.

“D-Death!?”

You stare up at the horseman's sinewy back, pale skin stretched so taut over his vertebrae, you're surprised it hasn't split around the bone. He's dropped into a low crouch above you, one boot braced on either side of your knees and a scythe poised behind his back, ready and waiting to be brought forwards at a moment's notice. The construct groans, confused for a second as its dull intellect races to register the new opponent.

Slowly, Death stalks forward and circles around it, making sure the huge brute swings around as well, keeping it's 'gaze' fixed on him instead of you.

The tension is so tightly drawn, you could pluck a finger in mid air and hear a chord play. Then, just when it reaches snapping point, Death lunges.

Gharn flinches at his unexpected burst of speed but recovers almost immediately, throwing its mace-fist down into the space he'd occupied just milliseconds before and letting it spin like a buzz saw, grinding the floor up into rubble.

Death ducks beneath its arm and strafes behind the immense construct, forcing it to yank it's still spinning hand from the ground and make a tight turn, teetering on its struts. From behind, Death slashes at it, pulling an enraged bellow from the depths of its body and as it tries to land another devastating blow, he leaps right for it and slides between its legs, righting himself on the other side and carving his scythes across the width of its back again.

Belting out another infuriated roar, the golem heaves its bulk around. With impossible grace, Death jumps straight up into the air and gives its head a few, sharp strikes with his blades. To defend itself, it brings its arms up to cover its head, the corrupted tentacles on its shoulders screeching raggedly.

Dropping to the ground, Death spares a few, fatal second to turn to you, pointing towards a door at the far end of the room. “Go!” he orders, “Don't just stand there! Mo-”

He hadn't expected the golem to move so fast. Neither had you, to be honest, and you'd been looking right at it, saw it pull back one arm and thrust it at a startling velocity, connecting with the horseman's ribs and knocking him into the wall on the far side with a resounding 'smack!'

“DEATH!” you screech, a swell of terror pinching your voice while ‘Gharn’ marches after him.  

From across the room, Death's eyes flutter open and closed and he groans, glancing up a mere fraction too late.

The construct's fingers close around his skull, enveloping his entire head in its stone fist and lifting him up off his feet before it slams him into the wall again and again, even as his hands come up to scrabble at the immovable arm.

“Put him down!”

Either it doesn't hear your frantic shriek, or it simply doesn't care.

Sweaty, trembling fingers take hold of your sword but you pause. Against a monster that size, what good will a blade do? What about your gun?....No, even more ineffective...

Looking wildly around the room for something, anything else that could help, your eyes eventually settle on the discarded dish resting several metres to your right. Jaw set, you scramble over to it and snag one of the handles, lifting it into the air and grabbing a loose chunk of brick that had once been part of the wall in your other hand. Holding both in the air in in front of you, you will your legs to stop quivering, face contorted in abject fear. “I said, LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

Fuelled by panic, you swing the rock and platter together with all your might. The resonant clang produced by stone on metal rents the air asunder, loud as a gong, shrill as an alarm. It sets the teeth in your skull rattling and finally, finally draws the construct's attention away from Death. Sluggishly, almost leisurely, its head slowly swivels around to find you.

Corruption senses life, not from the body dangling from its fingers, but from the audacious little creature challenging it from the other side of the room.

Parasitic, discontented with its body of heavy boulders, it puppeteers the construct, dropping Death in an undignified heap on the ground and trundling in your direction.

You watch it come, blood roaring in your ears as tendrils of dark ooze stretch from its body, swaying hypnotically before they cluster together into one, thick tentacle.

The gentle sigh that slips out between your lips is resigned and quiet, worlds away from the shout that had preceded it.

The stone giant trudges to a lazy stop several feet from you, its head angled down, corruption sliding an little rivers along its bulky arms before lifting from the cold rock and stretching, reaching out towards you.

Holding the silver platter close to your chest, you gulp and take a single, stiff step back. On shaking limbs, you fight to remain as upright as possible, grinding out through clamped teeth, “I'm not afraid of you...”

A blatant lie. Not even a very good one.

The hatred pouring out of the putrid substance is as tangible as the stone it clings to. You can feel it. A thicker, wetter heat than the Cauldron's atmosphere. From this proximity, it sticks to your skin like a feverish sheen and invades your throat and nostrils with its stench of rotten meat.

And then....the fear, the ubiquitous dread....vanishes, like it had never been there at all.

A heavy weight droops over your mind and lays there, lazily swelling and bulging outward to push everything else aside. All that exists in these few moments is you and the Corruption.

Dimly, you have to wonder if you'll even be aware, if it'll hurt, if you'll hurt anyone else...

...If it would be better this way...

You don't even notice that your legs have stopped quaking, nor that you've lowered the metal dish, exposing your shivering heart. You are very tired. What if you just....L̴et́ it̀ ͢h͢a̡p͝p̵e͝n̶?

You could just.....L̶et͡ me in

Yeah.

Yeah, why not?

Aren't yo̡ú t͟ir͟ed of f̵̶͡ig̢̛͏ht҉i͝n͏g̀͞?

The fog grows denser. Even the voice in your head sounds strange, as if it isn't your own anymore.

Out of nowhere, your brain explodes when a howl – deep and powerful – rips right through it, forcing you to drop the platter and clutch frantically at your ears, watching through squinted eyes as the Corruption recoils, flaring up above you and thrashing wildly through the air. With a pop, your mind abruptly clears and you let out a scream of your own, an influx of terror flooding back into your body. 'Where the Hell had that gone?'

Prying the hands out of your hair, you crane your neck back to look up at the construct and gasp.

Death has leapt up onto its back and in one, swift motion, he's hooked his scythes beneath its chin, braced his legs against the solid trapezius and pulled.

A sickening squelch curls your stomach when he wrenches the head clean off its neck and severs the corruption's connection along with it. The Construct begins to teeter backwards on its struts, so Death kicks off its back, somersaulting forwards to land expertly in front of you. He merely regards you, still as a statue whilst the rest of the giant golem collapses to the ground, its body crumbling now that corruption no longer holds its pieces together.

Only when the room settles, when the walls have stopped shaking and the booming vibrations have dissipated into the regular murmur of the volcano, do you dare risk meeting Death's irascible eyes.

He's angry, that much is obvious. But it's different from of anger he'd expressed outside with Karn. This anger is cold and dangerous, a jagged edged sword that he holds - not pointed out - but in.  

The horseman's chest doesn't move around rigid breaths like yours does, he doesn't blink or shudder from adrenaline. All he does is look at you and ponder. Oh, he's enraged, of course. He's livid at you for intervening....Yet there's something else mingled into the mix, something that reins in his temper and curbs it in another direction.

He hadn't expected the blasted construct to move so fast. He had gotten complacent, and it almost cost him dearly.

It's the same sensation he gets when he considers his little brother's predicament, of laying chained before the Charred Council and subjected to all manner of cruel punishments.

War can endure, he's tougher than the rest of them, but that doesn't stop Death from doing as older brothers often do. Not even the Reaper is an exception to that universal rule.

He worries – is worried - about a human.

The moment he places the familiar, uncomfortable prod at his gut, he squashes it down, letting his eyes slide shut at last. 'Three times,' he growls internally, 'Three times she's done that. Three times she's rushed to the defence of someone else, but failed to defend herself.'

Troubled, Death's eyebrows furrow even further, casting dark shadows over his luminous eyes. The first time had been on Earth, where she'd bolted into a horde of demons to help him – a stranger. However, when those same demons turned their attention to her, she froze.

Again, outside the Cauldron, a construct had been mere inches away from pulverising the jittery human, yet her feet remained stuck fast to the ground until that maker, Karn, saved her life. Then, as soon as she realised he was in trouble, she didn't hesitate to intercept his attacker.  

And here, moments ago, she drew Gharn away from him, even though it meant risking her life, a life that she then seemed ready to cast aside all too easily.

It's a pattern he recognises all too well, having walked a similar path himself. The path to self destruction.

'Survivor's guilt,' the Keeper of Oblivion had said to him once eons ago, mere months after he and his siblings had purged the Nephilim from existence once and for all. The wizened old maker had received a cutting retort for his observation, and a new, unsightly hold in his front door.

It took a full century before the horseman was ready to admit that the Keeper had been spot on.

Death has never once regretted what he did to the Nephilim. What happened was necessary. Necessity however, did not grant him immunity from guilt. And guilt is as far from regret as angels are from demons.

This mindset would need to be nipped in the bud if you're to stop almost getting yourself killed every five minutes. 'But how?' Challenging you about your behaviour now would only prove counterproductive. The Cauldron is neither the time, nor the place. And he is probably not the most qualified person to be confronting you to begin with. No, deft though he may be, you're in a frame of mind that even he's too heavy-handed to fix. As much as the proud horseman is loathe to admit it – he may have to consult with Eideard about this. Death barely suppresses a groan as he resigns himself to the long, uncomfortable conversation he'll be sure to have upon the return to Tri Stone.

Peeling his eyes open again, he catches your grimace, and frowns.

You're cowering - down and back - submissive, as though you're expecting him to lash out.

He supposes that's fair, given his initial reaction when you were attacked outside. He might have to blame that one on an eternity of being the eldest brother of four.

Willing his hackles back down to their rightful places on either side of his spine, Death expels a steadying breath and lowers himself onto one knee in front of you. Even at half his height, you barely stand a few inches taller than him.

Gradually, your grimace falls at the un-horseman-like motion, replaced by cautious curiosity that escalates after he murmurs, “Are you alright?”.

Uncertainty plaguing your expression, your eyes dart left and right before finding his again. “Y-yeah. It...it didn't touch me,” you utter, hugging your sides, “You're not angry?”

The skin under his eye sockets crinkles, moved by a hidden smirk. “Why would I be angry?”

“Beeecause you were before?” you cautiously point out.

Death blinks. Then, quite suddenly, he ducks his head low, shoulders quaking behind silent laughter.

A little affronted, your face twists into a frown. “What? What's so funny?”

“Ah, forgive me,” he chuckles, waving a pacifying hand through the air, “I just - ahem -That was quite endearing, you assumed I was angry? Because I raised my voice at you outside?”

“Isn't that what angry people do?”

“That wasn't anger, that was-” Death falters, jaw clacking shut around the word that almost escaped him. Clearing his throat, he instead veers the conversation in another direction. “You haven't seen me angry, girl. Not yet, at least.”

“Oh...” You bite your lip, focused on the ground. After another second, you raise your head again, some of the tension gone from your shoulders and tone. “Well...You let me know if that ever happens, okay? I want a good head start.”

Telltale smirk creeping back into place, the horseman nods,“I'll do that.”

Glancing back at Gharn, he gently adds, “By the way, good thinking with the dish. It was starting to get claustrophobic in there. That was rather brave, on your part.”

At his words, you perk up. “It...It was?”

Hands twitching sporadically, Death begins to reach out for your arm only to hesitate halfway there. Then, clearing his throat, he draws it back, fingers curling in on themselves as he drops them across his bent knee instead. Whatever tenderness had been present in his tone is promptly flushed by a gruff cough as he pushes himself back onto his feet. “Yes. Brave - but it was also foolish. You're only lucky that my recovery time is so impeccable.”

“Yeah,” you hastily agree, “Yeah, I guess I am...Thanks, Death.”

Humphing, he spins about face and makes for the door, though not without gently murmuring over his shoulder, “Thank you, Y/n.” Just like that, his regular tone returns, gruff and business as usual. “Now come. We should move on before any other surprises decide to burst through the wall.”

In higher spirits, you pat straighten up, pat down your skirt and jog after him. “Right, good pla- Oh! Hold on a sec!”

Death throws a cursory glance around and finds you back-peddle a ways, bend down to pick up the discarded platter and brush it free of stone chips. “Okay, got it!” you chirp and scamper back towards him, prize in hand.

“Still keeping that thing are you?” he remarks as you fall into step on his left.

“Yep. If it weren't for this thing doubling as an excellent gong, that construct would never have let you go.”

You pass underneath the low, door frame into a grand, ruinous hallway. Urns, pots and ceramic vases lay scattered all along the sides. Death places a hand on his chest and splays his fingers wide in mock surprise. “The dish made that sound!? I thought that jarring noise came out of your mouth!”

-------------------------

The two of you continue walking down the corridor in companionable silence for a while.

Something appears to have shifted out from between the two of you. Just a small thing, a sort of wall that had been thrown up haphazardly upon meeting each other. Oddly enough, you don't feel quite so alone walking next to the Grim Reaper anymore.

Unbeknownst to you, his piercing gaze has turned subtly to one side, roving up and down your figure before it flicks forwards again.

Perhaps it was just Death's imagination, but in that rapid glance, he would swear he noticed you walking a little straighter, steps a little longer and surer, and beneath his bone mask, the horseman's lips stretch a little wider.

After a few more minutes, you step through another doorway and emerge out into another high-walled chamber, finding yourselves standing on an overlook, affording you an impressive view of the floor below. Meanwhile, sitting in the middle of the overlook, on a raised dais surrounded by circular, crumbling steps, is a sturdy capstan winch, set upright into the stone.

“Hey!” you suddenly pipe up, springing over to the dais and round the small staircase, skidding to a halt before the drop off. Leaning over and blowing out a shrill whistle, you swipe a hand through the sweat gathered on your head. “There's the cork!” Indeed, stretched out before you is the entrance to the Cauldron, and the colossal plug keeping the Fire of the Mountain under a tight lid. From up here, you can see steam built up under pressure escaping through the tiniest gaps in the metalwork. “All that work and we end up back to square one? Boo.”

On the other hand, Death is busy casting his eyes over the dais and humming thoughtfully. “Perhaps not. Look there.” He rubs at his mask's chin. “I think this might be the solution to our problem.”

Spinning about, you follow his line of sight and smirk. “Famous last words,” you pant, stretching out your back and wincing at a series of loud pops and cracks following the motion. “You said that about the last lever.”

Turning his mask to give you an uppity glance, he promptly scoffs, “Yes, well when I'm wrong, it's never twice in the same day.”

The sound of your stifled snort reaches his ears, no matter how quickly and firmly you slap a hand over your mouth to disguise it.

Grumbling halfheartedly under his breath, he stalks up the stairs and stops to stroke a palm over the winch's handle. “Perhaps I should let you do the honours?”

“I mean....I'll try if you want me to. Wouldn't want to steal your thunder though.”

“Of course not,” he rumbles, getting into position.

Bracing his hands on the horizontal lever, he gives it a shove to get it moving. At first, the metal cog wheels screech objectionably, fused to each other under years of rust but with another, firm push, they bow under the horseman's might and finally begin to turn. You watch, spellbound as he throws his whole body into turning it, leant forwards, arms tense and steady on the bar, he digs his toes into the ground with every step, forcing the winch to turn in a tight, concise circle around its pivot.

There's a loud clang behind you, and upon whirling about, you realise that the two monumental weights that dangle from the ceiling above have begun to gradually lower as the chains connected to the plug raise higher, pulled taut by their burden.  

Death's movements come to a jarring halt once the weights hit the ground and shoot resonant tremors throughout the whole chamber. He stands, swiping his bandaged hands together and makes his way down the steps to watch next to you as the 'cork' gives an almighty groan, and then, it shifts, twisting a foot or so to the right before sluggishly lifting up and out of the hole it had been slotted into, tugged free by the gargantuan chains.

“You did it!” Bouncing on your toes, you point excitedly down into the pit that slowly fills with molten lava and pours down a carved, stone trench, disappearing underneath the Cauldron's front entrance and no doubt flowing its way through a subterranean tunnel into town.

Your shoulder is unexpectedly bumped by the horseman's elbow. “I think you participated just enough to consolidate this a 'we' situation.”  

“Seriously?” you ask, turning an owlish stare to his mask, “I helped?”

Cocking his head, Death makes a big show of considering his answer while you watch, that dull glimmer of hope refusing to die out. Eventually, he looks at you again, holds up a hand and curls his thumb and forefinger together until the pads are almost touching. “Just barely.”

The grin that breaks like sunshine across your face is so immeasurably wide, he nearly tells you to stop it, lest you hurt yourself.

Instead, he rolls his eyes and places his knuckles on the base of your spine, giving you another nudge towards a door on the far side of the overlook. “Now don't go getting too cocksure. You're still as breakable as a porcelain doll.”

Even his dig at your fragility can't quite extinguish the tiny flutter of elation in your stomach. It won't last, of course. You're sadly aware of that. So you plan on riding the precious feeling for as long as you possibly can.

With your hands still clasped safely around the silver and gold platter's handles, you mosey alongside the horseman, glad to finally be leaving the oppressive heat.

[sunnydwrites]

Writing Injuries

[ What a fitting topic, seeing as I’ve been inactive for almost a month now due to my own injury. ] Hey everyone, it’s Abby with a writing advice post! This week we’re talking about injuries, and we’re going a little in-depth.

So let’s get one thing down, real quick: Being injured sucks. But this guide isn’t anything close to comprehensive, and it’s definitely not the only thing you should be relying on for this topic. This is meant to help you get started and build a general base on injuries, treatments, effects, etc.

In this guide, we will not be talking about an injury’s effects on mental health; that topic on its own is extensive enough to be covered in a post of its own (which may very well happen eventually).

Actually Getting Hurt

This is arguably the hardest part to write. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly which event would realistically create the “desired” injury here, but there are general things to go by and things to pay attention to here. If you want to go more in-depth, I would highly recommend @scriptmedic‘s blog; injuries are kind of their thing.

Pay attention to anatomy.

Some things don’t have nearly as big of an effect as you’d think they would, and others are the complete opposite. Your anatomy knowledge will come in handy here; know the most easily injured parts of the body and how to avoid those injuries, and write them in. Some examples of this include (taken from real life experience):

I slammed my finger in a car door not too long ago (just above the first knuckle). I couldn’t use that finger for a day or two but there was serious bruising in that one knuckles; my nail eventually fell off and that’s about it.

Practicing a bit too roughly before my martial arts test is what got me inactive for so long. We’re still not sure what happened; we’re thinking it may have been a pinched nerve or a strained tendon.

But why are these effects so weird? They should be flipped, right? Slamming your finger in a car door should be a little more serious than practicing a little too hard, right? Wrong.

Now, I don’t know too much about anatomy in general. But just a glance above and you can pretty easily see there’s a lot going on there. That’s a lot of stuff you can pretty easily mess up, especially when it comes to tendons, nerves, and weaker muscles. With my finger, the injury was more of a contusion, where the bruise was just incredibly deep (albeit incredibly painful, but not hard to source).

So what was the point of this little section? It’s just a reminder that everything in your body is connected. When you’re writing your injuries, give the anatomy of you character a quick check and see what else might be affected, then plan accordingly.

Deciding on the Cause

This is directly related to the thing above; once you’ve determined what needs to be affected, it’ll be a little easier to figure out the big cause. It’s simpler to work backwards this way because once you know what needs to be injured, a quick bit of research should do the job for you. “Injuries that affect xx and xx” might even suffice, but I would highly recommend checking out a few different websites. This will do two things for you:

Fact-check - Because the last thing you want is an unrealistic injury, if you’re putting in the effort to research it.

Broaden the possibilities - One website might list three of the most common causes for wrist pain; another might give you fifteen.

Just to be sure, I would check with two or three different websites. If you’re still unsure, remember @scriptmedic​ referenced above.

If you want some ideas just to get you going, here are a few I made up off the top of my head:

Getting into a fistfight

Big fall

Sliced with a sharp object of some sort

Breaking or spraining something

Aggravating a previous injury

Any sort of bullet or stab wound

I mean, the possibilities are literally endless here. These are just a handful I came up with on the fly, but it just goes to show that pretty much anything could be plausible so long as it fits within the boundaries of your world.

The Injury’s Effects

Side effects are the things you’re going to want to pay attention to; that’s what your character is going to have to live with for the longest time while they heal. I’m going to split this into three categories: Making Sense, Short-Term Effects, and Long-Term Effects. Here we go!

Making Sense

This one could probably start off pretty obvious; naturally breaking your leg isn’t going to hurt your wrist unless you somehow injured your wrist in the process. The effects of each injury should relate to the injury somehow; if they don’t, I hope you’re creating a hidden wound for later.

Another thing you’ll want to keep in mind here is the idea that this is all relative. A bee sting will be a bit of a painful jolt to someone who’s never been stung, where someone who’s been stung a thousand times before will chalk it up to an annoyance. Someone who happens to be allergic to bees, however, will react in a completely different way.

What you’ll want to keep in mind here is your character. Is there anything they’re allergic to, maybe? Are they especially sensitive to anything? Do they have any pre-existing conditions? (Hint: that last one is definitely something you should be paying attention to.)

Short-Term Effects

Doing the research for this one, most of the results that came up were for brain injuries like concussions and such. This makes sense, seeing as injuries to the head tend to be pretty severe. But these short terms effects could easily be very dramatic, especially if you’re writing from the perspective of the person. A few of these can include:

Nausea

“Blinding” pain

Possible (temporary) numbness in the affected area

Shock

Inability to use the affected area

These are some quick things I thought of that will both add accuracy and a bit more “drama” to the story. (Either myself or a close family member has experienced each of these things.)

Short-term effects should fade after time, but it depends on the severity of the injury. For example, bruising could fall into pretty much any category; it can go wherever based on the injury. Short-term effects (in non-severe injuries) can usually be described as sharp and uncomfortable, where are long-term is usually more of a distant pain as the body heals itself.

Long-Term Effects

These are the ones you need to be paying attention to in your writing. They need to work themselves into your character’s life one way or another. Like literally every other part of writing an injury, this needs to be heavily researched. The long-term effects are going to be what will determine your character’s abilities for days, weeks, months, years, etc.

This one is going to take a lot of research, and I mean a lot. There are a lot of causes for different effects and these need to be kept track of. Having too many injures can lead to so many long-term effects that your character wouldn’t be able to function. A few examples of long-term effects could be:

Memory loss or a case of amnesia (for head injuries)

A constant, dull ache in the injured area

Not quite regaining full range of motion

Need of a support such as a crutch or cast

Inability to perform basic tasks (usually for more severe injuries)

Again, these are just a few examples; none of these go strictly with one injury, and one injury could create more than one of these effects. So I’m going to stress it again: do your research and keep track of everything.

For this one, because I have the experience to do so, I’m going to give a quick real-life example of long-term effects:

About five years ago, I was crawling around in the snow looking for something and ended up smashing my knee - hard - on a rock. For the rest of that day it hurt to move it, and that feeling continued for about a week. There was a slightly visible bruise there, but we went to the doctor’s anyway to get an MRI. When started off as a contusion quickly became something they described to me as “water on the knee”, but eventually that faded. But, like in the wrist, there are a lot of things in your knee that can be screwed up like that. So to this day it hurts to do too many impact exercises (like running or martial arts, both of which I do regularly) without a brace, and on the days I don’t wear I brace I have to be extra careful or I’ll be feeling it for the next week.

Moral of the story? Look at how long-term effects play into your story, how they can develop from a small bruise to a contusion to something different entirely and how that follows your character. (Also, don’t smash your knee on a rock. Just don’t.)

The Healing Process

Hey, things are starting to get better for your character! Yay! We’re into the healing process now, looking at different ways healing can be done and things to watch out for.

Different Healing Processes

There are many processes we know about, but this isn’t meant to be a comprehensive guide. We’re going to look at the two most common healing processes here: natural and surgical. This part won’t entail magic (but that’s totally cool if you want to include that).

Healing Naturally

As would be expected, healing naturally takes the longest time. If the healing process here is completely natural, there’s no medication whatsoever (with maybe the exception of a few painkillers). This is going to require your character is take it easy, and I mean really easy; any sort of vigorous exercise could lead to the aggravation of their injury, and then we’re right back to square one.

In this stage, your character should be focusing on healing and staying healthy; this option would presumably be the hardest for your daredevil or prideful characters.

Surgical Procedures

This one involves a lot more help from other people. Of course it wouldn’t be a magical cure to the injury, but having someone much more qualified might speed up the process a bit, don’t you think? This would involve a much more controlled environment and would follow a pretty linear schedule; hospitals usually keep their patients until the injury is more manageable and send them off with a list of things to be careful of (at least, that’s what happened for me).

Using this method might present a challenge for characters who find people hard to trust or hate any of the tools that would be used in the procedure with a passion, that kind of thing.

Facts & Common Misconceptions

In this section (also the last section) I’m going to cover a few common misconceptions that come with injuries and their healing, then give a few facts to pay attention to. (source)

“FACT: R.I.C.E. spells initial relief. While both acute and chronic injuries should be attended to by a qualified physician, using the RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation) method for milder injuries like strains and sprains within the first 48 hours after injury occurs will help to initially relieve pain, reduce swelling and promote the healing process.”

“MYTH: “Rest is always best.” This is not entirely true. While rest may initially reduce inflammation and pain, it will not treat the root cause of a soft tissue injury (i.e., muscle, ligament and tendon sprains, strains and tears). It is important to seek a proper diagnosis and treatment plan beyond the initial rest period to treat soft tissue damage. Rest alone is not enough to heal and strengthen the affected area.”

“FACT: [Sports] Injuries are either acute or chronic. Acute injuries occur suddenly, like when you twist your ankle during a game. These types of injuries include sprains, strains, breaks and fractures and are characterized by severe pain and tenderness, swelling, limited motion, out-of-place bones and inability to put pressure or weight on the area. Chronic injuries occur after longer workout sessions or sports-related activities, and are characterized by pain during the activity and dull pain or mild swelling afterward.” 

“MYTH: “Pop a painkiller.” We all admire the elite athlete who takes a shot before the big game and plays through the pain. While this may seem admirable, even a world class pro will tell you that it’s not the long-term situation. If you take a couple of Advil or the like before your next workout or game, guess what? The pain may subside, but it will return, and then it may be even worse. If you experience pain, listen to your body’s alarm systems and seek professional medical advice.”

“FACT: Never play through the pain. Never. This is a sure way to aggravate any injury. If you feel pain during a workout or a game, stop and seek treatment. Acute injuries should be attended to by a physician immediately. Less severe injuries—like mild sprains—may be treatable at home, but you should still consult a doctor before beginning any type of treatment.”

“MYTH: “Stretch away those injuries.” Not so fast. While stretching is an important component of any workout or pregame warm up, it is not a shield against injury. In fact, stretching an injured muscle or other affected area may cause further damage. Keeping your body strong, balanced and in shape through proper training is key to overall injury avoidance.”

“FACT: Don’t play doctor. If you are injured during a workout or sports-related activity, don’t try to treat it yourself. Yes, initial treatment measures you can take at home—like RICE—may mitigate the pain and reduce the potential for further injury, but they are not a replacement for sound, effective medical treatment unless indicated by a doctor.”

References

Wrist Anatomy Image (p.s. This website is really great if you’re looking for diagrams like the one above!)

@scriptmedic​ - Aunt Scripty is incredibly helpful and gives a lot of useful information, then usually continues with alternate suggestions if any are needed (or if enough information is needed). Check out their Before You Ask first.

Common Misconceptions - This page applies mostly to sports injuries, but is accurate to more than just those. Everything is quotes came directly from that page.

Please let me know if any of this information is inaccurate! Until next time, stay lovely <3