The forge was alive, a snarling beast that wheezed and belched with every pump of the bellows.
Heat rolled out in waves, thick and unrelenting, turning the air into a sauna that plastered Rein's shirt to his back.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples and stinging the corners of his eyes, but he didn't wipe it away—not yet.
His bare arms, corded with lean muscle from years of swinging that unforgiving hammer, glistened under the forge's ruddy glow.
He was twenty-two, lean and wiry, nothing like his father's broad, barrel-chested frame that could intimidate even the rowdiest customers.
Rein's black hair, a wild mop that refused any comb's authority, stuck up in sweaty spikes, framing a face that was boyish in its mischief but hardened around the edges by endless labor.
Clang.
The hammer came down on the anvil, sending a shower of sparks dancing like fireflies on steroids.
He was finishing up the day's drudgery: a dozen horseshoes for old man Hargrove's nag, a handful of nails that looked more like twisted teeth, and that pathetic kitchen knife for Widow Ellis.
She'd come in earlier, her eyes lingering a beat too long on his arms as he measured the blade.
"Strong hands you've got there, boy," she'd purred, her voice all gravel and gin, batting lashes that had seen better decades.
Rein had just grinned, flashing teeth that were a little too sharp for polite company.
"All for the work, ma'am. Wouldn't want to disappoint."
Now, alone in the dim shop as the sun dipped below the thatched roofs outside, he muttered under his breath, rolling his aching wrist.
"Another goddamn horseshoe. Like the horses are gonna complain if they're a smidge off."
The hammer's handle was slick with callus and sweat, threatening to slip from his grip.
He paused, flexing his fingers, feeling the familiar twinge in his scarred forearm—an old souvenir from a mishap with molten iron three years back.
That day had taught him respect for the fire, but damn if it didn't ache like a bitch on humid nights like this.
The forge's flames licked at the coals, hypnotic in their orange-blue dance, and Rein's gaze drifted there a little too long.
They reminded him of something else entirely—tongues, eager and teasing, wrapping around forbidden heat.
He chuckled low, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
"You're hot enough to melt me, baby," he said to the fire, his voice rough from the smoke.
His father would've backhanded him for that kind of talk, muttering about "proper Akabane men" and their "dignified craft."
Old man Akabane was upstairs by now, in their cramped apartment wedged above the smithy, snoring like a saw through oak.
The walls were thin.
Rein could almost hear the rumble if he listened hard enough.
By day, Rein was the dutiful son, the invisible gear in the town's machine.
He hammered out tools and fittings for farmers who grunted their thanks, merchants who haggled over pennies, and housewives who barely glanced at him beyond his output.
The Akabane smithy was a fixture in Eldridge Hollow, a dusty little town where nothing exciting happened unless the tavern ran out of ale.
Rein blended in, just another sweat-soaked kid with dirt under his nails.
But when the last customer shuffled out, when the shutters clattered shut and the streets emptied under the moon's indifferent watch... that's when the real Rein emerged.
The degenerate artisan.
The pervert with a purpose.
He set the finished horseshoe aside with a satisfied clink, the metal still warm against his tongs.
Wiping his hands on his leather apron—stained and scarred like his own skin—he glanced toward the door, ears pricked for any footsteps.
Coast clear.
With a sly grin that crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes, he ducked beneath the workbench.
There, shrouded in a threadbare cloth that smelled faintly of oil and secrecy, lay his true passion.
Not the mundane ironmongery, but treasures forged in the dead of night.
His fingers brushed over the bundle: steel rods half-molded into elegant curves, smooth wooden handles polished to a silken sheen with hours of obsessive sanding.
Restraints that could bind with a lover's whisper or a dominant's command.
A pair of iron cuffs, their rings etched with swirling hearts—delicate, almost romantic, if you ignored the unyielding steel.
He'd lined the insides with scraps of velvet, pilfered from a tailor's discard bin during a market trip.
Soft against the skin, unyielding in intent.
Then there was the brass plug, gleaming like a forbidden jewel, its base crowned with a faceted gemstone he'd "borrowed" from a broken necklace his mother left behind before she ran off years ago.
Absurdly ornate, obscenely functional.
And the whip handle—curved just so, ergonomic in a way that made his pulse quicken even thinking about it.
No leather yet; that would come later, sourced from some shady trader in the next town over.
Rein picked up the plug, turning it in the firelight.
It caught the glow, winking like a conspirator.
His grin widened, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the heat.
"One day, some lucky girl's gonna thank me for this," he murmured, thumb tracing the smooth contours.
"Hell, I'll be her goddamn hero—sweeping in with my hammer and my... ingenuity." He imagined her: curves that begged to be explored, eyes wide with that mix of shock and hunger, her breath hitching as she tested his creations.
Maybe she'd laugh at first, call him a filthy dreamer, but then... moans, gasps, her body arching in ways that made his lonely nights bearable.
A wife who saw the art in his perversion, who wielded his toys like extensions of his touch.
Every clang of the hammer during the day?
A promise to that fantasy.
A vow to build something real, something filthy and loving all at once.
The townsfolk whispered about him, of course.
"That Akabane boy—strange one, always sketching in the margins."
"Perverted, no doubt. Eyes like a fox in the henhouse."
He'd overheard it at the market once, a gaggle of matrons clucking like hens.
It stung, but he wore it like his apron: necessary armor.
These pieces weren't just toys; they were his rebellion against the monotony, his bid for a life less ordinary.
He'd tried once before—setting up a little online sideline, anonymous sketches and prototypes shipped in plain brown wraps.
But the ridicule had come swift: trolls, shutdowns, a viral post calling him the "Pornsmith of Eldridge."
It had nearly broken him, that failure.
Orders dried up, his father had nearly disowned him.
But not this time.
These were better.
More refined.
He'd keep them hidden until the right moment, the right woman.
Even if no one ever bought a damn thing, he'd craft them till his hands gave out.
Art for art's sake, smut for the soul.
Shaking off the reverie, he stoked the forge just enough for one last heat.
The coals hissed back to life, and he pulled out the small iron rod he'd been shaping—a subtle spiral, deceptively simple.
Perfect for teasing edges, for winding tension like a spring.
He chuckled again, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
"You'll do things to her she won't forget, little beauty." The shop grew stifling, shadows lengthening as the single lantern flickered.
Sweat traced lazy paths down his chest, soaking into the waistband of his trousers, a distraction he ignored.
Exhaustion clawed at him—vision blurring at the edges, arms heavy as lead—but quitting wasn't in his blood.
One more piece. Always one more.
The metal glowed cherry-red, pliant and begging for the hammer.
Rein raised it high, muscles coiling like a serpent.
But his hand, slick and weary, betrayed him.
The hammer slipped mid-swing.
Sparks erupted in a furious spray, peppering his face like hot needles.
He flinched, jerking back with a sharp curse—"Shit!"—and the rod tumbled from the tongs.
It bounced off his apron, the leather sizzling as it burned a ragged hole, then skittered across the gritty floor like a escaped secret.
His heart hammered harder than any anvil, a wild drum in his ears.
Laughter bubbled up, shaky and relieved, as he swiped at the sweat stinging his eyes.
"Damn close, you bastard. Almost turned me into a human kebab." He bent to retrieve it, wincing as his scarred forearm throbbed—a phantom echo of that old burn.
Careful, Rein. Molten metal forgives no one.
He rubbed the raised tissue absently, the lesson etched deeper than skin.
I'll be careful. Just this once. One more.
Back at the anvil, he repositioned the rod, the spiral's curve gleaming with obscene promise.
His grin returned, fierce and narrowed, as he hefted the hammer.
Now, let's finish you proper.
The world shattered.
A low hiss built from the forge, then crack—thunder in a bottle.
Trapped gas, a pocket he hadn't spotted in the coals, erupted in a belch of molten slag.
Fire sprayed like a dragon's breath, blinding white-hot, splattering across his tunic.
Fabric smoked and charred, droplets eating through to blister his skin in sharp, blooming agony.
Rein staggered, blinking through the haze, disbelief rooting him as pain clawed up his side.
But it was the groan above that chilled him—the rafters, ancient and heat-warped, sagging under the sudden fury.
A beam, thick as his thigh, snapped free with a splintering creak, plummeting like judgment.
Time stretched, merciless.
He stood frozen, hammer aloft, mouth agape in a curse that died unborn.
No, not like this—
Impact.
The beam crushed down, slamming into his chest with bone-shattering force. R
ibs gave way like dry twigs, air exploding from his lungs in a ragged gasp laced with the acrid bite of smoke and blood.
The hammer flew from numb fingers, clanging forgotten into the shadows.
"Fuck..." The whisper gurgled wet in his throat, copper flooding his mouth.
His eyes, wide and frantic, locked on the spiral rod mere inches away—still glowing faintly, unfinished, mocking in its perfection.
His masterpiece.
His dream.
Thoughts cascaded, jagged and desperate. His father, upstairs, oblivious in sleep—would he wake to screams or silence?
The customers tomorrow, chuckling over ale, "Heard the pervert smith bought it with his own fire. Fitting end."
All those toys, gathering dust under the bench, never to tease skin or spark sighs.
The women he'd fantasized about—faceless sirens in his mind's eye—gone forever, untouched by his "art."
No filthy laughter shared in tangled sheets, no romance born of rust and restraint.
Vision tunneled, black creeping in like ink in water.
With a final, bitter twist of his lips—a grin that defied the pain—Rein thought.
I just wanted to make something people would love... even if it's filthy as sin.
The forge's glow faded to embers.
The beast sighed its last.
Rein Akabane, the smith of unfulfilled nights, slipped into the dark beneath his beloved flames.