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can we have a story of Mad Smith meeting a short sometimes rude very loud S/O?

Omg yes.

So, I feel like I’ve completely neglected the Mad Smith on this blog. He is my favourite maker after all. So I hope this makes up for it. xxx <3

—

“Is that…..a maker?”

The stone door behind you and Death slams shut with a loud clamour, sealing you both in the massive, lava-riddled cavern, at the centre of which kneels one of the ugliest makers you’ve ever seen.

At least, you think it’s a maker.

“I’m sure it used to be,” the horseman mutters quietly.

With deliberate caution, you advance further into the room, but as soon as you get close enough to make out any detail on the eerily still maker, a flash of bright, hot static erupts from it’s body and a blazing fire suddenly ignites behind the lower visor that hangs like a cage just above where a heart might once have been. As you watch, awe-struck, the flames crackle and spit, spreading fast all along the maker’s body, filling in gaps left by missing bones to give form to the giant, skeletal monstrosity. You can see the fire burning between the gaps in a wide ribcage and a faraway piece of your concentration wonders what happened to it’s other arm because from what you can see, the beast’s only hand is clutched tight around the handle of a wicked-looking hammer. The thing that made you doubt that it was ever a maker in the first place, is the complete lack of skin. Even any muscles or tendons have long rotted away, leaving only yellowing bone in their wake.

All of a sudden, the empty eye sockets in the skull are filled with the same, supernatural fire and the giant’s head snaps up to stare in your direction with a sickening crack!

Flaming, orange eyes inset with white, pinprick pupils sweep over the cavern until they dart between you and Death, at last settling on you.

“Visitors?” It glances around sporadically, letting out an awkward chuckle. I’m afraid my home is quite a mess.”

The voice catches you off guard. It’s remarkable eloquent, soft polite and even gentle, to a degree. A flooring contrast to the gruesome being it belongs to. His jaw lifts when he catches your eye and it dawns on you that he must be trying to smile.

“What the Hell are you!?” you blurt, cringing away from the skeletal grin.

The light in the creature’s eyes flickers for a second and he seems taken aback. But he soon collects himself, shaking his shaggy, grey mane and promptly replying, “-Oh! How rude of me!”

On the ground at his feet, a pile of old, metal armour pieces begin to spark with white magic, responding to the same stuff that’s licking out from underneath his shoulder pauldron, the one without an arm attached. Before your eyes, the armour rolls along the ground, lifting into the air before, piece by piece, they connect themselves with his shoulder and only then do you realise that the random assortment of metal is in fact, his missing arm.

“Awesome,” you breathe, earning an irate glance from Death.

“I am a smith,” he declares proudly, “- a visionary, architect, sculptor, creator of the masterpieces that reside in this realm….”

Death backs up a few steps, drawing his scythes and stepping in front of you when the maker suddenly turns his burning glare onto him, gesturing elegantly with his boney hand. “And you,” The Smith says darkly, “must be an agent of the makers. They trapped me here for thousands of years; Now they think my death will ease their guilt….”

You grunt, annoyed when the horseman roughly shoves you backwards as the maker stalks towards you, rumbling sharply, “They are not forgiven.”

He heaves his hammer into the air and charges forward with the clear intent to simply trample Death, but the horseman darts forward, lifting his scythes to counter ever blow the maker tries to land.

“Come on, Death!” you encourage from the sidelines, “He’s got a glass jaw! No! Wait, he’s got a bone jaw! Even better! I think...Smash it! You’ve got this!”

“Stop helping!” the horseman stiffly retorts, narrowly ducking under a wild swing.

The pair of them lock weapons, each trying to force the other to lose their footing. “Ungrateful!” you snap at the back of Death’s head.

Glancing down, you spot a sharp looking rock by your feet, so you hurriedly bend to pick it up, determined to help Death somehow. You pitch it hard towards the maker but of course, it bounces fairly harmlessly off his skull. All the same, he turns his massive head to look down at you in surprise.

“Now that was simply uncalled for!” he complains, “I’ve no quarrel with you, little one!”

Luckily, the momentary lapse in concentration provides the horseman with enough of an opening to jerk his scythe to the side with an almighty heave so fierce, that the motion throws the hammer completely out of the maker’s grip. The smith falls to his knees and stares after it, bewildered at having been disarmed, so he doesn’t recover in time to stop Death from slashing fiercely at the prosthetic arm and severing it entirely.

It clangs noisily to the ground whilst Death growls and shoves his blades up and underneath the maker’s chin, pressing the tip into his boney jaw. “Wait!” he unexpectedly begs, shifting his eyes from the scythes to Death’s mask, “Please, you must wait!”

Befuddled, you stomp across the short distance between you and the warring behemoths to stand next to the horseman and jab a finger up at the smith’s nervous expression. “Oh! So now that you’re suddenly losing, you don’t want to play anymore, is that it?”

“You don’t understand! I was simply defending myself-” he sputters, but you cut him off.

“Defend yourself!? Ha! If I recall, you came at us first!”

Death snarls in agreement, tightening his grip on Harvester. “She’s right, you attacked us, Smith! Your madness has blinded you!”

Apparently, that had been the wrong thing to say. The horseman and you are forced backwards after the maker’s demeanour takes another sharp turn.The earth shakes violently and almost throws you off your feet when the Smith suddenly exclaims, “Mad, am I!?” and pounds his curled fist furiously into the ground. “You know not-”

But he catches himself, meeting your wide eyes over Death’s shoulder and feeling the twinge of something unpleasant soothe his raging temper. You stare curiously up into the twin pits of fire as they flicker and then dim to a warm glow. He finds himself faltering for a second when he looks at you properly. ‘Maker’s breath,’ he thinks through the haze of indignation, sweeping his eyes across your scornful face ‘who is this comely creature that graces my home?’

The Smith chuckles softly, “Ah…now, let us not be ruled by our baser instincts.” Once again, the metal of his discarded limb starts to hum and float up. A part of his gauntlet shudders under your foot and you blink down at it, raising your leg to release the tiny scrap of armour. He hums gratefully, sighing as it slots into place with the rest. “It would seem that we can help each other.”

Death glares suspiciously at him, casting you a sidelong, doubtful glance, to which you merely respond with a shrug. Grumbling, the horseman sheaths his weapons. “Answer my questions, and I will stay my hand. Now, where are we?”

With a flourish of his hand, the maker gestures to the world around him. “This is the Shadow Lands; A void between the tree of life and the tree of death,” he explains, sending you one of those toothy smiles and he winks down at you, “It’s rather a pleasant place for a visit, is it not?” Abruptly, his fiery eyes turn to Death and he grinds his jaw in clear agitation. “..Or an eon of imprisonment, as it were?”

“Hmph, I thought this guy was supposed to be a genius,” you snort, rolling your eyes at Death with a smirk. The horseman smirks beneath his mask, mirroring your pose and adding conversationally, “If that were true, he’d have surely escaped by now.”

Turns out, it is possible for a skull to frown. The Smith harrumphs and draws himself up, puffing out his chest impressively. “Transportation is no obstacle for a smith such as myself,” he sniffs, “But the makers have sealed the portal…” Eyeing the two of you curiously, he adds, “Or so I had thought…”

“The power of Corruption has broken the lock of your prison,” explains Death.

When the Smith’s jaw drops comically and he turns his head to look at you for confirmation, you nod. “S’true big man. Door’s wide open.”

The maker’s change in behaviour is so abrupt, it leaves you feeling dizzy.

He wrings his hands together, stammering, “But, but…how…I…I don’t…Oh Gods, what will it do!?” Rambling to himself, he starts to pace up and down, leaving you time to catch Death’s eye and jerk your head towards the exit, hoping the horseman catches your drift which he clearly does because the next thing you know, the two of you are backing up towards the doors.

“Well,” you clap your hands together, “This has been, um…weird. But we should really be going.”

With that, you follow Death’s lead and swivel about, marching purposefully away from the insane maker. All of a sudden, you’re brought to a jarring halt by an enormous hand that crashes to the ground directly in front of you, making you scream and jump around to face him whilst Death whips out his scythes again.

“Wait! Wait! Don’t leave!” the smith pleads, pulling desperately back towards himself. “You have to help me!”

Angrily, you dig your heels into the dirt and shout,“Woah! Personal space, asshole!”

He lifts his hand, mumbling a series of rapid apologies as Death growls, exasperated. “For what possible reason would we help you?”

“My masterpiece!” Smith stutters, “It-it-it threatens countless worlds!”

Recoiling, you look over at the horseman. “Wait, time out. Death, that sounds like something we should definitely be worried about.”

The Smith continues to explain the function of his Abyssal Forge, arguing that while it may not threaten Death himself, it would certainly spread its influence and creations to other realms until the constructs it builds eventually inherit all of creation, slaughtering any who stand in their way.

You laugh loudly when he states the forge is utterly insane, unlike himself, causing the undead maker to glare down at you sharply.

In the end, Death reluctantly agrees to destroy the smith’s creation, but as he heads off to find the ingredients needed for a talisman that would help him pass through the realm’s dark waters, the maker calls after you, a modicum of distress lacing his tone. “Wait! You-” He points a long, bony finger down at you as you try to follow Death out of the cavern, “-You must stay here! I-I need your help with something!”

You raise a skeptical brow, taking note of the way his eyes are darting in every direction, however they never seem to land on you. Inquisitively, Death cocks his head and asks you, “What do you think?”

“I mean, I suppose i could use a rest,” you shrug, “My feet are killing me.”

“I’m surprised it isn’t your mouth that’s hurting, considering you’ve been running it since we left Tri-Stone,” he quips.

The Smith looks on expectantly as you narrow your eyes at Death, then declare, “You know what, Smith? I would love to stay and help you out.” The maker’s heart fire surges with blazing heat whilst the horseman groans, rolling his head back onto his shoulders. He mulls it over, carefully. On the one hand, the Smith seems just sane enough now not to be a threat, and as stated before, he has no quarrel with you. But on the other hand….Death scrutinises the grinning maker carefully, raising an eyebrow a the way his gaze is practically locked on you, but he can detect no menace behind the fiery gaze.

Finally, the reaper huffs. “Fine.” Before you can grin triumphantly, he fixes you with a hard glare and jabs a finger at you sternly. “No hijinks-” His finger travels up until it’s pointed directly at the maker’s face, “- And no squashing the human, no matter how tempting. I don’t want to have to come back to that mess.”

Casually flipping Death the bird over your shoulder, you trot back over to the Smith’s side, ignoring the horseman’s amused snicker before the door falls shut and you find yourself alone with an utterly mad maker.

‘Note to self,’ you think, staring up into his smouldering eyes, ‘Don’t use the ‘M’ word out loud.’

Meanwhile, the Smith couldn’t be happier.

At last, after thousands upon thousands of years in isolation, somebody to talk to. Somebody real. The horseman is cold, uninterested in conversation, but you? The maker’s jaw stretches into as wide a grin as he can muster and he stares down at you, just basking in the presence of another person for a while. The only sensation he could relate it to would be to feel the sun on one’s face after a literal eternity’s worth of rain.

“Soo…What was it you needed help with?”

“Hmm?” The Smith’s blissful smile twitches down at your question, only having half-expected it. To be honest, he hadn’t thought this far ahead. He’s already completed his primary goal of getting you to stay behind with him, what else is there to do? “Oh! Of course. Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes,” he rambles, dropping heavily to the ground and almost causing a miniature earthquake on impact, “I was hoping to ask you some….questions!” Feeling mightily pleased with himself, the maker nods decisively, beaming down at you as he sits cross-legged on the hard stone floor.

“Questions?” you deadpan, “Really?”

Nodding so eagerly, you worry his jaw might fall off, the smith shuffles closer, resting his hands on his knees and leaning down to get a proper look at you. “I wonder, might I ask for your name?”

“It’s Y/n,” you chirp, “And you? Do you have a name, or is it just Ma-mmmister Smith?”

Clapping his hands together delightedly, the maker giggles giddily. “Mr Smith! Oh, how quaint! Haha! How inspired! Ahem, no. No. Just ‘Smith’ will do nicely, I think.” He leans forward, engulfing you in his broad shadow. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, it’s been so long since I’ve seen one, but….Are you a human?” he asks

“The one and only,” you smile, though it soon fades as the weight of your words grows, “Yeah. The only one….”

Apparently realising that his first question may have unintentionally upset his new friend, the maker stiffens and wracks his brain for a response. “I-You-You’ve certainly come far since I last saw your kind!” he sputters, hoping it’s an adequate distraction, “Why, the last time I visited Earth, your people were much more god-fearning. Well, more fearful in general, I suppose. It was all very pessimistic. You know, I came across a village, once, who worshipped me as a god for quite some time,” he sighs wistfully, “Ah, blood sacrifices. Naked rituals performed under the stars…It was all very romantic.”

You blurt out a loud bark of laughter, previous anguish forgotten. “Ha! Yeah, things were pretty Bohemian back then… Wait a minute…you said they worshipped you?” Invested now, you plonk yourself down at his feet, crossing your legs to match him, “You mean, you exposed yourself to humans!”

A dirty chuckle rumbles out of him and he raises a bony eyebrow ridge suggestively.

“Gross,” you gag, “Not what I meant…Still, I guess now we know where all those fables about giants came from.” Humming thoughtfully, you cast your eyes to the ground. “I wonder if the others ever went to earth….They never mentioned they had. And I never really thought to ask.”

At the mention of the other makers, the Smith’s expression sours almost instantly. “Ah yes. The others…Tell me, how are my fine friends, hmm?”

“They’re…Uh… Well, things aren’t exactly great in Tri-Stone right now. Eideard-”

He cuts you off with a contemptuous scoff, “Hmmph. Eideard. That old charlatan. What’s he up to these days?”

Shooting the smith an offended glare, you curl your lip distastefully and growl, “he was NOT a charlatan! He was a great maker!”

“Was?” The smith tilts his head to the side, peering at you inquisitively.

With a sad sigh, you lower your voice and mutter dismally, “He….He died - sacrificed himself to save everyone.” Your glare hardens. “He’s a damned hero.”

But the smith, oblivious to the fire in your eyes that now rivals his own, simply snorts and slaps a hand on his knee. “Dead eh? Well, good riddance. I never did get to thank him for tossing me in here.”

Resentful at his shameless callousness, you grit your teeth, abruptly pushing yourself to your feet and thrusting a finger in his looming face. “How dare you, you brute! If Eideard tossed you in here, it must have been for a damn good reason!”

The smith’s internal fire starts to billow out through his ribcage. “How dare I? He was afraid of progress! He imprisoned me simply because the makers couldn’t comprehend my genius!”

“Your ‘genius’ almost got them all killed!” you bellow, “He was just trying to protect his family. From you!”

“THEY WERE MY FAMILY TOO!”

Maybe if he hadn’t been so uncouth about Eideard’s death, you would be more inclined to hear the heartache mingled into that sentence, however, irked by the smith’s cruel remark, you stamp your foot hard against the ground, spinning on your heel and beginning to stalk off across the room. “You’re a real ass, you know that? No wonder they threw you into the Shadow Lands.”

Something happened to the maker the second you turned and started to walk away from him. Panic, desperation, dread ….All at once, he finds himself drowning under the fear of being left. Alone. Again. If he had lungs anymore, all the air would have rushed out of them when they heavy weight of alarm plummets into his stomach. So it’s without much thought that the undead maker cries out, voice cracking in a frenzy, “W-wait! No! Don’t go!” He all but throws himself forwards, reaching out his metal hand to seize the back of your hoodie and plucking you up into the air. The smith ignores your angry curses and furious struggles, too caught up in trying to smooth things over. “I’m sorry! You’re quite right, quite right! That was highly uncivil of me - Just, don’t leave!” He sets you gently on his bent knee but doesn’t release your clothing, wary that you might try to make a break for it. “Of course I wouldn’t wish Eideard dead,” he continues, chuckling nervously, “I’m afraid all this time by myself has made me forget my gentility. You understand, I’m sure.”

You give a sharp yank on your hoodie, snatching the fabric out from between his fingers and shooting him a grumpy sneer. “Don’t grab me like that again,” you warn, straightening out your clothes, “and don’t insult Eideard again. He was my friend.”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, of course!” he nods vigorously which nearly jostles you right off his knee, “I meant no offence. Please just…stay?”

Quirking a suspicious eyebrow, you ask, “Why do you want me to stay so badly?”

Realising that he’s been caught, the maker’s eyes widen and he turns his gaze away from you to stare at a particularly interesting rock.

“Smith?”

“I wonder how your horseman friend is getting on!” he blurts out distractedly.

“Are…are you lonely?”

Without warning, his head whips back towards you and he snaps, “And what if i was?” The abruptness sends you toppling backwards off his knee with a shriek. Before you can fall painfully onto your back though, his hand flies out to catch you.

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” the maker professes, placing you on his leg again. He winces at the searing heat carried in your glare. p>

“Whatever,” you huff, “Just be more careful, yeah?…You know, I’m wondering where Death is too. I’m not sure how much more of you I can take! You’re more excitable than Karn.” The maker casts his eyes to the ground dejectedly.

Rubbing the back of your neck, you consider him carefully for a moment. “Hey,” you smile, ducking your head and catching his eye, “Death’s not going to be back for a while, I think. You - You wanna hear how he, Karn and I got the Guardian up and running?”

Fast enough to give you whiplash, the Smith’s mood brightens along with the fire in his skull and chest. “What’s a guardian!?” he exclaims excitedly.

“Oh yeah, I forgot you weren’t around when they built it. Well, okay, maybe I should start from the beginning…..”

Settling yourself more comfortably on the smith’s knee, you grin as he rests his head in a giant hand and his jaw lifts into a wide smile of his own, staring down at you with rapt attention. It occurs to you that when Death does return and you inevitably have to leave, the smith might not take it well at all. His unexpected clinginess is no doubt borne of being left alone in this hellish landscape for thousands of years with nobody to talk to, but that creates a problem for you. If the way he’s staring at you is anything to go by, the Mad Smith has gone and found himself a new friend.

And you’re not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #imagine darksiders #the mad smith #mad smith #reader #budding friendship i guess #death