#SUPERHELL FOR THW LOT OF THEM!!!!!!!

[ritzcrackee]

NOBODY READ THIS OR ILL KILL YOU

The first time Delissandro gets a tattoo he's thirteen years old. He's a man now and it's tradition to have his clan symbol inked over his heart. His mother hands him off, beaming with pride, and he tries to control his shaking limbs as he's led into the tent. 

It's a dark, claustrophobic space. A large cross shaped table takes up most of the room, barely giving enough room for them to stand. He is choked by incense and the scent of bodily fluids not quite washed out. He sees a tray covered in needles, blades, a bowl filled with dark liquid, and a small hammer. The artist does not speak to him, only motioning for him to lay down.

He's tied down, given fruit leather to bite on, and the artist begins their work. The restraints turn out to be extremely necessary. Deli thrashes, the stinging stabbing pain cutting right to his heart. The needles pound into his skin. The blades scratch away. He breathes through his nose, his fists clenched. It is a silent process, he cannot scream around the leather, and the artist does not offer him any comfort. 

 After many hours, the artist unties him, stands him up, and pushes him into his mothers waiting arms. She hugs him tightly and sniffs the top of his head. She doesn't speak, but the warmth of her body soothes his wound.

He looks down at his chest and sees mangled flesh, ink darkening his blood. It doesn't look like their crest at all, but his mother reassures him that someday it will. Then she heaves his small body onto her shoulder and gives him his first taste of wine to numb the pain. 

"You don't deserve that crest, Delissandro!"

She cuts across his chest, ruining the intricate scarred pattern.

"Soon, we will no longer need a crest, Mother. The Meatlands will be united, whether you decide to be a part of it or not. Your time is over." 

Delissandro gets his second tattoo at twenty. A man ten years his senior kneels before him. His Colin. His Skald, pokes gently at his skin. Deli's arm tingles with a pleasant sting. 

This feels different than his first. Still silent, but he is not tied down. He is free to leave, and has chosen to stay. He sits on the edge of his bed in his linen night clothes, his sleeve rolled up to grant Colin access to his forearm.

He looks down at Colin, admiring his shirtless back. The way his muscles stretch when he moves to get more ink. The scars tattooed over again and again. Cover-ups so faded the original tattoo shows underneath. He spots an anchor, chains, a mermaid, and what looks like a family crest, scarred and scratched out. Before he can look closer, Colin stands up and stretches. 

Deli looks up at him, his trousers slung loose around his waist, the images on his skin warping with every movement. He glances down at his tattoo, and sees a half-finished dagger. Deli's watched him fight with this dagger. Experienced, competent, and strategic. He moves like a snake, slinking towards his opponents, striking exactly when necessary. He is the opposite of Deli, he takes no pleasure in the violence he inflicts. Maybe he has seen too much of it. 

Deli stares at his wirey shoulder, where a much newer line sits. It's… almost straight, with a triangle at the end. It's supposed to look like Delissandro's spear, the one he has yet to name. Deli felt horrible about fucking up, but Colin just laughed and showed him his first tattoo. It was supposed to be a skull and crossbones on his thigh, but looked more like a malformed rotisserie chicken. Deli felt better about his snake looking spear, but was mostly distracted by the patch of dark hair that poked out when Colin moved his waistband. 

He finds his eyes wandering there again, before snapping up to look Colin in the face. Colin doesn't seem to notice, or if he does he doesn't care. He runs a hand through his receding hairline, and plops down to finish the tattoo.

Colin gently takes his forearm. He cradles it against his rough palms. The back of his arm rests against Deli's thigh, warm and comforting. Colin's thumb runs across his muscles, willing him to relax. Delissandro lets his mind wander to other things his hands could do, before getting snapped back to reality with the sharp sting of the needle. 

"I hope you find what you're looking for but I don't think I can be a part of it."

He replays the words in his head, using the dagger to carve away his skin. The pain is familiar. The sting of heartbreak is not. 

He gets his third tattoo at twenty-six. His Skald. His Karna. His beautiful, skilled, wonderful Karna. His Karna becomes his today. Today they are unified. 

She cannot step foot in a church, and he is loath to follow the beef clans traditions. In the middle of a war, there aren't a lot of alternative options. Instead they tap away at each other's fingers, whispering promises with every poke. An eye for an eye. A heart for a heart. A sacrifice for a sacrifice. A soul for a soul.

They signify their new union with a permanent alteration of the body. Something they are both very, very familiar with. He carries scars like armor, always on display. They are warnings of battles won, fights lived through, a testament to his ability to survive. They all look violent, slashed and scraped and aiming for vital places. He would never admit that any of them were self-inflicted. 

She likes his scars. She runs her hands over them whenever she can, asks for stories if he can remember. She doesn't ask about the painful ones. The lattice on his arms. The deep gash over his heart. She just looks at his triumphs. The score across his back. The stabs in his stomach. She no longer swoons and giggles, but listens with extreme interest. Letting her hands wander as he speaks. When he finishes, she places a hand on his shoulder and lets her nightgown slip off hers. Deli kisses her cheek. She moves her head and kisses his mouth. 

Delissandro doesn't dwell on how it feels. There are no fireworks, no instincts to follow. Only the cold mechanical movement of her lips, and his willingness to give her what she's asking for. 

She pulls away from him and hesitates before standing up. She warns him about her scars. They are not beautiful. They are not triumphant. They don't have any stories. She is infected and rotting and chose to be that way. Deli grabs her hand, intertwining their matching ring fingers. The eyes on them stare back. A reminder of their sacrifices, a promise of acceptance, a vow of visibility. They would see the whole of each other, and refuse to flinch away. 

She removes her shift, and Delissandro controls his expression. Tries to hide the pain he feels. Her body is small. Chunks taken out of it like bite marks. Her torso looks like partially sculpted clay, lopsided and unfinished. He meets her gaze, and she looks oh so like the terrified little girl he met seven years ago. He moves to place a hand on her hip, and she flinches away. He apologizes quickly. 

She reassures him that it's alright, but Delissandro knows there's something wrong. Not just on her end either. Everytime she runs a hand along his chest his breath catches. Every kiss feels like being dunked in a freezing river. They try, they try so hard, but it's just not working. Delissandro steps away from her. Tears spring to his eyes when she apologizes. They hold their hands together and stand silently. 

He doesn't know why they can't do it. He loves her, he loves her, he loves her, he loves her. So why doesn't he love her enough to give her the one thing she wants? Why can't she bring herself to let him in? He could never hate Karna, but he does hate himself for it. 

The quiet sadness of the moment is broken when she is stabbed through the tent. Deli grabs his spear, named Detriter now, and moves to defend her. She doesn't bother with armor, quickly slicing away her wound and throwing her shift on. Delissandro feels only rage that someone would dare to hurt his Karna. He loses himself in the violence and tries to forget his failure. The Vegetanian forces are attacking and there is no time to talk. There is only time to survive, fight, and kill. Something they are both very, very familiar with.

He watches her fingers slip. 

"Goodbye… Deli."

Her rotting, putrid body splatters across the room. Deli does not hold back his cry of anguish. His hand is lost in the escape, buried there with the remains of his half-finished love.

Delissandro gets his last tattoo at eighty-seven. He knows it's his time. He is getting too weary to travel the long distance to a healer. Too slow to catch his own meals. Too tired to build a shelter every night. He mixes fire ash with water and sharpens a stick to a fine point. His shaking hands scratch a series of images onto his thigh. A compass pointing north, a series of waves, and a ring. When he places the last dot, he lies back and lets himself be carried away by inky dark blackness.