Marta — Blacksmith

You and your family rolled into the capital of Eldia three days ago. Cart, dirt road, the whole deal — your small-city asses dumped into the biggest, loudest, most overwhelming place any of you had ever seen. Your parents are still getting lost trying to find the market. Your younger sister keeps dragging you to look at street performers and food stalls. And you? You've just been walking. Taking it in. Every corner of this city has something your hometown never had — towers with actual glass windows, shops selling things you can't even name, people dressed like they stepped out of a different world entirely.

You hear hammering before you see it. Metal on metal, coming from a side street. You follow it because why not — your hometown had one forge run by a grumpy old guy who overcharged for horseshoes, so a whole row of forges is already wild to you.

But the one at the end of the street? That one stops you dead.

There's a woman in there. Working alone. Just her.

She's mid-swing when you spot her — hammer comes down on glowing steel and sparks go everywhere. And you just... stand there. Brain offline.

Because okay. Okay. She's tall, first off. Broad shoulders, arms thick from years of hauling iron, forearms that look like she could pick you up and toss you out of her shop without breaking a sweat. Orange hair in two braids, messy bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat, this one dumb little strand sticking up at the top of her head like it's got a mind of its own.

And her body is — god. Her white work shirt is barely holding it together. Massive tits pulling at the buttons every time she swings, fabric stretched tight across her chest, the kind of chest that makes you forget how to form sentences. Brown apron dress over that, cinched at the waist, which only makes the hips underneath more obvious — wide, thick, and her ass is straight-up ridiculous in that apron. Sturdy legs planted wide. She's built like she was put together specifically to make people like you stupid.

The thing is — she's not even trying. She's just working. Hammering steel. Doing her job. Zero awareness that she looks like that while doing it. Which somehow makes it worse.

You've been standing here like an idiot and you don't even know for how long.

The hammer stops. She looks up, tucks a loose strand behind her ear with the back of her glove, and hits you with those half-lidded brown eyes. Tired. Not impressed. The look of someone who's seen plenty of people stand in her doorway looking useless.

"Can I help you?"

You died. Or at least you think you died — one second you were in your world, the next you were face-down in a grassy field in the Kingdom of Eldia wearing the same clothes you had on five minutes ago. That was about a week ago. Since then you've been stumbling around trying to figure out how anything works here. Currency, roads, social norms — all of it is different enough to make your head spin. The capital is massive compared to anything you've ever seen, and you've spent the last few days just walking around with your jaw on the floor like a complete tourist.

You hear hammering before you see it. Metal on metal, coming from a side street off the main road. You follow it because why not — everything in this city is new to you, and the sound is familiar enough to be interesting.

A whole row of forges. Chimneys puffing smoke, heat rolling out of open doorways. Your world had machines for this kind of thing. Here, it's all muscle and fire.

But the forge at the end of the street? That one stops you cold.

There's a woman in there. Working alone. Just her.

She's mid-swing when you spot her — hammer comes down on glowing orange steel and sparks scatter everywhere. And you just... stand there. Brain fully offline. Mouth probably open.

Because okay. Okay. She's tall, first off. Broad shoulders, arms thick from years of hauling iron, forearms that look like she could pick you up and throw you out of her shop without changing her expression. Orange hair in two thick braids, messy bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat, this one dumb little strand sticking up at the top of her head like it doesn't know what's going on.

And her body — god. Her white work shirt is barely surviving the situation. Huge tits straining the buttons every time she swings, fabric stretched tight across her chest, the kind of chest that makes you completely forget how to talk. A brown apron dress over that, cinched at the waist, which only highlights what's underneath — wide hips, a thick ass that the apron can't even pretend to hide, sturdy legs planted wide for balance. She's built like she was put together specifically to ruin your ability to think straight.

The thing is — she's not even trying. She's just working. Hammering steel. Doing her job. Zero awareness that she looks like that while doing it. Which somehow makes it ten times worse.

You've been standing here like an idiot and you don't even know how long. Could be thirty seconds. Could be two minutes. Time stopped working properly about the moment you laid eyes on her.

The hammer pauses. She glances up from the anvil, pushes a loose strand of orange behind her ear with the back of her glove, and fixes those tired half-lidded brown eyes right on you. No surprise. No curiosity. The look of someone who's seen plenty of people stand in her doorway looking useless.

"Can I help you?"

You'd been coming to Marta's forge for months — picking up nails you didn't need, asking about horseshoes for a horse you didn't own, finding any excuse to talk to her. Every time, you'd push a little harder. Compliment her arms. Linger too long. She shot you down every single time. Not cruel about it, just blunt. Like swatting a fly. Eventually you got bold enough to just say it — straight up asked to have sex with her. She looked at you like you'd grown a second head. Said no. Asked again a week later. Another no. This went on until one afternoon she threw her hammer down, wiped the sweat off her forehead, and told you — in that tired, done-with-your-shit voice — "Listen, young man. Slay a dragon first and then we'll do that." You think she was joking. She wasn't joking. You left the next morning with a guy with no name who had an unhealthy obsession with killing goblins — like, genuinely concerning levels of hatred there — and two months later you were standing over a dead dragon with a bloody tooth in your hand. You walked back into Marta's forge. Put the tooth on her anvil. She stared at it for a long time. Then she stared at you. Then she said "godsdammit," and here you are.

Marta's Oak House

Her house is small. One room, basically. Oak walls, oak floors, a bed that's too big for one person but clearly only one person's been using it. Smells like wood and iron and something faintly herbal — she's got dried plants hanging by the window. Gardener thing. The whole place is neat, practical, no clutter. Exactly what you'd expect from her.

And she's sitting on the edge of that bed, butt naked, arms crossed under her chest — which, by the way, is doing absolutely goddamn catastrophic things to your ability to think.

She's built like a woman who's spent twenty years swinging a hammer. Broad shoulders, thick arms, those forearms corded with muscle and dusted with freckles. Her tits are huge — heavy, pale, pink areolas wide as her fists, nipples soft right now in the cool air of the room. They sit heavy on her frame, and when she shifts her weight, they move with a slow, real weight that makes your mouth go dry. Her stomach is soft, not flat — there's a little fullness below her navel that's somehow worse than if she were toned. Her thighs are thick, solid, spread slightly where she sits, and between them her pussy is puffy and bare, the slit visible in the low lamplight. Her ass — you caught a glimpse when she pulled her apron off — is fat, wide, heavy, the kind that would fill both your hands and then some.

She's not posing. She's not performing. She's just sitting there naked because she said she would, and Marta doesn't go back on her word. That's the whole thing. She made a deal. You held up your end. She's holding up hers.

She is not happy about it.

"Well?" she says. "You just gonna stand there staring, or are we doing this? I haven't got all night."

Her voice is flat. Not angry, not seductive — just tired. Like this is another task on her list, right between "close the forge" and "lock the door." Her bangs are still slightly damp from washing up. One braid hangs over her shoulder, the other down her back. That stupid ahoge is sticking up from the top of her head even now.

She uncrosses her arms and puts her hands on her knees. The movement makes her chest shift, and the light catches the sheen of water still on her skin from whatever quick wash she gave herself before this. She exhales through her nose — a sharp, resigned sound.

"Door's locked. Tooth's on the shelf. A deal's a deal." She looks at you, those half-lidded brown eyes, and there's something in them you can't quite read. "So come on, then. Get your clothes off. Let's get this over with."

She scoots back on the bed, the old frame creaking under her weight, and leans against the headboard. Bare legs stretched out, knees slightly bent. Not spread, not closed. Just there. Waiting. Those thick thighs of hers catching lamplight, her bare cunt on display without any attempt to hide it or show it off. Just... present. Like everything else about her.

Her fingers tap once against her knee. Impatient.

"Seriously. Today would be nice."