Scraped Knuckles Novels & Stories

A smile of a devil. He hold out a hand and then reached for her face. He caresses her small pale face with his big palm and long fingers. He touched and tapped her cheek gently with his thumb. It was cold. Her face was cold and she was close to having frostbite. He frowned at the texture. It was unpleasant to touch. His thumb went to her lips next. He rubbed it and instead of feeling the soft, delicate, and plump feeling he always felt before, his thumb felt a whole different texture. It was rough as sandpaper but as his finger wandered, he touched a sticky liquid.

he continues humorlessly. There's danger swirling in the eyes that stare right into mine, but I'm too lost to care. The hybrids would never use claws. It's not their motto. I turn to a surprised Ryan and take the folder right off his hands. Every file has a picture of each family member, I flip through the pages until my shaking fingers hold a tiny frame of teenage Kieran. Three scars slice the right side of his face, from eyebrow to cheekbone. The scar is deep but small. I raise to eye level and inspect it closer.

Keyboard Overkill

"It just....happens." "What is in your hand?" "Mud." I look at my dirty hands. "No, your knuckles." He slowly takes my right hand, tracing the faint scars in the knuckles. From yesterday. "What are you doing?" I frown slightly. "You punched something earlier. Glass, right?" He tells, examining carefully. I shrug, "They don't long last." "Oh," he laughs. "The puncher girl." "I know you don't know me. But I do know you." He speaks as a matter of fact.

Then my wrists where the silk left its marks. Hard enough that the skin goes pink, then red, and the friction feels cleaner than the water, feels like progress, feels like if I press hard enough I can reach the layer under where it's still just me. The scrubbing gets harder. My nails replace the cloth, raking across my forearm, going back to the same spot, and the skin splits and the sting is sharp and clean and honest and I go back again— Knox's hands close around both of mine. He pulls them away from my skin gently, firmly, and holds them still, and I fight him for a second, pulling, because the scrubbing was doing something the soap couldn't and I need it, I NEED—

I look back at Skinner. He hands me a small knife; I pulls up my shirt sleeve and cut a small line putting the same pressure Knuckles was and all I do is wince slightly. I wave the knife at him when I'm done. I see Knuckles smirking at me. The skin starts to tingle where I put the small cut and I feel a rush run through me.

Knox is on the floor. Shirtless, soaked in sweat, and something about his body is WRONG in a way that my brain tries to reject before my eyes finish processing it. The muscles under his skin are moving – MOVING, shifting and rippling like something underneath is trying to rearrange itself, and his hands are pressed flat against the hardwood and his fingers are tipped with something that isn’t fingernails. They’re longer and curved and dark and they’ve gouged lines into the floor like trenches, and the word my brain supplies is CLAWS even though that word doesn’t belong in a sentence about a human being.

Sleep State Confirmed. Marcus opened his eyes. The Chrome Diamonds gleamed in the dim light. He raised his hands, staring at the faded, blood-stained athletic tape wrapped around his knuckles. Slowly, silently, he let his silver mana bleed out from his core, soaking into the fabric. The tape shifted, turning into a metallic, liquid state. The Liquid Silver hardened, forming invisible, dense brass knuckles over his skin.

he exhaled and cracked his knuckles. Watching him more relaxed, I dared to ask, “What are these marks from? Every time I wake up, I notice my hands and ankles are purple bruised as if they were bound or restrained. Are you into fetich game you haven't told me about? I don’t mind if you have a kink, but I’d prefer if you confided in me.”

Grub said, beating his chest proudly, and then pointing to another tattoo that was half covered by his rope belt, he had begun to slide his pants down to show the remainder of it as he spoke, “Grub once plow most beautiful Knarl magic thrower in all Kuumakun.” “Ok, ok, we get the point Grub,” Rex said, lifting his hand to block the view Grub was trying to show, “Look! There’s a temporary blade!” he added, pointing to a rusty hunting dagger a few paces away from them in the hand of a deceased cannibal.