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peachesofteal · 3 months

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Part two the Sassy Series but can be read as a standalone.

Simon Riley/female reader 3.5k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Angst, PTSD, canon typical violence, bombs, blood and injury. Smut, oral sex - fem receiving, praise kink, creampie. Unplanned pregnancy. Everyone is bad at feelings. He's like a bomb. Note: This was never posted to Tumblr, so in honor of the series and to complete the masterlist I decided to clean it up a bit and bring it over here.

The truck is a silent tomb.

Rigid, hard lines of muscle hold themselves still without quiver, eyes darting from the road to the floor, hands to feet. No one speaks. Soap’s fingers tap restlessly on his leg, and occasionally, he peeks around before refocusing his vision on something in the distance, something you’re not even sure exists.

The only one really looking at anyone, is Ghost. He’s staring daggers at you in the rearview mirror, fire blazing in his irises, heat so intense it forces your head down towards your knees. Even Gaz looks away from you now, occasionally nudging his thigh against your own, but keeping his gaze fixed out the window.

You’re fucked.

Simon explodes as soon as you’re all unloaded inside the gates. He detonates like a bomb, raw fury rippling through the air, impact radius large enough that it sends nearly everyone else scurrying. “Sass.” Your call sign is rough on his lips. He motions for you to step away, forcing you out from where you’re lurking close to Soap, rage, and something else, something secret, simmering beneath the surface, something you barely glean a glimpse of when he towers over you.

“Ghost. Listen-“ you hiss, fingers flying to push his hulking body away, anger boiling in your blood. He scoffs, like you’re so easily dismissed. Like you’re a child.

“You’re losin’ it Sass. I don’t know, and I don’t care how you used to operate, but we don’t pull shit like that in the 141.”

“Fuck you, Sim-“

“Don’t use my name right now.” The paint around his eyes is cracked, revealing small swaths of skin, the crinkle of crow’s feet. “You had no idea what you were doing out there!” He yells, and you snap backwards instinctively. “You were operating blind, like a fuckin’ idiot. Cap, and everyone else, seems to think you’re a world class operator but today all I saw was stupidity. Are you stupid, Sass?” His raised voice has captured Soap’s attention, who drifts closer and closer to where the two of stand. “I asked you a question.” Ghost snaps, and you want to melt into the ground.

“No.” you whisper. It’s too much. This is too much.

“Then why would you do something like that?” He snarls, and you shy away. You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve seen him ruthless, cold blooded, laser focused on target. You’ve watched him shove a pistol in another man’s eye socket and pull the trigger, torture someone, and in the same breath, turn around and save a child from a burning building.

But you’ve never seen this. Gunpowder and rage. Metal and carnage.

You’re about to ask him what the hell his problem is when Soap steps between you both, hand out towards Ghost like he’s trying to gentle a scared animal.

“Take it easy, LT.” You use the distraction to make your escape before he can see the tears that are trying slip down your face.

Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry.

“D’ye wan’ talk about it?” Soap sits with a thud next you, soft blue eyes shining in the setting sun.

“I think you got the gist.”

“LT can be kind of intense, but don’t take it personally.”

Don’t take it personally.

Don’t take it personally that last week he was shoving his cock down your throat, telling you how good you were.

Don’t take it personally that last week, when you woke up sweating and shaking, he pressed his face to yours with a whisper. “Just a nightmare Sass, I’ve got you.”

Don’t take it personally, that five, six months ago in Belize, he was screaming in a field medic’s face, promising to hurt them if you died.

Don’t take it personally.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He shrugs, slapping you on the back playfully.

“Get some sleep, lass.” Across the gap between two tents, Price and Ghost stand with their arms crossed, murmured words drifting on the wind.

Price glances at you. His mouth moves. Ghost nods, and then leaves.

Great.

A day passes, then another.

Then a week, then two.

Ghost- Simon, vanishes from your life. Evacuates whenever he sees you coming. At first, you tried to run him down, tried to corner him, get him to talk to you, but he’s too smart, applying his tactical prowess to his new mission: avoiding you at all costs.

One day, you catch sight of his retreating back around a corner and sprint after him, calling his name, not his call sign.

He ignores you.

He’s not Simon anymore, at least not to you. He’s Ghost.

You give up. You have enough sense to know when you’re not wanted.

“Sassafrass!” Johnny gleefully calls out as you duck into the ten for the briefing. Ghost tenses like he’s just stepped on a landmine, but you roll your eyes. Dickhead. You position yourself as far away from him as possible, just to the right of Soap, out of view.

He doesn’t even look at you anymore, anyway. Not like it matters.

“It’s an easy extraction, get in, grab the target, get out. Don’t over complicate it.” You nod your understanding, and Price gives you a smile. “Sassy, you and Soap will tackle the southeast side of the building from the back door. Gaz and Ghost will come through north. We’ll meet in the middle.” Again, you nod, and Soap grins at you like a goofy faced teenager. “Alright. Let’s load up.” You shimmy your backpack high above your hips and roll your shoulders, partially listening to your partner’s excited, halfcocked thesis on entry tactics.

It's the behavior that catches your attention. The guy looks nervous, skin gleaming with the sickly sheen of anxious sweat, tense and poised, like he’s waiting for something.

You’ve seen it before. Too many times.

“Soap.” You whisper. Your tone is dead serious, and he turns with a question in his eye.

“What’s got ye spooked?” Your gaze flicks over to the guy you’ve flagged. You shake your head, just as your target is swinging his backpack around and unzipping the top pouch.

You try to warn Soap.

You press your comm and try to tell the 141.

You manage to do neither before the world explodes.

Your eyes open to pandemonium. People are screaming. Kids are crying. You can hardly see, debris and smoke from the explosion making your eyes water and practically blotting out the sun.

There’s blood on your face.

Everyone is scattered. The screaming echoes around you, mirroring the screaming in your mind.

Where are you?

Your comm’s been knocked loose. Your gun is gone.

Your body is not your own. It’s acting on instinct. Fight. Flight. Push. Pull.

It shoves everything down. Everything your brain can’t compartmentalize right now gets locked away in a dark place. You can feel it all, later.

Right now, you have to survive.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Soap yells over the noise, snapping you out of autopilot. He’s somewhere behind you, sense of relief making you dizzy when you turn and see him crouched next to a large chunk of concrete. Thank fuck.

“Johnny? Shit.”

“Yeah. Shite. What was that?”

“A bomb.” You say, dryly. He gives you a dirt look.

“We’ve gotta split, lass.” The ground has a unique dirt pattern to it. The grains are all a different size, different shades of reds, greys, brown. Where are you? They work together, forming a chaotic design, one blanket of earth, dust and dirt swirling together and- where are you, where are you, where- “Sassy!” Soap’s face careens into your point of view. It looks distorted. You jerk backwards, the quick movement making your head spin. “You okay?”

“Where are we?” The words stick to the roof of your mouth. He gives you an odd look.

“Hey, Sassy. You alright?”

“I’m good. Yeah. All good.” A pause. A deep breath. A denial. “You got comms?”

“Negative.”

“Great.”

Johnny is bleeding. You didn’t notice right away, but the crimson stain spreads under his shirt near his hip, and your panic returns, ice slowly spreading through your veins, threatening to freeze you where you stand.

“You’re hurt.” You pat his shoulder, and he nods.

“We’ve got to find the others. Or the truck.”

You can’t find the god damn truck. You have no comms. No guns, only your combat knife and two grenades between the two of you, and Soap is actively bleeding.

It looks bad.

It feels even worse.

“Maybe we should just sit tight.” He grunts, and you startle.

“Yeah. Yeah, Johnny. Let’s just sit here, in the middle of active territory, with no comms, no guns, in the middle of the street. When you’re fucking bleeding out from your gut.” You snap. Confusion flickers across his face. You never snap at him. Gaz? Maybe. Ghost, yeah. Even Price sometimes. But never Johnny. “Sorry. Sorry, Soap. My head is still spinning from the blast.”

“It’s alright, lass.” His voice is calm, smooth. You can feel him watching you from the corner of your eye before he straightens, head turning the other direction. “There’s a hostel, a few clicks down the road. Want to give it a go? They probably have a phone.” You look at him, and then down the length of your own body, tallying and subtracting, plus or minus the odds.

Fuck it.

It’s not very far, but it feels like a full days’ walk. Your head is still buzzing, proximity to the blast too close, too much, too familiar. It’s scrambled your brain, and you find yourself trying to focus on the back of Soap’s head, breathing through your nose. One foot in front of the other.

Somewhere, a block or two away, a car backfires.

Your muscles flex, and you flatten against the side of the building. Soap is talking to you, but you’re immobile, and you can’t hear him. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Something kickstarts in the back of your brain and your feet move. You give him a nod.

The woman behind the desk is terrified of you. Her eyes go round when you approach, gesturing to the phone, and she hands it over immediately, nervously looking between you and Soap, who’s slumped over in a plastic chair, bleeding.

You dial the number you know by heart without pause.

Soap is leaning against you when the truck roars around the corner, dust fogging the air beneath its wheels. He’s doing alright, your rudimentary medical skills coming in clutch when you decided to pack his wound as you waited, and the woman at the desk kindly gave you some towels for pressure. You flag them down, Price white knuckled behind the wheel, familiar skull mask in the seat next to him.

Your heart sinks.

He’s going to kill you.

When he jumps from the passenger seat, he looks anything but angry. His eyes are frantic behind the mask, wide and darting from you to Soap, pulling him from your side into his as you get closer.

“Johnny.” He says gruffly, and Soap cracks a smile.

“S’all good, Sassafrass patched me up.” He groans, and Ghost loads him into the backseat, sliding in beside him as you take the spot up front.

You’re numb. Price is asking you questions, and you’re answering as best you can, surprised when he seems satisfied after the play the play. He even says you’ve done well, the praise from your captain warming a little spot in your cold body. You nod robotically, shallow smile on your face, and check on Soap in the rear-view mirror, relieved that he’s got good color in his cheeks, still breathing.

You catch Ghost’s eyes in the reflection. They burn into you from behind the mask, pulling you apart to see inside. He doesn’t blink, and you turn away, uneasy.

You stumble away from everyone after you give Johnny a pat on the head. He’s still smiling, and squeezes your hand affectionately, medical team carting him away to receive actual care.

He’s fine. We got here in time.

You’re staring at the blood in the sink when someone tries the door handle. After it doesn’t budge, a heavy fist thumps against the thin plywood.

“Someone’s in here.” You croak. The fist bangs again, and you sigh, swinging it open to tell whoever it is to go away.

Except, it’s Ghost standing on the other side.

“Fuck off.” The bewildered words come easily, and his eyes narrow. He shoulders through the door, slamming it shut, large hands gripping onto your shoulders and then tugging you into chest, heavy arms pressing you so tight into him that you’re having trouble breathing.

Your heart flips over.

He holds you, in silence, for a moment that feels like a decade. The balaclava scuffs along the top of your head, and he steps back, still clutching you by the arms, looking you up and down.

“Where are you hurt?” He shifts, thumb stroking a tender spot above your temple where you have a scratch, pulling the wet cloth in your grip free and dabbing it to the side of your head gently.

“N-no. I’m not. Just Soap. I’m fine.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good.” You stare like he’s grown two heads.

“Ghost.” You’re cautious, unsure. Confused. You don’t know what’s happening, why he’s standing in the bathroom, caressing your face, helping you clean up. He holds the cloth under the tap, bringing it back up to your cheek. “Ghost.” You try again. Nothing. Finally, you try; “Simon.”

His hand stops moving. He’s as still as marble in the bathroom, lungs frozen in his chest.

He’s looking into your eyes with a long, dizzying gaze that has your own stunned wide, unable to blink, unable to look away.

Until he lunges for you.

He snatches you by the waist, dragging you out the bathroom and hoisting you over his shoulder. You yelp. “Simon, what the fu-“

“Hush.” He swats your ass like you’re a petulant child, beelining for your tent.

Sometime in the night, when the base is somewhat quiet and the lamp light has dimmed, he folds you in half on the threadbare mattress, pressing your legs back towards your ear, eyes trained on where your cunt flutters for him, clenching around nothing as you wriggle and try to press your thighs together for friction.

“None of that. Be good.” He admonishes.

“Simon. Please.” You’re not too proud to beg in this moment, that’s what nearly dying will do to you. You need him.

He sinks to his knees, still framed between your legs, and rolls the bottom of the balaclava to his nose.

It’s the first time you’ve ever really seen the skin on his face in such a large amount. No paint. No skull. No black cloth. Just his jaw, broad and sharp. His lips, full and wet, flash of tongue darting out from behind his teeth, mouth hot against your pussy, thumbs spreading you open to have his fill.

“There she is.” He murmurs, lips on your clit like a lover’s kiss. His tongue seeks your swollen nub under its hood, and it’s so much, warmth of your body, his face, all of it melting into your skin. Your heel pushes against the mattress as you rock your hips up into his mouth and he chuckles, a hand pressing down on your lower belly. “You taste good, Sass.” You clench, twitching, getting close, orgasm barreling through your nerves, body moving in tandem with each swipe of his tongue, muscles seizing-

He pulls away, hand wiping his face and rocking backwards on his knees.

“What the fuck?” You screech, propping yourself up on your elbows. He’s loosening his belt, and you can’t resist reaching, wrapping your fingers around the throbbing length of his cock. He snatches your hand away, holding you by your wrist and bending you back down, laying his weight on top of you and pushing inside your cunt with a single thrust. It’s been months, yet your body yields to him immediately, aching burn fizzling out as your walls flutter and you whine.

“My girl.” He moans, fucking into you like a man starved. “My good girl.” You stutter out a response, some jumbled nonsense that sounds like his name, sounds like Simon. “My sweet girl, takin’ my cock like you were made for it.” He rears back, pulling your leg to his shoulder, foot dangling next to his ear.

“Fuck, Simon. Don’t- don’t stop please-“ His thumb continues in a circle on your clit, pleasure shooting through your muscles.

“Are you going to come?” you nod furiously, eyes clenched shut. “Look at me.” He bears down on you, gripping your face, and you find his usual guarded gaze nowhere, nothing between the two of you, just two raw currents slamming against one another they’re sparking. You can’t look away.

He thumbs your clits hard, giving you more as he thrusts, rising crescendo forcing insane noises from your mouth, sounds you don’t even recognize, gasping as your orgasm rolls over you like you’ve been hit by a truck. You tighten around him like a vice, and he swears, burying himself deep, walls pulsing around him, pulling his orgasm into you with ease.

You both slips into uneasy sleep, his body wrapped around yours so tight it almost hurts. Your dreams are broken, shattered fragments of bombs from past and present; voices screaming, friends pleading. You scream, pain and fear scratching under your skull, an attack, and bombardment you didn’t see coming. He holds you, soothes you, kisses you, still tense, coiled, ready to spring if need be.

“I got you, Sass. I’m here.” His voice is soft in the dark, fingers smoothing the sweat dampened skin of your face. “I’ve got you.”

Two days later, he rips the rug right out from under your feet.

“What the FUCK is this?” you brandish the stack of papers in your hands at Simon, who sits calmly in the corner of the tent. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge your shrieking, your voice reaching frantic pitches of incredulity.

“Can’t have you here.” He says simply, like that’s all the explanation that’s needed. You’re vibrating, rattling with fury, with fear.

“You reported an intimate relationship with Price, to get rid of me?” His eyes narrow behind the mask, but he doesn’t deny you. “Oh my fucking god, Simon.” You laugh, and it’s sour, spoiled. Rotten, like the sickness that’s turning your stomach. This has to be a joke.

“I can’t have you here.” He repeats himself like a broken record, before he’s on his feet and heading for the exit.

“Simon!” You hiss at his retreat, but it’s far too late. It’s too late for all of this. He’s already gone.

He doesn’t come to say goodbye. Johnny shuffles out to the airfield to give you a hug, Gaz and Price with him. Betrayal burns the back of your eyelids as you shake hands with your captain, and he gives you a knowing look. A sad look.

When the helicopter banks over the tents, you see the black spot of someone standing outside, face turned up to the sky, and you stare at the white and black skull until it disappears from view completely.

You’re restless.

Your house is a skeleton, the walls of the rooms empty, silence so loud you swear you can feel it reverberating in the floors. You were technically on leave, but available for transfer, even though you hadn’t put in for anything, and hadn’t put any feelers out for private sector either. There was something glitching in your brain. Something serious after that last explosion. The whispers of self-doubt echo in your mind. You were off after that bomb, there’s no denying it.

You’ve tried to cleanse yourself of it. Of him. Of everything. You stand under the spray of the shower and scrub your skin until it hurts, letting the bathroom become so thick with steam it’s hard to see. It’s the only thing that relaxes you. It’s the only place that feels quiet.

It’s three weeks later when you start to get sick. At first, you think it’s a bug and expect it to pass. You have a hard time keeping anything down, your stomach sending food and water right back up your throat, forcing you to sip electrolytes throughout the day to keep from crashing.

When four days of the same turn into five, and then six, and then a week, you start to get nervous. You start to do the math.

That’s how you end up in the drugstore, staring at the selection of pregnancy tests. Just to rule it out. You tell yourself. There is no way you’re pregnant. You were good with your pills. You rarely ever missed one. Better safe than sorry.

The test glares at you, fully aware of much an affront it is.

“This can’t be happening.” You whisper to yourself in the mirror. “This isn’t right.” Fear ricochets up your spine.

Fuck. Simon.

#sassy series #peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader

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ladamedusoif · 4 months

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Tempered in the Fire - Part Three

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3. Follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications for updates.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 7.1k

Rating: Explicit; 18+ MDNI (chapter; series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to infertility; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; period-typical misogyny; references to and non-explicit descriptions of past experiences of psychological abuse, sexual assault and non-consensual sex, and of domestic violence; abusive and derogatory language; smut; PiV sex; fingering; technical infidelity; angst.

Use of the Irish language with translations as needed.

Important A/N: In one section of this chapter, Reader recalls exactly how badly treated she was by her husband before he left. This means brief discussion of psychological, physical, and sexual abuse. I have tried to handle these issues as sensitively as possible and without gratuitous detail or description. (I am writing as a survivor of emotional abuse, and I want to express my gratitude for the vital advice and support of other incredible survivors, including of other forms of abuse experienced by Reader in this story).

Further A/N at the end of this chapter.

Taglist: @grogusmum, @insomniamamma, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @julesonrecord, @agentjackdaniels, @iamskyereads, @trulybetty, @pedrostories, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid, @gracie7209, @lahoozaherr, @s-u-t, @its-nebuleuse, @novemberrain221, @schnarfer

(FYI taglists haven't really been working for me of late so please do follow my writing blog if you want to stay up to date!)

Réaltín snickers as you tie her up hastily outside your little cottage, adrenaline coursing through your body. It doesn’t take long to throw a few things in your leather saddle bags: some clothes, your sewing kit and a supply of fabric, the money tucked under your mattress. It’s not much, but it might be enough to get you out of here before he comes looking.

You wrap your best shawl around your shoulders and go outside to check on your little milk cow, safe in her stall. She blinks her big brown eyes at you, kind and trusting, and you rub her muzzle affectionately.

Cáit, your nearest neighbour, peers through the window when she hears Réaltín trotting up the lane. She’s waiting at the door before you’ve pulled up, sensing all is not well. You spill out your excuses.

“It’s family matters. All happened very suddenly. I can’t say more, but I’ll be back as soon as I can - will you look in on my cow, make sure she’s fed? You can have whatever milk she’ll give you, of course.”

Cáit nods, though she seems a little sceptical. “You’re sure you’re alright, a stór [sweetheart/treasure]?”

You bring the shawl around your head and mount Réaltín again. “I am. Thanks, Cáit. I’ll see you soon.”

It’s only when you’re halfway to your parents’ smallholding that you realise you can’t stay there, either. In your panic and haste you hadn’t thought it through. If Searlas wanted to find you, it would be the first place he came looking.

Dusk closes in, and slate grey clouds gather overhead. The heavens open and your tears start to fall as you bring Réaltín to a halt on a quiet lane.

Gró stirs his little bowl of vegetable and barley stew, lifting out pieces of carrot on his wooden spoon before dropping them back in the bowl and giggling at the satisfying plop they make.

His father shakes his head. “Ná bí ag súgradh le do bhéile.” [Don’t play with your meal.]

The little boy is the first to spot the horse arriving out of the darkness, pointing to the window. Din looks out cautiously, dark eyes surveying the small area outside the cottage illuminated by the candlelight coming from within.

Nothing.

The knock on the door is hesitant, and Din silently gestures to his son to stay put as he answers.

She’s soaked to the skin, red woollen shawl weighed down with rain, eyes reddened and fear written all over her face.

It is all Din can do to stop himself reaching out and pulling her close to him, to comfort and reassure her, to make sure she is alright. Instead, he simply stands back and beckons her inside.

She babbles her explanation: the errant husband returned, in the army, her worry that he would seek her out.

“I’m so sorry, Din, I… I just didn’t know where else to go.”

She’s shaking, and he doesn’t know if it’s the cold rain or her panic that’s doing it.

Before Din can speak, Gró has materialised at her side, and reaches up for her hand. His big eyes look up at her with the kind of affection Din has only ever seen the boy show to him, and at times to Peigí.

She looks from Gró to his father and back again. And then she breaks down.

“There isn’t much left, I’m afraid. But you’re welcome to it.”

Din looks from the cooking pot to you, sitting in a chair by the hearth with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders as your shawl and outer bodice dry out.

“If you’re sure?”

He nods and ladles the stew into a bowl. You accept it gratefully, realising that it had been many hours since you last ate. It is a simple meal and all the better for it, the steaming broth warming your bones and the vegetables and barley filling your empty stomach.

Din sits in the other chair and scoops Gró up into his lap. The little boy smiles in your direction as you eat, and you notice he’s wearing the little shirt you made for him. You summon up the words, speaking hesitantly.

“An mhaith leat do léine, Gró?” [Do you like your shirt, Gró?]

His enormous eyes light up and he nods enthusiastically, turning round to look up at his father and laughing delightedly at hearing you speak his language. Din ruffles his son’s fair hair and smiles at you.

“Thank you for mine, too. You didn’t have to. I’ll make sure you’re properly paid.”

You nod towards the bowl of stew. “This is payment enough. Once my things are dry I’ll get going. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you out. I panicked, and -“

Gró sighs and nestles in against Din’s broad chest, trying to keep his eyes open but losing the battle against sleep. Din stands, carefully shifting the little boy in his arms and gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the loft.

“Stay.”

“I’ve already outstayed my welcome, Din, I don’t know what I was -“

“Stay.” He repeats the word, half-order, half-plea, as he stands at the foot of the makeshift wooden ladder leading up into the loft.

You nod, watching as the blacksmith expertly ascends with his son in his strong arms, a lantern in one hand. Din is wearing a sort of woollen jumper over his old shirt, and you can’t help but notice the stretch of the knitted fabric across his broad back and shoulders, the way it draws the eye to the muscles of his chest.

An unexpected wave of pleasure ripples through you. You shake your head, as if trying to rid your body of the feeling.

While Din tucks Gró in, quietly humming to him, you rinse the bowls from dinner and tidy up the main room of the cottage. There’s what looks like a settle bed against one wall, and what you presume is Din’s bed against the other, near the back window: a basic frame, simple bedclothes, a trunk at the foot of the bed.

“So you’ll stay?”

You turn to face Din, speaking in hushed tones as he descends the ladder. “I will stay for tonight.”

He looks at you, dark eyes hooded and serious. “You should stay as long as you need to. You are afraid of him, and I presume with good reason.”

“He might not even come looking for me. He’s gone so long, after all. But -“ You pause as the traumatic memories of the past swirl in your mind. “But him reappearing like this, and in uniform… He is not a good man.”

Din tilts his head and looks at you. You are grateful that he doesn’t pry further. “I can keep you safe here. He’ll never know.”

Before you can protest, he’s crossing the room and pulling out the rectangular, boxy bed frame from underneath the settle and rummaging in a small cupboard for blankets and pillows. “You can sleep here, if you’d like. Or in my bed, over there. Either way, I’ll sleep in the back store, or the forge.”

“Absolutely not. That back little room is too cold, too small. And the forge is no fit place for someone to sleep.” You help him arrange the bedding for the settle bed. “I grew up sharing a one-roomed cottage with my entire family, Din. This is no hardship at all, nothing irregular, as long as you don’t mind.”

He shakes his head and retrieves a half-burned candle from the mantle above the hearth, lighting it from the small lantern before handing you the lamp. Din leaves you to get ready for bed, taking the candle and going to change in the back store so that you have privacy. He calls out to you, checking that he can come back into the main room.

“Come ahead, Din.”

Tucked into the settle bed, you can barely make out his silhouette as he comes into the room. His solitary candle illuminates his strong profile as he gets into his own, wooden-framed bed across the room.

“Are you comfortable? Warm enough?” His voice, soft and low, carries in the quiet.

“I am. Thank you for this. I am so grateful.”

“Sleep well.”

Lights extinguished, you can hear Din shift in his bed and his breathing enter a slower, steady rhythm as sleep descends.

You lie awake in the dark, thoughts racing. So Searlas had fought for something - for his king’s shilling, no doubt, and they were only too desperate for men to fight in the wars against France. Searlas had spat bile and vitriol in ‘98 about the United Irishmen and the Defenders, the groups that had led the rebellion, blaming dangerous French ideas of liberty, equality and fraternity for poisoning people’s minds.

It made sense, now, that he’d have abandoned you to take up arms against those ideas. But you knew Searlas too well for it to be a moral crusade, or a stand taken on principle. Most likely, he’d spent the intervening five years doing as little as possible for as much reward, and probably whoring his way around Europe.

You try to push him out of your mind as you seek sleep, your brain seeking comforting thoughts and images until it settles on the recent memory of a pair of sparkling brown eyes, looking at you in the firelight.

Searlas’s hand is rough around your arm, and you know you’ll have a bruise there tomorrow. He drags you away from the fair and along the back road from the village, muttering abuse as you jog along trying to keep up with him.

“I saw you talking to him. The way you looked at him, the way you whored yourself around him. Filthy slut that you are.”

“Searlas, he’s my second cousin, I haven’t seen him in years…he’s family, I was talking to family!”

He pulls you harder to him before knocking you, deliberately, into the thorny hedgerow that runs along the dirt road.

“Watch yourself. You should be more careful of your footing. Stupid bitch.” He hauls you up and pushes you roughly along the road.

“When we get home, I’ll show you what happens when you act like a common whore in front of the whole place.”

“Searlas, please, please don’t, not again…”

“You’re a fat, useless, barren slut.” He spits the word at you. “And you’ll take your punishment from your husband.”

You have learned since the first time he “punished” you this way that crying out, or crying at all, only prolongs the agony. So you try to will your mind out of your body as your husband pulls your legs apart and pins down your arms, spitting insults as he forces himself on you.

You are not really here. You are in the back field, in springtime, with wildflowers in bloom. You are looking at the slate-grey sea, wind whipping at your face and hair. You are not really here, not really at the mercy of this cruel and violent man.

Sometimes, you try to focus on the words of the songs of liberty you know, the poems that sing of a dream of freedom.

You are not really here. You are free.

You wake with a start and for an instant you can’t remember where you are. A sickening panic thrums through your body and the sides of the settle bed feel like they’re closing in on you.

You sit up and turn your head only to be greeted by a pair of big dark eyes, staring intently at you over the edge of the bed. Gró smiles widely and begins chattering away, unaware that your addled brain is unable to keep up.

Din’s broad figure emerges from the back room, carrying a pot that he places on the metal crane over the fire, to warm its contents. He tuts when he realises that Gró is by your bed.

“Ná bac léi,” he says, somewhat sternly. “Tá sí an-tuirseach.” [Don’t disturb her, she’s very tired.]

Gró turns and reveals your head and shoulders, visible over the edge of the settle bed.

“You’re awake. I’m sorry, I hope he didn’t wake you. He’s young, he is curious.”

You shake your head and reach for your shawl, wrapping it about you. “Not at all. I… I woke by myself.”

Din beckons to his son and leads him by the hand in the direction of the door that opens onto the forge. “We’ll leave you for a bit. There’s some warm water in that pot over the hearth, if you want to wash. And a basin and rags, on the table.”

“Thank you, Din. I’ll be glad to make some breakfast once I’m dressed.”

He inclines his head towards you and carries the little boy into the forge.

While Din works and Gró helps out around the forge, you busy yourself with cleaning, mending, and preparing meals for your hosts, by way of a thank you for their kindness. The cottage is well-kept and tidy - an indicator of Din’s meticulous nature, you muse - and doesn’t require more than a little dusting and sweeping to get it ship-shape again once you’ve pushed the settle bed back under the seat.

The midday meal is simple - floury potatoes, piled high in a bowl, and served with butter, milk, and a little salt for Din. Gró eyes up the fresh pot of jam you had brought in your saddle bags, but his father’s wagging finger dissuades him as he eats his own little bowl of potatoes. Sitting at the wooden table, sharing the meal with them and listening to the chatter between father and son, you feel that familiar pang of loss, of yearning for what might have been.

You distract yourself by thinking about the evening meal.

“I can stay and make something for the supper, later,” you announce, as Din lifts his head and meets your gaze with those penetrating dark eyes. “And then I’ll leave you. I can’t abuse your hospitality any more than I already have.”

The blacksmith shakes his head as he peels another potato and dips it in the golden-white liquid in his bowl. “At least wait until you know it’s safe to return.”

You know, deep down, that it’s still too soon to know. But you also know that the smith and his son are already just about able to feed two people, let alone three.

Din turns to his son and ruffles his hair as Gró closes his eyes in delight. He whispers to him and the little boy grins before hopping off his chair and racing out to the back field, whooping and laughing to himself.

His father stands up and begins to help you clear away the empty dishes.

“You - you were unsettled in your sleep, last night.”

You keep wiping down the table. “Was I?”

You can feel Din looking at you. “You were. And this morning. You sounded upset.”

“Probably just a bad dream.”

Din sighs and hesitates before asking the obvious question. “Was it about him?”

“It was.”

Tension crackles in the turf-scented air of the cottage. For an instant you think about telling him everything: every fist, every bruise, every torn garment, every time your husband used and violated you in spite of your protests.

The image of Din wrapping you up in his strong, protective embrace floats into your mind, unbidden.

He breathes deeply. “He hurt you.”

“He did.” You finally look at the blacksmith, whose soft, compassionate expression comes as a surprise. “I felt more of his fist than his lips, I suppose you might say. But that was better than -”

You inhale sharply, summoning as much courage as you can bear. It is difficult to know how Din will react. But there’s something in your gut that tells you he can be trusted, unquestioningly.

“It was better than the alternative. When he…forced himself. On…on me.”

You stare down at the floor and feel heat rising in your cheeks. You have never told another soul about this, and are unsure why you’ve unexpectedly chosen this stoic man to be the first to know.

The silence hangs heavy between you, broken only by the sounds of your breathing and the crackle of the hearth.

When he eventually speaks, Din chooses his words carefully. “You have to stay out of reach of a man like that. If you could even call him a man.”

He picks up his leather apron and the grey fabric he uses to cover his nose and mouth while he works, and opens the door into the forge, pausing for a moment as he looks back at you.

“Stay. Please. Until you know you’re safe from harm.”

You wake before him the next morning, stealing out of the settle bed to dress in the back room, before quietly putting on water to boil for breakfast and freshening up. There is still some milk in its heavy, lidded container and you pour it into an earthenware jug before setting it on the table.

You hear a stirring from the other side of the room as Din lifts his head from the pillow and yawns, somewhat startled at the sight of you. You bite back a giggle at his skew-whiff bed head, the wavy brown strands sticking up this way and that as his eyes adjust to the light.

He smiles and shakes his head when he realises you’ve prepared breakfast.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I was awake, and I wanted to. I have to find some way to return your hospitality, after all.”

Din discreetly reaches for the pair of breeches folded neatly near the end of the bed, and you instinctively turn away as he slips them on before getting out of bed and climbing the ladder to the room above, where Gró is already happily babbling away to himself.

The blacksmith and his son head to the forge after eating, after you refused their offers of help with clearing up after the meal. As you wash the dishes in a stoneware basin, using some of the leftover hot water, you find yourself slipping, once again, into a fantasy of this being your life: this happy, safe domesticity, away from harm and mistreatment.

The memory of the soft smile that had appeared on Din’s face that morning, when he saw you preparing their meal, enters your mind. You close your eyes, a rush of warmth and something like desire coursing through you.

“No.”

His eyes, now, warm and kind and so inviting as they looked at you. The glimpse of tanned skin under his nightshirt.

“No. It cannot be. No.”

You open your eyes and delve deeper into the tepid water, scrubbing the plates and mugs clean and resolving to leave today - just as soon as you could be certain no danger awaited you at home.

At mid-morning, the sudden sound of a woman’s voice inside the cottage is almost enough to make you drop the bundle of clothes you’re carrying inside from the washing line.

She’s small, with an unruly mop of wild auburn curls, and a demeanour that indicates her wiles and toughness.

Peigí. It seems strange to see her here, away from her yard full of half-mended carts and spares.

She doesn’t spot you at first, too busy hauling in a milk can and a couple of baskets filled with random packages wrapped in brown paper. Food, you guessed.

“Only me, lads! Came by with milk and a few bits and pieces I have going spare after calling into the village, I know a growing little chap who’ll eat them right up, so he will. D’you know they changed the coterie of redcoat bastards at the barracks, Din? And one of them’s a local lad, fecked off and left his wife there a few years ago and now he’s back and he’s going mad looking for her and -"

The woman finally looks up and sees you standing near the hearth.

“Oh. Oh, lord bless us and save us!”

“Hello, Peigí. I’m sorry, did I give you a fright?”

She rounds the table to get a closer look at you. “God almighty, girleen, it is you!” She pauses and takes a step back, concern written on her expressive face. “Did… did you know about, er, him? Reappearing, that is?”

You nod. “That’s why I’m here. And by the sounds of it, that was the right thing to do.”

She turns her head quickly towards the door that leads to the forge, as if half-considering whether to summon Din to find out what, exactly, the wife of the prodigal soldier is doing lying low in his house.

“You’re not… ye aren’t… you and himself, are you…”

It’s pretty clear what Peigí is thinking, and you can’t exactly blame her. An anxious wave crashes through you, as you realise that your choice of hideout may well lead the community at large to suspect impropriety - on your part, of course.

“No. And if anyone else suggests that, kindly correct them on my behalf.” You put the bundle of clothes on the table and fold your arms. “I had nowhere else to go that he wouldn’t suspect. I came here in a panic. Din and Gró took me in and fed me.”

Peigí lifts the baskets onto the table, a sympathetic expression on her face. “Well, your instincts were right. Your husband - not that he should really claim the title, given how long he’s been gone - has been out to your smallholding looking for you, and to your parents’ place, and he’s been asking around for you.”

She takes a few of the packages out and arranges them into little piles. “Look, I don’t know your business but I’m guessing you have a good reason not to want to see him again, for being so frightened that you’d flee your own home. So you can trust me, I won’t say a word.” The earnestness of her expression and the kindness in her eyes tells you that she means it.

“Thank you, Peigí. I’d intended to go home later today, I can’t outstay my welcome, but…”

“But I’d give it another little while,” she finishes. “Until he decides you’re not worth the bother.”

The door from the forge opens and Din’s broad silhouette appears, face still covered with the grey cloth. “Peigí?”

“The one and same, Din. Brought you and that lovely little lad some bits and pieces. Now, where’s my darling boy?”

On cue, Gró tears in from the forge, little bare feet racing across the flagstone floor to greet Peigí with a tight hug as she sweeps him up into her arms. He immediately starts chattering away to her, pointing from his shirt to you excitedly.

“Well, aren’t you a lucky little chap, having new friends to make you clothes and everything!” She swivels around to face Din, his son playing with Peigí’s curls. “You don’t need to explain why she’s here, the poor girl. And she should stay put, in my opinion. Provided that’s alright with her hosts, of course.”

“What have you heard?” Din’s voice is cautious.

“Only that he’s been sniffing around the place and asking questions. Nobody knows she’s out here, though.” She ruffles Gró’s mop of fair hair. “You know me, Din, I know everyone and I hear everything. And I’ll be out here quick as anything, the minute I know it’s alright for her to go home. That alright with you, girleen?”

“If it’s alright with Din.”

His dark eyes meet yours. “It’s fine with us. We will keep you safe.”

Peigí looks from you to Din and back again, eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arched, before setting Gró back down on the ground.

“Right so, I’ll be off. See you next week, Din - if not before.”

You keep telling yourself that you’ll soon be able to go home. But, with every day that passes over the course of the next week without a visit from Peigí, a new, more uncomfortable feeling grows inside you.

I don’t want to leave here.

You settle into a comforting, reassuring routine: a little housekeeping and cooking, mending and sewing, playing with Gró, occasionally helping Din with checking the list of items left for repair. Gró alerts you if anyone comes down the lane to the forge, giving you time to scramble up the ladder to the attic and hide. It’s not that you expect Searlas himself - more that you fear he’ll find out if anyone from the locality spots you in the cottage.

You notice Din smiling more, these last few days. Sometimes, you catch him looking at you, eyes kind and warm. And he, in turn, has caught you looking at him.

By night, you sit by the fire together for a little while: you with your mending or knitting, talking, sometimes - and more you than him - but sometimes simply being in a companionable silence that doesn’t demand interruption.

This evening, he descends the ladder from Gró’s sleeping attic, candlestick in hand, and sets the light back on the mantel. The flickering flame throws shadows here and there, the brighter light of the fire illuminating Din’s profile against the whitewashed walls.

He joins you, sitting in one of the sugán chairs in front of the fire. He silently watches you, taking in your nimble fingers as you darn a pair of socks by firelight.

“You have a nice voice,” you say quietly, not even looking up from your work.

“I…” He seems a little taken aback. “Are you making fun of me?”

You look up, surprised and a little hurt that he’d think that of you. “Of course not! I heard you singing to the little lad and it was nice. It’s a compliment, Din.”

He looks sullenly into the fire. You reach over to pat his arm, to offer a little more reassurance and kindness, but he pulls away suddenly as if your fingertips were aflame. You jerk back your hand just as quickly. Had you broken some sort of rule?

“I’m sorry, Din, I didn’t mean to - I meant no harm.” You cast your eyes down again towards the stockings.

“It’s only that I’m not used to it.”

You look up quizzically. “Not used to compliments?”

He meets your eyes and huffs a laugh. “Well, that’s true too. But I mean I am not used to being touched. At least, not by anyone other than my boy.” He looks away again. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“Let’s call it evens, then, will we?” You yawn softly and let the darning rest in your lap. “I think it might be time for bed.”

You go through the evening routine established with quiet ease over the past few days: packing away your darning while Din smothers the fire and pulls out the box-like bed frame of the settle bed for you, setting out the few meagre cups and plates for breakfast on the sturdy wooden table while he retrieves pillow and blankets for your bed.

“There might just be enough jam for Gró to have for breakfast,” you tell him, peering into the bottom of the last jar you’d given them. Din stands beside you at the table and smiles.

“He makes light work of it, I’m afraid.”

You shrug and place the jar on the table, resting your hands lightly on the edge. “I’m glad. It’s nice to make a child so happy in this world.”

For a moment, there’s no sound except the occasional crackle of the candles and the rain beating its steady rhythm against the walls and windows of the little cottage.

Din rests his own broad, calloused hands on the table. With trembling fingers, he places his right hand gently on the back of your left.

He doesn’t look directly at you, instead stealing the odd glance as he tries to gauge your reaction. You turn your hand over so that your palm is touching his, letting your fingers intertwine with his long, thick digits as you softly squeeze his hand and turn to look at him.

His hands are still shaking a little, but his impossibly dark eyes are warm and wanting as they look intently into yours.

He moves a step closer. He brings the back of your hand to his lips. You exhale a little, a breath tinged with pleasure and surprise, and your fingers seek out the rough stubble on his jaw. He lets go of your hand, gently, and traces his fingertips across your cheek with surprising delicateness.

His kiss is a little awkward, at first, as if he’s afraid you might disappear entirely as soon as your lips meet. When you lean in and reciprocate, though, he responds in kind: strong arms pulling you close as he kisses you hungrily, moaning into your mouth as you wrap your arms around him.

And then it’s over.

He breaks away, breathing shaky, body almost trembling, face turned away from you.

“No. We can’t. You’re… you’re married, it’s not the way to - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laid a finger on you.”

You walk quickly to the settle bed, keeping your back turned to Din. “I’ll go in the morning. I’ve exploited your kindness for far too long as it is.”

His own bed creaks a little as Din sits on it and sighs. “You won’t be safe. I can protect you, here.”

“I’m a married woman, Din, remember?” You fling a pillow down onto the straw-filled mattress in frustration. “So I shouldn’t need you to protect me. And I’d obviously only be a temptation. A harlot.”

You pick up your nightshirt and shawl and cross to the door that leads to the tiny back room, so that you can change for bed. You keep your face turned away and your eyes trained on the flagstone floor. That way, at least, he won’t see your tears.

“The thing is, Din,” you say quietly, as you pause in front of the simple wooden door, “over the last few days - in all the time I’ve known you, indeed - you’ve been more husband to me than he ever was, in the ways that really mattered.”

“Mo chuisle.” [My darling]

His voice, soft but pleading, cuts through the stillness like a prayer. When you turn to face him, he’s standing by the side of his bed, big dark eyes threatening tears of his own, beautiful hands twisting and rubbing nervously together. You’ve never seen him like this.

“Say it again.” You move towards him, shawl wrapped around your upper body.

“Mo chuisle.” He takes your hand and you instinctively move closer, leaning in to feel the warmth of his broad chest. Slowly, cautiously, Din’s strong arms reach around your body to hold you to him.

You stay like that for a few moments, listening to his heart beating, learning the notes of his scent: fire and metal. His large hand caresses the back of your head, his lips find your cheek with soft, lingering kisses.

“Let me keep you safe, mo chuisle. Here, with us.”

You look into his dark eyes, mapping the laughter lines around them and the contours of his nose, his mouth, his strong jaw.

When you first met Din, you weren’t sure if he was a handsome man or a striking one. You were wrong on both counts.

He was a beautiful one.

He holds your gaze for a few seconds, before your lips meet his again. Slow caresses give way to more urgent, hungry kisses, your hands holding Din’s face as he holds you tight, feeling the softness and contours of your body under the layers of wool and cotton in your garments.

You stay like that for a little while, lips and tongues blissfully moving together and hands roaming over each other’s body, exploring these strange and enticing new territories.

Din trembles under your gentle touches, the feeling of someone else’s tender caresses almost overwhelming after so long alone. For the first time in your life, you know what it is to be held and cherished with care as he holds you, seeks out your softness and your warmth, presses his lips experimentally to the fragile skin of your neck and décolletage, and sighs with pleasure.

His mouth moves gradually lower, and you loosen the neck of your blouse and undo your light wool bodice to grant him greater access. Those long, thick fingers, marked and calloused by his trade, trace the line of your breasts under your short linen stays.

“Oh.” He exhales the word, closing his eyes as his fingertips press lightly into the soft flesh.

“Din…”

Din’s dark eyes flick open and meet yours, his sadness palpable. “I’m sorry, mo chuisle, I’ll stop.”

You murmur a silent prayer that he won’t think less of you for what you say next.

“Din…don’t stop. I - I want to. I want you. I want you to have me. Please.”

He flushes and looks away, still holding you close.

You speak softly but firmly. “I know that’s very forward of me, Din, but…” You run your fingers idly through his hair and he leans into your touch. “Why did you turn away?”

“Because I’ll be a disappointment to you.” His eyes meet yours again, dark and sad.

“It has been a…long time.” He looks embarrassed, colour flushing his cheeks. “I…I’ve lain with, well…once or twice…but I…It wasn’t like this. It wasn’t -”

“If you don’t want to, you know that’s perfectly fine.”

“I want to. I want you.” He pulls you tight to him once more, and brings his hand to your breasts, gently kneading the flesh and slipping a fingertip here and there under your light stays as he sucks your neck and pulls your bodice open all the more.

“I won’t hurt you, my darling,” he murmurs.

“Oh, Din, I know. You never could. Let me undress for you, a stór, hmmm?”

Din looks on as you discard your bodice and your skirts, followed by your woollen stockings. You undo your short stays, leaving you as naked as you’ve ever been in front of another human being for a very long time: just your pale, light shift, undone over the décolletage and stopping just at mid-calf, the outline of your body entirely evident in the simple, thin undergarment.

His dark eyes appraise you, mouth slightly open. The width and curve of your hips. The thickness of your thighs. The little protruding pooch of your belly. The line of your shoulders. The gorgeous weight of your heavy bosom.

“Oh, mo Dhia.” [My god]

Din hastily takes off his knitted pullover and undoes his breeches and stockings, and soon he, like you, is standing barefoot on the flagstone floor, dressed in just the creamy-coloured linen of his undershirt. He closes the short distance between you, caresses your cheek with one hand and reaches for the other, holding it gently.

“Please take me to bed, Din.”

It’s strange, at first, to nestle beside him in his bed, to smile at each other and giggle quietly as you map each other’s bodies with roving fingers, curious lips, and wandering eyes.

You are no virgin. But this has some of the sweetness and curiosity of a first time, or at least how you had once hoped a first time would be. On your wedding night, Searlas took your virginity and shattered your romantic delusions, adding insult to injury by checking the sheets to see if you’d bled.

It’s different tonight, here in the blacksmith’s bed. You are both a little awkward, a bit hesitant from your years alone, the time spent seeking a kind of release in your own hands, the years that passed without as much as a loving touch from someone else.

The feel of another now, at last, sets you trembling. Din’s breath hitches when you caress him through the thin linen of his undershirt, and when you reach under his shirt and wrap your fingers around his cock he moans so loudly that you have to put a hand over his mouth, for fear of waking the little boy soundly asleep on the floor above.

You stroke him for a little while, hand still gently pressed over his lips to stem the flow of grunts and moans that threaten to spill out.

“I’ll stay quiet if I’m kissing you, mo chuisle,” he whispers against your hand.

You smile and move your palm away, and Din swiftly finds your mouth again as his hands grope your breasts. It’s exquisite torment - the sheer pleasure of his strong, broad hands being on you, his soft, warm mouth meeting yours, while the ache between your legs grows more and more insistent.

You take his hand and gently guide it under your chemise and between your folds. Din’s eyes widen.

“Ever touched a woman here?”

He shakes his head.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

A slow, entranced nod of agreement.

You bring his long, thick pointer and middle fingers to the sensitive little nub you’ve learned to massage when you needed release in your years alone, guiding Din’s motions as you teach him what you like. What you need.

He’s a quick learner, enraptured by the little whines his fingers start to pull out of you and the way your hips buck in response to the careful touch of his hand. He reaches for your breasts with his free hand, fondling them with endearingly clumsy enthusiasm while he continues to finger you.

“You’re wet,” he grunts into the side of your neck, fingers now tracing around your entrance as he explores you for the first time.

“For you,” you whisper, close to coming. “Because I want you to have me.”

Din’s kiss tips you over the edge and you whine against his broad chest as pleasure courses through your body. He looks astonished.

“Good?”

“So good, Din,” and you return his kiss, still stroking his cock. “You learn fast, a stór.”

His eyes are dark with desire and want as he plays with the hem of your chemise, hitching it up over your thighs.

“Can I have you, mo chuisle?” His voice is hushed, reverent, almost; his face open and genuine as he gazes into your eyes.

You nod and sit up, casting off your shift before helping him out of his shirt. Your fingers trace over the marks and scars on his body, lips pressing lightly to them, to the strong, beautiful muscles of his arms and torso, to the side of his neck.

With his pointer finger, Din draws soft lines and circles down your breasts and around your nipples, before gently bringing his warm, plush lips to each one in turn. Strong arms wrap around you and ease you down onto your back as his mouth continues to explore your body. He strokes his cock and moans softly as your hips buck up towards him, marvelling at the way you are responding to his touch.

He is a beautiful sight, nestled between your legs: broad body above yours, hands and lips exploring you, eyes blown completely dark with desire, and hard cock pressing against your core. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down for a long, deep kiss.

There is no moment of doubt in your mind, no worry about how this lovemaking is “wrong”, by virtue of the legal status that still binds you to a man who never held up his end of the bargain, nor had any intention of doing so.

Nothing in your life, you realise as you reach down to help guide Din inside you, has ever felt so right.

He takes you slowly, gently, biting his lip as he sinks into you and bottoms out with a groan he desperately tries to suppress as he adjusts to the feel of your wet, warm pussy.

He opens his eyes and caresses your cheek, smiling softly. “Mo cailín álainn. [My lovely girl.] Is this - do you like this?”

The feeling of his heavy cock pressing, filling, stretching you so beautifully is a revelation, a far cry from the pain and abuse that characterised your previous experiences. Suddenly, you understand why other young couples you’d known had been so desperate to go to bed together.

“It’s just perfect, a stór. And for you, is this - does it feel good for you?”

Din breathes your name and closes his eyes for a moment. “So very, very good, mo chuisle.” With a gentle kiss, he begins to move his hips as you whine softly at the gorgeous sensation. He moves slowly, at first, his sheer pleasure as he drags his cock in and out of you written all over his face and in every pant and whispered gasp of your name that issues from his soft lips.

Your knees hitch instinctively, your body acting on your innate need to take him even deeper inside of you. Din’s broad, calloused right hand finds its way to your hip, making you cry out as his fingers sink into the soft flesh, while his left eagerly gropes and massages your tits.

“That’s it, darling,” you purr into his ear, urging him on as he starts to fuck you harder and faster. “Yes - yes, Din, there - that’s…oh, god…” His eyes widen as he watches your head rolling back in ecstasy. He buries his face against the velvet skin of your neck, kissing and licking and nipping you until you’re stifling your moans against his dark, wavy locks.

“My good, good girl,” he whispers, moving his lips to your tits and muffling his grunts and groans against your body as his rhythm starts to stutter and falter. He’s close. “Where, love?”

“Inside me,” you hiss, “finish inside me.”

He comes hard, moaning into his pillow as he spills his release deep within you. You trail your fingers through Din’s damp, mussed-up hair and kiss the side of his head, over and over, until he pulls out and flops back beside you.

You turn to face him, chuckling softly at how wrecked he looks. “You’re very good at that, you know. Not bad for a man who thought he was going to disappoint me.”

Din grins, wraps an arm around you, and pulls you in for a long, slow kiss.

Dawn reaches its gentle rays into the little cottage and finds two lovers still tangled together, naked beneath the blankets.

Din wakes you with kisses: to your lips, your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. You nuzzle against him, still basking in the warm glow created the night before.

There’s a certain sadness in his kind eyes. Regret?

“What is it, Din?”

He looks at you, reluctant. “I just wish you were mine, mo chuisle.”

In that instant the warm glow is gone, replaced by stark cold. He’s right. You’re not really his. You can’t be.

But, says a little voice inside you, you are. What else are you, if not his?

You kiss his cheek and reach for his hand. “I am yours, Din. Don’t you remember what I said last night? I’m yours - and you are mine - in all the ways that truly matter.”

Further A/N: With thanks to @agentjackdaniels for her astute observation a long time back about the similarity between mo chuisle and mesh'la!

A settle bed was a common piece of furniture in eighteenth and nineteenth-century Ireland. Essentially, it was a kind of high-backed bench with a deep base that could be pulled out to act as a spare bed. A sugán chair is a traditional Irish form of domestic chair with a woven straw seat and wooden frame.

#tempered in the fire fic #din djarin au #blacksmith!din djarin #blacksmith!din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #historical AU #the mandalorian AU #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedrostories

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hiddenwritingsintheworld · 4 months

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My Alpha Ch. 2

Donations | Share your Thoughts & Feelings | My Alpha Series (coming soon) | Chapter 1

As the week passed, you’d began texting Declan without your father being any wiser. He’d been out of town for a few days on business, but when he returned, you were in for a brute of trouble. “Y/N!” he yelled from the dining room as you came home from work one evening. “Hey dad!” you smiled softly, “I didn’t realize you were home yet, how was your trip?” you asked, coming over and giving him a peck on the cheek. “What in the hell was that new Alpha doing here the other day?” he growled. You blinked and reached over to the desk against the wall where your father had always kept all his important papers and such. “He wanted to drop off his phone number for you, and wanted to offer that if you needed anything to reach out to him.” you said quietly as you handed him the card. “Did you invite him in?” he glared, snatching the card from your hands. “No, of course not. I was here alone, I…I know not to do that…” you whispered looking down.

Your father sighed and leaned back in his chair, “I think you’ll find that he’s trouble, I don't want you alone with him do you understand me?” you looked at him and nodded. “Yes sir, I understand.” you spoke in a quiet voice, afraid that if you spoke any louder, he would back hand you. “Get upstairs and undress, I’ll be there in a moment.” he said looking back at the card.

You stood there for a second, chewing on your lip. “Do you have to do an inspection? I hav-,” the hand that struck your cheek was quick, the force knocked you back a bit. “I said. Get upstairs, and undress. I didn’t ask you to fucking speak!” he roared. “YOU DO WHAT YOUR ALPHA TELLS YOU TO DO!” Your lip quivered as you looked away, your whole body shaking. You felt his breathing, hot with the stench of whiskey embedded in it, running down your neck as he stood closer to you, his lips close to your ear, “What do you say when your Alpha gives you an order?” he growled. “Y-Y-Yes Alpha,” you whimpered, trying not to cry. “Now, be a good little Omega and do as your alpha tells you. Get upstairs, strip down and wait.” he growled. You nodded as you swallowed thickly, trying to keep your tears from running down your cheeks. “Yes Alpha.” you whispered and turned rushing upstairs.

You had mere minutes before he would be there, so you quickly sent Declan a text. ‘FYI, I have to delete our texts constantly, so, if you text, and I read it but don’t respond, it’s because I deleted it before I had the chance to text back. Do not reply to this, I will text you later tonight.’

You sent the message, noticing it had been read, and quickly deleted the conversation before laying your phone on the counter. You stripped down from your work uniform, tossing the dirty clothes into the hamper in the bathroom and stood in just your bra and panties. You turned on the shower, and took your place, standing with your back to the door, watching the steam from the hot water begin to rise in the small bathroom.

The door opened behind you, and hit the wall as it swung. You didn’t move a muscle, knowing that if you did, it could be so much worse. “Underwear and Bra need to come off as well.” he spoke with venom etched in his voice. He’d never made you remove your bra and panties before. You turned your head to glance over your shoulder at him, your brows furrowed with confusion. “But I-,” “Did I ask you to speak?” he interrupted you. “Do you need a refresher in how this all works? You're the omega, when your alpha speaks, gives you a command, asks you a question…you don’t question him. You DO AS YOUR FUCKING TOLD!” he grabbed you by the arms, and threw you out into the hallway.

As you fell against the banister, you cried out in pain. Before you were able to get up, he straddled your waist, and grabbed the front of your bra ripping it from your body as you struggled against him. “Hold still you little bitch,” he growled, reaching for your panties as you slapped at him, “Get off me! Please stop!” you cried. He got a hand on them, and twisted, the material ripping on your left hip, but not the right. “Hold still!” he yelled as you cried and struggled.

The doorbell ringing stopped him in his tracks, you were able to crawl away as he stood up and looked down at you. “I find one mark on you from another, I’ll break every bone in that little body of yours.” he glared with a snarl before he straightened his clothes and walked downstairs to the front door. When he opened it, he froze for a split second.

Declan stood there, he had a good 5-7 inches on the older alpha, and was doubled his size. “Good Evening,” Declan smiled and nodded his head. “Mr. Harp, what are you doing here?” Your father called out, a little louder than normal, which meant he wanted you to hear who was at the door. You heard your father open the door wider and allowed Declan inside. “Well, I wanted to stop by because I tried to catch you a few days ago and you weren’t home. I’d left word with your daughter but I never heard from you.” He said as he entered the house. Arthur, your father, nodded and walked toward the living room, which was opposite of the stairway and banister in the upper hallway.

“Girl is more brain dead than a vegetable, what can I do for you Declan?” Arthur put his hands in his pockets and stood tall, watching as Declan nodded and smiled some, “Well I went down to the lumber yard and had filled out an application, but since I don’t know very many people here, I was wondering if you could help me find a job and if it’s alright, possibly use you as a reference?” he asked as the older man had to hold in a laugh. “Tell you what, Declan, why don’t you come work for me? I own the construction company on the southend of town and while it’s hard work, it’s also honest work. Why don't you have a seat, I’ll go in the kitchen and grab us a couple beers,'' Arthur told him as he walked off to the kitchen.

Declan glanced around, looking for any sign of you, he could smell the distraught and fear that coated your scent. Glancing to see the kitchen door closed, Declan stepped out of the living room and into the foyer to see you leaning against the banister, an arm covering your chest as tears silently fell down your face. Your eyes were closed, lips quivering, as you shook slightly.

You caught the smell of the forest, a woodsy pine, like fresh dew in the early morning, mixed with oak. A splash of rain intertwined with dawn, and warm cinnamon mixed with pinecones that littered the forest ground. Your eyes opened to see Declan staring up at you, eyes wide and his nostrils flared. You held your arms to yourself as you bit your lip, “I was never here. You saw nothing.” you mouthed to him before moving back into the bathroom, pressing yourself against the tub behind the door you buried your head down in your arms as your heart raced.

Declan stood there, his widened eyes became narrow as he turned his attention back to the kitchen door, he could hear Arthur shuffling around. “Hey Arthur, I gotta get going. Why don’t I come by for that beer some other time?” Declan called out, glancing back up toward the spot you were sitting last. “Oh alright, well, if you need anything, give me a holler Declan.” Arthur said coming out of the kitchen.

Declan was standing by the front door, acting as if nothing had been seen or heard and nodded. “Absolutely Arthur, thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Just text me the time to show up and I'll be there.” he shook his hand and walked out the door as Arthur chuckled. “You got it,bye now.” he closed the front door and turned glaring back toward the stairs. He moved swiftly through the house, taking the stairs two at a time to find you curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor shaking like a leaf. “Take a shower, I’ll start on dinner.” he grabbed the door and pulled it shut, sighing to himself. Sometimes he forgot you didn’t know; and Arthur wasn’t about to let anything jeopardize what he had worked so hard to get in the first place.

You came downstairs about 20 minutes later, dressed in a pair of flannel pajama pants, a long sleeved shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks. Arthur smiled at you, sliding a drink to you at the island and looked at you. “You understand why I do the things I do right?” he asked as you sat down and sipped your cup of tea. “I guess…” you mumbled, staring down at the counter. Arthur sighed, “I don’t trust other alphas around you, you’re my little girl, I’d die if something happened to you. I love you too much, I’ve worked too hard to protect you,” he pulled you into his arms, sniffing your hair as he kissed your head.

You sighed and hugged his waist, wishing more than anything it would stop. You looked at him after a few minutes. “Hey dad, are you going to let Declan come work for you?” you asked as he smiled. “Of course, he’s a pack member, packs take care of each other. Now you go sit and I’ll finish up dinner.” he kissed your forehead before releasing you.

Tag List: @notebooks-of-nonsense @fdl305 @bval-1 @calimoi @syntheticavenger @forgetmenotsexy @mrsjenniferwinchester @chaneajoyyy @mommad @wolfieeebbbyyy @dontbescaredtosingalong @ellen-reincarnated1967 @adriellej @coffeebooksandfandom @patzammit @posiemax @auriel187 @ladybug05 @stoneyggirl2 @fallenoutofrose @mrspeacem1nusone @teamfreewill-imagine @inlovewith3 @auvisanspeur (if you want to be added to the tag list let me know!)

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corvidinthewoods · 5 months

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going to ramble a bit about hbomberguy, not the latest video directly more about some of the reaction to it. full disclosure i am a patron of his, have been for a few years, and became a fan of his channel years before that. i think maybe six years ago? give or take.

im maybe experiencing cognitive dissonance bc its nice that something ive enjoyed for a long time is gaining new audience, and of course new criticism. my initial reaction has been one of resistance that i need to check.

but after reading a bit more of the criticism im like. i kinda of agree? only kind of. i feel like the criticism is maybe not directed at me (or types of fans like me) but at folks for whom this is their first encounter with hbomberguy and are hailing him as a career-ruiner and gleefully enjoying the takedowns. dont get me wrong, takedowns are fun and they’ve always been core to his channel. his oldest stuff was debunking and clowning on right wing youtubers. but thats not all he is? and i dont like the idea of him as this Great Takedown Guy because personally the stuff i like best is his media criticism.

and thats not in the way some folks are like “oh yeah i enjoy hbomberguys media analysis but not his political stuff” i like both. but i think if folks are disregarding that side of his channel then theyre not like. idk how to word this im not the best writer. theyre missing out? or missing the point?

my personal favorite hbomberguy video is Halcyon Dreams. I also really enjoy Scanline (which is both him and shannon strucci), the CAD SLA, and the whole And Here’s Why series (especially speedrunning and pathologic). in much of hbomberguy’s other work, he will disagree with creators or producers in ways that aren’t career endings. and i don’t imagine he’s trying to become a person who does that all the time? i see behavior of his that indicates this to me, such as not naming who took his joke in the uber, explicitly saying “if you go harass Somerton you are worse than him”, and how most of And Here’s Why is neutral to positive, even tho the Garbage ones may get more views. the Sherlock has the highest

uhh where am i going with this. i always got points off for my transition sentences in essays

i guess im saying like. i don’t think it’s fair to just view the hbomberguy channel as waiting for the skeletons to come out of the closet. but i also dont think fans (especially y new fans) should put him up on this pedestal, particularly as Guy Who Destroys Careers. its not a good idea to idolize ppl in general, and its not great to live in a mindset of waiting for the next target for you to justify harassing.

#crow.txt #glad i went and read a bit more of the posts by the oerson who got me thinking about this #bc there were good points especially about some folks behavior #even if obviously i dont agree with the main thesis #hbomberguy

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lonestarflight · 3 months

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Apollo Missions: Apollo 5

A schematic highlighting the major milestones of the Apollo 5 mission to test LM-1.

Diagram of the Saturn IB used for the unmanned LM-1 test flight.

"A nearly perfect performance by the Saturn IB placed the S-IVB-204 stage and its LM-1 payload into an initial 163 by 222 kilometer orbit with an inclination of 31.6° following 10 minutes and 3.3 seconds of powered flight. After 35 seconds in orbit, the nose cone was successfully jettisoned with the four panels of the SLA deployed 9 minutes and 15 seconds later. LM-1 used its RCS to separate from S-IVB-204 at 23:38:58 GMT about halfway through its first revolution and into a 167 by 224 kilometer orbit. After separation, LM-1 changed its attitude to cold soak its propulsion system for the next two orbits.

Diagram showing the configuration of LM-1 inside of its Spacecraft Launch Adapter (SLA).

An artist conception of LM-1 separating from its spent S-IVB stage.

With its primary duties concluded, S-IVB-204 performed a number of engineering tests including the dumping of residual cryogenic propellants and helium pressurant through the stage’s J-2 engine. This procedure would help lighten the stage for easier control in orbit and prepare future S-IVB stages for use as a 'wet' orbital workshop as proposed for the Apollo Application Program which was planned to follow the initial Apollo lunar landing missions (a program which later evolved into Skylab). After the propellant dump was successfully completed at 01:19:33 GMT on January 23, the stage was in a 155 by 223 kilometer orbit. Although it was not tracked, the orbit of S-IVB-204 was expected to decay ten revolutions after the separation of LM-1 about 15½ hours after launch.

Following the three-hour cold soak of LM-1, a pair of burns were planned for the descent propulsion system (DPS) followed by two burns of the ascent propulsion system (ASE). The first 39-second burn of the DPS would start at a throttle setting of 10% then ramp up to full thrust for the last 12 seconds to simulate the initial deorbit burn which would start the descent towards the lunar surface. The second firing of the DPS would last for 739 seconds and use a series of throttle settings representative of an actual descent to the lunar surface. Immediately afterwards, the abort staging would be tested with an initial five-second burn of the APS. A subsequent firing of the APS would continue until the stage’s propellants were depleted after about 445 seconds completing the primary mission about 6½ hours after launch. Because the LM ascent stage was expected to be left in a comparatively long-lived 315 by 815 kilometer orbit after the completion of the last APS burn, extended mission activities were planned until the ascent stage depleted its consumables about seven hours later.

At 02:47:49 GMT on January 23 (just shy of four hours after liftoff), LM-1 was commanded to start the first of two planned burns of the DPS but the engine unexpectedly shutdown after firing for only four seconds leaving the spacecraft in a 170 by 222 kilometer orbit instead of the planned 215 by 330 kilometer orbit. After examining the telemetry, ground controllers quickly located the source of the problem. The LM’s guidance computer had been programmed to abort the maneuver and shutdown the DPS if it did not provide the expected acceleration level after four seconds – a situation which would normally indicate a problem with the DPS. Because the pressure-fed propulsion system was purposely running at lower than nominal pressure for these tests, it would now take six seconds to reach full thrust. It was this oversight which resulted in the premature shutdown of the DPS.

Cutaway diagram of LM-1 used for the first unmanned test flight of the Lunar Module (LM)

As a result of the problem, a preplanned alternate mission was adopted by ground controllers which would meet the minimum mission requirements while keeping LM-1 in touch with tracking stations for key maneuvers. With the guidance system deactivated, the DPS was ignited by ground command for a 33-second burn at 04:58:49 GMT during the fourth revolution. The second burn of the DPS for the alternate mission sequence was commanded at 04:59:54 GMT for an abbreviated 28-second burn. This was followed by the abort staging test and a 60-second burn of the APS. All systems worked as intended during this alternate mission’s three burns. The 228 meter per second total change in velocity from these three propulsive maneuvers boosted LM-1 into a 172 by 961 kilometer orbit.

An artist conception of the firing of the LM descent propulsion system (DPS) during the Apollo 5 mission.

After these first three firings of the propulsion systems, the primary control system was reactivated for the balance of the mission. Unfortunately the guidance computer, which had been in a passive mode during the abort staging, had not taken into account the change in spacecraft mass and used excessively long burns of the RCS to control attitude as if it had a fully loaded descent stage still attached. This resulted in higher than expected RCS usage and eventual propellant depletion after only about an hour. Fortunately the RCS could be configured to draw from the APS propellant supply to provide attitude control during the mission’s final burn. Because of the timing and other requirements of the burns in the alternate mission plan, this second burn of the APS would be in the retrograde direction which would send the spacecraft into Earth’s atmosphere ending the Apollo 5 mission.

Flight Director Gene Kranz (left) and Dr. Gilruth (right) shown in the Mission Control Center at the conclusion of the Apollo 5 mission

With the ground track of LM-1 beginning to drift beyond the mission’s tracking stations due to the one-orbit delay to implement the alternate mission, the remainder of the mission had to be completed by the next revolution. The second burn of the APS started at 06:32:20 GMT during the fifth revolution. As planned, the sequencer automatically closed the valves supplying the RCS with propellant about 161 seconds later. Without attitude control, the ascent stage began to tumble as the APS continued to fire for another 190 seconds before its propellants were finally depleted. The last telemetry was received from LM-1 at 06:40:18 GMT on January 23 ending the Apollo 5 mission 7 hours, 52 minutes and 10 seconds after launch. The LM-1 ascent stage reentered the Earth’s atmosphere and was destroyed over the Pacific Ocean some 640 kilometers off the coast of Central America. The inactive descent stage of LM-1 fell from orbit on February 12.

"Map showing the ground track of the Apollo 5 mission as flown and the location of tracking stations supporting the mission.

Although the Apollo 5 mission had encountered problems forcing a switch to an alternate mission plan, the overall performance of LM-1 was good enough to satisfy the mission’s main objectives. And with the requirement to certify the LM for crewed test flights satisfied, a potential second unmanned test flight with LM-2 was cancelled allowing one more mission to be cut from the Apollo program’s increasingly tight schedule. With LM-2 being unsuitable for manned flight without significant reworking to meet new requirements in the wake of the Apollo 1 fire, it was set aside as work continued on LM-3 for the first manned LM test flight on Apollo 9."

-information from DrewExMachina: link

#Apollo 5 #Lunar Module #LM-1 #SLA-7 #Saturn IB #SA-204 #Rocket #NASA #Apollo Program #B-type mission #January #1968 #my post

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slamdunkhcs · 2 years

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the success of slam dunk

Something I often hear from others is that “Slam Dunk is underrated”. To an extent, this is true. The series isn’t very talked about among younger fans of manga, and newer sports series such as Haikyuu are mentioned more by younger fans. However, Slam Dunk is not underrated in the slightest. Its numbers of copies sold worldwide (170 million copies, making it the seventh best selling manga of all time) speaks for itself, but in this essay I want to break down both the numbers and impact that truly show Slam Dunk’s success.

During the time of the series' publishing in Shonen Jump, Japan had been going through an economic fall. The Japanese economy suffered a prolonged recession that followed the collapse of the economic success of the 80’s. Corporations had stopped hiring new employees in order to maintain their current ones. This meant that many people were out of work, and it led to high unemployment. While this doesn’t directly affect Inoue, it puts lots of pressure on his manga to do well. After all, if he couldn’t make something that sold, he was out of a job. He had also stated that his editors were against him making a basketball manga due to it being unknown in the country, yet he did it regardless — despite knowing that he could easily be out of a job and face the financial difficulties many others were facing throughout the 90’s.

Throughout the 90’s, basketball wasn't very known in Japan. The NBA was at its peak in popularity, but this popularity didn’t translate to Japan. Baseball and soccer were far more known sports in Japan, and so Inoue was faced with the task of introducing basketball to his readers. (He did a good job of this). Slam Dunk starts off more comedic and casual compared to an intense sports series, and this was done to appeal to a wider audience. In fact, some of the most popular chapters and episodes at the time had been the gym fight arc, which didn’t exactly have much to do with basketball. But as the series progressed, Inoue was faced with two choices; to continue with the writing structure that was selling, or to double down on the basketball aspect of the series and risk alienating and losing his audience.

But instead of backing down, Inoue decided to take the risk. The story became more and more basketball focused, but he didn’t alienate his audience. In fact, the story was becoming more and more popular. At the time, it contended with Dragon Ball Z, and at times was even outselling.

The apex of the series’ popularity had been towards the end of its serialization in 1995-1996, throughout the Shohoku vs Sannoh match. And then… it ended. Inoue’s editors wanted him to continue the series as it was one of the magazine’s best selling, but instead, he just left. A complete power move. The series had lots of material that could have been used to continue the series, such as what happened to Shohoku (particularly Sakuragi) after the Sannoh match, him getting the girl, him becoming an even better player. I think that Inoue knew the series could have been even bigger if he had continued, but I also believe that it ended where it needed to. If Slam Dunk had been dragged longer, it may have gotten stale, and it might not have been as beloved as it is right now. Additionally, Inoue’s other big titles such as Vagabond or REAL don’t have endings due to long hiatus, and it’s possible that Slam Dunk may have faced similar treatment.

Aside from its overall sales, another interesting metric that encapsulates Slam Dunk’s success is its sales per volume estimate.

Slam Dunk being second only to One Piece (the best selling manga of all time) highlights just how successful it is.

Additionally, here is a sales chart of the best selling manga in September 2022. The fact Slam Dunk places here despite being a series that has been completed for over 25 years speaks for itself.

The series is very impressive sales wise already, but another component on just how successful Slam Dunk is its cultural impact in Japan. I already stated Inoue was forced with the task of introducing basketball to Japan. And to say he introduced it to them would be an understatement; it can be said that Slam Dunk popularized the sport.

Around the 90’s, while basketball was at its peak in popularity due to the NBA, Japan didn’t pick up on this. Baseball and football were still far more popular. As I said before, Inoue was tasked to introduce basketball to his readers.

Introduced is an understatement, and Inoue’s story actually increased enrollment in basketball among Japanese youth. In fact, throughout 1990-1995, around one million Japanese high schoolers were playing basketball as an extracurricular. And when Slam Dunk ended its serialization, this number dropped again.

Additionally, when the NBA came to Japan during the time the series was being published, the stadiums for their games were packed. This adds onto just how much more popular basketball was getting in Japan. And even now, it can be said basketball is a much popular sport in Japan.

But he didn’t just introduce the game itself; he also showed the culture surrounded by basketball.

Basketball culture is another prominent thing shown in Slam Dunk, from the boys hooping in Jordans, the baggy clothes they wear, to the sneakerhead culture. Inoue bridged 90’s American culture to Japan, and he made it a thing among Japanese youth.

Something else I want to note is that Nike allowed for Inoue’s use of their products in the manga. On my initial read, this surprised me, since I figured that Nike would have copyrighted the series. However, the reason they allowed for Inoue’s display of their products was because it essentially advertised their products to the Japanese market. In fact, Jordan’s and Nike’s sneakers had a massive increase in Japanese sales throughout the series’ publication (particularly the shoes worn by Sakuragi and Rukawa). Additionally, Nike also had a collaboration with Inoue to make red Jordan’s with Slam Dunk’s panels.

The series wasn’t known in just Japan, but throughout other Asian countries such as South Korea, China, and The Philippines. And as a result, basketball got popularized in these countries as well. If you were to ask anyone from there from around the 80’s-90’s, it’d be difficult to not find a Slam Dunk reader.

Throughout all this, I firmly believe that Slam Dunk isn’t underrated. It is arguably one of the most influential mangas, and easily one of the most successful.

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offbrand-valk · 7 months

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(A bit of writing practice for nanowrimo, cause ya girl is rusty.)

Ræðsla

(*Ra-Th'-Sla*) trans. "Horror"

The machine awoke on command, followed the instructions attached to the boot message, and began its diagnostic routine.

First it scanned the hangar, noting each human shape it could identify within the 99.95th percentile; then it analysed each presumed human in turn, checking that they wore an identification token (and only one), and that this identification validated correctly.

This was not part of the diagnostics process, and would not be included in the diagnostics report. But should any of the validations fail, it would silently raise an alarm with an external system and await response from said system’s human operator. If no response was given, or the response was deemed untrustworthy, the machine would trigger a catastrophic meltdown within its reactor, destroying itself and its surrounding after a few minute, while trying to disguise the process as routine diagnostics.

Ræðsla of course, had no opinions on this protocol. It was a machine, an incredibly complicated machine, which even the people who had built it, only understood bits and pieces of, but a machine nonetheless – The closest it came to sentience was a series of specialized processors daisy-chained together to perform statistical extrapolation of available data in order to help the pilot focus on the most important information in the heat of combat.

One by one, Ræðsla tested the servo actuation on its’ thruster array, under the supervision of a small army of monks.

Two new figures entered the room, which the machine automatically checked the identities off and found them valid.

One was a tall, black man, with a bit of a muffin top, a neutral expression on his anonymous face, and eyes that were once warm, but now had become haunted by the horrors of war. Ræðsla’s database identified him as: Geo (he/him), father superior of the order of our father of righteous sorrow, head of the Ræðsla project.

The other was a mixed race butch, her mother was white, her father had been south Asian. She was sickly pale and skinny; an endless list of surgeries, and surgeries to correct the damage done by earlier surgeries, having taken its’ toll on her body.

Still, she looked like nothing if not the warlord upon her throne, as she drove her electric wheelchair towards the machine that took up most of the hangar. Ræðsla in turn, identified her as prince Gallantine Eva-Maria Brathwaite Oldenborg the 1st, of Fenrisfort, holy daughter of the matron pope Maria Valfreyja the 3rd; 1 of 1 authorized pilots of the Ræðsla prototype.

Ræðsla was an unconventional design. For one, it was big, almost twice the size of the average mech, top heavy too, with short legs and a pair of long arms hosting an thrusters, gravity shields, and torpedo rails.

The Ræðsla was built around its main gun, a terrible thing that spewed metal shavings at almost 10.000 kelvin. It moved around corners, got into ventilation, choked and burnsed at the same time, and left heavy ash in its wake.

It didn’t matter that it was clumsy on the ground, it was a spaceborn weapon, only meant to come down from low-orbit to do strafing runs on key targets or population centers.

Looking at it’s tripod shape, Gallantine couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to the dragon on her late wife’s coat of arms.

The machine finished it’s diagnostics routine.

One of the technicians, an old woman in a well-worn jumpsuit crossed the overhead walkway, her breathing was ragged, assisted by an implant that couldn’t quite compensate for the damage she did to her lungs 18 years ago sifting through heavy ash in the faint hope she would find just one member of her family alive.

In her hands she held a vacuum sealed box, within which lies 8kg of a pyrophoric alloy known as phlogistron. Enough for an 0.6 second burst of the Ræðsla’s main gun.

Another technician, a young monk, instructs Ræðsla to open its ammunition feed hatch, and fusses as the old woman connects the box to the feed mechanism.

“I urge you one last time prince, please reconsider.” The monk said as the pair crossed the room, doing an admirable job at hiding the fear in his voice.

The prospective pilot stopped, and turned her wheelchair to face him. The rage in her eyes burned like an ion torch.

“There was a point where we could have reconsidered brother. We passed it somewhere between when we granted my wife’s wish for euthanasia, and when we started grafting pieces of her cerebellum to my brainstem.”

The monk nodded, recognizing it was not his place to oppose the will of the gods, much as he wanted to.

Ræðsla closed its’ ammunition feed hatch, and sent a signal to the diagnostics terminal that it had successfully sealed its phlogistron supply, and that the main gun was now armed.

Reading this the younger monk, his face stained with engine grease, looked over the edge of the diagnostics terminal, and in a huge breach of decorum called out to his senior and the prince: “Will you two be done yapping soon, or should we put this thing back to sleep?”

The butch in the wheelchair smirked at her companion, feeling vindicated she was not the only one anxious to see if their project had paid off.

“Let’s see what this puppy can do!” She yelled out to cheers from the assembled technicians as she rolled up the ramp, and used the handrails for assistance to pull herself into the cockpit.

Father Geo took the cable off the pilot chair, and attached it to the back of the prince' suit with a loud *k'chunk*, before stepping back. A gentle current ran through Gallantine's spine for a few milliseconds in order to confirm the circuit was closed.

Ræðsla did as instructed, retracting the cockpit into the safety of its belly without beginning to interface with the pilot.

If she didn’t know better, Gallantine would say there was something _hungry_ about the rumbling and grinding sounds the machine made as it closed tight around her. As if _it too_ was excited to get moving, like it knew the atrocity it was built to avenge.

Father Geo took his place on the observation podium, and made the sign of the gods.

“Control, ready when you are.” Came the unmistakably impatient voice of prince Gallantine.

Geo considered asking her to lead them in prayer, but thought better of it. The old God and the new Gods had already made up their minds as to whether or not this would succeed, and the act was just as likely to calm the prince as it was to infuriate her.

===

The machine's cockpit was cramped, not an inch of empty space that wasn't required for the pilot to enter and exit.

The dual control sticks featured a staggering array of triggers, switches and buttons, rows of controls sat along the sides of both armrests, below screens waiting to be slid into her field of view with yet more buttons and switches placed above her.

Gallantine had piloted simulators before, but if you fucked up in a simulator, you made a fool of yourself, if she fucked up now, she might break a one of a kind war machine and set the project back years.

With more caution than she cared to admit, she flipped the overhead switch to activate the main display, lighting up the armored wall in front of her with a view from Ræðsla's head.

So far so good, a few more switches flipped, verify the cables were correctly attached, and nothing to do but try their luck.

"Begin human interfacing" came brother Geo's calm instruction in her headset.

Deep breath, here goes nothing, remove the safety, turn the handle 45 degrees, then pull until it goes click.

Every nerve in Gallantine's body triggered at once.

She was burning, she was freezing, she was being squeezed all over, up was every direction; and she was in

MUCH

PAIN

The machine, for its' part, did exactly what it was supposed to, frantically changing frequency and voltage in the hope of finding the right one before causing irreversible damage to the pilot.

She was about to call it off, didn't know if she still could, when an image resurfaced in her overstimulated brain: a broken down mech lying beneath a blanket of heavy ash, clutching the cockpit that had failed to eject, in the hopeless hope of protecting its pilot from the dangers that lay outside, yet unable to keep her from breathing heavy metals.

The pilot would lay there for almost 3 days, unable to move herself or her mech, wasting away as microscopic slivers of thalium cut holes in her lungs and entered her bloodstream.

And one thought crystalized, unifying pilot and mech.

Kill them all.

Kill Them All!

Kill! Them! All!

The Pope.

The General.

The Captain.

The Organist.

The entire fucking council who let them do it.

KILLTHEMALL

===

Integration successful

You sent the message to your visor, telling you nothing you didn't already know. Moving your metal body was obvious, the wealth of controls no different than the wealth of muscles belonging to the soft organic thing within you, that was you, and yet, so much less.

You moved your tail experimentally about, feeling like a phantom limb the different textures as it scraped across metal, plastic and glass; unable to imagine a time you had ever been without it.

Because you hadn't. Prince Gallatine Oldenborg of Fenrisfort had, but she wasn't you. She was an essential component, like your grand CPU, and MTF reactor. Without her, there was no you, but she was not you.

You were a 115 ton, experimental, flying, war machine, rated for atmospheric and space combat.

You were 27 kilometres of wire, 304 distinct microprocessors, 556 reactive armor tiles, 24 ion thrusters, 2 gravity shields, 9 recognizance drones, and a weapon that should never have been built.

You were Ræðsla.

#my writing #enjoy sexy robot dragon times

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cosmereplay · 1 year

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Welcome to the tumblr cosmere fandom! Here's a list of common tags. I encourage you to use these tags to find the things you want and block what you don't want! Fellow tumblrinas feel free to add to this list:

#cosmere, #brandon sanderson, #cosmere fandom - general or wide ranging cosmere stuff

#cfsbf (cosmere fandom still best fandom) - for heartwarming stuff

#cfswf (cosmere fandom still worst fandom) - angst fics, complaining about other fans, hot takes from Brandon

#cremposting memes and such

Series tags! #Stormlight Archive, #Stormlight archives, #the Stormlight Archive, #tsa, #sla. Similarly, #Mistborn, #Mistborn era 1, #Mistborn era 2.

Spoilers! People are pretty good at tagging their spoilers. If you want to avoid spoilers for a book, block "book title", "title spoilers", and "acronym spoilers" and that should help you stave off the worst of it. Ex. #the lost metal, #the lost metal spoilers, #tlm spoilers. For a series, #mistborn spoilers. I've seen #secret project 1, #sanderson secret projects, #ssp1 spoilers, etc for the Secret Projects.

For characters, you might find different things by using first name only, full name, name plus topic. Ex #Shallan, #Shallan Davar, #Shallan fanart. For characters with common first names and no last name like Lift, use Stormlight as the last name, #lift stormlight. Same with #vin mistborn. Hoid's name is #hoid cosmere, of course ;).

Fanart! #stormlight fanart, #mistborn fanart, #arts arcanum

Fanfic! #stormlight fanfic, #mistborn fanfiction, #cosmere fic, #cosmere RP

Shipping! Here are some common ship names for your finding or blocking pleasure - #Kadolin, #Shalladin, #Shakadolin, #Syladin, #Kalinar, #Stormthorn, #KalMoash, #Rlainarin, #Kalarin, #Ravani, #Navaniel, and a lot more. You might also come across this format: #Kal x Moash, #Kaladin x Sigzil, etc.

Days of the week! #Moash loving Monday, #Rlain Rlendsday, #Thaidakar Thursday, #Mistborn fortnite friday

#zellionsweep if you want to pursue scholarship of the Zellion reveal and associated tumblr lore

Discourse! #discourse, #sanderson critical, #fan critical, #cosmere critical (sometimes shortened to crit), #moash discourse, #fuck moash - heavier discussions of important topics in the fandom

Sex stuff! #cosmere kink meme, #cosmere kink will turn up older writing prompts and short fics. #stormlight kink meme is a newer tag!

Some tips:

You can put spaces in tags!

If you add commentary in the tags, your followers, and anyone who looks in the tags specifically, will see your comments. Tags don't get reblogged unless someone likes them enough to add them to the post via screenshot or retyping them.

Add alt text to all images you upload, whether it's art or screenshots or memes. Because of Tumblr's ability to have longer text posts, it's also reasonable to add image descriptions to reblogs if the original image doesn't have alt text. Reblog and tag described posts with #described, #image description, #id in alt text, #alt text, #cosmere described to make it easier for people using screen readers to find it. Tag undescribed images with #undescribed or #not described so people using screen readers can block it.

#cosmere fandom #long post #I hope someone finds this helpful #updated with more tags

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kyleraynermybeloved · 1 year

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One Of A Kind - Chapter 1

Pairing: Kyle Rayner x Batsis!Reader

Summary: The years flash by in a blur, and you enjoy an evening with a guest.

Warnings: Swearing, fluff, established relationship, my bad writing

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Ah gosh, it’s been soo long since I posted, also I’m bad at summaries. Here’s the 2nd chapter to this series! We don’t get much of Kyle in this chapter until the VERY end, but don’t worry, he’ll be here more in the next chapter!!!!

OOAK Masterlist

Six years had come and gone in an instant. Y/N Wayne had not existed in the world in years, all traces of you disappeared in an instant. No physical or digital footprint was made or left behind, thanks to your job.

Three months after you left, you were recruited into a new program called ‘Shadow League Agency’, the SLA for short. It’s a covert government agency which has unlimited resources to conduct clandestine operations needed, ranging from gathering intelligence to assassinations.

The latter took two and a half years to work up to, but it paid off in the long haul. You had started from a desk position where you were in charge of resource collection, and after many endeavors you had finally worked your way up to being a top-level field agent. In fact, you had made it to Ghost ranking, which was pretty ironic given your current circumstances.

Being a Ghost field agent had its perks, such as the main obvious predicament of keeping under the radar without any hitches. No one, other than those of high enough clearance, knew your whereabouts and most importantly who you are.

Publicly you were known as ‘Thrasher’. It had been your alias for years, not by choice but it had grown on you. It had come to you due to your ability to mimic and your aggressive fighting style, much like the bird.

Otherwise, only two other people knew you. Your husband Kyle Rayner, and Billy Batson who had quickly became a great friend of sorts. You had met both the boys purely by accident, and you were glad you did.

Five years ago you had been deployed in New York City for a simple reconnaissance mission, during a rare moment of downtime you had gone to a small bakery for a coffee and a muffin to unwind for a second. Fortunately for you the world had other thoughts when it sent Kyle right into you, spilling his coffee all over you.

He had been absolutely mortified and offered to get you a new shirt since he had ‘ruined your perfectly good one’ but you had politely declined and proposed to grab lunch in exchange. His boyish charms were cute and quickly won you over. That lunch had turned into a date which in turn quickly blossomed into a five year relationship, with two of those years being happily married.

A week after that interaction, towards the end of your mission, you had bumped into Billy in Central Park. Well, more like he skated into an abrupt stop as he collided with you. He had a few bad scrapes and you had offered to patch him up before you had to leave.

Billy talked your ear off the entire time with a bright smile, he brought up how he came here with his foster family on a road trip and in turn you told him you were just visiting for a work convention. You’d met him a few more times, one of those times you had met his wonderful foster parents who had brought up the idea of being pen pals of sorts.

So you found yourself writing to the contagiously happy family for the next year then upgraded to text messages and video calls. It led to moments where you found the kid sprawled on your couch in your small apartment watching movies.

Both Kyle and Billy, and his family, had eventually confided in you to tell you their secret of being heroes. To say you were surprised would be a lie, you had easily put two and two together after knowing them for only a few months but waited for them to come to you and share. But you kept their identities a secret, as did Kyle with Billy since no one in the league knew his identity yet.

In return you shared with them about what you really do, explaining the job was why you had been secretive and blown them off at times. But one thing you kept to yourself about was who you really were and who your family was. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust them to not tell your family where you’ve been all this time, you were just scared of it accidentally slipping out especially since they work with your family.

The small two bedroom New York apartment you lived in was thankfully warm compared to the harsh chilly winter air you had traveled in. The interior was cozy. The walls were littered with pictures of memories from the past four years living here. The wooden floors had rugs placed around, primarily in both bedrooms and the living room.

You shrugged your thick coat off onto the quaint coat rack you’d been gifted the week prior while passing the bag of groceries from one arm to the other. Snowflakes fell from you onto the floor forming small wet patches that you paid no mind to.

You crossed the entryway to the kitchen when a voice made you almost jump out of your skin, “Do you need a hand with that?”

“Fuck! Billy, what the hell man? I almost shit myself, a little heads up would’ve been nice,” you calmed your breathing and handed the bag to him which he took with a smile and began unpacking it onto the counter.

“I did give Kyle a message I would be coming over for the night, I just assumed he would’ve told you as he seems to overshare everything with you.”

“Ah, well he’s off-world right now and won’t be back for another two days or so. And are you still hung up on him telling me about the toilet mishap? It was months ago, kid,” you chuckled to yourself while grabbing ingredients for dinner.

A few months ago, Kyle had been at the watchtower for a meeting with the league. It was a boring debrief that he claimed he had no reason for being there but was told from the big man himself that attendance was mandatory.

Well, halfway through the meeting Shazam had run out towards the bathroom in a hurry and Kyle went to check up on him only to find Billy in his civilian form trying to stop a broken toilet from spraying him with more water. He was sopping wet from head to toe and Kyle said he had helped the poor boy, which you later heard from Billy was a lie.

He had been upset because Kyle had ran back to the conference room to tell the others that Shazam had broken a toilet and flooded the mens bathroom, but with more words and a few made-up details.

“That explains the lack of response. But, yes! I am! Hal and Barry still refer to me as Toilet Lord Destroyer Of All Bowels! It’s stuck and it seems to not be leaving any time soon,” he pouted, it almost made you want to slap Kyle up the side of his head for hurting the poor kid’s feelings. Almost, but a small part of you wanted to laugh and applaud the two dinguses for coming up with that name.

“I’m sorry my doofus of a husband has doomed you, but I mean, now you know how I felt when I was given my alias,” you gave a small smile and a shrugged. “Now, wash these and start chopping.”

“But Y/N, it’s not the same,” he sighed before returning to your side. “You got a cool name that’s super badass and I got stuck with getting bullied by dumb and dumber for all of eternity. I’m this close to coming out and telling them my identity so they’ll feel bad for bullying a kid. Teach those jerks a listen, or better yet I could wait and strike back and hit ‘em where it’ll really hurt.”

You shook your head with a little laugh, “Okay oh sinister and devious one, whatever you say. I’ll let Kyle know he created a monster. Just keep me out of this and we won’t have a problem.”

You had managed to keep your two boys from telling the others about you, and you planned on keeping it that way as long as you could. The most any of them knew was that Kyle was married and you didn’t want the others to meet you in fear of something bad happening like the others in the past. They respected your wishes but that didn’t stop them from digging any small information they could get out of the poor guy. He did tell everyone that Shazam was there at the wedding, being his best man and all.

That’s when half of the league decided it was a great idea to bombard him with questions in hopes of getting any answers. But Billy stuck to his word and didn’t budge at all, earning some respect from some of his colleagues.

You were brought out of your thoughts when you heard your phone chime. You haphazardly wiped your hands on a kitchen towel and opened it seeing a message from your director asking if you had a moment for a chat, your response was returned with a call.

You excused yourself to your bedroom, shutting your door before answering. “Thrasher speaking, to what do I owe this pleasure, Director?”

Director Erwin Sormael was your superior in charge of tasking you with missions. He had been the one to recruit you all those years ago and made you who you are today. To put it simply, he was like a father to you, or like a big brother at the very least.

“Thrasher, sorry to keep this call short. You’re needed on base in the morning at oh-eight hundred hours. Pack your gear and prepare for a long flight, that’s all I can inform you on at the moment.”

“Affirmative, and Sormael… say hello to the husband for me. Oh! And tell him to send me that Italian wedding soup recipe,” you read the clock on your bedside table, seeing you had a good fourteen hours to kill.

“I’ll let him know, expect to see it in an hour.”

You returned to the kitchen to see Billy was waiting for you on a stool, the table was set for the two of you.

“Well, looks like I’m being called in the morning. So, what do you say we finish making dinner and have a movie night? I stocked up with candy and snacks since our last one,” you turned him around on the stool to face you.

“I say we have a deal. I’ll set up the living room while you finish cooking,” he took off in a dash, returning every once in a while to grab more snacks. Once he had finished you had already plated the food. “I’ll help with those, you can bring the drinks!”

“You’re on a roll mister. I’ll be just a moment, did you want the twelve pack or the two liter?” Thanks to the kid coming around so often for dinner you had gained the habit of stocking up on his favorite drinks. Kyle teased you for that, saying your mother hen instincts were already kicking in due to your unofficial son.

“Uh… the twelve pack, that way we don’t need to get up later.”

You returned to the living room with the acquired drinks and a few bottles of water. The movie was starting to play as you sat down on the floor, back against the couch as the large coffee table held all of the snacks and your food in front of you.

The night went on, you were able to watch two more movies before Billy had passed out on you. You checked the time on your phone, you had a good seven hours before you needed to leave. You sent Kyle a quick message updating him on your plans. He’ll see the message once he’s back on earth.

You got up carefully with a sigh, making sure not to disturb the sleeping boy while you cleaned up the mess. Not wanting Kyle to deal with a mess when he gets back home, you carefully loaded the dishwasher and turned it on and wiped down the counters.

Once you felt like it was good enough you carefully picked Billy up and brought him the guest bedroom that was practically his, and tucked him in.

Kyle called you a bit later while you were already in bed so close to falling asleep.

“Hi babe,” you answered groggily. “Are you back already so soon?” he could hear your yawn at the end, his clenched at your tired voice.

“Hello my love, sorry to disturb your sleep but it’s great to hear your sleepy voice. I’m almost done, I was able to come within range because I missed your voice,” you could hear Hal saying something in the back but the tiredness stopped your ability to focus on it. “I’m not telling her that man. Anyways babe, I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

You nodded your head, remembering he couldn’t see you, “That’s good to hear, but did you get my message?”

There was shuffling on the other side before he responded, “Oh, damn. No, I just saw it. You’re going on a business trip, do you know how long you’ll be?”

“Not sure, I’m getting briefed tomorrow morning. But I’ll call you to let you know,” you stifled a yawn. Sleep was beckoning you again, making it harder to stay awake.

“Okay, well I’ll let you go so you can rest. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then. Good night, I love you”

You could feel the smile on your face, “I love you too, good night babe.”

Once he hung up you connected your phone back onto the charger before letting sleep consume you.

Taglist: @ihavenoideawhatiamdoinghelp

#kyleraynermybeloved #kyle rayner #kyle rayner fics #kyle rayner x reader #kyle rayner x batsis!reader #One Of A Kind series #kyleraynermybeloved one of a kind #kyle rayner fluff

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