#cow din

[shanediomorrissey]

Cowboy din for a dear friend. Pretty sure I’ve posted weirder things to this account so.

[mdawgswizzleinthehizzle]

i knew this looked familiar.

[littledeadling]

writing another little fic snippet...

[oysteringofclamelot]

so I know it’s du jour to hc Din as some kind of rebellious little punk teen because Young Pedro Pascal looks frankly devastating in black eyeliner and a leather jacket... 

but going off the fact that he grew up in a High-Control Religious Group (I didn’t call it a cult!), it sort of makes sense to me that he would have had more in common with The Book of Mormon than MCR. Which leads me down some interesting rabbit holes but NEVERMIND that.

Do the CoW go door to door? Probably not considering the whole secrecy business, but I like to think the teenaged, uninformed devotional fervour was strong. Creepy too. 

[pocketramblr]

TimeLink should mess with the Chain more via the whole Termina adventure. He didn't just fight the moon. He was posessed by a dead tree that didn't want to be there either. He helped a kid get married. He saved a world in three days. He fought cow-stealing aliens. He trusts the one who started all this with the Master Sword. He learned a song from kinda-his babies. The whole adventure was bonkers even with propper context (which he would not provide), he should use that ammonition.

You're so right. When the chain/Twi asks about his parenting experiences/desires, him saying "my father was a tree" is OUT, him saying "well one time I got possessed by a man who died in front of me after trying to save his children so that I could return them to their mother. I still have the guitar" is IN

[diamondnokouzai]

i have more in common with any non-american almost-amish farmer than i do with wisconsin's senator

[warnerism]

Contemporary Dining Room - Enclosed Contemporary enclosed dining room design with a dark wood floor and a brown floor and beige walls.

[nocturn-warrior]

Like poppies with seed

Feyd Rautha x reader

Rating: smut, smut, smuuuuttt

Warnings: pregnancy sex, lactation kink, detailed descriptions of body parts, Feyd calling reader his breeding cow, Feyd being extra horny for reader's body. Heavy, heavyyy pregnancy kink.

Summary: Feyd is more than proud in show you off while carrying his child.

@austinbutlerslovers @valeskafics

In the last months of your pregnancy, you are sore. Your ankles are hurt, your back aches, subtle waves of sleep hit you and all you want to do is snuggle in your bed, waiting for Feyd to come back from his duties.

He doesn't allow you to roam around the palace without his company. It sounded frustrating but necessary. You called atention everywhere you go and Feyd couldn't bear anybody looking at you for so much time.

Specially his uncle; he knew how the baron's mind was, and radiant as you looked, he wouldn't hesitate in use you for his own pleasures. The very thought enraged Feyd deeply. You were his and his alone.

That was the reason he made sure to keep you by his side: to claim you as his. To show every single person in Giede Prime who bred you so nicely, and who you belonged to. He had a cocky grin in his face everytime you went out in public.

Night has come and it is almost dinner time. After taking a warm bath, you admire your form in front of the mirror that covers half of the wall.

Caressing your bump, you think about Feyd and how he enjoys kissing your belly, knowing his child is developting in there. It's a repent change in his behavior, but Feyd became sweeter with you.

Sweeter like the male of a feline species protecting his female from others that could possibly take her, but it was still sweeter than the Feyd you knew, that would barely show his emotions unless they were adrenaline in a sword fight or that devilish grin when he urged for sex.

Laid on your bed was the dress he chose for that night. A long and extremely form fitting grey dress with long sleeves. For a while you doubted that piece of cloth would fit your pregnant body, but the fabric stretched perfectly to your size and was comfortable as well.

It puts in evidence your swollen breasts that doubled, maybe tripled in size; your huge bump; your luscious hips; your butt and your pussy. This last one made you a little bit embarassed. Sometimes it seems like Feyd in fact likes when people stare at you, as if he wanted to show you like a trophy.

After combing your hair, you wait for the knocking on the door indicating you should leave your chambers and meet Feyd. Usually he is busy with his duties until dinner, so a female servant leads you to one of the enormous hallways connected to the dinning room.

Today it wasn't different. When you heard the knocking, you opened the wide doors and the pale bald lady was bowing at you in reverence before guiding you.

You walk with a certain dificulty through those dark corridors, almost panting. The servant asks if you are feeling alright and you smile in ressurance, arching your back.

In the end of the hallway the lights from the dinning room can be seen and project a familiar shadow standing still. Feyd waits for you with his arms behind his back, he is eager to see you in the dress he ordered for a tailor to produce.

Even from a far, the sight of you makes his cock tingle. You walk slowly, hips swaying from side to side. Heavy swollen breasts are full of milk and bouncing as you walk. And under your round belly, the outline of your pussy seems to send aphrodisiac energies towards Feyd. The lips are perfectly marked and urging to welcome Feyd's penis.

He can't contain an evident erection as you approach him, smiling sweetly with your doe eyes, hands folded in front of your body. His piercering gaze directs to the servant who understands he'll take care of your from that point.

The na-baron's expression changes into a smile, looking down at you. He settles his hand behind your back and slips it down to your butt, giving it a good squeeze and then an audible slap that echoes through the hallway. You gasp instantly, and Feyd delights at the sound biting his lips.

"You look extra hot this night. I wonder who chose this dress..."

The man comments ironically, placing back his hand behind your back and guiding you to the dinning room.

Entering, you see the Baron eat his enormous amount of food. Rabban is two chairs away from him, leaving them to Feyd and you. You can't handle sitting next to the Baron, specially when he is eating. The sounds he makes are disgusting and your guts are way more sensitive now. Feyd then pulls the chair for you in the other extremity of the large metal table. Five generals watch you enter and sit, their eyes are glued on your body.

Before accomodating himself, Feyd looks piercingly at everybody and specially Rabban, who have always been more a rival than a brother. The thought of showing you round with his child who is to be the heir of Harkonnen, putting in evidence who Baron Vladimir prefers, amuses Feyd although his uncle's aprovation means nothing.

He takes a seat by your side, he places one hand on thigh, softly kneading on it very closer to your core. You press your thighs together trying to ease the crescent wave of horniness inside your cunt. With his free hand he serves you your vegetable meal once you refuse to eat the undercooked meat the Harkonnens appreciate. You barely touch it though. In the last weeks, you've been feeling like your intestines are being compressed and the leak of apetite starts setting in.

Plus, Baron Vladimir looks at you mischievously while chewing on his food. You start to feel uncomfortable, and once Feyd finishes his meal, you poke him with your elbow indicating you are ready to go. The Baron doesn't allow a woman to speak at the dinner table.

Feyd obligues, guiding you through the hallways back to your chambers. He made sure to let you walk in front of him, so he could get a better view of your butt and hips swaying as you walked with dificulty. His cock was hard, he wanted to take you right on the hallway and sink his face into your cunt, tasting your sweet nectar. And on the other side, you could feel Feyd's gaze on you, his bird of prey-like eyes reached you like lazers and your pussy was starting to get wet.

Blasting the doors of your chambers open, you plop yourself on the bed, taking a deep sigh and making fun about your back pain. Feyd was not interested in it, his eyes were glued on your body, admiring how your full breasts were squashed against your bump like a shelf. You looked like a sort of fertility deity, that way. He wanted to attach his lips onto your nipples and drink your sweet milk while fucking you.

He takes off his boots and coat, the matress shiftin with his weight as he sits by your side.

"Stand up"

He orders.

"But Feyd, my back--"

"I said stand up. In front of me"

His tone is more serious now, and you do as he asked, standing up with dificulty and looking down at his sitting form, anxiously playing with your fingers. You knew that tone very well and horniness was taking over you.

Before asking anything else, Feyd looks at how your dress snuggles to every protuding part of your body, your braless nipples were hard, jutting agains it and he unconsciously leaves a soft moan before ordering:

"Take the dress off"

Immediatly you try to reach down towards the hem of your form-fitting dress, but the volume of the belly gets in the way, so Feyd, still in his position, leans forwards a bit to glide up the fabric until your hands could reach and you could do the work yourself.

Slowly your bare skin starts to show; your perfect pussy, your swollen belly, and your bouncing tits that jiggle deliciously when the snuggly fabric releases them. You throw the dress away, waitibg for his next commands

Feyd's cock is so erect it could rip off his trousers. The man spreads his legs a bit and pats his muscular thighs.

"Sit here"

You take a deep breath and do as Feyd said, he balances you on his thighs and rests his broad hands on both your hips. Slowly, he starts to massage the small of your back. His touch is firm yet gentle. Soft grunts leave your throat as he kneads on your skin. Feyd's eyes are glued on your face, fascinated by your relieved expressions. He feels your wetness dripping down on his trousers and wetting the fabric of it. If you are so turned on only by this, imagine when he actually fucks you?

The other hand skims from your hip up to your breasts. He tucks his hand in the space between your pregnant belly and your heavy tits, before lifting one them up and making it bounce on his hand. The sensitiveness of your sore breasts makes your nipples painfully hard to the point a little drop of milk starts to form and drips on your skin, gliding down the curve of your belly.

"Look at those breasts... so plump and full. I barely touched them and they are already leaking."

Feyd squeezes one of the breasts firmly, making you gasp in surprise and pleasure. It squirts milk right on his muscular chest, and the sight of the white liquid graciously running down like a tear amuses the man.

He can't contain the urge to suck your aureola full on his mouth. His plump lips quickly attach to your nipples, making your core ache in heat. Feyd moans as he chuggs on your milk voraciously, and you unconsciously start to rut against his thigh in order to ease the state of overstimulation you've been put on by your husband.

You rest your arms on both his shoulders as he delights on the fluid. One of his hands glides down to cup the underside of your belly, massaging it. With the sensitiveness of your skin, his touch on the area makes you rut even more thrustfully against his muscular thigh as his feet are firm on the ground so you wouldn't lose balance.

You arche your back as you get off on his lap, the fabric of his trousers are completly soaked by your cum now. Feyd releases your breast with a loud pop and smirks mischievously at you, remainings of your white milk can be see in the creases of his black teeth.

"Look at the mess you've made on my lap. You are desperated, aren't you? You are desperated for my cock to penetrate this thigh pussy of yours. When this one is out, i will breed you over and over again."

He rasps, softly poking your swollen belly before he guides you to the center of the bed, all on fours. You feel heavy, your bump touches the sheets and your tits hang slightly.

Your husband zips down his trousers and underwear, revealing his huge pink cock which is so hard that reaches his bellybutton. Feyd moans, you feel the matress shifting with his weight as he kneals down, hands placed on your hips. He gives your ass a big slap and watches you squirm in overstimulation.

"Who is my breeding cow?"

He asks you, hand playing with the lips of your pussy.

"I am"

You babble, eyes shut and core aching for his cock. He smirks and slaps your butt again.

"Say it again. Tell me what you are. Tell me who got you pregnant"

His words make you moan before answering and Feyd waits with his hand ready to smack you again.

"I-i am your breeding cow. Feyd Rautha got me pregnant, and i belong to him. And i am ready to be bred as many times as he wants"

"Nice..."

Says Feyd before comming closer and slowly inserting his cock into your pussy, leaving you completly desmantled. You moan loudly with the thrust of his hips, breasts sagging and bumping against each other with his jostling movements.

The position is not one of the bests due to your body pulling you down, but you are too overstimulated and pleasured to move or ask Feyd for another position.

Though extremely horny for your body, Feyd doesn't want to hurt or make you uncomfortable while with child, so he lifts up your belly once you start to complain about the heft. Having the hands of your husband over your bump is an enormous turn on, and you are starting to cum again.

The thrusts get more and more fast, grunts of pleasure leave Feyd's mouth as your cunt makes loud squishy sounds with the in and out of his cock.

"I am comming..."

He lulls his head back, thrustring his large cock into your tight hole, both your faces are hot, sweating with the waves of pleasure that prologues the orgasm.

Soon, you feel Feyd's warm sees filling up your cunt and he growls loudly, a large amount of sperm oozes from your hole mixed with your own fluids, falling into the bed.

Panting, Feyd helps you to get out from your position, laying your back on the plush pillows. Your legs are spread, head fallen to the side as the frantic rise and fall of your lungs are visible.

Feyd stands up with his legs shaky and grabs a grey towel and rubs it on your core, wiping off the excess of sperm. He throws the towel away before covering you with the blanket and laying by your side, his broad hand rests on your belly as you lean closer to him, resting your head on his muscular arm.

With a shaky voice, you playfully say:

"Thank you for breeding me"

[suzdin]

The Apartment

(Lucien Flores x F!reader)

Summary: Porn with very little plot. Lucien is your sleazy pot dealing neighbor.

Warnings/Content: Drug use (weed and blow), nicotine use, alcohol use, groping/sexual harassment (not from Lucien), some mild jealousy, age gap between Lucien and another chick (20s), fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, pull out method, spitting of bodily fluids (idk the proper term for it).

Word Count: 4,900+

Dedicated to: @ohheypedrito who held a gun to my head until I wrote this (lol jk, or am I? 😰)

Other Tags: @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @kellybelly1978 @awilderi @oberynslady @daddy-dins-girl @heavennumber2 @natdeandar @chronically-ghosted @morallyinept idk who else to tag.

You hear the party long before you even make it to your apartment block, droning 90s alt rock cascading down the sides of the building.

The residence itself is aging and quaint, not exactly located in the nicest area of downtown, but also not the worst. At least, you’d like to think so.

You had inherited the apartment from your grandmother when she passed several years ago. Roughly four dozen or so residents, including yourself, shared the building with you.

Amongst said residents was Lucien Flores, who had also inherited his apartment, from his mamá Claudia, who now lived in the suburbs, last you cared to hear. You didn’t speak to Lucien often, or the other inhabitants for that matter, other than in passing in common areas.

It’s roughly 11PM when you arrive home from work that night, your legs weary and straining as you make your way up the creaky old stairs to the third floor.

Lucien lives at the opposite end of the hall on the same floor as you, but that doesn’t seem to make the music any quieter, or the cloying stink of weed any less prominent. As you navigate your way through thick plumes of smoke and fog, you’re sure you’re getting a contact high just walking to your apartment.

You sigh. It’s going to be another long night.

The hallway is crowded and you push your way through a myriad of faces you’ll likely never see again after all is said and done.

As you make your way through the gauntlet of tight and twisting bodies, you feel unknown hands belonging to a faceless entity groping and pawing at you as you pass; you snarl and slap them away. Your palms sting from the contact, incorpereal laughter bellowing in your wake.

You spot Lucien just as you’re reaching your apartment, propped up on his shoulder against the wall, ankles crossed casually, watching you. Silk watercolor shirt practically dripping down a broad torso, hair mussed and gnarled, a gold chain nestled in the hollow just beneath his throat where his shirt is undone to the third button, exposing smooth, olive skin.

He wasn’t the man who groped you, no, you’re sure of that. He was too far away for that to be possible.

A filterless cigarette is perched between two of his fingers, cherry glowing brighter as he takes a long drag, tendrils of smoke curling into the air and consolidating with the rest as his dark eyes study you.

You stare back, unblinking. And then he moves without warning, graceful and fluid as a lithe cat, pushing his way through the crowd and seeking out the man who had touched you only moments before. Unlike yourself, he could pinpoint the man’s face without hesitation.

Without so much as discarding his cigarette, Lucien’s free hand twists around the man’s collar, pulling his face close to his own. Teeth gnashing, face contorted in a sneer, Lucien spews what you can only imagine is pure venom from two plush, pink lips. You wish you were close enough to decipher the words, but the last thing you want to do is fight and claw your way through the crowd again. So you perch against your door and watch, doing your best to garner context clues as the man’s face goes pale and his eyes widen.

Their gazes suddenly dart to you in tandem, making you flinch. And then, seemingly cowing to Lucien, the man lifts his hands in defeat, drifting down the stairs and out of sight without so much as another word.

Lucien’s dark visage finds yours again, his head cocked forward, as he brings the cigarette to his lips a second time, cherry visible through the fog.

You dip your head in acknowledgment and gratitude before disappearing to the welcoming confines of your home.

——

Just after 2AM and the music is still raging, hard as ever.

You aren’t surprised. Lucien, your building’s resident pot dealer, seemed to know everyone. And everyone, him.

His parties were commonplace enough to be a regular hindrance to your sleep cycle. Not to mention the other residents. But the cops were rarely called… people in your neighborhood didn’t particularly care for law enforcement. Cops weren’t too fond of the neighborhood, either.

You lie in bed, wide awake as the bass thrums on without an end in sight, clad in only a pair of panties and a t-shirt. Your head hurts, and you have work tomorrow. You crossed the border of pissed long ago. Now you are fucking livid.

Lucien couldn’t keep getting away with this. You had to say something.

You slide out of bed, throwing on your house robe and slippers as you make your way back out to the corridor.

Most of the party had drifted inwards, into his apartment, but a few stragglers lingered here and there. Some were drinking, some smoking. Some were doing a little of both.

You could see into his home just slightly, getting a glimpse of the pink walls his mother had painted years ago, the ugly palm frond wallpaper lining the kitchen.

Your eyes zero in on Lucien right away. His shoulders, rounded and bunched around a thick and corded neck, colorful silk shirt swimming along his waistline.

His back is to you, a young woman — who you think can’t be older than 24 or 25 — is pinned between himself and the wall, one of his hands positioned next to her head, the other folded as he lifts a pile of white powder to her nose. She brings one of her hands up to pinch the other nostril closed as she snorts the substance into her body; Lucien’s lips curve into a wry smirk.

Your gaze shifts lower when you register movement, finding her opposite arm extended between the two of them, palm cupping and stroking his cock over his pants. Lucien doesn’t appear to be reciprocating her touch, which seems to have her more than a bit… frustrated, judging by the look on her face.

Cinching your robe tight, you approach the couple, clearing your throat loud enough to catch them both off guard.

The woman, whomever she is, draws her hand back instantly, eyeing you with disdain at the unwelcome interruption.

Lucien’s eyes flit to yours. Then, slowly, blatantly, the same dark irises travel down your form, methodical in how he checks you out. He isn’t even attempting to hide it in front of her.

You glance away, your skin heating.

With a scoff, the woman dips under Lucien’s arm, whispering something to him before she joins the rest of the party inside. He nods to her, disinterested, before turning back to you.

She’s beautiful and young. Lucien is twice her age and roguishly handsome, a truth you didn’t care to indulge often. You aren’t the least bit surprised by what you walked in on, as he always seemed to have a revolving door of women hanging around.

“Hey, baby. Want a bump?” he asks you.

“Fuck, no. I actually want to sleep tonight,” you tut, crossing your arms in indignation. “I have work tomorrow and I’m already exhausted. Do you think you could lower the music? Shut your door, maybe?”

His face falls and his lips pinch into a frown at your utter and outright rejection, although he understands your reasons and chooses not to argue, checking you out a second time. You feel your skin growing warm beneath the robe at the attention.

“For you. Anything,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes but dip your chin in gratitude anyway. “Thanks.”

He turns to shut his door behind him, drowning out a better chunk of the noise than you expected. As you turn to walk back to your apartment, you feel a warm, broad hand circling your elbow.

You stall, contorting your body to look back at him. “Lucien, what—“

“Hey. Are you okay?” he questions.

“No, I said I’m fucking tired and I have work tomorrow…” you reiterate, looking down at where his hand currently connects to your body.

His grip loosens and he lets his hand fall away from your elbow.

“No, I mean, from earlier. The man… who was pawing at you like some horny dog,” he explains, recounting the events that you would care to forget. “Are you okay?” he repeats, gaze softening, fluffy curls framing his face.

Your heart races at the sight of him, and you swallow down the rising lump in your throat.

No. No, you are not going to get involved with your drug dealing neighbor. Stop it.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “I’m, uh, fine. Thanks… thank you.” You offer a faint smile, suddenly flustered.

He nods, plush lips parted in thought, brow furrowed as he studies you. Those eyes of his are goddamn entrancing.

“Here,” he says, placing his palm against the small of your back as he gingerly directs you back to your apartment, halting in front of your door.

He fishes a freshly rolled joint and lighter from the breast pocket of his shirt, holding both items up so you can see. The light overhead catches the chain around his neck, reflecting it, making it shimmer.

“Girl Scout Cookies,” he explains, his voice low and hypnotic as he gives the joint a heady whiff, “So you can sleep.”

“Or… you could just turn off the music and ask everyone to leave instead,” you suggest, plucking the joint and lighter from his fingers anyway.

“They’ll drift out little by little the rest of the evening,” he counters, watching you ignite the joint and take a hit, holding the smoke in your lungs. “Most of them have left already.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, snorting. Take a second hit. Pass it back to Lucien, whose callused fingers brush yours as he takes it.

“Your girlfriend didn’t seem too keen on leaving,” you point out.

“She isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Okay, girl you want to fuck,” you correct.

He takes a long, slow draw of the joint, exhaling the plume through rounded lips as he watches you. “Isn’t that, either.”

“Oh, so she was grabbing your dick for no reason, then?” you retort, arching a brow.

Lucien takes another hit, forming his lips into an ‘O’ as he blows the smoke gently in your direction. He scrunches his lips up in thought.

“Precisely. Wasn’t even that hard,” he explains.

You choke out a small laugh, leaning against the wall. “Jesus, Lucien.” You open your door to go back into your apartment, alone. “Thanks for the weed.”

“You brought her up, not me.” He grins.

“Goodnight…” you say firmly, trying not to let your vision linger on his lips. Or his puppy dog eyes. Or that goddamn gold chain. Fuck.

“Wait,” he murmurs, reaching for your arm again. Warm, thick fingers brushing your skin.

“What?”

He takes another pull from the joint, trapping the smoke in his lungs as he moves languidly into your space. Free hand cupping your cheek, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips, he hovers over you, mouth nearly touching yours.

Your lips part instinctively, causing his smirk to widen even more as he exhales the cloud directly into your mouth, your lips briefly making contact. You take in a deep, heady breath, tasting the smoke, tasting the essence of him.

The small point of contact is enough ignition for both of you to act. It was the catalyst needed to convince yourself yes, yes you ARE going to let yourself get involved with him, reputation be damned.

His hand travels from your cheek to your hip, squeezing, smirk transforming into a grin as he guides you backwards through the mouth of your apartment.

And you let him. You’ve been nursing this unhealthy crush on your neighbor for long enough, you realize.

Your own hands find the collar of his shirt, and then his chain, wrapping the metal heated by his skin around your knuckles, dragging him into you. He smells like weed and clove cigarettes, like cheap red wine and musky cologne.

You aren’t sure who closes the door, but somehow, it closes with a bang behind you, and he spins your body, wedging you between himself and the hard surface, his hand unmoving from your hip as he bends to thrust his pelvis flush against yours, grinding his hard length against your center. Even through the robe, it’s unmistakable.

“Thought you said you weren’t very hard,” you tease.

“Wasn’t…” he replies with a wry smile, grinding into you, hand moving back up to your neck as his lips crash into yours.

He deposits the still smoldering joint in the small metal bowl by your door where you keep change for laundry, hands bracketing either side of your face, pressing himself firmly against you as his tongue slips into the hot cavern of your mouth, eliciting a small mewl of longing and desire from your lungs.

He tugs at the binds of your robe, the material falling open like the wings of a butterfly for him, revealing your bare legs, your soft cotton panties with the little cherries.

“Well, well…” he groans, palms locking onto your hips, thumbs moving in semicircles along your silken flesh as his fingers flirt with the elastic band of your underwear, snapping it against your hip bones.

He dips to grind his erection against you again, and this time, without the barrier of your robe dampening his motions, you feel his hard cock dragging over the sensitive nub of your clit, your hips bucking back with equal fervor.

He kisses along your jawbone, down to the sensitive apex of your jaw and column of your neck, mustache and beard gently scrubbing at your skin, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear.

“Only reason I was hard at all is because I was thinking about you,” he whispers, before taking your earlobe between his teeth and giving it a slight tug.

“Bullshit,” you scoff, breathless, and although you can’t see it, he grins, giving the elastic another harsh snap before his thumbs hook around the material, sliding them down your legs, cool air licking at your exposed folds.

“I don’t bullshit,” he grates, lowering to his knees in front of you, kneading your upper thighs in his hands as he takes in the vision that is you.

Slick dribbles down your inner thigh as he spreads you open and admires you, everything about you.

“Look at you, opening up like a pretty little flower for me,” he groans, leaning forward to swipe his angular nose through your soaked folds, inhaling the intoxicating scent of your arousal.

A small chirp escapes the back of your throat, fingers sinking into his dark curls for balance as his tongue flicks out to taste and tease you, lifting one of your legs to toss over his shoulder.

His tongue breaches your entrance, penetrating you deeply, your body juddering with every broad stroke of his tongue inside your walls.

“Fuck, Lucien…” you purr. He hums in approval, hands sliding up your backside to cup and massage your ass as he drinks of you.

You find yourself gyrating against him, your body chasing the sensation of his mouth, and not only does he let you, he furthers it along, fingers digging into the meat of your ass as he pulls you into him repeatedly, groaning.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, protesting the loss of his mouth on you as he pulls away for a beat, the feeling only short lived when his lips circle and tenderly suction around your engorged clit, two of his fingers sinking into your fluttering hole.

The resulting squelch as he fucks into you with his fingers is lascivious and loud, your spine forming a perfect arc against the door.

His fingers curl inside of your tunnel, making contact with the soft, spongy flesh at the mouth of your womb, each thrust getting you closer and closer to seeing stars.

“God, oh my fucking god…” you moan.

Your walls begin to tighten, your hips shaking, fingers twisting against his scalp as you feel your pleasure mounting. And you swear you see his lips hook into a grin as he gets you there, the sight of it with his nose and curls, the way the silk and gold chain catch the light, only spurring your pleasure on. It’s all so much. So much and not enough.

“I, fuck, I’m gonna cum…” you sob as the sensations reach a head and the feeling consumes every fiber of your being, your vision going white as your head lolls against the door with a faint thud, hips rutting forward to chase his mouth.

He rides you through it, growling into your core almost as though he’s enjoying it as much as you are, the reverberations making you crave more.

He pulls away from you when your body calms down, mouth coated in a sheen of your slick, hair stamped down with sweat from where your palms had gripped onto him.

Catching his breath as he stands, his lips and tongue tangle with yours once more, letting you taste the evidence of your release before dragging you toward the bedroom.

You can feel the cannabis coursing through your system now, relaxing you, making you feel lighter than air. You smile to yourself, knowing your orgasm is going to be sweet and lingering.

“You would look beautiful by my side at every party,” he says, brown eyes twinkling back at you, head tilted.

“You have plenty of other women for that…” you reply, letting him guide you to the bed as he slips your shirt over your head, revealing your naked breasts to his hungry gaze.

“And none of them are you,” he tuts, “None of them are as beautiful as you… as this.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond as he pushes you down into the mattress and crawls over you, teeth dragging along your shoulder, your collarbone, upper body propped on an elbow while the opposite hand kneads one of your breasts. He plucks the nipple to a sharp peak between his fingers, making you arch and moan.

He sheds his shirt and pants nearly in tandem, your vision settling on him as he slithers out of his underwear, a girthy, uncut cock between his legs, twitching at the sight of you.

“Fuck…” you gasp, his eyes shining in amusement as he manipulates you onto your back, pushing your legs apart and taking up residence between your thighs.

“I bet you feel as good as you taste,” he groans and kisses you again, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth.

Fisting himself at the base of his cock, he teases it along your folds, gathering your slick, nudging your still swollen clit. Your breath is ragged and unsteady in your chest, every motion of his body leaving you wanton and desirous.

“Lucien, please,” you plead and he chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“Need it that bad?” he asks, bemused, dragging the head of his cock over your clit again, making you cant your hips, chasing the sensation.

“That must be a yes,” he purrs, his voice low and velvet.

He lines himself up at your entrance, giving a few short, preliminary thrusts with just the head, teasing and testing how ready you are to take him, before pushing himself further in, inch by inch.

After a few more precursory thrusts, he bottoms out with a long exhale and faint moan, lower lip taut and jutting outward, holding himself within your walls for several seconds, before pulling almost all the way out to slide back in again, slowly. Oh so slowly.

You grunt and arch your spine, your hips lifting to meet his, needing him to move faster…harder.

“Come onnnn,” you groan.

A smirk forms on his lips as he cages your head in with his upper arms, lips finding your throat, whispering against your pebbled skin.

“Always knew you’d be cock hungry, baby.”

He doesn’t allow you a chance to recant, pulling himself partially out and then slamming himself in again as hard as he can, teeth grazing your tender skin, gold chain smacking you in the face with the momentum of it.

He doesn’t seem to notice or care. Not that you mind much, either.

You whimper and paw at his shoulders, clinging to him, still needing, desiring more.

“Yeah? You liked that, didn’t you?” he whispers again, slamming into you hard a few more times for emphasis, making you keen, your bed smacking the wall harder each time.

“Need you to go faster, please,” you whine.

“Alright, baby. Since you’re asking so nicely…”

He leans back now, settling his weight against his calves as he lifts your legs to rest against his vast shoulders, tan skin shiny with perspiration. His dark curls are skewed and clinging to his face, dark brown eyes glistening with lust.

He looks so goddamn hot like that.

He doesn’t waste anymore time, fingertips digging into the meat of your calf muscles as he begins railing you with everything he has to give, the sounds of skin smacking skin filling the room, shaking the bed with impact.

He’s more than focused now, teeth exposed, brow furrowed, droplets of sweat pooling in the little divot of his collarbone. You wish he was closer so you could lave at the sweat collected there.

It isn’t long before you start to feel the familiar, telltale tightening in your lower abdomen again, your breath hitching in your chest, droplets of perspiration forming at your hairline.

“Yes! Yes! Don’t slow down! Don’tslowdooooown!” you cry, your hands reaching for his, where they grip your legs, fingers curling like talons around his digits.

Everything about you, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, feels as if you’re floating.

A few more rough slams of his hips against yours and you’re seeing stars, head falling back against the pillow with a cry as your walls flutter around him, strangling his cock, sucking him deeper. He growls, his breath hissing through clenched teeth, and you know he’s almost there as well.

“Fuck, I’m gonna… fffuuuu—“ Lucien grunts, sucking in lungfuls of air as he pulls out of you at the last possible second, perched on his knees, pumping himself in his fist with your slick.

The squelchy wet noises of Lucien beating himself off fills your ears, and he emits a loud, guttural groan as he reaches completion, tendrils of seed spurting thick and hot across your stomach, some of it collecting in your navel.

“Open up,” he instructs, and you hardly have time to gather your thoughts and bearings before you feel his tongue gliding across your stomach, scooping himself onto his tongue.

His mouth hovers over yours as your lips part, Lucien spitting the cocktail of saliva and cum onto your waiting tongue, his own tongue meeting yours as he kisses you deeply, moans getting lost in your throats.

“Fuuuck,” you sigh when your lips eventually pull apart.

You both settle on your backs, shoulder to shoulder, still catching your breaths. You stare up at the ceiling, your head still light as air and swimmy.

The party continues on down the hall sans Lucien, but it’s quieter now, more subdued.

“I’m definitely going to sleep really well after that, but I may call in to work tomorrow anyway,” you giggle.

“Good, because I’m not done with you yet,” he says, eyes shining with mischief as his hand trails down your body, fingers swirling through the remnants left on your stomach.

“But all those strangers in your apartment. Are you not worried?” you ask.

“I have someone watching it for me. It’s okay.”

His lips tease along your neck. “You’re like a goddamn drug, baby.”

You don’t even question it further, smirking as his fingers lift to your lips, painting them like gloss, laughing inwardly to yourself when you realize that the girl in the hallway doesn’t get to have him like this, like you do, as he dips his head to kiss you again.

—

fin. xx.

[jessequinnfirstofhername]

okay that low-key sounds like a bad idea but what if you did a poll for the ugliest character so the whole purpose of propaganda would be to be possibly meanest to your unfave

What a great idea @leftcolornacho! I'm going to implement it in the worst way possible!

Thank you @femmefighter for helping me pick options, and for warning me I was about to get enough hate-mail to build a Death Star replica with.

This is a one-and-done poll. Choose your votes wisely, and please keep the death threats to a respectful minimum ;)

-Jesse xx

In case I wasn't clear enough: this is a joke. If I see people taking this seriously I'm gonna die laughing and then nobody will be able to hand out emoji medals when the hottest man/woman polls wrap up.

[ladamedusoif]

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.

[theferrarieffect]

jealousy, jealousy - chapter 3: the boys are back

f1 fanfic: lestappen (max x charles)

previous chapter | next chapter

summary: the twitch quartet decides to hit the games, for old time's sake. and charles finds out that there is a lot more to the guys than they let on...

chapter 3: the boys are back

“Oh my god,” Charles groaned as he ran over yet another virtual patch of dirt. “This is frustrating me so much.”

“If Alex didn’t have his problems in the straight—” Lando’s pixelated face complained from the corner of Charles’ monitor.

George snickered evilly as he clipped Alex’s rear right, even as his own lawnmower spun out.

“GEOOOOOOORGE!!! PLEASE!!! What the fuck, honestly, this guy—”

Charles navigated a turn to the left.

Then someone moaned, except the word moan did not do whatever that sound was justice. Mooed, maybe, like a fucking cow.

“What the—” he heard George say.

“WHAT WAS THAT???” Lando howled.

Charles couldn’t stop gasping. “DID YOU SHIT ON YOURSELF, ALEX?” he barely made out, before emitting an involuntary high-pitched shriek of laughter.

“Whaaaat?” Alex cried helplessly among the din.

“What was this NOISE, Alex?” Charles demanded. A tear snaked its way down each cheek. And then another. And then he realized he was crying, really crying, and he threw down his headset and ran to the bathroom.

“Alex,” Lando growled, “we lost Charles cause of you!"

Charles shuddered over the sink, splashed some water on his face, and ran back to his rig. “Sorry lads.”

“Whatever, Alex ruined any chance we had to keep playing,” Lando sneered. Alex rolled his eyes and flipped the lid off the top of a beer.

“Guys,” George said. “Not gonna lie, this has me kind of emo for the pandemic days.”

Charles felt a wave of relief wash over him. He wasn’t the only one who’d felt so…mushy. The crying might have been instigated by Alex being a complete degenerate, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that he and these three other guys, whose literal job it was to overtake each other on the track, had survived some of the worst days by just…existing together. Playing their games. Laughing when there wasn’t much else to laugh about.

“Aw, quit it George,” Lando said, “you’re gonna make Charles cry again.” George laughed amicably, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. And as the guys said their goodbyes and signed off, Charles’ DM lit up.

GR63 You okay? charlesleclerc haha yeah sry for game again GR63 Lmfao Alex is an idiot not your fault stay on call

“What’s up?” Charles asked, when he and George were alone on the Discord.

George raised an eyebrow. “Just seemed like you were going through it for a second there, that’s all,” he said, in his smooth George way.

Charles was taken aback. George, although arguably a notch above Lando and Alex on the emotional intelligence scale, never was all that close with Charles. He suddenly remembered George being interviewed for his first points in 2021, his normally photogenic face crumpling as he cried. Actually, who was he kidding, the bastard was beautiful even when he did cry. Some people were just immune to blotchy faces and snotty noses, and the Brit’s worst was everyone else’s most fabulous. But perhaps it was that memory that inspired Charles to say, probably against his better judgment, “Maybe I am.”

“What’s going on?”

“Hmm, well…I dunno, do you ever feel like you don’t know what the other guys on the grid think of you?”

George looked thoughtful. “Yeah, definitely I do.”

“Well? Doesn't that stress you out at all?”

“I mean, sure it does. I guess that’s why the whole communication, team bonding thing is important. I just try to be honest with Lewis, we’re obviously not always on the same page all the time, but I’ve never regretted just telling him what I think. Or just asking him what he honestly thinks about—”

Charles realized that George thought he was hinting at drama between him and Carlos. Or scared about the prospect of having Hamilton as his teammate next year. “Wait,” he said hastily. “Just so you know, things are chill with Carlos. In fact, they’ve been pretty great. I’m gonna be sad when he leaves. But I’m not worried about Lewis, either.”

“Oh,” George said, now looking confused. “Then what exactly are you talking about?”

Charles panicked. He couldn’t just tell George Russell, Max, yeah, that Max, has hated me since we were literally children, and for a long time I hated him too. Then we tried to not hate each other, but now we’ve had these just—weird, that’s really the only way to describe it, moments that I keep replaying in my head, and it’s just driving me insane at this point. It’s the rival thing, right? Please tell me I’m actually just obsessed with winning, not obsessed with—

“Earth to Charles,” George said pointedly.

Charles felt his ears go violently red. “Sorry,” he squeaked.

“Jesus,” George said, his face softening. “Are you sure it’s a grid problem, as opposed to, I don’t know, a girl problem?”

“Ah, yeah. I mean, no. I mean, yeah, it’s like a girl problem. But it’s really a grid problem.” What? Charles was pretty sure he wasn’t capable of forming complete sentences at this point.

George folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to ask you a very, very personal question, and you don’t need to answer it if you don’t want to.”

Charles stared at him blankly.

“Do you like guys?”

Charles burst out laughing. George looked annoyed.

“No! I mean, of course I do as mates, just, you know, not like that. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” George said, although his lips were tight at the corners. “Although I wouldn’t say that in front of Lando.”

Charles was dumbstruck. “Lando’s gay?”

“Bi. Didn’t you know? He had a thing for you at one point even. Max shut that shit down pretty quick though.”

Charles didn’t know what was more shocking, the revelation that Lando actually liked men, or that Max had, for some unknown reason, tried to prevent Lando from making a move on Charles. “Max?” he asked weakly.

“I mean, nothing against Lando,” George said. “He was convinced you weren’t straight. Max said a bunch of shit about how long he’s known you and that you were definitely not into guys. And then all the guys kind of realized at that point that you’d never really said anything one way or the other.”

He supposed this made sense. Sure, Charles had dated a few girls in the past, but before he became really famous, and none very seriously at all. And as for boys…never had he even considered the fact that he could be with one. But why was Max so convinced he was straight?

“Uh, hey, George,” Charles said. “Are you?”

George smirked cryptically. “I’m only going to say this because you seem to be going through a bit of a crisis, and I will personally put an end to your rear wing if this gets out, but I did kiss Alex once, a long time ago.”

Charles gaped.

“For absolutely no reason,” George continued. “We were alone at a party winding down, and he was giving me these eyes, and I suddenly felt like I…had to. Like if I didn’t, everything would just be wrong.”

“And how did that go?” Charles tried to keep his voice steady.

“I think it helped that we were a little drunk,” George chuckled. “We just carried on like it never happened for a while, then Alex got together with Lily. Actually, I talked to Lily and she told me that she knew about it. It was casual for him, I guess. All in good fun, just two stupid blokes. So then I knew I could joke about it with him.”

Charles relaxed. So George had just given it a go, and it was all fine. Probably a good experience, if anything, for them. Having a mate you could be that comfortable with…it must have been nice.

Then he thought of something.

“But it was casual for you too, yeah?”

George’s smile faded.

“I don’t know.”

notes: OKAY so i know i said there would not be more ~main~ content till next gp but i made the mistake of watching the twitch quartet stream which inspired this chapter HAHA i have fully given up on following the season and am now taking inspo from past gps

creative liberties were taken portraying the twitch quartet video and when it was made - irl, it was streamed 2020 during pandemic but obviously this takes place in the 2024 season ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

also....spicy spicy georgeeee ;) ngl, not sure if we're going to dig into george's emotional turmoil...i love him so much, i might just have to write him his own fanfic.

bonus george advice if you too happen to be going thru some shit <3

[sprout-fics]

PLEASE look at this picture I got of this Din cosplayer at a con I’m currently at

HE WAS LIKE 6’7 AND HE TALKED. AND BABY COOED AND SQEAKED. AND IT WAS LOUD IN THE AREA SO WHEN I ASKED HIM WHAT THE ARMOUR WAS MADE OF (resin, if you’re curious) HE LEANED DOWN CLOSER TO ME TO HEAR BETTER AND THE WAY MY KNEES LITERALLY TREMBLED???? I’m never gonna forget about this lord almighty

YOU'RE SO LUCKY!?

Oh my goodness I'm be vibrating if I ever got to see this guy. It looks so good! The attention to detail is crazy! I can't even imagine how many hours he spent on this. Holy cow

[diamondnokouzai]

unfortunately, as it turns out, you COULD pay me to live in a city

[lil-tottie]

Sidon in Totk and why it's a problem

Let's talk about this. Spoilers for TOTK. This is an off-brand, slightly more serious post.

Here's a TLDR:

1. Sidon fills a niche few other characters in LoZ fill

2. Nobody expected SidLink to be canon

3. Sidon's fiancé felt shoehorned in and served no purpose other than pissing people off.

First of all: As someone who has been playing LoZ games for a long time, there have been very, very few options for attractive male-presenting/male characters. And before you say that LoZ is not a romance game or meant for people to be thirsty, please understand that there is an obscene amount of explicit content for nearly every attractive female/female-presenting character. Ffs, there's a Zelda for all the season. There's Midna, Din, Ilia, Ruta, Mipha. When players were into these characters- and believe me, doesn't matter if the game isn't a dating sim, they were- they weren't shamed for them. Sidon gave players this option, but since Sidon is a guy and the part of the Fandom that likes him is predominantly female or queer, it's suddenly a problem. And yes, maybe the fans are more fiesty than the rest, but can you blame us? How long have we waited?

Secondly, I see the Fandom split with one side in mourning and the other side celebrating in news of Sidon's fiancé. I've seen quite a few posts- some here, but a lot on reddit- shaming Sidon fans and Sidlink fans. Considering that we live in the world that we do, I'm pretty sure everyone knew that Sidlink would never be canon. It was still fun and gave players something to look forward to and attach themselves to. You can take your puritanical high ground that Sidlink is "annoying" and never call yourself homophobic or fragile, but there's no reason to hate a whole subgroup like that. We can just pretend that Zelda wasn't a bunch of people's sexual awakenings. Imagine your ship being canon (ZeLink) and still bashing on non-canon ships. Fuck right off.

Lastly, Sidon getting a fiancé served no purpose. She has never existed before in any game and has virtually no connection except for the shoehorned exposition dump in Sidon's diary. Even from a game development standpoint, why would you slit the throat of your cash cow? You had to put in so little in like a few lines of dialogue and 1 or 2 cutscenes, and you cultivated a massive following. So, is this your version of slash-and-burn because the "wrong" people liked LoZ for the "wrong" reasons?

[sparkbeast20]

The curse of Fade to Black

Warning: implied/suggestion of sex but no actual smut.

Mammon got exited when you and he are about to do it.

He was grinning like the smug demon he was. However, when he was laying on bed with you straddling over his hips. You bend down and capture his lips and soon fade to black.

The next thing he saw was you snuggle into his side while he felt exhausted. Did he pass out or something? He feels like you and he did it last night but he doesn't remember any of it.

He whimper because he is completely clueless about the night you to had.

Sadly, Mammon wasn't the only one affect by this. It was Satan's turn with you. Of course it started with a lovely date which lead to him taking you to his room.

He didn't bother taking your clothes off and his. He just drove in for a kiss and soon fade to black.

The next thing he woke up to was you on top of him, your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck while your arms wrap around his torso, both of you are naked.

The next person who experience this was Beel. It started innocently, making a dessert in the kitchen before it turn to a heated make out session with you kissing him while you're siting on top of the counter. But it fade to black and Beel woke up in his room with him cradling your sleeping form. He didn't remember taking you back to his room.

The next brother who experience this was Levi. You were modeling a new costume he made for an upcoming date he planned for you two. Before he pull you into a make out scene with him on his gaming chair and you straddling on his lap. Yet again fade to black.

Levi woke up in his tub bed with a gasps before feeling you hugging him from the side. He blinked and try to recall happened last night. As soon he realize that he has no memory about it and all his encouragement that night was all for nothing cause Levi to tear up and curse himself.

Next was Lucifer who had his intention clear that he's going to have you and you two will enjoy it.

But alas just like what happened with the other brothers. As soon things were getting good. Fade to black and soon Lucifer woke up by the sound of his shower being uses and he was feeling exhausted. He couldn't believe it. He doesn't remember what happened.

Belphie has his night with next and it started off with a simple night picnic at the planetarium. The he makes him move and start kissing you gently pushing you down onto the blanket. Then fade to black.

The woke up in his bed in the attic with you sleeping soundly next to him, hugging his cow pillow. The looks over and saw he left hickeys all over you, mimic his demon marking. He groan while aggresively scratching his head in frustration.

He doesn't remember the sex you to had.

Last was Asmo. He heard Mammon whining about this and he laughs and tells his brother that they were just being baby. Before procced to prepare his night with you.

It was romantic as it should. We are talking about Asmo here. However Asmo got the worse because as soon he pull you in his room. That when the dread fade to black happened. He woke up, jolted into a sitting poisition before turning his sights on you, who was sleeping soundly beside him.

He smile, gets out of bed and makes his out of his room with only his bedsheet covering his body. He reach the dinning room where all the other brothers are and eating their breakfast and stood there for a second before letting out a cry and wail then dropped down on his knees.

"WHAT'S HAPPENING!!?!!?"

"The fuck I know! But I do know that we have to put a stop to it!" Mammon answer.

"Yes, I couldn't agree more" Mammon jump from his seat when Barbatos and Diavolo appear at the end of the table. "Of course this was a personal thing. But when I notice the young master being gloom the morning after he had with MC. I knew I wasn't the only one. And it seem that it has affected all seven of you as well."

All of the brothers turn to see Diavolo frowning. Before turning their attention back to Barbatos.

"It couldn't be MC, they said that they remember all of it." Satan interject

"I... pretend to know but I didn't have the heart to ask them." Diavolo admit, he saw how happy you were that morning, he couldn't ruin that.

"So all of us didn't tell MC about this?" Lucifer ask and everyone in the room nodded.

They all agree to find out what's this curse is all about and why it was happending.

Meanwhile Solomon was working hard in his room, when Simeon came in. Solomon hasn't seem Simeon for three days. He was been in his room. Now seeing Simeon, Solomon can't help to notice the frown on the angel.

"Thanks for bring my breakfast Simeon, but what sour your mood this morning?"

"It was just this morning. It all started when I invited MC while you and Luke were gone... And well, we had a night to "ourselves" at least that what I could say. But I didn't know what happened that night. I was going to ask MC, but I saw that they were please to what we've done that night. I pretend that I enjoyed it, when clearly I don't remember"

Solomon nervous clench his jaw, and Simeon notice it. He narrow his eyes and frown. "Solomon what have you've done!"

"It was suppose to be a one time spell. MC and I were half way when all of a sudden I heard Luke awake and knocking on my door. I had to act quick since MC was out of it, to drunk in pleasure. So I cast a simple Censor spell. But it seem to work too well and it kinda affected the other part, mostly who isn't MC"

"Wait. You mean to tell me that you put a Censor spell on MC, so now whenever they are having sex with any of us."

"Don't worry! I'm working hard on reversing the curse!"

"You better! Imagine the sexual frustration from this!"

"What do you think I'm moody! All I've getting was nothing for the past month!"

While all this was happening, you were hanging out with Luke by the park playing with Cerberus. Completely unaware of the struggle your lovers are going through.