#din's fire

[batrogers]

Angry butch Time for @next-hero-in-line

You're welcome for the bloody <3

[binouchetruc]

trappedprotected by the three

[the-stove-is-on-fire]

Awoken from my hibernation for May the Fourth. Now back to not existing ✌️

[kagoutiss]

din’s champion

[hier--soir]

raising cain | 001

din djarin x ofc

pairing: spy!din djarin x spy!ofc rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: at a private gala in berlin, two agents slip inside, uninvited. unbeknownst to one another, and working for seperate agencies, they prepare to bring the same target to justice. the only problem is - one of them wants him dead, and the other wants him alive. who will succeed? will the strange connection they feel stop them from completing their mission? warnings/tags: modern au, spy!din can bring them in warm or he can bring them in cold, ofc is named + has short hair + is french, alcohol consumption, brief + unemotional mention of being an orphan, violence [including impersonal violence between din and ofc], descriptions of blood and injury and [briefly] brain matter, murder, very brief mention of sex trafficking, sexual tension like hello, choking [sexual and non sexual], ofc has an interesting relationship with pleasure and pain, fingering [not technically in public, but certainly not in private], kinda dom!din, explicit rough unprotected piv sex... on the floor... carpet burns... okay bye. word count: 9.7k series masterlist | main masterlist to raise cain means to cause a commotion, to create a disturbance, to make trouble. a/n: my only defence is that i've been watching too many james bond movies lately. also, for the record, i love berlin. also also, the smut in this made me blush. okay hope you guys like this one x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part one of raising cain.

BERLIN, FEBRUARY

It is bitterly cold, and she hates Berlin.

Not because of the weather, although it never helps to visit a city one loathes while the windows are covered in a thick layer of ice and the ground a slippery sheen of sleet.

No, Cain hates Berlin because it has always been a city of business for her. Never pleasure, nor entertainment.

In the car, en route to the gala, a driver escorts her by the Staatsoper Unter den Linden, the Berliner Dom, the Altes Museum, and each one passes her by in a blur of beige architecture and pretty lights. Endeavours for another trip, another year, another life.

She pays her driver in cash and thanks him for taking the scenic route. In broken English he slips his number into her palm and asks if she will use his services the next time she visits Berlin. She smiles and nods and doesn’t tell him that she hopes to never return.

Her dress is a flimsy thing. One of satin and silk that clings to the skin of her arms, her torso. It curls around her ankles, just shy of brushing the ground as she exits the car. The air outside bites against her skin. Her feet ache and cry out for reprieve, strapped into a skimpy pair of shoes that pinch at her toes as she glides across the cobblestone path.

A clean-shaven man stands at the door, adorned in a modest suit and a winding earpiece. He requests her name, notes her face, and grants her entry with a strict nod and an all too brief once over. Handsomely oblivious to the comforting weight of a weapon at the inside of her thigh.

The venue is small, but the crowd is thick, pulsing with life; dense enough for her to mingle, to go unnoticed as she glides through the ground floor, blending into a mix of countless other women dressed in long slinky dresses. She wears black because they all do; her makeup is simple because she did not come to be remembered.

She accepts a flute of champagne from a man with a tray. Offers him a graceful smile and a softly spoken danke schön, and waits until his back is turned before tipping the golden liquid into a plant at the base of the staircase.

Chancellor Karl Weber skirts past her, one of the most powerful men in the German government, and she does not meet his eye.

She is patient; thoughtful as she surveys the room. She knows better than to move too quickly. She counts the exits and entries, the number of security guards and wait staff. Assesses the balcony that overlooks the room, curving around the entirety of the upper level, and slips up a winding staircase when she is sure no one is watching.

With every upward step, the lengthy slit down the side of her dress parts, revealing the soft skin of her legs.

There’s something intimate about the balcony space. Red velvet drapery covers the walls, hanging from the roof and spooling against the floors in soft crimson swirls. She takes in her surroundings, fingers twinkling across the gorgeous fabric as she walks. A slim door around the bend, at the other side of the upper level, reads NUR FÜR MITARBEITER; staff only.

Another, a few paces behind where she settles, leads to a small bathroom. Six private stalls, one with a thin window above the toilet, just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Beyond it; open air, a thick pipe that leads down to the street. Perfect for scaling.

Assuming a position near the bathroom, she tucks herself amongst the drapes. Lets shadows and velvet caress her skin and hide her from prying eyes as she juts out a knee and slips a slender hand between her thighs.

The pistol is dense. Thick and black, it rests heavily in her palm as she slips a titanium cylinder from her purse. Deft fingers lead the butt of the suppressor to the mouth of the pistol. Pin meets groove and she lets it spin, stroking cool metal as she twists and twists until it clicks into place.

Ulrich Meier stands four metres from the stage, eight from the bar, and two from the closest security guard.

Another man—taller, leaner—talks down to him. Speaking in hushed tones, the two of them glance over their shoulders every few moments. Careful, cunning as they talk.

And as she watches them, her face remains neutral. But somewhere inside of her chest, somewhere forbidden and secret and soft, she feels a threatening rage begin to unfurl.

Because the longer she stares, the easier it gets to picture other faces. Men and women with sallow cheeks and fear in their eyes. Countless bodies strewn apart by weaponry they had no business being close to; rigor mortis setting their horror-stricken faces in stone.

Yes, that anger unspools inside of her. Burns through her veins like ice, chilling her blood until she feels nothing but relief as she bends her elbow and lines up her shot.

Cain does not think about collateral. Cain does not think about those standing close to him, ones who will no doubt remember this night for the rest of their lives. She does not think about his wife or his children. These things do not concern her. All that matters is the mission.   

Her hands are steady around the weapon, finger poised beside the thick trigger. She takes slow breaths. Deep inhales that fill her lungs, followed by warm exhales. Once, twice, three times until she is steeled. An eye pinches shut. Her finger slips over the trigger. Meier laughs at something.

And then a heavy palm lands on her waist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The man’s voice is a low, rasping thing.

She stiffens, grip freezing around the pistol. His breath hits the back of her neck, and a hundred little hairs there stand on end. She smells cologne, light and airy. Feels fingertips dig into the flesh around her hipbone. Ulrich Meier turns and walks towards a doorway, disappearing from sight.

“Take your hand off of me.”

“Lower your gun.”

Cain’s elbow whips backward, cracking hard against the centre of his chest. His fingers tighten then fall from her waist and she spins on her heel, the butt of her pistol colliding with his jaw.

He stumbles backwards and she advances on him, returning the gun to the holster on her thigh before striking him across the cheek with an open palm. His head hardly even turns before he’s batting her arm down with a stern shove.  

She throws a mean fist forward, but her knuckles barely graze his jaw before the heel of his palm snaps against her chin. The blow sends her staggering to the side, head bouncing off the wall with a low thwack. She tastes blood, the tip of her tongue stings, and when he steps closer she juts her knee into his groin. Feels the harsh rush of the breath leaving his lungs, exhaled roughly across her face, and snarls.

Cain wraps her fingers around the nape of his neck and digs her nails in, pulling him down to meet the knee that she drives into into his stomach. The man grunts against her chest, his hand grasping upward to wrap around her neck. He squeezes tight, dragging her toward him before rocking her skull into the wall again, holding her there. Stars burst in her vision, her nose tingles, and she spits a low curse. Music swells downstairs, a live band starting up on the stage.  

Neat curls and dark eyes dance before her. She blinks to stop the world from spinning. Firm jaw… strong nose. Moustache.  

“Din Djarin,” she rasps, voice strained from the pressure of his palm on her neck. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Recognition sparks in those dark eyes.

“Cain,” he grunts, pupils like pinpricks as he assesses her face, and then his free hand is sneaking past the slit in her dress, tapping the gun at her thigh.

“A Walther?” Din’s fingers squeeze ever so slightly tighter at the sides of her throat, callouses rough on her skin. "A little old fashioned, isn't it?"

“A German gun to kill a German cunt,” she whispers. The artery in her neck pulses and pounds, blood roaring in her ears. “It felt fitting.”

“No one dies tonight,” he grits out, and it takes everything she has not to laugh right in his face. He cannot see the way her arm is twisted between them, fingers working to loosen the tiny dagger resting just inside the sleeve of her dress free.  

“I should have known,” she smirks faintly, fingers grasping the hilt of the blade now. “The Guild do love to play around in international affairs these days.”

“Quiet,” he hisses, fingers sliding up to grip around her jaw now. His palm is hot against her lips, covering that sly smirk, the way she sucks in warm, grateful breaths. “Keep your mouth shut. Meier doesn’t die tonight. Not here.”

Smooth, careful, she presses the tip of her blade against his abdomen. Only 4 inches in length, but long enough—sharp enough—to penetrate through two layers of clothing and pierce the thick skin of his side. Thumb and forefinger tighten, begging for an excuse to press forward, to eliminate this new complication.

But then two things happen in quick succession.

Cain hears a peal of laughter raise from the staircase and glances past Din to spot blonde hair, a red dress, and slides the dagger back inside her sleeve. Moving fast, his hand falls from her face, body curling protectively around hers in a faux embrace. He tucks his face against her neck and the short hairs in his moustache raise goosebumps on her skin.

“Qu’est-ce-que tu fais?” she hisses. What are you doing?

“Shut up,” he bites back, jostling her against the wall once more.

Laughter dies down into awkward chuckles and murmured words. Cain peers over Din’s shoulder, understanding him then. Her fingers tangle in the loose curls at the nape of his neck and she watches them, ignoring how soft it is against her skin. Two women, eyes assessing them from the top of the stairs. The blonde frowns, wary; concerned.

“They’re looking,” Cain warns, hooking an ankle around the back of his.

Something soft skates down the side of her neck. Such a stark contrast to the rough grip of his hand before; a pair of lips tracing gentle kisses along her pulse point. For a moment, she holds her breath, focusing on the dull ache in the back of her skull, the feeling of his arms around her. 

“Make them look away,” he says plainly, the words a hot wash against her skin.

His palm tightens around her hip, and Cain tilts her chin upward, letting the women see her smile as he lays kisses against her throat, lips parting to form a loosely whispered oh. Through heavy lidded eyes she sees the women flush and look away, one of them giggling. But they do not leave.

Meier, where is Meier? The thought jolts through her like an electric shock, and her smile fades a little.

Frustrated, she skates a hand around his body; lets it fall to the hem of his suit jacket, rucking it up until her fingers are digging into the flesh of his ass. Round and thick with muscle, he tenses beneath her grip, letting slip a harsh grunt of surprise into her ear. The women balk at that, turning to begin their descent down the stairs at last.

Biting back a smirk, Cain’s fingers trail up up up inside his jacket, around the front of his body. Down the buttons on the front of his white dress shirt, the solid muscle beneath it, to where it meets his trousers. The tips of her nails flirt across the front of his pants, and she is certain he’s stopped breathing; entire body still beneath her touch, lips frozen against her skin. Searching, searching, she finally hums triumphantly, fingers sliding over the holster on his hip at last. Hidden beneath his jacket, she fondles the butt of his gun. Slim; inconspicuous.

“Hmm,” she purrs, lips brushing the soft skin of his earlobe. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“I thought I told you to shut u—”

Din flinches as her other hand touches the side of his face, a finger pressing swiftly into his ear canal. His head tilts to the side, trying to evade her touch, but she’s already pulling away, using his surprise to slip around his body and move towards the stairs.

She smooths fingers over her hair, neatening the mussed strands and tucking them behind her ears. Straightens the neckline of her dress, ensures her holster is hidden. From where she stands, Meier is nowhere to be seen.

Din calls after her, a low warning. She doesn’t look back, gripping the railing of the staircase as she begins her descent. The gala is in full swing, guests dancing and talking in every direction. A six-piece band performs a playful jazz song from the stage.

“There is no need to shout,” Cain murmurs, smiling when she hears a sharp intake of breath through the earpiece.

She doesn’t know if he follows her down. Keeps her gaze trained forward as she accepts another glass of champagne from another man with another tray. Drinks it this time, thick hurried gulps that wet the skin beside her lips and soften the rough scratch in her throat. She wanders, looking for the man she came here for, and in time she ends up at the bar.

“A vodka martini,” she tells the barman, slipping onto one of the plush highchairs at the counter. “Dirty.”

The blonde man grips a clear glass bottle from his station and asks, “Shaken or stirred?”

She waves a hand, unbothered. “Dealer’s choice.”

He’s short with thick hair and a reddish hue to his beard. Handsome enough. She watches him with a light curiosity as he finishes making someone else’s drink.

It doesn’t take long before Din Djarin slips onto the seat beside her, suit jacket straightened out, not a single curl out of place, and orders a cosmopolitan.

The barman pulls two frosted coup glasses from beneath the bar and Cain arches an eyebrow at her companion.

“You’ve a sweet tooth, Monsieur Djarin?”

“It seems that way,” he murmurs, turning on his stool to face her.

Brown eyes assess her face in this new lighting, pupils flicking across everything he can see. His hand reaches across the bar and peels a small square napkin from a pile. Slides it across the wooden countertop.

“Wipe your nose.”

She swipes the material beneath her nostrils and spies a small blot of blood on the fabric, crumpling it in her fist with a saccharine smile.   

“In Germany long?” he asks casually, nodding at the bartender when he places their cocktails on the counter.

“As long as it takes.” She wraps her fingers around the stem of a chilled glass, dragging it closer. “And it shouldn’t take long.”

He takes a lengthy sip, draining half the glass in seconds, and his eyes slip closed as the alcohol hits his tongue. Cain watches his throat move as he swallows and crosses her legs tighter on the stool. Feels her gun holster dig into the soft flesh there and welcomes the distraction.

“Alone?”

He eyes her for a second, gaze momentarily dropping to the low cut of her neckline, the swooping curve of her shoulder. “I was.”

“Well,” she holds out her glass to him. “It’s an honour.”

A beat passes as he contemplates her—her words, her steadfast gaze—and then he knocks the rim of his glass gently against hers.

“I’d apologise for upstairs,” he smiles faintly, posture loosening. “But I’m sure you understand.”

“There is no need,” she agrees easily, taking her first sip. Cool vodka slips down her throat and she allows a pleased purr to fall from her lips. “Tempers are frayed. Patience is short. What’s a little scuffle between friends, hmm?”

He smirks at that, a miniscule upward twitch of his lip. Friends.

“You know, I’ve heard the stories about you,” he tells her.

His suit jacket is well tailored, she notices. Tight around those broad shoulders of his, hemmed perfectly around his wrists to reveal crisp white sleeves and silver cufflinks. 

“Is that so?”

He nods. “Cain, the femme fatale.”

“Mm,” she smirks, tracing a finger around the rim of her glass. He watches the sharp point of her red nail ping against the coup. Glances down to her toenails peeking past the tip of her heels; the same colour. She wiggles them for him, and he looks up.

“Then it appears there are equally silly tales about the both of us, non?”

“Do tell.”

Her grin broadens, something like excitement splicing through her veins. “Well, I had wondered if it were true. That you have your own little… catchphrase.”  

A low scoff rumbles from his chest, and his stare cuts to where the bartender stands, mixing a drink only a few feet away. Across the room, one of the musicians onstage starts up a winding piano solo. Sparse and melodic to start, he sprinkles his fingers against highest keys on the piano, and Cain focuses on keeping her gaze on Din. She never did care for jazz.

“Do you say it every time?” she teases in a whisper, eyes lit up with mocking glee. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in co—”

“Stop.”

Din’s voice is harsh, a little too loud for the quiet space by the bar. The word cuts through the soft music and has a few guests glancing in their direction. Cain laughs, unperturbed by the sudden attention, and plucks an olive out of her drink. A saxophonist joins in with the pianist, and he relaxes once more. Leans into this little game of hers.

“Don’t be a fool,” he softens, reaching over to tuck a short strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushes the curve of her jaw as he pulls away and she fights the shiver that trips its way down her spine. “Not every time.”

She laughs again, quietly eyeing the length of his fingers as his picks up his glass. His knuckles are thick. Warm blue veins spiderweb across the back of his hand, disappearing beneath his shirt. If she tries hard enough, she can still remember how it felt to have that hand pressed against her throat, squeezing.

“And what else do they tell you about me?” she licks her lips, elbow on the bar, leaning forward to rest her chin in the palm of her hand. Eager – hungry.

“I know you’re an orphan.” He is stoic as he says it; as if unphased, uninterested. But Cain’s eyebrows lift, delighted.

“Then it must be true of you too,” she posits slyly, left eyelid dropping in a wink. “No one is more eager to accuse another of being an orphan… unless they themselves are one also.”

He ignores that, though she can see the way his weight shifts in the seat and the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“A Valkyrie.”

“Common knowledge in our line of work.”

“You’re from Paris.”

“An easy guess,” she leans back, bored. 

“Your first name is Nikita,” Din says then, a teasing lilt to his voice. She considers that he may enjoy this game just as much as she does.

And that makes her pause. She lifts her glass and laughs against the rim, a soft tinkling sound that rings in his ears and has every man in earshot turning to look at her.

“You watch too many films,” she swallows with a smirk. “Think French, Monsieur Djarin.”

He ponders it for a moment, lips pursed softly, gaze darting somewhere over her shoulder and then back to her face. Takes a sip of his laughably pink cocktail and licks the residue from his lips, savouring every drop.

“Camille.”

“Oh,” she rolls her eyes, fighting back a genuine smile now. “I know you can do better than that.”

It’s his turn to wink now, and for one fleeting moment she feels oddly at peace with the idea of spending the rest of her evening at the bar with Din Djarin. A stranger, yes, but a little less so than the others that crowd the room.

In a career so harsh, characterised by its solitude, its violence, Cain is unaccustomed to the feeling of being seen like this. She knows unfamiliarity and discomfort and pain like the back of her hand. Is no stranger to a man’s grip around her throat, her life in his hands. But not this… this twinkle of implicit understanding that she can see in his eyes. Those endless brown eyes that say we are not so different, you and I.

Despite the bloodied napkin in her lap and the ache in her jaw, it’s enough to loosen her shoulders; to set her at ease.

But then he turns to stare pointedly over her shoulder, and she snaps out of it. Twisting around on the stool, Cain follows his gaze until she spots Meier across the room. He stands with a few others, shoulders back, eyes bright. Perfectly oblivious.

The barman slips to the other end of the counter, serving a tall gentleman, and Cain lowers her voice.

“What does the Guild want with Ulrich Meier?”

Din takes a sip of his drink. Keeps his eyes to the right, glossing casually over guests, the band, and then back to the asset.

“Information,” he says finally—carefully. “He’s of no use to us dead.”

She hums quietly, plucking an olive from her drink. Eats it slowly, allowing the briny taste to wash over her tongue as she watches him. When he doesn’t speak again, she squints, unimpressed.

“Are you not going to ask me the same question?”

An amused sound escapes his mouth, and he meets her eye again.

“You want Meier dead,” he muses simply. “But why so abruptly? When there is so much to be gained from taking him in.”

“That is not an option for us.”

“Why?” His voice takes on a harsher quality now, eyes narrowing. Mistrust.

“Did you know that name Ulrich,” Cain murmurs, leaning forward to avoid any listening ears. “Comes from the Old High German name Uodalrich? Uodal meaning heritage. Rich meaning king; ruler.”

Din Djarin says nothing.

“Did you do your research before coming to Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“Then you understand that Monsieur Meier is not simply an arms dealer.”

A beat of silence. His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “Yes.”

“He took his name personally, you see.” Her eyes float back to Meier. “Held it in his slimy little hands as a baby and said Oui Maman, I will rule. I will rule the desires of weaker men, and bring nightmares unto any woman that I can get these two hands on.”

“This is about revenge.”

“This is about justice,” Cain snaps, that calm façade slipping for a second. No more games. Din’s spine straightens. “Have you ever spoken to a human trafficking victim?”

He takes another sip of his drink and does not respond. She does her best not to remember the photos from her briefing. Not to remember the countless interviews, witness statements, and obituaries she’d had to paw through before her flight.

“Your silence is very telling,” she smiles, that easy composure returning. “But I trust that you understand my position now. Ulrich Meier will be of no help to your organisation after this evening.”

“Cain—”

“Because,” she continues easily. “When I leave this building, he will no longer be able to speak. And if you wish to get in my way… then I am afraid the same fate will befall you, Monsieur Djarin.”

A soft announcement sounds through the speakers, and they turn their heads to listen. The Chancellor will be giving his speech in a few moments. That’s her cue.

“And Weber?” he asks, the words coming out stilted, rushed. “What do you think of him? He’s known for turning a blind eye to Meier’s dealings.”

She tilts her glass, swallowing the last of the icy liquid.

“I do my best,” she places it down on the counter with a soft clink. “Not to think of men at all. Unless it is imperative to my mission.”

“And yet you’ve thought of me,” Din asserts, gaze heavy. His eyes slip down, just long enough for her to notice the way he stares at her mouth, before his eyes return to hers. “You know me. Enough to recognise my face in a second.”

“As I said,” Cain smiles, stepping down from her chair. “Imperative to my mission.”

He is still as she leans in and presses a soft kiss to his left cheek, and then to his right.

“Take care, Monsieur Djarin. I would like to see you live another day,” she says, slender hand coming up to the side of his face. Her finger taps the piece in his ear once, and she is not smiling anymore. “I’ll be in here if you need me.”

Cain coasts around the edge of the room, keeping her eyes to ground whenever an unfamiliar sets of eyes strays in her direction. Swipes a finger beneath her nose once or twice, checking to see if any blood has returned. And as Chancellor Weber makes his way towards the stage, she makes her way back upstairs, quietly hoping that Din does not follow her again.  

Halfway up, a single word crackles through her ear piece.

“Amélie?”

Surprised, she grips the banister and almost turns around. But she can hear a woman speaking into a microphone in German, performing a plain and winding introduction for the Chancellor, and continues her ascent.

“Wrong.”

Reassuming her position on the balcony, shrouded in waves of those soft red velvet drapes, she watches Weber take his place on the stage. A hush falls over the crowd and her eyes move fast, landing easily on the thinning grey hair atop her target’s head. Every eye in the room is facing the stage. The Walther is thick and heavy in her palm as she ensures the silencer is correctly in place. Old fashioned indeed.

Cain’s breathing is calm, heart rate slow and measured as she raises the weapon and aims it at his head. And then, like a little ant crawling across her skin, she feels something shift. The air gets thicker, and a suddenly familiar shiver tickles its way down her spine.

Her eyes tick up and she pauses at the sight of Din on the opposite balcony railing. Almost hidden entirely by the shadows, pistol raised. And it is not pointed at Ulrich Meier, no… no it is pointed at her. And he is so handsome, even when he’s bluffing.

Grinning now, she lets the tip of her finger lightly caress the trigger. So gently, with no intention of doing any damage just yet. Some feeling akin to glee sparks up in her chest. Such excitement. The Chancellor’s voice fills the room, swelling from the speakers as he welcomes his guests.  

Din’s face is placid, unimpressed, and then that honeyed voice drifts through her ear once more.

“Celine?”

Cain allows herself a brief laugh, eyes drifting back down to rest on the man she came here for. The target drapes an arm around his wife’s waist. She inhales deep, filling her lungs before letting the air spill from her nose. Calm, collected. All of it so easy for her.

“Wrong again.”

The Walther jerks in her hand, bullet flying silently through the air, and for a moment there is silence. Nobody moves.

And then Ulrich Meier’s wife releases a blood curdling scream, dropping to her knees and cradling what’s left of her husband’s head in her lap. Popping the silencer off her gun, Cain catches a glimpse of thick, dark matter across the woman’s chest, spilling down the bare skin of her arms, and then she is slipping away into the bathroom in search of that thin little window.

Back on the cobblestone street, sirens wail through the air, police cars and ambulances roaring past as she traipses away from the scene. A little flushed, a little exhilarated, she blends into a crowd of pedestrians, hidden in the shadows. She cuts across the road, avoiding traffic, and heads toward Unter den Linden, knowing it is safer to walk. Don’t be seen by a taxi driver, don’t be recognised, don’t—

“That was a clean shot.”

The words ring in her ear, clear as day.

Cain’s feet drag to a halt against the ground, shoulders stiffening. She turns, eyes assessing the busy pathway behind her, a parked car idling by the side of the road a few metres back. But she can’t see him anywhere. Countless unfamiliar faces wander by, jostling her shoulders as they pass, but he isn’t amongst them. He’s hiding somewhere, watching her from afar – playing his own little game now. Shivering against the cold, she turns and continues walking.

And then: “I thought I might follow you home.”

The words are so confident, so self-assured, and they send a rush of jagged heat blossoming between her thighs. Her heels clip against the ground, knees feeling a little weaker all of a sudden.  

“Would you like that?” he asks, and she wishes she could see his face. Wants to see the desire burning in his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw as those words drift from his pink lips.

“Only if you can keep up.” A little breathless, the words form a soft cloud in the air in front of her face.

Din laughs, low and dark in her ear, but he doesn’t speak again.

She walks for a long time, ambling her way down dark streets, icy wind whipping at her hair for all of half an hour before she finally reaches the street of her hotel. And all the while, she spares quick little glances over her shoulders, trying to spot him in the shadows. Her clothes begin to feel too tight, too warm, despite the low temperature, and with every step her panties cling closer to her warm, wet skin.

The hotel doorman smiles tiredly at Cain as she approaches, holding the door open wide to welcome her inside. As her feet hit the entryway steps, his eyes flit over her shoulder.

“Ein freund von dir?” A friend of yours?

When she turns, she is quietly amazed to find Din there. Gait unhurried, only a few steps behind her. There’s an easy smile spread across his face. Hands tucked deep in his pockets; the top button of his shirt undone.

“Ja,” Cain murmurs, slipping inside.

Din nods to the doorman, following her in. “Guten Abend.” Good evening.

They do not speak as she leads him toward the elevator. Her numb fingers slide against the button with an upward pointing arrow, and together they wait. Heat radiates from his body, warming the skin of her back where he stands behind her, so close yet not touching her yet. Together they slip inside when the doors open.

She presses a button, the number twelve lighting up on the switchboard, and the doors glide closed.

Soft, tinny music plays in the elevator, and they stare at each other from either side of the small space. Din’s chest rises and falls with steady, measured breaths. He watches her and she watches the buttons on the wall, lighting up in turn as the two of them travel up, up, up.

Two floors below Cain’s, he speaks for the first time.

“Vivienne,” he says. “Final guess.”

Her eyes flash to him and she smiles, the skin beside her eyes pinching.

“It’s Remy,” she reveals at last, voice so soft, so forgiving now that her mission is complete.

“Remy,” he repeats. Rolls the r like she does, hums around the y. Sees how it tastes in his mouth and steps forward, saying it again, again. Remy, Remy, Remy, Remy Cain.

“Don’t wear it ou—”

His lips crush against hers, chest warm as he pushes her back back back into the wall. His hand flies up, cradling the back of her skull to protect it from the wall. Not a third time. Despite the softness of his hand, the way his fingers card gently through the short locks of her hair, his kiss is biting. A wet mess of clashing teeth and tongues as he works her jaw open, coaxing his way inside of her mouth. A rough exhale streams from his nostrils, warming the skin of her face. His breath tastes like Cointreau and lime, and she moans. 

His hand slips up her thigh, trailing past that slit in her dress for the second time this evening, until his fingers are brushing against the front of her panties. Feeling the thick damp strip in the lace, the way the thin material clings to her centre.

“Fuck,” he exhales, and when he meets her eyes again his pupils are blown fat and black with desire. Moving fast, he tugs the gun from her holster. She pauses, eyes narrowing, but then he tucks it into the waistband at the back of his trousers, simply allowing space for his forearm to rest between her thighs.

The elevator thrums around them, stomachs dropping as the metal box takes them higher and higher through the building. A finger curls around the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side, and when he finally slides through her wet cunt she sighs into his mouth, every muscle in her body pulling taut and warm. 

His touch is lax, almost taunting as he sucks her tongue into his mouth and traces a digit over the drooling mouth of her entrance, smearing it up to make a mess of her clit. When she moans he presses down; careful little circles there, messy figure eights, a sharp back and forth back and forth back and forth, trying to see what she likes best. And the second her eyes pinch shut, a low curse falling from her lips, the elevator dings.

His hand whips out, slamming against the red emergency stop button. The elevator jerks to an abrupt halt and then he’s on her again. Teeth at her collarbone, her neck, her jaw, fingers moving in a slick blur against her pussy. Her thighs splay apart, and she leans heavy against the wall, knees shaky, trusting him to keep her from falling to the ground. 

“So fucking wet for me,” he murmurs, the words brimming with pride, and she trembles beneath his touch, needing more and needing it now.

“Inside,” she pants, lips parted and searching for his again. “Want your fingers inside me.”

Din swallows those words down, pressing two fingers inside of her with a groan. Remy gasps, bearing down on the weight of his fingers and shivering as he curls them inside of her. Stretching her out and grinding his knuckles against her entrance with every deep thrust.

“Yeah?” he goads, watchful eyes drinking in the way she moans for him, turning her face into her shoulder as if to hide how good it feels. “You like that, hm?”

Warm wetness pools out of her, dripping past his knuckles and onto the inside of her thighs. Obscene sounds fill the tiny space as he pumps in and out of her, and she catches herself glancing upward, searching for a security camera. She spots it in the corner just as he fits a third finger inside and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit, her mouth falling open with a rough groan. Her shoulders tilt forward, forehead knocking against his shoulder, and Din grunts, fucking her harder. His fingers never leave her wet clutch now, the tips of them persistently working against that soft spot at the top of her walls.

“Such a tight little cunt,” he’s saying, nipping at her earlobe, but the words blur and warble around the rushing in her ears. “Squeezing my fingers so good, you’re so good.”  

She grips the back of his neck, squeezing desperately. Her jaw aches with the strain of hanging slack.

“Tell me,” he says roughly, growing impatient. Everything feels hot, too hot; the skin of her face against his shoulder, her chest, the sizzling tension coiling in her core.

“Close,” she chokes out. Din snakes his free arm around the back of her waist, steadying her loose-limbed frame between his body and the wall. “Just a little longe—ohhh, merde.”

He shifts then, the thick heft of his cock crushing against her thigh through their clothes. He presses a finger against her clit now. And that low rub, his calloused thumb paired with three thick fingers massaging into her, is enough to send her spilling over the edge.

A hoarse cry pries its way out of her throat, body shaking against his and he works her through it, still pressing down against the aching bundle of nerves at the top of her sex. She pulses around his fingers, everything pulling tight and wet around them as she comes. Teeth sink into the lapel of his jacket in an attempt to muffle her cries but his arm is dropping from her waist, hand coming up to grip her jaw and push her back.

“Let me hear it,” he purrs, voice like silk as it washes over the skin of her neck.  

“Ohh,” she moans, uncaring now about the camera, about who will hear. Focusing wholly on his fingers on her face, her cunt, the way her entire world seems to shake within his grasp.

He holds her there, lets her shake and shiver beneath his touch until the ebbs of pleasure finally fade and she’s strong enough to stand on her own. Remy watches as he takes a small step backward, pressing one hand over the front of his trousers and three slick fingers past his lips to taste her come. Din’s eyes slip shut at the taste, lips pursing as he sucks the remnants of her from his skin. Flushed and awed by the intimacy of it, the depravity of it, she looks away.

Her fingers tremble against the button as she presses it, and the elevator shudders back to life around them. Another sharp ding rings out again, the doors sliding open within seconds.

A few paces down the hall, the key card slips easily against her door, and she presses it open, flushed as she steps inside and kicks off her heels. She discards them somewhere to the side, turning to watch him follow her in, toes sinking gratefully into the rough carpet beneath her feet.

The door slams shut behind him and he tears his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor as he makes his way further inside. And he looks so much more intimidating like this, she thinks. Domineering as he advances on her, the thick length of his cock evident against the front of his pants. Despite him aiming a gun at her less than an hour ago, despite the way he slunk through the shadows to follow her back here, this is the first time all evening that she’s felt eager to bend to his will, his desire. Her heart races, thudding heavily against her ribcage, and he grins wickedly at her, as if he can fucking hear it.

They collide in the middle of the room, slick swollen lips sliding against each other in a mess of harsh exhales and lewd smacking sounds. Her hands roam across the vast expanse of his chest, trailing down to cup him through his pants. He groans at the feeling, hips jerking forward, seeking more more more. He rips the gun from his holster and tosses it onto the bed, her Walther following shortly from the back of his waistband, and then his hands are on her too. Fat palms pawing at her body, gripping the meat of her ass and squeezing, trapping her against his chest so he can rut his cock against her stomach. Din grips the back of her head then, thumbs rough against the apples of her cheeks as his mouth devours hers.

Thick fingers drift from the ends of her hair down the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, until they slip beneath the back of her dress. Distracting her with his kiss, greedy and lustful and dominating – she doesn’t notice his curious fingers until they’re curling around the fabric and ripping. Remy staggers backwards with the force of it, gripping his neck. He snarls into her mouth, following her to the ground as she falls. The breath rushes from her lungs and her tailbone aches from how she lands but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even care when Din straddles her waist, chest heaving, and continues to tear satin and silk from her body. The black material practically shreds in his hands. So thin and delicate, the threads fall apart with every twist, every yank, until he’s prying the ruined dress away and throwing it towards the bed.  

Remy’s fingers work hastily to undo the buttons on his shirt, but just as she reaches the fourth one, he’s gripping her hands, pinning them above her head. Din’s free hand works open his belt, the button and zip on his trousers, and then he’s dragging them down his legs, freeing the thick weight of his cock. She gasps, eyeing the angry red tip hungrily. He’s thick and long and leaking against the white material of his shirt. Her hands push against his and she grunts when he simply tightens his grasp on her, the friction of the coarse carpet harsh against her skin.

“I let you have your way back there,” Din says, eyes blazing. “Are you gonna let me have mine now?”

Her body stills, wholly captivated beneath the heat of his gaze, the weight of his thighs over her hips.

“Yes,” she exhales, mind a blur, limbs still loose and heavy from her orgasm. “Yes, Din, just fuck me.”

“The Guild are gonna have my fucking head for this,” he mutters, fingers falling from her hands to rest heavily at the waistband of her panties.

Remy isn’t sure if he’s talking about Meier or her, but she doesn’t fucking care. What happens to Din after tonight is not her problem.

He toys with her for a moment, tickling the skin around her navel, above the band of her panties, before his fingers hook around it and—snap. She flinches as the material is torn away, her skin pinching beneath the lace.

She stares up at him, clad in nothing but the pale material of her bra now. He watches the way her chest heaves beneath it, nipples painfully stiff against the thin lace.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he snaps angrily. He shifts back, moving down her body until he can pry her legs from between his, spreading them open on the carpet to display her glistening cunt to him. The sight seems to stem his anger a little, jaw going loose as he gazes down at the shiny swollen mess of her.

A thick thumb swipes through her folds, pinching one of them back to hold her open for him to ogle at.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he tuts under his breath, thumbing at the flesh between her clit and her hole.

Her face heats, heart stuttering in her chest a little at this feeling of exposure. Can feel the intensity of his stare practically inside of her the longer he looks, waiting for something.

“So take it,” she says finally, patience thinning.

She fists his shirt in her hands and tugs him forward, breath hitching when he grips his cock and jerks it slowly, smearing her wetness down the length of it before notching his tip at her entrance.

He pushes inside of her in one fell swoop, hardly giving her a moment to adjust to the fat girth of his tip before he’s pressing deeper. Lips on lips, sucking the breath from her lungs, their kiss vibrates with the strength of his groan. It tastes like relief, like understanding. And for a moment it’s just that. The thick weight of him seated inside of her, his chest against hers as they kiss lazily, sloppily, smearing spit across each other faces, tasting beneath tongues, behind teeth.

“So fucking tight,” Din bites out, forehead heavy against hers.

“Mm,” she whines, face screwed up.

A dull burn ricochets through her abdomen, the stretch more than she’s taken in a while. Remy wills herself to relax, but desire has her core tightening around him, sucking him in further and further until the coarse hairs at his base are flush against her clit and there’s nothing more to take. She loops a leg around his waist and ruts up against him, and anything soft about him vanishes.

Din’s thrusts are punishing. Hard and fast, the weight of his hips rocking her into the ground over and over, until she can feel carpet burns forming at the base of her spine, the soft skin of her ass. Every slick pass of the heft of his cock punches the air from her lungs and has her eyelids fluttering.

It’s greedy, the way he fucks her. Like he’s had it before, perhaps in a past life, and been deprived of her touch for years. He fucks her like he misses her. Like he loves her or hates her or something dark and grotesque in between the two emotions. Like if this were the last thing he ever got to do in this lifetime, then he was going to do it right.

So she says, “Harder,” and he grits his teeth, fucking her into the carpet until she’s sure there’ll be littles scrapes and bruises on her back in the morning.

The tip of his cock brushes near to the end of her, and every little nudge there has her gasping in an intoxicating medley of pain and pleasure.

“There?”

“Yes,” she begs. “Fucking—yes.”

Din works her open like it’s his fucking job. Settles on his knees and drags her ass up onto his thighs, splitting her open with every brutal thrust, hands fitted over her waist in a vice.

Up close like this she can see past the collar of his shirt. Can see thick raised lines on his skin, pink and purple scars beneath his collarbones. She reaches up and lays a hand there, feels his heart jack hammering against the marred skin, and moans his name. Din, Din, Din.

And he likes that. Releases an almost pained moan at the sound of his name on her lips, leaning down to attach his mouth to her neck. He bites and sucks and kisses, leaving a trail of deep dark marks from the hollow of her throat to the hinge of her jaw.

“That’s it,” he snarls into her skin, hand lowering to press down above her mound, and that mixed with the sound of his voice makes a fresh load of slick gush out of her. Pushes her deeper into this depraved, endless pit of pleasure he’s raining down upon her.

He tells her again, say it again, and she cries out Din, head lolling back against the floor.

Something fierce begins to brew inside of her. A bright white twisting feeling that frays and sparks like a live wire, stoked by the speed of his movement, the firm press of his hand against her lower stomach. And just as she thinks she’s there, almost there, so close, a shrill ringing comes from the sofa to their left.

Din’s hips stutter against hers, head snapping to the side to pinpoint where the interruption emanates from. A little pink phone rings and rings, the sound piercing through her ears and setting her teeth on edge. She taps his chest quickly, urging him back. He frowns, opens his mouth to tell her no, tell her ignore it, but she pushes him harder, again and again until he slips out of her with a haggard moan.

He grips her waist and turns their bodies, landing on his back with a thud. Eyes trained on his face, the dark red blush on his cheeks, his swollen mouth, she reaches out blindly, snatching the phone from the receiver and putting it to her ear.

“Allo?” Remy breathes, eyebrows pinching together as she sinks down onto his cock, free hand splayed on his stomach. “Bonjour.” 

He props himself up in a seated position, resting back on one hand while the other comes up to grope at her chest. Cocky asshole. But her eyes glaze over as she takes in the tanned skin that peeks out of his shirt again, the soft smattering of hair between his pecks. Legs spread out wide on the carpet, he watches her bounce slowly on his cock, nodding in encouragement but careful not to speak, lest he be heard down the line by her handler.

At this angle his tip presses into her g-spot with every movement. It only takes a moment for that low burn to start up again in the base of her stomach. Her mouth is open wide, ragged breaths spilling from her lips as she listens to the words being spoken down the line.  

She says, “Ouais, c’est fait.” Yeah, it’s done.

Din’s fingers flex around the cup of her bra, tugging down the fabric to let one of her tits spill out. He sighs heavily, leaning forward to latch his mouth onto the skin there. Lathing hot, messy kisses against her sternum, her nipple, and then grazing his teeth over the sensitive bud. She trembles against him, hand coming up to grip the back of his head and hold his face there. He sucks it into his mouth, pulls it taut between his lips before letting it slip out with a wet pop.

“À bientôt.” See you soon.

She hangs up the phone with a rough clang, and then her mouth is seeking his out again. Teeth clash and she moans at the sharp pain, uncaring. Din’s grip on her waist tightens and he plants his feet on the carpet, fucking up into her at a break-neck pace. She cries into his mouth, a harsh animalistic sound, and her stomach is pulling tight, cramping up. Her cunt locks down around him, and when she comes it’s a low throb of a feeling. A deep swooping ache that spills from her core and spreads out through her thighs, her stomach, until her body is jerking and twitching above him.

“Fuck yes,” he grits out, white teeth flashing in her hazy vision. He doesn’t give out, spitting a mess of that’s it, fucking give it to me as her pussy flutters and drools around his cock. Her hips roll and stutter over his, the muscles in her stomach twitching beneath the skin, and Din swears under his breath. Her vision whites out, throat hoarse and head pounding as she succumbs to the pleasure. And he feeds off it.

“God, look at you,” he grunts, prolonging that low burn in her gut the longer he fucks into that softest warmest little spot. “Made to take this cock.”

“Say it,” he rasps urgently, eyes rolling back when her hand grips his throat for purchase, nails digging sharply into the skin over his thrumming carotid. “Say you fucking want it.”

“I want it,” she moans, back arching, knees on fire where they slide against the carpet at his sides. “Want your come, Din, fuck—fuck, give it to me, give it to me.”

His body practically vibrates as he comes. A thousand tiny little twitches and spasms rocking through this frame, the muscles in his thick thighs turning to tense stone beneath her. A gravelly shout falls from his lips, cock kicking hot and hard against her walls until she feels his spend begin to seep out of her around his length and pool around his base.  

It’s almost frantic, the way his hands clutch at her body, clinging to any part of her that he can. And when she thinks he might pull her closer, press himself deeper to keep painting the inside of her walls, he pushes her away, dragging himself from her clutch just to grip his length in a tight fist.

He strokes himself in tight wet movements, a few final weak spurts of his come shooting up to land over her mound and the swollen lips of her pussy. And only when he’s done, spent cock beginning to soften in his palm, does he pull her down a little. Resting wet hands over the base of her spine to feel the way she shivers, body shuddering its way through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Remy’s chest expands with stilted, ragged gasps for air, trying desperately to fill her lungs as she folds against his hot thick frame, exhausted.

And after a few moments the foggy, erotic blur that held her mind in a vice for the past few hours slowly begins to lift. Din’s hand is on the back of her thigh, fingers splayed, tickling the skin there, and the weight of it suddenly itches. Reality drifts back in and it feels heavy on her shoulders. The clock beside the hotel bed reads 9:12 – her flight out of Berlin leaves in two hours.

His hand drifts up her back, nudging her down to rest her head against his chest. Her body aches suddenly; dull pains popping up in her neck, her jaw, her hips. She remembers the way it felt to have his palm strike her chin and almost smiles.

A metre away, her suitcase lies spread open on the floor. Clothes and lingerie and a gun peek out of the red trunk. She can see two passports beside it, stacked neatly atop one another. And she knows that his hotel room can’t look that dissimilar from his own, but it feels too much now. As their breathing starts to even out, vision swinging back into focus, this level of intimacy – having another person, even a colleague of sorts – seeing behind the scenes of what after looks like for her… it feels like a splinter in the tip of her finger. A sharp sting that won’t go away. Wrong.

Remy rests her chin against his collarbone and glances up at him. Din’s eyes are closed, lips parted as soft breaths puff out from between them. He looks tired – almost as tired as she feels.

“I’m going to shower,” she tells him, fingers brushing curls back off his forehead. His eyes are soft, warm as they open to watches her stand. Too much, that look in his eyes. Too close. “Be gone when I come out, okay?”

Remy turns, back to him as she grips the handle of the ensuite door, and for a moment she pauses. Feels the weight of the silence between them, the heady scent of sweat and come in the air, on her skin, and glances over her shoulder. Looks between him spread out on the floor and her things dotted across the room. An empty martini glass lying on its side. The blush-coloured rotary phone on the hotel sofa. Passports with different names, birth dates, home countries, addresses, and her face. She knows that has to be firm now.  

“Don’t give me a reason to kill you, mon chére.” My darling.

Din’s lips curl up into a smile and his eyes drift up to stare at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She slips inside the bathroom and pulls the door almost closed behind her. Twists a nozzle until water is beating down against the floor of the shower and steam begins to fill the room. Silently, she pries open a cabinet and slips her hand beneath the sink, feeling around until her fingers grasp the pistol strapped there.

Bare skin of her back flush to the wall, thighs still wet with come and sweat, she peers out through the crack in the door. Still ajar, she can see him past the wooden frame. Sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, looping his belt through the waist of his trousers. With her eyes trained on the soft skin of his neck, on messy curls, on shoulder blades and biceps that bulge out against the thin material of his dress shirt – she leads a silencer into place over the mouth of her gun. A rhythmic repetition, the exact same as earlier. She doesn’t even need to look down. Pin meet groove, twist, twist, twist.

Din slips his arms inside the suit jacket, elbows bending as he smooths his palms along the front of it. She holds her breath as he turns, as he takes three steps toward the hotel room door, and then—pauses. Hand on the doorhandle, he does not move.

Remy’s finger rests featherlight on the trigger.

She is calm. What happens next is his choice.  

And he must know this because he does not turn around. Does not try to catch one last look at her. His fingers curl around the handle and he slips out the door, closing it was a soft click behind him. The air in the room rushes to fill his sudden absence.

Only when there is silence does she exhale, dropping the pistol onto the marble countertop beside the sink. And she smiles as she slinks beneath the hot spray of the shower head, letting it rush over the crown of her skull and drench her hair.

Her scalp stings and pink water swirls in the drain, blood slipping from a little cut on the back of her head. She pays it little mind, tilting her chin up so the scalding water hits her face too, stripping away a thick layer of sweat and blood and secrets from her skin. The silence stretches, and her smile grows. He does not come back.

Smart choice, Din Djarin.

thank you so much for reading! x

[northgazaupdates]

18 March 2024

Medical student and nurse Ezz El-Din Lulu reports from inside Al-Shifa Hospital. For three days now they have been cut off from water and electricity. The IOF is shooting anyone they see move. Bodies of martyred families, who tried to flee the hospital, are lying in the courtyard. The IOF has told them anyone who approaches the courtyard, even to help the wounded and dying, will be shot. He calls on the international community and the humanity of all people to demand an end to the siege before the hospital becomes a mass grave. The video has English subtitles.

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A post shared by Ezz Lulu | عز الدين لولو (@ezz.lulu)

[spock-smokes-weed]

DinLuke nation we have to realize that neither Luke or Din are the fretting parent over Grogu.

Luke and Din are “hey do you wanna see my baby do this sick kick flip?” kinds of parents and we have to admit that to ourselves

[biggestsimponhere]

STAND WITH PALESTINE. STAND AGAINST GENOCIDE. USE YOUR PLATFORM. YOU HAVE A VOICE THAT PALESTINIANS DO NOT. IT TAKES NOTHING TO SIGN A PETITION. PLEASE HELP PALESTINE. HOPE IS HOW TO HELP. BELIEVE THEY WILL BE FREE AND WORK TO HELP FREE THEM. ELEVATE PALESTINE. SIGN PETITIONS. CALL YOUR REPRESENTATIVES. TWEET. POST. REPOST. DO YOUR PART TO HELP THE INNOCENT LIVES BEING STOLEN AWAY. HELP CALL FOR A CEASE FIRE NOW.

[ladamedusoif]

Tempered in the Fire - Part Four

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; angst; smut; violence; unprotected PiV sex; oral sex (F and M receiving); racist (anti-Traveller) language; period-typical misogyny; references to domestic physical, emotional, and sexual abuse; references to family loss and death; abusive and derogatory language; strong language.

Translations for the Irish language provided throughout as needed, though I have not translated mo chuisle as a term of endearment (it literally means 'my pulse', more usually used as 'my love').

A/N: I am so, so sorry for the gap between chapters here and am grateful to the readers who've been so patient! Thanks, too, as ever, to @paulmescal-s for working through the gnarlier bits of this story with me and being such a great sort-of beta.

In the future, after many years had passed, you would find it hard to remember exactly how much time you had together, at the forge, before the hard reality came knocking at your door. Those days and nights of domestic happiness could never have been enough.

By day, you keep house, sew, and bake. Each morning, you do some basic reading and writing with Gró, or take the little boy around the hedgerows and trees at the boundary of the property, teaching him the names of plants and animals. Din had explained your presence to him, and he beamed every morning when his father carried him down the attic ladder and he saw you again. 

Din, so used to being the lone adult in the household, insists on contributing to the routine: cooking, cleaning, setting the fire. It feels so natural, so right - and yet a blade dangles over this strange little found family, ready to drop at any moment. 

Each evening, Din readies Gró for bed, sometimes bathing his son in a tin bath in front of the fire while you tell him a story by way of distraction. It has quickly become a highlight of the blacksmith’s day, these moments where he watches as you make his beloved boy squeal with laughter, or hold his rapt attention with the twists and turns of a tale. 

They were content and settled, this clan of two. But Din couldn’t help the daydreams about a clan of three that sometimes flashed through his mind. 

He took every opportunity he could to touch you throughout the day. A squeeze of your hand at the breakfast table as Gró drained his cup of milk. A discreet kiss to your cheek as he made his way into the forge for his morning’s work. A gentle caress of your waist as he passes you while you’re laying the table for the main meal, taken in the middle of the day. 

With Gró settled and asleep in the loft, the two of you moved more hastily in the evenings, now, to sort the things for breakfast and smother the fire. The sooner the chores were done, after all, the sooner you could shed your clothes and climb into his bed together. 

The nervous caution of your first time together soon dissipated as you grew more familiar with each other, more in tune with each other’s needs and desires. For all his inexperience and your difficult past, the two of you are perfectly-matched lovers. The feeling of Din’s broad body on yours, glistening with sweat, begins to exorcise the demons of the past. You ride him on top, one hand intertwined with his as he squeezes your breasts and watches you come. He slips his cock inside you one morning as you’re lying together, your back pressed to his chest, and fucks you slowly and carefully until you’re both coming quietly, mouths pushed into the pillows. One evening, he was even too impatient for bed, hitching up your skirts and taking you over the heavy wooden table, hand pressed against your mouth as you whined against his palm. 

“I want to learn you,” Din whispered one night, easing your long shift off so that you were completely bare, lying alongside his own naked body. 

You traced your fingertips along the softness of his lips. “Learn me?”

His strong, clever fingers roamed over you as he nodded. “Learn you. Know you, all of you.” He squeezed your tits softly, sucking gently on each nipple. “Commit you to memory. How you feel, how you fit together. Do you like this?”

You wound your fingers through his messy curls and nodded. He followed the curves of your body with his broad, calloused hands, moving over your waist and holding your hips firmly as he reverently kissed your belly. He took his time, hands memorising the exact shape and volume of your form.

“You are a beauty, mo chuisle,” he murmured, dark eyes looking up at you from between your legs. “So lovely and soft and warm.”

His fingers pressed into the meat of your thighs as he mapped you out, and you felt the wetness between your legs as your hips bucked upwards, legs parting instinctively. 

“Can I…see, mo chuisle?” Din’s palm grazed over the hair covering your mound. “See you…see you here?”

“Of course, my darling.” You opened your legs wider for him, watching as his eyes grew round in awe, before darkening with lust. He reached for his cock, whimpering a little as he stroked himself. 

“That’s beautiful.” He had shifted his head closer to your centre, his expression a little bashful. “I’d like to kiss you here.  Would that be alright?”

“Please, darling,” you hissed. “Put your mouth on me.”

“I’ve never…” He exhaled nervously as he settled between your legs, fingers already playing with your wet folds. “Never even thought of this, but…”

You ran your fingers through his hair and smiled, understanding what he was trying to say. “You’ll know just what to do, love.”

This was new to you, too, though you had heard of men doing it to their girls, especially if they were not meant to lie together. Your friend Mary had, just prior to her marriage, confided in you that she and her betrothed had found a way to sate their passions without the risk of her falling pregnant before the wedding. 

“The mouth is a great thing, all the same,” she’d said, dangling her bare feet in the cool water of the local river on a warm summer day as the two of you lazed on the grassy bank, skirts hitched to your knees. She had explained the mechanisms of it to you, chuckling at your sceptical expression. 

“Just wait, girleen. Just you wait and see.”

Now Din’s soft, plush lips were pressed against your slit, tongue tasting your wetness, and you finally understood what she meant. It was heaven: the way his lips brushed against the little bundle of nerves and made your whole body convulse with pleasure, the sensation of his patchy beard against your thighs, how he began to slip his tongue in and out of you. His grunts and moans vibrated against your core and you came hard against him, giggling when you saw the slick glistening all over his smiling face. 

In the nights to come, you returned the favour, languidly sucking and licking at his perfect cock while he held your head in place with his broad hands, hips bucking up against you as he groaned with sheer pleasure.

You paused, reminding him that he needed to be quieter, before slipping his cock between your lips again. “‘S not my fault, mo chuisle,” he panted, eyes locked on how his hard length disappeared into your pretty mouth. “Feels far too good.” 

As he came in your mouth for the first time, you’d looked up at his beautiful face, release and pleasure and affection written on every part of it, and begged whatever deity might listen to let you stay here forever.

Din is more comfortable showing his feelings through actions, physical gestures, than words. Little by little, though, you notice him opening up more, saying more. Not that he’d ever be what you could consider a talker. 

One night, nestled together, you ask him to tell you about himself.

"I want to hear your story, Din.” The comforting caress of your hand against his face makes him smile softly.

"I don’t know what there is to tell.”

You cuddle closer to him, enjoying the feel of his solid frame against you. “Well, I don’t know much about your family, for one…”

He shifts a little in bed and for an instant you worry you have overstepped the mark. 

“It’s not a very happy story, mo chuisle, but if you want to know…”

A kiss to the expanse of broad, tanned chest exposed at the neck of his nightshirt. “I want to know. If you want to tell me.”

He finds your hand and presses it to his chest, seeking reassurance in your familiar touch, and taking a deep breath before he begins to whisper his story to you.

"I’m a travelling person. I don’t know where I was born - other than that it was probably somewhere towards the west of the country, on a campsite. I have - had - an older sister, a younger brother. Lived off the money from whatever work my father could get - fixing pots and pans, mostly, sometimes farm labour, depending on the season.”

"A hard living.”

He nods, bringing the back of your hand to his lips. “Hard, but loving.” He inhales deeply, again, before continuing.

"We were never really wanted anywhere. Moved on, camps disturbed, even attacked, sometimes. We learned quickly how to hide at the first sign of trouble.”

He closes his eyes, a flash of sorrow crossing his beautiful features in the moonlight coming through the little cottage window. “I suppose that’s what saved me.”

For a few moments, Din is quiet. 

“We had camped on land that was part of some big estate, belonging to Lord somebody or other. The usual situation. My father and a couple of our other men went fishing the first day and poaching the first night, to get us some food. I can still see the scales of the big salmon he caught, glinting in the firelight as my mother cleaned it.”

"A feast.”

He nods, a little smile on his lips at the memory, before his features darken again. “But not our feast to take. The lord’s feast, by virtue of the land being given to him by some far-off king.” He shakes his head ruefully.

"I was coming back with some cans of water the next morning when I heard shouting. The glimpses of red moving towards the camp - the yeomanry. The landlord set them on us, and they gave us no quarter. When some of our men and women tried to defend our few possessions, they - well, they turned violent.”

You hold him close, feeling the anguish in his breathing.

"I saw my father fall, killed by a blow to the head with the butt of a yeoman’s musket. My mother caught a glimpse of me, roared at me to run, to hide, and to my eternal shame I did just that. I didn’t go to them. I ran.”

"She wanted you to live, Din. She was saving you.”

He swallows hard, audible in the stillness of the night. 

“The local priest found me a couple of days later, still carrying the empty can. I’d hidden in a ditch, ate blackberries to survive. He arranged for the local blacksmith and his wife to take me in, train me as an apprentice.” 

He pauses again. You realise this is the most he’s probably ever said to you in one go. 

“When the time came, I took to the roads myself, honing the craft before I could set up on my own. I wasn’t long back when the priest called, saying a cousin in the east knew of an empty forge in need of a good smith.”

"And that’s how you came here?”

Din nods. “That’s how I came to be here.”

You venture a sensitive question. “Din… what happened to your mother, your siblings?”

"Poorhouse. No other choice.”

Silence.

"I didn’t know where they’d gone. So much sickness in those godforsaken places…”

Another pause.

”My brother died first. Then my sister, and then my mother.”

Your voice is tiny, barely a whisper. “Did you… see them?”

"By the time we found out what poorhouse they were in… it was too late.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you do your best not to let them fall. This is his story, his grief, not yours. Instead, you shift up the bed a little, still holding his warm body close, and lean in to caress and kiss him. 

There’s a wet, salty tang on his cheek. You kiss away the silent tear. 

For a moment, you think of what Din told you about how he came to adopt Gró: his unwillingness to let the boy go to a poorhouse or orphanage, his desire to protect and train the child, just as he himself had once been taken in by the smith and his wife. Just as he, himself, had once been a lost little boy. 

You press your lips to the messy curls at the crown of his head. 

There are times when you almost forget that you’re not really meant to be here, so natural and right does it feel. And then you are jolted back, reluctantly, to a reality where you are still technically the wife of a violent, cruel man who could claim you at any moment. 

That afternoon, you hear the sound of horses approaching and immediately disappear up to the loft, as usual, until you know it’s safe to descend. You listen attentively as the door opens and breathe a sigh of relief when Gró’s delighted little voice greets Peigí, here on one of her regular visits. You hear Din enter the cottage from the forge, chatting companionably to his old friend, and make for the ladder.

You’re a few rungs down when you hear a second, less familiar voice.

“So where is she, Din?”

He stutters, the panic evident in his voice. You wonder if you can make it back to the loft. 

Too late.

Father Carthy hears the sound of your skirts and turns, greeting you by name in grave tones. 

“You might as well come and join us, my child.”

Peigí’s gaze is apologetic as you climb down the ladder and move to join the little cluster of adults, Din having sent Gró outside to play. You stand beside him, arms wrapped protectively over your body, resisting the urge to reach for his hand. 

“I’m sorry, girleen.” Peigí wrings her hands, expression anxious and sorrowful. “Father came to see me today before I left for the forge, I couldn’t turn him out.”

You meet Father Carthy’s eyes with a look of defiance, straightening yourself to your full height, silently demanding an explanation.

“I am not here to force you home. I know your…situation.” The priest exhales deeply, fingers fiddling with the little black buttons on his long robes. “And between us and the wall and the Lord Almighty, if that kind of cruelty and abandonment was grounds for annulment… well.”

The back of Din’s hand brushes almost imperceptibly against yours. 

“But you are still a married woman, and…” The cleric sighs apologetically. “My child, you were seen here. Out in the back field, with the boy. And if I’ve heard it, and people are talking, then it’s only a matter of time before -”

You interject in a low, steady voice. “Before Searlas finds out where I am.”

The priest nods sadly. “That’s why I came here. Why I came with Peigí, specifically. We… have a suggestion.” He looks expectantly at Peigí, who offers you an encouraging smile as she nods in agreement.

“My sister, Rosie - she’s in the next county, big farm, spinster, plenty of space and could do with the help. You could stay there for a bit and then come home to your own place - until they change the garrison, surely, or that wastrel Searlas can be warned off…”

You bite your lip, mulling it over. 

“I mean, maybe he’s not going to come looking for me.”

Peigí and the priest exchange a concerned glance. The cleric clasps his hands together and looks at you sympathetically.

“The thing is… I have eyes and ears, as it were, in the barracks, and in the public house preferred by the garrison. I didn’t want to tell you, my dear, in case it frightened you - but he has been talking about you.” He purses his lips, almost afraid to tell you the truth. “He has openly talked about finding you, about… claiming you. And if he finds out you’ve been staying here, with a bachelor - think of your reputation, my child.”

You let out an involuntary sob, and Peigí places a comforting hand on your arm. “I think you need to be gone tomorrow, girleen. At the latest. I’m sorry, I know it’s awful quick, but…”

For the first time, Din speaks. His voice is low, controlled, serious. 

“But you - I mean, she must be kept safe.” He looks at you, dark eyes full of care and concern. “If you want to stay, I will keep you safe. I promise.”

There’s nothing more you want in the world than to throw your arms around him and let him protect you, just as you long to protect him from the sorrows of his past. But his description of the day he lost his parents echoes in your mind, as does the tension that crackled in the air the day the soldiers were at the forge. You cannot - will not - bring that down on him again, nor on Gró.

“Din, if I stay here I fear that none of us will be safe. Not you, not me, not Gró. I couldn’t take that risk, my d-” You catch yourself just in time. “I mean, my dear friend.”

Peigí’s wise, inquisitive eyes dart between you and Din, and she emits a low, intrigued hum.

Din exhales in frustration. “I said I would keep you safe, here. I mean it.”

Father Carthy places a paternal hand on Din’s shoulder, expression gentle but resigned. “She’s right, Din, and you know it. Apart from her own reputation - you don’t want a troop of redcoats landing on the doorstep, do you? Think of your home, your livelihood - your son.”

The blacksmith’s expression is defiant, but you can see the reality of the situation dawning on him as the light fades from his beautiful eyes. He nods, silent, a hand twisting at the soft, worn leather of his apron.

“Early as we can after dawn tomorrow, then?” Peigí squeezes your hand as she waits for your answer.

You cannot bring yourself to look at Din as you nod in agreement. 

It is still bright outside, just about, when Gró is settled for bed and the dinner things cleared and tidied away. You have packed up your saddlebags in silence, fighting the tears that threaten to fall at any moment.

Din’s broad hand reaches around your waist as he moves past you, pulling you close to him. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, kissing the delicate skin.

“Can we take a little walk, mo chuisle? Before night falls?”

You face him, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingers. “A little one. Don’t forget there’s a little boy asleep in the loft, we can’t go too far.”

He presses his lips to your fingertips before kissing you on the forehead. 

You walk hand in hand in the dusk, wandering through the field at the back of the forge towards the old oak tree that stands at the boundary of the property. Din is quiet - even quieter than usual, just casting occasional glances in your direction and squeezing your hand with a gentle smile.

In the shadow of the oak, he kisses you deeply, pressing your body against the tree as he holds your face in his big, strong hands. 

“I don’t want to go, Din.”

“I don’t want you to go, mo chuisle.” He kisses you again, chastely, and looks in your eyes. A question hovers on the tip of his tongue.

“Tell me, my darling.”

He holds your hands, grounding himself a little in your comforting touch. 

“I want you to take Gró to Peigí’s sister’s. Please.”

Even in the half-light, he can read the shock on your face.

“Oh, Din, I… I couldn’t. I couldn’t see the two of you parted, he’d be lost without you and you without him and-”

He shakes his head firmly. “I have to keep you safe - both of you. And if a gang of redcoats turned up and it was just me and him…”

He saw his father die. 

“He’s your son.” 

Din nods. “He is. And I can’t leave him alone again.”

He lost his entire family.

“He might not want to leave with me.”

“I’ve explained it to him. He knows it’s not forever, he understands the reasons why.” You catch a glimpse of his smile, a beacon of hope in the twilight. 

“Mo chuisle, you’re the closest thing he has to a mother in this world.”

You hold each other close through the night, afraid to sleep lest you miss a single second of this time together. 

Din tucks his face into the side of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply and softly kissing the exposed skin of your shoulders. You wind your fingers through his hair, trying to memorise the rhythm of his heartbeat and his breath.

"You should sleep, mo chuisle,” he whispers against your body. “Tomorrow will be a hard one.”

"Says you,” you whisper in return, enough to elicit a muffled chuckle from the blacksmith. 

He pulls away to look you in the eye, fingers mapping the shape of your features. Even in the low light, you can see how his beautiful eyes glisten: this strong and stoic man, fighting the tears that threaten to fall.

You take his hand and guide it down your body, pausing to hitch up your shift and open your legs. You inhale sharply as his fingers find your pussy, well-practiced now from nights and early mornings spent pleasuring you. 

With a shift of your hips you roll onto your back, bringing Din on top of you. You pause to take in the sight, suppressing the gnawing feeling that this might well be the last time. The glint in his dark eyes. The moonlight illuminating his features. The feeling of his strong, broad body above you, perfectly positioned between your thighs. 

“Make love to me, Din.” 

He does so slowly, carefully, anchoring himself with one hand on your hip and the other still caressing the side of your face. You kiss as he fucks you, your whines absorbed by his soft mouth. No man had ever made you come before Din, you muse, as your cunt pulses around him and you near the edge. No man had ever made you feel like this - not just physically, but emotionally, too. Sex was presented to you before your marriage as a duty, not a pleasure. With Din, though, lovemaking felt like the most beautiful, natural expression of the spiritual connection that existed between the two of you. 

You come almost simultaneously, Din groaning into your shoulder as he fills you with his seed, you biting your lip to stop yourself from crying out. Still inside you, he kisses you, over and over, your hands trailing through his wavy brown locks and fingers grazing against the rough, patchy stubble of his jaw. 

For a moment, you think he’s about to say something. But all he does is kiss you.

It’s still dark outside when you wake, but there’s a comforting glow inside the cottage. You sit up in bed, turning to see Din stoking a small fire in the hearth. He has lit the lamp on the mantle, its flickering yellow flame casting light and shadow through the glass. 

You dress quickly, shivering as your body adjusts to the colder air after the warmth of your shared bed, and cross the room to the little cupboard that holds the few pieces of crockery Din owns. By the time he has climbed the attic ladder to rouse the boy, you’ve set the table for a simple breakfast of bread, butter, and the last of the jam you’d brought with you. 

Gró’s fair hair peeks over his father’s broad shoulder as Din carries him down the ladder. The little boy is still half-asleep, eyes still closed and nestled into the blacksmith’s frame. Din carefully slides him into his usual seat at the table, ruffling his son’s hair as Gró rubs his eyes and yawns. 

“I think some bread and jam will help wake you up, hmmm?” You take a couple of slices of bread from the dish and place them on the boy’s little plate, before pushing the jar of jam in his direction. His dark eyes widen as he looks at you, astonished. This is a rare treat, indeed: usually it’s you or Din who spreads the sweet conserve on his bread, as Gró is liable to be heavy-handed. But this is not a day for rules or restrictions.

“You can have as much as you like, little one.” 

The tears threaten at the sight of Gró enthusiastically scraping the jam out of the earthenware pot, a huge smile on his face as he spoons it liberally onto the soda bread. He takes a huge bite and hums delightedly, before turning to you and beaming. The little boy already has blobs of jam on his cheeks and nose, and the sight makes you chuckle. 

Din returns to the main room carrying a small knapsack containing Gró’s things. He places it alongside your saddlebags before he joins the two of you at the table, giving your hand a squeeze that, you suspect, is intended to reassure him as much as it is you. He keeps a smile on his face, keeps his tone cheery and light, even as his eyes glisten with tears. 

You are saddling Réaltín in the dawn light when Peigí appears down the lane, wrapped in a rough brown cloak and riding her small grey mount. She dismounts swiftly and nods to you. 

“All set?”

“I think so. I left the two on their own for a little bit, just to… well, you know.” You swallow hard and look in the direction of the forge. “It’ll be hard for them.”

Peigí hums in agreement. “Aye, ’twill. But Din’s right. And hopefully that bollocks of a so-called husband will be out of the picture soon enough and you can come home. The prick.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the venom in her tone. “Hopefully. I’m awful grateful to you and your sister, Peigí. I mean, maybe we’re being overly cautious, but…”

She shakes her head, russet curls bouncing. “Not a bit of it. You can never tell with a fucker like that.” The cottage door opens, and Din appears, Gró securely held in his strong arms. 

“And there’s the best boy in all of Ireland!” Peigí races over, taking the knapsack and planting a kiss on Gró’s cheek. “We should probably get going, girleen.”

She tactfully retreats to the horses, giving you, Din, and Gró some space to say your goodbyes. You feel the blacksmith’s broad arm snake around your waist, uncaring as to whether Peigí saw the affectionate gesture - or, more likely, all too aware that she knew exactly what was going on. 

The little boy brings a hand up to touch his father’s handsome face, big eyes scanning Din’s features as if he’s committing them to memory. 

“Ná bíodh eagla ort, grá mo chroí.” [Don’t be afraid, love] The blacksmith smiles, but he’s fighting back the tears as he kisses his son’s golden hair. Instinctively, you rest your head on Din’s shoulder, trying to keep your own emotions in check. 

Gró’s dark eyes fill with tears and his father comforts him with cuddles. “You’ll have a lovely time on the farm, won’t you? And you’ll look after her while you’re on your visit.” He looks at you, and you nod, smiling at Gró.

“Of course he will. He’s a big, brave lad.” The little boy grins at the praise before flinging his arms around Din’s neck for a final tight hug.

“Be good, and take this.” Din reaches into his pocket to produce a small, silvery chain, evidently made by his own hands. A metal disc dangles from it, and you realise that Din has engraved it with his son’s name. He places it over the boy’s head, smiling at Gró as he picks up the pendant and coos at the shiny object.

“We should get going, lads.” Peigí’s voice carries in the still of the early morning, and Din passes his son to you. Gró nuzzles against you, still holding on to the little pendant that hangs from his neck. 

Din’s long fingers find your hand and press something into your palm. He leans in to kiss your cheek. His voice, warm but wavering with emotion, whispers in your ear. 

 “Is tú mo ghrá thú, mo chuisle.” [You are my love, my darling.]

You stifle the sob that’s rising in your chest. 

“I love you too, Din.”

Peigí’s sister Rosie shares her sister’s hardy, forthright personality and her tightly curled auburn hair, but not a lot else. Where Peigí is small, Rosie is tall; where Peigí is talkative and open, Rosie is quiet and reserved. Still, her welcome is genuine, her home comfortable, and you feel at ease from the moment you cross the threshold after a long day’s journey to some semblance of sanctuary.

You retire quickly once you’ve been fed and watered, Peigí sharing with Rosie while you and Gró make do with a settle bed. The little boy falls asleep almost immediately, and you gently kiss his soft cheek, willing him to know that it comes from his father, too.

With the household abed, you can finally look again at Din’s parting gift to you: a chain and pendant, similar to Gró’s. Where the little boy’s bears his name, however, yours carries a symbol, evidently engraved into the metal by the blacksmith himself. Three interconnected spirals - an ancient symbol, one that you recognise from a dolmen tomb that stands in a field not far from your birthplace, one that people in the locality have long speculated about.

Father Carthy would say it is a symbol of the Holy Trinity: three divine beings in one, a sign of early Christians in Ireland. But the storytellers in the townland say it’s far older than any church, its meaning lost to the mists of time.

You trace the three spirals with your fingertip in the darkness. Three as one. For you, that is meaning enough.

He was alone for a long time, Din reminds himself - alone before you, alone even before Gró. He can be alone again.

That said, though, there’s being alone and not knowing anything different, and being alone now. He still automatically goes to the foot of the attic ladder every morning, ready to wake his little boy. He hides the bowl and cup Gró usually uses, because the sight of them makes his heart ache. He throws himself into his work, distracting himself with glowing-hot metal.

And then there is your absence. He had never lived with a woman, not like this; never shared his bed night after night, never loved like this. For the first few days, he wakes with a start when he reaches for your warm, soft body and realises you’re not there. 

He tries not to think about the reality of the situation: the fact that, even if you were to return home tomorrow, you could never be together, at least not while Searlas lived. There are nights when, alone in his bed and desperate for the embrace of your arms, violence tempts Din. In his younger years, he might already have taken matters into his own hands. 

As the days and weeks tick by with no sign of your so-called husband, and no word from Father Carthy, the blacksmith reminds himself to be patient - and not to fall into complacency. He had never really lost that sense of looking over his shoulder: from childhood, from the rebellion, and now he felt glad of it. No one from the community mentions you to him, though he knows they must have heard by now that you had been hiding from Searlas at the forge. He does his repairs as usual, driving into the village with his pony and trap to return items and collect others, pulling his kerchief over his face as he makes his way through the main street lest he spy a troop of redcoats. 

One of the regular customers asks about Gró when he’s returning her extra-large soup pan, newly mended. Din hesitates, but keeps his expression steady.

“He’s spending time with some…cousins,” he explains. “On a farm. It’ll be good for him, he’ll learn from the experience.”

The woman doesn’t ask further, pays up, and retreats back into her little house as Din turns his horse and cart for home. As he gathers speed, he hears a voice calling his name. Father Carthy, clad in his long black cassock and wearing a broad-brimmed hat, is waving to him from the end of the laneway that leads to the chapel. 

“Could you spare me a few moments, Din? Follow me up to the parish house.”

The priest’s house is a decently-sized cottage, larger but not too dissimilar to the majority of the dwellings in the village. Father Carthy might be responsible for the majority of the believers in the community, but his is not the “established” church, the official church of the state and gentry, and as such his home is a far cry from the grand, double-fronted manse occupied by the vicar who tends to the local worthies. Even the location of the chapel, tucked off a narrow laneway behind the main street, is a testament to the lower status of this particular branch of religion.

Din enters, taking off his hat and kerchief, and follows the cleric’s gesture to take a seat near the hearth. Father Carthy does the same, pulling his chair closer to Din.

“I have news. I haven’t been able to find a way to dissuade Searlas from seeking her out, but a little bird tells me that they’re going to change the troops again in a week or so. The current crop has been…rowdy.” The priest purses his lips, mulling over the stories he has heard of public drunkenness, fighting, and even soldiers nonchalantly carousing with women in the pubs and on the street. He decides not to give Din too many of the gory details. 

“So they’re going to be sent elsewhere, split up. Clonmel, I heard, for some, and Castlebar for others. Maybe a few to Cork. There’s ructions, as you can imagine - a rare thing to break up a regiment - but…”

Din meets the priest’s meaningful gaze. “But…he would be gone.”

Father Carthy nods. “It’s not a solution, not forever, but it at least would let her come home to her own place again, and Gró home to you. You were right to send the boy with her, too - who knows what might have happened had he come knocking?”

Din closes his eyes and furrows his brow at the priest’s turn of phrase: “her own place”. It was a reminder of the truth, that you were not - and could not be - his.

Father Carthy gets to his feet, a signal to Din that it was time to go. “In the meantime, I’m going to look more closely into the canon law around annulment. I’m not hopeful, but maybe she might be able to build a case for it. He did abandon her, after all. Anyway -” he opens the door, and Din exits “- it would free her, at least, from the threat of him.”

The blacksmith thanks Father Carthy as he saddles up to head back to the forge, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. On the road home, Din smiles to himself as he thinks about seeing Gró again, holding his little boy in his arms, watching you give him an extra spoonful of jam at breakfast, tucking him in to sleep at night. He thinks about your eyes, your smile; the feeling and taste of your mouth; the scent of your skin. 

No matter what, he promises himself, no matter the rules or the law or whatever a piece of paper might say: he’ll kiss you again, hold you, take you to bed, and show you how much he missed you.

A couple of days later, as dusk settles, Din lights the lamp and finishes clearing away his lone dinner bowl and mug. Anticipation courses through him as he thinks about seeing two - no, three - places set for the evening meal again. Soon. Soon, they’ll be home.

He yawns and stretches, a hand reaching up to scratch his wavy, dark locks. It had been a hard day in the forge: a run of horses that needed to be shod, urgent repairs, and the difficulty of managing the work itself as well as the bellows and the fire, all by himself. An early night, he decides, might be in order.

He’s in his shirt and breeches when he hears the sound. A horse, its footfall cautious and uncertain, as though it had not been down the laneway before. A rider, barking commands and swearing at the animal. Din pulls his kerchief from his pocket and fastens it around his face before climbing swiftly up the attic ladder. His hand reaches into the thatch, on the other side of the house from Gró’s little bed, and retrieves a pike, smaller in design than the ones he’d hammered by the dozen in 1798 but no less lethal in the right hands. He grips the pike in his right hand, hidden from view while he opens the door with his left.

The rider struggles off his horse, evidently drunk. His scarlet tunic is unmistakable. The light from the cottage illuminates his features: pale, washed-out complexion; unhappy mouth set in a miserable line; hard blue eyes that offered nothing but coldness. 

“Where the fuck is she, then, the stupid fucking bitch?”

Din’s fist tightens around the pike, but he holds his ground, still peering around the door. “Who is it? Who are you?”

Searlas swaggers drunkenly towards the house. “I know you’re a tinker, but you don’t have to play thick with me. You know who I am.” He beats his chest, peacocking as he nears Din’s threshold. “I’m a soldier of the fucking crown, so I am. And I’m here for what’s mine.”

He pokes Din’s broad chest, seeming a little startled at how solid the blacksmith actually is. Searlas’s watery eyes meet Din’s stern gaze. 

“So… where the fuck is she?”

“Whoever you’re after,” Din says, maintaining the same tone he’s used throughout the encounter so far, “they’re not here. I live alone.”

Searlas pushes Din in frustration, and Din recoils a little at the stench of cheap poitín from the other, smaller man. “I know she’s fucking here. The whole fucking place knows.” He steps back and starts to roar upwards, as if addressing you in an attic hiding place. 

“Did you not think I’d find you? You’re that fucking stupid, you would think that. I’m here now, time to go home. You’re mine, remember?” He shakes his fist, swaying a little.

“She’s not here. And even if she was, why do you care so much now? You left her on her own for years, apart from all the other things you did to her.”

Searlas stares at Din, a look of disgust on his face. “So you do know her? She’s full of shit, so she is. Full of lies. Not to be trusted.”

He wheels around again, almost losing his balance completely this time. “You were seen, you lying cunt!”

Din’s fingers clench and release over and over around the pike. He swallows the urge to run this miserable fucker through.

The soldier looks at him through glassy, drunken eyes. “She’s mine, see. And I think I want to take what’s mine. Time she was taught a lesson.” He roars the last word, as if hoping you’ll hear him and emerge.

The blacksmith edges out slightly and stands firmer, broader, in his front door. Searlas stares at him accusingly. 

“D’you fuck her?”

Din holds his body and face completely still, focusing on the grip of the pike and his breathing.

“I said, did you fuck her? Did you fuck my wife?”

Din takes a deep breath. “Do you have the right to call her your wife, after what you did?”

Searlas’s jaw drops in astonishment. Din knew that he was just a bog-standard Irish Catholic soldier signed up for cannon fodder like all the others, but it was clear that the other man believed his uniform made him one of the “betters”, no matter what.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said, do you have the right to call her your wife?”

Searlas almost growls with drunken fury. “I have the right to call her whatever I fucking like.” Din notices his fist tightening by his side and steels himself as the other man approaches, menacingly. 

“I’ll call her what I fucking like,” Searlas repeats, “including calling her what she is. A slut. A liar. A frigid, barren, useless excuse for a woman. And now? She’s filthy, tinker’s whore. That’s all she is. A stupid, ugly, disgusting tinker’s whore.”

The speed with which Din moves takes the soldier by surprise, as does the bright flash of the pike’s blade as it reflects the moonlight. The blacksmith uses the long handle first, roaring as he beats Searlas away with some well-placed blows. He moves with agility and confidence as the soldier fumbles in his sleeves for a weapon, and produces a narrow switchblade dagger.

“I’ll fucking show you, tinker,” he roars, the poitín giving him an exaggerated confidence. “I’ll skin you alive, fucking another man’s wife.”

He lunges at Din, but a swift, measured flick of the pike’s bladed end knocks the dagger to the ground and tears a hole in the scarlet tunic. Now Din presses his advantage, driving Searlas back to his horse.

“Get out of here and leave her alone. Forever. Don’t you ever come near her again.”

A more sober man would have cut and run, and would do so wisely. But Searlas’s selfishness combined with his drunkenness made for a terrible cocktail of aggression and abuse.

“And what will you do, tinker? They should have hanged every last one of you rebel scum in ‘98. Pity that scalp wasn’t ripped from your skull with a pitchcap.” He pats his thighs, as if seeking another blade. “You couldn’t defend yourselves then, why do you think you could stand up to the king’s army now?” He cocks his head and looks at Din, eyes menacing. 

“Or are you just that desperate to defend a thick, useless slut like my wife?”

The grunting, the roars, and the sickening sound of a strong, sturdy fist meeting flesh and bone resonate in the stillness of the twilight. And then another sound, louder still: the unmistakable thud of a man’s body hitting the cold ground. 

[that-squishy-robot]

Neither Din or Luke are reasonable people. They are both ride or die for each other and reckless. So if something bad happens it just:

(Breaking out of an Imperial Prison.)

Din: We should burn it down.

Luke: You always know what to say to make me feel better.

[ashmouthbooks]

Læg nu smukt din hånd i min by katekane

A6 quarto hardback with homemade bookcloth - first time making it myself! and the title stamped on the front cover with fabric paint. I have never watched a single Far til fire film (not even the modern remakes) but when I stumbled across this on ao3 I couldn’t pass it by. this fic touches on Danish queer history with such heart and warmth and wonderful characters (I should probably watch the films) that it became an instant favourite.

for ikke at tale om at når man har tilbragt tyve plus år i fandom på engelsk og med engelske canons så er det at læse fic på dansk, der har udgangspunkt i dansk kultur og historie, som regn for sjælens ødemarker.

craft talk under the cut.

this is my first time making bookcloth so I want about it the cheapest possible way - fabric square from Søstrene Grene’s craft section backed with tissue paper which was a) the only paper I had that was big enough for the fabric square and b) salvaged from a past gifty delivery. it went ok but after drying some of the tissue separated from the fabric. hashtag yolo etc. I decided to use it anyway, and I think the moisture in the PVA was just enough to reactivate the paste on the paper backing, because the finished case came out beautifully smooth - and soft. I opted not to infill the cloth so it’s open weave cotton and feels as soft as a pillow to the touch.

the endpapers are also from Søstrene Grene, decorative paper 120gsm. The textblock is printed on 90gsm Munken Lynx Smooth Natural White, I wanted a whiter paper than usual as the chapter end notes have colour photos that I wanted to preserve. headbands are sewn on, the core is leather cord and the thread is embroidery thread.

the title is stamped on using rubber stamps from, you guessed it - Søstrene Grene. (they actually have letter stamps with the Scandinavian alphabet characters but the London store only has that particular set in all caps and the lower case set only had the English alphabet. luckily an æ is easily improvised and I have both a steady hand and a fine tip paintbrush for the circle over the å.) the paint is shimmery metallic fabric paint from Lumiere.

[shirozora-draws]

The idea of selling prints was a bust for a number of reasons, the main one being the lack of time and energy. I still want to try my hand at doing some merch stuff so I've started looking at stickers and acrylic charms/keychains (mostly because I now need to seriously think about supplementing my income in some way and this would use one of my biggest strengths while being less anxiety-inducing than doing commissions).

I'd love to do a mix of both general Star Wars stuff and the more specific DinLuke stuff, and I'd also love to offer a few things for my homies in the other fandoms I've been in (looking at you, my Tron peeps). Feel free to throw suggestions in my face!

[theblindarcher]

Accept our quest, hero...

GBA Fire Emblem inspired portraits of Din and Nayru from The Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Seasons & Oracle of Ages. With the NSO ports of the Oracles games, it feels like a good time to repost these.

[tres-pistolas]

the rescue

[northgazaupdates]

24 March 2024

Nurse Ezz El-Din Lulu reports horrifying conditions for patients at besieged Al-Shifa Hospital. The occupation refuses to allow staff to treat the sick and wounded, and patients are dying as a result. Staff are not allowed to move the bodies, affronting the dignity of the deceased and exposing the living to more disease. For those who survive, their wounds are becoming infested. He says,

The situation in Al Shifa is HORRIFYING.

The patients are dying from lack of food and worms are starting to crawl out of their wounds!

MAGGOTS FROM THEIR WOUNDS!

And patients who die stay in their place, What is this?

What did we do to the world to deserve so much suffering, so much humiliation?

[apple8ees]

the whimsical idealists got me.