#the Garrison just gives him a degree

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Princess

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting will be blocked.

Length: 8.5K

Notes: Well we all knew I'd wind up here, didn't we.

No beta, we die like Billy Kimber

Warnings: Enemies to lovers; Reader is physically assaulted (it's described, but not shown as its own scene); canon-typical violence; one POV change, but it's very clear (imo); explicit sexual content—public sex, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough sex

Summary: You can’t get the image of Tommy out of your head, of his pale, bare skin, the sunlike rays of his tattoo on his chest. You can feel the judging glances of the men around you, hear the whispers from John, and Arthur’s knowing call of, “Oy oy,” As Tommy comes in for the day not an hour later. He brushes past you as though you're not there, and you carry on with your work as if the temperature in the room hasn’t seemed to drop ten degrees.

“I never pegged you for the type.” 

Polly’s expression is nearly flat, save for a knowing, raised brow. You don’t need to ask her what she means. You don’t need to clock the glance that she throws between you and her nephew’s retreating back. You just shift in your seat a little, hands lowering to your typewriter and eyeing the stack of work waiting for you. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” You offer before you begin hammering away at the keys. Polly just gives a soft, sharp hum. You expect the click of her heels to shift and fade, but she leans down, resting a hand on the desk beside you. 

“He’s going to hurt you if you’re not careful,” She warns. 

“He’s certainly welcome to try.” 

“How many times has this happened?” 

“I’m not exactly sure what concern that is of yours.” 

“Will it happen again?”

“I’m not sure that’s your concern, either.” 

Polly pushes out a condescending laugh, the sound washing over you with the scents of tea and cigarette smoke.

“You’re playing with fire, child.” 

Her hand drops out of view as she finally straightens and draws away. Your hands work mechanically, honing in on your work. You don’t let your mind stray to the slight prickle of sweat on the back of your neck, the lingering feeling of Tommy’s fingertips yanking and grasping and pulling at your clothes, the throbbing, slick ache between your thighs. 

It’s a one-time thing, you’re certain of it. It had been the wrong place, at the wrong time. High heat, hot anger, the sticky-topped table of the pub that you’d gone to for lunch. 

“You ought to be at the Garrison.” 

It was the most he’d announced himself as he’d plopped himself down across from you without being invited. He’d taken a sip of your pint, lit up a cigarette, and waited for your explanation—which you didn’t owe him. You’d told him as much. 

The conversation had taken a fast and sharp turn from there. It wasn’t long before Tommy ordered that the pub was emptied, before he was shoving your skirt up and pushing your underthings down with a force that had left a noticeable run in your best pair of stockings. 

You draw in a deep breath, shaking your head to rid yourself of the memory, the rumbling roll of his voice in your head. You push back the phantom sensations of spilled beer and scattered dishware beneath your back, of Tommy’s breath panting hot against your cheek. 

The pub had been fairly full before Tommy had told them all to get out. Its walls and windows were thick enough to mask the slapping of your skin, but you hadn’t been able to silence your whines, or yelps, or moans. When you’d left slightly disheveled, you were certain that the other patrons would’ve had little doubt of what you’d been doing. 

It’s no wonder it’s gotten back to Polly so quickly. 

Still, it happened. It’s over, and it’s never going to happen again. You can move on. 

–

“Look at me, princess. Show me those pretty eyes.” 

You force yourself to relax your face just enough to peer up at Tommy. He tuts softly, smoothing his hand along your jaw, eyeing where your lips are wrapped around his cock, and the way tears from your rough gagging and coughing cling to your lashes. Tommy’s lips curl into a cruel little smile as he gives your cheek a pat, tracing the outline of his cockhead with his finger before he rests his hand on the back of your neck, shoving you down. You can’t help but gag, spit slipping from the sides of your mouth as your fingers tighten on the fabric of his pants. He leans back against his pillows, thighs splaying as he sweeps his gaze over your face. You lift your chin, swiping your tongue along the underside of his cock. 

He hisses softly before he urges, “Up, get up.”

You lean back, hand still working over his spit-slick shaft. He reaches down, curling his fingers around your jaw before sweeping his tongue across your lips. Your groan is knocked loose as Tommy springs forward, shoving you back onto the bed before grasping your hip and rolling you onto your hands and knees.

It’ll be better, you’re certain—faster. You have as little time now as you did before, and it’s no wonder. You’d been on your way to work when you’d gotten…Sidetracked. 

Tommy’s arm hooks around your shoulders as he pushes your underwear aside. You get no other warning before Tommy presses into you. You whimper, fingers curling in the sheets and letting your head hang heavy as your eyes slip shut. Tommy’s hips shove tightly to yours, holding still for just a moment, one long, harrowing moment. You’re just on the second from complaining when Tommy draws his cock out, then gives his hips a harsh snap. You bite your lip, trying to quiet your whines and moans. Tommy doesn’t tease or belabor it. Hell, he helps you quiet yourself as he rests his palm on the back of your head, shoving your face into the mattress.

You can’t help your smile, even as some part of you wants to roll onto your back give his face a shove in turn. Tommy pushes his face into your neck, sucking a light kiss there—enough to feel, but not nearly enough to mark. He smooths his fingers between your thighs, teasing at where his cock stretches you wide as his palm brushes against your clit. You reach back, grasping at his hip and urging him on. Your body quivers as he rolls his wrist with every thrust. It’s just enough to tip you over, to make your cunt tighten up around him. He’s not far behind, pressing his groan into your skin as his hips stutter and slam. 

He sags over you, resting his head between your shoulder blades. 

“Alright,” You tip your head up from the sheets, swiping your tongue against your dry lips, “Get off of me.” 

He huffs a laugh, sliding out and off of you and giving your hip a whack. You roll onto your back for a moment, peering up at the ceiling. You’re not going to stick around, you just need a moment. You hear the slide of Tommy’s match against its book before you smell cigarette smoke. You draw in a deep breath, shaking your head when he holds out his cigarette case. You push yourself up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and scooching to the edge. 

“Where are you going?”

“That’s a pretty stupid question, don’t you think?” You stand, straightening your underthings and reaching for your skirt where it was thrown. 

“Pay you double for the day if you stay here.” 

“Fuck you.”

“Was that a yes or a no?” 

You roll your eyes, tucking your shirt into your skirt and straightening it. Your bag is in the sitting room, your jacket is around…Somewhere. 

“Lie back down,” He urges. 

“I’ve got somewhere to be.” 

“Where you’re going, I’m in charge.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” You ask, turning to look at him. It’s a mistake. Laid bare, a sheet thrown over his lap, cigarette in hand, with his luminous eyes fixed on you, Tommy looks like some fallen angel from an old painting. You want him again already. It's a dangerous realization, one that makes your stomach curdle.

“I’m more afraid of Polly,” You add, plucking your jacket off of the floor and dusting it off. “She’ll have my head if I’m late.” 

“What are you doing after work?” 

“Something else.” 

“Than what?”

You button your jacket, turning away from him and heading for his front room. 

“Than whatever you were about to suggest.” 

--

Polly’s disappointment is as heavy as it was that first time. She’s already lingering by your desk when you arrive, and she watches you with those pursed lips, that arched brow. You just clear your throat and shrug your jacket off before settling in. 

“Well?” She asks. 

“I’m on time, Polly.” 

“Considering when you left your flat, you should’ve been here nearly half an hour ago.” 

You curl your nails into your palms as you turn your stunned indignation up at her.

“You’re having me watched now?” 

“We keep an eye on all of our employees. There have been a lot more incidents lately, people going after the Peaky Blinders,” She reminds you.

“I’m not in the family.” 

“You work for us and people know that. You have information. It puts a target on your back.” 

“Maybe you ought to just chain me to the radiator here between my shifts, then, keep me out of trouble.” 

“You’d bay at the moon and piss off the neighbors. Besides,” She straightens, “Thomas likes a moving target.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, shaking your head and refusing to watch her go. Polly can be a hell of a know-it-all, but as much as you hate to admit it, she’s right about this, at least. You can’t get the image of Tommy out of your head, of his pale, bare skin, the sunlike rays of his tattoo on his chest. You can feel the judging glances of the men around you, hear the whispers from John, and Arthur’s knowing call of, “Oy oy,” As Tommy comes in for the day not an hour later. He brushes past you as though you're not there, and you carry on with your work as if the temperature in the room hasn’t seemed to drop ten degrees. 

--  

“You said you wanted to talk about something.” Tommy mumbles it against your shoulder as his hand sweeps across your belly. You draw in a deep breath, eyelids heavy with fatigue as you cuddle back into his chest. It's the closest you've gotten to this being normal, though Tommy had still taken a harsher line with you than other lovers had. He'd practically had you against the door, and had only moved the two of you to the bed when your knees had buckled.

You hadn't gone there with the intention of this happening twice in one day, truly you hadn't. It had sort of just...Happened.

“Hmm?”  

“You said,” Tommy lifts his chin, “When you turned up at my door,” He presses a kiss to your jaw, “That you had something you needed to discuss.” 

“I did, didn’t I.” 

“You see? I do listen when you speak, princess.” 

You smile a little. 

“Not well enough.” 

“Now why do you say that?” 

“If you were a better listener, I would’ve been able to state my purpose and then be on my way.” 

“‘M listening now.” 

“Doesn’t feel like it.” You glance down, sliding your finger over the back of Tommy’s hand. “...You know Polly’s having me followed?” 

“It's not just you, and it's not just Polly. It’s a precaution.” 

“It’s unnecessary.” 

“What do you want?”

You roll onto your back, looking up at him. “I want you to call off the dogs. I’m not a target. I’m not a threat. I don’t know anything, I wouldn’t be helpful to anyone that’s after you.” 

“They don’t know that.” 

“They’d be idiots to think I could be helpful.” 

“They are idiots. That’s why they’re our enemies. If they were smart, they’d join up.” 

“Join up?” Your brows raise. “It’s not the army, Tommy.” 

“No,” He shakes his head. “It’s the Peaky Blinders.” He raises his hand, sweeping his fingers across your forehead as he seems to consider what you've said. “I’ll talk to them about backing off the patrols.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Was that all?” 

“...Yes.” 

Tommy dips his head, lips brushing across yours. 

“Are you rushing out again?” He murmurs. 

“Yes.” 

“Go on then.” Tommy slips his tongue between your lips before you can move or speak. You raise a hand cupping his cheek and sighing softly. 

“I am,” You swear as the kiss breaks, as Tommy’s lips slip down to trail the line of your neck. 

“Mm,” Tommy hums, smoothing his handover your belly to swipe at your plump, slick cunt. “You know where the door is, princess.” 

-- 

You start to notice it more and more. You’re not sure if it’s because they’re more overt, or Polly’s warning has made you more conscious of it, but you start to note the usual suspects around your flat. It’s always the same one or two eyeing you as you leave your front door, drawing out their pocket watches and checking the time. Sometimes they send a boy running, surely reporting to Polly what time you’ve left. Other times, they climb into a car, or into a cart and are drawn away without offering you a ride (which, in your opinion, is fairly poor form). But after a few days, you can tell that Tommy's spoken to them, because they cease to appear.

The problem is, it’s not just men that you know from the Peaky Blinders that you see around. There are some that you see ducking away and glancing back warily, men in dark coats with a patch that you can’t quite make out on their arms. 

You see the same men around the offices, too, but you figure that the Peaky Blinders are already aware. They must know—they have eyes and ears all over the city. If there was something to be done about whoever those men are, they’d surely have done it by now. 

Still, you consider mentioning it to one of them. 

Arthur would just make fun of you, and John would probably make a pass, offer to guard the other side of your bed. You could tell Polly, but you don’t want an I told you so, or a lecture. You could tell Ada, but she may wave your concerns off, remind you that this is plenty normal. Tommy...Well, Tommy would surely take your worry as a chance to set the patrol back on again. So you choose to keep your mouth shut.

How could you know it would prove to be such a costly mistake?

--  

You know that you look a sight.

Any mirth or amusement that Tommy had at the fact you were on his doorstep again, any slick words about your not being able to keep away long, appear to die on his tongue. He reaches out, gripping you by the muddied sleeve and tugging you inside, pausing only to lock the door before towing you into the sitting room, and into better light. You shy away from his gaze, certain that your cheek is swelling, that your cut hand is dripping blood on his floor. Beneath your blouse, you know that there are bruises blooming, and you can’t imagine his face when he finally sees those. 

Maybe he won’t see them. Maybe he’ll order you home, send a doctor—

“I tried Pol’s first,” You admit, your wavering, raw voice cracking open the tense silence, “But she wasn’t home. And then the Garrison, but there were so many p-people there.” You wince as your breath catches in your throat, and close your eyes as tears prickle at them.

“Did you go into the Garrison?”

“No. No one saw me…Look, Tommy, I’m sorry I came here, but—”

“Who did this.” 

“—I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Princess.”

You open your eyes just a touch and can’t help but flinch when you see him raising his hands. He stills for just a moment before he lifts them to rest of the way, gently cupping your face by the jaw, avoiding the scrapes and swollen skin. 

“Look at me.” 

You do so grudgingly, afraid that you’ll see pity twisting his handsome features, but you find his gaze heavy on yours. 

“We’re going to get you cleaned up,” His eyes search yours, “And you’re going to tell me who the fuck laid a hand on you, so that I can scalp that sorry piece of shit and make them wish that they’d never been born.”

-- 

He does briefly still when he sees the bruises on your thighs, side, and stomach, but he doesn’t let it slow him for long. Maybe he’s used to such a sight on his brothers and soldiers; maybe he’s aware of the wariness with which you watch him. He presses a cool wet cloth to your cheek to help with the swelling, cleans the scrapes and cuts. He takes the longest with your hand, but that’s on you, a little. You can’t help your muscle twitching, or the sharp breath of pain that you draw in as he presses your fingers flat over the basin. 

“This is going to hurt,” He warns, a bottle of clear booze hovering over your hand. He doesn’t pour until you nod him on, and once he does, he gently shushes and soothes your pained whimpers, even as you try to squirm away from the near-blinding throbbing. The cut is long, but not deep enough that you’ll need stitches. 

As he tends to you, he has you tell him what happened, waiting patiently as you hesitate and stumble over your explanation:

“I was just walking home my usual way. There were these men, three of them.” You swallow thickly. “They wouldn’t stop yelling at me, and then they started following me.”

“Did you mouth off to them?”

“No. I was alone, I didn’t want to…” You shake your head. “Thought I could ignore them and they'd leave me alone. A lot of good it did me. They kept up until they had me on the ground, and I pretended to be unconscious.” 

“What happened to your hand?” 

“The blade was coming at my face. I panicked.” 

“You grabbed it?” 

“I couldn’t do anything else.” 

Tommy hums, nods, asks: “Did you get a good look at them?”

You shake your head, gaze lowering. “I’ve seen them around before, but I’m not sure I could pick them out again unless I was up close…But when I was trying to shove them off, I got this.” You raise your good hand, your non-dominant hand, and hold up a scrap of fabric. The fabric is dark red in the low light, with a sewn on patch—a St. George patch. Tommy takes it from your hand, eyeing it before he murmurs, “Good girl.” He sets it aside then, urging you to lift your hand from the basin and carefully wrapping it with gauze. 

“You’ll stay here tonight,” He orders. You just nod. You don’t have it in you to argue, and you know you’ll feel safer at Tommy’s, anyway.

You don’t gripe as you’re taken to the bed and given one of his henleys to sleep in. You don’t even complain about getting into bed alone. You just let the terror drain from your body as you drop off. 

-- 

“God, the state of her,” Polly tuts, eyeing the girls’ swollen cheek, her gauze-wrapped hand. Tommy says nothing, just waits in the doorway and watches Polly walk deeper inside to get a better look. He draws in a deep drag of his cigarette, his cheeks sinking with it. 

“She’ll be alright,” He insists, chest tight with smoke and sentiment. “I want you here when she wakes up.” 

“Where will you be?” 

“I have to make inquiries.” He fishes into his pocket, drawing out the fabric that she’d passed him as he was fixing her up. “She managed to get this off of one of ‘em.” 

Polly frowns, reaching out and taking hold of it. “I’ve seen this before.” 

“Nearby?” 

“There were a few around before the patrols started. And Esme's seen a few lingering around the Garrison. As soon as they get a whiff of John or Arthur, they clear off." 

Tommy sighs, the smoke pushing through his nose as he shakes his head. 

“I should never have let her talk me into changing around her patrol,” He mutters.

“You did what.” Polly’s tone goes sharp. Tommy’s glance drifts back to the bed. 

“She asked,” He nods to the bed. “Didn't like being kept so close an eye on. I told Scud and Johnny Dogs to ease up.” 

He doesn’t flinch when Polly raises her hands, shoving his shoulders harshly as she hisses, “You could’ve gotten her killed.” 

Tommy looks to the floor, his jaw tensing as he absently taps the ash from his cigarette. 

“It won’t happen again.” 

“The next time it does, she’ll be dead—” 

“It won’t. Happen. Again,” He insists, meeting Polly’s eye. She narrows her eyes slightly before turning back to the bed. 

“Go on, then,” She insists, waving him off. “Handle the bastards. Send the rats scurrying back to whatever hole they crawled out of.” 

“You’ll call if you need anything.” 

“We’ll be fine. Something tells me I won’t have to deal with much of her lip today.” 

Tommy gives a small nod, allowing himself just one more look at her before he leaves. 

-- 

You’re in and out of consciousness all day. When you’re awake, you’re riddled with pain, until Polly presses the rounded lip of a bottle to your mouth and urges you to drink. Whatever it is tastes bitter, and makes your head spin. 

“There you are,” She murmurs, “Take a deep breath, close your eyes…Count back from a hundred….” 

When you wake again—when you resurface into consciousness, and it holds—the sky is dark. Your head swims, and you wince as you use your weaker arm to push yourself to sit up. You’ve never really gotten the chance to look at Tommy’s room before. It’s fairly barebones, but not unwelcoming. A few books, a bottle of whisky and a glass, a clean ashtray. You wince a little as your cheek throbs, and you raise your hand curiously, skimming your fingers over the swollen skin. It doesn’t feel hot, like it did yesterday. You jolt a bit as you hear the door open, and you and Tommy go still at the sight of one another. He snaps into action before you do, raising his hand to draw his cigarette out from between his lips. 

“Are you hungry?” He asks. You’re certain you should be, but you shake your head. 

“No.” 

“Thirsty?” 

“...A little.” 

“Water?” 

“Whiskey.” 

His brows raise, but he doesn’t ask as he walks over to his bedside table. 

“Still hurts, then,” He surmises as he pours two finger’s worth. 

“Yes.” 

“Your side?” 

“A little.” 

“Cheek?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hand?” 

“...Yes.” 

“Head?” 

“...Not as much hurt, but…”

“Fog.” 

“Yes.” 

"Mm." Tommy lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, holding the glass out to you as he says, “That’s from what Polly gave you.” 

“What was it?” 

“Pento-barbital from Compton’s Chemists. Drink up.” 

You take it, drawing in a sip. 

“...What time is it?” You ask. 

“A little after midnight.” 

“Where’ve you been?” 

“Getting answers.” 

“About what?” 

Tommy tips his head toward you a touch in mocking disbelief, and you don’t need him to say a thing more. You just nod a little. 

“That scrap of cloth you gave me," He says, "The red fabric with the patch.” 

“Mhm?” 

“Belongs to the Booth boys.” 

“Out of Camden?” 

“Mhm.” 

Your brow furrows. “What are they doing up here?” 

“Trying to kick up a fight.” 

“So what happens now?” 

“We give them what they asked for.” 

Your stomach lurches, threatening to unseat your sip. You shake your head, looking down into your glass. 

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t what.” 

“Don’t start anything.” 

“They started it, not us.”

“I’m not worth going to war over, Tommy.” 

“...Look at me, princess.” 

When he lifts his hand this time, you don’t jump. He tucks two curled fingers beneath your chin, tipping your head up to look at him. 

“I will burn a path from here to where those bastards lay in Camden town if it means you’ll be safe. Do you hear me?” He leans back as it sinks into you, cutting through the muddle and fog in your head. 

You nod a little, lowering your gaze to his hand as he rests it on your thigh. You raise your own uninjured one, gently tracing the back of it. What the hell have those hands gotten up to today that you don’t know about, that you haven’t seen? Did he fire a gun? Did he pay off a cop? Punch someone? Strangle a man? And for what? You? 

“We’re upping your patrol,” Tommy warns, “And I won’t take any argument about it.”

“Alright.” 

Tommy turns his hand over in yours, fingers sweeping gently over the soft of your wrist as you take another sip of your drink. You offer it to Tommy once you have, and he drains it before holding it up. 

“Another one?” 

“No,” You shake your head. Tommy grunts, making to stand, but stills when you tighten your grip on his hand. “Stay until I fall asleep?” 

You expect him to laugh at you, but he draws his cigarette from between his lips and stubs it out. He holds the covers up, waiting for you to shuffle down and into a more comfortable position before he climbs into bed beside you, carefully curling an arm around your middle. You peer up at the ceiling in quiet, watching the shadows that the dying fire casts. 

“How’s the pain?”

“...It’s been worse.” 

“You want more of Polly’s medicine?” Tommy asks after a moment. 

“No.” “You’re certain?” 

“Mhm.” 

You don’t want the muddle, even if it means the pain swells and cuts through the fog. You just want the memory of Tommy’s arm, and his steady heart and breathing, and his promise to burn the men that hurt you.

– 

You get nods from Arthur and John the day you return to work. You offer them in turn on your way to your desk. You go still when you get there, brow furrowing as you spot nothing but papers. You shrug your coat off and throw it over your seat before you stride over Polly. 

“Welcome back.”

“Where’s my typewriter?”

“Arguing already. I suppose that bed rest did you some good.”

“Polly.” 

“Your hand is still healing. You’ll work sorting slips and counting for the next few days. Come Friday we’ll see how well you can type.” 

You sigh softly, before you nod, muttering, “Alright.”

“How does your hand feel, anyway?”

“Sore. Itchy.”

“Itchy is good. Means the skin’s healing.” She holds her hand out, and you raise yours, watching as she unwraps the gauze. She tips your hand to and fro, eyeing the stretching, raised scab. “Looks better than the last time I saw it.”

“It would almost have to.”

“Not necessarily,” She gives a small shake of her head. “You’re lucky the blade wasn’t rusty.” 

You give a grudging nod of concession as Polly rewraps the bandage neatly. 

“Why didn’t you come to me when this happened?” She asks. “I was closer than Thomas.”

“I did. You weren’t home.” 

Polly considers, lips twisting as though she’s just sucked a lemon. 

“I must’ve been running an errand.”

“I don’t need an explanation, Polly,” You insist. “You’re not my keeper, and I’m not family. I wouldn’t have expected you to drop everything.” 

She nods, gaze flitting to someone over your shoulder before she nods you away. 

“Get to your sorting,” She orders. “We don’t pay you to stand around.” 

—

That thick envelope that you receive during the following week makes you feel like they have started paying you to stand around. It’s more than you should’ve been given, at any rate. You bite the inside of your cheek, an inordinate amount of irritation welling up as you stride toward Tommy’s office.

It's been almost pleasant between the two of you these last few days, with Tommy dropping in to see how you're healing up. He hasn't touched you, wary of your still-healing body, but the bruises have faded and the cuts are nearly gone. You haven't said a word of complaint about spotting Scud and Johnny Dogs on the other side of the street when you leave your flat, or when you're making your way home.

It's a shame, you think. It's a shame Tommy's chosen to act like an ass when you've been getting on so well. You don’t knock, you just shove open his door, step in, and slam it shut again before holding up the envelope. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” 

He hardly glances up from his racing papers as you snap at him. He takes his damn time answering, too, turning the page before simply offering: 

“Payday.”

“It’s too much.”

“I don’t hear that often.”

“You paid me in full.”

“Per our contract. Don’t like it, you can take it up with the courts.”

“Thomas.” You round the desk, shoving his paper aside. “Fucking look at me.” 

His icy gaze flickers toward you boredly, a lagging pillar of ash bobbing at the end of the cigarette perched between his lips. He pointedly smooths the wrinkles that you made in his paper. You hold the envelope up again.

“I wasn’t here enough for this. I missed an entire day off and I couldn’t type again until last Friday.” 

“You sorted slips. We pay you for that.” 

“And the rest?”

“Injury leave.”

“There’s no such fucking thing.”

“Sure there is.” He plucks his cigarette from between his lips, tapping the ash into a dish on his desk. “Anything else?” 

“Yeah.” You yank the envelope open, drawing out half of the bills and slamming them onto his desk. “I’m not fucking taking it.” You whirl away with the intention of storming out, but you hear the scrape of his chair and see the slam of his hand against the wood of the door before you can open it. The others in the office hardly glance up, though you do see Polly’s head tip a touch back toward you before she goes back to her work. 

“...Step back from the door,” Tommy orders lowly. You grudgingly let go of the handle, allowing Tommy to steer you away from it and into the chair across from his desk. He steps around to the front of the desk, his arms tucked across his chest as he stares down at you. 

“You were paid fairly,” He insists, “For the work that you’ve done in the last week and a half. You turned up every day, you sorted slips, you counted out cash and helped with the books.” 

“I’ve slowed down the correspondence.”

“Not by much. In fact, we’ve still been moving at such a clip that I’ve considered firing you.” 

Your face falls with irritation, even as Tommy’s brows raise teasingly.

“Thomas.” 

He waves you off, unfolding his arms and reaching down to the stack of bills on the desk. 

“You did your job, and I’m paying you for it. Alright?” 

You hesitate before you nod a touch, taking the proffered cash. 

“Don’t make a habit of it,” You warn as you tuck it away again. 

“Understood.” 

You stand, only making it a few steps away before Tommy’s fingers close around your wrist to still you.

“Will you be home tonight?” He asks.  

“Yes.” 

“Not heading to the Garrison for a pint on payday?”

“I still have whiskey.”

“Good. Save me some.” He reaches into his pocket, drawing out the keys to his motorcar. “Tell John to drive you home. Storm’s coming in, I don’t want you walking in the rain.”

“I don’t mind it.”

“I do. Take the keys.” When you don’t reach for them, Tommy makes a pointed sigh, stepping around you to open the door. He whistles loudly before barking, “John!” 

You wince, muttering, “Christ.” 

John arrived a few moments later, chirps, “Yeah, Tommy.”

“Drive her home.” Tommy tosses the keys to John before he gives your wrist a squeeze and nudges you toward John. “Go on. And mind the puddles, or you’ll be the one giving the car a wipe-down. Come right back when you’re done. Family meeting.” 

“C’mon,” John nods you over his shoulder, urging you out. You sigh softly, tucking your earnings into your bag and shifting it onto your shoulder. You follow John grumpily, refusing to turn and meet Tommy’s eye as you go. 

—- 

You almost don’t let him in when he knocks later. When you do, you just open the door and turn away without a word of greeting. Tommy shuts the door behind himself, tucking his cigarette between his lips so that he can comfortably shrug off his coat. 

“What was the meeting about?” You ask. 

“That’s none of your concern.”

“I tried to get it out of John, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Probably because he didn’t know.” 

You grunt and pluck up your bottle of whiskey from where it’s been waiting on the table, pouring some for each of you. You pick up yours, taking a drink before Tommy can reach his. 

“You’re not gonna make a toast?” He asks as he picks his glass up. 

“To what?” 

“How about my car? A toast to my car.” 

“I don’t give a damn about your car, Thomas.” 

“You just haven’t spent enough time in it.”

“This afternoon was more than enough.”

“I disagree.” Tommy sips his whiskey, eyeing you closely before he says, “Tell you what. I’ll take you for a drive tomorrow.” 

“...What for?”

“Some air.” 

“There’s plenty of air in Birmingham.” 

“I’m talking about rarefied country air. Fresh. Clean.” Tommy sets the glass aside. “You spent half of last week in my bed and I couldn’t lay a hand on you. We've a lot to make up for.”

You grimace, looking down into your glass.  

“You didn’t want me that way,” You insist. He frowns. 

“What d’you mean?”

“Broken.” 

Tommy’s expression goes dark. He sets his glass down and reaches out, curling his hands around your hips and drawing you in. Your steps are lagged, and you keep your hands and focus on your drink. 

“Those men didn’t break you, princess.” 

“Feels like they did.” 

Tommy doesn’t answer that. He just gives you a squeeze, pats your hip, and orders, “Drink your whiskey.” 

When he doesn’t stay long, or tow you back to your bedroom—when he simply tells you to be dressed in your best and ready to go by four in the afternoon—you’re certain that he was just talking out his ass. Thomas Shelby thinks that you’re as broken as you feel, and you can’t blame him. 

-- 

The day is a spectacularly pretty one, and it makes you want to curse Thomas Shelby’s name. How is the day so lovely and in his favor? First the man fixes horse races, and now he’s found a way to fix the weather? Aside from a single unexpected visitor, there’s nothing that mars your morning. 

You can’t deny the way that your mood brightens as you leave the city behind, driving into the open air with the top of Tommy’s car down. You almost want to close your eyes and tip your head back, savoring the sun and the breeze. 

“Where are we going?” You ask after he’s been driving a while. 

“You’ll see, princess.” 

You sigh softly, glancing around. You take in the tall, waving grass and the rustling of leaves in the trees for silence for a bit before speaking up again: 

“Polly came to see me this morning.” 

It’s a moment before Tommy replies, and when he does, he seems bored and unaffected.

“Did she.”

“Mhm.”

“She have anything interesting to say?”

“Depends on what you consider interesting, I guess.” 

“You clearly do, since you considered it worth mentioning.” 

You go quiet again, gaze set through the windshield. She’d demanded tea, issued you a light warning, taken a single sip, and left. 

“She told me that what you did wasn’t just for me," You admit. "That if you didn’t retaliate, the Booth boys would take it as open season on the Peaky Blinders.”

“...That’s true enough. Does it upset you?” 

“No.”

He sighs softly, turning off of a road and down a short dirt path before he puts the car into park and shuts it down. 

“Look,” He twists to face you, resting his hand on the back of the seat. “You know who I am. You know what we do. You know how we protect our own.” 

“Yes.”

“If you stay in the car, you’ll hear something you may not like, but something you’ll be able to forget. If you walk past that tree line with me, it’ll change you.” 

You consider for a moment, casting a wary eye toward the treeline. 

“What’s out there?” You ask, nodding toward it. 

“Retribution.” 

Nerves twist through your body like a hot knife. Your hands flex around the purse in your lap. When you don’t move or reply, Tommy gets out of the car, walking around to your side and opening the door. He holds his hand out and crisply orders: “Decide.” 

Your gaze darts warily between his hand and the trees. 

“Is it safe?” You ask. 

“I wouldn’t have brought you here if I couldn’t guarantee your protection.” Tommy takes a step closer, eyes boring cooly into yours.  “Do you trust me?” 

You’ve been in bed with this man. You’ve gone to him for satisfaction, for comfort, for safety. You’ve trusted him to take care of you before. Why should it be any different now? 

You draw in a deep breath before you reach out, taking hold of Tommy’s hand. 

“Leave the bag,” He urges to the bench seat, “No one’ll take it. There's no one around here, really.” 

You set the purse aside, letting Tommy lead you from the car. The grass brushes and scratches your legs through your hose. You hear voices as you grow closer, and you slow, but Tommy gives your hand a gentle squeeze, murmuring, “C’mon.” You follow him reluctantly, dragging your feet just a little. You relax as you spot John and Arthur smoking by a tree nearby. They’re both jovial, both smiling wide, even when they spot you. 

“There she is,” Arthur reaches out, clapping you roughly on the shoulder. You note his scraped up knuckles as he does, the fresh cuts, the blood. 

“Took you long enough,” John grumbles, turning an irritated moue toward Tommy. “Figures you’d miss out on all the hard work.” 

“It was hard enough work coming out here today,” Tommy argues, “And it’s not about to get any easier.” 

He nods you closer, leading the group of you deeper into the woods. You see the holes, first, and your stomach lurches as you catch sight of something within moving. You go completely still, throat tightening with panic. This time, Tommy lets you stop. 

“Tommy,” You breathe.

“Come on.” 

“What did you do.” 

“Jack all,” John mutters, resting his hand on your lower back as he helps to steer you closer.  There are three holes side by side, long, and shallow, each with a bound, blindfolded, squirming man laying in them. Your stomach threatens to heave and unseat your breakfast; your breathing becomes tight, and nervous. 

“Thomas.” 

He turns on you, letting go of your hand in favor of cupping your cheeks to focus you on him. 

“You can still turn back,” He says firmly. “You can turn right around and wait in the car, and we can deal with this. But you need to decide now.” 

It’s a way out, a last chance. Glancing between Arthur and John, you find them watching you expectantly. You swallow thickly past the growing lump in your throat, push out the sounds of the men in the ground below you, and keep your gaze fixed on Tommy’s. 

“What do you want me to do.” 

“Atta girl!”  Arthur’s voice thunders as he slaps your arm roughly, as John gives your shoulders an encouraging shake, as Tommy’s lips curl into a wide, proud smile. 

– 

“It's done now.” 

Tommy’s words had just managed to push through the gunshots echoing through your ears, through the feeling of him pulling the weapon from your shaking hands, and the sight of the last man in the ground going completely still from the shots that you fired. 

The ride back home had been filled with the raucous chatter of Arthur and John. It was a wonder that they had any energy after digging and filling the graves. You had sat in the front with Tommy, his hand heavy and warm, tucking the fabric of your favorite dress between your thighs. Tommy had declined an invite to grab a drink at the Garrison for both of you, instead driving you home at an almost alarming speed. 

He keeps close, now. It’s not like the other night, distance and carefully measured disinterest. He’s right up against you as he waits for you to open the door. He hardly lets either of you get a glass of whiskey finished before he’s nudging you back against the counter of your kitchen. He cups your cheeks, sweeping his thumbs along your cheekbones as his eyes search yours. 

“How does it feel?” He murmurs. 

“The whiskey?” 

He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head as he presses his chest to yours. 

“Being one of us.”

You consider, lowering your gaze to his throat. His hands smooth down the side of your neck; you can see him tipping his head to the side in your periphery. 

“Does it scare you?” He presses. 

“No.”

“I’m gonna need you to look me in the eye when you say that, princess.” 

You tip your chin up, forcing your face into a firm set, the likes of which Tommy hasn’t gotten since you’d snapped at him in his office. 

“It doesn’t scare me.” 

“Good.”

“It makes me happy.” 

“What we did makes you happy?” Tommy presses. “Killing a man makes you happy?” 

“Keeping us safe makes me happy,” You snap. Tommy dips his head, brushing his lips gently against yours. It's genle, but it doesn't quiet your worries.

“Tommy.” 

“Mm?” 

“What if it doesn’t stop?” 

He leans away, brow furrowing as he gets a better look at you. You swipe your tongue nervously across your lips, clarifying: “What if the Booths keep coming after us?” 

“They won’t.” 

“But if they do—” 

“I’ll handle it.”  

“But if you need help—” 

“That’s for the boys an’ me to handle.” 

“Then why’d you have me there today?” 

“That wasn’t for me, princess. That was for you.” 

Your brow furrows, and Tommy tuts softly. 

“I told you,” He strokes his knuckles along your previously-swollen cheek. “Retribution. You needed it.” 

“And you’ll always do what’s best for me?” 

Tommy pushes a soft sigh out through his nose, gripping your chin up and tipping your head toward him. 

“I will do what’s best as I see fit.” 

“For me?” 

“For everyone.” 

“For yourself.”

“What d’you want? Mm?” His grip tightens on your jaw. “You want me to fall all over you, swear my undying love and fealty? You want me to tell you that I'll only act with you in mind? You listen to me, and you listen close. You’re never going to get that from me, princess.” 

You nod slightly, a lump forming in your throat as you mumble, “I know.” 

“Then don’t ask it of me.” 

“Then don’t,” You lean into it, your resolve hardening, “Feed me a crock of shit, that you’re going to—burn a path from here to Camden just because someone touched me.” 

“The only person in the world that gets to touch you is me. You know I’m never going to hurt you.” 

“Polly told me you would.”

“Polly says a lot of things.” 

“She always means them.” 

“That doesn’t mean she’s always right.” 

“You sure about that?” 

“Oh, I’d put money on it. I’m a gambling man, princess.” 

Tommy’s kiss is biting and swift, and it makes your stomach flutter. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he uses his grasp on your jaw to steer you back against your rickety kitchen table. You let him, grasping his jacket roughly and hauling him closer as you scooch back onto the table, spreading your legs for him to slot between. He lowers his hands, shoving the skirt of your dress up around your thighs. You watch as he grasps your ankle, drawing it up and deftly working off the buckle of your t-strap heel. He takes hold of the next, doing away with it with the same speed, and shifting to avoid the heels when you kick them off. 

Tommy grips the neckline of your dress, giving it a harsh yank. You hear the fabric rip, and you mean to gripe, but you can’t get a word out. Tommy ducks his head, sucking harsh kisses to your neck. The ripping doesn’t stop. His biceps bulge with it as he yanks the weakening fabric roughly. It takes such force that he groans in irritation and fatigue, palms red with exertion, finally shoving the ruined garment down around your shoulders. He grins at the sight of your lacy brasserie and garter belt as the fabric drops away. 

“You dressed for me, ah?” 

“I thought we were going to the country for fun,” You admit, tipping your chin down as Tommy’s hands slip beneath the torn fabric of your dress, sweeping along your back. “I thought you were going to lay me down and fuck me in a field.” 

He chuckles against your skin as his teeth scrape against the swell of your breast where it peeks out above the lace. 

“Maybe next time,” He murmurs. “It would do you some good.” 

“Your cock?” 

“Country air,” He nips your skin, “And my cock.” 

A giggle bubbles up in your throat, spilling over before you can stop it. You raise your hand, smoothing your fingers through his hair as he undoes your brasserie. The fabric droops, sagging around your shoulders with the ripped dress. Tommy sweeps his tongue over your pebbling nipple. You arch up against his questing lips and tongue, knees twitching around his thighs. 

He draws back with a slick slurp, catching your lips as he urges you up and off of the table. You follow him back to your bedroom, wiggling your arms to shake loose the remnants of your dress, and the slipping straps of your bra. You let it fall to the ground and make to step around it, but before you can get far, Tommy hooks his arm around your middle. He presses kisses to your neck and shoulders as you reach back, working at the fastenings of his trousers. He lets go, giving you a shove toward the bed. You twist before you land, your back hitting the mattress before you slide back a bit. 

Tommy raises his hands, slowly undoing the buttons on his waistcoat, then his shirt. You watch as he shrugs off the waistcoat, then pushes off his suspenders. Your gaze drifts even lower to where he’s hard in his trousers as he drifts toward you lazily. You raise your hand, stroking your fingers between your breasts. You smile widely as he watches the track of your finger, as you smooth your palm over your garter belt, then slip a finger further down, flicking at the clip holding up your stocking. 

To your utter shock, Tommy kneels down in front of you. He curls his fingers around the top of the gauzy fabric, rolling it down. He turns his head, brushing his lips against your calf. He trails his kisses up and up, nipping gently at the meat of your thigh before he reaches up, teasing his fingers under the strap of the other garter. 

“Undo it,” He murmurs. You reach down, undoing it. Tommy keeps his eyes on yours, nuzzling your flesh as he rolls the next stocking down. 

“You’re being awfully nice,” You frown. He smiles. 

“I’ve already ripped enough of your pretty things. May as well not owe you for the stockings as well as the dress.” 

“And you will owe me for the dress.” 

“I’ll buy you a warehouse full of dresses just for me to tear off of you, princess.” 

“Make sure the seams are loose on them, will you? I thought you were going to burst, trying to rip my dress apart in the kitchen—Tommy!” You cackle as Tommy gives your thigh an honest-to-god bite before he springs up over you.

-- 

The first time is as frantic, as rushed as all the times before. The second time, Tommy lets you steer, shove him around a little, move him as you like, take what you want. The third is deliciously new. Tommy draws you onto his lap and guides you down onto his cock. 

You shudder, nails digging into the pale muscle of his shoulders as you sink down onto him. Your eyes slide shut against the low light of the room, and the enduring brightness of Tommy’s eyes. You can feel him watching you, even as you tip your chin back and lean into him to just feel. Tommy’s hands smooth over your thighs as you shake around him. He presses his face into your neck, and you feel his moan as you draw yourself up before easing back down. You move slowly, your legs already burning with the rounds before. You’re sweaty, and a little boneless, but you still feel so damn needy for him. You slide your hand up over his closely-cropped hair as the two of you begin to move as one. He grunts and murmurs his own pleasure, sliding a hand down to cup your ass and urge you on: 

“Just like that, princess.” 

Neither of you let up until the other has cum, until Tommy is tipping you back into your mussed sheets to dot your neck with and chest with kisses. You let your thighs splay, blinking up at the dim ceiling as your heartbeat calms, and you settle. 

“...Why d’you call me that?” You mumble. 

“Call you what?” 

“Princess,” You shift your tone to mimic him. He chuckles, nipping your shoulder. 

“You used to walk around the office with your nose in the air, like we were all beneath you.” 

“I did not!” 

“Mm, you did.” Tommy rests his chin on your shoulder. “But it went off the boil quickly enough, once you realized that if you wanted to live, you’d have to get down on the mud with the rest of us.” 

“And is that where I am now?” You slide your fingers through his hair. “In the mud?” 

“Does this feel like a bed of roses?” 

You smile, shrugging. “Could be worse.” 

Tommy hums, reaching up and stroking his knuckles along your jaw. He seems to think for a moment before he asks, “Polly said I would hurt you?” 

“Mhm.” 

“What else did she say?” 

“That I was playing with fire.” 

“Does this feel like fire?” 

“It won’t.” 

“Oh no?” 

“Not unless you’ve given me the clap. And if you have, Thomas Shelby,” Your smile widens as he laughs, “I’ll chop your cock off.” 

“No fear of that.” 

“No? Is that a promise?” 

“You have my word, princess.”

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ;  @paintballkid711 ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @nolanell ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa​ ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices​ ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce

[callmelyc]

Angsty post canon concept:

When Allura dies what if the Altean magic she used on Shiro and Lance weakens and that's how ppl find out Lance also died?

Both Lance and Shiro start with symptoms they can ignore and ones doctors brush aside. They get told it's fatigue, they get told it's after effects from fighting In the war like they had for all that time. Neither realize it all starts after Alluras death.

Then they end up with things unexplainable. Things like extreme full body tremors, sudden extreme chills and are icy cold to the touch no matter the temperature. Their bodies ache in the ways they had in their deaths but neither man admits it out loud too afraid of what that might mean so neither is aware they aren't alone is this bizarre and sudden turn of events.

It's not until Lance collapses and is rushed to the Garrison hospital that they discovered it something more.

His body deteriorating from the inside out seen visibly from their newest high tech scans. Rotting, closing down, slowing or lacking proper function like his body has given up. Like his body is referring backwards to lack of life but no one knows why.

It's almost like its frying itself from the inside out, it's path crawling closer and closer to his heart with every passing day like bolts of electricity pulsing more and more upward.

Shiro is the first to realize what it means once Lance is finally giving the symptoms they'd had to pry out of him. He realizes with dread that his fellow paladin has things that match up too close to his own.

He only realizes bc he's felt similar things, only his resemble his own death and he knows for a fact its thinfs in Excruciating pain, a pain he thought no one but himself would ever understand.

To get lance to admit what happened Shiro goes through the scans himself to prove his point. No one enjoys hearing Lances story, Allura hadn't even known she was capable of what she'd done to him So he's worse off than Shiro is and terrified of the idea of dying again this slowly

both get taken to an off planet hospital, one that could preserve their symptoms until the rest of their team and families could find a way to heal them

But without Alluras alchemy No one knew what to do.

First they try talking to the alteans on new altea but none have any knowledge of the alchemy allura had used for them

Then the team spreads out

Pidge uses her ranking in her field to gain any and all database information she can get her hands on

Hunk uses his connections To the Balmera and other species to attempt to find any information on healing abilities that might help

Keith is the most successful, the man he loves and his brother are dying and he wouldn't accept that one bit

He sends all the Blades willing to look for any possible Leads and anyone who might know anything about healing magic or alchemy

Keith is the one who comes across one of haggars old druids, one well versed in altean alchemy and one bitter at what had become of the craft

She had understood, to a degree, what Allura had done to Save both men

She had tied their life force to her own to ground them back to this plane of existence and now that she's no longer tied to one universe her connection has faded and so has theirs

"You must tie them to another life to keep them but this practice is taboo. If this next life dies they will with it."

Keith doesn't hesitate for a moment "just tell me what to do and I'll do it."

He ends up tying Lances life force to his own, Lance so sickly he didn't get a choice and Keith apologizes the entire way

He combs fingers through lances thinned hair hoping it brought any comfort to the man that had no energy to even stay awake anymore "you can be as angry as you want after this, as long as you survive I don't care anymore..."

Shiros husband does the same for Shiro

They know it's worked when their bodies stop dying and start to finally try to heal.

The damage so extensive they both spend months in newly crafted healing pods that do everything to try to reverse it.

Both come out whole, alive and maybe a little worse for wear than before All this took place.

But no one cares so long as they stay alive.

And, if when Keith tells lance what he'd done to save him, Keith earns a strict slap to the face for his recklessness that's followed by a gentle kiss.

Well, no one says a word.

[hounds-and-stars]

Your Rhythm

Summary: The Death Korps of Krieg has no place for music- or most kinds of rhythm and relaxation, really. So what happens when a Korpsman, after spending months on garrison duty, finds himself fraternizing with another soldier and trying to follow their rhythm?

Tags: gender neutral reader, male character, Death Korps of Krieg, original character, breathing focus, non-sexual intimacy

Disclaimer: This is my first attempt at a reader-insert story, which I wrote this at 3-5am on a Friday night where I couldn't sleep. I still think it's good, but I figured I should give a heads up.

Enjoy.

Music was an almost alien concept to the Death Korps of Krieg, and your Kriegsman was no exception to that rule.

Oh, sure, they had instruments and made noise with them, but they didn't make music. In Krieg's vast underground cities, every man, woman, and child was well-accustomed to the thunder of a marching drum and the roar of a trumpet, but they were tools, nothing more. A trumpet blast heralded the start or the end of a workday, and the simple, unchanging beat of a drum was how they kept pace throughout their long, grinding shifts. Like every other aspect Krieg's life and culture, their instruments were purely utilitarian, devoid of any other use.

When the 44th Siege Regiment first arrived at your garrison and set up their barracks nearby, there was friction right away as your troopers' cadence songs disrupted the Death Korps' drills. When your officers explained why your comrades were shouting back and forth for no seemingly no real reason, the Kriegsmen just looked confused and asked why such behavior was allowed in the first place. The Korpsmen seemed to think that any singing or recreational rhythm was a waste of time and energy, dismissing it all as distractions that took focus away from more practical matters.

Line Trooper Beta 0440- or, as you called him, Otto -shared this opinion. Months ago, when you two had somehow pulled watch duty together, he'd rather obviously been annoyed by how you whistled to pass the time, going rigid at the sounds blowing through your lips. Even through the expressionless lenses of his gas mask, you could feel how his eyes narrowed with irritation whenever you started a new tune, though he never openly voiced that thought.

In fact, he rarely voiced any thought. It was a miracle you two became friends at all, considering how little the Kriegsman said at first. Over time, bit by bit, Otto had opened up to you, but even at his most talkative, he preferred to lend you his ear and listen, only speaking when he felt particularly strongly about something. Still, for a soldier of the Death Korps, that made him almost legendarily sociable.

The fact that you two had, somehow, become more than friends was almost certainly divine intervention. The word "love" had never and probably would never pass Otto's lips, since admitting you cared for anyone in the Death Korps was a scandalous thing indeed, but he clearly felt something for you. Day after day, he sought you out whenever he could, even getting his quartermaster to put him on your work crews now and then, just to spend some more time at your side. Your squadmates often joked that he followed you around like a lost puppy, loyally dogging your steps you wherever you went, and to a degree, they were right- not that you minded, really. He was a good listener and rarely complained, which made him a much more tolerable companion than the average Guardsman.

The only thing he did complain about with any regularity was the music. Even after close to a year of cohabitation with non-Krieg regiments, Otto still hadn't adjusted to that kind of noise, no matter what the source was. The regimental bands, the local vox-stations, the cadences, even your whistling still irritated him to no end. He would grumble about the racket whenever it became particularly grating, usually making a snide remark about how "off-worlders spend too much time banging sticks together instead of working,” or something to that effect. It made your midnight watch-duties (or, as you liked to call them, dates) rather painfully quiet when you had nothing to talk about, but that wasn't strictly a bad thing.

After all, all Kriegsmen wore heavy woolen greatcoats, and they made for excellent pillows.

One particularly long, uneventful shift had seen you lean against Otto's side, take a deep breath, and close your eyes. You didn't intend on taking a nap while you were supposed to be keeping watch for intruders, but your body had decided that it was time to sleep and before you knew it, you were out. It took Otto a good few minutes to realize that you had dozed off, only taking notice after you had started snoring next to his ear, but to his credit, he didn't try to wake you up.

The Kriegsman leaned back against a wall and, for a while, just stared off into the distance. He did debate with himself about if he should wake you up or let you sleep, but that argument came to a swift end when he saw how relaxed you looked at his side. With a quiet sigh, he decided that he'd let you rest for now and give you an earful in the morning, when you would be awake to hear it. Then, he let his shoulders sag and took a deep breath.

Then another. And another. And another.

Eventually, Otto noticed his breathing was falling into a particular pattern, but he didn't know why. It was strange, feeling his body trying to keep a pace he hadn't intentionally set, but at first, he didn't think to question it; the human body was a strange and fickle thing, after all. It was only after he paused for a moment and listened to the world around him that it struck him, realizing what he was unconsciously trying to do.

Turning to look down at you, still quietly snoring beside him, Otto watched intently as your chest rose and fell, rose and fell, with the same unchanging tempo to each and every breath. You'd pause for a second or two, holding on to the air in your lungs, then slowly exhale and start again. As the seconds passed, he saw that your pace remained constant, like a musician repeating the same melody on their instrument over and over again- only, the instrument was you.

Otto realized he was trying to mimic the rhythm of your breathing, if only subconsciously so. Normally, he would never have paid attention to such a thing; there was a slight difference in how long each of his breaths lasted compared to your’s, true, but it was a very small difference at any rate, usually too small for him to notice. But, with nothing else around to focus on except you, he had started trying to match your pace, for Emperor knows what reason.

"Why?" Otto murmured, tilting his head as he looked down at you. Behind the cold lenses of his mask, two deep, dark brown eyes narrowed on your face, on your lips, and for a brief moment, he could almost hear your whistling again and tensed, waiting for that sound. 

Instead, all he heard was your breathing.

The Kriegsman said nothing as he looked away and tried to think about something else, attempting to ignore the odd tightness in his chest and the soft, steady rhythm that felt like the only sound in his world.

In the end, that was all he could think about that night.

[discordiansamba]

It becomes rapidly apparent to the Alteans that Keith is different from the other four humans brought to the Castle.

It's not simply that he's the only one among them who isn't a paladin. It has much more to do with how he carries himself. Both he and Shiro carry themselves like soldiers, but it's more readily apparent in Keith- as if he were born and bred into it in a way Shiro wasn't. His face is completely expressionless, but they can both sense the suspicion he regards them with nonetheless.

When they finally inquire as to the difference with Shiro, he heaves a long sigh and explains that Keith isn't fully human. They don't know what he's mixed with- his mother apparently left long before he would have been able to remember her, and his father never told him anything about her. He goes on to explain how the Galaxy Garrison- the space exploration program he worked for- became aware of the Galra Empire's presence at the fringes of their system years ago. That in their search for answers, they found Keith-

-and turned him into the equivalent of a living weapon.

Allura wants to be sick. Coran actually is sick. That is absolutely horrid. She has half a mind to take the Castle and storm into this Galaxy Garrison herself, and demand to speak with this Admiral Sanda. But she knows that would accomplish nothing, and Shiro has a point- maybe they can help Keith.

He asks them to keep this matter a secret from the paladins. He really wants to give them an opportunity to get to know Keith as a person, not as the weapon the Garrison made him into. It... does not seem to be going extremely well, if Allura is perfectly honest. It is clear that Lance resents Keith to a noteworthy degree. Hunk and Pidge don't necessarily follow along, but it's not exactly a warm, friendly atmosphere.

Allura decides to do what she can. She opens the Castle's clothing stores to Keith, so that he can take whatever he wishes from it. She attempts to engage him in conversation, though he mostly stone-walls her. Coran has him help around the ship, having a little more success in getting him to open up. She helps arrange exercises with Shiro that conveniently need a sixth person.

She's just... not sure if they're actually getting through to him.

[nobodysdaydreams]

Doug Eiffel and/or Milligan for the Headcanon Ask game <3

Thanks Sophie! To thank you for all your wonderful comments on my fics, I will do both:

First: Doug Eiffel

Headcanon A:  realistic

Doing headcanons for Doug is tricky because I haven’t finished the podcast so what’s realistic or not remains to be seen. But I do think it’s realistic to say that if Doug made it back to Ann, and she was open to having a relationship with him as an adult and giving him a second chance, he’d be an amazing dad. He’s be so grateful to be back on earth, wouldn’t relapse, and would be the best dad/grandpa ever.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

I don’t know how Wolf359 ends. Is it too much to hope for Doug getting to yell some catchy pop culture reference catch phrase at Cutter as he’s dragged into the back of a cop car? Like “my how the tables have turned” or something like that, you know since Cutter got him out of prison and now Doug is testifying to put him in prison.

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Despite being the one character in Wolf359 who seems to consistently be able, even under pressure, to stick to his morals and try his best to avoid killing, Doug is never able to view himself as a good person or a person whose life is worth saving. The whole “no one who matters ends up here” is something Doug would never apply to Minkowski or Hera, but he still applies it to himself because of what he did to Ann.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

When Doug makes it back to earth, Hera gets to live with him and be part of his family. I don’t care if you ship them or not, or if it’s a ship or not. I don’t care if you want Hera to be the house, still part of the ship, put in a human-like body, I don’t care. She is family, and she lives with Doug and Ann now.

Second: Milligan

This vary depending on book or show version of the character so I’ll keep it vague.

Headcanon A:  realistic

Milligan would do his best to help the helpers and everyone else who had their memories erased find their long lost loved ones. After being separated from Kate, he wouldn’t want anyone to live with that level of pain. In the show, he’s also do it out of some degree of guilt, since he vaguely remembers working for Curtain and is unsure if he was involved in the brain sweeping or not. Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

I have a REALLY good one for this. But I don’t want to spoil my own stuff. So I won’t. In my defense, Milligan would 100% do this and the only reason it wouldn’t be in the show is because they just don’t have enough run time for the plot line. Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Milligan having to grieve his wife again. He lost her three years before he lost Kate to some sort of illness (we can only speculate). He loses her, loses the memory of her, and then he has to find all her old stuff, see traces of her in Kate, and lose her all over again. Whether you head canon that he was able to move on and have a new relationship or not, either way, he’d have to go through this pain and it would be absolutely awful.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

Show Milligan being friends with Curtain. I might add in my SOS authors note more detail about how realistic I think SOS actually is based on the show, and I do believe based on what they gave us that a storyline involving a backstory Garrison, Curtain, Milligan, and SQ’s birth parents working together was something that they might have planned for future seasons. But I think it’s slightly more likely they were just coworkers and that Milligan got used and stabbed in the back by Garrison and Curtain (who later stabbed each other in the back) rather than the (in my opinion) much better angst parade where they all actually cared about each other once. But a show’s run time can only take us to flashback land so many times, especially when you can’t get actors back and your show is on the verge of cancellation. So I get it.

[novashelby]

My take on Tommy not being capable of romantic love :-

yes he's manipulative, uses people to get what he wants, but I disagree with anon and you on his charector Analysis and here's why

he pimped out grace to Kimber and people really tend to look past how shitty that was and even grace was too quick to forgive him, but he was still not that close to grace back then and still figuring out his feelings, he does come back to get her though bcz his conscience troubles him as he had started to develop feelings.. have some sort of care for her...

The first moment where they really bond and he sort of fell for her was when she shoots the IRA guy, he is having ptsd when he can't stop hitting the second one with spitton, grace sees it she momentarily recoils but, she sees him to , she understands him, she asks him if he is okay?she embraces him right after seeing him at his worst and I feel that's first time he feels not only seen but also accepted when it comes to his trauma , " now you've seen me" you might call it trauma bonding but it's not superficial or toxic they really have moment of true intimacy there, I don't want to go on here and make this longer than it is, but they didn't develop grace and Tommy's relationship enough and didn't did her charector justice in later seasons but he did love her , there are moments where there's mirroring between them specially in first season, and he sees her not just a typical bar maid he can see there's so much more too it, there so many moments between some very simply where just with their eyes they convey so much, when he ask her "to help him with life buisness fucking everything" it shows he's Willing to open up, that he's neither too stuck up nor egoistic or chauvinistic, even the way that sex scene is filmed is very different from his others there's vulnerability and intimacy there also a sense of paternership , there are many ways where the show shows us he sees her as an equal, yes there relationship isn't build up that well specially since in first season she's undercover and in second and third we barely see them, also not that there isn't some degree of infatuation as well between them but there's also genuine connection both can coexist, when he almost proposes to her in garrison on black star day, and back tracks on it when he feels she is upset , when he says " we are the same, we can talk"

When he forgives her for betraying him quite quickly , despite the fact that Danny died bcz of her betrayal , and everything could have gone wrong it was a big deal, he's heartbroken but he still understands her, forgives her, sees her, as Polly says " he's too soft ,soft like you" to grace all these things show that he truly cared .

the scene between them when when she says she loves him and he says we can say it all we want but doesn't changed a thing shows the difference between the world they come from.

Also someone said,cillian clarified in an interview that he never cheated on grace probably wouldn't have, we can't say for sure how their relationship would have panned out but there was definitely scope there specially if grace understood him.

He was very much willing to give up the buisness for her make something legitimate as he says, he was forced/blackmailed to do the deal with the Russians by the section he's frustrated because of the danger that's putting charlie and grace in , he has to do it even though u can see he doesn't want to he tries to back out but can't, he's blackmailed by Campbell too for the assisination at the races and to kill that IRA guy, he hated it being used by posh people, he tries to get out of it what he can, there's a time when he says to Polly " these people they are worst then us " that has lot of weight, if u really look at it, yes he's ambitious but he's not money crazy or uncesserally cruel or sadistic, he is laid back he's hardly aggressive, he tries to get his way with least collateral damage possible and only time we see him loose control is after ruby and grace''s death, even then he doesn't really tortures changretta and shoots him.

He didn't want to kill IRA men, it's grace who shoots and he tells her why did you shoot , and he had to then combat, he was even hesitant to shoot Kimber u can see he shoots only after he shoots Danny whereas he could have earlier , he would have preferred to take over without it.

He doesn't react when Michaels adoptive mom hits him, or when that lady who's son arthur killed in boxing ring when she baits them to changretta makes them walk in trap , he lets her go too even after her betrayal , he isn't really unreasonably vindictive either. When Michael drawns all the money of the company despite of Tommy telling him to pull the money out of the stock market he's kind of lenient n gives him a chance comparatively , he"s not hurting him or Polly just for money, he's not exploitative either.

There's one scene that says alot when he takes John's side on angel changretta's case , you see the first thing he says is " we do it because we can" but very quickly the next thing he says is " because if we don't they will , they will come for us and they won't stop until each of us is dead" look at the scene there's body language and other things as well he's scared, that's the subtext, he's in survival mode, he's been though war and that's what a lot of his trauma is about, in the begging of the series itself he says to Polly I have been through war I 'v learnt some things, yes living like you are already dead makes you fearless but also takes out the joy and hope and light out of your life because, living like you are already dead isn't actually living at all it's surviving it's constantly being in a Survival mode, at surface it might seem like being power hungry or arrogant or having too fragile of an ego , the " taking what u want " but if u look closely and with all the examples I have given and more you see that's not exactly what he is

he's trying to make way for himself in a world that's pitted against him, the " they are worst than us" " will never accept us" they whole angle of rich and posh people using him, there's a contrast and struggle the show paints, he also faces racism with whole being a gypsy thing, when he says to Campbell "he knew what he did to Polly " , and they both will be in hell , the show does makes a difference, it shows though Tommy isn't right many people in power around him are worst and hypocrites that's also a point in grace falling for him and realising that things aren't that black and white and that police and govt. Can be more horrible than even the gangsters, the dialogue when Campbell calls Tommy an animal and she's like but yet it was him " that tried to stop me" ( from shoting ira men), we never see Tommy actually being physically aggressive with women, forcing himself upon them not taking well to rejection or exploiting people in an extreme manner he has a detached buisness like attitude, but not unessarily mean or cruel.

He is no feminist icon but he's not mysoginistic either, he's capable of treating women as equal we see that with his relationships with Polly , Ada and grace .

He is opposed to Ada's marriage for practical reasons but supports and helps in the end anyways.

And offcuz not seen him hitting a kid or being bit pedo either, did u forget the scene where he hits that NUN for abusing kids , how angry he is, one of the themes of the show is despite of his flaws how he is almost the lesser evil, when it comes to people with power there, that whole " you are the bad guy but you are our bad guy " dialog from Harry and many things in show make it that way.

So I don't know based on what you are saying Tommy in TBOIC is more realistic or honest take on his charector, I disagree for all the above stated reasons, he is not, because he is not that mysoginistic, agressive, physically abusive, extremely exploitative etc.etc. He does have a moral compas to an extent sure, also you don't have to write a canon Tommy in your fic, that's your prerogative and creative freedom, but I just don't agree with that as an charector analysis.

yes he is a gangster and has his set of toxic traits but he isn't the typical gangster archetype either, I think many people who think that way are basically going on surface level based on his mannerisms and lots of other superficial things and miss a lot of nuance about the charector, he isn't the tom hardy kind of ganster from the movie lengend, Tommy actually has emotional intelligence and is capable of romantic love we see that many times, though he's utterly lonely and gets only more and more distanced from his emotional body as the series goes on. He uses people to get what he wants and surely is a complex charector with his flaws but he's also not really the impulsive , aggressive , or the most simple typical chauvinistic kind, he's not narssicistic

his actions before falling for grace completely can't define him, he was willing to leave the buisness for her I think he was genuine about that and in the show we see he is pressured and blackmailed to do the deal with Russians he isn't doing it out of greed but because he's stuck. Yes he He's Loyal and Pragmatic, he is loyal to his family and those close to him, but his decisions are often pragmatic, even if they hurt the people he loves. He prioritizes the survival and success of his business and is willing to make hard choices, he sees his buisness as a means to protect his family and secure their future and status even if it ends up hurting them sure but he is not necessarily about putting it above love and family . His strive for power is his strive for control and survival in many ways more than just being about money and ambition.

Tommy was pressured and blackmailed into doing the deal with the Russians in Season 3. His involvement with the Russians wasn’t something he wanted, particularly because of the danger it posed to his family, including Grace and their son, Charlie.

At the beginning of Season 3, Tommy is trying to live a more legitimate life, having married Grace and started a family. However, he's coerced into working with the Russians by a group called the Economic League ("The Section"), a powerful organization with deep political ties. They use blackmail, including threats to his family, to force him into brokering dangerous and illegal deals with the Russian aristocracy.

Tommy is acutely aware of the risks involved and is reluctant to get involved precisely because he doesn't want to endanger Grace and Charlie. He even expresses concern about how his business dealings could expose his loved ones to danger. Unfortunately, despite his efforts to protect them, the situation spirals out of control, leading to Grace's tragic death.

This moment marks a turning point for Tommy. After Grace's death, he becomes even more driven by his ambition and thirst for power, in part as a way to cope with his grief and guilt. But during this phase, it’s clear that he initially wanted to keep his family safe and avoid deeper involvement in the dangerous deals.

So while Tommy is often portrayed as ruthless and ambitious, this situation demonstrates that there are moments when he’s forced into compromising his values and relationships for survival, making him a more tragic and layered character.

Beneath his tough exterior, he is haunted by his past, particularly his experiences in the war and the loss of loved ones. He struggles with PTSD, guilt, and an inner void. Tommy exists in amorally grey area. While he engages in crime and violence, he also has a sense of justice and loyalty to his family and community. He can be both cruel and compassionate.

He is shaped by the violence and instability of his environment, and his ambition and pain coexist in a constant internal battle.

Yes Tommy’s actions show that while he deeply values his family, his relentless drive for power and success often leads him to sacrifice personal relationships. His ambition blinds him to the emotional toll, making it seem like he is willing to put business first, even at the cost of love and family bonds.

it's not like he lacks the capacity for it and is just about his ambition either, so he is capable of romantic love I feel that's pretty much shown in the the show .

That's just the way I like to use his character. I meant more that I don't think he's suitable for romantic relations. He's toxic. He's a gangster. I get what you're saying and I'm not gonna disagree.

But thank you for this novel. I'm wondering if I can add it to my good reads? (Not trying to be rude, but funny).

I wish I had more capacity to answer you thoroughly, but I don't.

I can tell you are a Grace fan. I still stand by my opinion that their relationship was as favorable as white milk. Personally. But I respect your take. 👍

[lesmislettersdaily]

Madame Victurnien’s Success

Volume 1: fantine; Book 5: The Descent; Chapter 9: Madame Victurnien’s Success

So the monk’s widow was good for something.

But M. Madeleine had heard nothing of all this. Life is full of just such combinations of events. M. Madeleine was in the habit of almost never entering the women’s workroom.

At the head of this room he had placed an elderly spinster, whom the priest had provided for him, and he had full confidence in this superintendent,—a truly respectable person, firm, equitable, upright, full of the charity which consists in giving, but not having in the same degree that charity which consists in understanding and in forgiving. M. Madeleine relied wholly on her. The best men are often obliged to delegate their authority. It was with this full power, and the conviction that she was doing right, that the superintendent had instituted the suit, judged, condemned, and executed Fantine.

As regards the fifty francs, she had given them from a fund which M. Madeleine had intrusted to her for charitable purposes, and for giving assistance to the workwomen, and of which she rendered no account.

Fantine tried to obtain a situation as a servant in the neighborhood; she went from house to house. No one would have her. She could not leave town. The second-hand dealer, to whom she was in debt for her furniture—and what furniture!—said to her, “If you leave, I will have you arrested as a thief.” The householder, whom she owed for her rent, said to her, “You are young and pretty; you can pay.” She divided the fifty francs between the landlord and the furniture-dealer, returned to the latter three-quarters of his goods, kept only necessaries, and found herself without work, without a trade, with nothing but her bed, and still about fifty francs in debt.

She began to make coarse shirts for soldiers of the garrison, and earned twelve sous a day. Her daughter cost her ten. It was at this point that she began to pay the Thénardiers irregularly.

However, the old woman who lighted her candle for her when she returned at night, taught her the art of living in misery. Back of living on little, there is the living on nothing. These are the two chambers; the first is dark, the second is black.

Fantine learned how to live without fire entirely in the winter; how to give up a bird which eats a half a farthing’s worth of millet every two days; how to make a coverlet of one’s petticoat, and a petticoat of one’s coverlet; how to save one’s candle, by taking one’s meals by the light of the opposite window. No one knows all that certain feeble creatures, who have grown old in privation and honesty, can get out of a sou. It ends by being a talent. Fantine acquired this sublime talent, and regained a little courage.

At this epoch she said to a neighbor, “Bah! I say to myself, by only sleeping five hours, and working all the rest of the time at my sewing, I shall always manage to nearly earn my bread. And, then, when one is sad, one eats less. Well, sufferings, uneasiness, a little bread on one hand, trouble on the other,—all this will support me.”

It would have been a great happiness to have her little girl with her in this distress. She thought of having her come. But what then! Make her share her own destitution! And then, she was in debt to the Thénardiers! How could she pay them? And the journey! How pay for that?

The old woman who had given her lessons in what may be called the life of indigence, was a sainted spinster named Marguerite, who was pious with a true piety, poor and charitable towards the poor, and even towards the rich, knowing how to write just sufficiently to sign herself Marguerite, and believing in God, which is science.

There are many such virtuous people in this lower world; some day they will be in the world above. This life has a morrow.

At first, Fantine had been so ashamed that she had not dared to go out.

When she was in the street, she divined that people turned round behind her, and pointed at her; every one stared at her and no one greeted her; the cold and bitter scorn of the passers-by penetrated her very flesh and soul like a north wind.

It seems as though an unfortunate woman were utterly bare beneath the sarcasm and the curiosity of all in small towns. In Paris, at least, no one knows you, and this obscurity is a garment. Oh! how she would have liked to betake herself to Paris! Impossible!

She was obliged to accustom herself to disrepute, as she had accustomed herself to indigence. Gradually she decided on her course. At the expiration of two or three months she shook off her shame, and began to go about as though there were nothing the matter. “It is all the same to me,” she said.

She went and came, bearing her head well up, with a bitter smile, and was conscious that she was becoming brazen-faced.

Madame Victurnien sometimes saw her passing, from her window, noticed the distress of “that creature” who, “thanks to her,” had been “put back in her proper place,” and congratulated herself. The happiness of the evil-minded is black.

Excess of toil wore out Fantine, and the little dry cough which troubled her increased. She sometimes said to her neighbor, Marguerite, “Just feel how hot my hands are!”

Nevertheless, when she combed her beautiful hair in the morning with an old broken comb, and it flowed about her like floss silk, she experienced a moment of happy coquetry.

[mizu-writes-kumo]

Shance au were lance is team medic( theirs no healing pods, they're all broken) lance is always taking care of shiro mental and physical injuries.

Okay, I am just going to turn the AU dial up on this a little bit, because when I saw this last night I read it a bit differently than I currently am now, and loved the idea I came up with as I fell asleep... so where we go...

Basically Lance and Hunk are closer to Shiro’s age (not by much, but they are more in the 22-23), and are sort of like Grad Students at the Garrison.  Lance is study to be a field medic, specifically for space and high areal combat areas.  It’s a really tough program to get in (harder than Fighter Pilot...which Lance so is), and its harder to do. Given the high demand, low supply, and general limited resources.  But Lance is doing it all in stride.  Hunk is a engineering TA/Grad student that rooms with Lance on the Garrison campus.

When Shiro crashes back to Earth after escaping, Lance is on the away team that is sense to help. Simply because he is qualified and they need as many hands on deck as possible.  Lance is naturally very surprised to see it is Shiro, and actually tries to stop a lot of the other medics from sedating Shiro, and he can see Shiro’s vital readings that one that might be a horrible idea, and two Shiro pretty clearly having a panic attack over something.  But he is told to basically shut up because he is just still a student.

(Hunk at the time is on Cadet Patrol/”Babysitting” and has found Keith and Pidge on the roof, and tagged along on their adventure to see what was going on)

All of them basically end up saving Shiro and finding Blue Lion, go to the Castleship, and just you know it goes.

Only Alteans just don’t have healing pods, the pods only do the cryo sleep function.  And well Coran and Allura aren’t medics in the least, but Coran knows what some stuff does.  Meaning on top of being thrust into space, caught up in a war with a crazy old empire, Lance is now learning everything he can about Altean medicine and all the stuff. As well as taking care of everyone training injuries (yeah, he gets in a lot of verbal spats with Allura about her methods), on top of teaching Coran how to take care of Humans.  Oh and yeah, he is learning how to treat Alteans too...because why not.

Every one of the Paladins knows first aid (it’s standard for all Garrison personal), which does help Lance.  But like he is still on the one that can really fix them is something goes wrong, or they get sick.  And yeah, learning a whole new system of medicine and how it works on the human body is just a lot.

Naturally its a bad few weeks after Lance took the bulk of the blast from the bomb.  The only saying grace is Alteans have like a “miracle spray” (as Lance calls it) for bad in the battlefield injuries, that heal a wound enough to unsure survival.  But yeah, Lance gives everyone a crash course in medicine...which was not always fun for everyone.

Because Lance is the medic taking care of well everyone, he is well integrated into their lives.  So he tells them to eat and sleep a lot, and he will also make sure they do it.  And he makes sure no one gets pushed too hard with all things are done.  He does also have some mental health training (not a lot, but like enough to limp along with) so he helps with that too.

Naturally, Shiro is the one to see him the most often.  Not just because he hurts himself often, or has pretty bad PTSD, but because of his disease (which is strangely cured if Lance is looking at things right).  That and Lance also wants to figure out the biological works of Shiro’s prosthetic, just like...for funnzies.  So they talk and see each other a lot, cause Lance has amazing beside manner and he’s just also really concerned all the time.

Because of this, Shiro notices Lance is the most worn out of all them.  Mostly because does everything everyone else does, and takes care of them, and learns alien space medicine and how to use it effectively.  He’s doesn’t really take care of himself, despite how much he pushes everyone else too.  No one does the same for him (sometimes Hunk makes him sit down at eat a meal, but that’s it).  And honestly, as the Leader, Shiro can see if they start taking care of Lance, the one and only medic, soon, they’ll loose the most important member on the team.

So Shiro has a serious talk with Allura and Coran (and maybe Hunk is there too) about what to do.  And they agree to schedule surprise drills, basically everyone knows a drill will happen on a given day, but no idea when said drill will happen. And Allura and Coran and some point have to state it’s a drill, as well as if it is in the morning time, Lance is except for showing up. Just so Lance has a chance to catch some sleep.  They also work out a few other things to help Lance out. Like Coran spending two vargas with Lance helping him figure out Altean medicine, as well as learning from Lance how to use to help out.  As well as checks and balances system, where all the Paladins just kind of check on each other and hold each other accountable for general self care.  Oh and Shiro gets Lance to agree to like a weekly health lesson beyond first aid, so if he’s ever unavailable they can do something.

And yeah, Shiro makes sure Lance is taken care of too.

Naturally they fall in love taking care of each other.  Though Lance already had a crush, and so did Shiro because Lance was there when he woke up in the shack, calmly helping him come to, so.....

(also Lance and Utlaz are bond over medicine and are medical bros!)

[nobodysdaydreams]

I don't know if you want to give your general opinion on characters, but I'd love to hear your opinion on how Curtain and Garrison's time in divorce court would go :D

Oh boy. Oh boy Milk thank you. This made my entire day! This is a fun one.

Okay, so it does to some degree depend on the show vs. fic plotlines I have for these characters and whether the divorce is purely business, a legal marriage done for tax purposes or to make SQ's adoption easier, or a once legit marriage that fell apart due to Curtain's scheming.

I'll stick to the business route, since that's what my fics and the show have gone with.

Warning: Entertaining but (slightly) long post...

This is also funny because like. They are both criminals. If they show up in any court, they will both go to jail. Neither is completely innocent, and Curtain's current defense in the show is that he unwittingly funded Garrison's evil schemes, but they still have a trail of evidence leading right to him. Meanwhile, Garrison's best defense is to claim she took Curtain's funding but somehow had no idea what he was using her inventions for, or she could claim she was being threatened into complying and take a plea deal for less prison time. It's also so unclear what would even go to who if their crimes were ignored and their case was examined fairly. Garrison would likely get the right to her inventions, but Curtain would keep his money and custody of SQ.

But when we ignore the legal ramifications of their many crimes and the possibility of Curtain and Garrison ever having an amicable divorce out of court where they each take what's theirs (because that would likely only happen if post-redemption Nathaniel tried to settle the whole Garrison matter quietly to pay her off and stop her from kidnapping his niece so Nicholas doesn't throw him out of the house. And Garrison is so mad at him I don't think she'd just agree to that), then we are left with only comedic gold for both the show and my fic versions.

Show Version:

Curtain would 100% cheat and bring in paid off witnesses who would straight up lie for him on the stand. He would. Even as Nathaniel, he might still be trying to do damage control. The show doesn't get into what history Nathaniel had with Garrison, Milligan, and SQ's birth parents like my fic does, so if we just go based on the show canon and that plot hole stays an irrelevant hole, Nathaniel would want this handled quietly. He knows Nicholas would never let him lie about his crimes in court, but also, Nicholas would never let Nathaniel stay in his house if Nathaniel refused to stop the woman who kept trying to kidnap his psychic daughter. So Nathaniel would likely try to handle it quietly like "here Garrison take this money and leave us alone, okay? Pretty please? I'll even pay to give you a new identity so you won't be blamed for the Emergency, and you can just leave us alone." But something tells me Garrison wouldn't go down that easy, and whether she allies with the evil sister or someone else, she would 100% be ready to expose all his secrets (if she can't save herself, she's dragging him down with her, you better believe it). Meanwhile, Nathaniel is scrambling, because he doesn't want Nicholas knowing the full extent of his crimes, but he also can't have Nicholas (or the judge) finding out he's paying people to lie on the stand. So the court room would be an absolute circus, with Nathaniel switching between going on the defensive of "ME? Crimes? I- why I was in the dark the whole time! I'm a poor innocent man! Just ask anybody I paid to be here!" and being like "Look Garrison, please just take my money okay, stop saying these things, my brother doesn't need to know them and neither does the world." Meanwhile, Garrison is hungover, angry, ready to rip Curtain to shreds, and holding nothing back. She somehow has video of the stand back dance and plays it in court- it's not even relevant, she just wants him humiliated. The whole thing is a complete mess.

Meanwhile, I just imagine poor off screen SQ waiting outside the courthouse with his emancipation papers, as he makes awkward small chat with Noland who's there for his divorce and keeps saying concerning stuff like "well kid, they say the third time is a charm, but as it turns out, it isn't. And as indicated by my presence here today, neither is the sixth. Oh...these alimony payments are putting me in so much debt..." and poor SQ is just like "oh...sorry about that" as he waits his turn.

My fic:

So I do give the character's a more complex history together. I don't want to spoil too much, but... it would be more angsty. Nathaniel would feel more guilt about what he did. The show versions of Curtain and Garrison indicated they've known each other for a long time (as far back at least until Milligan was brain swept), that Garrison is desperate to have her inventions built, and that Nathaniel is desperate to be liked and praised (like when he keeps trying to impress Garrison with dinners and champagne and gets upset when she doesn't like it). But the show doesn't really explain how they started working together, or whether they ever had a good relationship, even though they know each other well enough that Curtain knows Garrison's vegan food preferences and Garrison knows about Curtain's brother (while other employees like Jackson and Jillson don't). So I fill in those gaps. And based on the way I fill them in, it would really depend mostly on what point in the story the court hearing takes place, as well as what other character's are aware of their history and what their motivations are. And that's about all I can say about that, but as usual I would still like to sprinkle some comedy in my angst parade, so Noland would likely make an appearance at the court house as well as poor Jeffers, who is there to fight his 112th parking ticket.

[oonajaeadira]

Dulces Sueños

Rating: T.

Fandom: The Great Wall

Pairing: Pero Tovar x f!reader

Warnings: Pining, yearning. Being trapped in a burning place. A kiss. Soft allusions to sex, nothing graphic or lingering. Lots of historical wallowing. Gooey romance.

Summary: A lady of very minor nobility and a hired mercenary. A mutual affection, but an impossible dream.

A/N: As a part of my 900 follower celebration, I asked for suggestions / had folks vote on a character, tropes, and prompts. Although only one boy was chosen, I decided to take many of the top votes and try to make a thing that uses several of them. The story itself doesn’t center around any of them specifically, but they are incorporated in varying degrees.

Tropes: One-bed, mutual pining, huddling for warmth, and love confession, with sprinklings of aroused by his voice and I threw in some hurt/comfort for good measure.

Prompts: 

“Why would I fall for someone else?” adapted slightly to “why would I want this with anyone else?”

“Just say the word.”

“Come back to bed, please.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

Thanks for your patience, friends. I hope you enjoy.

Pero Tovar rides his horse easily, relaxed, his dark maile and clothes cutting a sharp figure against the cloudless, sunny day, his dark eyes finding an easy balance between thought and vigilance as he intermittently scans the treeline--cut to Roman standards several measurements out from the road to deprive bandits of a place to hide. There must be a garrison of twenty swordsmen riding along with the entourage, but he keeps tight to the right side of the topped wagon that carries you and your cousin, and just ahead where you can lean your face against the front opening and see him there, watch his hands ease at the reins from time to time, a light breeze tousling his curls. Sometimes he glances back over his shoulder at the wagon. Sometimes his scarred eye finds you watching. Sometimes it causes a little tug at the corner of his mouth before turning back to his job.

The first time you encountered Pero Tovar was in your lord uncle’s hen-yard, where you’d gone to escape for a quiet moment. The civil skirmishes were finally over--the battle outside the fortress walls raging day and night finally coming to an end to allow you to sleep--your baron uncle retaining his lands and protecting its tenant farmers thanks to armies lent from friendly nobles and to wisely-chosen mercenary troops. 

Some of these sellswords were paid handsomely to stay on as padding for the security regimen following the victory, just in case there were any lingering uprisings or assassination attempts. But it had mainly been quiet since. You’d been cooped up behind stone walls too long.

And you’d missed being able to be out under the sky.

That was where he found you, on his lazy rounds, and he leaned against the archway into the hen-yard to watch as you crouched and spread feed for the birds, speaking saucily and out of turn to the niece of the baron and daughter to a baronet. His accented baritone, as you’d remember it later, spiraling slowly into your flesh and making its home there.

“Have all the maids run away that a fine lady must feed the chickens?”

You’d thought to ignore him at first. It wasn’t proper for you to speak to a guard. But your uncle was a good man and folks of all ranks were welcome inside his walls. He did not worry about you or your honor, you’d been living there long enough to show him your judgement was sound. And if he allowed this mercenary to prowl the grounds where his own daughter sometimes walked, then he was a man who could be trusted.

“It’s been a fearsome time around here lately and I find them soothing. I like the sounds they make.”

“Not so fearsome anymore, lady.” Without the obvious geniality in his tone, you might find the statement fascinatingly dangerous.

“No, thanks to you and your compatriots. And you shouldn’t call me that. I don’t hold that title.”

“You are the daughter’s companion? The cousin who is like her sister?”

You spun to give him a more thorough look and let him know he was toeing the line of impertinence. “Who told you that?”

He smirked. Shrugged. “It is a small place. People talk. It is good for a guard to know who lives in the house he watches.”

“Hmm. And what else have you heard?”

He pointed his chin at the chickens. “That you do not mind dirty things.”

It was an odd statement and hung in the air between you. But before you could take it the wrong way, he tsked and cursed himself, realizing he chose the wrong words, and a forgiving laugh bubbled out of your chest. “You mean I grew up in lower circumstances. Yes.” Shaking out your apron of feed and grit, you stood to greet him with a forgiving smile. “You mean I like chickens. Yes. I love them. I understand you, southerner.”

He had blushed deeply and smiled at that. Just enough to show the possibility of dimples under his patchy beard, thankful for the generosity you’d given him in not dangerously misinterpreting his words. That’s when he cut his losses, decided not to continue playing with fire, nodded, and left you to the hens.

But it wasn’t that he was playing with fire.

It was that he had started one.

After that, you’d seen him around the fortress, skulking, intimidating, dark eyes quick to catch movement, never shirking his postings, sizing up anyone who traveled in or out of the gate.

Sometimes he might catch you watching. If you acknowledged it and gave him a nod, you always received one in return. And if you chose not to nod...you still were granted one out of respect.

The maids had a little knowledge about him. That he was surly and rough, that he swore in a language they didn’t understand and bared his teeth at any underling guard that he found slacking at the job. This wasn’t for loyalty to your uncle as much as wanting to make sure the fortress remained unpenetrated so he might get paid. They said he ate like a starving dog and snapped like one too should anyone threaten to clear the table before he was finished eating. But they also said that he had taken down as many soldiers on the field as the next ten best men, and this was the reason he was being paid top price to head the house’s defense.

Some days you haunted the hen-yard, waiting to see if he would come to growl at you. And some days he tucked his head in to ask a question about the birds or warn you to get inside because a storm was rolling in. He did not scowl at you or show his teeth. He smirked and spoke low, the filigree of his southern voice vining into your ears and down through to more vulnerable organs, keeping your embers permanently fed and stoked. And you in turn were honorable to your house, did not encourage but only showed kindness. They were never long encounters, but they thrilled you all the same, kept you in heat and light as the autumn wore on.

And so it went for a month or more.

Some days you did your best to avoid him, afraid to allow yourself to attach too much familiarity, too much growing affection to a man you didn’t know and who was made to fight and kill. He fascinated you, gave you a little forbidden infatuation, but he was beneath your station and he may be done with his service at any time, moving on to more lucrative wars. 

It wasn’t your fault that you were lonely.

As the eighth daughter of a baronet, you had little hopes of marriage--too far down on the rung to attract a suitor of your station, too high-born to be allowed to marry just anyone you chose. And now the days were far enough behind you when you would have been found to be a valuable asset in a marriage alliance, not enough left over for a sizable dowry, not young enough to fetch a bride price. Your best bet for a comfortable and happy life was to live here with your uncle and be the companion for his daughter, much younger than you, but like a little sister in so many ways.

But eventually, she would be betrothed and taken away and you would...well. You tried not to think too hard about that.

Until today. Today you sit in a covered carriage, jumbled and shaken as it rolls slowly along rough roads, some of them cobbled by the Romans in their occupation, some of them hard packed dirt full of tracks that the wheels jump in and out of without warning.

Your young cousin’s head rests in your lap as you try to comfort her--because the road is rough, because her fate has come calling at last, because these are the last days you will spend with her after years of being nearly inseparable.

Yours was a good arrangement for both families. She was the only daughter of your uncle’s family and in want of companionship and in need of an upper class woman to teach her things that it was difficult to come by in this far-flung landgrab. And you would have a higher life here and a purpose, you would be treated as a daughter and not have to answer to any men save your uncle.

That was ten years ago, and now the inevitable was coming to pass. In exchange for protection and the use of armies from a neighboring Lord, your little cousin was being married off into that clan. As was the custom, upon betrothal, she belonged to them. She would live in their house and be taught their ways by the people there before finally marrying the heir in a year or more.

It’s a wedding you will not get to see. After she is installed in her new home, you will most likely be sent back to live with your parents or an older married sister, even if they are strangers now. Your purpose is done, your fate is now to be something of a companionate burden to your family. Not an uncommon story for women like you. 

Your fingers run through her hair and your words weave encouragement through her ears. But  your eyes...your eyes follow Pero Tovar on his horse.

He will guard your wagon here and back again and then, most likely, he too will be gone from your uncle’s house, off to win more battles or run from them, off to earn his coin from whomever will pay for his sword. He will lay with women in sweaty brothels and he will kill men for their purses if they insult him in the street and he will take assignments to assassinate and steal. He belongs in a circle you will never set foot into. He is not for you. He is not a man that you should be watching.

And you are not a woman that he should be glancing at too often, or looking a moment too long at. You are not a woman who should be making his brow soften like that when he does.

__________________

The first night on the road finds you in a baronet’s house and you cannot sleep. Your cousin breathes deeply in the bed beside you, bone-weary from the road’s jostle and slam, but still young enough not to let worry keep her from dreams. 

The sound of men’s hushed voices creep in at the window and you rise, pulling a shawl around your shoulders to look down at the yard below.

He’s there, his maile winking in the moonlight, taking over the watch, sending the sitting guard off to sleep. Your open shutter, your white shift and light-colored shawl catch his eye and he looks up, regards you for a moment, nods and turns his back, putting himself on duty.

The house is quiet and dark as you move down the steep stair ladder and out the door after throwing on your slippers and cloak, letting the near-full moon light your way.

As if he expected you to come, he doesn’t say anything when you step silently up beside him, pulling your cloak around yourself, your breath visible in the chilly night air. He’s simply leaning against the lantern post, and you join him for a long time in watching the trees in the distance as their leaves bob in the breeze, some sailing slowly to the ground. He does not look at you.

“You have come to give me your company, mi sueño? It is cold. You should be keeping your cousin warm.” This is the quietest you have heard his voice. Its rumble prickles your ear, creates a warm well inside you, full of velvet and moss and soft fledgling down. His southern words are unfamiliar to you, but even if you don’t know what they mean, they feel like a beautiful gift. One you have yet to unwrap.

“The cold is coming early this year.”

“Sí. We will be lucky to return before the snow comes.”

You look up to him in dismay. “So soon?”

He simply nods. “But this may be a good thing. It will keep ruffians off the roads. Maybe we will pass without meeting anyone.”

“But we risk getting stuck somewhere.”

His chin pushes up into his bottom lip. He shrugs. “Maybe. Would it be so bad?”

Perhaps he means that he will retain his position longer, have food in his belly for more days or even weeks. But there is a part of you that hopes he wants what you want; just a little more time before you have to say goodbye.

But. Then again. He does not look at you.

“You should go back to bed, mi sueño. The only enemy tonight is the cold. It is something I cannot protect you from and you are standing in it. Go.”

Turning away in the same direction as the twist in your heart, you only stop to ask, “What does that mean? Mee-sway-nyo?”

It is here that you think he may glance back at you, his head rotating just a notch in your direction before halting and turning back. 

“It is just nonsense. An impossible thing. Go before you put yourself in danger, lady.”

It takes ages to fall back to sleep. And you feel as if you may never be warm again.

_______________

The second day on the road there is an attack, a band of men on horseback with swords, remnants of the skirmishes, angry with the outcome, possibly targeting your uncle on his horse ahead. The wagon is brought to a halt and you pull the front shutter closed, throw your arms around your cousin and huddle among the blankets and furs under you.

It is over before you can lead her through two rounds of the Lord’s Prayer, and the wagon lurches along again as if it had all been a nightmare easily washed away by the dawn. When you open the shutter to ask the reinsman who had attacked and how many men were lost, he tells you they were bandits only, short work, only six men felled, and all on the opposing side. 

But as he tells you this, you find that Pero Tovar has fallen back to his usual place just beside and ahead of the carriage, his broadsword over his lap as he rubs it down with a linen rag. The linen, once white, is now stained red.

Your cousin weeps out her fear, still affected, and you soothe her, singing to her softly, some ballad she loves about flowers in a green field.

_______________

This second and final night on the road--this time at the house of an abbot--the night is colder and you stay in bed where it is warm and where it is safe since you’re still a little shaken by the earlier events of the day. You do not see Pero Tovar at his watch but assume he’s there, and as you drift off to sleep, you go easily, comforted by a velvet baritone humming a tune outside the house. There are no words, but you know the ballad well, having sung it so very recently….

_______________

Arriving at the fortress is a joyous affair. Your charge is swept up by the lady of the realm, welcomed and swirled away by half a dozen other ladies to be bathed and beautified in preparation of meeting her future husband. You follow behind, not ready to let her out of your sight, waving to your uncle that you will report back to him later.

The Lord’s castle is bigger than your uncle’s, full of richer and more handsome things. The chairs all seem like thrones with their beautiful scrollwork and cushioning, their beds are on high frames with headboards. The bathtub your cousin is bathed in could fit two people, it’s so large, nothing like the round little tubs you’re used to, where you must keep your knees pulled up to your chin. The place makes your uncle’s house feel like the manor of minor country nobility that it is.

Your wonder is reflected on your cousin’s face. She has made a good match. She will live well here. And if she and her husband like each other even a little, her life will be good. If they do not? At least she will have pretty things and a full belly and a home full of ladies for company.

It pings your heart like an altar bell that from this moment on... you are no longer needed.

As she is bathed and dressed and autumn thistles are woven into her hair, you stand quietly to the side and nod encouragement whenever she glances your way. It is important that she moves forward with confidence. She will be the lady of this realm some day and the sooner she knows without doubt it is her place, the easier she will drive it.

The feast that night is a beautiful affair, hall tables laid with piles of venison and apples, rich, grainy breads and wine with spices, dozens of candles glinting off of silver and gold adornments of the many guests, the luthier skillfully adding lively accompaniment to the room. 

The Lord’s heir is the best kind of men--neither too serious or too merry, one who is wise enough to listen as much as he talks. And when your cousin is presented to him, he smiles kindly and asks her to sit beside him at the head table, turning his attention to her and engaging her conversation. She in turn relaxes as the evening goes on, feeling herself fall into place beside him. 

Thank God in his Heavens. The match will be good.

This is why you seek the quiet of the courtyard to cry. It wouldn’t do to show anything but happiness in the banquet hall and you’ll want to spend what little time you have left with your oldest friend in happiness and well wishes. Get it out now, hide your selfish heart in the dark corner of the cold night. 

“What will you do now, lady?’

A shadow looms under the same arch you’re hiding in. It’s far enough from the torches at the gate and stair that you can only make out the sharp nose and chin, but even so, the bronze glow of his voice and the wide plains of his shoulders give him away, and in a strange kind of poetry, somehow a killer is exactly what is needed to stop your tears.

It takes a long time to answer. He waits.

“I don’t know. I suppose I will be sent back to my father’s house. Or one of my sisters will take me.”

“Back to your chickens, then.”

From anyone else, this might seem like a slight, like a reminder that you have had a high life and will be knocked back into your rightful place. But from Pero Tovar, you know it means that if the worst happens, at least there will be one thing for you to be thankful about.

Your laugh is wet, dragged through your recent tears. “I hope so.”

“Mmm. Is this your only hope?”

Here in the darkness he asks you this. A quiet question. One that reaches in deep. Other men might take a different advantage in the dark like this, might want to see parts of you that should remain hidden. Pero Tovar asks to see inside your heart.

“What do you mean?”

A long inhale, a gathering of thoughts. “What would you want waiting for you, hm? If you could not live a life in your uncle’s house? You dream of nothing but chickens? Or maybe somewhere with flowers and streams?”

“I guess I hadn’t thought too much about it. My father’s land has sheep. They’re gentle animals. I know how to card and loom and weave. Their milk makes beautiful cheeses.”

“They smell like shit.”

You scoff at his vulgarity. “They smell like sheep.”

He grunts and crosses his arms, settling back into the arch. “What else.”

Thank God for the darkness that hides the smile of your bold appreciation as he seeks to distract you from your sorrow and help you find some things to be thankful for.

“I suppose I’ll have to help with the vegetable gardens…”

“You like this?” Incredulous.

“I did once. I suppose I will again.”

“The fine lady does not mind working with her hands.”

A loud swell of laughter rolls out from the windows of the banquet hall.

“No, I suppose I don’t.”

“What else.”

And so you tell him about your father’s estate, how it is simple but quiet, that you remember the sounds of birds and a little brook. His tenant farmers were lazy and willful, but this is the case across many lands, although it caused him to lose revenue in taxes and forced the family to work the land and raise their own food when they could. Pero steers you back to the positive and hums in contentment when you remember fishing in the stream in the summer and sleeping on a straw mattress by the fire in the winter. Your father’s house isn’t much bigger than those of his peasant tenants, but it was still comfortable and clean and pleasant.

With a dull pang you realize that you are talking to a man that will have to sleep in cold barracks and go long periods between meals much of his life. That if you do go back to your father you will have all the milk and cheese you desire while he may live on root stews and stale bread for years on end. 

And yet, he doesn’t make you feel guilty for this. He asks quietly, sincerely, as if he really wants to know what makes you happy.

And here in the shadows, you don’t have to see his scowling face to know that he’s listening.

There’s raised voices at the gate, two guards taking advantage of the lord’s generosity on this betrothal night have had too much of the spiced wine and seem to be getting into a tussle.

“Come, lady. You need to go back to the hall. I cannot let you sit in the dark. It is not safe.”

Following him through the arch and out into the yard, you gently and mockingly remind him, “Not a lady, my lord.”

He turns, fierce, his features clearer in the light of the torches. “You have been raised like one. You live like one. Even with your chickens and sheep, you are fine and high-born. Title, no title, it does not matter.” Then he turns and bears down with authority at the guards, leaving you to climb the stairs alone, nothing to lean on but your confusion. Something in Pero Tovar is compelled to remind you that you occupy a class higher than himself, that you are a lady to him, even if to nobody else. He means to remind you of your place.

Or maybe, you think, to remember his own.

________________

The weeks spent at the lord’s estate are full of new discovery for your cousin, but are slow for you, as the ladies of the house slowly wean her away from you. There’s quite a lot of property to walk around, the walls of the fortress are all topped with walkways that get you out in the open air, welcome even if the days are shorter and colder now.

At one point you find yourself staring out over the fields at a flock of sheep in the distance, watching the blots of their ivory forms graze lazily against the olive fields and greying skies, their coats thickening for the coming winter. It seems cruel to be going back to your father’s house in the coldest season. You’ve become accustomed to private fireplaces and ample furs. To walls with more fortitude against the wind and a cousin to provide the warmth of a shared bed. If you could arrive in the spring, you could acclimate, you could get outside in the fields and the trees. Winter will be cold. And slow. And lonely.

A clearing of a throat. A simple, “Lady.” You turn to find Pero Tovar at a little distance along the wall, waiting with a nod and then a tilt of the head, gesturing for you to follow.

Has he been sent to fetch you? Does your uncle need to speak with you? Is your cousin alright? You shouldn’t have left her this morning, her bleeding time was aching her. Perhaps you are being called to prepare to leave? It will have to be any day now to beat the snows. A hundred small worries and more parade through your mind as you follow the mercenary to the nearest tower, down the spiral stairs, through the courtyard and a narrow passage to come to a stop at his back when he leads you to…

Chickens.

He’s found the hen-yard.

Confusion, relief, deep internal amusement all war to hold a place in your eyes as you look to him with a silent question.

He only scowls slightly when he says, “It is warmer here, mi sueño. You seemed unhappy up there. Maybe this is better,” before he returns down the passage and back to the watch.

________________

On the final evening before you’re to be parted, your cousin walks with you over the walls of the fortress as the sun kisses the horizon and the clouds ache in pale crimsons and pewters. You speak of memories. She tells you secrets. You make her assure you that she is happy on the road to her new life and all that’s here for her. You steer the conversation away from your own future whenever she wonders and promise her you’re meant to meet again. You almost believe it.

She’s already changed so much in these many weeks, wrapped up in her wolfpelt cloak with her hair piled up upon her head, already becoming the lady of the house in waiting, already so far beyond you, making it not easy but easier to let go.

A snowflake falls onto her beautiful nose and brings you both to quiet as it melts.

You can see the sellsword out of the corner of your eye, walking toward you from the nearby tower, but slowing to a stop a distance away when a tear slips down your cousin’s cheek and you gently take her hand. This moment, this space, he gives you.

“You, my dear, are about to live a life that is worthy of you,” you tell her through your brave smile. “You will always be cared for. You will be loved and cherished and remembered by those who are with you and those who are not.”

Pero Tovar hears this and turns away. He gives your embrace and her tears their privacy.

But when the snowflakes begin to fall not only on noses, but on heads and shoulders, he must breach the moment. “The dark is coming. Your family will murder me if I let you stand outside in the snow.”

Your cousin, already gaining in nobility, thanks him. Thanks him for this reminder, for his service to her father, for helping to deliver her here safely.

And his brow settles heavy as he bows his head to her, accepting this praise. “The honor is mine, lady. May your days be happy. Rest well, dulces sueños.”

She smiles. Charmed. Asks him what the words mean.

“Sweet dreams, my lady.”

Sueños. Dreams. 

Mi sueño. My…dream. 

When his sable eyes meet yours–yours that widen in realization–regret comes swiftly. He’s slipped and you’ve uncovered his secret, and his scar digs in as he scowls heavily, turning away to escort you inside.

Once there, he does not look to you again, simply leaves to the stables to help oversee the preparations for tomorrow’s journey.

The cold snap requires all the hearths in the castle to be lit. To stave off the bitter chill. To keep out the coming winter. To mitigate the ache.

But you find that yours is a waste. Even alone in your bed that night, you burn.

________________

The snow didn’t accumulate, but there’s a slick frost over much of the ground, and Pero Tovar keeps his horse to the brush off the side of the roads to give her hooves more purchase. Not that you’d be able to watch him. It’s cold enough now that you keep the wagon’s shutter closed, swaddling yourself under the furs to keep your lone body warm. 

That night at the home of the abbot, you huddle in your bed, praying for the snow to come, to keep you here a while longer, anything to waylay a goodbye. But your prayers go unheard. 

Or perhaps are misinterpreted. 

Snow is not what sways your course.

The attack happens late on the second day, quickly, violently; they must have been informed of your route.

Someone must have killed the reinsman because the horses bray and take off, the wagon swimming and bouncing before you’re thrown toward its ceiling when it tips too far and slams one side to the ground.

You’re too dazed to understand that someone must have shot a flaming arrow at the wagon. You can feel the heat before the top of the carriage begins to warp and redden, fire eating through from the outside. The shutter is unmovable, held closed by its now unsquared frame, and soon the carriage is filled with more smoke than air.

_______________

The first time Pero Tovar touches you, it is rough and bruising, as he drags you from the burning wagon and throws you over a wide shoulder. As he rushes between trees and lowers you down, his hand under your head until it reaches the forest floor, leaves you hidden near a fallen log, covered in his cloak. He will return once the attackers are cleared. Overtaken by smoke, you do not have to experience any of this.

As far as you know, the first time Pero Tovar touches you, it is with a hot hand on your cold face, with a calloused thumb skating over your cheekbone, it is an arm cradling your shivering body against his own as he employs the support of that low baritone to persuade you to “open your eyes, the night is coming. I’ll wait for you to come back to me, but you must do this, you must open your eyes.”

The world you return to is cold, but your eyes and throat burn. “Where–?” you manage to croak, but the rest of the question is lost to coughing and the gathering of air.

“That is good enough, lady. You need to stand. Come.”

Still in a haze, somehow you find yourself jostled, lifted, sat atop a horse. You find yourself surrounded by Pero Tovar, your body and head covered as he pulls his cloak around you both, tenting you in to keep you both warm in the fading light and the falling snow. 

He rides hard. He braces his arms around you harder. It is a rude coming-around, but the gallop pushes you faster into consciousness than you might have done otherwise.

“My uncle–”

“Survived, as much as I know,” his words come gritted, forced in puffs by the violent rhythm of the ride. “An ambush. Your uncle was protected by the garrison. I fell back with some to fight, to give them a chance to flee.”

“It’s so cold.”

“The snow is here. I will find us shelter. You must stay awake.” He gives you a rough shake. “If you sleep you may die. And then I will be cold and I will die. You understand, eh? I beg you not to let me die.”

It is his churlish way of motivating you to fight. To try.

“Sing to me, lady.”

You answer him in coughing. “I can’t.”

He shakes you again. “You will. If you must cough, you will cough. But otherwise, you will sing.”

It’s an impossible task, but you understand its purpose. Stay awake. Show to me you are still awake.

The first song is about a miller and the swans on his lake. It comes in gasps and wheezes. The second song is a little easier, this one about an archer who wagers his life for the hand of a lady, but when it is time to shoot the target, he opts to kill a hidden assassin instead, saving his love and sending him to the chopping block. But it takes a while to get through its many verses, and you must be pushed along by your rescuer’s gentle jostling. 

By the end, you’re so tired and taking too long to choose the next one that he shakes you again. “The ballad. The flowers in the green field. Sing it.”

You try. You are slightly delirious, still mumbling through the inner verses when the horse comes to a halt, when you feel yourself slid off the saddle and into broad arms, when the snow stops falling on your face and you hear his voice asking for a room, hear coins dropping into hands, feel yourself spilled onto a rough pallet. Only when you no longer feel him against you, do you stop singing.

Movement. Noise. A southern voice growling orders. A coal stand being moved in. Water splashing into a basin. Chainmail dropping to the floor. 

Then, quiet.

And warm hands bringing you around again.

The room is hardly more than a space big enough for the small pallet you lay on. The only heat and light is given off by the coal stand and its glowing embers.

In the dim little room, Pero Tovar urges you to sit up. Helps to gently wash the soot and dirt from your face and hands. You look down at your dress to find that a large panel on the side is gone, burned away. “Forgive me, lady,” he speaks as gentle fingers fold back the edges and ghost over your thigh, skimming down the outside of your bare leg to the top of your stocking. If the first time he touched you was to rouse you lovingly out of danger, then this will forever be the second time he touches you, in a way the world would not forgive if you had not just been pulled from death, but promises no threat other than the greatest, most tender care. “Does this hurt?”

The skin is sore, but not broken or painful. You shake your head, but the heat trapped within tells him enough and he wets a cloth, pressing it to the skin that must be red and rashed from proximity to the flames, instructing you to hold it there. As he continues to clean your face, moving to your neck, you reach up to make the job easier, to pull the hair aside…and find that much of it is gone.

This stops you. And then him. Your hand shakes with the examination of what the fire has stolen from you. After everything that has happened today, this is what brings you to tears.

It starts as a series of shuttered gasps but soon bleeds into a pitiful keen, leaking out into the dark room, soaked up quickly by a broad shoulder as arms pull you in. A hand cradles your head, urging you to gather your tears in his shirt, to feed your cries into the meat of his chest as his voice rumbles back out through it to tell you that this is nothing. You are alive and unharmed and this is what is important. As a man with a scar, he tells you this. That you are perfect.

Nothing is as it was a day ago. 

A day ago it would have been scandalous to be weeping in the dark pressed against the sellsword. To be held while you mourn. To allow him to touch you and care for you. To be quiet behind closed doors with him.

A day ago it would have been ruinous. But tonight it is the greatest comfort Heaven could provide. Terrible circumstances have brought you here, and yet, this is the easiest place to be.

The maids once said that Pero Tovar was not a patient man, that he growls and pounds his fist and demands things quickly. But now he waits for you to stop shaking–from tears, from cold, from fear. He gives you his shoulder and heat and protection until you find calm.

As soon as the tears are spent, a wave of fatigue and heaviness rushes in. “My God. My God, I’m so tired.”

Taking your weight and cradling you backward, he settles you more fully onto the pallet, smoothing a rough hand over your forehead, pulling away strands of your burned and tear-soaked hair. “You are safe here. Now you can sleep.” He moves the coal stand closer to you, pulls the basin out of your way. Finding himself a patch of wall, he sits and props himself against it in the dark. “I will be here. Sleep. Tomorrow we will ride fast. Maybe we can catch up to your uncle’s party.”

You are about to tell him he doesn’t have to keep watch here, that he can go to his own bed. But a realization slips over you. The small room. The thin pallet. The bad weather. This is most likely all that was available here, the last room kept for the most desperate, all others snapped up by wayfarers seeking shelter from the snow, the only bed and he is letting you have it.

He is not keeping watch. He is protecting virtue.

But nothing is as it was a day ago. 

And a day from now, all may be back to how it was. This night is a time out of time.

“Pero Tovar,” you whisper.

A questioning grunt comes out of the darkness.

“Come back to bed, please.”

It’s impossible to tell his expression, only that he is still, so still. Perhaps he has stopped breathing.

“Lady. Command anything else. This I cannot do.”

It is hard to place your hands on this feeling. You have already wept and have no more tears. It isn’t disappointment or sadness, not guilt, not frustration. In this context you can only guess that it is hope. Not the bright light that hope usually brings, but the feeling it leaves as it fades, as if it has been standing behind you all this time and you turned too late to see it go, too late to ask it to stay and bask in its glow.

“Anything else?”

“Anything, mi– lady.”

Another choice then. “Tell me. Tell me why you have called me your ‘dream’.”

Another stillness, this one with a pained sigh. “Please. Not this. Anything else.”

He has been kind to you. Saved your life. There’s no need to torture him. 

It is plain that he loves you.

It is plain that you love him.

That must be enough, and you roll over to leave him in peace.

Silence, nothing but the sound of the icy snow hitting the shutters.

A slow inhale of breath. A frustrated growl as his selfish side wins a battle, as he gives into the part of him that wants for your happiness. Soon enough he is sliding into bed beside you, pulling your face into his neck and your arm over his side, crushing you into himself with no other intent than keeping you warm.

Somewhere, in the middle of a snowstorm, in a poor little room lit by the glow of warm embers, Pero Tovar holds you. He holds you as you have secretly wished so many times to be held by him.

And it is with this surrender, that he makes his confession.

“A dream,” he breathes into your hair, taking his time, putting words to secrets he has barely been hiding, “is a pretty thing I cannot keep. It is someone who I cannot stop watching. It is a way to put down a sword and walk away from fighting. It is to come home to a wife who likes to keep chickens and sheep, who likes to pull up growing things from the ground and fish from the stream. It is a bed filled with a soft woman who is filled with me.”

Oh. 

This. This is his heart. And you are in it.

To be lusted after, to be loved, that had been the depth of your expectations. 

But to be wanted? To be kept? To fill his days and years with you? 

You had no idea how rich his dream had been, how sweet.

If only–

Yes.

You try to keep your voice even, squeeze your eyes shut and hold the reins on your wild heart. “This isn’t impossible. If you want that life....you could have it.”

The pain rolls out of him in a pitiful whimper. “Yes, this life, it is not hard to choose. But before you, how did I know? I only liked to see you. To dream of you as my own. It was harmless. Until the fucking chickens. Then I could imagine you this new way, not in a castle, but in a life I could make for you. Now the dream is harmful. The life is easy. But why would I want this with anyone else? No. You. That is the dream. An impossible thing.”

“Pero Tovar,” you whisper, “you're not listening. You could have it. If you truly want me, you could have it.”

“Lady. The laws. Your birthright–”

Your hands find their way to his jaw, holding his attention, begging him to truly hear you.

“There was a lady you knew, the daughter of a baronet, who died tragically. Her party was attacked and her wagon set on fire and she burned to ash within it.” His breath stops. His spine rigid. His fingers clenching just slightly at your back. The snow pelts harder outside, your heartbeat harder within. “And there was a mercenary I knew, a great man who stayed back and sacrificed himself to let his lord escape, who was outnumbered and overrun and he fought bravely and well, but his body was never found.” Suddenly his breath returns, fast and hard and full of hitches, his fingers gripping so hard they will bruise, and you let him pull you closer still, as if there is any space left between you. “And there is probably a little town leagues and leagues from here and a happy couple with a sword rusting above their door and she spins wool and he hunts and traps or perhaps works a mill or is a blacksmith’s journeyman–”

“Lady–!””

“--you could have it. You could. I could have it too, just say the word, just–”

But your mouth is silenced with his. This is… Perhaps you consider it the third time Pero Tovar touches you. 

And this time he does not stop.

When he catches his breath again it is almost morning, and light is starting to filter in through the shutters. You have had no sleep, but you have nowhere to be, nothing to return to, nothing to do today but sleep and wake and stay tucked in, in more ways than one, over and over. It is here in this bed that your life has begun, thanks to bandits and chickens and the freezing snow.

Pero Tovar whispers promises and pretty threats, he handles you preciously, a prize hard-won and therefore treasured. Quiet oaths are shared, heard only by you and him and Heaven above. He asks you to pick a direction and tomorrow you will ride.

South. You choose south. Wonderful things come from the south.

“You, my dear, are about to live a life that is worthy of you,” he echoes your own words as he pulls the blankets around your glowing and bedded body, breathing something that is both a vow to his new wife and an elegy to the high-born woman who is no more. “You will always be cared for. You will be loved and cherished and remembered by those who are with you and those who are not.”

________________

It’s not unusual for your husband to be gone a couple days at a time while he follows a herd of deer or checks his traps along the river. There’s a broadsword hanging above the door, although you’re much handier with the lighter saber, your footwork impeccable, taught by a master swordsman himself. So it’s not so much that you’re nervous being alone but that you miss the company on these days.

The chickens are good for conversation though, their gentle clucks and coos given freely as you scatter feed, they lean into your hand when you press pets into their backs. If you sit down with them, one will eventually clamber up into your skirts, wiggle her butt and settle in, making herself into a pool of feathers in your lap.

“You are the mercenary’s wife? The runaway lady who gave up her title for chickens?”

You crane your head back to give him a more thorough look and let him know he is toeing the line of impertinence. “Who told you that?”

He smirks. Shrugs. “It is good for a hunter to know who lives in the house he keeps.”

“Hmm. And what else have you heard?”

He points his chin at the hens. “That you do not mind dirty things.”

Gently nudging the bird in your lap to get her up and bouncing away, you rise to greet your husband come home, needing a bath after a night in the woods. “If you’re speaking of the chickens, yes, I love them.” Laying a slow kiss upon his bearded face, just below the guiding point of his scar, you take in the hum of his satisfaction, let your lips ride the swell of his smiling cheek. “But I understand you, southerner. And no, I do not mind dirty things. They often house the sweetest dreams. Come inside and I will show you how much I do not mind.”

_________________

MASTERLIST

[shine-of-aldhani]

WARNING, spoilers Ep10 ahead

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I thought something horrendous happened, and then watched the episode and? It? Was? Sad, yes. Uncomfortable to watch? Yup. Realistic and messy and unpleasant depiction of varying degrees of animalistic rage from people suddenly put through the grinder? Absolutely.

Rhaenys: they are coming for you and your children. You should maybe abandon Dragonstone at once.

Rhaenyra: goes into labor right there.

Daemon: checks garrison, organises outlook posts, mentions that they are undermanned and how they should at least attempt to appear strong, sends a dragon skywards in fear enemy dragons might come, thinks to check the loyalty of the Kingsguard. Listens to her cries, all the while doing his stuff. When all is done, comes to Rhaenyra (it's too late). Grieves. Is with her at the funeral. Crowns her.

People panicking left and right: He didn't SuPporT hEr.

No. He didn't. He secured their castle on the very real assumption that they could be attacked any moment. That's a realistic depiction of what would normally happen in such a situation and a realistic depiction of Daemon in particular. He would see securing the castle as way more useful than being emotionally supportive of his wife. Come on.

The council: gathers

Rhaenyra: talks.

Daemon: is literally vibrating in his skin... yet still waiting for her to ask every pertinent question before giving her the answer.

Panicked viewers: He Was UnDerMinIng Her.

No? He was doing his damned best? His best isn't very good, but that is a known fact? I truly loved the first meeting? He was acting like a teacher's pet dying to be questioned and to show how ready he is? Like a hound tearing at the leash? Like she asked about the state of their garrison and he started answering before the question ended, talking at a speed we've never seen from him before? But he waited for her command each time? Like, what did you realistically expect, Daemon being calm and reasonable?

Otto: exists.

Daemon: is mouthy and Dark Sister happy.

Rhaenyra: tell him to stand down.

Daemon: stands down.

People: He WaS UndErmInIng Her.

My sisters in Seven, this man has no self control at the best of times. Here, he's convinced these people killed Viserys. He has hated Otto his entire life. He has just cremated his daughter. His brother's throne has been usurped and he's fully expecting to be attacked at any moment. And Rhaenyra looks at a fucking book page and starts to forget what she'd spent 20 years pursuing and preparing for. It's a fucking miracle Otto is still alive.

Second council: gathers.

Rhaenyra: wants to maybe accept terms.

Daemon: unravels.

OK, I'm with y'all here, this is absolutely bad and the entire scene just was bad per se. Now, the entire episode was leading to him screwing up under pressure, it was a given because it was always going to be too much of an offence from people he hated too much, and not being allowed to act the way he wanted because he's suddenly answerable to the Queen was never going to be without consequence. Rhaenyra said right in the beginning that he'd go mad, and she knew him best. She actually sent Jace after him because she expected Daemon to start the war without her (didn't happen). It's hardly a commentary on their relationship, more of a "multiple brave attempts at bottling the rage were made, but ultimately, in the face of escalating stakes and piling up tragedies, were unsuccessful". That said, the entire scene was kind of badly thought out. I'd sooner believe Daemon would openly defy Rhaenyra's orders than him kinda sorta threaten her but not really and then leave?

Anyway...

Show: makes a point to have Rhaenys scold Corlys for abandoning her, remind him that they're both hurting. Hmmm... Something something parallels something.

Rhaenyra: actually goes on to plan a war? Thank you 14 flames of Valyria, because just accepting the terms and sending her sons to be "wards" (read: prisoners) of her enemies would be a wildly stupid decision. Is shown to be too naive, sadly. Reminding the Baratheons of their oath wasn't the power move she expected it to be.

Daemon: makes himself useful? In the only way he knows how? In the middle of the mess? With everything collapsing and war unfolding? 2/10 you screwed up and aren't out of the doghouse by a long shot but a small attempt was made to shield Rhaenyra from the rest of the council and to just be at her side? OK maybe 2/10 is generous, 1.5/10 is more like it.

TLDR: my expectations of this man were realistic (read: low where violence and high emotional pressure are concerned) and there was always going to be a fuckup from him somewhere. It's the thing about burning - Sometimes It Actually Burns. Daemon and Rhaenyra aren't a lovey dovey couple, they are two fucking dragons that are being caged and threatened with spikes. There will be blood.

[tommyxgrace-always]

how do you think grace would have reacted to duke?

Hello friend,

My sincere apologies for picking up this ask so late. I am bad with Asks and have piled up quite a few. I see this one has stayed in the queue for longest, I hope you find the response satisfactory.

If Grace was still around, here’s what I think it would be…

Tommy and Grace would have been married 11 yrs by the time they find out Duke exists. The love and bond they shared would have only grown stronger and more solid as the years passed while they raise their children. 2 or probably 3. (I like to think 3- a blond girl and another boy after Charlie).

Tommy’s business side will be mostly similar to what we see in the series, a wealthy politician with legitimate businesses. Of course he will have some proportion of “dark” side because lets be honest, its Tommy, it won’t be realistic to completely get out and Grace would have made her peace with that because she understands as long as it is to an acceptable degree. His family life would be completely different than the series. To start with he would be staying home enjoying domestic life with a wife and children for whom he is emotionally present because he is genuinely a content person with Grace around (instead of always being away and disconnected like in s6)

I wanted to establish his state of mind and family dynamic with Grace before I can fairly answer the question.

So when Duke shows up, Tommy would sit Grace down in private and tell her the news and how he found out before they head out to tell the rest of the family in the family meeting.

After initial surprise, I think her spy instincts would kick in and she would ask Tommy how authentic that claim is, if he confirms that it is true she would accept this fact. She is practical and knows its Tommy’s past, something unexpected for him too.

I do not see any conflict or argument or sadness or resentment because Grace is secure in who she is and her marriage with Tommy, the confidence in the core bond they share. So there wont be any petty reactions or jealousy or cribbing. She would be curious to see and know more about Duke but she wouldn’t create any drama in the Garrison or make faces like lizzie does. To give context, in s6, we see lizzie cribbing and being petty about duke during family meeting which makes sense for her because she lost her daughter who was the only emotional connection she had with Tommy, she was unhappy in the marriage because he never treated her like a real partner so her reaction came from a place of insecurity and sadness. Tommy never really belonged to her and now there is another son he brought who will as good as replace her daughter. Nothing is in her favour as always!!

Coming back to Grace, I think the only thing she would want assurance of is this boy should not be a threat to her children’s safety and inheritance which ofcourse would be on Tommy’s mind too. She trusts Tommy to make the right decisions and keep her in loop where required because its about the children and she is very much capable of protecting them as he is.

Lastly, I don’t think either Tommy or Grace would even think about bringing Duke to Arrow house.. just like we saw in s6, he will be made to work in his organisation but he still stays on his own (he seems like an adult anyway) and will have to earn his place in the family and business.

[nobodysdaydreams]

gonna be honest I think I just made the honorary degrees thing up#I. honestly don't remember. if this was canon or not#I didn't think it was??? did they make this canon and I forgot???#someone help I'm losing it#I mean we know it's The Truth but. did the mbs show writers know that#maybe it's just an 'honorary degrees unless proven otherwise' thing??#show me the TRANSCRIPTS nathaniel!

@mvshortcut

It’s implied that they are honorary. He says it to Nicholas in season 2 when he says the awards, praise, honorary doctorates, and cash tributes mean nothing compare to the compliments Nicholas gives him while influenced by his (Garrison’s) happiness.

the funny thing about nathaniel as the show version of mr curtain is he’s. nowhere near as smart at least when it comes to machinery

he didn’t come up with any of the inventions himself

as far as we know he only has honorary degrees

he had to (very poorly) pretend to understand the science behind the improvement and what it entailed

i know we’ve heard of some of his other achievements but nothing i’ve seen shows me he’s a genius in the same way. though his people skills are certainly much better

[sergeantnex]

Krolia x Child!Reader: Mama (Fluff)

.:.:.Krolia's POV.:.:.

Kolivan and I were walking together in the halls of the garrison talking of how we could reach out to any surviving Galra. With the war over many of the survivors got Earth's transmission telling them that Earth was offering shelter and various forms of help. It was nice to see our survivors settling in, accepting help, and some even starting families. It was like a reminder that things were peaceful now.

"Kolivan! Krolia!" A males voice echoed from the hall as he quickly made his way to us.

"What's the matter?" I asked looking towards the male I had seen him in the med bay but I never learned his name.

"Just could you come with me?" He asked lightly panting. Kolivan and I look to each other but nodded nonetheless. We learned the man's name was Isaac and he worked as a doctor for the garrison. As we approached our destination standing in front of a room window was Keith but he was holding someone. Keith turned to look at us slowly, his left hand rubbing the little back of a small kit. His right arm was supporting the kit as she clung to him desperately. I gave a soft smile before lightly touching the little things back causing a small surprised hiccuping yelp.

"Alright so do you want to explain what's going on here?" Kolivan asked his tone clearly giving the order. Isaac took a breath before looking towards to small child.

"The little girl and her mother arrived a few days ago both were injured. The mother was much worse than her daughter. We learned that the little girls name is (Y/n) and she is only 3 in human years. (Y/n)'s hands have second degree burns, her feet are covered in scraps and raw from being forced to run for so long, on top of her being weak from malnourished and the lack of hydration. But like I said her mother is much worse, so bad in fact that we are afraid she won't make it." Isaac explained gesturing to the room.

We looked in through the window and it was not something I would wish on anyone. It hurt seeing Keith hooked up to a few monitors but this poor woman had so many actually hooked up to her that I feared for the child in my son's arms. Her little feet were wrapped just like her hands that gripped Keith's Blade uniform. Both needed new bandages and probably needed to be cleaned properly.

"I was curious if it was alright for you guys to watch over (Y/n) since she won't let go of Keith. We tried taking her from him but she held on to his uniform and gave a yelping cry than started screaming. I think it's safe to say she likes him plus we don't know a whole lot about Galran kids." Isaac said with a soft smile as he looked towards my son who gave a slight huff. Keith rolled his eyes at the doctor before shifting (Y/n) making her give sleepy whines of protest. The poor girl was trying to fall asleep but from the way her ears were rested back told me she was to scared to. As I lightly began rubbing the kit's leg for comfort I heard Kolivan tell the doctor that he would proudly take her into his care.

After we made it to our living quarters Keith moved to sit on the couch with (Y/n) tightly holding on to him. I moved to my room to get our first aid kit, the poor kit is going to need new bandages. When I stepped out of my room I looked to Kolivan who sat near Keith lightly rubbing the kit's back.

"Why did you agree to take care of her?" Keith asked Kolivan as I lightly unwrapped her foot and began cleaning it. She whimpered and whined due to the cleaning agents burning.

"A few reasons actually. Kits need the care and love of an adult even if it isn't their parent, but injured kits are even more tricky than uninjured kits. When they are injured they are less likely to trust and cling to someone, fear of being alone or abandoned, versus when they are in perfect health." Kolivan explained as he moved to help me by cleaning her other foot.

"She chose you out of everyone around her. She clings to you as if you are her father, and the fact she trust you so much already isn't something to be taken lightly. You and Krolia are the only ones I have left, I don't want this little one to feel as though she has no one left." Kolivan said lightly rubbing (Y/n)'s back causing her to give a soft chirp.

After we finished cleaning her wounds, she relaxed a little as we all talked. Kolivan quietly got up and went to his room, he came out shortly after with a fluffy red blanket. Kolivan lightly placed it over (Y/n) and Keith making sure both were warm as well as feeling safe. (Y/n) yawned with a squeak and nuzzled further into Keith, her (e/c) eyes drifting shut.

"She feels so small.." Keith mumbled softly letting the kit to snuggle him. I gave a soft nod before standing to go get what we would need to care for her. Kolivan set up the spare room to let the kit have a room if anything is to happen with her mother.

.:.:.Kolivan's POV.:.:.

Once I finished the Kit's room I directed Keith to sit in the room with her so she could get a feel for the room. I sat down in the lounge looking through my data pad for information on various ages of kit to share with Keith. Krolia would do just fine with (Y/n) since she had her motherly instincts to guide her. It wasn't long before Krolia returned with the many items we would need for our new little Blade. After putting most up she came to sit with me on the sofa. She told me that the doctor said he would keep us up to date on the mother's health but it doesn't look like she would improve.

As night approached (Y/n) curiously explored her room crawling anywhere she could. Krolia made attempts to teach her to walk but she would stumble due to her injured feet. I began teaching Keith about young galra and their development. (Y/n) appeared full galra but we could be wrong since we don't have all her data. If she is full blooded than her development would be much faster than that of a human child. Even half breeds were known to grow up like full bloods. The little Blade chirped and mewled every once and a while calling out to us. Krolia told her son that there were chances the kitling imprinted on him but that could change.

"Imprinted?" Keith questioned looking towards his mother.

"Meaning she views you as a parent figure, that may change after a while but even if it does she would still cling to you like she does." Krolia explained before lightly grooming Keith, making him protest before giving up. Looking towards the kit I saw she was watching Krolia from Keith, chuckling I gave a chirping call to her. Her ears shifting up at the call, her little voice squeaking a call back. (Y/n) than began mewling to Krolia asking for her attention, which Krolia gladly gave.

Krolia got up and walked over to the little blade who now held her hands out. Krolia lifted her up before coming to sit back on the couch, shifting the kit in her hands. (Y/n) gave a trill when she felt Krolia begin to groom her, while Krolia kept up with the care I continued to teach Keith about kits. A mewl cut me off mid sentence, I immediately got up to prepare the kit's milk.

"What was that?" Keith asked glancing to at me before lightly rubbing the kit's cheek.

"A mewl. The sound can be used to convey hunger and thirst, the need to void, and the need for physical contact. So while Kolivan has never had a kit of his own, our instincts help guide us through what the call may mean. Speaking of which I'm going to make sure she doesn't have to go to the bathroom first." Krolia called out as she made her way to the kit's room.

It wasn't too long before they both returned to the couch where I offered to bottle to the kit. It took a moment for (Y/n) to understand that the bottle was food before happily taking to bottle. The kit quickly began eating much to fast for my liking, I lightly removed the nipple of the bottle from her mouth. A loud mewling whine echoed around us making Keith flinch at the loudness. After a few seconds I returned the nipple back to her, she took it and ate at a much slower rate. Krolia only laughed before placing to kit completely in my arms. Krolia looked at her data pad for a moment before looking to me, her eyes conveying what I was about to ask. Her mother didn't make it.

As I glanced down at the kit her yellow eyes were drifting shut as she continued to eat, though she was almost done. I rumbled to the kit softly which she returned with her own little purr. Once she finished the rest of the milk I gave her to Krolia. Krolia rumbled to her lightly grooming her to help her relax, Keith gently took a hold of (Y/n)'s little hand in his own. It wasn't long before the small kit fell asleep purring softly. Sighing softly I knew this would be a challenge to pull off but the kits' health is far more important than paperwork. I gathered the kits' newly favorite blue blanket that was fluffy and soft. It was something Krolia bought because it came with a soft and squishy plush.

"Her mother didn't make it, so she'll be in our care from now on." Krolia lightly spoke watching the (Y/n) hold on to Keith's fingers. I lightly began covering the her small frame with her blue blanket.

"Kolivan will you hold her while I clean up?" Krolia now asked softly shifting her. Nodding I sat down and gently took (Y/n) from Krolia's arms. I continued teaching Keith about kits and their way of things that change as they get older.

"Wait so how do kits scent things if their scent glands haven't fully formed?" Keith questioned tilting his head slightly.

"Kits as young as her will urinate when they feel completely safe, for you humans it is called an accident but for Galra it is the young scenting their surroundings. They will do this usually during sleep or when they are overly stressed. And it doesn't matter if it is an item or a person." I said with a chuckle when I saw Keith's shocked look.

He seemed to think about this and I could tell that there were some points where he wanted to say or ask something but didn't. Keith seemed to understand what I meant seeing as he finally said he understood. There were still many things he needed to learn and understand but it take some time and with a kit being around, hopefully he'll learn faster.

"You used to do the same thing Keith. You'd wait until your father would change to go though!" Krolia said now laughing at the memory of Keith scenting things. Keith flushed and looked away, I was about to speak but froze at the warm against my stomach. The scent of pee was faint but still noticeable.

"I'll get you a towel." Krolia said with a smile as she left. Keith stared for a minute before seeming the go into his thoughts.

"You have questions I know you do." I said rumbling to the kit ensuring that she was safe with me.

.:.:.Krolia's POV.:.:.

"Isn't it uncomfortable when they pee on you?" Keith questioned Kolivan as I stepped back in to the room. Kolivan chuckled slightly before nodding.

"It's never comfortable, you know the sudden warmth and the knowledge that it is urine of course. But it's just her way of expressing she feels welcome and safe, that's why I'm not to bothered by it." He explained while helping me place a towel under her so he could go get cleaned. Smiling I sat with her lightly humming to her smaller form. Keith smiled and moved to sit beside us, his hand reaching to lightly rub her ear. I leaned over and nuzzles Keith, I felt so proud of him. Keith may not realize yet but this kit felt safe with him from the very start. I feel she would've scented him if it were for her surroundings causing her such discomfort.

As Kolivan came back out dressed in casual clothes like I was, he lightly held the kits hand. It was getting late but even when Kolivan and Keith headed off to bed I stayed lightly grooming (Y/n). She lightly stirred before she began searching for a nip to feed. Smiling I got up to prepare her a bottle, giving her my finger to suckle on in the meantime. Her bright yellow eyes meet my own, as she blinked awake her little face broke out into a smile. Her little hands reaching for me, I smiled and gently took her hand in my own. She gave a soft purr nuzzling into me as much as she could before she looked at me again.

"Mama!" (Y/n) called with a little chirp. I froze and stared at her before I heard a deep rumble. Looking up I saw Kolivan waking over, gently he took her and nuzzles her.

"That's right kit, we're a family." He said as he rubbed my shoulder.

"Are you okay Krolia?" He asked the kit now entertained with his braid.

"S-she called me Mama.." I said still stunned that the kit had done so. I thought she imprinted on Keith but if she did then why did she call me that? Kolivan chuckled touching his forehead to my own though he quickly moved to finish fixing her bottle.

"Perhaps she feels that motherly instinct of yours. You and I both know she will see us as her parents since we will be raising her." He said watching as she ate slower than when she first got the bottle. I smiled nuzzling the kit as she ate in Kolivan's arms, the only thing I could think was that everything would be okay.

[closhelby]

HER. - Thomas Shelby

Smut

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warning: it’s peaky blinders, with smut

Word Count: 2472

AN: this is my first time writing smut, please give me any tips pls, it’s appreciate. It’s probably shite.

::::::

She always was on his mind. The woman, that always read between the lines, always two steps ahead of him, and had an incredible eye for business. She had left him years prior, leaving for a top business school in London. they never had a title, a label on their relationship, but it wasn’t exactly a secret that they always, somehow, gravitated back to one another. Often people, especially Polly, would say that there was no way two people would be so alike, strong headed but only rarely clashed. 

However y/n’s degree had finished and she was coming back to Small Heath for a period of time before she was going to figure out what exactly what she wanted to do. Y/n was actually great friends with the Shelby family, since growing up with them, living just down the road, they practically lived together. Y/n was actually younger than Tommy, she was ages with Ada and John. They were in the same class throughout school, Ada and y/n regularly wrote to each other, updating each other on Ada’s eventful life as a Shelby still in Small Heath and y/n’s very exciting studying life in London. 

They had actually planned to meet up, for a nice and quiet drink at the Garrison on her return. The thoughts swirled in y/n’s mind as she approached the Garrison, it had just gone 6pm, and she knew as it was a Friday, she did have a possibly of bumping into her first, arguably her only love.  Pushing the thoughts to the back of her head, she pushed open the door to see a fairly crowded Garrison. 

“Ah, y/n, how was London?” Harry shouted, from behind the bar. Y/n smiled at him, walking over to Ada sitting in the back corner. “It was good Harry, nice to be back in this clear Birmingham air”. He chuckled slightly, “Whiskey coming up love”. 

Y/n nodded, taking a seat next to Ada, giving her a cuddle, “Unsure if ive missed this place or not” y/n laughed slightly, eyes scanning the pub, looking for the one man she questioned if she did want to bump into. The pair was throwing back drinks like it was going out of fashion, knowing they would both regret this in the morning. Apparently, Ada wasn't allowing y/n to go back home, and in fact y/n didn't have a home yet and wasn't willing to go back to her parents, so Ada was insisting that she stayed at hers until y/n found a suitable place. Y/n didnt put up a fight, despite them both being hot heads, and taking absolutely no shit from anyone, men or woman, y/n didn't argue. She was actually really thankful for her. 

They eventually stumbled into the house in the early hours of the morning, their laughs echoing throughout the silent house. 

::::

The sun caught y/n directly in the eyes, quickly awoke y/n from her sleep. Her head felt as though someone had been hitting her head against the floor multiple times. Y/n continued to lay there, turning away from the sun, trying to keep the contents of her stomach from getting sprayed all over her and the sleeping Ada. She made an attempt at moving, sat with her head in her hands as she was trying to give herself words of encouragement to get up and make herself something to eat. 

“Fuck sake, why do we do this to ourselves?” Ada moaned from behind her. Y/n scoffed, “ Your bloody idea”.

Quickly standing up, in hope she could get it over with quickly. The room continuing to spin, as she attempted to walk to the door. Ada following closely behind. 

They both sat slumped over the dining room table, as they attempted to sober up and embrace the oncoming hangover. John now present, laughing at the two dying woman in front of him. 

“Good night?”

“Always.” Ada grumbled.

Pol placed a plate in front of them, toast with jam, “Does Tommy know your back? 

Eyes falling onto y/n from every person in their, “No.” answering quietly. 

Attempting to change the subject, “Told myself I would start looking for a new job today, since I shall be staying here for a decent period of time.”

John raised his eyebrow, “Tommy’s looking for a new secretary.” A slight smile on his face, “You've got a good background, business and that”.

“hm, I don't think so Johny boy”.    

“Don’t say no too soon, your a good asset to the business.” Pol added. No one was ever in y/n’s corner more than Pol, they would bang heads sometimes, as neither of them would back down. But she accepted y/n was the only one that had the best interest for Tommy.

The front door closed, and there he stood, the room turning to face Tommy, silence filling the room, then he broke it, “Heard you were back.”

“Yeah,” she replied quietly.

“Well, you know where I am if you need that job, I’m sure you’ve already been told,” he spoke, cigarette hanging from his mouth, as he walked away from them and into his office.

Y/n let out a breath, as though she hadn’t been breathing the whole time he was there. Ada smiled at her, placing her hand onto y/n’s, “I’m just going to get ready for the day love,” and off she went upstairs. The boys getting on with their day, and Pol following suit.

Y/n sat collecting her thoughts while trying to tell herself to face her ex lover, who she was still so deeply in love with. She tapped on the door slightly, opening it before opening it, “hi”, seeing his eyes flutter onto her shot tingles throughout her body, his eyes quickly looking away

“You can start tomorrow if you wish, I need a few papers signed and sent tomorrow. I can get your contract drawn up tonight.” He spoke, his eyes still not lifting from the paper in front of him.

“Yes, that’s fine 8am?”

“8.45, shop doesn’t open until 9. And there are others to set it up, that’s not your job.”

Nodding, “I heard you have a new woman.”

At this point he did look up at her, “I heard you had plenty men in London,”

She laughed slightly, nodding before heading to the door, “none were ever a patch on you,” closing the door, leaving a smirk on Thomas Shelbys face.

The following day came around, as y/n got ready for the day. Putting on a formal black tightly fitted dress, flats and pin curled hair. A slight tint of red lippy, remembering it used to be Tom’s favourite. Assuming Tommy wouldn’t be at the shop at this time, she took a whiskey with her placing it on the desk infront of Tommy’s office. The place was silent, despite there being other employees now starting to arrive, something calming about the place, almost the calm before the storm, she thought.

The hour was now around ten thirty, and there was still no sign of Tommy. She had already finished the papers he had left for her on her desk. It wasn’t the usual small Heath lady, she was educated, and to a very high level. y/n was sat twiddling her thumbs, awaiting Tommy’s arrival to get other things done.

“Y/n. My office please,” his voice low, as he stood behind her. She stood up quickly, following him into the private room.

“There’s your contract, if you wish to have a read over it. I see you’ve finished the work I gave given you for the day.”

Y/n took the contract into her hands, scanning for any mistakes or anything to question. But he actually was paying her nearly double the rate of other staff, and just over that the London rate was, “you’ve done your research eh. More than London rates, impressive. The peaky’s are stepping up in the world” Y/n smiled at him, as she placed the documents on the desk, picking up his pen, and signing it. Y/n Y/l/n. Followed with today’s date. That was now it, she was a Shelby Co Ltd employee.

...

The days turned into weeks, spending time with tommy while no one else was looking was becoming a regular thing. She now had her own place, just doors down from the shop. He would regularly call her into the office, and discuss things that he would usually never utter a word about. It had always been that way with them, since they were little, he would confine in her, telling her all the issue and problems he was facing, both in his mind and with others. But it was also coming to her attention that he was still seeing Grace.

Later on in the day, the clock chimes 11pm, as y/n sat listening to the music that takes her back to a child, while sipping a whiskey. The knock of her front door bringing her out of her daydream, she picked up her handgun that she kept on her at all times. Growing up with The Shelby’s, she had to protect herself in someway. She kept it behind her, out of view for anyone who was in front of her, slowly creeping up to answer the door. She swung it open, gun clocked and pointed directly in the face of Thomas Shelby. Not wasted, but defiantly had a few.

“Ah, can never change a Shelby girl eh” He spoke, laughing slightly as she lowered the gun and he stepped inside. 

“Although, I’ve never been a Shelby girl, have I Tom?”

“Depends who you ask.”

She sighed, stepping in to the fire lit living room, “Drink?”

He nodded in response, and y/n began to pour him a whiskey, topping up hers and handing a full glass over to him. “Why are you here?”

He stepped over to her, the closest they had been together since before she left for London. He placed a hand on her back, pulling her head into touch his, their foreheads touching. The sensation ran through her body like the first time they had ever touched. He placed his hand on around the back of her neck, pulling her into him, his lips crashing onto hers. Their tongues intertwining with each others as the kiss started to deepen.  Y/n reached for his jacket, pulling it off his back, before making her way on to unbuttoning his shirt. Tommy pulled the bottom of her nightdress up, y/n only allowing the kiss to be broken to allow it to come over her head. 

Their lips syncing with each other once again as tommy took his now unbuttoned shirt off, moving onto unbuckling his trousers revealing his already hard length. He began to push her back onto the couch, untangling her lace thongs from around her legs. His fingers trailing over her already wet pussy, “Do it” y/n whispered as she pulled his face back up to kiss hers. 

He didn't even wait as he shoved his length into her. Their bodies rocked in sync together, “Tommy...” Y/n moaned, her fingers trailing down his shirtless torso. The stars were starting to align, the room was warm, full of love. It felt as though it was five minutes but in reality it was around fifteen all in.

Their breath shortened as y/n’s back started to arch as she came close to climax, “cum for me”. He spoke, looking at her directly in the eyes as he rocked her world. The love, chemistry, love and lust, all so very present just as it was back how they were before. Both of them moaning in pleasure, as they both came at the same time. The deep breaths and steamy windows showing the passion that had just unfolded. 

::::::::::::::::::::

It was a Friday evening, a week following the night of sin that taken place between Tommy and Y/n. They had still had the talks in private in the office, and on another occasion she was fucked bent over his desk after closing time. Y/n wasn't one to hide her feelings, it would always be present on her face so when it came to facing Grace in the Garrison, it wasn't hard to tell how y/n’s feelings were over her.  

Pol chuckled softly, clocking the glare Grace was on the opposite end of, “If looks could kill” Ada joining in on the hilarity. 

“She would've been killed 8 times over” Y/n replied, turning back to face the women. Whiskey in hand. 

“Feelings still there for him then?” Ada asked. 

“No, I wouldnt say so” y/n lied. 

“Cant lie to a gypsy woman love” Pol laughed, y/n begining to laugh with her when the doors open to reveal Tommy and his two bothers. Tommy’s icy blue eyes scanning the room, a slight smile shooting over to Y/n before approching the bar where Grace was, where he stood there for a good twenty minutes chatting away to her. 

“I cant take this anymore.” y/n looked over to Ada, who was rising her eyebrow while taking a sip of her drink. She was fairly close to them, and y/n being y/n liked to have a slight stir up now and again. She stood up, smile showing on her face as Pol and Ada laughed, watching her approach them both. 

“So, hows your little fling going?” she spok loud enough that Pol, Ada, Arthur and John could hear her. 

“Y/n” Tommy warned. 

“Who are you?” Grace questioned. 

“Y/N,” she responded, leaning herself against the bar, “The woman he has fucked behind your back multiple times this week.”

Pol snorted, almost chocking on her drink, “ I fucking knew it. Gypsy senses never lie.” 

“To be honest with you Grace, you had absolutely no chance when Y/N came back” Ada added. 

At this point, Tommy had moved y/n away from the bar, into the small room, “what are you doing?”

“You cant take the piss out of me, fucking me but then fucking her thinking youll get away with it.” she was pissed, and he could see it in her face. They had never spoke on their feelings toward each other. Everyone knew that it was always each other but there was nothing that compared to them, they always seemed to go back.

“I have always loved you but you left to go to London, I had people follow you. I knew what you were up to so I assumed you would stay down there, I assumed you had moved on.” He spoke, almost showing vulnerability.

“Oh I know. I can remember faces Tom. I think you forget I can see right through you,” she seethed, through her teeth, “what are you going to do about this?”

Tommy cupped her face, pulling her into kiss her.

“I love you.” He mumbled, feeling her smile into their kiss.

“I love you Tom,”

[ashleyswrittenwords]

Common Thieves

Short WIP of rewritten scenes from a certain Disney movie and adding Zelda because I’m an adult so, no, you can’t stop me. 

I sat on this one for too long... time to let it out into the pasture.

Common Thieves

A trio of carriages rolled passed a sign reading: “East Necluda”. Underneath the letters were etched markings that indicated three miles before the region border.  The entourage of soldiers accompanying them lit up the night around them.

The trail hadn’t been maintained in several years, a testament to the rural inhabitants and the reputation the road had built in the recent months. Still, the party pushed onward steadily – even as the sun slowly abandoned them. Lines of guards walked along with the first carriage with a several mules hauling oversized trunks.

Days of traveling brought a silence over the men and ripped any urge to paint their boredom with banter. Other the occasional curt direction to the work animals, the only noises either came from their marching or the muffled conversation in the vehicles they surrounded.

“Does it look like I am a mere peasant?” a vibrant hiss came through the first caravan – it was decorated with Gerudo drapes of rich color, shimmering even in the darkness.

Inside, the weary looking fellow with his helmet resting on his hip flinched as the hisser sneered.

“Of course not, Your Highness,” he spoke fast, “I only mean to inform His Highness that we passed the last town two hours ago and in order for His Highness to rest it would entail putting up camp.”

“Putting up camp?!” the larger of the men reared back. His gold-laced fingers gripped the chair. “Absolutely not. I will not be treated like some poor panhandler on the side of the road. We will ride through the night.”

The guard paused for a short moment, shrinking at the gaze he received before bowing his head. “At your word, My Lord.”

Another man, skinnier than the lot, appeared beside the superior and stared with the wide eyes of admonishment. His words were spoken quick and high-pitched, “Do you have any idea who you are addressing?”

“I-” the guard looked between the two with uncertainty.

“Why, the Royal Advisor Ganondorf Dragmire. ‘Lordship’ doesn’t shine a match to the nature of his reputation!” he gasped and held his book of notes closely while making grandiose gestures. Loose papers fluttered to the caravan floor. “He has proved himself to be above such title! Illustrious is he, respectable is he, most honorable – absolutely, and not to forget how handsome is he--”

The royal advisor patted his acquaintance on the shoulder with more force than necessary and smiled chivalrously. “Never mind that, sergeant. We will ride through the night.”

The sergeant cleared his throat, “Yes, Your… Highness.”

As he exited the moving carriage, the flaps closed behind him and through them had commenced a series of muffled arguments that had become the norm during marches.

Another armor-clad man reared his horse beside the sergeant with another horse in tow.

“Well? What does he want to do?”

The sergeant scratched his red beard and let out the sigh that was building in his chest, then took his horse’s reigns with short words of thanks. 

His partner raised his brow, “That bad, huh?”

“Gods, I don’t want to hear it Kriss. Inform the lads that we we’re riding straight to Hateno.”

When he spoke, he tried to copy the intimidating scowl of the royal advisor but his compatriot still grumbled with annoyance as he twisted his horse in the opposite direction.

Their travels matched the demeanor of wartimes, and though they technically were, this party wasn’t avoiding frequent rests for the sake of catching the enemy and nor was their pacing any faster with the amount of luggage they hauled. It was well known through the garrison that this was the equivalence to a royal tour and it should be treated as such – yet no one spoke it above a whisper.

“Sir!”

It was a younger man, barely out of boyhood. He was scraggly, even his stance was uneven when he drew his heels together for a salute. The boy faltered in the process as his ill-fitting armor rattled from the movements. The sergeant withheld an eye-roll, lazing over his saddle to give the kid a forlorn look.

“What is it, Short-Stack?”

“There’s a traveler coming towards us,” he swallowed nervously, gesturing vaguely ahead. “What should we do?”

Momentarily, he looked up at the partially starry sky and sighed once more. “Well, does he look like he’s armed? Dangerous at any degree? Use common sense, son. The last time it was another fur trader.”

Short-Stack fiddled with his gloves and spoke with varying degrees of confidence. “Um, no sir. Sir, it appears to be a woman and-and we haven’t encountered one and I was wondering what the procedures were and--”

“A woman?” the sergeant blinked, promptly ignoring anything more the boy had to say.

His eyes flickered to the dulling sky and motioned his horse to approach the head of the party. As he did, the snickering of those walking ahead abruptly ended. About one-hundred yards away was a cloaked woman, so unmistakably feminine that the sergeant had to do a double take.

Her approach only emphasized what they say from far away. Though she was dressed modestly, it was obvious to any man that she was well-endowed. In her hands was a glowing, recently lit lantern that swayed playfully with her hips.

“Hello, boys!” she called out, giggling afterward and pulled her cloak closer to herself.

The men around the sergeant whispered excitedly and he gave a hard stare to them before straightening in his saddle and trotting in front of the group because, after all, he was the sergeant. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that this woman-traveler couldn’t be in some state of concern.

She paused as he approached and blinked owlishly up at him.

“Madam,” he said, dipping his head slightly, “It’s getting rather late, can I ask what you’re doing out at such a time?”

The woman made a noise of surprise and looked over her shoulder as if the sun had snuck passed her. “Oh dear…” she pouted, “I knew I should have left earlier. Why, I was hoping to reach the next inn by sundown!”

“The next inn is two hours minimum on foot,” he recounted with astonishment. Then, pretended to think. “It just happens, my lady, that I am the leader of this particular garrison.”

She gaped, “Is that so? That’s most impressive, sir! Whose company are you escorting this fine evening?”

A smile crept up his face and he nodded smugly. “The Royal Advisor and a few members of His Majesty’s court.”

“Is that right?” she nodded, coming to terms with his words. “I suppose I must be on my way, then. I wouldn’t dare impose on His Lordship.”

A shout of outrage sounded behind the sergeant and he stiffened at the realization of his mistake.

The royal advisor had a distinct voice that shouted without needing to raise his voice. His assistant clambering out of the stopped carriage with much difficulty. Before the opening closed, Dragmire voiced his complaints without abandon.

“Sergeant! Ghirahim, I want his head or it will be yours, by the gods--” The rest of his sentence was muffled as the thin man left him.

The one named Ghirahim hurried to slick back his white hair and scrambled to the front of the carriage. He first gave the horses a wary look before turning his attention to what was impeding them. With a fit of outrage bubbling, he stopped himself mid-word to address the woman.

“And just who are you?” Ghirahim seethed. She went to explain only to be interrupted by his flailing hands. “Actually, you are irrelevant. No matter of concern to the given issue at foot. Sergeant-!”

Then, the woman gasped.

“Is that not the royal advisor to His Majesty?” she covered her mouth daintily, looking past Ghirahim.

The sergeant nearly jumped out of his saddle at the sudden presence of the man, who seemed set on a fit of rage and decidedly settling to a curious indifference at his impediment. The woman pushed by Ghirahim and gave a small curtsy.

The royal advisor didn’t look at the sergeant when he addressed him. “Who is this?”

“A woman, Your Highness.”

He scowled heavily in his direction, “I know that. I meant who she is!”

“Franny, My Lord!” she spoke with excitement, ignoring the assistant’s gawking expression. Franny dipped into a curtsy. “It is quite the honor to be in your esteemed presence Lord Ganondorf. You’re held in such high favor around these parts, as I’m sure you know.”

Ghirahim attempted to cut through while maintaining a concentrated glare. “How dare you grace His Highness with your impertinence!”

The advisor smiled, not taking his eyes off the woman. “Am I now? It is unsurprising, however I do enjoy hearing it from your lips.”

“Sir,” Franny giggled, “If I’m not being too impertinent. Between you and I, I am in the business of telling one’s future. You see, I know now that this must be of the goddess’s divine will to have us meet!”

The assistant blanched. “Absolutely not! Your Highness, I beseech you to ignore this wickedness.”

“You will beseech me to do none of the sort,” Ganondorf dropped his grin momentarily to wave away the smaller man. “Do forgive this man’s ignorance. I must admit, you have me captivated.”

Again, she laughed and took his awaiting arm. Before the advisor led her away, she pushed her lantern into the assistance chest without another thought of his boiling anger. Ghirahim huffed and moved to follow them with his tail between his legs.

“Sergeant,” he bidded coldly.

The trio disappeared into the caravan and immediately the officer frowned.

Something was off, surely.

“Sergeant?” a dainty voice called out. His attention was immediate. An unmistakable face stared back at him with a quizzical brow. “Why have we stopped?”

“A short reprieve, Lady Zelda,” he smiled, nodding her way. The lady was halfway down her caravan’s steps when she called to him. Her kindness was appreciated and the sergeant wasn’t about to anger her by blubbering that they were held up because of His Lordship.

She hesitated outside her caravan, opting to watch the stars instead of retiring once more. The sergeant took a moment to watch her idle; she was a beautiful, youthful, and owning every bit of the curiosity that came with those traits. Her father was right to keep an eye on her, he thought to himself.

Some minutes went by and the men began snickering when noises began coming from the royal advisor’s carriage. Disgusted, the sergeant ordered them away while suddenly realizing the promiscuity that may have been outlining that woman’s proposition.

But the noises grew louder that even he couldn’t keep his eyes off the vehicle’s abhorrent jostling and reprimanded the few that stayed behind it. After all, he wasn’t entirely foolish – who knows what the advisor would do if rumors were milled around.

A few more minutes and – wait wasn’t the assistant in there as well?

“Guards!” a shrill voice screamed.

From behind the caravan ran a rather large form. It spooked the sergeant’s horse and from there all hell broke loose. The officer could hardly gather his bearings. The men around him stared with wide eyes at the carriages and then back to the sergeant with dumb idle.

“Gods, damn it all – GUARDS!”

Blearily, the officer began shouting orders and like ants the men were clambering into the wagon. The driver hurried to calm the horses amongst the scurry, especially when several men in armor ran into the forest. The sergeant dismounted quickly to find the royal advisor and his assistant bound by their feet and hands, left only in their underclothes.

“Don’t look!” Ganondorf screamed as Ghirahim blubbered incoherently on his side. “Do not look at me!”

The sergeant stood aghast. The cabin was scraped clean – from the gold trim of the windows to the velvet pillows – all had been taken. Most egregiously, the trunks of Akkala long coats had been taken as well and were being mourned over in low sniffling.

“We’ve been,” Ghirahim sobbed through short breathes before continuing, “We’ve been robbed! Robbed! Your Highness!”

“Shut up and stop crying, you imbecile!”

The rest of the evening hours were the longest the sergeant had ever lived through. The woman, who had evidently turned out to be a man, was far gone by the time patrols began. It was also said he was accompanied by a Goron with the strength of eight men, but he hadn’t believed it until the wanted posters were found when they arrived in Hateno.

The illustrations were pinned throughout town on every surface the royal guard could find at the insistence of the royal advisor. Those blue eyes were unmistakable from that night, though the green cap had been absent, and the scowling Goron bandit beside him matched up with his men’s description perfectly.

That had been the royal advisor’s first encounter with the renowned outlaw Link Woods.