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hrina · 4 years

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1923, Pt. II - The Week

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 8.4k REQUESTED: perhaps? idek anymore

hey yall, here’s PART 2 of the historical/groundskeeper!AU :) i really hope u guys like it, i spent the past two weeks trying to make it the best that i could. anywayyyy im sure everyone knows the drill by now: support content creators by reblogging their work and/or offering feedback! happy reading 💚💚💚

warning: parts of this fic will contain mature language and nsfw content. if it makes you uncomfortable, you absolutely do not have to read! take care of urselves <3

PART I: The Day

~*~

July 7th, 1923

It’s hot.

You set your glass of water back onto the little table to your left. Excess condensation coats your fingertips; you wipe them against your forehead, hoping that it will be enough to cool you down. No such luck—the droplets provide a momentarily chill before sinking into your skin, leaving you feeling just as scorched as before.

You recline against the cushy yellow lounger, closing your eyes and tilting your face up to the sky. The sun beats down against your cheeks. The thin, cottony material of your dress is pasted to your thighs; you flex your legs slightly, hoping that the fabric will unstick.

In the distance, Apollo and Artemis—no longer confined to their pens—roam around the small, girded pasture adjacent to the stables. The fountain in the middle of the back lawn is about one hundred feet away. Skinny streams of water shoot out from the stone hands of a carved angel, spilling picturesquely into the upwelling below.

You crack one eye open slowly, letting your focus drift over to where Harry is crouched on the cobbled staircase of the porch. Sweat glistens on the nape of his neck as he furiously scrubs the steps clean.

Your thoughts retreat to the night before, when he’d kissed the back of your hand whilst standing in that very same spot. As though triggered by the memory, your knuckles begin to tingle.

Harry sits back on his haunches and drags his forearm across his face, wiping away the excess perspiration on his skin. His white shirt is soaked through with moisture. When he lifts his attention from the ground, your gazes lock for a brief moment. Immediately, your open eye snaps shut.

And you can’t be entirely sure, but you think that he may have smiled.

You lay in silence for another five minutes or so, indulging in the occasional sip of water as the heat of the summer envelopes your body. You only sit up when someone clears their throat from behind you, pulling you from your tranquil daze.

“Good afternoon,” Martin says. He’s standing a bit too close for comfort, casting a looming shadow over your torso.

“Hello,” you reply. You try to mask the disappointment that threatens to seep into your tone. A small part of you—a tiny, microscopic part—had been hoping that he was someone else.

“Thought you could use something to drink,” he says, plopping onto the recliner to your right. Your attention falls lower—two glasses are nestled comfortably in his hands. The caramel-coloured liquid inside each cup glints alluringly, sloshing over a trio of ice cubes that have already begun to melt.

“Is that…scotch?” you say, narrowing your eyes slightly.

“Yes,” he says. He extends an arm, offering you one of the glasses. “Fancy a taste?”

“I’ve had it before,” you say smoothly, shaking your head. “Truthfully, it’s not my favourite. Besides—” You gesture to the little table on your left. There’s still a bit of water residing in your cup. “—I already have a drink.”

Martin’s face falls.

“Thank you, though,” you add, not wanting to sound rude. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

That seems to bolster him a bit, you think, because his shoulders straighten as he shoots you a satisfied smile.

You clear your throat, gazing pointedly up at the sky. “Where’s Andrew?”

“Hmm? Oh.” Martin taps one foot against the floor. He’s wearing a pair of shiny black loafers—they’re new, you guess, and extremely expensive. “He’s in the middle of a call. Private business pertaining to Markham Motors, I believe. It doesn’t concern me—not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet,” you echo.

He chuckles, nodding proudly. “Your brother is remarkably ambitious. Once our two companies merge, I reckon that we’ll be unstoppable.”

“How exciting,” you murmur, reaching over for your water. You raise the cup to your mouth, expelling a soft sigh. “You must be thrilled, I’d imagine.”

“All in a day’s work,” he grunts, setting one glass of scotch down onto the ground. He lifts the other to his lips, taking a delicate sip.

You sit there awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. Martin’s eyes roam the wide expanse of your backyard, jumping from the stables to the fountain and back again. He pauses, then, humming pensively when he spots Harry polishing the stairs less than fifteen feet away.

“It’s a bit…unconventional to be dining with the help, is it not?” he asks, cocking one eyebrow nonchalantly.

You stiffen and glance over your shoulder—Harry is on all fours, scowling as he scrubs a particularly stubborn stain from the bottom step. His chestnut hair tumbles onto his forehead, twisted into pretty ringlets. A spark of heat blazes up your spine.

You turn your attention back to Martin, only to find that he’s also watching the other man work. It’s different, however—his look is judgmental, austere. His thin upper lip curls in disdain and his eyebrows cinch together, radiating condescension.

“We are…” You choose your words carefully. “…a rather unconventional family. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose so,” he acquiesces, tilting his head to the side. “But does it not distress you, somewhat? Inviting them into your home, making yourself and your possessions vulnerable?”

Something gross festers in the pit of your stomach. You bite back the sound of disgust that threatens to spill from your mouth.

“No,” you state curtly. “Not at all.”

Silence falls over the two of you, thick and poignant and tremendously uncomfortable. After a long, tense moment, you sit up, dusting off the skirt of your dress and releasing a faint groan. “I think I’ll be heading in, now.”

“As will I,” Martin replies, jumping to pursue you.

You stand, clutching your glass of water in one hand. He quickly reaches out with extended fingers, trying to take it from you. Though chivalrous, the action is weak, and you both know it.

“Here, let me—”

“No, it’s quite alright—,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I insist—”

“Mister Russell, really, it’s fine—”

The cup, slick with condensation, slips from your grasp and shatters loudly against the floor. You gasp when a jagged shard slices against your ankle. Pain flares up your shin; abruptly, you fall back onto the lounger. You angle your leg to the side, surveying the damage with wide eyes. The cut is about an inch long; blood drips from the injury, seeping down toward the sole of your bare foot. Bile gathers on your tongue.

“Good God!” Martin exclaims unhelpfully. “You’re bleeding!”

“I can see that,” you snap, bending down and pressing your fingertips against the laceration.

Heavy footsteps approach. When you cast a glance over your shoulder, you find Harry stalking toward you, his eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment.

“What happened?” he asks, but when you hold up one hand, he freezes in his tracks.

“Be careful!” you warn, your voice strained. “There’s glass everywhere.”

“What happened?” he repeats. His gaze lands on Martin, and his nostrils flare unnervingly. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” the other man protests, retreating a few steps away. “It just fell!”

“Go back inside,” Harry commands. “Check all the lavatories—there may be spare bandages in one of the cupboards.”

Martin frowns—you get the feeling that he’s not exactly used to being ordered around. “Now, you listen here—”

“Mister Russell!” you interrupt shrilly, fixing him with a stern glare. “Do as he says. Please.”

Martin closes his mouth and purses his lips, nodding tersely. He nearly trips over himself as he stumbles back into the house.

“He’s useless,” you mutter, bloody fingers slipping against your skin.

Harry doesn’t reply; instead, he situates himself on the opposite edge of the recliner, beckoning you closer with a quick flick of his hand.

“Face this way,” he instructs. “There’s no glass on this side.”

You obey him wordlessly. He gets you settled back into the chair, guiding your right leg over his thigh so that your foot lays comfortably in his lap. With no hesitation whatsoever, he grasps the white fabric covering the jut of his shoulder and gives a mighty tug. The sleeve rips cleanly at the seam. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head.

“We’ll use this,” Harry says, pulling the material down to his wrist. “Just until he returns with proper bindings.”

“Alright,” you whisper. It takes every ounce of willpower in your body to avoid staring at his naked arm—golden, sweat-slicked skin stretched over smooth, corded muscle. A frighteningly large part of you wants to lean forward and sink your teeth into his bicep. You swiftly curb the urge, swallowing heavily and trying to focus your attention on something—anything—else.

“How did this happen?” Harry asks.

He balls the fabric up and dabs cautiously at the blood dripping from your wound.

“He was—well, I don’t even know, really,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “He was trying to be gallant, I suppose.”

“‘Gallant’?” he parrots, gazing down at your leg. “He fancies you, then?”

“Yes.” You pause, rethinking your answer. “No.” You sigh. “Perhaps; I’m not sure.”

He smirks. Despite the pain pulsating up your leg, you wiggle your toes and nudge him with your knee.

“What’s so amusing?” you ask, puzzled.

He simply chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s just that…you’re a bit oblivious, that’s all.”

And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, you balk and say, “I beg your pardon?”

Harry laughs. Gingerly, he wraps his torn sleeve around your ankle, applying a gentle pressure to your skin. You wince, curling your fingers into fists. His hands—though rough and calloused—are surprisingly tender with their movements. He’s slow and practiced, treating you as though you’re made of porcelain. Your heartbeat quickens; you hope that he can’t hear the way it thunders beneath your ribs.

“You’re rather clueless when it comes to gauging a man’s affections for you,” he explains. He makes it sound as though it’s a phenomenon of which you should already be aware.

You narrow your eyes and purse your lips.

“Tread carefully,” you tell him, though you can’t hide the sardonic undertone in your voice. “You’re wading through dangerous waters, here.”

“What I mean to say is—” Harry clears his throat, shrugging coolly. “—since yesterday’s arrival, that fool’s chattering hasn’t ceased. Building oneself up with words…that’s the sign of a boy aiming to impress a girl.”

“You don’t sound too keen on that method,” you note.

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Excellent observation. I am not.”

“And why is that?” you ask, cocking one eyebrow challengingly. “How exactly would you attempt to make your affections known?”

Harry places one of his palms on the skin just below your knee. You jump at the contact, shocked by his brazen move. Having his hands on your ankle is one thing—but your knee? It’s risky, bold, nearly scandalous…and with the way he’s looking at you, it’s clear that he knows it, too.

“Building oneself up with words is a boy’s game,” he tells you. “But building oneself up with actions…that’s the sign of a man aiming to impress a woman. It may be a bit unconventional, but—” He pins you with a deliberate stare. “I work for a rather unconventional family. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You say nothing. Harry’s green eyes pierce your face, peeling you open layer by layer. You’ve stopped breathing, your chest completely still. Goosebumps erupt across your arms. Instinctively, your concentration falls to his lips: twin pink petals, sinful and alluring and so incredibly—

“I’ve got the bandages!”

And just like that, the spell is broken. You drag your gaze away from the man in front of you, turning to the side and watching as Martin jogs back over with a thick spool of gauze clutched tightly to his chest.

“Here,” he pants. He passes the roll to Harry, who clears his throat loudly and begins to unwind the bindings with swift, proficient fingers.

Martin then fixes his attention on you, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

“Are you alright?” he asks, shooting you an expectant look.

“Fine,” you croak out, though the blood roaring in your ears sincerely begs to differ.

You blink yourself out of your stupor, running your tongue over the roof of your mouth and exhaling shakily. Harry has turned back to your ankle, replacing the makeshift bandages with proper ones. You glance up at Martin and nod your head, praying that he can’t see the flustered agitation brewing in your eyes.

“Yes, Mister Russell, I’m fine. Thank you.”

July 9th, 1923

The library is your favourite room in the house.

It’s quiet, peaceful, and is accompanied only by the rarest of disturbances. Lydia’s never really enjoyed reading—she can’t sit still long enough to do so. Andrew hasn’t stepped past the threshold in years—he’s been too busy running Markham Motors. So, that just leaves you, along with the freedom to choose from the hundreds of books lining the shelves. You’ve dabbled in fiction and non-fiction alike, soaking up the words from the page just as the ground soaks up rain from a storm.

The library has become your safe haven. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You trod over to your favourite spot to read: a small alcove in the wall, decked out with fluffy cushions and tucked right up against a wide window. It gives you a perfect view of the driveway and the front lawn down below. You’ve spent hours in this little nook, absorbed in novels and poems and biographies. You’ve passed entire nights curled up next to the windowpane, having dozed off in the middle of a story. It’s become a tradition of sorts, despite the dull ache in your neck that always ensues when you stir the next morning.

The book in your hands is heavy as you sink into the mess of pillows. Bright, natural light streams in from the window to your left. You release a soft sigh as your fingers flip to where you’d last left off during your previous visit.

She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me—

You scoff and roll your eyes. You’ve read this story a dozen times; you already know how it ends.

For the next twenty minutes, nothing matters save for the adventures of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. You allow yourself to get lost in the world of Pride and Prejudice, eyes hungrily raking over every printed detail. You’re only pulled out of your reverie when a shrill, jubilant cry pierces through the silence.

Instinctively, your head snaps toward the direction of the noise. Through the spotless windowpane, you spy Harry and Lydia standing on the lawn. Harry is holding a brown hose, angling it downward and watering the grass beneath his feet. Your sister is next to him, babbling and gesturing animatedly with her hands. You smile at the sight.

You slip your thumb between the pages of the book to mark your place. The novel is forgotten as you study the scene playing out below.

Harry is wearing an ashen blue button-up and a pair of black trousers. A thin white undershirt peeks out from beneath his collar. He smirks at something that Lydia says, ducking his head and trying to conceal the fond expression on his face. She throws her hands up in the air and twirls around—when she staggers slightly, Harry holds out his arm. Her fingers dig into his elbow to regain balance, and the two of them dissolve into giggles. Warmth unfurls in your chest.

Harry tilts his head back, surveying the cloudless sky with squinted eyes and a wrinkled nose. His attention turns to the house, then, sweeping absentmindedly over the fair bricks and stone accents.

Suddenly, his gaze darts forward. You freeze when his green irises lock squarely on you.

Hot humiliation creeps up your neck, because of course. Staring at him and remaining undetected is a luxury that few can afford.

Your lips part with a soft gasp, and your shoulders stiffen. The corners of Harry’s mouth curl up slightly—so faint, you think it may just be a figment of your imagination. The gilded copy of Pride and Prejudice rests in your lap, abandoned. It mocks you and your preoccupation—your fascination—with the man on the ground.

Harry shoots you a small, mysterious smile, and lifts his chin. You sit up straight, processing his request.

“I shouldn’t—,” you start to say before remembering that he can’t actually hear you. You clench your jaw and shake your head, hoping that he’ll be able to register the movement through the glass.

But his teasing expression only deepens as he beckons you again. A ragged exhale falls from your lips, and a tepid swell of adrenaline floods your veins. You snap your book shut, tucking it against your chest and pushing yourself away from the window. You swear that your heart skips a beat when your feet hit the floor.

Don’t rush, don’t rush, don’t rush.

It’s hard to maintain a measured pace, especially when such a big part of you just wants to take off and sprint down the spiral staircase. You force yourself to dawdle, to smooth your fingers over the bannister and descend slowly. Your palms are clammy as you make your way across the foyer, eyes glued to the large double doors on the opposite wall.

And then you’re outside, the sun beating down against your face and the breeze blowing gently through your hair. You saunter toward the edge of the large portico, leaning against the stone railing with your novel still clutched tightly to your sternum.

“Dee!”

Lydia whips around, taken aback by the call of her name. Upon recognising you, her features morph into a mask of quizzical mockery.

“Where have you been?” she asks, jogging over.

“I was reading,” you say, shrugging indifferently. After a short moment, you add, “Beth’s looking for you.”

“Me? What for?”

In the periphery of your vision, you spy Harry approaching. Water leaks from the nozzle of the hose; he gathers a few droplets onto his knuckles before smearing them across his sweaty forehead. You bite your tongue to suppress a snort.

“Dinner, I believe,” you lie, turning back to your sister. “It’s your turn to choose, is it not?”

Lydia’s eyes light up. “You’re right! It’s Monday, isn’t it?”

Her feet smack loudly against the cobbled steps as she races toward the door. Before disappearing inside, however, she skids to a stop, spinning around and raising one arm high above her head. “Goodbye, Harry!”

Harry smiles, lifting two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute. “Goodbye, little bug.”

A moment later, she’s gone.

And a moment after that, you find yourself sincerely regretting your decision to send her away. Harry observes you with raised brows and a knowing smirk on his face. You gnaw anxiously on your bottom lip, avoiding his eyes. A long beat of silence ensues.

“Hello,” he finally says.

You exhale quietly, relieved. “Hello.”

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you agree.

You lean against the stone bannister, peering down at him. The breeze picks up, gusting through your thin skirt and blouse. A small part of you notes the theatrical romanticism of it all: his being on the ground, the butterflies flapping around in your stomach—

“Do you always spend the majority of a nice day locked away in the library?” Harry asks. His pretty irises twinkle alluringly when your gazes meet.

“I—no,” you stammer. “I was just…reading.”

“As one does in a room full of books, I’d expect.”

Embarrassment blooms in your chest.

“Yes,” you say softly. “Precisely.”

He grins.

“How is your ankle?” he asks, motioning toward the bottom of your leg.

“Oh.” You look down, flexing your foot. “It’s healing. I should be fully rehabilitated in a few days.”

Harry chuckles, nodding. You purse your lips and try for a smile, but you’re afraid that it resembles more of a grimace.

“What’ve you got, there?” He lifts his chin, gesturing to the novel tucked between your forearm and your chest. You’re grasping it so tightly that you’re surprised the skin of your knuckles hasn’t split.

You clear your throat, revealing the embroidered inscription on the front cover. “Er—Pride and Prejudice. It’s my favourite.”

Harry hums. “Mine, too.”

And though it is extremely impolite, you can’t stop the look of shock that makes its way onto your face.

“You’ve read it?”

He chuckles sheepishly, dropping his chin. “You have bewitched me, body and soul,” he suddenly says, lifting his eyes from the ground and fixing his unwavering gaze on you, “and I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you—”

“—from this day on,” you finish, breathless.

He smiles. Zaps of electricity surge down your spine. The two of you are silent, tripping over unspoken murmurs of indulgence. You scrape your tongue over your teeth, clueless.

Harry is the first one to break.

“I should get back to work,” he announces gently. He gestures to the hose hanging limply from his hand and gives a perfunctory shrug.

“Of course.” You nod, inhaling deeply. “I should get back to…”

He smirks when you trail off. “Reading?” he supplies.

“Yes,” you blurt. “Yes. Exactly.” You hesitate, drumming your fingers against the auburn cover of your book. “Good day, Harry.”

“Good day, miss!” he calls as you begin to walk away. You pause and cast a glance over your shoulder, an admonishment dancing on the tip of your tongue.

For the hundredth time, Harry, you mustn’t feel obligated to address me in such a formal—

But then you register the mischief on his face, and the realisation sinks in.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” you ask.

Crinkles dig into the corners of his eyes.

“I’m afraid that I don’t understand,” he says, tilting his head to the side in faux-confusion. You wipe a clammy palm against the waistband of your skirt and bite back a small smile. Harry’s playful expression deepens, poking a cavernous dimple into his left cheek.

“Have a little compassion on my nerves,” you say, pulling another quote from the novel clasped against your body. “You tear them to pieces.”

His lips twitch, impressed and amused.

“What a shame,” he counters, snickering quietly, “for I dearly love to laugh.”

July 13th, 1923

The past hour of your life has been spent rolling around in bed and resenting your glaring inability to fall asleep. You’re not really sure why you’re still awake after midnight, but you’ve long since given up on trying to solve the mystery that is your body’s biological clock. Smooth satin sheets tickle your bare legs. You groan into your pillow and push yourself up from the mattress, tossing your feet over the edge and shivering softly when they land on the cold hardwood floor.

You wrap yourself up in a thin silk robe; the hem falls only an inch or two above your knees. The rest of the house is silent as you quietly exit your room and pad across the hall. You tiptoe down the spiral staircase; a brief moment later (during which you slip on some comfortable footwear), you’re stepping out into the backyard, greeted by gentle zephyrs and temperate summer air.

As you hop down the porch steps and begin the familiar trek toward the stables, you note the blanket of stars dotting the clear night sky. They twinkle happily, winking at you as though they know something that you don’t.

You shake your head at the thought. They’re stars. Big, flaming balls of gas floating in space, stationed millions of miles away. They know nothing.

Your ears perk up as you approach your destination, struck by the low stream of words carried by the breeze.

“…lilies, and dahlias, too. They tend to bloom during the summer…”

You freeze, feet stalling in the dirt. Leaning in closer, you catch deep murmurs of a faceless voice. The stranger continues to list off different types of flowers; when a soft chuckle laces through the air, your eyes widen in disbelief.

Is that…?

Sure enough, when you creep into the stables, you find Harry standing in front of Artemis’ pen, running his fingers through her shiny mane. His back is to you, shoulder blades flexing beneath the dark button-up adorning his torso. The sleeves reach his biceps, stretching slightly whenever he lifts his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying as you inch closer, hopelessly engrossed in the pseudo-conversation. “Sugar cubes are a bit of a rarity in my home. I haven’t any others.”

A twig snaps beneath your foot. You wince.

Harry whips around, startled. Upon recognising you, he blows out a heavy breath. Tension leaks from his body, and twin pink spots form on his cheeks. You stare at the blush colouring his face, mesmerized—you’ve never seen him look so dumbfounded.

“Er—,” you say. You raise your hand in an awkward, half-hearted wave. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he replies.

A beat of silence ensues.

“What are you…?” you trail off, trying to keep your voice level. “Were you just—?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. A sheepish chuckle tumbles off his tongue. “I....I understand it, now. Talking to one’s horse is rather soothing.”

“She’s not yours, though.” Your response is blunt, unfeeling.

Harry’s nostrils flare, and his feet scuff against the ground. Now that he’s facing you, you’re able to get a better look at him. A white undershirt peeks out from beneath his button-up, leaving his collarbones exposed. A gold chain glints around his neck, illuminated under the dim light. He’s wearing brown trousers and those same black boots, but you think that he may have polished them, finally, because they’re considerably tidier than before.

“She’s not,” Harry agrees, swallowing nervously. “My sincerest apologies. I can see that I’ve crossed a line—”

You can’t stifle the giggle that bubbles up in your throat. Harry hesitates, fixing you with a bewildered expression. At last, you shoot him a small smile, shaking your head and waving away his regrets.

“I’m only teasing,” you say, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Breathe, Harry.”

He exhales raggedly, ruffling the curls at the back of his head. “Jesus. You frightened me.”

“Good. Perhaps you’ve finally learned your lesson, then.”

“My lesson?” he echoes, cocking his head to the side. “And what exactly would that be?”

“To avoid sneaking up on others at night,” you say. “Especially if they’re in the midst of conversing with their horse. It’s a very private exchange, you know—endless confessions have been made under this roof.”

Harry laughs.

“I think I’ve supplied my fair share of confessions, tonight,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly. “I can leave you to do the same.”

“No,” you blurt out. “Wait.”

He pauses, shocked by your immediate refutation. You purse your lips as hot shame unfurls in your chest.

“I just meant,” you start, hastening to make amends, “you can stay, if you’d like. Besides—” You shrug. “It’s far more pleasant talking to someone who can actually talk back.”

~*~

“Harry. No.”

“Yes.”

“No. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. And I’ll be right next to you. I won’t leave your side.”

You gnaw apprehensively on your bottom lip as he frees Artemis from her pen. She trots out and whinnies softly, tossing her head to the side. He shushes her, dragging a comforting palm over her back. You step closer, mirroring his movements and glaring at him with terse, squinted eyes.

“We’ll go slowly,” he says, fixing you with an earnest look. “A few steps at a time. That doesn’t sound too daunting, does it?”

After a long, overwrought moment, you surrender.

“Very well,” you say. You point at him accusatorily, extending your arm over Artemis’ body. “But as soon as I want to stop, we stop. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Harry leans forward, bumping the pad of your finger with the tip of his nose. The contact makes you gasp. He pauses as well, having realised the implications of the thoughtless action. You swallow heavily; he clears his throat and averts his gaze.

“I’ll get the saddle,” he says.

His heel scrapes loudly against the dry dirt when he turns; you watch as he marches toward the pair of brown saddles hanging on the wooden wall. With a mighty groan, he heaves one from its rusted, metal hook, gathering the leather in his arms before making his way back over to you.

“Thank you,” you murmur shyly.

“You’re very welcome.”

You migrate to the side, petting Artemis’ mane as Harry slips the saddle onto her back. She huffs; you coo at her, holding her face in your hands to keep her calm. Harry spends the next several seconds strapping everything in place. After he’s finished, he gives a gentle tug, ensuring that you won’t slide and fall to the ground once you’re ready to mount.

“All set,” he says, squaring his shoulders.

You glance over at him with wide, frightened eyes. When he meets your gaze, his stoic expression melts into a pool of concern.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says, stepping closer to you.

“I—” Your throat burns. “I haven’t ridden in three years, Harry.”

“I know,” he says solemnly. He offers you his left hand. “Do you trust me?”

Your response is immediate. “I do.”

“Good.” The corners of his lips curl upward. His tone is unreservedly honest when he speaks again. “I won’t let anything happen to you, miss; I swear it.”

You slide your palm against his. A sharp tingle races up your arm, sending your heartbeat into a frenzy. You fight to keep your breathing even as Harry pulls you closer, positioning you in front of him and placing his fingers on your waist.

“Ready?” he murmurs. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear.

You nod.

He grunts as he lifts you. You kick out one leg, slinging it over Artemis’ back and pulling yourself up. Once you’ve settled into a comfortable position, you peer down at him, shoulders taut and ankles locked.

“Breathe,” Harry reminds you. He leads by example, inhaling deeply; you imitate him, trying to ignore the thin sheen of sweat gathered at the nape of your neck.

“What do I do, now?” you ask after a thin stretch of silence.

He chuckles good-naturedly, cocking one eyebrow. “You’ve forgotten?”

“No,” you say indignantly, frowning. “I just—”

You break off when he takes your hands and guides them forward. Your fingers wrap around the reins dangling from Artemis’ neck. You fist the leather firmly, swallowing down the hard lump in your throat. Harry’s nostrils flare as he retracts his arms. You’re fascinated by the way his tongue darts out of his mouth, swiping over his sunburnt lips.

“A few steps at a time,” he says, repeating his former words.

You nod, blowing out a shaky exhale. Gently, you dig your heels into Artemis’ belly and click your teeth. She snorts and takes a step forward; the air is swiftly knocked from your lungs.

“I’m right here,” Harry pipes up. He lays one palm against the back of the saddle, keeping pace. “I won’t let you fall.”

Gradually, you make it out of the stables. The distance can’t be more than fifteen or twenty feet, but it’s a start. You tug softly on the reins, and Artemis stops abruptly. The sudden pause has you lurching forward in your seat. You squeak; quicker than a lightning strike, Harry is there. His hand settles on the small of your back, keeping you steady.

You look down at him, and your gazes lock. Jade eyes gleam beneath the lustrous night sky. His attention falls lower, and only then do you realise that the hem of your robe has ridden up your leg. Most of your thigh is exposed—smooth skin on total display, mere inches from his face. You release an inaudible gasp, shifting your hips to the side so that the silk slips back down.

A muscle in Harry’s jaw twitches enticingly. He removes his touch from your back and turns away.

“Beautiful evening,” he says stiffly, peering up at the stars. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” you whisper. You clear your throat. “I’d like to dismount, now. Would you mind?”

He shakes his head and hums. “Not at all. Hold onto me.”

You place your hands on his shoulders, and he curls his fingertips into your waist. Wordlessly, he lifts you from Artemis’ back. You yelp when your ankle snags on one of the saddle’s leather straps. He stumbles backward, wrapping his arms tightly around your midsection and grunting in surprise. When you eventually regain your footing, your eyes widen at the compromising nature of your position.

Harry is clutching you against his torso, his face buried in your neck. Warm puffs of air leave his lips and coat the column of your throat; the sensation sends shivers down your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, chest heaving with difficult, onerous breaths.

It’s a stance that should only be shared between lovers, you think. Between a husband and his wife.

Harry is not your husband.

And you are not his wife.

The two of you break apart almost immediately, choking on hasty, half-formed sentences.

“My apologies, miss—”

“No, you needn’t—I should have been more cautious—”

“It’s late; you must be spent—”

“I’m not ready to leave.”

Harry freezes, his jaw agape. Several seconds elapse before he can find it in himself to muster a reply.

“I beg your pardon?” He’s breathless, swept away by your confession.

You shift awkwardly.

“I’m not ready to leave,” you repeat. You clasp your hands behind your back and fix him with an even stare. You hope that he can’t hear the slight quiver at the base of your declaration. “I—I wish to spend more time with you.”

He blinks. “With me?”

You nod. “With you.”

“What…?” He hesitates. “What would you like to do?”

You shrug. “Anything.”

Harry puckers his lips, lost in thought. After a prolonged moment of deliberation, his features light up. “I know a place.”

“‘A place’?” you parrot, brows knitting together.

“A place,” he confirms. “You trust me, do you not?”

“You already know the answer to that question,” you say, scoffing quietly. “I believe I’ve made myself abundantly clear.”

He chuckles. You tug on the sleeves of your robe and grate your slippers into the dirt. Harry watches you with careful eyes.

“Do it now, then,” he says, nodding encouragingly. He holds out his hand once more, beckoning you closer. “Trust me, now.”

You chew on your bottom lip, gracing him with a curt bob of your head. Artemis huffs as you wrap her reins around your wrist and slide your fingers against Harry’s palm. He pats your knuckles gently, guiding them to the crook of his elbow.

“Shall we?” he asks. It’s impossible to read the emotion in his voice.

Your response of endorsement is meek. Gone is the confident woman from a minute ago: the one who stated what she wanted without a second thought. She slips through your grasp easily, disintegrating into a pile of dust and leaving nothing behind.

“We shall,” you choke out.

Harry’s lips twitch with the ghost of a smile, and Artemis’ hooves clunk against the ground as he leads you off into the night.

~*~

“This is so…”

“Nice, isn’t it?”

“‘Nice’?” You spin on your heel slowly, taking in your surroundings. “It’s incredible.”

The water trickling through the creek is crystal clear. A few shiny rocks peek out from the shallow stream, gleaming in the moonlight. You peer up at the stars—hundreds of diamonds, perfectly visible thanks to the large gap of the clearing. Crickets chirp along the edges of the bushes, and yellow-green fireflies ride the breeze.

“How did you find this place?” you breathe.

“It may sound foolish—,” Harry begins. He holds one hand out; you transfer Artemis’ reins into his palm. “—but I can’t remember.”

“Really?” you ask, stunned. You trail after him as he leads your horse to a nearby tree. He loops her leather harnesses around a thick branch, tying a proficient knot and giving it a few experimental tugs. Your gaze remains glued to his hands: the way his fingers work deftly, the way his knuckles flex with each pull—

“Really,” he says. A soft sigh tumbles from his mouth as he steps back. “Come with me.”

You follow him to the middle of the clearing, trying to anticipate his next move. What you don’t expect, however, is for him to drop to his knees. He falls backward, spine meeting the grass with a faint thump. You gasp, staring down at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

“Don’t be afraid,” Harry hums, shooting you a playful smirk. He crosses his arms behind his head—you try to avoid staring at the prominent bulge of his biceps. “The weeds won’t bite.”

“O—Oh,” you stammer, nodding quickly. “Alright, then.”

Daintily, you lower yourself to the ground. He watches you with an amused expression on his face.

“What?” you say, pouting.

“Nothing.” He snickers quietly. You tuck your ankles beneath your thighs as he turns to the side, propping his head up with one hand. “Correct me if I’m wrong, miss, but…I presume that you don’t often make it a point to lay in the grass.”

“That would be an accurate presumption,” you say, laughing softly. Harry smiles.

“You should spend more time outside,” he says absentmindedly. “You’re always cooped up in the house.”

You cock one eyebrow teasingly. “Do you wish to see more of me, Harry?”

“Absolutely not,” he replies, humour evident in his tone. “I am simply trying to instill some sense of adventure into your life.”

The corners of your lips kink upward. In a matter of seconds, however, your delight melts away, replaced by a somberness that you can’t seem to shake.

“I was far more adventurous before the accident,” you murmur, dropping your gaze. You reach out, fiddling with a few blades of grass in an attempt to avoid Harry’s doleful eyes. “Now, I…I’m afraid of everything, it seems.”

Silence hangs in the air between you, filled only by the steady symphony of chirping crickets.

“If I may ask—,” Harry starts, shifting closer. “—what happened?”

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Artemis shoved me off.”

“She did?”

“It wasn’t her fault!” you say quickly, holding up one hand. “She got spooked, I suppose. And I wasn’t expecting it, so…I fell.”

“What frightened her?” he asks, anxious creases digging into his forehead.

You shrug. “I don’t know. But since then, I’ve been uneasy about riding. If I’m oblivious to what alarmed her the first time, who’s to say that it won’t happen again?”

He nods. “I understand.”

You sigh, plucking a piece of grass from the dirt and twirling it between your fingers. “I wish I could be more like Drew,” you hum distantly. “Someone who throws themselves into their trauma instead of shying away from it.”

Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You frown. “He—he never told you?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t a clue. What is it exactly that you’re referring—?”

“Our parents,” you say softly.

Harry’s mouth clamps shut. He inhales deeply, gracing you with a curt nod. You take his silence as an invitation to elaborate.

“They perished in a car accident,” you murmur, looking away. “My father was head of Markham Motors, at the time. He had overlooked a flaw in the latest model, and when they finally took the vehicle out for a drive, it—”

You break off, unable to continue.

Harry reaches forward, covering one of your hands with his. A puff of stale air catches in your throat. You glance down at him timidly, hoping that he can’t identify the flustered distress on your face.

“I’m so sorry,” he tells you, squeezing your fingers tenderly. “That must’ve been awful.”

You exhale shakily. “It was.”

For the next few minutes, the two of you say nothing else. Instead, you melt into your surroundings—the grass brushing your legs, the slow trickle of water in the creek, the dim buzz of fireflies drifting in the wind. At the edge of the clearing, Artemis snorts, lowers her head, and begins to graze.

At last, you decide to break through the stillness.

“Enough about my family,” you say. You recoil, subtly pulling your hand away. Harry is far too distracting. You’re afraid that if he touches you one more time, tonight, your poor heart will give out. “What about you?”

“What about me?” he replies. He settles back into his previous position: spine pressed flush against the ground, arms tucked coolly beneath his head.

“How are you?” you say. “How is your sister, in Paris?”

He peers up at you with raised eyebrows, impressed. “You remembered?”

“Is there a particular reason as to why I shouldn’t?”

Harry chuckles. “No, I suppose not.”

“Well, go on, then.” You rest your chin on your palm. “What is she like?”

“You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

You scowl. “Harry.”

“Right, right.” He sighs, smiling fondly up at the sky. “She’s…she’s lovely, really. She just got engaged, as a matter of fact. I haven’t met her fiancé, but he’s stellar, based on how she describes him in her letters.”

“That’s wonderful,” you say. Your gaze drifts longingly over the bridge of his nose. “Send her my blessings, will you?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, mouth twisting in a roguish smirk. “I reckon she’d find that a bit odd—the two of you have never met.”

“Oh.” You purse your lips, bashful. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Harry laughs; you’re captivated by the dimples embossed into his cheeks.

“I’m only joking,” he tells you, waving away your concerns. “She’ll appreciate that very much. I’m sure of it.”

You don’t reply. Silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy, until his next words slice through the tension like a knife.

“She and I used to do this almost every night,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Come outside,” he says, shrugging. “Lay on the ground. Stare up at the stars.” His irises glaze over with a forlorn look. “We always raced to see who could find the greatest number of constellations.”

“Really?” You don’t know why you’re so taken aback by his confession.

He nods. “Really.”

“Have you found any, tonight?”

He smiles. “Why don’t you come down here and see for yourself?”

The soil is surprisingly comfortable. You join him, resting your back against the grass and gazing up at the night sky. It’s an endless tapestry of diamonds—sparkling, infinite, beautiful. Your chest swells with a deep, relaxed breath as it all sinks in.

“Anything?” Harry asks expectantly.

You squint. After a long moment, a dejected sigh falls from your lips. “No. I’m not very good at this.”

He laughs. You watch, enthralled, as he lifts one hand and points to your left, singling out a curved cluster of stars.

“See these ones, over here? Shaped a bit like a hook? That’s Scorpius.”

“‘Scorpius’?”

“It means ‘scorpion’ in Latin,” Harry explains. “Scorpius was sent by the gods to kill Orion. He was then placed in the sky to advise mortals against the perils of vanity and pride.”

Vanity and pride.

You bite your lip and turn to the side, tucking a palm under your cheek. The action draws Harry’s attention; he does a double take, stunned by the sudden, close proximity of your bodies. His mouth quirks up into a coy smile as he mimics your position, brows furrowed in diluted mystification.

“What is it?” he asks.

You shift, swallowing heavily.

“I’m afraid that I’ve been unfair to you,” you say softly, gazing straight into his eyes. “I—I’ve misjudged you terribly, and for that, I must apologise. I was a fool.”

“You needn’t—,” he starts, but you press on.

“You are kind,” you say, voice thick with emotion. “You are intelligent, and clever, and you have more class in a single finger than most men have in their entire bodies.”

“Miss—”

“I was wrong about you, and I regret allowing my biases to blind me in such an atrocious manner. Can you ever forgive—oomph!”

Harry’s kiss is passionate, bruising. You stiffen, muscles locking in astonishment. One of his hands rests on the ground, providing balance; the other is on your arm, calloused thumb stroking your skin through the thin silk of your robe. You’re frozen, unable to react, because his lips are on yours, and he’s touching your body, and you’re nearly certain that you’ve died and entered the afterlife.

When Harry pulls away after a few short seconds, he’s stupidly sheepish. His eyelashes flutter open, and his stare immediately floods with remorse.

“I—forgive me,” he stammers, tripping over the words. “That was deplorable. I should have asked—”

Roughly, you grab his face between your palms. His cheeks are soft and smooth, jawline dotted with the faintest hint of stubble. The two of you exchange a look—electric, charged, thrilling. A single, critical moment ensues, during which a distinct quote emerges from the deep recesses of your mind.

A girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of.

The words echo in your head as you abandon all semblance of common sense, yanking Harry in by the collar of his shirt and kissing him again.

July 14th, 1923

“Quickly! We haven’t got all day!”

“Patience!” you call from the top of the stairs. You guide one last strand of hair into place before hurrying down the flight.

Lydia is waiting for you on the main floor. You set your hands on your hips and fix her with a stern glare, huffing at her eagerness. She sticks her tongue out at you. When you open your mouth to admonish her, she whips around and scurries through the large double doors, disappearing into the backyard.

Upon stepping outside, you find Martin and Andrew already sat on the patio. Lydia settles into one of the chairs around the table, smiling brightly and beckoning you over.

“There you are,” Drew says as you approach. “Beth should be out with dinner any minute now.”

“Do you know what she’s prepared?” you ask, tucking yourself into your seat.

Andrew shrugs and emits a noncommittal sound, clueless.

“Very well,” you sigh, casting a shallow glance across the table. “Good evening, Mister Russell,” you say, tipping your chin in Martin’s direction.

“Good evening.” He beams, tugging on the lapels of his yellow blazer. “Haven’t seen you all day—where have you been hiding?”

You cluck your tongue, tugging nervously at the hem of your dress. “I hardly think it fair for a woman to disclose her spaces of refuge.”

“Stop being so cryptic!” Lydia laughs. She turns to Martin, declaring matter-of-factly, “She was locked up in the library. It’s her favourite room in the entire house.”

Martin hums, diverting his gaze back to you. The expression on his face is indecipherable. “You read?”

You nod. “I do.”

A subtle movement in the periphery of your vision catches your attention. You turn your head to the side, and your heart nearly stops when you spot Harry making his way across the lawn. It appears as though he’s done for the evening, hands caked in grime and shirt speckled with dirt. He steps onto the dusty trail leading into the woods, beginning his journey home.

You haven’t spoken to him since last night—since he kissed you, and then you kissed him, and then the two of you kissed each other until you ran out of air to breathe. He led Artemis to the stables and walked you back to the house just as dawn broke, lighting up the sky with faint hues of pink and blue. You remember sharing a final embrace at the base of the steps before bidding him goodbye, flashing a smile and disappearing inside without another word.

“Would you excuse me?” you say, pushing away from the table and scrambling up out of your seat. “I just—I need to ask Harry about the lilies that he planted yesterday—I’ll only be a moment.”

You scamper off without waiting for a response.

“Harry? Harry!”

He pauses at the call of his name, turning around gingerly. When he spies you hurrying over, his eyes immediately drop to the ground.

You stop in front of him, tilting your head to the side. “Hello.”

“Hello, miss.” He doesn’t lift his gaze. The realisation makes you frown.

“How—how are you?” you ask, licking your lips and clasping your hands behind your back.

“I’m well, thank you. And yourself?”

“I—” Your nostrils flare. “I’m alright. I saw you walking home, and I just wanted to—”

“Forgive me.” Harry cuts you off swiftly. He refuses to look at you, still. “I’m weary. It’s been a long day.”

You recoil slightly, stunned by his candour.

“Of course,” you splutter, nodding. “We were both up quite late last night; time evaded us, I suppose—”

“So, you understand,” he says, stepping back. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

You open your mouth to stop him, but your voice betrays you. Your chest grows tight when he lifts two fingers to his temple, offering up a half-hearted salute.

“Harry—”

He finally meets your gaze, and something inside of you breaks. His eyes are dull and gloomy, revealing nothing. You want to rush forward, to take his face in your hands and hold him close. To run your nails through his hair and smother him in a flurry of hard, worried kisses. To ask him why he’s acting this way. He had been so happy last night—what changed?

But the others are watching from the patio, and you’re a goddamned coward, and you can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

“Enjoy your dinner, miss,” Harry says. His tone is emotionless—it makes you want to cry. “Take care.”

~*~

PART III: The Month

if you’re enjoying this series so far, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

#harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction #ok idk what else to tag it as lol #gentle reminder to rb the fics you like :) hope yall enjoy #harry writing #farmhandrry

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kumoriyami-xiuzhen · 3 years

Text

Hakuoki Shinkai Hana no Shou Drama CD - What I Believe In

Special thanks to @nollatooru for volunteering as tribute and extracting the text for this drama since there's no way I would written out the text for this anytime soon... or translated this otherwise. this will be only hakuoki drama i translate this month (currently subtitling dramas).

as always, final edits will be done when I get to the video.

Also, i’m sooooo happy right now!!!!

Feeeling supeeeerrrrrrrrrrr excited for the next Dragon Age and Mass Effect games!!!!!! Saw the new teasers from the Game Awards and i still feel over the moon about them! when those games get released, I’m definitely going to be doing nothing aside from playing them... sorry but not sorry?

lol. i suppose that brings the count of games i’ll put aside all my free time for to four.... tho that would have been 5 (also I would be gaming right now) if I had access to a ps4 right now since Im still waiting to play Cyberpunk 2077. i can’t play that since im lending both the console and my game to my bro right now... and probably won’t get to play it until post-pandemic. ah well.

And I can’t believe Suzuki Shogo is going back to playing Kazama in hakumyu souma-hen! he’s honestly my fave actor from hakumyu!!

anyway, enjoy!

bold text used to indicate something being spoken in the background.

Hakuoki Shinkai Hana no Shou Store Bonus Drama CD: What I believe in

Translation by KumoriYami

Saito: Nn. This is quite good. Such an excellent blade is hardly ever/rarely seen. There are few blades that have been polished to this brightness [reword later. can't figure out how right now]. I'd really like to have/get a closer look at it.

Sakamoto: Oh...? That's a familiar face/a face I recognize/seen before.

Saito: ...! You are.... Sakamoto Ryouma.

Sakamoto: Oh, you remember me!

Saito: People everywhere want your life/There are people after your life everywhere. What are you doing in a place like this?

Sakamoto: well, I'm basically on a walk. Why don't you focus on what you were looking at?

Saito: I was the one who first asked a question.

Sakamoto: Calm down, don't put on such a scary expression/make such a terrible expression. Were you looking at this katana just now?

Saito: Ah, yes.

Sakamoto: Ah! It really is a good katana.... it's understandable why you were fascinated by it.

Saito: Do you know what a katana is/anything about swords?

Sakamoto: Don't look down on me/underestimate me. I was a disciple of Hokushin Ittō-ryū.

Saito: I see. So that's how you're not lacking in this [So that's why you know about the subject/this].

Sakamoto: Well, it doesn't matter.

The future will be for these guys/From now on will the time/age of this guy.

Saito: Guns/A gun.

Sakamoto: Oh. These weapons are the best.

Saito:...Do you mean to say that it's better than a katana/than the sword [check audio later]?

Sakamoto: That's for sure.

No matter how famous the sword, it's like a baby [might change to 'child'] in face of a gun.

So/That's to say that guns are really quite powerful.

Saito: Indeed/It's true that Western guns are outstanding/excellent [check audio for pacing]. Even if that's the case though, that's not to say that swords cannot be compared with guns/ it's not appropriate to assume that a sword is no match for a gun

Sakamoto: Don't get so upset. I also appreciate/value swords, but the era of guns is imminent. That's an indisputable fact.

Saito: No one has ever decided that is fact.

Sakamoto: Eh. It will be difficult for samurai to accept this, but in order to establish a new Japan, guns will be essential. This is guy is my best trusted partner [reword later].

Saito: Is that all you want/have to say?

Sakamoto: That expression looks like you're going to cut someone down [You look you're going to cut someone down/something?]. Nn, in that case, tell me why swords are better than guns.

Saito: Fine. The katana is the soul of a warrior, only by wearing it at the waist---

Sakamoto: Hold it/Wait

Saito: Why are you telling me to stop?

Sakamoto: The spiritual aspects don't matter. Tell me how it's better than a gun

Saito: It doesn't/won't matter what is said/you say.

Sakamoto: Aaah, I also agree with that. But even if I agree, I'll put that aside for now. Right now, I want to ask you to compare the usefulness between swords and guns.

Saito: Nn. In that case... First of all, swords are better. Regardless of what is said, they can be used in a variety of/many ways.

Sakamoto: Oh.

Saito: Swords aren't like guns in how they don't rely on bullets to be used. In contrast to how guns can only be used in one way, swords can be used to slash, stab, and so on, [with] different combat techniques that can be adopted to different situations.

Sakamoto: Nn.

Saito: During a fight unexpected things may happen, but even if something unexpected happens, they can be quickly dealt with.

Sakamoto: Nnnnn. There will be situations where you have no bullets too. But when you're dealing with multiple enemies, don't you think that guns would hold the advantage in wiping them out?

Saito: uh.

Sakamoto: Furthermore, unlike swords, they can be used to fire from a distance. [check spacing]

Saito: Then don't fight on unfavourable terrain.

Sakamoto: Really, what a stubborn guy. Is there anything else?

Saito: There is how lethal a sword is.

Sakamoto: hey hey [check audio], [you're] saying such a terrible thing so suddenly.

Saito: It's difficult for a bullet to hit a moving enemy. Even if it hits, it is difficult to actually kill or incapacitate them. However, a sword can be used to take another person's life with only a single blow. The importance of this advantage cannot be compared.

Sakamoto: If you're going to say that, then a bullet to the chest, the abdomen or head, will certainly kill. Not only that, there's still a secret I haven't told you yet.

Saito: don't beat around the bush and and tell me.

Sakamoto: hey, you seem interested/looks like you're interested.

Saito: [That's only] Because you're so roundabout.

Sakamoto: Don't worry, I'll tell you. The best thing about this gun, is that it is capable of firing six times.

Saito: So what about that?

Sakamoto: That firing six times in a row/six rounds/bullets! Don't you think that's great/that'll be hard to deal with?

Saito: That's no different than holding six guns.

Sakamoto: That being said, it's actually impossible to walk around carrying six guns. But this single gun is able to be carried around on one's person. You don't think that's great [check audio for sakamoto earlier sentence]

Nagakura: Saito.... and Sakamoto? Why are you with a guy like this?

Saito: Shinpachi. I met him by chance before leaving.

Nagakura: Incidentally, well, it doesn't look like you're casually talking anyway/just chatting.

Sakamoto: Oh, you're also in the Shinsengumi. We're actually talking about what weapon is better between swords and guns. What do you think?

Nagakura: So that's it/I see. The Saito is supporting the sword while Sakamoto is in favour of the gun? Although I have a rough idea about what's going on, you're [plural so may change to guys. check audio] too naïve.

Sakamoto: What do you mean by that?

Saito: How are we naïve?

Nagakura: Regardless if you use a sword or a gun, there's something even more important than both of those.

Saito + Sakamoto: What?

Nagakura: Hm.. don't you get it?

Sakamoto: That's to say...

Nagakura: Exercise to have a body like steel. Look at this remarkable body [check pacing]

Saito: Shinpachi, this the street. [we're on a street outside right now]

Nagakura: This was the fastest way to show you the benefits of exercising.

Sakamoto: Hrm. It's true that your body is pretty amazing, yes, but firing a gun doesn't rely on this sort of thing.

Saito: Swords too, they shouldn't be randomly waved around with brute force.

Nagakura: Oi, why are you agreeing on such a thing.

Sakamoto: Even if you say that, well....

Nagakura: Hold it/Wait a sec. I also don't think that just having a body and weapon [check audio for "ken" or "juu"] is enough to confront the enemy/I also don't think you could fight against a sword or gun with only a physical body. But, regardless of what you do, it's necessary to train one's body/exercise.

Sakamoto: I see. That's something you'd know/understand.

Nagakura: Of course/That's for sure. Furthermore if studying/practising swordsmanship, you'll also exercise your body, right?

Sakamoto: Indeed, that is exercising a bit.

Saito: Practising swordsmanship can also be considered exercise.

Nagakura: Nn, right. Exercise for the/your body is the foundation of everything

Sakamoto: Hey, has this guy always ben like this? Nagakura: Speaking of which/By the way, training your body/exercising...

Saito: Ah Shinpachi will not stop talking about subject for a while Nagakura: The key is to eat well and getting enough sleep, and all that's left is to believe in your body

Sakamoto: That is troublesome/inconvenient. We're only halfway through our argument. Nagakura: Don't think that's the entire secret to how I train myself.

Saito: It doesn't matter if you continue arguing about it./I don't care if you want to continue arguing this. Nagakura: To tell you the truth, the secret to how I train my body/exercise is....

Sakamoto: No, not today. But even if we don't argue, the imminent age will demand an answer. Then I'll be going [check audio]. I had a good time talking with you.

Saito: a reckless guy as always. [check audio for spacing]

Nagakura: Nn, where's sakamoto/where did sakamoto go?

Saito: he already left/he left earlier/left a while ago.

Nagakura: what? i was going to talk about the highlights next/I was going to talk about the best parts next [ check audio].

Saito: Will the coming era provide an answer? even so, I still believe in this/it.

Nagakura: Nn, did you say something just now?

Saito: It's nothing/No. Shinpachi, let's go.

Nagakura: Oh, alright.

Saito Hajime, Toriumi Kōsuke Nagakura Shinpachi, Tsuboi Tomohiro Sakamoto Ryouma, Ono Daisuke

-----------

image from suruga-ya

For the record, the games I’m waiting for are: Dragon Age 4, the Mass Effect Legendary Edition, Horizon Forbidden West, and whatever new Mass Effect title that is being worked on.

(i think i had to much good news in the last few hours. been smiling like an idiot for three hours now as i subtitle something lol.)

#hakuoki #hakuouki #hakuoki drama cd #hakuoki drama translation #hakuoki shinkai #Saito Hajime #sakamoto ryouma #nagakura shinpachi

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toosicktoocare · 4 years

Text

prompt: IM SO EXCITED WHEN I SAW YOU WERE WRITING FOR THE WITCHER IM FUCKING PUMPED. Would you do one where Geralt’s fighting monsters and being a general badass but working himself to exhaustion and jaskier makes him stop and take care of himself

I really really like this prompt, @this-is-whump-dammit !!

It’s been four days since Jaskier’s frightening mishap with a lone werewolf.

While accompanying Geralt through the woods, he stumbled upon a single werewolf, a rarity as they often run in packs. He had just enough time to whisper Geralt’s name, voice trembling as hard as his knees, before the werewolf lunged at him, knocking him to his back with a loud thud that’s masked by a booming growl. The werewolf’s teeth were mere inches from his face, and Jaskier took a second to consider how great of a song this would be if he lived before Geralt swung his sword, knocking the werewolf’s head to the ground in a single, shaking swing.

He was fine, only shaken to the core, but Geralt insisted they stop at the nearest town so he can rest by wordlessly packing up their small camp set up and grumbling “let’s go,” leaving zero room for argument.

Four days, and Jaskier’s fine. While he’s not complaining at sleeping in a real, warm bed inside... with Geralt because double-bed rooms can get pricey, he knows Geralt is anxious to get back on the road, never wanting to stay in a single town for too long because of the shouts and looks that come each time he steps out in public. At least, that’s what Jaskier’s perceived as the primary reason for Geralt’s wandering lifestyle.

When Jaskier wakes on the fifth day, Geralt’s, once again, already gone. Though, upon closer look, Geralt’s side of the bed looks untouched, the sheets only lightly rumpled thanks to Jaskier’s almost constant moving in his sleep after an incredibly unpleasant dream about werewolves. He smooths a palm across the empty side of the bed, frowning at the cool, soft touch. Come to think of it, he can’t remember Geralt ever coming to bed.

Jaskier remembers having a little too much to drink at the local tavern. He remembers slurring songs out on his lute, and he can faintly remember being tossed over Geralt’s shoulder and hauled back to the inn. After that, everything’s a faint blur of vomiting, being far too hot, giggling, and then blacking out.

He runs a hand through his hair, attempting to make some sense of the many strands sticking out at all ends. He spares a glance to his crumpled clothes on the floor, and he groans, swinging his legs over the bed and getting to his feet. A dull throb clings to his temples, and he feels a little sluggish, but otherwise, he’s ready to take on the day, which apparently, he thinks as he drags slow eyes around the room, is tracking down this dumb Witcher.

He dresses and makes his way to the tavern, groaning at the shouting and singing that assaults his ears the second he steps into the building.

“Oh, the Witcher is buff! The Witcher is strong! The Witcher travels far! I follow along! He fights all the monsters, clean and quick! I can’t help but watch for I want his sweet--”

“--I did not sing such an inappropriate song!” Jaskier shouts, though the flush creeping hot at his cheeks says otherwise. He shakes his head with a low huff, ignoring the shouts and catcalls as he makes his way to the bartender.

“Rough night?” he asks Jaskier, raising his brows.

“My night was perfectly fine, thank you,” Jaskier ignores the low comment “I bet it was” in favor of scanning the tavern for familiar long, white hair. He comes up empty, shoulders slumping as he turns back to the bartender.

“Have you seen Geralt?”

“A saint he is,” a woman sitting at the bar says, and Jaskier pulls his attention toward her, cocking his head slightly to the side.

“He stopped by very early this morning and asked if anyone needed help with anything. We’ve had these pesky giant centipedes causing a ruckus on our farm. He came back an hour later with the head of one, but he wouldn’t accept our payment.”

Jaskier stares at the small satchel of coins lying untouched on the table, brows furrowed. “He didn’t take the money...?”

“He didn’t take mine either,” a young farmer boy interrupts, and soon, others in the tavern are crowding around and joining in, telling their own accounts of Geralt providing his services for free.

Jaskier listens, frown growing deeper, more prominent, with each story, and after a good ten minutes of storytelling, he interrupts the crew.

“Hold on, how many requests has he taken?”

“Hard to say,” the bartender admits, wiping down a mug. “He came back a few hours after dropping your sorry, drunken ass off at the inn and started demanding requests.”

“You mean to tell me,” Jaskier draws out, heart beating a little too fast against his ribs, “that Geralt has been taking requests all night?”

“Sounds like it,” the bartender answers as others chant their praises for the Witcher.

“Well,” Jaskier starts as he slides off the bar stool. “I guess I should go and find him--”

“--go east toward the edge of the woods,” a woman supplies. “There’s an old cemetery. I heard a man tell him some fleders were spotted in that area.”

Jaskier’s heart stutters at the mention of such a dangerous threat, and he offers a thankful nod toward the woman before hurrying out of the tavern. To his surprise, Roach is still tied to a post near the inn, and he approaches the horse with defensive, raised hands.

“Easy, Roach. I’m a friend.” He’s pleased to see that Roach is tolerating him today, and after a few minutes and a lot of falling, he’s finally able to climb onto the back of the horse. “Well, then, let’s head east.” He waits for Roach to move, but the horse, as stubborn as his owner, remains glued to his spot until he presses his heels lightly into his side.

Roach starts at a light trot east toward the edge of the woods, and Jaskier takes this brief moment of solitude to address the urgent sense of panic gripping at his heart. This, he thinks, is unlike Geralt. Taking this many jobs for no pay? It doesn’t settle right in his chest. He can’t shake this feeling that something’s wrong, something’s off, and he just hopes that Geralt’s still breathing when he finds him.

It takes an hour to get to the cemetery, but his relief at seeing Geralt alive is short-lived when the Witcher turns toward the sound of the horse approaching. Jaskier sees the dark, cold eyes looking back at him, eyes pulsing and plagued by a strong liquid. There’s a small, empty bottle on the ground beside a dead fleder, and Jaskier frowns sharply at it as he swings his legs over Roach’s back and slides off the horse. He hits the ground, staggers, and falls backward, but he’s quick to get back on his feet.

“Geralt,” he calls out carefully. “What are you doing?” He starts to step forward, but then a fleder flies at him, and he’s sure he sees his life flash before his eyes before Geralt’s large body crashes into him, sending the two falling to the ground.

“Go,” Geralt growls to him, face just inches from Jaskier’s, before he jumps to his feet, sword raised and ready as the fleder flies back toward them.

Jaskier slowly gets to his feet, watching with wide eyes as Geralt takes a long, shaking swing in perfect time with the fleder’s movements. Geralt’s blade makes contact, and the Witcher puts force behind his sword until the fleder is falling to the ground.

The only sound to follow is Geralt’s harsh, ragged breathing, and he jabs his sword into the ground to brace himself against it when he stumbles slightly. Jaskier watches, lips curled into a deep frown, brows furrowed, and he approaches Geralt slowly.

“Geralt,” he repeats. “What’s going on?” He can see the Witcher’s shoulders tense at the question, but Geralt doesn’t turn to look at him. Jaskier takes a few more steps toward him, stepping over a fleder body with a grimace pulling at his face.

“Why have you taken so many requests without accepting pay?” The closer Jaskier gets to Geralt, the easier it is to see the general, curved slump of Geralt’s posture and the tremble of Geralt’s hand that’s gripping the hilt of his sword as if that’s the only thing keeping him upright. Jaskier starts shifting around until he’s facing Geralt just as the potion wears off, dark eyes fading to tired, amber ones.

“All night, I might add,” Jaskier presses, and Geralt slowly lifts his gaze to meet Jaskier’s eyes. Jaskier sucks in a sharp hiss of a breath at the clear exhaustion pulling at Geralt’s features, but he opts to remain silent and wait until Geralt’s ready to speak.

After a few, silent minutes that drag on and on, Geralt finally sighs, deep, long, drawn out. “I’m doing my job.”

“You are seeking out work as if you are hungry for a death wish,” Jaskier clarifies, voice sharp yet concerned.

“It’s dangerous out here--”

“--well of course it is,” Jaskier interrupts. “That doesn’t mean you have to go running toward every beast that crosses your path for hours on end with no sleep. You are exhausted, Geralt.” He stresses each word, dragging out the syllables, and Geralt’s face falls. Conflict colors his eyes, a look Jaskier’s only seen once or twice.

“I’m,” Geralt pauses, eyes falling closed in a slow blink. “I’m doing it for you.”

“You’re... what?” Jaskier’s heart skips a beat. He locks eyes with Geralt, and the concern bleeding through his body is mixing with muted confusion, and something else he can’t quite put a finger on.

“Last night. Your sleep was fitful--”

“--I was drunk--”

“--you were afraid,” Geralt’s voice is sharp in a way that Jaskier can’t find a word to interject.

“You shouted about werewolves,” Geralt presses with a sigh.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier tries to assure, but Geralt shakes his head.

“Physically, yes, but...” Geralt’s grip tightens on the hilt of his sword. “It’s dangerous for you.” He makes to rip it from the ground, but Jaskier closes the short distance between the two and drops his hand atop Geralt’s.

“Just as it is for you,” Jaskier whispers. His heart is threatening to leap from his throat. It’s working in overtime, and he knows his face is blushing like mad, yet he keeps his voice soft, cool, but demanding. “But you won’t do us any good if you collapse.” He holds Geralt’s gaze, the two sharing a silent conversation that Geralt breaks with a low groan.

“I am tired.”

“See?” Jaskier says, a small smile flicking across his lips. “Now, how about we head back to the inn so you can get some much needed rest? I’m sure Roach can carry us both, right?”

Geralt only grunts, and the two struggle onto Roach’s back. Roach grunts a little, but Geralt’s hand smoothing over his neck eases him, and with Geralt behind Jaskier, he reaches around for the reins, trusting Roach to lead them back safely without much guidance.

The ride back is silent. Jaskier wants to fill the silence so that there’s no risk of Geralt catching onto his rapid heart, but Geralt’s chin is is resting atop his shoulder, and the Witcher’s eyes are shut. Jaskier’s afraid to move, to jostle Geralt, so he remains stiff as a board until one of Geralt’s hands drops the reins and slides to Jaskier’s thigh.

“Relax. It feels as if I’m resting on a rock.”

“Sorry,” Jaskier squeaks out, but he obliges, huffing out a shaking sigh and willing his muscles to loosen. It works, he supposes, because Geralt lets out a low, pleased hum that squeezes hard at Jaskier’s heart.

By the time they’re back at the inn and Geralt’s bathed and in bed, Jaskier feels as if he might faint from a rapid heart. He grabs his lute and starts toward the door, freezing at the low growl that comes from the bed.

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?” Jaskier turns around.

“Lie with me.”

“I don’t want to disrupt your sleep--”

“--you won’t,” Geralt responds sleepily. “I need to make sure you are...”

“Safe,” Jaskier whispers, finishing Geralt’s sentence as the Witcher struggles to keep his eyes open. He moves toward the bed, climbing atop above the covers until his back is pressed against the wooden headboard.

“Will you sleep?”

Jaskier breathes out a shaky laugh. “I’m far too strung to fall asleep, I’m afraid. Plus, I’ve had a full night’s sleep unlike you.”

Geralt hums, rolling over until his hand is resting atop Jaskier’s thigh. “Good. I cannot protect you from your dreams.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, but Geralt interrupts with a gruff voice.

“Sing something.”

“My lute’s over--”

“--no chords. Just your voice.”

“I thought you hated my singing.” He meets Geralt’s half-lidded eyes, and Geralt narrows his slightly.

“Sing.”

“Fine,” Jaskier huffs. He tilts his head back until he’s staring at the ceiling and clears his throat.

“One’s heart’s too loud, screaming for something more. Screaming for nothing more than to scream for what he shouldn’t adore.”

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dreadwulf · 4 years

Text

#4 With this Kiss I Pledge My Love

(previous chapters)

Jaime Lannister should have ridden back to King’s Landing weeks ago.

He had fully intended to, after putting the Riverlands to order – to return to his son the boy king, and offer his protection. Get him a proper Small Council who will advise him wisely, and a real Kingsguard to protect him, and get Cersei somewhere well away. Garrison the Lannister armies wisely to maintain order, clean up the mess his lord father has made of the kingdom.

Instead Jaime has been wandering about in a fruitless search for an unimportant girl. Spending weeks riding through snow and freezing cold in a gods-forsaken corner of the Vale with a motley party of leftovers who don’t want him there. He has told not a soul where he has been nor where he is going. He has been gone from his post for so long that the Crown has declared him dead and replaced him on the Kingsguard, and the army he had commanded has been rerouted by unknown orders away from the Riverlands, which will surely swiftly descend into renewed chaos.

He should go back. He should abandon this pointless quest and return to his duties. Jaime has no reason not to, except that he swore a vow and meant it. Under duress and foolishly perhaps, an oath sworn to a dying woman who didn’t die after all, but an oath still. I am yours and you are mine. He is keeping his oaths now, even if no one expects or even wants him to.

There had been no cloaks, no kiss, and no pledging of love, only their hands bound together and him speaking the vow. But even if she had not spoken the same vow back, and the marriage bond will soon evaporate into the air as though it had never been, it will not be him that breaks it. He can be stubborn too.

So he wakes on the cold ground each day and she says barely a word to him and he speaks hardly a word to her as they ride to the Gates of the Moon, and the sands trickle down in the hourglass that is their marriage until only days remain.

Jaime has ridden with her every day through deepening snow and treacherous ice until finally they reached their destination and made camp here, her and Podrick and Hyle Hunt and the Hound, alongside all of the other travelers who have come to rest at the Gates of the Moon.

The Gates are no more promising than anywhere else they have arrived. There is an extensive encampment here of hopeful hedge knights and nobles from the highlands, but none have time for an odd woman in armor and her questions about red-haired girls of four-and-ten. There are no further rumors of Sansa Stark here, or of her sister, although there are a great many more interesting rumors about the rest of the kingdom in the progressing winter.

Jaime collects these rumors and opinions with some interest, mingling himself with the men at camp over food and drink for several days running. Turns out there are a great many things that a person will tell a traveler in the Vale that they would not tell to Lord Commander Lannister. Some of those things are pure nonsense, but others are rather illuminating.

It is not so bad, being dead. He gets many more smiles and greetings as a dead man, and not so many sneers and whispers. He keeps his stump shoved under his travel cloak, has muddied his hair and beard so that they are not quite so golden, and it makes him nearly invisible. He is another middle-aged hedge knight trying to relive his glory days at tourney, so far as anyone knows.

Not so far off. He could not hope to compete there now. Left-handed these green boys could take him, and without his fearsome reputation to dissuade them his life would be in real danger.

He sits at supper and looks at the farm boys and young lords, in the spring of their youth and the peak of their skills. He imagines Brienne defeating them all, beating them down into the mud until they beg for mercy. It’s a shame she won’t enter the tourney; he’d like to see that. Would any one of them be a match for her, at her full power? They are nearer her age, their reputations as spotless as their unbloodied swords. If she had awakened from her long sleep married to one of them, would she be so aggrieved?

The competitors like to talk, and the spectators even more so. They spin tales about the fighters who have come hoping to be Winged Knights, their family connections, their sweethearts and patrons. They tell him all about Lord Baelish and his natural daughter Alayne Stone, who have organized the tourney.

These tales in particular catch his ear. If Littlefinger has a natural daughter I’ll eat my boot. The man is too careful for that. Only the Spider is less likely to produce a bastard offspring, and only out of physical impossibility.

He asks questions about the fabled daughter, and her upcoming marriage to Harold Hardyng. An awfully advantageous match for a Stone, marrying the next in line to the Vale. Conveniently Petyr Baelish seems to have gotten charge of little lord Robert, and rules the Eeyrie as Regent. Jaime wonders if there might be an accident in store, once that wedding is complete. Maybe several accidents. Sweetrobin and Harry the Heir cleared away, and the Vale belongs to Lord Baelish.

He would very much like to meet this Alayne Stone.

That’s more difficult than he would like. She will attend the tourney when it begins, but thus far has remained out of sight. He will have to wait for the tourney and possibly for the very final rounds to lay eyes on her, and that is likely to happen after his deadline is passed. Not that it makes any difference – the one has nothing to do with the other, no matter how persistently his mind makes the connection. Finding Sansa will not stop the marriage from ending.

It will be a relief to have it over and still he is increasingly agitated at the thought. He lies in his tent each night and he thinks on the Hounds Tooth inn when he had shared a room with Brienne as his bride. He had passed that evening most pleasantly, and even though nothing of import occurred he finds himself thinking on it fondly. Brienne asleep and unguarded in his bed while he sat by the fire. Friendly strangers wishing them well, simply for having one another. Your lady wife. It was a night stolen from someone else’s life, a life he is never going to have.

For his own good the marriage must dissolve. It is inane to cling to an illusion and he has done that quite long enough with Cersei. He is never going to be somebody’s husband; he is a knight and he is the kingslayer and that is that.

He is chewing on just this thought as he rides back to his bed at sunset. He knows when he comes back to camp Brienne will be surprised to see him again, as she has been every day that he has not left their party. She knows very well he has other places to be, and is waiting for him to remember it and ride away. Yet he is lingering here and unwilling to leave, though what he is waiting for he cannot imagine. Brienne cannot imagine it either, clearly.

It’s making him cross, and distracted. He does not notice the riders gathering to his flanks until it is too late to evade them.

Jaime is pulled from his horse before he can draw a blade, and thrown to the ground.

Sellswords, plainly. Not expensive ones. Five of them, looking like they’ve slept rough half their lives and just barely know how to hold a blade. He’s a little insulted that anyone would think him no match for these.

He leans back on his elbows and contemplates them in a relaxed pose. “I haven’t any money, and if you want a fine horse, you’d be better off feeding mine to the one you’ve got. This one’s slow as molasses.”

“No money eh?” A skinny, toothless alley cat of a mercenary points a rusty longsword at him. “No Lannister gold?”

Jaime frowns. Clearly his disguise has not been so effective as he’d hoped.

Some of his mates are skeptical. “Can this be the golden lion? He looks more like a weasel.”

“No, it’s ‘im.” The tallest one spits a dark stream through his teeth and stands over Jaime. “Lord Baelish pointed him out to me personally.”

Well that’s irritating. Apparently Littlefinger was in the same room with him and Jaime never laid eyes on the man. Clearly he can cross “spy” off his list of potential careers after “swordfighter”.

“If you’re seeking out a ransom, you may have to wait some time to get it. Only ravens travel well now, and they don’t carry quite so much gold.”

“We got the gold already,” Toothless tells him. He jingles the money bag that hangs beside the knife on his belt. “Lord Baelish pays us well, and he only needs your head.”

Of course. He has asked entirely too many questions. And whatever his plans, Littlefinger has no intention of anyone outside the Vale hearing of them until it’s too late.

“The Crown will have all your heads for it,” he says confidently.

“You’ll be buried right here, Kingslayer, and they will never know. The Crown believes you dead already and no one will miss you.”

Belatedly, Jaime realizes he is right. Not one of his compatriots in the Kingsguard or the Lannister Army knows where he is, and his own house has already forsaken him for the grave. Next to no one will notice if he dies now rather than two months ago. And even fewer than that will mourn him. Possibly none.

He lunges.

The knife comes easily out of Toothless’s belt and into his side, spraying Jaime with blood. But the remaining four sellswords are on him in a moment, and it takes only a few kicks in the stomach before he lies still in the snow again. He knows this routine.

The tall man has his sword out now. “If you’ll tell us where to find the giant bitch, I can make it painless.”

“Nonsense.” Jaime brushes the snow out of his hair as carelessly as possible. “Let’s make it hurt. I can only die once, after all.”

“Happy to oblige.” The tall one shoves his face back into the snow and stands on him. Jaime doesn’t even know who he is. Some no-name cutthroat sent by Petyr Baelish. What a stupid way to die.

“What in the living fuck is that?” one of them shouts.

Horses approach. Abruptly the boot on his neck lifts, and Jaime spits out mud. Is there someone else here trailing him, after the Brotherhood and the Vale Guards? With any luck they will kill each other.

He wipes snow from his eyes and sits back on his heels. Two riders approach very rapidly, and one of them has a sword raised. It crashes into the sellsword who had just been standing over him, with such force it knocks him off his feet.

Brienne dismounts in a strikingly graceful motion, her sword drawn, and she stares them down.

“Unhand my husband,” Brienne growls at them.

Jaime grins. A more wonderful combination of words he cannot imagine.

“Already done,” he points out, waving his stump. “The bloody mummers beat them to it.”

She doesn’t hear him, swings directly into action.

The fight is brief. She holds Oathkeeper with both hands and leads with her left, with her right arm still healing. It should discomfit him how easily she switches her lead hand, how one left-handed blow knocks the blade from her opponent, but instead it makes him smile. She makes short work of their weapons, knocking them from their hands, and their owners from their feet, while Jaime kneels untouched among them.

He hadn’t known how pleasant it could be to be rescued. It’s really quite wonderful. Someone fighting for him, bleeding for him, spilling blood. When the immediate threats are downed she stands in front of him protectively, Oathkeeper in hand, and she looks like a song. A song only for him, for his sake.

“Kingslayer’s Whore!” one of the downed men moans from the ground.

“That’s Kingslayer’s Wife, I’ll have you know,” Jaime says irritably. “She’s made an honest man of me.”

“Hush.” Brienne advances on him. In the time it takes Jaime to stand, Brienne has the man under her boot with a sword pointed to his neck. “What do you want with him? Robbery?”

“Execution,” the wretched man spits. “For crimes against everything good and decent. Kingslayer, Oathbreaker, great golden cripple.”

“That’s right, you do not deserve to say his name,” Brienne tells him. “None of you do. Call him what you will, but you will not be half the man he is.”

Gods be good.

Jaime is pierced by those words, a clean wound right through his chest. It hurts like every time he heard the name and no one spoke up for him, all together, all at once. Paired with the balm of her defense it is almost unbearable.

At a moment’s notice Jaime knows what he wants after all. He wants to keep her. He wants to stay her husband, and her to stay his wife. Never to part again.

He wants her.

“Kingslayer’s Whore,” the sellsword repeats, spitting at her. “Got his cock out of your mouth long enough to ride? After murdering your liege lady Stark for him?”

His blade is drawn before he’s even thought to do it, and he’s walking briskly to Brienne’s side.

Jaime aims the end of his sword directly at the man’s mouth, descending until it falls between his teeth and the man is choking and whimpering against it.

“I don’t suppose sword-swallowing is one of your skills?” He pushes it a little further in, and the man gurgles in terror. “I hear in Braavos there are men who can take a sword right down their gullet and all the way to the hilt, and pull it out again right as rain.”

“Ser…” Brienne speaks up, cautiously.

“I wonder how you learn to do a trick like that - a little at a time, or all at once? Let’s find out.”

“There is no need,” she says quietly, putting a hand to his arm.

He meets her eye only briefly. She threatened the man herself only moments ago, but this is too far?

“My lady wife would have me show you mercy. Can you keep a civil tongue in your head?”

The man makes an eager noise, too afraid to nod his head, and Jaime pulls his blade back.

The scene has not gone unnoticed - they are not far from other encampments, and other fires. There are onlookers now, and among them Podrick Payne on his horse, his little sword drawn in their support. He threatens the onlookers with it, having them keep their distance.

“They were tipped off,” Jaime tells Brienne. “Littlefinger is here - Petyr Baelish. I don’t know what he’s up to but he wanted me dead, and you as well.”

“I have no dealings with him,” Brienne says quizzically. “Could it have something to do with Sansa Stark?”

Unwisely, the man on the ground speaks up. “There’s no Starks in the Vale, whore. No Starks anywhere anymore, thanks to you and yours. They –”

He is interrupted by a swift kick in the face.

Jamie hasn’t yet sheathed his sword, still thinks of feeding it to the man. He’s still angry. He has brought even more abuse on Brienne simply by his association and it infuriates him. His voice sharpens to a deadly point. “You will address the lady properly. Or you will keep no tongue in your head at all.”

“Lady Lannister –” the man corrects himself quickly.

Jaime startles at that, and Brienne stiffens beside him. Then he laughs. “Oh, we haven’t settled that bit yet. Lady Brienne will do for now. But there will be no more of this ‘Kingslayer’s Whore’. She is a noble lady, and a sworn blade of your precious Starks, and no one will speak so crudely of her in my presence and keep their tongue. Understand me? Tell that to your noble compatriots.”

The man whimpers agreement and Brienne lifts her boot, allowing him to sit up and rub his throat nervously.

The city guard, Vale soldiers, approaches in a thunderous pack. Brienne is cheered by their appearance, but Jaime knows better. Littlefinger will own them too; he is thorough like that.

Exactly as expected they take him by the arms as soon as they dismount holding Jaime between them. Guards will have to make a show of arresting him, so that they can murder him in private.

“Sers, these men attacked us,” Brienne tries valiantly to explain, appealing to the guards with her sword lowered. She still thinks they will listen.

One of them shoves her aside. “Quiet, you ridiculous bitch.”

So of course Jaime had to headbutt the man in the face, which hurts, but it drops the man like a sack of flour, which is satisfying enough to be worth it. For his trouble he is slung into the back of a wagon, a jailer’s hearse.

“For what crime?” Brienne questions them loudly. “We were defending ourselves from these sellswords.”

“Attacking a city guard,” the guard says.

Brienne considers that, visibly, head cocked to one side.

Then she smashes the man in the face with the hilt of her sword, so that his nose produces a most astonishing spray of blood, and is immediately thrown into the wagon right next to him.

*******************

“You could have stopped them,” he grouses to her later.

They are seated on the cold stone floor of a dungeon, daylight barely peeking into their cell.

“If by that you mean killed them, we would hardly get anywhere finding Sansa Stark if we run about murdering city guards.”

“We’re not going to find her in here!“

She is unbothered. “They will keep us but a night.”

“And wake us with a knife across the throat.”

“Pod rode for help,” Brienne says stubbornly, staring straight ahead. “He will find Ser Hyle and Ser Clegane. They will think of something.”

Time is passing fitfully as the light slowly fades. Their cramped cell is barely big enough for the both of them and it's freezing besides, and they sit just near each other, not touching, their breaths visibly hovering in the air around them. Brienne pulls her knees closer to her chest, for either warmth or protection. Without her armor she is probably short of both.

A dozen things to say flit through his mind, and he says none of them. Instead Brienne speaks up next, some time later.

“You did not have to do that,” she says softly. “To threaten the man on the ground. Or attack that guard.”

He snorts. “Certainly I did. What else would I do, the dishonorable Kingslayer.”

“I mean that you did not have to defend my name.” She shifts, angling her face away from him. “I am accustomed to being insulted.”

So is he. But Jaime is not accustomed to her being insulted, at least not by someone other than him. “Where did that particular insult come from, I wonder? Kingslayer’s Whore. The Brotherhood said it too, well before the Quiet Isle. Did you ride about declaring that I had sent you? Not a great stratagem.”

“The lions on the sword might have had something to do with it.”

“Ah.”

He swallows and thinks about the rope marks around her neck. Perhaps it had not happened because she had any great feeling for him, but it is his fault all the same. He gave her a sword covered with lions and sent her after Sansa Stark, and they broke her arm and tore her face and hung her.

“If you are going to attack anyone who calls me names, you will have to fight the whole of Westeros from one end to another. Do not bother.”

She is so calm. He wants her to be angry and rage about it, and it isn’t in her. She is resigned to this. It makes him want to shake her.

“If people must make arses of themselves it is one thing. But for you to take abuse on my behalf… that I do not like. Your reputation should not suffer for things that you did not do.”

“It’s my reputation too, now,” she says mournfully. “Already the Vale knows I killed my liege lady and disbanded her Brotherhood. I did do that, and I can hardly dispute it. It will be everywhere before long.”

“You cannot possibly be troubling yourself over that.” Jaime grimaces even to think on it, it makes him sick inside, in an entirely familiar way. “You had no choice.”

“I did have a choice, and I made it. I chose to break my oath, and I knew the consequences. I learned them from you.” She looks over at him finally. “You made a choice as well. And you have still carried the guilt all these years, haven’t you?”

His mouth goes bone-dry. Only Brienne has ever seen how he blames himself for breaking that oath, even all these years later. Despite every reason why he could not have done otherwise.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

“Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor too. I can only make up for my failure by her mother by keeping my promise, and seeing her safely returned to Winterfell.” She leans her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. “At least then I can hold up my head and know that I did the best I could. I was no kind of knight, and I failed from one end of it to the other, but I cannot go back to Tarth until I have found her.”

Brienne looks so bone-tired and forlorn at that moment that it aches to look at her.

The protective instinct in him rises up, the most powerful instinct he has, and Jaime is totally unable to resist it. Something is hurting someone dear to him and his most natural reaction is to fling himself at it. He doesn’t have a sword and the enemy is nothing he can protect her from, but Brienne is hurting and he cannot think how to make it stop.

So he grasps her shirt at the collar and pulls her to him, kissing her.

Brienne goes very still and softens all at once, melting against him. Her mouth is warm and sweet and his heart is racing and he is pulled by a current far more powerful than he can swim against. The world rushes by very quickly, a blur.

Her hands struggle up to his chest as if to push him away but they only sit there preparing, always about to.

The thought floats by without his leave. With this kiss I pledge my love. His lips speak it to hers.

But then she does push him back. He stands against her hands catching his breath. Her eyes are so blue and so wide and so full of hurt.

“How could you?” She chokes out the words painfully.

“Like this,” he says, trying to kiss her again.

“Don’t.” She jumps up to her feet, backing away from him as though he had attacked her. “Why would you do something like that?”

Because he wanted to, that’s all he can think of. And he can’t tell her. To simply say, out loud, what he wants? Jaime doesn’t do things like that. A person cannot just admit to the things they want, not out loud. If you reveal what you really want, someone will take it from you, someone will use it to get what they want from you. A person keeps those things inside, and they try not to think on them, so that no one will discern their secrets. With enough practice a person will not even remember the things they want. Or know what they are in the first place.

“I wanted you to stop talking,” he says, too frustrated to think of anything better.

“You…” she sputters angrily, and paces over him. “Did you think you can do as you like because we are still married? Did you think for a moment that I might not want my first kiss in a filthy dungeon…?”

“Your first?” That had not occurred to him.

“Oh, gods.” She covers her face and he can see she’s blushing all down her throat, where it disappears down into her shirt.

That old instinct again. How can he make it better?

“I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you.”

"You wanted…?” Her face tightens painfully. “Why?”

Jaime thinks of Red Ronnet and his rose, and he would very much like to find the man and hit him again.

“I lost my senses, all right?”

“Stop talking,” Brienne snaps at him, and shoves herself down into the farthest corner away from him, still blushing.

Jaime congratulates himself silently on making everything infinitely worse, and then things get worse again, all on their own.

A woman walks into the dungeon. They know immediately it is a woman, well before they see her, from her carefully measured, delicate steps. She is tall, though not so tall as Brienne, and she walks to the bars of their cell and looks down upon them calmly.

She takes down the hood of her winter cape, standing over them, and it reveals rather than a noble lady a young girl, no more than five-and-ten, if that. She is dressed plainly but elegantly, in fine homespun clothes of a lovely warm caramel color that matches her hair, and looks quite out of place in a filthy dungeon.

Jaime searches out her face in the dim light. “Alayne Stone, I presume.”

Alayne nods. “I am. And you are the Kingslayer, and this lady is your wife, Brienne of Tarth. The woman who murdered Catelyn Stark.”

#WHOOPS PLOT #okay this was going to be the last chapter and then it got long #because me #so now there is going to be a Chapter Five #From This Day Until the End of My Days #braime #tumblr fic

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coffeecupsandquiet · 4 years

Text

ISOLOPHILIA

“If you're lonely when you're alone, you're in bad company.” ― Jean-Paul Sartre

Basic Information

Full name: Jordan Rojas

Pronunciation: JOR-DAN RO-HAAS

Nickname(s): dont even think about it

Birthdate: January 12

Age: 23

Zodiac: Capricorn

Gender: Cis-male

Pronouns: he/him

Romantic orientation: homoromantic

Sexual orientation: he is what the kids call, morosexual….. Jk homosexual

Nationality: American

Ethnicity: mixed (hesitate to comment beyond Italian due to my inability to track down definitive sources of Rob Raco’s ethnicity)

Current location: miami baBY

Living conditions: immaculate and modernly simplistic. A clean house is a calm house.

Background

Birthplace: unknown

Hometown: Chicago

Social Class: upper middle? I think?

Educational achievements: nothing formal, but he does consume books at an unhealthy rate

Father: unknown

Mother: unknown

Sibling(s): unknown

Birth order: unknown

Pets: ABSOLUTELY YES OF COURSE! He has five sweet honeys, one queen named Melon, and four beautiful kittens, Cantaloupe, Sugar, Honeydew, and Galia. Fun fact, but all of the kittens names are names of melons.

Previous relationships: non existent….. lol

Arrests: ….uhhhhhhh, absolutely not

Prison time: ^^^^^^^

Occupation & Income

Current occupation: he do be a thief for a crime organization tho

Dream occupation: a librarian… or maybe an archivist for a famous museum…. yeah

Past job(s): being a full time SQUARE

Spending habits: hm, careful with his money, but will spend extra to make sure what he is wearing/doing/seeing is up to his standards

In debt?: this is MY fantasy and in it, i have NO DEBT so NO

Most valuable possession: his babies… but followed up by his gold leafed edition of the Grimme Fairytales.

Skills & Abilities

Physical strength: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Note: pre-determined that he lifts to carry the homies

Speed: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Note: do you really think you’d catch him running in gucci shoes? no

Intelligence: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Note: jordan says ‘fuck the school system!’ and then read books forever

Accuracy: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Note: jordan is very good with powers, but uh, i don’t know if he’s good with a gun. I imagine he’d flinch at the recoil

Agility: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Note: he’s a bit of a snake, but erm, not enough to be considered wily i think

Stamina: Above Average | Average | Below Average

Note: he goes to the gym, but not for endurance so-

Teamwork: hell no. total lone wolf, which is why it's a miracle he gets along with Len

Talents/hobbies: reading, obviously, but he also dabbles in piano and writing I think. Lets make fun of Jordan for writing bad poetry!!!!! Im going to throw that nerds books in the fountin

Shortcomings: stubborn as hell and also extremely stuck up. Partially because he is naturally untrusting but also partially because hes kind of a dick.

Languages spoken: English and conversational Spanish

Drive?: hell no, hes gay

Jump-start a car?: hell no, hes gay

Change a flat tyre?: hell no, hes gay

Ride a bicycle?: yes, but the last time he did he was like 8 or something so

Swim?: yes! He actually likes it I think, but usually only if he’s alone.

Play an instrument?: Piano!

Play chess?: Obviously. Not seriously or anything, but he can play.

Braid hair?: Yes! He plays with his own hair when he’s bored.

Tie a tie?: oh my god yes of COURSE he does. If he didn’t he would have to bully himself.

Pick a lock?: he’d be a pretty shit thief if he couldn’t

Cook?: yes! Nothing quite like knowing what to cook with his nice white wine

Physical Appearance & Characteristics

Faceclaim: Rob Raco

Eye colour: blue

Hair colour: black

Hair type/style/length: shoulder length and wavy

Glasses/contacts?: contacts

Dominant hand: left

Height: 5’9”

Weight: i don’t want to answer this because i don’t know

Build: slender and lightly defined

Exercise habits: i feel so embarrassed admitting that jordan do be lifting three times a week

Skin tone: i….. Golden? idk

Tattoos: contrary to his many gifs, he doesn’t have any i don’t think

Piercings: his ears are definitely pierced though

Marks/scars: some scars from some “playful” rough housing. Nothing too extreme, just a nick on his left calf and a hidden one in his right eyebrow.

Clothing style: clean cut. He prefers dress shirts and slacks for most occasions, and is rarely seen dressed down further than a short sleeve button up. Putting on his clothes is like putting up a front. Just a reminder to hold everyone at a distance.

Jewellery: he does have a watch and earrings and perhaps a couple of necklaces

Allergies: none

Diet: vegetarian i have just decided right here right now

Physical ailments: none

Psychology

I did a test with Jordan in mind for each of these fuckers.

MBTI type: INTJ-A: Bookish and reclusive are two words to describe this type, and that lines up pretty well with Jordan’s personality as well. They value themselves more so than the relationships they make, and pride themselves on getting things done.

Enneagram type: Type 6: the Loyal Skeptic. Taken from the website “The committed, security-oriented type. Sixes are reliable, hard-working, responsible, and trustworthy. Excellent "troubleshooters," they foresee problems and foster cooperation, but can also become defensive, evasive, and anxious—running on stress while complaining about it”

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral- Driven by their own purposes, willing to do anything to secure themselves. They aren’t inherently evil, but are only usually only good when it serves their purposes.

Temperament: Take from the website: Phlegmatic - The phlegmatic temperament is fundamentally relaxed and quiet, ranging from warmly attentive to lazily sluggish. Phlegmatics tend to be content with themselves and are kind. They are accepting and affectionate. They may be receptive and shy and often prefer stability to uncertainty and change. They are consistent, relaxed, calm, rational, curious, and observant, qualities that make them good administrators. They can also be passive-aggressive.

Element: Earth

Emotional stability: At the moment in our time line, horrid. Non existent. He is just a giant ball of feelings and he HATES IT because usually he is very put together.

Introvert or Extrovert? Incredibly introverted, if it wasn’t already obvious.

Obsession(s): Books! Clearly. But also his cats as well as fashion and cleanliness and coffee!!!!!

Compulsion(s): Making sure all of his mugs are facing the same direction in the cabinet.

Phobia(s): Claustrophobia

Addiction(s): none

Drug use: Remember the Jordan is a pot head meme. Yeah. That

Alcohol use: usually just a glass or two of wine. Nothing to big. Usually.

Prone to violence?: Heavens no! For all of his lifting, if someone threw a punch at him he’d probably run away.

Prone to crying?: Not in front of people, but he can be a weepy drunk depending on the time nad place

Believe in love at first sight?: Although he is a realist, he has a very very romantic and soft heart, so this one is a yes, although he would never admit it.

Mannerisms

Accent: American

Speech quirks: talks like he’s a bored victorian scholar

Hobbies: reading, writing, playing piano, playing with cats, making coffee.

Habits: sleeping with a light on

Nervous ticks: he touches his hair when he’s nervous or thinking

Drives/motivations: his biggest motivation is staying alive and safe from the government. He knows his power could be used to hurt everyone, not just him, and that is important because there is safety in numbers. Also, he knows that there are mutants who will help him just because he is one of them.

Fears: being taken and tested on or used against other mutants. There is litcherally no fear greater than that for him

Sense of humour?: dry and sardonic. Usually takes amusement in knowing more than you

Do they curse often?: Heavens no! If they are cursing, they are either drunk, scared, surprised, or PISSED OFF. or all of them together LMAO

Favorites

Animal: cat for obvious reasons

Beverage: a classic latte, for obvious reasons

Book: The Door into Summer by Robert A. Heinlein

Colour: Mahogany

Food: Yogurt and berries

Flower: traditional roses, because he is a romantic

Gem: Mahogany Obsidian

Mode of transportation: Foot or bus

Scent: Lily and lets be real, good kush

Sport: he’s gay…...

Weather: sunny rainshower

Vacation destination: into his own bed and then no one bothers him

Attitudes

Greatest dream: to not feel hunted no matter where he goes. He also wants to settle down with someone whom he loves and who loves him, because romance is something he has always fantasized about

Greatest fear: dying before he’s ready, but worse so, being captured and used against his will

Most at ease when: he’s snuggling up with his cats with a nice book

Least as ease when: he is in a high stress situation with no familiar faces.

Worst possible thing that could happen: being captured and used

Biggest achievement: Securing his place in the Kings and consequently out of the police as soon as he possibly could once he turned 18.

Biggest regret: Never resisting the orders of those in his foster home.

#mrtask #(tw. weed)#(tw. alcohol)#(tw. kidnapping)#this is just ramblings #it doesn't feel like an official post but #also i didn't have a cool header

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leelee10898 · 6 years

Text

For you: Chapter 5 - Come Clean

Characters Belong to Pixleberry, I am just borrowing them.. Except those created for this story. Summary: Two weeks later, Leo is headed out of town. Olivia and Drake keep Aria company, as they head to dinner at Dex’s estate. Catch up HERE Rating: Angst, fluff Chapter inspiration: Come Clean - Hilary Duff

2 weeks later…. “I really hate leaving you, maybe I should cancel this tour. ” Leo tossed himself onto the bed. “No, you are not. Get your ass up and go. I will be fine Olivia is coming later today.” Aria pulled him his arms making him stand. “And Drake.” Leo mumbled. “Drake?” Aria arched her brow. Leo rubbed the back of his neck “yeah I kinda asked Drake if he would come stay here while I was gone. ” Aria leaned in and kissed his lips “You worry to much, but I appreciate it.” They walked to the front door Leo wrapped his arms around her pulling her closer, his lips found hers in a long, soft kiss. “I love you.” He drops down to his knees placing a soft kiss on her small bump “and I love you two.” Tears well in Arias eyes. “Hey what’s wrong?” Leo stood placing a on her shoulders the other cupping her face. “Nothing, you’re just so damn sweet. And I am going to miss you like crazy.” The car pulls up to take Leo to the hospital. “Ill call you every day. I love you.” He leans in kissing her. “I love you too.”

A little later that day both Drake and Olivia arrived. They were bickering as soon as they walked through the door. “What is going on here?” Aria approached the two. “Oh you know, Drake is just being his normal miserable self.” Olivia scoffed crossing her arms. “Will you tell Her that it is not normal to carry 6 knives?” Drake hollered. “ Drake that’s.. wait, Olivia you carry 6 knives? Where do you keep them all?” Arias eyes went wide. “Unbelievable! I’ll be in the stables Hale.” Drake threw his hands up in the air and stormed off. “What’s with you two?”

“The man is insufferable, He drives me crazy.” Olivia huffed. Aria went in the living area and sat down, Olivia followed. “Ok, spill whats really going on?” Aria questioned, during the engagement tour she caught them making out on more then one occasion. “Nothing, its nothing.” Olivia refused to speak. Aria gave her a accusing look. “Ok fine. He wants to be a couple. ” Olivia averted her eyes from Aria. “Ok.... and you don’t want to be?” “No, yes, I don’t know. The man makes me crazy, do you know how many denim shirts he owns? 20 Aria!” Olivia motioned twenty with her fingers. Aria stiffens back a laugh.

“Olivia, I am going to be brutally honest with you. I am pretty sure you are in love with him, and you are just trying to tell yourself you don’t.” “I am not in love with him, I couldn’t possibly be, I am a Nevrakis, we don’t love, love is weak.” Olivia denied it, something in her eyes told a different story. “You know a very smart woman called me on my shit not that long ago. Sounds like she needs to take her own advice.” She placed her hand on Olivia’s. “You are right, I love him. thank you Aria, as hard as it is to admit, I love that grumpy asshole.” Olivia wiped a tear away. “Olivia are you crying?” Aria asked “If you tell anyone I will kill you.” Olivia threatened.

*********** A few days had passed and things in Valtoria were a little rough. Drake and Olivia were avoiding each other. If Drake walked into a room, Olivia would excuse herself and vise versa. It was driving Aria insane. She had thought the talk Olivia and her had would change things, but Olivia was stubborn. It had been four days since Leo left. Although she spoke to him every night and he would text her on his down time, but she missed him. Her phone rang it was a video call and she smiled at Leos face lighting up her screen. “I miss you so much.” Aria sighed looking at the phone. “I miss you too, how are you feeling today? How are things going with Drake and Liv, any better?” “I’m feeling fine, and no, things with them are no better.” “I’m sorry baby, I wish I was home.” “I know, I wish you were here too. I am not looking forward to the party at Dexs” Aria rolled her eyes. “ Yeah, I really wish I was home for that.” Leos tone deepened. Aria yawned. “Mm i’m sorry its been a long day.” “No need to apolgize Love, get some rest I will call you tomorrow ok. I love you, good night.” “I love you too, good night.”Aria hung up the phone, she laid her head on her pillow and fell right to sleep.

Two days later, the night of the Party at Crenshaw manor Aria was putting her finishing touches on her make up when Olivia came strolling in. She was a vision in red, always red. While aria wore a powder pink chiffon overlay dress, that concealed her growing bump but did not seem like she was trying to hide something. "Are you ready? The car is waiting.” Olivia asked. “Yes, let me grab my clutch.” The two walked down to the car and climbed in. “You ladies look beautiful ” Drake admired as he sipped from his glass of whiskey. Olivia’s cheeks reddened “thank you.” “Yes thank you Drake, you are looking quite handsome yourself tonight. Olivia wouldn’t you agree?” Arias eyes shifted to her friends. “I..I.. yes Drake you look very handsome. ” Olivia stammered. I will get these two together if it kills me. Aria thought to herself as they felt the car roll to a stop. Dex met them at the door, “Aria, Duchess Olivia I am so glad you could make it.” He kissed each of their cheeks. “Drake, good to see you.” He extended his hand. “Come follow me.” Dex turned on his heels leading the trio through the corridor. “we will start with dinner and retire into the hall for refreshments, can I have the staff get you something to drink? Wine, champagne perhaps?” His eyes lingered on Aria. “ Water would be fantastic, thank you Dex.” She answered. As they walked into the dining room Dex sat Aria at the head table with himself, Hana and a couple other Nobles that seemed to be around He and Leos age. The night drew on and Aria remained quiet for most of the evening finding she had a hard time relating to their tales of what it was to be born with a silver spoon in their mouths. Hana leaned in “If I hear Duke Simpson announce his networth one more time I think I may scream.” Hana giggled, she had had a few glasses of wine and was feeling a bit relaxed.

“So Duchess Aria, you are close with Prince Leo why is he not in attendance.” One of the men asked from across the table. “Yes, he is on a short tour with the motocross circuit. He sends his regards.” "Oh that is right, he races bikes these days. Sounds like Leo, he always liked things fast. be it cars, bikes or women.” Dex sipped his wine. Aria felt her heart drop. “Well, I would like to think he has turned himself around these days.” Aria responded. The group of men laughed, “Leo doesn’t settle down, he gets bored way to easy. Which is why he slept his way through most of the court.” One of the men said “Yes, married, single, it didn’t matter to Leo. You know I heard he had a bastard out there. Some unsuspecting girl fell prey to the play boy prince. ” another chimed in. Aria felt sick to her stomach she stood up “please excuse me gentlemen.” “I will go with you.” Hana stood joining her. “Of course Duchess, we will be retiring to the hall, please find us there.” Dex informed her.

Aria rushed off to the bathroom, Hana in tow. She dabbed some cold water on her face and neck, trying to calm herself down. “Are you ok? You don’t look so well.” Hana approached placing her hand on Arias shoulder. “I will be, thank you Hana.” “You know you shouldn’t believe them, about Leo. You know they are rumors right?” Hana smypathetically patted her back. “I know. I am not naive I know he questionable past. It just stings a bit to hear.” She straightened herself up, lets join the others shall we?

Aria and Hana joined the others in the hall. She noticed Olivia and Drake smiling and laughing in the corner, she smiled at the interaction finally she thought to herself. She tried to lay low but then Dex called her over to join his little group. “Aria, you must come. You will just get a kick out of these stories.” Dex insisted. She stood listening to the men talk about Dex and Leo’s hijinx growing up. The many many women they took advantage of. She felt disgusted by it all, but she stood there frozen, listening but lost in her mind at the same time. Who is this man they are talking about, not my Leo. He has changed, right? He would never leave me, no. But he also hasn’t asked me to marry him either. Maybe he is just occupying his time with me. No this is all crazy. “He would have gave up the crown sooner for her.” Aria heard Dex say, pulling her from the thoughts screaming in her head. “Im sorry who?” Her eyes perked. A gleam of mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Oh Princess Helena. Leo was madly in love with her. His true love, everyone knew it. Their parents forbid the relationship, but it never stopped them from banging a few headboards.” Dex nudged his friend. That was it, Aria couldn’t take anymore. “Lord Crenshaw, it has been a pleasure but I am afraid I must call it a night.”

“Oh, of course Aria it has been a pleasure.” Dex grabbed Arias hand kissing the back of it. Aria found Olivia and Drake and told them she was ready to leave. They agreed but Olivia needed to use the rest room first. As she walked through the room she over heard Dex’s group engaging in conversation. “So have you nailed the new duchess yet?” Dex chuckled “well, she was here tonight so what do you think? You know how do things, I hit it and quit it.” A few men laughed spewing a few disgusting remarks about what they would do to her in the bedroom.

“Excuse me But I could not help over hearing your conversation. ” Olivia interrupted. “Duchess Olivia, we were just-” “You were just speaking in a disgusting manner of a noble of a higher station than yourself, lord Crenshaw.” Olivia snapped. The men stammered. “ Duchess Aria has the sole attention of a prince. Now tell me why in the hell she would entertain the likes of a bunch of titless nobodies such as yourselves?” She smirked. The men quickly looked down at their feet. “Yet you spend your time laying with a commoner. ” Dex shot a snide remark. “That commoner has more class in one finger then any of you have in your whole body.” She spat back, Olivia leaned in close to Dex “Be mindful who you are speaking of Dexter, I could castrate you in the blink of an eye and think nothing of it.” Olivia smirked, the color drained from Dex’s face. “You gentleman have a wonderful evening.” She turns and walked away.

After a silent ride back to Valtoria, Aria climbed the stairs and entered her room. She stripped her clothes throwing them across the room. She climbed into a warm shower trying to wash away the disgust she felt from the evenings events. She wrapped herself in a towel, the things they said about Leo swirling in her head. She tossed herself into bed, not bothering to get dressed. The tears were coming now, she heard her phone buzz from her night stand and d she ignored it. She laid in bed and cried herself to sleep.

Tag list: @bobasheebaby @scarlettedragon @annekebbphotography @speedyoperarascalparty @greyeyedsmile14 @stopforamoment @mind-reader1 @hopefulmoonobject @alicars @katurrade @indiacater @bella-ca @blznbaby @blackwidow2721 @liamxs-world @simsvetements @furiousherringoperatortoad @choicesfannatalie @crookedslimecreatorpasta @coldcollectornight08 @llholloway @museofbooks @syltti78 @ao719 @pawandme @blubutterflyy @itsstillnotwhatyouthink @liam-rhys-deactivated20180927 @riseandshinelittleblossom

#choices trr #trr fanfic #trr #prince leo #leo trr #duchess aria #leo x aria #for you trr fan fic #olivia nevrakis #drake walker

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chokememrstark · 6 years

Text

The Soulmate Sam Never Asked For // Part 11

Ship: Samifer (Sam Winchester / Lucifer)

Words: 2411 (Chapter 11 / 12)

Fic Summary: Sam knows it's a long shot, but he really wants to help Lucifer and his brothers, so he contacts an old friend of his dad. Bobby, whom he has not seen in years but has fond memories off, turns out to be a true life savior and with his help, Sam actually begins to think everything will turn out to be good in the end.

college!AU, human!AU, soulmates!AU, dysfunctional families, abusive parents, dramatic romance, or romantic drama, your choice, big brother!Lucifer, soulmates hating each other, referenced alcoholism, death and abuse, some violence, and lots of feels, fluff and cuteness, some drama but not too much, lots of bickering, and two damn stubborn soulmates (!!)

Note: One chapter to go after this! Are you ready?

Tagging: @shebahda @sassysupernaturalsweetheart @spnyoucantkeepmedown @brieflymaximumprincess @multifandomhcsforinsanity @etysky @justasmalltownsuperwholock @humongouscandycoffee @daddycasstiel @nnegann @blakechaos08

If you want off the tag list or want to be added, just drop me an ask or IM!

Read on AO3!

It took Sam a few minutes after Lucifer had left to fully compose himself and his thoughts, but eventually he managed to focus back on what he wanted to do. There was a lot he had to tackle and even though he wasn’t sure about succeeding, he wanted to give it a try at least. After all, they were friends by now - probably more but Sam was still very much in denial about that - and seeing a friend suffer like this was enough reason to try and help him. Soulmates or not, he wasn’t going to let Lucifer go back to that human trash that called himself his father, no way.

First, Sam went to see Ellen, the school counselor, again to talk about his current living situation. As it turned out the fact that he usually had no roommate was very helpful. Ellen assured him that Lucifer could stay for up to four weeks, because he was a student himself. After that he had to look for a different place to stay, but Sam hoped that there wouldn’t be a need for that by this time anymore. He thanked her and told her he’d attend classes again the next week, before going back to his room for the next thing on his list: call his brother.

Dean was surprised that Sam called him this early, but more than that he was very happy and relieved. He monologued for a while about how Sam had to take it easy for a while and look after himself and the younger brother listened to everything patiently before finally asking the question he desperately wanted to ask.

“You don’t happen to still have Bobby’s number, do you?” Bobby was an old friend of their dad, the only one that was actually reliable and nice, and Sam remembered that he had lived in Stanford a few years ago.

“Bobby? Why do you want Bobby’s number?” Dean asked suspicious and Sam could almost hear his brother raise a brow at him.

“It’s a long story. To keep it short: I need to talk to him about something important. Nothing to worry about, really.”

“Wanna pay the old man a visit, huh?” Dean laughed, making Sam smirk slightly. “You’re lucky, I still have his number, but I don’t know if it’s still active.”

“Just give it to me, I’ll find out soon enough.”

Sam quickly wrote down the number Dean gave him after a few minutes of searching and thanked his brother. He promised to call back soon, but right now he was too focused on trying to reach Bobby to chat any longer - he didn’t say that of course, just that he was busy.

After Sam dialed the number Dean gave him he felt a stone drop in his stomach when an electronic voice told him that it was unavailable. He already saw all his hopes vanish while checking the number again, only to realize he had switched two digits in his haste and anticipation. Relieved, he dialed the right number and this time it actually rang.

“Singer Auto Salvage,” a grumpy voice answered the phone and Sam sank back onto his bed feeling ten pounds lighter already. “How can I help you?”

“Bobby? It’s me, Sam. Remember me?”

“Sam?” Bobby asked surprised, but not without a hint of recognition in his voice. “John Winchester’s boy?”

“The one and only,” Sam grinned. “Okay, not the only one, but yeah, that Sam.”

“Now that’s what I call a surprise!” Bobby said and laughed deep and rough. “What gives me the honor, boy?”

“I’m in a little dilemma right now and wondered if you might be able to help me out,” Sam said and bit his lip. “Are you still in Stanford?”

“Never left the place after coming here,” Bobby huffed with a hint of pride. “What dilemma are we talking about? Car broke down, drugs, police?”

“No no no!” Sam quickly said and sat back up. “None of that, really! It’s more of a… living situation… I guess?”

“Alright boy, stop dancing around the fire and spit it out.”

And so Sam did. He told Bobby as much as he had to without digging into the soulmate thing too much, just telling him that Lucifer was a very good friend and about the horrible conditions he lived under. He felt stupid for taking so much time to explain, but it was a long story and Bobby was the only one who might be able to help him at the moment. After he was done the phone was silent for almost a minute before he finally heard a deep and long sigh at the other end.

“Oh boy, you really know how to get yourself into trouble, don’t you?”

“You know who my brother is, do you really have to ask?”

“Don’t get me started on that one,” Bobby growled. “He would have called because he sat in jail.”

“Probably, yeah,” Sam laughed. “So, can you help me out somehow? I don’t really know who else to ask…”

“You’re lucky, boy,” Bobby said, raising Sam’s hope for the first time that day. “You remember the house I lived in when you visited me with your dad as a kid?”

“The one you sold when you bought your salvage yard?” Sam asked surprised.

“That one, but I never sold it. It’s still mine, it’s just been empty for a few years. You can have it if you want to, but there’s a few things that need to be done. It’s not in the best shape anymore, but better than nothing.”

“Really?” Sam couldn’t believe it. “Bobby, you’re saving my ass, thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet, as I said, there’s some things to do. The stairs need to be repaired and the electricity is a bitch, but if you wanna take it, I’ll help you with that.”

“I don’t know what to say, that’s awesome! Where is it? I can’t remember anymore. Is it far from college? Can I take a look at it?”

“Whoa, slow down, boy,” Bobby laughed. “It’s about half an hour away if you walk,I can show it to you today if you want to, the yard is closed anyways. How about we meet there in an hour? I need to find the keys first, haven’t been there in a while.”

“Of course, yes! Can you give me the address? I’ll be there!”

“Eager as always,” Bobby laughed and Sam joined in immediately. “Get some paper, I’ll tell you where to go.”

Sam already had that luckily, so he quickly wrote down the address and thanked Bobby again before hanging up. He didn’t dare to be too excited yet, after all the house could be a huge mess, but this was more than he had hoped for. He debated for a moment whether he should tell Lucifer already or not, but given this concerned him too he decided to go for it. When he broke the news to him, Lucifer was very confused.

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

“Okay, sorry, I’m not making sense, I know.” Sam scratched his head and took a deep breath. “I talked to a family friend, Bobby, who lives here too. He owns a house that he used to live in a few years ago, as far as I remember it’s rather big too. He said he can show me today but there will be a few things that need to be done. But I can have it, he said.”

“Wow, that’s… wow…”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna lie, it won’t be perfect, but I wanted to ask if you wanna come and take a look at it with us? Maybe this could be a way out. It’s half an hour away from campus, so not that far, what do you say?”

“I can’t say no, can I?” Lucifer asked and Sam heard him chuckle. “Alright, give me the address and I’ll come over. Afterwards you can come with me and visit Raph, he’s asking for you already.”

“Of course, yes!” Sam agreed excited and gave Lucifer the address. “See you in an hour, okay?”

“I’ll be there. And do me a favor; don’t wet your pants yet. From all you know it could be a disaster.”

“Yeah, but a disaster is still better than being homeless, right? See you later!”

Sam hung up and finally allowed himself to breathe again. If this would turn out to be a place they could stay in, things might turn out good somehow. He wasn’t sure how bad the state of the house truly was, Lucifer was right with that, but he knew Bobby and how good he was when it came to repairing things - with his help they’d be able to manage.

Waiting was almost like torture, so in the end, Sam called a taxi after just half an hour and arrived at the house fifteen minutes early. This, however, gave him the time to take a look at it from the outside already. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected. One of the window blinds was hanging off, a window was cracked and it desperately needed a paint job, but overall it seemed to be in a rather solid condition. Sam also noticed that there was apparently a yard in the back of the house that he didn’t remember, which looked like a little jungle from all the neglect, but definitely had a certain charm to it. He was still leaning over the small iron gate that led into it when he suddenly felt a strong grip on his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin as he spun around.

“Bobby!” Sam yelped at the sight of the man in front of him - visibly older than he remembered him but recognizable right away with his worn trademark basecap and the beard that covered half his face. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“You’ve grown quite a bit,” Bobby said and Sam saw a smile under his beard. “Last time I saw you you barely reached my head when jumping.”

“It’s been a while, yeah,” Sam laughed awkwardly and the next second he was pulled into a big hug that nearly pushed the air out of his lungs.

“Good to see you again, boy,” Bobby said and patted Sam’s back roughly. “Good to see you again.”

“Same here, Bobby,” Sam gasped and returned the gesture weakly. “It’s been way too long.”

“So, wanna take a look inside?”

“In a minute, my friend comes over too, is that alright?” Sam asked a bit embarrassed. “I thought he might wanna see it himself, you know.”

“No problem, we have time after all,” Bobby smiled. “What do you think so far?”

“Looks good,” Sam smiled back and turned towards the house again, bracing his hips. “I expected worse to be honest, but it looks almost like all those years ago.”

“You know I take good care of my belongings,” Bobby laughed, crossing his arms. “I would have stayed here but the Salvage Yard was too good of a deal to pass on it. Still come here from time to time to dwell in memories.”

“You sure loved this place, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Bobby nodded slowly. “Karen fell in love with it when she first saw it and there was no way I couldn’t have bought it. I tried to keep it all in good shape after she died, that was the least I could do for her.”

“You did a great job, Bobby,” Sam said and laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder in sympathy. “We’ll take good care of it, I promise.”

“I know you will. You’ve always been the responsible one in your family, even as a kid. I trust you with this.”

Sam smiled when he heard a car drive up to them, making the two turn around. A minute passed before the passenger’s door open and Lucifer stepped out, which made Sam’s smile widen a bit as the other walked over to them.

“Lucifer, finally! This is my old friend Bobby,” Sam introduced the two. “Bobby, this is Lucifer, the friend I told you about.”

Lucifer held out his hand and shook Bobby’s, both eyeing each other extensively.

“Pleasure to meet you;” Lucifer smiled, to which Bobby nodded slowly.

“Same here, son. Now that everyone’s here, how about we take a look inside?”

The old man let go of Lucifer’s hand and fetched a bundle of keys from his pocket while the two boys walked up behind him. Lucifer gave Sam a weird and amused smile, to which Sam had a hard time suppressing the urge to laugh.

Bobby made sure to show the boys every inch of the house, from the basement to the attic it took around an hour to see everything. The stairway needed a new rail and had a few broken steps, the electricity did act up from time to time as Bobby had told Sam and one of the toilets didn’t work, but other than that all the house really needed was a good clean up and some new paint. Sam was surprised how big the house actually was, with four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a big living room and a big kitchen with a dining area it was the perfect size for their needs. And the garden, even though wild and untamed right now, was a great addition to the whole place.

“What do you think? A bit of work and it should be as good as new,” Bobby said after they walked back out.

“It’s a great house indeed,” Lucifer agreed and looked up at the building. “And you really want to offer it to us?”

“Of course,” Bobby nodded. “It’s a shame no one is living here anymore and I’d be glad to know it in good hands.”

“It will be, promised!” Sam assured him immediately. “I’m sure Raph will love it too, not to talk about Gabriel.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure they would love it,” Lucifer smiled. “I’m out of words, really. I can’t thank you enough for your offer, I promise you we will take good care of it.”

“You better,” Bobby laughed and eyed Lucifer closely again. “I’ll know where you live, remember that.”

At that, all three of them laughed and Sam hadn't felt this content in a very long time. Yes, maybe things would turn out good after all. He really hoped so at least.

#samifer #sam x lucifer #sam winchester #spn lucifer #lucifer #myfics #almost done!#i really hope you like where this is going XD

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