#God also slips in promises that soar with hope and grace. Can you think of anything more reassuring than God&039;s promise to "refresh

[abovethesmokestacks]

Hidden Love

Title: Hidden Love

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word count: 2.2k

Rating: All audiences

Warnings: None. Or me, probably butchering the Victorian era. Also, you know, slight angst, because I can’t help myself

This story sparked from a moodboard I made a while back, of Victorian King!Bucky and maid!reader, and it kinda got away from me, as everything tends to do these days. And listen... I know. The term Victorian really only relates to the history of the United Kingdom during Queen Victoria’s reign, but please bear with me on this and suspend belief and step into a world where during this era, Bucky is king, and enjoy the stay.

The sounds of crystal clinking together should be like silver bells carrying over the din of hushed conversation, but to his ears, it's like nails on a chalkboard. The food before him is rich and each bite seems to swell in his mouth, forced down in thick swallows and gulps of wine. His cheeks hurt from smiling, and his feet itch to leave, to stand up and walk out. He could.

"More wine, your highness?"

He could, he is king.

The server's voice is low, bowed down appropriately to only be heard by him. He shouldn't have another glass, for the sake of his mental faculties. He should, to keep up appearances. He can already sense his mother's eyes on him, the calculating gaze he has known his entire life. The dowager queen, a mother only as it serves her image in the kingdom than anything else.

"Everything all right, James?" she asks, and oh, that tone is deceptive. Kind on the surface, but weighed just so with the barest hint of concern to draw the attention of the other guests.

He wants to grimace, his name sounding contrived and wrong in his ears, granted with the weight of legacy, set aside for a few blessed years of childhood and then thrust back upon him when illness took his father and forced him back into a mold he would much rather escape. The coronation had his stomach in knots, a chill persisting in his bones and a simmering dread as he was crowned - anointed by God, what god would place their faith in someone so flawed as man? - His Majesty James, by the Grace of God, King of the Nation, Defender of the Faith.

"Nothing, mother. Pondering my choice of drink."

He tries for amicable, jovial. It is the annual Christmas feast, why shouldn't he be happy? His mother quirks an eyebrow, holding his gaze just long enough for the hairs on the back of his head to stand on end before her eyes glide from him to take up the conversation she left.

Some defender of the faith he is, he doesn't even have faith in himself.

An eternity seems to pass as dishes pass before him, plate after plate until he feels nauseous. Around him, the atmosphere has relaxed, emboldened by wine and spirits, and even his mother is no longer sparing him a glance to keep track of him. Somehow, he would have thought being king would have meant finally being free of her shadow, but she is still there. No longer a shadow, but a presence right behind him, a metaphorical foot on his robe to remind him of his place, and hers. He wonders if anyone has noticed that his glass of wine has not been refilled in a long time, that he has been nursing it steadily and that his boisterous laughs have all been hollow.

He could leave, but not without drawing attention. Just a little while longer. He glances at the opulent grandfather clock, feels its ticking like a heartbeat. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

Each tick of the clock is an endless journey. Through rigid traditions, glasses of brandy, sweet sugarplums and fragrant pines, all he can feel is the passing of time, one second after another without an end in sight. Gifts are exchanged, crackers pulled with cloying glee and he feels more like a fool than a king when one of the footmen is coaxed into slipping the thin paper crown on his head. His mother bows out with effortless grace, sparking hope that maybe, just maybe, he can make his escape.

"Let me accompany you, mother," he asks, begs, voice low as he stands up to offer his arm for her.

Take it. Please, for the love of all things good and holy, take it.

Her smile is not exactly smug, but it hides a kind of joy that he thinks must be sour.

"Nonsense, my dear. Don't leave on my account, stay, be merry."

It's loud enough to be heard, for plenty of people to hear her deny him his exit under the guise of a mother not wanting to spoil her son's fun. He tries not to let his gaze harden or his forced smile to weaken, instead kissing his mother's hand and bidding her good night. Propriety will keep him here another hour at least. The clock ticks, chipping away at the span of time before he can have his freedom.

He thinks he might finally be going out of his mind when the clock strikes midnight. His other guests are either half-asleep, lulled by brandy and the late hour, or eagerly playing cards for the trinkets they received in their crackers. Enough. He takes his leave, wanting to roll his eyes at the hasty displays of respect and deference. No matter. He is free. A quick trip to fill up a plate from the abandoned dinner table, something for the road, as he jests with his escort. The palace is quiet when they traverse the corridors to his private chambers, their footsteps echoing ominously with nothing but a candelabra to light their way.

"I think I'll manage myself tonight," he tells his escort when they're outside his door. "Go sleep, I won't tell on you."

They put up the token protest, but still leave, hastening down the dark hallway while he lets himself in. The world feels more manageable inside. It's still a constant reminder of his privilege, of the opulence of his station, but it's his. No one can enter without his permission, no one can disturb him without just cause. Sometimes he wishes this was his entire kingdom.

Setting down the plate on his bed, he loosens the ascot, glad to be rid of the strangle-like hold around his neck. Off with the tailcoat, unbutton the waistcoat. Breathe.

Thunk.

He whips around, gaze falling on the large armoire in the corner. The silence that follows is deafening, but he knows what he heard. With a smile curling his lips, he swipes a treat off the plate, hiding it behind his back while he closes the distance, pulling the doors open in a rush, only for his ears to ring with a piercing shriek.

"Hush! Good god, you'll wake the entire wing, calm down! It's just me!"

The girl cowering into the corner of the armoire claps her hands over her mouth, eyes that had only moments ago been wide with fear now glaring at him as she breathes  through her nose to calm down. It’s strange, how his heart beats quicker, how the heaviness of his mind lightens under her fierce gaze. Years ago, they met by accident, he was still prince, young and cocksure, and she was, as she is now, a maid in the vast household that served his father the king. It wasn’t prudent, but he enjoyed giving her his attention, little flirtatious exchanges that somehow grew into a tender love with stolen kisses in hidden nooks. She has never asked for anything, much as he has offered to help her. She has declined promotions, slapped him for trying to sneak a small pouch of coins into her apron, made him promise not to do anything that would change her status in or outside the court.

He extends his hand to her, helping her up and out, twirling her around the room, making the skirt of her black dress flare around her, and his soul soars at the way her face settles into a sweet smile. With an exaggerated bow, he holds out his hand with the hidden treat, a sugar plum. She plucks it from her hand, delight colouring her features as she takes a small bite. 

“I thought you were…” she begins, swallowing before dropping her gaze, slipping the rest of the sugarplum into her apron pocket. “I wasn’t sure you were alone. I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

They come to a halt by the window of his room, and instinctively, he positions his back to the window, protecting her presence with the frame of his body. This may be his private quarters, but the palace has eager eyes and ears.

“My mother.” 

It’s answer enough. Their love lives in the shadows, in the small kingdom of his room, in the hidden passages of the palace and with notes tucked into cracks only they know about. His heart aches, because she deserves so much more, wishes the world knew about this generous soul that holds his heart in her palms, whose smile lights up his presence even during his darkest days, who will take nothing but the reassurances of his affections and the kisses he bestows freely.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he adds, bringing up her hands to kiss her knuckles. They’re cold, worn from hard work, but he loves them as dearly as the rest of her.

“She knows.”

It’s simple. A statement, not a question, and her hands slide from his grip as she takes a step back.

“We don’t know that. She enjoys tormenting me, we’ve known that for quite some time. And even if she knows…” He closes the space between them again, wraps her up in his embrace, and nudges her chin to make her look at him. “Even if she knows, she won’t do anything overt. She can’t.”

“She’s the-” his love starts, eyebrows knit together, mouth set in a way that he knows she won’t let this go.

“She thinks she owns me. She thinks she controls me. In her eyes, I am as much a servant to her as anyone on staff. And I’m happy to let her keep her delusion, if it means I get to be with you, if it gives me time to…”

“To what?” she asks, tilting her head. “If it gives you time to do what, Bucky?”

To fight for that, he wants to say. His nickname, falling sweet from her lips and making him feel like a person. It’s a treasure from those happy childhood years, when he’d only hear it from his string of governesses and teachers, a concession to play pretend at a normal life. It felt like stepping out of a pleasant dream when he had to leave it behind, had to step into the heavy legacy of James, into the title of king. He looks at her, the only one to call him Bucky these days, and feels courage rise with the beating of his heart.

“To figure out a way for us to be together,” he tells her resolutely, continuing on his next breath. “We’ll go away, I’ll make sure we’ll have means to live until we can settle down. We’ll go far away, we’ll cross the sea if we have to.”

He twirls them around in a dance, away from the window, away from vulnerability of unseen eyes. Away. Gone. Together.

“Bucky…”

“We’ll live in a cottage, you and I. I’ll… I’ll learn a trade. I can tend horses. I can hunt. We’ll have a life that’s… that’s ours.”

“Buc- Your highness!”

The title cuts him down, poleaxes him and pulls him out of the dreams like someone has poured a vat of cold water on him. She’s no longer in his arms, once again removed, three solid paces between them, and she looks so small, so despairing, hands folded in front of her. This time, she finds her voice before he can find his.

“I can’t ask you to do that. You’re king. You… You have responsibilities. You have a realm that depends on you for guidance and rule. You can’t just… I’m no one. I’m not important. I’m- You are king, and kings marry queens and live happily ever after. I don’t fit into that story, your highness.”

He takes a step forward, she takes another step backwards. Even so, it hurts more to hear the way she talks about herself, makes herself small while he grows to something fabled and grand, when truth be told, he feels like all this time, he’s been walking on stilts and wearing a costume to hide the person he really is.

“Neither do I,” he starts, winces inwardly at how trite it sounds. “I didn’t want this. To be king, I mean. It’s not for me. I don’t care for politics and mind games, I don’t care for frivolousness and rigid customs. This is a prison to me. It’s beautiful, and grand, but it’s a gilded cage nonetheless. Outside this room, away from you, I am not myself. I am weak. I am a pawn in a game. My desires don't matter. You…” He takes a careful step forward, hope springing when she stays where she stands, “are everything I want. Everything I need.” Another step. “And I will do anything to be with you, anything to make this my story. I’ll bide my time, I’ll weigh my options, I’ll make every preparation, but one day…”

Another step. He’s back in front of her, and though she avoids his eyes, she’s not running, not putting distance back between them.

"Your highness…"

“My love,” he interrupts, offering her the depth and width of his affection, his voice low and ardent as he kneels before her, prostrating before the only person worthy of him. “My sweet, my… my everything. One day, I’ll find a way for us to be together.”

[generallybarzy]

hey there, stranger. viii

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven an: merry christmas to those of you who celebrate!!! I meant to get this out on Christmas eve but I worked until our store closed last night so I literally just finished this right now! chapter nine will be out tomorrow, I just decided to break it into 2 parts, christmas eve and christmas day, so that you could read it without having to wait too long! This chapter and the next are really sweet, with a liiiiiiittle hint of foreshadowing here and there. Hope you enjoy! word count: 2.9k

Christmas approached faster than you expected.

You had made up your mind earlier that Christmas Eve into Christmas morning would be the day you spent in Mat’s bed and finally stayed with him. You couldn’t be more overjoyed that Mat had decided to stay in New York over Christmas. You honestly didn’t know what you would do without him. Every second that you didn’t spend in class or babysitting for the Seidenberg’s- whose children were very interesting in your dating life now- you were with Mat. Out on dates, or just at home with him, resting. Things felt right with him. Almost too right.

It was Christmas Eve, it was chilly and all you wanted was to cuddle under some blankets and watch TV with him, so when you saw him come to the living room with your shoes and jacket in hand, your face dropped.

“We’re not going out, are we?”

He laughed at your instant reaction and nodded. “Just for a bit. But I have an early Christmas gift for you first.” He moved from the hallway to where you were on the couch, stopping by the tree to pick up the biggest of the very few presents you had set there for each other.

“Mat, this better not be something expensive.”

“Well-”

“I thought we agreed to keep our Christmas shopping light?”

“It’s not expensive! It’s not too expensive, I promise.” He handed you the box, wrapped haphazardly in red paper and held together with what looked like a whole roll of tape. You couldn’t help but laugh softly at it again like the first time you saw it.

The first thing you noticed when you stepped into Mat’s apartment was the two boxes under the tree the two of you had put up the other night. After you had agreed to spend Christmas with him, he immediately pulled you out to a tree farm and hauled it up the stairs to his apartment, claiming that you would decorate it so pretty and fill the house with presents. They were wrapped almost grotesque, in a way that you knew Mat had never wrapped a gift before, and you couldn’t help but laugh at them.

“What?” Mat mocked an offended look as you stood in his living room, laughing at his work.

“Have you never wrapped a gift before?”

“Hey, it has character!”

“It sure does have character. You sure you want me to open it and ruin this masterpiece?” You said now, taking the box in your lap. Mat just smiled and nudged you playfully, urging you to open it. You tore apart the paper, your heart soaring at Mat’s eyes watching you gently as you finally opened up the box under the paper. “Oh my God, Mat.” There, settled in the box, was a pair of brand new, clean white skates.

Mat smiled at your reaction. “Sooo, we’re going skating tonight.”

“What? I- I can’t skate?”

“Yeah, I figured.” The smirk on his face lit up a fire deep inside you. “I can teach you. I think it’d be a fun date, yeah?”

As nervous as you were to skate with him, you couldn’t help the smile spread across your face. “So you think a good date idea is me humiliating myself?”

“Yeah!” He laughed. That loud cackle that made your heart glow. “C’mon, get your coat, it’s chilly.”

“Rockefeller?”

“Absolutely.”

The walk from Mat’s apartment to the subway was chilly, but as you snuggled into his side while sitting on the subway train, your arm tucked under his black plaid coat, tight around his hoodie-clad waist, and his arm heavy across your shoulders, you knew there was no where else you’d rather be. He held your hand and laughed as you jumped out the subway doors the second they opened and dashed for the stairs. Mat couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you climbed the stairs back into the city and gazed around, the Christmas lights making your eyes gleam in wonder. It was a type of beauty he hadn’t seen before. A beauty not in physical appearance- even though you had plenty of that- but a beauty in how wonderful you were, how the city lights hit the joy in your eyes, and the way Mat’s heart pounded and his face warmed up when he saw you.

I want you so bad right now.

When the Christmas tree came into view after the short walk, Mat could feel the way your arm tightened around him, squeezing to get his attention. “Mat, look at the tree!” It was cute, almost childlike how excited you were. He chuckled at your outburst, and you punched his side slightly. “Shut up, this is my first Christmas here.”

“No, no, it’s cute.”

What did I do right to be with you right now?

You didn’t see his pink face.

You didn’t feel nervous about falling on your ass and making a fool of yourself, not until you were sitting at the edge of the rink at the Rockefeller Center, with Mat kneeling in front of you and tying your laces. You watched his big hands move skillfully, as if tying skates was second nature to him at this point.

“All done.” He stood with ease, his own skates making him appear so, so much taller than he already was, not even bothered by the fact that he was balancing on blades, but you had a little more trouble, your legs shaking the moment you stood up. “Hey, hey, I got you.” Mat smiled, a little bit, teasingly, his hands finding your waist. “We’re not even on the ice, babe.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”

He laughed, boisterous and loud. “I promise, you will. Trust me?” His hands found yours and pulled, urging you towards the ice. “I’ll take care of you. I’m good at this.”

Like a fool, you smiled.

“Alright, I trust you.”

Mat’s first step onto the ice was easy, it was habit, like the ice was like a home to him at this point, as if he was even more comfortable gliding over the ice than walking on land. You, on the other hand, were much less graceful. Mat held his hands out to you, and you took them carefully after almost falling immediately after stepping into the rink. “I hope you’re excited to see me fall.”

He smiled. “I’ve never been more excited.”

The first lap around the rink took five long, giggly minutes, Mat’s hands big and warm and holding yours tight, skating ever so gracefully backwards and glancing back to make sure he wasn’t about to run into anyone while also making sure you weren’t about to fall. "C'mon, babe." He smiled as you stumbled for the hundredth time that night.

"Sorry I'm not a professional like you, Mat."

"No, I like you like this. It's cute." You were about to blush, to tell Mat that he was so cheesy and soft, when he continued on. "Cute like… endearing, like how we laugh at a really clumsy deer learning to walk"

"Ouch, Mat!" You couldn't help but laugh as you faked annoyance and smacked his arm lightly. He stopped skating abruptly and let you glide into his chest.

"What? It's the truth, Bambi."

His hand fell to the small of your back, pulling you closer to him and pressing your hips to his. It was nothing but a simple, helpful act to keep you from slipping to the ground, but something in how close you were pressed into his hard body made your tummy flip and turn. Your hands slid up his chest and to his face, cupping his cheeks in your gloved hands and pulling him down to give him a quick peck. For a moment, the rest of the world disappeared. It was just you, Mat, the ice, and the sparkling Christmas Tree towering over you. There was nobody else around. For that second.

“Let’s keep going, Mat.”

He smiled, his cheeks pink and warm from the kiss. “You sure? A few minutes ago you were begging me to get you off.”

“I trust you. Don’t let me fall.”

“Of course not.”

He moved to your side, his arm around your waist, and helped guide you to move your feet, and soon, with his help, you were moving along. Mat couldn’t take his eyes off of you, simple as that. The little concentrated look on your face as you focused on making your feet move the right way looked so adorable. He couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to call you his.

And he didn’t notice the groups of girls with their phone’s camera aimed at you or the whispers they made to their friends.

He pecked your cheek again. “Are you having a nice Christmas Eve?”

“Are you kidding?” You looked up at him, your arm tightening under his jacket, around his hoodie-clad waist subconsciously to steady yourself. “This is amazing. You know what would make it better?”

“What?”

“If it would snow.”

“Hmm.” Mat motioned up to the sky, “Like that?” You turned your face to the sky, where snowflakes had started to come down lightly, sparkling in the lights.

“Oh my god.” You whispered in awe, your cheeks warm.

"All the best things happen softly." Mat repeated your words from a few weeks ago, his voice soft and eyes in awe of your beauty as the snow began to lay, sparkling, in your hair. You turned towards him, cheeks pink and eyes warm, and leaned up to beg for a kiss.

"You're amazing, Mat."

"Not as amazing as you."

"C'mere."

He sunk into your kiss, leaning the two of you against the edge of the rink so that others could skate around you. You smiled against each other's lips, absolutely giddy and chilly and craving your lover's warmth. Mat's hand glided from yours up to the curve of your neck, his chilly fingers dipping under your hair and making you giggle. The way your lips were curving up against his made him giddy, and he mirrored you, and soon you two were nothing but a giggly mess, surrounded by snowflakes and twinkling Christmas lights.

And the rumors you didn’t hear yet.

"Damn." Mat broke away first.

"I'll never get over kissing you, Mat."

"Same here."

"You're a good kisser."

"Not as good as you." He smirked, rubbing his thumb across your bottom lip. "So, I had planned to go window shopping along the avenue, but if you're too cold or your feet hurt, we can just go home and cuddle?"

"Hmm." Your feet did hurt, now that you thought about it, but the idea of being out in the city with Mat longer was tempting. "Well, I do like being out here with you. But nothing beats cuddles." Mat nodded, just absolutely gleaming that you had finally warmed up to that type of closeness. "Anyway, we have next Christmas to go window shopping, right?"

"Next Christmas?"

"Yeah, next Christmas."

So you were implying that you'd be here at least all year. Maybe more. And Mat couldn't handle that. His heart pounded in his chest.

"So I haven't scared you off yet?"

You laughed. "No, the opposite, really."

"That's good."

You stood in each other’s arms in comfortable silence for a few more moments, just enjoying each other. He hadn’t scared you away. He had made you more and more sure that he was gonna be worth it. He was here for the long run, and there was very little he could do to scare you away- that, you knew.

"Wanna head home, baby?"

"As much as I love skating with you, yeah. I'm getting chilly."

“Cuddles it is, then.”

------

You stumbled into Mat’s apartment, giggling and rubbing your hands together, shaking the snow off your clothes. Mat pulled off his wet jacket and shoes and rushed to the thermostat, turning the central air system as warm and cozy as it could get. You kicked off your shoes and dropped your jacket and skates by his door, following him into his bedroom and snickering at how he was already changed into sweats and was pulling a thick crew neck over his head.

He looked up, his hair still a wreck from pulling on the sweater, to see you in the doorway, still shivering through your giggles. He pulled you close and wrapped his arms around you, swallowing you in his warmth. "C’mon, we can’t have you cold. Go through my drawers, babe. Take any clothes you want, and find me in the living room, alright?"

"Okay."

It didn’t take you long to decide on something of his to wear. Easily your favorite article of clothing of his, the soft light gray hoodie was lying on his bed, just calling for you to grab. You slipped it over your head and grabbed a pair of his sweats, pulling the strings tight around your waist and rolling up the ankles. After grabbing some of his large socks from the drawer, you caught sight of yourself in his mirror. So, this was you now, huh? Cuddling up in your boyfriend’s oversized clothes, in his apartment, about to go snuggle on his couch. You were almost dizzy with emotion, and you couldn’t stop smiling at yourself as you looked at yourself in his clothes. You were someone’s girlfriend, someone’s favorite person. Again. And this time you felt safe in his arms. You felt loved.

“(Y/N)?” Mat called from the living room.

You took another deep breath and opened the door. Mat was standing by the couch, in big, fuzzy socks and sweatpants and his fluffy sweater, holding two steaming mugs.

“Hey, Maty.”

“Hey, baby.” He laughed through the word, his eyes running up and down your figure. Your figure was hidden behind his baggy clothes, but he had never loved you more than at this moment. You were wearing his clothes. You were in his clothes. There was something about seeing you like this that was so much more beautiful than anything else. More beautiful than the first time he saw you, than when you babysat together, than when you cuddled for the very first time. There was something beautifully intimate about seeing you in his clothes. As if in a way the two of you were becoming more and more intertwined every date. He finally realized he’d been staring and sucked in a breath. “Thought you jumped out the window and ran away or something.”

You laughed. “No, never.”

He grinned and held out the mugs as you moved towards him. “I made us hot chocolate.”

“Is it good? I know you’re not very good at cooking.” You took the mug anyway, giving him teasing eyes.

“Ouch!” Mat laughed and took a sip of his own chocolate. “Hey, c’mon, it’s pretty good!” He watched with a proud, gleaming smile as you took a sip, and you could barely taste it when he continued. “Right? Isn’t it so good?”

“It is, baby.”

“Wanna, maybe, watch some Netflix before going to bed?”

“That sounds perfect.”

Mat’s couch was large, large enough for him to stretch his long, six-foot body out on, and stretch out he did, pulling you down beside him. He tucked you back against his chest, his thick arms around your waist and his big feet nudging at yours under the blanket. As the night dragged on, the snow coming down heavier against the windows, you could feel his breath against your neck, you could feel it getting softer and softer as he fell asleep. “Baby,” You turned towards him, lifting his face between your hands. He hummed in response, his eyes opening and his lips smiling. “Let’s go to bed. You look sleepy.”

“I am.”

“So am I.”

“Let’s go.” Mat rolled off the couch sleepily and lifted you.

“Mat, you don’t have to carry me, bubs. Looks like you’re gonna fall over.”

“I wanna.”

You laughed when he hoisted you up in his arms and reached for the remote to turn off the TV. He stumbled towards the bedroom, giggling and nearly falling over, before shutting off the lights and dropping you onto the bed, crawling up next to you and making the bed bounce as he flopped his heavy body down.

“Mat.” You pulled his face up from the pillow to look at you. “C’mere, I wanna hold you like the other night.”

“Oh, for sure.”

Mat had never felt more comfortable in his life than when he had his head resting on your chest, your fingers tangled in his hair and your arm around his shoulders. And you’d never felt more safe than when his arms were around you, his lips against your skin and his weight heavy on top of you. You’d never felt this safe with any other man in your life, and Mat was so, so gentle and amazing to you.

“Did you have a nice night?”

“It was amazing.”

“Mmm.” Mat squeezed you in his arms. “I’m so happy you’re warming up to me now. I’m so happy we’re clicking so well. I was afraid you wouldn’t...”

“I am. I’m comfortable. We click so well, baby. I’m sorry it was a little difficult at first.”

“‘It’s my fault too.” His voice was sleepy and soft as his hand found your cheek in the dark, his thumb rubbing circles on your skin. “Will you stay in the morning?”

This time, you weren’t unsure. This time, you knew how you felt. This time, you wouldn’t run.

“Of course, bubs.”

[littlesparklight]

Do you want Paris flirting with Menelaos in public? Of course you do. This contains misuse of the Epic of Gilgamesh~ *

Troy

The hall was lush and warmly lit, the earlier dishes of food now replaced by sweet fruit and richer wine. Music was drifting up towards the ceiling tiles and rafters, accompanied by the liquid silver of the lyrist's voice. It was much easier now to appreciate it all when Menelaos was waiting for word of hopeful success to his propitiatory sacrifices, though there was still tension lingering. Worries. He had done as bid, but was it enough? He wouldn't even be able to tell when it came to the second half of the affliction that had led to the need for these sacrifices, but that made a positive message of resolution for the epidemic all the more important as a sign that the sacrifices had been received and made correctly.

Reaching for one of a small pile of strawberry tree fruits, Menelaos shifted in place. His scalp prickled with the weight of a stare on him, but the worst was the voice, dropping slightly in tone, earnest emotion all too clear, near wailing, as Gilgamesh mourned Enkidu. Out on the floor, in full view from where Menelaos sat, Alexander was on his own chair, legs loosely stretched out in front of him, hooked at the ankles, his fingers practically caressing the lyre's strings.

He wasn't going to look.

He looked up anyway, straight into bright, blue-green eyes which he'd known would be fastened on him.

Menelaos looked away, taking another sweet, refreshing fruit, and almost choked on it in his hurry to bite down on it. Alexander had been doing this for the past three days, while he ran through the songs attached to this personage, translated for his guest's benefit. At first, he hadn't thought much of it, merely appreciating the skillfull singing and the story being spun out by dancing fingers and lilting voice. Had thought it nothing more than chance when Alexander had met his eyes during the first song, a little smile lurking in the corners of his mouth as Gilgamesh went to his mother to ask for interpretation of his dream.

It could well have been an accident, for Alexander let his gaze wander around the hall as he sang; smiling at younger siblings; raising his eyes up to the rafters; down to the floor and then around the great hall once more, or staring with distracted focus at the gilded animal heads of the lyre. The last Menelaos was fond of, for in that distraction was revealed Alexander's perfect skill and control, the lovely stretch of his graceful neck.

Menelaos pushed that last thought away, but he could still feel Alexander's eyes on him as he intently sang with such breathless emotion, and he shifted in his seat again, plush with thick, good cushions.

Alexander only looked straight at him whenever Gilgamesh and Enkidu talked, or someone talked to one of them about the other. It shouldn't be alluring in the least, it shouldn't mean anything, except he had kissed that remorseless mouth in the privacy of Alexander's bedroom, and Alexander didn't need to be singing about love for every word so lovingly uttered, about such a bond as he was singing of, to make his point clear. It was ridiculous that it should affect him beyond a fondness and exasperation for Alexander's daring, but the way his voice dipped down just slightly, enrichening the silver of his soaring singing voice, the way those eyes lingered so heavily on him...

Menelaos was embarrassingly, frustratingly, hard.

And he could do nothing about that, for if he should stand up, it'd be all too obvious, and he couldn't drag the cruel young man off in full sight of all and sundry anyway. So he was left to suffer until Alexander would put the lyre aside, until the bronzed sound of his laughter stopped heating his blood, at least for long enough so he might be allowed to regain control of himself. If he said anything to hopefully make him to stop, that would only reveal how deeply he was getting to him, but letting Alexander getting away with this would only encourage him.

He was far too full of both energy and dangerous ideas, as well as the skills to enact them. It had been a bit of a shock to realize that while he was the elder between them, the wide-eyed puppy eagerly and earnestly wishing for his attention was also a wolf, skilled in hunting. Menelaos' only recourse was to attempt to correct his wayward prince in the sweet-smelling privacy of Alexander's rooms.

Which was certainly something he was looking forward to, if, at the moment, with an edge of furious embarrassment to the need. He would still have to wait, for now.

*** Sparta

The sun was inching towards the horizon when they turned back towards Sparta, Mount Taygetos towering up behind them. Three deer had been the final tally for the hunt, and Paris was still full of the energy of the day as well as the success of the hunt itself, having downed one of the deer himself, at a distance only made possible by the bow.

Looking around the train spread out behind his and Menelaos' horses, Paris smiled, pleased once again by the sight of the dead deer. A fine hunt, all in all. Even finer by the break they'd taken in the hot early afternoon, to ride out those hours with a meal under the shadows of sheltering trees. More than that, the pool Menelaos had found for them. Smile widening into a full-body warmth at the reminder, Paris glanced sideways, to where Menelaos sat on the back of his own horse. Tall and broad-shouldered, the sinking sun threw Menelaos' shadow over the horse's neck and head, caught gold and and glowing coal-red in his hair. It brought to mind the gilded shimmer about temple statue, ephemeral flames. Paris had missed that. Not that he hadn't seen others with blond hair - there were some in Troy itself, as few as they were, but none of them had Menelaos' particularly reddish shade, which had made Paris want to touch it from the very first moment he'd laid eyes on him as he stepped into Troy's megaron.

The absolute best part of Menelaos, aside from his amber-brown eyes, summer-warm and soft even when he wasn't smiling, was his thighs, however. Gaze drifting down, Paris bit his lip. They were very nice indeed, and the victorious curl of bright energy settled lower.

He pulled his horse that half step back he'd had on Menelaos and slipped in so close their knees pressed together.

"Menelaos," Paris said, couldn't help the deepening warmth of his voice, the brightening heat of his smile, and burst out laughing as Menelaos looked to him, incredulity plain on his face.

"A full day as this, and you still have energy? Please, leave it for the feast when we come back to Sparta."

"Oh, I'm not going to be using any energy," he promised as he leaned in towards Menelaos with only a bare glance thrown over his shoulder to note the distance between them and the next closest horses of their hunting party. Good enough. "Looking at you gives me energy, no matter what I might have spent in all the hours of the day up until now. The way the light catches in your eyes, already reminding me of sunlight through amb---"

"Alexander." Menelaos was frowning, so fierce one could think him nothing but displeased, but there was a reddening glow stealing over his cheeks to match the shadows in his hair, and he had shivered at the first brush of lips so very close to the shell of his ear, but more importantly; he hadn't pulled away.

"I'm serious, Menelaos," Paris murmured, shifting his weight and tightening his knees about his horse to compensate, stroking its neck while he watched shifting tension in Menelaos' jaw. "I thought I was going to die the first time I laid eyes on you, and the few extra years between then and now hasn't changed that at all. I have seen the finest of prize bulls with less impressive thighs than you, and if I could have but one single more chance to touch them, I would count myself the most blessed man currently alive. To say nothing of your smile, when I can draw it out of you; spring couldn't be sweeter for the gentle warmth of it."

Pure delight was by now buoying Paris, for Menelaos had neither rebuked him nor sped up his horse, both of them easy ways to make this stop. Of course, Paris was very well aware of Menelaos' terribly strict adherence to the proper way to be a host, and that was fine - and he might be using it just a little right then to trap him where he was - but it didn't mean Menelaos didn't have recourse. He could urge his horse just a step or two in front of Paris, and that wouldn't look strange or be an insult in the lead, and they both should know that. Heat warmed his belly, his voice, just barely the tips of his ears, but Menelaos was by now sweetly rose under his tan, and Paris wouldn't give him a chance to rally.

Shifting his knee against Menelaos', as much for the feel of soft skin over hard bone as the pulse that jumped in Menelaos' jaw, Paris pressed it in against Menelaos, right behind the kneecap, and smiled. There were strands of blond hair, gold like the finest, thinnest chains of necklaces that adorned girls' throats, brushing his lips, and Paris refused to pull away for the tickle. It was only adding to the warmth spreading down his thighs.

"I know I already noted you grew your beard out," Paris continued, laughing softly when Menelaos huffed, his blush now reaching his ears. There was a different tension making its way between his brows, and Paris didn't like that, and so shook his head. "I didn't get the chance to say I like it, and I want it all over my body."

Menelaos choked, swallowing nothing but air, and Paris smiled with breezy sunniness. Menelaos hadn't even grown in out much; two years ago it'd been a fine five o'clock shadow, just barely there to scrape his fingertips; it was now a heavy stubble, enough to soften the cut of Menelaos' jaw with its bristle, but still close-cropped.

"I want to kiss your thighs and dig my fingers into your shoulders, and I think the war god himself would be pleased at the width of th---"

"Alexander," Menelaos snapped, truly red in the face now and a hand locked around one of Paris' wrists. His nails dug into the soft inner skin of the wrist, but the thumb, burning hot it felt like, was almost caressing in its tiny movement. "Let a man catch his breath - we're not all young any longer. Have you not already had enough success hunting today?"

"One success leads to the desire for more," Paris said brightly, completely shameless, but he did pull himself straight, though mourning the lack of Menelaos' body heat, mingling with his as it'd been, trapped between them.

Menelaos sighed, a deep heave of a breath. Squeezed his wrist and let go, but he didn't pull his horse forward again, and Paris, buzzing with flushed success, behaved for the rest of the ride back to Sparta.

[hysterialevi]

Eitr | Chapter 5

Fanfic summary: In an alternate universe where the Raven Clan is wiped out, Sigurd ends up being rescued by the son of a Saxon ealdorman, and is tasked with being the boy’s new bodyguard. Upon meeting the boy’s father however, Sigurd soon realizes that the ealdorman is responsible for his clan’s destruction, and secretly plans for revenge while hiding behind the guise of a Norse pagan turned Christian.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male OC

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

TWO DAYS LATER

ELMENHAM, EAST ANGLIA

Eivor gripped the weathered bow in his hand and silently gazed towards the bleak horizon, watching as the boat drifted away with the water’s embrace.

She was gone.

She was actually gone.

After what felt like an eternity of suffering, and a heartbeat of saying goodbyes, the gods had finally granted Randvi the peace she deserved, and carried her off into the afterlife.

Apart from Eivor, she had been the only survivor of the attack on Ravensthorpe. Everyone else in the village had either been killed or gone missing, and now, she too joined their brothers and sisters, leaving Eivor all alone in this world.

It felt like a nightmare, he thought, to watch all of this unfold. Within the span of a few short days, his entire life had fallen apart, and everyone he loved had departed from this realm.

Sigurd, Valka, Hytham, Petra, Tarben, Finnr... Randvi. All dead. All ghosts. All nothing more than names that now echoed relentlessly in Eivor’s head, and haunted him in his dreams.

He was the only one left. 

Much like all those winters ago when Kjotve cut his father down in cold blood, he found himself standing among the ashes once again, forsaken by the very same gods who saved his life.

“Randvi...” he whispered, his voice trembling softly, “...forgive me. I thought I could save you. I thought that... perhaps there was still a chance. You were always so strong and vigilant that I just refused to believe you would die. But I was wrong. Just like everyone else in our clan, I’ve failed you. I failed to keep my promises, and I failed to protect you when you needed me most. You may be off to Helheim’s gates for now, but it is me who should be in your stead.”

Eivor slipped an arrow out from his quiver and held it to a nearby torch, setting the tip aflame.

“Goodbye, old friend. May the gods guide you across the Gjallarbrú, and may you find the honor that was robbed of you in death.”

Pulling the arrow away from the torch, Eivor drew it back and steadily took aim, letting it loose as it went soaring through the air.

The arrow pierced the boat with a solid thud, and within the blink of an eye, the entirety of the structure had been set ablaze, embracing Randvi in a bed of fire.

Eivor felt numb at this point, after bidding farewell to so many of his friends. Over the past few days, he had watched pretty much everyone he knew be taken away by the grace of the gods -- and with one more soul going to join their ranks, the lone viking wasn’t sure if he could endure it anymore.

There was just so much pain. So much fear. Even though he was confident that he could find allies who would be willing to lend him aid, he had no idea where he would direct them for now.

After all, Eivor didn’t know who was behind the attack on Ravensthorpe. No one had come forth and taken responsibility for the assault, and considering the fact that he was still recovering from his wounds, he doubted he’d be able to scour the remains of his old village without being killed.

He had been trapped behind a dead end... and there was nothing left for him to turn back to.

“Eivor,” a man suddenly said, breaking the silence. “There you are.”

Eivor turned away from the water, looking to see who had approached him. 

“...Oswald,” he greeted softly. “Forgive me. I did not mean to disappear so abruptly, but... I wished to be alone for this.”

“No need to apologize, my friend,” The Saxon said. “I know things have been immensely difficult for you lately. I only hoped to check up on you.”

Oswald stepped next to Eivor, linking his hands behind his back as he watched Randvi’s boat float away.

“How are your wounds? Are you feeling any better?”

Eivor glanced down at the bandages on his arms. “Physically speaking, yes.”

Oswald raised a brow. “...And otherwise?”

The viking paused, staring blankly into the rippling water. “I... I don’t know, Oswald. I need answers. I need to know who did this. I need to know why they did this. I... I--”

“--You need closure.” The young king replied. 

Eivor nodded slowly, his gaze now lost in the water’s depths. “...Yes. Closure. And justice. For all those who have fallen. The only issue is I’ve no idea where to begin.”

“Well, you can’t go after your enemies without an army. You’ll have to rebuild, regain your strength, prepare yourself to lead. You’ve already forged alliances in Ledecestrescire, Grantebridgescire, Lunden -- and with myself, of course -- but that may not be enough. If you wish to search England for the men who destroyed your clan, you’ll need to pave the way with even more alliances.”

“But how am I supposed to do that when I’m just one man? I no longer have any warriors to fight in my name, nor any resources to spare.”

Oswald remained optimistic. “No... but you do have me.”

Eivor wasn’t so sure about the idea. “But you’re a king now, Oswald. All of England knows your name, and they know of your tolerance for Danes. If you lend your aid to me -- a Norse -- you could risk open war with other kingdoms.”

The young man persisted with his offer. “We’re already at war, Eivor. The moment those people kicked down your door, they became my enemies just as well as they became yours. But... you’re right. I cannot act so blatantly without fear of causing more division. We’ll have to do this discreetly. Away from prying eyes. At least until we know exactly what’s going on.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

Oswald rubbed his chin in thought, quickly putting together a solution.

“...Gjuki.”

Eivor shrugged in confusion. “Gjuki? Who’s that?”

“A friend of Valdis,” he explained. “He used to fight for Rued’s clan, but quickly turned rogue after your assault on Burgh Castle. He’s a skilled warrior, and he knows how to be covert. I could send him to Ravensthorpe if you like. I’m confident he’d be able to find something.”

The other man considered the option. “Tell me about Gjuki, first. Do you trust him? How are you so certain he won’t turn on us like he did Rued?”

“Because he hated Rued. I do not know the reason behind his hatred, but Gjuki was never truly loyal to that man. He only fought alongside him because he had nowhere else to go. But when you launched your assault on the castle, you gave him the chance to break free.”

“And you think he’s the best suited for this task?”

Oswald nodded. “I do. Gjuki’s been in England for quite a few years now. He knows his way around the country, and he knows how to avoid attention. I’m sure he’d be able to find out who attacked your clan -- or at least give us an idea on who to investigate.”

Eivor decided to go along with the plan for now. “...Very well, Oswald. I trust you. But if it’s alright, I’d like to speak with Gjuki myself first. I wish to see him face-to-face.”

“Of course. I understand. You should be able to find him in the longhouse. Just tell him I sent you, and he’ll listen to whatever concerns you may have.”

The viking gave the Saxon and appreciative look. “Thank you, my friend. Truly. Your support means the world to me. Were it not for your help, I would’ve died along with Randvi. I owe you everything.

Oswald frowned sympathetically upon hearing her name. “I’m sorry about Randvi, Eivor. I’m afraid I didn’t get the chance to know her that well, but it’s a shame that she had to meet her maker like this. If it’s any consolation, I’m certain she was grateful to have you by her side in the end.”

Eivor let out a sigh, walking away from the shoreline. “I hope so. She was the only one I could escort into the afterlife. Everyone else in my clan just... fell out of this world before I had a chance to say goodbye. Even Sigurd died without my company.”

Oswald placed a hand on Eivor’s shoulder, attempting to comfort the man. “Do not torment yourself with these thoughts, Eivor. You will only end up feeding your grief. What happened at Ravensthorpe was beyond your control, and I’m sure Sigurd knew that just as well as you do. The most you can do for your brother now is to bring justice to those responsible. Learn their names, study their motives, and then strike them where it will cripple them most. Your battle is not finished yet, my friend, and neither are you.”

The Norse took the young man’s words to heart, giving him a firm gaze. “I understand. Thank you, Oswald. I will heed your advice and speak with Gjuki. I only hope he is more fortunate than I was.”

Oswald removed his hand from Eivor’s shoulder, allowing the viking to take his leave.

“Go in peace, my friend. And may God watch over you in the battles to come.”

~~~~~~~~~~

MEANWHILE

FORANGAL CASTLE, THE CHAPEL

“As I’ve explained to you already, bishop,” Edric said impatiently, “Father’s decision is final. Sigurd is to be our personal bodyguard from now on, and if you have an issue with that, you can talk with him about it yourself.”

Hundwerth crossed his arms. “I simply fail to see how we could benefit from having a Dane in our midst, my lord. We know next to nothing about Sigurd’s past, nor where he comes from, and yet, your father has seen fit to grant him a position next to his own children! It’s preposterous! You ask me, the only place Sigurd belongs is in the dungeon.”

“Well, it’s a good thing no one asked you, then. Do not forget, Hundwerth. You are here to offer our people religious guidance. Nothing more, nothing less. If my father wishes to hear you political opinions, he will summon you. Until that happens though, I suggest you stick to your holy books and save the bleating for your priests. I’ve enough of a headache as it is.”

The bishop scoffed. “Such disrespect from a so-called lord. Perhaps you would do well to spend more time here, Edric. I could give you some of my ‘religious guidance’ as you put it.”

The young man’s tone remained firm. “I’ll pass. I fear I have far more important matters to attend to, starting with this bloody war. You want to preach to me during a siege, be my guest.”

“Your insolence is--!”

Pausing mid-sentence, Hundwerth cut himself off when he heard the sound of the chapel’s doors being pushed open with a creak, leading both him and Edric to bring their attention to the entrance.

There, in the distance, he saw a tall redheaded man approaching them from the opposite side as the sunlight draped over his figure, turning him into a silhouette.

He was dressed in what appeared to be Saxon-made armor, and yet, the man himself was clearly of Northern origins. His skin was marked with many outlandish tattoos, and if Hundwerth recalled correctly, he believed this was the same man he saw in Linette’s infirmary the other day.

“Sigurd.” Edric greeted with a hint of relief in his voice. “There you are. And with your head still attached to your shoulders, too. I’ll take that as a sign that Hundwerth has yet to harp you.”

The bishop scowled in annoyance, eyeing the viking with distrust. “...Ah. The very subject of our conversation. I see you’ve made a full recovery, Lone Wolf.”

Sigurd threw a glare at Hundwerth. “Is there a problem, Saxon?”

“Well, if you ignore the fact that there’s a pagan standing in this house of God, no. None at all. I hope you’ve come to do penance, Dane.”

The man’s expression was flat. “I’ve come to do no such thing. I am only here to fulfill my duties to Lord Edric. Besides, listening to you speak is penance enough.”

Edric chuckled at that. “That’s one thing we can agree on.”

Hundwerth let out a huff. “As I was saying before, Edric, your insolence will be the end of you. You may laugh all you want now, but bear in mind, the Lord is watching. And he is not pleased.”

“I don’t blame him, considering who he’s using as his mouthpiece.”

The bishop shook his head in defeat and decided to drop the conversation for now, storming out of the chapel whilst the other two stayed behind. He was already thin on patience due to the recent events that had transpired in Forangal over the past two days, but to face such defiance from one of the lords themselves brought him to a level of irritation he didn’t even know existed.

“Well...” Edric said as he watched Hundwerth take his leave, “that’s one way to end an argument.”

Sigurd took note of the young man’s tone. “You don’t seem to be fond of the bishop.”

“I don’t think anyone is. He is a man of God, mind you, but I fear he can be... forceful in how he spreads his faith sometimes. There’s also the fact that he’s been furious ever since my father decided to spare you. Let’s just say that I’m glad you showed up when you did.”

Sigurd leaned against one of the pillars. “It’s my job, isn’t it? To protect you from troublesome situations?”

Edric grinned. “I suppose it is.”

Falling into a brief silence, the two of them took a moment to enjoy some peace and quiet as life carried on outside the chapel, causing the muffled sounds of distant conversation to seep in through the doors.

It was a calm day, Edric thought, considering all the conflicts that had risen due to Sigurd’s presence. Even though many of the people in Forangal were in disagreement with Aegenwulf’s decision to keep the Norse around, few of them had yet to actually protest against it. Unlike Bishop Hundwerth.

Edric supposed they simply didn’t want to cause more tension. There were enough fires being sparked in Wedenscire with all the hostile clans threatening their walls, and considering how Gareth’s death had affected the ealdorman as of late, it was probably best if no one pushed him over the edge.

Still, Edric understood the concerns that some people had. Sigurd was a stranger to their lands, after all, and he did not think it entirely unreasonable for them to be wary.

Though, he couldn’t help but wonder how the viking himself felt about all this. Despite his compliance, Edric could tell that Sigurd wasn’t happy. He often carried a sense of despondency to his broody temperament, and even now, the man’s gaze seemed to sag with fatigue.

He was probably still trying to process whatever happened to him before he arrived in Wedenscire. Edric had yet to learn the details of how Sigurd ended up in such an injured state, but seeing as how bad his wounds were when they first found him, he assumed it had been a terrible ordeal.

Who knew how much trauma the man was dealing with right now? Within the span of a few days, he had been torn away from his home and thrown into the middle of a Saxon fortress, surrounded by hostile guards. He had next to no friends in a shire such as this, and with all the people calling for his head, it was no wonder that Sigurd seemed to be exhausted.

Perhaps... it was time for Edric to ease up on the man. Sigurd was to be his protector from now on, and he did not wish to be enemies with him.

“Hey, Sigurd,” he said gently. “Are you well? You seem... preoccupied.”

The viking was clearly surprised by Edric’s concern, but kept to himself regardless. “It is nothing to concern yourself with, my lord.”

“I know you’re technically our servant now, but that doesn’t mean you’re not important. Your well-being is just as crucial as ours.”

“Is it? And what brought about this sudden change of heart, may I ask?”

Edric bowed his head in shame, letting out a deep sigh. “...If you must know, our healer Linette had a hand in it. She gave me quite a talking-to when she heard that I dragged you all the way to the armory without giving you a chance to rest. Also when I made you carry your armor to the smithy. Edlynne and Joseph weren’t too happy about it either.”

Sigurd gave the young man a humorous glance. “Careful, my lord. Keep on like this, and you might actually apologize.”

Edric laughed. “Ha! Well, in this case, it would be deserved. You’ve been to Hell and back these past few days, and I... I have not welcomed you as a true Christian should. You were in a time of need, and I was willing to push you away. I’m sorry.”

The viking didn’t seem too bothered. “You were only trying to protect your people. I understand. If I’m being honest, I can’t say I would’ve been entirely different if it was you who washed up on my shore. But regardless, I accept your apology.”

The young lord beamed at him. “It gladdens my heart to hear it.”

An idea popped up in Edric’s head, causing him to give Sigurd a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Hey, what say you to a quick hunt?”

Sigurd tilted his head at him. “You want to go hunting? Now?”

“Why not? The skies are clear, and the day is still young. I’ve some time to spare before returning to my duties. Besides, I must admit, I am curious to see how a Norseman hunts his prey.”

Sigurd pushed himself off the pillar, eager to take on the challenge. “Very well, my lord. Just don’t cry when I steal your glory.”

Edric smiled in amusement. “Confident, are we? Good. Do not be fooled though, Sigurd, I’ve a few tricks of my own.”

The young man began making his way out of the chapel, beckoning Sigurd to follow.

“Come. We’ll stop by my chambers and collect some gear there. I have a spare bow that you can use, and I imagine a dog or two would be useful on the hunt as well. Have you ever hunted boar before?”

Sigurd nodded, recalling all the times he spent hunting with Eivor.

“Yes, actually. My brother and I often went hunting as a way to pass the time when we were children.”

Edric raised a brow. “You have a brother?”

The viking’s heart sank with grief, and his light-hearted mood vanished immediately. “Had. He’s dead now.”

The Saxon’s expression dimmed with empathy. “Ah. I’m sorry to hear that. It is a pain I know all too well myself.”

Sigurd held his head high. “Indeed. I miss my brother every day, but I find solace in knowing that he is now in Valhalla. He died fighting as a warrior, and I have no doubt that the Valkyries have escorted him to the corpse hall.”

Edric placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Then may he find peace there.”

He stepped back from Sigurd and turned on his heel, leading him away from the altar. “Come on. This way. Let us put our troubles aside for the moment, and take the day to enjoy some fresh air. This war isn’t going away anytime soon, and neither are we.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A FEW MINUTES LATER

ELMENHAM, THE LONGHOUSE

Strolling past the guards that stood beside the archway, Eivor invited himself into the cozy atmosphere of the longhouse as he scanned the area for Oswald’s friend, eager to speak with him.

At the moment, there were only a few groups of Saxons occupying the space inside and chatting happily amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious to the troubles of the war. They smiled, they drank, they laughed, they flyted -- all of them appeared to be trapped in their own little utopia.  

It was like the world around them didn’t even exist. As far as they were concerned, now was a time for celebration. Their king had just gotten married to a Dane after a long struggle of fighting for power, and now, East Anglia was allied with some of the strongest warriors in the country thanks to the efforts of Oswald himself.

Everything was going well for the kingdom. Their troubles had been lifted for just a moment in this relentless storm, and with a newfound sense of unity settling into the land, it felt like they could finally breathe. Eivor, on the other hand, felt as though the world had stopped turning.

Walking up to the empty throne, the lone viking spotted Valdis leaning against a nearby wall as she casually observed the people in the longhouse, quietly keeping to herself.

She seemed to be doing well, all things considered. Despite the issues they had with Rued’s attacks and Oswald’s supposed “death,” the woman appeared to be happy in her marriage, and carried a certain sense of contentment that certainly wasn’t there before. 

However, in spite of the joy he felt from seeing her again, Eivor couldn’t help but notice that she was alone. This “Gjuki” figure was nowhere to be found, and judging by the absence of any other Danes in the longhouse, the man assumed he probably missed him.

Damn it. He’d have to search elsewhere.

“Eivor!” Valdis greeted happily, smiling at him. “It brings me great relief to see you again. I was worried sick when Randvi first brought you to us. I feared the Valkyries might have taken you already. How do you feel?”

Eivor didn’t share the woman’s enthusiasm. “Well, I’m alive, so I can hardly complain. But I fear Randvi wasn’t quite as fortunate.”

Valdis’ expression instantly sunk. “What do you mean?”

“...She’s dead.” He said plainly. “Randvi succumbed to her wounds yestereve, just as the sun began to fell. I only sent her off to Helheim this morning. Oswald was there too.”

The woman shut her eyes in sorrow, letting out a deep sigh. “...Oh, Eivor. I’m so sorry. The amount of lives that have been lost ever since Ravensthorpe... it’s a tragedy.”

“Indeed. Our völva, Valka, always said that the Nornir weave our lives with a certain plan in mind, but I struggle to understand why they would curse us with such an unforgiving fate. All this death, all this chaos... surely, there must be a reason behind it. It cannot all be in vain.”

“I wish I could say.” Valdis replied. “Unfortunately, the sad truth is that war can be as cruel as it is unnecessary. There will be times when tragedy strikes without reason, and there will be questions that have no answers. However, I do not believe this is the case with your situation.”

Eivor quirked a brow. “Oh? And why is that?”

“Well, look at this way. When everyone else in your clan was killed, you managed to survive. In spite of everything this war has thrown at you, you remain the only man left standing. Surely, the gods must have granted you a second chance for a reason. They see a purpose within you, and perhaps that is why you are here now.”

“...Perhaps. It is all still so confusing, but... your words bring me comfort.”

Eivor decided to change the subject, pushing away his dark thoughts for the moment.

“Anyway, enough about me. I’m looking for somebody. A man named Gjuki. Do you know where I could find him?”

“Gjuki Haldorsson? Yes, he is just outside the longhouse. He shouldn’t be that far away from here, but if you can’t see him, just follow the sound of his lute.”

That caught Eivor’s interest. “Lute? Is he a bard? I was under the impression that he was a warrior.”

Valdis chuckled. “He is, but he is also many other things. You’ll see for yourself once you find him.”

“Fair enough. Thank you, Valdis. I’ll go look for him now.”

“Stay safe, Eivor. And may the gods favor you.”

Taking his leave from the longhouse, Eivor left Valdis to her own devices and stepped back out into the crisp morning breeze, keeping his ears sharp for any music that might’ve been playing.

At first, he didn’t spot anyone of interest -- most of the people outside were Saxons civilians and ordinary guards -- but upon taking a closer look, he suddenly noticed a peculiar man sitting underneath a tree, lute in hand.

He was definitely not what Eivor expected, to put it simply. When Oswald first told him of Gjuki, he had envisioned a large, burly warrior similar to the ones he often saw in Fornburg or other Dane settlements, but this man... was clearly something else.

Gjuki had a rather lean figure that was broadened at the shoulders thanks to the fur cape he adorned, and instead of having a full beard hanging from his chin, he only had a light layer of stubble.

His hair was long, straight, and as black as the void. A multitude of braids had been woven into the thick strands surrounding his face, and poking out from underneath his sleeves, Eivor could see a number of tattoos decorating his arms.

As for the man’s face, he didn’t appear to be that old. He looked to be roughly around the same age as Eivor himself, and had a pair of icy-blue eyes that sat in his skull like two glass orbs. 

Both of his sockets had been smeared with some traditional war paint, and due to the dark color of its pigment, his gaze only seemed to stand out more, creating a stark contrast between his eyes and his skin.

He was a distinct looking man, to say the least. And terrifying, to say the most.

“Gjuki Haldorsson?” Eivor called out.

The man came to a halt upon hearing his name and held his fingers between the lute’s strings, glancing up from the instrument to see who had come to visit him.

“Well, well,” he said in surprise, “look who it is. The Wolf-Kissed. I see you’ve finally returned from your grave. What brings you to me?”

Eivor took a seat across from the other man, studying his mannerisms.

“I come on behalf of our king. He says that you might be able to help me with a problem I have.”

Gjuki rested the lute on one of his knees, casually crossing his legs. “Well, that depends. What sort of problem are you dealing with?”

“Before I get into that,” Eivor paused, “there are some things I’d like to ask you first.”

The other man quickly caught onto his tone. “Ah, a man of caution. I suppose there’s a reason you’ve survived for so long. Very well, if that’s what it takes to earn your trust. Ask away.”

Eivor started with the most obvious question. “Oswalds tells me you once fought for Rued’s clan. Is that true?”

Gjuki scoffed in amusement. “Fought for’ isn’t exactly how I would put it. I was sold to Rued many years ago as a slave after being captured by a Norse known as Kjotve.”

The viking glowered at the name. “Kjotve the Cruel? I’m familiar with him. He caused many issues for me in the past as well -- not excluding trying to sell me into slavery -- but have no fear. He’s nothing more than food for the ravens now. I saw to it myself.”

“He’s dead?” Gjuki asked, unable to hide the smirk that spread across his face. “Oh, how gratifying that must’ve been, to bury your axe in his chest. I would’ve loved to hear the scream that broke free from his lips when the gods swept him away from Midgard. You killed a snake, Eivor, and the world will forever benefit from it.”

“Well, as relieved as I am to have Kjotve out of this world, I fear there are many other snakes I must purge before I can find peace.”

The bard set the lute down by his feet. “And who would they be?”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know. I’m looking for the men who attacked my village, but I am at a loss on where to start.”

Gjuki nodded in understanding. “And you need my help to find them. I see.”

“Do you think you can do it?”

The man thought for a moment. “Perhaps, but I’m going to need a lead. Do you have any idea where I should begin looking? Any particular shires, or names, or kingdoms?”

Eivor shook his head. “I’m afraid not. All I know is that they were Saxons, but they weren’t bandits. They ambushed us in the middle of the night, and fought under no banner.”

Gjuki furrowed his brow in confusion. “No banner? Interesting...”

“Why do you say that?”

“Saxons typically fly their colors proudly on the battlefield. It may surprise you, but they are just as proud of their tenacity as we are. It is odd to me that the Saxons who attacked you would hide their sigil. Unless, of course, they were trying to conceal themselves. Which... in that case, tells me they knew they shouldn’t have been there.”

Eivor was beginning to follow his thoughts. “You’re saying that this was meant to be a secret?”

Gjuki held up an index finger. “Precisely. Whoever ambushed your clan is clearly not in a position where they would be able to attack you out in the open. Not without causing conflict elsewhere, that is. Maybe they are from a shire that supports you, or at odds with one of your allies themselves. Whatever the case may be, they knew this assault would not go over well if other people found out.”

The viking shrugged. “So, what’s your plan?”

The bard stood up from his seat, picking up his lute from the ground. “I will travel to Ravensthorpe and see what other clues I can find. Assuming they haven’t cleaned up the carnage already, I’d like to take a look at the Saxons’ bodies; see if they hold any information. In the meantime, I’ll also start spreading some rumors about the attack. It may not seem like much, but if we pay attention to how other shires react, we may be able to find our target.”

Eivor nodded in approval. “I like that idea. I shall go with you. I know my way around Ravensthorpe. I can aid you in your search.”

Gjuki disagreed. “No. You stay here. You must recover if you are to fight against your enemies, and besides, Oswald would have my head if I let you walk out of Elmenham in this condition.”

The Norse chuckled, holding his hands up in defeat. “Very well. You make a fair point.”

“Is there anything else you’d like me to know before I leave?” Gjuki asked. “I do not know for certain when I’ll return, and I’d rather not risk sending a letter to you. Never know who might grab it along the way.”

Eivor pondered the question for a moment. He did have one other request in mind, but was hesitant to say it aloud.

“Well... y-yes. But it is a lot to ask.”

Gjuki urged him on. “Please, speak your mind, Eivor.”

The viking’s gaze fell to the ground in sorrow. “...If it’s possible, could you find out what happened to my brother, Sigurd? The last time I saw him, he had been shot with an arrow and thrown into the river. I never had the chance to retrieve his body. If he’s still around there somewhere, could you bring him back?”

The bard’s tone softened with empathy. “Of course. I make no promises that I’ll be able to find him, but I give you my word that I will try. If Sigurd remains in Ravensthorpe, we will ensure you have a body to bury.”

Eivor gave him an appreciative look. “Thank you, Gjuki. I realize this is a daunting task, but I honestly don’t know what else I can do.”

“Have no fear,” he reassured. “Your assault on Burgh Castle is the only reason I got the chance to escape from Rued and reclaim my honor. The way I see it, I owe you this.”

Gjuki waved a quick goodbye, sauntering away from the tree’s protective shade.

“I will inform you of my progress as soon as I can. Until then, wait here. It is likely that whoever conducted this assault has learned of your survival, and I have no doubts that they will try to finish what they started.”

[sol-korolevas]

[until the earth dies with the sun]; part i of ii

pairing: v x reader

warning(s): angst angst angst, slightly spicy hot stuff but not much 

tagging: @malanoches @kyarymell @pointedly-foolish

you don’t believe loving someone is a choice. your affection for v never blossomed from a free will. some may call it fate, that fickle little aspect of life, that compelled you to fall in love with v. others, the hopeless romantics, called it destiny. 

but what separated fate from destiny?

if you asked yourself this a few months prior, you would have shrugged your shoulders and said: “i don’t know.” 

because right now, all you could remember were the high-pitched squeals of cancerous demons and the trail of bloodshed they created.

most horrifying of all was the world reshaped into this dizzying mosaic of blood and gore—a twisted version of eden.

just moments ago, griffon came to you, urging you to follow him. 

but suddenly something ripped out from the ground, a creature wrapped in chains and locks, sending the bird soaring down the path you came from. though it was characteristic of him to run, you knew that he was providing a distraction, too. 

you couldn’t curse these monsters to hell when you were in a version of it. sore and tired, you walked through the twisted path, full of decaying flowers and twisted roots. fleshy dirt gave away as your feet sank in, heralding nightmarish groans from deep below. shivering, you wrapped your bare arms around your body and tilted your head, hoping griffon would be coming soon.

you hoped everyone was alright.

you knew dante and nero would be fine because they were strong. even nico had her own fortitude and luck; that van she drove was a weapon itself. 

the person you worried the most about was v, who despite his fair share of powers and his ability to summon demons, was crumbling.

your heart pounded as you started climbing a steep red slope that reminded you of half-dried clay. the sudden break from cacophonous noises to serenity thrust your mind into a false sense of peace. 

the serenity beckoned you to slow down and sag to the ground with a heavy exhale. suddenly, you began thinking about the past—about your home and about him. 

life was so much simpler beyond the demons and the fighting. you remembered the days where v collapsed into your arms, tired but full of affection. his head would dip into the crook of your neck, a muffled groan slipping out of his lips as he traced patterns against your skin. 

poetry suddenly became romantic and quintessential in your life. just like v’s presence and the sudden blossoming love you gave him and he for you. 

you couldn’t deny that you had first fallen for him for his appearance alone. unlike nero and dante, v was always fragile, with an air of mystery surrounding him. wherein he lacked in strength, he was skilled with grace and finesse. 

while you admired him for his beauty and intelligence, you also felt intimidated by him. so when the truth spilled that v liked you despite your normalcy and humanity, you were both ecstatic and terrified.

how could such a creature as refined and alluring as him came to love you, a simple human? how could he choose you, a person who never loved anyone before?

for a long time, you knew not his reason behind falling in love with you. perhaps there was no reason as, after all, love wasn’t a choice.

slowly afterwards, v moved in with you and in return, you learned more about him–but not all of him. 

he was always prone to bouts of lethargy after a fight. you held him as you basked in his warmth, loving the way he nuzzled against you. your hands wandered through his locks of black hair, feeling him quiver with pleasure.

“for he calls himself a lamb. he is meek and he is mild. he became a little child.” v’s soothing voice spilled out, drawing invisible marks on your skin as he brushed his lips against it. he shifted and you took the moment to lean your back to the wall while your legs stretched forward.

he followed, drawn to your body with a gaze unrelenting and firm. for a moment, you felt your heart stop and then reignite with a thunderous chorus of beats as he cupped your cheeks and drew in for a kiss. 

the motion was slow and unhurried. he tasted like night and the earthy sweetness of a flourishing garden. it should’ve made you wonder why his kisses always felt strangely hypnotic but it didn’t. instead, you felt restless, every kiss from him peeling open another layer of yourself for him to see. never had you felt so naked but so alive and powerful. 

in return, you wanted to encapsulate him into an embrace until nobody knew where you began and where he ended. 

you don’t speak as he pulled away, only because you don’t see the need to break this moment full of grace and love that v was weaving. 

a smile adorned your face until you notice something on his cheek: a scar. yet it was similar to a porcelain vase or the cracks of a dry landscape; his skin looked like it may scatter into the air. “v your fa-” you stopped, a gasp tearing out from you before v placed one slender finger upon your lips. 

“your line should be: little lamb, god bless thee,” he told you calmly. beneath the darkness of his green eyes, you could see the warmth. you could also see something else, just a feeble glint of it, but it was deafening to you. v knew, of course, he knew of his state. but he didn’t care to show it. 

instead of pursuing the matter, you decided to relent and change the subject. setting your hands on your lap, you straightened your back.

“do you think of me as...god?” your voice was tentative, almost meek. if you were any other person, you might have felt pride, if not a bit odd. for this powerful man who commanded demons thought of you with such awe and worship. but you weren’t anyone else, you were uncertainty in love, a confused creation in love, lust, and loss for words. 

(v once commented that you were a poem yourself. too strange and unfathomable for the poets, dead or living, to describe.) 

“if you would like that,” he answered. “if god is kind and gentle, then it must be you.” a soft smile curled onto his features. then you felt him take your hand in his. “as for me, i am but a lamb, humbled under your touch,” he paused, lifting up your hand to press a kiss upon your knuckles. “or i could be the tiger. i can destroy and ruin for you, if you so much as ask.” his voice drifted off, just as his teeth skimmed the tender skin of your hand. there was a lilt in his last words, delicately teasing a promise he could fulfill so long as you uttered a word.

gulping, you felt heat blossom upon your face. dark and warm, a sweetness that dripped into tight coils within your stomach as you watched him. for a moment, all concern vanished into an electric sensation that jolted your limbs into movement. you tugged him close into a dizzying kiss. v was always pliant when you kissed him first but this time he melted into it. 

he felt so soft, so unlike that of a battle-weary soldier. as for you, you felt strengthened to layer as much of your love onto him as possible. there were no boundaries tonight, only the desire for him. 

in one split second, v cradled your cheek, tilting it up to lick at the bottom of your lip. “how would you want me tonight, dear (name)?” he asked with a sultry purr. 

you felt his knee scrape against your inner thigh, before settling where you wanted him the most. but no, that wasn’t enough; you wanted more, more, more of him. so you drew your lips toward the shell of his ear, one hand curling around the lapels of his jacket. 

“i want you like the day you were born,” you told him in a heated whisper. “naked and desperate for touch.” 

you were awoken from your memory by a distant rumble. each passing tremor was felt underneath your fingers as you looked around. then you remembered why you were here so you stood up, gaze trailing up the steep path covered in red. 

with the phantom remnants of the memory still clinging onto you, your body felt heated and it trembled. the sliver of sweet coil persisted in your stomach, up until you heard a faraway growl that signified a demon’s presence. all loving memories and the feeling they gave birth to disappeared as your mind came into reality. 

you needed to get out of here. 

the last time you saw v felt so long ago. he had something to accomplish: to see to a certain demon’s end, that was what he said. v had always been driven by his hatred of evil and his mission to eradicate all evils from this world. but that time you noticed the flicker of something in his eyes. there was determination, but a sense of letting go, too. that time, you wished you never knew him so well like that, because v was always honest with his emotions and desires. as for you, you had the irritating ability to truly know others. 

“all evil must be purged, they–” before he could finish he almost lost his balance, body swaying as if ready to fall. you were quick by his side, clothes sticking to your body by a mixture of blood and demonic body fluids. 

you winced as you saw his skin crumbling like dust as you touched him. at first, you debated on sitting him down, but v was quick to notice as he brought your body towards his. 

he pressed himself into you and you held one arm around him. you couldn’t look at him anymore so you settled on some distant sight. “you need rest v,” you told him. you never wanted to scold him but your voice came out as such, intermingled with worry. 

at first, you thought he may refuse. but then v looked at you, his quiet eyes beholding everything that would blossom when they gazed into your eyes. he nodded, a movement that you almost missed. 

“one last time, for the both of us,” he said softly, yet desperately. “help me take these off, i-i want you to hold me without obstruction.” 

his request was responded by a weak whimper from you, fueled by an overwhelming spell of confusion and love. still, you obliged if only to spend more time with him. somewhere in the distance, griffon trilled for the first time. you could have felt warmth in you but instead, you felt a growing coldness and despair. you knew something was wrong the moment you reached for his jacket and peeled it back. 

he had always been thin, but when you shed his clothing you noticed the bruises and scars that accentuated his physique. watching his body covered in not only bruises and scratch marks but also cracks made you want to drag him out of this battle. even still, you knew that he wouldn’t let you and that the best you could do was offer him affection in this trying time. 

there was something poignantly tragic about v’s existence, you realized. that maybe he was only put here, in this world, to accomplish a certain task. even v knew that his chapter in this story may be coming to an end. perhaps that was why he took this moment to be near you. he was so close to you when you started removing his clothing. he was so close you could see every littlest scar and crack, and every bumps and ridge on his skin. 

when his upper clothing were all discarded onto the muddy earth, he took you into his embrace. v was always odd when it came to physical affection; he much preferred feeling you with his naked body, and if it was in your room, you would be naked too. 

he held you tightly as if he wanted to imprint your body into his memory. you too wrapped your arms around him, hoping in some way that this moment would last forever. 

“come back to me v, don’t go,” you said quietly, sighing against his skin. v visibly tensed and for a moment, you did as well. 

then he forced himself to relax as he pressed a chaste kiss to the shell of your ear. “i love that you love me and i, too, love you (name).”

there was a finality to his words, but you forced yourself to listen quietly. closing your eyes, you laid your chin upon his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. 

(what separated fate and destiny, you realized, was a tragedy.)

and then, with a heavy burden upon him, v bid you farwell, calling for griffon to escort you somewhere safe. but you knew that regardless of where this safe place was, only v was the safest for you. this was a memory bitter and sweet for you to remember, but it satisfied the silence that was your trek upwards. 

your body shivered as the temperature dropped sharply. though you were cold and alone, you still hoped that you could see v again. nero and dante had several near-death experiences before, you thought, so v will be okay. 

you could almost hear his silky voice nearby you, a note on the passing wind. briefly, you stopped, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of the air. it’s close now, with only a few more steps to take. quivering, you stumble forward until you finally reached solid ground. the first in what felt like hours, just as your body gave away. distinct noises of wings lured your wavering stare into the sky. the dark shape of griffon hung in the air, watching you with emotionless eyes. 

“hey, hey you wi’ me there?” he asked, voice penetratingly loud and clear. you smelled fetid stench clinging onto his feathered breast, implying a recent battle with demons. 

you ignored him for a moment, eyes scanning the half-charred battleground. no solid corpses, only the empty husks of human victims drained of their blood. you were too tired to match griffon’s voice in its loudness and clarity, but you willed yourself to demand an answer from him. “where’s v?” 

“he left uh...something t’ attend to,” the bird replied with an angry squawk. 

for a moment, you felt your legs giving down as the thought of moving deeper into the area sent a new wave of terror into you. but then you noticed a movement, two forms that you knew well, but not the ones you wanted to see. 

the black feline and his titanous companion came out of the darkness, but there was no v behind them.

griffon perched himself on top of the towering behemoth, nightmare, before saying, “look we know v wanted us to keep you here but ya gotta know somethin’, somethin’ v wanted to hide from ya. go through this place and make yer way up. don’t worry, no demons will bother ya.” 

fettered by the will to see v again, you wrapped your arms around your body and followed griffon’s words. before you disappeared into yet another unknown, you threw a glance to the three demons. 

“don’t worry about us, we got somethin’ to do. now go!” 

griffon’s words were firm, a far cry from his usual quips and mocking jokes. something was clawing at the back of your neck, urging you to ask more questions. instead, you relented and made your way forward, wondering what you will see. 

so you squeezed your eyes shut for a moment just as you saw a distant shape of light ahead. while you desperately wanted your prying thought to be false, a part of you had already accepted it. 

the trek felt longer than it looked. by then, your legs were boiling with an aching need to rest, but so too was the rest of you. from time to time you threw your head back, hoping griffon and the rest were going to appear. a sinking thought occurred to you that that may have been the last you would ever see of them. it wasn’t a good thought, but you still needed to move forward. 

when you finally stepped out into the open field, you saw something that turned your insides into ice. 

v stabbing his cane into the body of a fallen demon. 

dante running towards him just as a ray of light enveloped v and the creature. 

and then, as you attempted to make your way to the light, it vanished and in the exact same spot stood someone else. 

not v. 

not the demon.

but a man. 

“great things are done when men and mountain meet.”

v’s soothing voice seems to drift into your mind as you watched the stranger. in that moment, you didn’t know why you remembered those words, but v had recited them the last time he was in your house. clutching at your chest, you attempted to move forward, only for your feet to get caught in a raised root. 

“don’t move, hide.” again, you heard v but you couldn’t see him. panicking, you looked around hoping that some part of him was still here–lest you were becoming mad. 

you quickly ducked behind a gnarled root, body pressed against grimy substances as you clasped your hands to your mouth. your chest rose and fell in heavy motions just as your mind replayed the scene over and over. 

v was gone. he was gone and he was, he was–

for a while, you didn’t notice the way your body carried you away. there was a disconnect between your physical and mental self that numbed you. an invisible hand strangled you, taking root within your brain. 

shock had you in a chokehold as you stopped, one hand planted on the wall of a dilapidated building drowned in alien plants and dried blood. while you could return and watch the aftermath, a part of you just knew. 

that v was no longer in existence.

[southsideprince]

aftermath - sweet pea/reggie

[ a solo para - written by cari, permission given by cc to write reggie. set after the removal of FP from Jaz’s trailer. 1,671 words 8,897 characters. tw: swearing, tw: mention of death ] @mantlethemcgnificent​

How had the night become this? All he had wanted, was to get his boyfriend back and enjoy spending the evening without any drama or bullshit. But as always, it seemed to follow them, determined to get in the way of them. It was hard to imagine, not even six hours ago they were on the sofa, peppering each other with kisses and whispered promises and declarations of love. To when the stranger interrupted their making up time, to the fear and anxiety both experienced as he went back and forth between the Stranger. The threat to his life, on Reggie’s, on Grace, Fangs and Hanna had dampened the mood. But with their new rules, total transparency and the fact they did anything reckless and stupid together the night which should’ve been simple ended up with them doing drive-bys, dropping off packages for the Stranger. This time, Sweet Pea had his own list which still remained in his pocket. Another to pass to Betty when he could see her next.

At least when that was over, they could go back to his. Make up some more, reassure each other both were fine. It had been fine until the texts came. Then before he knew it, he had a body on his hands, a boyfriend in tow, and now a freezer at the Wyrm currently holding the deceased FP Jones. It felt surreal, ridiculous even that they ended up with this. But the only thing that had remained in his head as a constant, was Reggie. How the hell could this man put up with him? Or want to be with him after tonight? He hated dragging him into it, he should’ve just left him asleep, he could’ve kept this hidden or bent the truth slightly. He’d rather do that than remember seeing the look of disgust, of sadness, of discomfort, and then some on his face. But here the man was, curled up in his arms on the small bed in the backroom. He wanted to take it away, to make him forget. No amount of whiskey would help, even if he had made sure to get a few shots down his throat when they arrived.

Sweet Pea wouldn’t sleep, couldn’t sleep. His mind was pondering what to do, his plans having plans, trying to see every angle. He had to break it to Jughead, they couldn’t just dispose of a body without his input. It was a conversation he was dreading. How did one bring up the fact your dad is dead and currently chilling in a freezer. But just why did the Stranger land it on Jaz. What had she done? It just didn’t seem it would be done over a few texts and a delivery. 

“You think too loud.” he was snapped out of his internal thought process by the quiet voice of Reggie. They were led on the bed, his arms wrapped around him as Reggie rested on his chest. “I thought you were asleep....” he replied, hand gently beginning to rub his back. “How can I sleep after....that.” he sounded haunted, it was enough for the guilt he had been feeling to triple. This was a part of his world he never wanted Reggie to get involved with. 

“I’m so sorry.” but even sorry wouldn’t be enough. He could apologize a million times but nothing would erase this from their heads. Was this going to be a constant thing with them? Tragedy, horror, drama, trauma- like a cosmic force was constantly wanting to test them. Would they ever just get a simple, unproblematic relationship? “Will you tell him?” the feeling of movement on his chest, he looked down to see Reggie looking up at him, chocolate irises questioning. “Yes. Despite my own feelings towards FP- it's still his dad. I’ll figure it out.” he had tried, to the best of his ability to move FP with dignity. Even if he had removed his jacket, a personal judgment he had made. FP didn’t deserve to wear it. 

“I won’t mention you, as far as I’m concerned you weren’t there. It will remain serpent business.” he didn’t think it would go over at all well if he mentioned just how many people were involved in transporting his body. “If you’re telling him....then that makes it slightly better. I just feel awful for him.” Sweet Pea felt awful also. FP might not have been the greatest within the serpents, nor the best father but at least he’d been present in his life. It was sometimes hard for him to consider emotional ties to fathers, with his own out of his life and a disappointment he supposed for a long while that FP became the man he looked up to. Who he based himself on. Only for it to become apparent he wasn’t the role model he wanted nor needed. But Jughead had always been different with his dad. “Same.” 

They fell into silence once more, Sweet Pea continuously running his hand up and down his back in a soothing manner. His other hand fell into Reggie’s hair, fingertips gently running through the strands. Until he felt fingers catch his wrist, stilling the motion. “What is that?” Sweet Pea looked down to find Reggie’s gaze on his arm. “What’s what?” More movement, Reggie sat up some more, finger tracing the picture on the inside of his wrist. “That.”

Oh. In the mess of the entire night, it had slipped from his mind completely. He focused on the tattoo which adorned the inside of his wrist. A football, entwined with a snake and two sets of numbers. “Ah...” he felt embarrassment and worry seep in as he watched Reggie’s continuous gaze on it. “I didn’t want to show it yet- if it's too much I’m sorry but I just wanted to show you how much I’m in for us. For this relationship. I thought, if you could see how serious I was, it would help in us getting back together properly. I wanted to surprise you. It’s weird isn’t it? Too much? Fuck.” he made to sit himself up further, pulling himself away from Reggie in an attempt to hide the embarrassment. 

“No- it’s-” a hand came out to grab his arm, stopping him from getting up completely. “It’s just a lot. That’s pretty fucking permanent, Pea.” it was permanent, it was a bold move to make. But Sweet Pea was, as always, a romantic. “Maybe that’s because I want us to be a permanent thing- look, I know I put the brakes on us. But I needed to figure out everything properly, and I came to the decision that you’re it for me. Okay?” he turned to look at him, eyes boring into his intensely. 

“I’ve been through this before, being in love and after that ended, I swore I wouldn’t ever go through it again. But then you came along and all this happened and I guess I just wanted to do something to not only reassure you but show you that you are now and forever the love of my life. And if this ends badly, I don’t want to regret it. I’ve never had a lover tattooed on me in any sense, but you’re the first and the last and if this ever is over, it will be my last everything. You could’ve walked away tonight, you didn’t have to stick by me but you did and I love you so much for doing so. I guess, I just love you. And I’m hoping, fate allowing, that I get to spend the rest of my life with you. Because I want too.” his words were earnest, his tone vulnerable. 

He just laid it all out, knowing others would think him crazy or ludicrous for saying and thinking such things at the age they were. High school relationships never did have a good rep for lasting. He was waiting for Reggie to say something, or do something, anything really to stop his heart from racing out his chest or the twisting feeling in his gut stop.

He was soon met with a dopey, besotted grin from Reggie enough to make him think it was a good thing and before he could say anything else, lips were upon his in a loving, passionate kiss which had him sighing with relief and pleasure as his arms wrapped around him to pull him close. “I love it.” the words sounded god-like against their lips. “I love you.” his heart soared at the affirmation, enough to know that despite what had happened that evening, that they were going to be okay. He decided, then and there, that this was the man he’d spend the rest of his life with. It was far off in the distance, but Sweet Pea knew that Reggie was it for him and when the timing and moment were right, he’d make that next step towards having him forever.

“I love you too.” he whispered, barely a breath as he captured his lips once more quickly. “And my offer still stands...” he added, pulling away slightly as his hands ran up and down his sides. “Of taking you away from here. If you want to. We can go, wherever we want.” his tone was sincere, his meaning truthful. “I’d like that.” and with that, lips met once more in a bruising, amorous kiss as both led back onto the bed.

For the rest of the night, contented in the fact if they’d survived this they could survive anything both gave in to each other over and over, each kiss, affirmation, touch, groan, sigh and movement made was nothing but love and a promise between them. It wasn’t until the early hours of daybreak, were both finally collapsed from exhaustion of the events which had occurred since the early evening before and as sleep caught them both, wrapped in each other it was almost easy to forget just what had happened. For now, it was just another hurdle jumped.

[riseandshinelittleblossom]

Hoping for Home Ch 5.2~Head Above Water

Summary: Sixteen years ago Libby Scott was supposed to become Queen of Cordonia, but Fate had other plans. Catch up here (ya know ya wanna). 

Song for this chapter: “Head Above Water” by Avril Levigne

Disclaimer: I don’t own the TRR characters, they own me. Also this chapter includes smatters of canon dialogue which also belong to PB.

Tags:@fullbeaumonty @ritachacha@speedyoperarascalparty@cocomaxley@leelee10898@itsstillnotwhatyouthink@choiceswreckedme@indiacater@drakesensworld @carabeth@daniv2278@cosigottahavefaith @gibbles82 @innerpostmentality@blackcoffee85@perfectprofessorherokid @darley1101@jovialyouthmusic@liamxs-world@thequeenofcronuts@blznbaby@stopforamoment @zilch3382@wannabemc2@jlouise88  @lodberg @jasieschoices

Outskirts of the Capital, Cordonia-safehouse - 16 years ago

    “Did...did that work?” Libby asked, flabbergasted.

   “I dunno. Sounds like it did.” Maxwell said. “Look at us. First detectives, now electricians!”

   “We're almost as multi- talented  as Hana.”

  “Whoa, don't let a couple of successes go to your head.”

  Libby watched as he plucked a twig from a nearby bush, turning it over in his fingers. A light breeze kicked up, rustling his careless brown hair.

   She allowed herself to believe - just a fleeting thought - that they could always be as perfect as they were in that moment.

    Everything inside of her was screaming  to kiss him and she found herself involuntarily leaning closer to his slouched figure.

  “Listen, Libby…” he broke the silence between them.

 “What's up?” She shook her head, her fantasy from a moment ago falling out of focus.

  “I was so scared last night.”

  “With assassins in the palace... I think everyone was.”

  “No,” he began. He focused his gaze off into the forest surrounding the tiny cabin.

  “not for my own safety. Well, I mean, partly for my own safety. But mostly, I was scared for you.”

   Maxwell trained his eyes on her then, squinting against the sunlight. Libby took a step closer to him, only then did she notice the subtle sheen in his eyes.

   “I laid awake all night wondering if you were okay. If you'd made it out of there alive. I tried to go back for you, but they wouldn't let me back into the ballroom.

   I don't.. I don't know what I would've done if I'd lost you, Blossom.”

    Libby reached for his hand, gripping it as if she were holding on for dear life.

   “But you didn't lose me, Maxwell.”

   He gave her a weak, lopsided smile.

  “I never want to spend another night wondering if I'm going to see you in the morning. Not knowing was awful. Libby, I lov- I can't lose you. If we left all of this...together...do you understand what I'm saying?”

   She chewed over his words, unsure how to respond.

   Her mind told her that he was speaking fairy tales. They could never run off into the sunset together, away from the fight that was no doubt brewing in Cordonia. Liam would need every ally he could rally by his side, and after everything he'd done for her- for both of them- her mind knew that staying was the right thing to do.

  But her heart- her heart was soaring, thumping wildly in her chest at the thought of Maxwell being hers forever. They'd buy a small house somewhere with a white picket fence. She'd make him coffee while he cooked breakfast. They'd kiss each other sweetly as they left to began their day. He'd come home after work and they'd snuggle by the fireplace and…

   Her face fell as she licked her lips.

   “We can't.” She said flatly.

    Maxwell pressed his lips to her temple.

   “I know.” He whispered.

   They stood in silence for a long time, both knowing that their friends were likely wondering where they were, but neither willing to let go of the other just yet.

  “You know, Maxwell, I'm not going anywhere. Not ever. You'll never lose me.” Libby finally said.

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

Valtoria, Cordonia - present day

   “Penny for your thoughts?” Hana asked sliding into the stool beside her best friend  at the bar. Libby blinked away her memory, giving Hana and her husband a warm smile.

   “The kids are actually having fun, I think.” Mark commented with a laugh.

   “That's good. I'm glad Hana let me get away with a slightly more modern playlist.” The redhead chuckled.

   “It was a compromise. I keep the string quartet for traditional songs, and you have your jazzy, retro whatever it is..”

   “You two make a good team. I hope now that you've returned you'll stick around for awhile, Libby. Seeing you really makes Hana smile. Also, although I thoroughly enjoy our time at Valtoria, our estate in Whipstaff is...well empty.” Mark told her.

   “I can't promise forever, but for a while at least. It don't really have much of a choice. I came back to do the right thing, Mark. The twins will need to be in Cordonia.”

     Libby caught sight of Liam, Maxwell and Drake across the room. She watched them, deep in conversation.

   Liam wore his characteristic “lost in thought” look, his forehead creasing as tapped his lips with his index finger. Drake was gesturing between Maxwell and the king, and Maxwell popped his neck flippantly. Whatever they were discussing, he obviously wanted no part in it.

   “Where are the kids, anyway?” Libby asked. The three friends scanned the room before Mark pointed out. “There. At the table.” He said.

    “Well hello there, cousin. Abel. Either of you care to introduce me to the new Lord and Lady?”

    “Hey, Bartie. Sure thing. This is Emma,” McKenzie began gesturing to her friend. “And Will Scott, Lord and Lady of Valtoria. Guys this is my cousin, Barthelemy Beaumont, Lord of Ramsford. We call him Bartie.”

   The youngest Beaumont male held out his hand to Will, giving it a firm shake before grasping Emma's hand and placing a brief kiss to the back of it.

   “I'm surprised we've not met before as close as I've heard our parents once were. In fact, if I eavesdropped properly, your mother was once heralded as a Lady of House Beaumont. During King Liam's social season.”

     Emma nodded enthusiastically. She remembered her mother's recount of her past in Cordonia word for word and to say she was excited to be starting her own adventure in the small Mediterranean country was an understatement.

   “You can cut the shit, Bartie. These two are far from the pretentious assholes you're used to interacting with at these things.” Mack rolled her eyes.

   Bartie's shoulders visibly slumped, almost like a balloon slowly deflating, and he flopped down in a chair next to Abel, slouching.

   “Thank God. You never really know,do you?” He breathed a sigh of relief.

  “No, you don't, and it's exhausting.” Abel agreed, elbows on his knees.

  “Wait, so you're telling me that you always have to put on a show? Like with everyone you meet?” Emma questioned.

   “They do. Ya know gotta make the House look good. Luckily, I'm not noble and my dad could give a shit less what this court thinks of him.” McKenzie remarked.

   Will shot his sister a pained expression.

   “I don't get it though. Why does anyone care?”

   “That's this life, man. Everyone is constantly pretending to be something that they're not. Constantly trying to appear perfect. But it's all just a facade. Take a look around you. Everyone is smiling, sure, but how many are smizing?” Bartie spoke up.

  “Smizing?” Mack asked.

  “Smiling so that it reaches your eyes. My mom says that all the time.” Will chimed in picking at the linen tablecloth.

  “So don't you ever just want to leave? Like sneak away from these things? I'm sure no one would miss us.” Emma suggested and the others all perked up.

  “Okay, Lady Valtoria. We're listening.” Abel told her as her cheeks flashed crimson.

   Before Emma could respond, Libby approached the teenagers followed closely by King Liam and a brunette man that the blonde girl didn't recognize.

   “Hello, kids. Could you excuse us a moment?” Libby asked. Abel, McKenzie, and Bartie nodded, each rising from their seats.

    Maxwell planted his feet, slipping his hands in his pockets, fingering the pack of gum in one of them. He appraised the twins thoughtfully for the first time as they rose from the table at their mother's prompting.

   His jaw went slack as he soaked in their features, noticing now how much Will looked just like himself at that age; and Emma strongly favored his treasured photos of his mother on her wedding day.

   His eyes darted over each of them, thoughts racing as he swallowed hard. ‘Still,’ he thought to himself. ‘it doesn't mean much.’  Taking a deep breath he reminded himself that his mother, Claudia, had always been mistaken for Liam's mother, the late Queen Antonia. There was also the fact that Will's wide blue eyes were set on his face almost exactly like Liam's and the late King Constantine's.

     Maxwell shifted his weight uncomfortably as he tried to calm his thoughts.

   “Emma, Will, there are some people I'd like you to meet. This is King Liam of Cordonia.” Libby began. The broad shouldered young man dipped into a deep bow, his sister a delicate curtsy. Liam nodded to both of them, surveying each child for some kind of sign of parentage.

    Emma's features we're graceful, but defined. Her one sided dimple reminded Liam of the identical one his father had had. Will, on the other hand, had the brightest “Rhys blue” eyes he had ever seen.

    “A pleasure to meet you both.” He told them, his jaw tensing to try and hide his astonishment.

    “And this is Lord Maxwell Beaumont of Ramsford.” Libby continued. The twins repeated the courtesies they'd shown to the king and Maxwell nodded.

    “I'm sorry to stare,” he started, his tongue flicking out to nervously wet his lips. “It's just that you both look so much like your mother.”

    Liam stared hard at Maxwell. He had known the man for all of their lives, but he couldn't recall the last time he'd truly looked at him. Immediately he noticed that Maxwell and the young man before him shared the same chiseled jawline. He also found himself transfixed by the obvious “Cupid's bow” shape of his old friend's upper lip, which both of Libby's twins shared.

   Liam exhaled sharply, his analytical mind already beginning to prepare him for the very real possibility that he was, in fact, not the father of the children before him. Although only hours ago he had not even known of their existence, Liam found himself slightly disappointed by the thought.

   “So one of you-I guess-is our dad, huh?” Will asked awkwardly, unable to stifle the urge.

   Libby's eyes shot daggers into her son who immediately stared at his feet.

   “It looks that way.” Maxwell said shooting a sideways glare at his former flame.

   The tension was already thick, and growing thicker by the minute as Liam clapped Will playfully on the shoulder.

   “Obviously we all have a lot to discuss in the coming days, but for tonight...perhaps I can interest you in a dance, young Emma?”

     Emma batted her eyes bashfully as she nodded in agreement allowing the monarch to lead her to the floor.

      A few hours later  Bartie sidled up next to Will and Abel. The ball was winding down now, but there was still a sizeable crowd.

    “Hey Will, I was thinking about what your sister said earlier. Was wondering if you guys were really serious.”

   “About sneaking out? Hell yeah. I can't wait to get out of here.”

   Abel rested a hand on his friend's shoulder.

   “This whole party must be kinda heavy for you and Emma.” He empathized and Will nodded.

    “Well I had an idea.” Bartie smirked reaching into his pocket. “I managed to sneak into the estate car park and I found these. There's a Rolls Royce in there with our names on it...that is is you guys aren't chicken.”

    “I'm game. Let's find Mack and Emma and get outta here.” Will agreed.

       Before long the teenagers were barreling down a dark and winding road. Bartie was behind the wheel, as Will and Abel hung out if the back seat windows whooping and hollering. McKenzie and Emma had dialed the radio as loud as it would go shouting gleefully.

    “Oh I've been shaken/ I love it when you go crazy/ you take all my inhibitions/ baby there's nothing holding me back!” They sang along with Shawn Mendez as they rounded yet another curve.

     “Why have we never thought of doing this before, Mack? Good friends and old school music….this is the best!” Bartie shouted taking his eyes off of the tree-lined road for only a moment to glance at the girls both jammed into the front seat.

    “I don't know, but I think it's a new tradition, Bart!” McKenzie beamed.

     “Bartie! Bartie, watch out!” Will shouted just as a deer hopped into the road.

     Bartie whipped his head back noticing the animal just in time to pull the wheel. The car flipped on two wheels as they skidded into a hard swerve and in the mayhem Bartie lost control entirely. The car careened off the road smashing head on into an old, thick tree.

     Smoke billowed from the hood, the sickening sound of crunching metal and shattering glass echoing all around.

    Will looked around in a daze, his eyes meeting Abel's. “Is everyone okay?” Bartie called.

    “I- I can't feel my arm. Em? Em, I can't feel my arm.” Will began to panic, noticing now that the extremity was pinched between the newly mangled seats.

   “Emma! Oh my God, Emma!!” McKenzie squealed. Will craned his neck trying desperately to find his sister. Peering between the seats he saw her crumpled, lifeless body in the front floorboard, head lolling against McKenzie's knees.

    His eyes widened to the size of sand dollars as he shouted, “Fuck! Emma? Emma! Please wake up!”

[malriver]

Temptation Series 1: Touching

http://www.fireflyfans.net/bluesun.aspx?bid=4269

"Circumstances conspire to tempt a very patient River to finally make her move."

No touching but she wants to so much that it causes a momentary blindness to everything but the craving for sensation. Completeness. She wants to touch him, feel him, move him, consume every part of who he is so she can claim it, own it, and make him her own. He doesn't know it yet, does not fathom that he is the anchor that keeps her sane. Not Simon. Not the drugs. Nor even the welcome sensation of home thrumming beneath her bare feet as she walks in time to the rythym of Serenity's reassuring heart. She loves them all because they are all part of him.

In her quest River lets her mind shift gears, become the focus of thoughts honed to laser sharpness. An accurate beam that has a razor edge beyond anything Jayne can achieve with his knives or Simon with his scapel nor the Captain with his harsh and oft' times ascerbic wit. There is nothing so sharp or deadly about Kaylee but the brightness of her smile can sometimes cut through solid steel and there is not a heart aboard that is immune to it. The Preacher is all hidden angles and traps, covered in a softness which is borrowed not owned though the division has grown narrower over time. Eyes showing so many levels of meaning behind his purpose. Wanting to be simple the Preacher had stepped out into the 'verse not knowing that his addition to it made everything more complicated not less. A sharp mind but no mathematician. And Zoe, a weapon in every plane of her body, every part of the ordered core of her. The hard glittering adamantine line that not even the Devil has the nerve to cross. Then there is Wash, the antidote to all that ails his wife. The choice between light and shadow made in a heartbeat that will last forever.

River thinks often about Inara. The teasing tension between her and the Captain a flow of pain filled almost-caresses that would be all kinds of wrong if allowed to flourish to its' epogee. The heat of prickly friendship is less destructive though even that has grown into something softer, something both can live with and cherish. River does not worry about Inara knowing the Companion is all too aware of every decision she makes and that her own harsh reality has an edge to it as bitter as anything the Captain could endure. River does not want to endure. To sit on the sidelines. Be excluded from that which her mind and body craves even as her soul aches to fill all the incomplete places she sees in this cornucopia of moving parts that is the ship's crew. Serenity. She is his and he is hers and all that live within that amalgum of blood and steel sings of home to her. A silent passion that hits her hardest when the blood heats with want and need and all the things she cannot confide to her brother still less confess on the altar of an alternative God.

Six years. She cannot believe they have been together on this boat for so long and yet it feels as if they have always been here. It is where they belong. The realisation draws a happy smile on her pale face, eyes shining with thousands of memory fragments pieced together in a mind that never sleeps. They are moving about on their separate journeys yet all travel together. She can feel each and every one of them as they sail through the Black. Wash and Zoe lost the first baby but a new one is coming. Simon doesn't know yet, the egg is still dodging the sperm but she can feel it, follow the course of the possibility as the couple reach their zenith. Warm damp heat exciting the passion between them as the bliss of coitus removes the tension of another day. River didn't really interfere, just nudged a little to get the zygot home. Sanctuary. Baby will be safe now. But no touching.

Simon and Kaylee married in the Spring two years ago. It amazes River that Kaylee waited so long until her brother finally got off the fence and made his move. Would have served him right if Kaylee had moved on but it wouldn't have been fair to her friend. Kaylee deserved better, now she had it and River was relieved and pleased. They were parts that fitted together, also when Kaylee was happy the Captain was happy too. Parent, brother, friend, protector - so many hats for one head to wear yet only one heart. Battered, traumatised but true. River had set her sights on Mal long ago, little by little inching her way towards her goal. Careful not to frighten him off or have her brother drag her kicking and screaming from the only home she wanted to a life on the run away from the metal walls that held her safe and the arms she craved. No touching. She knew what it was to love from afar but each year in the Black that distance was closing.

It had occurred fairly early on to River that her brother could not cure her. As brilliant as Simon was he could not undo what had been done to her and the evolving cocktail of drugs became a rollercoaster ride that owed more to Russian roulette than reasoned clinical research. So River sat down one night while all the ship was sleeping and did the math. Then she had carefully and slowly ordered the broken pieces of her psyche back into their former roles, acting out responses that would lead Simon to believe she was healing. Getting better. And she was. But not from the drugs. People had broken her and only people could heal her. Not any people but the ones on this ship. As she improved Simon cut back on the drugs he was giving her, his heart soaring with hope and joy at the remission. Until finally, at last, she was not only drug free but coherent. Simon did not need to know that what she had been like before was kept inside so that the echo of who she was could be with them. Yet sometimes, when she looked at the Captain, it was as if he knew. A small smile would grace her lips, a gentle sad one flicker on his own. Only her promise stopped her from dancing over to him and letting her lips tell his what her heart longed to say.

Now they were out on a job. Mal, Zoe, Jayne and the Shepherd. Simon and Kaylee were laughing and teasing each other when Simon realised his sister had been awfully quiet for longer than was normal. "River?"

River did not want to shift her focus. She frowned slightly. "Trouble."

Simon's heart missed a beat. Kaylee touched his arm to reassure him but the doctor was tensing up, as if all River's efforts to appear normal were slipping away in one moment. It hurt him to think he might have to medicate her all over again. "River, how do you feel?"

She turned her head. "Double crossed. The friend who wasn't a friend."

"What ya sayin', River? You sayin' the Cap'n an' the others were betrayed?"

"Worse than turning the other cheek."

Kaylee and Simon exchanged a look. River waited to see if they would get what she was saying but they just stared blankly.

"Shot him."

Then River sprang to her feet and left, her feet slapping quietly on the deck plates. For a moment Simon and Kaylee did not speak then Kaylee sat in Simon's lap and gave him a gentle kiss.

"And she was getting so much better." Lamented a sad Simon.

Kaylee said nothing, her arms around her husband. A flicker of worry burning in the back of her mind while inwardly she prayed that River was wrong and that this was not a sign of the dementia they feared was returning. But neither of them knew it had never left.

River only went to her bunk to retrieve her boots. Quickly donning them she then went to Jayne's bunk and made a careful search for the correct armament. The Captain's rule in tatters in her mind when his life was in the balance. She wasn't a child any more but a woman with a mind of her own. Time he found out first hand but first she had to save him. Only one rule would be broken. For six years there had been no touching.

[themovementarians]

ccording to his phone, it was only 6:03, meaning he still had almost thirty minutes of sweaty torture left to go.

Not for the first time, Levi cursed himself for agreeing to this.

This, being waiting for Erwin to get his ass to the beach so Levi could film his damned proposal and go home, where there was air conditioning. The task got a lot more complicated when Levi accidentally filmed something he wasn't meant to see.

“Motherfucker, it’s too hot.”

The sun might have been setting, and the sea breeze might have been blowing, but it was still summertime. Ergo, hot as fuck.

Levi’s hands were getting so damn sweaty when he checked the time on his phone his fingers slipped and he accidentally took a screenshot. Again. This fucking new phone! “Still not used to these buttons.”

The screenshot displayed on the screen showed it was 6:03, meaning he still had almost thirty minutes of this sweaty torture left to go.

Not for the first time, Levi cursed himself for agreeing to this.

This, being waiting for Erwin to get his ass to the beach so Levi could film his damned proposal and go home, where there was air conditioning. If it weren’t for the fact that Hange would never have been able to keep the proposal a secret and Mike was going to be too busy getting proposed to do it himself, it had fallen to Levi to fulfill Erwin’s romantic dreams of having footage of the moment he would pop the question.

If only that giant blond hadn’t chosen such a hot day for the proposal. But Levi had agreed, so here he was, sweating his ass off and hiding up a tree waiting for this thing to happen. He perked up when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Fucking finally!” His thumb slammed down on the record button of Erwin’s borrowed camera, mounted to the trunk of the tree and zoomed in on the spot that had been pointed out to him a few hours ago. He was ready to capture this heartwarming moment.

Only it wasn’t Erwin. Or Mike. It was some random guy with long, brown hair strolling casually onto the beach. Damn. They’d picked out this spot specifically because it was usually empty, and here was some asshole mere feet from crashing the proposal.

6:10. There was still time for Levi to at least readjust the camera angle, trusting Erwin to stay away from the other beachgoer. He fiddled with the mounting, muttering, “He better not fucking photobomb when Erwin gets here…”

Holy shit.

His jaw dropped. Actually, literally dropped because this fucking dumbass had just kicked off his shorts.

Motherfucker, of course some skinny dipper would have to go and ruin this thing. That was just the kinda fucking luck Levi had. There was nothing he could do about the image of a naked man splashing in the waves that was now burned into his retinas, but there was enough time to warn Erwin that this was probably not the best time or place for a romantic proposal. Unless his idea of romantic was some random cock in the background of the video.

It was a pretty safe assumption that Erwin didn’t want that in his proposal video.

And if he did, too fucking bad. Levi wasn’t going to film it. He was going to call Erwin right now and—

“KA-CHACK!”

The naked swimmer’s head jerked up. He leapt out of the water and clutched a towel to himself, looking around wildly. “WHO’S THERE?”

Sonuvabitch.

Of fucking course, Levi had fucking fat-fingered his phone buttons again, and there was another screenshot gracing his screen. Only this time, the screenshot had been accompanied by a very loud camera shutter click. His cover was blown.

Maybe if he stayed very quiet the skinny dipper would get spooked and leave?

“If you perverts think you’re gonna get away with this!”

Oh, he was heading for the tree line, the hand not holding up his towel balled into a fist, clearly itching for a fight. How delightful.

Up in the tree, Levi didn’t move a muscle. The last thing he wanted was for this to go on any longer. All he had ever wanted was to just film this thing quickly and leave. Maybe if he stayed really still, the skinny dipper would give up and hurry along? He could hope. He could dream. He could feel something brushing against his arm that wasn’t there a second ago.

It came out without even thinking: “FUCK!”

How else could he respond when a cockroach fucking dropped out of a tree and landed on him? Levi shook his arm violently until the dirty little fucker flew off. The relief he felt when the bug was gone was cut short when he looked down and saw the most murderous face he’d even seen in his life, glaring right up at him.

Him, Levi. The man who was hiding up a tree, wearing all black, and with a very obvious camera pointed at the beach. This situation couldn’t have looked worse if he’d tried.

“I swear to fucking God, this is not what it looks like.”

The explanation did not sway the skinny dipper. Wordlessly, he grabbed for the lower tree branches and started climbing, his facial expression screaming, “I’m going to kill you”.

God dammit.

Levi scrambled to his feet, trying both not to fall out of this fucking tree or get punched. Within seconds, skinny dipper was on Levi’s branch, dukes up, and Jesus Christ, he’d dropped his damn towel going up the tree.

And then, miraculously, the situation got even worse. He heard a loud staged, “Mike, let’s stop for a minute.”

That was also the moment the first punch came flying in his direction.

On a normal day, Levi wouldn’t hesitate to kick skinny dipper’s ass, but he didn’t have time, with this whole Erwin situation. The proposal was going to happen any minute! Instead of fighting back, Levi tried to block the punches and whisper-explain at the same time, “I fucking swear— shit! I’m supposed— supposed to! Film my friend’s proposal! Move— Move the fuck over!”

All to no avail. The skinny dipper was (completely justifiably!) trying to pummel him. That fact alone made it impossible for Levi to put a stop to this fight in his usual way. He had been—accidentally!—perved on. So, a KO was out, but maybe he could at least hit the record button between dodges? Since he couldn’t hear anything in the adrenaline rush, there was no telling how much of the proposal he was missing, but he had to at least try to catch some of it. He had given his word. And with that, Levi made one, last, desperate lunge for the camera, jabbing his finger in the direction of the record button.

His fingers were met with nothing but air. So was his whole torso as he soared out of the tree, completely miscalculating how far away the camera was.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

In the brief second before he crash-landed into the sand, Levi was foolish enough to think: “Well, it can’t get worse than this, right?”

Immediately, he was proven wrong as a large weight slammed into his back. Yep, the skinny dipper had fallen out of the tree too. And landed on him. Still naked, of course.

“Levi, what are you doing here?”

Oh, and Mike and Erwin had seen the whole damn thing. There were brand-new rings on his and Erwin’s left ring fingers, so he had indeed missed the whole proposal. Fuck.

“Oh shit, you really were trying to catch a proposal?!” came a voice from the man still straddling his back.

Levi would have said, “I told you” but he was too busy trying to inhale enough sand to asphyxiate himself to death so he would never have to face the world again. The plan failed, so instead he said, “You can get off me at any time.”

The weight came off his back and when Levi raised his head, he saw a hand waiting for him. He accepted it and got back on his feet, pointedly avoiding looking anywhere in Erwin and Mike’s direction. Even only seeing them out of the corner of his eye, he could tell they were both shaking with repressed laughter. God, they were gonna fuck with him about this for the rest of his life, weren’t they?

“I’m really sorry!” And the skinny dipper did look pretty apologetic. “I’ll buy you a beer to make up for it, okay?”

Levi really looked at the skinny dipper for the first time. Now that his face wasn’t contorted with rage, he wasn’t half bad looking. Long, brown hair. Gorgeous eyes. Tan. Nice body. Tall. The most important requirement.

“Are you kidding me? After all that you owe me a steak dinner.”

Nice smile, too, it turned out.

Dinner with Eren—finally, he had a name to put to the skinny dipper’s face—went so well Levi was starting to think the abject humiliation he’d suffered that day was worth it. Doubly so when he entered Eren’s phone number in his contacts list, a promise of more dinners to come. And then triply so when he saw he’d gotten a text message from Erwin: “Thanks for the video.”

Ah, that was right. He’d started the camera when he thought Erwin was on his way and never stopped the recording. He had captured the proposal. So Levi hadn’t even failed in his mission for the day.

“It could have used less cock, though.”

[isawafulgentsky]

for the most part, life was like a series of travelators. there was the travelator of kindergarten. then of school, in all its glory - primarily, secondary, jc. there were state imposed travelators, at least for us guys. though many would quietly grumble at being “forced” to serve the nation, i believe some part of us were pleased, that for 2 more years, our life courses would be determined.

there were other mini-travelators along the way. piano classes, art classes, tuition, softball and soccer. these were a bit less rigid than the others. some I eventually jumped off. Mdm Tan’s piano lessons, as nice as that lady was personally, was plainly uninspiring. others, like tuition, were framed as necessities, though I now view them more as privileges. still others, like softball and soccer, were just activities I naturally grew into, both out of a certain obligation to structure (CCAs in school) and also a personal inclination to sports. 

most young people desire freedom. they await the day that they turn 21. the spirit of youth is adventure, potential and possibilities. nestled and nurtured within the structures that they find themselves in, or for arguably good measure, society and parents place them in, they desire freedom. an escape from these structures, or at least the freedom to determine the ones that they choose to inhabit. 

i felt this spirit of youth once, and on some days, i still do. but i think you know that you’ve ‘grown up’ when these possibilities and promises feel more terrifying than inviting. when the remaining years of your life looks more like a wilderness rather than a blank canvas full of possibilities. that’s where i’ve found myself - at the end of the travelators, staring in great expanse of time and space, choices and trade-offs. 

the second last travelator that i was on was college. for most of it, i was a flaneur - drifting in and out of ideas, practices and pursuits. i did a lot of random things, and my school encouraged it. i took up filmmaking and made a couple of films. it was great fun with great friends while it lasted. i dabbled in acapella - dabbled, i say, because i wasn’t that great, and that particular gig lasted as long as it did more out of obligation than calling. i took up academic subjects in history, science, economics, art. there was much richness in my intellectual exposure, for which i remain grateful. i went urban exploring - abandoned mansions, stumbled upon graveyards. taking in the grime, forsakenness of those space with a detached aesthetic appreciation, befitting of a flaneur. 

(that the very ability to be a flaneur, to saunter, to selectively experience life not out of compulsion but exposure, is a privilege not enjoyed by many is not lost on me. to the fact that i have had this privilege, i can only say that this is the lot that God has dealt with me in my life, and i better use these experiences for good.)

relationally, i too couldn’t, or didn’t, “settle down”. i’m not sure if an exact diagnosis is meaningful, but i think that part of what lead to this was that i was afraid of committing.  

towards the end of the second travellator, some of my friends started to get cold feet. while college drummed into us the picture of a world of endless possibilities, it didn’t really teach us how to choose which path to take. the expansive, soaring visions of admissions soon gave way to the realist, pragmatic world of career guidance and job hunting. for most of us, i think we just jumped onto another travellator in part because that possibility opened up, and we knew that the ‘end’ was near. 

it felt assuring, good, and even ego-boosting to say that i had a job lined-up, that 3 months before graduation, my next path was already certainty. i looked with those friends, whose ‘next steps’ had not yet been firmed up, with probably some subconsciously pity. they too, for the most part, didn’t hide their worry. 

but time melted slowly away, and soon enough, we were all on our individual, ‘chosen’ paths - our own travellators. for my part, i felt that work was more like the raging sea than a mechanical walkway. i often felt drowning, exhausted. two quick rotations in vastly different roles meant that i was constantly learning and being challenged. it was exhilarating and exhausting. except for rare moments for clarity, i think it was a time where purpose (in all senses of the word) was fuzzy. 

i had no grand sense of purpose! i thought i did - as a Christian, i knew that story of reality that i was in, and my place in it. yet, quite honestly, i don’t think it mattered much in the day to day. there was a gap between what i believed in my head and my practice. this gap was damning, horrifying, excruciating simply because it was there. 

it wasn’t as if i could not find another purpose to live for. i could! see, that man over there dressed in office clothes, eating hurriedly with a distinct sense of urgency. a quick glance at his timepiece, another chomp of his mashed potatoes. what was driving him? what was given him that sense of purpose? perhaps an urgent task assignment or client meeting, perhaps a desire to rush home to see his family. i could, i really could, find these purposes to live by. and very so often, i slipped into such a state - and even enjoyed it (at some level lah). the upcoming exhibition, to be launched by Singaporean dignitaries, had distinct tasks and outcomes. though it was stressful, the path from here to there was clear. i could live for love. find a lover, be lost in her eyes, talk with her and dream of her. i very much believe i have that capacity. or career success! strategising, networking, storytelling and the like. if this was the game that mattered, i think i’ll do decently well if i gave it my heart and my soul.

but i didn’t think it was worth my heart and my soul. and i still don’t think that it is. there is too much of ecclesiastes within me to hold me back from an unadulterated pursuit of these goods as ends in themselves. before i am even midway into pursuit, i can imagine the end. vexation. vanity. vapour. those things, and our lives too. i saw it, clear-eyed, aided by the light of scripture and casual observations in the office. 

what then? as admirable as the negative project of determining what one shouldn’t be driven by is, what then should drive us? (- for to stick with just the negative project would be to stick in despair.) 

i admit that this is kind of where i am right now.   

you may be shocked, surprised, enraged, disappointed! how so, you say. are you not a Christian? do you not believe the great truths of the gospel? are you not driven by the good news? are you not part of that story? 

with a whisper, i say, yes i am. i am part of that story by grace. i am in Christ, and he is in me. i am captured by the glory of the scriptures, and the beauty of the christian story. i am become more keenly aware of the providence of God, his working in and through creation, guiding and directing and moving. i am too, i hope, growing deeper in faith, in trust, in submitting to God. 

and yet with the same whisper, i say, i am not there yet. i am not where i ought to be, i am quite afar off. it deeply horrifies me that i could know the truth, and yet be so cold and unyielded to it. right now, i resonate more with wandering Moses, drifting through the wilderness of Midian, knowing that the glory of Egypt would never satisfy, yet really not knowing what else he is meant to do. i resonate more with Thomas, who after that first Easter was perhaps so jealously craving the conviction and new found belief of his fellow disciples, yet never being able to himself come to that place in his own strength. 

another story in the Bible that quite captures me is the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel of the Lord. Jacob too, was a wanderer. his cunning and craftiness got him the birthright, but at the expense of being able to remain at home. so away from the comforts of his own family, he wandered and after some time, found himself in love with Rachel. he made a deal with his uncle (a very hard deal, in my opinion) but strove to complete it to win Rachel’s hand. and yet at the end of 7 long years, he was bitterly deceived by his very kinsmen, and endured yet another 7 years to finally win his love. this was a man whose cunning was ultimately matched by another, a man part honourable (for his loyal love to Rachel) and part despicable (for his calculated cunning), but very much relatable, in that he was neither perfectly good or pathologically bad. this was a man who inherited the great faith of his father and grandfather, and on a few occasions, had a privilege to be personally reminded of God’s involvement in his life. and yet, he, on the night before he was to met his existential reckoning (in crossing path with his brother Esau whom he deceitfully cheated) was evidently not who he was to be. he was still fretting and relying on his cunning to appease his brother. 

in the night, all alone, separated from his family, he met God and wrestled with him. i don’t know what this really means, but i do know that Jacob wanted a blessing from God and he eventually got it. he was doggedly, he did not let go, and in the end, he got his blessing. it would be easy and tempting to read this story as an illustration for how hard work eventually pays off, but that would be too simple. wrestling with God is not ‘hard work’. the very fact that God appeared to him at this time of utter need was one of grace. the grace and giveness of the whole situation is undeniably, but i think there is still more. Jacob wrestled as if his life depended on it. he didn’t know what he needed - he could only articulate a request for a blessing - but yet he knew that he needed something. the Lord obliged, and Jacob was never the same again. 

these days, i feel like i too, am wrestling. there is a keen sense of need, though i don’t know exactly what i do need. there are deep earnest cries, bless me O Lord, give me a blessing. there is me, at the end of the travelator that i just got off, perched over the great expanse of time and space and possibilities. i am reading, waiting, praying, pleading, wrestling. 

Rembrandt, 1659

[livechristcentered]

A Promise to Refresh and Satisfy!

A Promise to Refresh and Satisfy!

I will refresh the weary and satisfy the faint.”Jeremiah 31:25 God’s promise In the overwhelming, hair-raising, and depressing prophecies of Jeremiah, God repeatedly told his people he would destroy them for their obstinate and hardened hearts. Yet in the middle of these powerful and scorching warnings, God also slips in promises that soar with hope and grace. Can you think of anything more…