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writingsbymo-mo · 3 years

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Seven Minutes of Good Vibes

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❆ Day 7 of our 12 Days of XXXmas Collab

❆ Sumary: It’s the annual Christmas party at the lov’s hideout. The bar is full of drunk/tipsy villains. Shenanigans ensue and now you’re stuck in the closet with Compress for seven minutes where he has a few tricks up his sleeve.

❆ WC: 2.4k

❆ Contains: alcohol, fingering, vibrating marbles

❆ TW: some drinking, objects stuffed in you

Note: Toga is 18 in this fic and Kurogiri makes sure she isn’t drinking.

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Twas a cold night this fine evening. Many people already sound asleep in their beds or off to their late night shifts. The hustle and bustle of the city dwindled by the hour. But not for a certain group. Oh no. They were far too awake on this Christmas Eve.

The League of Villains were hosting their annual Christmas Party, proposed by none other than Toga and later agreed upon by Kurogiri for some group bonding.

Multicolored lights strung along the bar counter thanks to Kurogiri plus a small tree of quaint decorations of ornaments and garland carefully placed on the front corner of the bar greeting all who enter from the side entrance. It lit up the usually dimly lit room nicely. Keeping up with such festivities, he wore a santa hat. “Everyone must wear one, even you Tomura Shigaraki,” he stated in a calm manner.

Tomura reluctantly wore it, keeping Father over his face the whole time as not to be seen and simply drank glasses of whiskey on the rocks, ignoring the festivities no matter how much Kurogiri tried getting him involved. Anyone who approached him was ignored or simply told to fuck off. He wasn’t in the greatest of moods being forced to miss a gaming tournament with the grand prize winner getting the rarest items in the entire game plus premium figures of the characters he mains. After a few attempts to speak to him, nobody dared bother him. Not even you.

The rest of the league, including yourself, all stayed in the corner opposite the bar.

Dabi stood leaning against the wall brooding as per usual even throwing in his usual snarky quips when the time was right. Twice was playing charades with Toga, Spinner, and Compress trying to figure out what exactly he was doing, throwing out guess after guess. Occasionally, Spinner glanced back at the boss with the soft pink glow forming in his cheeks.

What you were doing? Just sitting next to Mr. Compress, sipping on the cocktail in your hand all bundled up in some throw blankets. After being in the league these past few months, you soon caught glances of the man in such fine attire. Your cheeks were warm, not just from the booze. Honestly, you’d have nothing more than to finally have Compress right where you want him. You shifted your thighs just thinking about it. With the mask on so conspicuously, you never knew if he was ever looking your way or even noticed the little things you do.

As the night went on, everyone kept glancing at the doorway that led towards the second floor where the bathroom was located. Carefully placed over it was some mistletoe. Not once this evening did two people meet underneath it just yet. Everyone kept waiting, watching as someone would leave to use the bathroom, keeping track of who was coming and going. While normally, someone would kiss the person they bump into underneath the mistletoe, Toga came up with the idea that instead of kissing, the two caught under it would go into the broom closet for some seven minutes in heaven. And thus, it was agreed upon.

Tomura was plastered, passed out at the bar with Kurogiri shaking his head in disappointment at the young boss who didn’t wish to participate in the festivities. He had a strong feeling this would happen anyway.

The karaoke was brought out and now the room was filled with the song of some drunken or tipsy villains, minus Toga who Kurogiri made sure drank non-alcoholic beverages that night. Cheers and dancing ensued with everyone taking turns singing.

A sudden tightness in your bladder alerted you and you rushed to the bathroom. Being as tipsy as you were, you didn’t think to notice if anyone saw you get up not.

Feeling much better, you stepped back to the bar but then, you bumped into something or rather, someone. “Oof, s-sorry,” you uttered, slowly raising your head only to feel the heat growing rapidly in your cheeks, not from the various alcohol you’ve been drinking.

The familiar white mask with curious designs caught your attention and the lean build of his...it was him...Mr. Compress. “None to worry my dear.” Despite not seeing his face, you could feel his smile through the mask.

A sudden feeling on the back of your neck told you to look up with Compress having the same idea. You lifted your head slowly and paused. Your body felt hot, almost heavy and light at the same time. There it was, the mistletoe finally serving its purpose.

Time stopped. You couldn’t keep your eyes off the hemi-parasitic plant hanging above your head. Of course the one moment you forgot about it would cause this to happen. On top of it all...with your crush. A part of you almost wondered if this was all said and forgotten about or if anyone even noticed.

Loud cheers from across the bar snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Oh my god! It’s happening!!!” Toga squealed, giving you a knowing look. You lowered your head in embarrassment, staring at the linoleum floor. She figured out how you felt about Compress a few weeks ago as you had a hard time keeping your eyes off him during the last fight. “Aww look at the lovebirds! Get a room,” Twice cooed then shouted. Spinner nodded and cheered in approval, taking another drink. Dabi was indifferent to the whole ordeal being too busy doodling dicks all over Tomura’s face, stifling his laughter as to what his boss’s reaction might be when he wakes up.

Your eyes continued to focus on the floor. Butterflies swarmed in your stomach, never subsiding. A gloved hand of crimson obstructed your view. “I’d be honored for you to join me my dear.” The timbre of his voice, so smooth and rich made you lose your breath. You took his hand, warm with a perfect hold in yours as a gentleman would. If you were entirely sober right now, you would’ve fainted in pure astonishing bliss. He traipsed onwards to the nearest closet that so happened to be the broom closet, leading you in first, him following and closed the door behind him.

The room was tiny to say the least. You pulled the string to the light hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the space, humming though barely audible. Outside, they started karaoke back up singing some classic music for this kind of party. Compress bumped into you the moment the door clicked. You stumbled back, hitting the wall and somehow pulling him with you. You gasped as you both fell onto the floor with a thud.

His warmth and subtle earthy, musky scent engulfed you, sending a tingling sensation between your legs. Slowly, you came back to reality. His body caged around you, on top of you. Soft but deep sighs caressed your ears, adding to the sensation below.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concern in his voice. The mask that adorned his face fell off, revealing the beautiful chestnut eyes you could never look away from.

“Y-yeah, I’m alright...so handsome...uh I-I mean, are you?” You shrunk into yourself...you said it… ‘Maybe...he didn’t hear that part?’ Oh, but you knew, you just knew he did.

A spark lit up in his eyes as his lips stretched to form a smirk, “handsome? I’ll have you be the judge of that.” His right hand brushed your cheek that you melted into. Your heart skipped a few beats. “Now what would you like to do for these seven minutes? I might have a few tricks up my sleeve I’m willing to try with you.”

By now, a minute had already passed. You just needed to say it. All this time, how much you’ve always wanted him, how he makes you feel day in and day out. Never once have you ever lusted for someone so much, wondering just what those fingers and marbles could do to you. A man with many secrets who covers his face intrigued you to no ends. All you had to do...was tell him just what you wanted...what you needed. You inhaled deeply and sighed, it was now or never. “F-fuck me with your marbles!”

Compress paused, astounded by your response. He chuckled softly and smiled with a hungry expression on his face, “I didn’t take you as the kinky type but alas it appears I am mistaken. Though,” his voice deepened, almost in a growl, “I do have a trick or two that you might be interested in. Now then, we don’t have much time.” He leaned forward, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek, whispering an I’ve always wanted you.

The warmth radiating off his body now subtle as he leaned back, unbuttoning your pants. Goosebumps raised on your skin from his touch. He pulled them down your legs along with your panties, leaving your cunny exposed to him. Juices from your arousal shone under the soft lighting before him. You turned your head, blushing. His hand touched your chin tenderly, motioning you to face him.”C-Compress?”

“Shh, it’s alright. Please don’t hide your beautiful face from me my dear. Especially with what’s to come.” You could only feel hotter with every word of his sweeping through your ears.

He leaned forward, capturing your lips in a tender kiss, pouring all his feelings into it. Your eyes shot open but fluttered shut soon after, moving your lips to match his intensity. For a moment, the world had stopped. Nothing mattered but the emotions you shared.

“Ah!” you cried, breaking the kiss. Your cunny twitched as a couple fingers slid between your folds, testing your every sound and movement. “M-more!”

“Impatient I see. Well, it can’t be helped with us having a short timeframe but, I promise to make this performance worthwhile,” he dipped his fingers lower, sliding two fingers barely past your entrance, making you whimper. “Of course, next time I’ll surely give you the show of a lifetime.”

Long slender fingers plunged deep inside your velvety walls in a rapid, steady rhythm. You moaned and cried his name, urging your hips forward as lust overtook your mind. Every touch, the way he pressed and rubbed your sweet spot sent pleasant chills through your body. It’s no wonder they say he has magic fingers.

They scissored in and out, twisting and twirling in a fierce yet delicate dance leaving you begging for more. He moved so fast, you didn’t even notice his fingers slip out for a brief second only to shove in a special something: a marble. The foreign object made you gasp in surprise. It was cool to the touch making your insides tingle. You shifted your eyes towards his face. Compress couldn’t stop his smile, hearing your melodic moans that slipped out every movement he made making you tighter by the second.

Soon another marble went in. Then another, and another until finally….he stopped.

Compress released his fingers from your tight heat, licking off your juices while humming. Despite the marbles inside you, you couldn’t help but feel empty. He must've noticed the glum expression you held. “It seems you aren’t completely satisfied my dear. No worries, I have a little surprise for you.”

His fingers snapped and everything went white. You couldn’t think or speak. Nothing but incoherent babbling and screams of pleasure echoed from the enclosed space followed by a quiet buzzing sound. Tears poured from your eyes as drool dripped out of your mouth. Your body continuously convulsed as your cunny twitched and oozed more and more fluids. It was as though you finally found nirvana for the first time. You never knew you could feel like this.

“Hhmhmm, I see those marbles are doing the trick,” he cooed with a telltale smirk.

His hands cupped your cheeks, rubbing circles into them with his thumbs. You barely heard what he said, mustering a breath to speak, “the m-m-marbles….ah- what..did you-?”

“They’re quite special. Since we wouldn’t have much time here, I wanted to give you as much pleasure as possible so,” he held a marble between his fingers and turned it on like the others, “as you can see, it’s a special vibrating marble. What do you think about it?”

You cried as another jolt made you ascend once more, “so good!!!”

Knock knock knock

“Hey lovebirds, times up,” Dabi grumbled and sauntered away from the door, “better hope you didn’t make a mess in there.”

A whine left your lips as your eyebrows scrunched together. You sat up, reaching between your legs, digging around to find the marbles but, only one managed to make its way out, rolling onto the floor between your legs. The others however, you could barely reach. “C-Compress...they’re not coming out! Hnngh...please help!” you whimpered. Your legs wouldn’t stop shaking.

Compress shoved his fingers back inside your sopping entrance, digging for the marbles still vibrating inside you. Another one managed to loosen and rolled its way out. He went deeper, trying to reach the others but nothing seemed to work. He sighed, “sorry my dear. It appears I went a bit far. You’ll have to keep them inside until they manage to slide out. After all, I will need them back for next time.” He winked at you as you felt your body heat rise once more. It stands that no matter what he does, you can’t get enough of his charm.

Without a second to spare, he helped put your clothes back on. Despite the smile he wore, you could see a small tinge of guilt in his eyes. You paused for a second then gave him a reassuring smile. He picked you up, holding you close to him, giving you a quick peck on the lips. “I’m glad I got to spend this holiday with you my love.”

He carried you out and everyone cheered at the two of you. Dabi teased you, telling you how loud you were. You couldn’t help but bury your face into Compress’s chest. “I think we’re going to turn in for the night,” Compress stated.

He quickly went up the stairs, giving you small pecks along the way to his room. It was a happy moment for the league that you and Compress surely will never forget...especially with those pesky little marbles still stuck inside you.

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We know this year has been a rough one for a lot of us, so our little group got together to do this Lil’ collab to try and bring some fun to this time of the year, and also help the ones of us who are experiencing difficulties.

Each fanfic from our collab will have the writer’s commission info or tip jar,check their works and if you like it, feel free to help ✨✨✨✨

✨✨We all hope you have happy holidays ✨✨✨

❆tip jar/ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/momo0953

#mr. compress x reader #atsuhiro sako x reader #sako atsuhiro x reader #compress has the magical fingers and he shows you what those mean #nsft #bnha #mha #smut #12 days of xxxmas #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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imagine-loki · 3 years

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Blushing in His Colours, Chapter 24

TITLE: Blushing in His Colours CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 24 AUTHOR: fanficshiddles ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki being a Daddy Dom, his adores and loves his little, worships the ground she walks on. She has vaginismus, but he couldn’t be more supportive with her. RATING: M

Mia screamed to the high heavens as Loki forced another orgasm out of her.

He grinned down at her, praising her constantly through it. She was tied to the bed, spread eagle and blindfolded. Loki had gotten her a new toy, that he was currently using on her to get multiple orgasms out of her.

It was a slimline g spot vibrator with a clit tickler. And it was certainly doing what it was supposed to do. Loki thought at one point she was going to break the restraints, she was pulling that hard on them when she came for the fourth time.

‘Simply sublime.’ Loki growled as he looked down to see how soaked she was, there was a huge wet patch on the bed beneath her.

When he knew she was completely out of it, unable to focus on anything anymore, he stopped and removed the vibrator. But he was impossibly hard, almost exploding. Knowing he wouldn’t take long, he knelt between her bound, spread open legs, and quickly stroked himself to completion.

He had her blindfold vanish, so she could see him. She almost came again just from the erotic sight before her. He looked magnificent kneeling tall and proudly between her legs, stroking himself.

‘Do you want my cum, pet?’ He growled, almost there.

‘P… please… Daddy.’ She whined, still breathing hard after her orgasms.

‘Where do you want it?’ Loki asked, though he knew she was going to say her mouth. She always did when he gave her the option.

‘In… in my cunt, please, Daddy.’ She whimpered, trying to raise her hips up to him.

Or not.

Loki raised an eyebrow in surprise. He knew cumming inside her properly was going to be near impossible right now. But he did as she wanted and with one more stroke, he came hard all over her cunt, making her an even bigger mess than she already was from her own pleasure.

Untying her with a snap of his fingers, her bangles becoming undone, Loki quickly lay down with her and held her, stroking her back and talking softly to her until she was feeling more human again.

‘Did you enjoy your new toy, sweetling?’ He smirked.

‘So much.’ She giggled.

‘Though I must say, I was expecting you to want me to cum in your pretty mouth. Where you usually beg for.’ He grinned and ran a finger along her lower lip.

Her cheeks turned bright red and she looked down at his chest, absentmindedly running her fingers across his skin. He knew there was something she wanted to tell him, but was too shy to.

‘What is it, Mia? Speak to me.’ He said softly, cupping her chin and lifting her head up to look him in the eye.

‘I uhm… I just really really want to be filled with your cum. Inside my… cunt… Not my mouth. I dunno, it’s weird, I know. But I just…’ She sighed and closed her eyes. ‘It’s stupid. I know it can’t happen anyway.’

But Loki suddenly had a plan.

Whatever his girl wished, Loki would grant it. One way or another.

After comforting her and reassuring her that it wasn’t a weird fantasy, he waited until later in the day when she was happily watching some cartoons on the telly, while cuddling her favourite teddy for comfort. She looked so happy and at peace, Loki almost got lost in the moment just watching her. But he snapped out of it and got to work.

Mia knew Loki was up to something when he disappeared for an hour. The mischievousness in his voice when he called her to the bedroom was a huge clue, too.

Loki was waiting for her and as soon as she got into the bedroom he pounced on her, making her giggle as he started kissing and nibbling her neck.

After plenty of kissing and heavy petting, Loki lifted Mia up and carried her to the bed. He lay her down and tied her wrists to the headboard by her bangles, then used his Seidr to have her clothes disappear.

He proceeded to take his time, worshipping her body. Kissing and licking every inch of skin he could get to.

‘You’re very squirmy today, sweetling.’ Loki growled with a smirk as he squeezed her hips and glanced up at her, winking and making her blush.

When he got down between her thighs, he used his silver tongue for a while. Making her dance on his tongue, getting her to cum twice before adding his fingers to the mix. Being able to use two fingers with her now was wonderful for the both of them, Mia loved feeling his long digits wiggling deep inside her, hitting all the good spots.

Once she was soaking wet, he licked her again and moaned at her taste. Then he sat up for a minute to speak to her properly, as he held up another new toy.

‘This is a new dildo I got for you, little one. It’s the same size as your current dilator, so I know you can take it and get that nice, full feeling. But… I’ve modified it.’ He grinned and showed her the bottom and top of it.

He’d turned it into a squirting dildo. There was a small tube running up it, with a small hole at the tip. He had a large syringe that was connected to the end of the tube. And it was filled with what Mia thought looked like sperm…

‘Is… Is that?’ Her eyes widened and she suddenly felt much more aroused than she had been, even after a few orgasms.

‘It is indeed.’ Loki purred, stroking her leg gently. ‘I told you there are ways to let your fantasies come true.’ He winked at her.

He had spent the last hour wanking and storing his sperm into the syringe so there was more than enough to make her get the feeling.

‘Oh god!’ Mia groaned and let her head fall back to the pillow, she was trembling all over and Loki could see how just the aspect of it all was affecting her already.

Loki started teasing her clit again, he rubbed the dildo up and down her cunt, getting it lubed up with her own natural arousal. She certainly had plenty of it to give. He chuckled when he pressed the tip against her and started to push it in, as she moaned nice and loudly.

‘I’m going to fill you up with my seed, pet. Claim you on the inside.’ He growled. Her cunt spasmed at his words and the way he said it, pulling the dildo further into her, along with his steady pressure of pushing it in.

After a few gentle thrusts, he got the dildo fully into her. But he wasn’t about to just squirt it in and be done with it, oh no.

He moved over the top of her, keeping one hand down on the dildo. He held her face in his free hand and started kissing her, his tongue delving into her mouth to tease with hers as he pulled the dildo out and then pushed it in again, building up a steady rhythm of thrusting.

She was moaning like mad into his mouth, the feeling Loki was able to give her was incredible. Almost, but not quite, like the real thing.

Especially the finale.

Loki thrust the dildo into her roughly for the last few thrusts, then held it as deep as it would go. He had to go back down her body a bit so he could use both hands to sort the syringe out. But he kept kissing along her abdomen as he forced his sperm into her.

He used his Seidr to make it more realistic, to make the speed of his sperm coming out of the dildo much faster and stronger. Also to make it the same temperature as it would be if it was completely fresh. Because being one of the most powerful beings in the world, where was the fun in not using some powers in the bedroom with his girl?

Mia cried out as she felt Loki’s sperm rushing into her, filling her up more than ever. It felt so erotic, she couldn’t believe it. It surpassed all expectations as she had such a strong orgasm, clamping down hard on the toy.

‘You’re mine!’ Loki growled possessively as he wiggled it around and pushed more into her, making sure she was completely satisfied and stuffed.

After pausing for a moment, letting his sperm settle within her, he slowly pulled the dildo out. A stream of it came flowing out of her, making her whimper. He looked down at her cunt and grinned, there was a hell of a lot of cum.

Loki couldn’t resist smearing it all over her cunt. He slid two fingers into her and could feel the sticky mess inside, as he pulled his fingers out, he wiped them on her inner thigh, making her tremble.

Letting her gather her thoughts together, he undid her restraints and had the toy disappear. So he could hold her and kiss her plenty. She started crying, but he had expected that. She was really emotional and overwhelmed.

‘Thank you, Loki.’ She cried as she clung to him tightly, overjoyed that Loki managed to make her fantasy a reality like that.

When she was ok to move, she went to the bathroom. She was so giddy as she could feel his sperm trickling down the inside of her thighs when she stood. Loki chuckled when he saw her go into the bathroom with a little skip to her step.

She returned quite quickly and jumped on top of Loki, making him laugh when she started kissing all over his face.

‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’

‘Anything for you, my little sweetling.’ He grinned. She lay down on top of him, head on his chest.

‘Do you have any other fantasies?’ Loki asked as he traced patterns on her back.

‘Well…’

#Loki #Lover #Submitted fic #Blushing in his colours #Chapter 24 #fanfictrashdump #fanfichiddles #submission

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pinkykitten · 3 years

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are you bored yet?

synopsis: with uncertainties in life you cant say for certain if you and fred being together is a good thing or bad thing. so many things are running through your mind as you spend watching the sunset with the love of your life, fred weasley.

pairing: fred weasley x female! reader (i swear im like obsessed w him i need therapy fr) words: 1,503 genre: fluff omg so much, romance, song based, writing challenge, one-shot

a/n: so this is based on the song are you bored yet by wallows. and this is for the writing challenge of @lunalovecroft. i had so much fun writing this and as u can tell im currently in a fred spiral and its out of control but idc tbh. he is so beautiful and yes he is invading my dreams every night. enjoy yall and hope u like also thnx for liking my recent fred drabble so much it means a lot to me and requests are open! ps i also tried to incorporate the words and meaning of the songs lyrics to the story hope that makes sense.

The ocean waves crashed against the soft, cool sand. It would simmer and relax, but then the pent up frustration mixed with wind would allow it to meet and kiss the earth.

The future always scared you. Somedays you looked forward to it and other days just the unknown was filled with anxiety. It was the feeling of not being able to control loss and love, happiness and sadness. You would find yourself some nights thinking about it, almost losing your mind.

The sun was setting so peacefully and beautifully. It was something so simple yet something so divine and of such importance. You had faith in the sun and space. Yes, everything around you may be changing and things might be going wrong but one thing was for certain was that the sun was going to rise and set every day, when the sun rises that will be your new chance at starting anew.

It was so peaceful. The smell of sea was so inviting and comforting. What was more comforting was how Fred let your head rest against his chest. The feeling of worn out cotton against your cheek, as you heard his heart beat almost at the same rhythm as yours. It was if you two were in perfect sync. The faint smell of cologne that Fred always used to try to impress you made you feel at home, along with a small smell of something unknown to you but only Fred had that smell. Maybe it was gingers own scent.

You sighed, relaxing.

“So, love, what do you think about the muggle world?” Fred asked, wiggling his brows like he was the man.

You looked up at his freckled face, from his chest, giggling, “You know I’ve been here before.”

Fred laid back down and enjoyed the moment with you. But something was eating you up inside. It was starting to bug you that everyone had a someone. Ron to Hermione. Harry to Ginny. You were starting to feel left behind in the crowd. Again with the uncertainty. Everyone was with their soulmate and you felt lonely.

You didn’t realize Fred was eyeing you this whole time you had this battle in your head. He could tell something was off. “What’s wrong?”

You very much disliked confrontation so you pretended to fall asleep.

“I saw you were awake Y/N,” Fred sat up. He was patiently, quietly waiting for your answer.

You sat up, kicking your feet against the peak you two were sitting on. The warmness from the sun making you smile just a bit. “I wish we didn’t have to leave. That we could sit here for the rest of our lives.”

Fred chuckled, scooting closer to you and resting his head against your shoulder. Something sparked within you at the contact. You could feel his breath on your neck, feeling the hair stand up on its own. You leaned your head against his and sighed once again.

“I wish I could sit here with you forever too sweetheart. But unfortunately we’re really not supposed to be here and I bet some muggles would find us and we’d be toast.” Fred kissed your knuckles.

You distanced yourself away from him, worrying Fred with wide eyes. You couldn’t bear the physical connection you two had and not have something from it. Yes, you and Fred were friends but you were wanting more than that. You yearned for more than that. “There is just so much on my mind,” you said quietly. You can tell you hurt Fred’s feelings but you needed to know what Fred was doing to you. Why did he kiss your hands? Why did he want to be with you daily? You needed support, something stable in your life.

“Feels like I've known you my whole life I can see right through your lies,” Fred was worried seeing you so distant.

He was right. He knew you in and out. He knew when you were okay and when you were not. You leaned back, “I like this guy and I’m afraid he doesn’t like me.”

“That’s bonkers! Who wouldn’t like you Y/N?” Fred tried not to grit his teeth at his jealousy. This man was so lucky.

“I’m afraid Fred. I don’t know if he’ll feel the same way and when we get older will he still feel the same way about me? There is so much to think about. What if something happens to him? I would fall apart, I would be living in fear and paranoia.” You clenched your fists.

“Wow, you do really love this man?”

You huffed as you looked into Fred’s eyes for a split second, hoping he would get the hint. “I do, I really do.”

Fred was silent. He was playing with his fingers. He usually had always something to say, seeing him like this was odd.

“If you could tell me how you're feeling,” you held Fred’s hand.

“I don't know where we're going But I'd like to be by your side,” Fred blurted out. You gasped as you took your hands away and held onto to your skirt, holding in your breath. “I can’t go on living knowing I didn’t at least try to stop you from being with that other guy. I know you love him Y/N but I love you. I can’t do this anymore. Kiss only your cheek when I want to kiss your lips so bad. I can’t make believe that every time you hold my hand I don’t feel a spark. Or when you come to my room every time you have a nightmare. When we cuddle, how I carry you on my back. I can’t make believe that those things don’t affect me. I can’t keep putting this wall between us and making believe we’re not something worth fighting for. Tell you the truth baby, I’m smitten with you. I’m so madly in love with you.”

Your lips trembled as tears fell down your cheeks. Fred couldn’t help himself and also found himself emotional, wiping his tears with his jumper sleeve. Nobody knew what to do. “Why are you crying love?” Fred whispered.

“Because the man that I was referring to and talking about was you Fred,” you said with tear soaked lips. The wind carried your tears away. “I love you Fred Weasley.”

You both were knew in this territory of love. Love that you would sacrifice everything and risk more. Love that was unconditional. It was awkward the air funnily.

“So are we more than friends then? Like boyfriend and girlfriend?” Fred was so shy. You both just confessed your loves for each other, nobody knew what to do. You both were just friends for so long.

“When we get old, will we regret this?” You asked, bashfully.

“I will never in my whole existence ever regret meeting you and being your love. No matter what tough trials come, I know I will always be by your side.”

“I will forever love you Fred. There is not one person on this world I love more than you. I’m so grateful I was sent to Hogwarts because you’re my favorite person.” You gave a small, genuine smile. “Maybe we'd get through this undefeated Holding on for so long.”

In one swift moment, Fred’s lips came crashing down against yours. It was with such passion and fire. Like Fred was preparing his whole life for this one spectacular moment. His lips moved against your and you couldn’t help but deepen the kiss by running your fingers through his orange locks and pushing him more towards you. You wanted everything he got.

Fred pushed you back and wrapped his warm hands on the back of your neck. Your hands fell to his collar and you clutched onto it with all your might. You felt you might explode. Fred went from your lips to smothering you in kisses all over your face. You heard his laugh and saw his toothy smile but it was better because his freckled covered cheeks were such a cute pink. He was blushing the whole time. Fred kissed your nose and you and him laughed together, simply in love. He leaned his head against you for one moment and leaned back in his spot on the cliff.

You were out of breath and stunned. Did that just happen? You were so happy it did. You sat there surprised by the amazing kiss, touching your lips and feeling them sting a little from the contact. It was incredible. The best sensation of your life.

Fred saw you the whole time, smirking. He coughed to get your attention and your eyes traveled up to see the most amazing view. He was leaning back, his lean neck resting back against his shoulders as his adams apple bobbed. But what got you choked up was his lips were plump and wet from your twos make out session. His skin was flawless with his freckles and his eyes were bright and light from the sunsetting. The sun’s rays hit his face just perfectly to make him look like a prince. Like he came down from heaven. You were so dumbfounded at how a man could look this beautiful and handsome.

Fred smirked as he bit his lip, winking, wanting to tease you, “I don’t know if you wanna get out of here or maybe go get a bite together as I’m your new boyfriend. I mean 'Cause we could stay at home and watch the sunset But I can't help from asking, Are you bored yet?"

a/n: ive been listening to this song on repeat and know its in my head and i just want to make an edit of fred for this song cuz he is so bf material. thnx for all the love and support stay safe guys and tysm.

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bellesque · 4 years

Note

idk if your requests are open still but royal loki concept with a midgardian reader— yeah? maybe? take it wherever you want from there and be creative because your other fics are and just amAZING! i might be late but anywayy— happy birthday, even though it was yesterday!

Midnight’s Mischief (Loki x Reader)

Read on my AO3.

Summary:

You only wanted to feel like a princess for a night.

You didn’t expect to meet an actual prince.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings/Tags: Fluff, Dancing, Royal Loki, some Cinderella Elements

A/N: Listen you can’t give me so much freedom like this because I feel in my bones this is going to turn into a multichaptered fic and I have a million other wips side-eyeing me rn

Tag List: @shiningloki @imnotrevealingmyname @wolfsmom1 @hanyasnape @lukeyirwy @toozmanykids @rorybutnotgilmore @myraiswack @green-valkyrie (Tag List is currently open! If you’d like to be a part of it, let me know!)

BEING IN A whimsical, fairytale ball has always been high on your list of escapism fantasies.

You wondered if princess parties (like the ones in movies) were actually real when royalty was still a thing. If they got to attend extravagant, lavish balls in venues that seemed to reach the high heavens, with castle corridors illuminated by candlelight and crystal chandeliers. Whether fact or fiction, you’ve never been more excited for a night than you are now.

Just for tonight, you allow the indulgence of looking—and feeling—like royalty.

Your heels clack against the marbled tiles of the venue as you and your friend Leigh navigate your way to the Regency Ballroom. Careful not to trip over your ball gown, you glance at Leigh. Beside you she shimmies, adjusting the top of her gown to fit her boobs better.

“I feel twelve,” she mutters, brazenly cupping her breasts.

“Oh, please. As if you’ve never wanted to be a princess for a night.”

“I mean, yeah, when I was twelve. And I’m saying this with love, but the fact that you’ve got on a fucking crown isn’t exactly helping me feel like an adult here.”

Your cheeks grow warm. “I’m sure I’m not the only one,” you say, a little defensive. “And by the way, it’s a tiara.”

Leigh smirks at you, perfectly painted lips curling at the edges. “Twenty bucks?”

“Fifteen.”

“Bo-ring.”

“Fine.”

She claps her hands, looping her arm with yours. The Regency Ballroom is right ahead. “I hope you know that I agreed to this because you said there’d be some yummy men. Potential knights in shining armor, all that jazz.”

“And I value your honesty,” you say, nodding a thank you to the servers who open the large doors as you approach. “But, for the record—”

“Whoa, the organizers of this thing were not playing.”

It’s true: the place is more than what you imagined from the email invite you received prior. Aside from the grandeur of the venue itself, the entire ambience transports you into what feels like another world entirely. Soft, regal music swells from the mini orchestra that plays on the raised platform, and everyone’s dressed in gowns of all colors and periods and styles.

It makes you a little giddy to see everyone commit to the event to such an extent. You wish this becomes a regular occasion.

“You don’t mind if I ditch you, right? If I, hypothetically, find someone cute?” Leigh grabs a glass of wine from a passing waiter. “Because I saw this guy in a tailcoat on the way inside, and he was kinda giving me looks already, so…”

Leigh is neither best friend nor fair weather friend. She’s in town for a few days, and having been partners in a high school class once, she somehow felt the need to ring you up, pleading for you to take her anywhere because she was dying of boredom.

You mentioned that you had an extra ticket, and she said yes before you could even finish your sentence and tell her it was to a costume ball.

“Hey, no worries,” you beam, plucking the wine glass from her fingers and taking a dainty sip, “by all means, mingle! Meet someone! Get swept off your feet! It’s a party. It’s what I was going to do whether or not you came anyway, so don’t be too guilty.”

“Okay, great!” She kisses you on the cheek. “Because he’s kind of already waiting.” Leigh jerks her head to the buffet table across the room, where a broad-shouldered man stands tentatively, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He’s clearly waiting for someone—that someone specifically being Leigh, if the not so surreptitious glances your way are any indication.

Before she can leave, a lady with a hoop skirt that’s draped more than the large windows of the ballroom comes into your peripheral, something glittering atop her bouffant hair.

You lift your chin at Leigh triumphantly. “Pay up first, baby, you saw that tiara.”

“Fifteen.”

“You said twenty!”

“I changed my mind!” she calls as she lifts the hem of her gown off the floor, retreating. Laughing, Leigh waves and you bring up a hand as the man places a meaty hand on her shoulder blade.

Well. You knew you’d lose her for the night. Just not this quickly.

Still, what you said is true. Leigh’s absence doesn’t dampen your mood. You’re happy standing by the tables at the side, observing people and their different gowns, with a glass of rosé in hand. Couples trickle into and out of the ballroom dance floor; others mingle by the tables like you, occasionally nibbling on the fanciest finger food you could ever imagine. The light reflecting from the gorgeous, majestic chandelier dances over the partygoers, and you revel in the moment, wanting to commit this to memory. Simply existing in it. The minuet transitions into a waltz, and more people and their partners taking to the dance floor with excited grins on their faces.

You would like to take your dress out for a twirl at some point before the night ends. If only a gentleman were to ask.

“That’s a lovely color on you, my lady.”

Speak of the—you turn around, glad you didn’t startle so much to the point of spilling perfectly good wine, to face whoever spoke to you. A subtle smirk plays on the face of a lithe man dressed in what looks to be costume straight out of a period film. Or fantasy period film. It doesn’t really make sense, but somehow he makes it work.

You glance down at your gown: a rich forest green with silver detailing cinched around your waist. “Oh, uh… thanks.” You smile politely.

Only it falters after a couple seconds, because he pins you with an expectant look. “My… lord…?” you try, uncertain.

Satisfaction spreads across his face, confusing you mildly. Did he really wait to be addressed…?

“Would you care to dance?” he asks, taking a step towards you and bending forward. A bow, you realize, as he holds the posture while awaiting your answer.

“O-okay, sure.”

You slip your hand in his outstretched one, his slender fingers clasping around you and leading you gently to the middle of the dance floor. His back is as straight as a board as he guides you towards him, and when you’re a pace away he pulls you closer. His hand settles on the small of your back, yours on his shoulder.

And then you’re waltzing; slowly, tentatively, shyly. Though he takes the lead you can’t follow as well as you should, your bafflement blocking you from waltzing like you do in your daydreams. And as weird as it sounds, he’s distracting you from dancing—even if you’re dancing with him.

He’s good-looking. Strong, cutting features with a regal gait. He stands much taller than you are, his head angled down towards you so his green eyes pierce you with the intensity of the sun at high noon.

He doesn’t break eye contact with you. As much as you try to look away, fixate your attention instead on the couples that sway around you, your gaze always finds his. And he probably hasn’t looked away from you once. There’s no malice in it though—he regards you with somewhat of a silent, amused curiosity.

If it’s awkward to be dancing with a good-looking stranger who seemingly can’t take his eyes off you, it doesn’t help that you’re both painfully silent. You expect him to make polite small talk as he guides your steps—only aside from the lovely orchestra playing and the faint chatter of the attendees around you, all that’s heard is the sound of your breathing.

The music winds down, violins sustaining their last note, and your expectations are shattered once again when instead of this mystery man guiding you into a twirling finish, he spins you into the next dance.

Another waltz.

“Do I scare you, princess?” he asks, raising his chin slightly.

You jump a little at his sudden question. “Um. Maybe a little?”

The man sighs, giving a short chuckle as he shakes his head minutely. The hand on your back releases you as you circle around him, one of your arms outstretched as gracefully as you can manage, before you come back in front of him and rest your hand back on his shoulder.

“Perhaps my reputation does precede me,” he mutters.

You blink, even more confused now. “Sorry?”

“Do you…” He narrows his eyes in near disbelief. “Do you not know who I am?”

“I think I’d remember if you told me your name,” you say with a sheepish laugh. Of course you’d remember. With a face like his and the rich voice to match, meeting him on a night like tonight? You’d remember it forever.

“Ah. Then—forgive me, my lady.” He pulls away from you to bow cordially. “Prince Loki, of Asgard.”

Stunned doesn’t seem to cover the emotion racing through you. No one else seems to mind that you’ve both stopped smack dab in the center for him to bow to you with a flourish of his cape. He looks up at you, expectant, yet again, and so you hastily curtsy and mumble your name.

He rises, taking you once again in his arms and picking up where you left off in perfect rhythm to the music. It’s a little disorienting. Your mind struggles to catch up: so far he’s bowed to you twice, is leading you through a perfect waltz, and is, apparently, a prince.

“And your kingdom, my lady?”

“What?”

“Am I to believe you’re a princess with no people to rule over?” he smirks.

And then somehow, realization dawns on you: he’s an actor. Trying to get you into some kind of fantasy, medieval, whatever character to really sell the idea to yourself that you have actually been whisked away, into a story akin to fiction.

“Okay,” you snort, “since we’re doing this whole made up thing, fine, I’ll humor you. Uh”—you rack your brains, glancing at the chandelier overhead—“Genovia.”

“Genovia,” Prince Loki repeats, as though testing the name on his tongue. It comes out melodic and velvety, making you shiver involuntarily. “Sounds… quaint. Not as dreadful or painfully dull as some of the other kingdoms I’ve heard of tonight. What in the Nine is New Jersey?”

You laugh this time, an actual belly laugh, your head tipping back in mirth at his delivery. You sober up sooner than you’d like when you see he’s still absolutely mystified.

“Well, that’s what it is,” you add helpfully. “Genovia… it… yeah.”

“What are your people famous for?”

Damn. He’s really making you think. “Gosh, um…” You blow out a raspberry. “Horses? Apples? Archery? Oh! Mattress surfing.”

Prince Loki hums thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard of it.”

Either he’s an exceptionally good actor, or he really hasn’t seen The Princess Diaries. Or, a part of you begins to argue, he could actually be who he says he is—

But that wouldn’t make sense.

Could it?

“Well, what about you?” you say quickly, seizing the opportunity to deflect. “What’s uh, what’s Asgard famous for?”

“The Realm Eternal,” Loki says, completely serious. “Warriors of strength, leaders of justice.” He pauses at your lost expression. “Have you not heard of it?”

You have a feeling he has more to say, so you shake your head. Prince Loki spins you around once, before continuing.

“Asgardians are the peacekeepers of the Nine Realms, endowed with strength of all facets to keep the realms from falling. Thwart the possible dangers it can be to itself before it starts, or finish disputes where they arise. We protect. Asgard plays a vital role, if not the most vital of all the realms.”

“And you’re their prince.”

The corners of Loki’s lips curl upwards. “One of them.”

“So you have a brother.”

You’re not sure why you’re still entertaining him at this point. The waltz’s cadence does nothing to separate you from each other, and neither does the lively first note of the polka. Instead Loki’s leading you into a quicker step, bouncing in the most poised manner you’ve ever seen a man dance in.

“Aye,” he says. “Most prefer him to myself.”

“I prefer you,” you blurt out mindlessly, immediately feeling regret in the form of heat crawling up your neck.

Prince Loki’s piercing green eyes light up in surprise. “Not many would,” he murmurs.

“Well, I mean—” you backpedal, “—I don’t—I haven’t met—”

The entrance to the ballroom rattles in its hinges, followed by a booming thud. Heads swivel to the source of the commotion and even the orchestra falters. You are no exception, craning your neck to look behind Loki and at the doors.

He is the only one who seems completely unfazed.

“Perhaps that is for the best. Ready for our big finish, princess?”

Bang! The doors swing open, and strange men in very detailed costumes—metal armor, odd-shaped helmets—charge in, long spears in hand. Your mouth falls open. You’ve never seen anything like them. The attendees gasp collectively, some dancers pulling away from their partners to retreat to the sides of the room.

But Loki places his hands on your hips, lifting you off your feet and into the air, and instructs, “Eyes on me, princess.”

“Wh—” He spins you around, the world around you blurring, and you fix your attention on him so as not to get dizzy. “Prince Loki, I think we should get ou—”

He sets your feet on the ground, a mad intensity in his eyes—and Loki wraps his arms around you and kisses you.

Well. You’ve had multiple daydreams about how tonight would go. This is definitely not one of them.

His arms tighten around your waist, and swarms of butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach. Your feet are on the ground, but with your fingers and toes tingling with every soft movement of his lips against yours, it feels like you’re floating. He’s kissing you. You’re kissing him.

The clanging of armor jolts you apart, but Loki keeps you within arm’s reach. Your heart pounds against your sternum.

“I like it when you say my name,” he murmurs.

“Prince Loki!” one of the strange men shouts. The prince in front of you flinches slightly, and then huffs in amusement.

“Don’t like it when they do.”

“I—what?”

Loki sighs. “I’m afraid I have to bid you good night. And farewell.”

“Wait, who are they?” Question after question presents itself, your mind a jumbled mess and your knees still shaking from that damn kiss. “What do they want?”

“The Einherjar. Ah. Well.” He brushes a thumb over your cheekbone. “What’s life without a little mischief?”

“Your Highness!”

“Where is he?”

He pulls you by the elbows, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, and whispers in a voice that could melt butter, “Something to remember me by.”

And then he takes off, a cheeky grin splitting his face as he keeps his eyes trained on his pursuers, slinking through the crowd and towards a nondescript door. An exit.

The strange men sift through the partygoers. Some shake their heads in fear, cowering; others shrug. You simply hope they do not approach you. And by some mad stroke of luck, when they’re a few feet away from you—they ignore you entirely.

Loki catches your eye by the small archway, and with a mischievous wink and a heartstopping smile, he disappears with a flash of his green cape.

You exhale, a little shakily, as one armored man shouts instructions and points to the door. They bolt after him, each footfall thunderous. A few seconds tick past, and once the clatter disappears completely the orchestra warms up again.

Back to normal. Just a little. But you—you’re still reeling from what just happened.

Leigh sidles up to you, poking your side.

“So,” she says, “who was the knight in shining armor, and what’d they want with him?”

His kiss, the feel of his mouth against yours, still tingles at your lips, lingering like the warmth of a fire. You stare at the open door, still trying to make sense of what on Earth just happened.

“I… I think I just met a prince.”

#by belle #rorybutnotgilmore #reader request #loki x you #loki x reader #loki fluff #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston x reader #fluff #ao3 author

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shizuzuzuku · 4 years

Note

Is the request open for the Bey! Characters? If so, could you make a scenario where the Bey! Characters with their s/o attend a wedding together to see s/o's cousin getting married? Thnx!

I HAVE RETURNED~!

Kaname

“Kaname we’re gonna be late!” You hassled your titan of a boyfriend.

“But i’m practically ready!” He chimes back shirtless, with a mouth full of toothpaste.

Today was the wedding of one of your most favorite cousins. The two of you had grown up together and were practically sisters. The simple thought of how beautiful she would look brought tears to your eyes. Which only made you more antsy out of fear of being late.

“Kaname~” You whined.

“There! Ready!” He exclaimed fully tuxedo clad. The sight of him in formal wear never failed to excite you.

“Not bad.” You said before pecking his lips.

The two of you made the wedding with minutes to spare to your relief. Your cousin looked even more beautiful than your imagination could muster. Before you knew it tears steamed down your face which flustered you only for a second before Kaname produced a handkerchief from his pocket. Pulling you close, he kissed the top of your head to help you gather yourself. Even after the bride made it up the alter your tears continued. Kaname started to get the feeling that you weren’t being moved by the bride’s wedding dress anymore.

“Y/n! I’m married!” Cried your cousin, the bride.

“You’re so beautiful! There can’t be a more perfect dress for you.”

After more hugging and mutual complimenting, your cousin finally asked the question on her and your own mind subconsciously.

“So when’s you and Kaname’s turn?” She teased. You blushed.

“I-! W-we’re not there yet! Come on don’t tease me” you laughed. Your cousin giggled at her antics as she waved at Kaname pushing her bouquet into your arms as you blushed excessively trying to stop her. You and Kaname returned home much later after an exhausting night of dancing and fun.

“I’m so tired! How’re you holding up babe?” you asked as you sat on your shared bed to remove your uncomfortable heels. Silence.

“Kaname?” you looked up. His eyes met yours but your eyes met something else. Kaname rested on one knee before you, with a small box, housing a beautiful diamond ring.

“I love you more than anything. Please be my wife.” Immediately tears formed in your eyes.

“Of course I will, you idiot.”

Kiyoharu

“How does my hair look?” you said looking towards your boyfriend.

“Beautiful. You might upstage the bride, careful”, he said with a slight smirk. You blush and giggle at his comment.

“Quit joking around and let’s get going.” You began to walk away, heading out of room, but Kiyoharu swiftly grabbed your forearm, pulling you into him.

“Not so fast.” You get a bit flustered by this.

“You’re gonna make us late."

"Not if you stop talking.” With that you stopped talking and pulled his face to yours, initiating a kiss. Kissing Kiyoharu was always a task that required your full attention as every movement and bite was too good to not treasure. He broke the kiss off after a few moments and carried on like nothing happened.

“Now we can go.” You playfully slapped his arm for making you feel so much and acting like he felt so little. The wedding was one of the most beautiful things you’d ever seen. But you weren’t sure if that was just because you had dreamt of your wedding since you were little and you had finally found someone who you could truly imagine it with. Your thoughts were only confirmed when you looked over at Kiyoharu during your cousin’s vows, and he simply kissed the top of your head whilst holding you close. At the reception, you danced with your cousin, a now married woman.

“So how does it feel? Is it all flowers and cupcakes like they say?” you joked. Your cousin laughed at your joke, “I don’t really feel different at all, honestly. I think its because once you’re in love with someone, whenever you’re with them it feels like you’ve been married for years."

"Huh… that’s kind of how I feel about Kiyoharu sometimes."

Your cousin looks around to make sure no one else is listening to your conversation and bashfully asks, "So when do you think he’s gonna pop the question?” You immediately blush at her bluntness. “I-I…!"

"Don’t act like you guys haven’t been together forever!” “I have no idea when or even if he’s going to propose.”

“Of course he’s going to propose. Anyone can see that guy would move heaven and hell for you.” You brush her off frantically.

“Come on! It’s your day! It’s supposed to be about you!"

"Alright, but you’re not getting off that easily! Come on let’s take shots!” She sashays over to the conveniently planned open bar, dragging you along.

The night flew by as most best ones do, and you and Kiyoharu finally made it home in one piece.

You giggled trying to take off your heels but failing.

“Why do they make these things so hard to take off?! These… um… what are they called again?"

Kiyoharu pinched your cheek as he knelt down to help you. "Shoes?"

"YES! Shoess!” You laughed. Kiyoharu made a mental note not to let you go drinking with your cousin without supervision.

“Kiyoharu! Kiyoharu!” You chirped.

“Yes milady.” He responded tossing your shoes in the direction of your shared closet.

“Look at how you’re kneeling, it’s like…"

"It’s like what?"

"It’s like you’re proposing.” You giggle.

“Really now? And if I was… what would you say?"

You gasp excitedly, bouncing up and down. "I’d say yes, of course! Ask me! Ask me!"

"Nope not yet.” He says standing up.

“Ehhhh?! Come on! Ask me! Please, please, please!" You whine jumping onto his back. Not at all phased he says,

"When you’re sober."

"Aw… hey Kiyoharu?"

"Yes."

"Carry me to bed.” You slur sleepily.

He chuckles. “I can’t wait to marry you."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Kiyoharu! No fair!"

Gaju

"Wait how do we know these people again?” You’re boyfriend protests.

“The bride is my cousin, remember?” You chuckle. You and Gaju had just arrived at your cousin’s wedding in which you were a bridesmaid. You glided up a flight of stairs as Gaju held the bulk of your dress so you could walk. You were on your way to the bridal parlor where you would help your cousin get ready.

“Are you gonna be okay finding a seat on your own?"

"Yeah, I’m not a baby."

"Didn’t you ask me to lay out your tuxthis morning?"

"Hey! My hands were dirty!” You laugh, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Just sit somewhere where I can see you, please. Being in front of so many people kinda makes me nervous.” “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll be there. Plus I wanna have a full view of that ass going down the aisle.�� He smirks as he gives your butt a quick pinch as you smack his hand away.

Moments before the start of the wedding, Gaju managed to seize an aisle seat around the middle of the audience, giving him a perfect view. A few minutes went by and the procession still hadn’t begun, causing many attendants to wonder what was going on. By chance, Gaju decides to look back at where the wedding party was meant to begin their walk down the aisle and he meets your panicked eyes.

Instinctively, he goes full protective mode, standing and rushing up the aisle to meet you. As soon as he gets to you, he grabs your hands pulling you away from the crowd of bridesmaids and groomsmen, who didn’t seem to notice him, as they all seemed to be in a hushed uproar.

“Hey, what’s wrong?! Do I need to kick someone’s ass?!” Nearly in tears, you begin rambling without taking a breath. “One of the groomsmen just had an emergency and left- no, let me rephrase that. The groomsman that I was supposed to walk down the aisle with had an emergency and left and now I don’t have anyone to walk down the aisle with and even though I can’t do anything about it, I feel terrible because it’s my cousin’s wedding for Pete’s sake and everything is just a disaster."

Keeping up with that sentence required skill that Gaju did not possess so all he could do was grab you and pull you into his arms. "Come on. It’ll be okay. You look absolutely beautiful today so don’t cry!” Gaju continued to console you until one of the bridesmaids, caught a glance of him and had to take a double take. “Hey who’s that guy with (y/n)?” She whispered to another bridesmaid. “I don’t know but he’s insanely hot. I wish he was a groomsmen.” The second she said this, they both immediately gasped and rushed over to the two of you.

“Me?! A groomsmen?!” Gaju exclaimed earning him a series of shushes. At first the idea seemed crazy to you too, but after thinking about it, it was the perfect solution. “Oh please Gaju, you’ll fit right in with that tux and I can’t walk by myself like this.” You plead with him.

He sighs reluctantly. “Only for you.” He says before kissing your forehead which seemed to literally take the weight off of your shoulders.

A few moments passed and before you knew it the procession had begun and it was you and Gaju’s turn. His experience dancing gave him the perfect posture and rhythm for your walk up the aisle making him look better than the groomsmen who had actually rehearsed. Even though this day wasn’t about the two of you, you couldn’t help but savour the feeling of walking up the aisle with all eyes on you and your lover. The entire feeling made you emotional you couldn’t keep a tear from falling. Unable to comfort you while walking, Gaju simply whispers, while keeping his head perfectly upright and forward, “This is what our day is gonna be like."

You squeeze his arm in response. "I love you.”

#ballroom e youkoso #welcome to the ballroom #welcome to the ballroom imagines #ballroom e youkoso headcannons #sengoku kaname #hyoudou kiyoharu #kiyoharu hyoudou #Akagi Gaju #gaju akagi

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darksiders-scenarios · 4 years

Note

Intimate/ fluff moment with War please??

This has been sitting in my drafts for far too long. Begone! Forgive, as always, the inaccuracies, grammar and everything mistakes.

Scenario goes something like this (?): War and Y/N step into Eden. Y/N collapses from angstsy lil shit syndrome emotional overload or something. Misses fight with War’s shadow. Story starts now.

“On your feet.” The voice was resonant, its rumble like distant thunder, the tone stern but never cruel. It drifted through the murky sludge of your melancholic thoughts like the fresh breeze of daybreak. You obeyed, for it was impossible not to. You reached up with trembling fingers.

The first time War had clung to you was after crashing down from his Chaosform, disoriented and shivering in pained exhaustion on his knees. Though the gesture might have been instinctual than voluntary, you had nonetheless cradled his head in silent support, feeling the slackness in his muscles and cold sweat soaking through your clothes. You had absently noted the passage of time through his laboured breathing, the cool evaporation of your mingled sweat as the desert sun had past its peak, down to the cramped stiffness of your leg muscles. Until finally - as though reaching a nonvocal agreement - you swore you had sensed an invisible pulse of satisfaction from the horseman. His satisfaction to slowly begin lowering the drawbridge to you from that moment forth - not granting you full entry into the fortress of his mind but still presenting to you a sliver of its opening.

The moment was now mirrored when War’s warm-chapped palm, riddled with calluses, grasped yours gently. He had removed his gauntlet. He pulled you up from the sacred dust and guided you to his cold breastplate, welcomed in his embrace.

It could have been a moment, or a day or a year when you felt his body curl slightly inwards as War leaned down. His trembles were subdued but they transferred through your skin and into your muscles like a fever. He still hasn’t recovered from his fight with the shadow. “Do you require privacy?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. A single downward motion that got swamped in the bulk of his armour. But he saw. For War always saw, always heard, always knew what you needed without the necessity for words. Your throat was parched and sere as the sands of the Ashlands and your body ached. You were so very, very tired.

War lifted you with the care due to the holiest of relics, and you were enveloped in a cloak of warmth. Your eyelids slid half-open and you almost scrunched it shut again when radiant golden sunlight awashed your vision.

“Lord…” the strength it took to simply formulate those words.

“Child of Eden,” the archangel Azrael whispered, leaning down to cradle your face, wiping away the grime and dried tear tracks from your cheeks with soft fingertips. You almost recoiled in shame. “I am not your lord. I wish nothing but infinite peace and blessings upon you, dearest Y/N. Oh… Oh how my heart bleeds to sense the guilt and shame that scorch your soul that which should never be existent. To know that I assisted in… in this. To have the temerity to presume that I can ask for an atom of your forgiveness all the while my accursed presence sullies the sanctitude of this realm,” his eyes were impossibly sorrowful as he held your gaze. Eden, already tranquil with the hums of ethereal unreality seemed to have quieted further as though in solemnity with the archangel’s hushed confession. “Perhaps… preserving the remains of Eden was a mere self-deception under the guise of atonement,” his pale eyes glistened like the purest crystals, “Only by the grace of the Creator can your pain and grief be alleviated, dearest Y/N.”

Azrael’s smile was a brittle, broken thing but it lit his face like the damned sun. His magnificence lending to the beatific of Eden as though he was the missing conduit to the realm’s veiled radiance. It was impossible to not feel safe in the archangel’s presence, to not bask in his warmth and light and love. Such naked love. It was little wonder humanity had been revering these entities since the dawn of their creation, erecting statues and creating wondrous art to emulate their perceived soulful nature- until that delusion, that ancient lie of earthen myth was horribly shattered when the murderous, hubristic angels made themselves known at last.

Great Azrael. The truest angel. So utterly beautiful. So utterly broken. As much a pawn as every living soul in this detestable chess game.

“The Creator,” you spat but the venom was lost in the whispery tone. You drew in a shaky breath. “Abandoned us. Used us…” you clenched your teeth, muscles bunched,“ Played us all as… as pawns-”

“Enough,” War said- ordered. You lapsed into silence, sagging against him.

“Wait here,” he directed to the archangel. Azrael bowed deeply and moved away, joining the Watcher, but not before you caught the tears that flowed down his cheeks in slow, silver trails. You pressed your face into the hood on War’s shoulder and let him carry you into Eden. Deeper into Paradise.

An image bred within your mind, of majestic landscaped gardens veined by fragranced basins and tributaries, the perfume of heaven flowing into your olfactory senses, sweet without being dizzying, breath-taking beyond mortal description. The notes in the breeze sang in your bloodstream and its taste was golden honey on your tongue. All the greatest manuscripts and paintings by the most gifted artists would never approach the purity of a speck of Eden’s sacred earth. The paragon of protected serenity.

You startled when War carefully set you down on a soft bedding of flora of indescribable shades, hues and colour- nameless and undiscovered by mankind. You briefly imagined him clearing the ground for you while you- Had you dozed off?

Your eyes burned when War’s hand fell upon your shoulder in a fraternal gesture, sure and solid. Real. “Do you want me to leave?”

You swallowed, unable to speak for several moments. War waited patiently, not rushing you. Then you nodded. “I am sorry…”

“Do not be,” he paused and you imagined him watching you, staring down at you with those gentle eyes reserved only for you. “When you are ready, join me. I shan’t be far.“

Join me. Not we shall leave. Join me. He was telling you to stay. To linger a while… You felt a pull, a tug, a melody from your soul to whatever gestalt consciousness that inhabited this realm, Eden’s mournful cry of longing in the wind chimes soothing your frazzled mind and caressing your broken psyche, calling to you as though welcoming a lost kindred. Every touch, sight, sound, taste and smell was an invitation to release, to let go. To lie down and simply

be.

You closed your eyes and listened to your friend’s fading boot steps, honouring your wish.

He wasn’t far. You found him sitting amongst the flora with his back to you, hand folded atop the stump of his other arm in his lap. A beautiful turquoise tributary flowed gently in front of him, unspoiled and clean, shimmering like a thousand gems beneath the golden skies. You spared it only fleeting moments of attention.

War was bare-backed safe for his leg plates, his armour and weapons laid in a neat pile beside him. His shoulders rose and fell with quiet breaths, his snow-white hair gently swaying with its rhythms.

Your eyes wandered over the geography of scars on his skin, cobwebbing around his arms and ribs, winding over his shoulders and disappearing down the front. Your gaze lingered on the fresh ones, wishing nothing more than to soothe and undo them. For a while, all you did was stare at him, allowing his calming presence to ground you. He was inhumanly beautiful, gleaming gold as though kissed by Eden’s aura, like a god of summer. His presence was far more suited here than yours.

You couldn’t resist a smile, the trickle of reverent adoration filling your heart, momentarily hushing your melancholy without fully fading.

“Our missions necessitated a fair amount of travel, moving from conquered world to the next and the next and the next without pause, without delay,” he didn’t turn to you, and you suspected he was talking more to himself than you. “Upon every world we set foot on, be they of starless skies, of harsh deserts or oceanic worlds, my gaze would always travel heavenwards. The action seemed hardwired yet the reason had always eluded me. It eventually became something of a strange dance, one that I began to entertain without conscious thought, fast becoming a thirst that couldn’t be sated in the centuries to come.” His tone was distant yet weighed by emotion, “And every sky was as beautiful as the first.”

“War?”

His words melted into a chuckle and War shook his head. “Forgive me, I ramble. Come. Sit with me.”

You lowered yourself cross-legged on the cool flora bedding, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. It offered more comfort to you than the actual ambiance of this land. Eden. Paradise… Heaven. Jannah. It was real. You closed your eyes, tight enough to pain, and dropped your head into your palms.

“Too much?” came the gentle rumble above you.

You let your silence answer for him.

“I am sorry that it had turned out this way, young one,” the sympathy in War’s tone made your throat tight. “We can always leave if you wish, but that would mean leaving the only site untouched by violence.”

“I don’t know what to think,” you admitted quietly.

“I understand.”

Your fingers dug into your scalp. “May I lean on you… please?”

A creature of action, War answered you by pulling you close, carefully tucking you to him. His skin was warm as sunlight. You let go against him, boneless and pliant. You heard him murmur something soothing but your mind was unable to shape the words, to process their meaning, but you drifted to the sound of his voice – deep and calming and grounding. His hair was soft on your forehead.

“Eden. The emergence of mankind and womankind,” you mused, echoing War’s little soliloquy. “And here I am, perhaps marking its epilogue. Quite the honour, eh?” you snickered, stopping short when thick fingers brushed your shoulder. “Perhaps I am indeed the last human alive…” you pulled away and managed a weak smile for your friend. “But in the end, I am glad that I have met you, War.”

“And I you,” War stared at you in silence. “Your story shall not decay, this I give you my word, Y/N. Azrael will chronicle everything of your people, its wealth of lore, cultures and histories. There are many things I can fault the angel but his honesty is incontrovertible.“ His words were ladened with silent conviction.

You winced. “Lord Azrael… I should not have said those things to him.”

“He bears no ill-judgment of you.”

That did not ease the heaviness in your chest. Perhaps War sensed your unease because his lips quirked at the corners. His was always the barest of smiles, softening his statuesque features, making him unarguably youthful. His smile put you at ease.

"You’re beautiful,” you confessed without thinking, the words easy on your tongue.

He didn’t stir. “We were created to be above such mortal sentiments.”

“I… I know,” you tensed, cheeks burning. “But the sentiment is sincere.”

"That is why I honour you.”

You swallowed, toying with the hem of your top. You remembered to breathe again. “I’m sorry I missed your fight with your… that shadow.”

“There was nothing to miss. You’ve seen me battle many times,” he stroked a silken petal, its hue a gentle contrast against his skin, “I sit here now because I triumphed.”

“You sounded dubious when you said you triumphed”, you remarked, cursing yourself in the same moment for your crassness.

“That’s because I am,” War confessed without hesitation, never one to reel from the truth.

You held your tongue, your gaze following his lazy patterns with the petal.

When War spoke again, sorrow inched into his murmured words. “In that instant, I feared I was witnessing my authentic, batin self. Those eyes… I had no idea I was capable of such hate Y/N. My soul blackened with such inveterate rage and hate and malice,” his voice softened almost to a whisper and you knew that he was reliving the fight, reliving those unpleasant moments. “Every iota of repressed fear, desires, every base savagery beyond mortal comprehension, I bore witness to it all, embodied it. There is purity in aggression, if tempered by self-restraint. But this, this was poison polluting my veins, crippling my cognition and judgement. Like a specimen sliced open to see its inner workings, so too were my heart and soul laid bare and vulnerable before me.”

“Was that the most disturbing thing for you?”

“He was I and I was he. We were in perfect harmony in cognition, temperament and soul. It is not a memory- a truth I recall with any comfort.”

You rested a hand on his forearm. Warm. “Thank you for your candour, War. That shadow. Your darkest, most abhorrent mirror, if you may. You know that it is simply your unrestrained self let loose. We all carry it, War. It’s one thing to repress our basest urges, but to bear witness to its ugly truths is another level entirely. But they are just that. Truths. Simple, raw unrefined concepts that care nothing for what we desire. Just as you taught me when faced with any truth, it is what you do with it what matters. And as far as urges go, I would imagine such sentiments of the Nephilims to be magnified tenfold to that of a human,” you looked up, meeting his eyes and almost robbed of breath by the warrior’s beauteous features under the ethereal glow of Eden’s skies. His presence was indeed far more suited here than yours.

“Every soul is a prisoner to fate, Y/N,” War said gently.

“I know,” you agreed, bitterness burning through you. You suppressed a growl. “But you made a choice. You chose another path, contrary to your innate drive to annihilate without question. All those urges, all those traits that you loathe about yourself- you didn’t just experience them all, no. You fought and struggled and triumphed. Yes, triumphed. You chose this outcome. That can only mean one thing, War. You are you, and, by definition,” you smiled, amending yourself, “your definition, not he.”

War snorted. “A matter of perspective.”

“As you say.”

He held your gaze, soft mirth glazing his blue eyes. “I jest.”

You nodded. “Thank you for confirming my hypothesis.”

His laughter was an exhalation of quiet breaths. Even after all these years, his soft laughter remained the most beautiful sound you’ve heard. It was impossible to not join him. “Oh War, if it’s one thing that I shall miss the most when we part would be me tormenting you.”

“It pleases me to know that we can be comfortably candid with one another.”

His statement was accentuated when you both lapsed into comfortable silence, each to their own thoughts, at ease with the other’s company. One bitter thought hammered at the forefront of your cognition, pulsating more strongly with every passing moment.

“Speak your mind,” War encouraged quietly, as though sensing your disquiet. This may be the last time, you translated. You confessed to him as much.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “I am not a being who gives into the falsehood of luck as you know, but if it may allay your mind, there is an iota of a chance that I may prevail.”

You snorted. “Idealistic. Not bad. Your optimism is getting better.”

He shrugged a bare shoulder. “It gladdens my heart to hear you approve.”

“As is your wit.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “I am not my brother.”

“I didn’t imply that.”

“Your tone suggested otherwise. As well as the notion that perchance, your statement was intended as a compliment?”

You smiled in reply. “A matter of perspective.”

War didn’t respond; the pensive look that shrouded his features dimmed your fragile jovial streak. "I meant no disrespect, War.”

“No,” he sounded almost distrait. “Forgive me a moment’s distraction, my friend. Talk of my siblings often evokes ruminative musings in me.”

You listened to the susurration of petals grazing the sacred earth beneath his fingers, his mind clearly elsewhere. You waited patiently, not rushing him.

War leaned forward, almost hunching. “The love of my kindred runs deep, of that there is no doubt, accompanied by the inveterate fear for their fates. But they, like me, are creatures of intelligence and predation. They can fend for themselves and weather any trials and tribulations. I dread nonetheless for they are my brothers and sister. You agree it is an innate drive.”

You said nothing.

War brushed a hand over his face, didn’t lower it. “For all our kinship, I never fully comprehended the dynamics of the Nephilim collective psyche. Yes, we are psychically bonded by a singular agenda, no, we are never identically minded in that concept.”

You remained silent. Rare were such moments of reminiscence for the horseman.

He continued. “We were noble in some morbid way, I suppose. When one shamed, we all bore that brother or sister’s shame. When a brother or sister fell, we always carried out the mercy stroke, never allowing them the indignity to suffer in helpless humiliation, all the while disregarding the butchering of the realm’s natives for this… act of honour,” he faintly sneered the word, uncharacteristic for the horseman.

War’s fingers lowered, shivering with the faintest tremors. His eyes were clouded, and you knew that in his mind’s eye he was journeying through the ashen lands of nameless, now forgotten worlds, inhaling their choked funereal air all over again.

War chuckled darkly, as though at a private jest. “Yet for all my talk of our ‘nobility’, the Nephilim was a cancer to reality. It was right to annihilate them.”

“War.”

“We were a brotherhood, yes. A close-knitted brotherhood of mindless, bloodthirsty savages void of free-will, credos, honour…”

“War.”

“Perfect living engines of warfare, excelling at nothing but bestial bloodshed-”

“That’s the shadow talking!”

That rendered him silent. You were close enough to see his chest rising and falling rapidly, his breathing shallow. His fingers still twitched.

“That’s the shadow talking,” you repeated softer. “You are Nephilim yes, but you are also War. My protector and companion. My dearest friend and brother,” you willed him to see the absolute unconcealed sincerity in your eyes. “That is the truth.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The truth is not always absolute, young one.”

You looked away. “It’s exhausting when you keep denying my points.”

“Forgive me. It is not my intention to discomfit you.”

“No, forgive me.”

The slow release of a deep breath rumbling from a mighty chest. “Y/N, I would like to think that my points are also as valid as yours,” though his voice betrayed no irritation or anger, his gently spoken words bore the same sharpness of a blade. The shame scraped your conscious raw.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ha-” you began.

"I do not deny you, dear Y/N,” War cut in gently. “I am merely reluctant to accept your outlook of me with what…” he closed his eyes. “It is difficult to put into words.”

“I think I know what you’re trying to say, War,” you quietly assured him.

He opened his eyes, studying you for several heartbeats. The haunted look diminishing slightly, softening. “Your words are heartfelt and for that, I am grateful. There are moments, I feel, that you read me better than I do myself,” he sighed, almost soundless, and the urge to press your shoulder against his was overwhelming. “My mind is… aflamed, dulled by pained dwellings of an ignoble past. You, my companion and friend, see beyond who I am supposed to be, rather as who I am, in your eyes anyway,” his eyes were bright enough to ache. “That is why I honour you.”

“I love you too, War.”

He inclined his head away from you, but his shoulders were shaking. He was laughing.

He was laughing. Your heart warmed. It took you several seconds to stop grinning like a fool.

Once more, there was a long silence, safe for the gentle gushing of Eden’s water. The breeze caressed your cheeks like a lover’s touch. You reined in your emotions and focused on the large fingers still stroking the flower on the ground. There was a certain reverence in the touch, as soft as the petals he was tracing, but there was also a concealed yearning, the passive hunger of a patient predator, searching and sifting, searching and sifting, through layers and layers of-

“The sky,” you echoed War’s earlier word. The revelation came unbidden to your mind.

War blinked slowly as though hesitantly tearing his attention from the petal between his thumb and forefinger.

“The sky,” you repeated softly. “Does it remind you of home?” Of a home you can only envision in your dreams- that you did not voice aloud.

War turned his gaze from his ministration to you. His smile was flecked with buried grief that you’ve only now begun to see.

You winced from the shame that seared your heart.

His people. His kindred. His family. You were so deeply entrenched in your grief that you forgot that this was a place of sorrow for him too. A nationless race forever trapped in the clutches of fate ever since their miserable creation. The creature in front of you always carried himself with the perfect stoicism of a fortress yet his soul has always been a fresco of guilt, burden and shame, buried so deeply within the protection of his walls and defences. Eden was his tombstone.

You lost count of the times you had ruminated and berated yourself over ill-made decisions. Over hasty and ill decisions that almost always landed in disappointment and frustration, in risks and misery - hasty and ill-advised decisions that you knew would make again and again and again.

But the moment your friend reciprocated your affection by resting his heavy head on your shoulder, you knew that you were right to be impulsive in your decision. This may be the last time.

“I’m sorry,” you said into his hair, running a hand through the fine strands as you held him. “I’m sorry War.”

“Is that pity I hear in your tone?”

Your smile was pained. “Or perhaps I am simply not without empathy.”

His chuckle rumbled against your shoulder. The sound enriched by melancholy. For an irrational moment, you couldn’t help but imagine that you were embracing a child, willing the ache in his heart to soothe and ebb away, to be the balm to his soul. War, you thought, did you even have a childhood?

War would be welcomed in your home; you had told him this, day in, day out, time and time again. War had always responded in that taciturn way of his; a small smile followed by gentle laughter robbed of any ridicule, laced by amusement and hints of budding affection.

“You know you would be welcomed in my home,” you reminded him, stroking down his nape and back, feeling the powerful shifts of muscles.

War relaxed in the embrace, threads of his hair cascading off his closed eyes, his breathing deepening. Calm. Trustful. Where the purity of rage was intoxicating in his veins, the gift of serenity was almost anathema to his mind’s touch. You loved him most for trusting you, for allowing his ironclad mask to lower in your presence.

As you held him, you marvelled at how times have changed, oh how they have changed indeed. You wished you could stay with him here, forever.

“…harmonises with mine.”

Your fingers stilled. “What did you say?”

“I said that your thinking harmonises with mine.” His voice was so soft the breeze almost stole it from you. Had you mused this aloud?

War stirred, wrapping one strong arm around you, tightening the hug without hurting you. His voice softened further, “I also said that you already have.”

A beat of silence. You opened your mouth then closed it at once, mind racing as your thundering heart. You drew back slightly, maintaining contact with a hand on his back while you lifted the other to encompass your surroundings. “Sorry for the mess!” You exclaimed brightly, wincing at the hitch in your voice and laughing at the fusion of amusement and dignified shock in your friend’s bright eyes.

“But of course, it should not come to me as a surprise,” War teased, playing along, delighting you. “To treat your gift as such.”

You huffed. “As my gift, surely I can do with it as I will?”

His brows furrowed, then he smiled. “You make a compelling argument, young one.”

You snorted, and then laughed. When you finished laughing, you drew in a shaky breath and laughed some more, a little hysterical, a little desperate. You laughed and laughed until your eyes watered and stomach ached. At some point, War had hugged you to him again. Like you, he was also catching his breath, but he was recovering far swifter than you.

“Xoron,” he began, startling you, his tone as soft as your touch. His face was tucked in your shoulder and you lightly scratched his scalp.

“Astragr. Ghyssa,” he continued in that same reminiscent tone. “Bhal. Alli. Istis.” You kept your silence as War continued his litany of names. While he spoke on, you had buried your face in his hair again, breathing in the familiar waft of mountain dew and cinder, the cocktail of unknown compounds in his sweat and skin. You smiled with him during moments of fond reminiscence and lent your silent sympathy during moments of sad recollections.

“Thank you,” you whispered to him when he finished. “for trusting me.”

Instead of replying, War pressed you tighter to him. Your eyes burned and the lump in your throat swelled more painfully. You knew that you were stalling, and you knew that he knew that you were stalling. Nothing this precious, this sacred should ever last. Destiny was too cruel in its sense of humour. But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t make the moment worthwhile.

You slowly pulled out of War’s arms, smiling when you felt his reluctance in letting you go. You asked him to wait. You knelt by his armour and rummaged through till your fingers brushed his pouch. You pulled out an empty flask. Then you stood up and strode to the stream, rinsing the glass thoroughly before filling it up.

You turned back to War.

His back was straight, his muscles locked and eyes wide, a cornered beast in anticipation of an attack. He began to speak, to protest, but shortly trailed off when you did not utter a word in defense. Your eyes were closed. When War said nothing else, you opened them again.

War bowed his head. “Forgive me. It is your gift. You do with it as you will.”

“To share with you,” you amended gently. “War, this is not coercion. It is an offer from me, from a host unto their guest.” He was so stooped that it seemed like he was trying to curl into himself. You gave him pause, waiting patiently. Then you stood before him within three steps.

War slowly raised his head and you saw the silent plea in his eyes. He was making no effort to conceal it. Your heart broke. War never pleads. You ached to reach out to smooth those tight frown lines with your fingertips, to wrap him in your arms and never let go.

You closed the distance, leaning forwards and pressing your lips to his forehead, whispering, “Let me share this gift with you, War. Please. You have given much and sacrificed even more. I love you. I love everything about you, your light and your shadow.” His breaths came out as near-imperceptible stutters. You brought your palms to his temples, as though seeking to ground him.

“From this moment forth-”

“Y/N.”

“-regardless of happens when we leave-”

“Y/N.”

“-I need you to know that-”

“Please.”

You kissed his forehead. “Eden is your home too.”

He was silent and still, rigid as marble stone. When the silence stretched on, you pulled away, careful not to make eye contact. You turned around, taking in the lands of your foremost mother and father for the last time, committing as much to memory before leaving.

“I place myself in your hands.”

Tears spilled down your face and neck. Without a word, you turned back to your friend. The plea had shifted to something softer, deeper, but not fully disappeared. Slowly, very slowly, you raised the flask, willing War to see your intent. But War had already bowed his head, true to his words. Honourable War.

Carefully, reverently, you poured the flask over his head, washing away the dirt and crusted blood from his hair. “This is your home now,” you murmured as the water trickled down his neck, shoulders and back, crystal droplets caressing and cleansing his golden skin easily.

You understood his reluctance to stepping into the stream itself. So you refilled the vial and returned to him again and again. “You will always be welcomed here.” You poured the shimmering water over his arms and feet. The water was so clean and pure that you didn’t need to physically scrub off any stubborn dirt, scabs and blood.

You knelt before the horseman as you bathed his hand, between his fingers and the plates of his nails. Finally, you laved the naked stump of his other arm, most thoroughly and gentlest of all.

You didn’t move away once finished, unwilling to break the intimacy of the closeness, unwilling to do anything but

be.

Your hand hovered over the stump. You looked up. His wet hair was plastered to his forehead. His ancient eyes, blue as the winter skies sparkled for a moment, almost as though with-

“War.”

“You may touch,” he murmured.

You kissed the golden stump instead, reverently, and pressed your forehead against his cooled skin. His vulnerability. His beautiful, beautiful, vulnerability.

“I’m sorry War,” you said again.

He breathed, slow and deep.

“It is not I who sits homeless on the broken husk of a sacred land.”

“I am sorry that you were wrongly accused of a crime that you did not commit.”

“It is not I who wandered the scorched, barren wasteland of their annihilated home realm, whose bare feet remained drenched with the ashes of their people in the years to come.”

“I am sorry that you no longer have your brothers and sisters with you.”

“It is not I whose kin begged and wept and bled away in senseless eradication.”

You reached up and touched your fingertips to his closed eyes. “For being blind to your loss and sorrow.”

He grasped your wrist in a gentle grip. “For being deaf to your needs.”

You cupped his cheek with your free hand. “For clinging to you.”

His lips were warm against your knuckles. “For being stubborn.”

“I am sorry,” you said as one.

War stared at you, the depths of his eyes capturing you, absorbing you as they always did. “There may be no coming back, little one,” he offered his last piece of argument.

You stared at him, the depths of your eyes capturing him, absorbing him as they always did. “You are my Eden, War.”

Silence seemed to stretch for an eternity. The barest tremor shivered along the Horseman’s arm and you hugged the stump in a tight grip, feeling the shifts of muscles beneath his golden skin. You heard the gentle clink of clenched teeth. Your eyes slid shut. A teardrop fell onto the back of your hand, mixing with the purest water in existence.

It was not yours.

Later that day, the archangel Azrael would observe the Rider’s eyes to be tinged a raw pink. He would keep this observation to himself.

#darksiders #darksiders war #war #azrael #fluff #stuff #intimate

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meibemeibelline · 4 years

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part 3 (FINAL) of highlights from that 32k word doc i wrote when i marathoned gazette songs (2012-2018)

PART 1 | PART 2

once again:

This is a combo of thoughts on music, lyrics and other random things I wrote while listening. Not every song will be featured, sorry.

I sometimes directly quote translations and when I do, I’ll specify whose it was. Here are the masterposts of lyrics by Heresiarchy , Defective Tragedy and Trauma Radio

I will write song titles for which there are warnings in bold and all caps

So this part will be a bit different because mental health and The Band became really prominent themes in their music in a way it wasn’t really before, so rather than simply writing about songs as they come, I do (attempt to) connect some dots between songs and albums

Also this is REALLY LONG (~5k words)

If you read any of these posts, thank you <3

CONTENT WARNINGS: murder (In Blossom), reference to abuse (In Blossom), suicide/suicidal thoughts (Kagefumi, Deux/Blemish), reference to PTSD (Incubus). Overall LOTS of discussions about mental health.

buckle up folks it’s gonna be a long one

So I listened to Division according to the limited edition version where the songs got split into the ‘story-like songs’ and the ‘hype songs’. Just while we’re on that, I like to think that Vein is the story part because these songs (the blood) are meant to go TO our hearts, while Artery, which is the ‘raw emotion’, is the heart doing the talking and supplying the oxygen that will do its thing. LIKE HEADBANGING.

“Ibitsu is not the first song they’ve written about changes in the music industry, but it’s quite different from others like 13Stairs[-]1 and Dim Scene. They were quite angry about the state of things, lamenting it. But here, Ruki is writing his and the band’s place in all of that. It’s like in the other two songs he’s like, “wow look at all this rubble. This sucks.” But in Ibitsu he’s writing about how he’s also in that rubble and thinks about what HE feels about it in relation to himself and the GazettE. And I find that quite interesting. Also hell YES imagery – skies as ideals, the world around them collapsing into ruin, the band as a flower amidst the rubble that can’t reach the sky. It sounds like he’s trying to navigate how he’s supposed to move forward when his ideals and what’s happening in the industry oppose each other quite a lot. He doesn’t reach an answer in this song and ends by asking whether it is actually in ruins or whether he’s just afraid of change, I think.” - interestingly, he uses this same imagery in Kuroku Sunda Sora to Zangai to Katahane to write about anxiety and not feeling good enough.

Quick disclaimer on KAGEFUMI: I do want to say first that I’m talking about this purely as a piece of art. Not as in, like, “this is peak romance”, but just as an artwork I can have Opinions™ about, even if they’re possibly in disagreement with that of the creator. “The shadow tag metaphor for a couple committing double suicide meaning that they’re ‘becoming one’ and being together in death is A Lot. There’s an incredibly strong belief in an afterlife where they can be together makes (what Ruki describes) this stronger bond between them that literally lasts or even transcends the boundaries between life and death, rather than a tragic end (unlike Tokyo Shinjuu). Musically, I love this song and think it’s gorgeous, the way it’s sad yet hopeful. We over here with that bittersweet stuff again but lyrically it’s a WILDLY different route than others before it.”

“Yoin is such a heavy end to disc 1. The ending lines, “The sea of loss / Understanding of helplessness / That day we grieved” about the Tohoku earthquake/tsunami and the nuclear disaster is just so ……. And not only that, but how even though people still struggle to survive, people are moving on like it’s a thing of the past. It’s SO heavy.” (Cr: Defective Tragedy)

“I think [Derangement] is about a massive internal struggle between wanting longing for the past, knowing it won’t come back, but also wanting to destroy the past out of self-hatred. There are aspects of the past, perhaps ambition and drive for example, that are good, but other parts that are not. It’s almost like a continuation of Remember the Urge but like…angrier and with more hatred towards his own past rather than only the longing of it. Which is also really interesting.” – this is definitely one of the themes that comes up A LOT from now, ESPECIALLY in Ninth. We’ll get to that.

“IS KAI GOOD??? That man is NOT human. I swear to god his drums in Required Malfunction are INSANE. ANYWAY, this song is about how people cannot be perfect and we all have flaws, especially in the context of relationships. I like that even though people argue and butt heads sometimes, there’s that Japanese verse where he sings “Let’s send a song without stains / to that innocence without lies / so you can swallow those wounds” and the last lines “Because you are always here, I can advance” to mean like…them being together can ultimately make them better and it can be a good relationship (if they work on it, imo). Also, I love the language he uses here – viruses and malfunctions and inputs – a very non-human way to write about human relationships.” (Cr: Trauma Radio)

(Dripping Insanity) “Solitude drenched in red laughs / in the insanity dripping in silence” is SUCH a good line yes hello I appreciate this. (Cr: Heresiarchy)

“EYYY HAVEN’T HEARD FORBIDDEN BEAVER IN FOREVER. At first I was wondering if this might be judgmental but honestly? I think this is satirical, especially from the line “May the truth you spew on taboos going frantically around / Shred the rhythm of high society”. Like the fact they’re gossiping about a famous woman who has a lot of sex and just TARNISHING her name bc of it, to Ruki, is a load of bullshit. Also, some of the lyrics in the chorus are funny coming from Ruki – “She has a sex addiction / Bang! Bang! / Cute luv machine” – like he does NOT ever write like this and this song is just a huge satirical joke I’m YELLING.” (Cr: Heresiarchy)

“The transition from Malformed Box to Inside Beast >>>>”

“[Inside Beast] is definitely about having a ‘beast’ inside you that’s like all your demons and ugly feelings and to let them all out. He wrote about demons in Derangement, but the way he writes about acceptance is like…empowering and freeing. Not necessarily through words but through the music and just how hard this song slaps.”

“I really love the lyrics of [Until it Burns Out] and its whole thing about valuing the time they have as a band and to be together making music precisely because it’s going to end someday, and it’s going to be their last shot at living their dreams, which is to make music and perform TOGETHER as the GazettE. Like that’s so meaningful, and powerful in the way they just…grab it by the fucking throat. Breaking down the walls that hold them back, TOGETHER, towards the future in which they see their dreams. Like they’re not letting this be the end. They won’t allow it. UGH. UGHHH. The middle eight is so beautiful and I love the lines “The light that colours this irreplaceable scenery / burns the significance of standing here into me / Until the last” like they just love performing SO MUCH UGGGHHH FEELINGS”. (Cr: Trauma Radio)

“[REDO] IS SO GODDAMN SENTIMENTAL I’M IN MY FEELINGSSSSS. Kai being the composer, I can’t help but feel this is him paying homage to jazz, which is the music his mother plays and he loves her so so much. I’m probably reaching but THAT’S JUST HOW I FEEL.”

“EVERBODY SHUT UPPPP IT’S LAST HEAVEN TIMEEEE. It’s so gd gorgeous and sweet. I’M GETTING REALLY EMO WHAT THE FUCKKKK. BRUH. BRUUUUHHH. THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL //THROWS. SHUT UPPPP. TOO MANY SKY, STAR AND FOREVER REFERENCES FOR THIS TO BE OKAY BITCH. This is Ruki’s love song to the cosmos, wishing to be eternal like the stars but acknowledging that all he can do is chase it knowing his life will end, BUT THAT THEY DON’T HAVE TO GRIEVE BECAUSE THEY WILL MEET AGAIN IN THE AFTERLIFE BECAUSE IN SOME WAY WE /ARE/ ETERNAL. IT’S LOVING AND INNOCENT AND WISTFUL. This song is the goddess to all the GazettE love songs. THANKS FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK. “The distant sky, this infinite moment / I now wish from the visible stars / in this youthful merry-go-round / that continues to turn endlessly / I want to be eternal like you” – is just…such a beautiful image. “Let’s stay like this, having dreams we cannot reach / Long road which leads to the calm hill / I go, leaving my sadness behind / Good night…my beloved / Last heaven of mine” – it’s yearning but it’s the yearning for LIFE. And to leave behind sadness…Ruki very rarely writes about pain like this. And to call the ‘beloved’ his last heaven, the last thing in his life that’s just THE BEST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO HIM AND THE THING HE WANTS TO BE ETERNAL WITH goodbye………GOODBYE. “Love without shape changing day by day / Close together / we become / one shooting star” – AAAHHH AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH. Also, for him to say ‘memento mori’ which means “Remember, you must die” in the middle eight of a song about wanting to be eternal just gives the entire sentiment a new meaning ;-;” (Cr: Trauma Radio)

“There’s a particular sound to Division and Beautiful Deformity (but more in BD). It sounds like rushing water. Loss in particular sounds like this. Like, the sound isn’t just ‘dark’ and ‘heavy’, it moves A LOT and there is sooo much emotionality in the songs on this album. It’s really dynamic.”

“The Stupid Tiny Insect revisits the theme of inner demons. Specifically, in this song it sounds like negative internal self-talk. It’s interesting though, the way that Ruki writes it as an entirely separate being to how he writes inner demons and whatnot in other songs, where it’s either another entity within a person that is part of them OR just…themselves. Here, they are VERY separate, and that probably allows him to feel and express rage instead of helplessness or confusion. I also love the reference to pretending to be okay – “I get high on delusion / And act as if I made them die out / ‘Just like a summer moth to a flame”.” (Cr: Heresiarchy)

“IN BLOSSOM is pretty fucking brilliant lyrically imo. It reminds me a lot of 32 Koukei no Pistol in that a protagonist who was abused/neglected by the parents kills them, and in the latter’s case only, also themselves. Some other differences: In Blossom is WAY angrier (and a lot more loaded) and the protagonist is trying to ‘make their own life’ (even if the way they choose to do that DOESN’T WORK), whereas the narrator in 32 Calibre Pistol was mostly lamenting that they’ve ‘lost their way’ and deep-down were wishing for their family to be happy together. I can’t say WHY that is. But it’s interesting that in In Blossom, the abuse just…DESTROYED their concept of family that they used to believe in entirely, and the fact they cannot separate themselves from their abusers neither by dying nor killing them is A Lot. So, they try to free themselves and ‘get hope’ by killing their abusers as revenge (“Die away, along with these wounds I’d counted”), but it doesn’t bring them happiness or heal them (“Even if I slash so much it’s unparalleled by the wounds I’d counted, it still starts to ache / It doesn’t even fight off the decay, much less heal me”). It’s very much saying that despite pain, revenge is not the answer. I also love the line “They adorn vividly – have blossomed beautifully / The sun that has started to set makes sure of it” to describe the wounds as the narrator kills their abusers and their loss of sanity as they do so.” (Cr: Heresiarchy)

“To Dazzling Darkness is about that moment when a concert is over and the lights start to come on. It’s so gorgeous. This is sort of like, the other side of Until it Burns Out. If UIBO is about the band then TDD is about the fans, and the band’s place in the world. I love the imagery in the first verse – darkness is usually associated with bad things, but here darkness is peace, escapism and unity that are part of the happiness of a concert, while the light symbolises the continuation of life. The scenery here is the same scenery in UIBO, which is the scenery of a concert that this band cherishes. There’s also the acknowledgement that time is fleeting and nothing is forever. Like, this is really the other side of the coin and I love it.”

“Dogma defines their new (2015) sound so well, which is HEAVY AND DIRTY AS FUCK. Like, it is SO conceptual and experimental and the painting is just GORGEOUS. I love the harpsichord in this song – as the predecessor of the piano, it was used in a lot of churches and religious music in the Baroque period (1600-1750ish), so using it here in a song where the band is likened to idols (the religious type) is super cool. And to combine it with these really low and heavy guitars just gives the DARKEST image.

And there’s so much going on in the lyrics – MANY MOTIFS, MANY MEANINGS. They bring back the concept of darkness as a symbol for escape from harsh life and of unity during concerts. As for death, Reita has an iconic quote where he said something along the lines of: “we often say in lives ‘to die’, but what we actually mean is to live. Live and be free”. I see death for GazettE as a kind of transformation – and end, yet also a beginning to become something or someone new.

Ruki hasn’t really mentioned god since Ogre in Dim, in which he basically wrote “idk if God exists but I don’t really care – all I need is me”. But here he likens the band to an idol of worship. We as the fans worship the GazettE, and they are also gods to us, their followers, in the sense that they provide us with life and unity (referred to here as death and darkness, respectively). The GazettE as a band brings darkness and death to the world (with their own meanings, of course).

This is also a song about the band breaking away from current gods and dogmas of the music industry, and from its greed. I also love the line, “The rite I must face is cloaked in darkness and isolation” – this process of their journey to finding their truth is lonely, and no one but them can do it for themselves. To do so also isolates them from everything they once knew. It’s them navigating what is expected of them by the masses and those they work with vs doing what they want without getting shunned for it.” (Cr: Defective Tragedy)

“DAWN IS ABOUT REDISCOVERING THEMSELVES. I love the number of metaphors he brings back in this song – 13 stairs, death, merry-go-rounds and again dogma. Death here is about the transformation of them as a band, which occurs at the top of the 13 stairs to the gallows. And I find that so interesting because he uses the image of gallows (eg: 13 Stairs[-]1 and Forbidden Beaver) as like…an actual Death that means the end of a genre or a person’s reputation, but here it’s a place of transformation. In Last Heaven, the merry-go-round is a symbol of life – it comes back here but this time it’s red instead of blue (youthful) and is paired with the image of a mad banquet with emotions running wild (ie concerts). Basically, this is about the band’s life and, like, their life being about concerts. My favourite part is “Overcoming a period of confusion, I took those stirring emotions / And hung them up high on the 13 stairs” because there’s also the line “I’ve already had a lethal dose of misfortune / The ruined gallows towers above me” -> WE WENT THROUGH SOME SHIT BUT WE FOUND OURSELVES AND SURPRISE BITCH, BET YOU THOUGHT YOU’D SEEN THE LAST OF ME.” (Cr1: Heresiarchy, Cr2: Defective Tragedy)

Not from my notes directly but I feel like the difference between Bizarre to Juuyonsai no Knife (ie the only two songs about Real juvenile criminals) is a REALLY good representation of how Ruki’s lyrics have changed over the years. He went from taking perspectives of people who perpetrators of violence (to write horror stories, imo, but also to generally Explore their minds through art) to making comments about society and how systems affect people in real life. Not to say he doesn’t write about killers anymore or that social commentary is NEW for him, but just…a big change in what’s PROMINENT.

“Interesting that Wasteland is next, which is about Justice on the Internet. I know Ruki has always been really critical of the internet and the kind of social processes that occur online (see: Nakigahara) and here it’s about morality and justice, but more importantly the way it’s about crowd mindsets and CONTROL. And he just summarises it SO WELL in the first verse: “The thousand eyes that can kill even God / Transform into rebels that lust for control / If the time comes when right and wrong disappear / It will all end with a blood-red moon”. There’s also the line “Innocence gives way to sinful judgment” ie the innocent go along with their ways or it’s the innocent (the weak, as he says later) that are scrutinised. And I think about this a lot considering…some other fandoms I’m in >.>” (Cr: Defective Tragedy)

(INCUBUS) “The song is a lot of wondering what they did to deserve their trauma and how they want the dreams/nightmares to go away. I do like that at the end of the song they come to the conclusion that they cannot change what happened and decide “fuck the why”, accepting they didn’t deserve it. Even though the narrator is still stuck in the maze (of trauma), the letting go of asking why it happened is like, a really important step in healing. Because it’s the end of self-blame. So, I hope narrator can heal :( “

(DEUX) “My dumbass never realised this but the music of Deux itself has DUALITY. Metal with solo piano. IT REALLY TOOK ME FIVE YEARS TO REALISE THAT HUH. It’s about two conflicting selves (which to me sound more like intrusive thoughts, considering Blemish’s VERY LOUD “These days I’m better dead”) and the effect that has on like, your emotionality and how it leads to loneliness. His use of nightmares in this song is fascinating – the Japanese word he uses (sakayume) is like…a reverse dream, like if a child has a nightmare you tell them it’s a sakayume so it means what happened in their dream definitely won’t happen AND something good will happen instead. And this is something Ruki prays for.”

(Ominous) “The imagery is really dark in this – “A prayer crushed under wreckage / Reflects in your eyes as you start to fly / I see you in the sky thick with shadows / Spinning around with nightmares” – there’s a desperate attempt to fly and get better and do Well but still they’re surrounded by darkness and nightmares, unable to escape. “Don’t forget that a heart cannot die / Don’t forget that dreams aren’t predictions of the future” –There’s hopefulness in a heart not dying yet a very strong despair when he says dreams don’t predict the future, not even reverse dreams. “It steals away my still-unformed future, and whenever I step forth / I can’t see a thing in that shadowed sky / My screaming can’t save anything / when I’m killing myself with sadness” – oh that hurts, that hurts A LOT. He wants to fly but he can’t. This is just SO MUCH. And they didn’t even have an instrumental outro, IT JUST ENDS WITH ACCEPTANCE OF HOPELESSNESS AND DEPRESSION.” (Cr: Heresiarchy)

“The drums in Goddess uggghhh UGGGHHH. AND THE GUITAR TOOOOOO. Lyrically, this is really a mid-point between depression and healing. It’s A Lot. He writes about his suffering, wanting to make something of his mistakes and his sins and actually WANTING TO LIVE. But it’s so sad that in the end he still feels really helpless – the subtle changes between “I want to become the stars that fill the silence” vs “I can’t become the stars that fill the silence”. But I think that on some level he knows what the next step is. He wishes in the last two lines, “If only I could share my grief that can’t be put to words / If only I could face reality and live accepting my crippling despair”. THAT’S THE FIRST STEP!!!! THAT’S A STEP!!!! TO HEALING!!!! “These bleak thoughts are my sacrifice that will one day begin to thaw into a selfless, smiling heart” – this line is fucking LOADED. Like, he sacrifices his bleak thoughts by expressing them and by making art out of his pain in hopes that he will be able to acknowledge and accept his suffering and his pain as a means to heal, as a way of allowing him to have a selfless and smiling heart. Like, this is SO much of what his art is about and what it has been for SUCH a long time it makes me so emotional that this is what he’s saying about his own lyrics.” I realise too that the goddess is likely the same goddess from Blemish. I’m still unsure what to make of it because Blemish ends in Ruki writing he doesn’t wants to be reborn, and not abandoned. But here he ends with wanting to heal. Wanting to move on and live.

WHICH BRINGS ME TO UNDYING.

“WHEN HE BROUGHT BACK “SLEEP, COUNT ME DOWN AGAIN” >>> God, this song is so powerful. THERE ARE SO MANY CALL-BACKS TO DOGMA. I SHOULD’VE KNOWN THIS BUT STILL. BITCH WHAT THE FUCK. It’s a direct continuation of Ominous (“I won’t arise from this”). I think in this song he’s becoming that figure that is flying in Ominous, and the one that is surrounded by nightmares and shadows – the first verses are about how the future is drenched in misfortune yet we must continue to live (and suffer, but WE CAN AT LEAST BE A BIT HOPEFUL). Ruki says this YET HE IS STILL DREAMING, EVEN AS THE END COMES (“My heart starts to disappear along with the spirit of my words / And though it knew the end was near / It dreamt of things it shouldn’t want / And even now I am still—“). There’s also his mentions of sins again that he continues to drown in :( But overall, this song is really about living despite all the pain, which is really meaningful after Dogma ended on such a note of hopelessness. There’s so much power in this song.” (Cr: Heresiarchy)

“Vacant doesn’t necessarily sound like a romantic relationship breaking down as much as it is about making a mistake and being unable to fix it between you and someone else (or other people), even if Ruki said he wrote it with a band’s image in mind. But the gist is is that there is yet again a struggle within the self (“Self-condemnation distorts the answer / And I lose sight of what I should be / Because of those unconscious actions / I can’t even dream”). The line “In the pain of not being able to tie back the undone thread / The traces left by stopping time keep piling up” really got to me – being stuck in time and constantly wishing for something that was and being hurt by the fact it’s gone is something I personally relate to. But even as the narrator is stuck in time, their grip on the past is loosening – they are forgetting, memories fade, and they lose their strength (“Vacant, you are withering”).” (Cr: Heresiarchy)

(Faling) ““Together, embracing the same pain: it’s only temporary / Don’t forget that this is not the end / So come on, let’s open our eyes and fall / We just believe in ourselves to die / Sometimes it’s okay to be broken” THIS MEANS SO FUCKING MUCH AFTER THE AMOUNT OF TIMES RUKI ENDED DOGMA SONGS WITH HOPELESSNESS AND AT BEST “WE HAVE TO KEEP LIVING AND SUFFERING AND BEING IN PAIN” BUT IN FALLING, PAIN IS TEMPORARY. PAIN IS TEMPORARY. WE WILL HEAL, BITCH. WE WILL GET BETTER, BITCH.” (Cr: Defective Tragedy)

Can’t find my notes bc it’s somewhere else in my Tumblr drafts but basically: I consider Mortal, Utsusemi and Sono Kore wa Moroku like a Depression Trilogy™ in Ninth. Mortal is about depression, loneliness and loss but like, tying it to a singular person or event in which the narrator felt grief. Utsusemi is about loneliness and depression as well, AND RUKI USES THE CICADA SHELL METAPHOR, WHICH IS THE SAME AS CRUCIFY SORROW (ALSO ABOUT DEPRESSION, BUT SOMEONE ELSE’S). But then, Sono Koe wa Moroku is THE turning point and where he first mentions (in this album) and actual DESIRE to heal and like, ON HIS OWN. IT’S ABOUT BEING STRONG FOR HIMSELF AND THAT MAKES ME SO EMOTIONAL. And as I mentioned before, Falling also ends on a hopeful note about sadness not lasting forever – it’s like he’s prefacing the album with the fact sadness IS temporary and that there IS a turning point.

“Babylon’s Taboo is interesting…so apparently Babylon is a figure of western imperialism and capitalism in the Rastafari movement (an afro-centric anti-capitalist and anti-imperialist movement from Jamaica). The narrator is COMPLETELY aware of the oppression and injustice that goes on around him but confesses to doing nothing. I interpreted this as complacency to violence, which Ruki has written about before. Also, he describes a starry sky (which I presume represents wealth and happiness) as a lie, and that they are actually black eyes that watch and look down upon you. In the context of anti-capitalism, my interpretation is that the ‘guaranteed fate’ he writes about is the life-long struggle to attain wealth and happiness – we are doomed to dedicate our lives to this, futilely, to no end. and there’s nothing we can do about it. Another line that stood out to me most is “all I need is sanity but uncertainty will do”. this, along with the rest of the song, implies that the narrator is PRETTY DAMN SURE that we’re all fucked so like....HAHA COOL.” (Cr: Defective Tragedy)

(Two of a Kind) Okay so…another motif I noticed in this album is an I and a You. And I know this sounds weird considering almost EVERY SINGLE GAZETTE SONG uses first and second pronouns, but mental health is SUCH a prominent, overarching theme in a way no album concept has been before, hence why I’m saying this. Two of a Kind is really solidifying this for me, but they appear in almost every song (but the You is known as ‘she’ in The Mortal). This pair are connected in an extremely emotionally intimate way. For one, they share pain and understand each other’s pain. Secondly, the narrator falls into depression after they’re gone. A part of me thinks it could be a past self and a current self, considering Ruki’s said this album involved the Most introspection from him and Falling writes about sins and past mistakes again. So, it could be a way of separating a past and current self – a past self that was perhaps lost, and made mistakes, but ultimately creates his current self.

But it could also be another person, as this You figure is also a source of light – someone Ruki shares his wounds with, in Two of a Kind. If it’s another person, it may also make sense that the depression and loneliness written about in The Mortal and Utsusemi is triggered by someone extremely close leaving him. Either way, it is this understanding and connection between the I and the You that also bring hope for the future and I REALLY love the way that hope is conveyed in the chorus of Two of a Kind. There’s so much light in it compared to the parts of the song where ruki calls himself filthy and ugly, and when he writes about negative feelings that never go away and bleed into this other person. but i think this other person understands it, and that’s why he can move on.

“Abhor God is a REALLY dark and heavy take on MOVING FORWARD. Like there’s so much rage in the way he writes about killing his lust, pride and anxiety and stringing up his nightmares in a noose, yet so much power in how he moves forward and sings victory with his music and his art. This is likely connected to Ninth Odd Smell and Uragiru Bero - where he writes about the band’s history and his imposter syndrome as an artist despite the band never going to die just because of that. He contrasts ‘too fast to live’ and ‘too young to die’ like, he’s really in a sort of purgatory where he’s constantly making too many mistakes to be happy but has too much to do for him to give up. So it’s here that he chooses to keep going no matter how weak the beat is. Imagery-wise this feels like.....continuing to live not because you have happiness to look forward to but just out of sheer willpower. Like it’s just so angry. Angry at the world, at yourself, but carrying that anger to try to be better and move forward.”

“And Unfinished is about the fans being his reasons to live and IT MAKES ME VERY EMOTIONAL THAT THIS IS HOW THE ALBUM ENDS!!!!!!! WITH HOPE!!!!! AND MOVING FORWARD!!!!! THEY LITERALLY ENDED THEIR ALBUM THAT’S ABOUT THEM ‘MAKING THEIR MARK ON THEIR WORLD’ WITH LIGHT AND HOPE AFTER LIKE TWO STRAIGHT ALBUMS OF /DEPRESSION/. EVERYBODY GO HOME WE LOVE HEALING IN THIS HOUSE.”

AND THAT’S THE END FOLKS!!!! if you made it here thank you so much for reading my ramblings and i appreciate u so so much <3 i hope you learned something new about the gazette’s music (i sure did - it’s why i went on this marathon in the first place!!) and again i have a list of posts i might write (which will definitely be shorter than these) so! yeah! anyway!! it’s past 11pm and i have no more brain cells. thanks again love ya have a good day/night <3 <3

#the gazette #gazetto #ruki #uruha #aoi #reita #the gazette kai #kai #the gazette ruki #the gazette uruha #the gazette aoi #the gazette reita #why am i tagging this #anyway i just want to say #i tried to stream bts' new song while putting this together #but i physically COULD NOT #the dissonance was too much #anw i love dynamite it's such a great serotonin boost haha <3

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dogbearinggifts · 5 years

Text

Brothers in Arms, Part Two

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: This is (I think) the final installment of my Sheepdogs series. I am toying with an idea for an epilogue, and I’m open to new ideas for stories set roughly within the same continuity, but for now, I’m going to say this is where I leave it. Thank you to everyone who has followed, read, and commented on this story so far. If not for your support and enthusiasm, it would have remained a single oneshot. I’ve loved writing this series, and I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it.

If this is the first time you’re seeing it on your dash, I’d recommend starting from the beginning with He Saw the Ghosts, a oneshot exploring what could have happened if a kinder vet had approached Klaus in the VFW. Dead Ringer, Tattoos with Better Stories, Missing in Action, and Brothers in Arms Part One follow this small group of vets as they try to solve the mystery around the man in the picture who looks an awful lot like Klaus.

As always, you can check out this fic and the rest of the series on my AO3 account.

***********

1969

Someone had to stay with the body.

Art didn’t know at which point someone became him, didn’t remember anyone pointing to him and saying “Stay with Dave.” He didn’t remember much of the past hour, if it had been an hour, or how long it had been since the smoke and dust cleared and silence overtook the battlefield. He only remembered Dave.

His friend lay beside him in the dirt. Someone had closed his eyes. Art tried to remember who, wished he could remember who, but the thought refused to surface. It could’ve been one of the officers. It could have been Lawrence. It could have been anyone nearby, anyone who’d seen it and decided Dave deserved that one small act of decency. Events like that, small but significant happenings in the battle’s aftermath, slipped through his mind like dust through his fingers. When he closed his eyes, he saw Dave; when he opened them, he saw debris of the battle that had ended him.

Plenty of men died with their eyes open, and plenty died of wounds that weren’t an instant kill. They died screaming, they died calling out for mothers thousands of miles away, they died slower than any man should have to. Art had seen it, had offered what useless comfort he could when circumstances brought him to the side of a dying friend. He’d made it too late this time—far too late—but even if he’d made it in time it wouldn’t have mattered much. Bullet wound to the chest, right in the center. Dave would’ve had a minute or two of agony, a minute or two of panic, as he choked and gasped for breath that wouldn’t come, as he tried to call for help, tried to—

Art hugged his knees to his chest, digging dirt-blackened fingernails into his shins, though the cloth of his pants absorbed much of the pain. The thought didn’t quite leave, but it shuffled to the back of his mind. Silence took its place, but other thoughts, darker even than the one he’d just banished, threatened to fill it.

He had to do something for Dave.

He wasn’t the first of Art’s friends to die. Months back, Isaac had caught a piece of shrapnel in his stomach, hemorrhaging beyond what a medic could fix before any medic could try. He hadn’t seen Dave take his place beside his friend’s body, hadn’t been there when he began speaking, but when Art came near he’d heard the words of a psalm, cracking beneath Dave’s grief.

Art had recognized it then, known the words belonged to Scripture when he heard them, but the psalm’s specific number had eluded him then and it eluded him now. He should have paid more attention, should have noted a line or two and looked them up later, should have found a way to ask if the one he’d recited had been his favorite or simply the right one to recite when a friend died—but the question was a distraction now.

The Twenty-third had been the first psalm he’d memorized, back when the words meant little to him beyond their soothing cadence, but no memories of reciting The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want to the delight of parents and Sunday school teacher alike came to mind. Instead, his father’s voice cut through, strong and steady, yet never rising more than a few notes above a whisper. For a moment, Art was back home on the sofa, head bowed through the psalm meant to follow him through Vietnam, meant to offer comfort and protection from horrors he could not yet comprehend. Maybe it wasn’t the right one.

But it was what he had.

“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High…”

Art hadn’t realized just how quiet the world became after a battle. He’d heard it before, felt it before, but now that he spoke, it was as though the silence itself pressed around him, threatening to swallow his words and suffocate them on the way down.

“…shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God, in him I will trust.”

His voice had fallen to a whisper, but he kept on. There was a certain rhythm to reciting psalms, a tempo no one ever explained or laid out as a requirement but one everybody fell into after the first line or so. Staying within it was like keeping to the grooves separating a country backroad from the countryside. Hold to the rhythm, stay on tune, and get to the end in one piece.

“Surely he shall deliver thee…”

He drew a breath that threatened to shake him to his core. This was the wrong psalm. The worst psalm. The worst piece of Scripture he could’ve chosen without straying into the Song of Solomon. He tried to think of another, but even the Twenty-third only surfaced in snippets and snatches.

“….from the snare of the fowler, and from…”

Art tried to get the rest of the verse out, but it was like swallowing sawdust. He raised his head, thinking he might see only shadows of trees silhouetted against the greying darkness of predawn, soldiers and officers moving about like ghosts, but one of those figures approached.

Klaus.

Art hadn’t seen him since the deafening chatter of gunfire turned to silence. The words unaccounted for and possibly missing circled his name, or they had before Art was told to stay with Dave. But this, this figure approaching out of the dark, it could be him, walking on his own two feet.

He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.

He watched the figure’s approach, hardly daring to breathe. Any moment it would solidify, taking on that familiar lanky frame, a stride that was anything but purposeful but still managed to get from one point to the next. A few steps took the figure closer. It didn’t look like Klaus, not from where he sat, but nobody looked familiar from a great enough distance.

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor by the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.

Art’s stomach sank. The gait was all wrong, more of a lope than an amble; he wasn’t tall enough. Even before his face came into focus, Art saw he wore a shirt beneath his flak vest.

George.

Not Klaus.

Of course, that didn’t mean what he thought. Klaus didn’t have to pass him by on his way to prove he was indeed accounted for; he could go in any direction that made sense to him. It was probably better if he didn’t pass by Art, at any rate. Best if the news of Dave’s death were broken to him gently. Best if he heard of it through soft words and hedging.

Art couldn’t quite read George’s expression—not for lack of emotion, but for the sheer number of them blended together and cloaked in a veil of weariness. He raised his head as George drew closer.

“Klaus?” The question came out in a croak.

George met his gaze for a second, just a second. Then he looked to the ground, sorrow and anger and resignation visible for only a moment before his steps carried him away.

For a moment, Art couldn’t breathe and didn’t think to, couldn’t move and didn’t want to. He listened to the silence nibble at George’s footsteps until the sound was gone. He watched his friend’s retreat, watched as a few more strands of darkness faded to light, but no new figures ambled out of the jungle, no familiar voice called his name.

He should have shouted, screamed to the heavens, forced God to listen and hear what he had to say, really hear it, but the words refused to form and Art lacked even a whisper to carry them. He hugged his knees closer, and it brought no comfort. He buried his face and waited for tears that did not come, feeling as though someone had torn out his insides and stitched him back up. Only the psalm remained, the psalm he couldn’t have recited had he wanted to. The psalm he never wanted to hear again.

A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

*********

They didn’t know where Klaus was.

It was expected. Richard and Jim barely knew him, had only guessed at his surname. He’d met them in public spaces, and only one of those meetings had been planned. They wouldn’t know where he lived or where he was staying, and it simply wasn’t reasonable to hold them accountable for his whereabouts.

Even so, Art had to bite back a few sharp questions when they said as much.

Jim had taken two numbers from Diego—Diego Hargreeves; Art still wasn’t sure he’d fully comprehended the notion he might have served with a former superhero—and had left both of them at home.

“I’ll head back and grab ‘em,” Jim said.

Richard looked at his watch, then out the window at the darkening sky. “Mind if we just follow you? If we want to catch him tonight, seems like we should try and call before it gets too late.”

Art could have climbed into the front seat of Richard’s station wagon, but he’d always preferred to drive. Better to have a ready means to leave and not need it than need it and be stuck. Before long, he paced the teal carpet of the entryway to Jim’s apartment, one ear inclined toward the living room. Jim was the only one on the phone, the only one who could hear it ringing, but the moment he greeted whoever answered would be heard by all.

Jim’s apartment had a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, and that was where Richard stood, leaning against the sink. Art couldn’t comprehend how he could remain so still—but then, none of the men he’d served with had reportedly popped up out of the woodwork fifty years later, looking the same as they had the day they’d vanished.

Not to Art’s knowledge, anyway.

Jim took a few steps to the left, then back to the right. The phone cord stretched out as he approached the opposite wall, sprang back into loops as he returned. The drive over had taken over twenty minutes, to say nothing of the hours the pair of them had spent tracking down everyone in Klaus’ unit—in his unit—the weeks and months and years expended trying to find just one man who could name the soldier in the photo.

It was a lot of effort to put into a hoax, especially one with no obvious gain for either perpetrator. A lot of time to spend listening to stories of a man whose identity they planned to use for some twisted purpose. Sincerity was fickle, the sort of thing that could be faked by anyone with enough people skills to feign empathy, but Art didn’t need to lean on what he thought he’d felt from Richard and Jim when the evidence spoke clearly enough. The two men were convinced of what they were selling. Which didn’t necessarily mean it was real; just that whoever might be behind it had been persuasive enough to pull the wool over their eyes.

Jim set the receiver back in its cradle, took it back up, and dialed the second number. Art only stopped his pacing when Jim spoke.

“Hey! Yeah, I’m calling for a guy named Diego. Yeah, Diego Hargreeves. He there?”

The long pause made it clear he wasn’t, even before Jim’s face fell.

“All right. Give him my number when you see him, will you? Let him know I called about his brother Klaus.”

He placed the receiver back in its cradle, but his hand lingered there a moment as he stared, as though waiting for it to ring again.

“Nothing?”

Jim shook his head. “I dunno what else to try.”

Art inhaled. They’d reached a dead end, and surrender was the most obvious solution. Go back to his family and enjoy the rest of his vacation—or enjoy it as much as he could, with thoughts of Klaus at the front of his mind. Push those thoughts to the back, accept them as a strange interruption in his trip. Wonder for the rest of his life, however long that may be, if one decision on his part could have changed the outcome, could have brought him face-to-face with an old friend or with an actor hired for the strangest, cruelest prank ever pulled on a veteran of the armed forces.

“You said he’s a Hargreeves, right?”

“We’re pretty sure,” Richard said.

“’Bout ninety-eight percent sure,” Jim added.

Those were good odds. Art had shed his coat some minutes back, when his pacing and Jim’s heater worked to make the extra layer less than tolerable, and he lifted it from the floor, putting it on so quickly his sleeves bunched.

“Which way’s the Academy?”

*********

1976

“Got married last year.”

Art had thought his voice might be too loud, loud to the point of vulgarity, but it was no more so than it might have been in an average park. The only other visitors, an elderly couple standing a dozen or so plots away, didn’t shoot him a glare or look up from their own mourning. Cemeteries, it seemed, were made to handle a little conversation.

“Her name’s Libby. Met her at a church potluck. There was this bowl, and it had a huge pile of whipped cream on top, more sprinkles than I’d ever seen in my life. I figure it’s pudding or something, go to take a spoonful. Libby sidles on over and whispers in my ear, ‘It’s tuna.’ Yeah. Some asshole put whipped cream on a tuna salad.”

Stillness greeted his words, filled only by a soft breeze and the rustling of grass beneath his feet, but Dave wouldn’t have accepted the story in silence. There would have been laughter—some of it disbelieving, most of it in good humor. Jokes would follow, but Art didn’t want to think about those. He wanted to hear them in Dave’s voice, carried on his laughter as that familiar smile lit up his face.

He wanted to hear Klaus say he would’ve eaten that tuna salad, whipped cream and all.

There’d been no word since the day he went missing. Art had thought he might see him with the other American POWs returned at the war’s conclusion, but Klaus was not among them and his name had not surfaced since.

When he slept, he saw Klaus dead or dying, surrounded by barbed wire and the enemy. Sometimes the dream lingered on his misery and sometimes it did not, but the end was always the same. Klaus dead, just like Dave. Like every other man who now appeared to him in nightmares and flashes that intruded even on his waking senses.

Art closed his eyes. There had been other soldiers, men he’d never met and never would, who disappeared from conflict only to resurface decades later with no awareness that the war had ended. He knew those instances were rare, that he wouldn’t have heard the names of those men if theirs had been a common feat, but the thought of Klaus holed up in a cave someplace, only dimly aware of news from outside as he made fools of his would-be or former captors, brought a small smile. He clung to it, willing it to drive back thoughts of the alternative—thoughts that sprang more readily to mind.

He regarded the headstone. There were fewer coins now than there had been a few years back, closer to his death, but Art still spied a couple of nickels from men who’d known him from boot camp beside pennies from other visitors. His was the only dime, but not every man Dave had served with could make it out to his grave at the same time. They might pass through weeks or months after Art returned to his routine, but they would come. Dave would not be left alone for long.

That familiar guilt wrapped itself around his shoulders again, whispering in his ear. The first time he’d spoken to Dave since returning home, the first time he’d managed more than a few choked sounds and silence, and the best he had to offer was a story about tuna salad. He hadn’t even wept for his friend in the seven years he’d been gone, but he could tell a story about himself as good as anyone.

“Still no word on Klaus.” Dave would want to know that, if he were near enough to listen, to know where he was and how he was and the answer to every other question Art had asked himself since the day he vanished. No news was anything but good news, in this case, but it was still something to share. “If he was back in the States, I’d have brought him along.”

The memory of what he’d seen all those years ago surfaced again, as fresh and clear as though he’d witnessed it the day prior. But he didn’t push it back. He’d let it come to him in recent years, let it remain in his thoughts long enough to lose its sharpest edges. The fear he’d felt then, the certainty that he had to tell someone, anyone, and the shame that he couldn’t, had faded—first to a sense that what he’d seen hadn’t been worth breaking their trust, then to something new, something gentler that Art still hadn’t identified. Something that left him with an echo of the hollowness he’d felt the night Dave died and Klaus vanished.

He’d seen them differently after that day, noticed things that had before escaped him. How whatever tension Klaus carried ebbed away at Dave’s approach. How Dave’s smile always seemed a little wider, the light in his eyes a little brighter, when Klaus was near. There were times, and probably more of them than Art had witnessed, when they seemed to forget they were fighting a war at all.

“You should’ve gone home with him.”

The words were out before he had a chance to ponder them, but once they hung in the air, he knew he couldn’t have said anything else. They were the only truth worth speaking, even if they set his mind on a course he didn’t want to follow. He tried to shut out thoughts of what might have been, of Klaus free and Dave alive, sharing smiles and bandying jokes back and forth as they explored whatever new city they’d chosen, together for as long as they had left and as happy as two could be.

He’d heard of moments like this, moments of sudden pain meant to bring relief, compared to the sensation of ripping off a bandage. And he knew, in that moment, that the analogy was not and never had been accurate. Tearing off a bandage never felt like tearing off his own skin.

His eyes stung; the headstone blurred. He shoved a fist against his mouth, biting down in an attempt to keep his tears silent, but a soft cry escaped regardless as what may have been faded into what was.

Six years. Six years he’d visited his friend’s grave and watched in silence. Six years he’d stood and thought and remembered and hated his inability to muster up a single word, but he’d stood on his own feet and walked off without shedding a tear.

Art sank to the grass, hugged his knees tight, and gave into his grief.

**********

The Academy wasn’t hard to miss.

It had been a city block, he’d heard, once upon a time—a whole city block with storefronts and apartments and pay phones. Over the years, though, the Academy had swallowed up those shops and homes one by one, not so much erasing them as subsuming them into a new whole. He’d never been inside; from what he knew, not even the press had been allowed to pass that wrought iron gate. Only those seven kids and Reginald had seen what went on within those walls.

“Bet your dad would be laughing at me now, huh, Klaus?”

“Yeah. And he laughed like this.” Klaus knit his brows, gaze hardening into a glare, lips drawn into such a scowl that Art had to laugh—a sound echoed by the other men in the tent.

Klaus had never described his father in detail, had never provided a clear image to conjure up for stories like that. Art had never crafted a picture of his own, but he’d never imagined him with white hair and a monocle, either.

Even so, thoughts of the famed Reginald Hargreeves wearing that scowl and that glare, of turning them both on his children, came easily to mind.

Too easily.

Art’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. There was still no evidence the Klaus he’d served with was alive or the same age as the day he’d vanished, and no reason to assume he’d served with the same Klaus Hargreeves who could speak to the dead. A shared weakness for drugs proved nothing. Shared tattoos proved much more, but he hadn’t seen them yet.

He had to find this Klaus, that was all. Find him, get a good look at him, ask him a few questions that only his friend could answer. Gain more evidence, examine it as objectively as he could, and make a judgment. He had to remain impartial. Focusing too closely on what might be would distract him from what was.

Art sucked in a breath, but his heart refused to slow. A short film played in his mind’s eye, one where Klaus greeted him with that smile he remembered, greeted the story of how he’d found him with a laugh he hadn’t heard in fifty years.

He’d been able to call it up, back when the war was still one of those subjects you avoided at Thanksgiving dinner and not a chapter in a high school textbook; but when he reached for it now, he heard only an echo that might have been Klaus’ voice or might have been a voice he’d heard on television.

He should have summoned that laugh, back when he remembered it. Endured the pain it brought, allowed it to carry memory after memory in its wake. He’d have done it daily, if it meant holding onto his friend a little longer.

Two blocks from the Academy, red and blue lights filled the darkness. Art pulled to a stop, rolling down his window as a uniformed officer approached.

“There an accident?”

“You could say that.” The officer glanced over her shoulder, toward the Academy. Art followed her gaze, but couldn’t make out much through the blinding haze of police lights. “The whole Academy just came down.”

“What?”

“We’re going to need you to take another route—”

“How?” Dizziness overtook him, passing as quickly as it had come—though the pit in his stomach remained. “I mean, what happened?”

“We’re not sure yet, but—”

“Is everyone okay?”

“Like I said, sir, we don’t know yet.”

Art barely heard the irritation in her tone. She opened her mouth to speak again, but he’d already shifted into reverse.

*********

2015

Save for the presence of more headstones than there had been, the cemetery hadn’t changed much since Art’s first visit. He still walked the same path to his friend, stood on the same land beneath the same sky. The world outside had grown bigger, louder, but the cemetery remained as serene as ever.

“Maddie’s fourteen now.” A soft smile quirked his lips at the thought of his granddaughter. “She and a couple other kids got in trouble for this poem they wrote, but she’s got a teacher named Butz, and he acts like one from what I hear. What was she supposed to do?”

He laid his dime on Dave’s headstone. It sat alone, but he’d spotted a nickel the last time he visited and a penny the time before that. And no coins at all didn’t mean no visitors, only that whoever had dropped by hadn’t seen the need to communicate as much.

“If that’s a down payment on a drink for the next time we meet up,” Art said, “then you’ve probably got enough money by now to buy the whole goddamn bar. If inflation’s not too bad up there.”

Whenever that aspect of the coin’s tradition was spoken of, it had the ring of a joke, but Art had never regarded it as anything less than half of one. Years had a way of changing a man’s views of death and what came after. Visions of blue skies carpeted with endless white clouds upon which winged souls played harps and sang hymns had become something less sterile, less cloying. Maybe Heaven was a bar where old friends waved you over to a table and dusted off stories you hadn’t heard in years. Maybe Hell was getting kicked out for starting a fight.

Or maybe there was nothing and he’d been talking to a slab of rock for forty-six years.

The breeze became wind, carrying the chill of a coming winter, but Art’s shiver had little to do with the cold.

Klaus wasn’t the only POW who’d never returned from Vietnam, not by far. Theories weren’t spoken of as commonly as they had been years back, but Art would be lying if he said he hadn’t entertained a few before quickly dismissing such an outcome for his friend. Each year, he’d imagined Klaus growing older far from home, trying to make it back and running into obstacle after insurmountable obstacle. But in his mind, Klaus had never stopped trying, and he never would. In his mind, Klaus would one day resurface to the surprise of an entire nation, would regale them with his tale of survival and reunite with whichever Army buddies still lived. Art would be among those there to greet him. No matter what it cost, no matter how long the drive, Art would be there to welcome him home.

He’d sheltered that hope over the years, allowed it to grow old with him. When it became threadbare, he’d locked it away lest it crumble at his touch. Death in combat was one thing; death in a POW camp was another, one he couldn’t consider for too long without the nightmares invading his thoughts. There was no evidence Klaus hadn’t met that fate, but there was no evidence he had. That was something. That was all the excuse Art needed to cling to hope a little longer.

All the excuse he needed to delay the inevitable.

The forty-fifth anniversary of Klaus’ disappearance had come and gone. That would have been a good time to do what needed to be done—or as close to a good time as there could be, for something like that—but Art had stood at his friend’s grave and spoke of everything and nothing, had left without saying what he’d come to say.

“Klaus…” His throat closed over the rest of the words. What he’d planned wasn’t much, but he still couldn’t get it out. Dave had seen visitor after visitor, received coin after coin and word after heartfelt word. If Art couldn’t do the same for Klaus, the least he could do was acknowledge he’d never received a decent burial.

Art’s breath shook. If he couldn’t say what he’d planned, he had to say something.

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Probably sooner than later. But when I do…”

He closed his eyes against the tears, exhaled against the sob threatening to choke his words.

“You had better have Klaus with you.”

********

He drove full circle around the perimeter the police had cordoned off, near enough for red and blue to prick at the edges of his vision, far enough not to earn a few irritated words from the officers guarding every street.

Klaus hadn’t been inside.

Art didn’t know it for certain. The Academy would’ve been a roof over his head, a place to escape the streets; and with Reginald dead, it would have been more refuge than it once had been. Chances were good he’d made the Academy his temporary home before its destruction.

But that didn’t mean he’d been inside. He could have been out. Not getting high, necessarily; he could have been wandering out somewhere with one of his siblings at the moment of destruction. Or on his way to find Richard or Jim. Or something as simple and banal as ducking into a fast-food restaurant for a greasy burger.

If this Klaus Hargreeves was the same Klaus Hargreeves Vanya had written about.

Art’s foot hit the brake just before he made the turn that would have taken him around the perimeter for a second time, and he flipped on his turn signal instead. His headlights caught the name of the street, but he didn’t think to read it until it was behind him. He rode it to the next intersection and turned right, took that one a little further before turning left.

A plan. He needed a plan, but he didn’t know the city and wouldn’t know who to ask for directions. Get me to the nearest gas station would earn him a clear and concise answer, delivered as quickly as it sprang to the stranger’s mind. Help me find a guy, about six foot with some pretty distinctive tattoos, who might be anywhere in the city, including buried under a pile of rubble would earn strange looks, not answers.

He could have been at the Academy.

He probably had been at the Academy.

Art slapped the volume knob on the radio with slightly more force than necessary. The final notes of the previous song faded out, and warm guitar chords took their place. He breathed deep, turning onto the next street on a whim.

On the road of experience, trying to find my own way….

John Denver’s voice didn’t quite calm his nerves, but it did remind him of calmer times, less desperate times. It called to mind road trips of years past, of driving through state after state with the windows down while voices sang of places he’d been, of country roads and the black magic of Mulholland Drive. He drew a long breath, this one not as shaky as the last, and rolled down the window.

Sometimes I wish that I could fly away….

The evening chill poured in alongside sounds of the city. The downtown speed limit wasn’t as slow as some places he’d been, but it was slow enough for murmurs of conversation and the whoosh of an occasional passing vehicle to briefly enter his vehicle, carried in on air thick with the scents of fryer oil and spice. A throng of people clustered on the sidewalk, but before Art could scan their faces, a lone figure crossing the street caught his attention.

A tall figure with a mop of dark curls and a familiar tattoo on one shoulder.

Before he could consciously name what he was doing, Art had pulled into the first open spot he saw. A single stray thought had him rearranging his car well enough to escape the notice of any meter maid, but he only remembered that he ought to have fed the meter when he was already ten steps down the sidewalk.

The stranger vanished briefly behind the crowd, then emerged into view as Art quickened his pace.

He’d thought that face might take on unfamiliar features as he approached—a different nose shape, a mouth too wide—but the closer Art drew, the more the stranger resembled memories he’d held to, dredged up thoughts he’d forgotten. Those stubborn curls, springing free the second he removed his helmet. That facial hair, which he refused to shave off even when it would have saved him a few minutes. That same Hello greeting the world from a briefly upraised palm. He still wore his flak vest, though he’d paired it with a striped shirt that showed an inch or two of skin around his middle and pants that….

Was that leather?

A chuckle escaped his lips. When he’d imagined Klaus returning to the States, settling back into civilian life as best he could, this wasn’t what he’d pictured him wearing. Yet he knew in that moment that this getup, this mishmash of pieces that should have never been put together and managed to work regardless, was exactly what he should have pictured.

This was the Klaus he remembered. Wearing an outfit no one else would dare, looking around for something to catch his interest as he stood in line for tacos.

Art should have approached him quietly. Walked up, asked for recognition, answered questions as they came. But there he was, his old friend, not dead after all but in front of a taco truck, of all places, the perpetrator of the finest disappearing act ever orchestrated in wartime. Art couldn’t be polite, couldn’t be quiet. He announced his presence with the only words his mind could form.

“Klaus! You son of a bitch!”

He whirled at the sound of his name, and Art felt a spike of fear. His name was Klaus, true; but this might not be his Klaus. Everyone had a lookalike somewhere. Now he’d have to apologize, laugh through his disappointment just to make things less awkward….

Klaus took a few steps out of line as Art closed the gap. His eyes narrowed in a squint, then widened. A disbelieving laugh found its way out. “Art?”

That laugh. Art hadn’t forgotten it, not forever. It had simply retreated to the back of his mind, hidden behind a door he couldn’t locate; and when he heard it now, all those memories, all those moments where Klaus had laughed came rushing back.

They embraced, clapped each other on the back, and Art held back tears. Fifty years stood between him and the young man Klaus had known, and not one of those years had mattered. Not one of those years had prevented recognition.

It was him.

When they finally parted, Art saw the same bewildered joy reflected on Klaus’ features. “How—how the hell did you find me?”

“Long story.”

Klaus glanced over his shoulder, toward a theater bearing the name Icarus. “Yeah,” he said, drawing out the word, “there might not be time for that.”

Art nearly frowned. Maybe his siblings needed him elsewhere, and soon, but he could have said so plainly. “Well, how’ve you been? How’d you get back here?”

Klaus looked away, though Art couldn’t tell if the sorrow crossing his face was at the first question or the second. At any rate, it quickly dipped beneath a faint smile. “Would you believe me if I said time travel?”

“Yes.”

Klaus stared.

“You look the same as you did fifty years ago,” Art said with a laugh. “If you’ve got a better explanation, let’s hear it.”

Klaus chuckled, but there was still a trace of that sorrow—more than a trace, even—remaining as he looked back toward the Icarus Theater. “Just…didn’t think I’d see you here, that’s all.”

“What? Wasn’t expecting me to hunt you down the second I learned you might still be alive?”

One or two in the crowd turned brief looks of confusion on them. Art didn’t much care, and Klaus didn’t seem to, either.

“Well, yeah. I mean, that was fifty years ago.”

“Right. Fifty years.”

A few moments passed in silence. The smile faded, slowly but surely, to nothing, as Klaus turned his gaze toward the sidewalk.

“I guess….I didn’t think anyone would notice I was gone.”

So he’d chosen to leave when he did, had some control over his arrival and departure—but that was not what made Art stare, for a long minute, until Klaus finally met his gaze.

“What?”

“You know you’ve said some stupid shit.”

He gave a sheepish smile. “Yeah….”

“Like that time you said penguins don’t have legs, just feet?”

“Technically they don’t—”

“No. Not ‘technically.’ I looked it up. They have legs.”

“Okay, but why are you even bringing that up?”

“Because when I say ‘nobody would notice’ is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, I want it to mean something.”

For a few seconds, it looked as if Klaus would cry, but Art couldn’t tell if the tears were there or not. “I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t—” Memories crowded his mind, memories of laughter and jokes stretched out to the limit, of humor at just the right times and of his face, Klaus’ face, popping up right when shit was about to hit the fan, stepping in right when he was needed most. Art wanted to lay all of them out before him, point to each one in turn, ask Klaus if he thought this one meant nothing or if that one was worthless, but there were too many of them and trying to choose one jumbled it up with three more. “So what? You thought you’d just up and leave?”

“Yeah. I mean, I couldn’t stay.”

There was something more behind those words, but Art scarcely heard it. “You just popped on back without saying goodbye? Without letting somebody know ‘Hey, I’m not dead, just need to go home’?”

He half expected a question as to whether or not he would have been believed, but Klaus simply stared at the ground. His shoulders sank a fraction, as if some invisible weight had been added. Art sighed.

“Look. I don’t blame you for getting the hell out. I’d’ve done the same. But—”

Something about the look on his face, about his silence, triggered something Art couldn’t quite name. That night. Dave dead, succumbed to his wound. Klaus, never straying far from Dave, always close even in the heat of battle.

A chill brushed his shoulders as a cold pit formed in his stomach.

“You were there when he died. With Dave.”

Klaus nodded—stiff, jerky nods that didn’t lift his gaze from the sidewalk.

“Jesus Christ.”

Art should have said more, should have found the perfect words to give to his friend, but they and all others eluded him. He could only place a hand on Klaus’ shoulder, wrap him in his arms when he moved closer. There were no tears, none Art could feel, but tears could be fickle things, there when they were least wanted, absent when they were most needed. Maybe they had yet to visit him. Maybe he’d spent them already.

It wasn’t until Klaus pulled back, until he brushed at his eyes, that Art remembered moments fifty years gone when he’d done the same. Klaus had never been ashamed to cry, but when it was clear there was little time for tears he would hold them back. Brush them away, like he brushed them away now. Save them for a time when they wouldn’t endanger him or anyone depending on him.

Whatever was going on that theater, whatever his siblings or whoever he’d fallen in with had gotten themselves into, it left little time for talk. Of the war, of Dave, of how he’d found himself yanked from his present and thrown into a past no one should have to witness. No time for what he needed. No time for what Art needed.

Not now, anyway.

Art fished in his pocket, found an old receipt and smoothed it out. No pen, so he waved to the woman behind the taco truck’s counter. She rolled her eyes at the scribbling motion he made, but set one on the counter. Art wrote several numbers and passed them to Klaus.

“That’s my daughter’s house,” he said, pointing to the first number. “I’ll be there ‘till the end of the week. That one’s my home number. That next one is the one you call if you can’t get anybody at either of the other ones.”

“Thanks.” Klaus took the receipt, but didn’t pocket it immediately. He held it in his hands, staring down at the numbers as if he’d been handed a gift. A gift he didn’t know he deserved.

There were many things Art had contemplated saying over the years, should Klaus ever be returned home. Most of them he knew were things he’d never say the moment they popped into his head, while others lingered awhile before rejection. A few were edited and re-edited, changed and softened, wording shored up before he realized he’d never have the chance to give them voice.

But there was one thing he’d wanted to say, one thing he’d held onto until the day he gave Klaus up for dead. One thing that remained.

“We lost you and Dave that night. Glad you were someplace I could find you.”

That uncertainty hadn’t left Klaus’s face; but the moment he raised his head, Art saw it in full, saw it mixed with gratitude so deep the word fell flat. And when he did, he wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or pull Klaus in for another hug.

“Hey. You gonna order or not?”

Art looked up. The other customers had dispersed, a few to the pickup window but most to elsewhere. The truck’s owner had one elbow propped up on the counter, gaze drifting between Klaus and a teenager standing a few yards away, nervously shuffling through his wallet.

Klaus laughed. “I should probably order.”

“Fine.” Art pulled Klaus in for another quick hug. “See you around, all right?”

“Yeah. Sooner or later.”

Sooner or later. It wasn’t a solid promise, but it was more than Art had gotten. More than he ever thought he’d have. After another quick clap on the back, Art made his way back to his car, stopping at the curb.

He had thought Klaus might have focused his full attention on the taco truck, but that wasn’t the case. Art didn’t know how long Klaus had been watching him; he only knew that when he turned for one last look, Klaus was smiling. Not as bright a smile as some he’d seen, but this one seemed deeper, more real than others. There was a tinge of melancholy in it too, not strong enough to pull the whole thing down but present nonetheless.

Art had found him.

All those years of hoping, all those years of fear and wonder and awful sick certainty shouldn’t have ended with a conversation at a taco truck—but they had.

Klaus had lived. Maybe not in the most orthodox way, but Art had learned fifty years ago not to expect anything of the sort from him. He’d survived the war, skipped past a dozen other horrors that should have taken him, and wound up here, on the side of a street outside a theater, in the very city he’d started from, exactly the same as the day he’d left.

He’d made it home.

Not in the usual way, not in any way Art or anyone else could have predicted, but he’d done it, and he was back. Back in the States with years ahead of him and the worst behind him. The war would follow him; it always followed, no matter the distance. But it hadn’t claimed him.

Art raised a hand in farewell, and Klaus returned it.

Maybe this was the end of it. Maybe Klaus would call; maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would write; maybe he’d forget or choose not to or be constantly stymied by a thousand everyday inconveniences and distractions. Maybe it would be later, rather than sooner, when they spoke again.

But Art had seen him. Not on a memorial wall, not as another statistic, but walking the city in leather pants and a flak vest, smiling and fighting tears in turns. The war was close to him, fifty years closer than it should have been. It would always be closer than he could stand, always a little stronger than he’d thought.

Art started up his car and pulled out onto the street. Klaus had escaped the war once already, done it in such a spectacular fashion Art wouldn’t have believed it had he not seen the evidence with his own eyes—but he’d escaped.

He could escape it again.

**********

Author’s Note: If you’re interested, the song Art listens to is “Looking for Space” by John Denver.

#the umbrella academy #umbrella academy fanfic #sheepdogs #klaus hargreeves #oc #original character #original characters #klaus and dave during vietnam #klaus #number four #dave katz #ptsd #ptsd mention #vietnam war #outsider pov #grief #fanfic #my fanfic

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arcadeguk · 6 years

Text

a little more love

prompt: “be you. no one else can.”

pairing: jeongguk x reader

genre: mind-numbing, cavity inducing fluff, jeongguk being a sweetheart what else is new

a/n: the literal first thing i’ve ever written and posted. be gentle with my inexperienced terRIFIED heart thank you uwu

11:34pm. exhausted doesn’t begin to cover the feeling jeongguk has right now. he’s beyond exhausted, he’s convinced no being on any planet ever has experienced this kind of tiredness. a recording session at the break of dawn followed by 8 hours of dance practice whipped his ass incredibly well, so incredibly well that by hour 7, he just laid down on the studio floor, hoping that if he closed his eyes and stayed still hoseok would just assume he was dead roadkill, and leave him alone. however, much to jeongguk’s delight, hoseok’s chirpy “5,6,7,8!” echoes through the room, bouncing off the thick white walls, and reverberating in jeongguk’s eardrums. he feels a level 6 migraine on the horizon, and he debates for just a moment that if he rips out his own esophagus out maybe he can go home early.

go home to you.

“home” the word sounds good in jeongguk’s head, and tastes even better on his tongue, especially when he thinks of nothing else. “home, you, home, you, home…” plays on a loop in jeongguk’s head, until it’s the only thing he’s certain of. he’s most definitely not certain of these steps, of the beat pounding under his feet, or the insane body-roll-two-step-mix that jimin just did, who’s desperately trying to add flavor to the choreography.

the manager on duty calls out “alright, that’s all for tonight!”, and jeongguk nearly ducks, convinced that this moment could only come if the heavens had opened up and rained down on him. to his credit, jeongguk manages to get his bag, jacket, and somehow convinces hoseok for a ride to your place. however, he doesn’t remember a second of it. one minute, he’s under blinding fluorescent lights, and the next he’s walking into the warmth of your apartment.

jeongguk closes the door behind him, much gentler than his usual grandeur entrance. in his fuzzy and faraway mind, jeongguk is dimly aware of the fact that it’s late and that your apartment is bathed in darkness. it smells like the rose candles you always burn, and the tinge of takeout food long devoured. jeongguk slips off his shoes in the hall, drops his keys in the bowl, and discards his jacket and bag, somewhere where someone will most likely trip on it. he makes his way to the living room, checking to see if you had retired to your normal nap location, lumbering around and letting out a soft “shit” when his knee bumps the coffee table. the softness of the carpet under his sore and overworked socked feet threaten to turn his spine to liquid, and he makes the cardinal sin of rolling his shoulders, letting his head dip into his chest for just a beat too long, and he wishes he could just sleep. but the familiar voice in the back of his mind reminds him of you, and suddenly, he’s a man with renewed strength. jeongguk tiptoes to the bedroom, hand planted on the doorknob as he mentally plans how he’s going to dive into the bed. but as he opens the door, he frowns when he sees all the lights on, hears the dull, tinny sound of music being blared through headphones, and the source of that strong takeout smell he sniffed out earlier.

there you are, sitting cross-legged in the middle of your shared bed. white duvet covers have long disappeared under the avalanche of papers and packets that have since covered it. your laptop is in front of you, blue light illuminating your face in all the best ways. jeongguk slowly smiles, and walks over to you, quicker than he’s moved all day.

jeongguk sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, slightly shifting your chaos of papers. you seem to pay no attention, barely aware of his presence. lips parted ever so slightly, eyes red and brows furrowed together, tongue forming a sailor-worthy curse to throw at microsoft word. jeongguk leans over, and gently plucks the earbud from you, and replaces the emptiness with a puckered pout, planting a wet loud kiss right on your ear, smiling like a fool when you pull the other earbud out, and he can feel the muscles of your face stretch into a smile as he continues to peck the spot.

“i’m home” jeongguk says simply, pulling back only slightly to meet your face. “so i noticed” you mention, landing a quick peck on his lips, one that makes him blush ever so slightly. “how was practice?” you inquire, as jeongguk throws himself down into your lap with reckless abandon, curling up in the comfy space your legs has carved, just for him. “boring, long, hard”, he mumbles, lifting a hand from your keyboard to plant it upon his mop of long black hair. you sigh, but it’s all a rouse, as you delicately card your fingertips through jeongguk’s silky strands. he hums, stays quiet for a minute, and then questions, “whatcha workin on?”

an annoyed huff and roll of your eyes is the only answer jeongguk needs, but you continue anyway. “stupid dumbass paper by that stupid dumbass professor for that stupid dumbass class that i won’t pass and gave up caring about after i basically failed the midterm.”

if jeongguk wasn’t half asleep (lulled by your stroking), he would have heard the lump in your throat as you struggled to choke out the last few words. instead, you pray jeongguk didn’t hear, cover up the halfway-sob with a simple throat clearing, and continue to stare at the near blank document in front of you. what does pull aforementioned sleeping bun from his trip to dreamland is the ragged sniff he hears from above him. he opens his eyes, to see your head resting in your opposite hand, eyes teary and leaking, staring into the computer screen with something crossed between murderous lust and desperateness. jeongguk’s nerve endings tingle, and suddenly, full boyfriend mode is activated.

“hey, hey, hey” he whispers, pulling himself out of your lap, curling himself around you the best he can. you struggle against him for just a minute, wishing he could just go, so you could have this moment of childlike frustration all to yourself. but jeongguk doesn’t let that happen, his grip tightening around your waist, and you relent, allowing him to lift you up and onto his chest, leaning back against the wall of pillows at the top of the bed.

“oh sweetness, please no,” he murmurs into your temple, one hand calmly stroking the expanse of your back, while the other cups the base of your head, gently massaging the thin tendons in your neck. jeongguk tries to pretend his heart doesn’t crack a little bit when he feels his shirt dampen, and that his sanity doesn’t nearly fall apart when he hears you choke out a sob you were trying so hard to hold in. “just let it out darling, let it all out” is whispered in your ear, and you relent. gentle words are whispered still, something along the lines of “i love you, it’s okay” and “i’m right here, baby”.

soon, your sobs turn to sniffles, and jeongguk lets out the breath he’d been holding. the atmosphere turns into a soft silence, and it’s only you, jeongguk, and the stars, breathing in a solid, unified rhythm.

“how long have you been working on it?” jeongguk ventures to ask, “since 11 this morning” you sigh, voice stuffy and low. jeongguk gives a simple “hmm”, and the little world you’ve created falls silent again. “i can’t afford to fail this class” you whisper into the dark, so quiet that jeongguk barely hears it.

“baby, i’m not gonna love you any less if you don’t get an a++ on,” he squints to read the title heading on your paper, “professor idiot weiner dipshit’s intro to smaller weiner douchebag shakespeare”

the sound of silence is soon broken by guffawing laughter, the kind that makes tears roll out freely. the ones that make you double over, and you have to forcibly remind yourself to breathe, because in all the humor your brain just forgot how to on its own.

you lean back on jeongguk’s lap, wiping away tears of laughter and happiness, and watching jeongguk do the same. “you might want to change that before you hand it in”, jeongguk grins as he wipes tears, and you can only giggle in response. “thanks for, ya know, helping me through my bi-weekly emotional breakdown”, you grin, and one of his classic “gukkie smiles” lights up his face. “anytime, babygirl” he offers with a smirk, and raises a hand to gently catch your cheek in his hold, bringing your face close enough to let him leave a warm, wet kiss there. long, fluid, comfortable, home.

he pulls away, and his brown doe eyes melt into pure chocolate and honey when they gaze into yours. “whether you pass or fail, it doesn’t matter. you can always take it again, if you can handle the mental turmoil.”

“i’d rather invite a fucking anaconda into our bedroom and cover myself in live mice and hope that it chokes the life out of me”

“what i am TRYING to say”, jeongguk says, clearing his throat to be heard over you, giggling at your own joke, “is that you, this paper, school, it’s all gonna be okay, baby. i promise. you’re a rockstar when it comes to school, you work your ass off for everything, you somehow keep me alive (which is a feat in of itself), and you can actually function as an independent adult.” he grins when he sees an actual, genuine smile light up your face, and he takes the fleeting opportunity to run his thumb over your bottom lip. “be you, baby. no one else can.”

your heart soars at his words, and you crash your lips against his. “thank you” you murmur softly against him, and he simply grins.

jeongguk’s bed now no longer looks like something that came out of the business end of a copier, but rather the comfortable white cloud that he can’t wait to crash onto. laptops are put away, showers are taken, and there’s only one thing to do: sleep. jeongguk has been more than patient with you tonight, and you recognize it. as if you didn’t realize the way he moved earlier, like he was dragging a baby grand piano behind him. which is why you decide to repay him for his virtuous patience, with an excellent post-shower massage, kissing all his bruises, and letting your lips graze over sore muscles.

jeongguk pulls you down into the soft sheets, reveling in the way your skin feels so insanely divine on his bare palm. the warmth radiating off of you, the smell of vanilla shampoo tickling his nose, the relaxed, even cadence of your chest against his. this, finally, is what he’s waited for. what’s he yearned for all day.

you, warmth, happiness, home.

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therake-1996-blog · 6 years

Text

Revelation Ch. 7

Chapter 7- Home

The precious baby boy sleeps in my arms, his slender body belying a sturdiness. His legs are long, and covered by a pale blue duvetyn onesie, a fabric I’ve never seen used for baby clothes, but, it’s the Heavens. They probably do use the best fabrics for their babies.

He clutches a slightly worn hand-knitted purple blanket to his chest, his tiny hands in small fists against the soft wool as his little chest rises and falls, rises and falls, in a gentle rhythm. I lift my hand, which is slightly blurred—everything besides the baby is blurred—and run a finger over his fair cheek, marveling at the impossible complexion of his skin. He’s so warm, so soft, but at the same time, I’m aware of how strong he is.

As I stroke his cheek, his long, dark eyelashes flutter, and his mouth twitches as he shifts in my arms.

“Hmm…” He lets out a long sigh, the sound hitting me right in my heart.

He turns his head toward my chest, and lifts his left hand, sticking his thumb into his mouth and suckling, making tiny sounds as he does so. My lips move, forming words, but I don’t hear my voice.

I love you.

As I speak, I brush his thick hair away from his forehead, using my other arm to cradle him closer to my body.

Sweet little baby…I really do love him so, so much.

…

My eyelids lift, revealing a room illuminated by the morning sun. I take a deep breath, one of my hands instinctively fluttering to my belly, still much pronounced between my hips. Wiggle worm twitches, but doesn’t send any thoughts or emotions to my mind; he must be sleeping. I smile to myself.

When I turn my eyes up, I see Zyglavis, laying beside me, his gaze soft as he watches me.

A little embarrassed of being watched while I slept, I smile at him.

“Good morning,”

“Good morning, love,” He replies, his voice low and smooth like silk. My stomach throbs.

He reaches a hand out and traces my lips with the tips of his fingers.

“Were you having a good dream? You were smiling in your sleep,”

I answer him by bashfully looking down.

“Yes...I have good dreams every night, about the baby.”

“Oh? Tell me about them.”

When I look back up at him, I see Zyglavis’ eyes shining brightly, truly fascinated by my dreams about our child. I reach for him, and he pulls me closer, allowing me to cuddle as close as I can to his chest.

“Every night since I found out I’m pregnant, I’ve had dreams about the baby,” I begin softly. “And in them, I see this absolutely perfect little boy. Every night, he’s a little bit bigger, but he’s still so…so sweet and innocent. It’s hard not to fall in love when you look at him.”

“What does he look like?”

I smile, twirling the tassels that hang from the shoulder pads of Zyglavis’ uniform.

“Just like you, Zyglavis, only as a baby. He has these wide, wide iridescent grey eyes that look just like yours, the same soft, dark hair, even the same face.”

His chest rumbles as he chuckles.

“There’s none of you in there?”

I pause for a moment. Hm. I never thought of that, but Zyglavis is right. In all the dreams, the baby I see has no characteristics that come from me…on the outside, anyway.

“Well, that’s okay,” I reply simply.

“It is?” Zyglavis pulls me back a little and looks at me, an eyebrow raised. “You’d be okay with it if our child looked nothing like you?”

I stare at him for a moment, then pull my bottom lip between my teeth and look down, embarrassed. How do I want to word this…?

“Well,” I begin with a breath. “To me…you are the most beautiful thing in the universe, the most perfect. So, if our baby doesn’t take any physical characteristics from me, it wouldn’t bother me so much.”

Zyglavis blinks.

“Oh, you are so silly, Eden.”

He says with a laugh as he places a small kiss on my forehead.

“So, you know why I think it’s a boy, but you never told me why you think it’s a girl.” I say after a moment.

Zyglavis averts his eyes, looking thoughtful.

“Well, sometimes—”

He begins to explain, but is cut off when there’s a knock at the door. We’d been so deep in our own world that we didn’t even hear anyone approach.

“Zyglavis, honey! Is Eden awake?” Lyranna’s lyrical voice comes floating through the solid wood. She sounds excited.

Zyglavis, however, lets out a frustrated sigh.

“Yes, mother.” He calls, sitting up and getting out of bed. “Though I was hoping to do this with just the two of us…”

“What?” I ask, cocking my head as I pull myself into a sitting position.

Zyglavis pauses by the door, and looks back at me, smiling.

“We have a surprise for you.”

…

“I thoroughly wish she’d calm down.”

Zyglavis grumbles to himself as Lyranna swings my arm back and forth in an animated way as we walk in the woods, on the little path we usually take to her home. I giggle.

“I am so excited for you to see this, Eden! Zyglavis and I have spent the last four and a half months working on it and I know you’re just going to love it!”

I give her a look.

“Where are you taking me? This is the way to your house, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, but that not where we’re going today.”

After she answers, she puts a finger to her lips and winks at me. I glance back at Zyglavis, who just shakes his head, an exasperated smile on his face.

I notice the path is much clearer than before; no low hanging branches or fallen trees. The path is clearly visible and easy to walk on.

Did they clear it for me?

A wave of gratefulness comes over me, and I bite my lip to keep from crying. For whatever reason, I feel like I’m going to be doing a lot of that later on.

As we come to the part of the path that slights left toward Lyranna’s estate, I notice that the path actually forks off in two different directions, one to the left, and one to the right. Lyranna lightly pulls on my hand and directs us to the right.

There’s a break in the thick wood and wildflowers begin to litter the area, bright, warm colors surrounding us. Foxgloves, red roses, sunflowers, lilies, honeysuckle, and carnations decorate where the tall trees would be. Pink, white, and orange butterflies dance around with each other and some heavenly bees buzz by us, birds chirping merrily in a stone birdbath off to my right.

And then, something else catches my attention.

A large mansion, almost identical to Lyranna’s, but made from brown stone, green vines curling up the north wall like a lattice. There’s no gate, just a huge, wide open field filled with flowers, the little path leading straight up to the front door.

My mouth drops open.

Lyranna let go of my hand and comes to stand before me, extending her arms out wide.

“Surprise!” She exclaims, her voice little more than a squeal.

“You…a…a house?” I breathe.

I sense Zyglavis come up behind me, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders.

“You said you liked mother’s house, so we drew inspiration from it, but with how warm and open you are, I figured the fields and wildflowers would suit you better than a gate and trees.”

“Not to mention you’ll have a little one running around soon,” Lyranna adds. “They’ll need lots of space to play outside.”

“A house?”

Tears begin streaming down my cheeks, and I clap a hand over my mouth.

“You built a house for me!” I sob, turning into Zyglavis’ chest. He chuckles breathlessly, hugging me tightly and rubbing my back.

“I told you it was going to happen, didn’t I?” He says, his voice soothing.

“You put so much thought into it! It’s so pretty!”

“I told you she’d like it.” Lyranna says, sounding quite pleased.

“Mother.”

From Zyglavis’ chest, I peek back to the mansion that’s mine, mine and Zyglavis’, and a fresh wave of tears flow from my eyes.

I open my mouth to try and tell them how thankful I am, how gorgeous the house is, how much I love them, but all that comes out is a mix of incoherent blabbers and sobs. Zyglavis strokes my hair lovingly.

What’s going on?

The baby, now awake, shifts inside me and asks this question, curious as to why I’m crying like…well, like a baby.

I’m so happy. I answer him in my mind. Daddy and grandma surprised me with a house.

A house? What’s that?

I let out a giggle that sounds something akin to someone squeaking a rubber duck, and send a mental image of our new home to the baby.

That. That’s our home, little one.

I feel his emotions slowly shift from confusion to joy, and he wiggles around excitedly.

Ooh! We’re going to live there? It’s so nice! Thank you, daddy! Thank you, grandma!

I look up to Zyglavis.

“The baby likes it, too.” I whisper. I don’t trust my voice not to sound atrocious.

Smiling tenderly at me, Zyglavis plants a small kiss on my lips while running a hand over my belly. Wiggle worm presses his hands against the wall of my womb and follows his hand.

“Would you like to see the inside?” He asks.

I nod, and Zyglavis takes my hand, leading me up the winding path.

Lyranna claps her hands in front of her giddily.

“Have fun, kids!” She exclaims.

I glance over my shoulder.

“You’re not coming with us?”

Zyglavis grumbles, and I inconspicuously elbow him.

“Oh, no. I know my boundaries, believe it or not, and I believe I know my son well enough to understand the expression on his face right now.”

“I have no idea what you’re taking about.” Zyglavis says, smiling pleasantly. His mother cocks a perfect eyebrow, her mouth turning down on one side.

“Yeah, sure. Play innocent all you’d like, Zyglavis, but you can never fool your mother. Now, Eden,” Turning her attention back to me, Lyranna smiles, lifting her hands up to her neck and removing a chain from it. “This key belongs to you now.”

She hands me an intricately designed brass skeleton key, an emerald sitting in the center of the handle.

“Even the key is pretty,” I breathe. “Do you have one, Zyglavis?”

He responds to my question by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a matching key, only this one has an opal in the center instead of an emerald. I cock my head.

“How come mine has an emerald and yours has an opal?”

“Do you know what your birthstone is, Eden?” Zyglavis asks me. I make a face.

“Birth…stone?” He chuckles.

“Guess not. Eden, your birthday is in May, and the birthstone for May is emerald. I am the god of Libra, and thus, my birthday is appropriately in October. The stone for that month is opal.”

“Why do different months have different stones?” I ask.

“Well, not every person is similar, just like not every month or every stone is,” Lyranna explains. “For example, my son is the embodiment of Libra. He is tactful, alert, neat, attentive, balanced, and loving, among other things. The opal is usually worn to repel evil, and represent hope, creativity, and innocence. For you, you are a Taurus. Taureans are known for being gentle, possessive, placid, stubborn, tolerant, and humble. The emerald symbolizes fertility, rebirth, and love—in fact, ancient Romans went so far as to dedicate your stone to Venus, our very own goddess of love and beauty. The emerald also signifies wisdom, growth, and patience. All of these stones have properties in metaphysical healing. Plus, it’s widely believed that wearing or keeping your birthstone close brings good luck.”

I blink, a little dazed at her explanation.

“Um…wow,” I breathe.

Zyglavis pats my shoulder.

“You got her started, Eden.”

“Oh! Sorry. I did get carried away, didn’t I? Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Go on, look at your house! You’re going to love it, Eden, I know it.”

Smiling radiantly, Lyranna extends her arms and embraces me, squeezing me tightly.

“Thank you so much, Lyranna.” I whisper.

“Of course.” She pulls back and cups my cheek, gazing at me fondly. “You’re making my son the happiest he’s been in a long, long time. I want to make you happy, too.”

She leans forward and places a gentle kiss on my cheek before she turns and begins practically skipping down the trail back toward her own home.

“Let me know!” Is all she says as she leaves.

…

When we walk into the house, the grand entryway absolutely steals my breath away.

It’s decorated with French country pieces, the floor a rich dark mahogany, made from one hundred percent real wood, and the walls covered with a tan, textured wallpaper. The staircase spills toward the front door, the banisters designed very elaborately, the same color as the floor. From what I can see of the upstairs hall, it’s decorated the same way as this room, with a large hutch and a couple deep orange chairs on either side of it right at the top.

Gingerly taking my hand, Zyglavis leads me to the left, into the parlor. There’s a huge fireplace, the flames crackling brightly. On the center of the mantle, there’s a vase of blue and red roses, decorative books on the right and a set of red candles on the left. There’s a large, empty picture frame above the fireplace, and I cock my head.

“Why is that frame empty?”

“That is for us to put a family portrait in once the baby is born.” Zyglavis answers, smiling warmly. “Let’s see the rest of the house.”

He takes me through the dining room, the kitchen, and another, smaller parlor. All the rooms are decorated in shades of soft red, yellow, and gold, as well as ornate porcelain pieces—one of a kind, I’m sure—and heavy linens. It feels like they captured my taste perfectly, and I didn’t even know that I liked this kind of design.

After we finish touring the lower floor, he takes me upstairs and leads me down the west hall to the last room, opening the heavy, dark wooden dark.

“This will be the baby’s room.”

I let out a shaky breath as I take in the large yet somehow cozy nursery, my hands floating to my belly, where little wiggle worm is fluttering curiously.

This room is designed with shades of delicate beige, yellow, and white, a crib made from white metal, the mattress decorated with a simple farmhouse pattern, a thick white blanket hanging over the side of it. Thin white curtains hang over the large window, allowing the sun and the air to come into the room. There’s a little rocking horse by the white dresser and a white chair with a long back on the opposite end of the room, a yellow throw blanket hanging over the back. A matching pillow rests against one of the arms. It’s a perfect room for a boy or a girl.

“Oh, Zyglavis,” I breathe. “It’s so…so…”

“I figured you’d like it.”

He says, tucking some hair behind my ear.

My room? I love it!

“The baby likes it, too.”

I turn my head and smile at him, his face blurry through a fresh wave of tears. He returns my smile and gently kisses me, but after only a few moments, the baby kicks at him, and he pulls away with a laugh.

“That reminds me. You never did get to tell me why you think the baby is a girl.” I say.

“Well,” Zyglavis begins. “Sometimes, I get these…visions. They don’t come with any rhyme or reason; I could be doing paperwork or punishments or just be watching you sleep and suddenly I get a flash in my head. I haven’t seen any defining features besides this,” He reaches out and strokes my hair, smiling softly. “Dark chocolate colored hair, long and wavy, just like yours.”

I stare at him. I didn’t realize how wildly our image of our child differs from one another. Whereas I see a crystal clear image of a perfect little boy, Zyglavis only sees flashes of a little girl, only knows for certain she has my hair?

“Do you…know anything else?” I ask curiously.

He cocks his head thoughtfully.

“She has a very high voice. Very beautiful and hypnotic. In my visions, I can hear her calling out for us or laughing, and sometimes I can see her running. She’s a fast little thing. But other than that, I don’t really know what she looks like.”

As Zyglavis finishes explaining, I turn my gaze back to the peaceful nursery, wondering which one of us is having the accurate visions.

“Eden,”

“Hm?”

“In about three more weeks, you’ll give birth to our baby. Have you thought of any names?”

I start, snapping my head to look at him.

“Names?” I repeat. Oh, no. I had been so caught up in being pregnant and what I’m feeling right in these moments that I completely forgot about actually naming the poor kid. Not to mention…“I…never thought I’d get this far in y life. I’ve never given baby names any thought.” I admit sheepishly.

If I were human, I’d be blushing right now.

Zyglavis looks at me for a moment, then laughs, taking my hand in his.

“Well, let’s talk about that, then.”

…

“My mother’s name was spelled E-V-E-L-I-N-E, pronounced like Evelyn,” I say as we sit in the main parlor. The couches are a deep red and lined with gold, extremely comfortable. “I always liked how it ended in ‘line’…but, other than that, I never really thought about baby names.”

Zyglavis chuckles.

“Well, why don’t we take a heavenly name and mesh it with ‘line’?” I tilt my head.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…like, take Erida and combine it with ‘line’ to make Eraline, or, take Nea and make Nealine. There’s a lot of different combinations we can play with.”

As I listen, it hits me that Zyglavis has put lots of time into thinking about a name for our baby. I extend a hand and brush his bangs away from his eyes.

“I love you, Zyglavis,” I tell him. He blinks, a little startled, but smiles at me all the same.

“I love you, too, Eden.”

“So, just how many names have you come up with?”

“Oh…not that many…”

Zyglavis shifts, and I just know if he were capable of it, he’d be blushing right now. I giggle and pat his leg.

“Tell me.”

“Um. I’ve actually picked through quite a few heavenly names that have significant meanings, like Tryfera, which means loving, Ilia, which means sun, Omorfia, which means beauty…but my personal favorite is Avelera. That means new or unique in heavenly terms.”

“Avelera…” I repeat, running my hand over my belly.

“Do you like that name?”

“Yeah…yeah, I like that name a lot. Plus, it’s meaning is very appropriate.”

“Avelera is easy to combine with ‘line’, too. Aveline.”

I suck in a breath when he says the new name. Aveline.

Aveline.

Though I still think I’m having a little Zyglavis Jr., the girl’s name packs quick an emotional punch.

“That’s so beautiful,” I breathe. “Aveline…”

Zyglavis watches me fondly for a moment before he says,

“So what about a boy? Surely you’ve thought about that, at least a little?”

I feel my mouth turn up a little, and I relax back against the back of the couch, gazing up at him from under my eyelashes.

“Actually, I have an idea about that.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hm,” I nod. “Your father is no longer here, and even though I never met him, I want to show him respect. What do you think about naming the baby after your father if he’s a boy?”

Zyglavis’ eyes widen.

“After…my father?” He repeats softly. I nod again. He simply stares as me for a while, a looking of sheer adoration in his eyes, and then he smiles. “You are so sweet, Eden. But do you even know what his name was?”

“Nope. That’s why you tell me.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes.

“His name was Zuben. There’s two stars in the Libra constellation named after him, Zubeneschamali and Zubenelgenubi. That’s how powerful, how influential, he was when he was alive.” Zyglavis’ eyelids lower as he speaks of his father. It’s clear to see just how much he still loves and respects him.

“I love that name,” I say. “I don’t care if his name was Poindexter. If it’s a boy, let’s name him after your father. Zuben.”

Zyglavis smiles warmly at me, and reaches out to stroke my hair.

“Thank you, Eden.”

“You have nothing to thank me for.” I reply simply.

In my belly, little Zuben stretches and asks what we’re talking about. Here in our new home, Zyglavis and I sit, talking about our baby, and I find myself wondering what I did to deserve him.

#zyglavis #star crossed myth #star crossed myth fan fiction #otome game #fanfic #voltage inc #voltage fanfic

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cruelzy · 7 years

Text

weak

ao3 cross

pairing: loki/reader

You aren’t a lumen sage.

You aren’t an umbra witch.

You aren’t a creature from the realms of heaven nor hell.

You are simply…you.

Normal.

Human. Nothing else.

But as you watch the streak of orange fall from the sky, you oh so wish you were.

It had puzzled him when you were able to see what a normal human couldn’t. You suppose that's the only interesting thing about you: that somehow your eyes look past the normal layer of the world into the danger that is found beneath. It was frustrating that you saw him when he hid himself, saw him when no one else could. (Well, for a human’s standard. Bayonetta didn’t count.)

He was completely adorable when agitated, you recalled. He claimed he was above such things, yet he would basically throw a tantrum when you confused him. It shouldn’t have been one of your favourite things to see, but it was.

Now, as you watch him slam into the ground, you wonder if you’ll ever be able to see it again.

His name tears from your throat in a painful scream. Out of instinct you step forward from your hiding place in the chaos to help, but as concrete explodes into the air, you are forcefully reminded of your feeble self when the shock-waves knock you clean off your feet.

You groan pitifully, the skin of your elbows shredding on the gravel, knees bloodstained. Your vision swims in and out, but you just about register the boy of your main focus jumping to his feet to dodge another attack from the massive creature of destruction. He leaps and runs like he hadn’t just been crashing through buildings, impossibly, amazingly.

But here you are, so far from the battle, trembling as you curl into yourself, ears ringing from the sharp sounds of screeching and fighting in all directions. And you haven't even been struck once.

Because you're human.

You want to rip your weak flesh apart and yell till you wreck your voice raw. Why did you have to meet him? Why did you have to fall for him? Why could you do nothing while he was fighting for his life out there - for everyone's life?

Why were you so weak?

A loud slam interrupts your dark thoughts. Your head snaps up to see an angel flying pass in the sky, blocking out the sun with its gigantic frame. You stare, fear rooting you to the spot, eyes burning from the ash that covers all in sight.

A crumb of granite falls onto your cheek.

You frown, confused. (It didn’t start raining stone, did it?) The grimace freezes as you inhale suddenly in realization. The horrible sound you had heard just moments before had been the tail of the heavenly being knocking into the tower. The tower you had taken refuge under. The tower that was currently coming down.

For a split second your heart stops. All is dull, the entire world turning silent.

Then adrenaline slaps you in the face, colour bleeds back into your vision, the noise returns, and you are running.

Foundation rains from above, literal pieces of large rock falling around you as you sprint away from your would be death. Panic becomes your heartbeat and fear the rhythm that pounds in your skull as you narrowly miss the jagged end of a slab of marble.

I don’t want to die.

You fling yourself to the left, arms coming up out of mere instinct to cover your face. Your head slams into the ground, black dotting your vision.. Somewhere, distantly, you know that something in your ankle has just snapped. But there is no time to think, no time to regain your bearings. You get up. You run.

I don't want to die.

A shadow covers your form and you turn to see the obelisk's pillar heading towards you. It's something you can't dodge.

It's something you can't dodge.

I don’t want to die!

All you can do is let out a sob as you throw up your hands.

Loki!

Time stops.

Eternity stretches.

From beyond the veil, only warmth reigns.

When agony fails to consume you, you open your eyes. And there he is. His cards had sliced through the rock, leaving it to fall in completely symmetrical fragments before him. Blue fire licks up his hands, pulses in a rapid beat that forms a sort of force field around you.

It's warm, you think absentmindedly. It's warm, and it's life and you are sure you should be worried because it feels as though you just lost whatever grip you had on the remains of your sanity. A gasp is ripped from inside you, from a place so deep it's never been touched. It's not just relief. That doesn't even begin to try to explain it. It's raw. It's tangible. It's gratitude and it's indebtedness, and you. are. not. breathing.

Loki spins from his protective position in front of you, grabbing your arms in a sudden movement. Icy blue eyes burn intensely into yours.

“Jump,” he commands briskly.

And yes, it is a command, because though you have no idea what he is talking about, you do not hesitate to follow.

It's a lucky thing you do. The ground beneath you falls away milliseconds after your feet leave the earth, the creature he had been fighting bursting through. A roar splits the air, vibrating down to your very D.N.A.

You shriek.

Loki had jumped as well, swiftly pulling you to himself. In a blink he is bounding from stone to stone midair, and you only realize it's over when you register the ground safely beneath you once more.

"What were you thinking?"

You stammer, wanting to ask if he was okay, wanting to argue and defend yourself, but mostly wanting to insist that the angel that was currently trying to kill you is way more important than any conversation.

Unfortunately, or fortunately if you take it so, the universe seemed to want that conversation to happen as the heavenly being was body slammed by a creature of inferno, successfully drawing attention away from the two of you.

“I left you in the city." He continues, completely non-bothered by what had just occurred. "Why the hell did you follow me on the way to Mt. Fimbulventr, love?!” You know it's just a verbal tic, something he says to literally everybody, you know, yet it certainly doesn't stop the butterflies that flood your abdomen.

“I-I had to,” you swallow on a dry tongue, but keep eye contact defiantly. "I wasn’t just going to let you go by yourself!”

He hisses. Your hands fist. All this time, and you had never truly seen him angry before. Normally he was all sly grins and mischief, but this was the first you could see something hot and volatile bubbling underneath his gaze. He bares his teeth. They shimmer from the light of the brimstone below, the accompanying heat rapidly sucking the oxygen from your lungs. "I am not by myself." His eyes blaze. The hourglass etched into his forehead smoulders silver in reaction. “And besides, what help would you be?”

You flinch.

That hurt. Even though you knew this, the statement coming from his own lips was too much to handle. He seems to notice the pain in your expression and curses something foul, putting his hand to his forehead.

“[Y/n], love, you know I didn’t really mean that-”

“No you’re right,” you chuckle without humor. You feel like crying, but your eyes have long since run out of tears. “I know. I’m worthless.”

“[Y/n]-”

“It was selfish really. You even had to come and save me. What use am I?”

“[Y/n]-”

“No use at all.” Your pitch is rising and you feel hysteria crack your voice. “I’m completely-”

“Shut the hell up.”

Loki grabs your shirt, yanking you to him in one abrupt move and stopping you dead in your tracks. You falter.

He kisses you.

It's rough and quick and probably not even five seconds, but it does the job. You gasp against him, shudder a whimper into his open mouth. He grips your collar tighter, the sound of the material tearing falling on deaf ears as stars burst behind your eyes. The friction is both pleasurable and achingly painful at the same time. Your hands fumble, landing halfway between his shoulder and his chest, desperately grasping whatever you can as you are overcome with scalding emotion. Teeth scrape over your bottom lip. You burn.

It's over way too soon.

He pulls back, pushing you away slightly with the flat of his palm to your collarbone. You're panting, lips bruised, mind swimming with a million questions. He doesn't even give you the chance.

“Leave,” he says.

You shiver violently, the screams and howls tearing through the air becoming all at once too much. “Come back. Please.”

In the mess his hood had fallen back, but it only helps intensify his gaze. It feels as though he is picking your soul apart underneath those eyes.

“Leave.”

You know what he is saying. Maybe he would be able to. Maybe he wouldn’t. But false hope was useless. You feel your heart deflate.

“Well this is heart-warming," a voice purrs from directly above, silky and feminine and strong. You jump only to see Bayonetta landing next to you, blowing dust from her gun. “But I'm afraid we have to go, little one.”

Loki straightens. Whatever softness there was in his expression hardens immediately. "Right." He lingers for one second, two, slips his eyes shut then turns briskly. You wordlessly follow him with your gaze as he walks away, knowing this could very well be your last memory of him.

A chuckle breaks your reverie.

“Ah young love,” Bayonetta muses. You jolt, having genuinely forgotten the woman was there. She considers you for a long moment before her head tilts and her lips curl, lighting up her attractive features. She blows you a kiss. You stiffen when a flash of purple literally exits her lips, seeping over you.

You breathe in sharply.

You feel….stronger?

“There,” She mumbles. “Now you won’t be an easy kill. A little protection till you’re out of this. Good luck, kid.”

She winks at you before springing in the air, then gone.

You wait. You gather your wits. You steel yourself, and you run.

This wasn’t your fight. All you could do was run away, and that's okay.

After all, you're human. Weak.

But him. He is strong.

And that is really all that matters.

#bayonetta #loki bayonetta

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amycathryn · 6 years

Text

The Art of Giving & Receiving

Yes, there is an art to giving and receiving.

It's more than just physical gifts—it's a form of energy. We all give and receive subconsciously every day—whether we realize it or not! We give and receive subconsciously through breathing. We must exhale to inhale, and inhale to exhale. We sleep and we wake. We talk and we listen. It's about exchanging energy—which takes form in many different ways.

Consciously taking hold of that energy however, takes practice. It is an art form of sorts, because it requires a conscious understanding of where we exist within the spectrum of those energies throughout the different parts of our lives. Giving and receiving is a part of every day life. When we practice it consciously (and understand how it works energetically), we are able to live more deeply and improve how we exchange energy with others.

It's as Simple as Yin and Yang

Giving and receiving is better understood as Yin (female—receptive) and Yang (male—expressive) energy. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, Yin-Yang philosophy is as follows:

Yin is a symbol of earth, femaleness, darkness, passivity, and absorption. It is present in even numbers, in valleys and streams, and is represented by the tiger, the color orange, and a broken line. Yang is conceived of as heaven, maleness, light, activity, and penetration. It is present in odd numbers, in mountains, and is represented by the dragon, the color azure, and an unbroken line. The two are both said to proceed from the Great Ultimate (taiji), their interplay on one another (as one increases the other decreases) being a description of the actual process of the universe and all that is in it. In harmony, the two are depicted as the light and dark halves of a circle.

There is both Yin and Yang energy in everything that exists. We all contain both Yin and Yang elements within us mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually. No on is 100% "masculine" or "feminine". The better we understand these energies, the better we can be at putting balance in our lives and becoming more harmonious.

Examples of Yin and Yang in our Lives

We have all experienced Yin and Yang energies in different ways in our lives. Yin and Yang elements exist even in our bodies! When you're shy or introvert, you're mentally in a Yin state. When you're expressing yourself, you're in a Yang state. The left side of our bodies is the receiving side—the Yin side—and the right side is the giving side—the Yang side (part of the reason we shake and eat with our right hands!). When you inhale, you are receiving (Yin) and when you exhale, you are giving (Yang). These two sides can't exist without each other, just as we can't live without both inhaling and exhaling. That's why it's important to keep both elements in our lives balanced.

Why it's Important

Like I said previously, it's about balance. When we are imbalanced or feel stuck in our lives, we are often times missing Yin or Yang elements to our energies.

Imbalances often manifest as feelings of stagnation or lack of flow. Imbalances can manifest in your love life, friendships, finances, health, and life path.

The reason we become stuck sometimes is the same reason we cannot exponentially exhale or inhale. Life has a rhythm, so we must let go in order to receive, and receive in order to give. So if you're having trouble moving forward in a part of your life, such as making friends, increasing your finances, going through a transition or anything else—ask yourself this question: What do I need to release?

98% of the Time Just Let Go

Around 98% of the time it's just about letting go. With most of my clients who feel "stuck" it's almost always about letting go of something. On the rare occasion, it's about being humble enough to receive help, but again, that's rarely the case. Often times I have a client who is trying to move forward in some way, but they aren't making progress (or finding it difficult to do so). This is because they have elements of their lives that need to be released and cannot be carried with them into their next chapter—these elements in their lives no longer serves their highest good. The things that need releasing can take the form of old friends you've grown apart from, a bad relationship, too much stuff you don't need and even negative elements of your personality that you need to release.

Personal Experiences

I personally had a lesson or two to learn when it comes to balance the Yin and Yang energies in my own life and business. For some time, I had this increasing feeling of restriction in the energies surrounding my business. I felt limited, and I knew something was out of balance—I just wasn't quite sure what.

Slowly, it dawned on me (and Spirit of course gave me some clear signs). It was my prices. My prices were too low, and the restriction was a result of my growth as a psychic, ironically. Initially, the prices I had set were fine when I started out. But I had grown as a psychic since then and they no longer reflected the quality of my readings.

In turn, the readings I gave began to feel restricted. The best way I can describe it is like being a deep sea free diver. I knew I could dive deeper into the reading, but something took the air out of my lungs before I could reach that energetic destination with my clients.

After much contemplation, I not only increased my prices, but stopped doing readings at psychic fairs altogether. I knew I needed to not only be willing to receive more compensation for my readings, but also be willing to give quality readings (readings that weren't just 20 minutes long). Once I took the brave step of increasing my prices, it felt like a weight had lifted. The readings I gave afterwards were even better in quality, and now I am able to help my clients on an even deeper level than before.

Another instance involves our move to Atlanta. Often times in a large move that involves big life changes, like moving from one state to another, we experience a lot of sacrifices in the process. I not only had an experience that helped reshape my identity right before the move, but my husband and I had to sell and throw away a lot of our stuff (we were downsizing).

Many transitions require a form of sacrifice, or letting go, so we can fully receive. After all, how can we take a present if our hands are full?

How to Better Give & Receive

Like I said in the beginning, the art of giving and receiving is about learning where your life is out of balance, and being willing to let go or ask for help in order to re-establish that balance.

If You're Needing to Receive Something...

Let go, simply put.

If you want to receive, you need to let go of something. If it's an emotional thing you need help with, release your worries to God and put your faith in Him. This means letting go again every time you think about it. Make it a habit to put your faith in Him and surrender. Make it a habit to release. This isn't as easy as it sounds, because it requires persistence—and faith. You'll be surprised at how much that indraws positivity in your life.

If it's physical (money, health, job, etc...) let go of physical things. Donate to an ethical charitable organization. When is the last time you've donated old clothes you haven't used in years? What about children's toys from years ago? Does your house need cleaning? Have a yard sale—or donate unused things to Goodwill. All of these actions create a vacuum—a space that allows you to indraw the energy you're looking for.

Other things to consider releasing are friends that no longer serve your highest good. There are countless times I have done readings for clients with abundance hanging over their heads, but the Universe restricts that because they have friends in their lives that are parasites. God/The Universe/Spirit has a tendency to refrain from giving abundance to people with energy vampires, because the abundance is a divine blessing—and not meant for people who would warp or taint it.

So if you're looking to move your life to the next level, inflect. What people do you need to release from your life? Who do you need to set better boundaries with? Limit phone calls and spending time with people who drain you. You have the right to be picky.

If You're Needing to be Better at Giving...

Humble yourself and receive.

I see empaths and moms especially can have a hard time with this. They're so used to giving, and then when they're drained they get frustrated, depressed, anxious and upset with themselves and others because they ran out of gas. Don't be afraid to ask for help. Take a salt bath, or a walk in nature. Ground yourself. Take a nap. Do something for yourself. If someone offers to help you, take them up on it. It's a sign from the Universe that it's time to receive.

This is especially true for empaths—the gentle warriors. They need to stay recharged and fill their own cup if they wish to truly help the world.

In Conclusion

Learn to balance how you give and receive—your Yin and Yang. Paying attention to how you are addressing these energies in your life will allow you to live more deeply, and have a balance on all levels. Understanding these energies takes time, but practice and patience will allow you to move freely between the Yin and Yang in your life—just like breathing.

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