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merakiui · 4 months

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yandere!malleus draconia x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, pregnancy, implied baby-trapping, captivity, very vague and slight implications of codependency, angst note - your mobile phone was at 100% when he took you away. with time, the percentage has diminished. so, too, does your hope for a brighter future.

The windowpane is spattered with rain.

Sitting cozy in a cushioned alcove, you watch the droplets slide down in regal rivulets, consolidating to form single streaks. The scenery beyond the window is bleak and dreary—a despondent landscape of gnarled, leafless trees and scratchy brambles stretching towards a dark, dismal sky. Sometimes you liken the rain to tears, wondering if Mother Nature weeps for all creatures or simply for you and your situation. Rare are the days in which the sun shines upon the craggy stone façade of your captor’s castle, and she is as benevolent as she is cruel.

For all of its sumptuous splendor, generational wealth filling the interior with priceless heirlooms and relics, it is an empty, cold structure. You’ve taken to enveloping yourself in thick furs, if only because these furs do not speak like the monster who so humbly offers his embrace. Though you’ve always considered yourself of strong, sturdy mind, your restraint is thinning. As the days pass and you shed clothing sizes like they’re second skins, you find yourself drawn to warmth.

Which is, ironically enough, contradictory to your current temperament. The windows, frigid like the grave, provide solace you cannot find anywhere else—for it is only tender warmth you receive from him. Had he not been so merciful, perhaps it would have been easier to shrink away and truly loathe him with every ounce of your being.

And yet, in order to escape the warmth which enshrouds, you seek the cold, bitter windows and their rain-weary countenance.

Lying beside you on the pillows, snoozing the afternoon away, a calico cat snores idly. She was a gift from him. You were neglectful of your mental health and thus, as per his guard’s suggestion, he sought to find a cat to cure your loneliness and inspire some form of happiness. You appreciate Silver—genuinely, you do—but the good luck a calico brings is not nearly enough to rescue you from captivity.

She was a stray, a scrawny thing with a limp and one bad eye. You took to her right away, scooping her up in your arms and lovingly naming her Cotton. Similarly, she returned your affections, rubbing her head against your palm and purring pleasantly.

Now she likes to nudge the dome that is your stomach, a great, round thing at only six months. Sometimes you think she’s more motherly than you are. You’ve never been able to care for much of anything. Plants wither under your touch, recipes spoil even when you follow them to the letter, and your electronics crack.

Your phone, more fractured than your very heart, is cold in your hands. The screen is blank; it’s dying. It was at 100% before. Now it’s been reduced to a sad 7%. There is no reception or connection to be had in Briar Valley. Your phone, once so powerful and all-knowing, is but a hollow shell. Useless. A digital photo album will expire at its final hour, and there’s no charger. He offered to use his magic to charge it, but he has never known his own strength and you couldn’t risk losing the treasured memories stored within.

Sometimes you’d return to old message logs and read through them. Now you can’t do that, lest you drain the battery quicker than intended.

“So this is where you’ve retreated,” Malleus notes, poking his head around the corner of a towering bookcase. Concern settles on his features. “Are you well? Sebek tells me you were absent for breakfast.” “I wasn’t hungry,” you mutter, watching his reflection through the stormy glass.

Malleus glances at Cotton and then at your phone as it rests in your clasp. “May I trouble you to eat just a little, if only some fruit?”

“I’m not hungry.” He nods, stalling. “Will you join me for lunch?”

“If I must.”

A small smile lifts his lips. “Are you cold? It can’t be very comfortable to sit there for such a long time. You’ll catch your death.”

“I hope.”

He tuts in disapproval and shrugs out of his cloak, draping it over you even though you’re already wearing a fleece robe. Malleus assesses you with a fleeting once-over.

“It doesn’t hurt to layer. You must understand where I’m coming from, dearest. Extreme temperatures serve to weaken those who are already so fragile.”

“I’m not fragile,” you snap, turning to scowl.

He doesn’t flinch at the heat smoldering in your eyes. “You’re human.”

“How many times did you have to practice that to come to terms with it?”

Malleus’s verdant stare narrows; his frown tightens. “It’s the truth.”

“I didn’t think you’d confront it.”

“I must if I’m to understand…” He exhales through his nose, deflating somewhat. “You’re in fine health. The physician tells me so. There’s no need to worry ourselves with ineffectual what-ifs.”

You turn your gaze on the sprawling forest next, unwilling to discuss the report and its subsequent conclusion: If she remains in good health and follows the recommended diet for an expecting mother, she’ll carry to term.

“My phone is dying, Malleus.”

“Is that not life? Lilia once said so.”

“My pictures… My everything is stored in this phone. It means so much to me.”

“Truly? Is there not a way to make physical copies of these photographs?”

“Unless Briar Valley has the technology to do so…”

“I’m afraid not.”

Malleus takes a daring step closer, endeavoring to comfort you. Cotton cracks her good eye open to peer at him. She hisses low in her throat, a protector standing small against something so tall. Pouting, clearly disheartened, Malleus heeds her warning and chooses to linger just within the bounds she deems acceptable.

“Yeah, that’s what I assumed.”

You heave a dejected sigh, your shoulders drooping. Seeking to cleanse your visual palate, you power the device on. 5% blinks back at you, an insignificant number sitting in a corner that you normally wouldn’t have paid much mind to. Now it weighs heavy, a reminder that the end is encroaching.

“I would’ve liked to keep these photos forever,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. Malleus hums his acknowledgement; you think he knows the feeling—or some variant of it, at least. “If I lose these pictures…”

“Do you not have memories?”

“I do, but it isn’t the same. One day I’ll grow old and my memory will be frail. I won’t remember nearly as much as I do now. Those memories will become ghosts and eventually I’ll—”

“You will not.” There’s a finality to the declaration—you won’t leave me; you won’t drain or die like this mobile device.

You rest your head against the window. The cool glass soothes your soul. I wonder what the others are up to right now… You place your hand upon your belly. I wonder if they’d have any good ideas for a name. I’m terrible at naming things. I can never pick something that feels right.

“I’d like to have a funeral for my phone.”

But maybe there is no right thing.

“Of course,” he agrees, perfectly serious. You will have that phone funeral, just as you will have every other request you make—however patently absurd it may seem. (Every other request except for freedom, of course.) “Materials may not have the same worth as a loved one, but the experiences they provide are just as valuable. Surely, no? Otherwise I would not feel so troubled when Roaring Drago…” Pausing to search for the placeholder, Malleus glances at your phone. “Perhaps there is no greater tragedy than existence itself.”

“It’s the most bittersweet burden,” you echo, scrolling through each picture with wistful remembrance. “But then I’d rather know the fleeting frivolity of life than endure hundreds of years of solitude. It makes me appreciate everything that much more.”

You stop at a picture of you and Malleus, a photo snapped by Lilia himself. Part of you often wonders why he chose you—why he adores you to such a degree when you, like everyone else, will inevitably perish. But therein lies the allure: That which is unobtainable is even more tempting. And because there is only one of you, a human destined to one day return to her home world, your very presence is more fleeting than a dream.

To Malleus, who has always dreamt, fond and fervent, of the unobtainable mundanity of normal life, you are a sweet, tangible blessing.

“Horns, do you think I’ll ever get another chance to have my phone at 100%?”

He softens under the nickname. It means more to him than his lofty station. “Would you like to know that joy?”

“It would be nice, yes, but then I’d just get sad when it reaches zero. I guess I should be grateful it’s stayed alive for this long. Sorry, it’s a stupid question. Just forget it.”

“Nonsense. There is no such thing.” He reaches to touch your cheek, but Cotton hisses again and so he refrains. She stands on unsteady legs and climbs into your lap, perching awkwardly in spite of your rounded belly. The sight draws a deep chuckle from him. “Your feline friend is quite taken with you.”

“It’s probably because I’m warm. She likes my belly a lot.”

“As do I.”

You roll your eyes.

“Your beauty is most beguiling. There’s a certain radiance to your person. It’s very charming. Do you not agree?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere—definitely not in Cotton’s good graces.”

“I’m simply voicing a fact.”

Your hand slides down from your stomach to pat Cotton. She purrs under your touch, and a weak approximation of a smile tugs at your lips. Amidst all of this sorrow, she is a glimmer of hope. In a way, she’s like you—a stray without a place in this world, snatched from the cobbles she once wandered and confined in a cage of royal opulence. Your similarities are striking, if not immensely devastating.

“Fact or not, I don’t care if I look pretty. It means nothing to me.”

“To be impartial towards appearances… Quite a noble mindset.”

I never once thought you were scary or strange, Horns. Even now.

You look at your phone once more. 3% flickers back.

You’re just lost, and in being lost you found me. But I was also lost. I never even belonged in this world to begin with…

“I’m not going to be a good mother.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can’t even take care of myself.”

“I shall care for you when you find yourself unable to.”

“I’d rather you not.”

With Cotton having curled on your lap, slumbering peacefully, Malleus chances to close the gap. His broad frame leans to make up for the difference in height, and he runs cold fingers along your cheek. He brushes away the tears you weren’t even aware you were shedding.

You grip your phone in shaky hands, your shoulders hunched. There’s a piercing ache in your chest, pain stabbing all the way through to your heart. It persists when you power it off, unable to delight in pictorial reminiscence for a moment longer. Silent like death, you sob; seismic dismay shudders through you in waves. Distantly, in a forgotten corner of your brain, you suspect this may be the last time you’ll ever use your phone. The last time you’ll ever look upon the photos you’ve amassed. Photos of friends, class notes, food. Photos snapped by mistake, blurry and unfocused. Photos taken when Ace and Grim stole your phone. Precious memories are preserved within the permanence of a photo album—an album that only remains everlasting so long as you keep your phone charged.

Your final shred of the world beyond Briar Valley vanishes in a blip, leaving you with the dark void that is an empty screen. Brutal is the agony, contorting your face, and you bawl like you’ve just witnessed the end of a life.

In a way, you have. You held it in the palm of your hands, and you watched it wither. Watched the percentages drop through numbers, double digits easing into singles. Watched every week and tried to spare your beloved phone of its fate. Watched and attempted to stall the impossible—a foolish undertaking. This was inevitable; you knew this, and yet you’re still mourning.

Perhaps that is the most tragic facet of existence. From the moment one is born, they are mourning. Humans mourn losing time—of allowing it to slip through their fingers when they should have put it to better use. Humans mourn aging even though it is celebrated yearly. Humans mourn for things that are inhuman—for robots stuck in an endless cycle of some menial task while gears grow rusted and systems shut down or trapped on a distant planet, never to return home. For the fruit that falls from trees and rots, trampled and forgotten. For the endings, good and bad, of novels. For art that will never see the light of day because it has been destroyed or stolen or silenced. For the friends they meet, have met, and will meet.

You mourn because you know it’s impending, and you spend all of your life coming to terms with it, only to break down when it finally happens because the truth of the matter is that you will never be prepared no matter how much you prepare yourself. You mourn because you’re a complex human with complex emotions, surviving in a complex world with millions of intricacies, and the only way to weather misery is to mourn.

To the little life cradled in your womb, who knows not of these difficulties yet, they cannot fathom the anguish that accompanies loss. And right now that is all you can hope for—a life without loss.

But that is impossible because loss is true to everyone’s experience. It is part of existence, and existence is inescapable.

Malleus does not gather you in his arms. He will do so if you ask, and he knows you want to ask, which is precisely why he waits. But you’re stubborn and you refuse to give in to the temptation, let alone grant him the satisfaction. It doesn’t offend him.

The windowpane is spattered with rain. So, too, is your phone, spotted with tears and snot.

Briefly, you wonder if you still look beautiful to Malleus.

Even at your ugliest, he would still cherish you. Desperately, as if he might lose you.

Knowing this does not soften the gutting grief.

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere malleus draconia #yandere malleus x reader #yandere malleus draconia x reader #yandere malleus

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trolls-with-tails · 3 months

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Wanderer's Lullaby (The Black Falcon Sneak Peek)

By the time John Dory finished the last remainders of his chores for the day, a quick glance at the quietly ticking clock on the kitchen wall was enough to startle the revelation into him that the hour had long since dwindled away into the night.

Sloughing off the sticky, sudsy remnants of dish soap from his arms and hands under the warm water of the tap, the boy looked away from the clock, disturbed by how quickly time had slipped him by. Today had felt like a blur of bustling mechanically about, and when he tried to reach into the recesses of his mind to recall how exactly he went about the day, the voids in his memory that greeted him were…concerning, to say the least. But it certainly wasn’t unfamiliar; not at this point in his life.

In fact, ever since his band with his brothers accelerated in fame, so, too, did the weight of expectations and responsibilities grow heavier upon John Dory’s shoulders, and most days, it was enough to nearly bring him to the cusp of suffocating. Even so, he knew in his heart that he could not break, could not falter, lest he risk the foundations of everything his brothers deserved and more crumbling under their feet.

After all, John Dory was the eldest. His brothers’ protector. Their primary guardian when Grandma Rosiepuff’s health failed her and the cruel hand of fate tore their parents away from them. John Dory had to be everything for his family. John Dory had to be perfect, and nothing less.

The sound of distant laughter is what mercifully pulled him from the dark, downward spiral of his thoughts, and John Dory couldn’t help but smile, tired but fond all the same, as he tucked the last few plates back into the cabinet before padding lightly down the hallway, towards his brothers’ shared room. As he went along, he took a moment to study the many photographs hanging on the wall in frames of polished wood, and here, in the shadows cast by the night, laying out a shrouded veil over the world, captured moments of sweet family memories didn’t appear so innocent now, leering down at him through the darkness with unblinking eyes and unwavering smiles.

It wasn’t the first time John Dory wondered if he deserved to belong in these photographs, and he ducked his head low and continued his trek in uneasy silence, determined to not allow his head to cloud over again. He had his fill of enough stormy thoughts lately.

Passing by the shut door to Grandma Rosiepuff’s bedroom, where his keen ears could pick up on the muffled sound of her snoring softly away, the oldest BroZone member rounded the corner of the corridor, and, upon opening the door, was met with a sight beyond the threshold of the space he shared with his brothers that had him ready to tie all of his siblings into one big knot.

Leaning against the doorframe, John Dory planted a hand on his hip, his tail twitching by his ankles. “Anyone wanna tell me why you’re all up and out of bed, at twelve o’clock, on a school night?” Pausing to take in the fact that little Branch was in on the scheme and nowhere near his crib like he should be, he vehemently added, “And what in the name of music are you guys doing with Bitty B? I put him down for bed at eight!”

They were all clustered together around an unruly spread of colored paper, pencils, crayons, glue, and scissors, and a million thoughts as to what could possibly be so important about the setup that it had them long neglecting their bedtime flooded John Dory all at once. Did they procrastinate on a project and were now racing to make up for lost time? Was it a gift to the pretty girl that always waved and smiled at Spruce on the way to school? Or could it be they were working on a new album cover?

Before the questions could leave his mouth, Clay broke the ensuing silence with a groan, dropping the pair of scissors he’d been holding haphazardly against a pile of paper scraps. “Great. We’ve been busted, boys.”

“Only ‘cause you wouldn’t shut your big trap,” Spruce shot back, narrowing his eyes before returning to his task of diligently sprinkling glitter over swirls of glue, making a point of not looking his older brother in the eye and ignoring Clay’s indignant quailing.

Floyd, who was sitting with Branch in his lap, both of their cheeks decorated in a variety of colorful stickers, was the only one who had enough sense to look ashamed, sheepishly bouncing his giggling baby brother on his knee. “Sorry, JD. We were just…uh…” Wincing, he aimed a pleading glance in Clay’s direction, rewarded only with a mere shrug.

Spruce sighed, redirecting his focus from his work to sit back on his haunches and peel at a patch of drying glue on his palm. This time, he dared to meet the expectant gaze of BroZone’s eldest member, still leaning in the doorway and pinning them with his eyes like insects to a board, and there was resignation in the way his shoulders slumped and his ears drooped. “Alright, alright, guess it’s up to me to spill.” Steepling his fingers together in what JD assumed was an effort to save face, the purple-haired troll continued, “We were working on your present for tomorrow, Johnny.”

John Dory blinked slowly. A present? Tomorrow? For what? Brain spinning with questions, he was about to ask his brothers of such, when the epiphany struck him like a bolt of lightning.

His birthday was tomorrow.

By all the trolls, how could I forget that?

Remembering himself, John was quick to wipe away any traces of bewilderment from his expression, silently praying that none of his siblings spotted it. He had no doubt in his mind that his brothers would get on his case if they so much as suspected that his forgetfulness was attributed to his tendency to work himself to the bone, and the mere thought of his younger siblings catching a glimpse of the cracked, faulty John Dory that was behind the fortified wall of steel that was his confident, perfect persona was enough to send his stomach twisting into tight knots. It was not their job to shoulder their eldest brother’s problems; that burden was his and his alone, and he was determined to carry it with him into the grave and well into whatever afterlife was merciless enough to welcome him, so long as it meant that his beloved family never had to shed a tear in his favor. Enclosed by the Bergens at all times, there were more important, pressing matters worth crying about, and John Dory feeling a little overworked was not one of them, of this he was certain.

So on the flawless, impenetrable mask went, and John Dory straightened up from his spot against the doorframe and smiled like he knew the important date was coming up all along, like his memories and sense of time weren’t addled and misplaced from countless nights with little to no shut eye and numerous days spent tiring away at the grindstone of routine, of chipping away at his responsibilities until he’d dug himself somewhere deep and dark.

“You guys didn’t have to get me anything,” he insisted, but even so, his eyes couldn’t help but trail curiously over to what looked like a scrapbook on the floor, bound with black leather and white string and stuffed to the gills with vibrant paper. “Just making you all happy is enough of a birthday gift for me.”

Clay snorted. “Quit your babbling and take it, JD. I sustained battle scars over this.” He wiggled his bandaged fingers for emphasis.

“What Clay means to say,” Floyd cut in, but not before shooting the yellow-haired troll a meaningful glare, “is that while we know we didn’t have to give you anything for your birthday, we wanted to.” He offered his older brother a warm smile, which Branch giggled at, his small, pudgy hands reaching up to tug on the corners of his mouth.

Spruce nodded, a look in his eye that John Dory found himself nervous to fully interpret, something far too knowing and searching in that gaze of his. Was he catching on to his inner turmoil? By the trolls, JD internally pleaded that that was not the case, but his younger sibling continued to eye him in that strange, studying way before he addressed him next. “Exactly. You’ve been working really hard lately, and we wanted to give you something to show our appreciation.” Pausing to pick up a discarded bottle of glue from off the floor, he went on, “We were hoping to give it to you in the morning, but it turns out we weren’t as discreet about this as we thought. So, I guess we could add the last few details and give it to him now, right, guys?”

Clay and Floyd nodded in collective agreement, and it was the pink-haired troll who readjusted Branch in his lap and reached over him to make a grab for the scrapbook lying on the carpet, instructing John not to peek before adding the final finishing touches, the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration.

Once the present was declared complete and John Dory was allowed to open his eyes again, he watched as all of his brothers– minus Bitty B, who leisured in Floyd’s cradled arms and blew a raspberry at the eldest BroZone member when he looked his way– made to stand and approached him with Spruce at the head, holding out the leather-bound book with a sheepish tint to his cheeks.

“Happy birthday, JD,” his brothers chorused, softly so as to not rouse Grandma from her slumber down the hall.

Something inside John Dory’s chest swelled to the brim and tightened, but it was not the cold, prickly sensation of dread he had become so accustomed to. It was a warm, blooming feeling, one that spread in tingly ripples all throughout his arms, down to the tips of his fingers, and he swallowed hard so as to not choke on the intensity of it as he reached for his present with forcibly stilled hands.

I don’t deserve this, murmured the downtrodden voice in his head that he had endured for as long as he could remember, one not so easily quashed even after all these years of dealing with it, and such a feat continued to ring true as he looked down at the scrapbook in his grasp, crafted with every intention of being granted to him, of appreciating him, of him earning it. I just do what any other big sibling would do. It’s nothing special.

After all, why would John Dory, ever the imperfect troll, deserve any sort of praise, when it was his brothers who were shining examples of what perfection should be?

Still, for all his grievances, there was little keeping him from sweeping a tender hand down the scrapbook’s spine, quietly taking in the details that his brothers spent the night toiling away on, pouring every ounce of their blood, sweat, tears, and dedicated hearts into something they believed their older brother had earned. On the cover, using the stickers of themselves that were a part of their new merchandise line, cutesy decals of his brothers’ heads were lined up in a neat box formation, with himself being placed in the center. Spirals and zig-zags of glue shone with glitter all throughout, drawn neatly and artfully around each sticker, and John had to blink hard around the threat of tears in his eyes and braced himself as he opened the scrapbook.

The sight that greeted him beyond the cover was nearly enough to break the dam restraining the waterworks right then and there. Each page he leafed through not only had Clay’s neat handwriting, Floyd’s skilled doodles, and Spruce’s painstaking paper craftsmanship, it was filled to the brim with photos upon photos of the childhood memories they made together, even pictures predating the formation of BroZone.

The first time he held Spruce’s egg; Clay learning how to do a handstand; themselves and Grandma Rosiepuff posing by a snowman they’d rolled up and decorated together; a portrait of their parents smiling with their hands lovingly clasped together; Floyd gazing fondly at a sleeping Branch in his arms; himself and his brothers all dressed up for a fashion show that they put on for Grandma; Spruce and Clay out cold on the couch together after they challenged each other to a dance-off and both stubbornly refused to give in to the point of exhaustion… It was all here, the reason he woke up every morning to fight another day, the happy moments he poured every fiber of his being into to ensure they never ended, fitted together so carefully and lovingly in this scrapbook, and it was made with the belief that he deserved the thought and care put into it.

He blinked hard, and was barely given a moment to realize that a tear managed to slip through before he was being bombarded, finding himself encircled within the embrace of all of his brothers, the very people he would conquer the world for if the moment called for it.

“D’you like it?” Floyd was the first to speak, reaching up to brush away the stray teardrop rolling down his older brother’s cheek, his smile kind but nervous, as if he believed there was a universe where John Dory would reject something so precious, something so perfect.

“Do I like it?” John echoed incredulously, a wet chuckle escaping him against his better judgment. Drying his eyes with the back of his hand, he slung his arms around his siblings and pulled them in closer, hoping that the action alone could pour out every ounce of gratitude and love that the gift stirred within him, a swell of emotions that not even his lyrically-trained mind could put to words. “Guys, I love it! Gosh, it’s…it’s perfect. Thank you guys so, so much, this is already the best birthday ever!”

“Slow your roll there, pal,” Clay piped up from where he was nestled snugly against the older troll’s side, but the grin he wore betrayed his amusement, his eyes warm and fond. “The party barely even started!”

They lingered like that for what felt like ages, basking in each other’s company and the affectionate embrace that tied them together, and it was only when John Dory became aware of the ticking of the clock in the kitchen amidst the silence did he remember how late it was, his eyes flying open with a start.

“Again, thank you guys for the amazing birthday gift, but by all the trolls, have you seen what time it is?” JD quailed, regretfully wrangling himself out of the group hug to nudge his brothers in the directions of their respective beds. Thankfully, he was met with minimal protests for his prodding, as it quickly became apparent that spending their time working on an arts-and-crafts project instead of resting up for school was taking its toll, if the way they rubbed their drooping eyes and succumbed to long, exaggerated yawning fits was of any indication.

Clay clambered his way up onto the top bunk, and Spruce fell onto the mattress underneath John Dory’s, landing face-first onto his pillow.

Waiting until Floyd was seated at the edge of his bed to take Branch from his tiring arms, JD turned and was about to lay their baby brother down in his crib, when a hand catching him by the elbow halted him in his tracks. He blinked slowly and turned around to fix his younger brother with a curious stare, his intrigument only increasing when he was met with a bashful expression.

Realizing he now had the older troll’s attention, Floyd relinquished his hold on his brother’s arm in favor of picking at the tuft on his tail, diverting his gaze to the mess of art supplies scattered on the ground like it suddenly became the most interesting sight in the world. “Uh, I know I might be a little old for this, but I was thinking…” He hesitated, brows pinching in as he seemed to mull it over, until eventually, he decided whatever it was that he was going to say would be worth it and proceeded on, “D’you think you could sing that old lullaby you sometimes sing to Bitty B? You…you haven’t sung it in a while, and I miss it.”

Floyd’s soft-spoken words reached into John Dory’s chest with deceptively cruel talons and squeezed his heart without mercy, and it took all of his willpower to stifle the wince threatening to pull at his face. God, it had been a while, hadn't it? Foggy as his brain was nowadays, JD could still recall in perfect detail the nights he spent singing the very song Floyd wished to hear to all of his brothers, a melody passed down to him from his parents when he himself was a little tyke, one he continued to pay forward through his siblings in the hopes it would grant them the same sense of peace and security that it gave him. The realization that, in lieu of his ever-increasing duties, Branch was the most unfortunate out of his siblings to have heard the lullaby the least was nothing short of agonizing, for more often than not did John Dory find himself passing out as soon as his head hit the pillow lately. It didn’t occur to him until now that Branch might not be the only one missing out on the familiar song, too.

Some brother you are, that icy voice from before nagged at him again, and John Dory raced to prove it wrong. It was the least he could do after receiving a gift so special from his brothers; if anyone deserved everything they desired and more, it was his family, and the eldest member of BroZone was quick to hold up his end of the bargain.

“Of course I can,” JD replied with a too-bright smile, and before Floyd had a chance to read too far into it, he turned on the ball of his heel and padded past the messy floor– he’d wake up early to clean it up come the morning– towards the rocking chair that Grandma Rosiepuff would read stories to them from, sitting down and making sure Branch was settled securely in his arms. His eyelids felt as if they were being weighed down by lead, and his head felt heavier than a boulder, but despite his own exhaustion trying to drag him down into the depths with it, he persisted, determination to do right by his brothers guiding his voice into the soft, tranquil notes that his heart knew like the back of his hand.

“Wandering child of the earth, Do you know just how much you're worth? You have walked this path since your birth, You were destined for more…”

In an instant, Floyd’s sheepish demeanor melted away, his posture dissolving into something loose and relaxed as he allowed himself to settle against his mattress, wriggling his way under the covers and sinking into the pillow with a contented sigh.

“There are those who'll tell you you're wrong, They will try to silence your song, But right here is where you belong, So don't search anymore…”

Spruce didn’t move much even as the song started up, and for a moment, John Dory suspected that he had already fallen asleep, when the purple-haired troll proved him wrong by moving his head so he could watch the performance through heavily-lidded eyes, a pleased little smile curling his lip.

“You are the dawn of a new day that's waking, A masterpiece still in the making, The blue in an ocean of gray, You are right where you need to be, Poised to inspire and to succeed, You'll look back and you'll realize one day…”

Cradled securely in his older brother’s arms, Branch could only stare up at him in wide-eyed wonder for so long until sleep came to claim him, sticking his thumb into his mouth as his eyelids slid closed.

“In your eyes there is doubt, As you try to figure it out, But that's not what life is about, So have faith, there's a way. Though the world may try to define you, It can't take the light that's inside you, So don't you dare try to hide, Let your fears fade away…”

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Clay peering at him drowsily over the edge of the top bunk, his head nodding off as he fought against the tempting pull of sleep in an effort to hear the rest of the song through. However, in the end, his body’s demands won out, and his head dropped heavily into his pillow. Still, JD carried on, something strangely cathartic about returning to a song long since left to collect dust.

Careful not to disturb Bitty B from his slumber, John Dory slowly rose up from the old rocking chair and inched lightly towards the crib, easing him down with a kiss pressed to his forehead for good measure.

Confident that all of his brothers were asleep by now, the teal-haired troll carried on to lay a kiss across the foreheads of each and every one of them, a ritual he never quite grew out of, even when the others themselves grew older. His heart warm and full for the first time in what must’ve been ages, JD flicked off the light and quietly crept up the ladder to his own bed, the final notes of the lullaby pouring out of him as he laid his weary body to rest, the scrapbook his brothers made for him carefully tucked away under the safety of his pillow.

“You are the dawn of a new day that's waking, A masterpiece still in the making, The blue in an ocean of gray, You are right where you need to be, Poised to inspire and to succeed, Soon you'll finally find your own way.”

Welcoming the darkness that greeted him from behind his eyelids, John Dory’s last thought before the shadowed veil of sleep wrapped around him flickered through his mind:

For as long as me and my brothers are together…we’re perfect.

(Song included is Wanderer's Lullaby by Adriana Figueroa)

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