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ghosts-and-glory · 3 months

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Some Narinder character analysis for y’all.

This is a slightly re-edited excerpt from a much longer post of mine where I was specifically trying to provide a rebuttal to someone else. I’m kinda proud of some of my takes here and the write up took me hours so I’m gonna repost it here on its own.

I’m going into specifically into Narinder’s

Speech patterns and way of expressing emotions.

Implications of his post defeat dialogue

Relationship with Aym and Baal

Feelings on Ratau’s death

And a little extra on why do we “babygirl” Narinder

Full analysis under the cut.

The way Narinder expresses his positive feelings

First I gotta establish Narinder’s voice. Narinder seems almost incapable of giving a genuine compliment especially without turning it into something about himself.

Here’s three examples of him giving a complement to The Lamb. Taken from after defeating Amdusias and Shamura. He also complements The Lamb when you sacrifice Ratau but I’ll come back around to that.

I wanted to grab the entire quotes so it didn’t look like I was nitpicking.

"Very good, my vessel. It seems I chose well when I kept you from Death.”

First example, “very good,” is the complement, but immediately after he takes credit for this by calling you “my vessel” thereby claiming ownership over you. His vessel did well. And again “I chose well” doubled down and complemented himself.

“I admit, you have worn it (the red crown) almost as well as I could have myself.”

Again we see the complement layered in ego. “Almost as well as I” in other words you did well, but don’t forget I’m better. Also important to draw attention to is “I admit” this is a very explicit statement of his refusal to acknowledge the success of others.

"Your appetite for death is something I can admire, Vessel. But the Crown is mine, and none - NONE - are worthy. None other than I.”

Here he almost lays down a complement. “Your appetite for death is something I can admire” straight up, states his admiration. He seems to almost realize what he’s done and quickly pulls back into his ego, “But the crown is mine” “-none are worthy- None other than I.”

These are the three of the four ONLY times that Narinder ever says anything explicitly positive about someone else when he is a god. Thus establishing that the head ass cannot give out a compliment to save his life. The one time he gives you full credit for your actions he immediately pulls right back into his ego.

I cannot stress this enough. Someone who is characterized as cold and emotionally closed off as Narinder is WILL NOT suddenly undo this characteristic when they try and express a positive feeling.

Okay with that established we can look at his follower dialogue. Specifically these two examples from when you resurrect a follower and allow him to go on a mission.

“I cannot begrudge supplantation by one such as yourself.”

Literally saying I don’t resent you for taking my place. It’s not an explicit statement that he respects you but this is he weird fucked up little way of saying it. Of course he still lays it out in a way that’s self centred but we know from the way he has spoken that this is about as much verbal praise he is capable of giving.

The other one is a less explicit statement but I think it’s a interesting reflection of the final place of his character.

“…my thanks, Lamb.”

Being his last bit of unique dialogue, it’s an incredible ending to a character. He thanks you. That’s all he needed to say.

Narinder’s reaction to his defeat that he would rather die.

Let’s go over his dialogue in some depth.

"You weak, snivelling, foul thing. You - wait! Waaaiiiiiit!"

I’m starting with this line as it compels me the most. I find that there are two separate readings of this and I can’t really point to one above the other. On my play through I had assumed his wailing was more in reference to being denied death. It could also be read as him not wanting to be reduced to a follower and realizing what your mercy really means for his future.

“-are you to be a vengeful false idol, or a merciful coward? No longer can you blame your vile acts on me."

Okay, looking at the way he presents your two options he seems to push more for the murder action. “-vengeful false idol,” is how he refers to murder. It’s not exactly a glowing review but his use of the word vengeful is important. We know that one of Narinder’s main goals in the game is revenge, we he already acts with revenge I can’t say that he’s using this word as an insult. The false idol part of this statement seems like he’s attempted to separate himself from you, again for is ego.

Then he presents the spare option by calling you a “merciful coward.” The flow of this full sentence puts more pressure on this option. He presents it as the “or” the second option. This is the bad option, the option of a coward.

“So. vou are no different to me after all. You have become as I am."

I know this is a deranged order to go over these quotes but last we got murder. Compared to his spare dialogue this is incredibly sombre. We know from already establishing how big his ego is that saying you are the same as him is almost a compliment. I do find this dialogue incredibly interesting tho, I can’t exactly explain why but I can’t help but read this as damning as well. It’s like he means it in both ways, the ultimate fuck you. You are just as I am, for better and worse.

But from what we know about Narinder his edgy ass cannot express emotion. He wraps his statements in layers of irony and selfishness. Unless it supports the persona he puts on or inflates his ego he WILL NOT right out state his feelings or needs, especially when he was a chained god.

Relationship with Aym and Baal

Aym and Baal are incredibly hard to characterize. They don’t have much dialogue to work off of and only three characters every speak on them, Shamura, Narinder and Forneus. The context of the game does present them as more Narinder’s first (and second) hand, less followers more apprentices, almost, but where’s the fun in assuming.

"Intended as keepers, perhaps, but they were young and in need of guidance. Must I be blamed for my influence?"

I wanna draw attention to the specific wording of keepers. Again, based on the way Narinder speaks its safe to assume he means the formal meaning of a keeper, meaning a caretaker. It is unclear if Narinder was told they where his keepers or if he assumed so, but either way he still speaks on them as such.

For the sake of argument (and I don’t wanna rewrite this bit entirely) I’m gonna put the idea that Narinder brainwashed Aym and Baal against my presented idea of them being his keepers or apprentices.

The proposed idea of the brainwashing angle can be developed based on Narinder saying that “they where young and in need of guidance, must I be blamed for my influence.” This implies that, as much as Aym and Baal may have been sent as keepers, they where still young and Narinder could not help but be an influence on them. I am gonna come back around to this thread so hold onto this for a moment. Moving on.

“Two kits I did have, true love found! And yet one lackadaisy summer day, my beautiful children were taken away... a gift, they said, for the one they loved most, the one that waits...”

“Ooh, kits... I remember, I remember... two kits in my claws... a gift.."

It is unclear and morally dubious how Aym and Baal came to Narinder. First we’re not 100% where Narinder is chained. The wiki lists it as the afterlife and in dialogue Narinder refers to it as “at the gates between this life and the next, trapped at the nexus of what was and what wasn't.” (When he asks you to send him on a mission.) We can travel there both by dying and being summoned there by him.

Either way the assumption is that Aym and Baal had to die. (As an aside I have my own speculation on the conditions required for a person to be presented to Narinder or to be resurrected but that’s off topic.) The horrific implications being that either Shamura themself killed the kits or that they where already dying. However you cannot blame the reaper for ushering the dead away from life.

I’m going to work off of the cult specific definition and characteristics of brainwashing. It’s hard to characterize where Aym and Baal sit here as, again they have little dialogue and due to the nature of brainwashing it’s hard to spot. First I wanna grab my brainwashing resources.

I’m using Encyclopedia Britannica’s page on brainwashing, cults, indoctrination, manipulation as my primary resourse.

Again I kinda wanna apply a layer of irony to how literally I apply real life tragedy to this game that obviously uses cults in a comedic manner. I wanna focus in on the characteristics displayed by victims of brainwashing and the techniques used in brainwashing by an abuser.

Looking at the elements used in brainwashing the only one I can say off the bat that is present is isolation, obviously. But with that let’s grab all of Aym and Baal’s dialogue.

What is clear from their dialogue is their obedience to Narinder. They call him master while his keepers and still when you meet them later when adventuring. And physically we do see them by Narinder’s side the entire main game and they fight the Lamb first. But if we add some nuance and look at their role as keepers or my own theory of being apprentices both actions of obedience make sense still for those roles. On the same note they also don’t display traits you would expect for someone fully under Narinder’s control. They speak to the Lamb out of turn and attack without prompting from Narinder.

Other characteristics are hard to imply. With torture I do want to pass it off an unlikely as based on the way Narinder tries to manipulate the Lamb it’s only verbal and he cannot attack while chained and I don’t see that changing with the keepers. Traits like sleep, water and food deprivation can’t be applied for various reasons (mostly the being dead one) and we don’t know anything about Narinder and the keeper’s interactions in the past so I’ll have to disregard other traits like suggestion.

Baal: "It's you. Usurper of the Red Crown. The one who freed us."

Aym: "Ha! You are nothing compared to our Master. We have not been in this world long, but already I can tell you are weak. You lack discipline. Our Master wielded Death with precision and control. You allow chaos to reign."

Baal: "What my brother means to say is thank you."

Moving onto groupthink I can pretty comfortably say that this is not a present characteristic of Aym and Baal. In their limited dialogue we can easily characterize Aym as more outwardly defensive of Narinder but Baal is more reserved and even contradicts Aym and is able to speak freely of Narinder.

Looping back around to the way Narinder speaks on his influence on Aym and Baal. Again we know how Narinder speaks, he cannot give honest compliments and dodges affection like it’s a professional sport. With the way he will outright tell the Lamb to manipulate followers and then uses the words “guidance” and “influence” about Aym and Baal, he has to be avoiding admitting affection to the keepers. He does follow that up with “Do what you wish, scornful God. I care not for them.” But again does Forneus not also allow her kits to do as they wish?

My own reading of Narinder’s relation to Aym and Baal is that of mentorship but it could also be read as parental. But saying brainwashed is a big stretch.

His feelings on the death of Ratau

This is like another example of like, yeah, wow, an evil character does evil? Who could’ve possibly foreseen this? Sarcasm aside I do see his comments on this being a lesser evil.

First I do have to ask why, if Narinder held strong sense of unrest against his former vessel, did he not have him struck down? The main reason I can see is that Ratau is still devoted to the red crown, most clearly seen by the statue at the lonely shack which generates devotion.

Second, Ratau’s death isn’t on his hands, it’s on yours. I find his pride here is from The Lamb’s actions not the death of Ratau. You killed your mentor, he describes your actions as “treacherous opportunism” and says “A great Vessel takes their master's will as their own.” Based on his later dialogue this is likely more foreshadowing the Lamb becoming as Narinder is. Narinder tried to kill his siblings, and you did kill your mentor. “You have become as I am."

I’m gonna tangent quickly cause there’s a line here that is incredibly interesting.

"He renounced his position after striking a bargain that resulted in the sacrifice of a Follower. He was weak."

Incredibly interesting the way he condemns Ratau’s sacrifice of a follower. Narinder directly contradicts himself. It is implied that the follower was lost to another being that did not benefit Narinder, but the Lamb also sacrifices followers to the Fox and Midas. Just something to chew on.

Why do we “babygirl” Narinder and other evil characters?

This is kinda the last bit I’m gonna get into before I cap this off. It is incredibly funny for me to say “I babygirl Narinder” only to get a reply that’s like “I don’t think you babygirl him on purpose.” But I wanna talk about why this happens and why it happened to specifically Narinder.

When people complain about the fandom interpretation of Narinder I think they forget the tone of cult of the lamb. The closest thing I could think to call it would be a dark comedy kinda energy.

The game has very dark themes going on. Mentions of real horrible things like genocide, cults and religious abuse. But also just like look at the game, it’s visual style is so cute and non threatening, the bird characters have two mouths to commit to the bit. If you look at the way it depicts cults it’s very surface level, it’s more focused on being a satire on the common satanic media kinda look of a cult. Visually it bathes in its aesthetics, taking names from books like The Lessee Key of Solomon, uses villainous depictions of symbols like the pentagram or old Hebrew script, disregarding its nuanced origins.

And then they go onto do the funniest thing ever. The other bishop’s? Gross little freaks, based on commonly disliked animals, worm, frog, squid and spider. And then- and then they make the god of death, who they characterize and manipulative and evil, they make him a catboy. You cannot tell me they did not know what they where doing.

Why have I shot Narinder with the babygirl beam? CAUSE THE GAME DID IT FIRST!

I’m gonna call the god of death my little meow meow and point out his status as a Tumblr sexy man cause he’s a little guy and I wanna give him head scritches. But I’m also gonna call him a layered, fucked up and an incredibly interesting character in the same breath.

#my post #cotl #cult of the lamb #cotl narinder #cult of the lamb narinder #cotl the one who waits #cult of the lamb the one who waits #character analysis #Malachi Why?

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popatochisssp · 6 months

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Would it be too much to ask what kind of jobs the new skeles might have since you already shared bram would be a groundskeeper at a cemetery?

Looks like I never officially did this one for Wave 2, just Wave 1 over here.

So, while we’re at it, let's do 2 and 3!

Ash (Undergloom Sans): He’s semi-unemployed, or self-employed depending on how you look at it. He busks, playing his trombone out on the street and accepting donations from anyone who feels so inclined. He likes playing music and the idea of brightening peoples’ days in the middle of their commute, so the money doesn’t really matter to him. Sometimes he picks up small gigs at local venues, mostly by word of mouth, and eventually he breaks into the tutoring scene—teaching his favorite instrument to young aspiring musicians who find the same joy in it that he does.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): He works as a professor at the local community college, teaching anthropology. He’s passionate about the subject and can’t think of anything he’d rather do than share it with a classroom of humans who probably have no idea how interesting they really are. If only one student walked away from his class with a new appreciation for what humanity’s all about then he’s fulfilled—but he tends to send a lot more away with that than just one, since he’s a very popular, friendly, and accessible teacher.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): He’s self-employed, knitting blankets at home and selling them online. He doesn’t need a job at all, between the Queen and his brother, money’s not an issue, but he’d go crazy if he didn’t have something to do all day, and nobody wants to see what he looks like when he goes crazy. He takes commissions often, but other times he just makes things according to whatever he’s feeling and what color yarn he has handy and sells to whoever feels like buying it.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): He works as a physical therapist. He more or less taught himself to walk again after losing his leg, and a second time after getting a replacement, so he very personally understands the need that exists for people who are injured and want to get back to their normal life—but maybe lack the discipline, the knowledge, or the tools to take that journey solo. He’s hard on his patients and sadistically merciless, but his success rate in terms of mobility recovered is very high and any complaints after the fact are begrudging at worst.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): He’s a home baker, making cakes and small pastries for a small but growing client base. He likes the freedom of getting to pursue his passions seriously and to be his own boss, set his own hours, screen his own clients, et cetera. He puts a lot of time and care into what he makes, both in terms of flavor and decoration, and finds nothing quite so satisfying as a repeat customer or a glowing review and recommendation to someone new.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): Freelance programming is what he does for cash. It was something he could both learn how to do and actually do remotely, without the need for more than the bare minimum of in-person contact. He likes problem-solving, and complaining about the problem-solving, and the field is pretty much always in demand so if he’s bored of certain kinds of jobs, or sick of the person giving him the jobs, he can jump ship at any time and be a contractor someplace else.

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): He’s a boxer, more amateur than pro so he doesn’t make a ton doing it, at least not consistently, but he likes fighting and draws in a decent crowd by being a bit of a spectacle (a blind skeleton in the ring) so the entertainment value is worth something. Aside from that, eventually, he fills in for his brother as a combination business partner/agent/accountant, helping him get jobs and keep clients and manage the money he makes doing so.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): He’s unemployed for a long while, but ultimately breaks into professional photography, with a specialty in travel photographs. He likes taking pictures and getting to see the world in the process, and it helps that it’s a family business so he and his brother have pretty much full control over what jobs he takes and for how much. He doesn’t really concern himself with the money numbers, though, he just likes filling out his portfolio with gorgeous locales all around the world.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): He does a lot of odd jobs, all over the place, generally (things that are considered) unskilled labor—bussing tables, janitorial work, desk clerking, that kind of thing. He doesn’t like the thought of getting too stuck into any one thing and being unable to try something else out later if it doesn’t work out, and there’s something to be said for the satisfaction of being closely connected to the results of your labor. Sometime down the line he will end up sticking in one career, as a dealer for a casino, because it combines his social, charming nature with his sharp eye and quick hands, but until then he’s happy to bounce around.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): He’s a bookkeeper at a nondescript company. He’s organized and thorough with record-keeping and double-checking data, and he likes putting those skills to use to make sure his employer’s finances and transactions all balance out at the end of the day. Some might find it boring work and he could almost certainly qualify for a much more ‘prestigious’ job doing something else, but he’s satisfied having a job that doesn’t require all of his effort and brainpower, so he can save some of that for his personal life and private interests.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): He’s a nomad, a wanderer, he has no job. He’s a robot in the shape of a monster—ostensibly still a monster, even so—in a world full of humans that as yet believe monsters don’t exist, so even if he wanted a job, getting one would be logistically difficult. Luckily, he feels no special need to be gainfully employed and just spends his time wandering around and taking in the world. If he needs something, he’ll either just take it or use one of his brother’s accounts to pay for it.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): He’s a performer, a disc jockey who mixes, makes, and plays music to crowds at clubs, raves, and discos, anywhere he’s welcome. He takes advantage of the perception of his holographic form as an artist’s gimmick, like Daft Punk, Hatsune Miku, dead musicians projected onto stages to play posthumously… In his defense, that last one is sort of exactly what he is, except he didn’t really start making music until after he died. Still, he has fun doing it and adores the fame he’s steadily gaining as a popular, cutting-edge technology music act.

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): He does aura readings for people. For those interested to know, he shares his perception of their colors and the flow of energy in and around them, and just generally describes the sense he gets about a person. What he does is really more of a soul read than an aura read, so a lot of the color meanings and terminology he uses contrast with the kind of readings his clients may get from humans who practice something a little bit different. Still, he’s earnest in his desire to help people understand themselves and their energies and emotions, so he gets a lot of recommendations and repeat clientele who trust he’s the real deal.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): He works as an event planner, organizing gatherings, arranging vendors, booking venues, the whole nine. He has a great reputation for making things go smoothly and always seems to be able to talk out bumps and snags before they ever become a major problem. He also maintains great relationships with people in the industry and delights in having connections just about everywhere in case he needs to call on a favor to make something happen for a client. He's got the magic touch and the silver (gold) tongue that makes everything fall into place just so.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): He works as a clerk at a pawn shop. He gets to handle a lot of interesting items and assess roughly how much they’d be worth, and he’s pretty good at haggling and negotiating with people who might not agree with said assessments. Sometimes people will come in with broken stuff they wouldn’t be able to get too much for, but maybe he can cut ‘em a deal, fix it up on his own dime and if they come back for it, great—and if they don’t, his boss’ll be happy to have something that works to sell to somebody else at a markup, how ‘bout it? He does a brisk business and both sides of the counter love him.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): He’s in construction. He’s huge, strong, takes direction well, and diligently follows rules and protocols—he’s an ideal fit for it. He likes to work hard and be able to see a job come together, knowing he had a part in it and being satisfied with the quality of his contribution. He especially likes to take every safety training and equipment certification course he can attend because he likes knowing what the rules are and being specifically told how certain procedures are run, machines operated, et cetera. He’s very likely to be apprenticed in as a foreman if not the inheritor someday of the construction business by its current owner for his work ethic and dedication, but that’ll be a long ways from now.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): He works as an independent auditor and combs through companies’ records, internal and external documentation, processes, and accounting and ensures everything is being done in accordance with industry standards. In short, he shows up, demands to see everything they have, and looks through it to see if they’ve lied, did something wrong, or lost information they weren’t supposed to. Sometimes he can do this remotely but other times he has to travel out to a physical office somewhere and sit down with a bunch of stuffed file cabinets, and he really doesn’t mind either way. He likes the work and he’s good at it—maybe because he’s good at it—and he finds it satisfying to catch the tiniest little misses and errors to demand an accounting of them.

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus): He’s a trail maintenance worker for Ebott National Park. He walks the paths and hiking trails and makes sure they’re safe and unobstructed for visitors, as well as whatever odd jobs in the area that happen to come up—looking out for invasive species, helping with a bench install, directing lost tourists, that kinda thing. It’s not especially glamorous work but it’s pretty much exactly where he wants to be and he’s happy to do it, probably wouldn’t pick any other job in the world…except maybe to volunteer for a seasonal fire-watch position and do pretty much the exact same thing, but more isolated and with a big cool tower to sit in.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): He works as a mortician at a local funeral home. He generally isn’t expected (read: allowed) to deal with grieving families, that’s more the funeral director’s purview, but he works behind the scenes embalming, processing, and otherwise preparing the dead for their final party and last ride home. He has a strong stomach—or rather, no stomach at all—and doesn’t get squeamish or emotional about the dead, so that works out. They also let him work nights so he has several long, quiet hours of methodically going through the routine with no (living) humans around to irritate him or vice-versa. Sounds like a good gig to him.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): Yes, still a groundskeeper for the cemetery and loving it. It was something he kind of fell into through his brother, when he didn’t really know what he wanted to do on the Surface, but his brother sends dead humans off to their final resting place and said final resting place was looking for someone to dig holes, mind the grass, keep everything looking neat and nice—and that’s certainly something he can do! He also works nights, being that monsters are almost entirely nocturnal these days, so he’s also an unintentional scarecrow deterrent to teenagers sneaking in late for partying or spooky dares when they see a slim, bony silhouette materialize out of the shadows with a shovel in hand, asking if they’re just visiting or thinking about moving in.…

#anonymous #headcanons #undergloom #horrorfell #horrorswap #horrorswapfell #gastertale #transcendtale #ascendswap #underfell fruition #swapfell fruition #descendtale

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lets-try-some-writing · 7 months

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Hi there! I absolutely love reading your head cannons abt bumblebees relationship with Optimus it’s too cute!!! So I was wondering if you could write abt what happened after bumblebee lost his voice box? Because as much as I like teeth rotting fluff I like souls crushing angst even more

OF COURSE I WILL WRITE FLUFF AND ANGST FOR THIS LOVELY FAHTER SON DUO!!! I live and breathe the stuff thank you.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Bumblebee was raised during war, there was no avoiding it. He was meant to be a solider the moment Optimus took him under his wing. It was the way of things, no matter how much the Prime wished it were not. As such when Bumblebee completed his training with acclaim from all of his teachers and requested to be transferred to the front lines, there was little Optimus could do.

Optimus: Bumblebee, the front lines are nothing like Autobot territory. Dangerous and high ranking Decepticons are far more common. You could be killed.

Bumblebee: I understand, but I still want to go. You and all the other Autobots have put your lives on the line for the sake of our freedom. It is only right I do the same.

The fear for his ward was ever present, but Bumblebee excelled on the battlefield. The information he collected and the kills he made were crucial to the success of many a mission. While he was still very young and new to the art of war, he was a natural forged warrior. Optimus hated that his sparkling had to fight, but he was proud, and with time, the fear eased. Jazz was assigned to look over Bumblebee, and in turn Optimus trusted that all would be well. Bumblebee was wise for his age and knew better than to throw his life into harms way without reason.

Optimus should have known better than to think his sparkling would not take after him.

It was a gloomy cycle at Tyger Pax. Optimus was with his unit far to the north, fending off a wave of Decepticon ground troops even as he desperately attempted to move back inland to face his foe before serious damage could be done. But no matter how much he struggled, it seemed as though every force on Cybertron was standing in his way. As such he was unable to move with any swiftness and merely slaughter with wrath known only to deities when he sensed Bumblebee all but shatter.

By the time he arrived at the scene, Bumblebee had already been carted off to base for emergency surgery and Megatron was nowhere to be seen. Optimus could not even exact vengeance on the behalf of his sparkling as he was given a report of what exactly happened and promptly hurried back to Autobot headquarters so that he could be there for his sparkling if and when Bumblebee got out of surgery. Whatever the case Optimus would be there for his sparkling, be it in life or in death. That was his promise, one that he lamented due to his failure to protect that which he held dear while he paced out in the waiting room.

Thankfully, Bumblebee was stabilized, but the loss of his voice was devastating to him. There was no time for Optimus to begrudge his failures as he held his sparkling close, singing to him and wiping away a river of coolant leaking from his optics. Bumblebee could not cry, he could not scream, he could not speak nor could he sing. Bumblebee was silent, and somehow holding his sobbing sparkling and not even being able to hear his cries hurt more than seeing the scars that adored Bee's neck. Many a long cycle was spent with Optimus remaining right by his dear ward's side as Bumblebee thrashed in his recharge cycles, silently screaming as a foe long gone once again took away his vocalizer. All Optimus could do in those instances was cradle his singular charge as if he were still small and hum a gentle tune, reminding Bee that he was there.

After Bumblebee was released from the medical ward, things were not much better for him. His faux vocalizer hurt him every time he used it. The vibrations and the sound made Bumblebee's wounds ache and often he found it unsettling to hear himself speak in binary tone. The constant trips to Ratchet to have his vocalizer adjusted were also frightening, so much so that Optimus had to be there each time to hold his servo as Ratchet poked and prodded, trying to make the faux vocalizer as comfortable as possible. Bumblebee often could not go a whole recharge cycle without his Sire there with him, a fact that brought him no end of shame. Optimus for his part could only suffer in silence, cursing himself for his failures as he held his dear one to his chest, doing his best to soothe wounds he could not heal.

Teaching Bumblebee to use sign language was one of the most spark wrenching experiences for many reasons. However it was largely due to the fact that Bumblebee often grew angry with himself and Optimus could do little to help. Trying to teach him made Bumblebee feel weak, and usually that emotion led Bee to lash out. At least once a deca-cycle, Bee would tell Optimus through his vocalizer or through writing to frag off and stop treating him like a sparkling. It hurt, it burned even, but Optimus was persistent and his efforts always led his ward to return to him in the end with an apology. One small blessing that came from Bee's situation was the time Optimus was able to gain with him. Bumblebee only tolerated Optimus and Ratchet touching his faux vocalizer and his scarred face. As such, when he really wanted comfort, only Optimus or Ratchet were allowed to run their digits over his scars and whisper sweet nothings.

For Optimus is became habit to go somewhere private after a mission and touch every scar on his sparkling's face, a reminder of failure, but also a declaration of adoration. To Bumblebee, such a touch reminded him that he was safe, that digits that hurt so many others would never so much as scratch him. To Optimus it was a memorial of his failures, but also a chance to lessen the ache with careful attention and love. Many nightmares, many long cycles of painful emotional outbursts, and plenty of quiet moments alone in the dark took their toll. With time, Bumblebee learned to use his faux vocalizer and no longer came to Optimus as often in terror of that which could stalk the night. With time, Optimus no longer feared his sparkling would be taken from him at every moment, nor did he continually lament his failure as a Sire.

They healed, they moved on, but scars lingered. Sometimes Bee still came to Optimus in the dead of night, his optics wide and pleading. In those instances he stayed with his Sire as he recharged, regardless of who might be watching. Sometimes Bee needed to be reminded of his worth, and those were the times when Optimus touched his scarred face and uttered all kinds of gentle affirmations. Sometimes... Bumblebee did not want to speak and hear his binary voice. On those cycles, Optimus was always there to work him through the motions, helping him through every task until he could at last rest and be comforted.

The scars lingered, but it was not the end. They were there to comfort and care for one another, even without words.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #optimus prime #bumblebee #ratchet #angst #fluff #ah yes the father son duo #I would die for them #they are just the best and if I could I would write whole fics of them just being domestic #but unfortunately one does require a plot

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podcastenthusiast · 2 years

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Three little drabbles featuring Geralt "Horse Girl" of Rivia and different animals, from Jaskier's POV.

---

1. Horse

Jaskier realized it a few weeks into this new witcher-following, song-composing venture. Specifically, when he went to eat the last apple and was told in no uncertain terms that it's for Roach, even though their food rations were running worringly low and they were a day's ride from the next village. Even though he's a fragile human. Even though she could literally just eat grass.

The mare outranked him. She had seniority.

He tried to befriend the horse, with middling success.

He tried to befriend the witcher, too.

At least Roach could be bribed with a carrot or a handful of raisins.

People project a lot of their own feelings onto animals, he supposed. It's a relationship designed to be unequal. As complex or as simple as a person wants it to be.

For a while, he had started to resent her a little, as pathetic as that may sound. That is, until he woke in the middle of the night and overheard a murmured, rather one-sided conversation.

"I worry about him, though," Geralt was saying. "Can't exactly just find a new bard and start calling him Jaskier if something happens, can I."

What?

"Wish he'd shut up sometimes, but... I guess it's been kind of nice having someone around who talks back."

Jaskier's heart felt like it might burst or break. Or both.

"Not that you aren't good company, old girl."

Roach gave a quiet snort.

That was all years ago, now. The horse is different, but still somehow Roach.

He is different, too, but somehow still Jaskier. Still the reliable bard his friend needs him to be.

Now, he watches from his spot by the campfire as Geralt brushes through Roach's mane. The witcher's got drowner brains in his own hair but gods forbid he has a wash before his trusty companion is completely tended to. He's very gentle with her, which is probably why she tolerates it as well as she does. He's heard tales of stablehands losing fingers to routine grooming before.

Jaskier wishes he could write a ballad about this without potentially damaging his fearsome reputation-- the unbreakable bond between a witcher and his horse. The unexpected tenderness of hands made to kill.

He reaches for his quill to jot down a few ideas. Something something the mighty wolf and the wild horse, loyal and brave companions defending their forest home together. Keep it vague enough. Maybe a folktale vibe.

Besides, Jaskier thinks with a touch of bitterness, the wolf's tongue is the real danger. His jaws that snap at anyone foolish enough to get too close, to offer help when he's caught in a trap.

...Maybe he still has some feelings to work through.

The wolf also has a heart he tries so hard to bury. Jaskier can see it. Always has.

"You spoil her rotten, you know," he remarks lightly, plucking on his lute strings. "She eats better than we do."

"It's like sharpening my swords. I have to keep Roach in good condition, or we don't eat at all."

"Mhm. And it's very sweet."

He no longer begrudges Roach her well-earned place at Geralt's side. The witcher had been alone out here for such a long time before he came along, probably will be again after he's dead and buried. Even if Jaskier does wish that he could be the one Geralt trusts with his innermost thoughts and secrets and sleepless night fears, he is glad the man has someone in whom he can confide.

They all have their roles in this story. Perhaps he ought to accept his as its scribe, and let that be enough.

But Jaskier's greatest fault, he knows, is an always has been his refusal to accept things as they are.

2. Cat

"Oh, look at that. Someone's cat has gone missing. Poor thing."

"We're here for real work, Jaskier," Geralt says, scanning a contract notice. Recent plague. Graves disturbed. Ghouls. See alderman for details. Bit dull.

"They're offering a reward. See?"

"Somehow I doubt a small child has enough coin to justify ignoring the ghouls."

"Says here you'll get their eternal gratitude and-- oh! The lady of the house will darn your socks free of charge for a full year. Any additional mending at a discount. Now that's a good deal."

"Hm."

"Geralt, as you know my favorite doublet is in a sorry state after that minor werewolf incident--"

"I told you to stay with Roach."

"--All water under the bridge now, of course, and what an adventure! Worthy of a fine ballad--"

"Jaskier."

"--as this would be. Can't you at least keep one keen witchery eye out for the cat?"

"And risk a ghoul catching me off guard? Sure."

"Well, now you're just being silly. Don't tell me you're a dog person. Or are you allergic?"

Geralt sighs, realizing now that only the truth will free him from this conversation.

"Don't mind cats," he mutters. "But they don't like me."

"Sorry, what?"

"Cats don't like me," he repeats. "They start hissing whenever I get too close."

Jaskier's expression is caught somewhere between disbelief and sadness. "Why?"

"I insulted their king. Why do you think? They've got more sense than certain humans, I guess."

It's a veiled remark. Jaskier sees right through it.

"You're not a monster, Geralt," he says, achingly sincere. Then, in a lighter tone, "Does that mean you've never pet a cat before?"

"I don't know. Maybe when I was very young. I can't remember."

Jaskier mercifully drops the subject after a quiet and thoughtful walk back to the village's tavern.

He doesn't fail to notice Geralt buying extra scraps of meat from the innkeeper, or how he sneaks away at night to set them like snares in promising locations near the village. He'd probably say it's for the ghoul contract if asked, but Jaskier knows better.

Even if he didn't, there is really no other explanation for Geralt returning to the inn on the second night, covered in claw marks, carrying a ghoul's severed head in one hand and a bag containing one squirming, hissing feline in the other.

3. Spider

"GERALT!"

Every witcher in Kaer Morhen hears the bard's scream, but Geralt reaches the room in moments, his silver sword already drawn.

"Jaskier, what--"

"Kill it!"

The bard is standing on his bed, pointing frantically at something. Geralt follows his panicked gaze and sees--

"Really, Jaskier?" He sighs.

"What are you waiting for? It's a monster! Kill it!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not a monster. Just a spider. Not even poisonous."

"How do you know?"

"I read." Geralt crouches down for a closer look at the spider. "Might look scary but it's harmless. Probably sought shelter from the cold."

"Well, then it can go right back outside."

"Jaskier, be reasonable."

"I am. Either the spider goes or I do."

The witcher looks thoughtful. Says nothing.

"Oh, thanks, Geralt! I feel so loved."

The spider crawls onto Geralt's hand and Jaskier almost screams again, shrinking back even farther. Gods, it has so many legs!

"Pretend it's a kikimora or something," he pleads. "Why won't you kill one little spider for your very dearest old friend in the world?"

"Because kikimoras have no niche. They're invasive, and need to be dealt with to maintain balance in the ecosystem. Spiders aren't like that; they do belong. A monster, fundamentally, is any creature that doesn't."

Jaskier just stares at him, speechless. He's not sure he has ever heard Geralt say that many words all at once.

Geralt's eyes remain on the spider. "Witchers aren't sent out on the Path not knowing why we kill; we're not soldiers."

"I never thought of it like that," Jaskier admits. "That spider's still fucking terrifying, though."

"Hm. I'll take it outside."

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"I know what scared, stupid people say about witchers sometimes. But I-- You do belong. You're important. Just want you to know that."

"...Thank you, Jaskier," he says. Then, quieter, "You too."

#the witcher netflix #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #geraskier fic #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #witcher fic #I'm sad i can't pet cats in witcher 3 okay #horse girl geralt

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inkformyblood · 4 months

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i would know you anywhere (CWFKB #10)

Kissing Through Smiles @codywanfirstkissbingo Modern AU, University Graduation

“Cody!”

Rising on his toes at the call of his name, bracing his elbow against Rex’s shoulder in order to steady himself and ignoring the grunt from the other man, Cody peers over the crowd. The majority are dressed in the dark robes of graduation, flashes of colour and pattern from the clothes of their visitors, but Cody could pick Obi-Wan out in a concert crowd of thousands. The other man has braced himself against one of the lampposts in the corner of the square, waving his arm frantically in the air.

The dark robes look good on him, hanging open except for the thin golden chain at his neck that holds it closed at the top. Beneath it, Obi-Wan wears a crisp white shirt and Cody bites back a laugh in recognition. He knows that shirt well, Obi-Wan had been frantically ironing it earlier that morning, the small board balanced across the back of the sofa as it had been one of the only clear spaces in the flat, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth as he worked. Cody hadn’t been in much of a better state, having lived in the same hoodie and trousers for the previous week while his final exam had drawn ever nearer, but he had still kept out of the way of both Obi-Wan and the trailing cord while he cooked them both breakfast. It had been nice, domestic almost, bringing back memories of when Cody had still lived in his childhood home without such mundane concerns like rent and groceries.

“Obi-Wan!” Cody waves his free hand, leaning more fully onto Rex to do so. Rex, a begrudging support, snaps something up at him that Cody doesn’t bother to listen to, and widens his stance to better support Cody’s weight. He drops down after another moment, luxuriating in the way Obi-Wan’s grin had impossibly brightened even more after seeing him, uncaring that his own smile is beginning to cause his cheeks to ache. He’s happy, deliriously, utterly happy.

Jango chuckles, his back pressed to the broader one of Seventeen, using his bulk to hide the trailing smoke from his cigarette as he breathes in and then out. “You don’t need to hang around us all the time. I’ve got more than enough sons to be paternal to today if you want to go see your boyfriend.”

“Not my boyfriend,” Cody informs him, casting a glance at his smoke that Jango ignores with the same ease Cody has inherited.

“Life partner then. Now, off you go.”

Cody isn’t about to let an opportunity like this slip through his fingers so he brushes a kiss against Jango’s cheek and darts out of the close circle of his brothers and away across the crowded square. He twists around the other groups, careful to keep his shoulders in check and try to make his way across to Obi-Wan as unobtrusively as he could, but he doesn’t know how successful he was. A scattered handful of glares pierce his back, a few exclamations of annoyance, but none of that matters as Cody reaches Obi-Wan, his hands already extended to help Cody up onto the pedestal of the lamppost next to him. His skin is warm, his hands rougher than Cody would have expected still given the purely the academic lean of his course, and Cody wraps an arm around his shoulder as Obi-Wan’s grip falls to his waist, holding him securely.

“Hello there,” Obi-Wan murmurs, his nose bumping against Cody’s as they centre themselves on the limited space.

“Hey.” Cody pulls in a breath through his teeth, tasting the sharp artificial scent of Obi-Wan’s shampoo — borrowed from Cody’s apartment and he’d never considered the impact of smelling something so familiar on someone else — and the rich scent of his cologne. There’s a faint sheen over his collarbone from it and Cody presses his cheek against Obi-Wan’s, hugging him tightly. “I thought you would be with your family.”

Obi-Wan chuckles, his breath warm against Cody’s cheek as he leans into his hold. “Grandfather is busy conducting a tour. I believe the student guide originally assigned the role is receiving quite the education on the history of the place, and Qui-Gon is joining him to reminisce about all the hijinks he has gotten up to. If we can make it to the ceremony without another feud erupting, then I will count the day as a success.”

“Such a low barrier for success,” Cody teases, drawing back slightly. He doesn’t move far, can’t with their limited space beneath their feet and, even if he could, he wouldn’t want to. The future that had been looming is barreling them towards them, both fragile and wide-eyed in the headlights. “Though I can’t say my classification is going to be any better.”

“Yes. It did make you easier to spot.” Obi-Wan leans back, waving once more to the huddle of Cody’s family. Cody looks as well, he can’t pick out individual features from this distance but he can make out the uniform shade of their skin, the majority dressed in pale coloured shirts and dark trousers, and the dark colour of their hair. They stand out and Cody grumbles something into Obi-Wan’s collar. “Rex is shouting something to you.”

Cody, reluctantly, looks.

“I’m going to kill him. Obi-Wan, let me down.”

Obi-Wan bites the tip of his tongue as he fights back his laughter, his shoulders shaking. His grip tightens on Cody’s waist, keeping him close. “We could always… follow his suggestion? If you’d like.”

Cody straightens. He feels like he isn’t breathing, like he hasn’t taken a full breath since Obi-Wan first called his name and he surged across a courtyard to reach his side. “If I’m kissing you, it’s because I want to. Not because of my brother’s suggestion.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

Obi-Wan grins and lowers his mouth to Cody’s who is also unable to stop smiling. The angle isn’t right, the tilt of their heads restricted by their close quarters, but they laugh together, kissing in the sunshine. The future can wait for a little while longer; they’re together here and now.

#codywan #star wars #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #cody x obi wan #my writing #cwfkb2023 #codywan first kiss bingo #fanfic

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larsnicklas · 2 months

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anyway to me evgeny kuznetsov will always be defined by his joy. he really had so much of it; it spilled over often and put a smile on so many faces including his teammates' and fans'. his personality is one of a kind, ebullient and brash and clever. a lot of what he did that people on the outside scorned him for came from a place of love — for his family, for his team, for the game. the flapping bird celly, for instance, that garnered so much bad faith criticism from more conservatively minded hockey pundits and fans — he did that for his daughter. it delighted her! and who was he to deny her just because some people whose opinions he didn't care about said he should stop?

i'll love kuzy forever — like that entire cup team is lodged in my heart, but kuzy gave us the game 6 ot winner against pittsburgh. i think that was actually the moment every single person who was invested in the capitals' success realized this year might be the one. i'll never forget it; for as much as the final game in vegas is embedded into my psyche as a sports fan, that kuzy goal in the second round might actually be one of the single most memorable moments of my life lol. the way i felt, the way hundreds and thousands of caps fans must have felt.... no matter what has happened since, no matter what happens from here on out, we'll always have that game, that playoff run, that magic that kuzy brought to the ice.

at his best, he's so creative and dynamic. one of those guys that can make something out of absolutely nothing, and a really dynamite playmaker. ovi got the conn smythe in 2018 and nobody on planet earth begrudges him that, but the argument kuzy should have gotten it for that playoff run... it's strong.

i understand that kuzy's time and legacy in washington is not an uncomplicated one, but the thing that isn't complicated is this: i'm grateful for all the good times he brought to the team and the fans, and i'm grateful for all he gave of himself along the way. and don't get it twisted, he gave as much of himself as he could. i know people liked to say (especially these past few years) that he wasn't trying, that he was checked out, that he was just a warm body on the ice. i don't know how you look at a guy that's so clearly struggling and come away with that attitude. just zero empathy. nobody wants to be struggling, man. no professional athlete in the world wants to go do what they've spent their whole life training to do and fucking fail at it. i really hope that he got — and continues to get — the support he needs, and i hope he gets that fresh start he wants so badly.

i've missed seeing him in good spirits; i've missed seeing him loose and happy and playful and i want him to feel that way again. i wanted so so much for it to be here with the capitals because i am sentimental to a debilitating degree, but even more than that i want him to feel good and be well, no matter where and how. i hope he gets that. i hope he knows that we're rooting for him always.

#haven't cried about this because i've just kind of been busy all day but uh.#maybe i'll cry about it now.#a good shower cry can fix more things than you'd think.#anyway. sorry this is so long!! sometimes u just. have to spill out your feelings. type them out.#meg.txtpost

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thebabblingbrookenook · 1 year

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Not Like This

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x Female Reader

Summary: You’ve kept your feelings for Anthony in check for a long time. That all changes when he crosses that line himself. Can you move forward together, or will this drive you apart?

Warnings: Foreplay, Heavy Petting, Fondling, Plenty of other good stuff

Word Count: 6.4K

Author’s Note - @colettebronte what would I do without you to read over all my tippy-tappies. Thank you so much.

____________________________________________

Lies!

It was always a lie with him. How were you ever supposed to get over your trust issues when the person you thought you would never have to second guess constantly led you astray? His word was supposed to be as good as gold. If you couldn’t rely on the local weatherman, then how could you possibly be expected to rely on anyone else?

Staring out your living room window, you scowled at the rain pouring from the sunless sky. This day was far from the promised clear skies with a light breeze. It was the exact opposite, and it laughed in the face of all of your scheduled plans. Plans that you had been looking forward to for days. Plans that weren’t easily rescheduled due to the company they required.

Anthony was almost impossible to pin down these days. When you met at uni, you were both unencumbered, free to do exactly as you pleased. There weren’t any responsibilities lurking over you like a wet blanket. If he called you at 1 AM on a weeknight you could talk to him about nothing for two hours until he would finally fall asleep. If you invited him out at the last minute to grab a bite to eat, he’d drop whatever he was doing and meet you at the hole-in-the-wall pub you loved to frequent. But you weren’t at uni anymore. You were both proper adults now. Well, at least he was. You were giving it your best effort, but still found yourself flailing most of the time.

You missed him. You missed the way things used to be. The easy laughter and the companionship. The sense of being understood and feeling less alone. You missed arguing with him over stupid things that didn’t matter. You missed spending Sundays with his chaotic family, and watching him transform into a completely different person in the presence of his mother. And even though you shouldn’t, you really, really shouldn’t, you missed the ache in your chest when he smiled at you. The heat that blushed your skin whenever he touched you. Even though you knew those touches were never meant as more than friendship.

Those were dangerous feelings. Feelings that you had murdered a long time ago. You had to, there was no other choice. You were friends and nothing more. If you let yourself imagine any other reality for too long, it would have ruined it all. Anthony was the kind of man that it would be easy to love, and that was a trap that you weren’t willing to walk into.

But that didn’t stop you from missing him. It didn’t stop you from the ugly jealousy you felt when you took a back seat every time he got a new girlfriend. It didn’t stifle your rage when one of those aforementioned women mishandled the fragile, loving heart that he liked to keep hidden below the surface. His current infatuation was the worst offender of them all. Siena…

The on-again off-again nature of their relationship was exhausting to watch. He wasn’t perfect, he made his share of contributions to their toxic dynamic, but never in your life had you seen him allow himself to be treated this way. She held him under some sort of spell that you would never understand. The man that you knew, normally confident to an obnoxious level, was reduced to crippling insecurity when they were in one of their down-swings. Unfortunately for everyone else, that insecurity usually presented itself as frustration and anger, making him unbearable to be around at times.

That’s normally when you lost him to his other mistress - work. You would never begrudge him the success that he had built for himself. You were proud of him for everything that he had achieved. Running a thriving company at the age of thirty-two was no small feat. It was just disappointing when he buried himself there, once again leaving you at the mercy of his robust schedule. You were forced to live on whatever meager scraps he had left to give.

Which brings you back to now. Your throat burned with the effort to hold back your tears when you read his easily predicted request to reschedule.

A: It’s really coming down out there. Can we maybe do this when there isn’t a real threat of drowning?

You rolled your eyes. He could be so fussy sometimes. You would have been willing to be soaked to the bone if it meant spending some time with him. Not ready to give up just yet, you sent an alternate solution.

Y: Coward… Maybe we could go visit your mum instead. I haven’t seen her for ages. We could bring dinner.

His answering response took longer than it should have. Your stomach twisted in knots while those three little dots taunted you. You were expecting paragraphs, but what you got instead…

A: Don’t be mad…

Your heart sank. This didn’t bode well.

Y: Too late. That definitely shouldn’t have been your opening statement if you had any hope of avoiding my wrath. Now I’m primed for conflict. Explain…

You tried to deflect with humor to hide the true extent of your disappointment.

A: Good to know. I’ll adjust my tactics for the next time I fuck up…

A: Violet Bridgerton would be overjoyed to see you. You should go… I just can’t come with you.

Y: Uh oh. Why not? Did you piss her off again? I told you to dial it back with the mansplaining, Ant.

A: I DO NOT MANSPLAIN!

A: I just know a lot about a lot. I offer my wisdom where I can with simple and efficient instruction. It’s called being helpful.

Y: Did you just mansplain mansplaining to me? You’re unbelievable…No wonder your mum doesn’t want to hang out with you.

A: Good God, you’re bratty. My mother adores me.

Y: Then why can’t we go visit her tonight?

A: Well… when it started pissing down rain I assumed we wouldn’t be able to go hiking. I knew you wouldn’t mind postponing for more sensible weather, so I made plans for my evening. You deserve the day you had your heart set on, not consolation plans. We’ll map out a whole day… Just for us. I promise…

The day you had your heart set on… You didn’t need hiking for that, just him. It took everything in you not to respond with bitterness.

Y: You promise?

A: I swear it. Still friends?

Y: TBD

~~~~~~~~~~

The rain stopped two hours later… It was clear now, that nature, and maybe even the weatherman, was openly mocking you. All you could do was laugh at the absurdity. If you didn’t laugh, you might cry, and nobody wanted that. You needed to find something to do. Something that would take your mind off the lingering disappointment that was trying to coax you back into bed for the rest of the day.

You decided to visit Violet. You didn’t need Anthony for that. The two of you had grown close over the years, developed a relationship of your own. The fact that you had been waiting for an invitation from her son to pop by for a visit suddenly seemed ludicrous.

Like he usually was, Anthony had been right about his mother’s joy in seeing you. When she opened her door to find you standing awkwardly on her steps, she hugged you so tightly it practically squeezed the life from you. When you offered to take her out for a late lunch, she declared that idea nonsense and insisted that you come in and catch up. Her chef had prepared a generous midday spread in anticipation of Colin stopping by. Apparently Violet had volunteered to watch the little ones while Colin surprised his wife, Penelope, with a weekend trip for her birthday.

“I’m so glad you decided to come and see me today,” Violet said, handing you a perfectly made fresh cup of tea. It was no surprise that she didn’t even need to ask how you took it. “I was just thinking about you this morning. Anthony had mentioned that you planned to spend the day together…”

You didn’t miss her subtle attempt at finding out why you weren’t currently with her son. You always had a sense that Violet was quietly rooting for the two of you to end up together. You didn’t have the heart to tell her that you were nothing more than friends.

“We rescheduled,” you smiled tightly, taking a sip from your tea.

Almost imperceptibly, her eyes narrowed, and then softened as she observed you. It was impossible to hide from her. “We… or he,” she asked knowingly.

“We both agreed hiking might be better on a day when it wasn’t pouring.” Her unspoken interrogation tactics sent you into an anxious babble. “I asked if he wanted to do something else, but he already had plans. It’s fine. I know he’s busy. He promised to set aside a day just for us.”

“Being busy doesn’t justify being inconsiderate, dear. His father and I taught him better than that,” she huffed in frustration. “I love my son, but you’re too easy on him.”

You felt yourself sink in your chair. “I don’t think I’m too easy on him. I just know how much he has on his plate. I’m trying to be con- …” You paused on the last word, realizing the trap she had expertly set for you.

“Considerate?” Violet smirked, finishing your sentence.

“Fair enough,” you conceded. “I brush it off just as much for my benefit as for his. It takes a lot of energy to be mad at him, and he’s a lot better at arguing than me. Besides, I know it is never his intention to hurt my feelings.”

Violet sighed, clearly weighing how to proceed. “Regardless of his intentions, however benign they might be, he still needs to know when something he’s done has hurt you. Aside from Benedict, you’re his best friend. If anyone has the privilege of being direct with him, it’s you. Anthony is brilliant in a lot of ways, but emotional intelligence is not his strong suit. He’ll gladly take the path of least resistance if you let him. As long as it is easier to disappoint you than someone else…” She held your gaze, making sure you were listening to her words. “Well, you’ll never be prioritized in the way you deserve if there isn’t a consequence for him to consider. I know he values you, but darling, occasionally you’ve got to make him work for it.”

His words from earlier in the day echoed in your mind. I knew you wouldn’t mind… so I made other plans. God, that was pathetic. She was right, he knew exactly how much he could get away with, and it was nobody’s fault but your own. Could he take his head out of his ass every once in a while and see below the surface - yes. Was it fair to expect him to read your mind - probably not.

“Make him work for it, huh?” You asked, a trace of a smile playing on your lips.

“Oh, absolutely. When have you ever known Anthony to shy away from a good challenge?” She patted your hand affectionately. “I think the person you need to worry about having a little more consideration for is yourself, y/n.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your afternoon with Violet had given you a lot to think about. If you wanted things to change, you needed to do your part. It was going to take a lot of trial and error, and it was probably going to be messy and uncomfortable for a while, but he was worth it. Your relationship with him was worth it. You were worth it.

You wouldn’t lie, it scared you. But the idea of resenting him scared you even more. For years now, he has been the one solid presence in your life. He was fiercely protective, loving you in the ways that he knew how, showing you parts of himself that you suspected others were not privy to. That wasn’t something that you took lightly, and it wasn’t something you were willing to gamble with. If a potential fight with him now meant the possibility of having him close years from now… you’d risk it all.

It was well past dark now, the rain had resumed its onslaught, and you were huddled safely beneath the warmth of your favorite cashmere throw on the sofa. Book in hand, your eyes scanned the words on the page, begging them to take you somewhere else. In the end, your efforts were fruitless. After the third pass over the same sentence, you admitted defeat. Your mind refused to be dragged away from him. You were going to need assistance. Wine, you needed wine.

Reluctantly, you uncurled from your blanket and trudged off in the direction of the kitchen. You had just turned the corner down the hall when the buzzer at your front door sounded, freezing you in place. With the intensity that you were currently staring at said door, you would have thought you could see right through it.

A quick glance at your phone told you it was far too late for any rational person to come round.

Inching slowly towards the door, you jumped when the loud, incessant buzzer sounded again. Your heart thrummed in your chest. Anyone showing up at nearly midnight couldn’t be anything other than trouble.

You pressed your ear against the sturdy wood door, listening for any signs of distress or malintent. Silence, aside from the heavy beating of the rain.

“Who’s there?” you braved.

“Open up and find out,” replied a muffled voice, distorted by the thick wooden door separating you. You were kicking yourself for not heeding Anthony’s suggestion to install a peep hole. He could never know about this…

Leaving the chain latched, you cautiously cracked the door open just wide enough to peek out.

Standing there, sopping wet and shivering with the cold, was Anthony Bridgerton. His brilliant smile was only made more adorable by the chattering of his teeth. He held up a bag of Chinese take-away from your favorite local spot. No doubt an attempt to wiggle back into your good graces. Or maybe he just knew that the promise of food would at the very least grant him access over the threshold.

“Dumplings for my Dumplin’...” he beamed. When you made no move to unlatch the lock, his lip jutted out in a pout that he borrowed from his brother. “Oh, come on Sass. Let me in. You don’t want me to catch a chill, do you?”

Standing your ground, you schooled your features, hiding the slight lifting at the corners of your mouth. He only used that nickname when he was prepared to resort to Level 5 groveling. Sass, short for Sassy, previously known as Sassy Pants.

“You must really think I’m easy, huh? You thought I would just open wide at the sight of you holding wontons?” You heard the unintended innuendo the moment the words left your mouth. “What kind of girl do you take me for?”

The smirk he now wore was trouble personified. “You know you want it, Sass. I even got the special sauce you like. And if that’s not enough,” he paused, pulling something from behind his back. “I also brought wine.”

Now he was speaking your language. Without saying a word, you closed the door in his face and took your time unlatching the metal chain from its sheath. The look on his face was priceless when you reappeared a moment later. “For a second there I thought you might actually leave me out here.”

“Me too,” you admitted, only half joking. “But that’s a good bottle of wine.”

He followed you down the hall towards the living room to deposit your bribe on the coffee table. When you went to make your way to the kitchen he reached out to gently clutch your wrist, effectively halting your steps. “Ah, ah, ah,” he tutted. “You sit down and get comfy. I’ll grab us some plates.”

“Okay,” you shrugged, nuzzling back into your previously vacated spot on the sofa. “The wine glasses are…”

“I know where they are,” he grinned, draping your blanket over your lap. “Give me a second. I’ll be right back.”

He returned a moment later with his arms full, balancing the items with precision and grace. You always loved watching the way he moved. Every step was laced with purpose and intention. Every turn of his head, or flex of his fingers radiated capability. His shoulders were built to carry responsibility. His posture was centered and balanced. Poised to lead. It was comforting - the way he was just so… Anthony.

He took his place next to you on the sofa, pouring you a healthy glass of wine. “What are you doing here, Anthony?”

“Do I need a reason other than I wanted to see you…” he asked without meeting your eyes, piling food onto plates for the both of you.

Your mouth watered from the wafting scent of steamed dumplings being pushed into your lap as a hopeful distraction. He was clever to ply you with food and drink, but it wasn’t enough to nullify the suspicion building in your brain. “If it were six o’clock, then no, you wouldn’t need any other reason. But at midnight… I have a hard time believing you just couldn’t live without seeing me until morning. So how about we try this again. What are you doing here, Ant?”

He finally looked up from his food to face your questioning. “I had a shit day and I was feeling restless. I just needed to be somewhere…” he paused, an unsettling despondency creeping into the depths of his dark eyes. “... with someone that felt like home. I know I could have gone to Ben’s, but you were the one I really wanted. I miss you. We used to do this kind of thing all the time…”

A snarky response about canceled plans danced on the tip of your tongue but your irritation was quickly losing steam. Something about the slump of his shoulders and the set of his jaw made your eyes burn with unshed tears. Releasing the last remnants of bitterness, you plopped a dumpling into your mouth and lovingly chastised him. “You could have at least called instead of showing up like a crazy person in the middle of the night.”

“Why,” he grinned. “Did I scare you?”

“No.” you protested immediately.

Glossing over your false declaration, he teased, “You could have avoided the fear if you would have just let me install the security system I recommended.”

A change of subject was in order. “So, you had a rough day, huh?”

He shot you an incredulous look that told you he was well aware of your redirect but he relented nonetheless. If the size of his answering sigh was any correlation, it was a rough day indeed. “How much time do you have?”

“Apparently, all night,” you smirked before popping another dumpling in your mouth.

“Do you remember the Whitehall account I was telling you about?”

You sat back and let him get everything out. Most of the time very little participation was required of you in these types of conversations. He looked for your occasional affirmation or nod of agreement, but for the most part, he always worked it all out on his own. He just needed to process out loud to another person.

Over the next hour, the two of you polished off your midnight dinner and opened a second bottle of wine. It was a relief to just be in his presence. There was nothing to get between you. No distracting work calls or annoying girlfriends to pull at his attention. The sound of his laugh eased the ache in your chest. This was the day you had your heart set on. You didn’t need an activity or a fancy outing - just him.

When his eyes closed, head drooping to rest on the back of the sofa, you gathered your dinner plates and walked them into the kitchen. You’d wake him once you’d finished tidying and prepped the guest room for him to crash in for the night.

You were elbow deep in soapy water when you felt him come up behind you, reaching his arms around you to place your empty wine glasses in the sink. Instead of immediately moving away, he lingered, the heat from his body caressing down your spine. Pressing his chest to your back, his arms locked around your middle, squeezing you in a tight hug. You let your head fall back to rest on his shoulder.

“Thanks for tonight,” his voice was soft and low in your ear.

Not ready for the embrace to end, you brought one soapy hand to clutch his forearm that held tight to your waist. “I’m glad you came. Even if it was at an unreasonable hour.”

The breath from his laugh tickled your neck as he bent to bury his face in your shoulder. You weren’t complaining, but this was an unusually long hug. His nose nuzzled against you, and you melted into him.

“You smell nice,” he purred. His hands unlocked from around you and his fingers brushed along your waist, settling on your hips with a firm grip. “You feel nice too.”

Your body froze against his. What was happening? He’d never spoken to you like this before, let alone felt you up. His roaming hands were making it hard for you to think. The close proximity was covering you in a lusty fog, throwing your reasoning skills out the window. Your entire body was humming with excitement, begging that small part of your brain that still had questions to shut the hell up. This was Anthony… your best friend. Dangerous, this was dangerous. But on the other hand, this was Anthony… Gorgeous, sexy, tempting Anthony. The same Anthony that snuck into your dreams at night to unravel you - mind, body, and soul. This would literally be a fantasy.

“Anthony,” your voice was breathy and dazed. “What are you doing?”

“Something I’ve been thinking about for a long time,” his lips pressed into the skin at your jaw. “This feels so good. Do you want to feel good with me?”

His words dripped down your body like warm honey, collecting at the apex of your thighs. A surge of desire spread through you like a wildfire, sending your heartbeat into a crazed frenzy. Answering his question, you captured one of his hands, sliding it up your body to cup your breast. The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of the tank-top your wore sans bra. You were dressed for bed when he showed up on your doorstep, wearing little more than a camisole, drawstring pj shorts, and fuzzy socks.

There was a sudden intake of breath at your brazen form of consent. He held you securely, lightly squeezing to get a feel for the weight of you. Your nipples hardened at his touch, clearly visible beneath the pale pink cotton separating your skin from his.

Moving forward, he pressed into your body, pinning your hips between him and the cold marble countertop. You could feel him, firm and commanding, growing harder in his snug jeans. His mouth tasted every inch of your skin from your earlobe to shoulder as he drug the thin strap down your arm. His lips left a trail of electricity in their wake, each spot they touched creating a new pulse point beneath the surface.

Turning your face to him with a gentle pull, those devilish, hungry lips finally devoured yours. Of all the times you thought about kissing him, not one compared to the real thing. Your senses were bum-rushed, temporarily rendering you deaf, mute, and blind. But the taste of him… God! It enveloped you, forever altering your palate. Sweets would never be as sweet, and salt would lose its bite. Flavors you once craved would now always seem bland in comparison.

His tongue was strong and insistent, exploring your mouth with fervor, coaxing yours to play with him. The intensity of what was happening was starting to make you lightheaded. Only when he broke the kiss were you able to acknowledge the existence of anything outside of where your bodies touched.

Your lust-filled eyes watched as your top was pulled down, exposing your breasts to his onslaught. The look he gave you was deadly as he cupped you tightly and bent his head to suck your puckered nipple into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue swirling around had you shivering in his arms. You could feel your legs go slack, his body now keeping you from slumping to the floor.

His free hand ventured to the knot in the drawstring of your shorts, expertly untangling the silk bow. He had always been good at multitasking and this was no exception.

Very slowly, his fingers pushed past the elastic band resting against your tummy, and went in search of the welcoming slit between your legs. His fingernails scraped across your skin as they traveled through your pubic hair, finally gliding inside to find you dripping with desire. The unhurried, languorous strokes liquified your bones. You were about to cross the point of no return. Soon, you would lose all sense of reason. You had to decide now. Were you really going to fuck your bestfriend? Your body screamed a resounding “Hell yes,” but your heart was waving frantically for your attention.

You needed to know what this meant before anything else happened. You needed to know if this was real. You knew yourself well enough to know that you wouldn’t be able to walk away from something this monumental unchanged. After all this time, why now?

“Anthony, wait…” His hand stilled but he didn’t remove it. “I need to ask you something.”

“Mmm, what’s that,” he hummed, still nibbling along the cord of your neck.

You almost stopped yourself from asking because you were afraid of the answer, but you needed to know. “Who were you with tonight before you came here?”

Every inch of him went rigid. He pulled his hand from your shorts and splayed it across your abdomen in a steadying gesture. “Y/n…” he whispered, almost begging you not to make him say it. He knew you wouldn’t like the answer.

“Were you with her?” You had to gather the courage to say her name. “Siena?”

His silence was deafening. His voice startled you when he finally spoke. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. You’re the one I want to be with right now.”

Right now… That was where your fear lived. Was this just a pleasant distraction for him? Something to get lost in for a few hours before running back to her. Your heart was already breaking.

Gently, you stepped out of his reach and adjusted your clothes so that you were fully covered. Without a drop of anger, you said, “We can’t, Anthony. I can’t…”

The look of pure devastation that darkened his face almost sent you straight back into his arms. “Did I misread? That kiss… that was… it felt like you wanted this too. Is it me? Have I done something wrong?”

You were reaching out for him before you even registered that your feet were moving. “Anthony, no. Of course not. I do want this, and that’s the problem. If I’m being honest with myself, I think I’ve wanted this for a long time. I want it. I want you. Just not like this…”

“I don’t understand,” his brow was creased with worry.

Violet’s words from earlier that day were echoing in your mind. She was right. Sometimes you have to put yourself first. You had already decided that your relationship with Anthony was worth the risk of upsetting the balance a little. This was a prime example of that. Twenty-four hours ago, you wouldn’t have stopped him. You would have convinced yourself that this was what he needed, and you would deal with your own repercussions later. But now…

“I’m afraid,” you confessed.

Panic flashed over his face. “Of me?”

“If we sleep together, I’m going to love you.” You met his troubled gaze. “And I can’t afford to love you if this isn’t real.”

“You don’t believe this is real for me?” Hurt… he was hurt.

“I think part of it is real,” you blinked back your tears. “But can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that some part of this wasn’t because she hurt you tonight?”

“It’s over between us. We’re finished. There is nothing left worth turning back to. And when I finally realized that, I saw things with more clarity. You…us… it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

You could feel the adrenaline coursing through you. He was saying things that you always wanted to hear, but was it enough? “Will you still feel this way a month from now? Because I will…”

He stepped closer, taking both of your hands in his. “Yes, I think I will.”

“I need you to know, Ant. I need you to be certain. You’re too important to me to risk crossing that line for a maybe. And I don’t want our beginning to be built on someone else’s ruins.”

A single, silent tear dripped down your cheek. This was a lot harder than you thought it was going to be.

He pulled you in, crushing you against his chest. “I’m sorry, y/n. I’m sorry. You mean everything to me. Please don’t hate me for this.”

Wrapping your arms around him, you allowed yourself a moment of indulgence. His warmth and familiarity were soothing, and the faint scent of amber that lingered on his clothes from his cologne brought you to a place of safety. You committed it all to memory, storing the moment in your heart, just in case this was the last time…

Reluctantly, you removed yourself. You needed distance for what came next. “Anthony, I don’t hate you. I’m not sure I could ever hate you. But…”

The words were stuck in your throat as you bargained with yourself not to cry.

“Say it,” he begged. “Please, just say it. I can’t take the silence.”

“Sometimes I feel like an afterthought, and that, I do hate. It hurts, Anthony. I think of you constantly. About what you need, about how you feel. I know you care for me. I know that… but sometimes this friendship is unbalanced. That’s partially my fault. I never told you what I needed. I never asked for more. So, this is me asking.”

“I - I didn’t realize… What can I do? Tell me how to fix this,” he implored.

“Consider me,” you poured out. “Prioritize me on occasion. See beyond yourself to the person standing in front of you. Did you even think about what something this huge would mean for me in our relationship? Did you think about tomorrow? Did you weigh my risks when you weighed yours? You and me… it’s one of the only good things I have, so I have to protect it. I know it’s different for you, and that’s okay. I just… I just need you to think of me, because it’s hard for me to think of myself.”

Determination transformed his posture. “I can do that. I promise to take my head out of my ass if you promise to keep being honest with me. You’re a better liar than you think, Sass.” His thumb swiped across your cheek, wiping away a tear. “Maybe this makes me an idiot, but I was completely in the dark that you were feeling any of this. You’re always so strong and unbothered. So easy… but I should have known better. I could have looked harder. Just know, it was never because I didn’t care. I trust you implicitly, so when you tell me you’re fine, I take you at your word. I never want you to think that I find it easy to set you aside. I took you for granted, and that hurt you. I’m sorry - truly. It was never my intention.”

You smiled up at him, exhaustion suddenly soaking through to settle in your bones. “I know, Anthony. I know.”

His remorseful expression was laced with pain and sadness. “Do you want to know what hurts me in all of this?”

The thought of being the one to cause him pain was like a punch to the gut, but the two of you had decided on honesty, and it was only fair that he should be able to speak freely. You gave him a silent nod and braced yourself. “It hurts to know how much of yourself you hid from me. It hurts to know that there is at least a small part of you that doesn’t trust me enough to let me see those pieces. Like you’re just waiting for me to let you down and prove yourself right. If you want me to see you, really see you, you have to give me a fighting chance. You have to let me look.”

True terror took hold of you at his words. “And if you don’t like what you see?”

“Then we face our demons together. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine. We trust each other. We make each other better. I’m not going anywhere. Are you?”

“No,” you assured him. “I’m not going anywhere either.”

“That’s a relief,” he laughed, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand.

“So, what now…” you asked nervously. This was new ground and your legs were still shaky.

“Now - now I go home. It’s late. We’re both exhausted. This was a lot, but I don’t regret it. None of it. Do you?”

“No,” you whispered. “I’m still a little shaken, and definitely… stimulated, but no. No regrets.”

“Stimulated, huh?” He smirked, quickening your heart rate with a single look. “Are you sure you don’t wan-”

“Anthony…” you cut him off.

“I know, I know. Not like this. I can respect that… even though it’s killing me not to touch you right now.”

“Yeah, it’s going to be a long night,” you agreed.

You walked him to the front door so that you could lock up behind him. He watched you with amusement while you unlatched the chain and twisted the bolts keeping the dangers of the outside world at bay. “You really should let me install that security system.”

“Goodnight, Anthony,” you offered him a resigned sigh.

He turned to you from the small porch outside your door. He was lingering, but you didn’t mind. You could feel the words building in him, gathering courage and composure. “Can I see you tomorrow,” he asked, the fear of rejection hovering over him.

“I’d like that.” It would be so easy to invite him back inside and let goodnight turn into good morning, but you only possessed so much self control. “Call me… AFTER 10AM, please. Someone rudely kept me up half the night.”

“What an inconsiderate prick,” he scowled playfully.

Your laughter was cut short when he took a very intentional step into your space. Slowly, as not to spook you, he lifted a hand to the side of your face, sliding his fingers into your hair to hold you by the neck. His eyes bore into yours, perfectly conveying the need that was now burning in his chest. Your tongue reflexively ran over your lips, wetting them in preparation. You didn’t step away. You didn’t break his stare. One more kiss wouldn’t make a difference, right?

He was gentle this time, tentative even. But when that familiar taste washed over your tongue, you opened your mouth for him, welcoming the invasion. You fought the urge to wrap yourself around him and drag him to the ground right then and there.

When he finally pulled away, you were both panting and out of breath. “Sass…” the low vibration of his voice snaked its way down your body, curling deliciously deep in your stomach. “Tomorrow… A month from now… It doesn’t matter. How I feel isn’t going to change. I know you need more than words. Promise me that you’ll let me prove it to you.”

“I’ll try.” It was all you had to give right now.

“Me too.” And then he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep was a stranger to you for most of the night. Competing images clamored through your brain for hours after he left. The feel and the taste of him. The pain and confusion behind his eyes. Your own fear threatened to rise up and wash you out to sea.

The relentless tossing and turning only served to deepen your exhaustion. Eventually, you accepted your fate and dragged yourself from bed and went in search of coffee.

The rain still refused to ease, casting a dreary grey over everything. The idea of sitting alone, pathetically waiting by the phone for Anthony was unbearable. This new state of limbo that you found yourself in was the most unsettled you had ever been. You were standing on a terrifying precipice. No matter what happened, your life was going to drastically change. Too much was said for things to stay the same. You would either move forward, together, or, you would go separate ways.

Not knowing was a special kind of torture. Even the worst case scenario outcome would come as a relief. At least then the waiting would be over.

You had to chastise yourself for the better part of the morning. Old habits really did die hard. You tried, because you promised him that you would. You tried to stop anticipating the dreaded other shoe. You tried to not assume that he had spent the whole night thinking about what a colossal mistake he was making with you. You tried to believe that he would prove it.

Consumed by your internal battle, you almost didn’t hear your phone buzzing.

It was Anthony - one minute past ten.

He sounded relieved to hear your hello. “You answered,” he sighed.

“You called,” was your reply.

“I was up all night,” his sleepy voice confessed.

“Yeah, me too.”

A long, pregnant pause filled the space between you.

“Day number one, Sass. I haven’t changed my mind. Are you ready to let me start proving it to you?”

This was it, the moment you had been begging for all morning. The moment that ended the waiting.

“I’ll try,” you promised with a smile bright in your voice.

________________________________________

@faye-tale @eleanor-bradstreet @musicismyoxygen84 @bridgertontess @heeyyyou @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @queen-of-the-misfit-toys

#Anthony Bridgerton Fanfiction #Anthony Bridgerton and Reader #Anthony Bridgerton and You #Bridgerton Modern AU #Anthony Bridgerton x Reader #Anthony Bridgerton x You

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iznsfw · 1 year

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hi, can u write a wonyoung x male reader fluff?

Even Princesses Cry Sometimes

IZ Days of Christmas: Day 12 - Jang Wonyoung

IVE's Jang Wonyoung x Male/Female Reader Fluff

2,123 words

Categories | short, slightly angsty, idol!Wonyoung, caring!reader, tears and cuddles

Very short and late, but who cares?

Maybe I'll catch up with Yujin and Yuri some of these days.

It’s always another day, another front she’s putting up. Another disguise. Of course, only you know about the partial artificiality of it all. When she tries to put on a brave face throughout her schedules, or tells a particularly rude fan to take care of themself despite their scathing words, part of your heart just aches with the knowledge. Like you, she’s still so young - no eighteen-year-old has to bear with the pressure of the world burdening their shoulders like rocks.

No eighteen-year-old has gone through as much as Jang Wonyoung has. You want to make it easier for her, but she almost never lets you. She’s built such a great wall around herself that even you, her partner, can’t break through. Even if you summoned all the might into your fists and beat around its bricks, it would take long before you can even make a hole.

For the wall to be broken, the one who built it must reach out.

Gaze at the television and wonder when that will happen. It’s rarer than anything. But there she stands, gorgeous as always. Her dark hair flows in the night, and the blue dress that drapes around her form makes her look like a princess. With the colors and her makeup, she can easily pass as a Korean Cinderella. No, she can’t be Cinderella - Wonyoung never needs someone to save her. She was never a damsel in distress, which is why she’s expressed her dislike for the tale so many times:

(“It’s so… fucking odd, jagi-ya,” laughed Wonyoung, over a pack of potato salted-egg chips, while she lounged with you on the sofa. The TV was on, the classical Cinderella was playing, and Wonyoung was… well, unimpressed. She ran through her locks of messy curled hair and added, “I understand the situation. I really do—”

“You don’t,” you interrupted truthfully, but not without a smile. Oh, never without a smile; Wonyoung is your happy pill, no matter what she says.

Wonyoung laughed loudly, pushing you in the chest hard. Laughter overtook her tiny frame. “Fine, fine!” she admitted. “I don’t, but see here… this is fucking ridiculous. It’s just- ugh!” She rolled her eyes and gave you an exasperated look. “But you get me, don’t you? You get what I mean?”

There was a hint of fear in those beautiful eyes of hers. Something told you that the question was born not out of frustration, but was instead from caution nested in the swindle of circumstance the universe had blown her to. Was Wonyoung afraid she would offend you? Had the headlines and tabloid articles created a phobia she’d never dare tell anyone - not even you?

But then your lips found her forehead creased with lines of worry, and you felt them relax beneath the touch of your love. Wonyoung settled into your arms as if she were your little songbird, and you were the only nest she found that would not break.

“I do, hon,” you told her. “I do.”)

Fine, you’d settle for her being no one because not one princess out there can match Wonyoung in everything she does. She’s the perfect girl, the perfect idol. She’s pretty, talented, and charismatic enough to attract all of her success by herself. No girl her age is at the point of success she has at her fingertips. But it’s something that can easily be snatched from her with just the wrong move. Everyday is a challenge for her; too much smiling equals to her being too flirtatious, but little smiling and winks mean that she’s too reserved and self-centered to take notice of the people around her. In everything she does, begrudged people find a way to twist it around into a bad light.

You admire how resilient she is. Much to the shock of her admirers and fanatics, it isn’t exactly ideal to live a life being so closely watched. Not even with all the wealth she possesses. The way she has learned to cope with it independently teaches you more life lessons than any seminar could. But you want to remind her sometimes that she doesn’t have to be strong all the time with you. You can take her falls. You have each other, don’t you? Isn’t that what partners are for?

The fall of the princess is televised, put out there for everyone to pick apart and make fun of. Worst of all, you aren't able to catch her.

Wonyoung is happy to find out that her group, the monster rookie idol band IVE, won a lot of medals and marked new milestones. But now tears slip down her beautiful face. The camera focuses on her. It loves her, craves her - every bit of Jang Wonyoung is too pretty to not be captured and immortalized; of course it does. She sees it and tries to stop, but the fat drops of grief - grief for what could have been, what should have been; grief for her young self who wasn’t and isn’t able to enjoy the last few years of her childhood - continue to pour down like rain.

As the colorful confetti falls from the roof of the grand stadium, she falls, too, and the members start to take notice. Yujin leans over to ask if she needs a tissue, and Jiwon rubs a comforting hand on her back. But none quench the need for a hug she has buried deep inside her heart. She needs someone beyond her friends slash co-workers. She needs you.

Wonyoung looks around. There are only crowds and crowds of noisy fans and cameras flashing. But her observant eyes scrutinize every corner in the large room for any sign of you. There’s still hope in her heart that you’ll come dashing into the show to help her. Sort of like a knight in shining armor in a children’s fairy tale.

Jagi-ya? Where are you? I need you right now, please. You can’t leave me here.

Then she remembers: her life may be glamorous, but it isn’t a fairytale. She’s only one girl, in a massive crowd of people she doesn’t know, trying to make it through the night. Her thoughts are making it more than difficult though. They consist of the pain she went through to get here: those dark nights where she practiced till her legs felt like they were going to snap, the harsh scolding she received from teachers, days when her schedules were so packed that she didn’t even have the time to eat or even breathe…

Wonyoung’s makeup is stained with her own sadness. She’s gorgeous - that’s an indisputable fact, she’s talented, she’s young and successful. But what are the hardships she had to bear and all its blooming fruits worth if she doesn’t have you?

She’s torn up from the inside. She needs you now, more than anything, yet you are nowhere to be found. But it isn’t your fault. She’s been too reserved and private after all, dealing with her matters and affairs by herself. It’s only natural that you would think that she can handle her tears. Compared to everything she has to handle, tears are merely a little thing. You’re already used to the idea of her being self-reliant, so why would you show up now?

Her phone buzzes all of a sudden. One click at the side of the costly phone case, she’s able to see your messages.

You | 11:47 PM | Hey, princess?

You want to take the night off a little early? Watch some clueless? :)

And she thought you’d never come.

Wonyoung crashes between your rounded arms. This time, you don’t worry about messing up her hair, which must have taken hours to curl. You don’t hold yourself back from taking her in your arms, although the stylists warned her not to ruin the pretty blue dress. No, you bury your face into her neck, kissing it over and over. You’re happy to see her; only meeting her less these past few weeks has made you lonelier than you’d like to admit. And you know that she’s happy too; her tearful, beautiful eyes sparkle when she gazes up at you. But you also know that, although she would rather die than admit it, she’s been missing the comfort of someone caring for her.

She’s a princess, and you’re her knight in shining armor. Wonyoung rarely needs you, much less a knight to come save her. But she appreciates your love. She’ll hide it behind blushes and playful circles of her eyes, but she loves you. It comforts her that you do, too.

People are staring. The cameras start flashing. The same fear gathers up in Wonyoung’s heart again, but this time, she shoves it aside. She’s not going to hide her love for you anymore. She won’t let anyone get in her way.

The wall has finally broken and deteriorated.

Wonyoung seizes your face in between her slim hands, and kisses you deeply. It surprises you; her full lips are extremely soft, brushing over your pink ones and locking them with hers. Her eyes close, but your eyelids remain parted. This time, you’re the one scared. You aren’t scared of your own reputation, but for Wonyoung. What will the media do when they find out she has a partner already? Oh, how they’d villainize her! How they’d paint her into a promiscuous, indifferent queen bee!

“W-Wonyoung,” you stammer, when she finally stops. “The, the media—”

“Darling, please. I don’t care anymore. I just want you.”

Her words feed into a phone-installed recorder nearby. The woman holding it looks horrified, but Wonyoung simply gives her a coy wink. You smile; that’s the Jang Wonyoung you know.

You smile sincerely. Brush the tears from her face with your thumb, and realize just how much you love Wonyoung. It’s like destiny tied your threads together from the beginning. You were just a fan of her back in Produce 48 because you love how brave she was to put herself out there, despite being your age only. Hell, you couldn’t do that. When she met you at a fanmeeting and discreetly passed you her number, you were on top of the world. It was straight out of a fanfiction.

But all fanfictions end. That can’t be said about you and her. You’re best friends, lovers, and frenemies all at once. Your relationship is built around deep friendship, and that’s why you’re certain that the love you share with Wonyoung will go on forever.

“That’s my girl,” you whisper, kissing her forehead. It’s only you and her in this stadium. All the others are faceless ghosts, nothing to worry about. “Movie night?”

Wonyoung smiles giddily. “You bet!”

For the first time in years, Wonyoung completely cuddles up in your lap. Thank your parents for having tall genes; if you were any shorter than Wonyoung, you would be the one seated in her lap. It would be the other way around.

You still keep CDs, so you’re able to watch Clueless with her on the television. She’s raptly watching the iconic chick flick, mimicking the main character with “As if!”s and laughing afterwards. But you’re more interested in her rather than the film itself. Wonyoung is the prettiest when she’s happy. The companies love her trendy poses when she shoots magazine covers or photos, but her most charming self is this:

Half-moon eyes, mouth stretched into a giggly grin, and her hand becoming the resting place of her cheek as she laughs over and over at the comedic timings of the movie. Her brown hair in its uncurled natural state resting at her shoulders, which are not trapped in one of the stage outfits anymore, but rather a big, gray sweatshirt that was once yours. You want it back, but she looks better in it than you do, so you speak nothing about it.

Wonyoung falls asleep just when Clueless is about to reach its conclusive end. With strong, trained arms, you carry her over to your shared bed and tuck her to bed. She stirs a little, but she doesn’t open her eyes. She only smiles, knowing you have her back now, and beckons you under the sheets.

Slide under the comforter and wrap a protective arm around her. Moments like these make you happily remember that Jang Wonyoung isn’t merely just an idol, but your girlfriend. Your little spoon. Your baby rabbit. At the same time, you match all her curved puzzle pieces, and act the role of being her partner, big spoon, and a caring person who won’t let any hunter find her.

You’re made for each other. And as you snuggle closer to Wonyoung, your puzzle pieces connect. You promise, silently, to never let go.

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blu-oo · 8 months

Text

Ok so I’m a complete sucker for buggy-shanks-roger pirates angsty time travel plots but I’ve noticed that it’s pretty much only ever Buggy (as far as I can recall) being the main POV/one to time travel. While i have absolutely no complaints about this (lol) i do wish we could see more with Shanks behind the wheel, especially since he’s still so mysterious he’s essentially a blank slate.

And im just imagining like:

shanks immediately just gunning to go. He WILL find a way to save his captain, he WILL make it so rouge and/or ace are safe, he WILL keep his relationships with everyone he lost touch with after his captain died, he WILL find a way to make Buggy not hate him anymore.

Except, shanks isn’t a naive little kid anymore. His captain is amazing, he loves him, but it isn’t until he’s back in time that he realizes this man he idolized was terribly flawed. He didn’t always think before he acted, he didn’t always do what was best for the safety of his crew. He didn’t always put his pride aside for the betterment of those who cared for him or the situation at hand. He didn’t listen when buggy was scared, ignored or even laughed at him, at his fear. Why would he do that? He knows roger wouldn’t let anything happen to them, but still, how had he never noticed that before-

He wasn’t too overly familiar with Rouge and her crew but they met up enough that shank’s starts to keep an eye on her and his captain, waiting for any hints of whats to come. He still has plenty of time before anything happens but he’s anxious, doesn’t know if he’ll be able to help them in time. So he decides to try putting ideas in their heads. A little “hey captain, if you ever have a kid one day I can’t wait to play with them and teach them how to sword fight!” here, and and little “our nakama is family! We can always count on one another when something super life changing happens!” there. But when he starts trying to drop hints, no one listens to him. He’s just a kid and no one is listening to him, why won’t they listen-

With his future knowledge, his already rapidly successful sword and haki training grows tenfold (despite having to reacclimate to having both his arms again and woah that’s trippy). And this is good! This means he’ll be even more ready to defend his nakama and their futures as certain events unfold. And everyone is excited for him, throwing prideful smiles his way, and he’s never felt so close, so connected and on equal footing (or as equal as a child could be) to the rest of the roger pirates. Except…

Except the already existing gap between him and buggy seems to become an ever growing cavern. Shanks has never been starved of praise and attention in this or his past lifetime, but now that he’s wise enough to not only look ahead but back, he sees his best friend standing farther and farther away from him. And now that he’s older, now that he’s reliving everything through a new lense, he realizes just how…lonely his best friend was underneath the brazen and cocky bravado. How for every praise he received, buggy got only mockery and impatient sighs. For every successful fight shanks took part in, buggy was told to keep back as to not get in anyone’s way. For every blinding smile he received from his captain, buggy got- and oh. Oh.

Beyond a certain age, Shanks never begrudged buggy’s lack of fighting spirit. He understood now that it wasn’t for everyone, and that buggy especially made do with clever tricks and conspiratorial luck. Shanks was shanks, and buggy was buggy and that was good enough for him. Too bad he seemed to be the only one who thought that. And finally, finally, things have started to make sense. He sees all of his interactions with buggy and the others, from both this new reality and from before, interactions long past and those still to come, and finally starts to understand. Shanks is a grown man parading around as a child, but buggy? Buggy’s just a little boy. Just like shanks used to be.

And if through his righteous indignation on buggys behalf, shanks starts to really perceive his own treatment by his former nakama? Starts to truly feel the weight of their expectations on his shoulders that has ALWAYS been there and is finally able to identify it? Well. No one said fixing the absolute clusterfuck that was the fall of the roger pirates would be easy.

#fair warning i blab a LOT without really saying much lol #one piece #op #shanks #red haired shanks #buggy #buggy the clown #roger pirates #gol d roger #angsty time travel my beloved

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pandanscafanfiction · 9 months

Text

A few of my own personal Garreth headcanons that no one asked for 😌❤️🦁

Did I factcheck anything related to Garreth before posting this? Hell no. All these live in my head illegally and rent-free regardless of canon.

He's a middle child! Of a household containing at least four other children, but my personal thought is five to six.

It's easy to get lost in the crowd at his house while growing up. Or at least that's how he felt. His love for potions actually started out as a begrudging last-ditch effort to garner his parents' attention. When the first miscreation worked, he ran with it. It was hard to ignore a kid who seemed to always create an explosion by dashing whatever he could into a cauldron.

This also bleeds into his school life. At school he struggled to find "individuality" in his fellow students'/teachers' eyes because "Oh look! Another weasley. Same shit, different face".

But the one time he actually (miraculously) made something successful, it was the first time he'd ever felt like he was something. That's when he really began actively trying to be good at it.

He's actually colorblind. It's hard for him to discern if his mixtures have turned into the appropriate colors or not, which is the leading cause of over 80% of brew failures and subsequential explosions.

But he doesn't tell anyone because he already gets enough kids making fun of him for his red hair, freckles, and hand-me-downs. He doesn't need another reason for them to whisper and giggle.

He writes all of his trials, errors, and experimentation ideas inside of a leatherbound notebook that his Aunt Matilda gave to him on Christmas one year

During his free periods he's always outside in the woods, gathering ingredients. Or reading potion books.

He loves Herbology (because it goes hand in hand with potion-making, after all), but Herbology does not love him. The boy can't keep a plant alive to save his life- hence the gathering.

Doesn't bend pages and sees no point in purchasing bookmarks. Marks all his places in books with whatever wildflower or pretty leaf is growing bearby. Forgets to take them out after he's done, too. If you happen to borrow a book from him and flip through the pages they'll fall out like confetti.

A master of the sneak. He'd actually be in detention far more than Sebastian of he wasn't. Owes everything he knows in that regard to his oldest brother (he taught him how to get the cookies off the top of the fridge without so much as creaking a floorboard- and he even has to walk past his parents' bedroom to get there)

He's a morning person. First to rise, and he's up before even the sun is. But he's awful at staying up late. He always tries his best but the poor thing is yawning and dozing off in the Common Room by seven.

Heavy sleeper. Have to be, in such a noisy house.

He doesn't snore, but he does hog all the blankets. Poor baby gets cold easy.

And if he's sleeping next to someone he's the biggest cuddle monster to ever live. Beware!!!! Not nessassarily intentionally, but it always ends up with him hugging you like an octopus all the same.

Left handed

A flirt. Hella flirt. He isn't overtly loud about it like Sebastian is, but that doesn't mean he isn't always doing it. He's cheesy af. Aaaallllll the terrible pickup lines and will not hesitate to make himself look silly in front of others just to make you laugh or put a smile on your face

That's all for now but I'll add more whenever they pop into my head 😌

#hogwarts legacy #garreth weasley #garreth #hogwarts legacy garreth #hogwarts legacy garreth weasley #weasley wednesday #hl garreth #hl garreth weasley #garreth hc #garreth headcanons #listen i just love him so much and i think about him alot

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reilliane · 2 years

Text

Mercy ✤ Xiao

A/N: After months, finally, another platonic angst lands. Are you dearies prepared? :")) Onwards!

✤ Mentions of death, violence, and blood

"Text in this format is a dialogue in flashback."

Words: 11k

Memories.

Oh, the significance they hold.

They say a moment should always be treasured—for that transient second can only be relived once… until it is but a part of the past.

To the unaging, these moments are treasures. Locked away and kept safe in a chamber full of many a different fortune.

To the ‘immortals’, these are but scenes that constitutes only a small percentage of their eternity. They are bound to be remembered, never to be forgotten.

There is beauty in remembering, though.

After all, aren’t happy times meant to be reminisced over in the first place?

Ah… but there also exists, in the parallelism of yin and yang; dark and light, good and evil.

Sanctuary and prison.

Comfort and torment.

Joy and misery.

“Brother,” you call him. Gentle, thoughtful.

Throughout the thousands of years, you have grown to be shrewdly cognizant of these mirrors—these parallels. The warm color of golden irises belies the coldness they hold within as he turns, begrudged.

Unwilling. Almost disdainful.

Unbefitting for someone bound with you by blood.

Ah, these parallels.

“What do you want?” he answers you. Guarded and apathetic.

It looks like you won’t be able to share a meal with him again. You’ll have to try again… later.

How can you not be aware of them?

You smile bitterly, “… Nothing.”

His scowl deepens, “Then leave me be.”

When you both exist as each other’s opposites?

It has been like this ever since the day you have opened your eyes to meet those of his; a pretty gold, warm yet guarded. You don’t share any similar features with him, only the same ichor that runs within.

You can’t say that you’re both particularly close to start with, because you’re not. There is always some sort of rift that divides the plane you’re both standing on, frozen and unmoving.

Still, in spite of the distance between you, animosity never exists.

You can never hate your own kin and based on the junctures when he’s gruffly ascertaining your physique after a nasty fight, he doesn’t hate you, either [right?]

That’s a good thing, no?

From the moment you learned how to fly and balance yourself in the air, he’s been more attentive, almost proud—but you’re not sure. All you can remember is the time he looked so happy.

But that had been millenniums ago and he never really solidified whether he was elated over your self-taught flight or not.

For Xiao never speaks out on his feelings, so you do the same, thinking that it’d only be bothersome and you’d hate to subject trivial things unto him. Not when he’s done so much for you.

“Why are you still here?” the entrance of his voice yanks you from your headspace and you flinch, seeing him glower at you. “And why have you transformed and left your cage?”

He sounds particularly brusque, on the fine line of snapping with aggro. You cannot avoid the second flinch, aware that he doesn’t take kindly when rules meant to keep you safe are broken.

All endeavors to retrieve the courage you’ve brought are successful and you sigh. “I just… well, you’ve been out here for so long.”

I miss you.

Is what you’re trying to say—but you don’t, because he doesn’t like things like that.

All platonic sorts of advances such as mere hugs and touches are avoided and dismissed as a nuisance. He’s always been indifferent to those, but after the War… he’s just become completely against it.

Besides, the two of you aren’t that close to begin with, but after the cataclysm and almost being put in a state of incapacitation, his presence grew more.

How can you not feel as though he’s home, itself?

Xiao’s stare becomes sterner, as though he can’t believe the words spilling from your lips. “Naturally, this is my duty; to protect and remain vigilant. Respites contradict that.”

You swallow thickly, a little peeved that he’s still spouting things about the contract and his duty to Liyue as if the rise of the Liyue Qixing didn’t nullify his contract binding him to Morax.

“Rex Lapis is gone,” you do not stop even when his gaze becomes dangerous, “He has terminated the contracts that bound the Adepti to protect Liyue for its citizens have grown stronger.”

He finally turns your way, and you would’ve been elated that you have gotten his whole attention if not for the ugly cause of it. “I do this out of my own volition.”

“And you don’t think to just… rest? For a while? Liyue can last a day without your watchful eye.” When he directs his sight elsewhere without an answer, you grumble, letting disbelief and annoyance cloud your rationality.

“Everything doesn’t have to be Liyue or that stupid contract—”

It happens in a blink of an eye.

“Watch your tongue.” There’s a huge gust of wind that blows your way with a snappy turn of his head towards your direction and the glow of his eyes have gotten menacing.

“Until this day, I continue to do my duty as reverence to the Archon who saved us. Have you forgotten?”

To this, you fall silent, nibbling on your lips, agitated.

For the record, you haven��t forgotten. How could you?

“He’s the same Archon who showed you mercy and you think to belittle his only remuneration for it?” Xiao all but hisses through gritted teeth, appearing beyond pressed at the implication of the contract being nothing but a nugatory matter worth turning over.

You observe the way his fingers twitch, restrained from clenching into fists in an obvious way to quell his growing anger. That’s right, he’s always so miffed whenever someone talks about the Archon.

An understandable thing, really—but can’t he see where you’re coming from?

You only wanted his time, too.

So even if shame prickles your chest—because the mercy Morax has shown you is not a simple thing and you should be grateful, which you are—you stand your ground.

“I served him, too.” You manage to say through the exacerbating cloud of exhaustion within. “In case you’ve forgotten, brother, I am an Adeptus. I fought for him, too!”

You do not remember much of the fighting, but you do know that you fought for Morax’s side eventually.

Breath starting to hitch and falter, you pause, your shaky hand clinging onto the wooden railings of the balcony to keep yourself upright.

The telling signs of deterioration and death are enough to prompt you to transform into your avian form and rest in the gilded cage, but you don’t.

Not yet.

You exhale, “Was that not enough?”

If your brother has gotten alarmed of your state, then you don’t know—your eyesight is already blurring.

“It never was.” Is his response, cold.

You feel your heart dropping—but deep down, you know that it’s true.

It’s far from being enough.

“After obtaining power that you used to smite the helpless and the dreamless, did you think your measly centuries-long service was enough after he saved you?”

Trapped in the usual harrowing haze brought by the repercussions of that mentioned power, you can feel it starting to pick away at your mind again.

It drapes you over in its shadow of death, and you feel yourself losing, but-

“I—”

“Stop being selfish, [Name].” just seeing him walk away—marking the end of another imbroglio—reawakens the fire in your chest. Providing sufficient fortitude for you to exclaim in retaliation.

“I did it for the both of us!” he pauses in place.

Your head splits at the sudden rise of your volume, unused to the chaos like you were centuries past. It almost sends you fainting, but despite your wobbling legs, you stay standing.

His attention once more grasped in the transience of a second, you say again, this time with a voice as feeble as a sickly child.

“… I did it for you, brother.”

Though it ended up being useless.

He doesn’t turn around, even when you are at your most vulnerable; showing a side you haven’t shown to anyone, not even him, until now.

You believe you’ve gotten to him, you believe it has done an impact—that he’ll stay for once.

“I didn’t ask for you to do it.”

But of course, he won’t.

His frigid response, dipped with potent insouciance, almost sends you to your knees in defeat and loss. How can he sound so uncaring? How can he… not care?

Do you really mean so little? Compared to his duties? That he can’t even spare a day?

Xiao begins to vanish in black and turquoise wisps, signs of his teleportation skill at use, and you all but crumble at the sight.

Even with the hazardous threat of total decay, you step forward, wanting to reach out to him but you don’t let go of the railings.

If you do, you will fall. And you have a feeling that he won’t catch you if he did.

“I’ll join you.” Your weak insistence makes him scoff.

“If this is your way of redeeming yourself, then it’s ridiculous.”

His words stab through you like the repercussions of the power you greedily sought for a long time ago. Only, his hurts more—for his cuts through the fiber of your very existence and burns the blood you share with him.

Without looking back at you, he declares.

“You’re now nothing more but a carapace of the warrior you’ve been. You’ve gotten weak, you’re not meant for anything in the battlefield.”

The battlefield; the only place you could have shown your worth and aid. The only place where you can help. But not now, not ever.

Unable to find both the strength and voice to muster a reply, you remain wordless, too busy trying to regain your breathing. Cold sweat runs down the expanse of your temple, dripping down your chin and onto the floorboards that are starting to swarm with black and cyan.

“Leave.” comes his command. “You’re just being absurd, straining yourself this way.”

The balcony gets colder, telling of the lack of his presence. His presence that, albeit perceived as cold, has a vestige of warmth. A trace of who he had been, millenniums ago.

At his disappearance, you allow yourself to succumb to the weakness, dropping to your knees and leaving the form of a human.

It is beyond exhausting to stay in that physique, a vessel often used to fight.

You don’t know what compelled you to appear to him in it—maybe it’s because it’s how you’re usually around him back then? Back when you were untarnished by the corruption of a power so malefic? You don’t know.

The glow of [c] dies down and the world has gotten bigger, as expected given your small avian shape. Decay’s prognosis is thwarted and slow, as it’s always been whenever you take up on your original form.

Your human vessel speeds it up, hence its limited usage.

Aside from approaching your brother today, you can’t remember the last time you’ve been human.

You mean humane, whispers the demon in your head.

A phantasmagoric devil, a remnant of the god you foolishly served. Thinking about her just makes your insides churn.

Dispelling the delusory fiend, you take flight, heading towards the lower and vaster balcony, right at the level where the front desk and Verr is.

Facing the view of Liyue, near the threshold to the interior, hanging by the beams is a cage embellished in gold.

Its elaborate decoration often attracts people, awed at the décor and the little [c] bird inside. You do not mind them, for you are asleep most of the time. They marvel over the intricacy of the aureate cadre, unaware of the salubrious and restorative enchantments set upon the container itself.

Entering the cage with ease, you drop onto soft [c] padding blanketed with mounds of fabric that mimics a bed. Immediately, inside the enclosure, the exhaustion and threat of staying outside is ceased—and serenity fills your whole being.

It’s peaceful, you denote as you’re slowly being brought to a slumber. However, even with the comfort brought by the golden jail, your heart thrums with unease.

Your mind paints the image of your dear brother.

There is a reason why you stay locked up in it, despite it being an actual representation of both a prison and a sanctuary.

You fall asleep with a tear slipping from your closed eye.

It delays the indemnifying declension that was born out of a past desire.

“Lower your stance a little more, feet square on the ground. They direct your movements.”

Kicking his polearm into his grip, he mimics your stance and, with a swift revolve on the terrain, his feet skid with finesse. It sets the foundation of his next course of action, dragging his body to twist with spruce and power at the same time.

You watch it, astounded.

Your awe comes out in a prolonged ‘oh’, succeeded by silent yet rapid claps.

Alatus huffs at it and he looks more uncomfortable than thankful, but the tips of his ears are flushed cerise. He would’ve been teased a ton if you’re not aware of the fact that he dislikes it so much.

Add to that the reason that you aren’t that close to be actually teasing him…

Outside the intrinsic mutualism that acknowledges the other as kin, and outside the days where you both spend it training, your interests with him do not align. So, it’s often a little awkward, in the sense that it feels like you’re in an estranged bond.

Despite it, however, you want to be close to him. Your family.

Your attention is retrieved when you see your polearm being flung your way and you gasp, hurrying to catch it in your arms and—success! Oh, you don’t know what you’d do if you failed to catch your own weapon… the embarrassment.

Alatus nods at you with folded arms, situating himself above a rock a few paces away from his previous place.

“Go. Do it until you perfect it.”

“Eh?”

He means he’ll watch you train? Oh dear, well, all the more to give this your best shot!

Moving your extremities to the proper position you’ve been displayed with a moment ago, you breathe in deeply and clutch the polearm before swinging with a cry.

“Hah!”

You’ve been alive for a millennium, and for ages, you can only recall how you’ve been at your brother’s side and vice versa. The snippets of your childhood are forgotten in the mist within, only being able to reminisce about your first day of flight.

A flight that you shared with him. And that’s where your memory stops.

Throughout the years, you’re never at one place, either. Maybe it’s because of your avian nature—ironic, since you both venture the lands in human forms—but traveling the world comes as an innate purpose.

You enjoy the freedom, and you know your brother does, as well.

Just the simple thought of taking to the skies without anything to lag you by is cathartic, much more if you actually do spread your wings to embrace all that the wind has to offer.

And the skies, always tinctured a marvelous azure, is your home.

You can stare at it from below forever and observe the rolling clouds without ever getting bored. For when the firmament is stroked with the oranges of a sunset and the navy of a night, there is always a new story to tell.

A new chapter to begin with—a new day to look forward to.

Although you don’t fly that much anymore—choosing to walk the earth with your kin—you still look forward to the day you’ll scour it once more. And maybe you can even ask your brother to join you, preferably when you get the courage and stop being so awkward.

Fate has listened to you, it seems.

Because the day do arrive; when you fly in the sky with him. Only, you hoped the reason could’ve been different.

For when you flew, the sky was not a tranquil blue, but a portentous red.

“What was that?”

It’s the first thing you ask when he enters through the curtain of leaves isolating the interior of the cave—your temporary lodgings—from the outside world.

He doesn’t look injured but does appear roughened up like he’s gotten the privilege of being a safe witness to a slaughter.

You kind of don’t even want him to answer, your breath held in as you observe the way he tenses and relaxes, unsure what to do.

He looks uncertain himself—as if he can’t believe what he’s seen or heard. What he says next makes your skin turn pallid.

“War.” His answer is strained, “There’s a war.”

A war—a war.

So suddenly? When Teyvat was at peace all this time?

“We need to leave.” Alatus begins to pace around the cave, mumbling things to himself that you can’t catch. Seeing him this frantic only fuels your own dread.

You are just about to propose leaving that instant when he looks at you with a pointed stare. “I’ll search for routes that aren’t overtaken by battles and warriors. Pack whatever rations we have left.”

“What? That takes no more than a minute! Let me join you after—”

“No.” His tone gets stern, and if it isn’t for the plea in his eyes, you would’ve thought him callous. “Stay here, do you understand me?”

Torn, you nibble on your lip, aggravated at the dilemma.

All you know is that sending him off alone is a risk, even when maybe the war hasn’t reached this place yet. You want to argue with him further, but you also know that it will only use up time that could be spent ascertaining a route out of here.

Dropping your head in your hands, you expel a resigned sigh. “Please be quick.”

He doesn’t say anything, only moving past the drapes of leaves to start what he plans to do.

The moment he’s gone, you get to work, doing as you’re told and gathering whatever little rations you’ve acquired on your journey here. And as expected, it doesn’t take any longer than a minute or two.

By the time two tiny bags are set and prepared to be taken, you are still alone in the cave along with the light through the curtain that’s gradually beginning to decline.

It is sundown.

Soon, night will fall—the time where the dark begins to prey, and consequently, the witching hour when all who is attuned to their powers are stronger.

“Brother!”

Alatus stumbles into the cave, panting with his eyes seemingly unable to focus. His polearm is at the ready, clasped in a gloved hand that tremors every now and then.

He holds out a hand to stop you from touching him.

“Don’t,” he breathes once then lets his weapon vanish into gold dust. “I can take care of myself.”

Oh you don’t doubt that at all, but he’s looking as if he’s a painting of a red sea.

“You’re bleeding!”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Your fusses are dismissed with a shake of his head. “This isn’t my blood.”

That halts you in place, the hand that is about to touch his shoulder pausing in midair. Then, tentatively, you rise your gaze, meeting a golden stare that still looks out of it. You curse, withdrawing your hand and apologizing.

He must still feel shaken up, you shouldn’t intrude his space.

“It’s fine,” Alatus says, voice low yet grim. “Let’s go, now.”

Where, exactly? You wanted to ask as he exits through the drape of leaves once more.

And can we even outrun a war?

You don’t know—you can’t say for sure.

There’s no telling whether there’s even a sanctuary to go to, but you kept your mouth shut, not risking the chance to upset your brother further.

He doesn’t need a burden, not when he’s already doing so much to look after the two of you.

The outside world lacks its usual serenity.

The greens have gotten dull, receptive to the damage being done on the terra. You’ve no doubt that someplace else, the pretty viridescent can no longer be distinguished underneath all the red.

Because of a war.

War. Just even thinking of it makes your skin crawl. You’re afraid.

War results to loss, there’s almost never a winning side—aren’t all victories pyrrhic? You don’t want to engage in one to find out.

The cold wind makes you shiver, fingers suddenly unable to remain still at the nipping fear in your heart. You do not feel good, you don’t feel good at all—it’s as if you are subconsciously aware of an omen.

You hope that whatever it may be, it won’t come your way.

But fate seems to be less merciful. Perhaps it’s because it deems your situation unfair; you are safely avoiding battle, whilst the others are falling left and right.

It dawns like the burning sun, fate’s punishment.

In your travels, eluding the imminence of war, creatures born of twilight have risen from the soil. Their woes and regrets that have morphed into mordant vice are bemoaned, reverbing in the night.

They are creatures you’ve both have no experience in fighting.

And they’re everywhere.

The both of you have successfully fought your way into escaping, but you are far from being unscathed. The gash on your side is huge, calling the need for rest—to hide.

Although a hiding spot has been found, that does not mean that you are entirely in the green light. For some reason, the creatures are prowling everywhere, on the chase for something—or someone—and will not rest upon retrieving it.

It is the sound of their growls that pushes your brother to leave again, much to your protests.

“You’re injured, too.” you insist but he does not budge, eyeing your nasty injury that doesn’t seem to heal no matter the number of days that have passed.

“If I don’t fight, they will find us,” states Alatus, the tone of his voice implying no room for persuasion nor arguments.

You almost claw your hair out as you rise to stand—only to be forcefully laid down again.

You all but raise your voice at it.

“You’re far injured than I am!” your voice stuns him to silence as you point at his body, littered with wounds of various sizes. “I know how to fight, let me go, instead.”

If only you wholeheartedly mean it—because you don’t. You’re afraid.

War—war scares you, and those creatures, they aren’t normal, they reek of evil. You do not want to suffer a fate under their claws, but you can’t just send your brother out there, either.

Alatus looks at himself, assessing the gravity of his injuries—then huffs, in amusement? You can’t tell.

“This is nothing to me.”

He says this, yet you can hear him grunting in the night after he returned bearing double the number of wounds on his figure, hissing from the obvious pain he thought he’d been discreet at hiding.

Is he forgetting who you are?

You may not be that close with him like how normal siblings are meant to be, but you are bound by blood.

You can feel yourself growing faint at the sight of him being so weak, putting himself responsible for the both of you. As if you couldn’t fight.

No matter how much you tell him to switch, he always seems to have an extra reserve of power to shut you down and depart before you could. He leaves with the rise of each sun and returns when the moon is at its peak, when the shadows overcome the light and are present to mask his presence.

He’s hurting and you’re resonating with his pain. It hurts to see him leak blood.

Is the fighting that bad for him to come home half-dead every single night?

You must help him, you need to help him, what kind of sibling would you be if you don’t? You know how to fight and you’ll be putting that to good use.

But things are easier said than done.

Sparring is different from war, where blood is spilled without a second thought and no such thing as ‘time out’ exists.

Perhaps he’s aware that you’re actually terrified—because even if you can fight, you’re afraid, and it’s that fear that becomes your weakness. Renders you useless.

Maybe he knows that hence why even though he’s grunting in the night, he leaves to keep you safe.

You’re ashamed, you’re guilty, and you’re fearful-

“Brother…”

But nothing scared you the most when one night, Alatus comes inside the alcove barely conscious, looking like an exact picture of the time he came bearing news of war.

The only difference? He’s covered in his own blood.

Getting to work fast, you seize the remaining bandages—that he insisted you use for yourself—and do your best to clean his lacerations.

At some point, you have to sneak out and stealthily gather some water from the nearby pond whilst evading the eyes of those creatures.

They are endless.

Alatus is running a terrible fever that refused to go down even though the days have come and go, shivering even when you’ve thrown bundles of fabric that you’ve ransacked from empty camps.

His wounds are yet to heal, just like yours, the fair skin lost in an ugly shade of violet and yellow.

They aren’t normal at all, instead acting like hexes.

They are painful, but you’re sure as hell that your pain isn’t tantamount to the one your brother feels.

When he doesn’t wake up on the third month, you have learned to cry, shaking in place, away from the war, hidden in a cave where demise will eventually prowl at.

You are mad for a handful of reasons, but above all, you are so, so afraid.

There comes the first stroke of realization; you and Alatus, so, so different from one another.

Perhaps, if you have been as courageous as he, as vigilant and fortified—things could’ve been different. But no, you didn’t insist more, didn’t try to persuade him otherwise.

Look where that has led the two of you.

You can’t believe that it has to take him being in a vegetative state for you to be able to crawl out of that stupid cave and fight for him as he did for you.

You do not know why you were so struck with cowardice—is it because of death? Or the fear of letting him down?

Maybe because he’d think less of you as his kin if you fail, so you never tried?

You wish you had an answer, but it doesn’t arrive.

Even if you pierce your polearm in the chests of those twilight-borne creatures and watch them disperse into ash, you are not delighted with an answer to your fear.

Nor an answer to the remedy that will cure you and him of your supernaturalesque wounds.

Will you both really perish this way? Heavens, you pray not—there’s much to do.

You search for a cure, every day and every night, returning only to your brother’s side when you are too fatigued. You have managed to stay alive and awake, miraculously not falling prey to the enticing slumber that took your kin in its hold.

You hope for a remedy, hope for the day it’ll be discovered—but with each rising moon, your hope dwindles. Everything seems to be set in stone.

Death is the only thing that awaits the two of you at the end of the road.

“You want to help your brother, don’t you?”

Until she came along; your savior.

“What of it? It’s not like you can give me what I wish for.”

She has come to greet you in the middle of the battlefield when another fight has ended and you remain standing. A pyrrhic victory, for in the finale, demise will still come to greet you.

“Let us join forces, my dear. I will give you all that you need.”

She has your attention.

“It’s impossible.” You whisper, for you desire for plenty; for enough courage because until now you are afraid. For enough power so that you can protect your brother, too. “What are you to be able to do that?”

It is too good to be true—and you should’ve been wary, but she emanates such a sincere aura that wants to help.

And how can you deny such a tempting offer, still? How can you overlook the prospect of joining hands with an almighty—

“A god.”

With her—everything can be possible.

The relief you felt when she held your hand and your wounds vanished in an instant—she can cure Alatus, too…!—and the comfort of having a kind god… maybe…

“… Alright.”

“Very well.”

She smiles, raising her hand—so, so cold—to brush against your cheek, wisps of the power you desire being welcomed by your skin, seeping into your body and into your bloodstream.

Your eyes open to the feel of something brushing against your feathers, careful as though they’ll hurt you.

It’s still in the dead of night, but you know that sensation anywhere—that presence, the gentle hold you’ve gotten used to after having to live in a gilded cage.

Brother?

The small of your [c]s peer up, meeting a golden gaze. Xiao stops caressing your little form, the pad of his thumb that has brushed away a cold tear withdrawing.

You chirp, tiny beak reaching to peck his fingers—in an attempt to bring him back—that moves to leave the birdcage. Why does he retreat every single time?

As if pitying your endeavors, the Yaksha lets his hand stay for a bit longer, allowing you to snuggle in his cupped palm. His touch is always so comforting.

It is one that he barely does, so relish the few seconds of that blessing.

To your dismay, those seconds feel shorter than usual, because he’s drawing his hand back before you can even squeak and vanishing without so much as a goodbye. Your heart drops again.

But you should be used to this.

You should be thankful that he even holds your tiny form whenever he wishes to. But you want him nearby, you want to close the rift that separates you from him. You want to be closer.

He is your only family—and after that bit in the Chasm…. Oh, you don’t even want to think about it.

Pushing the door to the cage open, you stretch your wings out then flew, traveling a short yet exhausting distance to the upper balcony. Xiao already stands there, paying no mind to your arrival as though he has anticipated this.

“What do you want?” he asks as soon as the [c] light has faded and your human form has appeared once more.

His abrasiveness does not deter you—it is the sight of his flesh wounds that do the trick, open and leaking with adeptal blood.

You swallow at the sight of it, being reminded of the state he had been in the early years of the Archon War.

You think that he won’t entertain you if you came up to him with your usual words, so you decide to stray with a tiny white lie.

“Dandelions…” you answer directly, though a little shy. “And cecilias…”

It isn’t a complete lie, per se, for you do miss those exotic flowers.

Though they hail from the foreign nation of Mondstadt, you used to fly to the cliffs and greens of the city of wind to nestle in the breezy floras.

But as you are right now, you are incapable of leaving for too long.

The Yaksha eyes you at the side, nose crinkling in bewilderment. He probably didn’t expect that answer and instead believes it to be a bluff. He isn’t completely wrong, either.

His prolonged silence makes you sigh.

“Stop fighting.” You finally convey the words dying to roll off your tongue, “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

I don’t want you to continue suffering more than this.

He answers you immediately with a scoff. “Impossible.”

Of course it is.

“I just want you nearby.” You try a different approach, though you mean the reason all the same. Your voice has gotten softer, a little more shy than usual. “Is that so much to ask for?”

Compared to before, this time, his answer is not instantaneous.

You’re not certain if he’s not speaking because he doesn’t have a response, or because he simply doesn’t want to. He keeps his gaze straight forward, into the nights of Liyue where everything is at peace.

All but you two.

When at long last, he’s finally able to respond, it is not towards your later statement.

“Stop asking for ridiculous things, my war is eternal. There is nothing you can do about it.”

The prick on your chest begins far too sooner than you expected. You still mustn’t have recovered to an acceptable extent.

The growing pain tempts you to revert back, but you don’t, because then, you wouldn’t be able to speak.

“Why can’t you let me help you?” you pry, daring a step forward.

Closer, closer to the rift that divides you both.

“Help?” Xiao’s voice is strangely wistful, but then he shakes his head. “… That’s absurd.”

You do not miss the slight crack in his visage that told you of his vulnerability—the same one you found when he collapsed in your arms after returning bloody and beaten in the War.

How can you turn a blind eye to it?

How can you turn a blind eye to him?

With assurance, you reach your hand out, just like he did to you a while ago. You want to hold him, you want to comfort him—even if he’s at an unending war, you will carry it with him. It’s only natural.

You are siblings.

“Don’t,” Xiao snarls, voice dripping with a threat. “Don’t touch me.”

The pain in your chest squeezes.

“Brother—" you plea, but-

“What we’ve become is inevitable.” The way he said it so monotonously freezes you in shock.

There is not an ounce of guilt in his tone as he highlights the pathetic outcome of your relationship with him after the war.

A war that has strained a bond that was awkward to bloom—where now, there is a division that separates the two of you.

“It cannot be annulled.”

A rift that is impossible to cross over.

You feel your breath leaving you.

“So,” you rub at your eyes, looking away in fear that he’ll catch the glossing of your eyes and deem you weaker than you already are. “You aren’t willing to try to- to fix… this?”

What’s become of us?

Xiao looks at you for the second time that night—and the shadow over his visage makes it difficult to see the expression he wears. But his answer is sufficient enough.

“It is useless to fix what is already broken.”

And just like that—the hope you’ve been attempting to keep alive in your heart shatters, but the gravity of such an impact is caught in a delay.

You are unable to feel it at first, for there is an evident stutter in the process of understanding how far you are from your brother.

It is only when Xiao turns to disappear were you able to feel the extent of his words—the knife that stabs through in order to claw out your heart. It hurts.

You fall to the floor, trembling from exhaustion—literally and emotionally.

The thrum in your chest sends a lump to rise at your throat, firm and telling of the damage your heart has received.

It hurts to think that you are the only one who wants to try and fix the space dividing you from him. It hurts to think that you are the only one who wants to help the other heal.

Gasping for air, you feel the floor with your shaking hands, willing yourself to transform back into the meek and fragile form you’ve always been.

All traces of courage having dispersed the instance you were shot down.

It hurts.

The following day, you are unable to see Xiao anywhere.

Perhaps he is concealing himself away, or maybe he truly is occupied conquering and purging the land of the obstinacy known as bygone gods.

You do not know—it isn’t like he tells you anything.

Waking up in the cage you call your home, the assumption from last night that you will open your eyes feeling drained and helpless is ostensibly false.

Because although the feeling of being deprived of vitality is true, you do not feel as helpless as you thought you’d be.

Maybe other than blood, stubbornness is what you share with him.

Hence why you decided to take a venture past Wangshu and head into the heart of the harbor, seeking the man you know holds olden wisdom and judgement in all his glory.

It isn’t hard to meet him, given it isn’t a busy day.

It took you great courage to speak up and hold your ground against your brother, but it takes an even bolder heart to meet the eyes of the ex-Archon who at one point held your fate in his hands.

But he appears to have mellowed now—gotten even wiser if that’s possible.

He is surprised to see you, understandably so, but made no such things to send you off, which led to tea being shared in the morning as he listened to your entreaties in silence.

“I see, so you are worried over your brother, still.” He does not sound at all flabbergasted that this is why he’s approached, humming.

You wait for more of his words, biting back the urge to tell him all that he knows that instant. And as if the deity has been attuned to your wishes, he indulges you, setting the teacup down with a clink that sounds within the secluded room in the funeral parlor.

It’s morbidly expedient; to talk in such a place when the crux of the conversation involves history and deaths.

“Do you know why he considers his duty eternal?” Zhongli lifts his stare to meet yours, the action making you swallow and answer a short while after.

“Because of a contract?”

You are aware that he isn’t trying to be intimidating with his stare—it is just that you have grown accustomed to looking into those ambers that once exuded undisputed command.

Although who sits before you now is not the Geo Archon, but someone trying to blend in with the mortals, you cannot see him for the human he tries to be.

“Partially.” He admits though it contradicts the subtle shake of his head. “But there is another reason.”

Another…? Unaware of the subconscious tightening of your fists, you break off the eye contact, moving your sight to the peaceful surface of the hot tea in the cup within your hands.

To be submerged in it will feel relieving—at least then, underwater, everything that you hear will be obscured. A semblance of a sanctuary, to hide from the truth and the answer you fear yet seek all the same.

As though cognizant of your hesitance, the man on the other end of the table keeps quiet, yet still fixates his stare on your person. Waiting to deliver what you came to him for.

And when [c]s strikes against gold, it is set in stone. He answers.

“Sacrifice.”

It shouldn’t be surprising, really; sacrifice, though ruinous and lamentable at best, isn’t considered uncommon in Teyvat.

Sacrifices exist and happen every single day; from the loss of time in order to do something, to the loss of chances and opportunities that could’ve opened a different path, and plenty more.

But for an immortal—sacrifice is far too grave of a word to associate with.

“[Name],” you stiffen at his call, “Do you ever not wonder why he agreed to be a Yaksha? Why most of your memories of the War is entrapped in a fog that refuses to disperse?”

Sacrifice is something that holds meaning and influence over one’s life.

Floundered, you pick away at the handle of the cup. “Because you asked him to?”

You don’t answer his later question, aware that your perfunctory response is sufficient enough to answer both.

He nods. “Yes, but even I had a reason for asking him.”

A reason, so he means that there’s something else other than the superficial invite to be an elite warrior. Another meaning under the agreement to be a Yaksha.

Zhongli moves, carrying his cup with him as he takes a seat on the chair next to yours. He then extends his hand for you to take wordlessly and you clench your fists once more, skeptical.

There is a voice in your head advising you not to do it, but you must if you ever want to find out what that reason is.

And when you take his hand, there’s a painful tingle erupting from the tips of your fingers, coursing through your blood, rushing into your mind and opening memories you didn’t know you had until now.

The corrosive decay from the cursed blessing is momentarily abated, bringing about a reel of a familiar yet forgotten tragedy.

That lady on the battlefield—she who is adorned with smiles and wears red as her primary choice of color, is your savior. At least, on the face of it.

When you’ve come to allow her to bless you—and bless you she did—you are instantly healed of your supernatural wounds and there’s no doubt that your brother was, too, because that was what’s agreed on.

You felt the gratifying enchantment of the power you sought, running within your bloodstream and filling you to the brim with a taste of affluent omnipotence.

With that power, you returned to a frantic warrior who’s up on his feet, cured of his afflictions.

With that power, you have gotten stronger—stronger than you could possibly ever imagine and your fear of the war has dwindled until it is nulled.

With that power, you are able to satiate the desire to keep Alatus safe, as he has done with you.

But that power… you realize, as you stare once more at the familiar sight of fatal wounds on your unconscious kin one night, is still not enough.

So, you cast about for the lady in red once more, and there she is awaiting, again, in the middle of the battlefield. Waiting for you with a knowing smile.

“This power is insufficient.”

“Then foster it.”

“How?”

Dreams. Ambitions, hopes, and wishes.

All those that are created by the heart’s desire, all those that human beings thrive upon to look forward to another day. They are the requisites—they are the ensilages to the development of your blessing.

So, seek them out.

And sought you did.

When the advent of nightfall has come and all are asleep, you prey upon humans, feeding on their dreams and hopes. Using them to enhance the gift you’ve been given.

It’s fine, right?

After all, you’re doing it to protect your brother. Those humans will understand, it isn’t like they can’t understand the meaning of necessities.

“Don’t you want more?” she had smiled.

You do.

“Then go, my dear.”

So, you went.

Those dreams, so positive and hopeful, they taste delightful. Unbelievably scrumptious, addicting and leaving you craving.

It’s fine, right?

With each delectable dream, you grow powerful. As what’s promised.

Alatus—dear brother—is barely even scathed nowadays. A monster will be cut down before they can even think of harming him. Oh, how overjoyed you are.

Oh, how powerful.

Oh, how fearless—how valiant you’ve become.

This is it, the crescendo of your being.

This is what you’ve been looking for; the missing piece to combat the petty fear of war. Power. It is all that you needed.

It is all that you ever desired. Nothing more, nothing less.

But there lies a fault in the path you’ve chosen.

A fault you realized far too late, when the last vestiges of your moral alignment have come to convey the epiphany that you are being strung along to the whims of the smiling lady.

When you have confronted her about it, barely rational, instead high, drunk, and delirious on the sweet, sweet blessing [curse], you are far too gone.

That power has become strings, threads to puppeteer you the way she wishes to.

You dislike it—but the power… did you really dislike the power?

Salvation is nowhere in sight.

At least, not in the form of –

“Let her go.”

The one you tried so hard to protect.

You can hear his voice by the skin of your teeth, an almost muted decibel. What strikes like drums against your ears, however, is the sardonic simper.

“You’re in no position to make demands, dear.” she hummed, “But I have been waiting for you. Why don’t you say hi to your sister, doesn’t the red make her look prettier?”

Red? What is she talking about? You are barely conscious—not in the sense that you are falling into a slumber, but more like you do not feel… you.

A vignette overlays your blurred sight, only being able to see blobs of colors that you’ve learned to liken to those that you know.

Alatus is a peaceful emerald, opposing the scorching crimson known as the god you’ve once deemed your savior.

“I said free her from your bind before it’s you who’ll be seeing red.” His voice comes out much more austere than you anticipated—you can’t tell.

Another simper resounds in the—where is this? You don’t know anymore.

It’s hard to maintain your focus on them when the whirl of power within is too addicting to overlook. Still, you try to concentrate, albeit with evident complication.

The strain from trying to ignore the catalyzing omnipotence is more painful than it is cathartic, and you begin to hiss and growl away at it. Much like an injured animal.

You feel a hand caress your hair, the touch endearing, though it’s a prima facie act at best. You know that much—though you knew it too late.

“I like my beasts feisty. This one’s power-greedy, which makes it so scrumptious, but you…” the way she paused makes your skin crawl in anxiousness, “That desperation… could be put to good use.”

A brewing presage that, to your horror, comes true.

The moment the blur of red stirs past you, inching closer to the serene green, you’re moving—or you think you’re moving.

Your extremities no longer feel like they are yours, hanging on threads that oscillate only upon the whims of the smiling god.

“What are you doing?” your voice seems far, but you hear yourself, anyway. “This is not within our agreement, you said you’ll—!”

You said you’ll leave him alone!

Immediately, much like the puppet you’ve succumbed to be, a domineering yank slots you back in place, holding you down even if no visible force can be seen doing it.

Oppressive in all its decree, nothing can be done as you are forced to crash to the earth, the very power you beseeched being the one responsible to shackle and render you immobile.

There’s a click of the tongue. “Delicious greed, indeed. The only downside is that she can be so defiant…”

The power within you begins to fester without delay—and though it is heavenly, there is a threshold. Too much, the power is too much, filling you to the brim with the threat of breaking past the limit.

It feels like you are about to explode from the inside out if it keeps up and the burn—oh the burn in your blood- make it stop-

You cling onto the dress of the lady in red, pathetically tugging in apology for acting out. But she does not cease her punishment.

“Why are you turning it away?” she questions, infusing even more of the accursed blessing and causing you to writhe on the ground, “Did you not want power, my dear?”

Are you dying? Is this what it feels like? How funny.

You thought that with power, you can conquer anything—but here you are, overladen and drunk with it, but still, you are afraid. As you’ve always been.

“Stop that this instant!” the demand rings with unfiltered urgency. “[Name]!”

It’s the first time you’ve heard him call for you so alarmed that you’re miraculously able to cling onto the remnants of your consciousness, stubbornly not letting go. Afraid of what might happen if you do.

The blur of red has stopped in front of the green.

It doesn’t take much sagacity for you to know that the god is considering stopping, but of course—

“Be mine, then, just like your sister surrendered herself to me. Then I’ll let her go.”

—As always, with a price too great.

“Brother, don’t- don’t do it.” Thankfully, your voice has not failed you—yet.

I did this to protect you. I did this to keep you safe!

Right? He was the reason you sought power in the first place, you wanted to keep him safe, too—right? So why is it that something inside is telling you that you’re wrong?

No, no, you know your reasons—you did it for him, you did it—

“You swear upon your word.”

—For your brother.

“No, no, wait-!”

“That’s more like it.”

The atmosphere has gotten even colder, dropping to a degree where it feels like ice is biting your skin each and every second.

It contrasts the burn within, the discrepancy of bitter cryo and igneous pyro making it almost impossible to even feel.

You want to scream, you want to defy and demand for him to take his words because under the mercy of this—this god is something you don’t ever want him to face.

But your fates have been led astray, the alignment of stars steering off-course.

There is no turning back the moment you have allowed yourself to be [blessed] cursed.

You feel yourself dropping from the command she has on you, but for some reason…

“There, free from my chains.” It feels as though you are no longer yourself. “And blinded by the strength she so seeks.”

The power is toxic—running like fire in your bloodstream and dousing you in a sensation worse than your psyche being split in half. Yet beyond the concept of pain, there is power.

Power that you sought, power that you desired.

How bad could it be? Pain in exchange for omnipotence.

It is all that you ever wanted—right?

“You said you’ll release her!”

Of course.

“That I did. But greed is blinding. You’re mine now, Alatus.”

It is all that you ever needed.

“Gh—! Let go of me-.. !”

Why did you seek such power in the first place? Ah.

“Snap out of it!”

Oh, you don’t know anymore—but the power is too delicious. It’s too good, it’s too simply wonderful. You feel invincible, like you can seize the world and crush it in your hands.

So you will. And it’ll crumble like dust in your fists, split apart from the blade of your polearm.

Your body has seemingly adapted to the burn, caging the liquid fire within, unaware of its true catastrophic damage. Your sight has since then become clear again, but you feel… weird.

Awake, yet not lucid. All you can feel is the [toxin] ambrosia of potency—of might and inviolability.

The delightful thrum in your chest emanates the blinding power you proceed to be intoxicated in and you feel the bliss of it all as you take to the skies, looking over the carnage and the dreams waiting to be eaten.

You’re hungry, salivating at the simple thought of feeding upon sweet, sweet dreams.

Be mightier, be more powerful… !

[To keep him safe] To be high and drunk with it all is all that you’ve ever wished for.

So you actively chased after it, the insatiability keeping you on edge. It is a chase you are willing to be in for eternity.

Even though there are times when you crashed, the feathers of your wings burning from the overabundance of delicious, delicious power, you keep on chasing.

Sometimes, you think there is someone flying with you—but they do not seek the same thing that you do. How unfortunate, do they not like the taste of being unstoppable?

Sometimes, you think they are trying to talk to you, and though you see their face, you can’t be bothered.

They do not understand you—you are two worlds apart.

One night, when the sun entwined with the moon and painted the latter a luscious red, you came upon an assembly overflowing with hopeful dreams.

Who are you to not be ravenous?

At the center of all the carnage, you giggle, crazed and temporarily satiated. The smile on your face does not drop even when you are lying underneath the golden tip of the Vortex Vanquisher, far too out of it.

You see someone dropping from the skies, rich marigold wings folding to the ground, but you do not pay them any mind. All you can think about is the rich and devastating feel of power.

The polearm presses onto your forehead, then out rings a voice, weighed with nothing but apathy. “So this was that god’s little beast, a piteous avian…”

Familiar, that sensation of spilling blood, it’s familiar. You feel it dribbling on your punctured skin. It is painful, but its degree is far away from the poisonous sinew in your bloodstream.

You do not move as gold spangles beneath the crimson moon, like a harbinger announcing your death to come.

“Receive your punishment.”

“No!”

But it does not come.

“Morax!”

With a gasp, you tear your hand away from the man in question, the vestiges of the past withdrawing along with the action.

He notices your tremors before you do, but makes no move to approach given your frazzled state of mind.

Thunderstruck, you clutch away at your chest, breathing like you’ve ascended out of the murky depths. The conflagration of the curse gives off the impression that it has been resurrected, though you know it only to be an aftereffect of awakening a buried memory.

The curse—that ‘blessing’—is long gone. Its only relic remains in the form of your damaged body, a vessel that could not handle the amount of growing power.

You know that you have done something wrong, but the fact that a consequence made for you was instead taken by your brother—albeit in a different manner—was not known. Until now.

The gaps in your memories are closing and you are a hundred times more exhausted than ever, already on the verge of slipping away if not for Zhongli sliding the teacup forward.

“Drink,” he insists, “It has been enchanted, comprised with what sustains you until today.”

You do so without an ounce of hesitance, sighing in relief at the soothing effect of the deciduous remedy. It will do for now until it is time to return to your ‘sanctuary’.

Looking at Morax now that you are aware of things you weren’t before comes off as difficult, but you endure with pursed lips. Though you are unsure as to how to approach things after being doused with revelations… you will try.

“You mean to say-” the images of before makes you shudder. “When he became a part of the Yaksha… his karmic debt… his contract…”

Ala—Xiao’s arrival then, when you were about to be dealt with necessary consequence…

The rest of your memories are still hazy, but it doesn’t require a genius to ascertain and piece things together.

Zhongli nods. “He shouldered it for you, to atone for what you did.”

The gravitas he bears—is that coupled with travail, or is your guilty, hopeful conscience making you see things that you want to see?

You know that saying you could’ve done it—atone, serve—instead will only provide an obvious reason as to why they didn’t even consider you doing it.

Morax did not trust you then—and you understand that perfectly.

But your heart still weighs with bitterness, with shame—with guilt that will eternalize itself within.

Yes, you have served Morax anyway, fought in his name despite not recalling the real reason why other than abiding by Xiao’s insistence that you do so. But it is as he said still, your servitude is far from being enough.

You’ve slain upon hundreds, preyed upon thousands, and ruined beings innumerable.

“Because of me…”

He’s unable to be peaceful. Unable to escape the threat of insanity coming from karma. He’s everything that you should be. He bears the opposite that you should’ve been from the start.

You feel small—terrible, awful- hell, nothing can describe how you despise who—what you’ve come to be.

Seeing your reflection in the tea makes you hold your face, wishing to claw and rip it apart if it means getting rid of the unsightly appearance. In your chest rekindles a blaze, but it is no longer the one borne of greed, but of dolor.

Weak like you’ve always been, you are further reduced to a shaking mess of hysteria.

The memory of seeing your brother on the brink of death one too many times when he carried his first name, the blood that was keeping him alive only knowing how to overflow…

“All I wanted was to keep him safe, too.”

How could it all go so damn wrong?

It’s messed up, you’re so messed up, it’s maddening—so infuriating… !

How did you lose yourself so far?

“I’m so sorry, brother,” your whisper is wobbly as you shrink, as if it can erase your existence. “I’m so sorry..”

He can’t even look at you anymore without hurting—yet still, after everything, he is still able to give you, the beast who lost herself in her blessing, undeserving mercy.

“Morax, I beg of you.”

Why is that?

“She’s my little sister.”

Polar opposites, that’s what you both are.

Existing as each other’s parallel, because that’s what you’ve made yourselves to be.

You don’t deserve him—his love and his mercy. For so long, he’s been hurting and it had been because of you. How much does it pain him to see you spiral into someone so twisted?

Oh, sweet heavens, you can’t even envision it all.

Is it worth it? You find yourself asking over and over again.

The transient blessing of power you indulged in, only to drag in the one person you didn’t want to descend with you into madness.

History cannot be rewritten, now, you stand in the aftermath of the dangerous desire you wanted.

You have changed him for the worst.

And you can’t even shoulder his duty, can’t even help him because he’s right; you are now nothing but a shell of who you used to be. You are stuck in a cage that keeps you revitalized, unable to do anything but be idle and it’s contemptible.

Even until now, he is giving you the mercy Morax thought was inappropriate—and you find yourself agreeing with the fact that it is unfitting.

How can you even face him now?

His disappearance is warranted and you will not hold it against him at all. Your very existence inarguably reminds him of all that he went through.

Does he despise you? A possibility.

Perhaps he took mercy upon you—and pleaded for Morax to share his perspective—because you are his only kin. And that it is only necessary to keep you alive.

But beyond the blood that you share with him, you are nothing but a constant memoir of a tragedy that cost him the happiness he could have had.

The truth hurts—much more than the faux, deuced ‘blessing’ you’ve been gifted with in the olden days. And there is nothing to do but accept it for what it is.

The journey back to the inn is a lot more hellacious than ever. Maybe it is because of the additional weight of knowing the truth, but the venture is herculean. The soothing relief of the brewed tea can only last for so long.

When you arrive at the balcony after paying your greetings to the Goldets, the place is empty, devoid of the presence and trace of the kin you’ve subjected to eternal suffering.

A punishment that should’ve been yours.

Feeling yourself wither away but remaining as obstinate as ever, you rise to the roof, nearby the huge branches of the tree upon which you once rested upon whenever you’d accompany the Yaksha.

He is not there.

Still, you can envision him, and just doing so makes you lean onto the wood, heaving. Your pain cannot be quantified, but you are certain that whatever you are feeling now can’t possibly amount to the one that your kin carries.

“Big brother,” you whisper in the wind.

Alatus.

Tears stinging your eyes, you bury your face in your arms, breaking apart. “I’m so sorry, brother, I’m so sorry…”

Zhongli is right; no matter the nobility of your reason for wanting power, you killed for it. And you enjoyed the blessing afterward.

It didn’t matter if it was because you were able to keep him safe while it lasted, the sin lies in how you were delighted despite the lives that you took.

It wasn’t worth it, it so wasn’t worth it.

Now the consequence lies in the form of your beloved brother and the rift that only knows how to distance you farther and farther away.

As if it is sentient, and, knowing you will only bring him more pain, continues to section him far from your touch.

How do you have the face to even be in the same place as he is? You don’t even have the right to call him your brother, for what you did—it’s sinful. It is something that cannot be pardoned.

You cannot be pardoned.

And yet, you ask him for so much. His time? His company? When it is being near you that teethers him to death’s cliff?

How brazen—how unforgivable.

But that needn’t be a source of concern now.

Standing on wobbly feet, you descend to the lower balcony, morphing into the little avian creature you’ve always been.

The gilded cage welcomes you—though it won’t be for long. It’s time to lift a burden off of him, time to take away his very source of distress.

It’s time to leave.

It’s far from the redemption you seek, incredibly so, but you will still leave. And hopefully, take with you, the past that proceeds to haunt him.

For although you share the same blood, there is no home in a family split asunder from the wrongdoings of one.

There is no home in a family founded in pain and loss. If this is your own punishment, then it is just appropriate; to burn all hopes of ever fixing the bond you desired to have with your brother.

Your selfishness ends now.

With you gone, no longer will there be a vestige of his tribulation’s precursor. Not anymore. It is the least that you can do after so much.

You just hope that after all that you made him go through, he’ll hopefully understand that despite your fall into greed back then, at the start, it was out of the genuine want to protect him, too.

The sky, still painted a rich navy blue, is littered with endless of stars. You wonder if yours is there, having strayed from the alignment it was meant to take.

You hope that after your departure, he’ll still be able to forgive you.

With a grunt, you pluck out a feather from your wing, The [c] lacking the luster it once contained, but that does not matter now, it isn’t like you’re one for appearances, anyway.

That he won’t think anything less of you.

It is the image of your brother that makes your eyes sting as you open your wings.

That he’ll still think of you as his sister—even if you’re far from being the best one.

It is the earnest want to stop him from hurting himself with you nearby that prompts you to take to the skies after so long. Alone, as you should’ve been.

That one day, you’ll get to fly with him again. As you did a long time ago.

Farewell.

When the moon has descended, leaving the expanse of the firmament for the sun to take its place, comes the arrival of a Yaksha.

He drops onto the floorboards of the inn with an exhale, turquoise ribbons that accompanied him in his flight vanishing in the morning wind.

Careful, he stands to his full height and scans his strangely silent environment. The place where the [c]-haired Adeptus often frequents is empty.

She must be resting—and this is what he would’ve believed, had he not realized the change in the atmosphere; the cold. It’s an unsettling kind of cold that makes him furrow his eyebrows.

“[Name]?” he calls out tentatively.

When nothing but the distressing quietude greets him back in all its noisy chorus, he is quick to step down the staircase, heading to where he knows the cage hangs about.

“Xiao!” Verr’s perturbed expression only runs a chill in his spine that he refuses to acknowledge.

Without waiting for her to add something—that is not his priority—he continues to speed towards the place in mind. He comes upon the gilded cage and he stops, breath getting caught in his throat.

Nothing is there, save for the single greying feather of [c].

The sight didn’t need any explaining but fate has its way of rubbing salt in the wound.

Xiao’s breath stutters out the name of his only sibling, whispered in the wind as he takes the feather in his fingers- only for it to crumble away into dust. His hand shakes.

Losing strength, his previously clenched fists slackened.

Out of sight, the dandelions and cecilias in his hands are strewn away, lost in the breeze.

a/n: isn't it sad how a fearful MC just wanted the courage and power to protect big brother, but in the end, she lost herself in the wonders of said power and ended up only hurting the one she wanted to protect? :)) no punishment can redeem her, and, knowing she is the source of pain, she decides to leave.

BUT WAIT- doesn't the cage keep her alive? what will happen now that she left? and big brother came back too late.

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @hey-comrade-hold-stil @limelightsuperhero @chloeloe @loptido @windyventi @nejibot @ganyuqrt @justrinnn @yasunamilk @alana5021 @koi-chairowo @uwu-dreams @yvechu @mininji

#genshin x reader #genshin angst #xiao x reader #xiao angst #genshin platonic #female reader #writing this was such a ride #there's something about protecting-gone-wrong thats just muah

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