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vaguely-concerned · 2 years

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So I got an anon ask a long time ago that, from sketchy memory, said something like: Who do you think had the better/worse home life growing up, Graves or TF? And I’m super sorry because it’s gotten lost somewhere on this blue hellsite and I can’t find it again anywhere I’ve looked, but I thought I’d try to write out a post as a response anyway! I’m sorry it’s so late, it took me a while to know how to answer aaand then I had to rifle through my drafts fifteen times to see if I could find it. Again, oops and sorry lol. (In general, if you’ve sent me an ask and I haven’t answered… please know that’s on my little ping pong ball of a brain bouncing erratically around in here, and absolutely not on you.) Also I’m going to mention some stuff around physical and emotional child abuse and trauma in this – nothing graphic or in depth, but just in case anyone needs the heads-up!

Okay, so my personal headcanon/what I’ve built for my fics* is that they’re both only children of single mothers. Graves has no idea who his dad is and Mama Graves possibly has only the haziest approximate idea too haha (none of the candidates would be promising long-term prospects in any case), but in Bilgewater logic he basically grew up with the idea that in having one living parent with any kind of investment in his survival (and occasionally even happiness, an embarrassment of riches here) he might as well have hit the jackpot. TF’s dad died when TF was very little and he doesn’t remember him, and that loss is partially why his mother wasn’t able to do a very good job at the parenting thing. (She probably would have done better with a dependable partner and less depression weighing her down, but there’s some underlying emotional immaturity there too that was the real problem.) Between the two of them he probably did have the safer environment around him growing up, though; child rearing among his people was a good deal more communal and tight-knit than in the gutters of Rat Town, he was raised along with a bunch of cousins/other kids. (He was seen by most of the adults as kind of a weird annoyingly precocious kid – there is a certain kind of adult who’ll get very uncomfortable around an uncannily observant and inquisitive child – and there were Family Politics at play there as well that meant he had a subtle sense of being on the outside already there.)

Graves’ mom was physically and verbally abusive (and drank too much periodically, mostly when he got a bit older) but also had some genuine care for his wellbeing and safety, especially physically, while TF grew up with a largely emotionally unavailable and neglectful mom who collapsed into helplessness and rejection whenever he needed things from her, and then was completely abandoned by her and everyone else in the family in the end. He did experience some much better and more loving connection with his (paternal) grandfather, but his grandfather also struggled with an ever worsening serious health condition that was slowly growing terminal as TF turned eleven or so – by the time he got exiled at thirteen his grandpa was barely awake for hours at a time some days and couldn’t really do anything to help him :(

And now let me try to show my work a bit around what parts of their lore I’ve extrapolated/built this from and elaborate on the long-term effects on their ways of dealing with relationships!

So to Graves being the recipient of indifference feels much worse than anger or conflict in relationships, because his primary attachment relationship taught him that interest, even in the form of anger, was a sign that he mattered to his mother; her anger (often born of fear and boy does Bilgewater offer a lot of things to fear) and insistence on being involved in his life (so he wouldn’t y’know end up being eaten by a warf rat or something while being a dumbass kid lol) were proof that she loved him and that he had some sort of importance in the dangerous violent world he was born into.

He takes TF running away from him as a sign of indifference and rejection/abandonment, which is why it just keeps escalating the rage and hurt in him during the whole chase scene in Burning Tides; to him it reads as more and more proof that TF doesn’t care about him and never really did, that he’s blowing off all the pain Graves has been through the last ten years and that he’s desperate to convey to someone (because I think that’s also part of why he feels he needs TF to listen to him before he actually does anything violent to him; he needs someone to hear and witness how much it hurts, even if that’s not the vocabulary he knows how to use. And he needs TF to listen both because he thinks he’s the one to blame but also because he’s the person he thinks would understand or that it would matter to – aside from his mother he’s the only other person he has actually had such a close relationship with. Some parts of him still know TF as ‘love, safety, home’ even while other parts are on the war path with lethal intent, and the raging parts carrying the abandonment pain go ‘well, then I’ll fucking make him feel this as much as I do one way or the other’ (sinister intent). Even that is still a bid for connection on some level.)

I really think part of Graves’ way of feeling and showing love is grounded in mutuality that way. Even in that twisted form, what he wants from TF is mutual connection. (Which is why TF disappearing into his Cool Magic Gambler Persona TM bothers him so much, because it leaves him ‘alone’ and without that back and forth flow of call and response of connection between them (look at their moment in the crate in the animated short for an example of what I mean – the way their bodies and gazes do an effortless sort of a back and forth sway of expression: TF leans in with a conspiratorial air and stays there as Graves takes in his meaning, Graves leans in eagerly as he gets it and TF smugly settles back against him, and you can see how much they BOTH enjoy it. TF could just have used the card immediately, but his first thought is to share their imminent triumph with Graves and make a moment of it, have a connection. I don’t know how clearly I’ve managed to express it with that, I just go on Vibes and that’s why I write fiction lol. See also the immediate easy back and forth they fall into at the end of Burning Tides, where so much can be left unspoken because they know each other that well, and how it makes Graves GRIN when only like fifteen minutes earlier he notes it’s been a long, long time since he laughed. Which then gets the paranoia briefly kicking in for a moment because that’s Dangerous Territory to his trauma brain, but I really do think that their safe established connection is part of how Graves has honestly been getting back on his feet with surprising speed and ease considering Everything.)

There’s an ability to fully commit to an idea of us without having the I become lost there that I think must have started very early. As lacking and harmful as she was in other ways Mama Graves did provide that sense of unflinching ‘me and you against the world you little shit’ psychological security.

(Graves is also very quick to hear criticism where it isn’t even intended because oh boy Mama Graves always had something to complain about, TF has had to do a lot of baffled ‘…Malcolm, that is NOT what I said where the fuck did that come from’ unpacking with him over the years whenever that kicks in for him)

Meanwhile TF had to learn to fashion affection from indifference growing up: he basically learned from his mom that the best thing he could do for her was to need nothing from her, to make her life as easy as possible however he could and intuiting the things that would accomplish that without troubling her, and if he did it right she would give him some superficial attention and affection, and that’s what love is. Writing it out this is… very very sad. She would also sometimes have unpredictable anger episodes where she’d snap at him instead (often rooted in repressed shame because something in her recognized this is not how it’s supposed to go) – they were rarer but did some real damage whenever they happened. This is where his ability to read people probably started getting honed to its razor sharpness.

As you see there’s a brutal lack of mutuality in this dynamic, and a reversal of how the parent/child dynamic should actually work, the kid desperately having to do their damnedest to regulate the parent to get any needs met at all and not really managing it, because that is the DEFINITION of getting set up to lose, it just can’t work. (And I do think that mutuality Graves freely offers in close relationships is a huuuuuge part of why TF is so attracted to him both initially and enduringly, it fulfills basic needs he didn’t have met as a kid. His mom set him up to give and give and get very little back, but Graves has that basic sense of fairness that he doesn’t want TF to give him something without him getting something of equal value back in return, it just seems against some sort of code haha. There’s no honor among thieves but there is between partners, sort of thing.)

It’s also why he defaults to Flight in very tense situations – when the angry dudes came for him in the incident that lead to his exile he had no one safe to go to for help, and he was one small slip of a kid against a bunch of drunk angry adults; there really wasn’t a lot else his brain knew how to do than get away, and then he’s abandoned for it on top of it all afterwards. Trauma sandwich with shame for mustard holy shit.

I am basing this heavily on the underlying theme in Burning Tides that TF thinks that by running away he’s helping Graves by making sure he won’t put them in a position that’ll invariably seriously hurt (or worse) one or both of them while he’s so angry that he’s not in his right mind, and he’s SO frustrated that Graves doesn’t see that – “Will you ever learn? Every time I try to help you – ”. No, actually, the feeling I get is more that he thinks Graves does understand it – that it’s such a self-evident part of how relationships work that he MUST know it – he’s just ignoring and devaluing it, which is what seems like rejection through TF’s eyes. He’s essentially trying to regulate Graves’ emotions for him in an (innocently instinctive, I think) manipulative way, and he’s hurt and confused as if by rejection that Graves doesn’t accept that or won’t play along with it. “I’m trying to shield you from the consequences of your actions here because I care about you; why won’t you let me???” hahaha. In the process he also can’t take Graves’ emotions seriously or meet them until he’s been chased into a corner and is forced to, because as far as he’s concerned his job is to give them an out from all that and he can’t bear doing ‘his part’ while forced to take in just how broken Graves is inside and what it means; that he’s lost him all over again. There’s no simple ‘okay okay hang on I can fix this by myself one moment please’ here, sunshine.

Interestingly Graves DOES seem to recognize this uh love language of TF’s as it were, when he’s less severely triggered:

Damn me, he’s right. I do things my way. Always have. Whenever I pushed it too far, he had my back. He was always the one with the out.

But I didn’t listen to him that day, and I haven’t since.

And now, I’ve killed us both.

And this is the exact realization that makes him believe TF is telling the truth about what happened back then, and makes him try to save him. It’s not quite forgiveness just like that, all at once, but it is a clearing of Graves’ poor trauma-battered brain’s confusion, like he can finally see both of them clearly again and that there is deep love on both sides here even after everything.

Not only does he recognize it, he even gets it deeply enough that what he returns is in the same language:

Now, at the end, I believe T.F. I know he tried everything to get me out, like he did all those times when we ran together. This time, for once, I’ve got the out. I can at least give him that.

(Which is also proof that Graves is not unheedingly ‘my way or the highway’ or incompetent in relationships, incapable of taking on another person’s point of view and seriously considering it, or cruel or particularly aggressive in close relationships when not completely torn up by trauma. And again that mutual shared sense of fairness I think is at the base of how their dynamic works. He recognizes what TF has done for him and tried to do for him and what it means, and he wants to return that in kind, not least because it’s the fair thing to do. Again, it’s about the mutuality of it all! Graves may need some time to muddle through and figure it out sometimes but y’know he gets there he gets there eventually lmao, in some ways I suspect he can actually be more mature and levelheaded about interpersonal stuff than TF, who, poor man, is just one big aching quivering abandonment issue most days)

Like when it’s finally clicking into place what’s actually going on, that the care he’d thought was there hadn’t been a lie all along after all – suddenly the world makes sense again. Which seems to be enough for him to meet death if not peacefully then at least not as broken inside as he was before that moment and realization. (TBF TF could probably have been a lot more communicative about his intentions instead of expecting Graves to understand it just from his subtle maneuverings and like Vibes haha, but well that was the unspoken deal with his mother, that it had to be seamless so neither of them had to face what was going on)

It feels like a lot of their current issues in communication comes from Graves exasperatedly being like ‘Tobias I don’t want to be managed, I want you to just talk with me like a normal human being’ and ‘chasing after’ him when he pulls away because he feels abandoned, and TF having forgotten how to like… Person during that decade when he was alone, instead just doing that ‘what does this person want from me (and how can I use that to manipulate them)’ dance he’s gotten FRIGHTENINGLY good at with other people and that doesn’t really work with someone that knows you so well and actually wants your company. It’s going to take some sinking in that Graves doesn’t want him for what he can do for him but because, y’know. He’s him and they’re Partners.

I think TF can handle the current (understandable lol) turbulence in their relationship, but his biggest fear is to be really, truly seen by someone and deemed unworthy and abandoned, having let them that close. So in a weird fucked up way he was more okay with Graves trying to hunt him down and kill him than he would have been if he had looked at him as all that he was and went ‘actually y’know what? Fuck this and fuck you you’re not worth it, I’m just leaving without you’. Truly a “TF, he wants to kill you” “*wobbly teary voice* at least someone wants me for something” “TF NO” situation.

TL;DR: their parents were both terrible and dysfunctional in their own ways, but Mama Graves would n e v e r have left her kid alone on that riverbank; she’d sooner have cursed the rest of them black and blue and flipped them off with both hands before marching off with him. Accuse her of many things and rightly so, but she was no coward and she was loyal as fuck to the few things that mattered to her, she would have tried to fight the devil himself with a frying pan for that dumb fucking kid (if she was sober enough that day ouch). In the other direction TF’s mom would never have hit him. TF had more of an experience of a safe community, but then he also had a much more brutal and complete abandonment at the end of that. There are probably very good reasons Graves left Bilgewater for the mainland when he was barely even more than a boy. …man there are so many ways to mess up a child’s brain huh thank god they found each other and mostly managed to make that work honestly

*With the caveat that there’s some wiggle room for change here as I work on my TF POV WIP and refine the ideas I’ve got in there – change more in the small details than in the big picture concepts, though, I think I’ve got that moooostly settled now? also I really want to stress that this is just my ideas and opinions, if you imagine something completely different for their backgrounds that is Valid haha

#anon I hope you see this and also that my full on psychoanalysis at the slightest provocation isn't... too over the top haha #tf x graves #twistedgraves #tfgraves meta #league of legends #writing this all out really helped me solidify some stuff I'd been struggling to put into words so thanks for the prompt!

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bokettochild · 3 years

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Request: something with the doppels please?

I headcannon the dopples as being Legend's deviants in a similar way that the Colors are for Four, so that's reflected here.

I came up with this a while ago though, and while I'm not fully satisfied with it, I thought it would be fun to explore how the dopples react to the Four Sword.

Hence, Color and Dopple bonding/meeting!

If the item they grabbed in order to help someone else could not be cursed for once, Legend would be very thankful.

But since when did things ever go his way?

...Their way?

You know what, when did things ever go as planned? There, pronouns don’t matter this way.

Not that the pronouns really change much, they just become... plural...

Four would very much not like to believe their eyes.

No really, please, make this not be real.

There are four Legends; four of him, and the Four Sword has been split.

Sure, the enemies that sprung on the two of them while they were gathering kindling are now dead. Sure, Legend protected them when the attack had caught them both off guard. And yeah, all five of them are now bleeding and injured, but why does it need to be five?

Because Legend’s sword was knocked away. Vio reminds the rest of them. Because our sword was the closest at hand and he needed a weapon.

Picking it up shouldn’t trigger it though, it needs force, it needs power pushing through it to activate. Blue grumbles.

And what do you think Legend does with his sword usually? None of his items are exactly normal if you recall.

Blue huffs at that, but no one says anything else, Red is too busy cheering at having more brothers while Green is currently weighing the pros and cons of Legend knowing the secrets of the Four Sword.

In all honesty though, the vet is taking it rather well.

“Seriously,” The red Legend sighs, looking at his alternate selves and then at the Four. The man doesn’t even ask for an explanation, he’s just burying his head in his hands. “Of course, of course this happens.”

“Aaand that’s why it’s called the Four Sword.” the green Legend sighs, looking at the blade he still holds in his hands with a slight smirk.

“I’d wondered if it was fully capable yet.” Blue Legend hums. “I suppose it only needed some power to unlock it’s abilities.”

The last of the four Legend’s sits frozen, shining gaze locked on Four for a brief moment as they look back at him. It doesn’t last long. They aren’t sure how or why, but this deviant is smaller than Legend, and the second that they make any move towards their split companion, the yellow deviant squeaks and ducks behind the green one, bright eyes shining with absolute horror.

“Hello,” The blue deviant peers around his brother in confusion. “There’s a forth one?”

“Four Sword.” The red deviant grumbles. “It implies that there would be four.”

“There was never four before.” The green one muses, looking behinds himself with a cocked brow. “And none of us was that fearful.”

“You okay?” It’s clear Legend’s blue isn’t the same violently minded variant as Four has, in fact, he seems something more like Vio or Green, calm and observant, but not altogether unattached from the world.

“How-” The golden variant whispers, eyes still not leaving Four as the younger looking Legend stares out from behind his other deviant. “You’re dead!”

They pause, confusion on their face as they take in the uneasy way that Legend’s variants look at each other.

“You’re dead, you’re dead, YOU’RE DEAD!” The deviant shrieks, frenzied and frightened in a way they’ve never seen Legend before, hands gripping tightly to his counterpart as he stares at the Four-Who-Are-One with a manic sort of terror, confusing them and setting his brothers ill at ease.

What does this...child, intend by his words? Is it a threat? Is it a dream, a hallucination? Splitting can mess with the mind, especially for first timers, is this part of Legend just insane somehow?

“I killed you!” There are tears in the golden one’s eyes, and he continues to quake behind his counterpart as the other three exchange looks of recognition.

“Kid, calm down.” Red starts, brash and uncertain.

“That’s Four.” Blue adds.

“He’s our friend.” Green soothes, oozing charm and charisma that reminds them of Warriors.

“They tried to kill us.” Goldie whispers, clutching even tighter at the tunic in front of him.

“Um...no?” Blue is taking the forefront of their own mind, but Red holds him back from being too violent. Even so, their own variants know better than to push at something so fragile. The golden variant of Legend is like the metal he’s colored after, delicate and so easy to break, too harsh a movement or action will snap him in two, and they aren’t ready to deal with that split, not when Legend is already in four pieces!

“Ignore him, please.” The red Legend sighs, rubbing at his face in a tired manner, and when they look closely it’s easy to see that this variant received the burden of Legend’s eyebags- his tunic and cap may be red, but the bruises beneath his eyes are a dark purple that make the vet’s own gaze seem near black in comparison.

“It’s a slight mix up.” The green one adds, kneeling down beside his counterpart with an assuring smile that they have only ever seen directed at the youngest of their number, and even then, most of the time it’s meant for Hyrule.

The Blue, Red and Green deviants all stare at each other, eyes flicking silently and expressions twisting for a moment before there’s sighing from the Blue and Red, and the two of them stand and make their way over to Four.

“Let’s give them some space.” Red sighs, “Kid’ll be freaking out for a hot second yet.”

They can’t help the suspicious raise of their brows. “You do realize he’s part of you, right?”

The two Legends exchange another look before looking back to him.

“Not exactly.”

“He,” Red Legend jabs a thumb over his shoulder, “Is supposed to be dead.”

Four would like a moment to scream please.

“What do you mean?” Red takes control as a panicked glance is shot over to the small-Legend. “He’s part of you!”

“Part of us that died.”

“We’ve been split before.”

“Albeit in a different way.”

“There wasn’t four of us to choose from.”

“Not with our soul already divided.”

“The Four Sword had to dig up something that wasn’t there anymore.”

“It was either us or the blade.”

Four has been split for the last six years and even they don’t do this. “Why are you talking like that?” They hiss, looking between the two forms of their friend. Blue is screaming inside and Red is shivering, Vio is demanding answers and Green is contemplating the possibilities of learning to do this themselves, all of which at once makes for a very busy head and no space to process much of what was just said.

“Practice.” The two Legends echo, nodding en tandem.

“Like we said,” Red sighs again. “This isn’t the first split for us.”

“First time we’ve become four.”

“But not the first split in general.”

Four looks between them, curiosity winning out over shock as Vio takes the lead. “Explain.”

And they do. As it turns out, the fabled sixth adventure of the hero of Legend resulted in his mind being divided amidst three separate bodies, each of which took on a few of his qualities as their main attributes, but, for the most part, remained distinctly Legend.

“It’s not a clear divide.” Blue Legend explains. “We share memories, can speak with each other via a link of our minds, and in general we act like we would when together.”

“Some traits are stronger though.” Red Legend adds on.

The red variant, Crimson, it turns out, is Legend’s exhaustion and irritability. He’s the frustration and stress and takes the brunt of their experiences. The blue variant, Ocean, on the other hand, is the resourceful, experienced part of Legend that can spy opportunity and possibilities in most places. He is, in a way, like Vio, representing the creative and intelligence of Legend. The green variant, Forest, the two inform him, if the valor and strength of Legend. Like their own green, this part of Legend is dedicated to his tasks and to the people around him. Without the exhaustion, bitterness and calculating aspects being as prominent, it allows him to be more open and friendly when separated from his brothers.

“And the golden one?” They ask, eyes trailing back to where the deviants in question are still talking.

Crimson sighs once again, shaking his head. “Call him Lore.”

“He’s us, but much younger.”

“He died when we were young, so his memories, his experiences, that sort of thing, they don’t line up with ours.”

Ocean nods in agreement. “Last he knew, we were visiting our grandparent’s farm after our third adventure. He doesn't know about our experiences since.”

“Much less us.” Crimson adds on. “He’s the only Link as far as he's concerned.”

“But how is he dead?” Four presses, confusion eating at their minds. It wouldn’t make sense for a deviant to be able to die, not without affecting the soul as a whole.

“He’s Legend’s innocence.” Crimson answers, eyes too dark and too sorrowful. “He’s been buried so far and so deep that he’s ceased to be a part of us anymore.”

“And he’s scared of me because...?”

“Because you tried to kill me- I mean... us.”

Three heads turn to where the younger looking Legend stands, hand tightly holding onto the forest deviant’s hand. The youngster looks calmer now, if not considerably confused. “How are you alive? I thought-”

He's cut off by a hand over his mouth as Forest offers a pained smile that looks more like a grimace. “We all thought you came hundreds of years before us.”

“I do. What’s this about killing us?” Vio’s slipping, but none of the Legends seem to notice.

“Nothing.” Three voices chime at once.

“Right.” Ocean looks around them with a frown. “How do we change back? Splitting up always causes problems, and the sooner we reunite and get back to normal, the better.”

“The Four Sword should do the trick, if you can become of one mind.” They provide their brother- brothers? “Just touch the tips together.”

Legend’s deviants all nod, understanding in their gazes that shouldn’t be there.

“Why aren’t you freaking out? Most people would at least be a little shocked by this.” They ask, gaze traveling from one of the split heroes to another.

“We’ve wielded the Four Sword before.” Crimson explains.

“Not wielded, exactly-” Ocean corrects.

“We carried them.” Forest clarifies. “But only until we could put them back.”

Four looks between them, and as once, they answer. “Adventure number one.”

Okay then. “I have so many questions.” They sigh, looking between Legend’s deviants.

“Ask Legend. We’re him after all, so when we reform, we’re still there.” Ocean reassures them.

“Most of us anyway.” Crimson murmurs.

“Am I dying too now?” Lore sighs, looking up at his brothers with eyes so tragically sad that Four almost feels guilty for asking them to reform.

“Not dying.” Forest winces.

“You’re going back to sleep.” Ocean tries.

“Or back to Gramma.” Red adds. “She’s probably worried.”

Lore looks pacified, and it takes only a moment more before Legend is standing, as one, before the Four again, eyes shadowed and hand rubbing down his face as he hands over the sword. “Oy vey.”

“You took that well.” They respond, taking the sword back and not at all wrapping their arms around it protectively.

“Been split before.” Legend groans. “Speak no words, or I tell everyone about you.”

“Me?”

“All of you.” Legend glares, but their mischief in his gaze. “I didn’t study the legends of the Four Sword for nothing, I know.”

And somehow, that doesn’t worry them. Legend knows how they work, knows there are more than one of them, but he’s the same, in a twisted, strange and not Four Sword based way. “We’re talking later, and I want to know more about them if I can.”

“Only if you split too.” Legend challenges.

“We can do that.” Four agrees. “We really should split more anyways.”

“We?” Legend cocks a brow, straightening up from where he stands.

“Us.” Four gestures to themselves. “Four.”

The vet stares for a moment before chuckling softly. “Why didn’t you tell us we had your pronouns wrong? Plural they/them is fine you know, you just had to say something.”

“Would you like the same?”

“Heck no!” Legend winces. “I’m male, singular. The dopples are just parts of me, but that doesn’t make me a plural entity, just someone with a jumbled brain on some days.”

“Dopples?”

Legend rolls his eyes, stooping to collect the wood that he had dropped when they were attacked earlier, disregarding the way blood smears across it from the cut on his arm. “I’ll explain on the way back to camp.”

#dopples #linkeduniverse #linked universe #legend linked universe #four linked universe #four swords

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ererokii · 3 years

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— broken strings and beautiful melodies

diluc r. x f!reader

Word Count: 9.6k Warnings: major character death, mentions of violence, mentions of blood, gore, this does not follow the og plot and lore/ some spoilers for “We Will be Reunited” Archon Quest Note: this is for Attack On Academia’s Mythology Summer Collab! Please be sure to check out the masterlist for everyone else’s works. They all worked super hard and it turned out amazing! And big thanks to @reddriot and @axther for betaing <3

Synopsis: A simple love story between the Pyro Archon, and a mortal.

taglist || masterlist || server link || collab masterlist

Another four days pass and it’s finally Friday. Fridays at Angel’s Share were no different from the ones prior. Exhausted adventurers and townspeople venture inside the tavern to drink their woes away, to forget, or to have a great time. It was annoying, to say the least—hearing the laughter and cheers bouncing off the walls.

However, Diluc had to say nothing was worse than a certain pigtail braided bard strutting in with his lyre. The redhead had no choice but to serve the bard his choice of drinks after figuring out his true identity (although he still makes him pay the whole total—even if the singer can’t find a way to pay).

Like before, the bartender lifts his head up, crimson eyes boring into the crowd gathering beside the bard at the nearby table.

The bard’s soft voice matches with the melody of his lyre, fingers pulling and gracefully sliding past the strings. His eyes closed, telling a story to the nearby peers and the quiet man standing behind the counter. A tale Diluc heard once, yet it weighed on him all the same.

“The story of this archon is no better than the rest, yet, the most tragic comes from the debris of war. The god of War was like no other. Loads of strength, yet grief and sorrows weigh him down like an anchor in the vast ocean. Love is a mere factor, yet love is one of the many things the god brought ruin to.”

With heavy footsteps, a red-haired male walks along the dirt path in no shoes, wearing the silkiest of robes one could ever obtain. He hums to himself, brushing a loose strand of hair away from his face, letting out a huff of annoyance when it falls right back into the same position as before.

He breathes in the crisp air of the summer night, relishing the winds that brush across his skin. Summers in Natlan were one of a kind. While it was scorching in the morning, when the night came around, all was calm. The harsh rays turned into blissful winds that cleansed the land of heat.

During the other seasons, it was never too cold, nor was it ever too hot. The temperature was just right for all men, women and children.

Located in the southwestern region of Teyvat, Natlan was home to the Pyro Archon, known as The God of War. The god, Murata, is unlike any other god. Ruthless and fierce, he does not handle any threat lightly. Anything thrown his way, he does not hesitate. With kindness and love, Murata will no doubt protect his nation.

His statues are scattered across the land. Standing with his formal rags and cloak that shields his face, Murata holds his claymore in his right hand, the tip pointing down to symbolize his foes beneath him as he celebrates in victory.

In the night sky, his statues act like lights to guide those on safe journeys home or to neighboring nations. Along with being guides, the structures are used for a place of reverence. Often many would journey far and wide to pay thanks for everything he has done.

In the center lies the biggest of them all, flowers and candles are set up around it for ceremonial purposes. Every night new plants were replaced for the days to come. Like the other Archons, Murata was grateful for his people. When roaming the land, he spots commoners on their knees by the base of the statue during the late of night or the crack of dawn. Not wanting to disturb, the archon watches from afar.

Today is different. Murata continues to walk along the path, listening to the noises coming from the forest animals and the creeks as the waters begin to rush at this hour of the night. He can’t help but let out the faintest of hums at the sounds of nature.

He reaches for the side of his face, tucking a red strand behind his ear. Often the god will put his hair up into a low or high ponytail, but for outings in the cool atmosphere, he prefers to wear it down. His powers were compared to his hair many times. When describing his appearance, he listens to the children exaggerate saying his hair is literal flames that he can produce from the palm of his hands. Of course, this is nowhere near true, but a child’s imagination is quite amusing.

In the distance, his crimson hues bore straight ahead at the small flickering light.

“Someone must be up now,” he whispers to himself, debating on leaving them alone but instead, chooses to go up ahead and observe from a closer proximity. Muratans knew what their god looked like. He comes out during the day to pay visits but never for long periods of time.

As quick as they see him, it's as quick as they’ll see him leave. No one can ever hold his attention for too long.

The sound of strings being played can be heard from his spot-- and he halts. A lyre, one of his favorite pastimes and favorite instruments.

Over the hill is a figure sitting beside the statue, back turned to him but he can see the movement of their arm. Curious, Murata continues to stalk forward quietly, not wanting to disturb the worshipper.

The melody played is show-stopping in his eyes. He wonders if Celestia had sent down someone he was unaware of to play this just for him, and only him. If anything, he could settle on the grass and listen to them play for ages on end, wearying his immortal days out. Music was the only thing that could settle him, but not forever.

Now, he's a mere few steps away from the cloaked figure. His face is lit up by the candles by his feet. His tongue peeks out of his lips as an unknown feeling bursts through his body. His palms felt sweaty and his heart rate increased.

He winces when the wrong note is played, gritting his teeth together. The redhead doesn’t think much until a force pushes him backward.

“W-Why are you standing there watching me?! Don’t you know this place is meant for us to come together, not to be creepy like you just were right now?!”

“W-What?” he whispers in surprise, bringing a hand to cover his nose that suddenly feels wet. He pulls away, noticing the red drops on his skin. Blood.

“Don’t question me that way! You know exactly what you were doing… A pig is what you are. Oh, just you wait until Murata finds out about this.”

“Murata huh?” he questions, wiping his hand on the grass, watching the blood dissolve into nothing-- the red trails of blood trickling down his nose come to an unsuspecting halt.

He clears his throat and comes to stand, staring down at the figure behind him. With the candlelight, a glimpse of crimson eyes and matching hair can be seen. In a matter of seconds, it's silent. Until there is a subtle gasp.

It amuses the Archon greatly to see a change in behavior and the fear present in the civilian's eyes. He wouldn’t dare try anything to her, but maybe it would lighten the mood if he did.

With desperate breaths of air, you reach forward and grab ahold of the man's hands, squeezing as hard as you could. “M-My Lord, I deeply apologize for my behavior! Please forgive me! I was foolish!”

“No need to be formal all of a sudden…mistakes are made and all can be forgiven. I must say, you are quite gifted with that instrument in your hand.”

Your face heats up, suddenly finding the ground much more interesting than him as you gaze down. Your god had just complimented you and yet here you are losing the composure you had seconds ago.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hand clutching the lyre close to your chest. “It’s an honor to hear such wonderful words, especially coming from you.”

Murata stares down, an unexplainable look upon his face. Then, he smiles.

“Your name?”

“Pardon?”

“What is your name? As someone as gifted as you, I think you deserve to have your name remembered.”

“My name is Y/N. For some reason, your kind words seem to boost my confidence. I normally don’t play in front of people, I’m too shy and afraid of their judgement. I only like to play in front of the statue… or in this case, you.”

“How about you play for me again?”

The angelic sounds of your lyre had been played more often since you’ve met the god. The night was when you shined, when no one was around to listen or stare at you. The dark sky made you feel alone, yet you were at peace. You found pleasure in playing for the Pyro Archon statue, yet having him sitting beside you and listening made your heart beat just a bit more than before.

During the day, you find yourself sitting under the big oak trees, the sunlight peeking through the leaves and shining upon you two. Murata lays close to you, eyes shut and lashes resting against his upper cheeks as the song lulls him to a quick nap or a state of serenity.

He’ll comment on a subtle note, saying how he loves the pitch, or give recommendations. Many times Murata has taken your instrument and played a tune or two for you. He says every gentleman should at least know how to serenade a lady.

As a child, your family spoke highly of him. They even used him as a threat against you when you’ve done something wrong. Now that you look back, it was a mere hoax and it possibly scarred you just a bit. When you first told Murata this, he stared with his lower lip quivering before his shoulders started to shake and then, he let out a laugh.

“Surely you didn’t believe that, right?”

“I did! I was a child, what else was I supposed to do?! I nearly wet my sheets when my mother told me that you would come and scare me!”

“Well come on now, are you still scared?”

He enjoys seeing you worked up—then again, he loves seeing you play the lyre. He stays quiet and watches your fingers move as if they had a mind of their own. You move with grace, without hesitation. There is no wrong note, no wrong string when you play. Sometimes being here with you in this moment made him feel like he was mortal. Like he was able to live freely.

Being bound to divinity in Celestia, Murata had wandered Teyvat for ages, alone. Each person he had gotten close to, he had to watch them disappear from this world in the shadows. At some point, he even had to pretend to be lost so others could forget about him. If they forgot about Murata, would the load be easier on the Pyro Archon’s shoulder?

But now, you’re aware of his status and who he truly is. If you were to stay by his side, would he be the last thing you see before you pass into the next life? He’s not sure, but he’s hoping that won’t be true. He couldn’t bear with the guilt that will get him worked once more at the thought of another mortal dying in front of his eyes.

“Murata?” you ask one afternoon, sitting by the same statue you met him for the first time. “What’s it like?”

He steers his gaze away from the clouds and onto you, an eyebrow raised in question. “What is what like?”

“You know—” you start, messing with the material of your dress, head lowered. “Being a god?”

And then he freezes. Out of all the questions you could have possibly asked, this one had to be the most unexpected.

“Why do you wish to know something like that?”

“I want to know what it’s like. Immortality and eternal beauty sound pretty amazing, doesn’t it?”

“No,” he immediately states, sitting upright. His body looks tense, posture perfect and hands in his lap. However, you notice the small twitch in his fingers, as if he’s thinking. You can hear the heaviness in his breathing—lips parted as the air slips in and out of his mouth.

How can living on this earth for years on end, watching people die in front of you like they are meaningless, be perfect? Is that what people thought about immortality? The faces of past friends from ages ago are nothing but a blob of color in his mind. He can’t remember their faces, nor their voices—only the memories they have shared, and even that is starting to fade away.

Murata cleared his throat, eyes fluttering shut. His chest heaved up slowly, before falling at the same rate. Soon, he opens his eyes and faces you. He reaches up and tightens his high ponytail, running his fingers through the red tresses. “The life of an immortal is not...ideal.”

“There comes a time where living forever is not as good as it seems. A human like yourself might think differently since there is an end to everyone’s journey. Death is inevitable for a human, and almost all are afraid of the end itself. Even… I am afraid there will be a time I will be cursed with that end. But for now, that’s something that rarely crosses my mind..”

And he continues. Murata proceeds to tell you about the drawbacks of being a God. When he speaks, you can see pain flash across his eyes as he recalls a memory of a loving friend who passed before him. He tells you there’s no avoiding this never ending nightmare. If there was a way he could overcome this spell of immortality, he would choose mortal life in an instant.

He believes nothing good comes with this. In his eyes, everything gets destroyed by his hands. If he hadn’t created this nation, he wouldn’t be here with you, nor would he have people at his feet who love and worship him for everything—for giving them a home. He would be a traveler with no home, or loved ones.

The Archon doesn’t realize how much of his thoughts he spilled until he feels the warmth of another—your hand resting upon his cheek. This alerts him as he jolts, eyes wide as he stares at you. You wear a small smile, head cocked to the side. Your thumb moves on its own, wiping the tear away that dribbles down the swell of his face.

His body relaxes, shoulders slouching as he relishes your touch, not having been caressed by another, let alone a human. If he’s being honest, it's been at least a century since he has gotten close to another mortal. It’s a foreign feeling, but he loves it nonetheless.

Your soft spoken words are enough for him to be at ease.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to continue through the suffering.”

In a vulnerable state, the tears continue to flow down his face, arms slithering around your body as he pulls you in close. At first the motion shocks you, but soon you return the action, hand resting on the small of his back and by his head, stroking the soft locks. You can hear the faint sobs that escape his lips and it’s strange. From stories, they state Murata was fierce, barely any emotion in him.

But he looks nothing more than a broken man in need of comfort.

You press your lips against his head, humming softly to him. His arms tighten around you, a shaky breath slipping past. As much as Murata hates this feeling, but after being alone for as long as Teyvat had been founded, he thinks he deserves to be this close to someone again.

After moments of silence, the god is positioned beside you, hand resting on your thigh and head on your shoulder. His eyes feel heavy, the area feeling irritated and scratchy from his crying. As much as the thoughts still swirl in his head, they seem to be drowned out by the melody you play for him.

He lazily draws organic shapes with the pad of his finger on your skin, eyes beginning to close.

Your lyre is one of the few beautiful things he has come across in his lifetime. You currently hold the number one spot for the most beauty he has seen but when you sit with your instrument, he swears he can see the wings of an angel behind you.

He steers his gaze from the lyre to your face, eyes taking in the small details of your visage. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he notices the slip of your tongue peek from your lips, eyebrows creasing in concentration. Along with the melodies, he listens to your small hums as you play a song just for him-- one of worship and love.

His hand runs up your arm, halting your movements at once. Eyes opening, you stare forward for a second before looking down upon him. He recognises your confusion and lets out a laugh, hand trailing up before his thumb rests on your chin, making you keep your gaze on him.

Your face heats up at this interaction, mouth parted. Your breathing becomes uneven when you notice the close proximity. Your stomach flutters, the back of your throat suddenly going dry—no words able to slip through. His chest rises and falls just as quick as your own.

His tongue peeks through, licking his lower lip. His crimson hues stare at your lips before averting his gaze to your eyes. As much as it’s tempting, now is not the right time.

“Beautiful,” he whispers quietly, for your ears only. “So beautiful… like an angel sent down from the divine...”

- The lyre, made of nature’s resources and carved into the most adoring shapes—the ends curving in different directions and a piece of excess wood piercing straight through the middle with a pointed tip and a rounded end. Made for the best, the lyre contains seven strings that seem to glow throughout the day and the night.

In the middle, an emerald gem shines embedded on the wood, reflecting the rays of the sun, sparkling for all to see. Around lies the detail of the sun, the soft yellows encircling it. And just beneath that is gold details that resemble the wings of those who are free. Two flowers that are foreign to the land of Natlan are delicately engraved—their colors showing pure innocence.

The Cecilia flowers stay in bloom, never once dying out. Nor has any other grown in their place.

A perfect instrument, one of elegance and purity. Perfect for you.

The origins of said lyre are unknown, yet when it was given to you as a young child, you didn’t dare question it. Instead, you took it with the biggest grin and thanked your father as many times as you could. You were intelligent and extremely talented. At first, your mother was skeptical of such an object being in the possession of an nine year old, but your father assured it was in safe hands.

Since then, it’s been by your side to this day. It’s never been out of your grasp and you only let certain trusted people play it. For some reason, seeing others hold the instrument made you feel weird.

Playing your gift made you feel like you were above the world, like you could ascend to Celestia and play for the gods. It felt as if some sort of divine power surged through your veins and riled you up. And now at the ripe age of 24, having the Pyro Archon by your side as you play for him daily, it feels as if your purpose of living has been complete.

Seeing his soft smile and slight nods he gives when he's impressed (which is all the time) or when he places his hand on yours to play along with you. Having him close to you makes you feel warm, excited and giddy; almost like a young girl in love.

Which... You won’t lie to yourself about that.

There have been times during the day where you catch yourself thinking about the red head. Thoughts of him swirl your head as you drift off to sleep and he’s the first thing you think about in the morning. Sometimes you notice that you make motions in the air, like you are stroking something, when in reality, you wish to have his head in your lap again as you play with the loose ends of red tresses.

The god was just so breathtaking. Staring into his eyes was mesmerizing. The color of flames held in his eyes drew you in so far, it felt as if you were walking through a pit of flames. Yet, these flames never extinguished or brought harm to you.

“You’re lost in thought again,” Murata comments, poking your shoulder with his pointer finger. “You alright there? I don’t need you tripping over a rock or something.”

“Huh?” you ask, glancing over at him. “O-Oh it was nothing. I’m okay.” You offer a not so convincing smile, scratching the nape of your neck in embarrassment. Knowing you for a while, the god offers a nod and looks forward, his hands behind his back, steps in sync with yours.

You let your hand drop, clearing your throat as you hum, filling the silence with some noise. Your eyes wander around the area before gazing up at the tall man beside you. You take notice how the ends of his ponytail sway side to side with every step he takes.

The apple of your cheeks heat up when you can see his back muscles flex as he straightens his posture. The shirt he wore let your imagination run wild; there was no doubt that Murta was built.

“It’s quite rude to stare,” Murata says out of nowhere, barely glancing over at you. “If you want, I can just stand in front of you so you can actually look at me face to face.”

“Oh be quiet,” you mutter, stepping forward and grabbing hold of his hand—his much larger, covering yours entirely. Upon contact, his fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing softly.

“You know I love messing with you,” he hums, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, which you respond back to him with a quiet “I know.”

The rest of the walk is filled with comfortable silence. It’s a bit chilly in the land of Natlan. One of the many summer days that turn out to be filled with crisp air and cloudy skies. Storytellers always said if it were cloudy during the season of summer, karma and misfortune was on the way—yet no one believed such lies like that.

His hand is so warm, you think, glancing down at your conjoined hands. Ever since that day by the giant stone statue of the god where you almost kissed him, his behavior towards you changed drastically. He’s been a bit more touchy (not that it bothered you; in fact, you loved it), holding your hand and somewhat more affectionate. At the end of your day when you would say goodbye, he would pull you close and plant a gentle kiss to your cheek or sometimes even close to your lips.

Just thinking about those actions makes you flustered, looking away from him and out to the open.

“What do you think it means to be in love?”

Hearing those words from the man beside you causes you to choke on your saliva, hitting your chest to calm your ongoing coughs. When you’re finally composed, you gasp for air and stare at him in shock. “W-What do I think about that?”

“Mhm.” He nods, inhaling deeply, his other hand reaching up into the air as if he was stretching before lowering it. “What do you think it means to be in love? I’m curious as to what you humans think it might be.”

“I-” You gulp, eyes semi wide as you try to wrack your brain for anything. That was not a question you were expecting, especially right now. “W-Why do you want to know? Isn’t love, love?”

“Well, aren't there different ones? Can’t people be in love with parts of someone? Lets say, only being in love with someone for their status in the nation. Or just their looks but not for them.

“Well… I think being in love with someone means you don’t care about their status or who they look or who they are.”

“Even if they’re a god?”

“Even if they’re a god.” you say confidently, before realizing what he said. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Even if they’re a god,” he repeats, stopping in his tracks as he turns to face you. His cheeks are painted with soft pink, red eyes averting from you.

Murata’s heart is racing, far faster than it ever has in his life. HIs lips are dry, his mouth is parched. His shoulders heave with every deep breath he takes. Does the sweat of his hands bother you? God, he feels like a young boy about to confess his love to a girl he’s been pining over—although he's not completely wrong.

“Murata, what’s wrong?” you ask quietly, tilting yourself a bit to look up into his eyes as his head is lowered. “Are you okay?”

“Why are you so intoxicating?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Y-You’re all I can think of,” he stutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t get you out of my mind, even though I shouldn’t get close to those I love and care for. In the end, I’ll be here and be forced to live with this overweighting guilt that rests upon my shoulders as time continues to flow knowing that you’ll be dead.”

A hiccup gets caught in the back of his throat, his thoughts becoming foggy all of a sudden. “I don’t like this feeling. I absolutely despise it. Many times after we hung out, I thought about disappearing again like I have before I got too close to anyone again. But I can’t let you go, nor will these memories ever go away.”

“Don’t you understand?” he whispers, hand shaking as his grip becomes tighter. “I can’t lose you… you’re too special to me already. I know there will be a day where we part ways forever but I want to be a part of your journey until then.”

His confession throws you for a loop. His words continue playing over and over in your head like a song you learned the night prior. You have this unexplainable feeling in your chest, yet it warms up as the seconds pass. Your whole body feels tingly, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes.

Your quietness is too much for him to handle right now—a bit silly if you were to ask the Archon himself. “Say something,” he mutters, shaking your hand lightly. The redhead can already feel the rejection pooling in the depths of his stomach, eating away at him.

“You... Do you love me?” you whisper, looking up at him with doe like eyes. Murata can’t seem to answer for himself, one hand cupping your cheek. He moves closer, his breath fanning your face. The flames in his eyes gaze into yours, losing himself in the color before he averts down to your lips. A quiet way of asking for consent.

You lean forward, lips barely brushing against his. It’s shy between the two of you. After having such strong feelings for each other, neither of you know how to proceed. No one moves, it feels time has stopped.

You feel him pull away slightly before going back in, his lips fully pressed against yours. His other hand drops yours, instead wrapping his arm around your lower back. Your chest pressed up against his, your finger runs up his side, to the top of his shoulder and around, cradling the back of his neck.

His finger tightens around the material of your coat you wore for the day, using it as leverage to keep you standing. His kisses are soft yet fierce. The softness of his lips and his scent up close are enough to drive you insane, enough to make your knees buckle and make you want more. You want more of him, Murata.

A small grunts leaves his mouth when you tug on his hair. In return, he nibbles on your lower lip, chuckling at the small noise you produce from his motion. It’s becoming harder to breathe as you stay in this position with him. If air wasn’t a necessity, you wouldn’t go for it.

You pull away from him, panting softly as you gaze up into his eyes. His eyes hold nothing but love and adoration as he peers down at you. The corners of his lips curve upward as he leans in, barely presses against yours again before pulling away. He sneaks in a few quick pecks, listening to your quiet laughter.

“Of course I love you.” He makes you look up at him, your face cradled in his hands as if he was holding something delicate, something that could be wrecked and destroyed any second. “That’s why I asked you what you thought about it.”

“And I love you too,” you reply softly. “I thought.. After everything you wouldn’t want to have feelings like this, let alone a human.”

“Sometimes boundaries are meant to be broken if it means true happiness.”

“Tensions have arisen in the land of Natlan. Nearby gods have caused quite the stir, causing Murata to put it to a halt at once. Upon ascending to his seat in Celestia, there have been prophecies saying a great misfortune is underway and can arrive in an instant. Since then, he’s been worked up. He cares much about his nation and will let no harm come its way.”

The bard strums the string before growing silent, letting his head hang forward, his pigtails falling in his face. “It’s a true shame that such a horrid thing came to be… If only he was strong enough as he said he was.”

Murmurs arise from the drunken peers, hiccups joining the air as they beg him to continue the song. Even if some wouldn’t remember this night in the morning, this was still enough entertainment.

“W-What happened next, bard?! Finish it!” an adventurer gasps, holding his cup of alcohol close to his chest, his cheeks heated and a light pink.

“You wish to know?” the bard asks, peeking through his lashes, his two toned eyes staring into the soul of the bartender. “Why of course!” he laughs cheerfully then clears his throat, batting his eyelashes as he brings his hand to his chest.

“Although, I’m quite parched and would love to have another cup of Dandelion Wine! What do you say, Master Diluc?”

“My answer is no. Do not ask me for something when you will not pay in the end.”

“Agh what a shame,” the bard sighs, letting his head hang back but never breaking eye contact with the redhead. “Don’t you wish to know about the ending?”

“I could care less.” Diluc speaks through gritted teeth, arms crossed over his chest, the infamous pose he does every hour of the day. “I just want you out of here.”

“I’ll pay for him!” one of the nearby men yell, fumbling with his wallet to grab the gold circles of currency to give to the bartender—and all the bard can do is smile cheekily, opening his hand.

“Well, looks like the drink is paid for. Can I have it now, Master Diluc?”

The red head, already annoyed with the behavior of the young man in front of him, reluctantly takes the coins from the drunk. Without speaking, he serves the singer his desired drink, noticing the small smirk he wears. “Why are you smiling at me like that?” he asks, eyeing him up and down.

“Because I’m getting to my favorite part.” He takes a sip of his drink and places the cup back down. After a pleasant sigh is heard from him as he takes hold on his lyre, stroking the white petals of the Cecilia flowers. “And you’re gonna love it.”

- Melodies of the lyre were played even during the darkest of times. The soft notes were enough to make anyone who felt down happy again, or at least content, even yourself. The colors of the strings being played was enough to put you at ease. Sometimes when you’re out in the town, many children would ask you to play their favorite song or at least a simplified version if you weren’t familiar with it.

But as of now, all of Teyvat was in ruin. Murata had told you the truth; he hated keeping you in the dark when you deserved to know. As much as he disliked saying this, your life indeed was on the line, more than his. In fact, the whole nation was at risk, along with the other six neighboring ones.

From other Archons, Murata heard that a water monster, Osial, had arisen and was ready to ruin and kill innocents for the sake of a seat in Celestia. Morax, who was the overseer of Liyue at the time, was trying his best to seal the beast with his spears.

In this case, Murata hopes a threat like this doesn't happen to Natlan. Especially when he’s not there to protect his people, to protect you.

Murata hears a gush of wind from behind him and the earth beneath him starts shaking. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, small puffs of air slipping out of his mouth. He reaches above and tugs on the black hood of his cape.

His archon outfit consists of silk white pants and black sleeveless shirt that resembled a vest with a slit down the middle of his torso. And to top it, a black cape flows behind, the hood covering his face from all to see. In his right hand, his fingers curl around the handle of his claymore.

A heavy burden rests upon his shoulders as he stares forward, seeing the world erupt into flames and utmost chaos. In the distance, he can hear the screams and cries of the families asking for mercy. He wonders what you would think about him if you were to see him right now.

“Murata,” you whine, trailing the last syllable of his name as his lips peck against the bare skin of your shoulder. “Come on, you know that tickles.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll continue to do it,” he muses, nipping at your skin before blowing warm air onto your neck which causes you to squirm from him, pressing your hands against his chest. He listens to your soft laughs, loving the way your body moves under his touch. Your arms wrap around his neck, hugging him close as you hum, inhaling the scent you’ve grown to love.

“Mmm… I love you.”

“And I love you too,” Murata whispers to no one, blinking rapidly when he realizes he was lost in thought and was not in fact with you, but only remembering a moment from a few days ago. In reality, here he stands in the middle of a deserted land that must be destroyed. Blood is on his hands, splattered on his face.

“I didn’t even want to do this,” he mutters, grinding his teeth together as he proceeds to walk forward, watching red explosions burst from the ground, red blocks protruding from either ends of the nation. In the sky, the color purple takes over as lightning strikes down from the heavens and is brought forth onto the land.

From his position, the ground had been cracked and was on the edge of being split apart if another Archon had used their powers against the nation.

He lifts his claymore in the air, staring up at the red sky with anguish. His lips part as he whispers something to himself, reassuring that what he is about to do is alright and isn’t his fault. A sudden strike of his weapon pierces the land, flames bursting into the air and cracking the earth.

Murata breathes heavily, leaning on the rounded edge of his weapon. Sweat trickles down his face, the hood falling off of his head. Two strands of hair fall forward, framing his face, the rest of it tied back into a low ponytail.

The flames continue to run down the cracks which branch to smaller ones that cause the piece of rock beneath the surface to crumble and fall, leaving the terrain to become uneven.

“Wow! Even from afar I can spot you,” a semi high pitched says from behind him. The Pyro Archon stiffens, internally groaning as he stares over his shoulder, meeting two green eyes. “Someone doesn’t look happy as he used to be.”

“Barbatos,” Murata grumbles, looking forward as he straightens his posture. With one hand, he picks his hood over his head once more and the other pulls his claymore from the ground, resting it on his shoulder. “What do you want from me now?”

“Just letting you know Morax has finished in the south region of Khaenri'ah,” Barabtos states, a frown growing on his lips as he looks away, the tips of his toes barely touching the ground as his wings keep him afloat. “You're not the only one who didn’t want this. We had no choice.”

“No choice huh…” He trails off, his claymore suddenly evaporating into thin air and gold dust left in its wake. “How are we loving, protecting gods if we just obliterated this nation with no god? What does that make us? We’re no better than those who do us wrong against our own homeland. We’re just like Decarabian. Nothing but tyrants.”

“Don’t bring up that name again.”

“Why? Because deep down you know it's true.”

“Because that was his own choice to keep us entrapped. We had no choice but to bring ruin. They felt-” Barbatos hesitates, licking his lower lip before continuing, “-they felt threatened. A nation with no god is a false one to Celestia. Everything must be in order. Khaenri’ah was not the case. We had to, or we’re next. The divine is not ready for a land with no god.”

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“Murata. If you hadn’t, who knows what would have happened to Natlan.” A deeper voice from behind him is heard, the sound of footsteps becoming louder before they stop beside him. “You and your people would have been in grave danger.”

“Unlike you, I don’t need to keep making contracts.”

Morax chuckles lightly, shaking his head, his ponytail swaying with the movement. “And how does that look on you, God of War?”

Murata shakes his head, refusing to look at the Anemo Archon and the Geo Archon. “War or not, this is not just. The victors burn bright and the losers turn to ash. This-” he motions to the now deserted land of dust and blood. The sky is a deep red, the sun or moon nowhere to be seen. The earth is uneven, mountains caving into the ground as streaks of dark colors emit from the ground.

The spot the three archons stand upon is nothing but cracked ground, an empty space separating them and the rest of the debris.

“This is not war.”

Even when he’s not in his right mind, the only thing that can put him to ease comes up, suddenly soothing his woes away. He closes his eyes, envisioning he’s somewhere else

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper in the god’s ear, twirling a strand of hair around your finger with a smile. “No wonder you’re a god. How could they not take you?”

“Please. You flatter me too much.” He grabs hold of your wrist, bringing it to his face, planting a kiss to it. “On the contrary, it should be you in my position. No, an angel is what you are.”

“An angel? Please, enlighten me.”

Murata shifts on his side to stare down at you, brushing the baby hairs from your face. A blanket covers your bodies from your previous intimate sessions, yet he remembers every curve, every flaw that’s perfection to his mind. “I mean, look at you. You’re too beautiful for this world.”

“Am I now?”

He nods, dipping his head slightly. The tip of his nose brushing against yours. “You are. You’re amazing. You’re everything in this world. You’re desirable but most importantly... you’re divine.”

“Wow, now I’m flattered.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing as he presses his lips against yours in a soft kiss. It lasts for a few seconds but it feels as if it goes on for years. When he pulls away, you cup his cheek. “And you are ethereal.”

The god shakes his head lightly with a sigh, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. You’re all he can think about. Even when he is busy taking away innocent lives and watching them get turned into monsters, the sweet image of your face continues to pop into his mind. You’re the light in the dark.

He hates the feeling of being away from you, especially when he’s on close watch from Celestia. There’s something unsettling in the pit of his stomach that he can't quite put his finger on it. Murata watches Morax and Barbatos exchange a few words before he gasps, lifting his head up fast. “Natlan. It’s in danger.”

- The nation of Natlan, located in the southwestern region of Teyvat and home to the Pyro Archon, was under attack. There was no point in trying to save them, they were already too far gone. No god in sight yet the trails of monsters were left behind. Did the Archon truly love them like they said he did? Or was it all a lie to get people’s love?

The once beautiful land is ruined—looking like the one he destroyed not long ago. His statues that aided his people on their journeys far and wide were now broken and cracked. Chunks of stone litter the ground and crush nearby civilians. Whoever was standing beside those statues had been brought down along with them, no way to return.

The god feels weak in the knees as he staggers over the dirt path that has noticeable traces of dried blood. No doubt from his people. Where are the bodies? He has no clue.

Houses have been torn apart, the roofs blown off and thrown into the field of flowers on the other side. He feels torn at heart. He wants to give up walking, already knowing the outcome but refuses to stop. He hopes that a few people, even just twenty people, can still be alive and he can move them somewhere else.

The night is cold and fresh as it was years ago. Only this time, the sounds of the animals in the creek aren’t heard and the wildlife is quiet. He looks towards the forest, hoping a deer or a boar will rush through the trees. But his hopes die when he notices that's not happening, and the habitat is burnt to ashes.

“Somebody,” he croaks out, averting his eyes upward and freezes. Up ahead, in the center lies the biggest statue of them all, where flowers and candles are set up around it for ceremonial purposes. Every night new plants were replaced for the days to come.

The most beautiful statue in all of Natlan has been crushed. The head of the statue is gone from the area (he can only assume it had been tossed across the nation or into the river). The candles are no longer intact, the pieces scattered and buried into the burnt grass.

“No,” he whispers lowly before crying out, running towards it. His heart races as he steps closer and closer. All his worries and fears; he doesn’t want them to be real. He doesn’t want any of this to be real. He wants to be at home.

You.

Where are you?

He gasps for air and drops to his knees. Red eyes frantically search along the stone pieces. He plants his hands on the ground and hisses upon contact, retracting back. A rock share pierced his skin. Murata bites his lower lip as he shakes his hand, watching the piece fly off before he can continue looking.

Are you safe at home? You were, right? Surely you wouldn't come out when everything is being attacked, right? Yeah, that’s it. You’re safe at home waiting for him to return. Waiting for him to be in your arms so you can cry about your fears of losing your life and him.

And by the end he’ll calm you down, say soothing words into your ear as he holds you close, saying he’ll never leave like that again and stay with you forever. God or not, immortal or not, he plans to stay by your side.

And then your lyre will be played for you and only you. He knows your favorite melodies. Oh so beautiful, he loves hearing you play them but this time, he’ll play for you until the end of time.

Your lyre-

He freezes.

His hand hits something underneath the stone. Something smooth like wood and the prick of an object with a pointed tip—an all too familiar feeling.

With a grunt, he grabs ahold and heaves back, pulling it out from under the rubble. A surge of fear flows through his veins when he falls back, holding an object in his hands.

It’s a cracked lyre, with pieces broken off where an emerald stone originally would have laid. The gold trinkets are ripped right off, the empty space now feeling dull. He notices the seven strings have now turned to three and aren’t holding their original color that glows.

The only thing that’s untouched, however, are the Cecilia flowers. Not a hint of blood stains the white petals.

His eyes grow wide when he gazes somewhere else, spotting a hand peeking out from the same spot he pulled the lyre from. A choked cry gets stuck in the back of his throat when it all clicks together.

You weren’t home like he thought you would have been. You weren’t waiting for him to return from his wages of war, to be in his arms. Instead, you did what you always did.

Worshipped Murata, under the ceremonial statue.

The one that caused your death.

Tears well up in his eyes as he hugs the lyre close to his chest, mouth parting as a sob slips out. He rocks himself back and forth, shaking his head at this false reality but he knows this is all real.

Murata babbles to himself, muttering things underneath his breath as he hyperventilates. He can’t catch his breath. His throat is closing in on him, the air too thick to even breathe right now.

The tears blur his vision. He can’t see nor think straight anymore. The god of War was unable to save his people from the hardships of an incoming war. What kind of god was he? Was he even one? Or was he now a false one?

What seems to be years later, though it only is an hour or so, Murata finds himself standing on the edge of a cliff, dried up tears evident on his face. The whites of his eyes are red, the tip of his nose matching the same color.

He sniffles, nose stuffed from the moments earlier. His breathing hasn’t changed a bit. His shoulders still shake with every inhale. The atmosphere around him is tense, maybe even too quiet for his liking.

Behind him, he refuses to look back on the destruction he let happen. Even from a far enough distance, he can still clearly hear the crackling of fire and the sounds of a nation dying.

He lowers his hand from his chest, spreading his fingers open. In a matter of seconds, the handle of his weapon appears slowly, the rest of the claymore following suit in gold dust.

He peers down slightly, watching the red and black glow before dimming out. The slant from the edge of the weapon, one he has used to kill off his enemies without a thought. In the current state, he can see the traces of blood left behind.

In his other hand is the damaged lyre. His fingers keep it close to his chest, his heart. One of the last things he had of you. The tip of his pointer fingers strums a string and he winces from the uneasy sound it produces. This instrument no longer plays the melodies he adored, and worse yet, the person he adores can no longer hear it.

Murata was the Pyro Archon. Amongst the other gods, he was ruthless yet kind and merciful. When a threat was sent his way, he did not hesitate to take care of it. He took care of Natlan.

Or, that’s what should have happened.

He closes his eyes, goosebumps forming on his arms from the gust of wind that breezes by him, knocking his hood off. His hair that was let down swayed in the breeze, the loose ends flowing behind him. His bangs move slightly and then stop, falling in their original place.

The rest of his cape follows in the wind, the ends flowing behind him like the draft was made just for him right now.

“I let you down,” he says, clearing his throat. He stares at the colors of oranges, pinks and blues, meshed together to create the sunrise that he grew to love but now, he suddenly resents it.

A single tear cascades down his face and lands on his bare chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. A rare whimper slips past his lips. With a shake of his head, Murata brings the lyre to his face, pressing his lips against the cracked wood.

A goodbye kiss should always be special, shouldn’t it?

He pulls away, stroking the place where the gem would have been at. “I’m so sorry my love.” He averts his gaze and lowers himself, dropping the lyre on the ground underneath his feet.

“Even I could not save you from the end of your journey. And as your god, I failed to protect you.”

When he stands up straight, his fingers tighten around his claymore. He stares down at the instrument, longing for time to change and to go back. To go back to how things were before.

He can still hear the sound of your life and your smile popping into his mind. At the thought, his lips curl upward faintly in a small smile.

Oh how he misses you already. He still remembers when he first saw you on that day under the statue as you played for him. You were aggressive, that was for sure. No doubt about it when you swung at him with your lyre and accused him of being a disgusting pig.

He can only blame himself. Deep down, he knew a day like this would come, but he didn’t think it would happen so soon.

But maybe now, as he called you his angel or an angel of Celestia, you can now ascend to where you truly belong.

This isn’t goodbye, but a farewell, he thinks, clearing his throat as he gets closer to the edge. He peers downward at the ground miles beneath him.

As he failed here, he still has a job to do, no matter what.

So then he jumps. He brings his claymore around and over his shoulder and swings it down. Flames engulf him in whole on his way down until he hits the ground with a thud, his weapon taking up all the impact.

“And thus, the Pyro Archon aided in other nations against the treacherous demons that corrupted their land. After such heroic deeds, he was never to be seen. Many questioned: where did the god of War go? Who will remain victorious?”

“Many say he disappeared to join his love in the next life. Others say he stepped down as god to live amongst the mortals as he always wanted.” The bard hums and lays his lyre across his lap.

“It’s a shame really, how beauty can go to waste.” His fingers run over an emerald gem that lies in the middle of the wood. His lyre was beautiful.

The edges curved in different directions with a piece of wood piercing the top with a rounded end and pointed tip. Seven strings glowed recently as he placed the object to rest.

“But it’s not as if it was her fault.” His slender fingers run over the white petals with a faux sigh of despair. “She would have been popular amongst the folks here, if she was immortal, of course. If only he kept his word to her saying he would protect her no matter what.”

The bartender drowns out the rest of Venti’s words, his eyes trained on the wood beneath his feet.

Diluc Ragnvindr, owner of the Dawn Winery and Angel’s Share. Information is at his fingertips wherever he goes. In Mondstadt, he is a nobleman of high status. Everyone knows about him.

His crimson eyes hold tears as he lets out a shaky breath, bringing a gloved hand to wipe away at the water that threatens to spill.

He tries to keep his mind off of it but he can’t suppress it.

In front of him was Lord Barbatos himself—one he knew too well from millennia ago. Having fought with him in the Archon War, and the Destruction of Khaenri’ah, Diluc knew there was no way to get rid of him.

It shocked him the most that the bard even remembers the story from back then. Even if other storytellers told this tale, Venti was the one that pierced his heart the most.

“Master Diluc!” At the sound of his name, the red head hesitantly lifts up his head. Venti’s annoying smile greets him, pressing his finger against his cheek in a thinking motion.

“Did you like it? I hope you did! I try to incorporate any stories of the divine. It seems that today was a hit. Don’t you think so?”

“Why are you bringing it up?” he whispers, not caring that tears trail down his face. “Why do you need to remind me of my failure?”

The other peers don’t seem to notice the usual calm and collective man in tears. They’re all too far gone in the hole of alcohol.

Venti’s eyebrows crease, cocking his head to the side. “Failures? What do you mean? I’m just doing my job and singing like I always do. You’re doing great things in the Wine Industry. What failure could you possibly mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean!” Diluc snaps, slamming his hands on the counter in front of him, causing the bard to jump in his seat. “You know exactly what you’re doing!”

“Oh dear oh dear,” Venti sighs, shaking his head. He picks up his lyre, placing his lips against the wood.

“So pretty huh?” he asks once he pulls away, a small smirk on his lips as he shows Diluc. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if you got to play this?”

The strings continue to shine, dimming and going bright again. An instrument perfect for anyone and in this case, for Barbatos.

It pains Diluc to see him with your lyre. As much as you told him you despised other people holding it, he feels much more stronger about it. He wants nothing more than to snatch it from Venti’s hands and tell him to get out.

“Others say that he wanders in the world right about now. No one knows what he looks like though. It’s a shame if anyone were to find him and blame him.”

Venti’s fingers run over the strings. A melody is heard in the air, louder than any of the drunk men in the room.

Diluc feels a sob beginning to form in the back of his throat. He wants nothing of this. He wants to truly go back home to Natlan with you. He could have made you a god and you could have been here with him today.

As much as Diluc wants to look away, he’s mesmerized by the way the singer’s fingers move gracefully against the strings. For a split second, he could have swore he saw you sitting in his place, singing softly for his ears only.

Like the angel you were.

“But it seems that the god is afraid of confrontation. And yet, he seems to be mourning over his lover even after her death. If anyone were to be at fault, it would be his—”

Venti stops, peering up at Diluc through his lashes. A sinister look was evident in his eyes. He paused for dramatic effect, a smirk growing on his lips. He hums and strums the last note.

“Isn’t that right, Murata?” Venti muses, asking a question in the form of a song. But in reality, he aimed it towards the redhead god standing in front of him.

Diluc stares dumbfounded, mouth parted and eyes red from his silent crying. His hands are balled beside him. The peers cheer for the bard and offer drinks to compensate for his amazing singing—to which he laughs it off but takes the offers regardless.

And all Murata can do is live with his own guilt, for the rest of his immortal life. Forever.

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obssessivethorn · 3 years

Text

“Home” [Genshin Impact]

Synopsis: In the final moments before battle, the traveler's worry grows fast. Their own twin stands at the other end of the battlefield, refusing to put their resolve to rest and come home. Archons forbid their fight be to the death.

Trigger Warnings: Angst, Major character death(s), death in general

Word Count: 2,889 words

Date Posted: July 8, 2021

Note: This is based purely off of fan theories, my own predictions, and knowledge of the game as it is currently. It will include spoilers for the “We will be reunited” archon quest if you have not gotten that far into the story yet. As well as hints of lore from the Honkai Impact game. This is in no way in indication of the game’s ending and should be taken as merely a fan based prediction/theory of one of the many possibilities of this story’s ending. Please enjoy! (This turned out longer than intended-)

Let me know if you want to see more to this au type thing. I’d gladly write about Diluc and Kaeya reconciling and seeing each other as brothers again as well as other stuff with the characters!

"Home"

★★★

The traveler had gained the former power back, their hand retracting from their resonance with the holy statue. Their friends stood around them, watching with widened eyes which hold a burning amazement. The traveler’s power unlike any they have ever seen.

Wings stretch to their sides to bask in the moon’s godly light. An ethereal glow began to emanate around their being as if they too had taken the form of an archon. Each element’s swirl could be felt within their body, bringing forth a familiar feeling. Near completion.

With their power restored once more, their feet landed back to the ground. Sword in hand, they turned back to their friends. From adepti to everyday workers, the traveler has gathered their closest and very best known fighters and friends to help them.

The battle was approaching, yanking every breath of fresh air and common sense from the traveler. Their friends would be fighting faceless beings. People turned to monsters. Who couldn’t be saved.

But the traveler couldn’t hold the same courage they could. On the other side of the battlefield stood their sibling. Their twin. Flesh and blood who they have traveled worlds together with. And they would fight. Archon forbid, to the death.

A shaky breath left their lips, eyes closed shut after gazing harshly at the ground for too long. Feeling a hand placed on their shoulder pulled them back to reality before they could spiral further into fear’s welcoming grasp. Looking back at the owner of the limb, they could finally find a clear breath to fill their lungs.

Venti’s sorrowful smile pierced the traveler. A silent understanding blew through their hair, sending golden wisps in different directions. Archons forbid death.

Taking a step back, the wind god left a lingering warmth upon the traveler’s shoulder. He made his back to where the other archons stood, powerful grace dawning him as the traveler had never seen before. A true god ready to fight a war once again.

The traveler took a sigh, grasping any courage they could find before turning their gaze to their friends.

“Alright, so as you all probably know, The Abyss Order has finally risen.” Their voice shook, cracking every other word. They cleared their throat before continuing.

“We were unable to prevent them from creating what is essentially a mechanized god. However, this does not mean we are doomed!” The traveler looked upon the sea of faces. Fear, shock, and suppressed somber mixed together.

How could they let this happen? It was never supposed to come to this. Dragging their friends into a war. Starting a war to begin with! Children stood among the crowd. While they may be talented vision holders, they were still too young to face this. But they still insisted. Pleading with the traveler to let them help. And they let it happen.

Their breath began to shorten again, tears fighting their usual calm composure. They could feel themselves spiraling once more. How could they let this happen? Let it get this far? Let children-

A voice broke them from their thoughts yet again.

“Traveler!”

Looking over to the figures running around the outside of the crowd, they saw four familiar Knights Of Favonius growing closer. Amber waved her hands high to grab their attention as the small group approached.

“Mondstat has been evacuated, all of the citizens are being led to Liyue by the knights of Favonius.” Amber smiled, reassuring the Traveler of innocents’ safety.

“Great, and the people of Liyue?” The traveler asked, redirecting their attention to Jean.

“Safely protected by a shield covering the harbor.” The woman smiled. “But if worse comes to worse, you can’t forget that both cities’ people are still able to fight. While Mond has the Knights of Favonius, Liyue has the Qixing. Each nation has their own means of defense, so trust us, Traveler. Even Schneznaya has the Fatui.” Jean’s grin grew wider, excited pride slipping through her calm mask.

The traveler smiled back, chuckling at their own worry. “You’re right, they should all be able to hold their own and protect each other, with Visions or not.” They turned back to the crowd, Amber, Lisa, Jean, and Kaeya now by their side.

“Now, as we stand, the Abyss Order is marching our way. Their movements may be unpredictable to us, but we know this land better than they do. It definitely won’t be easy,” the traveler took a quick breath, heart weighing heavier in their chest. “But The Regions of Teyvat will triumph today.” The crowd’s cheers roar through the field.

“Nicely said, Honorary Knight,” Jean turned to the traveler, smiling proudly at them.

“Ya know, I didn’t think you had such a thing in you,” Kaeya mused, patting their shoulder.

“To be honest,” the short blonde chuckled,” I was totally speaking out of my ass there.” Their light grin faltered, falling into uncomfortable worry.

“I know it’s hard, but you’re not alone, traveler,” Jean placed a hand on their shoulder, sympathy painting her features.

“We’re all here for you,” Lisa gave them a quick, meaningful hug. “Besides, what would I do without my little helper~.” The traveler let out a light laugh, however, the easy moment couldn’t compete with the bubbling anxiety filling their lungs.

Air weighed heavily.

Gentle breezes turned to cold gusts.

“May the archons protect us.” Jean prayed, stepping away to rally her section of the Knights. Lisa and Amber followed suit, preparing their squadrons both mentally and physically.

Kaeya remained by the blonde’s side, gazing at the crowd with an unreadable expression.

“Are you going to be okay?” The traveler’s question broke him from his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, a piece of his mask beginning to slip. “I understand.”

The traveler’s face morphed into confusion. Understand? Understand what? What could Kayea, a man of many eloquent words, mean by such a short, vague statement?”

The man chuckled again.

Another crack in his mask.

His eyes drifted to Diluc, then to Dainsleif. Crack.

A sigh escaped his lips, forcing his smile to fall sour.

Crack.

His gaze fell to the floor, watching his now fallen, damaged mask lay among the dancing grass as if it had separated from a slain hilichurl.

The man who stood before the lost twin was not the same flirty and mischievous Knight of Favonius they had met all those months ago.

This man was Kaeya. A Khaenri’ahn who’s life was ripped away by the archons themselves. A man sent to create a downfall of other nations in retaliation for the onslaught of his country’s people. Kaeya Alberich. Khaenri’aian survivor.

His gaze drew from his Mond identity laying idly by his feet, to the traveler. “I understand why you’re scared.” Tears brimmed in the man’s eyes, a glint of fear sparkling in his pupil.

All previous disdain for the people who had fallen seemed to hide, a glimpse of it remained hiding beneath his eyes. But it soon became evident to the traveler, whatever conversation he had with Dainsleif, was enough to inject guilt and sympathy within his veins. But still not enough to instill total remorse.

A silent understanding passed between the two. No words passed through the air between them.

Despite being humans turned monsters, despite Kaeya’s place of blame on his people, they were still victims of the Cataclysm.

The traveler placed a hand on their friend’s shoulder. They sent a quick smile, opening their mouth to speak, only to be interrupted.

“Hey, traveler!”

Turning their head to the sound of their name, they were met with a certain ‘tone-deaf’ bard.

Kaeya nodded with a slight smile, turning away and walking in the direction of his brother.

“Are you ready?” The archon’s voice was soft, contrasting from his usual high pitched giggles.

The traveler had expected a witty one liner to help bring up their mood or a quick joke poking at their seriousness. However, the bard merely looked drained, eye bags lining his face with a somber expression painted over his soft features.

“I don’t know.” The words brush past their lips before they could think. Were they ready? They had to face their twin of all people. How could they be ready? “I plan to bring them back.” They stated. “To bring them home.” The traveler stared out into the crowd, watching people prepare.

“But will you be able to?” Venti stared intently at the ground as if it were his enemy. The question was aimed mainly at himself rather than the traveler and seemed to slip past him before he could stop it. He quickly shook away the thought, noticing the growing worry on the lone twin’s face. “Of course you will!” His mask was back up, a playful ‘hehe’ drawing past his lips.

“Yeah, I will,” the traveler breathed, a lie beautifully woven within the truth.

•~•

The city of Mondstat lay dim in the distance, the army of Knights and vision holders drifting further from home with each step.

Across the clear fields of Windrise stood monsters. Creatures from the Abyss wielding dark and power hungry gazes.

Many stared in disgust, watching the distant crowd draw closer. Other however, glanced at the group in pity, quickly averting their gazes to refocus their minds. Few knew the true story of the fallen nation 500 years ago, letting their hearts weigh heavy with sympathetic solitude.

Leading the enemy was a familiar figure. The Abyssal Royalty stood proud yet steeled away, gazing at their opponent from across the grassy pathway. Few stems of small lamp grass paved the way between both sides, guiding each distant traveler to meet their other half once again.

Away from their allies, the lost twins hesitantly stepped nearer. A temporary truce of peace passed between them, its wick quickly beginning to burn.

“Lumine,” Aether broke the evening silence. His voice held strong, only to be mocked by the hurt hidden beneath his golden eyes.

“Aether.” Lumine mimicked her brother, the same strong yet weak presence plaguing her voice.

A silent plea from both siblings rang through the surrounding air.

“We can leave, go home! Together..”

“My battle and your journey are yet to be over.”

“After all this time, you still keep saying things that make no sense. Who are you battling other than me?”

The traveler’s twin paused, momentarily shocked from their sibling’s words.

“I’m fighting those who tore us apart.”

The Abyssal twin’s gaze hardened, shifting into an icy glare which shot through their sibling’s heart. Oddly, the sharpened look seemed to pass through the traveler, aimed at a distant being among the crowd of Knights.

“Those who..” the traveler’s words drew thin, disappearing within the air.

A crackling rang through the air, drawing the twins and their respective allies’ attention. Three familiar diamonds tore through the sky, ripping an entrance for a rather infamous figure to emerge.

“Your journeys must end here, outlanders.” Golden eyes pierced the twins, an authoritative air emanating from the unknown goddess. “You’ve altered the weight of destiny from your first arrival, now you must own up to your actions.” With a flick of her hand, the god isolated the three, barriers blocking the view of both armies racing toward their leaders. Their screams fell silent as the last cube sealed them in, the last view being the face of Barbatos, reaching out in elegant mimicry of the day he tried and failed to rescue her. Once again, he wasn’t fast enough.

Within concealment, the twins readied their swords, tri-wings stretching after years of rest.

“Fight as long as you wish, but you will always come back to the same point. Failure.”

Upon hearing her words the twins launched forward, entering yet another intense dance with the god.

•~•

For what felt like hours, the three battled as they had once before, only with the twin’s new found strength to differ. The outlander’s feet hit the ground, enough adrenaline pumping to let them ignore the battered bruises.

The fallen goddess now lay still, defeated by the twins with the joint help of the archons’ powers. A wind-bearing bard tends to a scared girl, broken from the evil which once plagued her.

The abyssal twin gazed at their sibling in awe. A twinge of pain entered their chest at the thought of what they must have gone through trying to find them. How could they have so badly abandoned their own twin? Millions of questions and blame raced through their mind, blurring their vision with tears.

A name reached their ears. Was it theirs? Wait. It was from their twin. Why were they shouting his name? They were safe now.

The traveling twin rushed forward, pushing their other half out of the way and taking the incoming blow. They fell to the ground clutching their chest in pain. The cold felt strangely welcoming. Only, their hands filled with warmth. Now wasn’t the time to nap, but sleep’s comforting embrace wanted to engulf them. Closing their eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt.

•~•

Tears began to pour, outweighing the pellets of falling rain. “Please, wake up.” They cried, pain filling their chest with each second passing by. “We can go home now, the war’s over.” They hiccuped, silently denying an unreal truth.

“Majesty!”

“Honorary Knight!”

Shouts from either side could be heard, only to fall on the deaf ears of the traveler’s sibling. Upon viewing the sight, the surroundings fell silent. Not even the thundering sky could dent the area’s torturous quiet.

Holding their twin close to them, the abyssal sibling let tears slip through their grasp. “We can leave now, just like you wanted!” A small squeeze around their hand gave them hope, gasping with widened eyes.

Below them, the traveler forced their eyes into a squint. Their hand squeezed lightly within their sibling’s. “Home is wherever we are together.”

A sob left the abyssal twin’s lips, forcing a cry to echo in the pouring rain. “You’re right, we’re home! We’re together. We’re-.” Their twin’s grip loosened.

“Hey…,” the crying blonde nudged their other half. “Hey, wake up… we’re home.” Their nudges grew to hasty shaking. “Come on, wake up.” Sob.

“Wake up!” Sob. “Come back!” Crack.

The final thread holding the lone twin’s hope snapped, releasing a titlewave of buried emotions. Unsaid words of appreciation. Unplanned surprise hugs. Introducing new friends which they both longed for. Battle training in different worlds. Fulfilling their prophecy for this world. Long forgotten “I love you”s. Gone. With a stupid flick of a wrist.

The now lost twin sat alone, hand traveling through matted blonde locks stained with blood. As to who the red liquid belonged to, they hadn’t a clue.

Silence once again weaved through the solemn tension which hung frigid with every breath. Tears continued to stream down the outlander’s face, falling onto the face of their loss.

“Your majesty…” An abyssal mage floated steadily toward their ruler. Its words were phrased more as a question of fear rather than a statement.

Wordlessly, the Abyss Ruler began to stand, hooking their arm underneath the crook of their twin’s knees and their back. Their eyes didn’t leave the body now laying limp in their grasp. A hollow warning passed through the air as they slowly trudged to the wind Statue of the Seven.

The statue of Windrise was a signature point of Mondstat, the giant tree creating an elegant background for the stone monument. Windwheel asters lined the edge as anemo crystalflies drifted through the general breeze.

The now lone traveler placed their sibling down on the ground in front of the statue, kneeling beside them. Another broken sob left their lips, silently pleading with whatever remaining archon Teyvat had left to bring their twin back, punish them for their actions, kill them too, anything.

“Anything please,” they whimpered, eyes squeezed shut to prepare for any punishment the gods may bring. “Just don’t let them suffer for my mistakes. It should have been me. If only I was faster.”

The wind’s light breeze grew heavily, picking up into gental gusts of air. The change wasn’t enough to gain the attention of the traveler, however. Only a new voice entering their mind broke their distraught focus.

“Open your eyes, child.”

Doing as the voice said, the blonde was met with a young bard whose physical body seemed as if it was disintegrating. Patches of pale skin detached from the main vessel, floating upward toward Celestia only to vanish within the rays of the rising sun.

“Your twin will never be forgotten, and neither will you.” The bard outstretched his hand, an ethereal light seemed to emanate from him. “Your story will be remembered.” An empathetic smile dawned his lips, attempting to distract from the pain which glimmered beneath his gaze. An understanding of pain.

“Lord Barbatos?” The still kneeling traveler gazed up in awe at the god. “The wind archon?”

Light chuckles passed his lips. “Yes, only… I am no longer the archon of wind, merely another god whose time is finally up.”

“Please, punish me. I’ve only caused pain to the people of Teyvat.”

“No.”

“No?” The blonde whimpered.

“No, just please, come home.” The bard bent down in front of them, pushing a strand of hair from their face as he had 500 years ago.

Oh, how the beautiful fall.

•~•

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raewrites94 · 2 years

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In a Heartbeat

An Eternals fic where reader is a fellow Eternal loosely based on the Greek goddess Demeter, the goddess of harvest and agriculture, presiding over grains and the earth’s fertility.

Warnings: Spoilers for Eternals (I think, I still haven’t watched the movie. The lore I’m using is based off what I’ve gathered from other fics), no other warnings. I’ll watch the movie one day, don’t worry. In the mean time hope you like!

Words: 2,754

Pairing: Druig/Reader or Druig/Original Female Character

“Upset! We’ve trusted you for 7000 years and look where you’ve gotten us. I’ve watched humans destroy each other when I could stop it all in a heartbeat.” The gentle lilt of his accent growing sharp brings you back into the moment and you can see the fire blazing in his eyes. You’d been zoning out trying to avoid all the pain you were feeling in the room. Pain and anguish from Thena; Druig desperate to protect the humans and questioning if their purpose is to just sit back and observe like it had been for so long. No, you knew he was breaking. Your family was splintering before your eyes and all you could do was watch. You knew what you were going to do no matter what happened. You’d follow Druig anywhere and you could tell he knew that when he looked into your eyes briefly before turning to Ikaris. “You’re going to have to kill me” for a second you’re afraid Ikaris is going to take him up on the challenge. You can practically feel the energy of his powers crackling in the air. But he doesn’t. Druig looks at you again before turning around “It ends now” and he starts his walk down the steps and you know his eyes are glowing. You can see all of the humans looking up towards him, dropping their weapons and waiting for him to lead them.

Kingo is the one who grabs your wrist as you almost float after him, always caught in Druig’s gravitational pull. “Please don’t stop me.” You plead, looking up at your brother and looking at the internal fight he himself is also having. “You know I have to follow... I cannot be alone, not after all this time.” He lets go of your wrist and you look around at everyone else, nodding your head in Makkari’s direction which she returns. You have to believe you’ll see her again soon, you don’t have to say anything to each other anymore, you have your own language in the looks that you send one another. Silently you follow down the same path that Druig had gone, you can still see him walking into the forest so you know you’ll catch up eventually. It might be better for you if you stay behind and follow from a distance. It will give you time to think about everything.

As you continued walking at a steady pace, just a few steps behind the swarm of people, the sky began to darken. You walked with your wrists linked behind your back and a pensive look on your face, retreating further into your own mind. Was this the right thing to do? You knew Druig had been doubting your purpose for a long time and not being able to help the humans killed him inside. They were always so needlessly ruthless to each other, wiping entire populations out in what felt like the blink of an eye to the two of you in your eternal lives. They were also such incredible creatures and so fascinating, you grew to love them as well with all your time on the planet. You loved them, cared about their wellbeing, and especially their survival. But you were not gods, you are not entitled to act like one just because of your immortality. You knew Druig knew that, and maybe he’d weighed the pros and cons and finally decided which outcome was better. That was a conversation the two of you had been having on and off for centuries.

Before you knew it, you realized you were actively walking through the swarm of people rather than behind it. They’d stopped walking while you were lost in your own thoughts and you could feel they knew that. They were waiting for you to make your way to Druig, as was he. Noticing you were mirroring his classic pose, you removed your arms from where they were linked behind you and shook them out, trying to portray a more relaxed state of mind than what you were actually sporting. He would know you were faking it, even though he was unable to get into your head he was very well versed in the language of your body. He knew what you were feeling before you did sometimes.

“Deo…” Before Druig even got a chance to continue on whatever monologue he had planned, you practically slammed into his body and wrapped your arms around his waist, his arms came up to wrap around your shoulders without hesitation. He knew how much you loved your family. Neither of you knew when you would see some of them again and neither did they. You felt as if the very fabric of your reality was ripping right in half, taking your heart along with it. You clutched tightly to him, knowing you’d be okay as long as the two of you were together. “You don’t have to come with, you know…” You knew he was trying to give you an out, but even you could hear in his voice how much he didn’t believe that statement himself.

“You know I do. I am yours and you are mine, I will never be without you in my lifetime if I can help it.” You answered, pulling back and looking up at him with a serious look in your eyes.

Ever since you had met something had sparked between the two of you. You didn’t act on it at first, there was a long fight ahead of you defeating deviants and protecting the Earth. A planet that you grew to love so very dearly. For a long time the love you had for the planet and your fellow Eternals was enough for you and it seemed it was for Druig, too. Though you never knew if he actually loved all of the others, or if it was just you and Makkari that he favored. But now that you had acted on it, there was no going back. And you had told him as much almost immediately following that conversation the two of you had, all those centuries ago.

“I know, my love. I just hate that I’m essentially making you choose… even though I already know what your choice would be.” Druig sighed, his hand resting on the side of your neck, his thumb gently running across the skin of your jaw. He brought his forehead to rest on yours. It was your signature move, or that’s what Sprite would call it when they caught you in this pose sometimes. “You are supposed to be the only being that I cannot control, and yet here we are.” He chucked dryly, a point many people have brought up. You didn’t like the insinuation, but you could understand why someone would think that.

“We should keep moving” You say, interrupting the moment you were having. “It’s getting dark fast and they’ll need to rest if we have a destination in mind.” After taking a breath, you take a step back, retreating from his orbit so that you are not sucked back in.

You see Druig tilt his head to the side ever so slightly, a tick of sorts. Something he does when he’s only slightly confused by you. He doesn’t push, he probably already knows what your answer would be, and just nods in response. He starts walking backwards, wordlessly beckoning you to follow so you do. Just as he’s turning around you can see his eyes begin to glow, he’s regaining his hold on the small civilization who had moments before just been standing slack and quiet, listening to your conversation.

You wondered if they would remember what they heard, unconsciously returning your arms to their place from earlier, linked behind your back as you followed in almost the same footsteps as your leader. That was a question that you could add to the list. Every once in a while you caught him in a mood that would make him more likely to answer questions about his powers so you had a mental running list of questions to ask. You never pushed, but you were slowly checking each question off the list as you learned the answers. You never shared them with anyone, even Makkari wasn’t allowed that privilege unless it was given to her by Druig.

Silence continued as you walked a few paces behind Druig, this time at the very front of the swarm of people you were traveling with. You really hoped he wasn’t telling them the two of you were king and queen or something… No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s not that stupid. Maybe he was giving them a choice. You certainly couldn’t read minds so you wouldn’t know what was going on inside that beautiful brain of his until much later when the two of you could finally be alone. After you figured out what you were doing with these people who you were now responsible for. What were the two of you getting yourselves into? You. Were. Not. Gods.

You shook your head, shaking the doubt out and along with it, that train of thought. You had to move to acceptance really fast if this was going to work. You were partners now, in more ways than you were before. Whether you liked it or not you had to protect all of these humans and you needed to do right by them. You’d never had blind trust in Druig, he was still just some guy and he had his flaws just like anyone else. None of you were perfect. But if he thought this was what was best, who were you to disagree? You could tell he had put a lot more thought into this moment than you would ever know.

It’s been a couple of hours since then and you could feel the group of people around you begin to slow down. You were walking side by side with Druig now, your hand linked in his. Eventually you couldn’t take being so far away from him and being in your own brain was becoming incredibly exhausting. “Hey, I think we need to stop.” You said, pushing your shoulder into his arm after looking around in the darkness at everyone.

Druig stopped and turned towards you before surveying the humans. “You’re right. Everyone find as much wood as you can and look for places to take shelter. We’ll get to our destination tomorrow.” With that, the group dispersed, now able to independently complete their mission. You and Druig also got to work, finding somewhere just a tad further away from everyone else and their group to build your shelter for the night.

You were just finishing up walking around to conjure places to sleep for each of the humans out of plants and other natural growth from the Earth with your powers when you could feel his eyes on you. You looked up at him, your eyes were glowing an elegant rich shade of emerald green before fading back to their normal cerulean blue. Ducking your head, you nodded at the last of the humans before making your way over to the fire he had started. The two of you would not be sleeping tonight, you knew. Being eternals granted you many gifts, including superhuman stamina that allowed you to go days without sleeping. You slowly made your way around the fire to where Druig was sitting, his back against a tree stump and an arm around one of his legs.

“You’re so good to them.” Druig pointed out, looking proudly over at you and watching as you sat down next to him, leaning against the same tree trunk and putting your head on his shoulder. He was slightly taller than you and at the perfect angle for this.

“We’re responsible for them now, Druig.” you spoke monotonously, already stuck back in your own mind as you were staring into the fire. You broke the spell though, to pick up your head and look up at him. “Whatever happens to these humans from now on, is our fault, good or bad.” You spoke quietly, trying to convey the gravity of the situation without alerting some of the closer humans where they were slowly settling down for the night. Of their own will or not, you weren’t sure, but hopefully nothing would happen tonight. They were just in the midst of a full on war not that long ago and now you were trusting they could sleep next to one another? God, you hoped so. You wrapped your arm around his as you leaned your head back down on his shoulder. Your eyes immediately going unfocused as you gaze into the depths of the fire.

Something about fire has always intrigued you. Something about it always causes you to go into the deepest depths of your mind, not coming out for hours until Druig would finally pull you back and put out the fire. Druig and Makkari always gave you a hard time about how serious you could be, but someone had to be! Neither of them were very serious so you had to make up for them somehow. And maybe you wanted to make sure every single possible move was thought over so you could protect those you loved the most, no one else needs to know that. You assume they do now, of course. You’ve expressed many times how much you loved them both and they had done the same with you and each other over the years.

Thinking of Makkari now again you were so far away, you could feel tears prick at your eyes. When would you see her again? How would you know where she is and how would she know where you are? You didn’t realize you were crying until Druig was lifting your head from your shoulder, moving you to look up at him. The concern in his eyes quieted you a little, calming the quiet sobs coming from your lips.

“Hey, what is it?” He asked, cupping your face in both hands, trying to figure out what you might have been thinking about as you stared into the depths of the bonfire he had created. If it wasn’t so cold out tonight he wouldn’t have even started one, but he knew you liked to be warm especially at night.

“When are we ever going to see Makkari again?” You asked quietly, adjusting your position so you could sit up and wipe at your watery eyes. Druig couldn’t help but chuckle at the question. Of course you would be thinking of her already. You smacked him on the chest. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No.” Druig coughed, clearing his throat. “I mean, sort of? Don’t worry, my love.” He soothed, running his hands gently up and down your arms. “Makkari will know where to find us, I promise.”

“How does she know where we’ll be?” You questioned, a look of utter confusion contorting the beautiful features of your face. “I don’t even know where we’re going, nor would I have been able to tell her.”

“Just don’t worry. I’ve taken care of it. I would never take us somewhere Makkari could not follow.” He soothed, brushing a couple of strands of hair out of your face. You instantly relaxed at his words. Of course he would think of everything. You didn’t know why you even considered for a moment that this wasn’t premeditated to the highest detail. You let a sigh escape as you leaned back up against him. You closed your eyes, letting the flames of the fire warm your body once again. The thought of never seeing Makkari again had made your blood turn cold and you were beginning to shiver. Druig wrapped his arms around you, feeling the shivers and pulled you more into him so he could shelter your body from the slight breeze passing through the forest.

Whatever you were going to do tomorrow you would be with your soulmate. The one person who knew you better than yourself and you just had to believe things would get better. Maybe not right away and most likely not even in these humans’ lifetimes, but you just knew that you’d see the rest of your family one day. There was no possible reality where that was your last meeting.

You were all gifted with an eternity and you would have to see one another again, regardless of if there were more deviants or not.

#Eternals fanfic #fanfic #druig/reader #druig/ofc #druig/eternal!ofc #crossposted on ao3 #though i have not written much there or here #anyway #hope you like

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sword-dad-fukuzawa · 3 years

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Diluc v. Childe: Who Would Win in a fight, Husbando Edition?

I have THOUGHTS about what a fight between these two would look like, and because I have a Tumblr to scream into the void with, here! Have a fighting style analysis, because this is really and truly my favorite thing to do and I haven’t done it since last summer.

To make things fair, I’m not going to consider Childe’s Foul Legacy transformation until the end. I am, however, considering lore, gameplay, and cutscenes. Please note that I have not read the manga and am excluding it from this analysis.

Weapon Type

Right, so if you weren’t aware, Diluc has a claymore. Generally, this weapon is slower than any of the other weapon types, but it also deals the most damage per hit.

Childe is, first and foremost, a bow user--but his bow can turn into a polearm and daggers when he enters his melee stance. Childe himself states that he is fairly weak when using a bow, and I suspect his melee stance is his way of compensating. Do you know how bad this man is with a bow? He’s so bad with a bow that his last attack animation in his normal sequence is him throwing an arrow. Regardless, this means that Childe has two advantages on Diluc from weapon type alone.

Firstly--Diluc is a close range fighter. He cannot do any damage if Childe is out of his range, while Childe has the luxury of picking Diluc apart from a distance as long as he keeps backing up.

Secondly--Childe also has melee capabilities. If he were only a bow user, there’s the chance that Diluc would manage to catch him in melee range and then Childe would get flattened. However, his polearm and dagger melee stance is uniquely suited against Diluc’s large, unwieldy broadsword, by sheer virtue of being faster.

If you watch Childe’s attack animations in his melee stance, he’s incredibly fast and the dual-wielded daggers mean he essentially has a multiattack with each strike. Diluc would have an immensely difficult time fighting Childe, if only because Childe’s melee stance is quick enough that he can finesse his way under Diluc’s guard.

His polearm stance, as well, gives him about as much reach as Diluc’s claymore does. So Diluc doesn’t even have the advantage of a large reach in order to prevent Childe from cutting in close with his daggers, mainly because Childe has that polearm capability. That leads us to my next point.

Fighting Style

I watched their normal attack animations several times for this bit--at normal speed and slowed down to properly get a feel for the way they fight.

Diluc is flashy. His style involves twists and flourishes and frequent one-handed attacks despite being a two-handed sword user. It looks fucking dope, but as a side effect, Diluc leaves his torso open more often than not. At once point in his auto attack sequence, he even turns his back to his opponent in order to deliver a devastating swing.

But Diluc is almost always overextending--an issue seen in literally all of the claymore users with the notable exception of Chongyun. His sword is really heavy, so to compensate, he’s almost always reaching. Off balance, and it leaves him open. Now, his balance issue isn’t as egregious as Razor’s, but it’s still there.

I will say this about Diluc. He hits hard, and his charged normal attack is fairly fast for a claymore and more versatile than many of the other charged claymore autos. But it doesn’t matter how hard he can hit or how much damage he can do if he can’t connect.

Looking into Childe’s style, inherent ridiculousness of lobbing an arrow at a person aside, he’s much more balanced. His melee stance has him facing forward, typically balanced but with moments where his center of gravity is over his feed instead of centered. He and Diluc both have an overextension problem, but because Childe’s weapon means he’s already faster, it’s less of an issue for him.

There are enough openings in Diluc’s fighting style, at least from what I could tell from his autos, that Childe could take advantage of it with his daggers. For Diluc to win, he’d need to end the fight quickly, and on his terms. He can’t beat Childe in his ranged stance--that’s not going to work, because, well, claymore. So, it’d have to be with Childe in his melee stance. And Diluc is still at a disadvantage, as I just discussed.

Element

Now, let’s talk elements, which is fairly straightforward. Diluc’s skill is essentially him setting fire to his sword. Useful, and dealing high damage. His burst is his only ranged attack, generating a massive flaming bird.

Childe’s is his melee stance, where his weapons are made out of water. His burst is a hydro aoe.

The in-game elemental reaction here is vaporize--a reaction that favors hydro. It deals more damage if a hydro attack caused the reaction. Childe, therefore, has a leg up here in counteracting Diluc’s elemental skills and bursts.

Background

Background-wise, I think this category is up in the air. Diluc was trained with the Knights, and was a Cavalry Captain from a young age. This suggests a high degree of skill and work ethic. Diluc ended up traveling for a while, presumably still training, and he now moonlights as a vigilante. I would not accuse Diluc of being unskilled or out of practice.

However.

Childe is one of Snezhnaya’s foremost soldiers. His job is to fight people, and it’s been a long time since Diluc was a knight and in the same position. Childe needs to stay sharp in order to finish jobs and because he’s got almost the entirety of the Fatui’s eyes on him. Childe was also one of the youngest Harbingers, trained in the Abyss for three months by a master swordswoman who allegedly taught him “heretical” skills that made him a better fighter.

I can’t really weigh these two experiences against each other, but I think their different backgrounds do matter in a fighting comparison.

Emotional Temperament

Ah, the most difficult part of this analysis. Emotional stakes are near-impossible to weigh without context, and fights always occur with context. And emotional stakes are incredibly important. They determine the effort a fighter puts in, what they’re willing to sacrifice to win, and even their strategy during the fight. A desperate fighter will do more to win, for example.

Going off of their personalities in general, Diluc keeps his cool during fights. He’s calculating. A strategist. Someone who gathers intel before jumping into the arena. This gives him an edge on Childe.

Why?

Because Childe’s a loose canon who jumps into fights without doing research beforehand or gauging his opponent. He just likes fighting, while Diluc’s motivation is protecting Mondstadt. Diluc typically would have more to fight for.

However, Diluc also has emotional buttons. My personal thought is that if Childe knew how to piss Diluc off--possibly by mentioning his father and making this conflict personal by using a Delusion--he might even the playing field. Childe doesn’t get angry during fights, while Diluc is known to have gotten angry on at least one occasion (Diluc v. Kaeya when Kaeya got his Vision).

And anger, as a general rule, makes fighters sloppy. Considering how Diluc’s style borders on careless with his movements and energy, this isn’t something he can afford.

Remember how I mentioned Diluc would need to end the fight quickly? Right, so I sincerely doubt that Childe would let him. He likes fighting almost as much as victory. A quick fight wouldn’t satisfy his bloodlust--he’d draw it out, probably goad Diluc (see his goading of Traveler in his boss fight).

I was going to mention arrogance, but honestly? These two guys are both so confident in themselves and their abilities that they cancel each other out.

Foul Legacy

Foul Legacy is...annoying. It’s a truly massive buff.

It gives Childe another element, makes him inhumanly fast and strong, and probably increases his durability, judging off the armor. The only downside is the toll it takes on his body. I don’t think he’d use it unless Diluc truly injured him--and I doubt it would get to that point. But! If he did.

I don’t want to say he’d flatten Diluc right off the bat. But that cutscene with the robots in his story quest? He blitzed them. Three robots in under ten seconds, which is absolutely nuts. And Diluc’s biggest weakness is that he’s slower. Making Childe that much faster? The odds don’t look good.

So, tl;dr, Childe would probably win a fight between himself and Diluc. Feel free to disagree, this is just my opinion and I only wrote it because I adore fight scenes.

We’ll be back to our irregularly scheduled Bungou content tomorrow :D

#genshin impact #diluc ragnvindr #childe #tartaglia #fatui harbingers #fighting style analysis #Aurie Fighting Style Analysis

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kabira · 3 years

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09 | scientific inspiration

pairing — spider-man!vernon x ofc

featuring — joshua, yeji (itzy), felix (skz), yangyang (nct)

word count — 3.6k

genres — spider-man au, marvel au, fluff, action, angst, humor

warnings — none.

note — so here it is, the big Science Dump that will form the basis for one of the major arcs of the story. now, i don’t pretend to know too much of what i’m talking about, but hopefully all the hours of scrolling through obscure genetics articles will hold up. hell, they probably won’t, but this is superhero fiction about a sixteen-year-old man-spider vigilante, so please excuse it !!! a lot of this is borrowed from the ultimate spider-man comics lore by brian michael bendis.

Vernon was still thinking about Luce’s offer when he got to work later that day.

Normally, he would have tried to keep his head clear during his work, but since all he had to do that day was log data entries, it didn’t really matter. Doc hadn’t come back to the lab yet, so it was just him and the janitor, but from the open holograph display on his table, Vernon figured he’d be back pretty soon. Despite the state of his office, the doctor didn’t like messes, especially not in his workplace.

He hadn’t expected Luce to even consider inviting the others, even though she had been friendly with them. Movie night was something that belonged to just the four—three—of them, something sacred and untouched by outsiders. The thing that had surprised him even more was his own willingness. For someone who had been so acutely ticked off by their unannounced arrival, he sure had warmed up to his new teammates quickly.

Vernon was only a few entries in when Dr. Connors entered the lab, holding a cup of steaming coffee from the cafeteria. He smiled at Vernon when he came in, not bothering to glance at the screen to check what he was doing before making his way over to the work table. One of the things Vernon liked the most about this place was that despite being nothing more than a research assistant, he was still allowed to help out in more impactful ways than simply entering and saving data.

“You’re here early,” Dr. Connors said, setting down the Styrofoam cup on his table. He looked tired, Vernon noticed, probably why he had bought that cafeteria coffee despite it being a thick, dark color and tasting like tar. There were dark circles under his blue eyes, and his usually neatly combed brown hair was slightly disheveled.

“I came here directly after school was over,” Vernon said. “Figured I’d save a lot more time that way, and I don’t really have much left to do.”

“Hm?” The scientist faced the holographic model, hitting a few keys on the pad below it. His movements were listless, but his shoulders were still tense. Reminds me of seniors before finals, Vernon thought. It wasn’t exhaustion like he had assumed, but stress. “Then perhaps you’d like to help me out here.”

“Really?” Vernon tried to keep the excitement out of his voice, but failed. Probably for the better, because it sparked a small smile on Dr. Connors’s face. “What are you working on right now?”

He didn’t get an answer for a long moment. Vernon spun in his chair and pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the remains of exhaustion weighing his body down as he made his way over to the doctor’s table.

“It’s something your father and I were working on before…before this project was abandoned, almost a decade ago,” Dr. Connors said. He was looking at the display with a different kind of intensity in his eyes, like it was something to be defeated rather than discovered. “When I lost your father, I gave up all hope of ever getting back to it, but after all my recent failures, I think I need to revisit my roots.”

Vernon pursed his lips at failures, but said nothing. The hologram looked like a DNA strand—a double helix blown to the size of a poster tube. It shone with a dull blue light, lighting up Dr. Connor’s features, illuminating the creases around his mouth and eyes that Vernon wasn’t sure had been there before. Standing next to him made his own tiredness feel like a minor inconvenience.

“This was your father’s brainchild, after all,” the man said, still staring at the display. “A completely independent protoplasmic model based on the body’s own genetic edifice built to fortify the weaker structure of a sick body.”

“A protoplasmic model?” Vernon’s eyes widened. “I thought it was supposed to be controlled AI, like nanobots or something.”

“Imagine that, except a sentient being with the ability to detect and eradicate weaknesses in the body on its own, without any direction,” Dr. Connors said. “Something to cure everything—the right combinations of proteins able to use the body’s own natural resources to fight any infection, overcoming the problem of grafting and able to treat everything from neural atrophy to genetic diseases to cancer, contained in a small tubule.” His eyes shone. “The perfect cure.”

The perfect cure. Vernon glanced back at the holographic model, now seeing the inconsistencies in its structure when compared to normal human DNA. The idea was intoxicating and exhilarating, made even more amazing by the fact that it had been proposed by his father. It made his chest ache with longing, thinking of the possibilities of fulfillment if his father had been alive still—not just for the experiment, but for Vernon himself.

“He was way ahead of his time, Richard Parker—in that sense, you are a lot like him,” Dr. Connors murmured in a low, wistful voice, as if speaking to himself. “It had become almost impossible for us to receive any support or funding for our project, because of how wildly imaginative it was. We were ridiculed, discredited, called mad for our ideas before we finally got the deal with Oscorp. We had worked on the cure for so long, and just a couple of days before the deal’s signing, your father called me one night, sounding excited about a fresh prospect.” He shook his head. “But then…”

He didn’t need to complete his sentence. Vernon caught the drift of it, and turned away to hide the pained expression brought onto his face by the flood of emotions. He didn’t know if he felt good about being so close to his father’s work, or bad about being so far away from his father himself. Even the mere presence of his old colleague, still alive while he wasn’t, seemed to taunt Vernon.

Snap out of it, he told himself firmly. His father’s death hadn’t been Dr. Connors’s fault—he knew that, but still had to avoid even thinking of that idea, because once the seeds had been planted in his brain, Vernon knew he wouldn’t be able to work with Dr. Connors in harmony. Plus, watching him talk about the work he and his dad had done together, no one could say that the scientist didn’t care about his former partner.

“What did he discover?” Vernon prompted.

Dr. Connors’s eyes turned sad. “I never did get to find out,” he said. “Just two days after the call, he was finally going to come back to the state to share his discoveries with me, so we could compare notes and build on what was lacking. The first step to phase two, he called it.” His jaw tightened. “And just when we thought something was going to go right for once…”

Vernon hung his head. Maybe knowing his father had been on the verge of a breakthrough should have made him feel better about his achievements, but he only thing that Vernon could think about was what all the world had lost when he had lost his dad. A revolution in medicine. A father. He was almost a little uneasy thinking about which kind of loss affected him more. The world could have been a much better place, but all Vernon wanted was his dad back.

“I’ve been unfair to you, Vernon,” Dr. Connors said, breaking him out of his reverie. He straightened while keeping his eyes fixed on the DNA hologram, then faced Vernon with a sad look. “You should have had someone to help you come to terms with your father’s death, someone who could have told you about his great ideas and even greater work. I shouldn’t have left you alone to deal with everything, but I simply couldn’t bring myself to…”

His voice had lowered with every syllable until he trailed off, making Vernon think that his voice had finally become too small for anyone to hear. Vernon swallowed, unable to think of anything to say. He was usually good at talking to people, even heart-to-hearts, but when the subject touched his obscure past, words failed him.

“I understand,” he said, the first words that came to his blank mind. He tried for a reassuring smile, unsure of what the result actually looked like. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for it. And anyway, I am here now.”

Dr. Connors smiled a little. “That, you are,” he said. “I feel like I’ve been doing your genius intellect a great injustice by assigning you all these menial tasks.”

“Hey, someone’s gotta do the menial tasks, right?” He smiled back. “My experience with research is next to nothing compared to that of the other people in this lab, so I’m fine with where I am. And not all the tasks are exactly menial.”

“Still.” The man sighed. “Since it was your father’s genius that came up with this idea, it feels only right to have you develop it further—or at least play a role in its creation.”

“I’m here whenever you need me,” Vernon said, glad about the lightening of the atmosphere. He wasn’t sure how much more of that weight he could have taken. He cocked his head, studying the listed proteins. “What made you want to work on this ‘cure’ again after so long?”

“A lot of different reasons,” the scientist said. “I think I had been avoiding this project for so long because I couldn’t bear to continue it without Richard by my side, but meeting you, his son, and having you take up a position in my lab felt like a sign.” He gave the boy a sideways smile. “And from a scientific viewpoint—before this, I’d been working on a different kind of cure, a serum with a principle based in cross-species genetics. It was supposed to be give a person the ability to regenerate lost limbs like a lizard, but the premature human trials went off the rails.”

Vernon nodded, keeping his mouth clamped shut. “I see,” he said, not wanting to bring up the Lizard incident unless he was sure Dr. Connors was ready to address it.

“However, after someone helped…fix the problem by making an anti-serum, the new formula for it gave me an idea,” the man continued. “Scientific inspiration, I guess you could call it. There’s a lot to be done, but I still have the anti-serum here in the lab, and have been studying it for over a month now.”

The gears had already begun turning in Vernon’s head. He had been the one to create the anti-serum as Spider-Man, and no one knew the methodology better than the original creator. Most of it had stemmed from the original Lizard formula, and with a bit of recalibration and measured reversal, the formula had worked. That makes me wonder…

“Hey, doc,” he murmured, brow pinched into a thoughtful frown, “if you had a sample of perfectly bonded human and non-human cell structure, do you think you would be able to mimic it and engineer a matching structure for the cure?”

The man frowned. “How do you mean?”

“I mean…” Vernon hesitated. Because of the OZ formula transferred into his blood by the spider bite, his DNA was perfectly bonded to spider DNA, which gave him what they called in post-human-speak a ‘healing factor’. It wasn’t as effective as Wolverine’s, but it was still something—and it was based on the same principle as the cure. Like the OZ formula helped his body develop a natural cure for anything he could be hit by—be it a paper cut or a head wound—by using its own resources.

The only difference was that it heightened his facilities by combining human abilities with spider abilities, which gave him things like his spider sense. However, if Vernon could use his own blood to develop a kind of skeletal structure for the cure. If it did work, it would only work on enhanced spider/human DNA, but at least then he’d have a start. The possibilities after that were endless.

“If there already existed a perfect sample of blood which had an in-built system like the cure,” Vernon said, trying not to give away too many details.

“Like mutant DNA?” Dr. Connors asked. “They have a completely different genetic structure in place, though, Vernon. They have the X-Gene. Their nucleotide sequence itself is mutated.”

“No, not like that,” Vernon said. “Like human DNA, just…enhanced. Bonded with something like the cure, just not—not living.”

Dr. Connors raised his eyebrows. “Well, having a perfect sample would reduce the needed brainwork to a tenth,” he said. “But you couldn’t acquire a sample like that, because, well, it exists only in theory.”

“Right,” Vernon muttered, but already the beginnings of a smile had started to curve his lips. “Only in theory.”

Vernon’s mind was buzzing with so much excitement from his idea for the cure that even web-slinging hadn’t been able to distract him from it.

He and the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. team had spent the evening scouring the city for any signs of something that could substantiate Vernon’s theory, but had come up with nothing except a few petty criminals, who had been easily stopped. The other three had left early, telling him to use their new communication devices (which looked an awful lot like kitschy wrist bands, except for the fact that they could turn invisible) if anything came up.

Nothing did.

It was nine p.m. and Vernon had still not changed out of his Spidey suit, spending the free hour to swing around the city and try and clear his head. Too much had happened in one day, and his mood was seesawing between elation at his new project and trepidation because of the dreaded return of movie night. Funny that a high school hangout was a source of more nervousness for him than trying to imitate his own radioactive blood sample to finish his dad’s decades old design.

When I put it like that, it sounds even more absurd, he thought, scrolling through the usual evening homework-help texts on his phone as he waited in line to buy eggs and a carton of milk at the not-so-local grocery store. Even Spider-Man had to obey queues when he was out doing chores for Aunt May.

He paid for the eggs and milk without the tattooed cashier giving him a second glance, and stepped out into the street with the bags. Aunt May wouldn’t be back until ten; he had about an hour to kill until curfew, but he wanted to get home early to talk to her about movie night (yet another reaction to dread) and hopefully study his spidery OZ-bonded radioactive blood under the lens of his old microscope that Uncle Ben had gotten him over a year ago.

“Yo, Spidey!”

Vernon looked up to see a chubby, tanned guy in his late twenties beaming at him like an old friend as he jogged up to meet him. “Hey, I remember you,” he said, pointing at the guy. “You’re uhhh…” He squinted at him, trying to remember when he’d last seen him. “That pizza delivery guy who almost got abducted by aliens!”

“That’s me! Paulo!” the guy exclaimed, his wide smile widening even more upon being recognized. “You saved me from those killer robot aliens last month, remember? And I promised you free pizza in case you ever needed it,” he added. “How’s it going?”

“As usual.” He raised the bag containing the groceries he’d just bought.

“Running errands when you get a break from crime-fighting, eh?” Paulo asked, giving his thick dark curls a shake. His smile refused to dim even a bit, like someone had switched on a light bulb with a permanent power source. “Keeps the superheroes humble.”

“Tell that to Captain America.” Vernon checked the comm device on his wrist, almost groaning out loud when he saw it was almost half past nine already. “Great. Uh, Paulo, I’ll have to catch you later. It’s late, and I gotta get back well before curfew in case there are delays on the way.”

“Of course! Go do your Spider-Man thing.” Paulo lifted his hands, mimicking the thwip-thwip gesture of shooting webs, and grinned. “See you later, Spidey!” he called out from behind him as Vernon swung himself up to a lamppost before launching himself into the air. “Remember the offer with the free pizzas still stands!”

“I will!” Vernon yelled back as he swung away. And he wasn’t just saying that, either—free pizzas were free pizzas.

He had to change in an alleyway again, but thankfully this time it didn’t have an open dumpster or smell like someone had thrown out a decayed cheese slab in the trash. By the time he got back home, Aunt May was already back, as indicated by the lights in the kitchen. Just perfect, he thought miserably, as he unlocked the front door with his spare key and trudged into the hallway.

“Vernon! You’re back early,” a voice yelled from the kitchen when she heard the door shut behind him. A woman with short silver hair, clad in a comfortable t-shirt and yoga pants came out into the living room as he entered it, wiping her hands with a hand towel. “Did you get the milk and eggs like I asked you to?” Aunt May asked.

For an older lady, she sure has great hearing. “Yep,” he said, swinging his bag off his shoulders and unzipping it, internally praying he hadn’t squashed the milk carton from all his swinging like last time. Thankfully, they were undamaged. “Did you come back from yoga classes early?”

“Oh, Denise pulled a muscle in her back, poor thing,” May said. “I offered to bring her back home, but she refused to let me ice it for her, saying she’d get Mac to do it instead.” She disappeared into the kitchen once again, coming out without the hand towel this time. “Put the groceries in the fridge, won’t you?”

For an older lady, Aunt May also had a lot of things going for her. Yoga classes on Monday-alternating weekdays, squash sessions over the weekend, classes for baking and music and whatnot—she might even have been busier than Vernon himself.

“Will do,” he said, obeying. His mind was still swimming with all the older thoughts, but now that he was standing right in front of Aunt May, the worry about movie night had pushed itself to the forefront, demanding all of his nervous attention.

He stood at the fridge even after closing the door, chewing his lip and wondering how to bring it up. Words really had failed him today. “Aunt May?” he ventured, unable to keep the hint of nerves from his voice. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“What is it, honey?” she asked, poking her head out of the kitchen. Around her waist was an apron that said Don’t Kiss the Cook. “Vernon?”

He kissed his teeth, teetering back and forth on the balls of his feet. “It’s about movie night.”

She stilled. “What about movie night?”

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, Vernon thought, pursing his lips. Aunt May hadn’t exactly been close with the Osborns, but he knew she had cared about Harry in her own way, the same way she cared about any neglected kid that Vernon brought home like an abandoned cat. She gave them as much comfort as she could, tried to give them the family they never really had, even if she knew she couldn’t completely replace them. It had happened before: Harry, and Luce—and now, Vernon thought with a little sigh, maybe even the team.

“Luce asked me to ask you if you were okay with us doing movie night this weekend,” he said slowly. “And there are these new kids, and she told me to ask them too, but if you’re busy we can always—”

“Vernon!” Aunt May smiled widely, coming out of the kitchen to rest her hands on his shoulders and give them a big squeeze. “Of course I’m okay with it! Oh, you don’t know how I wished you kids would do one of those again, I’m sure that’s what Harry would have wanted too.” She gave him a motherly smile, one that was soft and sad at the same time. “I’ll leave the house to you kids that day.”

“Oh, no, Aunt May, that’s not necessary—” he started, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“Don’t be so formal with me, kiddo,” she said. “I know movie night means a lot to you, and if you have new friends coming over, I’m sure you don’t want a chaperone around.” She raised her eyebrows. “Although I would like to meet them before I go out.”

Vernon sighed, but there was a tiny smile on his face. “God, you’re the best.”

“And don’t you forget it.” She winked. “Besides, even an old woman like me needs to go out with her friends every once in a while, too. This might just turn out to be a good break for both of us.”

He nodded, feeling a welling of emotion in his chest that wouldn’t go down no matter how much he tried to push it away. One less thing to worry about, he thought half-heartedly, trying not to think about how Aunt May’s agreement meant movie night was on, which had the potential to be an even more worrying prospect. “I hope so.”

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stillness-in-green · 3 years

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The MLA(/PLF) Headcanon Post (1/2)

In response to this nice ask about whether I have any headcanon or thoughts about the current members of the MLA/PLF, I spent two weeks blithering 16.5K words of exactly that into a Word file, because when it comes to underappreciated characters I love, I do not understand restraint. This post and its follow-up will cover all ranked ex-MLA members of the PLF, as well as Original Flavor Destro and Curious, since I wasn't going to leave them out of a project like this even if they aren't "current."

The ask only mentioned having previously read The Lore Post, the last exercise in ridiculousness that I wrote at the tail end of MLA Week, so I wrote this to summarize everything that doesn't appear there—which is to say that a lot of the material in these two posts will look familiar to anyone who's read my fanfic about the MLA cast. There’s still plenty of new material to go around too, though!

So, I don't have much in the vein of askblog-style headcanons where I can randomly tell you stray trivia about a character’s favorite foods or their love languages or what have you; that stuff either comes up when I'm writing fanfic or it doesn't. That said, below, please find a mix of thoughts I keep in mind when writing characters, facts that have only turned up in my fanfic/notes so far and not the Lore Post meta, and a selection of lightning round headcanon provided by cross-referencing a random number generator with some old questionnaires I keep around for OCs and tabletop characters.

In this post: Destro, Re-Destro and his advisors, and Geten.

Destro—

General Thoughts The whole "revolutionary leader" thing came very naturally to him. He was committed, charismatic, very willing to risk his life and safety for the cause, and he cared about his people. All that said, he absolutely had a pompous, prideful streak, especially where it came to his justification for terrorism. You only have to read his own words to see that. Still, he was in large part reacting to the world he lived in, one of greater violence and danger than the current day.

I like to think that—because he was genuine in wanting freedom for all—he would not approve of what became of his Army. He'd be able to see how they got there, and he would probably have made much the same choices if he'd been there with them, but while he would have agreed that his role should be remembered—that's just Due Credit—he would never have wanted to become the nigh-on religious figure his followers turned him into. Continuing to fight the good fight for his ideals is one thing, but secret salutes and isolated villages and being raised from infancy to know your life has only as much worth as it can contribute to Liberation… Well, it's just not what he would have wanted for his people, much less his descendants.

Family Situation Chikara was only around 7 when his mother was killed, the event that would shape the rest of his life. He wasn't hiding in the closet from the mob, either; he was kicking and punching and biting, his motivation to save her overflowing—but he was still only 7, and eventually overwhelmed. His own life might well have ended there with hers, but for a group of neighborhood vigilante types (at least one of whom probably went on to a career as a hero, after legalization).

He went most of his adolescence without getting involved with anything more sinister than student newspapers, founding a secret meta-rights "club," and attending the odd larger protest, but when the government started talking about passing laws restricting the use of meta-abilities, he started getting very radical very quickly, and when some absolute snake started to use his martyred mother's words to bang the drum for banning quirk use outside the home outright, he went off the deep end.

Lightning Round (Randomly Selected Headcanons)

Favorite book genre? Memoirs and biographies—he wouldn't have written his own if he didn't appreciate their value. The intimacy of the personal juxtaposed against the broad scope of history appeals to both his regard for individuality and his revolutionary mindset.

Most prized possession? Thoughts on material possessions in general? He doesn’t generally prize material possessions—in fact, he’s something of a skinflint. His most prized possession is an old pair of gloves that belonged to his mother, which he'd been wearing at the time of her murder. He didn't come from money to begin with, but his mother’s story made enough of a splash that his financial situation was improved by well-meaning sorts sending along donations and contributions and the like, as well as government officials knowing they needed to be sure that he wound up somewhere at least semi-reasonable lest they court further outrage by mishandling the son of a martyred woman. The money all went towards school and living expenses, though, leaving him quite experienced at balancing a budget, which would come in handy for that whole ‘leading a violent uprising against the state’ thing later on.

Academic Background: Got all the way through college! Was involved in student groups as far back as middle school, and only got moreso the further in school he got. Majored in Human Development; he was intending to go into the public health and policy sphere before the appropriation of his mother's language pissed him off so much he got into terrorism instead.

THE MODERN MLA

Re-Destro—

General Thoughts A huge amount of the way I write him is influenced by one single thing—his characterization as described in the second data book. His personality is summed up there as "sokoshirenai yami"—bottomless darkness, or, as a friend translated it for me, "unfathomable gloominess." That really, really stuck with me, because on the one hand, it's so opposed to virtually all of what we see of him on the page, where he's being cheerful or scornful or sycophantic; the closest he ever gets are his brief tears for Miyashita, Curious, and his other followers.

On the other hand, it makes so much sense that the man we see—the man who talks about the heavy burdens of his legacy, who was handed that legacy when he couldn't possibly have been any older than 6 or so, who willingly straps on a self-designed torture device to wring out more power, who all but worships the ground Shigaraki walks on even though Shigaraki is the reason Re-Destro no longer has legs to walk that same ground with—should be "unfathomably gloomy." Of course he's gloomy! He was never allowed to be his own person! He has never in his life known true freedom, only existed as a vessel to bring that freedom to others! And he can't really even talk to his closest friends about it, because his closest friends are still his followers, and he wouldn't want to weigh them down!

With that context, it makes all the sense in the world that he'd be so devoted to the man who relieved him of that burden.

Family Situation He loved his mother Yukie a great deal, despite knowing from early on that he was carrying the weight of the title because she believed she couldn’t. (Perhaps growing up hearing about the martyrdom of Destro’s mother left him wanting to ensure the happiness of his own, for her happiness was very rare.) He was 10 when she was killed in a Villain attack; she’d been on a daytrip over to a neighboring city to visit some of her erstwhile school friends. The requisite mourning period was 49 days, and as the only surviving family member, quite a lot fell to him even before considerations of his role as Re-Destro. it was perceived as better—for both the Army’s morale and for his own stability—for him to be involved with as much of the work of transition as possible, but obviously he couldn’t do it completely alone, nor should he. Thus, for two months after Yukie’s death, the previous generation's Sanctum[i] stayed with him in his family home. Afterward, he moved in with Anchor (one of his grandfather's advisors), where he would spend the rest of his young adulthood until moving away for college.

Claustrophobia The name of that literal-iron-maiden deathtrap he brings to bear against Shigaraki is no coincidence: Rikiya developed claustrophobia over the course of a stint of abusive training when he was thirteen. He generally has a pretty good handle on disguising it, thanks to a combination of people being unwilling to ask him questions they don’t actually want the answers to and the fact that he had to learn how to operate through it in order to complete the training at all. He has never told anyone, largely because he’s never been able to recognize that it was abuse, and so his abuser remains a figure of some influence.

Education He was largely taught by private tutors, in his home and in theirs, rather than attending school, but I think he probably wasn't completely home-schooled. Particularly once he'd decided that he did want to attend university—and not just some little local technical program, but a major school in a proper city—he probably attended classes a few times a week at his local high school just to get a feel for being around other people his own age. He'd been friends with Koku for several years by that point, otherwise he probably would have been pretty hopeless, but he was still a pretty odd duck by the time he got to university.

This, incidentally, is why he never pushed Geten too hard about school—his own experience of it was so weird and piecemeal that he mostly thinks of school as relevant only for the education it provides, and less so the crash course in social dynamics. Since Geten doesn't care about getting an education (nor, indeed, about learning how not to be a rude little troll), and has a strong enough quirk that he'll never lack for a position in the Army even without a formal education, Rikiya is perfectly happy to let Geten have his way and just be minimally learnèd.

Stress His powers operate by infusing his body with the characteristic black matter of his manifested stress; he can increase his size with this (his so-called Liberated Form isn't just armored up; he becomes physically taller and bulkier), as well as throw handfuls of the materialized power. A side effect of this is that his stress can also infuse itself into his bodily fluids. The stress matter is a highly dense particulate, so if Rikiya is not in proper control of himself, his proverbial blood, sweat and tears can be literally heavy with the weight of his power.

The Value of Life He cares very much about the lives of his followers, but those genuine feelings are filtered through both the mental compartmentalization required by an emotion-based quirk, and an upbringing that taught him to care about his underlings in the same way one would rare goods. Valuable goods, certainly, goods worth being proud of, goods to be maintained with care, but still, ultimately, things that can be sold or traded or bartered off as necessary to further one's goals. Even his own life, while "objectively" the most valuable of them all, isn't an exception to that policy—the Great Cause is more important than any individual life, up to and including his own.

On a Personal Note He’s something of an obvious weirdo to outsiders—his enthusiasm comes off as strident, his smiles overly polished—but despite that, he's bizarrely hard to dislike once they start spending real time with him. He's not anywhere near as prideful about himself as he is the legacy of the MLA, for a start; he's actually pretty self-deprecating when he's not performing the whole Heir of Destro's Great Bloodline routine at people. He's also happy to go along with other people sharing their hobbies (because he doesn't have any of his own). The more you get to know him, the more obvious it becomes that he's a total basket case, but “total basket case” is still an improvement over “self-absorbed 1%-er CEO” that people like Spinner come in expecting.

What Are Boundaries? He has very little understanding of how to enforce boundaries around his private life, or, indeed, of why such boundaries might ever be necessary. Oh, he can do the double life thing, keep the CEO of Detnerat separate from the Grand Commander of the Metahuman Liberation Army, but when it comes to the MLA itself, he's so groomed to devote himself to the cause that he doesn't really distinguish between the responsibilities of Re-Destro and the needs of Yotsubashi Rikiya. Rather than being the egomaniac you might expect of a man with the absolute power over others he has, he instead struggles to assert himself as his own person at all.

Issues with boundaries are not uncommon with the MLA—they're all raised to see themselves as warriors to advance the cause before they are, like, “human beings”—but Rikiya’s are particularly exacerbated because he was raised by adults who were getting pretty paranoid about his bloodline's tendency to die young, and thus were always checking in on how he was doing, dictating his schedule, weighing in on his plans, and so on. He just wasn’t raised with reasonable expectations for privacy. Even as an adult, he'll give his apartment door code to pretty much anyone in the MLA who has even a semi-plausible reason to want it—certainly quite a few of the elders know it! And it isn’t only the elders, either; Rikiya's phone and several of his accessories carry tracking chips courtesy of Skeptic, which Rikiya knows about and doesn't think is at all untoward.

While his experience dating Koku definitely taught him some hard lessons about how much he could allow himself to ask of people who would obey him without question (they broke up over Rikiya’s realization that Koku would never deny him anything, thanks to a cracked rib Koku didn’t see fit to tell Rikiya about until Rikiya hugged him a little too hard), he never learned how to value his own autonomy in turn. Oh, he's the Grand Commander, and everyone around him has been raised to venerate his bloodline, so most of them would never even think about trying to take advantage of him as such, but it's absolutely the case that people who are bold or familiar enough to try can basically run right over him with minimal efforts made at obscuring the fact. His life is full of people who do and have done exactly that, some to a net positive effect, and some—well. See again the entry about his claustrophobia.

The abjectly terrible state of his sense of self-worth is also the reason the Claustro exists. While he was relatively capable of trying to work around his phobia when he was younger, the older he got, the more it started to feel like leaving doors cracked behind him or only working in offices with big spacious floor plans and oversized windows was, in some way, Letting Down The Cause by allowing his fear to control him, rather than embracing it so he could properly stockpile it for later use. A dinnertime chat with Curious about turning one’s trauma into a weapon for the good of others catalyzed this, leading to the development of the “burden-enhancing steel pressure mechanism,” Claustro.

(It also means the clone of him made by Twice to handle Detnerat after Deika is bizarrely okay with its circumstances, which I will almost certainly write more about one of these days, but I’m still kind of reeling from that reveal, so more on that another time.)

Lightning Round

Religion? He doesn't identify as being of a religious faith, but he was brought up in the same peaceful marriage of Shinto and Buddhism that the majority of Japanese people are, and like many, he adheres to a number of traditional practices more out of habit than devout faith. There are two celebrations that demand significant emotional investment from him. First comes the New Year's celebrations, important because the MLA prides itself on looking to a brighter, freer future, and it's a period when he can let himself think that maybe he'll be just that little bit closer to Liberation by the end of the year than he was at the start. Second is Obon, a summer festival for honoring one's departed ancestors. Since his authority and his life's work derive entirely from his bloodline, he's obligated to care about this one, though in practice, he tends to shy away from thinking much about Destro (who he has very twisted-up feelings about indeed) in favor of less emotionally fraught waters.

What did he dream of being or doing as a child? Did that dream come true? He never really had a significant period where he thought about being e.g. an astronaut or a doctor or a hero; in fact, it came as something of a surprise to him the first time Koku asked him what he was planning to do when he grew up. He always just had the nebulous expectation of, "Be the Grand Commander," and the elders were happy to leave it at that until he brought it up on his own.[ii]

How does he behave around children? He likes kids! He’s wistful about the freedom enjoyed by happy children while also being sympathetic to ones that seem overly burdened. He’s not the most natural person in the world with them, but most of them can tell that the awkwardness comes from a well-intentioned place, and will treat him as a funny-looking man who’ll let them bother him at length without getting mean. It turns out he’s actually pretty good with them, then, if only by virtue of being easily bullied. (This, notably, goes for non-MLA-affiliated children. Everything’s much more formal within the cult, though it didn’t Geten long to suss out the “easily-bullied” part, either.)

Trumpet—

General Thoughts The largest factor in how I write Koku is, of course, the headcanon that he and Rikiya are ex-lovers, and neither of them is 100% over it even all these years later. Beyond that, though, Koku is the most temperate of the group, the one with the most easy charisma (MLA members are more swayed by Re-Destro, but Koku does better with outsiders who aren't predisposed to hanging on Rikiya's every word). He strives to come off as The Sensible One, and given the extremes the rest of the inner circle are capable of, it's not hard for him to maintain that title. He's as messed up as any of them, though, second only to Rikiya in levels of childhood grooming. He thinks of himself as a practical man, but he is deeply indoctrinated, the boundaries of his expectations very much defined by his upbringing, so he never really sees it coming when he gets clobbered by something from out of left field.

Family Situation: Koku has the largest family of the identified members. Aside from his grandfather (called Old Man Hanabata, the founder of the Hearts & Minds Party, and passed away by the canon era), Koku has cousins, nieces, nephews and more, courtesy of his uncle, his older sister and her husband, and other extended family.

He’s also the member most accustomed to wealth, power and influence. He's from a rural area, certainly, but being in a family of hereditary politicians (and with that family not suffering a string of untimely deaths and disappearances like Rikiya's did), he was raised from the start with ready access to money and nice things. Still, for all his family's sway in a major branch of the MLA's operations, they're not First Families, and thus don't have any elders in their ranks, making them still somewhat subordinate to said elders when it comes to orders about the Great Cause. (He’s working on it.)

Meeting Re-Destro Koku and Rikiya met at 12 and 10 respectively, when Koku tagged along with Old Man Hanabata for a meeting RD was likewise accompanying Anchor for. It had been the better part of a year since Rikiya's mother passed away, but he was still strikingly melancholy for a boy that age, which—along with all the weight given to the importance of the meeting—left quite an impression on Koku. Koku thus became Rikiya's first real friend in his own age group, a friendship heartily encouraged by everyone around them. Koku was well-behaved, intelligent, a little older but not too much so, and set to become influential without a danger of becoming too influential; he was seen as a good choice for a friend.[iii]

The Break-Up Painful as it was at the time, there was a silver lining to his and RD's post-college break-up: it got Koku out of the elders' pocket. He’s been groomed for one thing or another all his life, but after he became friends with Rikiya, he was always getting leaned on to report back to the First Families about how Re-Destro was doing, and to try to influence him towards actions the First Families approved of. In a very real sense, Koku was part of the apparatus keeping Rikiya from any real freedom. Their break-up and subsequent estrangement meant that the elders had far less to breathe down Koku's neck about, and by the time they reconciled, Trumpet had gotten his feet under him, as had Re-Destro, and they were both better able to fend off such background meddling.

This doesn't mean Trumpet's not still carrying a torch, however. He thought he was handling his long-banked feelings pretty well—being Professional, being the advisor Re-Destro needed and as much a friend as Rikiya would allow—right up until Rikiya scared the life out of him by nearly dying in Deika. He's all but glued himself to Rikiya since, as much as he can get away with given their respective responsibilities.

As an Advisor Other than leading the HMP, he does some work with internal politics and reputation. It's not, strictly speaking, his actual job as advisor—Re-Destro or the elders would probably be sought for more formal or critical mediations—but he and the people who report directly to him do enough travelling around to see constituents that they're often in a position to field those tensions before they get big enough to require attention from higher up. Koku's happy to do so, in fact—not because he just loves handling petty arguments about resources, but because the HMP is a faction of the MLA in and of itself, and mediating is a boost to that faction's standing and autonomy. (Also, it's that much less on Rikiya's ever-overburdened plate.)

Lightning Round

What would he do if he needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?Ahahahahaha, “make dinner but the kitchen was busy,” please. Any time there could feasibly be someone else occupying a kitchen he has any business being in himself, it would be a housekeeper, and s/he would be making food for him/his family. It’s not as though Trumpet has never cooked—he did live alone for some years after school—but outside of a scant few years in university, there’s never really been a time that kitchen use overlap would have been a problem for him.

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging. Probably gourmet cuisine, especially imported stuff. He’s had tailored clothes all his life; they’re just part of the job. Expensive alcohol also doesn’t wow him; it wouldn’t be strange to find some sake maker whose family has been doing it for sixteen generations in the village he grew up in. It’s a lot harder to cultivate a true gourmand’s palate out in the sticks, though, no matter how rich your family is. Living in actual civilization affords a great deal more variety—and anyway, nice dinners are one of the few things he can reliably tempt Rikiya into accepting. As to his feelings about indulging in general, he’s broadly For It. He works very hard, he seldom gets real time off, and it doesn’t help the Great Cause for him to deny himself nice things, unlike some people. (He’s maybe a bit bitter.)

Does he like to be the center of attention all of the time? Not especially. Oh, he’s very good at it, certainly, and he doesn’t dislike it, but being the center of attention is practically always going to be tied up in The Great Work, so he desperately needs to get out of the spotlight from time to time, if only to be able to turn off the persona.

Curious—

General Thoughts There are two main factors in how I write Chitose: her practicality and her rapaciousness. I write her as having an appreciation for good moral character in other people, especially when it makes a good story, but not considering herself particularly bound by conventional morality: her moral compass is Liberation, and she follows it unswervingly. I also write her as predatory, lusty about a lot of things, often to the point of overstepping. It doesn't hurt anyone that she likes hearty foods and strong alcohol, but she also doesn't have much regard for peoples' boundaries, and even less so when she thinks they have something to offer the Great Cause.

While that trait isn't without its benefits, it can get pretty ugly, too, as we see in how she treats, and talks to, Toga. Even with Rikiya, the only person she thinks of as 'above' her in any meaningful sense, she's not at all above manipulation. She's respectful of him, but knows him too well to always take him at his word. He plainly can't always see what's best for him, but what's best for him is best for Liberation, and therefore, as a Liberation warrior, it's her responsibility to sometimes make decisions for him. He'll appreciate it in the long run—he always does. (Skeptic and Geten have similar views—Rikiya makes it easy.)

Family Situation She probably has the best actual relationship with her family of the group—her mothers are removed enough from the heart of MLA politics that her relationship with Rikiya doesn't color her family life the way Koku's does his, and she's much more sociable than Skeptic or Geten. She doesn't get home much—just the major holidays, work permitting—but she's in frequent enough communication for a grown woman, and chats with her younger sister more often than that.

Meeting Re-Destro She met Rikiya properly when they were 21 and 27 respectively. They were living in the same city at the time (him running Detnerat, her in university), so of course she'd seen him at the odd MLA event he turned up at, but when she landed an internship in her junior year, she cheekily turned up one day in her reporter capacity to interview him as “a local rising star of industry.” It was the first chance they'd had to talk one-on-one, and would not be the last, as she frankly elbowed her way into his life and gradually sussed out that here was a man with Problems. He and Koku were still in a distant patch at the time; she is largely responsible for getting them back on friendly terms as a way of showing her Pure Intentions.

The fact that her Pure Intentions both land her a square position as one of RD's advisors herself and get Rikiya to a better place emotionally is calculated, but not, therefore, untrue. Ironically, while she was concerned about looking like a gold-digger, the MLA elders were probably thrilled and relieved to hear rumors that Rikiya was getting romantically involved again. And with a lovely young MLA woman! They wouldn't even need to worry about surrogacy arrangements! (Not having grown up around the Yotsubashis, Chitose is unaware of exactly how pointed an interest the elders take in the matter of securing that bloodline.)

Feelings Today She loves Rikiya dearly, and prizes his regard more highly than anything in her life, but has not devoted much thought to the idea of being in love with him. She's married to her work, as they say, but she's also keenly aware that Rikiya would, for a great many reasons, be a lot of work to be in love with. She's decided it's generally better for his mental well-being, and therefore also better for the Great Cause (she’s much more capable of reading that relationship reciprocally than Rikiya is), to make sure he's eating at least one good meal a week and getting some proper socialization in outside of MLA meet-and-greets.

As an Advisor She handles external politics and reputation--it's her job to prime Japan culturally for the Liberation agenda in ways more wide-reaching than Trumpet (he's head of a political party, and that's not nothing, but that party is still a small minority on the floor of the Diet). She pulls attention to stories that benefit the MLA, and diverts attention from stories that don't. This is far broader than just publishing Destro's memoir; it also means poking holes in the broader Hero Society narrative. She does this by providing as broad a platform possible for stories about the tragedies of excessive regulation, the evils of quirk-related bias, the abuses of power heroes are capable of, and so on.

Lightning Round

Does she remember names or faces easier? She’s quite good with both, actually, but I’d give names the advantage because she works primarily with written rather than visual mediums. (Also, BNHA names being the ridiculous puns that they are, you can probably tell more about a person in HeroAca Land by analyzing their name than their face anyway.)

Is she more concerned with defending her honor, or protecting her status? Her status, absolutely. Impugning her honor hurts no one but her; she can laugh that off because honor is a silly social construct anyway. Threatening her status is a much more dangerous prospect—her status is long-cultivated to enable the advancement of Liberation ideology; it lets her keep an eye on Re-Destro, who needs as many people looking out for him as he can get; it’s what she’s worked for all her life. Curious will fuck you up if you threaten her status.

In what situation was she the most afraid she’d ever been? The time she got in trouble for nearly exploding some dude’s face off for stealing her purse. She was 17, had spent very little time in non-Liberated territory before, and was not raised to wait on heroes to solve her problems. She wasn’t afraid of the thief or the hero, really, but she was completely terrified that she might have just blown over half a century of secrecy by not performing Helpless Civilian well enough. The terror was pretty convincing to the police interviewing her about it, anyway. On the whole, it was a very valuable learning experience!

Skeptic—

General Thoughts Tomoyasu is a character I haven't written extensively yet, but what I think is most interesting about him so far is the contrast of his hyper-modern methods with the bone-deep zealotry for the cause. See, Rikiya, Koku and Chitose all grew up in the sticks; Rikiya and Koku had money from a young age, but it was old money, tied up in trusts. (Geten didn't have any of those, but Geten's a different story for other reasons.) Tomoyasu grew up in a major city from the start; he was a technological prodigy from practically as soon as he could hold a tablet. He has very little respect for the old ways of doing things when he knows there are newer, better ways of advancing the Cause. However, none of that makes him more likely to break from the MLA's ranks—if anything, his idiosyncratic approach just causes him to approach Liberation in really weird ways, ways no one else would ever come up with.

Pressganging Bubaigawara Jin based on a plan to clone Re-Destro? Who else would that ever even occur to, much less such that it became the basis for an elaborate psychological assault? But that's Skeptic in a nutshell—respect the old for what it did at the time, but don't think that means you have to use the same methods they did forever as you pick up the torch to carry it forward.

Family Situation He has an amicable but not intimate relationship with his family. His parents are very proud of what he's done for the cause and how he won the confidence of Re-Destro, but they don't make much claim to understand how his mind works. In turn, he recognizes the value of their support over the years—he certainly made a lot of waves with his unabashed venom for the MLA leadership's hidebound traditionalism, and his parents' staunch backing meant a lot for him being able to take the stands he did—but is not very emotionally close with them. Might find himself with an older brother, if I ever occasion to write about his family situation in more depth.

Education He graduated a four-year university program for getting his computer science degree in two very intense years, during which he did virtually nothing for the Great Cause, his intention being to better position himself for maximum ability to advance Liberation afterward. See above re: battles his parents fought for him while he was busy modernizing.

Meeting Re-Destro He met Re-Destro via Curious. He was 22, just a year out of university and already climbing the chain of command at a young telecommunications company. Rikiya was 33, working on the Claustro, and needed proprietary comms built to a higher standard of security than Detnerat was focused on. Curious, who was always better positioned to be keeping up with the local personalities, introduced them.

Tomoyasu attempted to keep a civil tongue in his head the first few times he and RD met, but he'd been running on bile and energy drinks for years by that point and was hard-pressed to stop just because he was meeting his Grand Commander. If anything, finding out that Rikiya was okay with his direction and his mouth eventually helped him chill the fuck out, marginally.

On that note, Skeptic is absolutely the advisor most willing to backtalk Rikiya right to his face. (Rikiya loves him for it.) Oh, he'll still accede to Rikiya's wishes, and Re-Destro's orders are his highest priority, but that doesn't mean he feels obligated to be diffident about it. Like Curious, he has a highly developed sense of, "It's fine if it's for the greater good," which will and has led to him taking things into his own hands when he thinks he knows best (which is always). He's not going to explicitly disobey orders, but he will creatively interpret them if he feels strongly about them, and he will try to "anticipate" orders before anyone has time to give him specific ones, the better to tailor his efforts towards proving his methods and goals correct rather than being stuck with orders he hates.

On Names I’ve definitely evolved some in my approach on this since I started writing the MLA cast, but at current, Skeptic and Geten are the only ones I consistently write as using and thinking mainly in terms of code names rather than given names. Trumpet is too familiar with the public/private divide, and has too much intimate history with Rikya-the-person, to default to Re-Destro; Curious is too trained to look for The Human Heart of the Story. Re-Destro himself, ever since breaking up with Koku, has always tried to use code names for people (himself excluded, because he has enormous self-confidence issues about measuring himself up to the original Destro), but can slip into given names when he’s vulnerable. To Skeptic and Geten, though, the code name is the real name, for all intents and purposes. The cover identity is a fake; the whole point of the code name is that you’re proving yourself worthy of taking up your proper place in the Army. Of course the name you win for yourself is the name that counts.

Lightning Round

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen? You’d pretty much have to lock him in a room with nothing but paper and pencil in it for that to be his first resort rather than whatever item of personal electronics he’d otherwise have on his person. But assuming some actual plausible scenario—couldn’t bring his electronics into a government building, let’s say—he would find trying to do something productive on paper and pencil rather beneath him, and he’s an inveterate fidgeter. I mostly see him folding that ludicrously tall frame of his into a chair and setting to using the pencil to poke about three hundred holes in the sheet of paper, meticulous and orderly, while muttering complaints to himself the whole time until something annoys him a bit too much and he jabs the whole pencil through the page.

Who does he see as his best friend? His worst enemy? I headcanon him having a very reasonable, functional, productive relationship with his No. 1 advisor, Red, and being reasonable, functional, and productive probably goes a lot farther on making you Skeptic’s “friend” than any amount of emotional intimacy. But “best friend” is not really the kind of language Skeptic uses for his relationships; if you were to ask him who his best friend is, he’d probably tell you, “Iced coffee.” As to his worst enemy, that’s just whoever is annoying him most on any given day, from difficult clients, to people annoying Re-Destro, stodgy elders, that hero grinning like a tool, that couple walking too slow in front of him on the sidewalk, etc. And Skeptic is pretty proactive about dealing with enemies, as much as he can be.

Has he ever been bitten by an animal? How was he affected (or unaffected)? lol he is a city boy and always has been. He probably tried to pet a stray cat once out of curiosity, and because it seemed like the sort of thing people did, and then has never forgiven Animals In General when it bit him and then ran off.

Geten—

General Thoughts Another one I haven’t written a great deal about yet, particularly in the present day, though I’m looking for that to change soonish. One thing I’d like to explore is Geten when he’s not seething with rage and shame because he failed to bring Re-Destro a victory in Deika. The fandom tends to write Geten as an always-angry attack dog barely contained beneath a chilly veneer, and that’s fair—ever since we got the face reveal, ever since the MLA’s defeat at Shigaraki’s hands, Geten has been an always-angry attack dog barely contained beneath a chilly veneer.

But if you look at Geten from before we knew what was under the hood, you find a different story. “Chilly and angry all the time” is not at all how he acted when he was fighting Dabi! At that point, he was talkative, even chatty. He engaged in a lot of snide smack-talk; he was obviously confident in himself and he spoke very proudly of the MLA as a collective.

He was still quiet at the dinner he attended with Rikiya and his advisors, yes, so I don’t think Geten’s done some kind of full 180 on characterization. I do, however, think that Geten has a sense of humor in there, has a sense of camaraderie with the MLA rooted in more than just his relationship with Re-Destro, even if Re-Destro is obviously his most important person. I don’t know if we’ll ever see that in the manga proper, given everything that’s happened, but it’s worth remembering in terms of what Geten is like when he’s solely among allies.

Family Situation Orphaned at a young age, and a problem child from then on. He passed through a series of foster parents and state facilities before eventually crossing paths with the leader of the local MLA branch in Kesseru, Beacon (more on him next time). This encounter would lead to him being sent to a group home with a reputation for being good with such difficult cases, giving them Structure and Companionship and Meaningful Work. (Spoilers: It’s Liberation.)

Despite evening out considerably after a significant meeting with Re-Destro when he was 7[iv], Geten never got particularly close to his adopted family/the other kids at the group home. He's very favored by the Grand Commander, for one thing, and he has the strongest quirk in the home for another—and since he learned the quirk supremacist stuff from them, that’s a pretty significant part of the dynamic! Both of these factors mean there's some distance between him and the rest. Still, he's not on bad terms with them—indeed, his foster parents are quite proud of him—and he would probably tear out someone's throat with his teeth for threatening them, if only as a matter of pride.

There are 4-6 other kids there at any given time; for the bulk of his young adulthood, there were two older than him, the others younger. He doesn't have much time for Big Brother Pastimes, but is not completely immune to them, either, particularly where the youngest kids are concerned. His tolerance for Little Brother Antics, however, is nonexistent—if the older kids think they can ruffle his hair and treat him like a kid, they can square the fuck up; he is Number One around here and don’t forget it.

Education Geten never went to school, but he's not completely uneducated. He had some tutoring in the group home, some more from Re-Destro personally, and has a pile of books he keeps at his bedside, mostly strategic in nature. He finds them vexing at times, but is slowly reading through them anyway because Re-Destro asked him to. He’s been a bit more diligent about it since he was made a regiment leader, because lord knows Dabi isn't contributing much.

On Re-Destro Re-Destro became fond of Geten for the same reason he became fond of Skeptic and Curious—Geten was willing to push back. He really did make some attempts early on to keep Geten at a proper distance, mindful of anything that would look too much like favoritism. And Geten knew, in the hard-headed way of a child, that Re-Destro was being a grown-up about things, trying to be mature, trying to be impartial. Geten just didn’t care about any of those things. Every time, he would listen very seriously to the things Rikiya told him, nod attentively, repeat back what he’d been told, and then go on about doing his own thing anyway. And his own thing was, typically, to keep coming back.

Of course, if there’s anything we can tell about Re-Destro from the way he treats Shigaraki, it’s that Re-Destro loves people who take the choice away from him.

Eventually, of course, Geten grew up (mostly; I peg him at 19 now), joined the MLA officially, and had to settle into the structure of the Army. It began to lead to trouble for Re-Destro, when Geten blatantly disobeyed him; it stopped being cute. Still, the sense that he Knows What’s Best lingers, so Geten works himself very, very hard to be everything Re-Destro needs him to be and more, so that maybe Re-Destro’s burden will be just that little bit lighter.

On Quirk Supremacy (and Re-Destro, still) Here’s the thing about Geten and the whole, “A life without a strong meta-ability has no value,” line, and this continues to drive me mad because of how people getting it wrong influences the bad takes on the MLA in this fandom: Geten is not a reliable witness. He is not one of the leaders of the MLA, nor does he speak for its rank and file. Even if you assume the absolute worst about his implications there, far worse than is justified by the text, Geten’s very name, Apocrypha, means that he cannot be presumed to be aligned with MLA orthodoxy.

The only one of the people close to Re-Destro who wasn't born and raised MLA, he still manages to come off, in some ways, as the most zealous of the lot of them. But really, it’s very noticeable that Geten—unlike Re-Destro himself, and unlike even Re-Destro’s close cohort—never talks about the original Destro, never even mentions him. When he thinks about his leader, he only ever thinks about Rikiya. Geten doesn’t follow Re-Destro because of his bloodline, because of the tenets; he follows Re-Destro because of personal loyalty.[v]

So how best to do that? Well, think about it: Geten is not terribly intelligent, nor wealthy, nor well-connected. He and Trumpet are the ones most influenced by the quirk supremacist line of thought, Trumpet because his relatively weak quirk comes off as exponentially stronger the more he can surround himself in people it works on, and Geten because his strong quirk lets him mentally justify Re-Destro's investment in him despite his other insufficiencies.

Compare this with Re-Destro, who only ever talks about quirks in terms of freedom. Even more prominently, look at Skeptic and Curious, who are not at all defined by their quirks and how strong or weak said quirks may be. Indeed, those two devote scarcely a thought to the matter because they contribute to the cause in much more important ways and seem to be perfectly comfortable with where that leaves them.

Geten may not be very smart or influential, but he’s very capable of looking at what strengths he does have and focusing hard on those. That, I think, is what really lead to his embracing quirk supremacy, even in the face of evidence that he doesn’t have the whole picture: the search for a way to measure himself up to the movers and shakers Rikiya is otherwise surrounded with, and not come up drastically wanting.

“Apocrypha” Geten has been Geten for a long time, since long before the MLA types usually take up their code names. He’s also an outlier in the MLA for having a name in Japanese instead of in English—the only one who does! My headcanon, unless and until we get some other members with Japanese code names, is that he got the name directly from Re-Destro—possibly even in the conversation that lead to him imprinting so hard on the man when he was 7—and insisted on keeping it before any other code name that was suggested to him in later years.

But yes, he does have a normal Japanese name on file at the group home, which he’s obligated to answer to on the rare occasions that someone from Child Services is checking in or he and Re-Destro are out in public. I don’t plan to bother coming up with it unless I need to, as I expect we’ll get it in a character profile one of these days.

His Quirk While a lot of people like the vibe of Geten and Dabi being somewhat equivalently vulnerable to their own quirks, and I agree it makes for good fanart, in truth, Geten is only as vulnerable to his ice as Endeavor is his flames. Which is to say, he isn't immune, but he's certainly more resistant to it than the average person would be! There’s already plenty of good material to contrast Dabi and Geten without pretending their quirks are more mirrored than is actually the case.

Lightning Round

How does he treat people in service jobs? He doesn’t, because he’s never in a position to interact with people in service jobs. There have been times he’s gone out with Re-Destro, but in those cases he’s mostly let Re-Destro handle the human interaction.

What does he dislike in other people? Laziness; the lack of a higher purpose of some kind. (It’s possible he’d thaw out on his disdain for Dabi considerably if he knew more about Dabi’s plans to undermine the whole of the Hero System than Dabi is inclined to tell him.)

Is he always there for a friend in need? Sure, as long as by “friend” you mean “fellow Liberation warrior” and by “need” you mean “in need of an icicle punched through one of someone else’s desperately fleshy body parts.”

Footnotes

[i] Sanctum II's tastes being what they are, this probably means Rikiya is the MLA member most likely to be able to perform traditional Japanese tea ceremony.

[ii] And there were elders who would have been happy to leave it at that permanently, I'm sure. There are always going to be those regents who have trouble relinquishing power back to the boy prince when he grows up and becomes king, you know?

[iii] And, when it eventually got out that they were dating, a relatively solid match, give or take the surrogacy arrangements that would eventually need to be made.

[iv] I’m hoping canon gives us some details on this eventually, so I’m not planning to iron out more headcanon on the matter unless I absolutely have to.

[v] This, incidentally, is a large part of why Rikiya does keep him around—it’s soothing to have someone around who never brings up his ancestor. Anyway, after Geten evolved his quirk, people stopped complaining so much, even though RD never did get around to, like, giving Geten any formal responsibilities. Geten, who knows very well that Re-Destro’s real advisors have real jobs, mostly took this as reason to be all the stronger, in hopes that he’d eventually be given one.

#boku no hero academia #bnha #my hero academia #yotsubashi chikara #yotsubashi rikiya #hanabata koku #kizuki chitose #chikazoku tomoyasu #geten #destro bnha #re-destro #trumpet bnha #curious bnha #skeptic bnha #meta liberation army #my writing

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snowpeawritings · 4 years

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Hi, I would like to request a Ren/Akira story where the reader got caught up in the palace transfer thing with PT and unlocks her persona after being told she will never be able to be as strong or of use like the others. Thanks and I really love you work!

yessss always wanted to write an awakening scene!

Reader is female

CW (CONTENT WARNING): Swearing

You wanted to change this rotten world for the better but you were a pacifist.

Your parents raised you to never fight violence with violence, lest it would continue this toxic cycle that will never end. As much as you hated the fact that you can’t do anything to change things physically, just being there emotionally is enough for you. As such, you weren’t easily the most picked on. No one disliked you, but no one particularly liked you.

And you were fine with that.

With the coming of the transfer student, students and teachers were already giving him shit. You knew Kamoshida's… actions in order to become the school’s fan favorite. It honestly pissed you off to no end, having a scumbag like him walk like he owns the place, but you really couldn’t stand up to him and his adoring fans. All you could do whenever the transfer student (you believed his name was Kurusu?) is getting ostracised from the school is giving him your time and becoming his first friend.

And you were fine with that.

Turns out he wasn’t the delinquent everyone made him out to be. He just wanted to have his normal future back and a normal high school life. While you could never grant him that wish, you’ll be his support when people weigh him down. Even the threat of expulsion of him, Ryuji and Mishima would keep him up, you would always be there. Even if there’s nothing more you could do than offer half-empty words.

And you were fine with that.

When news of Kamoshida’s confession spread, you really didn’t know what to think. The calling card that was posted across the school bulletin made you believe these ‘thieves’ but it was a far stretch. You were still Akira’s friend whom he hangs out with from time to time but you never knew that he was friends with Ryuji and Ann. Then the circle grew to Mishima, to a student from Kosei High, to Makoto Niijima–

And you were fine with being outside of his circle.

He certainly looked happier when he was with them. While he rarely smiles, you could see that glint of life in his dark eyes whenever Ryuji makes a corny joke and Ann has to smack him upside the head or when he says something witty that just encompasses how much of a dork he is. He even went so far as to try to serenade his cat when the feline clearly did not want to be held[1] (who knew he had such a great voice?).

He did smile when you were hanging out with him, but you never seen him truly look happy with you. For some reason, you were fine with that.

Akira still tries to hang out with you. You could tell when his eyes winced at his own disappointment when he rejected you spending some time with him. His circle of friends were his top priority as he always goes out with them seemingly every day. As much as you wanted to respect his private life, you yourself had to guess just where the heck they kept going, especially when they were a fairly big group.

You didn’t want to follow them but to be fair, it was sheer coincidence that you were there when the entire world shifted. And no, it wasn’t because you wanted to follow Ryuji because he still hasn’t paid his debt to you to buy that entire pack of Black Thunder chocolate.

The dilapidated and destroyed train station is what you saw when you opened your eyes. You were sure this was the station that you wait for your train but never in complete chaos like this. Honestly, the place isn’t what made you scream. What you screamed was when the weird-looking cat in front of you transformed into a van in front of a group of equally weird-looking people.

When the fellow in the black coat whipped his head, you knew those dark eyes anywhere.

“It’s you!?” You screeched, your voice echoing across the tunnel endlessly. “Y-You mean… this entire time, the Phantom Thieves were you guys!?”

The girl in red who you were sure was Ann waved her hands rapidly. “No, _______! We’re not—”

Her eyes widened in surprise at her mistake before slapping her gloved hands over her mouth. “Wait, no! I mean—”

The blonde boy beside her, Ryuji, stomped his foot at Ann’s glaring mistake. “Great way to eff it up, Panther! Now she knows who we are now!”

The way that ‘Panther’ had smacked Ryuji upside the head proved your hunch right; the ragtag group of vigilante thieves that steal hearts were also your own classmates.

“I mean…” You said shakily, trying to diffuse the fight between Ryuji and Ann. “It’s pretty obvious from your voice and hair. But seriously, w-where are we? What is this place?”

The comment about them being obvious was ignored for now. Instead, the brunette you knew to be Makoto stepped in and explained everything to an extent: the Metaverse, them being the Phantom Thieves of Heart, and a magical cat.

“But please, please keep this a secret.” Makoto-or Queen- pleaded with you. “Our entire work would be gone if you tell anyone else what we do.”

You waved your hand to calm her down. “I’ll keep this a secret, don’t worry. Besides, no one talks to me so it’s all good.”

You looked over to Morgana, the cat bus that seemed to regard you with what you guessed was slight interest. “So… how do you guys normally get out of here?”

Akira-or Joker-answered you. “There’s this app on our phones that lets us go in and out of the Metaverse. And right now, I’m getting you out of here.”

As much as you wanted to stay and see how they do their job, you nodded in agreement with him. He stepped close to you, phone in his hand as his finger hovered over an eerily-looking red eye.

“I promise,” He whispered to you, his breath fanning against your ear which made you shiver, “I’ll explain everything to you once we’re done here.”

Him being so close has your heart churning. And you were fine with that.

But the fleeting moment ended when you heard the sound of metal clanging against each other before Joker had been sent flying from you. Just a second he was standing so close to you. Now, he was sprawled on the floor, Queen healing him as the rest of the Thieves huddled together to protect their leader.

The being that attacked Joker looked like someone from Buddhist lore; its fists crackled with lightning before hurling a large bolt of thunder towards the group. The resounding clap of thunder soon followed, electrocuting everyone who and especially the severely weakened Joker. It was only Skull who was still standing but even he looked like he was about to faint from how everyone couldn’t stand up.

“Th-The hell!?” Skull gasped out, shakily bringing out an iron bat before sizing up the figure. “Where the hell did you come from!?”

Mona groaned out from his spot. “Don’t bother fighting it, Skull! He landed a critical hit on us!”

“Get ______ out of here!” Joker gasped out, his hands inching for his mask. “I’ll hold him back for you two to escape!”

His voice brought you some clarity. The gravity of the situation had just sunk in and right now, you didn’t know whether you wanted to collapse, vomit or both. The rest of the thieves were still trying to stand up in the face of the enemy but with it raising its fists, you don’t think they could dodge it in time.

With Skull quivering, with Joker yelling, and with you panicking, you had to move. You had to move you had to move you had TO MOVE–

“And what is this?”

The next moment you blinked, you were standing in front of the large figure with the Phantom Thieves behind you. The blood pumping in your ears muffled your hearing, the sounds you could only make out were your rapidly beating heart and the booming voice of the Buddhist deity.

“Quite a brave one to stand up to me,” he said to you, “you’ll be the first to die.”

You swallowed in your bile. “I… I can still hurt you, you know!”

He slowly moved down his fists and crossed his arms below his chest. “And what good will come out of it? Your comrades are down–”

Your ears cleared for a bit, only to hear the group’s desperate shouts for you to move.

“This one is still shaking–”

Skull was already heaving at this point.

“And you can do nothing about it.”

You can do nothing about it.

That’s always been your entire schtick. You can do nothing about it. You said you wanted to change the world for the better but you were just a teenager who has some social problems. You were always the last choice when all of the good ones are used up. You were always the one in the sidelines–

“And are you fine with that?”

A sharp pain, resounding across your head before battering against your brain like a ram.

“Are you fine sticking to the sidelines, only watching others change while you stay frozen?”

Your hands grasped your head, your saliva mixed with some bile dripping down on the ground as your head pounded. Nothing could be heard except the voice in your head and it felt so goddamn right.

“Nothing will change if you yourself won’t follow through with it. You’re only continuing this tireless cycle that you wanted to desperately break. And you’re fine with that?”

“I’m not…” You growled out. The pain was unbearable but it only fueled your spite you kept hidden all this time. Within your rising rage, you barely registered getting Skull’s bat.

With a roar, you ran towards the beast, raising the bat before smashing the side of his face. “I’m not going to stand still anymore!”

The voice chuckled. “Good. That anger coupled with my power… no one can stop us.”

“I am thou, thou art I… become the winds of change that fuels the rebellion inside people’s hearts! Show them the anger that you swallowed all this time!”

A red mask lined with gold adorned your face, the feather on the left temple danced wildly with the winds blowing from you.

As your fingers gripped the mask, your lips quirked into a smirk. “Sing your heart out… De Beauvoir!”

Everything blew back; the beast, the rest of the thieves, and your self-loathing. The navy blue that adorned your body whipped around from the wind, the coattails behind you gave the appearance of wings ready to take flight. From your hip, you grabbed your sabre and flourished it before pointing the tip at the beast.

The thieves behind you stared in awe at you and the feminine figure appearing behind you. Her ball gown danced about, showing the white petticoat underneath as a pale red veil covered her flowing locks.

“What awesome power…!” Mona breathed out. “I knew there was something special about her!”

De Beauvoir’s face was covered with a masquerade ball mask, a golden band that stretched across the upper part of her face in order to highlight the rage that was building in her azure eyes. Her painted lips parted, and a single note rang out that slowly transitioned into a vibrato as a pale green light shined on the group.

“A healing spell?” Queen questioned, her strength slowly getting back as she stood up.

Yusuke-or Fox-who had been silent since your arrival, gasped at your transformation. “Such form… I never expected her to have this much power.”

“Sorry for blowing you all away.” You called out to the group, your eyes narrowing at the beast. “But with me and De Beauvoir, allow us to thank you for granting us this power!”

You felt movement beside as you turned your eyes to see Joker smirking at you. His dark eyes shone with that same glint of life when you realized that he finally gave that look to you.

“Don’t run away now.” He jested.

You scoffed but your smirk still stayed. “Same to you!”

—————————-

[1] OKOK this was hella inspired by Xander Mobus and Robbie Daymond singing together and im sO ATTACKED BY XANDER!!!!

AND THE THING OF HIM SERENADING MORGANA IS FROM THIS

#requests #scenario #persona #persona 5 imagines #persona 5 #akira kurusu #akira kurusu x reader #akira kurusu imagines #x f!reader #x female!reader #pastelblogsposts

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