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9:24 AM ~ Gepard Landau

Summary: You're trying to train with Gepard but he can't seem to focus. Little do you know he's harboring a massive secret from you...

Pairing: Gepard Landau X G/N!Reader

Genre: Fluffyish Drabble

Word Count: 797

Warning: N/A

Masterlist

Gepard brainrot thought #2

A/N: The way i started typing and didnt stop, im literally just rambling towards the end.

I hope you enjoy

ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡

#gepard #gepard landau #geppie #gepard hsr #gepard x reader #Gepard Drabble #honkai star rail #fluff #cute

gepard’s mother was an ethereal apparition, a woman to be spoken of in dulcet reverence, something he could never hope to grasp with his own two hands. he loves her, dearly. It isn’t the sort of disfigured feeling he holds for his father, buckling under years of unrelenting pressure and responsibility. It was not the sort of feeling that was beaten into him, an anvil for honing an adamantine shield. it was the innocence of a child in an afternoon cast morose as distended clouds threatened to weep. a pair of hands, delicate, lithe, holding a book, it was leather bound and had gilded scripture engraved on the front. at the time he could not read it, not on his own. his mother is a revenant who visits him in his dreams. her voice is a mellifluous tone of devotion. he thinks, in the stagnant silence of his own heart, that love was shaped in her image. it was a rather foolish thing, because he had come to realize love’s amorphous form depended on who felt it. his father’s love had never felt akin to his mother’s; never gentle and woven in gossamer thread. his father’s love was thunderous and imperious, the gathering of storm clouds before an initial, deafening clap. his mother was the rain, weeping and mournful, lingering petrichor that made him look for her. in the shadows of the estate’s long, sinuous halls he would sometimes see her silhouette, see the door of her study slightly ajar and be deluded, if for only a moment, that she had returned to him. his mother was an eidolon and she sits at the head of the table with their father, her face pallid, her eyes forlorn and distant. he hasn’t heard her voice for a time now, she’s bound to an inconsolable silence. gepard is too young to understand but feels the swelling ravine between them as it grows ever darker. she attends the aristocratic soirees and her mouth, thin and roseate, smiles in a way that is reticent, a cherished memory he can but witness from across the room. the floor, cast golden under the chandelier’s incandescence, threatens to fracture, a cavern, half-starved and infinitely black, slowly opening up to swallow him. he pretends it does not bother him. he sees his mother only ever adjacent to his father, thin and of gossamer herself. if he stares for too long he dreads he might see through her to the despondent path he has trekked thus far. he smiles, he feels she may look through him too and see some undeviating spectre, of a boy and his mother and the book that she had bestowed upon him. he still has that book, he cannot bear to part with it, a weakness that he holds furtively, for it was too grim to truly bear. it sits on his nightstand, a red - ribbon emerging from the top of crisp pages, it’s gilded title evoking nights upon her lap, her arms a sanctuary around him, her voice rising above the soft patter of rain on long panes of glass. a story of heroes. he wonders how she might view him now, if he were one of those valiant characters from the book she had read to him all those years ago, or if he too is nothing but a ghost who haunts her dreams.

#anyway when will my gepard thoughts / hcs / drabbles ever not be sad the answer is never.#anyway i am going to sob now.#⋆⁺₊❅. 𝐺𝐸𝑃𝐴𝑅𝐷 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴𝑈. › 𝐢𝐜.#gepard drabble

to gaze upon the eaves of the passing, amorphous buildings in awe. the glistening of stalactites tapered to blunt, convex points. they revealed his reflection in billowing streaks of colour, nebulous around the edges, waning away as it skirted to the other side. he could have stared into its frosted, ethereal world for hours, fractals of shimmering light dancing across his vision. his stomach lurched, knees threatening to buckle as serval’s stride continued on and he sank into the snow, hitching forward inelegantly. the alcohol settled in him as warmth, imbuing his senses with a pleasant distortion. this place, often bleak and wintry, was far more benign when witnessed slantwise. his laughter was a sweet baritone, untethered to ludicrous things like decorum. serval shook her head, either nonplussed by her brother’s descent into delirium or finding it hilarious, incongruous to their soirée’s dignified air. her hair, long and blonde, shone with a lustre of starlight, whipping back and forth on the brisk, eventide wind. her laughter sung with a dulcet cadence of incoherence, not because she was inarticulate, but because he was drunk. one, two, the crystalline glasses of effervescent wine were sweet, and even their father’s hibernal lower did not jerk him from his stupor. he had ushered them over, brandishing his arm like an incensed, seizing branch, lowering his voice to a seething hiss, take your brother home. it wasn’t a request. stumbling through the early evening snow was far more thrilling than a ballroom of stifling vanity and perfunctory niceties. the streets were vacant, cast in arresting shafts of sputtering street light, oil lamps burning away, their flames high and quivering. where the undulating swells of darkness stopped the light became loose strands, lambency wreathing through the spills of ink before fading away. these otherwise familiar sights were augmented in his inebriation, so much more enthralling now than ever before. “ move it, slowpoke.” his sister’s scolding is gentle, a lenience afforded to so very few. he blinks at her, slowly, allowing her features to bleed into clarity. “ home - right, home.” often, that word held with it an insurmountable weight, manacles that kept him adhered to his family’s noble name and inherited responsibilities. now, it felt like the benevolence of a smoldering fire, chasing the lingering chill from his bones. the fireplace was imposing, built of old, clay bricks and filled with neatly chopped logs. the aromatic scent of still glowing cinders, the quiet stillness that accompanied it, that felt more akin to home than any tepid gatherings of family ever did. Gepard leans into her, his shoulder bumping into hers, bracing himself for another, labored step, then another, his thighs felt like gelatin. “ we’re going home.” it was spoken softer, a whisper of chattering teeth and rallying sobriety. his sister nodded, turning her attention back to the street and the two of them continued on, lurching just a little less now.

#⋆⁺₊❅. 𝐺𝐸𝑃𝐴𝑅𝐷 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴𝑈. › 𝐢𝐜.#alcohol /#gepard drabble #ok now i write the angsty one #i love the landau siblings sm you have no idea #this happened 1 time and he got an hour long lecture the next day as well as a headache oml.#never again.

i decided i wasn't going 2 write my asks and instead write another gepard drabble. yipee.

there was nothing lenient about the way the tutor would stare down her aquiline nose, her hawkish eyes peering from behind thick rimmed spectacles, a honed lour devoted to mischievous children and their exasperating excuses. this time, she had caught them huddling beneath the bay window, a large, leather bound book spread across serval’s lap and gepard hovering over it in her lap, leaning so far forward he was basically adhered to the illustrations and loopy, elegant script. they had circumvented the afternoon’s lecture on belobogian history only to lose themselves in the whimsical rivulets of fabrication. tiny, bare feet scrabbling over wet stones, the water purling around their precarious route, their reflections rippling and coalescing over shining, white rock. everything was more intricate in the narratives of fiction, elaborate worlds with infinite magic and endless days of indulgent warmth. gepard could have listened to his sister read to him for hours, stretched out under that bay window, the slivers of afternoon light cascading in as shafts of gossamer grey. her lilt was far more captivating than the droning hum of the tutor’s insipid lecture, speaking of valiantly fought battles by men with forgettable names. gepard had solidified the protagonist's name in his mind as someone truly unforgettable. he doubted those soldiers had wielded the ancient magics to fend off a rather cantankerous old man with a penchant for tormenting children. now that he thought about it, their wizened educator looked sort of like the antagonist of the narrative, things suddenly made more sense. she raised her hand and cleaved it through the air with impatience reserved only for misbehaving children and much to her chagrin she was coming to realize these two had a proclivity for it. the daughter, impudent and wise beyond her years, was the sort to shepherd the two of them into all sorts of trouble. it was best to rid that from their system early so as to avoid incidents in the future but it was proving an arduous task. gently serval closed the book earning an urgent look of disquietude from her brother, she shook her head, a reassuring sort of silent gesture and he rose, followed by her. the teacher’s reprimand beat down on them like a fusillade, aggrieved with their puerile notions of lounging about doing nothing. as the two walked ahead of her serval leant in, just close enough so that only gepard could hear her and under her breath she mimicked the old woman’s lambasting, nasally and derisive and it took all gepard had in him not to laugh, just a little. under her sweeping, irate gaze no such thing would have gone unnoticed.

#i lovge love love writing about them ok #the siblings landau mean the most to me #i need to write more about his itneractions with lynx but she's quite a bit younger than the other two so its like LKJASD.#⋆⁺₊❅. 𝐺𝐸𝑃𝐴𝑅𝐷 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴𝑈. › 𝐢𝐜.#gepard drabble

for twenty eight years he had endured. It had never seemed like a grueling task, not one that would scour abrasions into his forbearance until he was all exposed nerves and tumultuous ire. the thing was, when one was so acquainted with death, with killing, it no longer held its harrowing ramifications. It was disconcerting how comparable the crushing of bone sounded, like thick carapace splintering, how the pulp of brain matter and shards of skull could look monstrous if one let their vision fade into amorphous rage. his strength was an asset to the people, one they neglected to recognise as violence when it was harnessed for protection, not destruction. the air felt heavy, the stagnant calm before a fierce storm. that is how he had felt, how cathartic it was to irrevocably yield to that seething rancor. his father’s voice had droned on and on, an ever present second heart - beat, derisive and inordinate. it was rapturous, the silence as he gurgled on mouthfuls of blood, the shuddering heaves of a chest caved in. the crater from the impact of his fist over and over again, a purging of burgeoning resentment that gathered at the ridges of his knuckles, extending across tenuous bone as rib after rib shattered violently, imbedding in vital organs and soft, sanguine tissue. it had started as a trivial conversation, matrimony for the sake of the family, his elder sister too incompetent to even be considered a prospect. he wondered, in that euphoric aftermath, surging through him, his breath ragged, if that was all it too to break, finally. he had weathered their father’s animosity for decades - he was not going to allow it authority over his sister’s lives. gepard laid back, flush to the old, lacquered table where they had eaten dinner numerous times, the velvet cloth draped over it incriminating - saturated. his father’s crumpled body had slumped out of the gilded, imperious chair that sat at the head of the table, toppled over now, confining his mangled arms, stretching out in a blind terror, at all wrong angles. his sightless eyes were wide, horrified, his mouth an everlasting cavern of frantic screams. he sighs, it was like the breath he had been holding for years had finally been released. he would have to get rid of the body. he closes his eyes for a long moment, considering his options, there were few, this had not been a plotted slaughter - it was impulsive. he had never once considered himself as his father’s killer yet there he was, an abhorrent rendition of carnage, his face pallid, his eyes dark and merciless, fists dripping with his father’s blood, cruor smeared across the back of his hands. he tilts his head back, gazing at the chandelier above, the tiny, ornate crystals seemed to shimmer eerily now, adjudicating him for his crimes. it was unsettling how facile the matter felt, how towing his father’s limp body out of the dining room, leaving a long, sinuous smear of blood, was entirely natural. he was unperturbed by the unpleasantness of it, but also recognised, with cold rationale, that he could not forsake his father to that room, in that house, lest a servant or one of his sister’s should stumble upon it. he had not bothered to clean himself of blood, there was so much he doubted it would be worth the effort expended. rather, with a spade clasped in one hand and his father’s collar viced in the other he walked the cobblestone path into the gardens, his father’s polished, black shoes disturbing the soft dirt, his immaculate clothes sullied with mud, slick with blood. cast in the ambient glow of the moon, the early hours of belobog’s dawn too cold to receive the sleepless, gepard landau buried his father in a shallow grave, the mire and grass shoveled ontop of it marked it not as the work of an amateur but as someone who no longer felt subjected to things such as discretion - or charity.

#⋆⁺₊❅. 𝐺𝐸𝑃𝐴𝑅𝐷 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴𝑈. › 𝐢𝐜.#violence tw /#gore tw /#murder tw /#uh tw tw /#anyway.#steeples hands #gepard drabble

gepard landau felt the foreboding attendance of death for years. an acrid tang of iron in his mouth, the lances of agony across the faces of his comrades as their limbs were wrested from their bodies, bloodied streaks of red in the snow. it beset his nights with harrowing memories, screams heaving from gasping lungs, the gossamer film of white eyes that stared out into the fray, sightless. It had marked him for a fleeting life the moment he had marched out into those desolate plains, a legion of soldiers at his flank. he had thought of it many times, but a captain was not afforded the benignity of choosing his own death.

when it comes its advent is undulating roars of fire, withering skin that curls in on itself, brittle and black. it’s his comrades dying one after the other in quick succession. he has enough time to seize an opening, to give them the opportunity to rally their remaining forces, to gasp in respite and arm themselves for the onslaught. he had not left home that day knowing it was the final time, had not greeted familiar faces at the barracks and warmed his hands around a blazing flame knowing that would be his last day. when he braces for impact, serrated limbs ending in hooked talons, he spares a solitary, fleeting glance over his shoulder and commands his men to retreat. they look upon him, astonished, exhausted, covered in slick sweat and drying blood. there’s an understanding that passes between them, wordless and pervading with the knowledge that he would not be following them.

the blunt impact against his shield is so immense that it sends shudders to his bones, his teeth clacking, a lance of excruciating pain surging through his arms, burying itself in his shoulders. he sinks his boots deep into the snow, ice swelling upwards as he was plowed backwards, his entire body keens beneath the force. the monster opens its jaws, rows of serrated teeth incandescent with heat, its eyes buried deep into its carapace skull. It retracts its long, spinose pincer and brings it down again, the pressure fractures bone, he can feel the pain of it towing him backwards, forcing his senses to remain alert, to push back against the barrage of strikes. its frustrated wail carries on the wind and the next time it withdraws, inspecting him with its bulging, rotating eyes, he launches his counter attack.

the shield wedges itself under the creature’s limb, a strident crack of impact that has the monster reeling, ice burgeons from the wound, rushing up its flesh, solidifying around it. gepard heaves a searing breath in, all of his mustered strength going into holding it in place, suddenly, a sharp, blinding agony erupts from his shoulder. it had brought down its other claw, punctuating the juncture between his throat and shoulder. blood rushed to the surface, blistering against his cold skin, surging from the wound, filling the dip of his collarbone, sousing his proud, white clothes carmine. he is the last bastion between this monster and his men, so he endures with unfaltering resolve. the ice is like a starved beast, rapidly swallowing the creature, limb after limb, until it splintered the hard, outer shell of its skull and the pincer embedded in his shoulder went limp.

he sinks to his knees, it were as if all the vigour had been drained from him, his shield hitting the ground, burying into the snow. he presses his hand to the wound, staunch the blood, he remembered that, even in the amorphous haze of his wavering consciousness. but it keeps flowing, the gash is so deep it’s carved past bone, if he were to wrench it from his body it would tear open a gaping fissure in his skin.

it was cold, belobog was always cold. beside the gargantuan corpse the captain sits upright, his back flush to the jagged husk, sheltered from the wind. It was cold, it was always so cold. he had held his gloved hand against the wound until it was sodden, until his arm was heavy, until he could hold it up no longer. he yearns to keep his eyes open, the bleary winterscape feels so vast when it’s so very empty. his blinking is somnolent, the world an indistinct smear of ice and blood. if he waits here, someone will return, someone will find him. he tells himself that is why he waits, sits in silent vigil, that he will close his eyes for a moment - then awaken when someone arrives. however, when they arrived, desperately plunging through the snow, it was already far too late. the captain was cold to the touch, delicate fractals of ice clinging to his lashes, to his hair, turning his skin to an icy pallor. he had not known it would be his last day when he joined his men on the battlefield, but there was pride in knowing he had saved them.

#⋆⁺₊❅. 𝐺𝐸𝑃𝐴𝑅𝐷 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴𝑈. › 𝐢𝐜.#character death /#gore /#it went so deep through him it probably could have punctured a lung but u know.#gepard drabble

SOBBED - gepard :)

send SOBBED for a scene from my muse's past in which they broke down in tears.

the tutor’s wizened face was twisted with disdain, from beneath her long, angular nose she griped about the children of the noble house and their incessant, tumultuous mutiny. her lectures were monotonous, vast expanses of history cast in the washed out, anemic light of a participant. in spite of her gnarled, spindly fingers and her deteriorating eyesight, they had been entirely convinced she had deluded herself to its grandeur. serval had stated, rather astutely, that in her senility she had mistaken herself for an illustrious soldier, rather than an old, barbaric educator. swept up in his sister’s maelstrom, gepard had eluded her hawkish, bespectacled gaze, his sister’s hand firm around his wrist, a marshal of fictitious expeditions and elusive treasure. their footfalls echoed through the estate, resounding with the thrill of the unknown, suffused not with old dust and desiccated narration. his sister had all the proclivities of a leader, the sort of person other’s amassed before, charisma, one of their teacher’s had called it, rebellion, his father had, less pleasantly.

the two dashed along the long, sinuous corridors, condemned by the captious scowls of their predecessors, painted in superlative detail. his wrist bobbed with each stride, still clasped between her willowy fingers, his lurching a little to keep pace with her longer, adrenalized ones. his sister was wise beyond her years, peerless in her ways with mechanisms, many days had he spent in awe of her as she dismantled and remade things over and over again, each time with ineffable improvements. he trusted her to carve a path through their world of aristocratic propriety and the antiquated chronicles of their ancestor’s grand achievements. they would laugh in tandem, their elation a polarity to their father’s stringent regulations. he had not intended to, but as they bustled through the halls, past closed, imposing doors and their father’s study, ajar but only just, his shoulder collided with a pedestal of lacquered wood. the bust, proud and diligently sculptured, tilted precariously as pain burgeoned from the impact, staring at him grimly before it crashed to the floor in a raucous, fracturing annunciation of their presence.

serval ceased in her tracks, gepard, reeling from the injury, almost ran into her. their father’s voice thundered, incensed and impaling, accusatory and withering. he doesn’t hear precisely what is spoken, there’s a strident ringing in his ears but he knows his father’s ire and can see it splotching red along his throat, his thick, dark brows drawn and corrugating. serval shields him almost instantly, throwing her arm out before him and bickering in retaliation, it wasn’t his fault, it was an accident but their father was deaf to her excuses, his wrath far more vehement than her umbrage. gepard cowered in the shadow of that grand pedestal, now shamefully vacant, crouching, pressing his hands firmly over his ears until the ringing and the quarreling was muted. his knees buckle, his hands tremble. he doesn’t want his sister to endure punishment on his behalf, doesn’t want to hear the ruthless malice of his father. he weeps, his palms pressed into his eyes until he sees incandescent flickers in the dark, until they roll down his cheeks, until his father mutters something bitterly and slams the door over his study closed, his sister now hovering over him, a comforting arm slung over his shoulder. her voice was lulling, a soft, dulcet hum he knew well, she’s reassuring him - but he cannot bring himself to look at her in that moment. there was more comfort in the dark, where his father’s encroaching shadow and the repercussions of this accident didn’t feel like a firm strike to the cheek.

the battlefield did not offer clemency to those dauntless enough to walk its desolate, glacial trail. they had thought themselves prepared, in their thick, thermal clothes and their gleaming, silver armor, nothing could have devised a strategy to prevent this. the deathrattles of men rose with the lament of arctic winds, their strident screams of agony coursing through him in unadulterated anguish. the creatures that emerged from the hibernal, white mantle were atrocities, their eldritch forms trudging through thawing snow. the searing, biting sense of flesh broiling beneath armor, of skin splitting and peeling away black and withered, of death in gargantuan waves, towing them under one by one. some men, their wits fraying at the brink of their own demise, stray from the ranks, kicking up spindrifts of white as they, desperately, hopelessly, try to flee. a creature careens after them, too fast to track and lunges at one, dragging him wailing into the banks of white. more surge forward, a torrent of black swallowing soldier after soldier until their proud, reputable legion was but a few stragglers, terror stuttering in time with their pulse. Gepard’s head turns to his men, his shield glowing with heat, repelling burning fire and carving through tough caparace like hides to expose the grotesque, purple innards. those who fight alongside him are tenacious but the cold and torment erode their tenacity, their arms laden with fatigue, their eyes reserved and regarding death with imminence. “ get back, now.” his voice, despite how it wavers, holds the authority of their leader and garners their attention immediately. they gaze out into the frozen wasteland littered with corpses, humans, monsters, blood inundating the white to red. “ we’re retreating, back to cover.” but their muscles ache in protest and their bones are weary with the weight of their duty, it takes a moment for them to acquiesce, falling back into the snow-drifts, the echo of monsters howling raucous and ferocious. out of the twenty men that had risen to meet the encroaching horde only six were remaining.

there could never be enough time to mourn properly. amongst the dead were his comrades, his close friends, people with whom he had shared meals with, who he had trained alongside. dread sinks into him, heavy and dismal. this was what it meant to fight for their people, the death it entailed felt like a noose around his throat, he had been the one to lead them, to usher them to their untimely demise. disgrace was nothing in contrast to the despair, to the incorporeal visions of limbs wrested violently from their sockets, of sprays of blood sheening once prestigious scraps of armor. the screams were the worst, besetting him with nights of harrowing reprises of moribund wailing, awakening in a cold sweat. he sat in the shadows of serval’s shop, the sign turned over, closed, it read, even though it was hours earlier than usual. gepard felt like that child again, powerless to prevent the grievous reality of their circumstance. he drew his knees to his chest, wearing now a loose shirt and trousers, hardly decorated for battle - for war, his chin resting atop them. amongst the long, undulating stretches of darkness he was etiolated, his once proud features blanched, his eyes red and rimmed still with unshed tears.

“ how can i face them ?” his cadence holds none of its verve, muted and morose. his father would have them present before the people, as survivors, as those who fought and won, who persisted against all odds and pushed back the monstrosities. they would cast their dead with medallions of gilded tribute and they would be remembered as heroes. in his heart they were still those cadets, those who shared laughter with him, who fought alongside him until their last breaths. he takes a long inhale, shuddering. “ any of them..” and his arms encompass his legs, as if it would anchor him, as if he could heave himself from the trenches of that day and pretend he was a dignitary of the silverman guard. A lone, quiet tear falls down his cheek, a damp spot on cotton, joining others in its profound anguish. Serval is perhaps the only thing holding him together, that he can come here and disappear from the expectant gaze of their father, of the mourning laments of the family’s without sons, without husbands. Gepard surmises that without it he would surely crumble beneath the weight of this loss. she sits beside him, her gaze affixed somewhere beyond the closed door and into the waning hum of the city. she says he can stay with her for a while and he reluctantly accepts, the gloom of his own home felt so treacherous. he doesn’t want to rely on her, had sworn that he would be stronger - yet here he was, once again, beneath her protective shield cowering like that frightened child. “ thank you.. Sis.” he murmurs, a soft, trembling sob that punctuates his failure, that has him resting his head against her shoulder and refusing to meet her gaze.

#⋆⁺₊❅. 𝐺𝐸𝑃𝐴𝑅𝐷 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝐷𝐴𝑈. › 𝐢𝐜.#oph god here we go here we go.#gore /#gepard drabble