#brant gifs

[wentian]

CAPTAIN BRANT 🦜🏴‍☠️ Blaze Across the Deep 🌊⚓

[carlottamontelli]

Resonator Showcase | Brant — THE NEXT STAGE

plus a little bonus below <3

[eraenia-era]

Brant

[xichilie]

Brant x (fem)reader

A Fool’s Grand Surprise

The Fools’ Elysium had never looked so alive.

Silken banners of red, gold, and deep indigo draped from the high wooden beams, their ends twinkling with tiny enchanted lanterns that cast the illusion of a starlit sky. The scent of spiced wine and roasted almonds filled the air, mingling with the laughter of masked performers and the distant hum of stringed instruments being tuned. Every table was adorned with scattered petals, every wall lined with flickering candles, their glow reflecting off of mirrors to make the entire space shimmer like a dream.

And at the heart of it all was her.

Y/N barely had time to process the sheer spectacle before a sudden burst of confetti rained down from above. A collective cheer erupted, led, of course, by the one voice she had expected.

“Ah-ha! There she is—our radiant guest of honor!”

Brant’s voice rang through the hall, filled with triumph and unmistakable glee. He leapt from an overhead beam, twisting midair with impossible grace before landing in a flawless bow before her.

Y/N placed her hands on her hips, trying—and failing—to suppress a smile. “This is insane, Brant.”

“Insane?” He clutched his chest as if wounded, staggering back dramatically. “And here I thought it was magnificent. Do you see what I endure, my friends?” He turned to the gathered Troupe, gasping in feigned horror. “I put my soul into this, and she calls it insane!”

Laughter rippled through the room. A fire-eater let out an exaggerated sob. Someone from the back called out, “Give us a real tragedy, Brant!”

He shot them a wink before spinning back to Y/N, eyes gleaming beneath the soft glow of candlelight. “Well, my dear, since we are gathered in this den of fools for you, I suppose you must be indulged.”

With a theatrical sweep of his hand, he gestured toward the raised stage, where musicians had begun to play. “Shall we, stella mia?”

Before she could respond, he was already pulling her into the first dance of the night.

The celebration was nothing short of extraordinary.

Everywhere she turned, performers spun, twirled, and tumbled in dazzling displays of agility and mischief. Jugglers tossed flaming torches in elaborate formations, fire-dancers painted the air with golden embers, and illusionists wove fleeting specters of light and shadow. The music was intoxicating, shifting from wild and frenzied melodies to soft and lilting ballads that spoke of old, wistful love.

Y/N found herself swept into the revelry, laughter bubbling from her lips as Brant twirled her through the ever-changing dance floor. Each step was effortless, as if they had rehearsed these movements a thousand times in a past life. He was impossibly light on his feet, never missing a beat, spinning her until she was breathless.

At one point, she was pulled into a group of performers who playfully adorned her with flowers and draped ribbons around her shoulders like some mythical queen. She lost track of time between stolen sips of honeyed wine, raucous storytelling, and the occasional daring acrobat whisking her away for a spin through the crowd. And through it all, Brant was never far—his laughter, his teasing quips, the way he watched her with that ever-present glimmer of something unreadable in his pink eyes.

But as the night stretched on, the wild energy slowly began to wane. The fires burned lower, the music softened, and the Troupe members settled into quiet clusters of conversation and lazy, lingering dances. The Elysium no longer roared with revelry—it hummed with the kind of warmth that only came after a night well-spent.

And that was when Brant appeared at her side once more.

“Come,” he murmured, offering his hand. “The night isn’t over yet.”

She let him lead her away from the grand hall, past the velvet curtains and into the winding corridors of the Elysium. The noise of the celebration faded, replaced by the soft, distant echoes of laughter and the occasional flickering lantern guiding their path. Finally, they emerged onto a hidden balcony that overlooked the entire festival below.

The view was breathtaking.

From here, she could see it all—the last embers of the fire-dancers’ flames, the silhouettes of jesters still spinning beneath the lanterns, and the sky above, dark and endless, scattered with stars. It was quiet. Peaceful.

Brant exhaled softly. “Do you like it?”

She turned to him, arching a brow. “Do you even have to ask?”

A grin tugged at his lips, but there was something gentler in his expression now. He reached into his coat, hesitating for the briefest moment before pulling out a small, velvet-lined box.

“I had a thousand ideas for what to give you,” he admitted. “But none of them seemed worthy of you.”

He opened the box, revealing a delicate pendant in the shape of a star, its edges lined with the soft shimmer of moonstone.

Y/N inhaled sharply. “Brant…”

He took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips before gently placing the pendant in her palm. “You are the brightest thing in my world, stella mia,” he murmured against her skin. “And I am but a fool orbiting your light.”

Then, stepping back with a flourish, he placed a hand over his heart and recited:

“A candle in darkness, a whisper in noise,

A light that no storm could ever destroy.

The jesters may jest, the world may scheme,

But you, my love, are my waking dream.”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. It wasn’t just the poetry. It wasn’t just the way he had set up the grandest celebration she had ever seen. It was him. The way he looked at her—not as a game, not as a fleeting moment of amusement, but as if she mattered. As if she were his world.

Before she could think, before she could second-guess, he took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

“Happy birthday, cara mia.”

And then, with all the passion of a man who had been waiting for this exact moment, he kissed her.

It was deep and breathtaking, the kind of kiss that lingered long after the music stopped and the candles burned low. A kiss that made her forget the rest of the world existed, that filled her with something warm, something reckless, something utterly dangerous.

And in that moment, beneath the stars and the glow of the Elysium, she knew—no matter how foolish, how reckless—Brant’s love was hers.

_______________________________________ A bit late for my second birthday fic, but it's still my birthday, and I finished another

Thank you all so much for all the bday wishes i received ♡

[atbgauge]

[cheriafreya]

Troupe of Fools duo ｡◕‿◕｡

[delzinrowe]

In the face of danger and adversity, the stage is set for our grandest act!

[12user]

Well, there's no fun in watching from here... Let's get ourselves front row seats

[pheleszev]

Brant

[seth-ballz]

brant header gifs 🎭

[wentian]

WUTHERING WAVES (2024) dev. Kuro Games

[carlottamontelli]

New Resonator: Brant 💜

[eraenia-era]

Brant

& of course one of him running away:

[xichilie]

Brant x (fem)reader

A Flower Among Thorns (3)

Part 2

Brant narrowed his eyes, leaning forward onto the counter with both hands. "Now, now, Rosemary. That sounded an awful lot like a warning."

The apothecary remained silent, her violet eyes steady, betraying nothing.

"Why should I forget her?" he pressed, the usual teasing lilt in his voice replaced by something more serious. "And why shouldn't I ask around?"

Rosemary finally moved, adjusting the cuffs of her apothecary coat with practiced ease. "Because you are drawing attention."

Brant scoffed, crossing his arms. "I always draw attention. It’s part of my charm."

She exhaled quietly. "You don’t understand."

"Then explain it to me." His voice was steady, uncharacteristically firm.

Rosemary considered him for a moment before shaking her head. "It’s not my place to tell you. And even if I did, it wouldn’t change anything."

Brant clicked his tongue. "You know, for someone who sells remedies, you’re awfully bad at easing a troubled heart."

She didn’t react to the jab. Instead, she studied him for a long moment before speaking again.

"Drop this, Brant." Her voice was calm but carried a rare note of finality. "For your own good."

Brant's expression darkened slightly. "What happens if I don't?"

A pause.

Then, Rosemary sighed, reaching for a small glass jar of dried herbs. As she measured them into a mortar, she finally answered, her voice softer this time.

"The Fisalia Family does not take kindly to outsiders meddling in their affairs."

Brant stilled.

Rosemary didn't look at him as she continued. "They are not like the Montellis, who play their games in the open. Their methods are quiet. Precise. And absolute."

Brant's fingers drummed against the counter, his mind working quickly. "So she is one of them."

Rosemary's hands never faltered in her work. "I didn't say that."

"But you didn't deny it either," he pointed out.

She let out another quiet sigh but said nothing.

Brant huffed, running a hand through his blue hair, fingers snagging against the streaks of purple at his bangs. He hated this feeling—the gnawing uncertainty, the lack of control. He wasn’t someone who just let things go.

Especially not someone like her.

The memory of her gentle hands, the soft glow of her healing magic, the warmth in her gaze—it wasn’t something he could simply forget. He didn’t want to.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders before flashing Rosemary a lopsided grin. "I appreciate the concern, truly. But you should know by now…"

He leaned in slightly, tapping a finger against the counter. "Telling me not to do something only makes me more curious."

Rosemary finally looked up, her expression unreadable. Then, with quiet finality, she said:

"Curiosity can be a dangerous thing, Fool."

Brant leaned forward, resting his elbows on the wooden counter of the apothecary, eyes locked onto Rosemary with an intensity she found mildly irritating. "Come on, you know something. Just tell me."

Rosemary sighed, carefully sealing a jar of powdered herbs before finally meeting his gaze. Her violet eyes were unreadable, her expression calm but firm. “The woman you’re looking for… her name is Y/N.”

Brant straightened slightly, the name settling into his mind like a melody he was desperate to learn the rest of. "Y/N…" He rolled it over his tongue, savoring it.

“It would be best if you forgot it.”

Brant's brows lifted in amusement. "Now, Rosemary, telling me that is just going to make me more interested."

She exhaled, setting her work aside, knowing there was no point in trying to dodge the conversation any longer. "She is the younger sister of Lady Cantarella. The head of the Fisalia family."

The words hit him like a freight carriage.

Brant’s usual smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second before he let out a slow, low whistle. "Well… that certainly complicates things."

"It should end things," Rosemary corrected, crossing her arms. "Cantarella makes sure to keep Y/N away from all of this. From everything the Fisalia name is involved in. She is the only one in that family untouched by its darkness."

Brant absorbed that, rubbing his chin. "So she’s not like them?"

"No," Rosemary said firmly. "She is nothing like them. She is like a flower among thorns. Sweet, kind, gentle… the last person who should ever be tangled up in any of this. That’s why Cantarella guards her so fiercely."

Brant chuckled under his breath, his pink eyes glittering with something unreadable. "Sounds like a lonely way to live."

Rosemary's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t agree or disagree—just studied him carefully, as if debating how much more she should say.

Brant leaned forward again, lowering his voice slightly. "That night—when I met her—was she sneaking out?"

Rosemary hesitated before finally answering. "...Most likely."

Brant smirked. "So even a flower among thorns needs to breathe."

"That doesn’t mean you should go looking for her." Rosemary’s voice hardened again, her fingers tapping against the counter. "If she was alone that night, it was without Cantarella’s knowledge. If you keep asking around, you’ll draw attention. And that is the last thing she needs."

Brant tilted his head, considering her words. "So… you’re saying if I want to see her again, I should keep my mouth shut and be smart about it?"

Rosemary groaned, rubbing her temples. "That is absolutely not what I’m saying—"

But Brant was already pushing away from the counter, grinning. “You’ve been a great help, Rosie. Truly.”

"Brant." Her voice carried a warning.

He tipped his hat with a flourish. "I’ll be careful, promise."

Rosemary could only watch as he strode toward the door, that damnably confident sway in his step.

She sighed.

This was going to be a problem.

Brant strolled into Fool’s Elysium with the swagger of a man carrying a grand revelation. His coat swayed behind him, and despite the storm of thoughts raging in his head, his usual grin remained intact. The Fool’s Troupe’s hideout was as lively as ever, filled with the sound of laughter, storytelling, and the occasional off-key singing.

But Brant wasn’t listening.

His mind was elsewhere—wrapped up in the memory of a girl with light purple hair and a voice as soft as silk.

He’d finally found her name.

And oh, what a name it was.

He spotted Roccia sitting atop her familiar suitcase near the stage, legs crossed, observing the room with her usual detached calm. Despite the chaos surrounding her, she sat unmoved, as if existing in a separate world altogether.

Beside her, the lid of her suitcase was slightly open, and Pero, her Echo, peeked out with unblinking eyes.

Brant grinned, making a beeline for her. “Roccia, my dearest, my ever-so-rational first mate.”

She blinked. “No.”

Brant placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “You wound me! You haven’t even heard what I was going to say!”

“I can see it on your face,” Roccia said flatly. “That look. The one you get before making a series of profoundly terrible decisions.”

Brant chuckled, flopping onto the stage beside her, legs stretched out, arms behind his head. “Ah, Roccia, if only you would embrace the thrill of life the way I do.”

“I embrace survival,” she countered. “Big difference.”

“Survival is boring,” Brant sighed. “Adventure is where the heart beats, my dear friend.”

She tapped her fingers against the suitcase. “What did you find?”

Brant tilted his head, pink eyes glinting. “So you were listening.”

“You wouldn’t shut up about that angel,” Roccia said, her tone unreadable.

Brant smirked. “True, true. Well, prepare yourself, for I have uncovered the grand mystery!”

She waited, silent as ever.

Brant exhaled dramatically, placing a hand over his forehead as if struck by divine enlightenment. “Her name is Y/N.”

Nothing.

Roccia just stared.

Brant peeked at her from between his fingers. “Come now, no reaction? No gasp of surprise?”

Still, silence.

Brant sat up, dramatically placing a hand on his knee. “Alright, I’ll just get to the fun part.”

Roccia waited.

He leaned forward, grinning. “She’s the younger sister of Cantarella.”

That got a reaction.

It was subtle, but Brant knew Roccia well enough to catch it—a slight pause, a barely perceptible tensing of her shoulders, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

Brant’s grin widened. “Ah-ha! I saw that!” He pointed at her. “That flicker of realization! The moment when even the great Roccia acknowledges the absolute absurdity of my fate!”

She closed her eyes, inhaled, and exhaled slowly through her nose.

Brant chuckled. “Come now, say it. Tell me how impossibly doomed I am.”

Roccia opened her notebook.

Brant raised a brow. “Oh? Writing something for me?”

She calmly began jotting something down.

He leaned over. “A script? A love poem dedicated to yours truly?”

Roccia didn’t look up. “A list of all the ways this will end in disaster.”

Brant laughed.

“I mean it,” she said, flipping the page and continuing to write.

Brant leaned back, resting on his hands. “Please, do elaborate. I love a good cautionary tale.”

Roccia, without looking up, began listing.

“One: The Fisalia Family is the very group that put a bounty on your head.”

Brant held up a finger. “Technically, Cantarella put the bounty on my head.”

“Cantarella is the head of the Fisalia Family.”

Brant shrugged. “Minor detail.”

Roccia continued. “Two: Y/N is Cantarella’s younger sister.”

Brant grinned. “Yes, yes, I caught that part.”

“She is also someone Cantarella actively protects. You think she doesn’t know where her sister sneaks off to? The only reason Y/N was out alone that night was because Cantarella didn’t know.”

Brant’s grin faltered slightly.

Roccia gave him a long, slow look. “And when she finds out?”

Brant let out a low whistle. “Now, that is an interesting thought.”

“No, it’s a stupid thought,” Roccia corrected.

Brant chuckled. “Semantics.”

Roccia closed her notebook and stared at him. “What are you going to do, Brant?”

He tilted his head back, pink eyes gleaming. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Roccia didn’t blink. “You’re going to look for her.”

Brant smirked. “Bingo.”

Roccia let out a long, slow sigh. “You are a fool.”

“Well, yes,” Brant said, gesturing to the room around them. “It’s in the job description.”

“This isn’t a joke, Brant,” Roccia said, voice steady. “If you go looking for her and Cantarella catches wind of it, you will not like the consequences.”

Brant’s smirk faded just a little.

Roccia stared at him, then spoke carefully. “Are you sure about this?”

Brant thought about it.

He thought about Y/N, about the way she had tended to his wounds with delicate hands, about the way she had spoken softly, kindly—so different from the world she came from.

He thought about the warmth in her gaze, how she had helped him despite knowing what he was, who he was.

He thought about how, for the first time in a long time, someone had looked at him without suspicion, without judgment.

He met Roccia’s gaze.

And then, he smiled.

“I have to see her again.”

Roccia closed her eyes for a long moment. Then, without a word, she stood up.

Brant raised a brow. “Going somewhere?”

Roccia adjusted her grip on her suitcase. “I need to find a good hiding spot.”

Brant blinked. “…Why?”

“Because when this inevitably goes horribly wrong,” Roccia said, completely serious, “I want to be far, far away from it.”

Brant burst into laughter.

“Oh, Roccia, what would I do without you?”

“Not survive,” she replied bluntly.

Brant clapped a hand over his heart. “Then I shall dedicate my next grand escape to you, dear friend.”

“Don’t bother,” Roccia muttered. “Just try not to get yourself killed.”

Brant shot her a wink. “No promises.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away—already plotting his next move.

Brant had spent countless nights roaming the streets of Ragunna, hoping—praying—to catch even the smallest glimpse of her.

She had been like a dream, fleeting and unreal. And yet, he knew she was real. He felt it.

And tonight, fate finally answered.

Brant froze in his tracks.

There she was.

A delicate figure walking alone under the dim glow of the street lamps, her long light purple hair cascading down her back. She walked with a soft grace, almost cautious, as if she were afraid of being seen.

Brant's heart leapt.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward, cutting into her path.

"At last!" he declared, arms outstretched as if greeting an old friend. "I was beginning to think the stars had conspired to keep us apart forever!"

Y/N gasped and stumbled back, eyes wide in shock. Her hands clutched the fabric of her cloak, her entire frame tensing like a startled deer.

Brant quickly dropped his arms, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "Whoa, easy there, angel—I promise I’m not here to cause trouble."

Her breath came quick, her eyes darting to the side, as if contemplating escape.

"...You," she whispered.

Brant grinned, placing a hand on his chest. "Guilty as charged."

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, staring at him with a mix of uncertainty and something else he couldn't quite place.

Brant softened his voice. "You remember me, don’t you?"

A tiny nod. Barely perceptible.

He let out a relieved laugh. "Good, because I’ve been looking everywhere for you."

Y/N’s fingers clutched her cloak tighter. "Why?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Brant tilted his head. "You saved my life. Disappeared before I could even say thanks. That’s hardly fair, don’t you think?"

She looked away, as if flustered by the attention. "I... I wasn’t supposed to be there that night."

Brant chuckled. "So I’ve been told."

That made her snap her gaze back to him, brows furrowing. "You… asked about me?"

"Of course," Brant said smoothly. "An angel appears, heals my wounds, and vanishes without a trace? What kind of fool would I be not to seek her out?"

Y/N shifted uncomfortably, clearly unused to such bold words. She glanced around, as if checking to see if anyone else was watching.

Brant noticed.

"Are you afraid someone will see us?"

She hesitated before giving a small nod.

His usual grin softened into something gentler.

"I won’t keep you," he said, voice unusually sincere. "But… if I can’t see you again, then let me at least say this properly."

Y/N blinked as he placed a hand over his heart and bowed deeply, as if she were royalty and he were a humble performer before her.

"Thank you," he said, sincerely. "For saving me that night."

A breath of silence stretched between them.

And then—to his absolute delight—he saw the faintest hint of pink dust her cheeks.

"...You’re welcome," she whispered.

Brant beamed.

He straightened from his bow, but instead of stepping back, he reached into his coat. His movements were slow, deliberate—gentle. He didn't want to startle her, not when she already looked so hesitant.

"Here," he said, pulling out a flower.

Y/N blinked.

It was a delicate bloom, petals pale like the morning sun, carefully wrapped in a silk ribbon. It wasn’t extravagant, nor some rare exotic treasure. But it was thoughtful—plucked with care, handled with tenderness.

She hesitated. "For… me?"

Brant grinned, twirling the flower between his fingers before offering it to her once more. "Who else, angel? I figured someone as kind as you deserves something just as lovely."

Y/N looked at the flower, then at him. There was no trickery in his eyes, no hidden motives—just warmth. Sincere, unfiltered warmth.

Slowly, she reached out, taking the flower from his fingers with delicate care.

"...Thank you," she murmured, voice soft, almost uncertain.

Brant tilted his head. "You sound surprised."

Y/N lowered her gaze to the flower. "I—It’s just… you’re not what I expected."

Brant let out a laugh, light and airy. "Oh? And what did you expect?"

She fidgeted, fingers brushing over the petals. "You’re a Fool, aren’t you? That’s what they call you."

He placed a dramatic hand over his chest. "Guilty as charged, dear angel! A most reckless rogue, a menace to society, a scoundrel of the highest order!"

Y/N bit her lip, but he saw it—the tiniest twitch of amusement at the corner of her lips.

"But," Brant continued, his voice softer now, "I’m not a liar."

She lifted her gaze, meeting his bright pink eyes.

"I meant it," he said. "Thank you. And… I hope this isn't the last time I see you."

Y/N swallowed, clearly torn. A thousand thoughts flickered behind her eyes, but she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she clutched the flower a little tighter and gave him a small smile.

And for Brant, that was enough.

[atbgauge]

[justeasing]

Brant feels like what Kinich should have been, technically speaking. Like... the zipline circling and leaping into a mid-air dodge? That's Kinich stuff. Just... much MUCH better, and more interesting. 🤔

Also, as an (obvious) disclaimer: I'm not saying Wuthering copied Genshin. They did their own thing and had a lot of fun with it! Pirates have being swinging from boat ropes for CENTURIES! But it's an intriguing comparison to make, and it's similarities are funny to me, in hindsight...

Hooking onto an enemy with a grapple-like device to circle and swing around them menacingly with intermediate gunplay and a dragon (burst vs echo) companion that rains down fire from above?

Hysterical. Wuthering did it MUCH better. 😂