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bibbykins · 1 year

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Moonlight Reign Ch.1

A/N: Instead of forcing myself to focus on one series at a time, I'm planning to write what sparks joy to write in the moment and post it as I go! Hopefully this will clear some wips and help me feel less disorganized lmao! Not to say I'm not working on THB, I def am I just want to have something to post as I work on THB and the bigger projects like the LWAB fics among other things! So (hopefully) I'll keep these chapters limited to 5-7k, but we'll see lol pls enjoy and send me asks I thrive on them and so does my motivation!

And a huge thank you to my wonderful B @rapline-heaux for beta-reading ily!!

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Yandere! Mafia! BTS x Reader

Words: 5.7k

Warnings: crime, sensory flashbacks, trauma, unhealthy relationships, yandere behavior not rlly in this part but soon, pining, violence, past abuse, past neglect, academic neglect, stitches, drunk Jungkook, tackling, pinning someone down, mention of open relationship, poly is the norm is this au

“It’s time to go now.”

1, 2, 3, 4

“Five years after the fall of the underground power family, Moon Corporation, people still suspect an even more powerful company has taken their place since…”

1, 2, 3, 4

“It’s… so red…”

1, 2, 3, 4

“The exposure beheld more answers than questions, but on the five-year anniversary of the suicidal explosion that killed the head, Moon Byungyeol and his daughter, the elusive green-haired girl who was 18 at the time, colleagues mourn in secret and establishments fear an anniversary heist or something worst than last year as the date rapidly approaches…”

1, 2, 3, 4

“Locals have several theories on the big conglomerate that now controls Seoul’s business, underground and above, with the mafia organizations and gangs running rampant, people fear the government is under their thumb as well…”

1, 2- SHUT UP

You inhaled deeply as if just surfacing from the drowning body of water residing in your brain. Your fingers stilled from the tapping, a desperate attempt to make you surface, a sorry technique your brief stint in therapy drilled into you. Maybe having nothing led to illogical personal connections with a number. Of all your training as an heir, it was the mundane basic curriculum lessons that fascinated you the most. You were never good at math, but you loved to be perplexed by the numbers. It was a humbling experience, and in your fruitless calculations, four was always the easiest to wrap your head around. Of course, you didn’t know how humbled you’d be until you were a 20 year old trying to figure out how to do middle school math. Your education left much to be desired growing up, but you still enjoyed learning.

You used to be convinced four was too perfect of a number for such an ugly world, and though you let go of the notion with your past life, it didn’t change that it was a world you had to feign blind to now. In your youth, four was a beautiful result of a simple equation, a funny origin to big numbers. It was a warm hug among the violent reactions when you’d get questions far below your intended grade level wrong. In a world where stuffed animals were banned from your childhood room, the number four was all you had. You didn’t particularly like how pathetic that made you feel, but it didn’t change how much it helped you on days like these.

Your palms retracted from their firm placement on the wall you leaned on, relaxing you. Releasing your slightly curled fingers, you stifled a bitter laugh at the desperate attempt to grasp onto something. It was always so degrading to scrub off the marks your acrylics made along the wall, but the stiletto nails made taps loud enough to bring you back. It was an absolute mystery how the school you worked at let you get away with these.

Your little episode was finished as you settled your mind with the news continuing to drone on. You massaged your jaw, sore from the subconscious clench you were cursed with. You blew out a sigh as you felt your face and nodded when no tears were felt. Your phone buzzed, alerting you to the time and you groaned. Your damn neighbor would be here any minute now.

Jungkook wasn’t a mean guy by any means, quite the opposite. He was extremely insistent on your well-being, so much so it bordered on doting, and such behavior made you clam up. You didn’t know how to respond to his fussing over you. Hell, you didn’t know how to respond to most interactions outside of your old family business for a long while. That was just one of the many things he taught you, and he never once lost his cool doing so. He was patient with you, and you didn’t know how to thank him for it.

You both had been in the same class when you attended university, and while you were fine with letting your temporary acquaintanceship go no further than asking for notes or the occasional study session, he was a force to be reckoned with. You just kept running into him and when you moved here and found he was your next-door neighbor, you knew there was no getting out of it. He was going to be your friend. Although, you never understood why he wanted to be so bad.

Cut to a whole year after you both graduated, and it still didn’t make any sense. You both were polar opposites in a lot of ways. He was the regular party boy always at clubs and coming home at ungodly hours of the night. Meanwhile, you were usually in bed by 11:00 pm and only left your apartment for the job that barely covered your rent. Needless to say, you weren't exactly a social butterfly, so if you found one friend in Jungkook, you figured it wouldn't be such a crime.

However, having Jungkook as a friend meant having a weekly dinner with him as he mooched off of your TV and you mooched off of the food he paid for. It was an even enough exchange. Plus, it was nice to talk freely, or well, as free as you've ever been able to, even if just for a little bit.

You faced the mirror, patting down your hair, thankful for how much healthier it was without the cheap dye job you had done yourself when you were 14, “That green didn’t suit me at all,” You mused, fixing your hair, “Plus it nearly ruined my hair.” You murmured to no one in particular, keeping track of your speeding thoughts as you settled back into Earth.

Jungkook knocked on the door and you nodded to yourself, “It’s open!” You called and sat down at the table as he walked in, take-away bags in his hands.

“You really shouldn’t leave your door open like that, you know.” He tsked like he always did. It just made sense to leave it unlocked when you knew he was coming, especially if you needed to run to the bathroom so you could finish crying before facing him. Of course, you haven't had to do that in a while, but better safe than sorry. Your issues, for lack of better term, were no secret to Jungkook, and you both knew it, but you liked to avoid having him see you at your most vulnerable when you could help it.

You simply shrugged as you helped him unpack the food, “We’re the only ones on the top floor.” You reminded him, “it would be quite silly of a criminal to come all the way up to the 20th floor.” You chided.

“Still.” He tried to argue but quickly gave up. Jungkook knew by now that you could take care of yourself, but sometimes you wished you’d let him do it for you more often. However, he let this potential argument go, this time. He looked around and narrowed his gaze at the TV, “Why do you still have the news on?”

You paused and looked up from your food as it prattled on about your family, “I guess I forgot,” You forced your casual tone, “Did you get-”

“Syndicates, huh…?” He echoed the news reporter’s words, eyes fixated on the screen with a curious look, “The news is so weird with this stuff.”

The chopsticks in your hand stilled. You wanted to say that the syndicates were even weirder since they were the ones that probably signed off on the script. As a little girl, that was the first thing you had learned, how to play chess outside on a park bench, how to play chess crushing people in your hands as you moved them. It had all been the same to you for far too long.

“Like I care, it’s just background noise.” A lie, you hated lying, but it was something you had to get used to doing for the sake of your safety.

“You aren't scared of these guys at all?” Jungkook looked at you like you were crazy, although his eyes didn't match the rest of his face's intensity.

Shaking off the weird notion, you rolled your eyes, “A world without you buying me dinner is pretty spooky but that,” You gestured to the TV, “Is a cheap haunted house in comparison to the hell of making dinner or worse, ordering it myself, on a Friday night.” You giggled.

Jungkook rolled his eyes with a scoff, “Is that all I am to you? A sugar daddy?” He asked in mock offense and you nearly spit out your drink.

You swallowed roughly before glaring at him as he laughed, “If you’re my sugar daddy, I need a new one.” You retorted and his laugh died while a childish pout settled on his face, “I mean, all I get is a measly dinner once a week and I still have to work and pay my bills?”

“Well, what do I get, huh?” He crossed his arms, and it made you chuckle. Laughter had never come easy to you growing up, and it still had a hard time coming to you but after years by Jungkook’s side it was easier than ever to do, “Where’s my sugar?” He thrusted his cheek toward you, tapping on it with his index finger.

You rolled your eyes in spite of the flutter in the pit of your stomach and pushed his face away with your index finger, “My presence is your sugar, dummy.” You teased and how easy it was to be human around him made you smile wider, “Plus I let you watch your silly little shirtless men.”

He clicked his tongue, “First of all, if you’re going to call them shirtless men, at least call them hot because look at him.” He pressed a button on your remote and his favorite fighter, Park Jimin filled the screen, “Second of all, it’s literally fewer syllables to just say MMA fights.”

You took a bite of your food and shrugged, “Don’t you have, like, a million boyfriends? Wouldn’t you make them jealous drooling all over Jimin?” You challenged, vaguely remembering Jungkook saying he had more than three boyfriends at some point. Not that it was surprising, most people had at least two significant others. Unless they were you, of course. You had no one to talk to but the man sitting in front of you, forget about a significant other. “He would make me pretty damn insecure.” You chuckled.

Jungkook scrunched his brows at you, “Six.” He corrected, mirth filling his eyes already.

You looked from the TV to him, “Hm?” You tilted your head to the side.

“I have six boyfriends, thank you very much.” He stated matter-of-factly, and you rolled your eyes at his tone, “Why? Are you trying to give me seven significant others?” He feigned a scandalous gasp, “Well, the relationship is open, you know, so I guess I could pencil you in–” You cut him off by shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth with a glare. The teasing made your chest seize for a split moment when faced with his teasing smirk, so this had been the best way to shut him up.

Jungkook had always been a flirt, he often relished in teasing you to see how embarrassed you would get. Thankfully, over the years you had gotten used to it. You had already known his relationship was open since he mentioned how often they’re all apart, but you didn’t care to entertain that kind of intimacy with Jungkook even in your thoughts these days. It was just better that way.

“Ha, ha, we got a comedian.” You deadpanned and before you could say anything else, something on the screen caught your eyes, “What the fuck?” You mumbled.

“What?” Jungkook inquired as he looked at the TV, swallowing the food you fed him.

The camera had panned over the crowd and over an eerily familiar face poorly covered with sunglasses. The etching of a scar peeking out of the cheap frames told you all you needed, though. That was your uncle.

What the hell was he doing showing his face? Let alone this close to the five-year anniversary of everything. The new syndicate in charge took great joy in celebrating the fall of your family, no doubt they’re itching for someone to make an example of someone. Worry tried to leak its way into your veins, but you fought it. Why should you care about him? If he wanted to sign his death certificate, that was on him.

Still, the sight of a man you were almost positive you’d never see again made you feel uneasy. You’d acclimated to regular life quite well, so one of the few remnants of your past life appearing like a ghost was ominous. In spite of your unease, you couldn’t look away. Almost as if you were waiting for him to poof away. You kinda wished he would.

The camera changed and you finally blinked.

“N-Nothing.” You finally said, shaking your head, “I just thought I recognized someone, that’s all.” Your hands trembled for the briefest of moments as you lifted food to your mouth.

“Oh really, who?” Your only friend asked curiously and you shrugged as you chewed.

“Just some teacher that called in today.” You lied and it made your food taste sour for a moment. It was for the best you lied, you had to keep reminding yourself of that.

“Hell, I’d call in too if it meant I could see the fight live.” You were thankful Jungkook dropped the topic and let your shoulders relax. You shouldn’t feel bad for lying, really. An unspoken rule between you both was that you never pried about private details. Jungkook led his life and you led yours. Hell, you don’t even know what he does for a living, but it wouldn’t surprise you if it was living off of his boyfriends’ income. Not to mention you didn’t even know if he lived with anyone else next door or if that was just a place of his own to use on occasions. Though, you couldn’t help being a little jealous at the idea of being so pampered.

“Yeah, I could go for a silly little shirtless man fight on occasion.” You shrugged with a cheeky grin.

“Silly?!” Jungkook guffawed, “I’ll have you know if he wins this fight, he’ll qualify for the championship, so this is pretty high stakes.” He toted his knowledge of the sport.

“Hasn’t he already been champion like a few times now?” You asked, barely following.

“Yeah, but, he’s been off his game this season for… personal reasons, so he’s never been this close to not qualifying.” He admitted, and your brows scrunched at the melancholy in his eyes.

“Damn.” You mustered, “How do you know all this?” You asked, genuine curiosity lighting your eyes.

Suddenly, Jungkook’s cheeks reddened as he tore his eyes from you, “Interviews and stuff, you know.” He waved his hand dismissively and you rolled your eyes.

“Nothing wrong with being a fanboy.” You chided, “I’m certainly in no place to judge.” You offered, reminding him of your fixation on TV dramas, making him snort before you both honed in on the TV.

These fights were quite fascinating and allowed you to at least tap into some of your training. It was how you knew that Jimin was going to win this fight from the first calculated punch, his form was immaculate and instead of going for the face, he drove his fist into his opponent’s ear. It was a dirty trick, but it was more than enough to give him an opening.

“Holy shit, I think he might win this.” The fanboy across from you breathed.

“No way he isn’t going to win.” You confirmed.

“Don’t get my hopes too far up.” He all but squeaked out, basically on the edge of his seat.

After a couple of rounds and idle chitchat, the fight ended with Jimin as the victor. You clapped lightly, but Jungkook was so elated he hugged you as he let out a celebratory roar. The first couple of times he did this shocked you so bad your hands almost went to snap his neck. Now that you were both years into the friendship though, the gesture just made you chuckle. Soon after, just like it did every match, Jungkook’s phone vibrated and he had to leave. He always left you with some kind of affection and this time it was a kiss on the cheek, a rare one, but not a huge step from the common forehead kisses he gave you.

“Don’t drink too much.” You warned and he flashed you a cheeky smile, “At least don’t get into trouble.”

“We’ll see.” He chuckled, and you rolled your eyes.

“Well then don’t make it my problem!” You yelled and he waved a hand as he closed your door behind him.

—

“Father?” You whimpered as a strong hand patted your head to calm you, or soften the blow of what was to come, you couldn’t quite tell, “Tell me you didn't.” Your voice was in shambles as you trembled beneath his palm.

The news mocked you as panic took a hold of your body, shaking it out of the shred of blissful ignorance you had clung onto. Ever since your father took you in, you had many responsibilities, but the comfort of not needing to keep up with the public facade kept you going. You hated the public, all the pleasantries, and honeyed words. None of it made sense, and now, now you felt foolish for not involving yourself more. For not ensuring that something like this could never happen and crumble the only world you’ve known.

Still, even as despair monopolized your nerves, a tear wouldn’t fall. You weren’t sure if you knew how to shed them, but you knew it would only piss off your father.

Moon Byungyeol was a rough man and calling him father teetered between feeling genuine and like a formality. He was a boss first, but sometimes he wore the mask of a dad. Sometimes, but it was enough times with enough gusto that you couldn’t tell which side of him best represented his true self– or if he even had a truthful bone within himself.

He may have been rough, but he was all you had. He and the family he brought you into had been your first priority all your life, even when you had never really been his priority at all.

Not unless you could be used as currency.

“Y/n, it's time for us to go,” His voice was somber, but even. You’d never seen him so outwardly upset, but even so, he didn’t so much as let his eyes water as his life’s work shattered before his eyes. He was left with a subdued longing as he looked at the TV, melancholic defeat infecting his usually strong posture, “I let this greed consume me, and I'm afraid it's begun eating not just me alive now.” He admitted and it made you feel ill.

“...such evidence is linking the Moon Corporation to heinous organized crime activities painting them as a possible syndicate, but no arrests have been made nor has a formal criminal investigation on Moon Byungyeol himself been launched, but many workers under the company are being investigated due to possible involvement…”

Everything was dying. The realization that everything you did, all the lives you took, all the training you had suffered through, had never been for some prosperous empire you were promised. All of it had been to supply the lining of your father’s and uncle’s pockets. You should’ve been angry, shocked, or even appalled, but you weren't. You were numb to the fact that you were raised on lies. Fear resided in your veins about what that meant for you.

“If I just cash out and retire, we could never live in peace,” He shook his head as he switched off the TV before he placed his hands on your shoulder, catching your attention, “But Uncle Byungjoo has a plan that I think might just work.” You swallowed hard at this. Anything Byungjoo could think seldom meant good things for you. On your best days with him, you were a mere afterthought, but on the worst days– most days– you were–”The only thing is that you and I will have to… separate…”

He was going to abandon it. No, he was going to abandon you. The only thing more pitiful than your fear had to be your shock. What reason did you truly have to be surprised that he was throwing you away just as easily as he picked you? He was going to cash out one last time, and leave like this whole operation meant nothing to him. All the while you had put an inkling of faith in his heart to love this empire, like a fool. At the very least, it was the closest thing to love that you knew. This entire place was all you knew. When was the last time you had gone out on your own as anything but his daughter?

“But…” Your mouth was woefully dry, “The empire, just like you said, it’s-”

“We were never an empire,” His self-loathing clung to each word and disgust curled in your stomach as you looked at his solemn face, “I treated this organization as a bank, a money maker, it was inevitable that the paper I cradled would catch fire.” The roundabout way he was speaking began to grate at your nerve. The pseudo-poeticism of his words did nothing to save his dignity, but you didn’t tell him that.

You didn't scream, yell, or cry.

At least you hadn't, yet.

“Then who will rule Seoul?” You wondered aloud.

“That’s not my problem anymore.” He said as if it were the easiest thing to come to terms with.

“Who will stay with me?” You asked meekly, immediately regretting it as you watched his previous words dance on his lips before he decided against it.

He smiled warmly at you and it brought a chill down your spine, “Some of us are meant to be alone.” He patted your shoulder and you wanted so badly to break into pieces from the impact.

No one would stay with you. Not him, not anyone, and he didn't care.

That wasn't the answer you had hoped for. You hung your head in shame, shame that you expected anything other than a cold answer from a man on fire. The request for him to just kill you was on the time of your tongue before he turned around, ready to attend his last hurrah.

////

You woke up with a start from a bang outside, but considering the fact that it was 4 am, you chalked it up to city noise. Now awake, you stared at the ceiling and blew out an annoyed sigh. You were constantly plagued with flashbacks both in and out of your dreams, and you wished the rancid memories would choose one state of consciousness to haunt you in. Your therapist a couple of years back told you it's normal for people who have gone through what you have to constantly see what you were then in trying to dissect where you are now. Essentially, it was a constant cloud that hung over your head, and no matter how far you removed yourself from that life, its consequences would stay etched into your skin.

Another bang sounded outside your window and you grimaced. Anniversary week was beginning, and you felt more on edge than usual.

Five years ago exactly, you saw the match light. In four days, it will have officially been five years since you saw the flames engulf your home, your family, and everything you were. Each year, this week was chaos for the city of Seoul. Each day was accompanied by an event that slowly grew more and more above ground. It was almost mocking the past, the surfacing of dirty secrets. Secrets the world knew, but never wanted to see, cowards.

The new syndicate at the top of the kingdom was known as Bangtan to the underground scene, but with a “Group” tacked on after the ominous name, they were also the kings of the business world. They were much better at actually hiding their identities, hence why most average people assumed there was no such syndicate anymore or that the “law” took care of it. As if the “law” wasn’t under the thumb of the kings.

Even so, your information could very well be outdated. The whispers from the underground, also known as the Underworld or even more to the point, Hell, reached your ears less and less as you removed yourself from the lives of anyone who knew who you were. No longer working at the diner your previous nanny ran shut you off from the underground so much so you seldom became aware of Anniversary Week’s events until two days before the main event.

Another bang, but this time on your door, startled you out of your thoughts, “I can’t believe you went to the bar on a day like today- where are your keys?!” An unfamiliar voice spoke through your door.

“Ask, y/n,” Jungkook’s slurred voice rang out in a yell as you flinched at the volume, “Y/n! I need stitches!”

This wasn't the first time Jungkook was yelling outside your door, demanding your assistance. This was just another facet of your friendship that you both silently agreed was fine. You never really asked questions, you just patched him up and left him on your couch. It really wasn't any of your business, nor did you have any desire for it to be. Jungkook was an MMA fan, and you knew he was big on that scene and the fitness scene, so it just made sense he would get into fights. You could only hope these fights were agreed upon prior to alcohol, but you weren't naive enough to actually assume that was the case.

“This isn’t even your door, baby, come on.” The voice grunted and your attention peaked. You had encountered a few men trying to help Jungkook home, but you seldom got such an obvious confirmation of their relationship with him, “What? Are you trying to booty call your neighbor?” The unknown man teased and you rolled your eyes. Were they all like this?

“I wish!” Jungkook shouted in response and you were fine with leaving your door closed this time until he spoke, “Ew, I’m dripping on the doormat.”

This made you huff as you hopped out of bed in your large t-shirt and shorts and ripped the door open. You were faced with a man with perfectly styled black hair in a three-piece suit accompanied by a trashed Jungkook with a short, but deep, cut on the corner of his forehead. The man that looked a few years older than you and Jungkook stopped struggling with your neighbor as he looked at you with the most pristine and exasperated face.Everything about this man was polished. Even as your neighbor lazily draped around the man, his suit had barely begun to wrinkle.

Meanwhile, he looked you up and down with contempt before sighing, “Look, just forget we were-”

“Y/n!” Jungkook cheered before he passed out.

“No booty calls here, sorry.” You remarked flatly, “He usually keeps his keys in his wallet for some reason.” You nodded to his pocket before you looked at his forehead again, “But he does need stitches.” You opened your door a little more, gesturing for them to come in.

The man narrowed his eyes at you, “Do you usually play nurse for him?” You bit your tongue and swallowed his condescending tone with a sigh. You couldn’t tell if he was jealous at the thought of his boyfriend having some neighbor who treats his wounds in the dead of night or if he simply didn’t like you. Although looking at his face, there was no way this man was jealous of you. His gaze was sharp nonetheless, sharp and vaguely familiar, but his eyes held no recognition for you, so you let it go.

“Only when his blood is dripping on my doormat, for the third time this month,” You pointed to the sullied mat that you had just cleaned fully this week, “Bring him in, this isn’t that uncommon-”

“But-” He tried to object, noticeably a little clammy at the unspoken knowledge of their relationship.

“Any more blood on that mat and I'm making you pay for it, now come on,” You snapped as he walked in and sat Jungkook in a chair around your table. You shut the door as you pulled your first aid kit out, “You have to sit him on the floor or the couch.”

He complied to the couch, and though he didn’t say anything, you could see the question floating around his mind.

“When he wakes up, he attacks whoever is in front of him,” You spoke, preparing the needle and thread, and you had to ignore the curiosity peaking within you when you saw the other man shift uncomfortably at your comment, “And I can't stitch and hold him down at the table,” You explained, settling your knees to lock on both sides of Jungkook’s legs and your elbows pressing on his shoulders.

“Aren't you scared he'll hurt you?” The man asked as you began stitching.

You scoffed, “I can play scared if that's what you want, but certainly not for free.” You chuckled, but he remained straight-faced. Tough crowd. You worked very hard to develop your banter skills these past five years, but he paid them no mind making your smile drop.

Eventually, you just went on stitching in silence until the man broke the silence, “Who are you?” The man spoke mid-way through your stitching.

You paused for a moment, “Didn't you hear Jungkook? I’m y/n, and who are you?”

“None of your concern,” He clipped.

You snorted a chuckle, “You're bleeding on my hardwood floor, that has me pretty concerned.” You gestured to your hand to show him the small cut on his and he slowly grabbed a napkin to press against his hand with his mouth in a thin line, “Concerned for my floor I mean.” You clarified, “But a word of advice? If you don’t want to be suspicious of you, don’t act suspicious.”

He sighed, “My name is Namjoon-”

You were tying the final knot when Jungkook snapped his eyes open, “Shit.” Was all you were able to get out. He immediately dove at you, pushing you to the floor, making the needle in your hand scratch your forearm before you threw it across the room to avoid the tempting notion of stabbing him with it. You sucked in a breath through your teeth at the burning sensation while you struggled to shake him out of it.

It didn’t take a genius to deduce why Jungkook’s fight or flight was so concentrated, he’d obviously grown up with a reason to be. Nevertheless, it has never been your place to pry or judge, if anything, it’d be quite hypocritical. He'd seen you in a less-than-ideal mental state plenty of times, to put it lightly. Plus, you knew he didn’t mean any harm, and he was always pretty apologetic after the fact. Although, you were sure the struggle looked pretty concerning as you saw Namjoon scramble to his feet.

Namjoon was trying to find an opening to cut in between the battle as Jungkook was sloppily throwing his fist down and you were moving your head to dodge each blow. Though his moves were sloppy, they were still fast and you could only dodge for so long. With no other option left, you sighed before slamming your forehead on his fresh stitches to make him stop to register the pain. You took advantage of the opening as you effortlessly pinned his arms down with your knees planted on his upper arms, “Jungkook!” You snapped as Namjoon watched his younger friend finally recognize you in his drunken haze.

“Y-Y/n?” He questioned, his tongue thick in his mouth, “You hurt my head- hey, you’re bleeding on my shirt!”

Your arm had a scratch about half the length of your forearm, it was shallow and oozing blood, but you didn’t flinch, “Wonder who made me hurt both my arm and their head, dumbass,” You muttered, examining his stitches to make sure the impact didn’t affect the new suture, “And you got your blood on my doormat and my forehead, so let’s call it a draw.” You grunted as you fixed the suture.

The sight of someone towering over his boyfriend after headbutting them made Namjoon on edge. Jungkook talked for days and days about how much he loved spending time with his neighbor, but something was… off about you. Why would a school nurse be that skilled in combat? Jungkook was a ruthless fighter and you hardly flinched.

This string of thoughts prompted his mistake of grasping your wounded forearm to make you stand so he could properly question you. What he didn’t calculate in that movement was the fact that he grasped your fresh cut, which hurt like a bitch. This pain made you bring your other forearm to his neck, pressing firmly into his trachea as his back hit the wall with a bang. You both looked at each other in surprise at your reflex. You gasped softly before releasing him, “Don’t ever manhandle a lady, Namjoon,” You mumbled as you brought distance between the two of you, “I don’t do well being frightened.”

Namjoon regained his composure, impressed by your reaction time and ability to weaken his pride in such a short matter of seconds, “Who are you?” His tone was rougher in comparison to when he first asked the question.

“None of your concern,” You mocked his voice cartoonishly, becoming more and more irritated with his line of questioning, “Now take him, an alcohol pad, and go.” You hissed, unceremoniously tossing the package at him.

He gave you a sharp glare but complied, hauling Jungkook over his shoulder and leaving. The door shut and you let a relieved sigh escape you. You shut your eyes tightly, frustrated that you let your instincts take over like that. Namjoon was undoubtedly suspicious and that’s the last thing you needed. You opened your eyes and caught sight of the clock nearing 5 am, and it was a Saturday now, so you were going to sleep in as much as you could.

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Masterlist

#bts mafia au #bts fanfic #bts series #bts poly au #ot7 x reader #yandere bts #yandere bts x reader #bts x reader #mafia bts #yandere mafia bts

622 notes · View notes

miasmaghoul · 8 months

Note

Hi friend

I just found out someone very important from my youth passed away today. Do you have any soft ghoul thoughts in your brain tonight? They would be greatly appreciated and recieved with love.

Thanks 💙

Oh my dear, I'm so sorry for your loss. This is a hard day for me too, the anniversary of a major death in my life. I empathize. Know that I'm always around if you need to talk.

I know it's a little late, but here is a short, soft dewther thought for you (because it's me and what else would I do) ♡

On a cold winter morning, there's nowhere Dew would rather be than right here.

Aether had appeared in his room entirely too late last night to be polite. Had knocked shyly on his door and whispered through the oaken slab, asked if Dew was awake. He hadn't been, but he's always been a light sleeper and needlessly weak for Aether.

He'd invited the other ghoul in with a grunt, already pulling back the blankets and cranking up his internal thermostat to get the sheets toasty. Aether had shuffled in on slipper-clad feet, wrapped in a fuzzy purple blanket and shivering so hard his teeth were chattering. He'd kicked the door shut and hurried to Dew's bed without so much as a greeting. He really didn't need one.

Aether's always cold in the winter, nearly as bad as Rain. Nearly as bad as Dew himself, back in the day. He doesn't complain though, not even once. Never so much as a peep, not when Rain was borderline hypothermic and in need of care.

Dew sees it, though. Sees Aether pull on more and more clothes - today's getup was a long sleeved thermal under a sweatshirt, thick sweatpants and two pairs of woolen socks under his slippers. He hears it too, mannerisms he's learned from years and years of exposure. That's how he knew to sleep off to the side tonight, knew to drag out the extra heavy blankets he never needs.

Aether had crawled under them without a word, bringing with him the unnatural chill of the void at the center of his being. Enough to make even a fire ghoul shiver. He hadn't complained, though. Had simply tucked Aether in up to his ears and snuggled up to his chest. Had buried his face in the shivering ghoul's neck and wrapped him up in long limbs. Had bled his warmth into that frigid body and smiled where Aether couldn't see it at the pleased groan he'd earned.

Dew never sleeps on nights like those. He's too preoccupied with making sure Aether's comfy, that he's warm and safe and sleeping off his bone-dewp exhaustion. For Dew, the loss of one night is nothing in exchange for the gentle rumble of Aether's peaceful snoring.

Plus, it means he gets to stare without getting caught. Once the shakes die down, Dew can pull away enough to look at Aether as much as he likes. To take in his rugged features, to memorize the lines on his face and the wrinkles by his eyes. He gets to admire Aether's beauty the way Aether does his - with pure, unabashed adoration.

Perish the thought of Aether actually seeing the besotted look on his face. Dew would never live it down.

The next morning is the best, though, and that's where Dew is now.

Aether had shifted onto his back once his muscles had relaxed. Dew lays molded to his side now, one leg hooked over Aether's hip and an arm slung over his belly. His head rests on the larger ghoul's shoulder, angled just so that he can take in Aether's serene expression. The sun has only just started to rise, its pale light washing stone walls in pinks and the faintest bit of orange.

The light does things to Aether's face. It brings out the hump on his nose and the chips in his horns. The splash of freckles decorating his cheeks. The curve of his lips and the line of his jaw. Dew can't help but touch, has to trace the topography of Aether's visage with the tip of a single, elegant finger. Has to commit every bit of it to memory.

The sun is fully up by the time Aether wakes. Dew hunkers down and watches him blink hazily at the ceiling, watches him get his bearings. Basks in the pleased hum he offers when Dew gives him a gentle squeeze, nuzzling onto his sweatshirt. Dew chirps when Aether noses at his hair, affectionate and sleepy.

"Mornin', firefly," Aether croaks. It's one of Dew'a favorite ways to hear him.

"Morning," he greets, voice low and warm, "how'd you sleep?"

"Mm, really good," Aether replies, and Dew can hear his smile. He pulls back to fix the other ghoul with one of his own. Aether strokes Dew's cheek. "How about you?"

"Like a baby," Dew says.

He thinks the soft kiss Aether gives him is worth the lie.

#miasma's work #the band ghost ficlets #dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #aether x dew #aether/dew #dewther #aethdew

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heavysoldat · 2 years

Text

your teeth in my neck

vampire!bucky barnes x fem!reader

the only perk to living in a tiny, hyper-religious town, is that you know everyone. but you’ve always been desperate to be alone, to stay out of the crowds and out of public eye. so, of course, out of all people, the man in town no one knows has set his sights on you.

warnings: SMUT (kinda somno, dubcon, fingering, blood kink, slight innocence kink) stalking, slightly religious themes, small town bs

note: i’m a vampire fucker with a big fear of my own blood. call this exposure therapy. heavily inspired by midnight mass!

Maybe it’s the way your hair falls along the trim of your top. Maybe it’s the way your pretty chest falls up and down as you breathe; moving the sheets and causing your night shirt to flow. Maybe it’s the way he can feel the blood coursing through your veins, hear your heart beating out your lifeline that he craves. Whatever it is, it’s drawing him in.

It doesn’t even start as a hello.

Your father was the wealthiest man in your small, suburban town. Most men in the area worked for him, bled for him, and with a population of less than two hundred, that was practically everyone.

With his business going up, the family growing higher and higher in ranks, a party was held as celebration. A gathering at your home, guests found themselves in the sizable downstairs, brought together in a communal potluck with lights and live music— which was mostly played by older men with old instruments, singing southern blues on their guitars and banjos, or teenage boys who form bands out of their garage, slick with hair dye and horror themed shirts.

The men in town had practically surrounded you in a corner, hounding you for a chance at conversation. You’re young, pretty, one of the only single women in your town— and wracked with money from your father. But you didn’t seem interested in any of them.

James Buchanan Barnes was a mystery to anyone who saw him, and those few did. A man presumably ten years your senior, he only showed up at parties, at church, always uninvited, but never unwelcomed. No one knew how he could afford his clothes; no one had seen him work a day in his life. No one knew of his family. No one knew of him.

He was a figure not many had spoken to. Nothing but casual hellos at grocery stores, the singing during nighttime masses and hand-offs at potlucks— which you never saw him eat at.

When you had left the boys, dispersed from the group to grab something from the kitchen, you found yourself alone with the aforementioned man. As you reached for the fridge, his hand fell on your upper back, excusing himself as he grabbed something from a higher cabinet.

The moment his hand touched your back you felt struck with something you couldn’t explain. His skin was freezing cold to the touch, almost as if he had been carved out of ice — but his skin was so soft. So youthful.

“I don’t see you too much around here,” You find yourself speaking, voice quiet like a mouse, squeaking it’s way out of a hole.

He smiles, lightly chuckling to himself, before responding: “Don’t see you too much, either. Most talk I hear is you lock yourself in your bedroom all day.”

“I…” You begin, not being able to help the smile that forms, “I’m not much for crowds.”

“Hmm,” He hums. “Me neither.”

You knew something then and there. He was different from the other men you’ve met; no talk of your father, no talk of your wealth, no talk of your history. He kept everything about you, right now, here.

When he left the party, you felt this sudden emptiness, an unexplainable depth in your chest. It was strange, how he grabbed you with such little conversation, how only his hand on your back could light this fire burning within you.

James had left, tranced by the way you smiled.

Your voice was small and quiet, and so were you. You kept your head down, pulling down your skirt when you felt uncomfortable, picking at your cuticles whenever he looked into your eyes for too long. The way you huddled into yourself had him curious, unable to waver you from his thoughts.

He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself.

That night, he found himself wandering. Like his feet had their own path, guiding him somewhere familiar. It’s not the first time this has happened. Not the first time he’s been guided by nothing but the emptiness in his stomach.

When he gets to your window, perched on the tree outside, the time ticks by faster than he can imagine.

By the time the sun comes up, he realizes he’s stayed there all night. Watching you.

And that’s what he continues to do, every night. Every night for the next three weeks.

Of course, he sees you during the day, but barely— you’re both solitary, both lone creatures, but that’s what he likes so much about you. What draws him to you.

You barely notice how he stares at you during church, how he finds himself bumping into you during every grocery outing. How he finds every excuse to be next to you, to feel the warmth radiating off of your skin to fill his empty veins.

He doesn’t know what changes that night.

It’s a Friday, and he hasn’t seen you in three days— and he knows it’s strange, because he practically has your schedule memorized.

Your curtains are white and sheer, leaving him with easy glances to your form, wreck with sleep and peace. The moon is hitting your skin just right; the first full one in ages, lighting up your tone like a painting.

When his feet hit your soft carpet, he’s consumed with the smell of you.

Your room is lit by nothing but moonlight, illuminating your skin in a way that takes his breath away from him. His hand barely touches your skin, drifting down your jawline; curling his fingers at your chin to take a look at your lips, plump and soft. It almost pains him to leave them unkissed.

While he strokes down your neck, his touches are light, barely even there. He can’t help it. You’re too pure. Too good— he can’t hurt you, can’t press down hard enough to even leave the faintest of marks. He’s left with airy touches, scared that when he gives them the tiniest amount of pressure you’ll shatter like porcelain.

When he kneels on the bed, the mattress dips with his weight, the floorboards creaking underneath the metal frame. His hands are gliding down your waist, feeling your skin; as much as he can without removing your shirt, but he refuses to without your permission. He won’t let his eyes wander there without you saying he can.

As he continues, you start to stir; moaning to yourself in your sleep, eyebrows furrowing in a tight knit. Goosebumps are raising on your skin from how cold his skin feels.

He was right to be worried.

With the slightest faint of pressure onto your flesh, your eyes flutter open, slow and dizzy with sleep. They take some time to focus, and when they do— you jolt, head practically slamming against the headboard, but he grabs you, trying to hold you still as softly as he can when he covers your mouth.

“Please,” He breathes, quiet, begging. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

James’ free hand, metallic, holds onto your pulse point, pressing down lightly and holding you still. You gasp at the movement, eyes fluttering, threatening to close with the pressure.

“I won’t hurt you.” He whispers. But no matter how much he promises, he knows he can’t help it. It’s in his nature.

When he releases his hand from your mouth, he can feel your breath fanning against his skin in heavy pants.

“Why are you in my room?” Is the first thing you ask.

“I don’t know.” It’s both a truth and a lie. His body guides him, driven by hunger and your smell, driving his unconscious body to wherever you may be. But he knows why he’s here. Knows why he wants to be here.

“What are you going to do?”

At your scared tone, his eyebrows furrow together hard, worry etching all over his features: “No, no, no,” He pleads, “Don’t worry. Please, don’t worry.”

Your eyes are scanning his face, filled with fear, trying to decipher exactly what his intentions are. They’re searching for something, anything, but hardly find anything other than his worry.

“Why are you here?” You repeat. Harder. Stricter.

“To look at you.” That, that’s the truth. But not the whole truth.

He can smell the way your pulse changes. The sight of him, above you, eyes glossy and pleading; you don’t know why, but it’s filling you with something. Something you only felt the night you met him.

“Will you let me hold you?”

It’s almost frightening, how fast you nod.

He leans down, careful not to press too much of his weight onto you, before lying his head down in the crook of your neck. His hands lay down by your hips, and yours find themselves tangled in his shirt, legs spread to accommodate him between them.

You can feel him inhale you. Can feel him nuzzle himself in your neck, like a burrowing bunny, desperate to get as close as possible.

A sharp prick of his fang catches in your skin, and you cry out to the air. Only the smallest drop of blood is released, like a papercut; but his tongue licks it up nonetheless. You can feel, hear him moan at the taste, vibrating against your skin.

“‘M sorry,” He says, licking the blood off of his lips.

You whine, legs squirming, “‘S okay.”

Your voice is as quiet as the night you met.

His hand, metallic, reaches to the other side of your neck, free from his skin, and presses down onto your collarbone. He’s rubbing up and down your skin, consuming your warmth, digging his face further into your neck as he does so.

You almost moan, feeling his body dig closer to yours, the zipper of his jeans rubbing against your pussy through your tiny little panties he’s seen so many times. His mouth opens, his hot breath scattering on your skin.

“Please do it again,” You whisper.

“What?”

“Bite my neck.”

James is silent for a moment, heart stopping at your plead, surprised that you would ask him such a thing. He’s so depraved, so desolate, so disgusted with the creature he’s become; and yet here you are, begging him to let it overtake him. Asking him to indulge in his own sickness. Something only the devil could’ve given him.

And he will. Gladly.

His fangs nick your neck deeper this time, careful not to hit an artery, licking up the blood that trickles down. You squirm and moan, panting and heaving like you’re out of breath. The taste of you has him reeling, has his skin feeling like it’s been electrocuted. He can’t get enough.

You dig your fingers through his hair, carding through each strand before you tug it, letting him dig his teeth deeper into your skin. He doesn’t even notice that he’s been grinding into you, until you let out a practically pornographic moan, ending it off with a whimper that has your lips quivering.

“I’m tingling,” You say, voice barely a whisper, still sounding like a whine.

He looks up at you, lips still wet with blood, “Where?”

You take his hand, the one on your collarbone, and guide it in-between your bodies. You press his palm against your clothed pussy, whining at the feeling, pressing against it. He groans, deep in his throat.

“You ever been touched down here before?”

You shake your head. That makes him smile.

When you let go of his hand, he begins to slide it up and down, rubbing his palm against your mound. You’re whining, pressing against him, unable to stop your legs from squirming.

“‘M gonna make you feel good,” James says, “But you gotta let me keep feeding.”

It’s a selfish offer, he knows that. Both things give him pleasure, both things keep him alive, both things he finds himself craving. Needing.

“Mhm,” You moan, teeth digging down into your bottom lip.

James’ hand slides underneath your underwear, tracing his fingers down your folds and through your wetness. He’s surprised to feel you practically drenched, almost wetter than the blood that dripped down your neck, covering his hand with your juices.

He rubs his fingers against your clit in tight circles, watching as you pant and squirm underneath him. He finds his head back in your neck, scraping your skin for the tiniest bit of scraps he can get, knowing if he gets too carried away he could hurt you— and that, he could never live with.

“It feels so good,” You chant like a mantra, “It feels so good.”

“I know,” He grunts, “I know it does.”

His fingers find themselves catching in your hole, one pushing it’s way inside as his thumb keeps rubbing your clit.

You cry out, and he shushes you. “You can’t let your daddy hear, okay?”

You nod with fervor. He’s careful to ease into you, stretching you with another finger, letting you adjust with long stretches of time. You barely feel him drinking you at this point, barely feel his fangs scraping your skin, too wrapped up in the pleasure he’s bringing you.

“I need more.” You pant.

“I know, I know you do,” He says, “I need you to come on my fingers first, I need it, honey, I know you can do it. You’re gettin’ real close, aren’t ya?”

You nod, eyes screwed tightly shut as his fingers get faster.

“Come on my fingers, squeeze ‘em real tight,” He’s grunting, unable to stop himself from grinding against you, “Then I’m gonna fuck you nice and good, okay?”

You let out a vulgar whine at that, feeling your high approaching like a race. When it gets there, it crashes through you almost violently, locking the muscles in your legs and ripping through your core. You can’t help but squirm against him, crabbing every part of him like a lifeline. He’s groaning with you, muffled by your neck.

James’ can’t help how quick he acts. He’s unbuttoning his trousers as soon as your breathing evens out, pulling his cock out and letting it slap against his chest and your tummy on the way. He pulls down your panties, letting them rest on your mid thigh.

You gasp, fingers clutching onto his shirt, “Is that gonna fit?”

He lets out a shaking breath, “We’re gonna make it fit.”

He circles the tip around your clit, bumping against it a few times, before it catches against your hole. He groans, deep and heavy as it goes in— you’re yelping, overwhelmed with the stretch, but he holds you down. “Take it, it’s okay.”

When he bottoms out, the dull ache in your core settles and you pull him down on-top of you. He stays like that; still and unmoving, just for a few minutes, trying his best to ignore the way his cock twitches so he can let you adjust.

When he starts moving, James starts with a subtle grind. He’s pressing you down into the mattress, his ass flexing as he moves, cock stretching you to your limit. He gets faster, his heavy balls slapping against your skin, face smushed against your chest.

“Yes,” He’s grunting, groaning against your skin, “Yes, take it. God, knew you’d be a good girl, so fuckin’ good for me— clenchin’ around me so fuckin’ tight, oh god, gonna make me cum so hard, so deep, up in that little pussy.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, pushing his cock deeper into you. You cry out when it hits that spot, the feeling almost painful. “Yes, yes, please, yes!”

His grunts are loud, the only thing you can hear besides the slapping of skin and your own whines. He’s manhandling you on his cock like a toy, all while praising you; such a good girl, taking this cock so well, gonna make me cum so fuckin’ hard, pussy’s like heaven.

“Mm,” You whine, “It’s- it’s happening again,”

“Oh god,” He says with a broken groan, “You gonna cum again?”

You nod.

“What would daddy think of you, huh? Think about his good little girl, fuck, cumming around a fat cock, just right across the hall— shit, begging for him to fuck her harder. Rejected all the nice men who’d court her proper, shit, just like that, just to let the no-name fuck her full.”

His teeth slam inside your shoulder, making obscene slurping sounds as he drinks you. That does you in— your pussy clenches down around him hard, squeezing his cock so tight it’s hard for him to even move.

“Yes,” James grunts, “God, yeah,”

His thrusts get sloppier, faster, balls slapping against you with reckless abandon. The blood drips down your collarbone and down to your tits, sliding against the curve of your breasts— barely covered by your tank top.

“‘M gonna fill you up,” He moans, licking up the excess that falls between your breasts, “Fill you up nice and good.”

With a few more thrusts, he ends with one final, heavy pound against your cervix, spilling his load deep inside you. You whine at the feeling of his cum filling you, legs squirming around him— finding yourself too restless.

James lays silent, holding you against him. It’s almost contradictory, the gentleness of which he’s holding you, compared to how he just took you apart with both his cock and his teeth. You find yourself falling into the feeling, nuzzling yourself against his palm.

His nose tickles your jaw, before pressing a much awaited kiss to your sweet, plump lips. “I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

You can’t help but smile. It’s ridiculous, how you feel like a fairy tale, like a princess who’s just found her knight and shining armor. Fulfilled.

“I’ll wait for you.”

“I know you will.”

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #sebastian stan smut #my writing #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction

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possumbylight · 1 year

Text

Lonely Rite

A/N: this is my first time posting my writing on tumblr despite posting on ao3 a bit recently so i wanted to start cross posting my stuff in case anybody here wants to read it too thanks for stoppin by ;)

Summary: She can’t sleep while her husband is away on a two-week business trip. so she turns to the next best thing, even if it is ten feet taller than her and made of stone.

Warnings: None! it’s fluff, and i don’t think there’s any language (if there is it’s super mild), and there’s one teeny itty bitty suggestive line at the end but it is so so mild i swear

Pairings: Zhongli/Reader, Hu Tao and Childe as pals along the way

The driving rain was her only warmth, though it slowly chilled her the longer the evening drew on. It was impractical to risk exposure to the element, but all practicality had dwindled over the past two weeks like a waning flame that finally evaporated into smoke when she had first stepped into the storm.

For two weeks, she had fought to find interest anywhere other than the nagging thoughts in her brain, seeking company from just about anyone who would humor her for even a moment. She was not usually one to stop to converse with street-side merchants for no reason but friendly chitchat-- that was more her husband’s domain, after all-- but everyone from the perfume seller to the old kite-maker to the shaky fishmonger by the docks had entertained her insatiable need to kill time.

She was running out of topics of conversation. The weather could only get her so far, and she was loath to discuss the death of Rex Lapis, given that she was not good at keeping secrets.

When she failed to sleep for the nth time since her husband’s departure, she grew sick of her ordeal, sick of the inside of her house, and sick of the empty bed that was far too big for her alone. She knew precisely where she was headed when she opened her front door, and even the bite of the stinging rain could stop her from completing her mission. It was, undoubtedly, a drastic measure, but she had put up far too long with drastic times.

Two weeks prior.

“I will not be away long, dearest,” her husband promised, though his own eyes were laced with a distinct sorrow that even his unending wisdom could not mask. “I will write when I can. Will you write to me, as well?”

“If I don’t, will you come home sooner?”

He laughed. She would miss the sound.

“I will return as soon as my job is complete.”

“And you’re sure I can’t come with you?”

“I fear your boss at the book house would not appreciate your sudden departure,” he argued, frustratingly practical to the extent that it made her pout. It wasn’t fair that he always made such good points. She deserved to be impractical every now and again, but her husband always made far too much sense. “And I could hardly put you in such danger. I fear that the days ahead will be harsh. You should not be subjected to such hostilities.”

“And you should?”

“I have survived far worse.”

“Yes, but you can’t exactly hurl mountainsides anymore, can you?” She muttered under her breath, folding her arms like a cross child, if only so that he would dote upon her.

“While it is true that I cannot control the earth as I could in my youth, you underestimate my resolve. I am no feeble old man, my love. I will return to you safely, as I always have, as I always will.”

Eventually, she had been convinced, though hardly happy about it. She may have been a lowly bookstore clerk with a penchant for adventure novels, but she was also a seasoned adventurer herself. Who better to judge such subject matter than one who has experienced it firsthand?

Y/n could have easily boarded the boat with her husband and traveled to Inazuma to fulfill whatever harebrained request had been made of him. Why some random Inazuman citizen had any authority to commission a funeral parlor consultant from Liyue, she did not know, but if she ever met the doushin who had sent for her husband to cross the sea under such treacherous conditions, she would not be kind.

But despite her dramatics, she woke up the next day, rubbed her eyes of sleep all by herself, made tea all by herself, and made the walk to work all by herself, feeling all the while that the sun was a little dimmer without her companion to help guide her step.

She felt desperate. She felt pathetic, like some poor little lost puppy, following her husband around and giving him big moony eyes every time he so much as cleared his throat to speak, but before she had met him, she had been lonely for some time. She was quiet by nature, and when she had packed her life up and moved to Liyue on a whim, it hadn’t been long before she realized that her only friends were coworkers and books.

Meeting him amongst the shelves was a dream, and falling in love with him was a fresh adventure every day.

As she stepped behind the desk at the Wanwen Bookhouse, she remembered exactly where he had stood when she had first met him.

She didn’t want to bother him—most who wandered onto the top level of Wanwen Bookhouse enjoyed the quiet. The Liyue sun was good to them, pleasantly wandering across the spines of books but not so harsh that it bore down on the patrons as they leisurely paced through the shelves. She tended to let her visitors experience the shop at their own pace until they signaled a need of her.

This man, however, looked so remarkably pensive that she could not help but ask. His one hand pressed lightly to his chin and the other tucked behind his back, the only part of him that proved him not to be an elegant statue was his hair, bristling at the ends as the wind flitted through the pages around him.

“Can I help you find something today?” she asked him, approaching as though opening her hand toward a timid animal. “You look awfully deep in thought.”

He took his time responding, but his kind smile was enough to assure her that she had not overstepped. When he did speak, his voice, sturdy as stone and smooth like honey, warmed her.

“I am glad you asked. If I might take a moment of your time, I have several questions regarding this series.”

“I’d be happy to answer, sir.”

He took a single book into his gloved hands, cradling it gently yet weighing it as though assessing its contents through feel alone, as if it would somehow whisper to him the precise questions he ought to ask of her. She took his brief distraction to watch him unabashedly. The people of Liyue were pretty, certainly, but this man had eyes made of precious stone a face of ageless beauty. The way he carried himself alone was enough to make her feel only two inches tall, but the ease with which he spoke to her and the care of his words calmed her.

“I am curious about the author. Zhang Jianning is a name I have yet to encounter. Do you know of his history?”

She nodded, a quiet smile rising on her face. Thankfully, the man had asked her about a beloved adventure series, one which she was immensely fond of. If there was any single employee at the Wanwen Bookhouse who could best answer his questions, it was her.

“Zhang Jianning is actually a pen name. Call of the Ocean Void was actually written by a woman, who used the name of her husband so that she could publish her works.”

“Fascinating,” he replied, and she sensed that he meant it. Sometimes, a customer would ask her for a recommendation, and she would get overexcited at the prospect and accidentally bore the patron into pitying her, nodding along though they had stopped caring long ago. It wasn’t often, after all, that she got to talk to people about a subject she loved so dearly, so when someone asked a question, she really let herself go.

“Her name was actually Zhang Ting, and her work was revolutionary at the time. The genre was flooded with a whole lot of men telling the same stories, and when Ting published the first book of her series, it was an instant success. She revealed her true name when she finished the last installment of the series, and then published everything afterwards under her own name. But instead of changing newly published editions of Call of the Ocean Void, she kept them under her husband’s name as thanks to him.”

“That is a wonderful tale,” the man complimented her, and she flushed at the praise. It wasn’t every day that she had tall, handsome men praising her for her ability to ramble about her favorite books. “Do you enjoy this series yourself?”

“Me?”

“Yes. You are obviously quite interested in its history. Do you enjoy the content, as well?”

“It’s one of my favorites,” she explained as her fingers brushed across the book spines, coming to rest on one particular novel. “The fourth book is my favorite. It’s—well, I won’t tell you, in case you decide you’d like to read it. Do you like adventure novels?”

“I often find myself consuming solely non-fictional accounts and entirely neglecting fiction, but I have recently become quite appreciative of the thrill of adventure.”

Y/n had helped him purchase the book, and within a few days, he had returned for the next book in the series. By the fourth book, he decided that he would buy all of them at once, and she, though pleased by the idea that she had sparked his interest in a beloved series, lamented that she would no longer be encountering the man who was turning out to be her favorite customer.

As she carefully jotted down the details of his newest purchase for her records, he cleared his throat, and for the first time, she witnessed a slight discomfort in his stance.

“Miss Y/n, I wonder if you have ever taken the time to listen to the local storytellers? I find that Tian is quite skilled in his art.”

“Mr. Tian is the storyteller at Third-Round Knockout, right? I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Then, perhaps you would be interested in accompanying me tomorrow evening.”

“To… to listen to the storyteller?”

“Yes, if you would like. If you have other matters to attend, I understand.”

“No, I would like that.”

Y/n sighed sweetly at the memory, cursing her past self for being so oblivious and so cowardly. If she had accepted that their first trip to the storyteller had been their first date, then perhaps they could have moved on with the whole relationship with considerably more efficiency than they did, dawdling and pining for at least a year.

Despite the memories that lived amongst all of the shelves, she completed her job as efficiently as she could without daydreaming.

Eleven Days Prior.

Several days later, and she was desperate enough to wander into the halls of the Northland Bank, seeking the company of the man who had attempted to drown the entire city with her inside it, and yet, somehow became a friend to both her and her husband. Tartaglia, if rumor was to be believed, had killed her husband, but she only rolled her eyes at such tall tales. The bloodthirsty Eleventh Harbinger would never kill without a proper fight, and despite his grandstanding, a row with Morax was not a fight Tartaglia could reasonably win.

“I’m here to see Childe,” she muttered to the baffled attendant behind the counter. Usually when she made visits to the Northland Bank, she was accompanied by her husband, whose stately presence made up for the fact that the two of them were seemingly nobodies come to call on a high and mighty harbinger. Now all by herself, she was just a shy little civilian who no doubt appeared visibly unnerved by the hollow and clean halls of the bank.

“Lord Tartaglia does not take meetings without an appointment,” came the steady reply. The guards eyed her warily. “What is your name?”

“Y/n. I don’t have an appointment, though.”

“Then I’m afraid you will have to return once you have made the appropriate preparations.”

“Oh. Sorry, then, I—”

“Y/n! There you are, comrade.” If the voice wasn’t unmistakable, the fiery head of hair that bobbed down the stairs was a clear tell from a mile away. As soon as his boots hit the expensive marble floor, all heads in the room bowed in reverence. Y/n felt a swell of pride in her chest. “Don’t tell me that Levin was giving you a hard time.”

“He was just making sure I wasn’t coming to assassinate you, I suppose.”

“And? Are you?”

“Don’t sound so excited about it, Childe. I’m a decent adventurer, but I would be far too easy of a fight for you.”

“Yes, I fear that you would be,” he uttered, though his voice was still riddled with the humor that made his threats so chilling—the ease with which he spoke of conquest and battle, followed by a cheery laugh, made talking with him unnerving at times. It was only because he was a dazzling conversationalist and a loyal friend that she and her husband were able to skillfully repress Tartaglia’s rocky past.

“So why do you still look like you want to try it?”

“Ah, because after I’ve successfully gotten you out of the way, then your lover would have no choice but to fight me. Where is Mr. Zhongli, by the way? I’m surprised he’s left you to roam the streets alone.”

Her face scrunched so pitifully that Childe nearly laughed, had it not been for the unutterable sadness that filled her eyes.

“He’s in Inazuma,” she whined, trekking with heavy step up the stairs behind him. “Some stupid doushin asked for his expertise on a case or something.”

“Inazuma. That’s awfully far. How long will he be gone?”

“Two weeks.”

“Aw, poor little thing. You look like someone’s knocked the wind right out of your sails. But, if you’re lonely, we could always go outside the city and find some treasure hoarders to knock around a bit.”

She pondered the idea longer than she was proud of.

“Ask again in a few days,” she finally sighed. “I might get bored enough to take you up on that.”

One Week Prior.

She had, several days later, taken up Tartaglia on his offer to go adventuring, and even though he had been more than happy to take care of any enemy that passed their way, y/n still ended up aching in the joints and riddled with little cuts and bruises all over every inch of skin that had been exposed during their journey.

So, she hobbled up the long and arduous path to Bubu Pharmacy, praying to all the archons that the tall stairs would miraculously shorten to make her journey less painful.

“How am I supposed to pray to Rex Lapis for the earth to bend to my will,” she muttered bitterly as she heaved another step upward, “when he’s out of town on a business trip?”

“Good afternoon, y/n! You’re looking a little worse for wear. Might I inquire as to why you’re so beaten up?”

Hu Tao skidded to a halt beside her, and somewhere, Qiqi let out a relieved sigh that the director had been momentarily sidetracked by another potential client.

“I went out adventuring yesterday, to pass the time.”

“To pass the time, or to pass away? You know, I have been designing an attractive pair of couple’s coffins for you and Mr. Zhongli, but if you go ahead and die now, you’ll get a significant discount.”

“I don’t plan on dying right now, but thank you,” y/n muttered, somewhat gratefully. She had been quite sure at the bottom of the stairs that she would survive to the top, but somewhere around the middle, her faith in herself wavered.

“Let me know if you change your mind. Have you heard from Mr. Zhongli since he’s been gone?”

“Mm, he sent me a couple letters. The weather’s been rough in Inazuma lately. Apparently, their stormy season is particularly trying.”

Y/n grimaced as she recalled her husband’s wording, and the way she knew he was masking some of the peril he had experienced. No doubt, he was trying his best to keep her from worrying so much that she hopped on the next boat out of town and tried to fight the Raiden Shogun in his honor.

My dearest y/n,

I write to inform you that I have safely landed in Inazuma’s port at Ritou. The maple trees are rich with color, and the air is clean, when the storms have subsided. Ritou is lined with quaint little markets, and I have found the time to pick up a few souvenirs you will no doubt find interesting.

I did remember my wallet, this time.

The famed Yae Publishing House is my next prospect, and I intend to visit as soon as I have reasonable time. Perhaps if I find a suitable novel, I can read it aloud to you when I return. Though, I miss your voice so much I may request that you read it aloud to me, at least for a night. I could never fully give up the sight of you curled up at my side, dozing off to sleep at the sound of my voice.

I hope you are faring well in my absence. I know how reluctant you were to leave me by the docks, and it pained me just as much to watch as you faded into the distance. I could see the tears in your eyes, and my heart begged me to beseech the captain to turn the boat around just so that I could comfort you.

I digress—I do not wish to make you feel lonely.

Inazuma is a beautiful nation, despite its weather becoming volatile at times. There is no need to worry, however, as my lodging during my journey provides me a sturdy roof. I doubt, as well, that this nation’s archon would be so quick to strike me down with her lightning.

Rest assured that the Shogun’s thunder is a terror I have survived many a time.

I hope to bring you here someday, during a season in which the weather is far more temperate. The Sakura trees surrounding the Grand Narukami Shrine are loveliest at the peak of their blooms, and I believe you would enjoy the long and winding walk to the mountain’s peak. The pathway is paved with stone, and the red of the wooden terraces is rich against the pale blue of the sky.

Nothing compares, however, to the way you shine under the Liyue sun. I hope the sun shines on the day I return to you, darling, but even if it does not, I will be equally overjoyed to see you.

All my love,

Zhongli

Y/n hoped that Hu Tao couldn’t read the way her lip barely trembled at the thought of the poetic letter. She wished, after all the beautiful books she had read, of all the brilliant and descriptive words she knew, that she could write nearly as well as Zhongli. He always went on about how he loved the way her words sounded on her tongue or on the page, but she knew that she was hardly impressive compared to him.

She swooned when he so much as asked her to pass the sugar bowl.

Hu Tao, despite having offered y/n a comfortable means of transport to the afterlife, helped her up the stairs until Dr. Baizhu could properly prescribe a salve that would hopefully heal all of her wounds by the time her husband arrived, though she wasn’t opposed to the idea of her beloved doting on her as he cooed at how pitiful her wounds looked.

Perhaps she would skip a few applications and let Zhongli give her a massage, for good measure.

Four Days Prior.

She stared down the incense burner with an intense passion, as though lighting the embers with her very eyes. Of course, she could write letters to her husband, but it wasn’t fast enough. It wasn’t nearly as comforting as talking to him in person, and even though he wasn’t nearly as involved in Liyue’s affairs as before, he was still at least semi-divine, so she was willing to stake her chances that he might hear her should she direct all her wishes to Rex Lapis’s little effigy that sat atop the stone burner instead of waiting for Zhongli to reply.

She spoke to him with little regard for the other supplicants milling about the terrace—if anyone should hear her, they would likely think her some enthusiast of the former Geo Archon, mourning his loss and pining for his return.

“I miss you,” she spoke as the fragrance began warming the air around her. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I miss you so much it hurts.”

Waiting on a sign was silly, but she still hoped beyond hope that the smoke might give her some kind of signal. When nothing happened, she addressed him again, this time listing all of the names she could remember, just in case. The earth might not respond to Zhongli, but it would certainly recognize Morax.

“Zhongli. Rex Lapis. Lord of Geo. Morax. If you can hear me, you should say something now so I don’t look like a buffoon talking to a dead god.”

It could have been her eyes playing tricks on her—her sleep schedule had been wretched in her husband’s absence—but the smoke gave a slight hitch to the left as it rose.

“Yes, I know you’re not actually dead, but no one else knows that. What’s the point of marrying a former god if he can’t hear you when you pray to him?”

She sighed, sitting down on the sun-soaked pavement with her legs crossed.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be snippy. I just forgot how lonely I was before I met you. Now that we spend so much time with each other, it’s hard to be away from you for this long without going mad. I’m starting to doubt that you can hear me at this point, but if you can, please try to cut your trip short. I don’t know if I’ll last four more days.”

For the next hour, she sat in the sun and mumbled sweet supplications to Rex Lapis, hoping that at least one of them would reach his ears.

He had told her of his identity the night he asked her to marry him. It was a prerequisite, he said. Before he asked her the all-important question, he had to ensure that she was comfortable with all of him—his past, present and future selves.

“Y/n, if we are to proceed with this relationship, I must inform you of something which might alter the course of your feelings towards me. I… have not always been a funeral parlor consultant.”

She expected that perhaps he had been wild in his youth, running with treasure hoarders or engaging in the shady trade that always littered the lower docks. Never could she have imagined that his prior job had been Geo Archon, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. He had, more times than she could count, corrected arrogant historians on minute details, filling in narrative holes with all sorts of odd accounts that somehow lined up entirely with historical fact.

Besides that, there was one occasion on which Tartaglia had referred to Zhongli as, “the guy who sealed up Osial in the first place,” which y/n had written off as some strange inside joke between the two.

The night he had revealed the truth to her, it had taken her several hours of questioning, which he had valiantly endured, to adjust to the new information, though her heart never thought twice about her decision to agree to his proposal. When he finally asked the question, she responded so immediately that it shocked him.

“Darling, I am overjoyed to hear this, but I must ask if you are sure. This is quite a lot to take in at once. If you require a few days’ thought, I would understand.”

“I know my answer now. I love you—every bit of you, even the parts that are complicated. I don’t mind what other names you’ve been called in the past, or other lives you’ve lived. You’re my Zhongli now, and you’ll be my Zhongli forever, if you’d like.”

“That is more than I could ever ask.”

When she agreed to marry him, she never pictured herself awaiting his return by sitting cross-legged before his draconic visage, muttering under her breath for only the cool stone to hear. It was worth it, however, to feel that he was so close even when he was so far away. No one else in the harbor could claim that their lover’s figure sat handsomely etched in stone in statues overlooking the city. She was the only one who could confirm whether Rex Lapis at all resembled his statues.

And she was quite smug about that, as well.

One hour prior.

He begged his heart not to expect the sight of her at the docks, her figure swaying amongst the silhouetted crowd as his ship crested the horizon and set for the docks. He had not discussed his arrival time with her, as he did not know it himself, and thus, it would be impractical for him to assume that she lingered at the docks for his return.

Even still, when he saw that the docks were empty at such late hours of the night, his heart stung with the pang of loneliness that would have to last just a bit longer.

He filled his mind instead with visions of her swaddled in blankets, chest rising with steady breath as she dreamed peacefully. When he finally arrived home, he could finally remove his business clothes, let loose his hair, and participate in that sweet domestic ritual of curling up in bed beside his wife, wishing to see her eyes but hating to wake her.

When he opened the bedroom door to find the house entirely empty, he fought to keep himself level. Surely, there was a reasonable answer for this. She had written him hardly a day prior, so he assumed her to be still in good health. Perhaps, even, she had overexerted herself in filling his absence, attending some late-night party from which she would eventually crawl home, exhausted and socially spent.

He doubted this. She had begun to appreciate light conversation more since the start of their relationship, but she was hardly the type to stay out past bedtime to engage in any social activities.

He searched the whole house one more time, thoroughly exhausting all his options until he was left with only the impractical—his wife could hardly fit in the vase by the fireplace, but he had to be sure of this. Compiling a list of her most frequent haunts, he took to the streets, not caring a single bit that the gray clouds had pooled all in one adumbral mass above the harbor, pouring rain that startled the seas with its force.

The Wanwen Bookhouse was, of course, closed at such a late hour, its wares sheltered in billowing tarps that pushed and pulled loudly in the strong winds. He thought she may be there, too, drenching herself to the bone as she fought to keep the pages of her favorite books safe, but she was not hiding amongst the shelves.

The Terrace was empty, save for the dimming light of the glaze lilies, closing their buds to the storm that threatened to pull their stalks from the earth. The incense that had once burned in the public altar was dampened entirely. Just as he was about to head for his next destination, however, the dome of a single lavender umbrella cut through the driving rain.

“Mr. Zhongli, I am surprised to find you here at this hour,” Keqing spoke in measured tone, as though it was perfectly normal for her to be there at that hour. “You’re soaking wet. Might I offer you an umbrella from my office for your journey home?”

“Forgive me, Lady Keqing, I do not mean to be abrupt, but I cannot seem to find my wife.”

“Quite alright, Mr. Zhongli. I assumed she had met you at the docks. I haven’t seen her since yesterday, but if I do, I will be sure to let her know that you’re looking for her.”

“Thank you, Lady Yuheng.”

He was gone long before he could acknowledge the quiet wave of farewell she gave. His next destination—and he prayed this to be wrong—was the pharmacy, where a single lamp flickered in the front office.

“Good evening. Or… is it now morning? Qiqi… does not own a watch.”

“Qiqi, have you seen my wife?” he questioned hurriedly, forgetting in his haste that the smallest of the pharmacy employees was also the slowest.

“Your… wife? You are Mr. Zhongli. Qiqi wrote down your name, because you always compliment Qiqi on the selection of violetgrass. Should Qiqi call for Dr. Baizhu?”

“No, thank you, Qiqi.”

A wasted venture, but one that took him to one of the last locations on his list, and the one place he would find someone who might truly have information. The Northland Bank was, after all, open at all hours of the day and night.

“Enjoying the rain, Zhongli? You don’t seem like the type to go out without an umbrella. I’d be happy to lend a few mora, if you need to procure a new one.”

“Thank you, Childe, but I fear an umbrella would be of no use to me at this point. Pardon me, but I do not have time to speak with you just now, I—”

“No time to speak?” Tartaglia asked him with a strange sort of glimmer in his eye that caught in the moonlight. “That’s odd. It’s rare that you don’t have a story to tell me, though, I suppose it makes sense. You wouldn’t go out in the rain and get soaked for no reason. Tell me, Zhongli, what’s your mission today? You look awfully determined.”

Zhongli sighed. Childe was, by some odd event, a friend to him, and though the two had spent hours exchanging stories, Zhongli was in no mood to humor his friend’s conversation, however amicable. As the hour drew on, his worry grew until it sat heavy right in the center of his chest.

“I have been looking for my wife, to no avail. I am aware that she is capable, but I am beginning to worry.”

“Y/n has certainly been lonely since you left on your little adventure. She’s stopped by the bank on more than one occasion, just to chat. The first time it happened, I thought something must be wrong. I’m not used to seeing one of you without the other at this point.”

“Childe, have you seen her today?”

“I haven’t. But, I might have an idea of where she may be.”

“I would be incredibly grateful for any information you are willing to spare.”

“She’s with you, of course,” Childe answered with a laugh, as though it should be obvious. When Zhongli’s brow furrowed, the younger man’s smile only grew. “I did say that I hardly see one of you without the other, didn’t I? So where else would she be, than with you?”

Childe lifted one long arm to point upwards towards the horizon, dotted with brightening stars that grew as the sun dissipated behind the harbor’s wavering border. Rising tall, just above the rolling hills beyond the city’s gates, stood a singular, familiar figure, glowing faint blue against the darkening sky.

“I see,” Zhongli whispered. The waver in his tone faded into a fondness that untied the great knot of worry that had tangled his heart. It was silly, of course—he should have been upset that his most beloved had ventured out into the rain on such a wild and sentimental hare, but he could not bring himself to feel even the slightest bit of resentment towards her.

He had left her alone for two weeks. It was only reasonable that she should seek comfort in the next best thing. He hardly took time to thank Tartaglia before rushing towards the hillside, following the faint glow of the Statue of the Seven.

As he approached the statue, he saw her, shadowed by stone and sky, huddled into an uncomfortable mass on the statue’s lap. He fended off the passing sting of jealousy—it was his lap, but it wasn’t.

He hardly had trouble making his way up to the top, though as he did, he could not help but wonder how she had climbed there, and in the rain, of all things, but he thought to ask her later. There were far more pressing issues on his mind.

“Darling, wake up,” he cooed, brushing his fingers across the side of her face and warmed at the precious sight of her squirming and mumbling sleepily. “We need to get you out of this rain. You’ll fall ill in this cold.”

“Zhongli,” she whispered, as though in the midst of a sweet dream. “Get home, already. I can’t sleep when you’re not here.”

“I’m sorry, dearest. I am here now. Come—let me take you home.”

“Mmhmm. Okay. Carry me?”

“Of course. Hold on tight.”

“You’re really home?”

“Yes, my love, I am truly home.”

“Oh, no,” she whined, burying her head into his chest. “I’m sorry. You must be tired, and here I’m making you carry me. You can put me down, I can walk on my own.”

“Nonsense. How long have you been curled up against nothing but unyielding stone? It is my pleasure to carry you home, dear.”

She hummed happily as he crossed the threshold of their house, the amber glow of the kitchen lamp flushing their cheeks red with warmth as they sought shelter from the cold rain. Once she was on her own two feet, she quickly returned to the cradle of his arms, hiding herself away against him as though he would disappear if she did not hold him close enough.

“I must seem pathetic,” she whimpered, and he only laughed in response. The gracious rumble in his chest was enough to give her a smile of her own.

“Of course not. Should it be of interest to you, I found it difficult to sleep apart from you as well. The only way I found myself able to close my eyes at all was because I kept something of yours with me.”

“Hmm? What is it?”

“Oh, I—” he stammered, uncharacteristically flustered at the sudden turn of the conversation that placed all attention on him. “I borrowed a shirt of yours.”

“My green shirt? The one with the pocket on the front? So that’s where it’s been.”

“I apologize if you missed it.”

“I missed it a little, but not as much as I missed you.”

“That is good to hear,” he sighed. He pressed his lips quietly to her forehead, letting himself enjoy the weight of her in his arms before he went to move again, this time taking her by the hand and leading her towards the bedroom. “Come now, darling. We should rid ourselves of these clothes before we both fall ill.”

“Oh?”

“What an odd look in your eyes, dear. I am merely suggesting that you should not remain in wet clothes for very long, for your health.”

“You’re not suggesting anything else?”

He did not respond, but the twitch of his mouth gave him away, and she grasped his hand, eager to follow wherever he may lead.

#zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #zhongli imagine #zhongli fluff #genshin impact imagine #god i am shit at writing specific tags so i hope these work #also if you read this far thanks for reading and i love you

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shut-up-rabert · 1 year

Note

I read the recent post and I hope no hate anon is approaching you because I will bring my steel tupperware bottle

Anyway I am really glad that people like you and @lil-stark didi exist. I do not have much knowledge about the political power and parties and especially about the kashmiri pandit issue who was ruling who belonged to which party so I don't speak about this but people who downplay the atrocities that happenes with those pandits deserve a special place in hell. Like think you are moved away from your land by force, by brutal killing and rapes only after some years to hear a random person on the internet say yaar utna bhayankar bhi nahi hua tha and it's a propaganda

The amount of misinformation these so called modern radical folks have is hilarious. Ghanta ramayan mahabharat padhi kahin koyi translation chipka. Not so sweet61 posted that ss of ram following manu, if they really did Vashishtha wouldn't have asked for sita to be the commander of ayodhya instead of leaving with ram.

And Manusmriti itself contradicts the vedas and upanishads. We have had a culture that promoted women scholars, encouraged debate and questioning, and lol as if one could be a brahmin just because they were born in a family. You had to have those qualities to be that and then can you be one. It's as similar to a person being a warrior. Not everybody can be one. You need to train and practice for it. It's good that if you are born in one that way you have an exposure to the respective field just like today if I am born in a house full of doctors, I would have much knowledge about the study, expenses and related stuff to medicine.

Just like every culture every community has good and bad things, sees its rise and fall, we Hindus have seen too. From an era where it was encouraged for a woman to be a brahmavadini, we became resentful at the thought of sending girls to school. We forgot how the texts told to respect each and every person irrespective of their social status to discriminating them on basis of caste and there are all so many issues that we need to address too.

But majal hai that I will sit quietly and see these random people on the internet speak about my culture and insult it. From North to south east to west, Rama and Krishna have been worshipped and always will be. We will always look upto them and learn from them.

In the recent years, the youth of today apart from some dumb idiots who have bhagwan rama in their pfp and comment women tea on every post, I am happy to see that teens are taking interest to read and learn our own Indian history and scriptures. I am not seeing them blindly accept everything. I have seen them ask questions which might be considered 'blasphemous' by the elders but the vedas themselves promote curiousity, questioning and debate as the best way to gain knowledge. And I hope the younger gen keeps going in this path.

(You can respond to this ask in private varna tere piche hate anons aa skte hai)

Seriously, why did Ram, who supposedly followed Manusmriti marry a woman who was a scholar, a warrior, capable of lifting Shiva’s Dhanush and encouraged her to remain her brave, outspoken self because that’s who she was? Why request her to stay in the palace when Manu says that a woman should always be observed? Why give in to all her requests and respect her decisions when Manu says that a woman is mentally incapable of making sound decisions? Why be happy and praise her when she slays Sahastra Raavan?

If Manusmriti was truly being followed, why did the biggest scholar in that entire story, Janak, have his daughters educated, that too by a scholar woman like mata Gargi? Why train them in warfare? Why Did Dashrath bring Kekayi to war with him? Why did Dashrath request the hands of women, who impressed him by thier knowledge, for his sons? And like you pointed out, why offer a woman the position of commander??

If caste was the way Manusmriti says, why was Shabri, a lower caste woman, visited by the lord and sent to heaven? Why did he make a big show of letting the arrogant priests who looked at Shabri with scorn know that she is purer than them by making her touch clean the pond?

Why did Shri Krishna say that a true pandit (knowledgeable person) would see a Brahmin and a Chandala equally? Why did he say he resides in everyone equally, women and Shudras included? Why did the Vedas that are supposedly off limit for Shudras say this?

Manusmriti is not a scripture, it condradicts the Vedas themselves, when it comes to women’s education, the position of women (there is an exceprt where a warrior queen is mentioned), and being for everyone. Apparently women cannot read Vedas even though the Vedas speak to them directly in multiple excerpts? (Oh men and women, oh women etc,) Shudras Cannot read Vedas even though the Vedas say they are for everyone, Shudras included?

Even if you look at other works of the time, like Kamasutra, which technically is somewhat of a scripture in some parts where it discusses philosophy, because its prologue says it was first written by lord Nandi. Manusmriti thorughly contradicts that aswell.

Oh, and Kamasutra was written after Manusmiriti, And Ramayan and Vedas before it, and all of these except Manusmriti are now engraved on temple walls, so you can clearly see which ones of the restrictive and liberating philosophy was preffered by Hindus at large throughout.

If Casteism was so prominent and rigid, how did a shudra become the partriarch of the biggest empire in mainland India?

Chandragupta Maurya was either clanless or a Shudra, and the current existence of Maurya tribe in Bihar enforces the second one. How did he make it to the top, that too with the help of a Brahmin, if things were as dire? Same can be said for

How was Queen Durgavati’s Father in Law able to change himself into a Rajput despite being a tribal?

How was Vishwamitra, a born Kshatriya able to be a Rishi? How was Lord Parshuram, a born Brahmin revered on a higher level than most Kshatriyas in warfare and was able to put the fear of lord in their hearts?

How was rishi Matang able to be a brahmin despite being born a Shudra?

How was Mātang blessed with goddess Saraswati as a daughter?

How did Lord Gorakhnath become such a prominent saint?

How was VedVyas, son of a Fisherwoman, able to be a sage? How were children of Satyavati able to be kings?

How did the founder of Raghukul become a Kshatriya after becoming a king when he was born a Brahmin?

How was Lord Krishna happily doing the physical labour of a cowkeeper, like a shudra, while living in a vaishya community, despite being born a kshatriya?

I honestly have no more questions to ask that I can think of right now, and I honestly cannot agree more with everything you say. Slay girl💅🏻

I think its better if I make the answer public, simply because I ranted in public so the follow up doesn’t change much, and this is something people should see. But girl, thankyou so much for being worried <3

#💅🏻#asks #sukh samriddhi ghar aave #desi asks #desiblr #hindublr

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mggpleasedontlookhere · 2 years

Text

a glimpse of maybe

summary: spencer never really got over maeve - no one can truly forget their first love... that doesn’t stop his best friend, y/n, from trying.

word count: 1,464 reading time aprox: 6 mins

warnings: themes of unrequited love, angst (my specialty)

a/n: first fic back! This can be read by anybody - no specificity in features, gender, etc. Please let me know if I’ve made any errors regarding this.

masterlist

Jealousy is described as a white hot anger that burns behind your eyelids, paralyzes every muscle, and turns you as green as a swamp. Well, whoever said that must have been a complete idiot… or a lucky fool who has never experienced the depth of longing for someone you can’t have.

Instead, coldness surrounds you and bites at your veins with ferocity. What they don’t tell you about is the constant emptiness that fills you whenever he looks behind your eyes to try and get a glimpse of her - if there even is one.

Spencer disguised his grief well; longing stares that I believed were for me, but in truth, were the remnants of her. When he started to reach for my hands and suggested we hang out more, I should’ve known then. Maybe it’s partly my fault - maybe I fell in love with the idea of a blissful tragedy that was bound to happen.

“Spencer, may I remind you that I’m the one with the PhD in Chemistry here. Don’t try to tell me about my own dissertation…” Spencer takes his bottom lip under his teeth with a sly smile, a subtle tell that he was about to protest. “...and just because I technically haven’t received physical proof of my degree, doesn’t mean I’m any less knowledgeable than you, Mr. 187 IQ.”

He shrugged his shoulders and immediately raised his hands in defense. “I never said that,” he argued while I stared at him pointedly. “I’ll just take my three PhDs elsewhere–”

“Here we go again with your smart-ass attitude,” I scoffed playfully, burying the smile behind my unimpressed visage as he took pleasure in making me laugh - a ghost of a satisfied and happy glint in his irises. I haven’t seen him so… normal until now.

A butterfly stretches its wings inside my stomach as Spencer begins to regain a youthful color to his skin. A comfortable silence washes over us as our laughter dies down into nothing but warm glances shared between us. A much too familiar bubble swells in my chest and engulfs the space in my lungs, preventing air from reaching it.

One. Two. Three new freckles strayed from the top of his eyebrows to the tip of his slightly tanned nose. The amount of times I’ve told this persistent man to put on some sunscreen is incredulous - I can already see the breaking of DNA from the abundance of UV exposure.

At least he’s getting more sun - he’s going out more. That’s good. Yes… it’s good. You know what’s not good though? Skin cancer.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Spencer broke me out of my trance, throwing an old crumpled up post-it note at my face.

He really needs to start cleaning up this place. His living room had turned into Oxford’s long lost library archive or a Barnes and Nobles’ recycling dump. Spencer hasn’t really fixed up the place since…

I make a mental note to help Spencer spruce up the place once he’s ready - and to get him some SPF 1000 while I’m at it. What are best friends for?

“I was actually just thinking about how much you must be begging for skin cancer,” I teased, taking the crumpled up note and setting it on the side table to cast to the garbage, later on. “But of course, maybe that’s something your three PhDs can defend you from too.”

“Who’s the smart-ass now, Y/N?”

“You’re right… we can’t have two smart-asses now, can we?” I sighed, relaxing further into the loveseat I sat in, tracing the stitching that lined the leather material. “Is that offer of you taking your business elsewhere still up?”

Tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, he leaned forward with a cheshire smile and a look that was out-of-character for him. “Is that what you really want, Y/N? Cause half of my business practically includes you in it,” he admits.

I suppressed the blush that was threatening to bloom on my cheeks. Averting my attention from his prying gaze. “I get it, Spencer. I’m the most interesting part of your life,” I half-heartedly joked; a part of me longing for it to be true.

His lips quirked at my quick response, that bright glow in his eyes making another appearance.

Maybe this time, it can be true.

“You look good like that, Spencer,” I commented with underlying hesitance.

“Like what?”

“...happy. Like you're happy.”

‘I love seeing you happy… happy with me’ was what I really wanted to tell him.

“I am happy,” his eyes subtly trail down from my eyes, to my nose, and finally, to my lips. “I feel nothing else whenever I’m with you.”

My lips parted slightly in desperate need for air. In that moment, the mess of the room was gone, the sunscreen forgotten, and the mental barrier lifted. Heat swirled in my stomach and crept up my throat. The butterflies raced inside me with grace, leaving me lightheaded in the moment.

“You’re only saying that because I’m the only one sane enough to keep hanging around you.” I attempt to brush off his suggestive tone, fearful of mistaking it for genuine interest. I tucked my hair behind my ears, grounding myself back to bleak reality.

“You know for someone who’s almost has their PhD–”

“–does have.” I interrupt.

“...who DOES HAVE their PhD, you’d think you’d figure out to stay away from a guy who can only handle one person in their vicinity. What if I was a psychopath?”

“I never said you weren’t,” I cut in.

“Smart-ass.”

“Such a smart-ass,” we retorted simultaneously.

We broke out into a gleeful fit of laughter, amused at our telepathic nature. The bubble in my lungs only continued to grow, only this time I wasn’t suffocating. I guess living for the hope of it all was enough to feel this way. It was then I decided that maybe the wanting was enough.

I wish you were my smart-ass. Mine.

“You’ve always known what to say, Y/N,” he teased with a doting tone.

I didn’t bother to hold back the loving grin that graced my lips and the admiration that poured out of me because in that moment it felt like he was mine to lose - and only mine to love.

“I love when you smile like that - your dimple shows up just at the surface of your right cheek. That’s how I know I’ve really made you happy.” He presses into his own cheek, leaving a temporary impression of his finger. Something deeper settles into his eyes as his smile cracks subtly. “...Maeve had the same indent on her left cheek - one of her prettiest quirks.”

And just like that, reality sets in.

He may have been mine from the start… but I never really was his, was I?

All at once, that warm bubble shriveled into nothing but a cold and sharp cacophony of hope that had been stricken down. My esophagus constricted around the razor-sharp words threatening to slip by my lips - a stinging sensation imprinting itself on the walls of my chest.

I lost all focus, swimming around desperately in the concaves of my mind for some sort of solace. My mental attempts bore fruitless to the sharks, that were his words, endlessly tailing me. The emptiness and despair threw my body into an indescribable numbness - a contrast from the searing wetness that hid behind my eyelids.

…silence.

All my impulses, insecurities, and irrationality formed into one, throwing away all sense of decorum and decency. I bit my tongue, immersing myself in the taste of iron to distract myself from the unpleasant thoughts.

Why would you say that, Spencer?

I wanted to scream, claw, and fight. I wanted to feel anything - anything else but this.

Why is it never me?

But I also wanted to bring Maeve back. I wanted Spencer to truly be happy again. Not just for a moment of happiness… of love.

Am I too hard to want (like the way I want you)?

Sometimes I wish I can turn you back into a stranger, Spencer. Only then I wouldn’t be yours just to hurt. But you were right though… I never want you elsewhere. I want you here, a blissful wound that I will willingly carry any day just to get a glimpse of ‘maybe.’

But I didn’t dare to say those words, not to him - never to him. My tears retreated back into their sockets as I embraced the numbness that came with reality. I flicked the post-it back into the expanding mess in the room, where it knows its place.

“...of course, Spencer. I feel nothing else when I’m with you.”

taglist: @rexorangecouny @howdycharlie @honeymilk-4 @linthebinbag @andreasworlsboring101 @ssareidbby @kyleetheeditor @fanofalltheficsx @jimilogy @lulwaxim @jhillio @m3ssytrash @haylaansmi @meowiemari @ashwarren32 @codyf3rnsupremecy @goldentournesol

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joesalw · 5 months

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Btw it will take no longer than two years for this to turn into a victim trap again, she will then release another article about how she hates so much attention from public and how she craves privacy again, (based on whatever her then boyfriend would want lol)

omg I can see it. it'll probably be something in the lines of "I was at a time in my life during which I felt like I had wasted too many youthful years hiding away, and that, combined, with the fear of becoming obsolete for being a woman constantly having to wrestle with aging, made me feel a deep need for compensation. it put me in a really vulnerable position for people who were seeking the kind of exposure I was willing to accept, but as my eagerness started to quiet down all of that started to show to itself as very exploitative."

ijbol it has always been like that. there's always an explanation about how something made her feel some way which made her do something that brought her where she is now, and it's aaaaalways someone else's fault, it is never truly just her being human and finding her way out alongside people who are also doing that. she may not say it but she always implies it to be that way. the way that makes her fans attack someone and that paints her in the best light without doing the same for anyone else. oh and let's not forget that little sparkle of misogyny blaming and weaponizing of serious political topics (only when it suits her).

so predictable and clear as day

#anti taylor swift #swifties dni

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lookitsaworm · 7 months

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I have a theory:

A newborn's control in Twilight is based on their exposure to vampires as a human.

0 kills due to bloodlust and therefore highest control:

Bella has a high level (tied with Carlisle) of control because she was integrated into the Cullen family for a year and a half before being turned and therefore high exposure to vampires

Carlisle dedicated most of his adult life (which, considering the time of his youth, would have started earlier than it would now) to tracking vampires and likely had exposure to vampires because of this.

Rosalie lived in the same area as Carlisle, Edward and Esme in her human life for (estimating) a couple of years and had enough contact with them that they recognise her on sight but not know each other well. When killing her attackers (likely a couple months after her 'death') she had to make an effort not to let blood spill so as not to let the bloodlust take over, suggesting that her control isn't as good as Bella's, who was able to stop herself from killing a human at mere hours long, or Carlisle, who managed to leave a, at the time, highly populated area, London, and starve himself. This would make sense as she didn't have as much contact with vampires in her human life as Bella or Carlisle did.

2≤ kills due to bloodlust:

Esme met Carlisle as a teenager when he was her doctor when she broke her leg but after that encounter had no confirmed contact after that, suggesting she likely had none. It is briefly stated in the illustrated guide that 'there were times when the call of human blood was too strong to resist', meaning she slipped up at least twice. However, we can infer that she likely killed less than Emmett who Edward, in Midnight Sun mentions slipping up (he mentions this on multiple occasions unlike Esme who, to my memory, he doesn't) and it is said that Emmett had 'trouble with the rules'.

Emmett, as previously stated, had 'trouble with the rules' (source: Midnight Sun) and, as said in Midnight Sun, killed two singers. Due to the amount of times his bad control in newborn years is mentioned compared to Esme's, it's highly probable that he had weaker control than Esme. This makes sense considering Esme had a brief encounter with a vampire (Carlisle) as a human, whereas when Rosalie found him she was hunting and, as seen in Midnight Sun, vampires, due to their speed, have different perceptions of speed and would consider a few hundred miles away a short distance for a hunt so Emmett likely didn't have any exposure to vampires as a human whatsoever.

Edward, Alice and Jasper have all engaged in the 'traditional vampiric lifestyle' for at least a short while each, rendering their experiences with control null as, in the case of most addictions, long term or high usage of the product (in this case, blood) makes it considerably harder to quit.

#twilight saga #twilight #twilight renaissance #bella swan #edward cullen #alice cullen #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #emmett cullen #jasper whitlock #jasper cullen #jasper hale #jesus christ jasper has a lot of names #rosalie hale

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valleyfthdolls · 15 days

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🍫🎭🧸🦾 😶 for shadow

🍫 A headcanon about food: You get 2. 1, Shadow has pica, an eating disorder characterized by compulsively eating things of no nutritional value. Shadow tends to chew on and eat rocks and ice bc he likes how hard it is to chew. The closest thing to food that satisfies that craving is coffee beans, which is why he likes those so much- they satisfy the compulsion while still being food enough. 2, Having spent his whole youth on the ARK, he has almost zero exposure to different types of food. He’s so used to bland shit that he cannot handle any kind of intense flavor or spice.

🎭 A headcanon about what they lie about: Shadow is a pretty straightforward person to me, but I think he tends to “lie” and downplay his feelings about those around him bc it’s hard to admit that he cares. Not so much an outright lie, but a lie of omission. He also tends to do this with his PTSD, because opening up requires vulnerability. For example, Shadow canonically gets flashbacks so intense they cause him physical pain, but I think he tends to avoid disclosing the flashback part of that.

🧸 A headcanon about their childhood: He and Maria had a lot of shellac records from the ARK’s creation in the 20s-30s. Maria liked to sing along while she read.

🦾 A disability headcanon: By keeping his body regulated, his inhibitors help him to not suffer too much from his injuries, but since he wasn’t wearing them when it happened, the burns and injuries he sustained falling to Earth in SA2 are very deep and won’t quickly heal like his other injuries. He’s got some chronic pain from those- also, his wounds are like my scars, and every. Every fucking touch to them. Registers as pain. Any amount of pressure on his scars is enough to send him into self defense mode. As such, he’s wary about being touched. Chronic pain is enough without people with no ill will accidentally triggering it.

😶 A random headcanon!: The memory loss in Shadow the Hedgehog was not and scientifically could not have been caused by head trauma because then he would never have been able to get those memories back let alone have them just randomly resurface (such as the flashback at the beginning of the game). It being psychologically induced makes more sense to me- his brain had no idea how to keep going after all that, and so it did the only thing it could think of and tried to protect him from it by blocking out all the memories so Shadow could survive.

#onyx talks too much #sonic #sonic headcanons #headcanon ask game #shadow the hedgehog #anonymous

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anonymousboxcar · 10 months

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My Stanley (RWS) Headcanons

I’ve finished an AU series to do with Stanley, but I still find my mind going back to him! Here’s an assortment of headcanons I’ve developed lately.

A headcanon with an asterisk (*) next to it relates more to my AU series, while one with a dash (-) is more canon-compliant.

———————————

-Built for trench railways in WWI, Stanley only spent a month in the U.S. before going overseas. He still has most of his accent because he spent a lot of his early life working with American servicemen.

-(He also realized that it annoyed some people, making him lean into it out of spite.)

-His accent somewhat softened, however, after exposure to European accents. He knows a smattering of French he picked up from the trenches in France as well.

-He also picked up smoking cigars from the trenches, when an officer tried to use his firebox to light a cigar. Stanley protested until the desperate officer offered to share the cigar with him.

-The other officers thought this was hilarious. Soon, they too began sharing their cigars with Stanley. He enjoyed feeling like one of them and grew to crave the taste of cigar smoke.

*These days, Stanley doesn’t smoke any tobacco or nicotine products. It can’t hurt him, but he knows now the secondhand smoke could hurt the humans that work with him. His years in the mine forced him to quit anyway, leaving him free of cravings.

-Stanley doesn’t know much about “the States,” but he doesn’t like admitting that. He wishes that he spent more time in his country of origin, with Baldwin Works and his Baldwin siblings.

-All he knows about the U.S. comes from his late-night talks with American servicemen, who were eager to talk about and remember their homes. It was then he realized that most of these men were, in actuality, quite young. Many of them were still teenagers.

-He saw some flashes of action during his service, but he saw the aftermath of action more often. It was no easier on him once he knew the casualties were too young to even drink.

-A consequence of this is that Stanley developed a soft spot for children. Following his transfer to the Mid-Sodor, he’d take extra care if he had children as passengers on his trains, speaking with a gentleness that belied his usual bluntness. He wanted them to have the childhood that the soldiers of the Great War lost too soon.

*It wasn’t until after his rescue from the mines that he realized he’d lost his own childhood of sorts. Baldwin Works built him for war. There was no innocence, no idyllic phase. There was no time to grow into his frames.

*To an extent, his efforts to ensure happy childhoods for people was him projecting his own wish for a better youth.

*It’s still difficult for Stanley to talk about WWI and his military service. But after seeing he was more affected by it than he thought, he’s begun to open up about it more often. This continues to illuminate aspects of his years on the Mid-Sodor. For instance…

-Stanley had no conception of civilian railways before he came to the Mid-Sodor. He didn’t know how to socialize with civilian engines, crews, or passengers. As a result, he seemed rude and disrespectful. (Though he could be genuinely rude when it came to Duke, who he sometimes thought of as an old stick in the mud.)

-Derailments were also commonplace on the trench railways. Not only did he and his siblings derail often, but so did many other engines due to the precarious nature of their tracks and their light rolling stock.

-As a result, Stanley grew to perceive derailment as a part of daily life. He grew to “not give a dime about a few spills.”

-He was telling Duke what he honestly thought: that it was normal. And once Stanley determined the problem was with his gauge and not the track, he figured they would regauge him soon.

-The military repaired him because it was necessary for their operations. It was common sense. He didn’t think it was any different on the Mid-Sodor… until it was too late.

*Nowadays, Stanley still refuses to sit in the very back of a shed, or to go into a mine. He hates being confined to any place for too long.

*These are his limits. He accepts this, and so do his friends. However, after some thought, he begins exposure therapy of sorts with some cramped spaces. “I can avoid a mine, but what if I get stuck in a tunnel?” he asks. “I gotta learn how to deal with stuff like that.”

*It’s all very difficult sometimes, but it’s possible. It’s worth it in the end. Every end, he’s decided, is a new beginning.

#ttte #rws #ttte headcanon #rws headcanon #my headcanons #rws stanley #ttte duke #ttte mid-sodor railway #cw: war #cw: smoking

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rudjedet · 1 year

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I have also noticed the phenomenon of people aggressively discouraging the youth from pursuing the humanities/arts, especially when said youth wants to acquire practical skillset like coding & programming as well in order to sustain their studies and lifestyle. Maybe it's about envy? "I had to give up on what I love to do something more practical so why should someone else be able to have it all" mentality? Or "if I could only advance my studies by investing my time only in them then why should someone else be able to study what they love without sacrificing financial stability"?

The truth is that not a lot of us can afford to only study humanities. The majority of people don't have the financial means or connections for that. Learning something that will support your passions is not a bad idea. Otherwise there will be even fewer academics and scholars, or people educated in the humanities & arts.

And as you said, we aren't meritocracy, I don't think is impossible to learn more than one thing and be knowledgable in both, or at least knowledgable in one and employable in other. It may be difficult and time consuming while pursuing degree but I have met people who do more than one thing 🤷‍♀️

Exactly that. I think it's often a combination of things. Like my dad was very much the "well, I never had handouts" type, but once I got to the point where I got financial assistance from the gov't (pittance though it is, I'm happy I have it), and especially after my daughter was born, he started moving away from it. So it's a lack of empathy and exposure, too.

It definitely isn't impossible. Some people do two or three things at the same time, others choose to do one first and then the other. And if you can support pursuing your passions yourself? you'd think the protestant work ethic folks would be all over that lmao.

At the end of the line, people getting employed in fields outside of the one they went to school for happens all the time. But it's only when it's in humanities that it's suddenly a problem. Kinda like how people say they value honesty and straightforward communication ... until the person is autistic, then those characteristics are pathologised.

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troblsomtwins829 · 8 months

Text

Finally Finished Reading the Design Bibles

I took a lot of notes, and while I do, unfortunately, have to keep my blog spoiler-free for my friend (who has not played 3 yet, but we're working through it) I did want to share some highlights!

Ring on Jak's chest noted to be an "Eco Ring" that channels and holds eco force, which it odd because the Warrior is the only other person that uses rings in their design.

Gameplay note: Lurkers are specifically told to only deal with anyone who strays too far from the village. meaning the village isn't a target at all. Just realized this whole thing is in comic sans

Samos the sage is noted to be a "Scholar" of Green Eco. Skin has taken on green skin after years of exposure. Elements of his design suggest a harmony and closeness with nature rather than the noted potential corruption the human body would inflict upon it.

Kiera wants to be a sage. She also likes investigating precursor technology. These are two conflicting desires that any normal youth would have, however her noted interest in tech and building is more utilized than any eco knowledge.

Samos clearly has no problems with her pursuing this path.

Piercings and tattoos exist in the time of TPL The Warrior wears Three (3) rings, pauldrons, vambraces, and leg guards. Has a similar wrapping style in his arms and wrists to Jak, and is, more or less, the only other person that seems armed and prepared for any form of combat. His hair is also green. Being defeated by Kull was a huge his to his pride. Encountering Jak and Daxter may likely have inspired him to learn form his failure and continue onward

Willard and Gordy are the only other characters with names. Names may be attributed to those in close relationships, whereas strangers or acquaintances use reserved titles exclusively

The gambler made a bet the Warrior would outlast the lurkers and lost. That's why he's poor now.

Mosquito design justified by the utilization of the snoot as a literal bloodsucking eco-eater. Design bible notates the functions of a robot for planet-creation, however the design is distinctly more battle/war based.

Overworld concept art is vibrant and much more elaborate than the prints can give off. Overhead shots give great detail on the overall look of the world, likely able to be pieced together to make a semi-cohesive map.

Personal note: Love the inclusion of stylizing the trees to keep everything on-theme Precursor temple in concept art leaves less that it was built into the mountain and more that it fell and then settled there

Jak's hair is barely up to the Warrior's shoulder.

Renegade Jak is not much taller than his younger self. Notably bulked out in some areas, but also painfully thin despite it. Could be chocked up to the dramatic style change between TPL and Renegade. May need to superimpose over feet vs head to get full scale of actual growth, if I really want to work that angle (I do not)

gets new goggles! Those are different ones entirely!

"Dark Jak is INVINCIBLE!" lol, okay fam. 'Dark Jak' taking an intense physical toll on the body makes sense, given the transformation is due to the over-abundance of dark eco in his system. Dark Jak may act as a release of excess energy as much as a dissociative defense mechanism.

Young samos definitely smokes weed. Sig apparently wears a size 18 boot. (13 inches from toe to heel) Vin wears a bowtie

Torn's Facial tattoos are asymmetrical. Both in concept and on model. (I will never draw them that way)

Torn still has many connections with the KG besides Ashelin. Left the Baron's forces for explained reasons, and wants to take the baron down for those aforementioned reasons.

Ashelin started in the KG as a recruit and "fought her way up the ranks to become a commander." Loyal to a fault, still in contact with Torn even after his desertion.

Note: The only known KG commanders are Erol and Ashelin, with Torn being a former commander himself. These two are the only ones that have unique armour tailored to their position and style. Erol with the racing suit, and Ashelin with a more "horse girl" style. Neither contain any colour consistency between them, suggesting that customized armour is a perk to being at the literal top of the military hierarchy.

All Krimson Guards have tattoos to show their loyalty to the city. Models are all copy-pasted, but it's reasonable to assume they earn/get more when ascending ranks or branching into specialized units.

Design note: Torn has a tall torso, Vin has droopy ears, and is taller than Jak

Mar's own legend has contradictory accounts of weither he died. Precursor stone was attached to his sword. Interesting design choice.

Jak is roughtly tit-height to a Rapid-Gunner Metalhead

racing vehicles are designed with a slimmer, almost body-width footprint utilizing aerodynamics and rudders over the fish design of Kiera's original model. Additionally, riders sit feet-forward in a slouched, almost laying position that puts strain on their neck to continue looking forward. Neither model displayed in the design bible have more than one rudder for mobility, which is understandable considering the high-speeds they reach. that can't be good on your back, though.

HAVEN IS PLACED THREE HUNDRED YEARS IN THE FUTURE. PERFECT. THIS IS THE FKING CONFIRMATION I NEEDED. world concept art shows land outside of haven's walls, and even more, ruined walls, beyond. small areas that look to either be stations or small inhabited areas denote life outside of the city is not only possible, but likely. The Pumping Station is NOT misty island, nor is it geyser rock. based on foliage alone, may be adjacent to the forbidden jungle.

Sewers were MASSIVE in concept. filled with metal-heads, and winding enough to get lost in easily. Would have made a great quick getaway point if there were multiple access points throughout the city Haven Forest is a sacred place, filled with stone effigy's and an offering stand in front of The Tree. A wall may have been intended to be grafitti'd

Stone carvings depicting Mar's legend would be a wonderful touch, if incorporated.

Mar buried at the crotch of a precursor robot behind a MASSIVE door that perfectly illustrates the force required to have protected the city from Metalheads. Port was intended to be a more bustling area, complete with actual BOATS. and common areas! I would have loved to see these get modeled into the game, they'd be spectacular.

The stadium was clearly the favoured child. Drill platform is one of many, sees regular activity during the day.

If Daxter's two feet tall, and each bar is a foot, Jak is Five Feet tall.

Baron Praxis is even bigger than Sig. But still shorter than the Warrior. Kiera and Jak are roughly the same height Onin's outfit is basically the ugly nike shirt Tess is Taller than Jak. Erol is shorter than Ashelin.

Jak continues to wear wrappings up to his elbows despite not strictly needing to. Other concept has his forearms free. Headcanon explanation: Hates looking at his scars, so he covers them up to avoid it being seen or asked about.

There is not explanation for the Precursors. I fking LOVE it.

Every wastelander is designed with their hair either put up or cut short to prevent it from getting in the way. Every one has a a design with a pauldron of some kind, and while their clothing isn't entirely practical, it looks light and airy enough to provide protection from at least the sun.

return of the precursor robot

the proto-names for all of the cars feature animal names! Which, while cute, clearly did not last to the final phase.

"Wastelanders love their off-road vehicles" Sir, THERE IS NO ROAD

lol, kg segway

Precursor ship is fking HUUUUGE

The planet is noted to be "unfinished"

Huge variety of flora and fauna in the wasteland. Despite being a desert, it boasts its own ecosystem of a variety of cacti and also fully fledged trees. Concept art suggests that people are able to tame and mount large desert lizards to traverse the sands (nomadic tribes, likely)

Just from the concepts alone, i can tell the entirety of the wasteland was meant to be much larger and more elaborate than the one we ended up with. More diverse life, maybe less marauders, potentially mounts outside of Spargus, the oasis is an entire area unto itself and in the game it's just a puddle. There is so much more love and care in the crafting of the ideas and concepts of this game that sadly got left to the wayside from either time or money constraints. Haven is in ruins, New areas previously unknown have been uncovered, and there's an entire world out there that has yet to be explored in full. Were this game made today, and given the time needed to make sure it was well-produced and as elaborate as they wanted, it'd easily give Nintendo's LoZ a run for its money.

#jak and daxter #jnd #lore hunt #lore hunting and work

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