#bathed in a celestial light

[solxamber]

Betraying the Gods in Three Easy Steps || Malleus Draconia

Step 1: Befriend the Demon King.

Step 2: Fall in love.

Step 3: Quit your hero job.

The first thing you learned upon being chosen as the hero was that the gods were, in fact, morons.

This revelation came to you as you stood in their grand celestial court, bathed in holy light, staring at the pantheon of divine beings who had just bestowed upon you a sword that actively whispered threats into your ear.

"Go forth, O Chosen One," boomed the god of war, his six eyes burning with sacred fire. "You must slay the Demon King who lurks in his cursed lair atop the Black Hills!"

You shifted your weight and cleared your throat. "Okay, so... question. Just a tiny one. What, exactly, has the Demon King done?"

The gods exchanged glances.

"He is evil," the goddess of fate offered.

"Uh-huh. Examples?"

"He... exists," the god of light said, waving a golden hand vaguely.

There was an awkward silence. You rubbed your temples. "Right. But, like, has he pillaged villages? Enslaved kingdoms? Kicked a puppy?"

"He has refused to die despite our many attempts to kill him," the god of judgment said gravely.

You squinted. "So you're mad that he’s alive."

"YES," they all said in unison.

Fantastic. You had been chosen to carry out a divine grudge match.

Still, you weren’t in any position to argue. The gods had given you a bunch of ridiculously overpowered artifacts, including a holy sword, an indestructible shield, and a cloak that supposedly made you invisible but mostly just made you look like a very blurry ghost. They also kind of expected you to die like all the previous heroes, but that was a problem for later.

So here you were, standing at the edge of the Black Hills, staring up at the Demon King’s lair—a suspiciously well-maintained castle that looked less like a fortress of darkness and more like the summer home of someone who enjoyed gardening.

This whole thing reeked of bureaucracy.

With a deep sigh, you tightened your grip on your murderously sentient sword and marched forward, fully prepared to commit deicide if this entire mission turned out to be as dumb as you suspected.

You had braced yourself for a dark, ominous fortress filled with twisted creatures, rivers of lava, and at least one chandelier made of bones. Instead, you walked into what could only be described as a cozy study.

The room was warm, lit by a fireplace that crackled gently in the corner. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged tomes, some of which looked suspiciously like romance novels. A tea set rested on the table, next to an open book. And sitting in an armchair, casually flipping through the pages, was a man.

A very tall, very elegant man with sharp green eyes and black horns curling from his head.

He blinked at you, clearly just as surprised as you were. "Oh," he said. "Hello."

You stared at him. "Uh. Hi?"

There was a long pause. He looked at your very dramatic hero attire, then at the glimmering, divinely blessed sword in your hand, then back at you. "I assume you’re here for a reason?"

You shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, so, the gods sent me to kill the Demon King, but like… lowkey? I don’t know what he looks like."

The man nodded, as if this was a completely reasonable statement. "I see." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Would you like some tea?"

You squinted at him. "I feel like you’re not taking this whole ‘assassination attempt’ thing very seriously."

"Should I?" he asked, pouring tea into a cup with unnerving grace. "You don't seem particularly invested in it yourself."

You couldn't exactly argue with that, so you sat down, placing your god-blessed weapon awkwardly on your lap. The man slid a cup toward you. The tea smelled… nice. Suspiciously nice. You sniffed it. "This isn’t, like, drugged or cursed, is it?"

He looked amused. "Only if you consider chamomile a powerful sedative."

You took a cautious sip. It was delicious.

"So," he said, leaning his chin on his hand. "Tell me about the outside world. It’s been a while since I last left these hills."

You shrugged. "Nothing much. The gods are idiots, as usual."

His lips curled in interest. "Oh?"

You leaned forward conspiratorially. "Okay, so get this. When they summoned me, they gave me this holy sword, right?" You tapped the weapon resting on your lap. "Only problem? It won’t shut up. The gods literally forgot to turn off its voice function, so now it just screams battle cries at all hours of the day. I had to wrap it in three layers of cloth just to get some sleep."

He let out a chuckle, eyes gleaming. "That is… incredible."

"Right? And that’s not even the worst part. The god of wisdom—actual title, by the way—accidentally set fire to their own temple last year because they miscalculated a lightning spell. They blamed it on ‘mystical forces’ but everyone knows they just got their math wrong."

The man—who, now that you were really looking at him, was ridiculously attractive in a dark-and-mysterious way—laughed. It was a rich, deep sound, the kind of laugh that made you feel like you’d just told the best joke in the world.

You grinned, feeling oddly comfortable. "Oh, and don’t even get me started on the god of fate. She got into a brawl with the god of harvest because she made a prophecy that all the wheat fields would burn down, and then the god of harvest was like, ‘You know that’s literally my job, right?’ and cursed her with hay fever. Now she sneezes every time she tries to predict the future."

Your new tea-drinking companion actually had to cover his mouth to stifle his laughter.

You took another sip of tea, feeling very proud of yourself. "Anyway," you said, stretching your arms. "By the way, have you seen the Demon King? Because, like, technically, I’m still supposed to be doing that job."

The man calmly pointed to himself.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You blinked. "I'm sorry. What."

"Malleus Draconia," he said, setting his teacup down with the kind of elegance that made you feel like an unwashed peasant. "And you are?"

You were still reeling from the realization that you had spent the last half hour drinking tea with the exact person you were supposed to kill, so it took you a second to answer. You introduce yourself. "Hero chosen by the gods. Here to, you know…" You made a vague stabbing motion.

Malleus nodded, completely unfazed. "Ah. Yes. That would explain the weaponry." He glanced at your holy sword, which had mercifully remained silent for the past few minutes. "Though, I must say, you don’t seem particularly enthusiastic about your mission."

You sighed and set your cup down. "Yeah, well. I don’t really get why the gods have it out for you. I mean, do you actually do evil stuff? Are you stealing souls? Raising the dead? Kicking puppies?"

Malleus tilted his head, considering. "No, no, and—well, I suppose there was one incident with a puppy, but in my defense, I was trying to return it to its owner, and it misunderstood my intentions."

"That’s a really vague way to say 'I accidentally terrified it.'"

He sipped his tea, saying nothing.

You squinted at him. "So you’re telling me the gods declared a holy crusade against you for… what? Vibes?"

Malleus shrugged. "I assume so. They don’t seem to like my existence very much."

"Wow. Must be nice not giving a shit."

"It is quite freeing," he agreed. "Would you like a tour?"

You blinked. "A tour? Of your evil lair?"

"My home," he corrected, as if you were the unreasonable one. "I assume you have never seen it before."

"You assume correctly." You rubbed your chin. "Eh. What the hell. Show me around, mighty Demon King."

And so, instead of assassinating him, you spent the next hour wandering through the halls of his "evil lair" (read: very fancy castle), learning about his book collection, admiring the admittedly cool-looking stained-glass windows, and getting distracted by a particularly fluffy cat lounging on one of the rugs.

Somewhere along the way, you had fallen into easy conversation, sharing more absurd stories about the gods’ incompetence while Malleus listened with increasing amusement. You barely even noticed how natural it felt, how quickly you forgot the whole "mortal enemies" thing.

It wasn’t until you were about to leave that you remembered why you had come in the first place.

"Ah, right," you said, gripping the hilt of your holy sword. "The whole… uh, slaying thing."

Malleus lifted an eyebrow.

You exhaled and held the sword out to him. "Here. Take this."

He looked at you, then at the sword, then back at you. "You are giving me your divine weapon?"

"Look, man, I don’t know if you can tell, but I am very bad at this job."

Malleus took the sword, examining it with mild curiosity. The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, the weapon, which had remained blissfully quiet all day, suddenly came to life.

"FOUL BEAST! UNHAND ME AT ONCE—"

Malleus flicked his wrist, and the sword immediately went silent.

You gaped at him. "You can do that?!"

He hummed. "It appears so."

You put your hands on your hips. "You know what? Yeah. You can keep it. I don’t want it anymore."

Malleus smiled. "How generous of you."

You waved him off and turned toward the exit. "Anyway, this has been fun and all, but I should probably get going before the gods smite me for treason. I’ll, uh… I’ll get the job done next time."

Malleus watched you with that same unreadable expression, something like quiet amusement playing at the edges of his lips. "Of course. Next time."

You nodded, totally believing yourself, and left.

The gods were getting suspicious.

You could tell by the way they kept summoning you more frequently, their celestial faces lined with divine skepticism, their glowing, omnipotent eyes narrowing just a little more each time you gave your mission report.

So you did what any responsible, chosen-by-the-heavens hero would do: you doubled down on the lies.

“I’m gathering intel on the enemy.”

A few gods murmured in approval, nodding at your strategic foresight.

(The truth? You had spent the last four days sprawled across an absolutely sinful couch in Malleus’s absurdly cozy castle, debating whether a dragon could, theoretically, play the lute. Malleus had very strong opinions about claw dexterity and string tension. You were just trying to figure out how to smuggle the couch home.)

“I need to study his weaknesses.”

More nods. One god even stroked their beard, looking impressed.

(The reality? You were currently studying how many cookies you could consume before he started looking mildly concerned for your well-being. The number was high. Concerningly high. You were probably committing a sin against your own digestive system, but that was Future You’s problem.)

“He’s probably planning something evil, so I need to keep an eye on him.”

Now the gods were practically glowing with approval. One clapped you on the back, nearly knocking you off your feet.

(Meanwhile, in the demon king’s lair, Malleus was sitting in his massive library, sipping tea like a distinguished nobleman who had never even considered jaywalking, much less world domination. At one point, he sighed dramatically and looked out the window, the very picture of a wistful poet pondering the meaning of life. You had watched him do this for ten whole minutes, waiting for a sign of villainy. Nothing. The man was the least demonic demon king you had ever seen.)

The gods, thoroughly convinced that you were hard at work, dismissed you with a vague warning to “stay vigilant” and “not fall for any demonic tricks.”

You barely made it back to the castle before collapsing onto your new favorite couch with a groan. “They think I’m doing such a good job,” you mumbled, stuffing another cookie into your mouth. “I could probably ask for a raise.”

Malleus looked up from his book, amusement dancing in his emerald eyes. “A raise? What exactly would they be paying you for?”

“For my noble heroism,” you said around a mouthful of cookie. “My unwavering dedication. My strategic mind. My—” You gestured vaguely. “—efforts.”

Malleus hummed, setting his book aside. “Ah, yes. Your valiant efforts. Lounging on my furniture. Eating my desserts. Entertaining me with tales of divine incompetence.”

You wagged a finger at him. “You say that like it isn’t an important job.”

He smirked. “Oh, I quite enjoy your company. But I do wonder how long you plan to keep up this charade.”

“As long as I can,” you said without hesitation, grabbing another cookie. “At this point, I think I deserve an award for Best Hero in the Field of Procrastination.”

Malleus chuckled, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you with what was definitely, absolutely, 100% not fondness. Probably. “Indeed.”

Getting Malleus out of his lair was easier than expected. Getting him to wear the disguise, however, was a battle of wills.

“It is absurd,” he said flatly, staring at the comically large hat in your hands.

“Absurdly effective,” you countered.

“It looks like it belongs to a—”

“Fashion icon?”

“A cursed scarecrow,” he finished, unimpressed.

“Okay, rude. But listen, if you walk into town looking like that—” you gestured vaguely at his horns, “—people will either think you're about to declare war or host a very dramatic poetry reading. The hat helps.”

Malleus gave you a long, contemplative look, then, to your eternal delight, sighed and took the hat. It sat atop his head with the solemn dignity of a royal crown, though the sheer size of it made him look like he was about to start selling potions out of a roadside wagon.

“Very well,” he declared. “Let us proceed.”

Thus began the grand adventure of sneaking the Demon King into town.

Turns out, no one even noticed.

Which, to be fair, was kind of expected. This was a town where a man once tried to pay his taxes in live chickens and where the local bard wore sunglasses at night “because it added to his mystique.” Some guy in a huge hat? Not even in the top ten weirdest things people had seen this week.

Still, you felt an odd sense of pride as you dragged Malleus through the bustling streets. The Demon King, who had spent untold centuries isolated in his ominous gothic estate, was now watching a juggler toss flaming batons while a street vendor tried to sell you “cursed amulets” that were clearly just painted rocks.

He was fascinated.

His first stop was the bakery, where he became personally and spiritually invested in the concept of croissants.

“These are quite remarkable,” he murmured, carefully inspecting the flaky layers. “It is as if the very essence of light and air has been woven into dough.”

“You’re making it sound way fancier than it is,” you snorted. “It’s just bread.”

“A divine bread,” he corrected.

“You’re literally a demon.”

“I can still appreciate divinity when I taste it.”

Next, you took him to the bookstore, where he spent an unreasonable amount of time debating which tomes to purchase. At one point, you caught him flipping through something called One Hundred and One Curses to Ensure Your Enemies Remember You Fondly, which felt both deeply specific and incredibly on-brand.

While he was distracted by a book of poetry so dramatic it might as well have been personally written for him, you slipped away for a moment. A nearby flower stall caught your eye, and on impulse, you picked up a delicate bloom, its color strikingly similar to Malleus’s eyes.

You returned just as he was still deep in thought over which book to buy. Without a second thought, you reached up and tucked the flower behind his ear.

Malleus froze.

His expression didn’t change immediately—he just stared at you, his usual unreadable gaze flickering with something… complicated. His fingers hesitantly brushed against the petals, and for a moment, he looked genuinely baffled, as if no one had ever done something like this before.

You grinned at him. “Looks good on you, Your Evilness.”

Malleus exhaled a short, amused huff. “I must admit, I do not often receive accessories from my sworn enemies.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you said, already dragging him towards the next store. “Now come on, I still need to introduce you to the single greatest achievement of human civilization.”

He tilted his head, intrigue sparking in his expression. “Oh?”

“Fried food.”

For the first time in centuries, the Demon King of Darkness, Terror of the Gods, Eternal Wielder of Unholy Power… was genuinely excited.

You were not bringing Malleus more books because you liked him. Obviously. That would be ridiculous. You were simply executing a strategic maneuver—an information-gathering mission, if you will. The more books he had, the more he would talk, and the more he talked, the more you learned.

This was all very professional. A tactical decision. Absolutely nothing to do with the way his eyes lit up whenever you brought him something new or the fact that you may or may not have started associating his lair with peace instead of doom.

So, with arms full of books that were definitely not handpicked to match his interests (including one on celestial phenomena, which was coincidental and not an attempt to make him happy), you strolled into his lair like you owned the place.

And that was when you met him.

Lilia Vanrouge.

You knew the name. You’d heard it whispered in the temples, spoken with the kind of reverence usually reserved for plagues and natural disasters. The Scourge of the Battlefield. The War Demon. The Dark General Who Consumed Kingdoms Whole.

You had also heard it from Malleus, who described him as eccentric, mischievous, and one of the few people he respected.

And the moment you laid eyes on him, you realized once again that the gods were complete and utter morons.

Because standing before you was not a nightmarish harbinger of destruction. No, the man currently floating upside down in the air, cheerfully snacking on something, looked more like an impish uncle who would absolutely teach children how to commit tax fraud for fun.

He looked at you. You looked at him. He grinned. You immediately braced for impact.

“Well, well! So you’re the fabled Chosen Hero,” Lilia chirped, righting himself mid-air and landing gracefully before you. “How fascinating! I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“I—” you began.

“I must say, this is not what I expected!” he continued, completely ignoring you. “From what I’ve heard, heroes usually barge in with righteous fury, divine proclamations, and very little self-preservation! Yet here you are, standing in the Demon King’s domain, casually handing him books.”

You turned to Malleus, who looked completely unbothered, still examining the latest tome you had brought him. “You told him?”

Malleus, without looking up: “He asked.”

You turned back to Lilia. “And you’re not freaking out?”

Lilia tilted his head, amused. “Should I be?”

“I don’t know, I just assumed one of Malleus’s generals would take issue with me being, you know, the divinely ordained slayer of your king?”

Lilia snorted. “Oh, please. Do you have any idea how many so-called ‘heroes’ I’ve seen storm in here? You’re already my favorite.”

“…Thanks?”

“Of course! It’s just so refreshing to see one of you actually using your head for once.” He floated up again, upside down, resting his chin on his hands. “Though I must admit, I was expecting something a little more… impressive.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lilia smirked and gestured to the table where you and Malleus had been previously engaged in very serious discussions. Your stomach dropped. You had left out your papers.

Specifically, the ones where you had been doodling different armor designs and asking Malleus for his fashion advice.

Malleus, the traitor, casually picked one up. “I am partial to this one,” he said, holding up a particularly elaborate sketch. “The embroidery detailing is quite striking.”

Lilia laughed.

You buried your face in your hands as the War Demon, the Living Nightmare of the Battlefield, the Eternal Scourge of Kingdoms—wiped away tears of laughter over the fact that instead of slaying the Demon King, you had apparently made him your personal stylist.

It was, all things considered, not your proudest moment.

It had been months since you first stepped foot into Malleus’s lair, and, well… things had progressed.

Not in the way the gods wanted, obviously. If they had their way, Malleus’s severed head would be mounted on a sacred altar by now. Technically, you were still on your holy mission to vanquish the Demon King. Technically, you were gathering information. Technically, you had every intention of fulfilling your duty.

But, if one were to take a completely unbiased look at your current situation… it might appear that you were just hanging out.

A lot.

Like, a lot, a lot.

Malleus now made your drink exactly the way you liked it—sometimes before you even asked. You didn’t even have to tell him anymore. You’d wander into his lair after a long day of doing absolutely nothing related to demon slaying, and he’d already have your favorite drink ready, at the exact right temperature.

And you? You, the so-called “Divine Champion of Justice,” the god-appointed warrior of destiny? You had, against all logic and reason, started bringing him gifts. It wasn’t even a conscious decision at first. But every time a merchant came through town, you found yourself idly picking up little trinkets or books that looked like they’d interest him.

You told yourself it was just diplomacy. A strategic bribery effort. It had absolutely nothing to do with how much you enjoyed seeing his face light up whenever you presented him with something new.

You weren’t even sure when the shift had happened.

One day, you were the brave hero, standing before the terrifying Demon King with divine orders to smite him. And now? Now, you were practically living in his lair. Casually.

You’d gotten comfortable here, a fact that you refused to acknowledge out loud. Malleus’s lair was peaceful, quiet, and—to your horror—pleasant. The enormous gothic windows, the soft candlelight, the bookshelves stacked high with ancient tomes… It was all just so much nicer than the gods’ temples, which were always cold, sterile, and filled with divine bureaucrats who asked too many questions.

And worse—worse—when you weren’t here, you were usually thinking about what to do for Malleus next.

Should you bring him something from the next merchant caravan? Maybe take him to another festival? He liked those. Maybe introduce him to the weird little bakery in town that sold those oddly-shaped pastries you kept seeing. He might find them amusing.

You were planning surprises for him.

Like a friend.

No. Not just a friend.

A best friend.

You slammed your head onto the nearest table with a thud.

The gods could never find out about this.

You were having an existential crisis. A real one. The kind that made you stare at your reflection in a soup bowl and wonder if you had any meaningful purpose in life beyond being the divine equivalent of a glorified errand runner.

Lilia, of course, noticed. Because he was an agent of chaos and probably fed off emotional turmoil like some sort of tiny, ancient demon bat.

“You seem troubled,” he had said, watching as you slumped dramatically over Malleus’ very fancy dining table, exhaling the world’s most pitiful sigh. “Why don’t you and Malleus spar?”

Your head lifted slightly. “What?”

Lilia smirked, clearly pleased that he had successfully baited you out of your misery. “It’s been months, has it not? If the gods ask, you can tell them you’ve been honing your skills, preparing for the final battle.”

That… actually wasn’t a bad excuse. The gods had been getting nosy again, demanding updates. Maybe you could make this work.

Which was how you ended up here.

Standing in the grand, sprawling courtyard of Malleus’ lair, stretching out your limbs while he calmly removed his cloak, draping it over a bench like he was about to have a casual stroll instead of engaging in combat.

“You sure about this?” you asked, gripping the hilt of your sword.

Malleus tilted his head, looking amused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You smirked. “Just saying, if I win, I demand tribute.”

Malleus chuckled. “And if I win?”

“… Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Lilia was off to the side, grinning like this was the best form of entertainment he’d seen in centuries.

You inhaled deeply, grounding yourself. Okay. This was it. You were going to fight the Demon King, and it was going to be serious. No more cozy tea parties. No more lighthearted book shopping trips. It was time to—

“Would you like me to go easy on you?” Malleus asked.

You scoffed. “Pfft. No. Give me everything you’ve got.”

Malleus hummed, looking almost pleased at your confidence. “Very well.”

And then, without warning, he disappeared from sight.

You barely had time to register the movement before a gust of wind slammed into you at full force, sending you flying backwards like a poorly thrown ragdoll.

You crashed into a bush.

For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the sky, contemplating every choice that had led you to this moment.

Then, groaning, you rolled out of the shrubbery, shaking off the twigs as you picked up your sword. “Okay,” you muttered, adjusting your grip. “That was just a warm-up round.”

Malleus was still standing in the same spot, looking entirely unbothered.

And his hands were behind his back.

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you—” You took a deep breath. “Are you fighting me with your hands behind your back?"

“Of course,” Malleus said pleasantly. “You told me not to go easy on you.”

You could hear Lilia choking on laughter in the background.

You squinted at Malleus, wondering if you should feel honored or insulted.

Fine. You could work with this. You charged again, ducking low, aiming for his legs. A flicker of green magic intercepted you, sending a harmless but powerful shockwave that knocked your weapon out of your hands.

You stared at your empty hands.

Malleus looked mildly impressed. “Good attempt.”

You retrieved your sword. Tried again. And again. And again.

Malleus never used his hands. Never lifted a finger. He just sidestepped your attacks with casual ease, occasionally flicking his magic at you, like you were a mildly annoying housecat trying to pounce on a much larger, much more powerful predator.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped trying to win and just started having fun.

And then, eventually, your energy gave out. You collapsed onto the ground, spread-eagled, arms outstretched, staring up at the sky as you caught your breath.

Malleus stepped closer, looming over you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“I do believe you’re my favorite hero,” he mused.

You groaned and slapped a hand over your face.

The gods were going to kill you if they ever found out about this.

You couldn’t sleep.

Which was fine. Heroes probably weren’t supposed to sleep. Heroes were supposed to lie awake at night, tormented by the burden of their destiny, haunted by the weight of their mission, plagued by—

"What if I let him win?"

You bolted upright so fast you nearly knocked yourself unconscious on your headrest. You slapped a hand over your mouth like you had just spoken a heresy so foul the gods would strike you down immediately.

That was not a normal thought for a hero to have. That was the most absurd, blasphemous, outrageous, morally reprehensible—

"Am I technically dating the Demon King???"

NO. NO NO NO NO NO NO—

Your hands went to your temples. You squeezed your eyes shut. Maybe if you just thought hard enough, you could physically remove this thought from your brain. Or maybe, if you focused, the gods would finally smite you like they had always threatened to do.

You flopped back down onto your mattress, dragging a pillow over your face, as if that would smother the absolute nonsense your mind was generating tonight. But the problem was, now that the thought had entered your brain, it had built a home there. It had a mailbox. It was paying taxes. And now it was decorating with even worse thoughts.

Because now you were remembering the way Malleus had smiled when you let him talk for two whole hours about gargoyles. How his eyes had lit up like you were the first person to ever listen. The way he carefully, deliberately made your tea exactly how you liked it, as if he had memorized it from the very first time. The way he always tilted his head when he listened to you, genuinely fascinated by even the stupidest things you said.

The way he let you exist in his space. Not as an enemy. Not as a hero. But as…

… oh no.

OH NO.

You slapped a hand over your mouth again. Your other hand clenched into the sheets like you were physically trying to hold onto your sanity.

You were NOT—this was NOT—

You rolled over, kicking your legs violently under the covers. Maybe if you shook your entire body hard enough, you could dislodge this thought from existence. Yeet it into the void. Purge it from reality. But all that happened was that you pulled a muscle in your back and now you were lying there, in agony, emotionally and physically, because you were starting to realize something terrible.

You weren’t just fond of Malleus. You didn’t just enjoy his company.

You liked him.

You LIKED him.

YOU LIKED THE DEMON KING.

You sat up again, legs crossed, hands clasped together in front of you. “Dear gods,” you whispered, voice trembling, “please smite me where I sit. I have failed you.”

Nothing happened.

“…Cowards,” you muttered.

You flopped back down, staring at the ceiling in pure despair.

You were going to bed. You were going to sleep, and when you woke up, you would not be in love with the Demon King. You would be normal. You would be reasonable. You would be a good hero.

You closed your eyes.

Five seconds passed.

You opened them again.

Gods help me.

Literally.

You were having the time of your goddamn life.

Malleus' lair—again, as usual. You were halfway draped across his lap, leisurely popping fruit into your mouth while Lilia spun some absolutely deranged tale about the time he tricked a king into believing he was a vengeful forest spirit. Malleus sipped his tea, vaguely amused, and you? You laughed so hard you nearly choked on a grape.

The atmosphere? Immaculate. Life? Good. Everything? Perfection.

And then the door SLAMMED open.

You flinched so hard you nearly tumbled off Malleus’ lap. The tea cups rattled. The room’s easygoing tension evaporated as you stared at the figure in the doorway—some guy, just some guy—storming in with his sword drawn, looking like he was about to say the most dramatic thing you’d ever heard in your life.

“I HAVE COME TO SLAY YOU, DEMON KING—”

He stopped.

Because you—the actual hero—were very much not slaying the Demon King. You were, instead, sprawled across him like a spoiled house cat, eating his fruit and giggling like an idiot.

A horrifically long pause followed as this budget hero—who was not chosen by the gods, by the way—took in the scene.

Scrambling upright, you waved your hands frantically. “This—this is not what it looks like—”

“It is exactly what it looks like,” Lilia corrected, taking a dainty sip of tea. “Please, continue.”

Budget Hero looked insulted. Absolutely offended. “You—you’re supposed to be a hero! You’re supposed to be fighting him, not—” He gestured at you and Malleus with a face of pure betrayal. “—whatever this is!”

Panic surged. “I am fighting him!”

Budget Hero squinted.

You cleared your throat. “It’s just—” A vague gesture at Malleus. “A mental battle.”

Lilia snickered. Malleus lifted a brow, deeply entertained.

Budget Hero wasn’t buying it. His face hardened with righteous fury as he turned his sword back on Malleus. “No matter! If the gods will not choose a proper hero to strike you down, then I shall—”

And that’s when it happened.

Before Malleus could even think about obliterating him, you moved first. Instinctively. Violently. Viscerally.

Budget Hero never saw it coming. His weapon went flying in a single fluid motion, and before he could process it, he was done. Just absolutely demolished.

Silence.

Then:

Lilia. Wheezing. “Oh, that was brutal.”

You stared down at Budget Hero’s crumpled form, still gripping your weapon, stunned.

Because here’s the thing. That wasn’t a calculated attack. It wasn’t self-defense. It wasn’t even to protect Malleus, exactly.

It was pure, unfiltered spite.

Who did this guy think he was? Marching in, sword drawn, acting like he was Malleus’ sworn enemy? That was your job. Your dynamic. The thought of anyone else trying to take that place—trying to take any place in Malleus’ life that wasn’t yours—was so disgusting, so offensive, that your body moved before your brain did.

…Oh no.

Quickly sheathing your weapon, you coughed into your fist. “Welp. That’s enough murder for today! I should get going!”

Malleus blinked at you, unbothered. “You only just arrived.”

Lilia, still recovering from laughter, wiped a tear from his eye. “Stay! We haven’t even finished discussing your new armor—”

“Nope!” You laughed—too forcefully. “Nooope! I just—I have to, uh—cleanse myself. Spiritually. From, um. Today’s events.”

Malleus tilted his head, intrigued. “You’ve killed before, haven’t you?”

You sweat. “Yeah, but this one was just, uh, really emotionally charged. You know how it is.”

Lilia’s grin was so knowing it made you ill. “Do we?”

You needed to leave immediately.

“Anyway, see you later, besties!” Backing toward the door, you threw up a hand. “Malleus, you’re great, Lilia, you’re also great, I’m normal, and definitely not in any sort of crisis! Bye!”

And then you fled. Like a coward.

You had been avoiding him.

Technically speaking, you had only been gone for a week. But considering you usually barged into his lair daily—arms full of books, or pastries, or some weird trinket you thought he’d like—it was an absence that did not go unnoticed.

After all, you had never run before.

Even when you first met him, when you had been sent to kill him, you had walked right up to him and said, "Hey, so the gods told me to kill you, but honestly, I don’t feel like it." And he had smiled, slow and intrigued, and offered you tea. That had been the beginning of everything.

You had stayed. You always stayed.

But yesterday, after that absolute disaster of an encounter with that third-rate hero, after watching yourself cut him down before Malleus could even lift a hand, after realizing with gut-wrenching horror that you had reacted viscerally to the mere idea of someone else claiming that they were destined to fight him, to be his rival, you had fled.

Because what the fuck did that mean?

Because why had your stomach turned in disgust at the thought of someone else standing in your place?

Because you had looked at Malleus, and something inside you had snarled mine, and the weight of that realization had nearly knocked you off your feet.

So you ran.

Cowardly. Embarrassing. You, the so-called chosen hero, the one who had spent months dragging Malleus through town, shoving hats over his horns, feeding him sweet treats, listening to him ramble about gargoyles with the fondest expression on your face—you had panicked and run away like a flustered maiden in a fairytale.

You didn’t even have the excuse of battle wounds. The only wounds were entirely self-inflicted, entirely emotional, and entirely stupid.

So today, after daysof pacing and telling yourself to get it together, you forced yourself to return.

You spent the entire week gaslighting yourself into thinking nothing happened.

That reaction? Not weird. You were just… caught off guard! Maybe a tiny bit possessive. Maybe incredibly deranged about Malleus to the point where you instinctively obliterated someone for even thinking about taking your role as his arch-nemesis—but that was normal. That was just healthy rival dynamics!

So when you walked into Malleus’ lair the next week, it was with the confidence of someone absolutely not having a mental breakdown over their supposed mortal enemy.

“Yo,” you greeted, hands in your pockets, a casual whistle leaving your lips. “What’s up, big guy? Ready for some classic, good old-fashioned, not-at-all suspicious hero vs. villain conflict today?”

No answer.

It was silent. Too silent.

Usually, Lilia was there to greet you with some teasing remark. Usually, Malleus could sense you the moment you entered his territory, and you’d be met with a soft “You’ve returned.” Usually, there was some kind of warmth, a quiet hum of life in these ancient halls.

But today, there was only cold stone.

Your stomach twisted as you searched for him.

You found him by one of the enormous windows, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the sky with an expression you’d never seen before. His shoulders—usually poised with an almost arrogant regality—were slack. His jaw, tight. His eyes, distant.

For the first time since you met him, he looked exhausted.

“…Malleus?”

Your voice came out softer than you expected. Almost hesitant. As if part of you already knew what he was about to say.

He didn’t turn, didn’t shift, didn’t react right away. Just stood there, gazing out at the vast horizon like he was searching for something.

Finally, after a long, slow exhale, he spoke.

“…I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Your breath caught.

You had been gone for a week. You figured skipping a few visits wouldn’t matter much. That you could collect yourself, sort out whatever this was, and return once you weren’t a flustered disaster.

But standing here now, staring at him, it hit you just how much he had felt your absence.

His fingers curled a little tighter behind his back. His voice, barely above a whisper—

“If someone were to kill me,” he murmured, “I think I’d rather it be you than anyone else.”

The breath whooshed out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, you understood.

He wasn’t just speaking in hypotheticals. He wasn’t musing about battle. He wasn’t challenging you, wasn’t provoking you, wasn’t setting the stage for a dramatic clash between hero and demon king.

No.

Malleus had lived centuries watching heroes march to his doorstep, brandishing divine weapons, shouting righteous declarations, vowing to end him. And yet, he had never once fallen. Never once faltered. Never once let a blade even graze his skin.

But yesterday, when you hadn’t returned, he had thought—ah. So this is how it ends.

If he had to be slain, he wanted it to be by your hand.

If he had to see someone for the last time, he had hoped it would be you.

You broke.

Instantaneous. No hesitation. No rational thought. No clever quip or theatrical deflection. No last-minute is this a good idea? self-reflection. Just a sharp inhale, a rapid closing of distance, and then—

You kissed him. Hard.

Not soft, not slow, not gentle. Desperate. Raw. Months of pent-up feelings, of endless late nights spent thinking about him, of hands brushing and shared laughter and quiet understanding and—fuck. You were so gone for him.

Malleus stiffened—but only for a second.

Then he melted into you.

His hands rose—one tangling in your hair, the other curling around your waist, pulling you so close you swore you could feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest. He kissed back just as desperately, just as fiercely, like he’d been waiting just as helplessly as you had.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he stared like he’d never seen you before. Wide-eyed. Lips parted. His grip on you so tight, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

“…I suppose that was your way of saying you refuse?” His voice, unsteady.

A breathless, shaky laugh. “Yeah,” you whispered. “Yeah, I refuse.”

His forehead pressed to yours, breath warm against your lips. His hands didn’t loosen their hold.

“…Then don’t ever leave me.”

You closed your eyes. Gripped his shoulders.

Nodded.

“Never.”

The celestial being—divine embodiment of justice and order, an ancient force revered throughout history—descended upon Malleus’ lair in a blinding display of light and holy power.

Wings of pure radiance unfurled. A golden staff crackled with divine energy. A voice, imbued with the might of the cosmos, boomed across the chamber:

“CHOSEN HERO. DEMON KING. IT IS TIME FOR YOUR DESTINED BATTLE.”

You blinked. Looked up from where you were curled against Malleus, sipping tea and reading a book titled 1,001 Architectural Wonders (That Are Not Gargoyles, Please Stop Asking).

Malleus glanced up from the game of chess he was currently losing against Lilia. “Oh?” he said, perfectly unbothered. “Has it truly been that long?”

“Yes, it has been that long!” the celestial being thundered. “You were sent here to vanquish the Demon King, not—” their eye twitched as they took in the scene, “—play house with him.”

You frowned. “Okay, first of all, rude.”

"Rude? RUDE?!" The celestial being practically vibrated with fury. "YOU LIED TO US!"

“I did not lie,” you said, deeply offended. “I gave you very detailed mission updates.”

“‘I’m gathering intel on the enemy’?”

“I was!” you huffed. “Did you know Malleus actually prefers honey in his tea instead of sugar? Crucial information.”

The celestial being sputtered. “You literally wrote, and I quote—” they conjured a glowing scroll and read aloud, “‘I need to study his weaknesses.’”

“Well,” you said, nodding toward Malleus, “he is weak to compliments. Call him ‘awe-inspiring’ and he gets all flustered. It’s very endearing.”

The being looked one breath away from smiting you. “AND ‘HE’S PROBABLY PLANNING SOMETHING EVIL, I NEED TO KEEP AN EYE ON HIM’??”

You pointed at Malleus, who was currently sipping tea with perfect elegance, staring at you like you personally hung the moon in the sky.

“Look at him,” you said dryly. “He’s clearly up to something.”

Malleus delicately set down his teacup. “Indeed,” he mused. “I was just plotting whether to have scones or biscuits with my tea tomorrow.”

The celestial being’s golden aura flickered like a candle in the wind. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KILL HIM!”

Malleus frowned. “That seems excessive for a difference in snack preference.”

The celestial being inhaled sharply, hands trembling. You were pretty sure you just heard them whisper I hate my job.

“Enough!” they roared. “FIGHT! NOW!”

You and Malleus exchanged a long glance.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with all the excitement of two overworked employees being forced into another useless meeting, you both sighed and reached for the nearest decorative swords.

You lifted your sword. Malleus did the same.

And then, with all the enthusiasm of two toddlers being told to pretend-fight for Grandma’s amusement—

—you both half-heartedly tapped your swords together.

clink.

“There,” you said, monotone. “We fought. Can we go back to cuddling now?”

The celestial being screamed.

The celestial being didn’t so much escort you to the heavens as haul you there like a parent dragging a misbehaving child to a disciplinary hearing. You barely had time to adjust to the blinding light before being unceremoniously dropped onto the cold marble floor.

Above you, the gods loomed from their gilded thrones, their divine radiance pulsing with something that was not quite anger—because gods did not feel anger, only divine disappointment, which was so much worse.

The celestial being, standing smugly beside them, crossed their arms. “I told you they weren’t taking this seriously.”

The first god spoke, voice like rolling thunder. “Chosen hero.”

Another voice, this one like a windstorm, joined in. “You were sent to slay the Demon King.”

A third, calm and cold as deep water. “And yet, you have done nothing.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the celestial being snapped their fingers, and suddenly, an image materialized before you. A glowing vision of you, fully reclined across Malleus’ lap, popping fruit into his mouth while he read a book.

You stared.

“…Okay,” you admitted, “this looks bad.”

The celestial being glared. “Because it is bad!”

The gods ignored them, their voices deepening into something more final.

“This war against the Demon King has lasted centuries,” one intoned.

“You were our last hope,” another added. “If you do not complete your duty, there will be no other hero for another hundred years.”

“Without a hero,” the celestial being hissed, “there will be no one to protect the world from his inevitable destruction.”

Their words should have shaken you. You should have felt the weight of them pressing into your spine, the consequences of this moment sinking into your bones.

Instead, you just felt tired.

Tired of this war you never understood. Tired of the gods, who sat safe in their gilded heavens, while they sent hero after hero to their deaths.

Tired of pretending that Malleus was something he wasn’t.

You took a slow breath. Then, you reached up and began unbuckling the divine armor. The metal rang loud as it clattered to the ground, reverberating through the silent chamber. You ripped the sacred amulet from around your neck, tossing it aside like an afterthought. The enchanted boots that carried you here? Gone.

The gods watched, speechless, as you stripped away everything that bound you to them.

Then, you stood taller than you ever had before.

“I quit,” you said simply.

The chamber erupted. The celestial being choked. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” you interrupted, stretching your arms, reveling in the freedom of it. “And I am. You want a hero? Find another poor fool. I’m done.”

The gods stared, as if they truly couldn’t comprehend your audacity.

“There will be no other hero for a century,” one god reminded you. “Do you understand what you are forsaking?”

You grinned. “Yeah. Unnecessary slaying.”

And with that, you turned on your heel and walked away, the celestial doors parting effortlessly before you. The gods did not stop you. Perhaps they couldn’t.

You returned to Malleus’ lair lighter than you had ever felt.

He was waiting for you when you arrived, standing near the entrance, his expression unreadable. His eyes—those impossibly green eyes—watched you carefully, searching for something.

“You’re back,” he said softly.

You stepped closer, meeting his gaze. “Of course.”

Something flickered in his expression—something relieved, something like hope.

You exhaled, the weight of everything lifting off your shoulders. “I’m free now, Malleus. No more gods. No more divine duty. Just… me.”

For the first time, you saw it—true joy in his gaze. He stepped forward, closer, until there was nothing between you.

And then he kissed you.

It was not hesitant. Not questioning. It was certain, like he had always known this moment was inevitable, like he had only been waiting for you to realize it too.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his lips curling into a smile.

“I was hoping you’d choose me,” he murmured.

You smiled back, fingers threading through his.

“I always would have.”

It happened over tea, as most of your most life-altering conversations with Malleus tended to.

You had been lounging on his absurdly comfortable sofa, sipping something floral he had brewed just for you, feeling very much like a person who had absolutely no idea that their entire life was about to be rearranged.

Malleus, ever composed, set down his own cup and regarded you with something almost too fond.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, “about how long we’ve been together.”

You blinked. “How long?”

He hummed, tilting his head. “Since you gave me your sword, of course.”

You continued blinking, because surely, surely you had misheard him.

“…My sword?”

Malleus nodded, utterly serene. “Yes. It was an elegant proposal.”

You made a sound. It wasn’t a word, exactly, but it conveyed your confusion well enough.

Malleus watched you, waiting patiently for what he must have assumed was joyous realization.

You, meanwhile, were still trying to process whatever the hell was happening.

“…Proposal,” you echoed, because maybe if you repeated it, reality would shift into something that made sense.

Malleus offered a rare, knowing smile. “A symbol of devotion. Offering one’s most treasured possession to another—it is an unbreakable vow, a declaration of lifelong commitment. The moment you placed your sword in my hands, you became mine.”

A long pause.

You stared at him. He continued to look pleased.

You, meanwhile, were experiencing an entire existential crisis.

“Hold on,” you said slowly. “So you’re telling me that, in demon culture, giving you my sword meant—”

“A proposal,” Malleus finished, nodding. “It was quite romantic.”

Your brain short-circuited. You thought back to that moment, a year ago, when you had so casually handed him your holy sword, thinking haha, maybe he can make this thing shut up.

In reality, you had apparently gotten engaged like an absolute moron.

You set down your tea with the careful precision of someone trying very, very hard not to spiral. “Malleus,” you said, voice deceptively calm, “why didn’t you tell me?”

He blinked, puzzled. “I thought you knew.”

“Malleus, I’m human.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Ah. I see the problem now.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling deeply. “So, in your mind, we’ve been betrothed this whole time?”

“Yes,” he said, utterly unbothered.

You stared at him. He stared back, composed as ever.

And then you just—laughed. Because of course. Of course you had accidentally proposed to the Demon King like an idiot.

“Well,” you said between snickers, wiping at your eyes. “Since we’re apparently already engaged, wanna just go ahead and get hitched?”

Malleus’ grin was blinding.

“Absolutely.”

Masterlist

[areislol]

being transported into their world 3

►— pairings. honkai star rail men x gn! creator! reader

►— warnings. nothing really, proofread, romantic but you can see it was platonic if you want to! sahau (selfawarehonkaiau)

►— synopsis. their beloved creator, the one who created many worlds, including theirs, had yet to return after thousands of years. but lately, they’ve been experiencing strange things, feeling like a heavenly, divine figure loomed over them. could it possibly be their one and only creator?

►— a/n. i have returned!

►— wordcount. 8.5k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤpart 2

As the grand airships soared through the boundless expanse of the Astral Sea, anticipation and reverence filled the hearts of those aboard. The people of Penacony and the Xianzhou Luofu had poured their devotion into every offering, ensuring that when they stood before their Creator, they would be worthy of Their gaze.

Among the passengers, figures of great renown—leaders, warriors, scholars, and artists—whispered among themselves. Some exchanged theories, others clung to their hopes, but all shared the same longing: to be in the presence of the one who had shaped their existence.

The Vidyadhara of the Xianzhou spoke of celestial ripples, unseen but deeply felt. The Dreamweavers of Penacony murmured about visions more vivid than any illusion—glimpses of a figure bathed in ethereal light, watching over them. It was as if their Creator had never truly left but had merely observed from beyond the veil of reality.

And then, the first sign appeared.

A shimmer in the fabric of space, a fleeting disturbance in the gentle hum of the Astral Sea. The air itself seemed to vibrate with an unfamiliar presence, neither hostile nor kind—simply vast, unfathomable, divine.

Aboard one of the lead airships, a courier from the Xianzhou clutched their chest, eyes widening as a foreign yet familiar warmth settled deep within their soul.

“They are near,” the courier whispered, breath hitching. “The Creator… is watching.”

Gasps and murmurs spread like wildfire. The High Elders of the Luofu exchanged knowing glances, and the Dream Alchemists of Penacony trembled, their own visions now aligning into a singular truth.

Some fell to their knees in silent prayer. Others clutched their offerings closer, as if desperate to prove their devotion.

And then—

A voice.

Distant yet clear, carried by the unseen currents of the universe itself.

A voice that resonated not in their ears but in the depths of their souls.

“You have come far.”

For the first time in millennia, their Creator had spoken.

And the universe itself seemed to hold its breath.

—

The moment your feet touched the ground of the Xianzhou Luofu, the world around you erupted into chaos.

One second, you were merely stepping off the grand airship that had carried you through the Astral Sea, and the next, you were utterly surrounded—crowded by eager citizens, high-ranking officials, and even a few Vidyadhara elders who had abandoned their usual serene composure in favor of absolute devotion.

“Creator! Oh, most divine one! Please, accept this humble offering—”

“These are the finest silks woven by the most skilled artisans of the Luofu! Only the best for Your Holiness!”

“My family has worshiped You for generations, O Creator! Please, take this—no, no, take all of it—”

Hands thrust forward gifts of all kinds: shimmering jade ornaments, scrolls filled with poetry written in your honor, delicately embroidered robes infused with strands of blessed gold, and even towering platters of delicacies so elaborately prepared that you had no idea how one was supposed to eat them without ruining the artistry.

The crowd pressed in, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of praise and desperate pleas. Some people knelt in open worship, while others trembled on the verge of tears, overcome by the mere sight of you. You barely had time to react as more and more hands stretched out, some daring to reach for you—only to quickly withdraw as if touching you would be a sin beyond redemption.

You felt the weight of it all crashing down at once. Their overwhelming adoration, the suffocating attention, the sheer amount of stuff being shoved into your hands—your arms were already full, and yet gifts kept piling up, stacked precariously as people kept insisting, “Please, You must accept this!”

Your mind reeled. How were you supposed to carry all this?

Just as you were about to be buried alive under the sheer number of offerings, a smooth, amused voice cut through the chaos.

“Now, now, everyone, let’s give our dear Creator some space to breathe, shall we?”

A familiar figure approached with a casual, almost lazy gait, his golden eyes glinting with mirth despite the serene smile on his face.

Jing Yuan.

Finally.

The tension in your shoulders immediately lessened at the sight of the Arbiter-General, who effortlessly slipped through the throng of devotees, his mere presence enough to make people step back—reluctantly, of course. His relaxed demeanor only added to the contrast between the fervent crowd and the calm authority he exuded.

In one smooth motion, Jing Yuan plucked several stacked gift boxes from your arms and, with the ease of someone entirely too used to handling excessive burdens, passed them off to a group of hesitant Cloud Knights standing nearby.

“Ah, such generosity from the people of the Luofu,” he mused, resting a hand on his chin. “Truly, your devotion to the Creator is admirable. However, burying them under a mountain of offerings seems a bit… excessive, wouldn’t you agree?”

A few people had the decency to look sheepish, but others still gazed at you with unwavering reverence, eyes shining with the desperate need for approval.

Jing Yuan tilted his head slightly and sighed. “If you all truly wish to show your love and respect, perhaps you should allow the Creator to rest after such a long journey. Don’t you think they deserve at least that much?”

There was a moment of silence—hesitation, perhaps—but then the crowd finally, finally, began to disperse, albeit begrudgingly. The most devoted still lingered at a distance, hands clutched to their chests as they whispered prayers under their breath.

Jing Yuan turned to you then, his smile softening as he regarded your exhausted form. “That was quite the welcome, wasn’t it?”

You let out a breath you didn’t even realise you’d been holding. “I was two seconds away from getting buried alive.”

Jing Yuan chuckled, a rich, warm sound that was oddly comforting. “I noticed. Hence my timely rescue.”

He extended an arm toward you, a silent offer of escape from the still-hovering masses. You didn’t hesitate to step closer, and with that, he effortlessly guided you through the streets, keeping the lingering devotees at a polite yet firm distance.

As you walked, he leaned in slightly and murmured, “I must admit, I almost didn’t intervene. The sight of you balancing all those offerings was rather amusing.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked any real heat. “I will actually smite you.”

Jing Yuan only grinned. “Oh? That would be quite the divine punishment.”

Despite his teasing, you could feel the protective undertone in his presence. He never once let anyone get too close, subtly positioning himself between you and the most overzealous worshippers. His touch, though light, was grounding—a reminder that you weren’t alone in handling this overwhelming situation.

Somehow, you had no idea how, you were totally not freaking out. I mean seriously, you, the supposed "Creator" of this world was being escorted by the one and only Jing Yuan.

You always found him handsome, gushing over him every time you saw him ingame and in the oh so beautiful edits. Now that you're thinking about it you lowkey miss scrolling through edits...

Finally, after weaving through the grand avenues of the Luofu, Jing Yuan led you to a quiet garden, a place of respite where the gentle murmur of a koi pond replaced the incessant praises and frantic devotion.

You sighed, shoulders sagging as you flopped onto a stone bench. “Thank you. Seriously.”

Jing Yuan sat beside you, stretching lazily. “Think nothing of it, Creator. It is, after all, my duty to ensure your safety.” His golden eyes twinkled with a teasing light. “Even if that means saving you from an avalanche of gifts.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “This is only the first region. How am I supposed to survive the rest of this journey?”

Jing Yuan hummed thoughtfully before leaning back with a smirk. “Well, if you ever feel like you’re drowning in worship, you could always hide behind me.”

You looked at him, deadpan. “So I should use you as a human shield?”

“A most noble purpose,” he said solemnly. “I would be honored.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. A genuine, amused laugh that made the weight of everything seem just a little lighter.

And for now, that was enough.

That evening Jing Yuan made it his speciality (well, there was no other perfect for this role) to help you around and set you up in the finest hotel they have, though he was contemplating whether or not to let you stay in his home.

Oh well, another time.

After a much-needed moment of peace in the secluded garden, Jing Yuan finally stood, stretching with a satisfied sigh.

"As much as I enjoy our quiet escape, we can't keep the officials waiting forever. Besides, there's still one more matter to attend to before you settle in."

You gave him a wary look. "Please tell me it doesn't involve more people throwing things at me."

Jing Yuan chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "No, no, nothing of the sort. This is merely a... welcome gift, of sorts. One befitting your divine status."

With a flick of his wrist, he signaled a Cloud Knight nearby, who quickly bowed and stepped forward, handing him an ornate jade key embossed with golden inlays. Jing Yuan twirled it between his fingers before offering it to you.

"The finest lodging in all of the Luofu awaits you, Creator. We've taken the liberty of preparing the most luxurious accommodations—handcrafted furniture, celestial silk bedding, a private garden, and, of course, an entire team of attendants at your beck and call."

You blinked. "You got me a palace?"

Jing Yuan hummed. "Did you want a palace? I can certainly..."

"No! It's alright!"

Your escort back into the main district of the Luofu was far more controlled this time, thanks to the Arbiter-General’s presence. Though citizens still peered at you with awe, none dared to swarm you again under his watchful eye.

Eventually, you arrived before an exquisite structure that towered above the rest of the district. It was more than just a hotel—it was a masterpiece.

The building gleamed under the warm glow of Xianzhou lanterns, its architecture a perfect blend of ancient artistry and modern refinement. The entrance alone was grander than any palace you had seen, with enormous wooden doors adorned with gold filigree and jade carvings of divine creatures bowing in reverence.

A faint, pleasant floral aroma wafted from within, and even from the threshold, you could tell that the entire establishment exuded luxury.

A team of elegantly dressed attendants stood in perfect formation, their heads bowed respectfully as they awaited your arrival.

The head steward, an elderly but refined man with a neatly tied beard, stepped forward, his expression filled with practiced grace.

"O Most Revered Creator, it is our greatest honor to welcome You to the Celestial Pavilion, the pinnacle of hospitality in the Xianzhou Luofu. Every suite, every meal, every service within these walls has been prepared with Your divine comfort in mind."

The doors swung open, revealing an interior that was almost too stunning to believe.

The floor was made of polished white jade, reflecting the warm glow of floating lanterns that hovered like soft stars above. An artificial river ran through the grand lobby, its waters imbued with luminescent koi fish that swam in mesmerizing patterns. Exquisite tapestries depicting celestial beings hung from the walls, woven with real gold and silver threads.

Jing Yuan leaned down slightly, whispering near your ear, "Too much?"

You turned to him with an incredulous look. "Jing Yuan. This is not a hotel. This is an imperial palace in disguise."

He laughed, clearly entertained by your reaction. "Well, nothing but the best for our dear Creator. Besides, would you really prefer a lesser place after all the trouble of traveling here?"

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. "I just feel like this is… way too much."

Jing Yuan smirked. "You underestimate how deeply the people of the Luofu revere you. To them, even this is barely enough."

Before you could protest further, the head steward gestured towards an awaiting elevator, its interior lined with intricate carvings of constellations.

"Please, allow us to guide You to Your private suite. The entire top floor has been reserved solely for You, ensuring the utmost privacy and security."

Jing Yuan made a teasing gesture towards the elevator. "Shall we, O Divine One?"

You shot him a look but stepped inside regardless, allowing the attendants to lead the way.

When the elevator doors slid open, you were greeted with a sight that made your previous awe seem insignificant.

The suite was enormous—practically a mansion in itself. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking panoramic view of the Luofu, where floating islands drifted lazily against a sea of stars. The decor was luxurious yet tasteful, blending rich Xianzhou aesthetics with divine motifs. Silken drapes billowed gently from the breeze of an open balcony, where a koi pond glowed softly in the moonlight.

The centerpiece of the room, however, was the massive bed—practically a throne of luxury. The sheets were woven from celestial silk, rumored to be softer than clouds, and the pillows looked as though they could swallow you whole.

You turned to Jing Yuan, your voice deadpan. "Did you guys handpick the softest, most luxurious materials in the entire universe for this?"

He hummed. "More or less. The mattress is filled with the down of a rare celestial bird said to bring pleasant dreams. The silk was harvested from dreamweaving moths, whose threads are softer than air itself."

You stared at the impossibly extravagant bed, then back at him. "This bed alone is worth more than my entire existence, isn’t it?"

Jing Yuan grinned, tilting his head. "Perhaps. But as the Creator, what is wealth to You?"

You groaned, flopping onto the bed despite your previous complaints. The moment your body sank into the heavenly softness, a deep sigh escaped your lips. "...Okay, fine. This is actually incredible."

Jing Yuan’s chuckle was smooth, triumphant. "I thought you’d come around."

Just then, an attendant entered with a respectful bow. "Creator, your evening meal has been prepared. Would you like it served in the dining hall, or shall we bring it to you here?"

Her voice trembled ever so slightly, and you noticed.

You were about to answer when Jing Yuan sat down beside you with an easygoing smile. "I can join you, if you’d like. Of course, I’d understand if you prefer to dine alone after such a long day."

You hesitated, then gave him a small smirk. "Stay. I think I need someone to keep me from drowning in luxury."

Jing Yuan let out a laugh, leaning back on his hands. "Very well. Consider it my continued duty to ensure you survive this overwhelming hospitality."

As the attendants set up a feast of delicacies, you allowed yourself a rare moment of relaxation. The overwhelming attention, the endless gifts, the suffocating devotion—it was a lot to handle.

But at least, for now, you had Jing Yuan by your side to make it all a little more bearable.

And with Penacony as your next destination, you were going to need all the support you could get.

—

That night, after a long and overwhelming day, you finally let out a deep sigh as you sank into the impossibly soft mattress. The pearly silk sheets draped over your body like the gentlest of clouds, but even with all the luxury surrounding you, something felt… odd.

Not bad, just unreal.

You had spent the entire day being treated like something divine—worshipped, adored, and overwhelmed with endless gifts and reverence. While you knew the people of Xianzhou Luofu meant well, the sheer intensity of their devotion had left your mind reeling.

Sitting up, you pulled at the silky robe you had been given earlier, rubbing the fabric between your fingers. It was exquisite, made from rare materials woven by expert hands, but it wasn’t what you needed right now.

So, with a decisive nod, you slipped out of bed and padded over to the wardrobe. As expected, it was massive—filled with handpicked garments of the finest quality, likely tailored specifically for you. But you ignored the silken robes and intricate gowns, your eyes searching for something softer, fluffier—something that felt normal.

And, to your relief, you found it.

A set of plush, cozy loungewear—still elegant, but far more comfortable than the regal attire you had been given throughout the day. You wasted no time changing into it, sighing in contentment as the soft fabric hugged your skin.

Much better.

Now properly dressed for relaxation, you returned to the bed, slipping beneath the covers once more. The dim golden glow of the lanterns cast warm shadows across the room, the faint sound of running water from the koi pond outside filling the air with a serene ambiance.

You had a couple of weeks here before moving on to Penacony. That thought alone was enough to make you sigh again—two whole weeks of this level of treatment. It wasn’t that you weren’t grateful, but it was overwhelming. How were you supposed to act when everyone saw you as something so divine?

Just as you were beginning to spiral into your thoughts again, there was a polite knock at the door.

A soft voice spoke from the other side. “Apologies for disturbing you, O Revered One. General Jing Yuan has sent a message regarding tomorrow.”

Curious, you sat up. “Come in.”

The door slid open, revealing a neatly dressed servant who carried a delicate scroll sealed with golden wax. They bowed deeply before presenting it to you.

You accepted it, offering a small nod of thanks. The servant hesitated, as if debating whether to say something, but ultimately decided against it and left as silently as they had arrived.

Breaking the seal, you unrolled the scroll and began reading.

Dearest Creator, I imagine today has been rather… intense. I would say you’ll grow used to it, but I doubt anyone could adjust so quickly to such unrelenting devotion. Fortunately, I have taken it upon myself to provide a reprieve from the overwhelming fanfare. Tomorrow, allow me the honor of showing you the Xianzhou that few ever see. Beyond the grand halls and bustling markets lie hidden wonders—sacred places, untouched beauty, and sights reserved only for those deemed worthy. I assure you, this will not be an ordinary tour. You deserve to witness the true splendor of the Luofu, not just the grandeur they parade before you. Rest well, and anticipate a journey unlike any other. —Jing Yuan

A small, genuine smile tugged at your lips.

For the first time since arriving, you felt something besides pressure—excitement.

The idea of seeing the true beauty of Xianzhou, beyond the formal ceremonies and excessive tributes, sparked something warm in your chest. Jing Yuan wasn’t treating you like some untouchable deity—he was inviting you to experience something.

And you couldn’t wait.

With that thought, you carefully set the scroll aside and curled deeper into the blankets, a quiet sense of anticipation settling over you.

Tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow, you wouldn’t just be the Creator.

You would be you.

As the warmth of sleep wrapped around you, your thoughts drifted into a haze of anticipation. The soft embrace of the plush blankets, the faint trickle of water outside, and the distant hum of the city lulled you into a peaceful slumber.

And for the first time since arriving, you truly rested.

But something was… different.

The dream came suddenly—so vivid, so distant, yet unbearably familiar. You were surrounded by muffled voices, warped as though you were underwater, their words blurred beyond recognition. Faint beeping echoed somewhere in the background, rhythmic and steady, like the slow, deliberate ticking of time.

A sharp scent filled the air—antiseptic, sterile.

Hospital.

Your fingers twitched. No silk, no embroidery, no luxurious warmth. Instead, there was something stiff beneath you, something thin and uncomfortable. You tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy, weighed down as if submerged in an invisible force keeping you still.

The voices grew clearer.

"—stable for now."

"Still no response?"

"Nothing. But brain activity is... unusual."

There was a pressure on your chest—something tight, restricting. Panic clawed at your throat, and you tried to force your eyes open, but the dream was cruel, keeping you trapped in its grasp.

A shadow moved beyond the blinding hospital lights. Someone leaned over you, their features blurred beyond recognition, but there was an undeniable concern in their presence.

"Come back to us."

The voice sent a chill down your spine, a foreign familiarity creeping in. Come back? Where? To what?

Your heart pounded. The dream was suffocating, pressing against you with a weight that felt far too real. You weren’t supposed to be here. You were supposed to be in your flagship, on your way to Penacony, celebrated and revered as the Creator.

So why did it feel like something—someone—was pulling you back?

The beeping quickened, an alarmed voice sounded somewhere beyond the veil of unconsciousness, but before you could grasp onto anything, the dream collapsed in on itself.

You shot up in bed, gasping.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the celestial glow of the stars outside the massive windows of your chambers. Your chest heaved as you struggled to regain your breath, hands trembling slightly as they gripped the silk sheets. The sensation of the dream lingered, the sterile scent, the voices, the weight of something unseen—

But it was gone.

You swallowed hard, pressing a hand against your forehead. It was just a dream.

…Right?

—

A gentle knocking stirred you from your dreams.

At first, you barely registered the sound, your mind still caught between the lingering remnants of sleep and the waking world. The knock came again—soft, patient, yet firm enough to rouse you.

You blinked blearily, shifting beneath the covers as the morning light seeped in through the ornate windows, casting golden rays across the room.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

The voice was familiar—smooth, rich with amusement, and unmistakably belonging to Jing Yuan.

That woke you up completely.

Still groggy, you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. The memory of last night came rushing back—his letter, the promise of an exclusive tour, the excitement that had lulled you into such a deep sleep.

He’s here already?!

Panicked, you glanced down at yourself, relieved to find you hadn’t tangled yourself in the sheets or drooled all over the pillow like some sleep-deprived mess. Your fluffy loungewear was slightly rumpled, but nothing too embarrassing.

Clearing your throat, you called out, “Come in.”

The door slid open smoothly, revealing Jing Yuan.

He stood at the threshold, hands folded neatly behind his back, his usual composed yet knowing smile resting on his lips. The morning light framed him perfectly, highlighting the silver strands of his long, flowing hair and the sharp yet relaxed features of his face. His robes, though still formal, were noticeably lighter than the ones he wore during official duties.

Even his very presence exuded effortless grace, like he had all the time in the world.

“I see you’ve rested well,” he mused, taking in your cozy state with an amused glint in his golden eyes. “It would be a shame if the Creator themselves were sleep-deprived in my care.”

You rolled your eyes at his teasing tone but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “I did, actually. Thanks for asking.”

He nodded approvingly. “Good. You’ll need all your energy for today.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That makes it sound like you’re planning to make me run a marathon.”

Jing Yuan chuckled. “Nothing so drastic, I promise. But I do intend to take you places that require a bit more… mobility than sitting on a grand throne accepting gifts all day.”

That piqued your interest. “You weren’t joking about showing me the real Xianzhou, huh?”

“I would never joke about such a thing,” he said with a smirk. “I value my life too much to deceive the Creator.”

You snorted at that but were already feeling more awake and eager for the day ahead.

“I’ll get dressed,” you said, swinging your legs over the bed. “Give me a few minutes.”

Jing Yuan inclined his head, stepping back toward the door. “Take your time. I’ll be waiting just outside.”

As the door slid shut behind him, you let out a breath and stood up, stretching as you tried to shake off the remnants of sleep.

Today was going to be different.

And you couldn’t wait.

Once you were dressed and ready, you stepped outside, greeted by the soft morning breeze that carried the delicate scent of blooming flora. The Xianzhou Luofu was already stirring with life—merchants setting up their stalls, artisans practicing their craft, and the faint hum of ships soaring above the bustling city.

And, of course, Jing Yuan was waiting for you.

Leaning casually against one of the elegant wooden pillars just outside your quarters, the general looked completely at ease, as if he had all the time in the world. His golden eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as he watched you approach.

“I was beginning to wonder if the Creator was the type to sleep in,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the light outer robe draped over your shoulders. “I think I deserve some extra rest after yesterday.”

Jing Yuan let out a soft chuckle. “That, I can’t argue with. But I did promise you an unforgettable tour, and I intend to deliver.”

You tilted your head. “So, where are we going first?”

He turned slightly, motioning for you to follow. “Somewhere only a select few have the privilege of visiting.”

Intrigued, you walked beside him as he led you through the city. The streets were lined with towering buildings adorned with intricate carvings, the scent of freshly brewed tea and steamed buns wafting through the air as street vendors called out their morning specials. You could feel the weight of countless eyes on you—some reverent, some awestruck, and some barely able to hold back their excitement.

Word had spread, fast.

Whispers followed in your wake. Citizens knelt as you passed, their expressions a mixture of devotion and disbelief, as if they couldn’t believe they were standing in the presence of their revered Creator.

You felt your steps falter, slightly overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of their gazes.

Jing Yuan must have noticed, because without hesitation, he shifted closer to you, his voice low and reassuring. “Ignore the crowd. They mean no harm, but I understand how suffocating such attention can be.”

You exhaled, nodding as you did your best to focus on the path ahead.

Before long, you reached a secluded area near the edge of the city—a vast, hidden garden surrounded by towering cherry blossom trees, their petals fluttering gently in the wind. A sacred place, untouched by the bustling city, where the only sounds were the soft rustling of leaves and the distant chime of wind bells hanging from the eaves of an ancient shrine.

Your breath caught.

The sight before you was breathtaking.

A grand koi pond stretched out before you, its crystal-clear waters reflecting the soft hues of dawn. The koi swam gracefully beneath the surface—some golden, some shimmering like silver, and a few so rare they seemed almost ethereal. Stone pathways curved around the pond, leading to delicate wooden pavilions shaded by vibrant red maples.

Jing Yuan stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back as he observed your reaction. “This place has existed for centuries, long before my time. Few ever set foot here.” He turned to you, a knowing glint in his eyes. “But I thought it was only right for you to see the beauty your world has inspired.”

You swallowed hard, a strange warmth blossoming in your chest.

It wasn’t just the scenery—it was the meaning behind it.

Jing Yuan had personally chosen this place, not as a grand spectacle for the people to see, but as something meant only for you. A place where you weren’t the revered Creator burdened by endless expectations—just you.

Your fingers grazed the petals of a cherry blossom branch as you took a deep breath. “…It’s beautiful.”

Jing Yuan smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stood there, letting the peace of the garden settle around you.

Then, with a small smirk, he added, “Of course, this is only the beginning. There’s much more to see.”

You turned to him, curiosity sparking in your gaze. “Oh? You have more surprises?”

He chuckled, his golden eyes glinting playfully. “Would I really be a good host if I didn’t?”

You couldn’t help but grin. “Alright, General. Impress me.”

Jing Yuan was nothing if not an exceptional guide. From the moment you left the tranquil garden, he took it upon himself to show you everything—from the grandiose to the humble, from the historical to the modern, ensuring you experienced Xianzhou Luofu not as some untouchable deity, but as someone meant to live within it, even if only for a short while.

The two of you strolled through vast, open courtyards where swordsmen trained with unwavering focus, their movements so precise they almost looked choreographed. Some paused mid-strike when they noticed you, their expressions flickering between awe and disbelief before quickly bowing in reverence. Jing Yuan simply chuckled, assuring them they need not falter in their training.

From there, he led you through the bustling markets, where the scent of incense, fresh herbs, and sizzling skewers filled the air. The shopkeepers, upon realizing who had stepped into their midst, nearly fell over themselves to offer their best wares.

Silken fabrics embroidered with golden threads, delicate porcelain tea sets, and finely crafted accessories were all presented to you with utmost sincerity and a touch of the Xianzhou. But despite their efforts, what truly captivated you was the food.

Jing Yuan, ever the indulgent host, made sure you tasted everything.

Steamed dumplings filled with fragrant broth that burst the moment you bit into them. Crispy duck brushed with a glossy, caramelized glaze. Fluffy lotus seed pastries, subtly sweet and impossibly soft. You were handed skewers of spiced meat, bowls of fresh noodles, and warm cups of floral-infused tea before you even had time to finish what was already in your hands.

"You should pace yourself, Your Grace," Jing Yuan remarked, amused as he handed you yet another delicacy—a delicate mooncake with an intricate design pressed into its golden crust. "I fear the entirety of the Xianzhou’s culinary scene might end up on our table at this rate."

You swallowed a bite of your current dish, shaking your head with a grin. "You're the one accepting everything on my behalf."

He feigned innocence. "I would never refuse a citizen’s heartfelt offering to their beloved Creator."

You gave him a flat look, but there was no real irritation behind it. Truth be told, it was nice—to walk freely among the people, to experience their world through their senses. The energy of the marketplace was vibrant, filled with life and laughter, and for once, you didn’t feel like an unreachable deity. You felt... present.

And Jing Yuan?

He never rushed you, never made you feel overwhelmed. He kept a comfortable pace, his tone always light and teasing but never overbearing. He shared small stories about the vendors—how one particular old man had been selling candied fruits in that very spot for decades, how a certain tea house had once been a hidden meeting place for strategists during past conflicts. Every bit of history he wove into the day made you feel more connected to this world.

After what felt like hours of exploring, the two of you eventually found yourselves in a secluded, open-air pavilion overlooking the sprawling city. The view was breathtaking—elegant rooftops stretching into the horizon, sky-faring ships gliding smoothly between them, the setting sun dipping the entire city in warm hues of orange and gold.

You let out a long sigh, leaning against the railing as the cool breeze caressed your skin. "I think I’ve walked more today than I have in months."

Jing Yuan chuckled, standing beside you with his hands clasped behind his back. "That only means you’ve truly experienced the Xianzhou as it should be—through movement, conversation, and indulgence." He turned his gaze toward you, his golden eyes gleaming with something softer, more genuine.

"You’ve granted us your presence, but I wanted you to see that this world—your world—has flourished because of what you created."

You were quiet for a moment, absorbing the weight of his words.

Despite the reverence, the titles, the endless offerings, this was the first time you truly felt the impact of your presence—not as some untouchable being, but as someone whose influence had shaped the very lives of these people. And the way Jing Yuan presented it… it was less about worship and more about appreciation.

A small smile tugged at your lips. "You’ve done a good job showing me that, General."

He hummed, satisfied. "Then my work is far from over. We still have more to see in the coming days."

You exhaled a small laugh, shaking your head. "So this was only the first course?"

His smirk returned. "Consider it the appetizer."

You rolled your eyes but felt something warm bloom in your chest. For the first time since arriving, you weren’t just thinking about the responsibilities or the expectations placed upon you.

As the day stretched on, you couldn’t help but notice something—Jing Yuan was close. Not in a way that was immediately obvious, but in the quiet, lingering touches, the way his presence seemed to loom over you no matter where you went.

At first, it was subtle. A guiding hand resting on the small of your back when maneuvering through the crowded marketplace. The barely-there brush of his fingers against yours when handing you a small pastry.

The way his arm always seemed to find its way near your shoulder whenever you paused to admire something. You thought little of it at first, assuming it was just his way of ensuring you weren’t overwhelmed, but the more you paid attention, the more you realized—he wasn’t just watching over you.

He was hovering.

Even when he wasn’t touching you, he was there—standing just a little too close, his broad frame shadowing yours, his golden eyes flickering toward you with an almost unreadable expression. It wasn’t suffocating, nor was it entirely unwelcome, but it was… noticeable.

When you stopped to observe the koi fish in a serene garden pond, he stood beside you, leaning in just enough that his shoulder nearly touched yours. When you reached for a delicate silk scarf at one of the stalls, his fingers grazed the fabric just a second after yours did.

When you felt a cool breeze pass through one of the higher balconies, he draped a light shawl over your shoulders before you even had a chance to shiver.

And then there were the moments where his presence felt deliberate.

Like when he reached past you to pick up a small trinket, his chest nearly pressing against your back, voice a low murmur as he commented on the craftsmanship. Or when he guided you through the lantern-lit streets as dusk settled, his hand barely ghosting over your wrist, as if he was waiting for you to take it instead.

You weren’t sure if it was intentional.

Jing Yuan was a man of strategy, after all—calculated, deliberate—but he was also known for his easygoing nature. Maybe this was just how he was with everyone, always exuding warmth and familiarity. Maybe you were reading too much into it.

But then came the moment that shattered any doubts.

As you stood atop a high balcony, gazing at the stars beginning to twinkle in the sky, you sighed contentedly. "It’s beautiful here," you murmured, resting your arms on the cool stone railing. "It almost feels unreal."

Jing Yuan stood beside you, his gaze distant yet thoughtful. "Many things feel unreal when one has been apart from them for too long," he said softly.

You turned to glance at him, and that’s when you realized—he was already looking at you. Not just watching, but studying. His golden eyes held something deeper, something unspoken.

Before you could react, he reached out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. The touch was fleeting, barely more than a whisper against your skin, but it left something in its wake—a slow, creeping awareness that settled deep in your chest.

He withdrew his hand just as quickly, offering a lazy smile, as if the moment hadn’t just sent your thoughts spiraling.

"Shall we continue, Your Grace?" he asked, voice as smooth as ever.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to nod. "Y-yeah."

And as he turned to lead the way, you found yourself gripping the railing for just a second longer, steadying yourself against the sudden, undeniable realization—Jing Yuan wasn’t just being protective.

He was close because he wanted to be.

The days in the Xianzhou Luofu stretched into weeks, each one filled with discovery, leisure, and the constant, undeniable presence of Jing Yuan. True to his word, he showed you the hidden beauties of the region—secluded gardens filled with bioluminescent flora, floating islands where the sky stretched endlessly beneath your feet, and ancient archives containing records that spoke of your existence in reverent detail.

Despite how grand it all was, it was his company that made it truly memorable. You shared countless conversations, indulged in the finest foods, and walked through the streets as if you were simply another traveler—rather than the Creator they all revered. But no matter how relaxed the days seemed, Jing Yuan never strayed far. His presence lingered like an unspoken promise, his touches, though subtle, never accidental.

But tonight… tonight was different.

Jing Yuan had been called away on urgent matters. It was rare for him to leave your side for long, and while his parting words had been gentle—“Don’t wander too far without me, Your Grace.”—you had never been one to follow orders blindly.

And so, under the veil of twilight, you walked alone.

The streets were quiet, the usual bustle of the marketplace replaced with the distant hum of lanterns swaying in the night breeze. The Luofu was beautiful at this hour, bathed in soft, golden light that made the world feel almost suspended in time.

But you weren’t alone.

You felt it before you saw him—a presence, heavy and sharp, like the edge of a blade hovering just close enough to cut.

Instinctively, you stopped, your gaze drifting to the shadows near the entrance of a closed tea house. And then you saw him.

Blade.

He stood partially obscured by the darkness, his crimson eyes gleaming even in the dim light. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an unmistakable intensity to the way he looked at you.

He had been watching.

How long had he been there? How many times had he watched from the shadows, unseen?

Your heart should have pounded in alarm, but it didn’t. Because Blade did not feel like a threat.

He felt like something else—something foreign yet familiar, like a whisper of something long forgotten.

"You shouldn’t be out here alone," his voice was low, carrying easily in the stillness.

You tilted your head slightly, taking a careful step closer. "Are you watching over me?"

Blade didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flickered over you—not in reverence, not in fear, but in something far more unreadable.

"You walk freely," he finally murmured, "yet you are not free."

The words sent a shiver down your spine, but before you could ask what he meant, he moved.

A sudden shift of air, and then—he was closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you could see every detail of him—the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark hair fell over his eyes, the almost imperceptible tension in his stance.

"Why do you care?" you asked softly.

For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t answer. But then—

"Because you are not theirs," he said, voice quiet yet resolute. "You are not Jing Yuan’s. Not the Xianzhou’s. Not the worshippers’." His eyes met yours, unwavering. "You are your own."

The words settled in your chest, heavy yet oddly comforting.

But before you could respond, a sudden gust of wind stirred the loose strands of your hair—and in the blink of an eye, Blade was gone.

Only the lingering weight of his words remained.

And for the first time since arriving, you realized—you were being watched, not as a deity, but as something far more human.

—

The final night of your stay in the Xianzhou Luofu was nothing short of grand.

A lavish banquet had been arranged in your honor, stretching through the ornate halls of the palace, adorned with glowing lanterns and the soft hum of ancient melodies. The long table was filled with exquisite dishes, each one crafted with painstaking detail—delicate dumplings shaped like blooming flowers, glistening seafood (Xianzhou specialty) drizzled with golden sauces, and rice wines so rich they lingered on the tongue like warm silk.

At the head of the table, you sat in a throne-like chair, a position that left no doubt as to who the night was dedicated to. Across from you, Jing Yuan, dressed in formal robes lined with gold, his usual lazy demeanor softened by something far more sincere.

To your sides, familiar faces—generals, officials, scholars, and even common citizens granted the honor of attending.

The night was filled with laughter, music, and endless toasts to you, to your presence, your existence, your return to their world, no matter how fleeting. Even as the gifts piled before you—intricately woven silks, handcrafted jewelry, rare artifacts from distant planets—you knew it was not the gifts themselves that mattered. It was the devotion.

And yet, as the night stretched on, you found yourself meeting Jing Yuan’s gaze more times than you could count. There was something in his eyes, something different than the adoration the others held. A quiet certainty, a claim he never voiced aloud but one you felt all the same.

You weren’t sure how much of the wine you had actually drunk by the time the night ended, but your body felt warm and exhausted when you finally retreated to the sanctuary of your chambers.

The moment your head hit the plush silk pillows, you felt your limbs grow heavy, your mind already drifting into half-consciousness.

And then there was a knock at your door.

Gentle, but deliberate.

For a moment, you considered ignoring it. But somehow, you already knew who it was.

With a tired sigh, you rose from your bed, pulling a loose robe over your nightclothes before padding toward the door. As it slid open, Jing Yuan stood there, bathed in the soft glow of the corridor lanterns.

Unlike before, he had shed his formal robes for something simpler, though he still looked effortlessly regal.

"Still awake?" his voice was low, carrying the warmth of someone who already knew the answer.

"Not really," you murmured, rubbing at your temple. "Do you need something?"

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a small, ornate box. The deep red lacquer gleamed under the soft light, adorned with intricate golden filigree.

"For you," he said simply, offering it to you.

Curious, you took the box and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled against deep velvet, was a necklace—a delicate yet intricately designed pendant, shimmering under the dim lighting. It was clearly no ordinary accessory. The craftsmanship alone spoke of its importance, but beyond that, there was something about it that felt… personal.

"For safety," Jing Yuan murmured, stepping closer. "It’s embedded with a warding charm, one that will protect you even when I am not at your side."

You swallowed, fingers brushing over the pendant’s cool surface. "You could’ve just given this to me at the banquet," you said, voice softer than you intended.

"I could have," he agreed, stepping even closer. His fingers ghosted over yours before gently taking the necklace from your grasp. "May I?"

Your breath hitched slightly. "Go ahead."

He moved with deliberate slowness, stepping behind you as he lifted the necklace. You felt the cool brush of metal against your skin as he draped it around your neck, his fingers barely grazing the sensitive skin at the nape. The warmth of his hands, the quiet closeness of him—it sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine.

The clasp clicked into place, but Jing Yuan didn’t move away. Instead, his fingers lingered, lightly adjusting the chain, his breath warm against the side of your face.

"Perfect," he murmured, his voice lower now, almost… intimate.

You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of just how close he was. "For safety, huh?" you muttered, touching the pendant lightly.

"Of course," he said smoothly. But when you turned to glance at him, his golden eyes held something that betrayed the simple explanation.

This was not just for safety.

It was a claim. A silent, unspoken tether between you and him, you wondered if you were truly prepared for the implications of it.

—

The morning was bright and bustling with activity as the final preparations for your departure were completed. Servants and attendants moved swiftly, ensuring that every last detail was accounted for—your flagship had been polished to a pristine gleam, your outfits carefully selected and packed, luxurious meals prepared in case Penacony’s cuisine wasn’t to your liking (though you doubted that would be an issue), and of course, the countless gifts you had received were securely stored aboard.

It was as if the entire Xianzhou Luofu had come together for this moment, ensuring that your transition to the next region was nothing short of perfect.

You could feel the excitement thrumming in your veins. Though your time here had been unforgettable, a part of you couldn't wait to see what awaited you in Penacony. The mere thought of their reaction upon your arrival filled you with anticipation. You imagined the vibrant city streets, the glimmering neon lights, and the joy on their faces when they finally laid eyes on you.

The grand port was lined with citizens gathered to bid you farewell. Banners waved in the morning breeze, and the scent of incense and fresh flowers filled the air. As you walked towards the boarding ramp, countless voices called out their well wishes, their adoration evident in every word.

Some had tears in their eyes, others clasped their hands in reverence, and a few even dared to step forward, pressing gifts into your hands until your attendants had to take over.

Jing Yuan, ever composed, stood at the forefront of the officials sending you off. His golden eyes held their usual warmth, but there was something else hidden beneath his lazy expression—something unreadable. As you approached him, he inclined his head slightly, a small yet knowing smile tugging at his lips.

"You will be missed," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Do enjoy your stay in Penacony, but don't forget—there are still places in the Luofu you have yet to see. Perhaps, one day, you’ll return."

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten slightly. Still, you smiled back, unwilling to linger on the strange feeling. "We’ll see," you teased.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, but before he could say anything more, your gaze was drawn elsewhere.

Amidst the sea of people, standing slightly apart from the rest, was a figure draped in dark colors—silent, unmoving, yet unmistakable. Blade.

His crimson eyes watched you, sharp and unreadable as always, but you could tell—he had been there for a while, lurking just beyond the crowd’s reach. He was always watching, always within the shadows, yet never too far.

You hesitated for only a moment before meeting his gaze, offering him a quick, subtle smile. His eyes flickered slightly, something almost imperceptible passing over his face before he looked away, melting back into the crowd.

You knew you would see him again in Penacony.

With one final glance at the people of Xianzhou Luofu—at Jing Yuan, at the devoted citizens, at the hidden figure that had already disappeared—you stepped aboard your flagship.

As the engines roared to life and the grand vessel began its ascent, a sense of exhilaration filled you.

A new journey awaited.

And you couldn’t wait to see what Penacony had in store for you.

—

As you settled into the luxurious chambers of your flagship, attendants fluttered around you, ensuring everything was in perfect order for your departure. The soft hum of the ship's engines filled the air, a gentle reminder that soon, you'd be soaring through the stars toward Penacony.

Draped in the finest clothing prepared for the journey, you admired yourself in the full-length mirror. The intricate embroidery, the shimmering fabrics, the way every piece sat perfectly on your frame—it was clear that nothing had been left to chance when selecting your attire.

You felt regal, effortlessly exuding the presence expected of someone of your status.

And yet, as you reached for your travel cloak, one of the attendants hesitated before stepping forward. “Apologies, Your Grace,” she said, bowing slightly, “but General Jing Yuan has requested that you wear this for the journey.”

She lifted a garment encased in a protective silk wrap. You blinked, curiosity piqued. As she unfolded it, your breath hitched slightly.

It was stunning.

Made of Xianzhou’s most exquisite silk, the fabric was impossibly smooth, flowing like liquid in the light. Intricate embroidery of golden threads adorned the sleeves and hem, depicting celestial motifs reminiscent of the Luofu’s heritage.

The colours—deep blues and shimmering silvers—reflected the elegance and authority befitting someone of your position.

But what struck you the most was how perfectly tailored it was. The moment the attendants helped you into it, the fabric molded to your body like a second skin, highlighting your form in a way that was neither restrictive nor excessive.

Every detail, from the precise fit of the collar to the effortless drape of the sleeves, felt as though it had been measured with exact precision.

And yet… you didn’t recall Jing Yuan ever taking your measurements.

Had he arranged this long before your arrival? Had the tailors studied you from afar? Or had he simply known—without needing to ask—what would suit you best?

You turned slightly, admiring the way the silk cascaded with every movement.

Oh well. It was beautiful.

With a soft sigh, you allowed the attendants to fasten the final clasps, running your fingers over the delicate embroidery. If nothing else, Jing Yuan had impeccable taste.

As the flagship made its ascent, you couldn’t help but wonder—had this been merely a gift of fine craftsmanship? Or yet another way for the general to ensure his presence lingered with you, even as you left his domain?

note: hi..hey.....well this is a bit awkward considering i haven't posted part 3 in like months...hopefully this was alright for you guys!

tags 🏷️: @tomansimp @one-offmind @miitchiji @dainsleif-when-playable @momoewn @stygianoir @irethepotato @imetsk @fiannee @sunnyf4lls @goldenglow149 @rhwm @urlocalheizousimp @saltylovetale-blog @toramune @oreo-ren @backintomykpopphaseagain @serenity-loves-red @flooofity @minteasketches @yurassia @chellazhef @fulldoves @kateybuggi @wanderingconstellations @mini-shower @160ccm @rosariashield @sickize @sarah22447 @dreamlessnight @gimmealmap @bebeluvs @caramelstarlight @sukiidreams @oceanist @achy-boo @alhaitie @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @that-mom-friend @v-ish @merormerry @gojoulen03 @scarletttcrow @hadischara @kithewanderingme @keiqqo @livelaughlovekuni @chirikoheina @wr1t3rfum1k0 @issacdaholi @yu-ulda @alysinbshsu @vanilla-sweets @your-local-reblogging-kazoo @be-gay-do-crime-ahaha @seipaws @clavichordcleffa @uhhhiwassupp @youdontneedyoknowlol @the-lazy-perfectionist @issacdarknight @lucienbarkbark @bizzybkd @obliviousariies2007 @coffee-seedy

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(if the usernames aren’t highlighted that’s because I can’t tag you so I’ll dm you when I post a new chapter! if i forgot to tag you im so sorry!)

for those i’ve taged: if you do not want to tagged for hsr drop a comment or message me.

liking + following + reblogs are greatly appreciated!!!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Wouldn't you like to see something strange?

HI I know the new Halloween character isn't out yet but I needed an outlet for my excitement (Yes, I am unfortunately a Nightmare Before Christmas girlie) 💀 so please be advised that he may not be in character here, I'm just writing based on vibes! This is technically a twisted!Jack Skellington x Reader fic, but the Reader is basically playing a role similar as Sally from the film.

P.S. I want everyone to know that I busted out my drawing tablet to make this special border for him the same day he was first announced... Yeah...

Boo.

On the nights with full moons, he liked to steal away to the Spiral Hill on the outskirts of town.

The outcrop of land overlooked a vast graveyard and field laden with pumpkins, perfuming the air with the crisp sweetness characteristic of autumn. Beyond it, uncharted territory. When he squinted into the darkness, he could make out the vague shapes of naked trees, their gnarled branches like fingers beckoning him to approach, whispering his name.

He draped his long, lithe legs over the hill, letting them hang in the frigid air. Spindly as he was, the wind easily blew them, knocking his legs around like the straw-stuffed limbs of a scarecrow. He kicked with the breeze, carefree as a child on a playground swing.

The moon stitched his pinstriped suit and tattered cravat with silver thread, touched his pointed crown at its highest points. Even the white ribbons ribbing his jacket and the pattern of bones tugged over his gloves seemed to glow under the celestial light. He liked the view, and the view seemed to like him, too.

Held in his skeletal hand was a single flower. He stroked a silken petal, then slipped another finger under it, plucking the petal free. The wind claimed it, setting it sailing off into the unknown.

He continued. A second, a third. So on and so forth, until the flower was left stripped down and barren, even robbed of its leaves.

He dropped the stem off the hill. The pumpkins below consumed it, and the once lovely flower’s body became one with the patch.

"I figured this is where you were."

He lowered his dark circular lenses. His bright eyes slid to the figure that had approached from behind, on feet so swift they hardly made a sound. They came in with the sweetness of deadly nightshade, the trace of a poisoning committed at midnight. "Not a lethal dose, just enough to knock the doctor out for a few hours," as they always said. "How else would I sneak out to see you?"

Dry, ghostly lips dashed with hatch marks pried into an open smile, both teeth and the gaps between them. Charming, in a crooked sort of way. "My dear. You've come."

You bent down. “If you don't mind, I'd like to join.”

“The spot beside me is always reserved for you.” He patted it, inviting you to take a seat.

"Such a gentleman." You sunk down, folding your hands in your lap. "And so handsome when you're brooding. You're terribly good at that."

He was, he was, especially silhouetted by the moon. The man was practically monochrome, but bathed in silver like this, his pale skin was less sickly and more ethereal. He almost appeared like a cruel angel in the light, descending to expunge evil.

"I'm not brooding," he pouted, "I'm dreaming."

“Dreaming." You reached out and tucked a strand of alabaster hair behind his ear. "Father says it’s a ridiculous, wild thing.”

"Ah, but that's what makes it so much thrilling. Life’s no fun without a good scare.”

His mouth quirked to one side, and his smile became off-kilter--as his ideas often were. "He'll bring us to ruin with his crazy, new-fangled thinking and flights of fancy," your father would complain. But you adored that about the boy. How spontaneous he was, how his curiosity was never-ending. He'd race about like a child, picking items up and sticking his face where it probably shouldn't go.

Full of life in this otherwise lifeless town.

"What's this? What's this?" he'd say. "I must know!"

"He's gone daffy," your father would declare.

"Mmm." You nodded absentmindedly, tracing your fingers along the shell of his ear and down to his arm. "What were you dreaming about today?"

He lifted his head, looking beyond the hill and to the woods. Not a word was exchanged. None had to be.

"The Hinterlands?" you whispered. "But we don't know what's out there. No ghoul or monster has ever ventured out that far."

"Then sounds like I'll be the first! They’ll put me down in the history books as a pioneer." His laughter brightened up the gloomy night. When he quieted, his gaze was solemn—more solemn than you'd ever witnessed him. "... Don't you wonder about what's out there? Stuff that's cold and fluffy and falls from the sky. Things that come in colors we haven't seen."

"Sometimes," you admitted quietly, "but those are just dreams. I don't chase them."

"Maybe you should. We should," he mused, fingers tucked under his chin. "I bet there's all sorts of things we've never even dreamed of, too. And wouldn’t you like to see something strange?”

"I would. I really, really would," you told him in a soothing tone. Trying to reassure him as much as you were yourself. "Let's not doing anything dangerous though. I sense something in the wind—tragedy at hand. I can't shake that feeling that something bad is around the bend if you tread that path."

You gingerly laid your hand over his. Behind tinted lenses, his eyes widened.

"Stay here with me," you begged. "We can be together. Gaze at the stars. Be safe in one another's arms."

“… Sweetness, I would love for nothing more than to have you and to hold you ‘til death do us part.” His voice fluttered like the brush of a falling leaf upon your cheek. He regarded you tenderly, locking his fingers with yours and squeezing. “But you know that’s not the kind of man I am.”

“Yes, you’re every flavor of foolish imaginable,” you replied, pressing your forehead against his, “and I love you for that.”

“As do I.” He brought his icy lips to the back of your hand. A chill spider-walked up your arm, and you shivered.

“Then…”

“That’s why I must depart one day.” He pushed his glasses up. You caught the tragic reflection of your face in his lenses. “Out there… something more awaits us. I’m sure of that. I intend to find it and revive our town, this season that’s gone stale.”

“I won’t stop you if you decide to go,” you murmured. “And I will count the days until you return to me.”

“I knew you’d understand.” His smile—now it was touched with sadness, the knowledge of soon parting ways. “Thank you, dearest.”

He stood slowly, drawing you up with him. Your feet followed, as if pulled along by a puppeteer. How in sync the two of you were, how nicely molded your bodies were to one another’s. Your joy melded under the watchful eye of the moon.

“Shall we share a dance? One for the road,” he crooned. An errant breeze tousled his pallid hair, his tattered coattails—but to you, he was fairest of them all. “Our last dance for a while.”

“Alright, let’s make this one count,” you chuckled, “so I can send you off on your travels with a smile.”

“Excellent 🎵” He slid a hand around your waist, guiding you to lean into him. “Let the merrymaking commence!!”

“Yes…!!”

The midnight waltz began.

He led you, step by step, and you trailed after. Movements easy and effortless, like two intertwining maple leaves, spinning and spiraling. Their partner, the center of their universe.

“It’s as plain anyone can see,” he breathed.

“We’re simply meant to be,” you returned.

They danced as if possessed or an enchantment was cast upon their footwear. The moment too sweet, too succulent, to relinquish so soon. They wanted to savor it, indulge in it—and each other.

For never was there a more perfect pair than the Pumpkin King and his consort.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Ideas: Magical & Mystic Locations

Abyssal Depths: The deepest, darkest, and most treacherous part of the abyss.

Ancient Observatory: A centuries-old observatory with mystical stargazing abilities.

Astral Observatory: A tower where seers gaze into the astral plane.

Celestial Gauntlet: A place connecting different celestial realms.

Celestial Realm: A realm bathed in divine light and inhabited by celestial beings.

Clockwork Village: A community where clockwork automatons coexist with magic.

Cloud Castle: A fortress floating amidst the clouds, home to skyward adventurers.

Cloud City: A metropolis suspended in the clouds accessible by airships.

Cosmic Wormhole: A portal to the far reaches of the cosmos and beyond.

Crystal Caves: A labyrinthine system of caves adorned with luminescent crystals.

Crystal Coast: A stunning coastline adorned with iridescent gemstones.

Crystal Spire: A towering spire made of crystalline material.

Crystalline Caverns: A series of interconnected caverns adorned with shining crystals.

Cursed Swamp: A creepy swamp home to cursed beings.

Dark Abyss: A seemingly bottomless chasm shrouded in darkness.

Dragon's Lair: A cavernous home to a colossal, slumbering dragon.

Dragon's Nest: A safe haven for dragon eggs and their young.

Dragon's Roost: A mountaintop lair where dragons dwell and guard their hoard.

Dream Realm: A surreal realm where dreams come to life.

Dreamcatcher Grove: A grove where dreamcatchers capture and store dreams.

Dreamcatcher Trees: Trees where dreamcatchers grow, capturing the dreams of the forest.

Dwarven Mines: Underground tunnels where dwarves mine precious gemstones.

Elemental Plane: A realm where the elements take on sentient forms and powers.

Elemental Portal: A convergence point for elemental forces and magic.

Elemental Sanctuary: A sanctuary where elemental beings find refuge.

Elven Enclave: A secluded and mystical enclave of elven culture.

Elven Kingdom: An elegant realm ruled by noble and immortal elves.

Enchanted Forest: A sprawling woodland where trees whisper ancient secrets.

Enchanted Garden: A flourishing garden filled with magical, sentient plants.

Enchanted Tides: A coastal area where the tides are influenced by magic.

Enchanted Treetops: Canopy of an enchanted forest where treetop dwellings are built.

Enchanted Waterfall: A waterfall with the power to purify and heal.

Eternal Garden: A garden where time has no effect.

Ethereal Castle: A castle that materializes and dematerializes in the ethereal plane.

Fairy Ring: A circle of mushrooms where fairies gather to dance and celebrate.

Fairy Village: A charming settlement inhabited by tiny, mischievous fairies.

Fire Elemental Forge: A forge where fire elementals craft fiery weapons.

Firefly Forest: A forest where fireflies light up the night with their glow.

Floating Islands: A realm of floating landmasses suspended in the sky.

Floating Gardens: Gardens suspended in the sky, nurtured by air and magic.

Forbidden Tomb: A tomb filled with ancient curses, traps, and treasures.

Forgotten Ruins: Crumbling remains of a once-great civilization.

Ghost Ship: A spectral vessel crewed by ghostly sailors sailing eternally.

Gnome Workshop: A bustling factory where gnomes invent fantastical gadgets.

Gnomish Workshop: A lively workshop where gnomes tinker with fantastic inventions.

Goblin Kingdom: A mischievous kingdom ruled by cunning goblin royalty.

Goblin Market: A chaotic bazaar run by cunning goblins selling magical wares.

Goblin Tunnels: A network of underground tunnels and caverns inhabited by goblins.

Haunted Castle: A spectral fortress filled with restless, ghostly inhabitants.

Haunted Manor: A mansion haunted by restless spirits and poltergeists.

Haunted Marsh: A desolate and ghostly marshland.

Haunted Sea Passage: A narrow sea passage known for its eerie, haunting sounds.

Hidden Valley: A secluded valley with a serene and mystical ambiance.

Hidden Waterfall: A secluded cascade concealed behind a shimmering veil of illusion.

Hidden Waterways: Subterranean rivers and water passages hidden from sight.

Ice Palace: A palace made of ice and snow.

Isle of Echoes: An island known for echoing whispers and eerie sounds.

Labyrinth: A maze filled with twists, turns, and perplexing puzzles.

Lost Oasis: An oasis hidden deep within a desert, holding hidden wonders.

Lost Shipwreck: The remnants of a ship lost to time, holding forgotten treasures.

Lost Temple: An ancient temple concealed in a dense jungle, holding untold treasures.

Magic Bazaar: A marketplace overflowing with enchanted trinkets and artifacts.

Magical Market: A bustling market where magical goods and creatures are sold.

Mermaid Lagoon: A vibrant underwater lagoon inhabited by merfolk.

Monolith Structure: A monolithic black structure with mysterious powers.

Moonlit Grotto: A subterranean cavern bathed in the ethereal light of the moon.

Moonstone Quarry: A quarry where precious moonstones are harvested.

Mysterious Well: A well said to reveal glimpses of the past and future to those who peer into it.

Mystic Library: A vast repository of otherworldly knowledge guarded by sentient books.

Mythical Mountain: A towering peak said to be the home of mythical creatures.

Nightmare Realm: A nightmarish dimension where fears and terrors manifest.

Pirate Cove: A hidden haven for swashbuckling pirates and their treasure.

Rainbow Bridge: A radiant arch connecting different realms.

Serene Glade: A serene glade where the boundary between realms is thin.

Shadowy Forest: A forest cloaked in eternal night and inhabited by shadowy creatures.

Shifting Sands Dunes: A desert where the sands are in constant motion, hiding ancient relics.

Sorcerer's Tower: A towering structure where a powerful sorcerer resides.

Space Nexus: A place in the stars where all galaxies converge.

Spirit Sanctuary: A haven where spirits of the departed find peace and rest.

Starfall Lake: A serene lake under a constant meteor shower.

Stargazing Grove: A tranquil grove illuminated by the light of countless stars.

Stargazing Ridge: A ridge that experiences frequent meteor showers.

Steampunk Airship: A fantastical flying vessel powered by steam and gears.

Steampunk City: A technologically advanced city with a Victorian aesthetic.

Sunken Ruins: The remnants of a once-mighty civilization beneath the sea.

Timeless Realm: A place where time stands still, frozen in eternal beauty.

Time-Warp Tavern: A tavern where time travelers gather to swap tales.

Troll Bridge: A bridge guarded by trolls, demanding a toll from travelers.

Underwater City: An illuminated metropolis beneath the ocean's depths.

Underworld: A realm ruled by dark deities and inhabited by the deceased.

Underworld Abyss: A chasm leading to the deepest, darkest depths of the underworld.

Underworld Citadel: A citadel deep within the underworld, home to dark powers.

Unicorn Meadows: Fields where graceful unicorns roam freely.

Vampire Castle: A foreboding castle inhabited by ancient vampire lords.

Whispering Pines: A tranquil forest where the pine trees whisper secrets.

Witch's Cauldron Room: A room with a bubbling cauldron said to grant potent magical brews.

Witch's Cottage: A crooked, mysterious dwelling surrounded by enchanted herbs.

Witch's Labyrinth: A twisting maze filled with magical traps and challenges.

Wizard's Academy: A prestigious school of magic where wizards are trained.

Wonderland: A surreal landscape filled with whimsical and absurd wonders.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[kikis-writing-service]

— complimenting his freckles; izuku midoriya x reader

reader is a foreigner in Japan.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the conference room windows, catching dust motes floating between you and Midoriya as you hunched over case files spread across the table. The Hero Commission building had grown quiet—most people had gone home, leaving just the dedicated few still working through complex cases. The air conditioning hummed softly overhead, occasionally rustling the papers you'd organized into neat piles around your workspace.

You'd been watching him for the better part of ten minutes—ostensibly listening to his analysis of assault patterns, but really cataloging the way his hands moved when he spoke, how he occasionally ran his fingers through his dark curls when they fell into his eyes, how his voice carried that familiar thread of excitement when he connected disparate clues. There was something deeply satisfying about witnessing his mind at work, the way he could weave chaos into coherence with nothing but genuine curiosity and relentless attention to detail. This attraction wasn't new. You'd been drawn to his intelligence from the beginning, to the passion that lit up his features when he rambled.

"The location choices suggest someone with local knowledge," he was saying, finger tracing routes on the map spread between you, "but the victim selection seems random, which means—"

The sunlight caught his face as he leaned forward, amber light streaming across the constellation of freckles that scattered over his cheeks and nose. You'd noticed them countless times before, filed them away as part of the catalog of things that made him beautiful. But right then, bathed in golden light, they looked almost celestial.

"Your freckles are really pretty."

The words slipped out without any particular thought behind them, cutting him off mid-sentence. It was just a fact, like pointing out that the sky was blue or that his methodology was sound.

Midoriya blinked, his hand frozen where he'd been gesturing toward the map. "What?" The word came out soft, almost breathless.

"Your freckles," you repeated, refusing to look away even as heat began climbing his neck. "They're really pretty."

What happened next was not what you'd expected. The blush that crept up his neck was immediate and dramatic, spreading across his cheeks until the freckles stood out even more against the pink flush. He touched his face self-consciously, like he was suddenly remembering something about himself he'd never really thought about before.

"Oh," he managed, voice pitched higher than usual, almost squeaky. "I—thank you?"

You'd complimented people before, of course. your directness often caught others off guard, sometimes made them uncomfortable with its unvarnished honesty. But this was different. This was Japan's top hero, someone who dealt with admirers and attention regularly, and he looked like he might combust from a simple observation about his appearance.

"I wonder where else you have them," you said, genuinely curious now and oddly fascinated by his reaction. "Like, do you have them on your shoulders? Your back?"

That made him go completely still. Every muscle in his body locked up as if you'd touched a live wire to his skin—his shoulders went rigid, his hand froze, even his breathing stopped for a moment. His eyes widened and the blush flared even brighter. When he finally drew breath again, it came out shaky, unsteady, and you realized you'd just discovered something interesting. Very interesting.

"I..." His voice cracked on the single syllable. He swallowed hard, and you found yourself mesmerized by the movement of his throat, by the way his pulse jumped beneath his skin. "Yeah, I do."

The admission seemed to surprise him as much as it surprised you. Here was someone who could face down villains without flinching, who commanded respect from heroes across the country, and a simple question about his freckles had reduced him to this—stammering and flushed and completely undone.

"Oh," you said, maintaining that same casual tone while internally filing away his response. "Which? Both?"

You watched him realize he'd walked into a trap of his own making, watched his mouth open and close as he searched for the right words. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like this—stripped of his professional composure, caught between honesty and propriety.

"I...I don't think..." he stammered. He was squirming now, clearly trying to find a way out without being rude, and something warm and satisfied settled in your chest

You let the moment stretch just a beat longer than necessary, watching how his leg had started bouncing under the table, how his hands clenched and unclenched against his thighs, how his lips kept parting like he wanted to say something then pressing together when no words came. You found yourself enjoying it far more than you probably should have.

"Should we keep going with the location analysis?" you asked finally, turning back to the case files with deliberate nonchalance.

"Yes," he said quickly, relief and disappointment warring in his voice. "Right. Yes. The location patterns."

He cleared his throat and tried to pick up where he'd left off, but his composure was shattered.  but it took several false starts to find his rhythm again. It took several false starts before he found his rhythm again, his voice wavering as he fought to reclaim his focus. You found yourself wondering if anyone had ever spoken to him like this before—so directly, without the careful politeness that seemed to govern every interaction in Japan.

"So, um, where was I?" he mumbled, running a hand through his hair—more nervous than unconscious this time. "Right, the escape routes..."

Gradually, he managed to steady himself, his voice growing stronger as he walked through the rest of his explanation. But you could see the effort it took—the way he kept his gaze fixed on the papers, how he spoke just a little too fast, like he was trying to outrun what had just passed between you. When he did glance up, it was quick and careful, never quite meeting your eyes.

You took notes methodically, pen moving across your notepad in steady strokes. But your attention was split between his words and the memory of how he'd looked when you'd called him pretty—surprised and pleased and desperately flustered, like no one had ever told him something so simple and true.

You'd been attracted to his mind, to his passion, to the way he could lose himself in complex problems. But this was something new.

It made you want to try it again.

While I appreciate likes, what really keeps me motivated to share my work is community and conversation! So if you enjoyed this, consider reblogging with tags, leaving a reply, or dropping an ask. I'd love to chat about my faves, anime, writing, or honestly anything else—hearing what you thought or what resonated with you always makes my day. 🖤

[pandapetals]

Freckles

Logan kisses your freckles.

logan howlett x fem!reader - pure fluff, logan kisses reader’s freckles, reader is insecure about freckles, think that’s it…

a/n: This is very self indulgent…i have freckles…like a fucking lot so this is just something i needed because i was on my period.

You sat perched on the windowsill, knees tucked beneath you, the fading sunlight painting soft golden streaks across your skin. The amber glow caught every curve and hollow, bathing you in a kind of light that Logan swore was reserved for celestial beings. But you weren’t paying attention to that; your gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the sky blushed in shades of peach and lavender.

Logan sat at the edge of the windowsill, one booted foot braced against the floor, the other swinging idly. He watched you—had been watching you for a while. His expression was a curious mix of softness and intensity, his lips pulled into that familiar smirk that always made your stomach flutter.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, catching the look. “What?” you asked, your voice tinged with suspicion but softened by the faint blush already blooming across your cheeks.

Logan shook his head and leaned forward, resting his forearm on his knee. His rough fingers toyed absently with the seam of his jeans. “Nothin’, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and warm. “Just… lookin’ at you.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, turning your head fully to face him. “Well, stop it. You’re making it weird.”

“Can’t help it,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. His eyes traveled across your face, lingering on the delicate constellation of freckles scattered over your nose and cheeks, then down to where they dusted your collarbones and arms like splashes of sun. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up into something softer. “You ever notice how the sun loves you?”

You blinked at him, startled by the sudden poetic shift in his tone. “The sun… loves me?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, leaning back slightly to get a better view of you. “It paints you gold every time it touches you like it’s tryin’ to show the world just how damn gorgeous you are.” His voice was quieter now, but it held an edge of conviction that made your stomach twist.

You rolled your eyes and gave him a dry laugh, trying to play it off. “Oh, please. The freckles…are ugly. People have told me my whole life how they make me look like I’ve been splattered with mud or something.”

Logan’s brows drew together, and his smirk faded into something sterner, almost disbelieving. “Mud?” he repeated, like the word itself offended him. “Sweetheart, whoever told you that’s a damn fool. Freckles are… hell, they’re like a map of all the places the universe kissed you.”

You stared at him, your mouth parting slightly. For once, you had no clever retort. He grinned at your silence, the look in his eyes turning playful but still achingly tender.

“I’m serious,” he added, leaning closer. His hand reached out, rough fingertips brushing along your forearm, tracing a patch of freckles there like he was committing their placement to memory. “And if you can’t see it yet, well…” He met your gaze, his grin tilting into something mischievous. “Guess I’ll just have to kiss every single one of ‘em till you believe me.”

You blinked at him, the weight of his words sinking in just a second too late. “You wouldn’t—”

Your protest was cut off by the gentle press of his lips against your cheek, right beside your nose where the freckles were darkest. You froze, heat rushing to your face as he pulled back just enough to meet your wide-eyed stare. He grinned, boyish and smug, then leaned in again, this time brushing a kiss to the bridge of your nose.

“Logan,” you murmured, half-laughing, half-protesting, though your heart was racing in a way that betrayed your words.

“Shh, gorgeous,” he said, his lips quirking against your skin as he kissed the corner of your jaw, then another freckle just beneath your ear. “Told you. Every. Single. One.”

Your laughter bubbled up despite yourself, a sweet sound that only encouraged him. He took his time, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your freckles like they were precious things that deserved to be worshipped.

You tried to protest again, your lips parting to say anything, but the words faltered before they could form. Logan’s lips pressed a soft, lingering kiss just below your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. Slowly, like a tide pulling back from the shore, the tension in your body began to melt away, leaving you pliant and helpless against the quiet reverence of his touch.

“Told you I’m not stoppin’ till I’ve kissed ‘em all. You’ll just have to sit there and take it,” he whispered, his voice low and tender as his lips trailed to the curve of your neck, brushing against another freckle as if it were his life’s purpose.

You tried to scoff, tried to summon some shred of your usual wit, but all that came out was a soft laugh. Your hand drifted to his shoulder, not to push him away but to anchor yourself against the dizzying wave of emotion threatening to pull you under. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though it sounded more like a fond confession than a complaint.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a crooked grin, his lips curving against your collarbone. “But you’re the one who’s worth it.”

His words made your chest tighten in that sweet, aching way that left you feeling like your heart was too big for your ribcage. You could barely breathe as he continued his slow pilgrimage across your skin, his kisses impossibly gentle.

“Okay, okay,” you said finally, your voice trembling with laughter as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “I believe you. The freckles are… beautiful, or whatever. You win.”

Logan pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, one brow arching in a way that was both smug and impossibly charming. “Or whatever?” he repeated, clearly unimpressed with your halfhearted concession.

You rolled your eyes, but the grin tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Fine. They’re beautiful. I’m beautiful. Happy now?”

He studied you for a moment, his hazel eyes warm and searching, and for a second you thought he might finally relent. But then, just as quickly, that mischievous glint returned to his gaze. “Not yet,” he said, his voice rich with affection as he leaned back in. “I’ve still got a few more to go.”

Before you could protest, his lips were on your shoulder, kissing the freckles scattered there, one after another, slow and deliberate. His hands, warm and calloused, skimmed along your arms as if the intensity of what he was doing wasn’t already enough to make your head spin.

“You don’t have to keep going,” you said softly, though your body betrayed you by leaning into him, the warmth of his presence chasing away every doubt that had ever lingered in your mind about the way you looked.

“Yeah, I do,” Logan replied, his voice rough but filled with a tenderness that made your throat tighten. He shifted slightly, his lips finding a patch of freckles near your shoulder blade. “Been wantin’ to do this for a long time, darlin’. You just gave me an excuse.”

Your laugh came out shaky, almost disbelieving. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That I am,” he said with a low chuckle, his lips curving against your skin. “But so are you. And if I’ve gotta kiss every last freckle to make you see that, well…” His lips brushed along your arm now, following the path of freckles that led to your wrist. “Guess I’m not stoppin’ anytime soon.”

You felt your cheeks heat again, but this time you didn’t try to fight it. Instead, you let your eyes drift closed, letting his love wash over you. It wasn’t just the way he kissed you, slow and patient, or the way his touch felt like home—it was the way he saw you. All of you. Every little thing you’d ever hated about yourself, he adored like it was some kind of treasure.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice catching on the weight of everything you wanted to say but couldn’t.

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured against your wrist, pressing one last kiss to the freckles scattered there before lifting his head to meet your gaze. His grin was soft now, edged with something deeper. “But I ain’t done yet.”

Before you could argue, his lips found yours, stealing the last of your protests and replacing them with a warmth that spread through your entire body, from the freckles on your skin to the deepest corners of your soul.

[kakeashi]

of all dreams: you ─ songs of love & devotion. ⠀⠀⠀⠀pre-boyfriend!sasuke, tender fragrant confections.

PRE-BOYFRIEND!SASUKE who listens to all your dreams. whether the dreams that visit you at night or those that are born during the day, sasuke would always listen to your dreams. when you lost yourself in the mystical words of your memory, sasuke would simply be lost in your existence. your sentences seemed to gain light, bathed in the stardust that adorned our entire sky; your expressions were echoes of the legends of the ancients; and the enthusiasm that painted your eyes was enough to manage to steal from sasuke a small and shy smile. in the persistence of your adventures, sasuke saw in you the certainty of a future, as if all your dreams were a call for what could exist. ‘tell me your stories. let me hear what your heart creates to understand what i can give of myself to satisfy you.’

PRE-BOYFRIEND!SASUKE who still remembers the day he met you. the first day, it was just a glimpse. like a delicate breeze on a summer day, your figure passed by sasuke as if he didn't exist. They were brief seconds that didn’t manage to form a minute, but an entire eternity resided in them. in a simple exchange of glances, sasuke noticed your simplicity, an almost natural light contrasting strongly with the last rays of sunlight; in a small, forced, cordial smile, so often exchanged between so many people, sasuke noticed your identity, a celestial intensity that beautified your existence; and when he heard you, when your voice very discreetly introduced you as the new neighbor, sasuke knew that that couldn’t be the last time he heard your words.

PRE-BOYFRIEND!SASUKE who believes in your superstitions. if you asked sasuke, he would say he didn’t believe in those legends; i mean, how could you have an unlucky day because you walked under a ladder? and a child’s height was ruined if you walked over them? how ridiculous — the universe isn’t waiting for a mistake of yours to punish you. the universe didn’t need any excuse to punish anyone. but when you asked him not to spill the salt or put his shoes with the soles facing up; when you asked him to knock on wood three times or not to sweep your feet; when you explained each and every one of your superstitions to him, sasuke became more alert. it was one thing for him to risk the wrath of the universe, to bring bad luck or good luck only to himself. it was another thing for you. you couldn’t be the victim of the universe. sasuke didn’t want you to suffer, not like that. that’s why, for you, sasuke believed in your spiel and did everything he could to bring you good fortune. ‘wait, are you telling me you’re not going to dinner because there are 13 of us? how does that bring bad luck? no, no. i'm not doubting you, but i wish you would go.’

PRE-BOYFRIEND!SASUKE who likes it when his clothes smell like you. sasuke has already stopped wondering how your scent constantly clung to his clothes and, quite honestly, he didn’t care. at the end of the day, already tired of his own existence and without patience for life, sasuke took off his clothes slowly, with regret, wishing that this need was completely non-existent. but when the shirt passed over his face and your sweet and familiar scent lodged in sasuke’s nose and heart, he stopped. the memory of the day was clouded, a little blurry, completely ruined by the extreme fatigue that he felt; but your scent, that cosmic essence of yours that had clung to sasuke, brought him a peculiar comfort wrapped in sheets of security and eternity. for a few seconds, when the smile on his face lost its shyness and reminded him of a day with you, sasuke forgot his fatigue and realized that life, perhaps, was not a task but a possibility.

PRE-BOYFRIEND!SASUKE who hides all the smiles you draw on his face. it was a secret that sasuke would have difficulty confessing. he knew perfectly well that that simple curve that you drew on his face was something more than a simple smile. with your words, your kindness and tenderness, the smile that tore across sasuke’s face was shy and new, bathed in the blossoming of an emotion that had not yet been discovered by him. with your gestures, your joy and security, the smile that painted sasuke’s face was unique and special, marinated with the certainty that it would never be stolen. ‘no, i’m not smiling,’ was what sasuke said. ‘there’s nothing on my face. shut up.’ but you knew that his words were disguised as indifference. you knew that beneath that thin layer of ice there was a fire lit by you and that you would ensure that it would be eternal.

PRE-BOYFRIEND!SASUKE who sees through your voice what’s in your heart. sasuke learned to know you. spending so much time with you, between missions and outings, it was easy for sasuke to get to know your soul. at a glance, looking at you quickly just to make sure you were okay, sasuke could find a movement in your body that betrayed your melancholy. in conversations, between exchanges of wise words and others that were unnecessary, sasuke deciphered the tone of your sentences that reflected what was in your heart. wherever you were, however you were, sasuke knew you like no one else and there was no need for a request for him to help you. ‘sometimes it’s easier to accept our past than to try to run away from it. the choices that brought us to this moment shouldn’t be forgotten. despite everything, despite so much, you’re here, aren’t you? and isn’t that enough in itself?’

PRE-BOYFRIEND!SASUKE who had to gather courage but managed to talk to you. sasuke would never admit how long it took for him to gather courage and talk to you. all that matters is that he talked to you. kind of clumsy and not knowing how to formulate sentences, but, even so, sasuke spoke to you and it was that first step of his that made your whole story eternal. ‘i never thought i would get to this point in my life. to tell the truth, i never thought i would feel at all what is inside me. but i feel like there is no more hiding or containing it and i really need to talk to you before i burst from so many words that want to come out. the darkness that resides in me finds its light in you. it is as if the darkness in me was created from the softest silk and you are using it to weave a path to me. a bright and warm path, as if your own soul was a flame lit just to warm me. and i like that feeling. i like how you let me be vulnerable without being afraid of being judged. i like the way you make me feel safe. and i like you.’

[novaursa]

Hello there

Can I request a HOTD! one shot that is Aemond x Younger!Sister Reader in which she is the most beloved of Allicent's children and she nicknames the songbird due to her love of singing and her voice is said to be almost celestial. Many suitors ask for her hand but Aemond being the protective brother he is doesn't want it to happen not only because its his duty to protect her but he also loves her as well and wants to make her his wife. Ill let you go wild in terms of the story, i trust your skills and i love all your other works Thanks so much!

And If They Ask for You

Requests are closed

- Summary: They wanted to marry you off, but Aemond didn't let them. And he never will.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: ❤️

The air in the council chamber was thick with the mingled scents of parchment, beeswax candles, and the faint trace of myrrh that clung always to Viserys’s robes. The king, throned at the head of the table beneath a high-arched window that bathed his face in morning light, looked half-asleep and yet strangely lucid this day. His once-robust frame had withered, but his voice, though slow, carried the weight of authority. Around him sat the familiar faces of court—Ser Otto Hightower upright and silent as a sentry at his place, Lord Larys Strong half-shadowed and smiling behind his fingertips, Grand Maester Orwyle shuffling parchments, and Lord Tyland Lannister with his fingers steepled, his gaze sharp.

Aegon lounged across from them, expression bored and fingers idly tracing the edge of his goblet, sipping without permission from the wine set out for Viserys. He was here by command, not desire. But Aemond… Aemond sat upright, his single violet eye fixed, attentive, burning with quiet fire. He was here by invitation—no, by summons. Viserys had looked at him three days past, pale hand trembling atop the armrest of the Iron Throne, and said in his brittle voice, “You must learn the work of kings, my son. Come to the council. Watch. Listen.”

And Aemond had obeyed.

They had spoken first of trade and taxes, of casks of Dornish wine delayed in the Stepstones, of an illness spreading through Lannisport, of the Black Cells overcrowded. Aegon yawned through it all, whispered something lewd to Tyland, and earned a glare from Otto, but Aemond had not blinked. His mind turned over every word, every coin, every name.

Then Lord Orwyle cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he began delicately, unrolling a scroll and setting it before the king, “there is the matter of your daughter, the princess…”

That name—your name—was not spoken aloud, but it didn’t need to be.

The moment it was implied, Aemond stilled. His fingers curled around the armrest of his chair. He knew what was coming. The talk of alliances. Of offers. Of lordlings come crawling like dogs in heat, drawn by the mere idea of you.

Otto, ever practical, picked up the thread. “She is of age now. Nearly sixteen. A treasure of our house, and the court is flush with suitors. The Lords of the Reach, the Vale, and even from the Free Cities have sent word. They ask for her hand, and rightly so. She is—”

“A songbird,” Larys murmured, lips curved with something that might’ve been admiration or something darker. “Sweet-voiced, gentle-hearted, and beloved by all who hear her sing. There are rumors that she is half-divine, sent from the Seven themselves.”

Viserys chuckled weakly, eyes distant with memory. “She used to sing to me when the pain kept sleep away. Her voice… like starlight through mist.”

Aemond said nothing. His jaw had gone rigid. He stared straight ahead, but his vision had blurred. Not with tears. With rage.

“She would make a fine match for Lord Cregan Stark,” Orwyle continued with no sense of the shifting air. “He is young, powerful, and fiercely loyal to the crown. A union with the North would bring strength. Or perhaps Lord Borros Baratheon. He has four daughters and no sons, and he would cherish a princess of royal blood to elevate his house.”

“She’s too soft for the Stormlands,” Otto noted, “but the Vale has sent sweet letters. Ser Gerold Royce’s son is well-bred and eager to please. Runestone would be—”

“No.” The word rang out like the tolling of steel.

Heads turned.

Aemond rose slowly from his chair, his hand clenched against the pommel of his sword—not because he meant to draw it, but because he needed something to anchor himself.

“No,” he said again. “She will not marry any of them.”

Otto raised a brow. “It is not your place—”

“She is my sister,” Aemond snapped. “She is blood of my blood. You speak of sending her to cold stone castles, of handing her over like coin in a purse. You forget that she is not some… broodmare to be bartered for allegiance.”

“She is a princess of the realm,” Tyland interjected calmly. “Marriage is her duty, and alliances are—”

“And what of Aegon?” Aemond demanded, voice rising like a whip crack. “Was it not decided he should marry Helaena? Was it not called tradition, that blood weds blood to preserve the line? That the gods would smile upon it?”

At that, Aegon sat upright. “Leave me out of your madness, brother.”

“You have her,” Aemond snarled, lip curling. “You—who mock the crown, who drink yourself senseless, who bed whores and maids in the same breath—you were given our sister to wed. And now they speak of giving her away? No. If you may take a sister for wife, so may I.”

The words echoed in the chamber, awful in their clarity.

Viserys stirred in his seat, the mask of age slipping from his face. “Aemond…”

But Aemond would not be silenced. “She is mine to protect. Mine to cherish. No lord in this realm will ever deserve her. And I will not stand by while you sell her name to the highest bidder.”

Then, without waiting for dismissal, he turned on his heel. His boots struck the stone floor like thunder as he stormed from the chamber, the door slamming shut behind him.

In the silence he left behind, none dared speak. Not even Otto. Only the soft crinkle of parchment as Orwyle quietly rolled up the list of suitors, setting it aside—for now.

The storm that followed Aemond out of the council chamber did not break with thunder, but with the quiet wrath that hung from his shoulders like a velvet cloak soaked in blood. He descended the steps of Maegor’s Holdfast with swift, purposeful strides, the sword at his hip jangling with each step, the weight of the conversation behind him pressing hard against his ribs. The whispers of courtiers and gold cloaks brushed past his ears like gnats, but he heard none of it. His pulse throbbed too loudly, his thoughts were thick with you—always you.

He needed to see you.

The gardens behind the Tower of the Hand were still wrapped in early sunlight, the hedges gleaming with dew, the scent of blooming roses and lavender perfuming the air like a whisper from some gentler world. It was there that you often passed your mornings, far from the breathless intrigues of court, laughing softly among your ladies as if the weight of the realm could never touch you. He found you where he always did—beneath the arching white trellis, where the pale roses bloomed year-round, even in cold.

You sat upon a carved stone bench, draped in pale blue and silver, the color of sky at dawn, your hair unbound in waves across your shoulders. One of your ladies-in-waiting was braiding a ribbon into your sleeve while another knelt before you, holding out a small harp that glimmered with polished ivory and gold. You smiled as you spoke to them, your voice like wind chimes in a summer breeze—soft, clear, unearthly. Aemond’s breath caught in his throat.

“My prince,” said the eldest of the girls, rising and dipping into a curtsy the moment she saw him. The others followed, eyes wide, startled by his abrupt approach.

You looked up at him then, your eyes alight, unaware of the fury that still curled like smoke beneath his skin. “Aemond,” you said, your voice gentle, sweetened with delight. “You’ve come to chase the sun with me again?”

His lips parted, but the words would not come. Instead, he simply stood for a moment, drinking in the sight of you, anchoring himself in your presence. The silver threads at your sleeves, the glow of your skin in the light, the way the corners of your mouth tilted up, curious and patient, waiting for him to speak.

“Leave us,” Aemond said, and though his voice was calm, the ladies did not hesitate. They fled like birds startled from a tree, casting backward glances as they went.

You blinked at him once they were gone. “You’re angry,” you said softly. “I can see it in your shoulders.”

He paced once, then again, like a wolf pacing the border of his cage. “I was at council,” he said at last, though he did not speak of what was said. His voice was low, clenched between his teeth. “The air there chokes me. I needed—” He looked at you. “I needed to breathe.”

You tilted your head. “And I am fresh air?”

“Yes.” His eye flickered, sharp and bright as flame. “You are.”

A silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant sound of water trickling from a marble fountain and the rustling of branches above. When he moved, it was with the grace of a predator, silent and sure, until he was standing before you, close enough to reach out but not daring to do so.

“I do not like when they speak of you,” he said finally, quietly, his voice trembling at the edges despite his control. “They speak of your beauty, your voice, your kindness as if you were some sweet thing to pluck from a tree and devour.”

You lowered your gaze, lashes brushing your cheek. “They always speak. It does not reach me here.”

“It will.” His voice deepened. “It always does. They will try to take pieces of you. They will carve away what they do not understand. That is what this court does.”

You looked at him then, your expression unreadable. “And what will you do?”

He stepped closer. “Watch over you.”

His hand lifted—hesitated—and then brushed a lock of hair from your brow with careful reverence. “Always. As I did when you were a babe in the cradle and cried for the stars. As I did when you scraped your knee falling from your pony and bled all over your stockings. As I will do, every day forward, whether I am beside you or not.”

You blinked up at him, a small breath caught in your throat. “Why?”

He said nothing at first. Then, softly, as if the words might shatter if spoken too loudly, “Because there is nothing in this world more precious to me.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence. Your lips parted slightly, but the words faltered on your tongue. He gave you no time to find them.

Aemond leaned forward, and for a moment his forehead pressed to yours. His touch was cool, his breath warm. “You need not understand. Only know this—I will let no one harm you. No one take you. No one change you.”

And then, as swiftly as he had come, he stepped back—his eye lingering, voice gone, heart still burning behind his ribs. Without another word, he turned and strode from the garden, leaving only the imprint of his vow behind, and the echo of your name held in silence.

[beatpoets-n-fitness]

In the heart of the cave I feared to enter, stood the treasure I’d long sought. Was she bathed in light, or was she the light, this bounty of transcendent, terrestrial and celestial magnificence?

[deathofacupid]

do you mind making a fic related to “i would burn the whole world for you”?

hi, anon! i'm not sure what character, or even fandom, you wanted this for, so, i'll go with jjk, given that i don't get many asks for anything else. i thought this was cute, which is why i just ended up doing it for all the characters, but in the future, please specify!

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ gojo wouldn't simply burn the world; he'd sculpt it anew from stardust and shattered constellations, a celestial monument to your glory. he's the strongest, a god among mortals, but his power is a sun orbiting your vibrant, life-giving planet.

his existence is a question mark until you become the answer, the reason his limitless strength finds purpose. he'd pluck nebulae from the cosmos to weave you a gown, command galaxies to compose your symphony. the world is clay in his hands - you are both the artist and his muse.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ geto is the fire, a consuming blaze fueled by his love for you. the world he knew is already crumbling, its foundations weakened by his choices, each one a sacrifice on the altar of your shared future. you are the dawn he envisions, a world bathed in the golden light of your happiness.

he'd navigate through storms of blood and tears, his path illuminated by the unwavering star of your love. he'd offer you the moon and the stars, but more importantly, he'd offer you a world where you could finally see them in peace.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ nanami's devotion is a controlled burn, a precise and unwavering flame. he's a man of unwavering morals, yet you are the exception, the one principle that transcends all others.

he wouldn't ignite the world in a blaze of passion; he'd dismantle it brick by logical brick, until only a sanctuary for you remains. his love is a quiet promise, a steady hand that will shield you from every storm. he wouldn't need to be asked; your unspoken desires are etched into his soul.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ choso's love is a wildfire, untamed and consuming. he doesn't comprehend the nuances of right and wrong, but he understands the language of your heart.

if you whispered that the world needed cleansing fire, he'd become the inferno, a force of nature driven by his pure, unadulterated love. he'd paint the night sky with the smoke of burning empires, all to see the light of your smile.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ toji's affection is a smoldering ember, hidden beneath a stoic exterior. he might not possess worldly riches, but his loyalty is a treasure beyond measure.

he'd raze the world not with fire, but with the cold, calculated precision of a master assassin, silencing any threat to your well-being. his love is a silent vow, etched in the steel of his gaze. you are his purpose, the reason he draws breath.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ sukuna wouldn't burn the world for you, but with you, a king and queen reigning over the ashes. your wish is his decree, not out of servitude, but out of a shared hunger for power and dominion.

he sees a reflection of his own ambition in your eyes, and he'd gladly watch the world crumble beneath your feet. his love is a dark, intoxicating symphony, a dance of destruction and rebirth.

[heliosunny]

Starlight devoured

Yandere!Sylus x Saintess!Reader

The Saintess was the chosen one, a vessel of celestial purity. Her prayers reached distant stars, her light a balm to those who lived in the shadowed corners of existence. Sylus, ruler of Deepspace Dominion, had watched her for eons through the fraying threads of the universe. To him, she was a painful, unattainable beauty—a beacon he could never touch without dimming.

He craved her in ways no mortal mind could fathom. It wasn’t love—it was obsession. A longing so all-consuming it bordered on madness.

When Sylus finally acted, it was with the force of a collapsing star. He tore through the celestial barriers that protected you, dragging you from the sanctuary of your temple into the endless expanse of his dominion.

In his realm, the air was thick and heavy, vibrating with his presence. The darkness seemed alive, wrapping itself around you as though eager to claim you. And at the center of it all stood Sylus, his tall figure bathed in an otherworldly glow.

“You’ve shone for long enough, little star.” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress that sent shivers down your spine. “Now it’s my turn to keep you close.”

Your defiance burned bright, your holy staff trembling in your grip. “Release me, creature. I will not falter in the face of darkness.”

Sylus only chuckled, his smile sharp and predatory. “You say that now. But you’ll see, Saintess. Even the brightest stars fall.”

-----

Sylus didn’t rush his conquest. He was patient, drawing you deeper into his web with each passing day. He isolated you, smothered you with his presence, and whispered insidious truths that chipped away at your resolve.

In your chambers, his visits became more frequent, his touch lingering longer than it should. At first, you recoiled from him, your divine essence flaring in protest. But the longer you remained in his realm, the weaker that light became.

One night, as you sat on the edge of the grand bed he had given you, Sylus appeared in a swirl of shadows. His golden eyes burned with an intensity that made your heart race.

“You’ve been fighting for so long,” he said, his voice soft yet commanding. He knelt before you, his hands resting on your knees. “Let me take that burden from you.”

You turned your face away, your jaw set in defiance. “I don’t need you.”

His laugh was low and dark, vibrating through the air. “Don’t you?”

Before you could respond, his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed your lower lip, and a shiver ran down your spine.

“You’re trembling” he murmured, leaning closer. “Is it fear, or something else?”

You hated how your body reacted to him—the heat pooling low in your stomach, the way your breath hitched as his lips ghosted over your ear. He was darkness incarnate, and yet he ignited something within you that you couldn’t suppress.

------

It began slowly. A touch here, a kiss there. Sylus was relentless, coaxing and manipulating until your resistance began to crumble. One night, he finally claimed you, and it was as overwhelming as the void itself.

He had you pinned beneath him on silken sheets, his body pressed against yours as shadows curled around you both. His touch was demanding, his lips tracing a path down your neck, over the curve of your shoulder.

“You’re mine, little star” he growled, his voice heavy with possession. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve, every inch of skin as though he were memorizing you.

Your protests dissolved into gasps as he pushed you further and further into the abyss of sensation. He consumed you, his kisses devouring, his touch leaving you trembling. It was overwhelming, intoxicating—a forbidden pleasure that left you breathless and aching for more.

Sylus’s lips found yours, his kiss deep and consuming. “Say it” he murmured against your mouth. “Say you’re mine.”

Tears pricked your eyes, a mixture of shame and something far more dangerous. “I—I hate you” you whispered, but the words lacked conviction.

His smile was wicked as he kissed you again, his hands gripping your hips. “Hate me if you must, little star. But you’ll never leave me. You’ll never want to.”

And in that moment, as his darkness enveloped you completely, you realized he was right.

Sylus didn’t just claim your body—he claimed your soul. You became his Saintess, not a beacon of light but a vessel of his shadow. Yet, even in your ruin, there was a twisted sense of comfort in his arms.

“You were made for me” Sylus would whisper, holding you close as you lay tangled together in the aftermath. “And now, you’ll never shine for anyone else.”

You hated him, and yet you clung to him. He had dragged you into the abyss, but he had also made you his entire world. And as the darkness closed in around you, you wondered if this was what love truly felt like—a suffocating, all-consuming fire that burned everything it touched.

[anything-pov]

request

Emily and Readers child colour in Readers tattoos while they sleep(w/ eyeshadow)

reader wakes up to beautiful art on her body

fluffy domestic blissssss

BANTEr

Enjoy...

The Tattoos ✨

The house was quiet in that soft, golden hour between dawn and morning chaos. Emily padded barefoot through the upstairs hallway, one hand wrapped around a strong black coffee, the other rubbing sleep from her eyes.

She'd already been up for an hour, habit, muscle memory, whatever you'd call it. The quiet was her peace before the world started asking for her brain, her badge and her patience.

But the quiet, as always in a house with a 5 year old, didn't last.

From the master bedroom came a faint whisper of sound. Not crying, not screaming, not the telltale thump of something broken. Just… soft humming.

A gentle, off key version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Followed by the squeak of what sounded unmistakably like...

“Is that…” Emily whispered to herself, narrowing her eyes as she stepped closer to the cracked door, “… glitter?”

She nudged the door open with her shoulder, peeking in. There, bathed in morning light and surrounded by an explosion of makeup palettes, markers, and god knows what, from Emily’s travel kit, sat Penny.

Their daughter. Five years old, curly haired chaos in a Star Wars onesie, tongue poked between her lips in concentration. She was perched delicately on Emily’s sleeping partner’s hips.

Straddling them like a careful little artist, completely focused on her canvas. And the canvas? Emily’s partner, dead asleep, one arm draped lazily over the blanket, mouth parted softly.

Their bare arms and torso were covered in tattoos, delicate linework, bold color, fluid shapes curling over muscle and soft skin. Or at least, they had been. Now they were… enhanced.

Their koi fish had become a rainbow trout. The celestial snake along their ribs now sported blue glitter eyeliner for eyes and fuchsia contour stripes.

The constellation map across their back had new stars drawn in Crayola. And the sun around their shoulder? Bright pink. Shimmering. And smiling.

Penny dipped a finger in Emily’s eyeshadow, brushing it gently across her parent’s collarbone with reverence, then leaned in and whispered, “You’re a unicorn pirate now.”

That was the moment their partner shifted slightly, brow furrowing, groaning low in their throat. Emily cleared her throat, biting back a laugh.

Their eyes cracked open slowly, pupils adjusting, sleep clinging to their lashes. “… Em?” they croaked, voice gravelly. Emily stepped in, grinning over the rim of her coffee.

“Good morning, Picasso's canvas. How’s your nap?” Her partner blinked, groggily trying to sit up, until they noticed the small human straddling them.

“Don’t move!” Penny ordered with the seriousness only a 5 year old could muster. “I’m not done blending.” Emily couldn’t hold it anymore. She barked a laugh. Her partner groaned again, flopping back onto the pillow.

“Should I even ask?”

“You’ve been… improved,” Emily smirked, setting her coffee down and kneeling beside the bed to press a kiss to their inked shoulder. “She got into my makeup kit. You are, apparently, now a unicorn pirate with a galaxy for a chest.”

Penny beamed. “I gave them galaxy freckles, too.”

“I noticed,” Emily said, brushing some green highlighter off their partner’s cheek with the pad of her thumb. “Honestly? It’s kind of a look.”

Their partner sighed, a sleepy smile finally breaking through. “Remind me why we taught her how to open the drawers?”

“Because she’s brilliant,” Emily replied, running her hand gently over their now shimmering bicep. “And also? Because watching the two of you like this is the best part of my whole damn day.”

Her partner glanced at her, soft eyed despite the glitter in their eyelashes. “You’re the best part of mine.”

“Even with the pirate makeover?”

“Especially with the pirate makeover,” they said, voice warm, gaze drifting to Penny. “She takes after her mom.”

Emily sat back with a sigh, brushing her hand through Penny’s curls. “God help us all.”

[satorkive]

A MORTAL AND A GOD 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ SATORU

gojo satoru, the strongest and the most attractive man who graced this earth, thinks you’re the most beautiful girl he has ever seen.

and that’s objectively true.

when the ivory-haired boy first met your breathtaking face, he was stunned.

he was cracking a joke with suguru when you stepped inside the classroom.

and wow. you managed to make their breaths away by just existing.

he even heard suguru muttering ‘holy shit’ before he immediately closed his mouth. even yaga-sensei stared at you (not in a creepy way, no). he seemed in awe.

your teacher cleared his throat and gestured for you to introduce yourself.

your steps were light and graceful, like a ballerina dancing on a platform. your skirt bounced around your legs and it made you look like a girl getting ready for a dance.

you waved your hand and gave them a smile that could even save them from having expensive electricity bills.

“hi! i’m [name]! nice to meet you!” your mellifluous voice rang around the room and suguru couldn’t help but cursed again.

“holy fuck.”

“geto.” yaga’s deep, thunderous voice made the student’s face cold.

your giggles feel like a twinkling bells during christmas that satoru didn’t speak for the whole day.

that’s how impressive your presence affected him.

since then, he has found himself wanting your attention. he wants those pretty, pretty eyes of yours to always bathe him with attention.

his nickname for you was bambi.

you are like a deer—wide, expressive eyes surrounded by long lashes; nose that scrunches up cutely when he does something silly; lips that always seems to be pouting and begging to be kissed; and those freckles. god, those beautiful freckles that look like constellations and can probably map the universe if someone wants to.

he would gladly smooch that lips if only suguru and shoko stopped being hindrances!

suguru, the traitor, seems to be in competition with satoru. his upturned eyes crinkle at the sight of your beaming face whenever you talk about clouds, flowers, and nature with him. he also can’t take his eyes off you. you are like the sun—beckoning everyone to have a light of yourself. you are the only thing that put a smile on other people’s faces. you bless them with your unending kindness, stunning grace, and a heart of gold. if heaven is a sight, you surely are it.

shoko, the betrayer, wants to hog all your divine attentiveness. being the sole student in medicine, she finds herself being enamored at you when you asks her questions regarding her technique. how does it work? how sure are you it will work? can anyone do it? can i see you do it?

when she sees how celestial your presence emits around her, she now understands why suguru can’t stop staring at you and why satoru can’t stop rambling about you.

satoru. oh, satoru.

poor satoru who can’t still figure out why your lips smile brighter when you see him. he can’t still figure out why your steps are full of pep. he can’t figure out why you almost do a pirouette when you turn back to look at him. he can’t figure out why your cheeks seem to have a color on it.

poor, dense satoru.

all he wants to do is to be yours forever and ever; because no woman will ever be it for him as he is yours and you are his and he knows—he knows in his life that if a devil ever lays his eyes on you, he will bend on his knees and repent because—

you made a god like him leave the heavens and on bended knees; crawling to you and kissing your feet like a devoted prayer.

[jhuzen]

the woes of a god [gn/m.reader]

definitely not my comeback piece. just got inspired randomly in the middle of so many things that i have been doing. i deeply apologize ;; 🙇‍♂️. this is just… a really long story that builds on the premise of the last story i posted TvT.

𖦹 big on genshin lore again, with a few interpretations of my own to fill in the gaps and insert the reader, creator reader but not sagau (again like the last story), focuses on post primordial one vs sovereigns, primordial one and second throne war, archon war, and post-cataclysm. features all six archons by their goetic names (the tsaritsa is conveniently not around), neuvillette, mentions of old seven and apep, this leans on a what if scenario, of reader coming down to teyvat before the archon war, reader is a little brutal but that’s okay ;;

The sky has never looked more fake.

Your eyes squint at the light that the world you have crafted bathed in. You had seen the horrific sights that lie beyond the peaceful blue that the skies projected before you.

Though it did little to bother any other living creature that now dwelled on your magnum opus. Your gaze drifts to the new beings, molded with striking differences from one another, their characteristics bound by the land that they were born on.

The day you had awoken was a painful ordeal to go through. The wounds that lodged within your very body is terrifyingly painful. And the very world that you had created and anchored into your body was the only culprit.

For a time, your masterpiece, Teyvat, felt like a malignant tumor that only propagated within your soul, corroding every piece of your self until you are no more. How ironic was it that your most cherished creation among all the other worlds became the very thing that causes you physical harm.

You had slumbered for a long time since then, and had dutifully descended. Your sleep was not only attributed to the pain during its descent, but also to mourn the painful passing of your beloved sovereigns. Your eyes cannot endure the fate they suffered through, and to this day, the guilt tramples over whatever sense of elation that you feel, washed over with the feelings of intense shame.

Their creator was you alone. No one else.

And when an alien being came to hunt them down for a war that lasted decades, you were nowhere to be found.

You were certain that Nibelung knew your gaze was casted on them, that he understood you were stepping away as a form of test, a way to see if he, as well as your seven sovereigns could withstand such a small conundrum such as a foreign descender.

The thought sickens you physically — you could only wonder if you putting your loving faith on them to be your champions in this war was a devastating mistake of yours that they paid for with their lives and dignity. Your mind could barely comprehend the kind of desperation that Nibelung must have felt for him to dive into the deepest depths and use a knowledge not of this world that Teyvat, and to an extent — your body, until now, struggles to recover from.

A sigh escapes your lips.

It was a gnawing ache, like those celestial larvae that crawl into your body, having a grand feast on it.

The day you descended, you had called on the elements that embodied this very world, seeking answers for what had happened when you were in such a deep sleep, entirely clueless of the events, with only a body that aches from the physical wounds it sustained to guide you to the clues about Old Teyvat’s demise and the embarking of its new age.

You had learned that day, that after the devastating defeat of your dragons, it imparted a new life. And now, humans walked the very ground you had crafted for dragons to walk on initially. You have also learned that the tiny vishaps have retreated deep into Teyvat, living under the hopeless depths, making do and surviving in such a decrepit environment.

Coming in contact with them was nothing more than a world full of hurt when you came to the realization that even the vishaps are terrified of your light. It had shattered a piece of you, and have only grieved with nothing but shame and regret.

And even when you left, the despairing echoes of your cries remained beneath as the vishaps’ lullabies as well as the tears that created a pool for them to bathe in.

Your cries that soothed the vishaps became a haunting legend in a certain civilization that had collapsed and fell through the depths. Children cowered at the stories told about the harrowing echoes, and the scholars of that very civilization had recorded your voice as a mere phenomenon, a tale for the insane, a story for bedtime to frighten unruly children.

Much after the grieving that you had succumbed to, you had learned the stinging pain that pierced through your body that keeps persisting to this day was the work of these pillars — you have come to know them as its divine nails, made to heal the lands of Teyvat from the parasitic effects that the forbidden knowledge inflicted when it was used during the wars.

Quite frankly, it did little to heal your body as you feel the way it seems to lodge within your very core, destroying and corrupting pieces of your soul.

Your first journey since your awakening was nothing short of enlightening. You had learned much about the turn of events. Your dragons have suffered enough, with the few alive ones like the Dragon of Verdure incredibly spiteful of the new race that came about.

And you were not clueless about the sharp tone Apep had taken when she first talked to you after your disappearance during the war between it and the seven sovereigns. You understood the bitterness and sheer betrayal that she had felt, knowing that all this would have been prevented had you only decided to lend a hand.

You left Apep’s abode with little pity for yourself and more remorse for not being a proper artisan to your creation.

But as you watched a civilization grow among the vast sands, you also cannot help but disagree with the unsavory words that Apep had described the new life.

Yes, they were small.

But you understood that humanity is not insignificant.

Gods have always fascinated you.

You understood that to some degree, you too, are a god. You understood that way before Teyvat became a project of yours. Your previous creations that were successfully inhabited with the creatures you had given life to worshiped you, and your descent on your visits were always welcomed with celebrations of endless grandeur.

Things were no different once the sovereigns had come to realize that you were the source of their life and the very world they live in right now. And you had also been crowned as Teyvat’s primordial deity.

However, the age of humanity had given birth to two differing types. There were the normal humans — mortal, average in strength, and so easily swayed by their desires and fears alike.

And then there were the immortals. You had come to realize that immortals came in all forms. Some had originally been creatures of the myth, others were mere elemental manifestations, spirits, or humans that were lucky enough to be ordained and strong enough to defy all the odds that an average human can only do.

There were also gods who took the shape of creatures — sea monsters, newer dragons that were striking descendants of the ancient ones.

You understood then, that even immortals, much like mortals, answered to the authority that reigned supreme in your world, someone who is not you.

Glancing up at the sky, your gaze immediately drifts to that floating piece of land, meant to hold the thrones of those revered by the new worldly life.

And just as you were finally understanding the existence of gods lesser than you, the one above who has stolen your very presence of authority declared an all-out brawl across Teyvat, deeming your very masterpiece its playground for needless bloodshed and barbaric warfare.

It declared seven thrones for seven remaining gods that would triumph above all.

And nothing could prepare you for the prize of winning one.

It was an unforgettable feeling — the way your blood ran cold as it presented seven ornaments in unique shapes, each containing a very familiar power that you have cultivated and given yourself.

The prize was the authority of your defeated sovereigns.

Mockery. You thought it was mockery. You thought whatever resides up there knows you were lurking, relearning Teyvat after your forced slumber for survival, and decided to taunt your everlasting grief over your creations by using the very dignity of each dragon sovereign that you had entrusted those authorities to.

And now, it taunts you in such a needlessly cruel way, by desecrating your world once more through an all out war between the very gods they have also created.

It was a jarring era. You took part in aiding the defenseless mortals, taking whoever in the tiny nooks all over the world. You had brought several mortals in your sanctuary in times of desperation while gods have staked their claim by surviving battle after battle.

Tactics were employed by different gods, differing in styles. Some had bargained for it, some willingly gave their throne to a god they deem fit, others who are weaker opted to team up with those that can trample over others, some had forcibly taken what was rightfully theirs, and some had willingly shut themselves off, cowering away in hopes of being left alone so they may protect their people in peace.

You had learned by then that even gods… can succumb to their desires and fears.

It had been long since the great war among gods had concluded.

However you can still feel the bittersweet sensation that pulsed through your veins as you watched all seven take their seats, claim their divine thrones, and hold the vessels for the power stolen from your elemental dragon sovereigns.

You would remember them as they staked their claim over their regions.

Barbatos, Morax, Baal, Rukkhadevata, Egeria, Xbalanque, and previous Tsaritsa.

You recall them well enough — considering that they have managed to unearth the truth of Teyvat’s existence. They came to you, offering themselves for you to indulge at the cost of recognition.

The original seven, eager as they were to meet you, were promptly shut down with a smile on your lips.

“You are not mine to claim, as my blood does not flow through any of yours’ veins.”

Suffering became an easy friend of yours.

You had gone through so much already, and your body as well as Teyvat have yet to heal and recuperate from the effects of the many wars that transpired on this world.

And here comes another one.

However, this time, someone had played the role of Icarus, and had flown way too close to a certain parasite.

It dawned on you as the familiar stinging pain seeped though your very core, breaking you once more little by little, its persistence unmistaken when you first felt it when the very first war erupted in this world.

Someone had unearthed Nibelung’s discovery of the forbidden knowledge and decided to use it.

You remember it vividly — yet another huge devastation that came to Teyvat. However, the catastrophe was marginally bigger compared to the horrid Archon war. And with the discomfort of bearing through that disgustingly painful experience, you had plunged into yet another slumber.

By the time you had awoken, you realized how deeply affected each and everyone was. Many comrades have died, some were affected, and you had come to find out that even the archons had to make some incredibly difficult sacrifices that dealt equally devastating blows to their very being.

You had little to say.

However, you have much to do.

Perhaps it was your guilty conscience that pushed you into this long journey. However, you were not guilty of being asleep while the fallen nation had wreaked havoc with their circumstances. Your guilt lied within the fact that you had never gotten to console your dragon sovereigns when they were defeated by it.

Most of them were dead, others were sealed and unable to reincarnate.

And so this was your way of making it up to them, albeit… with the archons, those who remained, and those who are now stepping up into their new responsibilities as a member of the newly established seven.

You had first visited the cold region of Snezhnaya, paying a visit to their new Cryo Archon, who has been planning something else entirely. She had willingly entertained you, despite the slight edge and tension within her. However you understood that you were limiting her desire to continue on with her plans, and so you were quick to disappear from that very nation.

Barbatos has always held you in a high regard the moment his eyes were opened to your existence. The heavenly principles call you the slumbering sloth, deeming your forced slumber and inactivity to act against the horrors Teyvat has gone through a mistake on your part as a creator.

But he deems it as a slander, and he quietly protests at the image imposed so heavily on him. He adored the freedom you had granted — giving free will to the creatures that now live on your domain, and it was that freedom that had continued to flourish within him, spurring on a belief that he had cultivated since the moment he received his gnosis.

In that tiny piece of divinity, he felt you. Quietly lurking across the lands of Teyvat, minding your own affairs without intent of reconnecting with others.

And when he and his fellow archons sought you for answers, you had little to say. Shutting them down with an indifferent gaze — no, Venti hardly calls it indifferent, the mask sure was indifferent, but there is a sense of agony that seems to seep out from that very mask.

Barbatos sleeps for eons not to gather his bearings, but to feel closer to you.

And now here he finds you in the waking world, gaze overlooking Mondstadt — currently rebuilding the life that was devastated by the cataclysm alone. His wings tuck behind him, respectful as he was as he bowed to you.

“They have it handled, Your Benevolence,” he regards you with a carefree grin on his lips, “…Humans are strong. And that freedom I’ve given them will flourish.”

“You seem so sure of it,” you respond without missing a beat.

“…They are still ignorant of you, and they do not realize that the freedom I embody is how I carry your will,” his voice comes out in a quiet purr, a reverent tone that held nothing but unadulterated adoration and devotion.

Your gaze seems too far — looking at the horizon and Barbatos wants to see what your eyes can see in this world. What perspective you have, what you think of the new Teyvat and what you think of him, carrying out your principles through his own beliefs.

“…Let us hope it is not a mistake,” you mumble, your fingers gently caressing those pristine white wings of his, and Barbatos relishes in the feeling.

He held back a wince as he felt a sharp sting from when you plucked a feather from his wing.

Barbatos had one thing to say.

“If it is your will, then it shall be done.”

You had doubts with that. You had your will — and it was done. And where did that lead you? Facing a god bearing the face of a creature that now replaced your creations.

You sucked in a sharp breath before smiling, a shallow gesture as you tucked in Barbatos’ pure white feather behind your ear.

“Mm… it shall be done,” you repeat, and a gentle breeze brushes past you. A tiny whisper and a loving kiss from the archon himself.

You accept it with a quiet hum.

Morax had more questions than the blatant adoration that Barbatos held for you. He first came to you apprehensive and tense, but you knew that he understood that he had to be around in order to get the answers he desired. He came to you with the arrogance and bravado befitting of a god.

How pathetic was it that he looked more like a god than you will ever be. But when he did, you were in a fit of deep sorrow when the heavenly principles made a mockery of your sovereigns and had given it to these new gods that prevailed mostly through bloodshed and sheer force.

He questioned your methods, Morax understood so little about your motives, about your life, about your method of creation. However arrogant and mighty as he was, he held deep respect for you still, you were the creator of the dragons that inspired him to mold his likeness into the same sort when he presented his Exuvia during his descent in Liyue.

And yet you still managed to devastate him as you first rejected him along with the first seven. Unlike Barbatos who saw agony, Morax felt the indignant resentment that enveloped your divine being, and it rubbed him the wrong way.

Morax was quick to straighten himself up, and was eager to wisen himself.

Right, he was taught to understand others.

Your legacy was infamous for losing against the heavenly principles’ divine intervention, that your sordid draconic creations were no match for the primordial one and its shades. That your era was replaced within a battle that only lasted for a few decades. And as you sat at the edge of the tall mountains that he had shaped, gracefully indulging in the tea ways away from Chenyu Vale, he could only bask in your divinity as he stood behind you, keeping a watchful gaze of your very being.

You still had that alluring glimmer that he saw when he first came to you.

An uneasy feeling grasps onto his very being. Perhaps it was the lingering trauma of being rejected by you initially that even served his cautious display now.

“…You’ve done well,” you murmur quietly. A simple, quiet praise, and Morax’s knees nearly buckled at the sheer weight. Of all the times he had been on the battlefield, none could outweigh the suffocating feeling that you suddenly imparted to him.

He feels the weight of expectations while your gaze swept over Liyue’s entirety. And Morax invites it wholeheartedly. His body gives into the sudden pressure that weighed him down, prompting him to go down on one knee, head bowed with a reverent expression.

Morax adores you so much.

“I have taken great inspiration from your creations, Your Benevolence. I have crafted them with you in mind, with how you may envision my nation to its way to prosperity.” His voice sounds like a whisper compared to your melodious echo. “It pleases me greatly to be praised by you.”

Your eyes flit to the countless mountains that were not there before. No doubt they have been shaped with the aid of Morax’s newfound authority over the land with his won authority over Geo.

“As an artisan, I must say, you have truly outdone yourself,” you quietly muse, resting the teacup between your thighs. “You have the talent, I would be remiss to not take you in and teach you few of my personal techniques.”

Morax’s breath hitched, his lips tremble, making his way towards you, half-crawling like a pest that now will surely refuse to leave your side. He had done well in his mind — redeemed himself from the foolish arrogance he once had that might have caused your blatant rejection of his being at first. But now, you were willing to let him learn from you, and that was a step far bigger than any god could have ever made.

“…Please,” he mumbled, his fingers digging into the dirt as desperation floods his mind wave after wave. “Please… please, Your Benevolence. Impart your knowledge to me. I will forever be grateful.”

Nothing could prepare him from your quiet laughter, amused by his devotion.

He is quiet, sucking in a sharp breath as he heaved a quiet sigh of sheer pleasure and relief. A genuine desire blossoms through his chest, flourishing and spreading like an illness that cannot be remedied with something remotely as simple as a handful of ground up adeptal herbs.

It took you one look to understand… that you ought not to shatter his genuine bliss. That you ought to not tell him you merely laughed in memory of the dragon who once possessed the authority that now Morax holds.

Beelzebul has always been off with you. She did not know how to feel. Adoration and the imminent desire to devote her life to you was not the first thing she had felt. Perhaps her twin sister did, Baal always did have a sense of innate fanaticism that even as her identical twin, Beelzebul could not understand.

Though she understood that when she saw Baal so utterly heartbroken after speaking so highly of you that she felt enraged. Her sister had rightfully earned her throne in the heavens, to receive that Electro Gnosis, it was hers to have with no room for argument. She had won the favor of the higher power, so why… pray tell… have you rejected someone as strong as her?

She thought you were blind to the notion of strength. She thought you were a fool — to not have seen the grace of power that Baal, that Makoto, had in her hands. For you to refuse the adoration her twin sister felt was nothing short of an insult to Beelzebul. And for a long time, she had intent to make you recognize Baal.

And then the catastrophe comes and long gone were her desires to turn your gaze towards her sister.

Traumatized, Beelzebul had little to say as she lamented over Baal’s death on that horrid war. The war that combed through Teyvat, claiming the lives of not only powerless and helpless mortals but gods like Baal fell.

On that one moment, Beelzebul casted aside her resentment, and begged for you to see just what her sister was willing to do to protect your creation. To witness the pain Baal had to go through despite her inability to curry your favor.

How ironic was it, that now, overcome with immense grief and desire to achieve the eternity Beelzebul wanted for her people, that you decided to come.

The puppet hung still, lifeless and incomplete from the waist down. Beelzebul stood by, and an odd sentiment of understanding for Baal’s fascination and love for you washes over her, as if Beelzebul was programmed to love you in an instant. Her watchful gaze never left you as you walked around, analysing the puppet Beelzebul was in the middle of creating.

Your gaze — one that Baal had longed to have — was directed at Beelzebul now.

“Your desire to reach eternity… is this puppet the answer?” You ask, “Free from erosion, everlasting puppet, made to run your territory to a perfected pace.”

Beelzebul’s footsteps echo as she closed the distance between you and her inch by inch. She becomes minutely aware of your divinity. It was like no other. It provokes the inner sanctums of Beelzebul’s physical being.

Beelzebul wants to cry.

And she wants you to hold her.

You took note of how she stepped back, before responding to you, regarding you respectfully, “…Yes, Your Benevolence.” Her eyes flit to the features of the puppet. He is hardly molded to her likeness, but it shows, beautiful and everlasting. “An eternity does not succumb to the rotting scent of gradual decay. He is a mere prototype, a test of what shall be my true creation.”

“Pity that is,” you quietly murmur. “He would have been a precious one,” you gently cupped his cheeks around your hands.

Beelzebul watched with confusion and interest as your lips press against the puppet’s forehead.

“Blessed be thy path. Return to me and you will be recognized.”

You walked towards her, the ends of your robes fluttering behind you. Her breath hitches at the feeling of your hand over her sternum, “…And may you return to me, should your pursuit come into a halt.”

It felt like a challenge, but Beelzebul does not miss her desire for it to be a mere comfort from a god who is clearly far greater than she will ever be. Undeterred, Beelzebul turns to the puppet and resigns herself into yet another long period of endless work.

There will be eternity. And at the heart of that very eternity will solely be you and her.

Buer knew the day she was born that she had huge shoes to fill in. Her predecessor was a great one, and their domain altogether was far bigger than one could imagine. Sumeru had a tall order and young little Buer had to fulfill it all on her own.

She was born into succeeding Rukkhadevata’s greatest feats, already pushed into the limelight to take over and take action over the nation that her predecessor had managed to cultivate with her compassion and wisdom. Buer was intimidated, she had enough sense to admit and accept such a fact. Buer admired her predecessor, and will continue to do so, loving her endlessly and singing praises about the hard work that Rukkhadevata had put into establishing the rule of Sumeru.

Hence, Buer finds it so difficult to find her footing. Everything she does feels so little in comparison to her predecessor’s achievements, and it was not long before a part of that adoration turns into a quiet hum of deep insecurity, seeding into Buer’s heart that forced her into a never ending cycle of pressure and admiration.

“You have so much on your mind, little one.”

Her mind clears, and she stares up into you. You — the one adored by many, and one that Buer was certain Rukkhadevata had also adored and held in such a high pedestal and rightfully so. Buer wonders how you are able to withstand the crushing weight of pressure that you probably feel on your shoulders as you carried the very fate of this world that was secured and anchored well into your body.

“Your predecessor was the same,” you continue while your fingers slowly cross strands of her hair over the other, neatly plaided. “I watched her scramble around, trying to clean up the messes that her fellow god kings have caused. I watched her get smaller and smaller, sacrificing every part of herself into clearing out catastrophes one after the other.”

Buer agrees without a word. Perhaps not even a god like you is immune to just how truly amazing the original Dendro Archon was as you sang her praises.

“The world is ill, little Buer,” you mention as you gracefully tied her hair to the side. “And when Teyvat is ill, I too suffer the same painful fate.”

No person could understand the paradoxical nature of the feelings that slowly invited itself into Buer’s heart.

She feels light from your encouragement and yet feels utterly crushed at the weight of expectations that you have placed on her, whether or not it was your intention.

Buer feels smothered by it all, and it feels so damning, so terribly incapacitating that it pains her. But Buer loves you. You came to guide her like a parent would to a child when Rukkhadevata had given her the stage to guide a region far bigger than any other archon’s claim.

“I know, Your Benevolence…” she quietly murmured.

Buer’s eyes opened, and the green tint of this prison she was in knocks her out of her daydream. Her palm presses flat against the barrier. A wave of loneliness comes over her being, and it hurts. It had only been a year or two since you came and since her capture, but she had never felt so alone in a solitary prison that Rukkhadevata once used for her own benefit now being used against her own successor.

Where are you? Are you coming back? Are you sending a champion to rescue her? How long will she stay here? A century? Five? A millennium?

Buer prays to you. She asks for an answer. An answer that you alone can possess.

The God of Wisdom seeks your knowledge in desperation, hoping you do not turn a blind eye.

From her prison of isolation, Buer could only hear the last words you have said to her;

“Happy birthday, Little Buer…”

Focalors much like the others in the same state as her had rightfully succeeded the throne of the original archons that now perished in that catastrophic event. Focalors was a mere oceanid, following after Egeria’s will as the late Hydro Archon was led into a battle that she would no longer return from. And now, Egeria’s corpse lays within the deserts of Sumeru, where the late Dendro Archon had buried and cultivated her corpse into a tree that will always be a good distance away from the very nation Egeria ruled over.

Focalors feels injustice against her predecessor now that she has shouldered the prophetic curse that the heavenly principles have decided to rule against Egeria for her sin. Her sin. Focalors’ eyebrows furrowed — was it so bad that the late archon created life? That she had desired to create humans the same way that it had done. She recalled the day Egeria was blessed with the wisdom of your existence.

A sole artisan, you, had created this world. And another one came to give birth to a new realm inhabited by humans. You were not their creator, but from your inaction, it was clear you had accepted, or at the very least tolerated humanity that now thrives on the world you have created. Egeria holds a different opinion compared to the other archons. She thought it was fair that you had rejected them initially, in a way it was your justice to refuse associating yourself with the creatures that replaced your original creations.

Hypocrites, the one that they answer to are all hypocrites.

And the feelings further exacerbate as she feels your hand press against her back. Her shoulders squared as you danced with her, a faint melody from your quiet hum was the only rhythmic guide to this romantic tango of two lonely gods.

There is a sense of longing that stews within the waters of Teyvat, Egeria once told Focalors upon receiving the Hydro Gnosis. And now that she is in close proximity with you, the feeling was overwhelmingly palpable. Her chest hurts as it tightened with every step she took, following after your flawless footwork.

This was a tragedy in the making and Focalors was eagerly participating in it.

“Does it hurt?” She asks you, adoring the serenity etched into your face as a defaulted expression. “To have your name sullied by the injustice inflicted by the winners? That no human speaks your name and sings your praises?”

You flawlessly spin her away until she comes back in your grasp, “I am in agony,” you admit with a haunting smile, mirthless and still so beautiful, “Even more as I am reliving him through you.”

The pace picks up and Focalors hurries, having little time to catch her breath as she feels an unsettling pull wash over her. There was a desire to please you, as if your request cannot be denied outright. Maybe it was the world asking her to do your bidding, or maybe Egeria had programmed this into her very core when she was created as a mere Oceanid familiar.

Before she was even aware, the humming comes to a close and Focalors was bowing like you to an audience of nothing but the endless sea and the creatures that lurked beneath it.

You tilt your head to the side, “I hope I have relayed my feelings well enough to you.” You smile at her and Focalors’ grip on your hand tightens significantly.

You don’t say it, but she feels it. She has the authority of the everlasting waters — your tears, your agony, your pain. And it drowns her further and further until it suffocates her and dissolves her being, much like the dreaded prophecy she was tasked to solve by her predecessor.

Give it back. Give him back.

He was never gone. Focalors had not met him, but she knew of his existence. She knows what you want.

Focalors was blessed with great intelligence, and knew how to kill two birds with one stone. She had thought about it. She could solve the prophecy and fulfill your wish.

Focalors was a romantic as much as she had a flair for the dramatic. She loved humanity above all but perhaps her love for you exceeds that even just for a generous millimeter.

A quiet sigh escapes her lips.

“Applaud me for my performance once it ends, Your Benevolence.” She requested in a quiet voice, and she pities herself for feeling immense satisfaction from a mere wordless nod from you.

For you, who had accepted the humanity that Focalors loves, the archon would do the same. She would accept your selfish wish and make it come true, indulge in your quiet favor, be the one you will forever love and adore even in her death.

Haborym has heard of the tales of the great one. How the very world was shaped by your divine hands, like a sculptor carving out the features of your next masterpiece. But that was only after the First Pyro Archon had gained control over the Pyro Gnosis roughly a thousand and five hundred years ago, one that uncovered the existence of a will greater than the ones that ruled over them from above.

However, most of the people of Natlan remain blissfully unaware of one of the many secrets that the lineage of Pyro Archons have known by their succession to the heavenly throne.

They were unaware of Xbalanque’s great failure in gaining your favor. The failure of the first Pyro Archon that assumed the throne. And the next archons in line that failed after it.

It was much like the pilgrimage, once an archon, not only are they tasked to care for Natlan’s delicate situation against the Abyss, their people, but also they must try again to gain your favor. It was like a tradition, an obligation even — passed down from one archon to another, seeing how they can succeed in what Xbalanque, as great as he was, completely failed at.

Perhaps you were exasperated by the constant badgering for the Pyro Archons that came before Haborym, because somehow, before she could even get to you, you had appeared before her during the havoc that Khaenri’ah’s incident has wreaked upon your lands. You came to her while she finished wringing out every bit of life of any Rifthound that threatened the lives of her people.

She had exerted much of her energy, and though she had enough energy still for more confrontations along with the revered heroes of Natlan, you had come to aid her even for a second. She felt your cooling touch that soothed any aches that rooted deep within her from the abyssal creature’s devastating attacks. She is mostly certain that any normal person would crumble into dust if they even were swiped at by one measly claw of these things.

Regardless, that was the first time you and her had met. Haborym barely registered the truth in your identity before you swiftly disappeared.

And now confusion only grows more evident in her core as she watched you, sat atop the tallest valleys in Natlan’s many plateaus. You sat, cross-legged as you watched the nation slowly recover from its terribly huge loss. You seemed lax, for someone having witnessed the lands of your creation nearly succumb to the abyss. But you were hardly fazed, with your face resting on the palm of your hand.

“…I must extend my apologies.” You finally spoke, breaking the silence.

Haborym feels a sense of camaraderie, and oddly enough, it prompts her to sit beside you. Her fellow archons — whether within Natlan or among the other nations — have always placed you on such a high pedestal. However perhaps it was because Haborym was a human before she was… well, Haborym.

But the humanity that dwelled within her thrives and connects with what she can perceive as a small island of humanity within the seas of your divinity. It was small, but it was irrational, loving, and resentful, all emotions hardly any gods, much less a higher being like you should never be bothered with.

Haborym takes a deep breath before nodding, “I accept your apology.”

She thinks she’s doing better than the preceding Pyro Archons when she heard your laughter. Somehow, Teyvat grew a little brighter upon that single moment.

“I believe I have a hand in the failure of Natlan. The reason why your nation has suffered far more devastating blows was because of the weak constitution of the leylines,” you explained, and it was not news to her. It had been the consistent problem that hung over the heads of the previous Pyro Archons, and now hers.

Haborym nods. She doesn’t ask the question of why, and patiently waits for what else you have to say.

“I am certain you don’t need any explanation, however… I created this place without factoring in the possibility of your kind’s creation. Had I known, your lands would not have been the backdoor for the darkness that threatens to consume the lives of your people.”

You smiled a little, throwing a glance at Haborym, “…You must understand, I am a creator in belief that all good things must become bad… and all bad things must become good. I believe in the equilibrium of the worlds — that all must learn the essence of balance. It is why Teyvat is my masterpiece, because it encapsulates my belief.”

“Creation must face destruction, and destruction must birth creation. That is the essence of my samsara.”

Your words felt like a hint, and Haborym’s eyes dart towards the heart of Natlan, where the Sacred Flame burns bright and hot.

And Haborym was taught from a young age that a true god’s wisdom is never something to overlook.

You had to applaud the collective effort of everyone in Teyvat. Five hundred years later and it keeps thriving from the devastating cataclysm. And now you have met a fitting champion to wield your will. Though they only wished to see their sibling.

The Heavenly Principles finally did something right in setting the stage as your challenger.

Your gaze drifts from the piece of land in the unreachable parts of the sky, down to the tea that you were wonderfully having with the bearer of your tears.

Focalors was right — her performance was unbearably long, however intensely impressive. You had honored her sacrifice with a permanent seat in the dining table of your private sanctuary nestled within the dark seas of Teyvat, where only the seats were personally crafted by you and were only enough to fit the humongous forms of the dragons that once ruled over your world.

She, among the other divinities that were not of your creation, was the first to earn your respect and genuine love.

“Is the tea to your liking?”

You still find yourself looking up on instinct just to meet the sharp gaze of the Hydro Sovereign, only to look back down to see a human being as his incarnation. Though his piercing gaze was certainly not lost on you.

“Hot enough,” you mumbled, “Bitter enough,” you added, recalling the tastes of one divine puppet that found his way back to you through your golden champion and little Buer’s rehabilitation.

Neuvillette quietly basked in the grace of your being. You had not changed one bit. He had recalled your presence when you first met him within the little tunnel on the side of Palais Mermonia during his break, and after Focalors’ final act, he was consumed with memories of you when you first descended in Teyvat.

As the bearer of your tears, he was your sole confidant, something even his fellow sovereigns envied him for all those years ago.

“…I have many questions,” he prompted the conversation, refusing this first meet to be mere session of stewing in silence and basking in each other’s presence. It was clear how dear he was to you, but his memories that eluded him suddenly came crashing down certainly gave him a terrifying and confusing time.

You had nowhere to be, and the traveler was busy with their affairs and many other adventures.

“We have all the time now,” you chuckle, watching the tiny whirlpool in your tea after stirring in a pinch of sugar. “After all, reunions are meant to be focused on reconciling with one another, like two old friends who have lost touch for… thousands of years perhaps.”

“Though I understand my… old life… was subjected into being your confidant for eons to come, I must exercise my impartiality to you.”

You laughed, amused at Neuvillette’s words. Though you respect him as a friend, nodding along. A creation could never judge a creator — it is what many among your fellow artisans have believed. But you have seen when worlds have rallied against their creator, and some have managed to kill theirs for justice or desperation.

You once walked the world of a now deceased colleague, who created a world filled with oppression, where the waters do not flow, and the pantheon of that very world have sought to fight the very god that created them in the first place.

Cruel as it was, you relished in bathing in that artisan’s never ending tears, flowing from their closed eyes as their decapitated head became the new mountain that births fresh water to their creation.

Nevertheless, for hours, you were subjected into endless questions, interrogated from left to right by the Hydro Sovereign that wanted answers more than anything. You had the key and had willingly opened the chest to him, absolving him of the troubles that might have weighed down on him once he received the Hydro Authority that was rightfully his when Focalors killed herself before his eyes.

The questioning only boils down to two questions left. Significant enough for Neuvillette to base his new opinion of you.

However you only had one proper answer for one of them.

“…Do you detest the Heavenly Father for his actions against the new order?”

You had thought long and hard about it. You wandered Teyvat for years to understand what you felt about it.

And you had the proper answer for it.

“Nibelung did what he had to do,” your eyes glazed over, and Neuvillette follows your gaze. Before he could think you were being disingenuous, you focused your attention back to him, gazing firmly into his eyes. “I had thought I felt injustice and resentment for his… foolish actions.”

You picked up the teacup, savoring the bitterness that the liquid offered.

“However I came to realize that he was desperate enough to seek the forbidden knowledge. Only then was I consumed with guilt. I mourned him and you and your brethren. Apep despised me when I visited her in the desert of Sumeru.” You recounted with a quiet hum. “I know not of what happened to the others, but I understand that my inaction may have forced his hand.”

“I feel guilt and I will prostrate myself as an apology before you if you so wish,” you offered.

Neuvillette thinks it was a coincidence when he felt the same. Him and his fellow sovereigns could have defended the world you had generously gifted them before. But a terrifying thought comes to his mind that perhaps his role as the Hydro Sovereign had him tethered to you even in his own emotions.

It was his new crisis — whether or not he truly feels guilt or if he merely shares it with how well connected he is to you.

“Please do not subject yourself in such a disgrace. You are my creator.”

“And my creations have been neglected until their death,” you countered with ease and Neuvillette doesn’t know if it was his programmed reverence that stops him from contesting you or that he also feels that your words ring true.

You stood up from your seat, walking over to him, and he basks in your presence yet again, nearly losing himself like how Fontainians before he had forgiven them dissolved within the Primordial Sea.

You pulled him in a gentle embrace, his stiff posture leaning awkwardly against your midsection as he sat still.

Neuvillette could hardly pull himself together. Your affection feels forced, an obligation that had to be done to console him, and further puzzles him if you shared his emotions or if you truly felt bad for the guilt that he claims he feels.

“…Then, if it is guilt that you feel. Do you resent humanity for flourishing in a world that does not have an allowance for their existence?”

That one, you had no answer for.

Humanity is so beautiful, but you had come to learn that you were merely tolerating them.

Neuvillette feels himself stiffen as your warm body grows cold in this one-sided embrace.

He may be the one responsible for judging the archons and the heavenly principles that had done you wrong.

But he was never the one to call the shots when judging the fate of this world.

After all, an artist can orphan their work once displeased.

Neuvillette just got you back. And he is certain that though the archons were tied within the Heavenly Principles, they desired your presence more than the ones they were expected to answer to.

You had graced him with a subtle kiss on his forehead, loving and forgiving.

“Focalors had you convinced that humanity was worth it,” you mutter, “So it must be true that they have something to offer.”

He looks up to see a small smile on your face.

Empty. Haunting. Grim.

“…If one dead god can convince you, how many do you think would it take to convince me?”

And just like the sky, your benevolence has never looked more fake.

[eudemonia13]

Light in the darkness

Solomon x Reader

Light angst. W.C. 1099 Solomon thinks about his adorable aprentice as they rest beside him.

He saw light in you, passed the glimmer of sunlight on your skin as you bathed in the warm rays of your home world, passed the brilliance of neon signs and late night artificial rainbows that painted your eyes a stunning palette of colour, shades he would chase in his dreams as his subconscious processed yet another memory of you.

An abstract keepsake that he would hold onto as long as he lived. When he had long forgotten the grassy fields, the taste of salt and sugar, when the last drop of his blood had dried. When the death of the world and the collapse of the sun had claimed the last slivers of light, he would remember you.

Tucked away with all the other parts of you he held dear. His thoughts were a kaleidoscope of you. The movements, the laughter, the rhythm of your heart beating. Everything stored away in the most precious archives of his mind.

No, he saw it there in the darkest nights of the Devildom.

Bright and soft as the dawn, light that emanated from you like the warmth from your skin as he rested in your arms. It enveloped him and cast the shadows in his mind into slumber.

He loved you, he loved you in ways that felt like sparks and fire. A firework, piercing the darkness with a violence that could only be human. So fleeting, and yet you burned yourself into the entire realm's consciousness like an afterimage, trails of fading sparks that still glowed as they rained from high. A fraction of time that outshone the dim embers of eternity.

He used to sparkle, he used to glow. And he still did, the hunger in the demon’s eyes told him as much. The subtle glances the angels passed behind his back when he was once allowed entry into the Celestial realm told him as much. There was still enough left in him to want, to covet and bide their time over as turn after turn of the games they played went on.

Solomon smiled, a reflex that had rooted into him and pulled the corners of his lips into an unreadable neutrality, a defence given to him by the slow erosion of millenia uncounted. Hard learned lessons like waves rolling the sharpest rocks into smooth, flawless stones, he had lost that earnest part of him to the oceans long ago.

What he felt, the vulnerability and timid honesty of his feelings even here when he was alone with his thoughts, was too intimidating to show without a mask. So he smiled to himself in the darkness of his room.

He used to sparkle, like you did now.

Still warm, still forgiving even as beings far beyond your reach played over you like a prize, like a bet. Like you weren’t human. Still bright, still shining.

He pulled you closer, tucking his head against your shoulder as you slept, chest falling in gentle crests, like waves rolling over him with every rise and fall. Time had no hold on him, not here. Not with you.

His dearest, his confidant, his…

What was he to you? Surely, he meant at least something to you. But in a room of flushed faces, of hands reaching out to you… How close was he to your light?

A Prince, strong and unmoving to the little problems that once battered him in his youth. He was safe, he was luxury and adventure and lightheartedness, still after everything in his long, long life. Passion and elegance… And knowing you would always come second to the inevitable need of his people.

A Demon, as capable, as beautiful and loyal as he was prideful. Having made his place in the Devildom from what was once scorn and misery, but now stood as one of the most powerful and respected Devildom Elite? Who offered you seduction, and complete ownership over his heart and soul? At least… So long as you could withstand his heart being locked behind the burden of pride, and obligations that could never be put off for more than a night before he would be buried by paperwork yet again.

And his brothers, demons of high regard all their own. But he hardly needed to slander any of them to highlight their glaringly obvious shortfalls.

An Angel, kind and devoted, cunning and artful in everything he does. He was warm, and soft like spring rain, dewy and beautiful and calming to even your soul itself. He would give every part of himself to you and not ask for anything more than your happiness. And yet he was forever shadowed by the choices he had made, and had not made, and the knowledge of what would come from those fateful decisions… But truly, what could he say against Simeon? That he was bad with technology and he was afraid of the terrifying and confusing future ahead of him? Solomon knew that what his friend offered you could hardly be painted as ‘bad’ in even the harshest light.

Was that cruel of him? To weave his words and sharpen his tongue against those he has come to think of as friends? Even in the seclusion of his mind, could he take that from you? Could he appear just a little bit better, here, where none could hear him?

Solomon, the wise. Solomon, the witty sorcerer. Solomon, protector of Humanity. Solomon, who loved you with all his heart. Who had protected you when you were nothing but a defenceless human thrown to the wolves of the Devildom that first year of the exchange program. Solomon, who had risked the fate of the human realm just so that you may not hate him for the awful choice that must be made. Who had put the fate of everything he had devoted his immortal life to protecting, into your hands knowing full well that you might not choose what he would.

Solomon, who looked at you and saw everything he loved, everything he had sworn to protect and cherish deep in his heart where nothing could take it from him again.

Solomon, who loved you knowing he would lose you too.

And Solomon, the manipulative, the wolf in sheep's clothing, the untrustworthy sham of a sorcerer who used and conned anyone he could benefit from. Solomon, the human who had lost his humanity. Solomon, the liar. Solomon, the demon.

He wondered, silently. Wordlessly as his hands shook with the slightest tremble as he pulled you against him even tighter. His Light, his Truth… His Protector.

Who was he to you?

[slylycurioustreasure]

The Obsidian-Eyed Guardian — Part 2.1

Summary: Heir to a cursed line of sorcerers, you carry on your shoulders the weight of an ancestral pact: to prevent the destruction of the world, you must unite with four men from clans once enemies of your own kind—a demon, a celestial, an immortal fox, and a human.

But nothing is simple when love, hate, desire, and betrayal intertwine. Torn between your curse and your feelings, protected by some, judged by others, you will have to face the truth about your blood... and what you are willing to sacrifice to survive.

What if it wasn't you, but them... who were trapped from the start?

Genre: Fantasy, Dark Romance, Drama, Action, Reverse Harem, Supernatural, Wuxia, Historical

Pairing : Park Sunghoon x reader

Word : 18k

⚠️ Warning: Blood, betrayal, jealousy, heartbreaking separations, desperate and all-consuming love, loneliness, magic, pain, deep introspection, ambiguous morality, binding and painful bonds, toxic loyalty, feelings of rejection, psychological violence.

I had to split the story into two because Tumblr hates me 😅📱. Enjoy the read! 📖✨

PREV PART— NEXT (PART 2.2) ✘ SERIES MASTERLIST ✘

Bai Lun Yan (白轮殿) — The Palace of the White Wheel

Perched atop a celestial ridge forgotten by the breath of men, where the sky tears into shades of livid white and the air seems so rare, so pure, that it bites the flesh with every breath, stands Bái Lún Yǎn —the Palace of the White Wheel. This place is not simply a sanctuary, nor a mere palace: it is a scar in the very fabric of the cosmos, a remnant of a time when the gods themselves wove the web of destinies with threads of fire and ice. Suspended above nothingness, where the stars seem to consume themselves in obsidian silence, Bái Lún Yǎn floats, carried by an ancestral, dark magic, made of ancient broken oaths and eternal judgments.

The light that bathes this place is not a living, warm, benevolent light. It is cold, merciless, a translucent alabaster white, similar to the moonlight but devoid of any softness. It pierces the soul like a sharp blade, exposing the smallest cracks, the wounds hidden behind every gaze. Time seems suspended in a perpetual dawn, where the dust of the dead hours floats motionless, immaculate, between columns of jade as cold as the souls it once enclosed.

Around the palace, the air is frozen, sharp, laden with an almost palpable heaviness. No breeze blows, no birdsong rises: the silence here is not soothing, it is a weight, a sentence, a punishment inflicted on any life that would dare disturb this stony peace. 

Every step resonates like a funereal echo, an offense to the icy majesty of this place of immutable justice. And this silence, this rigid muteness, is haunted by moving shadows, ethereal silhouettes whose voices have been reduced to murmurs of regret and resentment.

At the heart of this sanctuary sits the Wheel Room, a circular chamber devoid of windows and tangible walls, a perfect circle of impassive light. At its center, a massive wheel spins relentlessly—a sacred and fearsome mechanism, etched with ancient, glittering runes, bound into four interlocking circles: Truth, Justice, Destiny, Atonement. This wheel never ceases its inexorable movement, carrying with it the course of a thousand lives, condemning and sanctifying, reminding all that none can escape the judgment written in their blood.

But beyond the palace's icy majesty, beyond its immortal stones and frozen judgments, lives a broken man: Sunghoon, the celestial, warrior of a realm where light has become a grudge, where silence has become an impenetrable wall. His body sits there, motionless, on the highest terrace, where the wind rises like a funereal whisper, carrying betrayed oaths and broken vows. But his spirit is trapped in unfathomable torment, chained to this white wheel, to this palace that is his prison and his tribunal.

The icy wind seeps beneath his dark garments, making them flap like flags of exile. His eyes, deep black, are fixed on the misty, silent plains below, but within them burns an inner storm: a storm of bitterness, dull rage, and a pain sharper than any physical wound. Every breath is a struggle between hatred and desire, between revenge and a love from which he will not and cannot free himself.

Around him, his servants are blindfolded ghosts, once-condemned souls he holds captive in endless servitude. They glide like shadows between the columns, their voices whispers of regret, of silent suffering. They are the silent witnesses of a man on the brink, a warrior who has become judge, executioner, and victim all at once.

And then there's you.

Your appearance in this white and icy universe is like a tear in the motionless fabric of destiny. You are the shadow that disturbs the silence, the black flame that consumes the ice. You are the one who, against all odds, stole the heart of Sunghoon, that lonely star locked in a desert of snow and stone.

Your presence is a raw wound in his pristine palace. You are both his poison and his cure, the scar that makes him bleed but also the only thing keeping him alive. In this sanctuary of judgment where every gesture is weighed and every silence analyzed, you represent the chaos, the raw emotion, the storm his soul has suppressed for centuries.

In the dead of night, when the wheel turns slowly, he feels your breath on his skin like a burning wind, your gaze like a sword tearing at invisible chains. His heart, so long frozen under the weight of oaths and duties, breaks and rebuilds in exquisite, heartbreaking pain. He wants to push you away, to hate you for the betrayal you embody—you are the enemy of his world, the one who stole his empire of silence—but at the same time, he is irremediably drawn to you, like a moth to the flame, ready to consume itself for this spark of life.

The nights in the palace are a theater of shadows and unspoken tensions. The walls, silent witnesses to this inner struggle, vibrate under the weight of your silences, heavy with threats and impossible promises. The spectral wind that rises on the terrace sometimes carries a murmur, a barely audible breath, a complaint from the soul, a shiver of the forbidden.

And in this cruel ballet, the wheel continues to turn, implacable, indifferent to your torments.

In this place where every light burns and every shadow devours, the line between love and hate fades, leaving an abyss where only the most broken souls dare to venture.

Bái Lún Yǎn has become the tomb of your pains and the crucible of your forbidden passion.

And in this silent fight, no one knows if the white wheel will condemn you to oblivion... Or to eternity.

It had been exactly three days, ten hours, fifty-five minutes, and thirty seconds since you had crossed the threshold of Park Sunghoon's celestial residence. But you had stopped counting, somewhere between the first night and the second dawn that wasn't really a dawn—because here, the day doesn't rise. It hovers. Suspended in an unreal whiteness, as if light itself had forgotten how to warm.

Heavenly residence is not a place where one lives. It is a place where one endures.

A vast sanctuary built on a promontory of silence, with walls of jade so pure it seems translucent, as if carved from the ice of the first eras. The columns rise, infinite, splitting the sky until they are lost in the ether. Walkways connect the pavilions like the threads of a divine spider's web. And you, you are a prisoner in this suspended labyrinth, a stranger in a golden cage too white not to blind, too perfect not to wound.

Here, everything is symmetry and restraint. The pools don't reflect the sky—they reflect the soul. Your footsteps leave black ripples, as if your shadow were contaminating the harmony of this place.

You don't belong. You know it. You feel it in every averted glance. In every silence. In every bowl of cold rice left on your doorstep, without a word.

And him, Park Sunghoon… He watches over you. Not over you. Not really. He watches over you like you watch over a wounded animal that you don't know if it will beg or bite. He avoids you, but never completely. He ignores you, but with too much precision to be sincere. He doesn't speak. But his silence screams.

You can't run away from him. You live under his roof, in the former chamber of a priestess who died centuries ago, among incense that no longer burns and silks discolored by grief. The bed is too big. The sheets too clean. Every night, you curl up in it, like a mistake that refuses to go away.

You hardly sleep.

The nights here are traps. Too quiet. Too long. And in that silence, memories come flooding back. The betrayal. The blood. The pact. The price. You don't forget. You can't. Because your body remembers for you.

The mark on your shoulder blade glows in the darkness. A pale, blue glow, pulsing like a heart beating backward. Sometimes it burns. Sometimes it bleeds. And sometimes it doesn't do anything… Which is worse. Because then you find yourself hoping it'll do it again. So you can feel something.

And outside, behind the cedar doors, he's there. You feel him. He passes. He stops. A breath. A presence. A tension. He never knocks. He doesn't speak. He moves away. But you remain frozen, tense like a rope about to snap.

You want to hate him. But how can you hate a man who, every night, collapses alone in the Wheel Room to pray to a dead god he no longer believes can even hear him?

You surprised her once. One evening when you were wandering, haggard, lost in the corridors. You approached the heart of the sanctuary. You had no right. But you trampled on the right long ago.

And you saw him. Kneeling on the cold marble. His hands clenched. His head bowed. His shoulders heavy with a weight no mortal should bear. He wasn't praying. He was whispering your name. Not as a plea. Not as a curse. As a confession.

You ran away. Silently. Heart pounding. Eyes wet.

Since then, you haven't been back there.

Sunghoon doesn't tell you anything. He doesn't ask you anything. But he knows. He sees. And what he sees, every day, is a slow agony.

First, there was the loss of brightness in your eyes. Almost imperceptible. Like a star that flickers for a single night before fading forever. Then, your step grew heavier, as if each marble slab were sucking you deeper into the bowels of a world that wasn't yours. You glided through the halls of the celestial palace like a nameless soul, a whisper from a dead dream. And he, Sunghoon, watched you without looking at you. He looked away, but every beat of your heart echoed in his veins like a silent slap.

You didn't speak. You didn't ask anything.

But your body was screaming.

You were losing weight. Not like a woman who forgets herself, no. Like a caged beast refusing an enemy's food. He could see it in the way your dress, once fitted, now hung loosely around you like an oversized shroud. You kept one hand pressed against your stomach, tense, almost painful—as if you wanted to hold back something broken, precious, too intimate to be shown.

Sunghoon saw. He felt.

Your scent had faded. That of dark fields and dried blood. Now you smelled only of rain, cold stone, and that acrid odor that fatigue leaves when it becomes chronic. Your dark circles had sunk so deep they seemed carved from bone. Your complexion, once pulsing with color, had become that of burnt paper. And despite all this, despite every sign of collapse… You stood straight. With that strange, ridiculous, desperately fragile dignity. A cheap dignity, yes. But dignity nonetheless.

And he did nothing. Not out of cruelty. Not out of indifference. Not out of revenge. But out of fear. Because he knew: if he laid a hand on you, even a single finger, the dam would break.

It's not compassion that would kill him. It's what comes after. What smolders. What burns. This terrible, impossible, filthy need to keep you. You. The woman he should hate.

Sunghoon had clung to his anger like a drowning man to a broken plank. But even that, you had gnawed away, gently, methodically, with your mere presence. You hadn't tried to defend yourself. You hadn't begged. You hadn't justified anything. You were living. You were surviving. Like a silent condemned woman awaiting execution in a temple that had never known mercy.

And that's what broke him.

For the man he was… Should have judged you. The ancient Sunghoon, the incorruptible celestial, the sword of Destiny, would not have hesitated to slit your throat for what you had done to his master. He would have recited the celestial verses. He would have invoked the law. He would have turned a blind eye to your blood. He would even have offered it to the heavens as proof of his purity.

But today... He listens to you cry through the walls. And he doesn't move.

Sunghoon hears your footsteps wandering the corridors as night closes in on the palace. He senses your stifled sobs, your ragged breathing, your breath struggling against a pain he no longer dares to name. And sometimes, in this silence, he feels the mark on his arm burning—not as a reminder of revenge, but as a cry for help he refuses to hear.

And it's killing him. Because he no longer knows what he hates more: your past... Or his own heart.

So Sunghoon flees. He locks himself in the Wheel Room. For hours on end, he remains kneeling before this cosmic disc, his forehead resting on the icy ground, hoping that the Light will wash him away, that Justice will blind him. But the wheel turns. And it no longer speaks. Or perhaps it no longer answers him.

Because it is already defiled.

Sunghoon prays. He recites the laws. He invokes the memory of his master. He tears at his soul, wanting to become who he was again. But deep down, he knows: it's not the law that trembles. It's him.

Because he feels. And what he feels… Has nothing to do with Justice. It's not love. He doesn't want it. That would be too sweet, too clear. It's not hate. She died with your tears. It's something else. A need. A flaw. A tear in the soul.

Sunghoon wants to save you. Not because you deserve it. Not because he loves you. But because your unhappiness calls to him. Like an ancient chant. Like a reverse prayer. And he hates himself for it. So he stops at your door. Every night. He reaches out. Just a little.

Then he steps back.

Because he knows that if he opens the door... He won't let you go. And you, inside, feel his presence. You feel he's there. You feel him wavering. But you don't move. You stay lying there. Eyes open. Waiting for the pain to pass. Or for the silence to finally become... Eternal.

And in this suspended night, barely punctuated by the breath of the celestial wind, two hearts beat out of time. Connected by a curse, by a mark, by an ancient crime. And perhaps... By something worse.

A bond that no forgiveness can repair. A love that refuses to be born. But that is already dying, every second, in the darkness.

It had been five days.

Five days since you stopped counting, like one gives up measuring the extent of a bottomless pit, where each step forward feels like a deeper descent. The days stretched, merging into a dark molasses, and time itself seemed to have stopped, suspended between agony and oblivion. Each morning no longer bore its name, each hour slipped away in the shadow of a frayed time, fragile as a torn silk canvas. You were no longer captive to a calendar—but captive to a dull weight nestled in your bones, a silent pain that gnawed at your flesh and bones.

Your body, this broken temple, bore the bitter memory of wounds that neither wind nor rain could erase. Those invisible scars, so deep they seemed etched into your very skin, fiercer than the sharpest blade. He remembered the dull burn of silences, the chilling echo of absences, the icy bite of a fleeing gaze, of a breath suspended on the edge of the abyss. The fatigue, the exhaustion, the loneliness—all of it still weighed heavily, like an armor of shadows you wore despite yourself.

And yet… You were breathing.

But it wasn't the easy, light, and fluid breathing of a free soul. It was the air that crept in reluctantly, a breath torn from death, a flickering flame that trembled in the heart of an abyss too deep. You were no longer the woman you had been, nor the one you would have wanted to become. You were only a shadow, fragile and trembling, oscillating between survival and life, suspended between the icy cold of night and the burning flame of hope. A fallen creature groping forward, defying the darkness.

Your once-trembling hands had regained some of their strength. A fleeting flash in the renewed precision of that almost ritualistic, mechanical gesture: bringing a black sesame cake to your mouth. This simple act, so innocuous in the eyes of the world, became for you a silent oath, a silent revolt. A declaration to the world that, despite everything, you were resisting. That you were not dead.

That evening, in the great hall where hanging lanterns cast a dim, flickering light, where shadows danced between walls adorned with ancient calligraphy, you sat on a cushion embroidered with gold and silver thread, a silent witness to forgotten prayers and lost souls. The room seemed to hold its breath, frozen in dull anticipation.

Before you, the immaculate coffee table, where the warm cakes rested. Their bittersweet scent, acrid and sweet, hung in the air like a silent confession, a secret whispered by the wind. The bitterness of the past mingled with the deceptive sweetness of the present moment, each bite a bite of memory.

You devoured them with unfeigned pleasure, each flavor on your tongue seeming to pull you out of the abyss, extract you from oblivion. The sugar caressed your taste buds, while the bitterness dug a furrow in your chest, a brutal reminder that light is never reborn without shadow.

Facing you, motionless, Sunghoon. More than a man, a statue of ice shaped by the winds of an eternal winter. His straight, impeccable, unwavering figure, defying time and hardship. His black hair, knotted with surgical precision, each strand held back as if to imprison a part of his soul. His sleeves, always folded to perfection, like a sacred code engraved in silk. He ate. Slowly. Methodically. Each grain of rice he brought to his lips seemed to weigh more than the last.

Sunghoon didn't look up at you. He didn't speak. Yet, in his every gesture, in the barely contained tension of his fingers around the chopsticks, in the subtle quivering of his muscles beneath his skin, you felt his gaze weighing on you. An invisible, heavy gaze, sharper than any sword.

You knew he was watching you, even if he refused to show it. Sunghoon watched you like you would a poisoned flower, both fascinated and terrified by the poison it gave off.

You knew he didn't understand. How could he have understood? How could he grasp that dull pain, that icy melancholy that had crept into you like a slow, inexorable venom, poisoning you from the inside out?

You bit into that sesame cake again, that paradoxical blend of sweetness and bitterness that reminded you too much of your own existence. How could you love that taste that betrayed your mouth, that was the very reflection of your life—sweet on the surface, eaten away by bitterness deep down?

This troubled him deeply.

Everything about you, these last few days, worried him, unsettled him. He saw that fragile light reborn in you, and it awakened in him desires and fears he couldn't name. A tension between hope and fate, between tenderness and contained violence.

The silence stretched, dense, almost palpable, like a veil of black mist suffocating everything around you. Each suspended second was a weight, an invisible ordeal, slow and cruel. But this silence wasn't just an absence of sound—it had texture, breath, intention.

It was a beast lurking in the room. It didn't stretch: it watched. Invisible, but massive, it held its claws back, suspended between you like a sword on a thread, ready to strike at the slightest shiver of your soul, at the slightest word spoken too soon.

Outside, the rain fell in icy blades, cold and silent, hatching the windows as if the sky itself were trying to slit its veins. The air smelled of damp, old ash, and something sweet—a dark, almost rancid sugar that the sesame cakes on the table couldn't mask.

The light from the lanterns hanging from the ceiling flickered slightly, casting a hesitant brightness into the room. Their flames flickered as if they doubted their right to exist within these walls, between the two of you. Shadows lengthened, distorted, and danced across the jade walls. Each glint, each movement of light, seemed to reflect a fragment of what you weren't saying.

You sat upright, but your back seemed to carry an entire empire of fatigue. Your right hand held a small plate. Your left absently caressed the edge of the table. Your gestures were calm, measured—but each movement betrayed an ancient tension, as if your body were a rope stretched between life and something colder, larger, calling to you from within.

Facing you, Sunghoon. Upright. Still. Silent.

For him, eating wasn't a necessity. It was a ritual. A silent ceremony, poised between control and self-denial. Every movement of his chopsticks was surgically precise, almost unreal, as if he were dissecting the world one grain of rice at a time.

But his eyes—his eyes never left your bowl. He didn't look at you. And yet, he saw you. He saw you with that merciless clarity possessed only by those who have already condemned you once, internally. He saw you as one observes a wound that refuses to heal, like a memory one tries to forget but returns to haunt sleepless nights.

You were, to him, a crime. A crime he tried not to utter aloud. A sacrilege he continued to tolerate, by a whim of the heavens or by a flaw in his own faith. And in that way of not looking up, in that stubborn refusal to meet your gaze, there was something sharper than a thousand judgments. A silent sentence, made of control, pride… And fear.

And maybe that's why you spoke. Not so he'd understand. But because he already did. And the silence had become a poison you could no longer swallow.

You didn't move your head. You didn't look up. Your voice escaped your lips, hoarse and low, like a confession whispered at the tomb of a dead god. "Last night... I dreamed you killed me." A mere whisper. But in that whisper, there was the mark of a cross, of a sentence, of a farewell.

Sunghoon didn't move. But his chopsticks stilled. Neat. As if the wood itself understood that this moment must not be broken.

You continued. Slowly. Painfully. "You said nothing." Each word cost you. "You just placed two fingers on my throat..." And, as if in spite of yourself, your hand brushed your collarbone. It was no longer a memory. It was an imprint. A memory that your skin itself had never forgotten. Two fingers. Enough to take a life. And in your dream, you had welcomed them. "...And I disappeared."

The silence that followed was brutal. It tore through the space between you like a blade. The lanterns flickered more. One, in a corner, went out for no reason.

You continued, even lower:

"I was relieved."

It was like a blow to the naked eye. There was no cry. No flinch. But you saw it. Sunghoon's wrist, tense as if holding an invisible blade. The tendons in his fingers, white with the strain. His shoulders, once straight and noble, slumped slightly—as if your confession had carved a furrow into his chest.

You had just named something he had locked away. A dream he should never have had. And yet he had dreamed it over, over and over again, until he lost sleep over it. Sunghoon had seen you. In his dreams. Always the same scene. You, in that soft light, your eyes calm, your neck offered like an offering to an unjust god. Two fingers placed there. And your breath fading.

But in his dreams, you smiled. And that smile… That smile, he couldn't stand it. Because it spoke of peace. Because it spoke of acceptance. Because it spoke of love. And he, he was made to kill. Not to love.

So he kept quiet.

But you continued. Like an arrow piercing broken armor. You took another bite of your cake. Slowly. As if tasting something final. Then, gently:

"What if..." Your voice became light, almost unreal, like a dream that didn't dare to be born. "What if we were in a world without war? A world without gods. Without pacts. Without revenge."

Sunghoon was no longer breathing.

“I would be an apothecary.” Your smile was that of a broken child. “And you, a wounded traveler. You would have entered my shop, tired, silent. I would have healed you. You would have thanked me. And you would have left. Nothing more.” You smiled. Your eyes were wet, but you refused to cry. “No mark. No blood. No oath.”

A silence. 

Then :

“Just a look. Like now.” And you looked up. And you stared at him. There was a sweetness in your gaze that tore at the chest. A tenderness he had never believed possible. And as if to finish him off, you gave him a wink. Simple. Innocent. Wildly daring.

And he choked. Really. He stepped back abruptly, coughed, almost dropped his bowl. And you… You laughed. A real laugh. Rich. Golden. Filling the room like a summer fire. A laugh that had no place in this world, but you offered it anyway. Because it was your way of surviving.

Sunghoon looked away, his face flushed, his heart in knots. He tried to compose himself, but he was nothing more than a helpless man facing something he didn't know how to fight.

You.

“You… You’re unbearable!” He finally growled, but his voice was broken, almost trembling. “How can a woman have such thoughts… Insane? Indecent?”

You stepped closer. Your smile was more dangerous than poison. "You're right, ice block. I'll give you more lines next time." You tilted your head. Your lips brushed your cake. "After all... You are my husband."

The word hit like a slap.

And Sunghoon stood up. Abruptly. A storm in his eyes. "YOU...!" He pointed at you, but his hand was shaking. With fear. With desire. With that ancient fear you feel when faced with what you cannot possess without losing yourself.

“Yes, me?” you breathed, sweet and provocative, your lips glossy with black sugar.

He looked away. Not out of anger. Out of flight. Because what he saw in your eyes… was a light he didn't deserve. And he whispered. In a cold, brittle, almost inhuman voice:

"Sinner."

And then… Sunghoon disappeared. Not a sound. Just that blinding, divine white light that engulfed him. And you, you stayed there. Alone. Surrounded by flickering lanterns. By cakes you wouldn't finish.

And in the silence he left, something remained. Something invisible. Something burning. You placed a hand on your mark. It throbbed.

And in that beat, you understood:

It wasn't him you wanted to hold on to. It was what he'd taken with him when he left. And what you already missed.

Jì Láng (寂廊) — The Corridor of Silence

You had started to lose yourself there again. Not by accident. No. It was a choice, a voluntary exile. Like a silent offering to nothingness. Whenever the suffocation became too great, whenever the pain overflowed the confines of your flesh and threatened to turn into a scream, this was where you came. Far from view, far even from your own breath. You weren't looking for peace. You were looking for disappearance.

The Jì Láng was not a mere corridor. It was an open wound in the very foundations of the heavenly palace. Long, narrow, like a stone tunnel carved from the bones of the world. It wound between the sacred wings like a shadow serpent, and no one, ever, stayed there long. Those who crossed it quickened their pace. Even the immortals.

Because here, there was no sound.

Not your steps. Not your breathing. Not the brush of your sleeves against your body. Everything faded, swallowed up in a magical, ancient, almost sacred void. The silence of the Jì Láng wasn't the absence of sound—it was an entity, a palpable force, a cold hand closed around your throat. It swallowed everything. Even the light.

But it was the walls that were the cruelest.

Panels of polished jade, embedded in the stone like a thousand closed eyes. Merciless mirrors. Their deep green surface seemed to smooth reality, distort it, shatter it. Each reflection of you was different. And all were true. You saw the child kneeling in the mud, palms bleeding, gazing up at a dull sky. You saw the young witch, her dress torn, her arms stained scarlet, her heart frozen. You saw the murderer, impassive, her eyes empty, surrounded by corpses. You saw the captive, that silent, naked version of yourself, deprived of pride, of hatred, of a name.

And sometimes, more rarely, you saw the person you could have become. The one who didn't kill. The one who was loved. The one who fled.

You walked between them as if between a thousand funerals of yourself.

Your reflection followed you every step of the way—splintered, broken, misshapen, as if the jade reflected not your body, but your soul. In some places, your face was stretched into a silent grimace of pain; in others, your eyes shone with a false joy that made you want to vomit. The mirrors reflected back to you everything you had tried to forget—every choice, every crime, every weakness. And you stayed there, every day, longer. Because here, you had no need to hide.

Because here, you no longer had a mask. And it was there, always there, in this labyrinth of polished silence, of white stone and broken reflections, that you encountered him.

Park Sunghoon.

He never burst into view with a bang. He appeared like ghosts do—noisily, but always at the exact moment you thought you were finally breathing. Not a coincidence. No. Nothing was with him. He was there because he wanted to be. Because he had guessed where you would be. Because he knew you would come back.

Sunghoon had become your shadow—or perhaps you had become his.

You recognized his presence before you even saw him. The air was changing. The atmosphere was becoming denser, as if every particle of oxygen began to vibrate under the weight of his silence. Even the light was changing: it folded around him, fragmenting on the edges of his celestial mantle like a sharp blade.

This coat… Sunghoon had never taken it off. Impeccably white, embroidered with silver thread, stiff as armor. It was no longer a garment. It was a straitjacket. A cage. Every fold seemed to scream: I control myself. I hold back. I am a judge, not a man. And yet…

There was no more dignity in his gait. Only a cold, mechanical one. A steady, perfect, almost inhuman step. He never wavered. He never slowed down. But you saw it—yes, you saw it—that tiny tremor at the base of his neck, that irregular throbbing of his temples. As if his own body were screaming what his mouth refused to say: that he couldn't take it anymore.

And you? You stopped dead in your tracks.

You were becoming a statue. Prisoner of a gaze he never looked at you directly. Because no, Sunghoon wasn't looking at you. Not straight on. Not like a man looks at a woman. That would have been too easy. Too human. No, Sunghoon looked at you in mirrors. Through reflections. As if facing the reality of your face was a suffering he couldn't afford.

But in the mirrors, you crossed paths. And in those moments, fleeting, cursed, eternal—there was no longer a mask.

You saw everything.

You saw the storm in his pupils. You saw his rage—immense, burning, barely contained. You saw his grief, knotted in the hollow of his throat, making it hard to breathe when Sunghoon met your reflection. Above all, you saw that shame, insidious, cruel, eating away at his insides.

He judged you, yes. But not like a celestial judges a witch. He judged you like a man who had failed.

In his eyes, you weren't just a monster. You weren't just the one who killed. You were the one he should have saved. The one he could have understood, if he had listened. If he hadn't looked away. If he had loved you a little sooner, a little better.

And him? He was becoming someone else in the mirror. He was no longer the perfect judge, the blameless celestial. He was a broken man. Tired. A survivor who hadn't seen the fire consume those he wanted to protect. And now he stood in the ashes, unable to reach out.

Sometimes his gaze screamed that he wanted to punish you. Other times, you read in it a desire so fierce it was cruel. But Sunghoon did nothing. He said nothing. He kept it all inside.

And you, you were dying of silence.

You would have preferred him to hate you. You would have preferred him to insult you, to accuse you, to spit out your name like a curse. You would have preferred him to raise his hand. To be done with it. You would have begged him. Kill me, and free me from this waiting. But he remained frozen. He looked at you—and that was worse than death.

That night you stayed longer.

Maybe you were waiting for him. Maybe you wanted to hurt yourself. You turned the glass galleries, slowly, each step like torture. And suddenly, you saw him appear. Around a corner. Sunghoon was advancing—straight, precise, his hands clasped behind his back.

Your footsteps stopped simultaneously. A few meters apart. And the space between you cracked.

Not a word.

Not a move.

But the void between you became more real than the walls. An abyss filled with everything you had never been able to say. Everything you had lost. Everything you continued to desire.

You weren't looking at yourself. But in the mirror on the left, your reflections met. And it was a saber thrust to the heart.

You saw the fatigue in his eyes. An old, irreversible fatigue. You saw the love he denied himself. The forgiveness he refused to grant you—not because you didn't deserve it, but because he couldn't forgive himself. You saw the trembling of his lips. The twitching of his fingers.

Sunghoon wanted to talk to you. He wanted to scream. He wanted to break you—or hug you. He wanted a thousand things, and he did nothing.

And you? You wanted to fall to your knees. You wanted to ask him why. Why he had abandoned you. Why he hadn't recognized you. Why he kept pretending you were nothing. But your voice remained dead in your throat.

So you looked down. Like a traitor. Like a rejected lover. Like a child abandoned by her god.

You turned around. Your footsteps were silent, but your heart was beating so hard it seemed to scream between your ribs.

And in the mirror, you saw it.

Sunghoon didn't move. He stood there, straight, frozen, like a statue poised in grief. But his fists... They were shaking. His eyes... They were blinking too fast. And his reflection... He was nothing more than a scar.

A living scar. Buried in your back.

Yu Xuān (雨轩)—literally, “The Rain Pavilion”—a name that, in itself, resonates like ancestral melancholy, a poem of solitude and shadows. This forgotten corner of the palace, hidden behind thick walls and winding corridors, was a sanctuary suspended between two worlds. A small terrace of sober architecture, fragile in appearance, but built to defy time. The roof of ancient tiles, worn by centuries of downpours, cast a cold and unchanging shadow, a veil of soft darkness even under the merciless glare of the sun.

There, always, rain fell—but not ordinary rain. Invisible. Spectral. A murmur of water without source or end, a rain that never wet the skin, but seemed to penetrate the very soul. That delicate, regular hiss hammered the roof with the constancy of a heart beating to the rhythm of a secret no one could break. As if the sky had chosen to weep silently for this place, for the pain and heartbreak it kept locked away.

This pavilion was not an open refuge. It was forbidden to intruders, to the profane, to the impure of heart. The guards did not set foot there, the servants avoided it like a tomb. Yet, for you, this place had always had a strange, almost familiar presence. Sunghoon had never pronounced a clear prohibition. Sunghoon had never said to you, "Don't enter." Nor, "You must not come here." Simply, a heavy silence, an absence of words, like a breath suspended between refusal and permission. A silent fracture in his rigid discipline, where his love and his mistrust intertwined in a slow, cruel dance.

This lack of an explicit barrier had led you to believe that you could venture there. Once. Only once.

That night, you're no longer quite sure why your feet led you there. Perhaps because the weight of days, sleepless nights, nightmares, and regrets had broken you beyond all resistance. Perhaps because you were looking for a whisper, a secret voice, a place where your heartbeat could match the rhythm of a silent rain.

You entered silently, slipping into the shadows, your breath short, your chest oppressed by an inner storm. The air was thick, saturated with humidity, charged with an electricity you felt in your bones. The invisible rain fell, elusive, penetrating. It caressed your skin without moistening it, seeped into your hair, seeped into your clothes like a spectral breath.

You sat in the center of the terrace, leaning against an ancient wooden pillar. The wood was cold beneath your palm, smooth as the skin of a corpse, marked by time and secrets. There, in this otherworldly sanctuary, you closed your eyes, letting the whisper of the rain envelop you.

Your mind, a heartbreaking chaos of past pain, buried fears, memories as sharp as blades, began to calm. Each invisible drop seemed to carry away a little of your suffering, each imperceptible sound cradled the dull anger and blind sadness within you. You gave yourself over to sleep, fragile and precarious, like a weary moth caught in the web of an endless night.

In that hazy dream, you saw a different world. A world where someone would have reached out to you without fear, without judgment, where you would have been protected, loved in your entirety and fragility. A pale light at the end of a cold tunnel, a breath of hope in the stifling darkness of your existence. But this light was distant, almost painful to contemplate, because you knew it wasn't for you, or at least not yet.

Then the presence came.

Without a sound, without a breath to announce its approach. Just that icy chill that crept up the back of your neck, gripping your heart like an invisible iron fist. You felt the air tense, charged with a dark, heavy energy, like a silk thread stretched to the brink of breaking.

Sunghoon.

He stood there in the shadows of the pavilion, frozen like a living statue, an imposing shadow draped in his immaculate celestial robe, rigid and merciless. His features, in the gloom, were hard, marked by the struggle between anger and pain. His eyes, those inky depths, did not dare meet yours, fleeing your gaze with the fear of drowning in it, or of hurting you further.

You didn't move. You didn't dare. You were suspended in that fragile moment, between desire and resentment, between fear and the silent wait for an answer that never came.

The silence between you was an ocean of unspoken words, of stifled cries, of love and hate mingled. A funeral music played by two souls who loved each other too much to say it, and who tore each other apart in this unbearable unspoken word.

You felt his fists clench, as if beneath his skin, a war was raging. Sunghoon was fighting against himself, against his demons, against the irrepressible urge to come closer, to protect you, to take you in his arms and erase all your wounds. But he remained there, imprisoned in his own silence, motionless and distant, like a cold and lonely mountain.

In that dark night, beneath the rain that wouldn't fall, a raw, clumsy, painful tenderness vibrated in the air. A tenderness that chilled you as much as it soothed you. A silent promise, an invisible caress that you shared in this absence of words.

You wanted to tell him that you didn't need to be saved, only to be loved, despite everything. That you didn't want to run away anymore, but to abandon yourself to him, even if it meant suffering again. That you wanted him to be your refuge and your storm at the same time.

But the weight of fatigue and fear held you captive, mute, fragile, under the sacred roof of Yu Xuān.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was gone. Just a deep, cold emptiness, a painful echo of his absence, a naked wound that silence couldn't soothe.

And the rain, always the rain, fell, invisible and eternal, on this pavilion where solitude and tenderness intertwined in a sad and infinite ballet.

Jiù Shěn Táng (旧审堂) — The Old Tribunal Hall

The Old Courtroom. A name that sounds like a death knell, like a sentence no one has ever dared to break. An ancient ruin, frozen in the silence of a bygone era, crushed under the weight of its own shadows. Where once judgments rose in a solemn breath, now only muffled whispers remain, memories eaten away by the wear and tear of time. A tomb for the living, a mausoleum for condemned souls.

You push the door open, and a dull creak reverberates through the void, as if the room itself were holding its breath, ready to swallow you up. Your footsteps echo, quiet, hesitant, on the cold stone floor. The air is heavy, laden with humidity and dust, pricked by the acrid smell of abandonment. Each breath you take seems to tear through a veil of silence, like a silent plea.

You move slowly, each movement imbued with a strange gravity. Time here has frozen, imprisoned by the echoes of past sentences, muffled cries, shattered hopes. The high ceiling is dotted with cobwebs, while shafts of pale light filter through the tall, bare windows, barely striking the blackened remains of the wooden pillars, cracked, marked by the years and forgotten flames.

At the center of this devastation sits a majestic seat, carved from pale jade, once brilliant, now dull and covered in a film of dust, like a discarded sacred relic. It is the throne of the heavenly judge—the master you slew. The one man who held your life in his hands, and who brutally snatched it away.

You don't sit down. You can't. Not yet.

You wander like a shadow, a ghost searching for one last breath, one last vestige of humanity in this stone temple. Your hand brushes the blackened wood of the pillars, your fingers glide over the rough stone, but there is nothing to grasp, nothing that is not already dead. You search for the echo of a voice, the trace of a glance, a pronounced judgment… But all that responds is silence.

Finally, you fall to your knees, the weight of your guilt crushing your weary bones. There, facing the empty throne, you feel the emptiness growing within you—an insatiable chasm where shame and despair intertwine. There is no one to forgive you. No incense, no offerings, no redemption.

You breathe in slowly, deeply. The silence is so dense it penetrates your skin, seeps into your bones, until every nerve screams with dull pain. Your heart, heavy as a rock, beats slowly, each pulse a hammer blow in your chest.

Then, a noise. A breath, a rustle of fabric. Soft footsteps.

You don't need to look back. You know. It's him. Park Sunghoon. Your judge. Your executioner and your refuge.

His silhouette stands out in the shadows, motionless, frozen in the gloom, like an obsidian statue at the edge of the threshold. He doesn't cross the threshold. He can't. It's as if he fears desecrate this altar laden with cursed memories.

You turn your head, slowly. Not to run away, not to beg, but to confront.

Sunghoon is there. Standing there like a broken warrior, his body stiff, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His jaw is clenched, tense, every muscle taut like a bowstring ready to snap.

But it's his eyes that haunt you. They don't look at you. They stare into that void—that abandoned throne, that symbol of justice turned grave. His eyes are drowned in a sea of ​​pain and absence. A dull anger mingled with an unfathomable sadness. And in that torn gaze, you read the full depth of a grief that refuses to die.

You stand there, facing him, and your own heart clenches—not under the weight of his hatred, but under the even more cruel weight of his silence.

You break the silence in a low, broken voice, almost a whisper. "I didn't want this..." You're not crying, not yet, but your voice trembles, frail, like a twig in a storm. You're not saying this to defend yourself, nor to seek his pity. You're only looking for some truth, some light in this abyss. "You know that, don't you?"

It's a trap set in the air, an invisible choice thrown into the void between you.

Sunghoon doesn't answer. His silence is a weight that weighs on you, but you accept this weight. You lower your head. You close your eyes. You breathe in. And the memories overwhelm you.

When you open your eyes again, Sunghoon is looking at you. Not at your skin or your face, but at your insides. He trembles, imperceptibly, like a fragile fire fighting the wind.

Your breathing softens. You smile. Not to challenge. But to soothe.

"You know what it's like to lose someone. So do I." And in that whisper unfolds a rare, fragile thrill of humanity, a silent confession between two broken souls.

Sunghoon's steel mask wavers. His shoulders relax, his body cracks. His eyelids lower for a moment, as if to hold back an inner torrent.

You stand up. Not to run away. To offer him a respite, a moment stolen from the war that consumes you.

“If you’re expecting an apology… I can’t give it to you.” You speak gently, like placing a flower on a fresh grave. “Because I think it’s right.” Your gaze is clear, without remorse, but without defiance either. “And I don’t regret surviving.”

You slowly turn your back. You don't see the silent tears sliding down his cheeks—pearls of pure pain. You don't hear his breath hitch. You don't know that, despite the years, Sunghoon still carries the incense of that fateful night.

But you feel it. The burning mark on your shoulder blade quivers, like a tear of fire on your back. 

You walk away slowly, your heart heavy.

In this silence laden with unspoken confessions, you leave behind a broken man—his grief, his slowly consuming hatred, and this wounded heart that still beats, despite everything, for the one he can no longer condemn.

The night stretches on, thick, heavy, like black ink spilled over the world, impervious to all light. Every breath you take is an effort, a struggle against the emptiness that swallows you up. The corridor you've already walked down several times this evening seems to stretch to infinity, its cold stone walls exuding a sinister dampness, mingled with the acrid smell of burnt resin, old forgotten incense, dried blood. Everything here is frozen, dead, and yet vibrant with a dull presence, ready to burst.

Your steps are heavy, measured, yet betray an inner tremor—it is not fear that guides you, nor doubt, but that painful fire that consumes your entire being: that bitter mixture of shattered hope, suppressed hatred, unbearable desire. Your heart, beating with demented regularity, hammers your chest like a dull storm. You know that in the shadow looming at the end of the corridor, it is there. And that simple fact, laden with a terrible weight, exhausts you.

Then this sudden noise, like a clap of thunder in this abysmal silence: a body collapsing heavily against the stone floor. The crash resonates within you like a wound. You accelerate, hurtling down the last few steps, your hands gripping the cold handle of the forbidden door. Your ragged breathing mingles with the furious beating of your heart, a primal, almost animal rhythm.

You open the door, and the world comes into focus in a frozen moment, where everything you feel crashes brutally against reality.

Sunghoon lies there, sprawled on the floor, his body frail and broken, his figure shattered by the weight of an invisible yet palpable pain. The pallor of his skin contrasts sharply with the night, his features drawn, his eyes half-closed, drowned in a mixture of alcohol, fatigue, and an abysmal sadness. A silent tear slides down his cheek, like a shard of fragility that no one was meant to see.

His breath is raspy, each exhalation seeming to wring a little more strength from his weary limbs. An empty, crumpled flask lies nearby—a fragile talisman against the inner demons that gnaw at him.

Your body slowly kneels beside him, each gesture imbued with sacred caution. You don't want to upset this fragile balance, this tension stretched like a silk thread between you. Your hand, hesitant at first, brushes against his trembling arm, then gently ventures out to take the gourd from him, which smells of pain and resignation.

His gaze, clouded, avoids yours, like an ashamed child, and yet you can feel the storm brewing beneath that shattered facade. He is both close and distant, both vulnerable and trapped by his demons. His body shudders with every breath, a silent battle between his heavenly duty and his feelings for you, the dark shadow of his own pain intertwining with the desire you arouse.

“How could I hate you, Y/n…” His voice, hoarse and broken, twisted by silent pain, slips out like a barely audible breath. “How could I blame you, when every tear you shed lacerates my heart?” His eyelids flutter shut, a shudder of shame and helplessness shaking him. The weight of his responsibilities, his rank, the world’s hatred for you, all crashes down on Sunghoon. “Yet I should. Celestial that I am, I should reject the witch, the sinner… You.”

You place a finger, soft and trembling, on his pale lips, to silence the flood of judgments and pain that devours him. "Sunghoon..." Your voice softens, becomes almost a caress. "Here, in this night, nothing matters but us. Forget the labels, the weights, the chains. Listen to the truth that beats in your chest, not the lies of the world."

Your hands search for each other, hesitant, then intertwine. You gently guide his so that it finds refuge on your chest, where your heart beats with a wild, untamed force. Then you place it on his, so that he too can feel the pulsing life, beyond the shadows and doubts.

A sacred silence falls. His breathing calms, becomes slow, deep. His eyes, misty, plunge into yours, searching for a shore, an anchor in this emotional chaos. A sad but sincere smile stretches your lips—a fragile balm on invisible wounds.

"Listen to your heart, Sunghoon. It will always guide you." You release his hand, but he abruptly holds it back, a strength both brutal and fragile, as if he were afraid of losing you, of collapsing into this void without you.

"What if this heart, this hungry monster, told me to kiss you... To lock you in a forgotten tower, far from this crazy world, never to lose you again..." His voice, a hoarse, almost pleading whisper, drifts into the night. "Will you allow me?"

Your magical marks, etched into your flesh, glow softly, pink and vivid, pulsing to the violent rhythm of your beating hearts. The dull pain they cause fades, swept away by the power of this suspended, almost sacred moment.

His gaze is a raging ocean, deep, mysterious, a rough sea where desire, fear, and suffering mingle. Slowly, like a silent oath, his forehead brushes against yours, a burning, intimate, almost religious touch.

“One word, Y/n… Just one. Say it, and I will surrender myself, body and soul, to you, to this heart that consumes me.”

The warmth of his breath brushes yours, mingling with your short, shaky breaths. Your body shudders, every fiber of your being stretched toward him, open, vulnerable. A wave of shivers, both painful and delicious, rises up your spine.

“Do it.” Your breath is a broken, fragile whisper, charged with an intensity that crushes you.

Sunghoon doesn't wait for you. In a movement both brutal and infinitely gentle, he pulls you against him. His hand presses against your waist, firm, burning, anchoring, while his lips seek yours with exquisite, almost ceremonial slowness.

This first touch is a whispered promise, an oath woven into the silence of the night. The kiss unfolds, stretches, stretches again—each second a suspended fragment, charged with an almost unbearable electric tension.

Her lips are a burning caress, eager and delicate, a mixture of sweetness and possession. Each beat, each movement is a silent dialogue, a sensual dance where tenderness and fire, fear and need mingle.

You feel his hands explore your spine, each caress awakening an ancient, painful, powerful fire within you. His mouth opens slowly, his tongue brushing against your lower lip with an almost sacred hesitation, seeking silent permission, which you grant by slightly parting your lips.

Sunghoon then plunges into your mouth, tasting every nuance, every sigh. Your breaths mingle, tangle, in a silent and wild symphony. Your bodies press against each other, your hearts beat in unison in this forbidden choreography where pain and pleasure intertwine and merge.

Muffled, almost sacred moans rise in the darkness, enveloping your souls in a burning veil. The world fades away, leaving only the two of you, drowning in an ocean of sensations, broken promises, fragile abandonment.

Your hands cling to his face, caress his jaw with restrained urgency, tangle in his dark hair, while his other arm embraces you protectively, like a bulwark against the darkness lurking outside.

In this kiss, there is more than the simple ardor of desire. There is the invisible struggle against the shadows of the past, against fear and guilt, against the invisible chains of fate. There is the fragile redemption of tormented souls, the silent confession of a forbidden and wild love.

Your marks still glow, pulsing like a secret heart, silent guardians of this moment stolen from eternity. Here, pain transforms into promise, solitude into fiery fusion.

This kiss is a silent oath, a pact of souls, a cry of hope and struggle, a fragile intertwining of light and darkness. The night envelops you, your mingled breaths echoing like a silent prayer.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

Since that kiss, the balance had been broken. Everything had changed, and yet... Nothing was said. Not a word. Not a sigh. There was this void between you. A void that was too full.

The meal had been served as every day, in the ceremonial silence of the celestial residence. The servant's gestures had become discreet, almost effaced, as if he sensed that one more word, one noise too many, would cause something invisible to collapse. The door closed, and you found yourselves alone. Sitting face to face. Trapped in a motionless scene.

A low table of blackened wood—perhaps ancestral sandalwood—raised its rough surface between you like a sacred boundary. It had seen generations of scholars, judges, and warriors pass through it. But tonight, it was almost trembling. For never had it witnessed such a silent war.

Your porcelain bowls are still steaming. The scent of pickled vegetables, fragrant rice, and herbal soups fills the room. But no scent reaches you. The world around you seems veiled. As if a thick fog has slipped between your senses and reality.

You're not eating. Neither is Sunghoon.

You bring the food to your mouths like automatons, disjointed puppets trying to reproduce the semblance of a routine. But your gestures betray your minds. Your hand barely trembles. His chopstick glides without catching anything. You pretend to be present, but the moment is a ghost.

This is not silence.

It's a tension.

Overwhelming.

A spectral weight suspended between you. Dense as the acid mist of the cursed fields, where souls fallen in war still weep. It is an ancient pain, nameless. Something that lurks in the recesses of the heart, between desire and prohibition. Something only those who have lost too much can understand.

You want to talk. But what to say? That that kiss ravaged you? That his lips left you bloodless? That his hand on your back was as soft as an oath, but you felt his hesitation, his refusal, his weight of guilt?

Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. But you know he sees you. He sees your rigid posture, your downcast eyes, your pursed lips. And you feel his gaze even when he's elsewhere. It weighs on the back of your neck like an invisible hand. Each beat of your heart deafens you a little more. And when, sometimes, your eyes meet—for a beat, a paused breath—it's as if the universe were reversing. As if the war were starting again.

Sunghoon is impenetrable. But you read him anyway. Not in his words—there aren't any. Not in his gestures—they are rare. But in that contained stiffness, in that way he breathes like a condemned man. His fingers betray him. They brush the rim of his bowl, smooth the wood, stop. They hesitate, leave, come back. And that hesitation, that tiny movement, says everything he refuses to admit to you.

You want him to kiss you again. You want him to hate you. You want him to spit out your name in a mixture of pain and desire. You want him to leave you, to tear you away from him. You want him to save you.

And in this burning chaos, in this inner spiral where everything collides - you reach out. A simple gesture. For bread. Nothing could be more ordinary. Nothing could be more harmless. But he makes the same gesture. At exactly the same moment. Your fingers brush. Then touch. And the world turns upside down.

The heat is immediate. Unbearable. Like a thread of fire slipping under the skin. An electric shock that runs up your arm, through your shoulder, and into your throat. You hold your breath. So does he. Your hands are there, one against the other, above this black wooden board, like two oaths made by mistake.

You don't move. Unable to break contact. Because it's not just a contact. It's a scar opening. An old wound no one dares to name. This brush plunges you back into the forbidden, into that kiss you pretend to have forgotten, but which still burns. Your gaze falls together on your hands bound by chance—but it's no accident. 

You know it. So does Sunghoon.

The air is tearing.

You hear your own heart pounding in your chest, beat after beat, like a war drum. You feel his fingers—cold, hard, trembling—against yours. He doesn't withdraw them. He stays there. Absent. Frozen. Prisoner. And in his eyes, a crack. A crack as deep as a moonless night. He looks at you. No. He goes right through you.

Sunghoon seems to see something in you he wants to run away from. Something he can't fight.

So you break the spell. You're the one who pulls your hand back, gently, slowly, like pulling a dagger out of your own skin. You take the piece of bread. You avoid his gaze. You swallow your fear. And you pretend to keep eating.

But Sunghoon…He's not coming back. His mind is elsewhere. Far away. Lost between the suspended beats of this contact. He watches you without really seeing you, his eyes bleary, his mouth half-open as if he wanted to speak—but couldn't.

And then finally... His voice rises. A whisper. Almost a rattle. "In three days... There will be the Lantern Festival in Dōng Liánchéng."

You blink. You look up, surprised. Sunghoon doesn't explain. He doesn't justify anything. He doesn't even look at you. He speaks into the void, into a dead center, as if each word tears something from him. 

“If you want to go… Get ready.”

And you understand. Sunghoon wants to run away from you… But he doesn't want you to leave. He wants to punish you… But he can't bear the thought of you moving away. He wants to forget you… But he has just, unwittingly, invited you into one of the most intimate memories of his life. The Lantern Festival. A moment of light. Of beauty. Of suspended wishes.

You look at him. He's motionless. Frozen in a shadow of himself. A smile gently tugs at your lips. A sad smile. A cruel smile. A tender smile. It's poison. It's an invisible kiss. And you see it, in his eyes, that start—that moment when Sunghoon loses his footing, when his heart skips a beat.

You simply whisper:

"All right. We'll go."

And you start eating again. Not out of hunger. Not even to keep yourself occupied. You chew like you're casting a spell, like you're warding off an overly violent emotion. To delay the moment. To mask the storm. But deep down, you know. This isn't the party you're waiting for. It's not the lanterns hanging in the wind, nor the secret wishes people hang on flowering branches. This is Sunghoon. And this is how he'll eventually break you.

The days tick slowly through the calcified veins of Bai Lu Yan, like the coagulated blood of an empire too ancient to remember its own birth. The white city is now nothing more than a living mausoleum, each marbled jade pavement containing the echoes of ancient forgotten oaths, betrayed conquests, pacts sealed in the blood of the chosen. In this sanctuary where immortals hide behind masks of gold and virtue, the wind carries a scent of ancient rain mingled with the more muted scent of black incense burned in the corridors to ward off bad omens.

In this peace too perfect, too dead to be true, a man is at war.

Sunghoon doesn't move. He stands there, motionless, a silhouette cut out in the flickering shadow of a black stone pillar with gold veins. The afternoon light, filtered through the oiled paper panels, dies against his back, hemming his body with a spectral clarity. His arms are crossed, but his fingers clench at times, as if searching for an invisible weapon, or perhaps a truth. His gaze is fixed. He is fixed on the screen separating you from him, and he doesn't blink, as if by looking at you, even without seeing you, he is trying to ward off something. A spell. A curse. A version of himself he fears more than death.

You're on the other side. And you're getting ready. Slowly. Surely. With almost painful attention. And every noise you make resonates in Sunghoon like an incantation. The soft rustle of silk against your skin. The muffled creak of wood beneath your bare feet. The brief clink of a stray bracelet on the marble floor. And that breath… That tiny variation in the air, almost imperceptible, yet he senses it as a rumble in his chest. Because it's yours. And for some time now, he's been hearing your silence louder than the voice of the ancient gods.

He closes his eyes for a second. One second too long. And he sees. Sunghoon sees you as no one should see an enemy. With that heartbreaking clarity possessed by those who love before they even understand what they're looking at. With that primal fear, the one you feel in front of fire, or in front of the ocean when it decides to take everything back.

When you finally step through the screen, Sunghoon forgets to breathe. You step into the dim light of the room, and to him, you've never been so real. So dangerous.

You wear a dark red, almost black silk dress, like a promise of agony hidden beneath a festive garment. The fabric hugs your body with feigned modesty—every movement reveals something, every step erases an illusion. You didn't try to seduce, but you've just condemned it. Your hair is up, carefully tied in tight twists and strands, as if you'd taken the time to conceal an army in its folds. And in that high bun, a red pin. Simple. Ancient. And yet… Fatal.

It tinkles softly with each of your gestures, and the sound seeps into the silence like blood beading on a polished blade. This sound, light, crystalline, haunts him immediately. He has the strange impression of having heard it once. In a dream. Or in another life. He no longer knows. But he feels he should have fled as soon as he recognized it.

Sunghoon says nothing. But his gaze becomes an abyss. He stares at you like a starving man stares at a poisoned offering. He examines you shamelessly, defenselessly. He doesn't undress you—he skins you. He wants to understand what you are, what you're hiding. And what you're going to steal from him.

You're not a witch anymore. Not tonight. Tonight you are a woman. And this simple reality is enough to destroy all the walls he had built for himself.

You're a woman. And Sunghoon doesn't understand you.

You are a woman. And Sunghoon would like to understand you.

You're a woman. And Sunghoon wants you.

It's not a light, burning, immediate desire. It's not a longing born in the blood. No. What he feels is slower. More terrible. A spiral, a sweet poison that slips into his veins and settles behind his ribs, like a sleeping beast.

And this beast opens its eyes the moment it sees your neck. The back of your neck. Delicate. Perfect. A senseless offering in this place of death and oaths. Sunghoon sees the beat of your heart, there, just beneath the skin. He can almost feel the warmth of your breath in the hollow of his throat, even though you haven't even spoken. And a thought strikes him with the violence of a blade: He wants to put his lips there. Not to make you shudder. But so that you understand. That he is already on his knees.

You adjust a fold in your sleeve. The pin still clinks. And it's that sound, that small, almost insignificant sound, that breaks his last resistance. He senses it: it's too late. He's already on the other side. On your side. On the side of those who love, even if it's a trap. Even if it's a betrayal.

You look up at Sunghoon. And you look at him. You really look at him. That look—that single look—is a spell. Sunghoon feels it closing around him, slowly, inexorably. He doesn't know what you put into it. Pity? Distrust? Tenderness? But what he does know is that you've just stolen something from him. Something he can never take back.

Sunghoon looks down. For a moment. Just a moment. And in that moment, he understands. He's going to lose you. He's going to want you too badly. He will hate you for what you awaken in him. And he'll love you for the same reason. So he takes a step back. But he stays. Like a man standing before a storm, knowing it will crush him, but unable to turn away. Because there's no way out now.

There is you.

And there is him.

And the war has already begun.

Dong Liancheng (东连城) — Eastern City of Chains

Night falls on Dōng Liánchéng like an ancient breath. It doesn't descend from the sky; it seeps through the cracks. It creeps into the interstices of the stones, creeps along the worm-eaten beams, slips through the fingers of children still playing in the dust. It doesn't just blot out the light: it suffocates. It buries. It absorbs. This isn't a dusk. It's an extinction. A slow, silent, implacable eclipse.

Dong Liancheng, the ancient and inviolable city, the one they name in hushed tones in the monasteries of the north and the brothels of the south, the one whose cobblestones have drunk more blood than a battlefield, the one that was the capital of a forgotten empire and the prison of a mad emperor, becomes something else. It is no longer a city. It is an invocation.

And that night, it all begins with a first flame. A lantern. A red dot. Tiny. Suspended in the dark. Then a second. A third. Ten. One hundred. A thousand.

Soon, the air seems to vibrate under the weight of the lights, but it's not a soft brightness. It's a burning. The lanterns don't shine: they consume. Their flickering glow doesn't illuminate: it dissects. Each flame is an open eye. A revived memory. A scar that has refused to heal.

The cobblestones, polished by centuries of processions and executions, reflect the deep red light—carmine red, poppy red, placenta red, torture red—until entire streets resemble rivers of congealed blood. And beneath the crowds' feet, this blood seems to stir.

The passersby, however, don't speak. They glide. Draped in silk, masked, scented with mourning incense, they advance as if in a trance, guided by an invisible choreography. A memory that is not their own. Each of them seems to carry a burden that the eye cannot grasp. Something heavy, twisted, irremediable. The mourning of a loved one. The betrayal of an oath. The fear of a return. Or perhaps simply... the certainty of having already sinned too much to be saved.

The children are silent. Too silent. They hold their mothers' hands, but they don't cry, they don't laugh. Their eyes shine with a fixed, animal, almost supernatural glow. As if they knew. As if they remembered a previous life where they were something other than children.

Above, the lanterns rise, ever rising, in a slow, almost funereal ballet. Some are lotus-shaped—a symbol of rebirth, they say. Others take the form of dragons, foxes, broken wings, pierced hearts. Many are simply black spheres, shining like jet pearls, with no apparent pattern. These are the oldest. The most feared. They are said to contain names. Names no one is allowed to speak.

And heaven does not welcome them. It tolerates them. For on this night, heaven is not a blessing. It is a judge. A witness. A tomb.

The mist descends little by little from the mountain heights. It curls around the rooftops, creeps through the alleys, clings to limbs, hair, eyelids. It smells of damp wood, burnt hemp, and something else, older—a smell of cold sweat and dead flesh, imperceptible but persistent. This mist doesn't come from the natural world. It comes from what came before it.

The temples are at the center of everything. Massive, tortured, magnificent, and menacing like sleeping monsters. Their steeples are twisted by time, their pillars tattooed with faded inscriptions. They are said to have been built on ossuaries, and sometimes the earth groans beneath their foundations. On this night, they open to pilgrims, the damned, lovers, and the mad. They offer open arms. But they never close their embrace.

Incense is burned there by the armful. But it's no longer incense. It's a sacred poison. It blackens the lungs, slows the blood, dilates the pupils. It makes pain clearer, and hope... crueler. Those who pray don't pray to be saved. They pray to be chosen. It doesn't matter if it's by the living or the dead.

Masks are mandatory.

They're not worn for fun. Not out of tradition. It's an unwritten law, more imperative than any celestial edict. On this night, no one may show their true face. For if the dead recognize you... they might take you away. The masks are sewn with silver thread, hand-painted, adorned with raven feathers or tears frozen in glass. Some weep. Others smile too much. Some have neither mouths nor eyes. Some even whisper—but it's unclear if they really do, or if it's the wearers who are finally hearing what they should never have heard.

The celestial soldiers, for their part, patrol silently. Dressed in white, draped in fabrics that seem to float without wind, they march like specters. Their weapons are sealed, but it is said that they vibrate as tormented souls pass by. And tonight, they vibrate ceaselessly.

We fear them. But we don't hate them. Because they are the only bulwark between the city… and what lies beneath it.

The lanterns are still rising. Some explode in the sky in slow-burning bursts of fire. Others fade abruptly, as if crushed by an invisible hand. But all carry a wish. Or a regret. Or a curse. And sometimes, they come back.

Because what we send to the heavens does not always rise. Sometimes it goes back down.

And that evening, in the dead of night, when the moon becomes blurred under the veil of mist, when the musicians stop playing, when the beggars start laughing for no reason... something opens. A crack in the distance. As if the earth, tired of containing what it shelters, had let out a breath. A sigh.

And then, in the shadows, some fall to their knees. Not out of devotion. Out of terror. For they have seen. They have heard. They know. And in their eyes, there is no more room for light. Only waiting. 

And this certainty, creeping, icy, irremediable:

Tonight, Dong Liancheng is not celebrating. She is calling. And no one knows who will be called. Nor who, in the morning, will be missing.

You walked, hands clasped behind your back, head tilted slightly back, eyes wide open to the sky drenched in light. Lanterns rose above the city like silent prayers, incandescent souls torn from bodies. They rose slowly, quivering in the wind, like moths of fire—and as they gained height, their glow softened, dissolving into the darkness like the last words of a dying man.

You looked at them with the fervor of a broken heart pleading with the heavens, as if each of them carried a fragment of your story, a regret you had never confided to anyone. Your face was bathed in that flickering light, and there was a strange, unreal beauty in your eyes: a candor stained with blood, an innocence snatched too soon, but stubbornly surviving despite everything.

Beside you, Sunghoon walked in silence. Always at the same distance. Always at your pace. The man who judged others without appeal, who weighed souls and cut the bonds of life like a blade cuts stone, slowed down tonight. For you.

He said nothing. But sometimes his eyes would rest furtively on you—not like a man looking at a woman, but like a condemned man looking at a star through the bars of his cell. There was an almost religious despair in his stolen glances. As if he knew that what he desired, he would never have the right to touch. Or to keep.

Dong Liancheng, behind its illuminated facades, barely concealed the weariness of its walls. Beneath the laughter, beneath the scents of sugar and incense, one could smell the dust of war, the barely concealed grief. The masked faces were not all joyful. Some laughed too loudly. Others stopped laughing altogether.

And in that wounded city, you shone with a light he didn't know how to name.

Your steps stopped. Your gaze suddenly brightened. And in a gesture you probably hadn't premeditated, you gently tugged at Sunghoon's sleeve. It was almost nothing—a brush. But for Sunghoon, it was a shock. A silent jolt. His body stiffened, as if he'd forgotten what the touch of another skin on his meant.

He turned his head toward you, slowly. His gaze was neither cold nor distant this time. It was empty… And at the same time too full. With a silence charged with what he didn't dare say. With a confusion that hadn't yet found the words.

"What if we try this little shop?" you say, your voice lively, carefree, almost guilty for still being capable of enthusiasm.

You pointed to a red stall, bathed in orange lanterns. It seemed timeless. Sweets were piled high in obscene offerings: mooncakes with skin as black as night, ruby-red fruits dipped in sugar, soft, fat rice pearls, sweets rolled in burnt sesame seeds. The air was thick, saturated with sugar, oil, and promises of comfort.

And Sunghoon, despite himself, headed there.

You stood there, frozen. Watching him take a few steps away. He hadn't answered you. He didn't need to. You understood from his tense back, his abrupt but precise gestures, his way of pointing at the sweets like a soldier choosing his weapons, that he was giving in. To you. To that moment. To something he had sworn never to go near again.

You see him even before you reach him.

Sunghoon didn't move. Standing at the edge of an alley, slightly set back from the sea of ​​people, he seemed to belong to a world that only his body had left—never his soul. His tall, straight silhouette stood out like a blade in the flickering light of the lanterns. Everything about him screamed self-imposed exile. He looked at no one, searched for nothing. And yet, he had sensed you.

You didn't need him to see you to know that. You felt it in the tiny tension in his shoulders, in the imperceptible movement of his neck. It wasn't a start. It was worse. A sort of suppressed refusal. As if he were refusing to admit you and, at the same time, refusing to flee. His fingers, until then relaxed, had tightened. Slowly. Cruelly. Around the oiled paper of a sachet. A crinkled, tenuous sound, like a whisper of silk under the blade.

In his arms he carried a profusion of sweets, so incongruous in his hands that one might have thought they were a dream: skewers of sugar-glazed red fruits, rice flowers dipped in dark honey, pieces of crystallized ginger, so clean they seemed sliced ​​with a scalpel. An unreal offering. Bright, vivid, almost indecent colors. 

And Sunghoon… In the middle of this sugary theater… Dressed in black. A black so deep that it seemed to drink in the light around it. His loose sleeves swallowed the reflections. His wrists—white, knobbly, severe—formed a barrier. As if he were holding back the world. Or you.

The contrast was visually violent. And you couldn't help but find it magnificent.

You stopped a breath away from him. Not a word. Not a gesture. But his eyes, when Sunghoon finally turned his head towards you, swallowed you whole. It wasn't a look. It was a silence that devoured. His pupils caught the lanterns like daggers. A cold, sharp mist, barely contained by the rigidity of his jaw. And yet, deep down, something burned. A fire. Slow. Black. Not seeking the light, but the secret. Your secret. Your flaw. The one you tried so hard to hide—even from yourself.

Sunghoon handed you a skewer. Simply. Like when you hand over a disguised weapon. You looked down. You looked up. And at that precise moment, you felt your entire body fall into an invisible fault.

The sugar shone under the lantern light, smooth, golden, almost too perfect. You saw yourself in its surface. A tiny, fragile, distorted silhouette. And within you, an ancient pain rose up. Silent. Dull. A shame sewn into your stomach for years. A voice strangled by words spat out too young, too loudly, too often. A memory. Of looks. Of hands. Of humiliations whispered between two hypocritical smiles.

You swallowed hard. 

"How do you expect me to eat all this?" Your voice was meant to be light. But it failed. The last word tore like worn fabric.

You gestured theatrically to your stomach. A mockery. A display. But your eyes betrayed something else. A hesitation. A fragility. Then you looked at his face. His mouth. His jawline, almost cruelly pure.

And that was when your mask cracked.

"Do you think I'm too greedy... Or too fat?" Your voice was calm. But poison oozed beneath the words. Not a poison directed at him. No. An older poison. More intimate. The one you'd breathed in since childhood, until it ate away at your insides. You projected it onto him. On his strictness. His silence. His gaze that dissected without ever commenting.

Sunghoon didn't move. But he looked at you. For a long time. And in that silence... There was something unbearable. It wasn't judgment. Nor pity. It was... An echo. Sunghoon saw you. Not your face. Not your body. But the abyss. The place inside you where you screamed silently. Where you hungered to be accepted. Loved. Justified.

And his voice, when it finally rose, was no longer that of the judge. It was that of a torn man. Deep. Dark. Trembling. "I want it too."

Three words. But they made your world shake. Because Sunghoon… He, this rock, this being carved from law and asceticism… Confessed a desire. And that desire—it wasn't sugar. It was you.

You.

Your fire. Your rage. Your excess. Your hunger for life. Your appetites too great for convention. Too feminine for purity. Too real for its dead rules.

Your stomach tightened. A warmth nestled there, dull, heavy, almost painful. You felt your heart beating out of time. An ancient drum. Of war. Of sex. Of truth.

You took a step. Just one. But enough. So he can feel you. Your breath. Your scent. A mixture of skin, overripe flowers, and ashes too. A fragrance of intimate apocalypse.

You reached out your hand. And you whispered, like a pact:

“Then let me feed you.”

It wasn't an invitation. It was a provocation. A trap. An offering. You didn't know anymore. And you didn't care. Your hand brushed his. The contact was brief. But it burned you. You felt his breath freeze. His body didn't move. But his eyes… They screamed.

You raised the skewer. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a priestess before a sacrifice. You held it out to his lips. Sunghoon didn't move. But you saw the tension. The inner struggle. The hunger. He wasn't looking at the strawberry. He was looking at your mouth. Like a lost man looks at the last thing he's willing to betray to survive.

And you knew.

You tilted your head. Slowly. Your smile formed. Sweet. Ironic. Devastating.

"You don't want it?"

Your voice was that of a child playing. A witch charming. A lover waiting to be taken. And he saw you. Not as a culprit. But as a temptation. A devourer. His hand trembled. Tiny. But you saw him.

And you whispered. Softer than the wind:

"I knew you were just a coward..."

But your voice... It was soft. Almost tender. Like a caress on the edge of the abyss. And then, Sunghoon gave in. Slowly. His lips parted. The strawberry entered them. A crack. Obscene. The sugar burst. A red trickle—blood or fruit?—slid down his mouth.

And you died a little.

Sunghoon chewed. Without taking his eyes off you. For a long time. Then he smiled. And that smile… It wasn't a man's smile. It was a wolf's. Wild. Burning. Irrecoverable. You understood that you had just awakened a part of him that he had buried.

And he said:

"You should try." His voice was low. A hell of a breath.

You took the skewer. You bit. And the world turned upside down. The sugar was fire. The fruit, poison. And his eyes… His eyes swallowed you. You stopped chewing. You were burning up.

"Smart guy..." you finally whispered. Your voice trembled with a dangerous sweetness.

Sunghoon didn't answer. But he had heard. And at that precise moment, something snapped. Or anchored itself. You didn't know it. But for Sunghoon, you were no longer the witch to be judged. You were the forbidden fruit. The one he wanted to bite into sin. Oblivion. And he… He was no longer the judge. He was the man ready to burn. For you. For your taste. For your damnation. 

You first glimpsed this shop at the turn of a narrow, winding alley, almost hidden by the thick veil of autumn fog and the flickering lanterns that cast shifting shadows on the damp cobblestones. The air was heavy with an acrid mixture of burnt resin, damp wood, and buried promises. This window, almost invisible, seemed to contain another reality, a door to faces forgotten or yet to come.

Your gaze, both attracted and suspicious, fell upon these masks, exposed like so many fragments of broken souls. They had this strange, cold, almost morbid beauty, as if they carried secrets too heavy to reveal. You approached, your heart beating a dull rhythm, a storm rumbling in your chest, an electric shiver running through your skin.

Your fingers had first brushed against a red mask, shaped like a fox. The sharp features, the enigmatic smile that seemed to maliciously challenge the world. The irony of this choice had tightened your throat, because this symbol of cunning and duplicity seemed to laugh at your own inner pain, at your silent storms. Yet you chose it, like a challenge, like a silent declaration. This red mask became armor—or a warning.

Then you searched again, for something invisible. For him. For Sunghoon. Your gaze slid over each mask, until it settled on one of immaculate whiteness, of icy purity. Its surface was smooth, perfect, without the slightest crack, but this perfection carried within it a tacit cruelty, a biting coldness like the frost of the cruelest winter. It seemed made to mask an ancient pain, a heavy silence, a suppressed anger. This mask, you felt, carried the very essence of this impenetrable man.

You took it with an almost sacred reverence, feeling the coldness of the material beneath your fingers, like an echo of his distant presence, as if you held in your hands a fragment of his veiled soul. You wanted to show him this silent bond between you, to share this secret, and slowly you turned away, your heart vibrating with hope.

But he was no longer there.

Absence gripped you brutally, an icy blade driven into your chest. You had thought, for a moment, that he was walking beside you, that his discreet footsteps mingled with yours in the tumult of the crowd. But the cruel emptiness brought you back to the truth: he had left you alone, swallowed up by the anonymous mass.

And then, in that oppressive silence, the mark on your shoulder blade awoke with a sharp, stabbing pain. A dull, violent pulse, like the furious beating of a heart locked in invisible chains. The burn spread, setting your nerves ablaze, awakening a storm of emotions you couldn't name—visceral fear, burning anger, abysmal sadness, a heartbreaking, confusing whirlwind. Your instinct, as sharp as a jade blade, pushed you toward him, toward Sunghoon. There was only him.

You searched the crowd, scrutinizing every shadow, every face, desperately seeking his deep, dark gaze. But around you, only the city buzzed, indifferent, impassive. Panic rose within you, a wild beast that wanted to break free, and yet you couldn't scream, couldn't help but buy those masks, your trembling hands clutching them like fragile talismans.

You set out on this quest, your steps heavy with despair, your head filled with his silences. The minutes stretched, like burning hours, time distorted by obsession. And then, suddenly, you saw him.

There, in the shifting crowd, his wild gaze caught you like a fire trap. His eyes were a pit of pain, of suppressed anger, and yet they sought refuge. When he finally saw you, it was as if an immense weight had lifted from his shoulders, as if he could breathe again.

Sunghoon wanted to run towards you, to devour the distance, to break through the bodies that stood in his way. But the mass of humanity was an impassable wall. He hesitated, trapped by his frustration, by his burning desire.

The temptation of teleportation, that power forbidden to mortals, crossed his mind—but the consequences were too great, too cruel. So he chose brute force. With a thrust of his shoulder, he slammed into the crowd, jostling, causing the human barriers to collapse one by one.

When he finally reached you, Sunghoon placed his large, cold, and trembling hands on your face, as if he wanted to make sure you were really there, tangible, real. His fingers gripped you with an almost painful intensity, as he looked deep into your eyes.

In those pupils you thought impenetrable, you discovered a storm of emotions—panic fear, heartbreaking relief, feverish tenderness. It was as if he had carried this burden alone, in silence, until this encounter broke its invisible chains.

"Who allowed you to disappear?" His voice was hoarse, vibrating with a dull despair, each word a stabbing wound. His heart was pounding, uneven, panting like a wounded animal, unable to contain the storm brewing within him. His brows furrowed, drawing a silent pain on his face you'd never seen.

You looked down, your throat tight with shame, your voice cracked with fear of having wreaked such havoc on him.

“I… I just wanted to get some masks.”

Sunghoon looked away from you, down at the masks you held, clutched like a final, fragile bond between you. Then his eyes slowly returned to you, capturing the flickering light in your wet eyes, where your vulnerability showed without a mask.

A shaky breath escaped his lips, soon followed by a hoarse, broken laugh, almost mad. This heart-rending laugh was the outlet for all the pent-up tension, a wave crashing against the fragile dike of his control.

“For… Masks?” he repeated incredulously, his shoulders barely relaxing. You, too, could hardly believe that this man—this cold, distant, almost impassive-looking celestial—was here, in front of you, vibrating with an emotion so raw it was almost terrifying. “I’ll buy you thousands of them, if that’s what it takes to make sure you never disappear again. But please… Don’t ever run away from me like that again. My heart… It wouldn’t survive another absence.”

Sunghoon then placed his forehead against yours, slowly, as if to anchor this promise in the flesh, in the very air that surrounded you. His breath, short, hot, mingled with yours in a fragile and heartbreaking dance, suspended outside of time.

“I'm sorry…” you whispered, your voice so soft, so broken, it could have shaken mountains. Your lips barely brushed his with each movement, each breath—a fragile, almost unreal touch, but charged with all the force of a silent, profound promise.

You embraced him then, your arms squeezing his shoulders with fierce intensity, as if to tell him, wordlessly, that you were there, entirely his, that nothing could ever separate you again. He responded to your embrace with a low hum, a broken song, fragile but full of hope—a secret oath only you could hear, woven in the darkness of a burning night.

The night wind, cold as a breath of death, slid ominously through the narrow, cobbled streets of Dong Liancheng, leaving an icy caress on the skin that bit into the soul as much as the body. The entire city seemed held in a suspended breath, a fragile bubble of trembling light. Red lanterns, hanging from the invisible threads of fate, flickered in slow swings, casting uncertain shadows on the black stone walls, silent witnesses to countless stories of blood and betrayal.

At your side, his hand grasped yours, firm and burning—a fragile yet incandescent bond, charged with an invisible yet heavy tension, palpable, like a steel wire stretched beyond its limits. Your red mask, blazing like a raging inferno, consumed the night with a cruel glare, while his mask, white as the foam of an icy sea, revealed only an icy emptiness, an absence of emotion that reinforced the enigmatic and tortured aura that enveloped him.

A laugh escaped your throat, light, almost childish, but with a hint of audacity that stood out in this oppressive setting.

“You know… That mask really flatters you, ice block.”

His head swiveled slowly toward you, as slowly as a hawk sizing up its prey. Your masked gazes met, the fiery red of your mask clashing with the immaculate coldness of his, two opposing forces ready to tear each other apart or burst into flames. The silence between you suddenly thickened, laden with unspoken words and burning expectations.

"I know." His voice was raspy, low, almost a whisper carrying muffled threats. Sunghoon adjusted your mask with a hand that was almost shaking, such a simple gesture yet it made you falter. Your breath came in short bursts, your heart beating with the violence of a war drum in your chest, each breath seeming to burn you from the inside out.

"You should have complimented me, too." Your voice, barely more than a whisper, came out with a cruel mix of defiance and hidden hurt. You slowly pursed your lips behind your mask, the bitter smile there a mask itself—a flimsy veil to hide what you refused to show.

“I look like an idiot,” you whispered, your voice cracking, almost breaking, “with a heavenly husband with a frozen heart, who never melts, even under the hottest flames.”

Time seemed to freeze abruptly around you. An invisible, implacable halt. Sunghoon's steady, steady step stopped abruptly. You felt a heavy presence, a dark gravity sucking in every breath of air, stealing all the breath and movement from the night. The lanterns above your heads flickered, bowing as if in silent reverence to the suspended moment. The night wind ceased its murmur, and a stifling silence gripped the city. The shadows lengthened, creeping, slow, like black fingers weaving an embrace around you.

Sunghoon—the name echoed in your mind, laden with shadows and dead light—appeared like an obsidian statue in the pale moonlight. His muscles, tense beneath his cold skin, seemed to be fighting an invisible storm rumbling within him. His jaw clenched, his fists barely clenched, he held back a firework of conflicting emotions. His gaze, black and deep, shone with a heartbreaking brilliance, like a blaze hidden beneath a layer of thick ice.

You stopped in turn, your heart pounding, turning slowly to face him. Your gaze locked with his, oscillating between defiance and a silent pain you dared not admit. The night, complicit, enclosed this moment in an almost tangible darkness, saturated with that electric tension, that dull, threatening energy that made you shiver to the bone.

"Why the sudden stop?" Your voice was soft, almost pleading, but a flame of questioning burned within it.

But beyond the words, it was the silence itself that weighed heavily, charged with a magnetic force that sucked in every breath, compressing the air around you into an invisible cage. Your blood pounded in your temples, and your entire being vibrated with a strange, unsettling, almost dangerous alchemy.

Sunghoon's gaze pierced through the immaculate mask he wore, his eyes seeming to penetrate the darkness of the night and the depths of your soul. There, beneath that veil of coldness, lurked a raging storm: rage, pain, forbidden desires, broken promises, and a devastating passion ready to crash over you like a tsunami.

The silence was no longer a mere lack of noise, but a living, heavy, dense entity, weaving around you a thick shroud of shadows and stifled sighs. It fell like an endless night, crushing all certainty, distorting time into a slow, suspended agony. Around you, the world had frozen—the stars had stopped twinkling, the breeze had lost its voice, and even the moon seemed to hold its breath, trapped in an inky sky that absorbed all light.

You stood there, motionless, two silhouettes in the darkness, like two damned souls condemned to a proximity both excruciating and necessary. The thin distance that separated you was not only physical, but a chasm laden with unspoken words, with a history too heavy to be borne bare. This silence, thick and suffocating, was an invisible cage, its bars made of broken emotions and buried desires.

The air was icy, biting, a sharp blade that seeped beneath the dark layers of your clothing, biting into your flesh with silent cruelty. The wind whistled around you like a phantom whisper, infiltrating the folds of the night, and yet no shiver, no movement betrayed the anguish that beat dully in your hearts. You were frozen, trapped in a precarious balance, like two stars in forced orbit, attracted and repelled by contradictory forces.

Then, into the silence that threatened to implode, Sunghoon's voice finally rose. A rough voice, broken by the weight of years, trembling with a long-stifled vulnerability. Each word was a blade, dipped in both the biting frost and the burning ember of desire. 

“Because…” Sunghoon trailed off, trapped by his own demons, by the tortured past that haunted him like a dark shadow. His throat tightened, yet he continued, his breath hoarse and filled with heartbreaking sincerity. “…You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

The words fell upon you like a stab, both icy and burning. A shiver ran through your body, starting from the invisible skin of your mask and sinking deep into your soul, tearing at the veils you had patiently woven around yourself. The world around you shrank, until it was nothing more than a burning circle where only your suffering and your desires burned.

Her confession, brutal and vulnerable, echoed in the silence with the force of a stifled scream: “…The thing I never thought I could possess.”

Your heart raced, a furious drum hammering your chest, each beat a painful tear, a cold fire consuming your last certainties. Your gaze sought his, that unfathomable chasm where the devouring flame of desire and the icy bite of fear intertwined. That gaze, both refuge and torture, slowly undressed you, burning away every facade you had erected.

“Words…” Sunghoon trailed off, crushed by the emotional charge, his voice hoarse, as if broken under the weight of silence. “…will never be strong enough or accurate enough to describe what you are.”

One step. Slow. Inexorable. Rushing. That step that further reduced this space, this fragile rampart of flesh and shadow that separated you. Sunghoon advanced towards you, a silhouette of shadow and light, predator and prey bound by the same insane need.

Your breath came in short, gasping gasps, every fiber of your being tense, ready to tear or burst into flames. His breath, hot and burning, mingled with the icy air, weaving a paradoxical alchemy around you—an icy fire that consumed you while freezing your senses.

"If you want me to be more considerate..." His voice rose, firm, solemn, like an oath etched in blood and pain. "...I will."

His finger trembled as he brushed against your hand. The touch was a fragile and terrible caress, an invisible chain forged in vulnerability and the urgency of desire. The shudder that ran through you was wild, deep, cracking the armor you had built against the world.

“If you want me to be more demonstrative…” His whisper turned hot, a promise suspended between shadow and light. “…I will.”

The warmth of his palm against your skin unleashed a silent fire, consuming all your last resistance. Every moment became a blaze.

“And if you want me to adore you more than my heart could ever bear…” The spot where his lips should be, behind his mask, brushed against the lips of your mask, and you felt like you could feel his harsh breath depositing flames on your icy skin. “…I will too. Because that’s how much you mean to me.”

Sunghoon stopped, so close you seemed to feel his hot breath against your bare skin, the mad rhythm of his heart pounding against your chest like a war drum ready to burst.

The world around you disappeared, swallowed by this incandescent void, this gaping chasm dug between desire and fear, light and darkness.

You no longer thought. You breathed only those short, panting breaths, timed to the wild beating of his heart. The silence became unbearable, a thread ready to snap under the weight of the unspoken, the buried promises.

Then, suddenly, the sky tore open. A firework burst with a wild crash, tearing the darkness apart in a mad shower of light and embers. The brutal din seemed to etch your moment into the ephemeral, as if the universe itself wanted to forever mark this moment stolen from eternity.

Your breath caught, your throat tightened. Your hand trembled, carried by an invisible force, and rose slowly, almost reverently, to brush against the icy surface of his mask.

Your fingers lingered, hesitant, trembling under the weight of ancient pains and silent promises. You slowly untied the icy prison, revealing its face, both familiar and unfamiliar.

It was the face of a broken man, forged from the steel of invisible battles, marked by the violence of a past he alone carried. A wild, savage, and tragic beauty was evident in his harsh features, but it was his gaze that swallowed you up—a dark ocean of anguish, fear, and fierce love, as if his very existence depended on this fragile, indestructible bond.

“I don’t want you to change for me…” Your voice was a breath, fragile, almost broken, a confession offered in secret. “I just want you to love me… Unconditionally. Infinitely.”

The silence that followed was heavier than stone, saturated with wounds, repressed desires, unspeakable fears.

Then Sunghoon's voice, deep and firm, rose, sealing this pact in the depths of the shadows. "I will."

The silence around you had grown heavy, charged with an almost palpable electricity. The air itself seemed suspended, as if awaiting a storm. Your eyes had met, had consumed each other with the force of a raging inferno, and in that single instant, the outside world no longer existed. Nothing mattered but this burning tension, this incandescent desire that threatened to devour you whole.

There was a shiver, both fragile and unbearable, that ran through your skin as his fingers, trembling but determined, came to grip your waist. His hands were no longer hands, but steel chains, irresistible and gentle at the same time. The caress of his palm against your bare skin beneath the light fabric seemed both tender and hungry, full of a lust suppressed for too long.

Sunghoon's warm breath slid against the back of your neck, enveloping you like a soft, deadly mist. The force behind it made you sway, but you didn't back down. On the contrary, you surrendered to this vertigo, this cruel vertigo that mixed desire and fear, trust and pain.

Sunghoon dropped your mask, and with that gesture, your face was free in the dim light of the lanterns. Your fingers found his chin, tracing a line of taut flesh, exploring the contours of his clenched jaw. You felt beneath your palms the effort of self-control he exerted over himself, like a tiger ready to pounce, held by an invisible thread.

Then his lips crashed against yours, and it was as if the entire night had exploded. The shock of that first mouth against yours was a devastating fire, a blade of embers that pierced you to the very soul. His tongue, demanding and wild, sought yours in a hungry dance, full of forbidden promises and ancient pains. Each caress, each movement seemed at once gentle and ferocious, violent and tender, a sublime contradiction that made you lose your footing.

Your hands clung to his shoulders, to his hair, as if to anchor you to this moment suspended between ecstasy and heartbreak. His kiss was a storm, a hurricane of emotions where raw lust and ardent love intertwined. There was in his mouth the sweetness of a whisper, and the violence of a secret war. Sunghoon swallowed you, devoured you, all the while placing burning, hungry kisses on your skin.

The wind had picked up, carrying with it the distant crackle of fireworks. Suddenly, the night sky burst into a bouquet of gold, purple, and ruby, tearing through the dark vault of the universe in a dazzling symphony. These flashes of light exploded like so many heartbeats, synchronized in a wild, violent, magnificent cadence.

Beneath that shower of celestial flames, his arms embraced you, holding you against him with the force of a thousand contained storms. You felt every tense muscle of his body against yours, every hot breath, every sigh laden with that heartbreaking mixture of passion and fear. Your fingers dug into his hair, pulling gently, expressing all that your words could not contain: abandonment, conquest, pleasure, devotion.

Sunghoon's mouth descended on your throat, placing a trail of burning kisses there, leaving imprints of fire and lust on your skin. His hands roamed your back, discovering every inch of your fragile skin, making you shiver under the precise, ardent caress.

You felt his power surge, wild and uncontrollable, mixed with an almost painful tenderness. It was the meeting of warrior and lover, demon and angel, fire and ice. You were two souls on fire, broken but alive, defying the night, defying the pain.

The explosions in the sky redoubled, as if to seal this silent pact, this perfect fusion between the violence of desire and the sweetness of a love that burns without ever consuming. Each spark above your heads seemed to mark your union with a cruel and sublime blessing.

Time expanded, stretched into an eternity where your bodies spoke a secret language, where every caress was a confession, every kiss a promise, every sigh an oath of eternity.

You no longer knew where your being ended and his began. You were a raging fire, a storm of flesh and soul, a burning mystery in the heart of the night.

And beneath the incandescent glow of fireworks, amidst the tumult of shadows and flames, you loved each other with the gentle violence of dying stars, with the sacred lust of warriors from a forgotten world, with the intensity of a doomed yet inextinguishable love.

Taglist : @weepingsweep @immelissaaa