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slylycurioustreasure · 1 month ago

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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

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devieuls · 10 months ago

Text

ˋ Haunted .✵

Qimir x Ex Jedi Fem Reader < SERIES >

Warning of the Serie: MDNI. Sith Lord Qimir x Fem ex Jedi Reader.

(during the series)

SMUT: Dirty Talk; Fangs; Bites; fingering; Blood; Spit; Jealousy and Possessiveness; Foreplay; violence; Swearing; Teasing; Unprotected Sex; betrayal; slut shaming; oral sex; dacryphilia; outdoorsex; jealousy BDSM. Dom Qimir ANGST: toxic relationship, self-harm, derealization, suffering, Requited / Unrequited love, prejudices, bullying and insults. There will be flashbacks in this series

Aged characters: Qimir 35 y.o / You 22 y.o.

Synopsis: In a twisted web of light and darkness, two opposites are facing each other, dancing on a thin thread called fate. What happens when light and darkness dance on a wire called destiny, two eternal opposites that inevitably attract each other and create something perfectly powerful and chaotic to unite the power of two in one? The answer emerges in a journey of tension and attraction, where yin and yang discover that their opposition is nothing but a reflection of a deep and unexpected connection. This is the story of how destruction is akin to peace, how the moon one day decided to save the sun, how darkness is not so dark and evil so bad. A journey towards change and desire, where opposing forces merge into a future that no one could have predicted.

(Following some events of the series)

Lenght: 4.9k

TW: THE SERIES WILL BE FULL OF DELICATE TOPICS!

⇠ Previous chapter ✵ Next Chapter ⇢

· · ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── · ·

Chapter I: The Abyss of Temptation

(The shuttle landed silently on the verdant surface of the planet Khofar, a wild jewel among the worlds of the Outer Rim Territories. As the hatch opened, a wave of humidity enveloped the Jedi, carrying with it the intense scent of damp earth and the exotic fragrance of the lush vegetation. The forest stretched out before them like an endless sea of green, where the trees rose like ancient towers, their massive trunks covered in layers of gleaming moss. The thick, intertwined canopies above them created a natural roof, allowing only faint rays of light to filter through, speckling the ground with golden patches. Khofar was a living, wild planet, and they were only temporary visitors, intruders in an ancient and balanced ecosystem. Every rustle among the leaves, every distant call, was a warning. A premonition or prelude to what the day would bring.)

If only you had known in advance that your teammates would die one by one before your eyes as you returned from the hut where Jedi Master Kelnacca lived, you would have thought twice before agreeing to the mission. You had fought against the Sith who killed your friends, battling with anger and bitterness, in a grief too fresh to fully comprehend. In the end, the pain of your body hitting the hard ground was nothing compared to the searing agony in your side from a nearly fatal wound. Your vision began to blur, and you could only see footsteps approaching before everything faded to black.

You awoke slowly, as if emerging from a hibernation that had lasted for years. Your eyes opened with difficulty, greeted by a nearly suffocating gloom. The dim light of a few torches was the only source of illumination within what seemed to be a cave. The rocky walls, uneven and cold, seemed to loom over you. You felt weak, every movement was a struggle, and a dull pain throbbed in your side. You tried to sit up, but your injured side forced you back down, a hiss of pain escaping your lips. You brought a trembling hand to the wound and felt the rough texture of the bandages wrapped around the torn flesh. Despite the agony, the wound had apparently been cleaned and treated with care. Someone had taken the time to tend to it, to ensure it would heal, though it was still far from being fully recovered. You looked around, trying to piece together fragments of memory that crowded your mind. You remembered your friends' deaths, Sol screaming, your lightsaber changing color, and a battle. You recalled the fierce confrontation with the Sith, your fall, and the darkness that enveloped you. But beyond that, nothing. You had no idea how you had ended up in that cave, nor who had brought you there.

Your heart raced, panic beginning to seep into your thoughts. Were you a prisoner? And if so, who had shown such mercy to tend to your wounds? The most unsettling question was the most obvious: why hadn't the Sith eliminated you when he had the chance? A shadowy thought slithered into your mind, and the face of the Sith echoed in the depths of your being. The idea that he might have been the one to save you, to care for you, was as chilling as it was improbable. Yet, you couldn’t shake the possibility from your mind, no matter how absurd it seemed.

You dragged yourself out with great effort, and through the blinding light, you saw the silhouette of a man, barely identifiable. You followed him stealthily, still holding your side and trying to endure the pain from the wound. For a moment, you lost sight of him, only to find him again shortly after, immersed in a pool of water in what seemed to be a coastal area with black sand you couldn’t identify. Your eyes fell on the figure facing away from you, submerged in the water, his muscles relaxed, his raven hair wet and slicked back. To your eyes, the man seemed completely unaware of your presence, though he appeared to have a vigilant awareness of the surrounding area. You moved silently among the rocks and vegetation, observing your target until your gaze fell upon a pile of clothes near the shore, where the deactivated lightsaber lay. With swift and somewhat precise movements, you approached the lightsaber. Tension mounted inside you as you crouched to pick it up, aware that any sound could betray your presence. You grasped the metallic object and assumed an attack position as the man began to speak, still with his back turned while he calmly washed himself.

"how does it feel?" he said, turning towards you. You recognized him immediately. The mere sight of his face sparked rage within you. "Pleasant, don't you think?" His tone was a piercing screech to your ears. You gritted your teeth, not responding, remaining in your attack stance. "Your stance is good despite the wound on your side, but your elbows are a real mess. I had my doubts when we fought last time, and now I see why it was so easy to defeat you. Your elbows are too low; you should keep one higher, you know?" he continued, observing you. "…To block more quickly and strike with more precision." He took a brief pause. "Since you don’t know how to use the Force, you should learn to block better," he concluded, stepping out of the water, now only a few steps away from you.

"Don’t move," your stance changed, now aiming the off lightsaber directly at him. Your gaze was sharp and cold. "If you don’t want to join me, at least let me put my clothes on" he said. You took a slight step back, allowing him to exit the water. You swallowed, trying not to let your gaze fall on the naked, wet defined body of the man, keeping in your mind that he was your enemy. You began to ponder whether it was appropriate to attack him now. But it was neither Jedi-like to strike a defenseless man nor to act in such a dishonorable manner. "Surely, you’re wondering if it’s honorable to kill me like this," he began, his tone different from the one used in battle. You swallowed. Your gaze fell for a second on his chest, and you cursed yourself for the terrible idea. "In battle it’s justified, but days later isn’t it revenge?" he asked with a sarcastic tone, as if he already knew the answer. "And now you wonder if I can read your mind… and the answer is… no. Anger betrays your thoughts" he continued, dressing himself as if you weren’t pointing a weapon at him. His gaze seemed oddly gentle, more delicate, almost innocent. So much so that he almost didn’t seem like the same man who had killed seven Jedi just a few nights before.

"Why did you bring me here? Why didn’t you kill me?" you asked, watching him sternly, uncertain of what to do next. "Am I your prisoner?" "Prisoner? You’re the one with a weapon" he said with an overly calm look and an obvious tone in his voice, as he walked back towards the cave, passing by you without fear. You followed him, teeth clenched. You wanted revenge on this man, but what a miserable person you would be to strike him from behind while he was unarmed. "If you keep me here, Sol will come for you. He’s found me before, and he’s powerful with the Force." Your voice sounded threatening, though not as forceful as you’d hoped due to the stabbing pain in your side. The man turned and looked at you with a puzzled expression. "Do you think he’s powerful with the Force? It’s you who’s powerful with the Force, y/n. Someone should teach you," he said. You were stunned for a few seconds, as he knew your name. To you, he was a stranger, but you didn’t seem to be as unknown to him. The stranger walked back into the cave, and you followed him, confused. "In what way am I powerful with the Force? You should know it’s something to be practiced. If you don’t train it, it fades" you said, your voice still sharp as you scrutinized the man who seemed so at ease in your presence. You had long abandoned being a Jedi, retreating shortly after becoming officially part of the Order. If it hadn’t been for your sister leaving a trail of blood wherever she went, you would have stayed far away from that world. You had lost every Force ability, not having practiced it for many years. You vaguely remembered how to use a lightsaber, thanks to Sol, who had helped you recall the skills during the time you spent together, training with his young Padawan Jecki.

The stranger was seated next to what appeared to be a small campfire, while you kept your distance. He tasted the food he was cooking. You didn’t trust him; something about him made you suspicious, aside from the fact that he had decimated your team. "You know… The Jedi teach that there’s only one way to access the Force, and if you don’t do it their way, it fades. But there’s another way," he said gently, turning his gaze toward you. "Beneath the surface of consciousness, there are powerful emotions." "Anger. Fear. Loss…" he slowly mentioned the emotions you had learned to suppress, as you had been taught in the Order during your time as a Jedi Padawan. "…desire." The last emotion was spoken almost in a whisper as he took on a more serious and penetrating expression. You swallowed, observing him with disdain, though you subconsciously held your breath as he listed the emotions. "That’s the path to the dark side," the words came out acridly from your mouth.

The man’s expression darkened for a moment, but he quickly masked it with a mocking smile. "semantics… You Jedi are so closed-minded," he replied, turning back to the fire, stirring the stew he was cooking. "The light side isn’t the only way to access the Force. The dark side… amplifies emotions. It’s just another way to access the Force. A way… to freedom." His convincing tone almost seemed reasonable, though it was contrary to your way of thinking. "You killed my friends," your gaze grew even sharper and more bitter, as your hand still gripped the hilt of the deactivated lightsaber, seeking comfort in the familiar cold metal. The Sith’s words were like poison seeping into your mind, exploiting the insecurities you had always tried to suppress. "Friends? That’s what you call people who come to seek you only in moments of need and then ignore your existence?" His voice was laced with a mix of disdain and feigned compassion. Every word from this man was a blade sinking into your soul, touching raw nerves you had tried to ignore. You had been trained to combat fear, anger, desire—all emotions that, if left unchecked, could lead you down the dark path. But at that moment, you felt the internal storm growing, fueled by suffering and loss, a mourning.

"War isn’t pretty, y/n, sometimes…" he began, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he stood up, beginning to walk toward you with determined steps, never breaking eye contact. "Sacrifices must be made for a greater good." He stopped just inches from you, his penetrating gaze studying you with a mix of cynicism and desire, as if challenging you to contradict him. Every fiber of his being radiated an irresistible force, a magnetism that seemed to envelop him like a shadow. He leaned slightly toward you, his warm breath brushing against your skin as his lips dangerously neared your ear. "Your friends," he whispered with a cold, almost contemptuous tone, "were just collateral damage." His words were like sharp knives—cutting and relentless—but the seductive tone with which he spoke betrayed an unsettling intimacy, as if he were confiding a dark secret that only you could understand.

The stranger leaned back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. His dark eyes, deep as an abyss, stared at you with an intensity that seemed to penetrate directly into your soul. His face was close, too close, and his expression was serious, almost sorrowful, but there was no trace of remorse—only a dark understanding. "Why do you love people who can only go so far?" His voice dropped further, becoming a near-confidential whisper. "Who can’t go as deep as you can?" His gaze was intense, his eyes locked onto yours with an expression that seemed to reveal far more than his words had. There was a hidden desire, a need struggling to surface, but the man skillfully masked it, maintaining a subtle balance between cynicism and seduction.

You held your breath, feeling the weight of his words and his proximity. You knew that behind those words lay a darkness trying to corrupt you, but his allure was dangerously real. Your mind was conflicted, torn between repulsion at the Sith’s cynicism and the irresistible magnetism surrounding him. The man gave you a slight smile, a smile that never quite reached his eyes, as he pulled back just a few centimeters, leaving you teetering between temptation and inner struggle. "Maybe, y/n," he added in a mellifluous voice, "you’re destined for something more… something greater… something that I can show you." "I’m not my sister. I’m not so easily corrupted," you said, looking him straight in the eyes, trying to maintain control over yourself. Every fiber of your being struggled to suppress the tumultuous emotions the stranger had tried to awaken in you. Your heart pounded loudly, betraying you, but your face remained impassive, covered by a studied veil of disgust. With a slow, deliberate motion, you took a step back, putting distance between you, your gaze charged with superiority and defiance.

Qimir observed you with an impassive expression, but behind his dark eyes was growing interest, a sort of admiration for your resilience. To him, you were not like the other Jedi he had encountered, too weak or easily swayed. In you, he saw a potential acolyte, someone with an inner strength that could be nurtured and guided toward an even greater power. A subtle smile appeared on his lips, a nearly imperceptible curve that betrayed his pleasure at seeing you so determined. "You’re not like your sister, that’s true," he admitted with a tone that seemed both a compliment and a challenge. He took a step toward you, closing the space between you once more, but this time with an even more calculated calm, like a hunter who knows its prey. "But don’t mistake your determination for invulnerability," he continued, his voice soft and sharp as a blade. "The force you suppress within you, the force you’ve learned to stifle, is what could make you great—much greater than the Jedi could ever imagine. I see in you a potential that goes beyond the limitations of their dogma, and that is what frightens them." He stopped just a few steps from you, his gaze locked on yours, trying to pierce through the mask you had erected. "I’m not here to corrupt you," he whispered, his voice almost persuasive. "I’m here to offer you a choice, a path that the Jedi have always denied you. A road to a freedom you don’t yet know." You felt a shiver run down your spine, but you refused to show any weakness to him.

"I don’t need your freedom," you replied coldly, your voice steady despite the internal turmoil. "Your whispers don’t touch me. I know who I am and what I represent." "So sure of yourself" he murmured, with a tone that seemed to appreciate your determination. "But what do you truly represent, y/n? A Jedi struggling against her own nature, stifling the potential that could make her truly powerful? Oh… perhaps I should say, ex-Jedi?" he asked with ironic amusement, towering over your figure. You clenched your teeth, pointing the hilt of the deactivated lightsaber at his stomach.

He tilted his head slightly, amused, his gaze growing more penetrating as he sought to reach that part of you he knew existed—the part that thirsted for knowledge, power, something more. “You feel the Force, you perceive it in ways that even the Jedi cannot understand. And you know there is a greater, deeper power calling you. It is not betrayal to explore that possibility. It is… evolution.” His words, spoken with such conviction, seemed to echo in the cave, breaking through the barriers you had erected to protect yourself. You raised your lightsaber to meet the man's neck. “Do it… light it” he ordered, his tone of challenge making your blood boil. The Sith, on the other hand, seemed delighted by your anger, his sharp and contemptuous smile only fueling the tension. Qimir merely tilted his head slightly to the side, offering his neck completely to you, his penetrating gaze fixed on the lightsaber you pointed at him, waiting for the moment you would decide to ignite it.

“A Jedi… does not attack the unarmed" you said through gritted teeth, your voice a murmur of frustration and determination. Your mind was a tumult of emotions, but your will to remain true to your principles was steadfast. “Do you still think you’re a Jedi?” he asked, his voice low and enveloping, almost hypnotic. “Don’t you remember how your lightsaber changed color the last time? Do you still believe you must adhere to a code you’re questioning within yourself?” Those words hit like a punch to the stomach, evoking images you would have preferred to forget. The blade of your lightsaber, once glowing a pure blue, had trembled, taking on red hues like those of the man before you. You took a step back, your heart racing, desperately trying to put space between you and that voice which seemed to read into you with ruthless precision. But the man gave you no respite. His hand moved with surprising speed, gripping your arm in a gentle yet firm hold. His fingers closed around your wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you from withdrawing the saber from his neck. The contrast between the contained strength of his touch and the relaxed calm of his face left you breathless.

His penetrating gaze was fixed on your eyes, a subtle yet relentless challenge. “You know yourself that after what’s happened you couldn’t return to the Jedi even if you wanted to,” he whispered, his tone charming and confident, as if he had already won this silent battle. “Sol has seen it, don’t believe that after succumbing to rage and revenge you can return to a position that no longer belongs to you.” You felt trapped, not so much by his hand holding you but by the words resonating inside you. His words seemed to challenge every certainty you had until that moment. Every fiber of your being wanted to reject him, but there was something in his tone, in the way he looked at you, that made you doubt, even if just for a moment. Qimir moved closer, his warm breath against your skin, each movement calculated with lethal precision. “It’s not a matter of principles, y/n,” he continued, his tone now almost seductive. “That pain, that anger… this is what you are.” Your breath grew irregular, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to maintain control. “Let me go.” you threatened, your voice a low growl, but you knew there was a shadow of hesitation you couldn’t hide.

“Sol saw it… the Jedi saw it” he continued, his tone now softer but laden with cruel truth. “And for that, they will throw you away, again.” His piercing gaze cut into you, as your eyes took on an expression of anger and fear at his words. You felt his words like a sharp blade piercing through your defenses, and your gaze hardened, but you couldn’t hide the flicker of fear in your eyes. The fear that, deep down, he might be right. The fear that your Order, those you would give your life to protect, might indeed see you as a threat, something to be eliminated. The Sith sensed that shift within you, and his gaze became even more penetrating, probing every corner of your mind. It was as if he could see every weakness, every hidden thought, and he used them with a terrifying skill. “You can’t hide from what you are, y/n. The dark side isn’t a weakness… it’s your strength. And you know it.” You gritted your teeth, disgust and anger mixing into an explosive blend that pushed you closer to the edge. He seemed to know exactly which buttons to press; every word, every look was a sharp blade striking at your raw nerves. The tension inside you grew, turning into a knot that threatened to snap. Until you could no longer hold it back, and it was in that moment that you ignited the lightsaber, the glowing blade just a breath away from his neck. “It won’t be like that,” you hissed, your voice barely above a whisper, desperately trying to stay calm, though your eyes betrayed the mask of confidence you wore. “I will not succumb to the dark side.”

The man remained still, his mocking smile slowly widening as his eyes stayed fixed on yours, as if he were looking through you, reading every hidden thought. He swallowed slowly, a gesture that seemed almost like an invitation, a further provocation. The blade of your saber illuminated his face, but there was no trace of fear in his eyes, only a cold calm. “It’s not something you have to give in to… it’s inside you,” he said with that velvety voice of his, each word a whisper insinuating doubt into your certainties. His words struck you like a blow to the heart, breaking that fragile barrier you were desperately trying to maintain. “Your potential is immense,” he continued, lowering his voice to a warm, almost intimate whisper. Your gaze grew sharper as the subtle poison in his words sought to seep into your consciousness. The lightsaber blade barely touched his skin without making contact, his calm expression only annoying you. It was as if the threat had no effect on him, as if he knew you would never have the courage to go through with it. Every movement he made was slow, deliberate, calculated to keep you on edge, playing with your emotions like a master puppeteer. Anger bubbled within you, a fire growing ever stronger, fueled by his words, his confident smile, the way he seemed to control everything. You couldn’t deny it; there was a part of you that wanted to give in, that wanted to let go of the anger, the pain that burned so intensely. And he knew it; you could feel it in his voice, see it in his eyes.

“I understand…” His voice was a seductive whisper, just above a breath, as his hand rose with studied slowness, approaching yours without ever touching it. His eyes, which had been filled with impenetrable confidence until now, took on a new light, something deeper, almost vulnerable. “I’ve lost everything, y/n…” His gaze now seemed sincere, almost pleading for some strange reason. “But when you lose everything,” he continued, his hand now resting on yours, which still gripped the cold lightsaber handle. The contact was surprisingly gentle, a light pressure, but enough to make you feel the warmth of his skin against yours. His grip was soft but firm, and the contrast between his words and the apparent gentleness of the gesture made you waver. “That’s when you’re truly free,” he concluded, his voice a whisper carrying an inescapable weight, an invitation to surrender, to let go of everything that still bound you to the light. His gaze locked onto your eyes, deep, almost pleading, but not for pity: for understanding, for sharing. It was as if he wanted you to see the world through his eyes, to understand that the dark side wasn’t a condemnation but a liberation. His words struck you forcefully, penetrating your defenses once again with lethal precision. It wasn’t just a mental game; there was something genuine in the pain that lingered in his voice, a shadow of loneliness that echoed your own torment. And in that moment, the Sith you had seen as an implacable enemy became a figure that seemed to understand your suffering, your anger.

“The anger you feel, the pain that consumes you… you don’t have to fight it,” he continued, his tone calm and inviting. The tension between you was thick, almost suffocating. You felt the dark side’s pull toward him, the promise of freedom shining like an irresistible temptation. But there was something more in that man, something human, making it harder to you to ignore. The sincerity in his gaze, his voice dropping to an almost intimate whisper, made you doubt your certainties. His hand, warm against yours, made you feel dangerously close to an abyss you weren’t sure you wanted to avoid. You remained still, analyzing his words in your mind. The lightsaber still tightly gripped in your hand, your teeth clenched as you swallowed before sighing, thinking about what you should do. You deactivated the lightsaber and stepped away from him, pressing the hilt of the now-deactivated saber against his chest. You wouldn’t be deceived by his seductive words. You knew who you were and what you fought for. But, inside, a small part couldn’t help but wonder: what if he was right?

“You don’t know me to tell me these things. And as I’ve said, I’m not corruptible like my sister,” You hissed, your voice charged with a tension the man couldn’t help but appreciate. He let his smile spread slowly across his face, watching with almost amused interest as you deactivated the lightsaber and then pressed the hilt against his chest. The determination in your eyes, the resolve in your gesture, fascinated him. It wasn’t the reaction he had expected, but there was something in you, an inner strength, a resilience that intrigued him deeply. He could see the internal struggle you were facing, the conflict between the Jedi code and the emotions he had deliberately stirred.

The Sith, with a slow and measured gesture, placed the hilt of the deactivated lightsaber on a nearby rock. The smile on his face shifted into a smirk of satisfaction. “Perhaps I know you better than you think,” he admitted, his voice soft and filled with an intensity that echoed in the silence of the cave, where only the crackling of the fire could be heard. “I see who you are… who you could be. Your strength, your will…” His steps continued to close the distance between you, and you took a step back, trying to maintain the space between you. He gently took your wrist and pulled you slightly towards him, towering over your smaller figure. He looked at you with what might have seemed like admiration or… desire. You held your breath, swallowing, paralyzed by what could be the gentlest yet most dangerous of predators. The man brought his face closer to yours, the distance between you reduced to mere centimeters, his breath mingling with yours, warm and slow. His touch was once again firm but never painful. His eyes, dark as the abyss, glowed with an intensity that slowly captivated you. You found yourself hanging on his lips, almost asking for permission to breathe regularly. “It is rare…” he concluded. You took a deep breath, and the tension between you was growing increasingly palpable. His tone was like sweet poison, flowing slowly through your veins, making you doubt once more everything you had always believed. His hand slowly moved from your wrist to your side, stopping just below your ribs, where the wound, though treated, still throbbed painfully. The contact, though light, made you flinch, a mix of pain and something else you couldn’t quite identify. You felt the warmth of his body against yours, the tension between you becoming almost unbearable.

“You’re still loyal to someone who didn’t think twice about abandoning you to the enemy on Khofar some nights ago…” You swallowed at his words, feeling the knot in your throat that blocked every word and the weight in your stomach. “Deep down, you’re still searching for a master, someone to guide you… That life, you’ve never truly felt it as your own; they never understood you,” he continued, his gaze fixed on your eyes as if he could see inside you, reading every thought, every hidden emotion. “But I can.” For a moment, you felt yourself falter at those words. The tension between you was palpable, and you could not take your eyes off what must be your enemy, although your mind tried to keep lucidity. Your breathing was slow and irregular, each breath an attempt to hold back an invisible and unknown force that seemed to want to overwhelm you. The knot in your throat was getting tighter, blocking the words you wanted to say. Your eyes were mesmerized. There was an incredible intensity in those foxy eyes, a mixture of fear and fascination that left your heart inexplicably throbbing and mind confused. You failed to swallow trying to make words come out to counter his claims

“You are like me…” he whispered a short distance from your lips.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Notes :

Well, yes, the sexy hot af villain who will be the protagonist of the new series is Him. Qimir, from The Acolyte. If you don’t know him, go and watch that series because Manny Jacinto put all his effort to seduce us towards the dark side. This is just the beginning, still do not know how many chapters will have but I hope not many, I would like to write about more topics for him.

if you haven’t seen the series there will be some spoilers, so please watch the series first

-Mel

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　　　. 　　˚　　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚

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benpaddon · 4 months ago

Text

Anyone who collects physical media is aware of disc rot, but recently news broke that Region 1 Warner Bros. media from 2006-08 is particularly susceptible. Because Warner Bros. handle BBC Video releases in the US (or handled at the time, I forget if they still do), that leaves a lot of Doctor Who DVDs that may potentially be affected.

To help my fellow Whovian DVD collectors, I've compiled a complete list of Region 1 releases that may be affected. If you own any of these DVDs from 2006-08, you may want to check them for disc rot.

I'd also recommend checking any other Region 1 BBC or Warner Bros. DVDs you may have that were released during these years, as well as any earlier releases that you suspect might be a reprint or reissue from this time.

Full of list affected Doctor Who / Torchwood / The Sarah Jane Adventures US DVD releases is below the fold.

DOCTOR WHO (1963-1989)

The Beginning - An Unearthly Child / The Daleks / The Edge of Destruction

Beneath the Surface - Doctor Who and the Silurians / The Sea Devils / Warriors of the Deep

Black Orchid

The Brain of Morbius

Destiny of the Daleks

The Five Doctors: 25th Anniversary Edition

Genesis of the Daleks

The Hand of Fear

Inferno (original release)

The Invasion of Time

The Invasion

The Invisible Enemy / K9 and Company

The Mark of the Rani

New Beginnings - The Keeper of Traken / Logopolis / Castrovalva

Planet of Evil

Revelation of the Daleks

Robot

The Sontaran Experiment

Survival

Time Flight / Arc of Infinity

The Time Meddler

The Time Warrior

Timelash

The Trial of a Time Lord

The Web Planet

DOCTOR WHO (2005)

Series 1 - Volume 1

Series 1 - Volume 2

Series 1 - Volume 3

Series 1 - Volume 4

The Complete First Series

The Complete Second Series

The Complete Third Series

The Complete Fourth Series

The Infinite Quest

TORCHWOOD

Torchwood - The Complete First Season

Torchwood - The Complete Second Season

THE SARAH JANE ADVENTURES

The Complete First Season

#Doctor Who #Classic Doctor Who #Torchwood #the sarah jane adventures #DVD #Warner Bros

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animazi · 1 month ago

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vade mecum iii

dhuoda’s handbook tr. c. neel // the phantom menace // attack of the clones // revenge of the sith // return of the jedi

vade mecum, latin: ‘go with me’, a handbook. vader, latin: 'to go'.

be brave, and don't look back.

prev/next

I am talking here! Because as ever I spent way too long choosing specific screenshots to use for this - and for this one specifically, while the theme of this series overall is to do with Shmi, and using the ideas of Dhuoda's text as a mother writing to her absent son to discuss some of the general Anakin Tragedy. For some context Dhuoda was a Frankish noblewoman writing between 841-3. Her handbook is the sole (surviving) Carolingian text written by a woman iirc, and it's a teaching manual for her son, William, who was a hostage in the court of Charles the Bald. She hadn't seen him since he was 14, and he would later be executed by Charles after trying to avenge his father (who Charles executed). When I was reading it, I was getting sort of three layers of psychic damage; one from the text itself, one from the part of my brain relating it to Star Wars, and the third from the fact that any part of me instinctively jumped to SW in a somewhat tasteless manner. sigh.

ANYWAY! so this is a more ironic (and meta) take on the quote than how I'm presenting the others in this series - "From the first line of this little book, know that all of this is written for your salvation." The meta aspect is obvious - combined the PT and OT are the story of Anakin, it very literally is a story of his salvation. He is saved by Luke. Salvation History is seen as linear, but I think there's some inherent subversion of that when looking at the (Anakin) story of SW, because forward momentum is kinda denied; the decision to have Force Ghost Anakin be his ROTS-era form essentially passes judgement on Vader as a separate form; this is not so much a straightforwards story of falling and being saved, but rather is one where the falling itself is an error, and through salvation is 'erased'. Is this a perfect analysis? No, and I'm not going to claim it to be, but I do think that sort of loop that is brought in is interesting, especially when extending the layer of meta analysis out further to the fact that even as Anakin's salvation is done by Luke, the PT retroactively saves him once again by depicting his fall. You know the joke - give a villain a sympathetic backstory, and then you've already done the legwork of redeeming them for the audience. So, the 'little book' then is not only Shmi's message to Anakin, but it is also the whole story of Star Wars. Because of this, there is an element of irony there, in Anakin's fall at all - events that Shmi never knew, of course. When she says goodbye to him, both times, he does not need salvation. He has not fallen. So then, there is a rather bittersweet touch that she knew perhaps the 'purest' version of him. I don't particularly like that word, but it's being used. Shmi's actions, her decision to let go of him is grounded in multiple desires - Destiny and the reality of Life on Tatooine perhaps chief among them. Dhuoda's handbook was deeply concerned with the spiritual education of her son, the handbook is a work towards his salvation in part because it is so focused on stressing Christian principles and practise. For Shmi, in the context of this series, the handbook is the world and also herself and her actions. I will talk more about this later, please put in pin in that. All that is written is what she has done, and it is the Force, in universe Which brings me onto my interesting tangent*, and one that will certainly get me pilloried by certain aspects of SW tumblr: the Force IMO is (often) far less Buddhist than it is Christian. This is undoubtedly influenced by the PT being my area of expertise (and IRL being very interested in Medieval Catholicism), but, regardless, as any familiar with my web weaves probably can tell, the element of determinism brought in with full force by the PT is something I severely fuck with. So, the the story is also the salvation of Anakin, the restoration of him to who he once was, and this is an in-universe salvation - and I use salvation in its full religious sense there. Getting back more in-universe then, my decision to open with that interaction between Anakin and Palpatine was also very deliberate in this, due to his construction of (depending on your personal interpretation of canon etc etc) some level of Anakin's fall, hence why he is positioned with the narrative.

There is also similar a decision I made with 'know that all this is written for your' images. For Shmi's grave, and Padme's funeral I chose motivation over depiction of atrocity, again because I am in making this (ideally) in communication with the narrative function of the PT: why did Anakin become Vader? Well, because of Glucas' love for refrigeration. The 'your' image is a little different from that - I chose it both as a representation of that sort of final positive relational bridge being burnt, so to speak, and for the fact that it, as an image, represents that he has strayed so far from the path of good. He's been excommunicated from the Jedi Order, if you will.

And with that, I have One More point to make before I shut up. It's about the women, and isn't so much of an actual point as an acknowledgement and brief discussion of the way that the narrative does compress Shmi and Padme down into very secondary characters, revolving around Anakin. Which, yes, this post does implicitly also do. I'd like to bring back Dhuoda here, because I am deliberately trying to draw a parallel between the 'male' focus of SW and, well, history. As I said, Dhuoda's handbook is the only work written by a Carolingian woman that we have. It is so entirely about her son, and by implication her inability to fulfil her maternal role - everything she says in it would assumedly, in a normal situation, be passed on by her through discussion, rather than in an advice book. Women were moved around a lot more than men - the daughter leaves the father to go to the husband. What does this wife then do when her husband leaves her and takes the children - in this case for a 'greater good'? Stay behind, and wait. The roles of women within a patriarchal society are slim; they are in essence the bedrock of family (if you want me to I will elaborate on this) but they are also constantly degraded and seen as inferior. The Carolingians were not feminists, to put it lightly. Women were 'wife' or 'mother' more often than they were people. Julia Smith said on this that 'anonymity obliterates identity', and SW is an unfortunate continuator of this. Padme actively had her role outside 'wife' be cut down. Even the cut germination of the rebellion is still, in essence, a 'motherhood'. She gives birth to hope and then dies. Shmi never has the 'wife' element which does expose a little more of who Padme is to the world, she is mother to a degree that the Carolingians would probably approve of. When I was first coming up with the concept for this series, it was that giving up of her son that first sparked parallels. That Shmi is absent in image from this set is not a coincidence; the world is ordered around her removals from the world, not her presence in it.

*Yes, this is a deliberate reference to the Anakin's Thesis series on YT by Seals Are Good. I find it funny ok!!!

#click on the read more for a 1.2k essay!#star wars #original ani thought #anakin skywalker #webweave #web weaving #sw prequels #last two will be a little later in coming probably. I've just had Nightmares getting this one to work so it's going up now lol

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fandomtrumpshate · 6 months ago

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Unlisted Fandom Challenge update!

At the top of our Unlisted fandoms:

Jeff Satur (9) and Zhen Hun / Guardian (7) continue to hang on to spots 1 and 2!

Beyond that, the ties have grown!

With 5 signups each:

Alien Stage

BBC Ghosts

Control

Dungeon Meshi

White Collar

4 signups:

Cabin Pressure

Dimension 20

It - Stephen King

Schitt's Creek

Transformers

With 3 signups in an 11-way tie:

Detective Conan

Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)

Fire Emblem Awakening

Fire Emblem Fates

Iron Widow

Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

Roswell New Mexico

Stand By Me/The Body

The Goblin Emperor Series

Voltron: Legendary Defender

Guardian RPF

WHEW!

If you can believe it, there are now so many fandoms with two signups each – 44 – that we're bumping those below the cut with the single-signup fandoms.

And THEN! There are one. hundred. sixty. one. write-in fandoms with just a single signup. 161! Giving us a total of 228 write in fandoms all together! So far!

Full list of fandoms with one or two signups below the cut:

The 44 fandoms with 2 write-ins each:

Animorphs

Avatar Legend of Korra

Biggles Series — W. E. Johns

Binan Koukou Chikyuu Boueibu (Cute High Earth Defense Club)

Bridgerton (TV)

Carry On

Cherry Magic

Conclave (2024)

Dangan Ronpa

Dead Boy Detectives RPF

Digimon

Dishonored

Due South

Dune (Villeneuve)

Fields of Mistria

Five Nights at Freddy's

Grantchester (TV)

Gravity Falls

Inception

Kingdom Hearts

Law & Order: Special Victims Unit

Link Click (Shiguang Dailiren)

Lovecraft Mythos

Lucifer (tv)

Mobile Suit Gundam: The Witch from Mercury

Nirvana in Fire

Pathologic

Princess Tutu

Sailor Moon

Slow Horses

Team Fortress 2

The Blue Wolves of Mibu

The Man from U.N.C.L.E. (TV series)

The Poppy War

The Stanley Parable

The X-Files

Tiger & Bunny

Tower of God

Universal Century Gundam

Valdemar Series

What We Do In The Shadows

When the Third Wheel Strikes Back

Word of Honor

JoJo's Bizarre Adventure

And finally, the 161 single write-in fandoms:

10 Things I Hate About You (1999)

A Court of Thorns and Roses

Among Us

Arctic Monkeys/The Last shadow Puppets

Around the World in 80 Days (TV 2021)

Babylon 5

Baseball RPF

BBC’s Musketeers

Bendy and the Ink Machine

Beyond Evil

Binan Koukou Chikyuu Bouei Bu Love/Happy Kiss

Black Doves

Black Sails

Boygenius (Band)(RPF)

Brilliant Minds

Britpop RPF

Brokeback Mountain

Bullet train

Canji Baojun De Zhangxin Yu Chong (The disabled tyrant's pet palm fish)

Cassette Beasts

Castle

Challengers

Charmed (1998)

Countryhumans

Criminal Minds

Danger Force (TV)

Dark Deception

Dark Rise

Dead by Daylight

Descendants

Destiny 2

Divergent (Movies)

Downton Abbey

Dr. Stone

Dragonball

Dragonlance

Dragonriders of Pern by Anne McCaffrey

Emma - Jane Austen

Etta Invincible

Fangs of Fortune

Farscape

Fear & Hunger: Termina

Fields of Mistria

Finder no Hyouteki / Finder Series

Flight Rising

Formula 2/3 RPF

Frieren

Fruits Basket

Gangsta (Anime & Manga)

Generation Loss (Web Series)

Giselle

Grimm

Hatoful Boyfriend

Haven (TV)

Helluva Boss

Henry Danger (TV)

High School Musical (Movies)

Hikaru no Go

HLVRAI - Half-life VR But the AI is Self-Aware

Homer's Epics, Ancient Greece Religion and Lore, Epic The Musical

House MD

In Other Lands

In Stars And Time

IndyCar RPF

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Jeeves and Wooster

Jet Lag The Game RPF

Jurassic Park (Extended Universe)

Kamen Rider GotchardKane and Feels

Kraven the Hunter

Kuroko no Basuke / Kuroko's Basketball

Law & Order

Lays of the Hearth-Fire Series - Victoria Goddard

Lies of P

Life is Strange

Live A Live

Lord Seventh/Qi Ye

M*A*S*H

Malory Towers

Mass Effect 1, 2 or 3

Metaphor: Refantazio

Mononoke (2007 series and 2024 movie)

MotoGP RPF

My Time at Sandrock

Mystic Messenger

NBA RPF

Nerdy Prudes Must Die

Norah Grant Bruce's Billabong books

Oasis

Oh No! Here Comes Trouble

Once Upon A Time

Order of the Stick

Outlast games

Over the Garden Wall

Pacific Rim

Paradise Of Thorns

Peaky Blinders

Persuasion - Jane AustenPhandom

Pirates of the Caribbean

Power Rangers (2017 movie)

Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

Prodigal Son

Project Sekai

Psych (2006)

Puella Magi Madoka Magica

Qiang Jin Jiu (Ballad of Sword and Wine)

Quantum Break

Ranma 1/2

Resident Alien

Resident Evil

Rise of the Guardians

Riyria Revelations

S.C.I Mystery

S.W.A.T. (2017 show)

Saint Seiya

Saw franchise

Scooby Doo: Mystery Incorporated (2010)

She-Ra Netflix

Shipwrecked Comedy

Sonic the Hedgehog (Games)

Sonic The Hedgehog (movies)

South Park

Spinning Silver (Novik)

Spirited

Squid Game

Starkid Musicals (no hp)

Stray Gods: The Roleplaying Musical

Super Sentai

That 70s Show

The A Team (either the 2010 movie or the 1980s series)

The Coffin of Andy and Leyley

The Librarians

The OC

The Pairing - Casey McQuiston

The Paradise of Thorns

The Radiant Emperor

The Silt Verses

The Umbrella Academy

the vampire diaries universe

The Venture Maidens

The Walking Dead

The West Wing

Thousand Autumns

Tokusatsu

Tron

Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles

Turning

video games by Arkane Studios

Wander Over Yonder

Warriors / Warrior Cats

Watcher Entertainment/BuzzFeed Unsolved RPF

Wind Breaker

WNBA RPF

Wonka

Xenoblade Chronicles series

Yellowjackets

Young Wizards (Diane Duane)

Zatch Bell

บ้านหลอน ON SALE / Peaceful Property (TV)

Signups are OPEN!

#fth 2025 #unlisted fandom challenge

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kdram-chjh · 22 days ago

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Cdrama: Destiny of Love (2025)

Gifs of Intro of cdrama "Destiny of Love"

【SUB ESPAÑOL】 ▶ Destino de Amor - Destiny of Love - 错嫁世子妃 (Episodio 01)

Watch this video on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUGlKPhWt9I

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dougydoug8797 · 21 days ago

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I'm writing a DC-Marvel United-Coexisting Universe series. I name and dub this Universe-Earth 7388(based on DC New Earth-Arkhamverse, Batman/Superman_Public Enemies&Apocalypse, Superman Unbound and Marvel 616-Ultimate Spider-Man Video Game-MCU-Yostverse-2010 Marvel Animated Universe-Spectacular Spider-Man the series, Fantastic Four: Worlds Greatest Heroes. In this Universe-Earth, I am writing and making Tony Stark aka Iron Man and Bruce Wayne aka Batman surrogate brothers; Tony is three years older than Bruce and Bruce is three years younger than Tony.

Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne: A Brotherhood Forged in Steel and Shadow

In my DC-Marvel United-Coexisting Universe, the intertwining destinies of Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne begin not in the chaos of superheroics, but in the quiet, formative years of childhood. Their bond transcends mere friendship; it is a profound brotherhood, shaped by the legacy of their fathers, the shared trauma of loss, and the unwavering presence of dedicated guardians.

The Genesis of a Brotherhood: Gotham, New York, and a Shared Legacy

The Patriarachs: Howard Stark & Thomas Wayne

The foundation of Tony and Bruce's relationship lies in the extraordinary friendship between Howard Stark and Thomas Wayne. Far from being just business associates, they were close friends, forged in the crucible of military service during World War II and the Korean War. Howard, the brilliant and eccentric military scientist, found an equal in Thomas, a multifaceted genius who was both a military scientist and a compassionate medic. Their camaraderie extended beyond the battlefield and the boardroom; they respected each other's intellect, humanity, and shared vision for a better world.

Their wives, Maria Stark and Martha Wayne, naturally became close friends, cementing the bond between the two powerful families. Family dinners, holiday gatherings, and summer vacations were frequent occurrences, creating a warm, interconnected web of support and shared memories for the Stark and Wayne households.

The Surrogate Siblings: Tony and Bruce

From early childhood, Tony, three years Bruce's senior, naturally assumed the role of the older brother. Their playdates were less about childish games and more about competitive intellectual sparring, shared fascination with technology, and exploring the hidden corners of Stark Industries and Wayne Enterprises.

Tony's Role: The brash, brilliant older brother. He'd introduce Bruce to cutting-edge gadgets, challenge his intellect, and perhaps, sometimes, lead him into mischievous adventures. He'd be the one with the grand ideas, Bruce the meticulous planner.

Bruce's Role: The observant, intensely curious younger brother. He'd look up to Tony's genius, try to keep up with his older brother's antics, and provide a quieter, more thoughtful counterpoint to Tony's exuberance.

Twin Tragedies, Forged Bonds: The Crucible of Loss

The innocence of their childhood was shattered by a cruel twist of fate, first for Bruce, then for Tony, transforming their existing bond into an unbreakable, steel-like brotherhood.

The Wayne Murders: Bruce (7), Tony (10)

The shocking deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne in a Gotham alley left seven-year-old Bruce an orphan. In the immediate aftermath, Howard and Maria Stark, devastated by the loss of their closest friends, stepped in without hesitation. They, along with the steadfast Wayne family butler, Alfred Pennyworth, and the loyal Stark family butler, Edwin Jarvis, assumed guardianship of Bruce. This was not merely an act of duty; it was a profound act of love and loyalty to their fallen friends.

Bruce moved into the Stark mansion for extended periods, alternating with the newly quiet Wayne Manor. Tony, at ten, found himself not only grieving for his beloved "Aunt Martha" and "Uncle Thomas" but also grappling with the responsibility of comforting his now-silent younger brother. This period solidified their bond; Tony, though still a child himself, learned to be a source of stability for Bruce, sharing his room, his toys, and his quiet companionship.

The Stark Murders: Bruce (16), Tony (19)

Nine years later, the shadow of tragedy struck again. After a Thanksgiving and Christmas visit with Bruce at the Stark mansion, Howard and Maria were brutally killed in a carjacking on their way to Gotham Airport. Unbeknownst to them, the perpetrator was the brainwashed Winter Soldier (Bucky Barnes), sent on a HYDRA mission.

This second, equally devastating loss deeply affected Tony, Bruce, Alfred, and Jarvis. For Tony, it was a profound, raw grief, compounded by the abrupt, violent nature of his parents' death. He would be consumed by anger and a desperate need for answers. For Bruce, it was a painful echo of his own past trauma, bringing back the vivid nightmare of his parents' murder. This shared, unbearable pain forged a new layer of empathy between them.

Bruce's Empathy: Critically, it was Bruce who, despite his own stoicism, showed profound sympathy and empathy for Tony. Having walked that exact path of grief, Bruce understood Tony's rage, his despair, and his burning need for justice more than anyone. He wouldn't just offer condolences; he would be a silent, understanding presence, a grounding force for Tony's spiraling emotions. This shared trauma, and Bruce's unique ability to connect with Tony's pain, solidified their surrogate brother bond in a way nothing else could.

Alfred and Jarvis's Support: Alfred, having witnessed Bruce's initial trauma and subsequent resilience, and Jarvis, deeply loyal to the Starks, provided unwavering support to both boys, navigating their grief with a mixture of wisdom, practicality, and enduring love. They were the silent pillars holding the fractured family together.

Childhood and Formative Influences: Shaping Heroes

Their shared upbringing in the contrasting environments of Gotham's grit and New York's dazzling opulence profoundly shaped their future superhero ideologies.

Impact on Superhero Ideologies:

Tony's Path (Iron Man): Growing up with the Starks, exposed to technology and innovation as a solution to problems, Tony would gravitate towards using his genius to build tools, suits, and systems. His initial grief and helplessness after his parents' murder would fuel a desire for absolute control, to build a world where such tragedies couldn't happen again. He seeks external solutions, often through technological might, to protect humanity.

Bruce's Path (Batman): Witnessing his parents' murder in a city riddled with crime instilled in Bruce a deep-seated belief in personal responsibility and the need to fight injustice directly. His experiences with loss, despite the Starks' care, would lead him to embrace fear as a weapon against criminals, believing the system is broken and requiring a more primal, internal force to fix it. He seeks internal solutions, often through physical and mental discipline, to protect his city.

Childhood Conflicts:

Rivalry: Their shared child prodigy status would naturally foster a competitive rivalry. Who could solve a puzzle faster? Who could build a better robot? This intellectual sparring, though friendly, hinted at their future ideological clashes.

Approaches to Problems: Tony, impulsive and prone to grand gestures, might clash with Bruce's methodical, cautious approach even as children. One might want to tear something apart to understand it; the other might spend hours observing before acting.

Key Childhood Figures:

Alfred Pennyworth & Edwin Jarvis – The Pillars of Stability:

Alfred's Influence on Bruce: Alfred was Bruce's primary emotional anchor after his parents' death. He instilled in Bruce an unbreakable moral code, a sense of duty, and the discipline needed to channel his grief into purpose rather than despair. Alfred taught him the value of compassion and humility, even as Bruce pursued his dark path. His presence ensures Bruce never loses his humanity.

Tony and Alfred: An Uncle-Nephew Relationship: Tony grew up seeing Alfred as a constant, comforting presence, almost an "honorary uncle." Alfred, with his dry wit and surprising depth of knowledge, became Tony's trusted confidant and "family comedian." He'd be the one who could call Tony out on his arrogance while simultaneously offering quiet reassurance. This dynamic makes Tony an honorary member of the "Bat-Family" long before Batman is born.

Jarvis's Influence: Edwin Jarvis, loyal and meticulous, provided the structure and warmth within the Stark household. His presence, alongside Alfred's, showed both boys the importance of loyalty, discretion, and quiet service.

Lucius Fox – The Silent Architect: Lucius might have been a rising talent within Wayne Enterprises, quietly mentored by Thomas Wayne. After the Wayne murders, he would naturally become a figure of support and a brilliant mind that Bruce could turn to, initially for advice, and later for the resources needed for his crusade. Luuld also be a familiar, trustworthy face to Tony, ensuring a bridge between their worlds.

Maria Stark & Martha Wayne – Foundations of Compassion: These women, through their love and grace, instilled in both boys the importance of empathy, kindness, and using their privilege for good. Martha's gentle spirit and Maria's vibrant warmth left an indelible mark, shaping their underlying motivations to protect the innocent.

Howard Stark & Thomas Wayne – Legacy Builders: Their fathers' shared ambition and desire to improve the world, along with their military experiences, imbued Tony and Bruce with a sense of purpose and a competitive drive to surpass their predecessors. They both inherited a complex legacy of power, responsibility, and invention.

Evolving Friendship: Mentors and Companions

Their bond continued to evolve through their academic pursuits and into their adult lives, always colored by their shared past.

Pepper Potts & Sharon Carter – Trusted Companions:

Pepper would have been 18, and Sharon would have been 15 when Bruce (15) was in college (likely having accelerated due to his prodigy status). This creates a unique dynamic. Pepper, already mature and organized, would become a grounding force for both Tony and Bruce, a sister figure who could handle their eccentricities. Sharon, a contemporary of Bruce, would understand his quiet intensity, sharing an early sense of purpose and a keen intellect. They would become trusted confidantes for Bruce, offering perspectives that Tony, with his often-flamboyant nature, might not.

Their closeness strengthens the bridge between the Stark and Wayne worlds, creating another layer of familial connection.

Tony as Bat-Family's "Surrogate Uncle": Tony's relationship with Bruce's various wards is deeply significant.

He'd be the "cool, yet responsible" surrogate uncle. He'd spoil them with cutting-edge tech, offer irreverent advice, but also genuinely care for their well-being.

Dick Grayson (Nightwing): Tony would admire Dick's athleticism and charm, perhaps offering advice on leadership or even designing specific non-lethal gadgets for him.

Jason Todd (Red Hood): This relationship would be complex. Tony might recognize Jason's raw passion and anger, perhaps seeing a reflection of his own darker impulses. After Jason's death, Tony would share Bruce's profound grief, and upon his return as Red Hood, Tony would be heartbroken, desperately trying to understand and help both Bruce and Jason, even providing non-lethal tech upgrades to Jason's arsenal in a conflicted effort to guide him.

Tim Drake (Red Robin): Tony would be impressed by Tim's detective skills and intellect, perhaps seeing a younger, less jaded version of Bruce. He'd offer tech insights and intellectual challenges.

Cassandra Cain (Black Bat): Tony would respect Cass's silent intensity and unique combat style, perhaps designing specialized stealth tech for her.

Damian Wayne (Robin): Tony would find Damian's arrogance and discipline amusingly familiar, perhaps seeing a bit of himself and a bit of Bruce. He might playfully challenge Damian's traditionalism with Stark tech.

Helena Wayne (Feliropteras/Huntress): Tony would see echoes of Martha Wayne in Helena – her quiet strength, her compassion, and her unwavering moral compass. This would make him intensely protective of her, and he'd likely offer her unique, advanced tech for her endeavors.

Training Spider-Man/Peter Parker:

This is a fantastic collaboration that deepens Tony and Bruce's shared mentorship. After seeing Peter's potential and his inherent goodness, they would take him under their wing.

The Suit: A Kevlar Spider-Man suit, a fusion of Stark-Wayne gadgetry and tech.

Stark Tech: Improved web-shooters (adhesive, electric, strong glue webs), stealth mode, sonic devices, weapon/lock disruptor.

Wayne Gadgetry: Cryptographic sequencer-code hacker, police radio listener, detective vision mode, forensic vision mode, utility belt.

Training: Tony and Bruce would jointly provide:

Tony: Focus on suit optimization, tactical intelligence, and leveraging tech.

Bruce: Focus on acrobatics/agility, hand-to-hand combat, martial arts, mixed martial arts training, and the mental discipline required for vigilantism.

Outcome: Peter remains the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, but with vastly improved capabilities, a testament to the combined genius and care of his two surrogate uncles. This highlights their collaborative nature and their shared belief in nurturing the next generation.

Defining Conflicts and Emotional Crucibles

Their brotherhood, though profound, is not without its tensions, particularly when their core ideologies clash.

Jason Todd's Death/Red Hood Return: This is a shared grief that tests their bond. When Jason dies, the pain for Bruce is unbearable, and Tony, Alfred, Lucius, Pepper, Rhodey, Sharon, Dick, and Barbra would all be present, offering comfort and support. Tony would be particularly devastated, feeling a protective instinct for any of Bruce's "kids." Jason's return as Red Hood would be a fresh wound, a moral dilemma that Tony and Bruce, despite their shared pain, might approach differently. Tony, with his faith in reform and technology, might try to find a way to "fix" Jason, while Bruce would be tormented by Jason's violent methods.

Superhuman Registration Act: This is a major ideological fault line.

Tony (Pro-Registration): Driven by his experiences with unchecked power, the need for accountability, and a desire for global stability, Tony would advocate for registration, believing it's the only way to prevent chaos and earn public trust.

Bruce (Anti-Registration): Deeply distrustful of government overreach and understanding the inherent danger of exposing secret identities and controlling individual liberties, Bruce would vehemently oppose it. He believes true justice comes from personal conviction, not mandated authority.

The Conflict: This would lead to profound, painful arguments. Tony would see Bruce as overly paranoid and reckless; Bruce would see Tony as naive and complicit. Their brotherhood would be severely tested, leading to a temporary rupture, but their deep love and shared past would prevent permanent breakage. They'd always look for each other and have each other's backs, even when they fundamentally disagree.

Reviving Ultron and Reprogramming: Tony, ever the innovator, might attempt to revive and reprogram Ultron, believing he can finally get it right. Bruce, having witnessed the dangers of technology unleashed, would be adamantly against it, seeing it as a moral transgression and a catastrophic risk. This would be a clash between Tony's technological optimism and Bruce's cautious pessimism.

Tony Seeing Martha in Helena Wayne: This is a poignant, emotional thread. Helena, the daughter of Bruce and Selina, might possess a certain grace, a quiet strength, or a particular look that reminds Tony profoundly of Martha Wayne. This would deepen his protective instincts for Helena and reinforce his sense of Bruce's legacy, making him an even more devoted surrogate uncle.

Societal Themes

The Definition of Justice: Is it law and order (Tony) or moral conviction (Bruce)?

Freedom vs. Security: The core debate of the Registration Act.

Technology and Humanity: The promise and peril of technological advancement.

Nature vs. Nurture: How their inherent personalities and their upbringing shaped them.

Legacy and Inheritance: Carrying on, and struggling with, the legacies of their powerful fathers.

Grief and Trauma: The long-term psychological impact of profound loss and how it drives individuals.

Accountability of Power: Who polices the heroes?

Major Story Arcs

The Orphan Prince & The Reluctant Heir: Focus on their childhood, the Wayne murders, the Starks taking Bruce in, and their early years navigating grief, rivalry, and their burgeoning intellects. Concludes with the Stark murders, solidifying their bond through shared trauma and Bruce's comforting empathy for Tony.

Forge of Heroes: Their individual paths to becoming Iron Man and Batman. Their initial differences in approach, their solo struggles, but also moments where they subtly support each other, showcasing their underlying connection. Introduces Pepper, Sharon, and Lucius as key figures.

The Civil War of Brothers: The Superhuman Registration Act takes center stage. Their ideological clash, the painful rupture of their friendship, leading to a major confrontation where their personal history adds immense emotional weight to their conflict. This arc could also feature the return of Red Hood, exacerbating their differences.

Legacy and Redemption: The aftermath of major conflicts. Their reconciliation, perhaps after the Ultron incident, where they realize they need each other. Focus on their mentorship of the younger generation (Bat-Family, Peter Parker). Tony seeing Martha in Helena Wayne. Their eventual understanding that while their methods differ, their ultimate goal of protecting the innocent is the same.

Deepening Emotional Arcs

Tony's Emotional Arc:

Early: Prodigy, arrogant, seeking validation from Howard.

After Wayne Murders: Protective of Bruce, burdened by responsibility, starting to see the world's darkness.

After Stark Murders: Consumed by grief and rage, isolated, driven to control. The start of his "Iron Man" persona as a shield against vulnerability.

As Iron Man: Driven by guilt and the need to protect, building walls around himself, using humor as a defense. Learning to trust and rely on others.

Defining Scenes:

Tony, just after his parents' death, sits silently with Bruce in Bruce's old bedroom at Wayne Manor, no words needed, just shared presence. Bruce quietly places his hand on Tony's arm.

A drunken Tony, early in his Iron Man days, making a self-deprecating joke to Alfred, who responds with a gentle but firm "Master Tony, your father would be proud. But he'd also tell you to sober up."

Tony, confronting Bruce during the Registration Act, expressing his genuine fear of another Chitauri-level threat and why he believes registration is necessary, his voice laced with the pain of their divide.

Tony breaking down in front of Pepper after Jason Todd's death, admitting his failure to protect any of "Bruce's kids."

Bruce's Emotional Arc:

Early: Curious, observant, slightly overshadowed by Tony's brilliance.

After Wayne Murders: Retreats into himself, begins his rigorous path of self-mastery, driven by an oath to his parents. Finds solace in Alfred and the Stark family.

After Stark Murders: The ultimate empathic gesture, understanding Tony's pain, solidifying his role as Tony's silent anchor. This moment prevents Tony from completely spiraling.

As Batman: Isolated, burdened by the darkness of Gotham, struggling to maintain his humanity. Learning to trust his team, particularly the Bat-Family, and allowing glimpses of his vulnerability.

Defining Scenes:

Young Bruce, after his parents' death, holding a small, broken toy. Tony enters, sits beside him, and without a word, begins to meticulously fix the toy, a quiet act of comfort.

Bruce, in a rare moment, allowing himself to be comforted by Pepper and Sharon after Jason's death, revealing a crack in his stoic facade.

Bruce, watching Tony's public antics during a press conference, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, a testament to their private bond.

Bruce, with a heavy heart, confronting Tony during the Registration Act, not with anger, but with a quiet, firm conviction about individual liberty.

The Brotherhood Analyzed: "Always Have Each Other's Backs"

Tony and Bruce will always look for each other and have each other's backs because:

Shared Trauma: They are the only two people who truly understand the specific, profound pain of losing their parents in sudden, violent ways, and the subsequent weight of a heroic legacy. This mutual understanding forms an unbreakable core.

Found Family: They grew up as brothers, raised by a unique blended family that prioritized love, loyalty, and duty. This ingrained sense of family means they view each other as irreplaceable.

Complementary Strengths: They represent two sides of the same coin: tech vs. grit, optimism vs. pessimism, directness vs. stealth. They know, deep down, that despite their differences, they are stronger together, capable of filling the other's blind spots.

Mutual Respect (Underneath the Banter): Tony respects Bruce's unwavering moral compass and discipline; Bruce respects Tony's boundless genius and capacity for innovation. Their rivalry is a form of affection, a constant push for the other to be better.

Honorary Bat-Family: Tony's integration into the Bat-Family as the "cool uncle" further solidifies his bond with Bruce. He cares deeply for Bruce's wards, seeing them as extensions of his brother's family, and therefore, his own.

Key Scenes & Dialogue Examples

Scene: The Funeral (After Stark Murders)

Setting: Stark family mausoleum, overcast day. Tony stands stiffly, avoiding eye contact. Bruce approaches, dressed in black. Alfred and Jarvis stand respectfully to the side.

Dialogue:

Bruce (quietly, standing beside Tony): "I know this silence, Tony. The one that screams loudest."

Tony (voice rough): "Don't. Don't pretend you know."

Bruce (turning to face him, eyes firm): "I don't have to pretend. I do know. The hollow ache. The blinding rage. The feeling that the world just... ended. Twice."

Tony (looks at him, a flicker of raw pain in his eyes): "What do you do with it, Bruce? This... this thing inside?"

Bruce (softly): "You live with it. You learn from it. And you make sure it means something." (He places a hand on Tony's shoulder, a rare, comforting gesture.) "You're not alone in this."

Scene: Peter Parker's Training Session

Setting: A highly advanced, multi-purpose training facility (likely a Stark-Wayne collaboration). Peter is trying out a new web-shooter function. Tony is at a console, Bruce overseeing from the sidelines.

Dialogue:

Tony (grinning, watching Peter barely avoid a holographic obstacle): "Alright, Underoos! Try the electro-webs on those drones! Don't worry, the shocking sensation is entirely intentional... and temporary."

Peter (yelping as he sticks to the wall): "Got it! Wait, this glue is really strong!"

Bruce (stepping forward, calm but firm): "Parker, focus. Your agility is your primary defense. Anticipate. Don't react. Your mind must be faster than your webs."

Tony (muttering to Bruce): "You know, sometimes, I think you enjoy being the bad cop a little too much, Batsy."

Bruce (without looking at Tony): "Someone has to teach him discipline, Stark. You teach him how to blow things up."

Peter (from the wall): "Hey, Mr. Stark's gadgets are awesome!"

Tony (winking at Peter): "See, Bruce? He gets it."

Scene: Post-Registration Act, Reconciliation Attempt

Setting: Bruce's private study at Wayne Manor. Tony is waiting, having been let in by Alfred. The tension is thick.

Dialogue:

Tony (quietly, looking at a framed photo of young Bruce and him with their fathers): "We screwed up, didn't we? All of us."

Bruce (entering, voice weary): "The choices we make have consequences, Tony. And sometimes, those consequences are deeply personal."

Tony (turning): "I meant... us. You and me. This whole 'punching each other on the battlefield' thing? It was... awful."

Bruce (nods slowly): "It was necessary. For what we believed in."

Tony: "Yeah, well, belief is a real pain in the ass sometimes. Look, I still think I was right. You still think you were right. But you know what else I think? I think I missed you, you stubborn son of a gun."

Bruce (a flicker of a smile, almost imperceptible): "I'm not sure I'd ever admit to missing your insufferable commentary, Stark. But it has been... quieter."

Tony (grinning, a hint of his old self): "See? That's as close to a 'hug' as I'm gonna get from you. Come on, I think Alfred has some of those horrible little tea cakes he used to make for us when we were kids."

Bruce (a genuine, small smile): "They're called crumpets, Tony. And they're delicious." (He motions for Tony to follow, a silent truce between them.)

These moments, whether filled with humor, conflict, or raw emotion, underscore the deep, complex, and enduring brotherhood between Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne, a bond that forms the very heart of my compelling universe.

#DC #Marvel #DC Comics #Marvel Comics #DC Marvel Crossover #DC Marvel Coexisting Universe #Tony Stark #Iron Man #Bruce Wayne #Batman #Iron Man and Batman #Tony and Bruce

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robin-evry · 9 months ago

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Hi, so I love your work and was curious on if I can infodump on SpiderMan/Spidersona!Yuu. I wanted to create Spidersona!Yuu, but I ran out of ideas, so.... is it okay if I do so?

Thank you I'm glad you enjoy it, this gave me a brain rot about spider!yuu so I hope you don't mind me creating a headcanon about them. And sure if you want info dump me.

𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀!𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 🕸️🕷️

The Spider-Verse is connected by the Web of Life and Destiny. This is a subsection of the Marvel multiverse that connects all versions of Spider-Man from across the multiverse in a series of shared events and attributes.

Imagine during the dwarf cave mind, yuu was bitten by a spider. When they reported this back to Crowley, he said that they would be fine since the spider that seems to bite them isn't that dangerous and doesn't seem to have any venom in it. So they sleep it off, and when they wake up, they have been greatly enhanced as well as given some magical abilities.

Or spider!yuu was their city's friendly neighborhood hero, saving lives and being a student. During one of their times saving a civilian from a robbery a black carriage appears in their eye sight and everything turns black and then wakes up in a coffin and wearing a robe.

Regardless they will still be their hero self but instead of their city it's in another world.

At NRC, spider!yuu has a regular reputation at school they are well known for being smart at subjects like potionolgy but by far that's it, they don't stand out a lot. But who cares such boring students there's been a new hero appearing at the island.

Using webs to stop robber injustice on the island, this hero manages to become a vigilante on this island as well as a friend on the island for anyone. ( NRC is located in an Island with a town and RSA, you can look up at )

Using the new technology and resources in the world, spider!yuu manage to build themselves a much better arsenal or equipment for them during their time.

Grim work as their sidekick sometimes helps them get out of situations that almost caught or reveal their identity, as well give them enough time to change into their suit.

After a day of crime fighting and studying for a subject, spider!Yuu would swing towards the highest point of NRC, take a deep breath of fresh air and admire the sun rise right there as well looking at the entire island.

During their time at NRC, they have gained and a few trustworthy friends that knew their identity ace, deuce and grim will work as eyes on the ground and idia figure their identity on accident but he promises on not telling their identity as well help them with tech and turning off any security cameras that may become a big problem

Even some students already knew their identity but decided to keep it a secret out of respect for what spider!yuus doing. Rook also managed to find out but decided to keep it a secret as a way of respect and thanking them for saving vil one time.

Malleus and their first interaction, was when spider!yuu was in their hero suit and saw malleus thinking about something and decided to hang upside down and greeted him. This of course caught the malleus off guard but found this situation amusing and they continued to chat for a few minutes until malleus had to leave.

Spider!yuu is also manage to learn how to build and create their own suit thanks to the help of their late-mentor as well some advanced technology. One of their most prizes possessions are a pair of advanced technology glasses.

Under ramshackle, spider!Yuu have built a lair with multiple suits inside for them. That insists on them in any situation, this place also becomes their and first years hang out place, talking about tech and other things, comic books and school it even has a lounge area for them.

Similar to their other variants in other universes, spider!yuu has the same abilities as them spidey sense, enhanced physical body as well the ability to shoot out webs but what makes them different from the others is that they are able to shoot webs using magic or channel or cast magic thru their webs.

Spider!Yuu can alter the properties of their webs with magic, creating webs that freeze, burn, or shock on contact. For instance, they might use an ice-infused web to immobilize an opponent or a fire-infused web to create a protective barrier. As well creating protective barriers, charms and etc. during times of them being busy in NRC they are able to create a clone of themselves to deal with their school or hero work when one of them gets busy. But they only can make one at a time.

Has an army of cats behind the ramshackle dorm, spider!yuu is notorious for feeding and giving shelter towards stray cats to the point they will follow them everywhere even during their hero time, this is almost revealed their secret identity due to the cats being able to recognize their scent.

Even without the suit, spider!yuu is naturally a good person and a mediator, they come across epel being Targeted by many rowdy students who just finish destroying his plant project for a class before it can escalate into something worse, spider!yuu In front of both of them and ask the bullies to go away. Epel was originally mad at them for letting them get away with his plant but spider!yuu decided to give their plant project to epel instead. Surprise by this act before epel can react, spider!yuu has already left the green house. In return epel gave them a crate of his grandparents apple juice as a way to say thank you to them, this is the start of a beautiful friendship.

Spider!yuu hero persona has become some sort of idol towards the RSA student, the student body seeing them as a hero or a knight in shining armor making them to idolize spider!yuu and drive their dedication to chivalry. A mascot and idol towards people in twst

Even tho they save lives and fight crime many people are still suspicious of them saying that their hero persona is nothing but a fake and will try to tarnish their name.

Even tho spider!yuu is accommodating to their new life in twst, they are still worried about their city and family doing without them as well being constantly burned out due to them always trying to balance their double life.

Since every universe is supposed to have a canon spiderman, I have this writing idea that helps connect spider!yuu to the spider verse or web of Destin, so basically spider!yuu dimension already has a spiderman so they don't need another spiderman, and so spider!yuu was teleported to twst to become its canon spiderman. In summary spider!yuu was Destined to become the spiderman of the twst universe and they were destined to come to / be in twst to become its canon spiderman.

#twisted wonderland #not canon #twst scenario #disney twst #twst headcanons #twst wonderland #twisted wonderland yuu au #twst mc #twst x reader #twst yuu au #spidersona #spiderman #across the spiderverse #spider!yuu #spiderman!yuu #spidersona!yuu

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aajjks · 1 year ago

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Here is the Masterlist

JUNGKOOK MASTERLIST

(Only Jungkook)

SERIES-

The Conqueror

Bunny Koo

Mommy Issues

The Price Of Love

Automaniac

Fuck

TEASERS-

Caught In A Web- No Way Out

Fear

The Boy

Hello Neighbour

Teach Me

ONESHOTS-

Scream Baby

Husband & Wife

Girlfriend

Spawn Of The Devil

Its You

squeal - Your Forever

Mistress

Pure

The Beast

Fatal

Control

Prisoner

Blessed

Hell

Tear Heaven

Cruelty Of Love

Loyalty

Need

Distraction

Family Affairs

Crush

Bed with your name on it

Monster in the dark

Needy

Puppy

Fa(i)lling

Choice

Taste

Monster

Tutor

Destiny

Debt

Lovers

Toxic

please please PLEASE!

Desperado

Nowhere

Oh my God, you actually did it— this is so sweet of you oh my God I have no words I wish I could thank you in Some other way. Oh my God we have an updated jk masterlist 🥺🥺 thank you so much, you have no idea.

#asks #jk masterlist

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hallowpen · 5 months ago

Text

The Idea of Shared/Linked Karma as it Relates to Home and Peach in Peaceful Property

I made a comment in my last post about Peaceful Property that Home and Peach exist in balance of one another... and that if I were to elaborate on that, it would make that post longer than it needed to be.

Well, thanks to @thebroccolination, I have once again boarded the Peaceful Property train... and the time is nigh!!!

I just want to preface this by saying, this is all just my own personal read of the series and I, in no way, hold any of this to be an absolute interpretation. Ideas of cyclical karma and karmic soulmates / linked karma have always interested me... if my love of The Sign is anything to go by hehe

So, what are the beliefs around shared/linked karma? It's basically the idea that two or more spirits are interconnected through their actions and inactions. The karma created by one will affect the experiences of the others through shared circumstance and interaction. This interdependence would create shared karmic consequences. An example of this would be familial karma, which is dispersed throughout the series as the "curse" (or negative karma) of the Vimarnsukman family.

The relationship between Home and Peach can represent the ideas of a negative karmic relationship blossoming into a positive one. And their linked connection started the instant Home hit Peach with his car.

Buddhism doesn't necessarily propagate "predetermined destinies" so much as "fates" or karma born of individual choice. Circumstances will always present you with a choice, and your decision is what will determine your karmic fate. The choices that are presented throughout one's lifetime, give one with the opportunity to balance their karmic scale... but only if they are willing to pursue positive actions that foster good karma.

Karma has a funny way of trying to balance the scales. Peach and Home reconnecting after the hit and run was the universe's way of presenting Home with the choice to correct his past mistakes... but only happens because of that mistake. Home hits Peach with his car, Peach dies and is resuscitated... but with the ability to see ghosts, Peach's friend Best purchases one of Home's properties that is haunted by a ghost only Peach can see and exorcise, Home wants to hire Peach for his ability. Home needed Peach to help "see" the manifestation of his family's negligence and ignorance, and Peach's ability to do that was granted to him only after Home's own negligence and ignorance. Karma is such a tangled web hehe

In developing a relationship with Peach, someone who Home has wronged in the past, Home can begin to foster enough good karma to counteract his (and his family's) negative actions. Their working together to alleviate the suffering of other spirits creates a positive and important karmic bond, which perpetuates a sense of shared communal well-being that mitigates Home's negative karma. (A lot of this also falls into the idea of harmonious justice which was another prominent concept throughout the series... this is a much larger discussion that I lack the mental capacity to delve into right now).

Home eventually gaining the ability to "hear" those who were never listened to... when the thing him and his family struggle with the most is communication, when he wanted Peach to hear him out after finding out about the hit and run, when his spirit seeks to connect with Peach after his own accident. If Peach can see the ghosts, then in order for them to continue down this shared karmic path, Home must hear them (whether literal or figurative). Balance!!!

Home helps Peach to overcome his fears, Peach helps Home to be aware of and accept his wrong behaviors. Without each other, their cycles of fear and harm would continue. Them "choosing" each other, is what allows them to acknowledge and change their own self-damaging and isolating tendencies... to learn and experience forgiveness, and to find inner peace within themselves. They find a community within each other and use that community to help others. That's the ultimate definition of harmonious karma.

#peaceful property #peaceful property on sale #i had dental work done so #i'm swollen and in pain but i wanted to finish this #while it was still relevant in my mind #the narrative *did* center home #but i think that was intentional #whether that worked for everyone is a different story #koda rambles #talk thai to me #มากกว่าเพื่อนแต่ไม่ใช่แฟน

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devieuls · 10 months ago

Text

ˋ Haunted . ✹

Qimir x Ex Jedi Fem Reader < SERIES >

Warning of the Serie: MDNI. Sith Lord Qimir x Fem ex Jedi Reader.

(during the series)

Aged characters: Qimir 35 y.o / You 22 y.o.

(Following some events of the series)

Lenght: 4.2k

TW: THE SERIES WILL BE FULL OF DELICATE TOPICS!

⇠ Previous chapter ✵ Next Chapter ⇢

· · ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── · ·

⠀⠀⠀⠀Chapter II: The Loss

“You are like me…” he whispered a short distance from your lips.

The tension between you was almost tangible in the air. The fire burning in the cave cast shadows on his chiseled features, making his eyes shine with an intense and dark light. His gaze was piercing, but it was no longer just malice: there was a deep understanding, a dangerous invitation. His words, making their way into your mind, mingled with your thoughts, bringing you to a realization you didn’t want to accept. You swallowed. You couldn’t give in, you couldn’t allow yourself to become what he said you were. You were not like that. With a tremendous effort, you pushed his hand away, taking a step back to break the spell that seemed to envelop you both.

“I’m not like you,” you declared, your voice firm, though still charged with that tension that seemed ready to explode at any moment. “I won’t let the dark side consume me. I won’t become a monster like you.” Silence fell between you two. The man slowly withdrew, as if accepting your decision, but with an expression that suggested his offer was far from withdrawn. Perhaps, he thought, it would only take another moment of weakness, another moment of raw reality, to make everything you believed in crumble.

“A monster?” he repeated with chilling and sarcastic calm, his voice like silk sliding over your defenses. “Is that how you were taught to see us? What monstrosity is there in feeling free, y/n? Free, from everything that holds you back… free from the weight of a code that suppresses and represses emotions. Your emotions.” His words were a dangerous whisper, insinuating themselves into your heart with lethal precision. He knew exactly where to strike, where your hidden wounds could be opened. And every time he spoke, it seemed he was getting closer, physically and mentally, to a part of you that had taken years to hide. “See, I’m not bound by anything,” he continued, with a kind of dark pride, tilting his head slightly as if to study you better. “And neither should you be. Have you never felt that desire inside you? The urge to push beyond the limits that have been imposed on you? To let go?” His hand moved again, slowly, deliberately, resting on your shoulder this time, as his body moved close enough for you to feel the warmth of his presence. Despite everything, you couldn’t pull away. Every fiber of your being fought against yourself, yet his proximity was a temptation you were finding increasingly difficult to resist.

“You’re like me,” he whispered once more, his voice a warm breath near your ear. “No matter how much you try to deny it. No matter how hard you try to repress what you feel. The dark side flows within you… the anger, the pain… the desire. Isn’t that what makes us alive?” You swallowed, your breath short as you struggled to maintain control, but each word he spoke hit you with surgical precision. Each whisper dragged you closer to the edge of a dark and unknown abyss. Your mind was in turmoil, torn between denial and an unsettling awareness. There was something true in his words. Your pain, your anger… the emotions you had always suppressed were there, on the surface, and the idea of releasing them was alluring like a forbidden promise.

“Let me go.” you hissed, your voice breaking between the tension and the desire to break the spell that seemed to surround you both. “I am not like you. I will never be like you.” The smile that spread slowly across the Sith’s face was predatory, laden with a confidence that made you seethe with frustration. But there was also something more… a hidden desire, a dark curiosity that made him look at you as if you were an enigma he desperately wanted to solve. “Not now,” he admitted, bringing his face even closer to yours, his eyes probing yours with such intensity that made you shiver. “But one day… you will understand. One day you will see what I see in you.”

His hand slid down your arm, stopping at your wrist, the touch light but firm, as if he could control not just your movements, but also your thoughts. He leaned in towards you, his face now just inches from yours, his lips dangerously close, enough to make your heartbeat quicken. His warm breath brushed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “When that day comes,” he whispered, his voice a breath that seemed to penetrate every defense you had, “you won’t be able to turn back. And then, finally, you will be free.” His eyes seemed to linger on your lips for a moment, making you hold your breath once more inexplicably. You remained still, caught between revulsion and an attraction you didn’t want to admit or truly understand. Every word he said made your convictions waver, yet inside you, your will still resisted, clinging to that last shred of light that kept you anchored to your code, to your identity.

The man let you go slowly, aware of the tension between you, of the thin thread he was weaving between desire and temptation. He moved back slightly, never breaking eye contact, his smile faintly triumphant, as if he knew the battle was won, but the war between you was far from over. “Until then, I hope you enjoy your days with me as my guest,” he murmured, making you shiver. And as he walked away, you stood there, your heart still in turmoil, your emotions bubbling inside you. You quickly recovered from that moment of fragility, only to look at him with a sharp gaze. “Days?” you hissed as you watched him extinguish the fire that had been cooking the food he had been tasting only moments before. “The ship has sustained severe damage, and before it’s properly repaired, I’ll need a few days, if not weeks,” he said calmly and placidly as he took two bowls, filling the first with what looked like soup. “Weeks…” you whispered, swallowing, and then you watched the man. “I don’t have weeks. I need to find my sister.” You declared, advancing with a purposeful step, as if this might intimidate him. “Mae? You don’t need to find her.” he said with that soft voice, his eyes now shining with an unexpectedly delicate and sad calm. The atmosphere suddenly grew heavier, as if those words were laden with a weight you couldn’t yet fully comprehend. You stopped a step away from him, the stranger’s words echoing in your mind like a challenge. His calm tone, the apparent sweetness in his gaze, all seemed so contrasting with the darkness you knew was inside him. It had to be a mask, one of many he wore to get what he wanted. “I don’t need to find her?” you repeated, your tone sarcastic, looking at him as if you wanted to pierce through his deceptively gentle demeanor. The man offered you the bowl with the same calmness he had spoken, as if the entire situation was under his complete control.

“She’s dead.” His words were like a sharp blade that cut through every certainty and security you had left. The world around you seemed to stop, every sound fading as if it had been sucked into a silent vortex. The bowl of food he offered you seemed unreal, an absurd gesture amidst the horror you were experiencing.

That word echoed in your mind, bouncing like a distorted echo. Dead… Dead? Chaos began to spread in your head, a storm of pain and disbelief that overwhelmed you without warning. Your vision blurred, and the world seemed to wobble beneath your feet. It couldn’t be true. Not Mae. Not your sister, your other half, the only person who had always supported you, whom you would have given anything to protect despite the distance that had separated you two over time. She couldn’t be dead… not her Your mind refused to accept it. You felt your breath falter, as if the weight of the air had become unbearable. A lump tightened in your throat, preventing you from speaking, from shouting at him, at the entire universe for that unbearable cruelty. Pain enveloped you, an unrelenting wave that slowly suffocated you as you tried to breathe but couldn’t find the air.

“You’re lying,” you managed to whisper, staring at the floor, still incredulous. A part of you wanted to deny it, to fight against reality. But another part, darker and more destructive, knew it was true. You already felt that emptiness inside you, a chasm widening more and more. The man watched you in silence, his gaze becoming more serious, almost reflective. Perhaps, for a moment, he realized he had inflicted too deep a wound, that he had unleashed a pain even he hadn’t anticipated. “I saw her…” he said in a strangely gentle lower voice, a note of empathy contrasting with his dark nature. It almost seemed like he was trying to reach out to you in that moment of tearing anguish, as if, somehow, he could understand the storm that was devouring you from within. But even his calm seemed calculated, a hand extended into the darkness but with a precise purpose. “You killed her.” Your voice trembled with firmness, but there was no hesitation in the words. It should have been a question, but it came from your lips like a condemnation. A final sentence you had already assigned him, as if it were the only possible answer.

The air in the cave grew thicker, everything around you seemed to fade, the cold rock of the cave beneath your feet, all becoming indistinct. The only sound reaching you was the accelerated beat of your heart, echoing in your ears. The stranger remained still, his gaze fixed on you. For a moment, a flicker of compassion crossed his face, but he quickly masked it with the impassive calm that seemed to be a part of him. “No,” he replied slowly, his tone calm and measured. “It wasn’t me.” He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully, watching your reaction with unsettling precision. “The Jedi.” “You’re a fucking liar” you hissed, your voice sharp as a blade. Each word was laced with poison as the pain inside you twisted like a wounded beast. You felt your mind scream against the lie, the disdain for him consuming you.

He didn’t react immediately, his gaze softening slightly, as if he understood the chaos you were going through. Perhaps, you thought, he was enjoying the torment he had unleashed, like a patient predator waiting for the right moment to strike. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he sighed slightly, his face stoic, cold, and aware. “What do you think a Jedi does when they encounter a Sith who doesn’t bow to their commands?” His voice was a cutting whisper, like a sharp blade sliding across skin. The tone left no room for doubt: he was trying to dismantle your certainties, to confront you with a reality you had avoided, he wasn’t lying. “Sol said they would judge her… it’s not possible that—” you started to stammer, the words tangled in your turmoil.

“He killed her? Just because he’s your master, do you think he wouldn’t lie for a greater good?” He interrupted you with a coldness and frankness that seemed to penetrate your bones. “Do you think you would have followed him if he had told you that your sister’s fate was already decided?” His words hit like punches, shattering your ordered thoughts. Each word seemed to reveal a new uncomfortable truth, a missing piece in the puzzle forming in your mind. “You were a Jedi. You should know their tactics, their lies.” His voice was relentless, a cold whisper seeping into the deepest recesses of your being. “Think about it, y/n… why would I kill my pupil?” With a fluid gesture, he set the bowl aside, his gaze admiring your growing realization. Your knees gave way, and you collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed, forgetting the pain from your wounds. Your eyes filled with tears as you tried to understand the truth that was unfolding. Pain and confusion mingled, as the image of your sister, what you had lost, became clearer in your mind. The image of Sol, the master you had admired, was cracking, becoming something monstrous, something cold. You felt betrayed by the person you trusted most. The reality you had believed to be secure crumbled around you, as a cold tear traced down your face.

“I am not the enemy,” he said, his voice low and warm, but his tone was a mix of persuasion and understanding. “The Jedi betrayed you, they killed your sister… They lied to you, used you for their grand game.” Your mind struggled to push back his words, but they seemed to have a cruel and devastating sense. The pain you felt in your chest was nowhere near the anger and fire burning inside you. “I offer you freedom,” His words resonated like a dark chant, promising an escape from torment, a freedom that seemed as alluring as it was dangerous. His hand, offered with an almost elegant grace, was reflected in the dim light of the cave, creating a contrast with the darkness surrounding you. “I offer you revenge.”

Slowly raising your face to look at the man, you felt the world around you blur into an indistinct gray, as if your very existence was suspended between light and darkness. His face was a mask of calm, but your eyes, now glassy and full of pain, sought to grasp that gesture, that palm offered like a lifeline in a stormy sea. The pain of losing your sister, the betrayal you had just discovered, mixed with a growing awareness of how your life had always been manipulated. Every memory, every lesson you had followed, now seemed to question the meaning of your existence.

His words seeped into your mind, tempting you with the promise of revenge that you so deeply desired. His gaze, now so close to yours, was laden with an almost irresistible persuasion. Your trembling hand slowly reached out towards his, the idea of giving in to the dark side, of finding a way to channel your pain and anger, was seductive. But you also knew that accepting this offer meant abandoning everything you had believed in, everything you had fought for in vain. Justice, peace, impartiality… Yet, as you looked at him, the inner torment was palpable. Every fiber of your being screamed against this choice, but the temptation was strong, like a flame threatening to consume you. The moment your hand neared his was charged with palpable tension. Every movement seemed to slow down, as if time itself was holding its breath waiting for your decision. His words were a soft seduction, a call drawing you towards an unknown abyss, and your mind was torn between desperation and the desire for revenge.

As your hand approached his, an inner resistance made its way through you. You stopped your trembling hand just a few millimeters from his, as a wave of awareness and pain overwhelmed you. You swallowed hard and took a deep breath, closing your hand into a fist and withdrawing it from the Sith's. You felt a crushing weight in your chest, as new tears threatened to streak down your face. You pulled your knees to your chest, trying to shield yourself from the seductive temptation of revenge that was corrupting your mind. Your mind closed in on itself, a desperate refuge against the pain. It was an act of self-defense amidst the storm that Mae's death had unleashed.

The man, observing your refusal and your attempt to cling to that side of light, moved closer with a mixture of respect and understanding. He knelt before you, his intense and deep gaze almost as if he was peering into your soul. "What wonderful creatures we are…" he murmured, his tone reflective and tinged with a sort of fascinating sadness, as he placed two fingers under your chin, gently lifting it to make you look into his eyes. "Even in the revelation of the betrayal we have suffered, seeing the depth of our despair, we refuse to betray what has hurt us the most." His observation was both a compliment and a critique, a recognition of your resilience and a reflection on your internal struggle. You sighed deeply, your gaze now seemingly devoid of emotion, dimmed. "A special bond, isn't it?" he continued, watching you with an expression of admiration. "Between a master and his pupil." His words seemed laden with a sort of melancholic respect, almost as if recalling memories of his own, as if he understood your loyalty and your pain.

The man rose slowly, with a graceful and measured movement. His figure, elegant and imposing, stood out against the dim light of the cave, which seemed to illuminate almost naturally. With a nearly hypnotic calm, he approached the bowl he had set aside earlier, his gaze never leaving you. There was something surprisingly caring in his demeanor, a disturbing contrast to his previous coldness and stoicism. He looked at you as he took the bowl and approached you again, his physical presence emanating a kind of warmth, but now it seemed almost like a protective gesture. The bowl was still warm, the aroma of the soup wafting from inside was rich and inviting, yet you could only feel the weight of your grief.

"You should eat, or you’ll never feel better." the Sith said, his voice low and soft, with an undertone of concern you had never heard before. The tone was gentle, almost paternal, and his gaze was filled with genuine worry for you as he offered you the bowl. His hands were steady as he presented the food, as if the gesture itself was a demonstration of his intention to care for you. "I'm not hungry," you replied in a whisper, your determination to refuse his offer now a sign of pure and sincere sadness that held your appetite hostage. The feline-eyed man, however, did not seem inclined to yield. His expression changed, revealing a slight hint of frustration but also gentle determination. "Don’t make me force you to eat," he said, his voice growing firmer and harder, but maintaining that slight caring quality. He swallowed, clearing his throat as he moved closer. He knelt beside you, lowering his body to be at eye level with you. It seemed that every action of his was calculated to elicit a response, to persuade you to give in to his sincere desire to help you. His hands, as they offered you the bowl, were warm and gentle, contrasting with the coldness of your emotional state.

“I don’t want to force you,” he continued, his tone almost pleading, softer. “But you need to help yourself heal. I can’t let you destroy yourself. Not now, not after everything you’ve been through.” His concern for you was palpable, a stark contrast to the image of a heartless Sith. There was a tenderness in his gestures that seemed more easily associated with the behavior of two lovers, an inexplicable concern for you. You watched him for a few seconds, your heart a tumult of emotions, fighting a war you had always been careful not to create. The bowl was now there, in your hands, placed by that man whose name you didn’t even know. His gaze was kind, as if with just one word from you, he would have done anything. At that moment, he seemed like the only point of reference in a sea of confusion and pain.

“I don’t trust you,” you stated, your voice sharp and determined, as if every word was a barrier erected against any attempt to get closer. You felt that every word of his was a trap, a well-orchestrated game to break down your defenses. Yet, despite your contempt, there was something in his way of speaking to you that made it difficult to ignore him completely. “You are the reason they killed her. You are the reason for all of this.” The man sighed and then offered you a light, friendly smile. His face was now relaxed again, while in his eyes there was an inexplicable spark. “You’re right not to trust me,” he calmly replied, his voice soft and enveloping, while he slightly tilted his head in a gesture that seemed almost affectionate. “But trust your instincts.” His posture was relaxed. “Why would I want to hurt you after I saved you, healed you, and fed you? My aim, y/n, is not to destroy you.” His tone was sincere, and although you could sense a subtle manipulation, his words had a strong echo of truth. You wondered what he really wanted from you, but you had neither the time nor the inclination to delve deeper into the apparent kindness. Yet, every one of his actions still felt like a trap, an intricate mind game designed to break down your defenses.

For a few minutes, the silence between you became heavy, every word spoken seemed like a hammer blow on a glass wall. Your gaze landed for a second on the bowl in your hands. He wasn’t entirely wrong; after all, he had gone out of his way to save you when he didn’t have to, he had healed your wounds, taken care of you during your recovery, and now he had even cooked something warm to help you get back on your feet. You were the one being harsh at the moment. If he really had wanted to hurt you, he wouldn’t have hesitated—after all, you were injured and weak. With a quieter tone, but full of palpable unease, you spoke to him. “What’s your name?” you asked. Your voice was almost a whisper in the wind, broken but determined. The man raised his eyes, a shadow of curiosity in them. “I don’t have a name,” his tone was warm and harmonious, almost reassuring. “Qimir, call me Qimir,” he simply replied, once he saw the confusion in your gaze, with a tone that seemed almost intimate and sweet.

He slowly stood up from the ground, turning toward the exit. His shoulders were tense, but his step, like his demeanor, was elegant and measured as he walked away from you. He left you alone with your thoughts and the chaos of your emotions. With one last glance at you, he gently closed the door behind him. The metallic sound of the door closing echoed in the cave like a reminder of the solitude that now surrounded you. Inside the cave, there was a deep and absolute silence that would last only a short time.

Qimir leaned his back against the cold surface of the door, his breathing heavy and controlled as a weight inside him, at the height of his heart, grew heavier. The echoes of your sobs and tears penetrated through the door, and he remained there, motionless, listening to every single sound with closed eyes. The mask of tranquility and stoicism fell from his face with unprecedented speed, giving way to concern as he ached for your suffering. He tried to bury his concern for you with the pain of losing his own apprentice. But your crying was a heartbreaking melody, a stifled, silent cry of anguish that reflected in every sob and tear that streamed down your face. You were breaking, you needed to release the storm you had inside, clutching your hand to your heart. Inside the cave, the sound of your muffled sobs filled the air, your trembling hands gripping your skin, digging your nails into your flesh, trying to find comfort in the pain itself. You could feel the bond with your sister fading more and more, slowly, like a shadow that moves in the dying sun, fading into the darkness of the night

Qimir stayed there, sitting on the ground with his head resting against the door, his back rigid as he listened to the pain pouring into the room. Your stifled screams, the sobs, the sound of your crying that filled the air were tormenting him, but he knew your pride would prevent any form of vulnerability in front of him. Yet, as he listened to you, a part of him inexplicably found itself wanting to come in, to offer you a word of comfort, to share at least a fragment of that pain. He saw in you the same resilience he had seen in his old apprentice, reflected in your eyes and your voice, in your face. Mae, with her love for you and the pain of your separation, had spoken to him about you so much that he felt he knew you on an almost intimate level, even though you had never really met him before then. He realized that even though his affection for you was partly artificial, born from Mae’s words and his reflections, he was genuinely concerned for you. He wanted you to find some peace, to be able to face your grief without feeling judged or threatened by his unfamiliar presence, allowing you to mourn both your loss and his.

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Notes :

My beloved flowers, let me know if you like the story. Thank you for the support with the likes and reblogs, they help a lot my work and the commitment I put into it. <3

-Mel

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