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vnti-vntiety-recs · 1 month ago

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Serenade of the Damned (M)

★ PAIRING: Pied Piper! Haechan x Little Red! Reader

☆ WORD COUNT: 10k

★ GENRE(S): Dark fantasy AU, Dark Fairy Tale AU. Magic. Smut, enemies to ??

☆ SUMMARY: The Pied Pier was one of the most feared folk legends of your time. Little did you know he was real and was coming to take your life. You, who was known as the wolfhunter, realized that the hunter had become the hunted.

★ ☆ WARNINGS: mature themes. Minor character death, knifes, blood, violence, alcohol, unprotected sex, gangs, threats, killing, 18+, MDNI

☆★ NOTES: Hallo! This is something that is totally different from my usual writing style, so im a little nervous to debut this, but im so excited because this concept was so freaking cool. I've been sitting on this for a while, but I thought it would be best to post in oct to fit the Halloween spirit. See the request that inspired it here.

Glossary Changelings- a shapeshifting race of beings that are related to the fey Tiefling- a humanoid race with devilish ancestry. They are known for their large horns, extravagant appearance, and carefree attitude Halfling- A halfling isn't a half-breed in that sense. They are their own separate race. They're called halfling because they're about half the size of a human. Half-Elf- A race that has a mix of human and elf traits Half-Orc- A race that has a mix of human and orc traits Harengon- race of rabbit-like humanoids Half-Harengon- A race that has a mix of human and harengon traits

In a quaint, shadowy town, where cobblestones whispered secrets and fog clung to alleyways, the figure of the Pied Piper emerged like a ghost from the depths of folklore. Clad in a tattered cloak, his features were obscured by the dim light of the moon, but the shimmer in his brown eyes betrayed a glimmer of mischief. To the townsfolk, he was more legend than man; a cunning sorcerer with the rare gift of crafting melodies so mesmerizing that they can lure even the most elusive creatures from the depths of their dens.

But behind his charisma lay a tale steeped in darkness—a story of pain that turned sweet melodies into lethal harmonies. The legend goes that the Piper had once been a simple musician, beloved for his ability to summon the gentle creatures of the forest with a mere note. But after tragedy left him scarred, his music dulled into a haunting echo of vengeance. Now, he used it to lure unsuspecting victims to their brutal demise.

He made his way toward the shadows of the town, the air thick with the anticipation of a storm. His target tonight was none other than the famed wolf hunter, Little Red. Much like him, numerous tales whispered through the streets about this legendary wolf slayer. He didn’t care; all he knew was that someone wanted you dead and was willing to pay a pretty penny for it. With each step, he breathed in the electric air, a smirk playing on his lips, ready for the deadly dance that awaited.

Once upon a time…

There was a girl raised with cruelty. Some say she was raised by wolves. She knew nothing but brutality and lies as she grew up. Her family was ruthless and cold.

At a young age, she didn’t grasp the true nature of their business, but she sensed it was far from safe. Whispers of peddling girls and dirty money surrounded her family’s name, wrapping around it like a dark shroud, leaving a bitter taste in the mouths of those who spoke of them.

That girl was you.

You would come to learn that your parents were merely puppets, with someone behind them pulling the strings of their misdeeds. Like a fool, you were a puppet's puppet. You ran their errands, cleaned up their messes, and shouldered their burdens, enduring their brutal beatings when something went wrong.

One day, everything changed.

You came home to an empty house, silence swallowing you whole. They had abandoned you, cutting their strings and fleeing with their puppeteers' money, leaving you behind in a world that was already merciless enough.

It wasn’t long before your grandmother found you, just before the bruisers came looking for you and your parents. Your grandmother was harsh, but you always thought she loved you in her own way. The forest was your new playground, a wild expanse where you learned to fight, to survive, and to become something more than a victim. Her love was implicit in the hours she forced you to spend deep in the woods, stalking prey, learning to hunt, and discovering how to protect yourself. You braved the harshest weather and the most unforgiving conditions, and though she never spoke loving words, you told yourself that this was better than the life you had before.

You grew stronger, sharper, and more cunning. Each scrape and bruise taught you resilience, and every moment of solitude in the forest became a lesson in self-reliance. In time, you transformed from a puppet to a predator in your own right.

But soon, new whispers would begin to follow you.

You grew older, you could stand on your own two feet and you didn't need anyone but yourself.

Working at the nearby tavern, you earned a meager living delivering food to families in the area. You tucked delicious meals into your picnic basket and pulled your red hood high over your head.

Your grandmother had insisted you wore a hood in the city—she always said, "Wolves never forget." It had been years since your parents had run off with their tainted money. The Wolf Gang, a notorious bandit group that terrorized the townsfolk and threatened the crown with their ruthless dealings. They had once pulled the strings of your parents, and now they were still searching for you and your family.

As the end of your shift neared, you gathered your cloak tightly around you, seeking warmth against the biting chill of the approaching evening. After finishing your last delivery, all you wanted was to sink into the comfort of your humble home.

You entered the crowded tavern, your red cloak immediately drawing attention. The tavern master, a burly man with a thick beard, called out from behind the bar, his jovial tone slicing through the lively atmosphere of clinking mugs and laughter. “Heading out, little Red?” he teased, a grin spreading across his face as patrons turned to see who had just come in.

“Don’t call me that,” you replied, making your way to the bar.

“Oh, come on, Red. You won’t even tell us your name. What else are we to call you?” a half-elf named Renjun chimed in, leaning against the bar with a playful smirk.

“Faye,” you offered back, your voice laced with indifference. “Or Edith. What about Celeste? Do any of those names suit me?”

The tavern master chuckled, shaking his head.

Another voice chimed in. “Oh come on, Renjun, we all know she can’t give us her name 'cause the wolves are after her,” a drunken half-orc named Hendery piped up, slurring his words as laughter bubbled up around him.

“Our little Red? Yeah, maybe when the Great Oak grows wings,” your boss added, his laughter infectious. "I do hear whispers of The Wolf Gang creeping closer to town. Just be careful out there." His expression turned serious for a moment, eyes scanning the room to ensure no unwanted ears were listening.

“I can handle myself,” a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. You understood the truth that lurked too close to the surface, the gnarled roots of your past intertwining with your present. The jokes and jests may been harmless to them, but the threat was all too real for you—a shadow that loomed ever closer.

With a wave, you turned to leave, the laughter of the tavern fading behind you, each step taking you deeper into the night. The forest beckoned; it was a sanctuary you understood better than the city. This is where you resided with your grandmother; she had less influence over you now but she was still as cold as ice.

As you approach your cottage your human eyes struggled to perceive much in the darkness, the moonlight offering only a faint glimmer of clarity about the situation before you. The window to your cottage lay shattered, and the door hung limply off its hinges. At first, an icy fear gripped you—had a pack of wild animals broken in? But as you stepped through the threshold and took in the scene, you realized you were only half right.

A wolf towers over your grandmother's body, her ragged breaths shuddering in her chest. Its long, gangly limbs covered in fur and its ferocious muzzle are coupled with an unsettlingly humanoid shape. It looks like a nightmarish wolf, standing unnaturally on bent back legs. It's a perverse mockery of both wolf and man. These wolves were changelings, creatures that often adopt grotesque forms. Changelings can transform into whatever they desire. In a bid to evoke fear throughout the town, their gang had chosen a form that is both terrifying and unnatural.

"Get away from her!" you cry out, drawing a long hunting knife from your cloak. It may not be the ideal throwing knife, but it’s all you have in this moment of desperation. With precision, you hurl it at the creature. The creature howled in pain, a guttural sound that echoed through the silence of the night. It staggered back, the blade lodged deep in its shoulder, before bolting through the back doorway and disappearing into the darkness beyond. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest as adrenaline surged through your veins.

You rush to your grandmother, a whirlwind of emotions crashing over you. A part of you still harbored resentment, but she was all you had left. Kneeling beside her still body, you fought to steady your breath.

“Don’t fret, child. All will be well soon,” she rasps.

“Save your breath; I’ll find help,” you insist, tearing off a strip from your ragged dress to staunch the flow of her blood.

“There’s no time. Just promise me this: you will seek revenge. He wont just forget he saw you here. You must slay him before he tells the pack.”

In her final moments, she doesn’t utter words of love or comfort, but instead urges you to finish the job. It feels as if the last remnants of your heart shrivel and die alongside her, leaving a hollow void.

You stand up, your resolve hardening as you retrieve your knives from the secret spot beneath the loose floorboard. With a determined breath, you slip out the back door, embracing the darkness of the night.

He was wounded. He didn't get far when you found him. You weren't a puppet anymore; you were a hunter, and that night you killed your first wolf.

Any hope for a normal life died that night. She had thrust this burden upon you, and you could almost hear her voice echoing through the darkness, pushing you into a path you never wanted to tread. You didn’t want to kill that wolf. You wanted to run, you knew they would chase you but you were tired of fighting.

When the weight of his lifeless body slipped from your grip and sank into the murky depths of the sea, a pang of regret twisted in your gut. Days later, the waves returned him to the shore, a grim reminder of your actions. You realized then that you couldn’t simply wash this away.

With each report of the recovery, the whispers in the village grew louder, the shadows seemed to close in on you, and you found yourself a target. You didn't want to have to go further into hiding and you definitely didn't want the bounty that was put on your head.

The red hood, once a cherished gift from your grandmother, had become a symbol of something far darker. It hung around your shoulders like a curse, a silent testament to the blood that stained your hands and followed your name like a whispered sin.

Then why do it? You had no choice. It was her dying words.

In this world, dying words carry some of the strongest magic imbued within them. They possess the power to curse, bless, or even command. When someone hears the dying words of another, they are bound by an unbreakable pact—compelled to fulfill the deceased’s last wish or face dire consequences. So, not only did your grandmother use her final breath to send you on a path of violence, but she also wove a curse around your fate, ensuring that if you failed to see her wishes fulfilled, you would bear the weight of her wrath.

Three cheers for family.

Your life was never comfortable, but you had grown accustomed to it. Working at the tavern provided easy coin, and you were frequently rewarded with free meals that warmed your belly and warded off the chill. The camaraderie of the patrons offered a fleeting sense of belonging, a brief escape from the harshness of your reality. But now, you stay hidden deep in the woods, very rarely do you go into town.

With winter just around the corner, the familiar game you hunted had grown scarce as the animals retreated into their dens. You were forced to broaden your field. You became a shadow among shadows, relying on your nimble fingers and quick wits to steal and swindle whatever you could in the city to put food on the table.

Tonight you were on a small heist, targeting a goblin who operated a brothel in the seedy pleasure district. He was known for his shady dealings and had amassed enough enemies that you weren’t particularly concerned about the theft tracing back to you.

You slipped through the winding, dimly lit alleys when you heard it—a sound unlike anything you had ever heard. It wrapped around you like a warm embrace, soothing your frostbitten ears and igniting a spark of warmth in your chilled body. Mesmerized, you followed the music, feeling an overwhelming urge to shed your clothes and dance, to lose yourself in the heat of the melody.

Your mind was clouded as you pursued the sound, unsure of where you were headed until you rounded a corner and spotted a figure. There, perched atop a barrel in a dark alleyway near the port where the wolf’s body had washed ashore, sat a man.

“Come to me, bring me the one who spilled blood,” he whispered, his voice carried softly on the wind. At first, you almost missed it, caught up in the resonant tune still echoing in your head, but as you stepped closer, the music faded. Rooted in place, you could only stare at the man—or perhaps the creature—before you.

He seemed human enough, but you knew better than to assume. Some beings intentionally concealed their otherworldly traits, opting to project an image of weakness—patiently waiting for the moment they had the upper hand to unveil their true selves.

“Who are you?” You asked, your back ramrod straight, unable to relax even a single muscle.

“Most call me the Pied Piper; some call me Haechan. But those who do rarely live long enough to share the name.”

The chill of his words seeped deep into your bones at the realization that the Pied Piper was after you. You had always thought of him as a mere childish legend—tales spun to keep children in line, cautionary fables whispered at bedtime. Yet here he was, very much real, standing before you and setting off every warning bell in your body.

He hops down from his seated position, setting his flute down on the barrel where he once sat. As he steps into the moonlight, he looks breathtakingly beautiful. He appears no older than you, soft brown hair tousling in the breeze, and delicate features that he likely uses to make his enemies underestimate him. But you’re no fool; you see right through him, right to the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

He smiles at you, a disingenuous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he closes the distance between you. Leaning down until your faces are inches apart, he distracts you, ensuring that all you can see is his face—the last sight you might have before your demise. You catch a glimpse of his deft hand reaching into his cloak, expecting something deadly. But instead, you’re taken aback when he places a gentle kiss against your lips.

Kiss of death.

Your grunt is muffled against his lips as a sharp pain lances through your side. He had stabbed you, just as you thought he would.

In one fluid motion, he withdraws his knife from your flesh just as he pulls his lips away from yours. The sudden pain breaks whatever trance he has on you. You jolt into action; he clearly didn’t expect you to be a skilled fighter. Maybe he thought you’d simply lie down and bleed out. But whatever he anticipated, it certainly wasn’t the swift kick to his chest that sends him reeling backwards.

Seizing the moment, you sprint away, adrenaline coursing through your veins, fueling your escape as you leave him momentarily off balance.

You clutch your wound and don’t look back, sprinting through the dimly lit streets until you find yourself standing before the only place you know that might offer some help. The tavern looms before you, its wooden sign creaking in the breeze, the faint flicker of lantern light spilling from the windows.

You slip through the back entrance. The tavern has closed for the night, but you knew that the staff often linger for a drink or two. The sounds of laughter and clinking mugs filter through the air, guiding you like a beacon. Stumbling toward the main room, you knock over a few pails and brooms in your haste, the noises echoing in the silence of the empty halls.

“Red?” your boss calls from the dimly lit main room.

The last thing you see before darkness overtakes you is the sight of everyone jumping to their feet, concern etched on their faces as they rush to your side.

When you regain consciousness, you find yourself sprawled across a large wooden table in the center of the tavern, the surface sticky from spilled mead. Your cloak has been pulled aside, revealing the bandages wrapped around your wounds. A soft glow of magic hovers just above the injuries as Mark, the town’s cleric, administers a healing touch.

“Leave it to you to abandon your work and come crawling back half-dead,” Ten, a tiefling who worked alongside you, grumbles with a sigh.

“You’re just mad you had to pick up her shifts,” Lia, the only other human in the tavern, replies with a playful smirk.

“Will you all quiet down?” your boss interjects, his voice firm. “These doors turn away no friend.” He meets your gaze with a comforting smile, and you wonder if this is what a father’s love feels like.

As Mark’s magic dims, he gently removes his hands from your body. “You’re healed, but you might still feel some minor discomfort in this area,” he says, clasping his hands together. He must have been summoned in the dead of night to tend to you. You want to express your gratitude, but all that escapes your lips is a low groan as you try to sit up.

“Easy, you’re still sore,” Doyoung, a half-harengon with rabbit ears standing alert in worry, cautions you. You’ve always appreciated Doyoung; his expressive ears always reveal his emotions, making him a refreshing constant in a town shrouded in secrecy. He’s likely the closest friend you have.

Lia brings you over a glass. "Drink this, I mixed in a potion that should have you feeling a little better"

Gratefully, you take the cup and down it in one go. The warmth of the potion flows through you, easing the aches as you exhale a sigh of relief.

“Sorry for the intrusion; I didn’t mean to bring any trouble. I should be going now,” you say, attempting to pull yourself to your feet.

“No trouble at all, my dear,” your boss replies, his tone warm. “I’m not sure what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into, but if you ever need sanctuary, these doors are always open.”

“A little heads-up would’ve been nice if you were just going to disappear,” Ten chimes in.

“He just misses you—ignore him,” Lia laughs, her voice lightening the mood.

You look at them, a genuine smile creeping onto your face. Maybe you weren’t so alone after all.

The Pied Piper was real, and you were on his hit list. Rumors and legends shrouded his name, leaving you unsure of what parts were true and what wasn't. The one thing you were certain of was that his music did possess the power to enchant. You needed to discover his weaknesses—was it the pipe that held the magic? Or perhaps it wasn’t the pipe at all; maybe the true magic lay in the breath he blew into the instrument.

You had to find him; you couldn’t just wait for him to show up again and gain the upper hand. Once he had his sights set on you, there was no stopping him from finishing the job. He didn’t chase you that night; he didn’t have to. With just a simple call from his flute, he could lure you out whenever he wanted. He was the cat and you were the mouse. You figured he liked to play with his food.

You had to find him and get some answers. Rumors spread as easily as the plague through the cobblestone streets of this city, and it wasn’t long before his name surfaced again. Tracking his movements was difficult; you had to sift through rumors to find the truth. It was like chasing a ghost but soon you had a lead.

His dark cloak enveloped him like a cloud of smog, and his steps were light as you followed his figure into the woods. You weren’t nervous. This was your hunting ground. You stalked him like a silent panther tracking its prey.

As you ventured further into the woods, you came upon a rundown cottage with a thick thatched roof. You hid behind a tree as he entered the dwelling. After a few moments, a soft, warm candlelight flickered to life inside, casting shadows as you observed his movements. Carefully, you circled around the house, determining that the best way in was through the back.

You waited until he moved to the front of the cottage before making your move. Slipping a knife through the crack in the back door, you lifted the rusty latch used to secure it. You entered quietly and shut the door behind you, holding your breath as you listened for his footsteps. The house was eerily quiet.

Slinking along the wall, you made your way through the dimly lit house. The back door had led you into a small, cluttered kitchen. The air thick with the smells of old spices and something sweet that had long since gone stale. Haphazardly stacked dishes piled in the sink, their surfaces dotted with remnants of food that had dried and congealed.

Peeking around the corner into the front room, you took in the scene: a large desk was strewn with crumpled papers and half-filled bottles of ink. In the corner sat an old chest, its surface marred with scratches and mysterious stains, hinting at secrets long kept. A simple chair and a cushioned bench offered a rare spot of comfort in the otherwise bare space.

The room felt almost empty, save for the creaking floorboards that echoed with your every step, but the atmosphere was charged with an unsettling tension. A single door across the room caught your eye, and you assumed it led to the bedroom.

Just as you were about to move toward that room, you felt a knife pressed against your throat.

“I should thank you for making my job a lot easier, you know,” he says.

You freeze in your tracks, the cool blade pressing against your skin. You try to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. Raising your hands, you attempt to project confidence despite your precarious situation. “I always thought you were just a legend, but here you are. Tell me, who do I have to thank for sending a mere mice charmer to try to kill me?” You smirk, hoping to buy yourself some time and distract him just long enough to disarm him.

“A mice charmer? What are you, then, to have fallen into my trap?” he retorts.

Seizing the moment, you grip the arm that holds the knife and pull it down toward your chest, away from your throat. With a swift twist, you slip out of his hold. Maintaining your grip on his wrist, you twist it harder. The knife clatters loudly to the ground as you kick it away. Grabbing his shoulder, you pull him forward and drive your knee into his stomach. He doubles over in pain, and you quickly pin him down with a knee to his back.

You slip out your own blade and press it to the soft skin of his cheek. “Don’t move. Lay flat on the ground, and if you move even a muscle, I will hurt you.” You sense he isn’t quite the fighter he appears to be; he likely lets his magic do the heavy lifting for him.

He flattens his body against the rotten wood of the cottage and nods reluctantly. You slowly rise, keeping your knife steady, and make your way to the cloth you noticed earlier lying on the ground. You rip off a substantial piece and return to him, using it as a makeshift rope to bind his hands.

With a swift motion, you pull him up and sit him in the chair in the corner of the room, making sure he can’t easily escape.

“A mice charmer is nothing without his flute and enchantments, huh?” you sneer, looking him over with a mix of curiosity and derision.

“What do you want? Clearly, if you were going to kill me, you would have done it by now,” he retorts, glaring at you with a fierce intensity

You look at him under the flickering candlelight of the room. His cloak is missing, leaving him in little more than a simple white tunic and black breeches. A chain is tucked into the neckline of his shirt—probably a keepsake or a charm, something that hints at his connection to whatever magic he wields. You stride forward, seize the chain, and yank it, pulling him abruptly forward.

“Watch your tone, or did you forget I’m the one with the knife?” you warn, leaning in closer, your voice low and threatening.

His burning gaze doesn’t falter for a second, revealing the calm resolve of a man who isn’t new to the concept of death. His hands are probably as bloody as yours, if not more so. He’s been captured, but he’s not broken, and that only makes you angrier.

“Who sent you to kill me?” you demand, your patience thinning.

He chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating through the tension of the room. “With how you treat people in their own homes, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had more enemies than you could keep track of,” he replies, a cruel smile curling his lips. “But we both know who wants you dead.”

You push him back into his chair with force, and he grunts as his back collides with the wooden seat. “You better kill me, because if I get free, you’re dead,” he warns, his brows furrowing in a glare that could cut glass.

His confidence is infuriating, and you feel your grip tighten around the hilt of your knife. “You really think you can scare me with threats?” you say, your voice low and steady. "You're in no position to make demands."

He leans forward slightly, the chains around his neck jingling softly. “You may hold the knife, but you’re still desperate for answers,” he counters, a glint of malice in his eyes.

You ignore his outburst, your thoughts racing as you assess your next move. You had suspected the wolves sent him, but confirming it wouldn’t hurt; you needed to know what you were truly up against. Weighing your options, you realize that killing him could lead to the same disastrous situation you found yourself in before. On the other hand, leaving him tied up while you made your escape was hardly a safe bet. How many times could you flirt with death before it inevitably caught up with you?

"You overestimate your importance," you say, stepping back from him. "I used to think you were some mythical creature that dragged children from their sleep with haunting melodies when they misbehaved. But you’re just a dim-witted knave with a flute." He bares his teeth and struggles against his restraints, but you remain unfazed. "You don’t frighten me, and slaying you would be a bore."

“If you leave me here, you will regret it,” he growls as you turn to leave.

“If I leave you here, you will owe me for sparing your life—don’t forget that,” you reply coolly before stepping out of the cottage.

Each night that has followed that encounter has been nothing but fitful bouts of sleep. You toss and turn, haunted by the shadows of uncertainty, constantly looking over your shoulder, and darting your gaze at every creak that disturbs the silence. Had he seen you? Would he come for you? You knew he would call your bluff if he could see you now, taunting you with the knowledge that you were not nearly as unfazed as you would have liked to pretend.

You just needed a few more days to gather some coin and collect your belongings before making your escape. This was long overdue. There was nothing left in this town for you, and you had no desire to fight for a place that felt more like a trap than a home. The memories that lingered here were a weight upon your heart, but the thought of remaining any longer made your skin crawl with discomfort.

If the wolves wanted this shithole, then they could have it, you had no intention of being among them when they claimed it.

It was your last night in this wretched town, and the anticipation of freedom coursed through your veins. You had already saddled the horse you had bartered for, packing all your belongings tightly—everything you could carry and nothing more. Now, all that remained was to wait for the first light of dawn to break over the horizon.

Traveling under the cover of night felt far too risky; the shadows held too many unknowns, and you were no skilled rider. You knew you needed the gentle light of day to navigate the forest safely on horseback. The thought of losing your way or stumbling into danger sent a shiver down your spine.

You were deep in sleep when a noise startled your horse outside. Exhausted from a long day of packing, you stirred slightly but let sleep pull you back under.

You barely registered the creaking floorboards as someone entered your room. Your body was too tense and sluggish from the day’s work to react quickly. As you fumbled for your knife, a figure lunged at you, pressing a hand against your mouth and silencing you.

A cold blade pressed against your throat, paralyzing you with fear. You lay stiff in bed, heart pounding, knowing no one would hear you scream in the darkness of the forest.

“I warned you, didn’t I? There’s a bounty on that pretty little head of yours that I have to collect,” he coos, his voice chillingly close as his body pins you to the mattress.

The knife presses deeper into your skin, a sharp reminder of your predicament. You mumble against his palm, and he lifts it slightly, allowing you to speak. “If it’s money you want, I can get it for you.”

“I don’t think you know just how much you’re worth,” he replies, chuckling as he grips your cheeks, squeezing them.

“The king of wolves is worth more,” you say, summoning as much confidence as you can.

His smile vanishes. “What a sweet talker you are. If you think I’m foolish enough to believe you could get the bounty from the king of wolves, you’re insane.”

“I can kill the king of wolves.”

“You’re a liar and a thief. Now give it back.”

The charm from his necklace—the very piece you had swiped the last time you were with him—was the key to his power. You had suspected that taking it would render him powerless, and now, faced with the reality of his desperation, you confirmed that he truly needed it to imbue magic into his flute. Without it, he was helpless. You only took it to buy yourself time; if he could lure you out with just a note again, you knew you would be doomed from the start.

“Only if you agree to let me up. You won’t find it if you don’t let me get it for you.”

“You insolent little—”

“Ah ah,” you warn him with a smile, feeling the power shift in your favor. He steps back to the center of the room but keeps his knife pointed in your direction.

“Find it, now,” he growls.

“I can slay the king of wolves; grant me but a moment. This bounty is surely tenfold that of mine. The queen herself placed it upon his head; she would give us whatever we desire for his life,” you counter, your words dripping with allure.

“Charm, then we can discuss further,” he reminds you, his eyes narrowing.

You huff and roll your eyes, rising from the bed. The silk nightgown clings to your body, its delicate fabric highlighting your curves while the hem flutters just above your knees. The thin straps slide off your shoulders, exuding both elegance and vulnerability.

You notice a blush rising in his cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and something else. His gaze lingers on you longer than it should before he looks away, but not before you catch the flicker of desire in his eyes.

You slyly retrieve your hidden knife while he isn’t looking. Your heart races and as you pull out the charm from your brassiere, holding it up like bait. He takes a step closer, intrigue evident on his face, but you raise your weapon, warning him to stop.

“Stay where you are,” you command, brandishing the knife. The blade glints in the light, and the tension between you grows thick, hanging in the air like a charged storm.

“You shall not claim my life, for I possess a greater offer in exchange for it,” you declare, your tone resolute and laced with the bravado of a champion, your heart racing.

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “How do you figure you will kill the king of wolves?”

“I’ve evaded you three times now, and you’re the ever-so-feared Pied Piper. Give me some credit,” you reply lightly, hoping to shift the mood.

He responds with a sly smile. “Impressive, I’ll grant you that, but it’s still not enough.”

“You're going to help me enchant him, and then I’ll take him down. Simple as that,” you say. Under different circumstances, you’d have dressed it up with more flair, but fatigue still linger.

“And why would I help you?” he asks, skepticism etched on his face.

“Because I know more about you than you think. My bounty won’t even cover half of what you need, but a wolf’s bounty…” you whistle, letting the weight of the impressive figure hang in the air, “that will cover everything and more.”

His expression hardens, and a flicker of unease crosses your mind. You wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake by bringing up his debt.

“Careful where you tread,” he warns, his voice low and edged with threat.

“You help me take down the king, and we both get what we want. Think about it.”

He studies you for a long moment, weighing the risks against the potential reward, and you can almost see the gears turning in his mind. The tension thickens, but you know you’ve struck a chord.

“Two days. That’s all you get,” he says, his voice icy and firm. “I’ll be back tomorrow to go over the details. If you try to run, I’ll find you and kill you before you can even plead for your pathetic life.”

“Deal,” you reply, tossing him the charm. You assume he needs his flute to use it, and since you don’t see it on him, you figure it’s safe to hand it over.

With that, he vanishes like a wisp of smoke, a true phantom of the night.

The silence that follows fills the air like a heavy shroud, and you take a moment to steady your racing heart. The confrontation has left you on edge. You run your fingers through your hair, exhaling deeply. Two days. You have that long to devise a plan, gather what you need, and prepare for the next inevitable encounter.

As the darkness settles around you, the weight of your situation becomes clearer. To kill the king of wolves, you’ll need more than just a tongue-in-cheek plan. You’ll need finesse, strategy, and perhaps a little bit of luck.

And maybe, just maybe, a deeper understanding of the man you're working with.

This time, when he arrives, you're clad in your red hood and more prepared than before—but so is he. As he enters your cottage, you notice the flute strapped to his back and charm hanging around his neck.

“Neutral territory,” he states. “You’ll find I’m quite formidable with my magic,” he warns.

“Only a fool would think otherwise,” you reply with a smile.

You invite him to sit in your front room and make tea for both of you. He watches you take the first sip before drinking from his own cup.

“You know you're ruining my reputation, right?” he calls out, a teasing edge to his voice. “You're supposed to be dead and the wolves are impatient.”

“Don’t worry, I have a plan for that too,” you respond, your tone steady.

You pull off your red hood and hold it out to him. “With this, you'll claim my bounty, and that should be enough to keep your skin in the game.”

“You really want to kill the King of Wolves?” he asks, raising an arched brow over his cup of tea.

You let out a long sigh. “I could run, but wolves never forget. They will just track me down again. No more running.”

You lay out your plan in detail, and though he appears skeptical, he ultimately agrees to go along with it. A hush falls over the room as you both sit in the weight of your scheme, each of you reflecting on your respective roles in this dangerous game.

“Permission to ask a question?” you ask with a small smile.

He glares at you, annoyance clear in his eyes. “Somehow, whenever you start running your mouth, it pisses me off.”

“Is it true, the reason for your debt?” you ask anyway, intrigued.

He grips his teacup harder, his knuckles whitening. Not many people knew much about the Pied Piper; the legend loomed large, but even fewer knew the man behind the title—Haechan, with his soft features and heavy burdens.

“Yes, I went into debt to save my sick mother. As you can see It was all for nothing, given the fact that I'm here and she's not. I take on these jobs to earn money. Any other invasive questions, Red? How about I ask one—why are the wolves after you, and how do you get a silly name like Little Red Riding Hood?”

“My name isn’t Red; it’s Y/N,” you reply, bold in your assertion. You’ve never shared your real name with anyone before, but you figured it was time to even the playing field.

“And the wolves?” he presses further, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

“My parents stole away with some of their money. They want revenge,” you say with a shrug. “They got it when they killed my grandma."

As the gravity of your shared burdens swirls in the air between you, you realize that beneath the legends and whispers, Haechan was just a man, and you were more than a mere tale woven into the fabric of the woods. The truth hung heavy, intertwining your fates tighter with each revelation.

“And then you killed one of theirs,” he finishes for you, piecing it all together. “So it looks like we both have had our fair share of tragedy. Now look at us.” He shakes his head, a mixture of disbelief and resignation in his tone.

You had never thought of it that way—how similar your paths had been. Maybe out of everyone, he would understand you the best. Looking at him was like gazing into a mirror that reflected not just your struggles but also the shadows of loss and revenge.

Haechan was handsome, his lips plump and cheeks soft, giving him an almost innocent appearance. Yet, his eyes—oh, those eyes were hard and cold; they spoke of the dark secrets he carried, secrets that were all too familiar to you.

“Tell me more about your mom,” you say, breaking the silence that hung heavy in the air.

Haechan's expression shifts; a warmth creeps into his features as he recounts memories of his mother. He speaks of her laughter, of the stories she told, of how she would comfort him during storms and the way her love enveloped him like a soft blanket. Each word is laced with nostalgia, and you can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at the warmth these memories hold. He was loved.

“She sounds like someone who could light up the darkest paths.”

He meets your gaze, and for a fleeting moment, the facade of the Pied Piper slips away. In that instant, all that remains is Haechan, the boy behind the legend.

“Tell me about your grandma,” Haechan says, curiosity in his eyes.

You take a deep breath and recount your upbringing. Your words are cold and empty as you speak of her harshness, how she cursed you and left you no choice but to kill the wolf that started all of this.

“She never cared about me,” you finish, feeling the weight of your memories.

Haechan’s brow furrows. “Sounds like she was trying to protect you. If that wolf had escaped, you would have been in danger either way.”

You consider his words, the soft glow of candlelight flickering around you. Maybe he’s right, but it doesn’t change how cruel she was. “It’s too late to redeem her,” you say. “Her protection crushed any chance I had at love or hope.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not defined by her actions.”

“But am I not defined by her cruelty? To learn is to experience. How can I know love if I’ve never truly felt it? I might just perish tomorrow,” you say, a bitter laugh escaping.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he replies gently, his gaze steady. “I still owe you for sparing my life back at my cottage. I can show you what love looks like.”

You narrow your eyes, skepticism creeping in. “And how would you do that if we don’t feel love for each other?”

He leans closer, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “We can pretend, just for this one night. I can show you how I would love you.”

A rush of emotions swirls within you—fear, curiosity, and a flicker of hope. “What do you mean?”

Haechan's voice is soft yet earnest. “Let’s create a moment together, something to hold onto, just in case tomorrow doesn’t come.”

You hesitate, heart pounding, caught between the pain of your past and the promise of something new.

“Come,” he calls to you, as he stands. His hand outstretched, inviting yet unsettling. You’ve never felt this exposed with anyone before.

You know you’re being reckless, but what does it matter? Life could slip away from you at any moment—what have you to lose? You grasp his hand, and he leads you into your bedroom.

He closes the door behind you, sealing off the world, and presses you against it, his arms creating a cage around you.

“At any moment,” he says, his voice low and steady, “if you wish to stop, you have but to hit me.”

You manage a smile, trying to ease the tension coiling in your stomach. “That sounds quite tempting.”

His hands brush up against your cheek, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Once you feel my hands on you, you won’t want to let go.”

Your cheeks flush at his promise, and your heart races. His touch is gentle, as if you were a delicate doll, something precious that he couldn't bear to break.

He leans in and captures your lips in a soft kiss, a sensation even more tender than you had imagined. His fingers glide over your face before trailing down to your neck, drawing you closer and pressing your body against his. The warmth of him enveloping you is just like the music that filled the air the night you first met by the docks. A sound escapes you—a breathless gasp—one you had never made before.

You can feel Haechan's smile against your lips before he begins to shed the layers of your clothing. Naked and vulnerable, you stand before him, yet your mind races too fast to truly register your defenselessness. His lips find your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses and gentle nips, igniting a shiver of sensation. You moan softly, your body writhing under his tender yet possessive hold. You were completely at his mercy.

"Like music to my ears, my love," was a low murmur against your skin. His gaze clouded. His eyes swam with emotion you didn't recognize. A heady, intoxicating blend of longing and something else, something wilder. It was as if the taste of you, the sweetness of your mouth, had intoxicated him, leaving him drunk on desire alone. He trailed kisses down your neck, his lips leaving a trail of damp heat against your collarbone and shoulder blades. His hands roam over your body, mapping out every curve before they find their way to your breasts, soft mounds yielding under his touch. With a gentle yet firm grip, he kneads them, pinching and tugging softly, drawing out more moans that escape from your lips.

The old, wooden door groaned under your weight as you leaned against it, your breath catching in your throat. His lips, soft yet insistent, found their way to your nipple, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine. You felt yourself drowning in his touch, in the way he made you feel utterly adored.

His gaze, dark and intense, met yours, the kohl lining his eyes like a smudge of night against the tan canvas of his skin. His tongue flicked playfully, a teasing caress that sent a jolt of pleasure through you. Each movement was deliberate; each touch a whispered promise.

He shifted his attention to your other breast, his deft hands working in perfect harmony with his mouth. You couldn't help but arch your back, your body instinctively seeking more of the exquisite torture. The rough wood of the door dug into your skin, a stark contrast to the velvety softness of his lips and the warmth of his hands.

His touch was an orchestra of sensation, a dance of pleasure that stirred something deep within you. It was a raw, primal connection, a language spoken without words, understood in the depths of your soul. The world narrowed, fading into a blur of color and sound, leaving only the intoxicating presence of him, his touch, his gaze, and the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that threatened to consume you entirely.

“I want you to feel everything,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, making you shudder with anticipation.

He falls to his knees, a look of hunger in his dark eyes. With a swift movement, he lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and presses his mouth against your most intimate parts. A jolt of heat surges through your body as you try to squirm away from his eager touch, but his grip tightens, keeping you firmly in place. Your mind races with desire as you yelp out, your hands instinctively reaching for his thick, dark brown locks, tangling in your grasp. The intensity of the moment overwhelms you as you give in to his fervent passion.

“Hae—Haechan!” you gasp, his name feeling foreign yet perfectly right against your tongue. Each syllable feels like a spell, causing a desperate moan to escape from him as he feverishly licks at you. His grip on your hips is tight and bruising, but you welcome the pain as it fuels your desire for him. You grind your hips against his tongue, unable to control yourself as he dominates you with his mouth. He pants against your heat, driven by pure impulse as he closes his eyes and savors every delicious taste of you.

His lips and tongue move with wild abandon as he sucks on you, filling the small cottage with shameful groans and wet smacking sounds. Your legs start to tremble, but he shows no signs of stopping. You cry out and your head falls back, hitting the door behind you as you convulse in his grasp. A powerful sensation washes over you, causing a tightness in your gut before it finally releases. Haechan eagerly licks you up, cleaning away the evidence that you left all over yourself and on his face.

Your breaths slow down and meld together, as if in perfect harmony. The gentle rise and fall of your chests echoes in the quiet room. "I lost myself for a moment," he says softly, with a hint of apology laced in his words. It's almost as if he didn't intend to take you on this journey to the 12th gate of heaven, but couldn't resist the pull either.

He sets your leg down gently, and he helps you right yourself. He guides you to the edge of the mattress, and as he lays you down, there’s a palpable shift in the air. You watch as he stands before you, the heavy cloak slipping away to reveal more of him, piece by piece. The sight of him in his white tunic and dark breeches sends your heart racing, and when he sheds those as well, leaving only his undergarments and the silver charm necklace you once stole from him, your breath catches in your throat.

You instinctively look away, your cheeks flushing. Your body betrays you, reacting in ways you never anticipated, aching for connection. There’s a pull within you, a desire to close the distance and feel the warmth of his skin against yours.

This man who had once threatened your life now stands before you, igniting a raw, undeniable longing that makes your heart race. You grapple with the gravity of the moment, torn between fear and desire.

He used to be your prey, but as he leans down and crawls onto the mattress, you start to see him in a different light. He presses his lips against yours once more, humming a tune that sends shivers down your spine. Your body melts into relaxation, and your senses are heightened even more than before.

“It's not the flute, is it?” You struggle to speak between kisses.

"I don't think I want to reveal any more secrets to you tonight." he responds with a playful smirk.

You surrender to the sensation as it consumes you. He was right - you had never experienced anything like his touch before. Your eyes follow him as he removes his undergarments, and you become slick at the sight.

“This might hurt; just relax and focus on the melody,” he says with a soft caress of your face.

You nod, realizing now that you trust him more than you initially thought. He coats himself in you and you moan at the lewdness of the act. He was coated in your arousal and soon he was slipping inside of you. He hums a beautiful note, one imbued with magic, easing any discomfort.

“It's beautiful,” you say, captivated by the sound.

His eyes shine at the compliment, and he kisses you. It was strange to think that this love was all an act, because if this is what pretend love felt like, you could only imagine the intensity of real love.

His hips sway to a rhythm that you can't quite hear, but you feel it pulsating through your body. His movements are fluid, like the waves in an ocean. The chain around his neck, swinging in time with his thrusts. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, clinging to him as if he were the only life raft in the midst of a raging storm. With every thrust, he fills you up with his love, overwhelming you with intense pleasure and making you feel alive. In that moment, it's as if you couldn't survive without him, and he knows it. He pours his love into you, determined to fill every empty space so that you never have to feel alone again.

His movements quicken, the rhythm growing more urgent as passion overtakes you both. Haechan's eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense.

"You're a symphony," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. His fingers trace delicate patterns across your skin, leaving trails of tingling warmth in their wake. You arch into his touch, craving more.

Moonlight streams through the window, bathing your entwined bodies in an ethereal glow. The air is thick with the scent of arousal and magic.

You run your hands along the planes of Haechan back and you cling to him as your overtaken by that feeling again. The release makes your limbs weak and mind numb.

Your muscles clench and release around him in a tidal wave of pleasure, pulling him deeper into you with each thrust. He finally withdraws, his body trembling as he releases on your stomach, The air is thick with tension and the scent of sex, but as Haechan's magic fades, all that remains is the sound of your rapid breaths.

As he settles beside you, the silence encases you both, thick with unspoken words and emotions. Your mind races, trying to make sense of how the events had unfolded so drastically.

You glance sideways at him, marveling at the stark contrast of your feelings—a sudden urge to survive, to revel in this newfound complexity. It was almost surreal: one moment you were in peril, and now, here you were, yearning for the warmth of his presence.

Determination courses through your veins; you refuse to succumb to the fate that looms ahead. If this is what Haechan's love felt like—the intoxicating blend of danger and allure—then you would indeed fight tooth and nail for every moment you could grasp.

Working alongside Haechan had become a bit awkward, but you pushed the tension aside as you both raced through the labyrinthine alleyways of the town. The urgency of the mission overshadowed any lingering emotions between you. You had received a promising lead on the elusive King of Wolves; a halfling informant had mentioned spotting him stumbling out of a tavern, drunk and vulnerable.

The king was never without his entourage, a handful of ruffian wolves who surrounded him like shadows. Despite them believing you to be dead, you understood that you still needed to be cautious. The element of surprise was in your favor, but luring him out would require a careful strategy.

Everything was going according to plan so far. If the informant was correct, then Ten had successfully slipped something extra into the king's drink.

As you maneuvered through the narrow streets, your mind raced with possibilities. You would have to bait the king, drawing him away from his pack. That's where Haechan came in. Haechan kept pace with you, his presence a steady reminder that you weren't alone.

Haechan maintained a watchful eye on the pack from over your shoulder as you both tracked the wolves ahead. The night was quiet and chilly, with a biting wind that whipped through the alleyways, assaulting your exposed skin. You cursed yourself for having given away your hood.

You waited patiently, your heart racing as you scanned the scene for the right opportunity. Though Haechan remained silent, the melody of his flute echoed in your mind—a lullaby only the chosen victim could hear. He knew that timing was crucial; if anyone interrupted or stopped the target, the trance could easily be shattered. Every second felt like an eternity as you both prepared to strike when the moment was just right.

The pack was a grotesque sight, with elongated frames, snarling muzzles, and bent, crooked limbs. Their figures resembled a tall, slender man who had forced his way into the mouth of a wolf, wearing the creature’s body like a horrid costume. They looked sickly and unnatural, and it came as no surprise that they struck fear into the hearts of the townsfolk.

While trolls, goblins, dwarves, and other creatures managed to coexist with humans, these beings were unlike any you had encountered before. They had made a conscious choice to adopt such a horrifying appearance. They were changelings—shapeshifters capable of assuming any form they desired. They had chosen to embrace the guise of ghouls and monsters that haunted the night.

As the pack slinked past an alleyway, the King stumbled in, his steps unsteady from drink and poison. He leaned against a cobblestone wall to steady himself, his gang too intoxicated and merry to notice him faltering behind as they continued forward.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Haechan lifted his flute to his lips and began to play a silent composition. Almost instantly, the King's body straightened, moving as if pulled by invisible strings, like a toy soldier suddenly animated. He began to march further into the alleyway, drawn by the haunting melody, oblivious to the world around him.

You wait a few seconds, holding your breath as the pack continues down the road, their grotesque figures just out of sight. Haechan remains vigilant, his eyes locked on the pack, ready to act if they turn. You know that time is of the essence; you can’t afford to let them discover the King’s absence.

With a swift movement, you push yourself off the wall and follow the King into the alleyway. Haechan’s silent melody fills the air like a ghostly whisper, and you can feel the tension building as the King’s contorted form glides deeper into the darkness. Your knives are unsheathed, gleaming under the faint light, ready to strike.

A few feet behind him, he suddenly halts. You hold your breath as you witness his body crumple, a howl of confusion escaping his lips. For a moment, it seems he’s still lost in the depths of the enchantment—but then he stumbles, regaining control.

Realization dawns on you: Haechan must have shifted his focus to the pack once they noticed their missing king. Haechan's magic is now redirected, enchanting the pack that seeks out their leader—perhaps to coax them away from the alley and give you precious moments to act.

You watch as the King sways unsteadily, his eyes flickering with awareness. He glances around, scanning the alleyway for any sign of his gang, oblivious to the danger lurking just behind him. You know you can’t wait any longer; it’s time to make your move.

He's drunk. He's an easy target. Take him out. The mantra echoes in your mind as you silently slip out of the shadows, your heart pounding in your chest.

With lightning speed, you dart forward, knives glinting in the low light as you approach the swaying figure of the King. He doesn’t see you coming; his bleary eyes are still scanning the alley, lost in confusion and intoxication.

In one fluid motion, you bring your blades up, the metal shining with intent. Before he can react, before he can summon the last remnants of his senses, you strike with precision. The cut is clean; a swift arc of steel, and his head rolls away from his body, the wolfish features contorted in a final grimace of surprise.

You expect his body to crumple into a lifeless heap, but it doesn't. The headless form sways for a moment, arms reaching up as if searching for its lost head.

“Shit!”

You manage to slip away while he’s still floundering in his confusion. You sprint, heart racing, hoping that Haechan can hold off the other cronies for as long as possible. You may have lost him for now, but you know he has your scent and will find you soon. Your feet carry you through back alleyways and down dark streets until you're bursting into the crowded tavern. You’re met with laughter and cheers that erupt around you as you stumble inside.

“Aye, look, it’s Red!” the patrons call out in greeting. You have no time for pleasantries. Ten gives you a startled look from behind the counter, aware that something has gone awry. You send him a quick, urgent glance and head toward the back of the house. Ten excuses himself and pulls a bewildered Doyoung along with him.

“Well? What happened?” Ten whispers, barely able to contain his surprise.

“I killed him. Well, I thought I did. I cut off his head, but he’s not dead,” you reply, arms crossed and brow furrowed in confusion. “We don’t have much time. I need your help.”

“No way! I already poisoned him on your behalf,” Ten exclaims, raising his hands in exasperation.

“You poisoned the King of Wolves!” Doyoung gasps, his rabbit ears flattening against his head in fright.

“Keep it down!” you hiss, casting a wary glance around. You regretted not filling Doyoung in on your plan earlier, but you didn’t want him caught up in this mess

“What’s going on back here? Red, is that you?” Lia calls as she approaches the small circle where you all huddle.

“Look, guys, I don’t have time to explain, and I’m sorry to drag you into this mess but If word gets out that the King of Wolves was poisoned at this tavern, you will all be on his hit list. So you might want to help me!”

“Who poisons the King of Wolves!?” Lia gasps in shock.

Doyoung points an accusatory finger at Ten, who shoots him a glare in response.

“Guys, focus! There’s a headless wolf after me, and if I don’t leave soon, they’ll come after you too,” you remind them. “Any ideas on how to take him down?”

“Aren’t the wolves changelings?” Lia asks.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Doyoung confirms. “I read once that if you light them on fire, they burn to ash.”

“I heard that if you show them their reflection, they cower,” Ten adds.

“Well, he doesn’t have a head right now, so that’s out of the question.” You say.

You hear distant howling. That cant be good and your thoughts flicker back to Haechan—where is he? Did he manage to shake off the wolves? The cold grip of worry squeezes your chest as the distant howling amplifies

“I have to go now. Don’t worry; just keep your heads down. If anyone asks, the King of Wolves never stepped through those doors.”

“Where are you going?” Lia asks, concern etched on her face.

“I need to finish this.” You grab a candle lantern from the wall and head out through the back door.

You sprint toward the docks, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you push your body to its limits. Haechan had agreed to meet you there if anything went wrong. The gravel underfoot shifts with each hurried step, but the sound of your heartbeat drowns out the crunching noise. You can feel the rush of impending danger creeping up behind you, reminding you that time is not on your side.

The alleyways give way to a wider street, and you navigate around groups of townsfolk enjoying their evening, blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding just moments away. Their laughter and loud conversations contrast sharply with the urgency of your mission. You dodge around a cluster of patrons who block the path, their jovial cheers fading into the background as you push through the throng. The crowd thins as you approach the water, and soon you find yourself alone. The air is thick with salty brine, and the sounds of waves lapping against the shore become the only company you have left.

But before you can take a breath of relief, a razor-sharp slash rakes across your back. Pain erupts, and you stumble forward, the lantern slipping from your grasp and extinguishing itself in the dirt with a soft hiss. Darkness envelops you momentarily, panic bubbling up as you realize who had struck you.

“lɹᴉƃ uɐɯnɥ ʎllᴉs,” an ancient voice rumbles behind you, low and mocking. He had no mouth yet you could hear him.

Struggling to gather your bearings, you force yourself to turn and face him—the King of Wolves. The sight of him sends a jolt of dread through you. His haunting figure looms over you. You can feel the fresh blood seeping through your clothes, and your back aches with a pain that warns you of the severity of the wounds. Even with magic, you know it will take days to fully recover from cuts this deep.

You force yourself to stand tall, despite the agony radiating through you. The howling you heard earlier echoes in your mind, a haunting reminder that you’re not alone. Panic flares anew as you realize that his cronies could emerge at any moment. You hope Haechan can fend them off a little longer. you have to think fast.

"ʞɐǝʍ ǝɹ'no⅄ ˙puᴉɥǝq ɯoɹɟ ƃuᴉɥɔɐoɹddɐ 'ǝɔᴉpɹɐʍoɔ ɥɔns oʇ ʇɹosǝɹ no⅄" he snarls, the effects of the poison and booze long gone.

"I'm not afraid to use underhanded tactics on scum like you." You shot back, circling around him, both of you sizing each other up.

He lunged, and you barely dodged his claws. Your body was tired, aching all over, but you were determined to stay on your feet. You threw a knife, but your aim was off, and he sidestepped with ease. It was frustrating; your eyelids felt heavy, and you could hardly focus.

Then, you heard a melody—a familiar tune that made your heart race. Suddenly, energy surged through you, making you feel lighter and stronger. You didn’t need to look around to know who it was. Revived, you fought back, pushing the king back for once. He swung at your ankles, but you rolled away just in time. You were on slightly equal footing, but you needed to gain the upper hand before he wore you down again.

Footsteps approached, and hope flickered inside you.

"Red!" Lia shouted. She was with Ten and Doyoung, and relief washed over you.

"Stay back! It’s too dangerous!" you warned, trying to keep the king's attention on you.

"Don’t be a hero!" Ten yelled, annoyance clear in his voice. "You can’t win without us!"

You exchanged blows with the king, your heart racing as you saw Doyoung preparing an arrow. You held the king off while Lia lit the arrow's tip. In one fluid motion, Doyoung let it fly, and the king of wolves erupted into flames. You all stepped back, eyes wide, as you watched him burn to ash.

Just then, Haechan appeared around the corner, flute in hand, playing that energizing melody that made you feel like you could take on the world. It was the last thing you heard before the music faded and everything began to blur around the edges.

It had been a week since that fateful night. The echoes of that ancient voice still haunt you, but you pushed the memories aside as you stood before the queen, the severed head of the wolf king resting ominously on a velvet cloth. Her eyes gleamed with a mix of approval and intrigue as she took in the sight.

“You have done well,” she proclaimed, her voice a soft yet commanding presence in the throne room. “In ridding us of this beast, you’ve secured not just our safety, but your own place in history.” With a graceful wave of her hand, she summoned her guards, who strode forward bearing an opulent chest.

As they opened it, a dazzling array of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires spilled forth, glimmering like stars in the dim light. Gold coins cascaded down in a shimmering waterfall, their clinking a symphony of wealth

The sheer abundance of treasure left you momentarily speechless, and you could hardly believe the magnitude of your reward. You accepted gratefully but your mind lingered on Haechan. He had chosen not to attend the queen’s audience, cloistering himself away as he still relied on the myth of his existence as a shadow. He preferred to operate in secrecy, a specter amongst the whispers of the realm.

You stroll into the tavern, the warmth and chatter wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. You’ve brought some gifts and treasures, a little token of thanks for the friends who stood by you in that crazy battle. It just felt right.

"Drink up, fellas! Drinks are on Red tonight!" your former boss shouts, raising his mug high and getting everyone's attention.

You wince at the name. "Would you stop calling me that already?" you groan, rolling your eyes.

Lia smirks, leaning against the bar. "What do you want us to call you, then?"

"Just call me Y/N," you reply, finally giving them the name you’ve always wanted them to use.

"Y/N, huh? It suits you," Ten says, pouring a mug of mead for a troll at the bar, who looks way too eager to drink it.

"Was that a compliment?" you tease, raising an eyebrow.

"Don’t push it," he shoots back, giving you a mock glare, but you can see the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Laughter echoes through the tavern as everyone raises their mugs in salute. The atmosphere feels electric, and in that moment, you know you’ve found your people.

As twilight deepened, you made your way to a familiar cottage, navigating through the dense woods that wrapped around the kingdom like a protective shroud.

Rubies and a dazzling array of gems spilled forth as you toppled over the chest, the treasures scattering against the old, rickety floorboards of Haechan’s hideout. The glint of gold caught the flickering light of the lantern, creating a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of colors that danced across the dim space.

Haechan leaned back against the wall, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “So your word truly holds value, huh?” he teased, walking up to the trove. His fingers sifting through the precious stones as he reveled in his unexpected fortune. “Now, what’s your next move? I can’t imagine the pack isn’t hunting for the one who took down their king.”

You shrugged, a casual air masking the weight of your adventure. “They’re pretty useless without their leader. The royal guard has rounded up most of them, and for any stragglers, they’re probably getting out of town as fast as they can.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of hope creeping into his tone. “Are you planning to stay, then?”

“Never did I claim that,” you replied, glancing around the haphazard room. “There’s nothing for me here. I can’t spend all this gold in the slums anyway; I’ve got to see the world.” You stretched with a bored yawn, letting the wild possibilities of adventure wash over you. “But it would be a trifle dull to travel alone,” you hinted, letting a coy smile dance on your lips.

“If only you had a companion,” he shot back with a grin, earnestness hidden beneath the teasing.

“I know, it’s quite sad, really.” You turned toward the exit, pretending to be disinterested. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

“Y/N.” The sound of your name, spoken for the first time, stopped you in your tracks, resonating in the air and binding you to the moment.

You looked over your shoulder, curiosity piqued and a smile still lingering. “Yes?”

Haechan shifted, his gaze steady and sincere. “You don’t have to go alone, you know.”

For a heartbeat, you considered the weight of that offer. Freedom beckoned ahead, yet the idea of shared adventure was equally tempting. You felt a connection forming, a spark of possibility that ignited your imagination. The world awaited, filled with danger and excitement, and perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if Haechan journeyed alongside you.

“What do you say then?” you replied, a playful challenge in your tone. “Are you ready to step out of the shadows and into the light with me?”

Note: I might expand this world more for other members in the future so if you guys have any cool ideas that would work in this setting, lmk and i may incorporate them into a work in the future (far future cause i need to finish my other wips lol)

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needle-thread-thimble-spear · 5 months ago

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I find the cultural phenomena of the maid as opposed to its direct descendant (the generalized domestic laborer) to be really interesting, particularly in the transfeminine sphere. This post is gonna be kinda rambly and not have much a point and involve discussion of kink topics, abusive relationships, transmisogyny, colonial violence and its consequences, etc so heads up for that but anyway.

Starting with the regency/early victorian era Europe, there's this gradual development of a complex household structure among the upper classes, which caps out in the late victorian/edwardian era. This environment forges the "prototypical" idea we have of the maid, whom you'll see in period pieces and historical fiction. She might have worn a (modest!) black and white outfit, she might not have. If her employer is relatively poor she may supply her own clothes. Regardless though, she's a servant for someone wealthy enough to keep her on. Her employer might have inherited their wealth, or found success in a relatively new and burgeoning capitalism, but they were definitely a member of one of the upper classes. She might come from a working class family, or depending on her role, from the petty bourgeois/lesser nobility (it wasn't uncommon for a young lady to have a "companion", often poorer relative with no prospects of her own). It's interesting (though in hindsight not particularly surprising) how the space from where some women might become maids, wasn't very far away from the space where a family might keep on 1-3 people on staff (if you'd like to read more on this, Emily Post's original etiquette, written in 1922 is available for free on Project Gutenberg. Its a really interesting text, here's a summary of the maid section I wrote).

Anyway. Its around the height of this period that the "french maid" is codified. Apparently (my research on this isn't the most extensive I'll freely admit) it wasn't uncommon then for the english upper classes to hire maids from France. Wealthy men became quickly fascinated with them, and before long the french maid is a staple in the erotic material of the age. My understanding is that this is how the black-and-white stereotypical maid dress entered the public consciousness, since that was common at the time (indeed, other time periods and places had different standards for uniforms!) and is what the french maid in life would have worn.

After the world wars, the social landscape of wealthy people changed, the concept of the "middle class" crystalized, and a number of household appliances changed the nature of housework quite drastically. Most of the families that would have been considered middle class a few generations earlier stopped keeping on a "maid of all things". Very wealthy households would hire fewer members of staff, or simply stop hiring a permanent staff altogether. From then on, it would be the role of the housewife to do the domestic labor, or otherwise one keeps on a cleaner or a cleaning service who comes around every once a while. Eventually we enter the modern understanding of domestic labor, where live-in servants are rare and when they do exist they are often supplemented by cleaning services with no allegiance to any one household.

Meanwhile, the french maid continues along as a stock character, not just in explicitly erotic material but comedies and even historical/speculative fiction (and thus quite removed from her possibly more apt "prototypical" counterpart, see most anime/manga maids and "butlers"). At this point she may or may not bother with being french, and she may or may not bother with any domestic labor. The maid outfit (later costume) ends up as a stereotypical, almost trite set of clothing for sexual roleplay. It's in this environment that some early culture of "sissy" or "forcefem" kink latched onto the french maid. Since that avenue of kink focuses on feminization as humiliation, the positioning of the sub as a domestic servant for the (petty) nobility (which to be frank, is a pretty humiliating role all on its own, speaking from experience) dovetails into the whole shtick quite neatly.

Others more clever (and more concise...) than I am have written about how what makes forcefem hot is the transmisogyny. The transfemme is set up to hate herself, to self destruct, to feel shame and self-disgust, to feel terrified of herself, for what she is. I'm not gonna bother spelling out the connection here. A lot of transfemmes (even if they are terrified of it and try to avoid it like I did) find their way into that space pretransition. Or if they don't, they certainly become aware of it after they begin! And then we get all this response within our own culture. We reclaim "forcefem" as a term, maids become a common motif in the form of dolls in empty spaces type literature, but that undercurrent of internalized misogyny and shame still sits there I think. Don't mistake me, this isn't some sort of sex negative tirade against maidkink (that'd be a hypocrisy anyhow!) Rather I'd like to make the argument that we're frequently reclaiming something traumatic through it, even if we don't quite realize it. As transfemmes we often self efface when it comes to (trans)misogyny I think. It's easy for us to say we had an easy ride or that it wasn't so bad. But even so, ask yourself, would you be interested in maids so much if you weren't really badly hurt?

I want to end this going back to domestic labor. It has hardly been my career to this point. In fact, I've only spent a few months of my life as a housecleaner, several years ago before I transitioned. Those also happened to be some of the most grueling and torturous months of my life. A lot went wrong that summer. The work was physically demanding and the hours were long. It was one of my first experiences really working and I felt very loyal to my boss, whom I had a tangential personal relationship toward. I was alright at the work but I did it slowly, putting me behind my quotas. But the worst of it was the cementing of the unhealthy relationship I had with my ex into an abusive one. I won't bore you with the details, and beside they're torturous to relive. I'm afraid you'll have to take my word for it, I don't think I've felt so much shame and fear so intensely and for so long a duration since then. A screening of Silence of the Lambs was involved. What we've been through, what we've been subjected to, frequently leaves us pliable doormats, eager to please and easily abused. Many are eager to use us for that, and few things can feel so good as kind words from an abuser. If you're like me, maids are a lot about those feelings. The (trans)misogyny we undergo is a real phenomena. Maids for me is an acknowledgement of that.

Post Script: I think it's important to acknowledge how the history of domestic labor has been shaped by racial violence as well as (trans)misogynistic violence. In the United States, the prototypical maid could be white or black to suite the tastes of the employer. In northern culture, the maid was generally whiter than snow, because she was presumed to be better than her counterparts, thought to be less likely to steal and better mannered. That's what made the northern lady comfortable. In the south, the maid (who was often, maybe almost always black I'll have to do more research) was either enslaved or had ancestors who had been recently. Domestic staff being black was part of the mechanism of settler colonialism in the south. The southern lady was more comfortable seeing black women explicitly beneath her, so they were maids. I say was, but these attitudes persist, in one form or another, across the US today and influence who works where. In the modern domestic labor field, a lot of the workers are immigrants. When I did work cleaning houses, I met a lot of people from the Caribbean or Latin America. Remember when I said before that live in maids are rare, and often supported by outside cleaners? One of the women I met doing that job was a live in maid from the Caribbean (I wish I remember where but I'm afraid I don't. I was going through a lot at the time my memory of it all is difficult to access in good circumstances) who was responsible for cooking and laundry. We came in to do wetwork and dusting/vacuuming. That family had more money than grains of sand, and they weren't even so rich tbqh. At my agency, we'd usually get a temp staff from Eastern Europe to do the work but they were unavailable at the time due to the pandemic, so Americans were hired instead. It should be little surprise that a settler colonial state will oft assign the women of its (oft imported) underclasses to do any sort of difficult manual labor (particularly the kind that happens behind the scenes!). The institutions of sex, which disadvantage women (and trans women still further), are but one avenue of hierarchical social violence and these intersect with one another tightly.

Hope you enjoyed reading this ramble, and that you found it illuminating!

EDIT: removed a poorly constructed sentence that doesn't read well and utilizes figurative language in a place that should be more clear

#maid #spinning

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animasolaoriginal · 1 month ago

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I n f a t u a t e d ♦️FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾TEN ELEVEN◾TWELVE◾THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN

To say his sudden change in demeanor is confusing her, would be an understatement. Confronted with his raw strength and anger, she finds herself stuck in her own mind – until he pulls her out of it, with yet another face he's never shown her before.

ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Dubcon elements. Dom/sub dynamic. Praise kink. Free use/power play. Rough oral sex/deepthroating/choking. Spanking with a belt. Manipulation/mind break? ANGST! (For more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 4.1k

A/N: It's another Angst Episode. Poor girl got it rough in this one, I apologize in advance! (Reminder that this is a fictitious D/s relationship and nowhere near what an IRL one may or should look like!)

THIRTEEN 🟥 FOURTEEN 🟥 FIFTEEN

As she chokes on his cock with how he holds her down, her tears are hot, her mind spinning from lack of oxygen and how quickly he's changed faces again. Her stomach is tense, convulsing every time he pushes his length deeper into her throat, her mouth full of spit and bile and precum, and it's all dripping down onto his expensive pants, but he doesn't seem to care.

She feels miserable all over again, her body contorted, knees pressed into the hard space between the seats, those wretched toys still humming inside her because she didn't have the gall to turn them off completely when he'd asked her to choose. And she thought it was okay, worked in her favor, would make him proud of her. He'd been so sweet, his words, his gestures, his whole demeanor. All those praises. She was surprised, wondering what happened in that sex shop after she'd passed out.

Sucking him off in the elevator had been exciting instead of frightening, it had felt as if they'd have a bond now, she was his, and he was there for her, holding her, caressing her, comforting her. Of course he would ask her for things, and she would have happily sucked him off in the car as well, in her own pace, but he had seemed almost desperate, or angry, when he had forced her onto his cock.

She's confused. Why is he so rough again? What did she do? Did she make him angry after all? He denied it before, but maybe he's lied?

Her gurgling sounds fill the car, drown out even the engine, but at least they are proof that she is still here, still drawing breath, even if it's through her stuffed nose, in the rare moments he pulls her up by her hair only to push her back down again a few seconds later to take his cock all over again. Her throat feels raw, her lips strained and swollen, her whole body is tense, additionally fighting the sensations of the toys buzzing inside her.

The day has started in the worst way possible, had its few ups after that, but why is she even surprised about this anymore? He's treated her like this before, many times, oblivious and uncaring of her discomforts. It's her purpose after all, isn't it? To be his toy? But she still feels betrayed, disappointed, deeply disturbed.

She sniffles, another sudden gag reflex making her convulse so badly she feels her spit erupting from her nose. He still doesn't care, just keeps pushing and pulling her head, using her mouth like the hole it presumably is for him. She can't decide if she wants to sob and wail or just give in and choke already.

Somehow she loses all track of time, becomes numb eventually, lets him fuck her throat until he finally stills, his hand heavy on her head, pushing her down so much his pubic hair tickles in her nose while his balls spasm against her lips as he empties himself deep into her throat, his cum warm and sticky as the rest of it drips down and joins the mess she's already made on his pants.

He pulls her off and pushes her back into the passenger seat, where she slumps down, wiping at her mouth and nose before she succumbs to the misery burning within her, sobs, hiccups and quiet wails erupting from her hurting throat. She hears him scoffing, and when she looks over through hooded eyes and clumped lashes, he shakes his head, his face stern and hard as he wipes at his ruined pants.

“Look at the mess you made,” he says, his other hand flexed around the steering wheel.

“M'sorry,” she mutters hoarsely, forcing herself to move closer, ready to try to clean him up somehow, ignoring the sting inside her that comes either from her hurt feelings or the buzzing toys that she just can't ignore no matter how hard she tries. They always keep moving, rubbing against each other, poking deep and hard into her tense muscles, and she keeps clenching around them, already knowing she'd be sore later.

“Not good enough.” His voice cuts through her struggles, and she meets his dark gaze. Gone is the warmth she's found there earlier.

She sniffles again, wiping at her nose. Despite her misery, she feels that tiny bit of defiance flaring up inside her again. How dare he make her responsible for the mess when he'd been the one to force her to gag on his freaking cock the entire time! Where was she supposed to leave all the spit he created in her when he didn't allow her to swallow? Or breathe? She was fighting for her life while he tried to chase his pleasure. How is that fair?

A jerk goes through the car as he stops it at the side of the road. The sun is breaking through the clouds, there's a forest on one side, a wide field on the other. No other car around. She stares at him in confusion.

“Get out,” he then tells her, and she freezes, a deep shiver crashing through her.

“No,” she whispers, not as response, but in shock. He won't just leave her here, right? In the middle of nowhere? With no means to get anywhere? He can't!

His gaze darkens, his face getting harder. When he suddenly opens his door and gets out, her eyes follow his motion while she's too stunned to react properly, and when he rips her door open and grabs her arm, she can only yelp, pushing her feet down, fighting him a bit too much.

“No, please! Please, don't leave me!”

Her wail makes him freeze, a frown appearing on his stern face. “I'm not gonna leave you,” he clarifies, voice as rough as the grip on her arm as he drags her to the back of the car and bends her over it.

The warm metal burns through the thin fabric of her dress, her hands squeak on it as she tries to find purpose in her new position. Breathing hard and still crying, she can't see or hear much of what he is doing behind her, but then something hard and cold and somehow also hot and unyielding meets the back of her thigh, and she is screaming.

The pain is so intense that her vision reddens, her body jerking against the car, her head spinning out of control. It's a burning pain, a sting, her skin throbbing and tightening, and when it repeats on her other thigh, a whistle in the air, then a sharp crack, she knows it's his belt, the realization gone as soon as the pain crashes through her once more. And one more time, and one more, and she wails and sobs and cries and screams, her sounds echoing fruitlessly through the empty space around them.

He's only hitting the backs of her thighs, just below where the harness is draped around her butt cheeks, left and right, never the same spot twice. She feels her skin positively burning, and she's afraid it's all an open wound now, bleeding and oozing and never whole again. It certainly feels like it.

Eventually he lets up and lowers the belt, then moves his fingers over the abused skin. She whines breathlessly, unable to cry any more, the pain that throbbing thing all around her.

His hand hooks around her arm and pulls her back up, and she leans against him, her legs trembling too much to keep her upright. “W-why?” she croaks out.

“Why did I belt you?” he replies, his voice low and close to her ear. “Why not?”

She stiffens, slowly turns her head to him, blinking the last tears away. “What?”

“Do I have to give you my reasons for punishing you?” he snarls, clenching his jaw.

She stares at him, wondering where the man has gone who has told her he can't believe he'd deserve something as sweet as her. He seems so different now. Dark and dangerous, angry and mocking, unreasonable and mean.

“Y-yes!” she protests with the last bit of strength left in her as she clings to his arm. “I need to know what I did wrong! I want to be better!” Her voice is a feeble thing in the air, shrill and panicked, hoarse from screaming.

“What if I told you you didn't do anything wrong? What if I told you I just felt like hurting you? Hmm, what then?” he says gravelly, glaring at her. “You don't get to be better, it doesn't matter, you are a fucking toy for me to use whenever I want, understood?” He's raised his voice so quickly, she was flinching by the end of it, whining in confusion. “Understood?” he yells again, and she cries out, covering her ears while whimpering: “Yes, sir!”

Her reaction makes him pause, his eyebrows furrowing, before he rips her hands away from her head and drags her back around the car. Before he shoves her onto the seat, he hesitates, and she braces for more pain, but he just stands behind her, tall and intimidating, a deep shadow keeping the sun away from her.

And suddenly he pulls her back, closes the passenger door with a loud thud, then rips open the door behind it, before he points to the backseat. “Lie down, on your stomach, keep your thighs off the seat.”

Still more than confused and frankly hopelessly overwhelmed and aching in more ways than one, she follows the harsh words and crawls onto the seat, careful not to get her burning skin into contact with anything. She's now almost convinced he's belted her bloody, why else should she keep her wounds off the seat? And what if she makes a mess again? Will he punish her once more? Not that he needs a reason, apparently.

His reply still haunts her, that anger in his voice, the darkness in his eyes, the loathing in his words. She is at his mercy, she's always been, but he's never been this brutal with her. Or maybe he has but she never perceived it as such? Forcing his hard length into her virgin ass? Taking her in her sleep? Choking her on his cock? All of that was brutal, rough, but somehow she's never seen it. Maybe because he's given her something back, cared for her afterwards.

But belting her for no reason? Even though her insides have clenched around the toys with every hit, there has not been anything in it for her. It was only violence, pure and raw, and she doesn't understand it. She's just serviced his cock, made him come in her throat, let him do all that to her like a good toy, so why was he so angry with her?

Tears burn in her eyes again as she tries to find a comfortable position on the backseat, while she listens to him close the door and slip back behind the wheel. She rests her spinning head on her folded arms and closes her eyes, lets the hum of the engine distract her from the throbbing pain in her legs.

He drives for quite a while, and it's just this monotonous rumble beneath her. She's too wired to fall asleep, still too confused to make sense of anything. So she doesn't question it when he eventually stops the car and gets out without a word, locking it with a soft click, leaving her to stew in her dark thoughts.

Time passes, and she has no idea how much, and it doesn't matter. Her thighs are still aflame, her skin tight and stinging, and every single movement hurts. But what hurts even more is the betrayal she feels. She's done everything he's asked, and he still hurts her like this? Because he can? Is this what she signed up for by submitting to him? It doesn't make sense...

The thud of the trunk being closed rips her from her clouded mind, and she carefully turns her head a little until he slips into her line of sight when he sits back down behind the wheel and starts the engine. He drives off again, God knows where to, and still doesn't say a word, doesn't even acknowledge her.

The silence only adds to the dark void that seems to be eating her from within. A sniffle escapes her, and she stiffens at the sound, sinking back into herself, making herself as small as she can on the backseat. He doesn't react though, just keeps driving, the hum of the engine and the rumble of the tires the only sounds around her.

She is positively miserable by the time he finally stops the car again. It's all darkness, weighted darkness that pulls her down, keeps her at the bottom, in the pit of doubts and hurt and sorrow. And there he finds her, his hands tight around her waist as he pulls her backwards off the seat, not in a threatening way, but almost careful. She can't move anyway, doesn't want to, too far gone in her own mind to register anything anymore.

He scoops her up in his arms, somehow managing not to touch her hurting thighs, and carries her off. She has her eyes closed, doesn't care about where they are, what he's doing. Car doors are being closed, his footsteps crunching over gravel, something creaks on rusty hinges, the air around them becomes not as fresh, but stale and warm.

He keeps her on his arms, pressed to his chest in a comforting manner, but she can't enjoy it. Why should she? That's not her purpose. The noises around her melt together, paper crinkling, floorboards creaking, and then he's sitting down somewhere soft, and she flinches when she slips onto his lap, the tight skin of the backs of her thighs pressing against his legs, but only for a moment, before he lifts her up and arranges something beneath her.

When he puts her back down, she winces again, but this time the pain is numbed immediately by something cold, a soothing sensation on her burning skin. She dares to open her eyes, blinks at the light, breathes through her nose as she looks around. The first thing she sees is the colorful bag of frozen peas beneath her, peeking through her open thighs, and she inhales deeply, trying not to shift too much on his cushioned lap, then registers his hands on her waist and on her knees, holding her.

She can't look at him just yet, so she looks around. They are in a cabin of some sort. Lots of wood, dark interior, warm, cozy. Not that she can appreciate any of it with how hollow she feels.

His loud exhale startles her, and she hunches her shoulders, bowing her head, bracing for more unnecessary violence. But he doesn't move, just breathes through his nose in a way a cornered animal would. Slowly, carefully, she tilts her chin just enough to look at him from under her lashes.

His gaze is hard and cold and intense like she's never seen before.

“Listen,” he then says, his voice hoarse and low. “I'm only gonna say this once...” She raises her head a little more and fully looks at him, her heart beating faster. “I'm sorry,” he breathes out darkly, words that should feel more genuine, that seem to cause him great discomfort, words he probably never uttered before. Her eyebrows rise up in surprise.

“I didn't mean to hurt you,” he continues, ignoring her reaction, his eyes lowered as he stares at her thighs and his big hand spanned across them. “I... okay, maybe I wanted it, but you didn't deserve it. You did nothing wrong.”

His words make her head spin. She can barely make sense of them, so she just keeps listening because he doesn't seem to be done.

“I am not a good man,” he says, his hand starting to rub over her bare legs, the touch warm and soothing, if it weren't such a loaded situation. “Maybe I wanted you to remember that. I take what I want, and sometimes...”

A groan escapes him that makes her flinch, in turn causing her to wince as she shifts on the cold albeit uncomfortable sac of hard peas. The grip of his hands gets stronger.

“You...” he starts, his eyes moving back up to meet hers. She shivers under the intensity. “You're doing things to me. You're changing me... you make me... regret things I would never have regretted before. And, baby,” he adds, his hand moving to cup her chin, gently holding it, his thumb rubbing over her bottom lip, while she just stares at him, stunned by his unexpected confession. “I regret treating you like this. You've been such a good girl, maybe a little too good? But that's not your fault, do you hear me? I didn't expect you to be like this... so beautifully submissive...”

He licks his lips, his eyes wandering over her face. She's still only staring at him, unable to say or do anything, and she probably shouldn't either, no matter how much praise he has for her. Because deep down, she doesn't trust his words anymore. He could snap at any second now, just like that, unprompted, so she tries to minimize her movements and reactions to not give him any reason to hurt her again. He can, and he will, she knows it. He's unpredictable like that.

“You are too good for me,” he goes on, quietly, eyes still holding her hostage. “I definitely do not deserve you... but... as I said, I'm not a good man, I don't run on a moral compass. I take what I want, and I still want you. You're staying with me, even if you hate me now. You're mine, and mine alone.”

She should be glad he won't push her away, won't leave her like she initially feared. His possessiveness means she can continue to have the life he's promised her. The life without worries, without having to think for herself. He will care for her, he's said so, and she trusts he will continue doing so. But by punishing her for something that isn't her fault, how can she be sure he won't do it again? On a whim, because he can?

“I will try to be better,” he says, as if reading her mind, deep creases on his forehead, his eyes dark with emotion, something she's never seen before. “I won't hurt you again, not like that, I promise, okay?”

She stares at him, furrowing her eyebrows, feeling new tears burning beneath her lashes. He sounds genuine now, truly troubled by what he has done. And she may have believed him if he wouldn't have kept talking.

“I will still punish you if you don't listen to me, if you disobey, you know that, right? But I will not... let my anger out on you. I promise,” he repeats, tightening the grip of his fingers around her chin as he stares at her, and she stares back, flustered and confused, that black void inside her filled with uncertainty and doubts, grief and... sympathy?

She hates feeling miserable. And seeing him like this, regretful, concerned and visibly struggling to get these words out because he probably never had to reflect on his own actions like this before, she should hate this too. Any form of conflict she hates. But something warm settles in her stomach as she keeps watching him, how he looks at her, waiting for any kind of reaction from her. Desperate to be forgiven, or believed, or trusted again.

Well, maybe not desperate. She's sure he doesn't care that much. He could just continue the way it was, by using her however he wants without giving a damn about her. But maybe that isn't their dynamic after all. It's never been like that before. He used her, yes, without consent, rough and brutal, playing on her inexperience and her submissive nature, but he's always praised her during whatever ordeal he's made her do, cared for her afterwards.

There was a balance between all those sexual acts he forced upon her, there was light in the darkness, and sometimes the darkness wasn't as bad when he gave her something back. The times he made her come still echo in her mind, experiences she's never had before. And how he cuddled her after, caressed her, held her close, wiped away her tears, before he'd create new ones...

But that balance got disrupted by one single act of violence she still can't fully comprehend. He was angry because she's changing him? But isn't that a good thing? Is she taming the beast, but the beast doesn't want to be tamed? Probably. So it is her fault? But what is she supposed to do differently? He wants her to submit and she does, does what he asks of her, doesn't fuss about it, she's good, he said so. But then it's his fault for getting influenced by how good she is? Yeah, that's on him!

Caught in her own head, being none the wiser the longer she thinks about the whole situation, she keeps staring at him, breathing a bit quicker, her heart beating harder, the pain throbbing against the slowly melting bag of peas. The longer she locks eyes with him and the longer they just sit in loaded silence, the more she realizes something.

It is on her.

She is the submissive, she has to give in, it's on her to clear the tension. Of course she has no idea what that means, and if she's even right, not knowing anything about the matter anyway, but it's what feels right. She knows he won't do anything more, he's already shared his thoughts with her, which he didn't have to do, but he's tried to smooth the waters she finds herself drowning in. He did his part. Now it's on her.

Following that inborn instinct that made her submit to him in the first place, she slowly raises her hand until her shaking fingers brush against his chin, then move along his jaw before clammy little fingertips press against the tense muscle on his cheek. He flexes it beneath her touch, eyes following her every move.

Shifting on his lap (and the peas), she turns to put her other hand on his shoulder, anchoring herself, ignoring the pain of the burning welts on her skin, the toys buzzing away inside her, all the voices in her head telling her to turn the other way, to run, to get away, to stop.

But she doesn't stop, she pulls herself closer, cups his face and tilts it downwards slightly. And he lets her, the creases relaxing, and when she leans in fully to press her lips to the corner of his mouth, he closes his eyes and sighs deeply, his breath warm on her lips.

His arms close around her body, pressing her against him, as he mirrors the gesture and brushes his lips against her cheek. “I'm sorry,” he whispers barely audible, despite not wanting to repeat himself, and it makes her smile softly.

“I know, it's okay,” she replies quietly, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him another peck, before his mouth finds hers fully for a slow but searing kiss.

Parting her lips, she lets his tongue in and meets it with the same slowly growing hunger, and as her mind empties, all those doubts and fears and confusing thoughts pushed into the back once again, she finds herself forgiving him, and she knows she shouldn't, she can hear the voices telling her not to, to hold a grudge, to not trust him, to keep fighting, but this is her life now.

He is her life now. He is all she has, and she can't afford to let this go, let him go, to lose this. She needs him, she knows that now. The strength in his arms, the warmth in his body, the affection in his kisses, the power he holds over her.

She wanted this, wanted him, and if this is part of their deal, then so be it. As unhealthy and disturbing and wrong it may be. She needs it.

THIRTEEN 🟥 FOURTEEN 🟥 FIFTEEN

End notes: The rollercoaster ride continues.

Like I mentioned in the notes above, please know that this is NOT a realistic representation of a Dom/sub relationship. If anyone, Dom or not, treats their sub/partner like this, that partner has to get the hell out of there! This is abuse and manipulation and a whole lot of other bad things! (And it's not on the sub to give in like that...)

But also remember that this is FICTION, these things happen in my mind and on whatever device you are reading this on. Nobody got harmed during the making of this chapter, I swear!

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Sunday!

TAG LIST: @untamedheart81 @qmsvpx @cyan1decandy @bimbos-are-angels @voiceactivated @reader-1290

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

CHAPTER / / / ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE

SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾TEN

ELEVEN◾TWELVE◾THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN

#ao3 original work #dead dove do not eat #dom/sub #d/s dynamic #praise k!nk #free use kink #older man younger woman #size difference #modern au #joel miller smut #supernatural smut #dean winchester smut #arthur morgan smut #simon ghost riley smut #cod smut #mattheo riddle smut #original fiction

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thewertsearch · 6 months ago

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EB: and now i have all these sweet wind powers. EB: which is how i am making this car fly! GG: ohhhhhh! GG: that makes sense GG: dave had mentioned you reached the god tier

I think it’s funny that becoming a god hasn’t changed John’s personality, nor his modus operandi. He’s just as meandering as he's always been, and reaching the God Tiers simply enhanced his ability to meander.

If your Title does relate to your personality, then this would make a lot of sense. Perhaps you always get a power that helps you follow your own natural inclinations.

GG: but he did not say what it involved D: GG: he probably didnt want to make me worried EB: maybe, or he was just being some sort of aloof coolkid. GG: or that!

It’s nice that John and Jade are fully on the same page in this conversation, with access to more or less the same information. That’s pretty rare in this session, and it’s particularly rare with Jade.

For a long time, she was in the lonely position of knowing more than everyone else - and then, when Descend ruined everything, she was forced into the equally lonely position of understanding jack shit. When John declared that they needed to get Jade into the loop, there was real weight behind it, and it’s gratifying that we’re finally here.

GG: i wonder what space powers would be like?? […] GG: oh well EB: maybe you shouldn't rule it out though? EB: i mean, you did mention your dream self isn't COMPLETELY dead, remember?

I’ve been thinking about this.

See, the main problem with a Jade/Jadesprite merger is that when John died on his Quest Bed, he was completely supplanted by his Dream Self. There was no more Real John.

This wasn't a problem for him, because both Johns appeared to be the same person, with the same memories and consciousness. When John abandoned his realself, he didn't lose anything, apart from his sylladex.

Dream Jade, however, has completely diverged from Jade. They're clearly different people – so if one of them was erased in the merger, we’d be losing a unique individual.

Yes, if Jade died on her Quest Bed, her two selves might fuse into one entity, with both sets of memories - but there's no guarantee, especially when a Sprite is involved. There's a decent chance that Jade's ascension would destroy one of her incarnations, and that's too great a risk.

GG: why dont you tell me about your new friend? GG: he sure seems to be enjoying that horn! […] EB: he is just this silly guy i met when i woke up here. EB: he seemed to be curious about me and followed me around for a while. […] EB: also, another thing about him… EB: he has the queen's ring! […] GG: thats great! john you have to get that ring from him! EB: i've tried! i asked him politely for it and everything. EB: but he is very protective of it!

The Ring would be incredibly useful, if it wasn't destined for Earth.

As it stands, any attempt to use it is fraught with risk - and permanently separating it from WV would almost certainly doom the timeline.

EB: i think he is supposed to keep it. GG: you do? EB: yes. once i saw something in the clouds. EB: it was hard to tell what was going on, but i saw him! EB: im pretty sure it was the future, and he had the ring, and… […] EB: and then the cloud stopped showing me. EB: but i am pretty sure that some day… EB: he will have to wear it!

It doesn’t sound like John actually saw WV wearing the Ring. Seems more like he saw him holding the Ring, and jumped to the 'obvious' conclusion.

WV held the Ring for his entire Exile, and never used it once. I’m actually a little skeptical that he will wear it, at this point, especially since he's started dreaming about how much he doesn't want the thing.

#homestuck liveblog #full liveblog #act 5.2 #3417 #s123

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adore-laur · 8 months ago

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WINDS OF CHANGE

— here’s an update on dad harry & the fam <3 please reblog/comment, or i will haunt you

——

You've been dreading this day since March began.

Every time you passed the calendar on the refrigerator, you averted your eyes so you didn't see the specific date circled with the words "Lovebug's First Day" written inside it.

Time ticked by in an unyielding manner. Like an apex predator lying in wait, it crept up on you and pounced, leaving you disoriented, helpless, and wounded. You couldn't mentally process the breakneck speed of reality sprinting straight at you. When you merely blinked in a daze, another month unfurled, leaving no chance to recover.

The day arrives with a strong western wind and a brilliantly bright sunrise that mocks your low spirits. You're awake before anyone else, which is rare. Sleep evaded you last night, your eyes rejecting the heaviness that always comes with sleeping in Harry's warm embrace. The restlessness was paired with a fierce ache clutching your heart and holding on tight until the early morning.

At almost four years old, your eldest daughter is attending preschool today. After being a stay-at-home mom since she was born, you're finally setting her free to grow somewhere new. It was always in the cards, considering you would like to get back to working part-time to help provide for the family. You love bonding with and nurturing both your girls, but you're eager to put your brain to use in a different environment. It's time to return to other identities besides being a mother and a wife.

You begin brewing coffee, then open the kitchen curtains to allow the sun to pour in. For some odd reason, the atmosphere feels different. It feels like your first day of school all over again, where there's that nostalgic zest in the air fused with an underlying fear of the unknown. It's impossible to describe lucidly, but its presence is strongly felt nonetheless.

Today will forever change your family's routine, and it will make you want to rip your hair out and also burst with pride. There's a tug-of-war match taking place in your heart right now. Your nerves feel frayed; anxiety's merciless hands are harshly plucking at the threads. It's like fighting a biological battle with no shield—your brain is futile against all the attacks.

The sound of the wooden stairs creaking dissolves your whirlwind thoughts. Harry appears, wearing a snug black sweater and athletic shorts. He yawns, the sparkling sunlight accentuating his face gorgeously—the neatly trimmed scruff on his jaw he kept throughout winter; the tired shape of his eyes; the wispy way his hair curls after his morning shower. It's a blessing to be able to see the serene side of him that just woke up and isn't burdened by stress.

"Hi, sweetheart," he says, taking the mug of black coffee you prepared for him and sipping with an appreciative hum. "Both kids are still asleep."

You simply nod, afraid that if you speak, your poise will crumble instantaneously. Your hands distract themselves by lighting the wick of a sandalwood-scented candle. A part of you falsely hopes the comforting aroma will calm you down, but you know nothing will break through the full-body anxiety you're currently experiencing.

"No cuddles in bed this morning?" Harry asks curiously, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He smells like his sage and citrus body wash. "I missed you. Thought we'd have a little cry session before leaving."

Did he really have to mention the elephant in the room? You force your tears to save their arrival for later and say, "Sorry. I'm just trying to avoid crying as much as possible today."

His sigh is weighted with emotion as he sets his mug down and massages your shoulders. "I'm losing my composure already," he admits, laughing weakly.

At least he's in the same boat as you. Being a father has cracked him open in the best way possible—he's more softened than ever, and these parenting milestones always make him tenderhearted.

You rest your head against his chest and say, "This is harder than I thought it'd be." Every outcome you predicted involved an aching heart. Now, in the thick of it, you're defenseless.

"Remember our first night at home with her?" Harry asks, applying pressure with his thumbs to get rid of the muscle knots in your shoulder blades.

"Yeah. You woke me up because she had the hiccups."

He groans into your neck, almost like he's reliving the panicked moment. "I was so scared something was wrong."

You recall opening your eyes in the dead of night, the mellow lamplight illuminating Harry's troubled expression. Your baby, so small and precious in his arms, had harmless hiccups leaving her mouth. While you were half asleep, you reassured him by saying it was probably because she fed for too long. He agreed, yet still brought her to bed and gently rubbed her tummy until they were gone. You two were learning and tag-teaming through pure exhaustion. It was tough, but the rewards came in refreshing waves.

"Then she threw up on me," Harry adds, shaking his head fondly.

You turn around and slide your palms under his sweater, feeling the gloriously warm skin of his sculpted stomach. "Remember when she said her first word?"

He smiles reminiscently. "Mama."

"You started crying, if I'm not mistaken."

"Because she recognized you. It was special."

"Are you surprised she didn't say Dada first?"

"No, considering I talked about Mama all the time around her." His knuckle strokes under your chin. "Still do."

You hum thoughtfully, welcoming the pleasant memories that replay behind your closed eyelids. "Our girl is all grown up now. What are we going to do?"

Harry tilts your head to kiss the sensitive spot behind your ear. "You and I will be okay. It'll take time, but we'll eventually sink into this new normal."

"You think so?"

"I know so. Our love is steadfast, and nothing will ever change that." He hugs you in an all-consuming way—it's intimate and infuses you with safety, warmth, and a hopeful spark that everything will patch together the way it's supposed to.

——

When the preschool comes into view, you get slammed with immediate sadness.

You toured it with Harry months ago, ensuring it was where you wanted your daughter to be during the weekdays. The curriculum focuses on outdoor learning and is nestled in a safe neighborhood only ten minutes from the beach house. The teachers, classrooms, and overall energy of the place made you less anxious, but now it's back with a vengeance, eating away at your calm facade.

Kids linger outside the building, the sun shining on the blacktop that's scribbled with chalk drawings. A few participate in supervised hopscotch, while others twist their bodies nervously. A gated playground area is off to the left, with colorful swings, slides, and seesaws. To the right is a woodsy area with a large sandbox and flower beds. The stone pathway is decorated with little handprints that must have been dipped in paint. It's darling.

In the rearview mirror, you watch your daughter kick her legs in excitement and hug her tiny ladybug backpack, all ready to go. She woke up happy as a clam and impatiently scarfed down the big breakfast Harry had made her. After that, Harry braided her hair while sitting on the front porch, the March winds and briny air bringing the spring season with them. Pictures were taken, hearts were broken a bit more, and then you all were off to part ways.

Harry to the restaurant; you to your part-time job. No babies to look after, just an empty house waiting to be filled with love again.

Your youngest daughter, who's ten months old now, sleeps peacefully in the car seat. She's getting bigger every day, and it's a double whammy to see both of your children become more cognizant. You want to curse time for being such a thief.

She'll be dropped off at the nearby daycare center next, which will further twist the knife. It's possible for separation anxiety to occur, and while you can handle it, your baby girl's reaction will be a mystery. You sincerely hope the transition from home to somewhere unfamiliar will be smooth sailing.

Harry parks the car and looks over at you unwaveringly. "It's now or never," he whispers.

You draw in a deep breath, then exhale slowly. "Let's go."

Stepping out of the car, you open the back door and let your daughter hop out. You'd walk her to the door, but you want to stay near your youngest.

As she bounces with anticipation, you open her backpack and double-check that she has everything—her lunch box, a change of clothes, sunscreen, and the comfort blanket she's had since she was born. You zip it back up and then unhurriedly help her arms into the straps, trying to stall what happens next.

Harry, never the one to procrastinate, kicks things into gear by crouching and cradling her head. "You have the best day, all right? Be kind, make friends, and have fun. I'll be picking you up later."

"Can we eat ice cream after?" she asks, clasping her hands and standing on her tiptoes. "And play on the beach?"

He kisses her forehead. "We can do whatever you want, lovebug."

You can envision it now. Harry will bring the girls home, exhausted from work. He'll make dinner and wait for you, then you'll all sit at the kitchen table and attentively listen to her talk about her day in great detail. Then, as the sun sets, he'll entertain her by the shore until he insists on bedtime. Come tomorrow, he'll do it again with the same steadfast devotion because that's what good fathers do.

"We love you so much," you say, petting her braided hair.

"Love you," she replies distractedly, eagerly glancing at the front door. "I gotta go now, Mommy. Bye, Daddy."

She turns, ready to break free, but Harry stops her and says, "Not so fast, little lady. Give us some love to get through the day."

She shyly hugs him. She's growing out of her clingy tendencies and becoming more independent, and you can tell by Harry's sad smile that he recognizes it too. She briefly hugs your leg before running to the front door, where teachers are waiting with enthusiastic expressions and name tag stickers.

Harry slowly stands, never taking his eyes off her. He's more adjusted to not seeing her as much during the week than you, but you know the sentiment of her starting school still weighs heavy on his heart. After watching her disappear, he slings his arm around your shoulders and guides you to the car.

Inside is where you fall apart. The first cry that escapes has Harry blowing out an unsteady breath and embracing you. Against your neck, he sniffles, letting his piled-up emotions finally fall to pieces. He's not much of a crier, but when he does, it's a raw sight to see.

"Reservation for a cry session? Table for two?" he says humorously, rubbing your back and lightly scratching it.

"We're so lame," you whisper, gripping his sweater like a vice.

"God, I know. I even packed tissues." Harry takes an on-the-go pack out of his pocket, plucks two tissues out, and wipes both his and your tears with them.

"Eventually, we're going to have to do this again," you say. From the passenger seat, you peek at your baby girl and shoo away the thought—you still have more than enough time with her before she starts school.

Harry kisses your cheek. "One day at a time, honey."

Undoubtedly, this routine will get easier. It will become second nature, and you'll discover the exquisite simplicity of watching your children grow before leaving the nest and soaring through the sky.

They came into this world like a soft spring breeze, carrying seeds and dispersing them into your life. The roots emerged from under your home and flourished into a bountiful garden. Each day, there are new blossoms to admire and appreciate. And each day, you aim to help them thrive with support from Harry's sunshine.

Try as they might, the winds of change won't cause harm. Your family's roots are firm in the ground.

——

#harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles au #dad harry #dad!harry #dadrry #adore-laur #harry styles

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hollowed-theory-hall · 1 month ago

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hello 🤗

As your point about hinny, is Ginny actually so -called 'safe girl' for Harry? Like he knows her and don't need to know smbd else, they have some shared experiences (Chamber of Secrets and fighting Voldemort in general), she's cute and knows how to defend herself, so Harry can't worry, etc

I've always wondered how Ginny even agrees to this kind of relationship where Harry doesn't tell her anything, bc of their interaction in canon I don't see any reason to see them in a more or less healthy relationship after the war, especially if Harry becomes an Auror. maybe Ginny is like Molly in this way, clearly more than she can think for herself, and so is Hermione - they both listen to her as an authoritative woman and accepted her advices

Hello 👋

I think Ginny doesn't see their relationship the way it is. She idolized Harry as someone he very clearly isn't:

“But you’ve been too busy saving the Wizarding world,” said Ginny, half laughing. “Well . . . I can’t say I’m surprised. I knew this would happen in the end. I knew you wouldn’t be happy unless you were hunting Voldemort. Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

(HBP)

I mean, the things she loves about him are just not true about him at all. She is in love with a person who doesn't exist. And honestly, I don't know if love is the right word. I'd even call it an obsession:

“I never really gave up on you,” she [Ginny] said. “Not really. I always hoped. . . . Hermione told me to get on with life, maybe go out with some other people, relax a bit around you, because I never used to be able to talk if you were in the room, remember? And she thought you might take a bit more notice if I was a bit more — myself.”

(HBP)

She is so fixated on being with Harry that she changes her own behavior around him so he would like her better. I also mentioned here how I think her interest in Quidditch is relatively new. That she started playing for Harry to like her better. (I mean, she only started showing interest in the sport during book 5, there were no hints of it before that).

Ron describes how upset she after Harry broke up with her, none of which she was willing to show Harry:

“You ditched her. What are you doing now, messing her around,” “I’m not messing her around,” said Harry, as Hermione caught up with them. “Ron—” But Ron held up a hand to silence her. “She was really cut up when you ended it—” “So was I. You know why I stopped it, and it wasn’t because I wanted to.”

(DH)

But that 'so was I', was he? Was he really 'cut up' over it? He didn't think about her until he saw her again, and Aunt Muriel was the one who had to mention Ginny's dress had a very low cut, Harry didn't notice:

“Yes, my tiara sets off the whole thing nicely,” said Auntie Muriel in a rather carrying whisper. “But I must say, Ginevra’s dress is far too low cut.” Ginny glanced around, grinning, winked at Harry, then quickly faced the front again.

(DH)

That aforementioned faked "toughness" is also one of the only things Harry actively mentions liking about Ginny:

He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that was one of the many wonderful things about Ginny, she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that having six brothers must have toughened her up

(DH)

Now, I actually think this behavior is very different from what we see from Molly. While I'm not the biggest Molly fan, I do have to defend her here. Because she may be a housewife, but she's wearing the pants in her and Arthur's relationship. Molly and Arthur have a very different relationship than Ginny and Harry. With them, I believe they know each other well and love each other for who they are. And yes, they argue, but the undercurrent is a love that's always there. Molly wouldn't just accept anything Arthur decided to dish (not that he would) at her and we clearly see she gets mad at him over various things, from getting muggle stitches to enchanting a car to having a fistfight at a bookstore. She doesn't just agree with everything he says/does the way Ginny does.

Hermione, too, is not someone I see willing to deal with Ron keeping secrets from her. I mean, she sent birds to attack him when he made out with Lavender when they weren't together yet, I don't see her as the kind of wife that'll be chill with not being told the important things. I mean, it's not that you have to tell your partner everything, but the expectation is that of trust and understanding, something that Harry and Ginny don't seem to have.

With Harry and Ginny, Harry sees Ginny as a 'safe girl' on whom Harry can have a crush. For Ginny, Harry is her childhood hero crush she's been obsessed with for years. She changed her personality to date him, she dated other guys to get his attention, and once she got him she did everything, accepted everything from him with no argument because she didn't want to lose him and was insecure in their relationship.

To me, this doesn't seem healthy at all, but that's what it seems like.

How jealous Ginny is, not even letting Harry go with Cho to see Ravenclaw's statue in book 7. How annoyed she got when Harry for a second mentioned Fleur is pretty in passing. Again indicates how insecure Ginny is in this relationship, she doesn't trust Harry to stay with her and she is willing to turn her entire life around if it means being with Harry Potter whom she thinks she loves.

This is how Ginny's character reads to me, which is one of the reasons I really don't like her. I don't see her as incredibly brave or badass, I feel she is wearing a facade of the badass girl she thinks Harry wants while beneath she's an insecure, emotional mess who is desperately trying to keep from crying cause she thinks Harry would hate her if she cried.

And I don't think Harry knows this is what the relationship is. I don't think he realized Ginny was trying so hard to fit the 'safe girl' image he projected on her so he wouldn't leave her. I think he misses all her effort and thinks it's just who she is — which is exactly what Ginny is trying to accomplish.

But Ginny doesn't fully realize this is what she's doing. I think, in her mind, she is trying to be a girl "worthy" of the Harry Potter image she has in her head. She doesn't see him as who he is, but as some Chosen One savior of the wizarding world Harry never wanted to be. So she puts all his actions in this context: "It's fine cause he's saving us," or "he's the hero so it's fine," it's not about Harry as a person to her. And she's trying so hard to be who she thinks the girlfriend of the Boy-Who-Lived should be.

So to your question of why Ginny deals with it? Well, she convinced herself she has to be with Harry (or, at least, the image she has of him). She wrapped up herself so much in that fixation that she was willing to deal with anything from him if it meant being with him. Except for him looking at another girl for even a second.

I mean, if she's willing to change her entire personality and date guys she doesn't like to get Harry and be someone she thinks is "worthy" of him, what's dealing with a few secrets to help save the world compared to that?

(It could've been really funny if Harry did end up with Luna who Ginny didn't consider a threat. But this is just me with my "if I had to ship Harry with a girl it'll always be Luna" agenda)

#harry potter #hp #hp meta #asks #hollowedtheory #anonymous #harry james potter #ginny weasley #anti hinny #i guess #molly weasley #arthur weasley

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hellonerf · 3 months ago

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this post is going to be my depository for the caname yandere notes i wrote a while ago and im finally posting. below this line is it. if you want you can just ignore the walls of text for this image of ame as miyuki from you and me and her or read through it for my yandere caname braindead details

straightforwardly, they'd be different in approach. dumb in their own ways 🤤 loosely using yandere here okay i know the meaning has changed a lot okay(snoreee)

for a yandere cana, in context to caname. a mumbling withdrawn yandere… just a general big fan of how it can come off as shyness. well i personally love a really messy sadled-by-internal-conflict kind of yandere… i think there’d be a weird type of shame there. always has the feeling that he’s afraid to be perceived. a weird overlap… with his ame-related frustrations “he won’t even look at me… (seethe)” and “ohhhmygod he CAN’T look at me (shaking)”. like he feels in the right but feels afraid simultaneously. and he knows so much about ame but ame doesn’t reciprocate such effort? unfair…(grits teeth).

he can confidently say he knows everything about ame, and then mumble about how ame barely knows anything about him. i want to him to rage internally about that that it bubbles up (>_>) entitlement and yandereness kind of go together anyways. she’s glaring at her with such intensity and she won’t even turn around to notice… can't she at least have this... she rarely gets anything for herself... at least this... i like any case of someone being yandere for ame where they take on a kind of caretaker role. he’s so stupid he can’t do anything he doesn’t know what’s good for him etc… (happy)(happy anytime ame loses control in some way)(ties him to cana like a balloon). loveee the idea of cana hitting him or something and then doting on him right afterwards like he didn’t cause it. HOW’d you get such an INJURY…… so irresponsible 🤦‍♂️

another thing is cana is more comfortable with femininity than ame. this is factual and ame i’d imagine to be tenser about it. i don’t know what this means guys. anyways i think his feelings build up into a climax more... turned into action! whatever it is he does to ame

a yandere ame is harder for me to put into words. because i okay. i like her a lot. i think he’d be so rage jealous upset internally, but also so much so that he can’t keep it in (i don’t think his control on how much of his emotions leak out is very good, i don’t think he has a good enough lid on it) so he’ll come off very spiteful, controlling, accusatory. she’s keeping track of where you go where she can’t see you. she doesn’t believe what she can’t see. ame’s high and fragile ego i think… deep down he can be insecure and paranoid. it’s frustrating for him to feel unsure at all. especially if it contradicts what he believes he heard. and it’s an insult that someones even making him feel so unsure. she’s like stomping her foot… wants her full attention at all times… she won’t and can’t let you get away with fooling around.

in a caname nationverse… i think there’d then already be a lot of interactions ame would consider “the ultimate betrayal” lol… similar in cana that he’d want reciprocation for the attention given, but i think he’d be 10x more blatant in the rage and entitlement. it'd cause more lashing out to the perceived betrayal i think. he's stuck between wanting affection and being so mad that he's not getting it already. demanding of cana's time loyalty and reciprocation... yandere that seethes that the one they love isn't as crazy about them lol... paired with all this… complexes about doing things “right”. communicating “right”. i think ame doesn’t really have a natural intuition in communication, relying on imitating social customs while not understanding them fully. so it'd be even more upsetting to him that he's "done it right" and he still doesn't get what he wants.

and also with that i think he’d be lacking in self awareness so hard… gets into antics… thennn i think he's more explosive in this, feels a white hot jealous rage and acts based on that, but its easy to forget outside of those moments.

in these descriptions i think cana's works prior to dating... if dating ever starts at all lol i think he thinks of it less like a romance endeavor and more like a... well he's already always right next to him! its been building up for forever... for ame's i think these only really get prominent with something "established". he already demands your time but if cana like specifically promised something, or he had some epiphany, that'd cause all these wants to be much more visible. i feel like he tends to need a catalyst for some feelings to come to the forefront

the switching pronouns is cause saying all this im imagining them yandere girl-like no matter what because i have personal feud with male yandere

#hetalia #caname #aph america #hws america #alfred f jones #aph canada #nyo caname #nyo america #nyo canada #myart #ame bible

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miraculouslbcnreactions · 2 months ago

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I’ve always wondered why I’m so harsh on Zoe outside of just her character being used to it’s simplest degree (ie just being a replacement for Chloe) and I think I get it now.

Zoe is a perfect example of the “good/perfect victim”. The writers literally used her to downplay Chloe’s own abuse experiences by saying “See? Here’s a teen who was also abused at school and she turned out to be a sweetheart who’s so much better than Chloe in every way” blatantly ignoring She and Chloe possibly different home lives because Zoe had a different father.

As someone with experiences of toxic home lives I don’t appreciate it when abuse gets undermined especially parental and Zoe being used as a mouthpiece for what I guess can be summed up as abuse apologia made me think so lowly of her as a character.

Thoughts?

I actually just got another ask about my thoughts on Zoe, so I'll schedule this to post the same day since it's topical. In that post, I talked about why she bugs me and it's because she reads like the main character in an escapist self-insert power-fantasy fanfic. Once again, to be extra clear, those types of fanfic are FINE! Power fantasies and escapism are extremely valid things that are popular in professional works, too. For example, they basically dominate isekai and romance stories, but Zoe showcases exactly why characters like this only work as main characters in escapist fantasies. If you try to make them work as a normal side character, they just feel weird. Make them the main character or don't write them. Since she's not the lead, why is she even here?

I didn't consider the perfect victim angle in that other post, but now that you've brought it up, I'm wondering if that was indeed why she was introduced. Is she here to show that someone could have Chloe's mom and still come out to be a good person? The writers do seem really obsessed with that idea as we see from this moment in Derision:

Marinette: (as she goes down the stairs) I just got three more hours of detention on Saturday, and it's all because of Chloé. Rose: Don’t be mad at her. She's this way because her mother left her when she was young. Mylène: So did mine! And you don't see me having fun bullying Marinette. We've got to do something about your pants. I'm afraid they might be ruined for good.

This isn't even why people think that Chloe is the way she is? It's not just because her mother left. It's her father's terrible parenting, her absurd wealth, and the fact that her mother didn't actually leave. Audrey is still very much around, she just ignores Chloe most of the time and insults her on the rare occasions when they're in the same place. That's a recipe for disaster.

Sure, some people are lucky enough to come out being a good person in spite of their messed up home life and those who come out as jerks don't get a free pass to be jerks, but it's not like it's a total shock when bad home lives lead to people being jerks. The bully with a bad home life is a stereotype for a reason.

I'll once again point to The Good Place as an excellent show to watch if you want to see a realistic journey for a Chloe-like character. A journey that acknowledges the struggles that come from a messed up home life without giving the characters a free pass to use that home life as an excuse for their actions. Part of their journey is accepting that they have to stop blaming their parents and take charge of their lives.

Miraculous could have done something similar if it wasn't a formula show. The potential was there. But it is a formula show and the writers apparently don't think that Chloes are capable of change. I get that childhood bullies suck, I had one! I am very happy that she's no longer in my life, but I also don't think that she was incapable of change. She just needed to be put in the right situation where she accepted that change was needed and that never happened when we were kids. Has it happened since then? I don't know! Some people never change, but that doesn't mean that they can't change. Most of us are capable of changing. It just takes the right catalyst and a lot of hard work. People rarely start changing out of nowhere. It almost always has an inciting incident.

That's actually part of why Zoe's story feels so shallow. We're never really told why she was the way she supposedly was pre-canon or what caused her to change into her canon self. This is the backstory we get in Sole Crusher:

Zoé: I'm... really sorry about today. I thought that if I did everything Chloé wanted me to, she'd accept me. I just wanted to meet my family's expectations. Which is why I left New York in the first place. At the boarding school, I was playing a part; being someone else, hoping they'd accept me. But finally, I just couldn't anymore. That's when everyone turned against me, and one day, I found roaches in my locker. They all said I was a loser. Maybe they were right. I get that I'm different, and... I'd understand if you guys didn't want me as a friend.

So Zoe lied about everything and, when she revealed that she was a massive liar, everyone turned against her? Shocking. Why wouldn't they welcome a confirmed liar with open arms? That's so weird! (That was sarcasm.)

Seriously, why are we acting like Zoe was the wronged party here? This is literally Lila's story save for the motivation behind the actions (as far as we know). There are times when motivation matters, but this is not one of them. If you've spent weeks (months? years?) lying to people, then they're not going to trust you when the lies are revealed. Maybe you'll get lucky and someone will be willing to hear you out and give you a second chance, but that's an act of kindness. It's not an act of basic human decency.

This speed run story probably wants us to believe that everyone at Zoe's school was evil and that Zoe had to fake a personality to fit in, but I don't believe that. Writers, if you want me to believe it, then actually show us her story! You had a full New York special to do it! Why didn't you make Zoe the lead there since the specials love to introduce new characters to hog the screen? Have Zoe's school be the American school they go to and have her personality change be caused by Marinette and Co. so that Marinette and Co. trusting Zoe in Sole Crusher actually makes sense instead of feeling like something the plot forced on them! This is the scene I'm talking about, btw:

Marinette: (confused) I don't understand. When I met her this morning, she was so nice. Alya: That's crazy. Chloe's influence is so toxic that she's managed to corrupt her sister in a few hours. Alix: We gotta get her out of there.

Why are you all so sure that Marinette's two-minute-long interaction was the "real" Zoe and that her new personality is all Chloe's fault? Why are you acting like it's impossible to fake being nice but faking being evil is totally reasonable?

It really feels like this show is trying to say that people are either inherently good or inherently evil. Zoe was inherently good and just played at evil, so she's fine, but Chloe is just evil so she's doomed. That is really not how the world works, but now that I think about it, it does match the way the miraculous are often used. There are "evil" and "good" versions of some of the powers instead of just powers that can be used for good or evil. I've never liked that because it makes no sense. Why do akumas need a good form? Why is there an evil transformation phrase? Why do the miraculous even have an evil mode? Who programed that in???

While were on the topic of things that were possibly done just to show that Chloe is evil: is this why they made Jagged Stone an absentee parent to Luka and Juleka and then made the "twins" totally cool with it? Is the show trying to say, "Look! Luka and Juleka are nice! Therefore this is a Chloe problem. Stop blaming her parents!"

Who knows, but your idea certainly has merit. I wouldn't go so far as to claim that this must be what's going on, we don't know and I don't like to treat educated guesses as fact because they're not, but the text certainly has evidence to back this read.

#red-balloon12 #ml writing critical #ml writing salt #Zoe salt

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manicpixieyandere · 1 month ago

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The Genius Of Not Labeling Jinx

The Messiness Of Labels

Jinx from Arcane is known as the poster girl for borderline personality disorder, but today we wanted to talk about some of the other conditions she has symptoms of (but doesn't necessarily qualify for) and why it was smart to not label her.

Let's go over the different conditions Jinx could have:

Of course first we have BPD. Not gonna spend too much time on this one but she hits all nine of the diagnostic criteria!

Schizophrenia:

Jinx is seen to hallucinate many times in the show. She gets visual hallucinations of her family she has guilt over killing. She experiences overlays of child like drawings. She has auditory hallucinations and delusions as well.

BPD can come with hallucinations and delusions but it tends to more often be auditory hallucinations and delusions of grandeur than anything else. Schizophrenia and bipolar are the conditions more likely to cause the type of psychosis Jinx experiences.

DID/OSDD:

An argument could also be made for Jinx nearing a dissociative disorder. We haven't seen much of the show from the season two trailers, but they do seem to be hinting at Jinx embracing Powder a bit more.

It is common in BPD for the person to believe they are a completely different person than their past self. We think this is well represented in characters like Spinel from Steven Universe or Ashley Graves (Leyley) from The Coffin of Andy and Leyley. This is of course also shown in Jinx with Powder.

But Jinx and Powder's differences go a bit beyond the typical BPD self image issues. Their personalities while similar, are quite different. And instead of Powder staying purely in the past, Jinx switches between the two personalities. You can see her face change to be more soft like Powder in certain scenes. (They quite literally transform her face).

Some other differences are; Jinx is represented by pink, while Powder tends to be blue. Jinx is left handed while Powder is right handed (she uses her left to shoot, right for other stuff). Jinx is the daughter of Silco, Powder is the daughter of Vander. Both are the child of Zaun.

Jinx is of course also known to dissociate in many scenes. (As a side detail we just love how well animated the face acting is).

While Jinx fits BPD best it is also important to note that comorbidity is a real thing. While rare, all three of these conditions can be had at the same time. Personality disorders and dissociative disorders especially tend to be comorbid.

The most likely reason Jinx isn't diagnosed with anything is stigma. Giving a terrorist a mental illness may come off a demonizing. But Jinx is still loved by the neurodivergent community because her symptoms and trauma are treated with care. She's a fun relatable character. But we think another genius reason is because she's all encompassing. Saying she has BPD may make anyone who doesn't have BPD immediately think "oh, well then I won't find her relatable". But in an age where fandom likes relatability and kins the most, you cannot afford that. Instead really any neurodivergent can see themselves in her.

This is both a smart strategy but also just an accurate portrayal of how real life ends up looking. Medical conditions are technically social constructs. That's not to say they aren't real, but that they are labeled by humans. It's a list of behaviors the body or brain executes. But humans are messy! Who's to say one person is gonna nearly fit into that BPD box? Eventually you get to a point where you have someone diagnosed with 10 or so mental conditions! (Hi yes it's us, we have been diagnosed with 10). Humans were not made to fit into boxes. You see this pattern with queer identities all the time as well. The creation of microlabels has greatly helped people categorize and understand themselves, but at the end of the day the most accurate label is: you. You are you. Insert name here is Insert name here.

Thanks for listening to the ramblings of a mad Jinx kinnie. Here's to hoping season two is just as good as the first one! Still absolutely loving Jinx's new look!

#Jinx Arcane #Powder Arcane #Jinx #Powder #Jinx The Loose Canon #Arcane #League Of Legends #BPD #Schizophrenia #OSDID #Neurodivergent #Plural

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spadesolace · 11 months ago

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drag me down: stockholm syndrome

synopsis: pham hanni isn't one to admit her feelings nor is she aware of her own feelings. but why does her heart aches watching you laugh with your friends or being physically affectionate with your friends?

words: 2.4k

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It didn’t take long for Y/N to realize that going out in the middle of the night only in her pajamas would get her sick. A cold didn’t kill anybody but she doesn’t want to risk getting others sick. Along with a fever that is quite high, it would be best to miss one day of school, despite hating it herself.

Hanni did not know that. After the short fight at Y/N’s place, she used her time to reflect and think things through. Why did she want to kiss her, what was in that atmosphere that in two consecutive nights led to her wanting some sort of affection from her rival? Seeing the empty chair next to her, no annoying Park Y/N next to her to annoy her. Shouldn’t it be bliss to have a bit of peace and quiet for once?

“She’s not going to class if that’s what you’re waiting for.” Chaewon showed her text with Y/N to Hanni, her personality being different in SNS. Who would have thought that seeing that had spark some flames in Hanni’s heart.

chaechae: why aren’t you in class?

ynn: im sick, body temp is 38 C with a bit of sniffles

chaechae: hehe sniffles, anyw gws!!! i’ll tell the girls

ynn: ily and thank u, chae

How is it that simple text makes Hanni’s blood boil to the point of possibly wanting to cause harm? This can’t be jealousy. It can’t be.

Within the entire day, where Y/N would sit, some people dared to sit next to Hanni. Most of which tried to copy her work, some were to converse with her, and then there was Jungwon who tried his best to keep the girl company. Neither of those made Hanni smile, laugh, it made her even more annoyed with everyone and everything. Jungwon still stayed after Hanni had told him off politely that he shouldn’t be transferring seats. Only to be rebutted.

“There’s no more seating arrangements, Hanni. Y/N isn’t here to take her seat so its free.” Hanni doesn’t have the energy to fight the guy when Chaewon was literally on a quick video call with Y/N.

“YAH! You told me to call you when it was time for you to take your meds.” She could only faintly see the sickly figure of Y/N who was laying on her bed with her laptop next to her. Would it be bad wanting to steal the phone for her to talk to Y/N?

Chaewon had turned around and placed her phone in front of Hanni, a smile on her face as she removed her earphones. The sickly figure on the screen looked at her with a small smile, her teasing smile that seemed so weak yet full of passion.

“I hope you’re not missing me much, Pham.” She may have looked annoyed but there was a hint of blush on her cheek.

“As if, Park.”

“Mhmm… Jungwon, get out of my seat.” Even if the voice was nasally, Hanni could easily distinguish Y/N’s voice whether it was joking or pissed. Jungwon would still be scared of Y/N either way, hurriedly saying goodbye and moving back to his place.

“Han.”

“Y/N.”

“Give the phone back to Chae.” Even if that was the end of that conversation, Hanni had a small smile on her face as Chaewon scolded Y/N. A bit of pain was still there but at least Hanni had managed to talk to you for a short while.

It didn’t slip past Minji to notice the change in demeanour of her best friend. One that rarely gets annoyed at people, to the point she would rather have her head chopped off if anyone would try to talk to her again. The small smile on her face was as clear as daylight, and watching the entire interaction just made Minji think about what had happened when the pair went out.

Hanni’s thoughts were interrupted by her phone, a message from Y/N. It was already rare to message each other that was not academics related, and upon seeing the message. Hanni’s thoughts had never been such a mess.

park y/n: why is he on my seat?

pham hanni: idk, he sat there bc you weren’t here

park y/n: ok.

Maybe it was the small interaction after half a day without Y/N annoying her or being in the same vicinity as her. Minji noticed the way Hanni had become calmer, no longer annoyed or had a hint of distaste. There’s something Park Y/N has that belongs to Hanni and it makes the gears in Minji’s head turn. Chaewon isn’t aware of anything happening behind her, let alone the burning gaze Hanni is sending her way.

“Oh shit.”

Hanni is oblivious to things, and Minji can easily work with it. A table filled with student council work with nothing but stress for the grad ball, Minji saw it as the perfect opportunity to simply ask questions. Between the two, Minji knows Hanni’s emotions better than anyone else; she’s the one that made Hanni realize her feelings for Jay was nothing but a crush, but with Jungwon - that was a mystery to Minji. She questioned why Hanni said yes to him courting her, or how she rarely spends time and effort with him.

Easing up to the conversation from grad ball preparations to asking Hanni who she’ll go with only to be answered that left Minji confused.

“Not Jungwon, that’s for sure.”

“What? He hasn’t asked you yet?” Hanni shook her head as she cleared the paperwork for the grad ball, finalising the sponsorship with Park Food Corporations.

“Y/N sorta asked me.” Confusion, concern, every other emotion as Minji processes every word that left Hanni’s mouth. How did Y/N even ask her out, or how Hanni agreed to it?

“So… during your date with Y/N?”

“Not a date.”

Minji could only look at Hanni with pure confusion. Being highly aware that both Hanni and Y/N were left alone the other day – according to Ms. Park Jihyo herself, they were even holding hands. Which makes Minji question if they’re dating behind everyone’s back or something else is going on.

Hanni’s mind has been a mess after the dinner at the Park estate. How their parents seem to like the pair together, even being asked to go to the graduation ball with Y/N. What is there to Y/N that makes her blood boil but at the same time miss her and get so irritated with everything else that does not relate to her. Even Jungwon can’t ease her mind, let alone she now sees him as some sort of hindrance to her abilities and goals in the future.

“Earth to Phampham? Helloooo?” Hanni shook her head, looking at the papers in front of her then to Minji who looked at her concerned. Park Food Corporations in her handwriting with the signature of their representative of the company below. All of her thoughts – from when she wakes up to laying in bed staring in the ceiling – all she could think of is Park Y/N.

“You good? You’ve been out of it for a while.” Minji checks her temperature, nothing out of the ordinary, just Hanni spacing out more than usual.

“I’m good, just tired.”

“Whatever you say, phampham. Just know that I’m here if you wanna talk.”

Hanni nodded, watching Minji pack up and leave her alone in the room. Alone with her thoughts. Alone with the scene of Y/N kissing her on repeat. Alone with the thought of Park Y/N.

Hanni slowly became more irritated with the people around her, especially after Y/N had come back and asked Minji if she could sit next to Chaewon. It wasn’t that bad at first, maybe the two had a lot to catch up on while she was gone but she could have asked Hanni regarding assignments and extracurriculars missed and not her friend. Minji taking notice of how Hanni easily snaps and loses focus as she watches Y/N across from her wearing a mask and slowly showing more signs of energy compared to the day she had come back. It was evident that Hanni was being avoided as if she carried the plague once Y/N had come back.

“That’s the third pencil you broke this week – are you sure you’re fine?” Hanni was not ok, whatever she’s feeling or whatever her thoughts of planning a murder and getting away with it. She is definitely not ok.

Even at lunch or when the pair lock the classroom for break, not a single conversation or an utterance of spite or hatred was thrown at Hanni. Silence. Like she doesn’t exist and the goal was to get away from her as soon as possible and it pains her to see Y/N smile at someone else other than her. There’s still the rival aspect but after what had happened, after the kiss, shouldn’t it be addressed that there is more to it than meets the eye.

In the table quite far from them sat Y/N’s circle, seeing the girl laughing at the things being thrown around the table, Hanni wishes she could be the reason for that stupid smile on your face. Watching Chaewon lean on her shoulder and watching the slight public display of affection, her right eye started twitching. Planning a murder in her mind as she watches how affectionate the pair is, she has never noticed how affectionate the girl is not until she realized how much space she occupies in Hanni’s mind (and possibly her heart).

“Do you think if I asked for a bottle of chloroform from our lab technician, I’d be a suspect in a possible murder case?” It was out of the blue, her entire friend group looked at her as if she’s insane, following her line of sight, it made sense that it would be directed at Y/N.

“Let your rival live, I’m just here for the plot of it.” Haerin watches how the table at the back seems to have its life back within the two days that Y/N was gone. It was a given fact that she was the sunshine along with Eunchae within the group and missing that meant silence and no one to tease Hanni to.

“Huh? Since when did Chaewon and Y/N become a couple?” Minji and Hanni looked at Danielle as if she had stated the most absurd thing aside from the possible murder case that Pham Hanni is planning in the back of her mind.

“They’re not!” Danielle, Haerin, and Hyein looked at the pair in shock - aside from Minji and her obvious crush on the feisty girl that she sits next to. It was the fact that Hanni’s reaction regarding the possible relationship was what made everyone lose it. Even she was shocked by what she had said.

“Oh my god – you like Pa-” Hanni covered Hyein’s mouth before she could finish her sentence. Minji assumed that was the case after the whole call incident and the graduation ball date. With the reaction like that, surely Hanni likes Y/N.

“That… explains… a lot.” The group looked at the eldest as the initial shock of the revelation finally sinks in to everyone. Pushing Jungwon away, getting snappy, and it’s all because of a girl.

“Shut it, Minji. That does not explain anything at all.”

“I thought you were straight.”

The group laughed at Haerin’s comment, only for Hanni to smack the cat-like girl.

She doesn’t like Y/N, she’s merely intrigued by the girl that used to sit next to her and always consumes coffee as if her life depends on it. The girl that wears rings all the time and fidgets with it whenever she’s thinking or nervous - or how her uniform is always a mess and it’s her job to fix it while she gets a scolding from her. The girl that lowkey has anime merchandise keychains on her bag and no one would immediately get it unless they watch it. The very same girl that is the daughter to a rich family that she could possibly be the next owner of.

No, she doesn’t like Park Y/N. I’m in denial.

Hanni wonders how she ended up here, sitting in a cafe far from the counter holding a cup of hot chocolate while acting as if she’s reading a book but in reality she is just observing her rival preparing coffee.

Even in the cafe, she would go lengths to avoid Hanni such as making Sakura take her order. She didn’t expect for Hanni to be at the cafe, let alone she never knew that Hanni goes out and not stay in her room to study all day – it’s weirder to see Hanni out of nowhere than seeing a teacher during the weekend during normal day to day things.

“I’m guessing that’s Hanni.” Sakura leans on the counter as she watches the supposed owner of the cafe clean up. Seeing her ears slowly turn a shade of red simply from the mention of the girl’s name and tensing simply by looking at the one of the few customers they have during early in the morning.

“Can’t believe Chae already spilled you the details.”

“In exchange, she did admit to liking Minji. I think that’s a win-win scenario.”

Y/N chuckled at Sakura’s comment, it was deemed fair that Chaewon would know as to why there was a need to switch seats with Minji. In exchange, both of them admitted to liking their seatmates and partners for the project. The difference is that Chaewon isn’t fighting for the attention of her crush against multiple other people; Pham Hanni is still in a somewhat relationship with Jungwon.

Hanni doesn’t know why watching Y/N laughing and being playful with her coworker makes her heart hurt. She has Jungwon but why does her heart scream for the girl that has been ignoring her for almost a week. How she wishes that she could run into her arms and kiss her, but now she’s watching her leaning towards her coworker with ash gray hair that she believes is the sweetest barista but in her eyes it's someone who wants Park Y/N.

“You’re really playing with fire, Y/NN.”

“Unnie, let’s just see if she’ll do something with her feelings,”

Park Y/N, look at what you’ve done to me. Is this what they call jealousy? If it is, Pham Hanni hates it.

She hates that she’s falling for Park Y/N.

#pham hanni #hanni x reader #hanni imagines #hanni #newjeans hanni #nwjns #hanni pham #newjeans x reader #newjeans imagines #newjeans #drag me down #dmd!yn

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orionsangel86 · 7 months ago

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Lucienne/Lucien - How the Librarian Became the Chief.

In The Sandman Netflix adaptation Lucienne is a stand out character and second only to Morpheus in importance, screen time, and centrality to the story. Lucienne is Morpheus's loyal Librarian, second in command, ruler of the Dreaming in his absence, and often times a voice of reason and advice for our dutiful King of Dreams. She is so well respected in her position that the other castle residents consider her their boss and would rather go to her for guidance and command than Morpheus himself. She takes care of Dream's ravens and even appears to have the power to create new ravens from newly deceased mortals like she did with Matthew. She is clearly extremely close to Morpheus, and is one of very few people he seems to actually listen to and trust. Lucienne's role in this story can not be underestimated.

So it may come as a surprise to any fans of the show who haven't read the comics to learn that Lucien (as he is called in the comics) is afforded very few of the above traits. In fact Lucien is no where near as close to Morpheus even by the very end of the story, as Lucienne is at the beginning. It is this difference that has fascinated me since I first started diving into the comics after falling in love with the show, and its something I view as extremely important when considering how the story is being adapted into a kinder, more sympathetic universe surrounding our central protagonist.

Lucienne's role is expanded greatly from her comic counterpart, and her relationship with Morpheus is shown to be much deeper. This is evident practically right away at the end of episode one when Lucienne comes to greet Morpheus upon his return to the Dreaming following his escape.

The way she runs over to him as soon as she realises he is back, and lovingly takes his hand and is so pleased to see him is a far cry from the comic where the first thing Lucien does is bow.

So right at the start we see a very different form of relationship here. Where Lucienne is already displaying a level of care and devotion beyond the expectations of a servant, Lucien however, is exactly that.

The servant thing has caused a bit of contention among fandom in the past. I think the confusion could come from whether or not you see Lucien or Lucienne first. Lucien IS a servant of Dream. Lucienne is more like a vice president and royal advisor. Those are two very different things after all and that difference only becomes more obvious the further you go into the story.

Lucienne accompanies Morpheus throughout his return to his crumbling kingdom, helps him as he attempt to repair the damage, follows him to Cain and Abel, and watches over his meeting with the Fates. She is by his side from the moment he returns until the moment he leaves again for the waking world to begin his quest to recover his tools, and she is responsible for Matthew's reincarnation as the new Raven and instructs Matthew to stay with him because of her concern for Morpheus's wellbeing on his quest.

I cannot stress enough how much none of this is in the comics. Lucienne shows a level of care towards Morpheus that just isn't present in Lucien in the comics. After the first meeting with Lucien at the gates of the Dreaming, Lucien doesn't appear again until he is instructed by Morpheus to conduct the census of the Dreaming. He only appears again in the Doll's House very briefly and has no involvement in Morpheus's decisions during that arc, which takes place very rarely in the Dreaming.

That's not to say that Lucien isn't a very trusted servant of Morpheus. He is the closest to Morpheus of all the residents of the Dreaming except only Matthew. But I think a lot of what we see in the show of Morpheus and Lucienne's dynamic is inspired by much later in the comics. I also think that it speaks loudly to the change in Morpheus as a character. Show!Morpheus has people almost right away who care about him and want to help him, whereas comic!Morpheus is extremely isolated. It is clear in the early comic stories that comic!Morpheus keeps himself at arms length from basically everyone. He does not have a bond with Lucien, he did not have Jessamy, and at that early stage, he didn't even have Matthew. All of this of course was primarily to make show!Morpheus a more sympathetic and likeable character - you gotta give your protagonist people who care about them, it helps raise the stakes after all.

Taking Charge - Lucienne is the real boss

One of my favourite parts of the Dolls House episodes in the Netflix show is the conflict between Morpheus and Lucienne due to the other residence and Dreaming servants going to her for advice and instruction first rather than Morpheus. Bearing in mind this only takes place less than a year after Morpheus's return from imprisonment, it speaks volumes as to how Lucienne has taken the role of leader of the Dreaming in her stride.

But it also indicates how Morpheus' change in the show is coming at lightening fast speed compared to the comic. In the comic, Mervyn doesn't make these observations until the Brief Lives arc, and this is indicated at that point to be a very new thing - triggered by several years post fish bowl of having to face his past decisions and mistakes (and a string of scorned ex lovers one after the other ending in a horribly matched rebound relationship with a murderous witch that subsequently rejected him and triggered him literally seeking out destruction). Lucien was only put in charge of the Dreaming when Morpheus left to go on his trip with Delirium. It is during that trip that Morpheus realises how competent Lucien is and capable of running things without problem in his absence.

Mervyn's insights are made clear here:

This is the only time in the comic that anyone dares mention that someone other than Morpheus might be the boss - and it is in no way as directly spelled out as it is in the show. "You're practically running the place" and "you secretly run this place" are quite different statements. The first only makes an observation about Morpheus's current lack of interest (in Brief Lives) in actually running his realm. It implies that Lucien is doing Morpheus' job for him, but does not go as far as to outright call Lucien the boss. Whereas in the show, that's exactly what Mervyn does.

In the comic, Morpheus overhears Mervyn's speech and immediately points out his reasoning for leaving Lucien in charge, for promoting him and giving him more authority.

Because no one ever technically undermines Morpheus in the comic, there is no conflict here. Morpheus trusts Lucien as his loyal servant and gives him the power to rule in his stead (but only when he is absent) and there is no "secretly report to Lucien first" attitude among Matthew and Mervyn. We can perhaps interpret that this might be happening behind the scenes by this point in Brief Lives, or even just before the BL arc when Morpheus was distracted by his rebound murderess, but it is never actually directly stated that this is going on.

The tension between Morpheus and Lucienne in the show is born out of the conflict over Lucienne's position and Morpheus feeling undermined by his subjects, and its storytelling gold. But the only reason such a story works in the show is because Lucienne is so important to Morpheus in the show, because their relationship goes so much deeper than the relationship in the comic. Lucienne is not a servant, she's his god damn vice president and she knows it, and he knows it too. Throughout episodes 7 and 8 specifically he reaches out to her for her opinion and advice on the Vortex situation. He talks things through with her and seeks out her guidance. It is clear that he relies on her and it is only at the end of episode 8 when Lucienne disagrees with his punishment of Gault, that in his anger, he dismisses her.

Lucien/ne the Royal Advisor

Where Morpheus in the show seeks out Lucienne's advice and opinion frequently especially during the Doll's House arc, I have to stress that this never happens in the comic. Comic!Morpheus just does not have that kind of relationship with Lucien and does not seek his counsel at all, even though Lucien does try to give it on occassion, usually when Morpheus is about to do something extremely stupid and probably damaging to himself and the Dreaming. To name a couple times:

Season of Mists - before Morpheus returns to Hell:

Brief Lives - before seeking Destruction:

You'll note that in both these times Lucien's words of caution are completely ignored.

You'll also notice that in both times Lucien is taking a path of polite caution. Lucien very rarely speaks his mind to Morpheus, because he knows it won't get him very far to do so. The only time Lucien truly loses his cool and speaks freely is in The Kindly Ones (spoiler alert)

At this point in the comic story Morpheus has basically all but given up and accepted his fate and its fucking depressing AF. Lucien is well within his right to shake the bastard HARD and snap him TF out of it. I STILL think he was too restrained here tbh!

My point here is that Lucienne already speaks her mind quite freely around Morpheus in the show. She expresses her opinions and thoughts and gives him her advice. This is such a well established dynamic by the point of the argument that it is clear that Lucienne is offended by Morpheus's dismissal of her.

Take this exchange from episode 9:

Lucienne: "Rose is weakening the walls between realms" Matthew: "You gonna tell the Boss?" Lucienne: "No." Matthew: "No?" Lucienne: "It's none of my business." Matthew: "Er, since WHEN?" Lucienne: "Since Lord Morpheus reminded me that I'm merely a librarian and should concern myself with my books from now on." Matthew: "He said that?! What's wrong with him!" Lucienne: "Nothing is wrong with him. He's always been this way. He's just been away so long I'd forgotten. He's determined to deal with the vortex and the missing Arcana by himself. Without anyones help. So any news must be reported directly and exclusively to him."

It's worth pointing out here that whilst this is framed as Morpheus being a stubborn idiot, in the comic, he does in fact deal with the vortex and the missing Arcana by himself mostly and is not so much helped but saved at the last moment by Unity Kinkaid who realises what is happening in a dream and goes to save Rose, which also saves Morpheus from Desire's trap.

In the show, Morpheus has people who care enough about him and his realm to want to get involved and help him, not out of a desire to undermine him, but simply because they care about him. That is a drastic change from the comic at this point. Morpheus in the comic is constantly shown to be struggling under the burden of his own responsibilities and this is highlighted by the fact that he doesn't really get any support or assistance, and is far too prideful to ask for it. Lucien gets the promotion and chance to rule in his absence, but it is never framed as a job he shares with Morpheus - at no point does Lucien take the burden of his responsibilities off of him. This is no Samwise Gamgee "I can carry you" moment unfortunately. Lucien does not have the power nor the bond with Morpheus to undertake such a task because Morpheus keeps him at arms length throughout the comics - but Lucienne? Well, time will tell how that may change.

An Apology from the King

In a shock horror twist that comic!Morpheus would sooner die than do himself (ha) the great emo King of the Netflix universe gives Lucienne an apology for his behaviour (sort of).

Episode 9 displays the tension between Morpheus and Lucienne following their "break up" perfectly. Morpheus is clearly in the wrong, and Lucienne is clearly hurt by his dismissal of her support. Yet even after the fight, he still seeks out her advice in determining the cause of the disturbances in the Dreaming. He goes to her first before investigating himself (something that comic!Morpheus wouldn't even consider doing) and is surprisingly capable in swallowing his pride here even though it is clearly a struggle for him.

Later in the episode, once he realises that Lucienne was right about the disturbances, he seeks her out to tell her so, and to confirm that she was right and he was wrong. This is again something that I can't fathom comic!Morpheus doing, even nearer the end of the story I don't believe he does so, certainly not to Lucien. Fiddlers Green drums this point home when he says this:

Fiddlers Green: "... still his time there appears to have changed him as it has changed me." Lucienne: "How so?" Fiddlers Green: "Lucienne, he came to you and told you he was wrong. It was very nearly an apology. The Morpheus I knew was incapable of that."

This further reinforces not just how much Morpheus has changed in a short time, but also how much he respects and cares about Lucienne and their continued relationship.

Platonic Life Partners? Co Ruler and Closest Confident of the Dream King

When I set out to write this meta, it was with the aim to highlight Lucienne's elevated role from her comic counterpart. To try to stress the importance of her character in the show and what this means for the future of the story in the show. By the end of the last episode, Lucienne is practically granted co-ruler status of the Dreaming while Morpheus works on his creations. He asks her if she can "take care of things while he works" which she agrees "with pleasure".

I just... I can NOT stress ENOUGH how much comic!Morpheus needed this person in his life. Even though Lucien looks after the Dreaming whilst Morpheus is away in Season of Mists and Brief Lives, it is always as a last resort with Morpheus continuing to check in on Lucien during Brief Lives as if he expects trouble, and he always seems a bit confused when Lucien tells him all is fine. As if he can't quite understand how the Dreaming could be okay without him there (and I mean, after the trauma of watching your realm which is also technically a part of you crumble to dust I suppose you would be a bit attached to it!).

Comic!Morpheus constantly struggles under the weight of his responsibility. His entire thing is that he is desperate to step away and not be who he is but he simply does not have it in him to do that. He is far too bound by his rules and responsibilities. For Morpheus in the show to be given someone to support him in his rule as King and assist him with the burden of his responsibilities is actually a hugely mindblowing change to the comic, and could honestly have huge repercussions on the story going forward. Not only that, but the Morpheus in the comics is painfully lonely. He desperately needs companionship but he keeps everyone at arms length. He never allows his subjects to get too close to him, even Lucien. Even Matthew isn't afforded the same level of closeness in the comics as he is in the show. In the comics, the ONLY character who Morpheus is close to is Death. Which says a lot by itself. The second character he gets closer to as time goes on is Delirium. Which also says a lot. Think of the characters in terms of their concepts. Morpheus has no close friends in the comics (even his relationship with Hob Gadling in the comic doesn't have half the impact it does in the show) and keeps all those he interacts with at arms length except for Delirium and Death.

But show!Morpheus? He has a Matthew who is already so very devoted to him, a Hob Gadling who waited an extra 33 years on hope alone that he would return to him, and a Lucienne who rules by his side, offers him support, guidance, counsel, companionship and probably a good helping of love. How can this Morpheus possibly carry the same deep loneliness as his comic counterpart? How can this Morpheus be buckling under the weight of his duties when he already has his Samwise Gamgee right there by his side? It poses an interesting question for how the show will handle future story arcs, though it could all prove to simply make for a much more painful story, where we happen to have many more characters to react and show the deeply painful grief that we all feel at his eventual passing - or maybe, just maybe, this is a universe where Hope never died...

#the sandman #dream of the endless #lucienne the librarian #lucien the librarian #sandman meta #sandman analysis #sandman comic spoilers #sandman speculation #dreaming librarian day #lucienne the sandman #this got away from me a bit #and it is 1am and I am posting it #even though it prob needs an edit #but i set out to post today and i damn well will #well its still today in america anyway #I hope you all enjoy this #now i plan to go visit the dreaming #goodnight and sweet dreams zzzzzzz

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