#these are characters steeped in tragedy

[cthoseris]

get peer reviewed prev

can’t think too hard about crowley in a religious context like omg imagine having the absolute certainty that god exists and she has chosen to reject your entire being… branded you shameful and despicable and the opposite of good….. it’s not that you have no faith it’s that faith itself has christened you a thing to be thwarted and avoided….. and then you crawl from the very dirt she’s tried to bury you in and sin, sin, sin and that is when you meet him

[constantvariations]

Ain't it weird how almost every disabled character in rwby is disabled due to violence?

[silverskye13]

I'm reading The Ruins right now and realizing I watched approximately 10 minutes of the movie based on this book. This serves to make the current plot both really, unbearably slow and kind of stupid--

[petrowriting]

the revelation that claudia’s rebirth was such a twisted and horrible moment, with louis dragging her like she was a thing, a stranger who neither of them knew but he kept saying over and over “our daughter, our beautiful little daughter” to lestat, really solidified the way she was never the main character of her own story. she was always an accessory to some or the other of louis’ whims: his guilt, his loneliness, his conflict of being a killer, his rocky relationship with lestat. there was love there, love from both her fathers, but it was never enough. lestat saw her too much as a wretched mirror held up to his own self, and louis was always too steeped in his own feelings to care enough about hers. claudia’s story truly was the greatest tragedy in this tale, treated horribly by every man around her, even her fathers, relentlessly exploited and brutally ignored, always second and never first. the only one who loved her the way she deserved to be loved was madeleine, and the moment she truly had her, her happiness was torn from her. and just before she died, she got to see someone actually choose her in her entirety, not for what she can be but for who she is, and it still wasn’t enough. she still burned alive in the sunlight. the love was there, but it wasn’t enough to save her.

[snickerdoodlles]

like…he has to die. it doesn’t work if he survives. there is no version of kinnporsche where Big makes it out alive

and the thing is, of the ones that do, he’s the only character that shouldn’t have to die. he didn’t do anything to warrant his death. to compare him to the other key dead characters;

Tawan interferes with and hurts the main protagonists. he was always going to die.

Ken’s a traitor to the main family. he was always going to die.

Gun’s the biggest challenger to the main antagonist’s authority. he was always going to die.

Chan’s the right hand to a man who sees everyone as pieces on a game board. he was always going to die.

but…Big is Kinn’s right hand man. he’s the right balance of paranoid, prepared, and skilled to excel at his job and survive. he’s loyal to the very end. and Kinn cares about his people. Kinn’s entire deal is that he sacrifices his dreams for his responsibility, because he wants to protect his people more than anything else, even to the point of risking his own life to pull his guards out of the way of heavy fire. Kinn would never just sacrifice Big for his own gain, or ask Big to put himself in further harm’s way if Kinn could avoid it or do it himself.

and that’s why Big has to die. because it doesn’t matter that he’s good at what he does. it doesn’t matter that Kinn wants to protect everyone.

they’re mafia. they are so steeped in violence and bloodshed they can barely keep themselves afloat. even if Big didn’t die by Tawan, he was always going to die young and die for Kinn. there is no reality in which Kinn’s goal for a kinder mafia can be achieved. there is no ending where these characters can stay mafia and be happy.

Big is the narrative’s stakes, and that’s why he always dies

i am absolutely insane about Big. absolutely zero normal thoughts about Big’s character. never has there been a character more tragically doomed by the narrative than Big

[lucky-clover-gazette]

hi i love how rose is like 14-15 years old and idealistic and hopeful and makes stuffed animals on etsy and loves her mom and tries her best to be a good ally to the murderous alien, i love that she is a trans character so fiercely adored by her family and friends that even despite adversity she sees the best in people and the world. yeah maybe some of the girl power stuff felt a little tacky but goddamn i think a break in the cynicism is nice actually. rtd’s writing has always been steeped in loneliness and tragedy, but also in hope for the underdogs. i’m so excited to see what this new creative team does next :)

[vnti-vnxiety-recs]

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)

[eliorabunny]

deny me (lovesong version)

welcome to fluff central!! bestfriend!chris x fem!reader

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖“i’m overthinking your every move as usual, cracking your code”｡𖦹°‧ ༘

𖦹 genre: fluff !!!!!!!!! best friends to lovers ʚ♡ɞ

𖦹 word count: 547 𖧧

𖦹 a/n: muahahaha i’m like. only a little sorry about how sad the other one is but. here is my apologyᵕ̈ ̤̮

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌❀°✩⋆ʚ♡ɞ⋆✩°❀﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

it felt dangerously safe to lie in his arms.

any moment with him, really, made her heart flutter into her throat. her sentimental tendencies grew rosier every time they were together. each minute drew her in towards the idealism of a distant daydream. for once, she actually wished her best friend liked her more than that.

unfortunately, he was respectful.

they’d known each other since childhood, always picking out goofy outfits at the local thrift shop and getting burritos down the street afterwards. she knew which ice cream truck character he’d choose (spongebob) and he knew which monopoly piece she’d pick (the thimble). only those who have surpassed love and found themselves in a deeper bond could remember details like that.

which is why it terrified her so much more once she realized she was falling. honestly, it felt more like somersaulting down a steep, grassy hillside with infinite momentum. she chuckled to herself at the cartoonish image, eliciting a raspy “hmmm?” from the sleepy arms around her.

“oh.. was that out loud?” she mumbled bashfully, as reality tugged her back from imagination. she turned to look up at the boy sitting next to her on the couch, who nodded slowly. his half-lidded but steady eye contact would have made her collapse if she wasn’t already curled up against him. a vague pinkness crept along her cheeks, and she tried in vain to ignore the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk.

“what are you thinking about?” he asked softly, laying a gentle finger on the skin between her eyebrows. he knew the effect he had over her, but never allowed himself to act on it. the tragedy of losing each other always stopped them. her eyes wandered to the collar of his hoodie, which had slipped enough to let his collarbone taunt her, dare her, to move closer.

a brief moment of confidence begged to be set free, straining against her ribcage. her mouth opened slightly, but she couldn’t bear the possible aftershocks. settling on body language, her weight shifted toward him.

she melted into his neck, idly chewing on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. this particular sleeve had a heart-shaped patch sewn onto it, a playful gift from her best friend. she was known for letting her emotions show freely, unafraid to take up space. at the moment, though, she prayed her expression wouldn’t betray her.

the warmth of his lips just inches from her forehead was intoxicating. her skin craved the contact, and she mindlessly tilted her head upwards. her gaze met azure, interrupted by enviably long lashes. the delicate beauty of his features overwhelmed her, and a word escaped before she could catch it.

“you.”

his eyebrows flicked upwards and he felt his heart swell with something between relief and incredulity. the idea of someday had always held him in a death grip, and the image of a future together accompanied him on his pillow. refusing to fully let his guard down, he inhaled deeply and sighed into a lazy smile. “yeah? what about me?”

the smugness in his tone drove her wild. her gaze flickered between his eyes and lips, and she cautiously closed the distance between their faces. the arm that was wrapped around her shoulder pulled her into a tighter embrace.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌❀°✩⋆ʚ♡ɞ⋆✩°❀﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[kckt88]

baiser de la mort.

Summary:

'The innocents are always the ones to suffer during times of war'

Aemond and Y.N grieve for the loss of their son.

Warnings - Heavy Angst, Drama, Langauage, Child Loss, References to Death, Grief, Mourning, Mental Health, Delusions, References to Smut, Suicide, Dark Aemond, Mention of Non/Con use of Moontea, Death.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x Y.N

A.N - baiser de la mort - Kiss of death.

Word Count: 4654

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

Y.N stood at the window, her hair unkempt and wild, her eyes glazed with a haunting emptiness as she clutched a blood-stained blanket to her chest.

Her precious son, Aerys, was gone, ripped from her in the most violent of ways. Assassins had come in the dead of night, seeking retribution against her husband, Aemond, for the death of Lucerys.

But it was her innocent boy who had paid the price for his father’s crime.

Y.N couldn’t eat; she couldn’t sleep. She was a mother without her child, her heart shattered beyond repair. The once vibrant woman now stood a ghost of herself, consumed by an unbearable grief that echoed through the silent halls of her home.

The world outside continued on, indifferent to her pain, while she remained frozen in that moment of loss, her soul forever scarred.

Aemond sat with his head bowed and his hands trembling. The weight of his grief pressed down on him, nearly suffocating.

It was his fault, all of it. That fateful day at Storm's End, he had lost his temper. The bitterness and pain over the loss of his eye had reached a boiling point. He had chased after Luke with Vhagar, intending to frighten him, not to kill him.

But Arrax, had attacked first and Vhagar, in her fury, had snatched the two of them out of the sky and torn them to shreds. The image of that violent moment played over and over in Aemond's mind, an endless nightmare from which he could not awaken.

He was sorry for what had happened, but he couldn't take it back and now his son had paid the price for his actions.

He would never forget his wife's screams as she held their son's lifeless body in her arms, her cries of anguish piercing through the night.

Even now, the haunted look in her eyes tore at his soul as she slowly lost herself to the unbearable grief. It was his fault. He had done this.

Aemond's heart ached with a remorse so profound that it seemed to consume him. He could not escape the shadows of his own making, the regret that gnawed at him every waking moment.

His son was gone, and nothing could ever make it right. The price of his anger was too steep, and he would bear the weight of it for the rest of his life.

Aemond's fists clenched at his sides, his eyes burning with a fury that matched the intensity of his grief. His grandsire, stood before him, suggesting with cold pragmatism that they should parade his son's body through the streets of King's Landing.

Aemond could scarcely believe the audacity. How dare he propose such a monstrous display?

"Do you hear yourself?" Aemond spat, his voice trembling with rage. "You wish to parade my son's body through the streets like some grotesque trophy for the smallfolk to gawk at? He was my son, not a pawn in your political games."

Otto's face remained impassive, but his eyes were steely. "The people must see the cost of Rhaenyra's ambition, Aemond. They need to know who is responsible for this tragedy."

"It wasn't her," Aemond growled, his voice breaking. "It was me. I killed Luke-I drew first blood”

In the end he was persuaded by his mother, to allow his son's body to be paraded through the city.

The procession moved slowly, the atmosphere thick with sorrow and tension. The streets were lined with citizens who stood in quiet respect.

They watched as flower petals were scattered in the air, a delicate contrast to the grim reality of the event. The petals fell gently, almost mockingly, on the solemn parade.

In a dark carriage that followed the procession, Y.N sat hunched beside Alicent. Her gaze was distant, fixed on some unfathomable point in the space before her.

She wore the grief like a cloak, her face an ashen mask of silent torment. The parade’s spectacle did nothing to pierce her numb shell; she remained unresponsive, lost in her sorrow.

When the procession finally reached the pyre, Aemond, his face pale and drawn, gave the command to Vhagar, with a voice that trembled but held a resolute edge.

The dragon's fiery breath ignited the pyre, sending a column of flame skyward. The flames consumed the pyre with a fierce, unrelenting hunger, and the smoke billowed up into the grey sky, carrying the last remnants of their son away.

Even then, amid the crackling fire and the tears of onlookers, Y.N remained silent. She did not react to the sight of her child's remains being turned to ash. Her grief had rendered her mute, a mother broken beyond the reach of words.

The chasm between him and his wife, Y.N., grew wider by the day, an abyss of grief and guilt that he couldn't bridge.

Once, they had shared a good marriage. Aemond had been hesitant to take a wife, but she had been kind and patient. She listened to him, held him, loved him. And he had loved her in return.

They had often indulged in the pleasures of the marriage bed, Aemond loved nothing more than devouring her sweet cunny until she cried and screamed his name and then sheathing himself within her warm wet heat.

Given the frequency in which he spilled his seed inside her they were blessed with their son. Such a little thing he was, but so perfect, his silver hair and amethyst eyes.

Now, his son was gone, and so was the woman he loved. Y.N. wouldn't look at him, wouldn't speak to him.

She had stopped taking care of herself, spending hours staring out of the window, still clutching their son's bloodied blanket. Aemond felt a deep, helpless frustration. He wanted to help her, to reach out and pull her from the abyss, but he didn't know how.

Otto's suggestion had only poured salt into the wound. Exploiting his son's death for political gain had been abhorrent to him. But he had given in and allowed the spectacle and he felt even worse for it.

He approached the window where Y.N. stood, her gaze distant and unfocused. He reached out, his hand hovering just above her shoulder, but he couldn't bring himself to touch her. The distance between them seemed insurmountable.

"Y.N.," he whispered, his voice filled with a sorrow so deep it felt like it would swallow him whole. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to help you."

But there was no response, no flicker of recognition in her eyes. She was lost to him, just as their son was lost to them both.

The war between Aegon's Greens and Rhaenyra's Blacks raged on, each day bringing new horrors.

Amidst the chaos, Y.N.'s behaviour began to change in unsettling ways. She started talking as if their son, Aerys, was still alive. She would call for him, her voice filled with a desperate longing.

"Aerys, where are you my sweet? Come to your mother," she would say, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting him to appear at any moment.

Aemond's heart ached each time he heard her. He would gently try to remind her of the painful truth.

"Y.N., Aerys is gone," he would say softly, his voice breaking with sorrow.

But she would turn on him, eyes blazing with anger and confusion. "Why are you saying such things? It's a cruel joke, Aemond. Our sweet boy is still alive. Stop tormenting me."

The tension between them grew, Aemond's helplessness deepening with each passing day. He watched as his wife slipped further from reality, her mind a fractured mirror reflecting the past and present in a chaotic swirl.

There were moments when she would remember, and those moments were the most heartbreaking of all.

She would collapse, her screams of grief echoing through the halls, chilling everyone who heard them. "He's gone! My baby is gone!" she would wail, her voice raw and ragged.

Aemond would hold her then, rocking her back and forth, trying to offer comfort where there was none to be found.

The once vibrant woman he had loved was now a shadow of herself, caught in an endless cycle of denial and despair.

Aemond struggled to maintain his composure, the weight of his guilt and sorrow threatening to crush him. He was fighting a war on two fronts: one against their enemies, and one within the walls of their home.

In the rare quiet moments, Aemond would sit by Y.N.'s side, his hand gently holding hers. "I wish I could bring him back," he would whisper, his voice filled with a pain that mirrored her own. "I would give anything to see him again, to see you smile."

But Y.N. would simply look at him with vacant eyes, lost in a world where her son was still alive, and her heart wasn't shattered.

Aemond knew he had to be strong for both of them, to navigate the war outside and the turmoil within. Yet, with each passing day, he feared the war would take them both before they could ever find peace.

Y.N.'s descent into madness grew more volatile with each passing day. Her grief and confusion often turned into fits of rage, and Aemond often bore the brunt of it.

She would lash out at him, her hands striking him with a surprising force, her screams echoing through the halls.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she would cry, her voice filled with anguish. "Why are you letting this happen? Bring Aerys back! Bring my son back!"

There were times when the guards had to restrain her, their gentle attempts to subdue her only making her struggles more frantic. "Let me go! I want my baby! Aemond, make them stop!" she would scream, her eyes wild with desperation.

Aemond stood helpless, watching as his beloved wife was held back, her mind lost in a labyrinth of sorrow and rage. The sight of her, once so composed and loving, now so broken and tormented, tore at his heart. He longed to reach her, to pull her back from the brink, but he didn't know how.

In the midst of this turmoil, his grandsire approached him with a proposition that made Aemond's blood boil.

"Perhaps it would be best to send Y.N. away," Otto suggested, his tone coldly pragmatic. "She could become a septa, and we could annul the marriage. You could form new alliances that would strengthen our position in the war."

Aemond's anger flared, his fists clenching at his sides. "I will not set her aside," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I have already lost my son; I will not lose her too. And I certainly won't allow you to use me to forge alliances elsewhere."

Otto's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. He turned and left, leaving Aemond to wrestle with his despair and his resolve.

He knew that his wife's condition was deteriorating, but he refused to abandon her. She had been his strength, his confidant, and his love. He could not—would not—let her go.

Returning to Y.N.'s side, Aemond knelt before her, his heart breaking at the sight of her tear-streaked face. "I'm here, Y.N.," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm not going anywhere. We'll find a way through this. I promise you."

But her eyes, once so full of life and love, were vacant and unseeing. She murmured incoherent apologies, pleading to be a good wife, to make things right, not understanding that the world around her had irrevocably changed.

Aemond gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly as she wept. He vowed to himself that he would protect her, that he would fight for her.

The war outside was brutal, but the war within their hearts was even more so. And in this, Aemond knew he had to stand strong, for both of them.

Aemond stood in the doorway, his heart heavy as he watched Y.N. sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was speaking softly, her voice carrying a gentle, loving tone that once filled their home with warmth and joy. Now, it only brought a deep, aching sadness.

"Aerys, you did so well in your lessons today," she praised, her eyes fixed on an empty spot before her. "I'm so proud of you, my sweet boy."

Aemond swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her back to reality, but he knew it would only cause her more pain. She turned to him then, her eyes filled with a desperate hope.

"Aemond, aren't you proud of our son?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Aemond nodded weakly, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, Y.N.," he said softly. "I'm very proud of him."

She smiled, a brief flicker of the woman she once was. Aemond's heart shattered anew, the weight of his guilt and sorrow pressing down on him like a crushing tide.

He watched as she continued speaking to their son who wasn't there, her words a mix of encouragement and gentle admonishments.

"Aerys, remember to practice your letters. Your father and I know you can do it. You're such a clever boy," she said, her eyes shining with a love that was now directed at a ghost.

Aemond felt a deep, gnawing helplessness. He couldn't bring Aerys back, and he couldn't pull Y.N. from the abyss of her grief.

All he could do was be there, a silent witness to her pain, hoping against hope that somehow, they would find a way to heal.

For now, he would nod and smile, pretending along with her, because it was the only way he could offer her any semblance of comfort. And as she spoke to their son who wasn't there, Aemond silently vowed to stand by her, even if she never truly returned to him.

Aemond was seated at the council table, his mind only half-focused on the discussion of troop movements and supply lines, the Velaryon blockade in the Gullet was proving troublesome and food was becoming scarce.

His brother had suggested taking Vhagar and Sunfyre to burn the blockade, but their mother and grandsire urged caution.

Citing the dangers of unleashing the dragons during the war and the devastation they would reign down from the skies.

But he as only half listening, his thoughts were constantly with Y.N., wondering how she was faring in his absence. Suddenly, the door to the chamber swung open, and a guard hurried in, his face pale and anxious.

"Prince Aemond," the guard said, bowing quickly. "It's your wife, Y.N. She's—she's wandering the halls, calling for your son."

Aemond's heart sank. He rose abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Where is she now?" he demanded.

"The gardens, my Prince."

Without another word, Aemond left the council meeting, striding quickly through the corridors, his heart pounding.

As he approached the gardens, he could hear Y.N.'s voice, tinged with a frantic desperation.

"Aerys? Aerys, where are you, my sweet boy? Come to mummy!" she called, her voice trembling.

He found her among the flowers, her hair a wild mess, her bare feet dirty from the garden paths. She was dressed only in her nightgown, her eyes wide and searching.

She turned in circles, her hands outstretched as if she could catch hold of their son if she just reached far enough.

"Y.N.," Aemond called gently, stepping towards her. She didn't seem to hear him, her attention entirely focused on the invisible presence of Aerys.

"Come to mummy”

Aemond moved closer, reaching out to take her hand. "Y.N., it's me, Aemond. Let's go back to our chambers."

She looked at him then, her expression shifting from hope to confusion. "Aemond? But Aerys—he's calling for me. I need to find him."

He swallowed hard, his grip on her hand gentle but firm. "I know, my love. But it's time to come inside. We can look for him together later."

Tears welled up in her eyes, her panic giving way to a heartbreaking vulnerability. "I’m a good mother. I just want to find my baby."

"I know," Aemond whispered, his own eyes filling with tears. "You're the best mother. Let's go inside now, please."

Slowly, she allowed him to guide her back through the halls, her steps hesitant and reluctant. He kept a protective arm around her, his heart aching with every step.

As they reached their chambers, he helped her sit down on the bed, her fingers still clutching at his hand as if he were her lifeline.

"Rest now, Y.N.," he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "I’m here. I won’t leave you."

She looked up at him, her eyes reflecting a flicker of recognition and trust. "Promise?"

"Promise," he said, his voice firm despite the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him.

As she lay down, Aemond sat beside her, holding her hand until she finally drifted into a troubled sleep. He watched over her, his resolve hardening. He would protect her, care for her, and love her through this madness, no matter how long it took. He had already lost his son; he could not lose his wife too.

Sometimes, Y.N. seemed to come back to herself. Her eyes would clear, and for a brief moment, the woman Aemond had loved so dearly would return.

On those rare occasions, she would look at him with a haunting clarity, her voice trembling as she asked, "Aemond, have I gone mad?"

Aemond would hold her close, his heart breaking anew each time. "No, my love. You're not mad. You're grieving. We're both grieving."

But no matter how he tried to comfort her, the moments of lucidity were fleeting. Soon enough, she would lose herself again, retreating into the depths of her sorrow and delusion.

One night, Aemond woke with a start, his heart pounding in the darkness. He reached out, but Y.N. wasn't beside him.

Panic gripped him as he looked around the room, his eyes finally settling on the open window. Y.N. stood there, her nightgown fluttering in the cool breeze, her gaze fixed on something far beyond the walls of their chamber.

"Y.N.," he called softly, rising from the bed. "What are you doing?"

She turned to him; her face illuminated by the moonlight. "I can hear Aerys," she said, her voice filled with a desperate longing. "He's calling for me. I need to go to him. I need to be a good mother."

Fear surged through Aemond as he crossed the room in quick strides, his hands reaching out to take hold of her. "No, Y.N.," he said firmly, pulling her away from the window. "Aerys is gone. You can't go to him."

She struggled against his grip, her eyes wild with grief and confusion. "But he's calling for me-can’t you hear him?”

Aemond's temper flared, the weight of his own sorrow and guilt crashing down on him. "Aerys is dead!" he shouted, his voice cracking with anguish. "He's not coming back!”

The words hung in the air, a bitter truth that neither of them could escape. Y.N. stopped struggling, her eyes widening in shock.

Aemond fell to his knees, his body wracked with sobs as he finally gave in to the overwhelming grief that had consumed him since their son's death.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his hands covering his face. "I'm so sorry, Y.N. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I don’t know how to stop this pain-I don’t know how to make it go away”

Y.N. knelt beside him, her own tears falling silently. She gently stroked his head, her fingers running through his long silver hair in a soothing gesture.

"It's going to be okay," she whispered, her voice fragile but filled with a deep, abiding love. "We'll find a way through this. Together."

As the war progressed, the Battle of Rook's Rest had left Aegon grievously injured.

In the aftermath, Aemond was named Prince Regent, a heavy mantle he bore with a sense of duty and an unspoken grief that never quite left him.

Yet, amid the chaos of war, there were glimmers of hope. Y.N. seemed to come back to herself a little more each day.

They had began to lay with other again, the first time since their sons death had been slow and gentle, with Aemond trying to savour the feeling of his wife’s wet heat wrapped around him again.

But as the days went on, the physical intimacy of their relationship became something more, it became a brief distraction from their shared grief and more often not, Aemond would find himself pounding inside his wife with a series of deep penetrating thrusts.

He would take any opportunity he could to be inside her, no matter if it was in their shared chambers, the gardens or even the council room.

Things seemed like they were changing, that maybe the cloud of darkness was finally lifting, that maybe there was chance.

But one day, when Aemond was deep in discussion, making plans to take back Harrenhal. The room buzzing with the urgency of war strategies a guard burst in, panic written across his face.

“Your Grace, it's Y.N. She's at the window and she won't come down."

Aemond's heart sank, dread clawing at his chest. He thought things were getting better, that they were slowly healing.

But as he raced back to his chambers, a cold fear gripped him. He should have known better. He shouldn't have fooled himself into thinking it would be that easy.

Bursting into the room, he saw Y.N. standing on the ledge of the window, her hair blowing wildly in the wind, her eyes distant and unfocused. His breath caught in his throat.

"Y.N.!" he called, trying to keep his voice steady. "Come back inside. It's dangerous."

She turned to him, her expression a mix of sorrow and resolve. "I-I’m with child again," she said, her voice trembling. "I don't want to lose this babe like we lost Aerys. I want to be a good mother, to protect my child."

Aemond took a step closer, his hands outstretched. "I will do everything in my power to ensure our child's safety. Please, Y.N., come back inside."

But her eyes darkened with a painful clarity. "Had you done that before, Aerys would still be alive. How can I trust you to keep your promise now?"

Aemond's heart broke at her words, the weight of his guilt crashing down on him. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "I can't lose you too. I need you."

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "I can hear Aerys. He calls for me."

Before he could react, she let go of the window ledge.

Time seemed to slow as Aemond lunged forward, his scream of anguish tearing through the air. He reached out, but it was too late. Y.N. fell, her figure disappearing from sight.

Aemond's scream of horror reverberated through the chamber as he raced to the window, his heart pounding in his chest.

He looked down and saw Y.N.'s body splayed on the ground, unmoving.

He lurched back from the window, his legs carrying him faster than they ever had.

Aemond tore through the corridors, the screams of maids and ladies echoing around him as the reality of what had just happened spread like wildfire.

Bursting outside, Aemond fell to his knees beside Y.N. The blood pooling around her, spilling in different directions.

Never had he seen so much blood in his life.

His hands shook as he reached down gently, lifting her into his arms. Her warm sticky blood staining his clothes and skin.

“Y.N” sobbed Aemond.

Y.N.'s eyes fluttered open, and she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. "I can see him, Aemond. I can see our sweet boy-he’s here"

Tears streamed down Aemond's face as he held her close, his voice breaking. "Go to him, Y.N. Be a good mother. Be with our son, he needs you"

A faint smile touched her lips as she looked up at him, her gaze softening. "I love you," she whispered, her breath faltering.

"I love you too," Aemond choked out, his heart breaking with every word.

Y.N.'s eyes closed, and with a final, shuddering breath, she passed away in his arms.

Aemond held her tightly, his body shaking with sobs as the world around him seemed to crumble. The weight of his grief and guilt was unbearable, the loss of his wife and son a wound that would never heal.

The days following Y.N.'s funeral were a descent into madness for Aemond. The raw, unhealed wound of his grief festered into something dark and malignant.

In the wake of her loss, he marched on Harrenhal, his heart consumed by rage and a desperate need for retribution. On the way many houses in the Riverlands fell to him like a storm, his soldiers cutting down anyone in their path.

Soon houses were nothing more than charred ruins, echoing with the screams of the dying and the roar of Vhagar as he laid waste to those who dared to raise their banners for Rhaenyra.

At Harrenhal, he slaughtered everyone he could find, his blade never without the stain of blood.

Alys Rivers was the only one spared, left to wander amidst the wreckage of the charred ruin she called home.

Aemond's heart was a cauldron of fury, his every action a reflection of the unrelenting torment he felt inside.

The memory of Y.N. and their son haunted him, their spectral forms appearing in his dreams and shadows, reaching out to him but slipping away before he could touch them.

Each night was a cycle of torment, their voices echoing in his ears, demanding answers he could not give.

In a desperate attempt to quell his rage and sorrow, Aemond turned to Alys. Their encounters were brutal and dispassionate, a violent outpouring of grief and anger.

He would not look upon her face as he sheathed his cock inside her, and he would not kiss her. Each time he lay with her, he was left feeling sickened, the physical act a poor substitute for the love and solace he had lost.

In his dreams, Y.N.'s spirit raged at him, her face twisted in anguish and betrayal, accusing him of infidelity and disrespect.

The final blow came when Alys revealed that she carried his child. The news was a knife to his heart, a reminder of all that he had lost and could not reclaim. In his torment, Aemond could not bear the thought of this new life, a product of his grief and anger.

In a cold, ruthless act, he had seized Alys and forced moontea down her throat, she had raged and struggled against him, but he was unmoved. His gloved hand pressed over her nose and mouth to ensure the child would never see the light of day.

He was no longer who he used to be, his heart and soul lost to the void of grief, he had become a monster and there was nothing left for him anymore.

Once she had recovered from the loss of her babe, Alys had cursed his name and he welcomed it.

Even as he mounted Vhagar, seeking a final confrontation with Daemon, and Caraxes. The two dragons clashing in a maelstrom of fire and fury, their roars shaking the heavens.

Amidst the chaos, he heard Y.N.'s voice again, softer this time, calling for him. Her voice was a haunting melody of love and loss, drawing him closer to an end he didn’t want to escape.

He reached out, feeling her ethereal touch, the blade plunging through his skull, and as the darkness closed in, he felt Y.N.'s hand in his.

[hestzhyen]

Already Waist-Deep

Hi internet void. Please allow me to kagura my bachi all over the place for a little bit. I've got a bad case of the brain worms about these boys that I haven't even had together for 20 chapters yet, so let me ramble a little bit about why they're already so compelling as not only a duo, but a ship.

First off, a caveat. Kagurabachi is a Weekly Shounen Jump (WSJ) action series. That means that if romance is ever addressed in the series itself, the protagonist is going to end up with a girl. Doesn't matter how underdeveloped or lackluster his relationship to her is, or how flat she is as a character. Invest lightly and come along for the ride without any expectations of m/m ships becoming canon. (That said, it might not be the worst thing in the world for our MC to end up with a girl in this case- more on that later.)

Second, I don't really ship that often. Not seriously at least. I need more than two guys being close with each other to start wanting them to be a pair, y'know? So I hope you understand the intensity of the material Hokazono-sensei has been giving us the past few chapters. I am on the brink of going all-in on HakuHiro/ChihiHaku in less than 20 chapters, it's that insane.

Third, I will be talking about current developments without marking potential spoilers. There are only 38 chapters out as of writing this, but there are at least two reveals that would be better appreciated going in blind. Spoilers for the oneshot Farewell! Cherry Boy are also a thing near the end.

Okay? Okay. Let's begin.

Who's Involved? First up is our protagonist Chihiro Rokuhira, an 18 year old boy and the son of a famous swordsmith. He was raised with genuine love and care by his father (no idea what happened to his mom yet), taking care of their day-to-day life while learning his father's trade. And from the very first chapter he is steeped in tragedy as he witnesses his father's murder and life's work being stolen. He then sets out on the long, fraught road of vengeance.

Sounds grim and not exactly compelling, right? Especially when this scene from the first chapter was making the rounds being memed to death:

But there's much more to Chihiro than meets the eye. Flashbacks to his time growing up show him being a natural caretaker to his dad and their fish- cooking meals, keeping his dad on task, and so on. We see glimpses of underlying tenderness when he meets and rescues Char, a sweet little girl with her own tragic past. And we get some insight that he might not be quite as resolute as he's projecting himself to be when he faces off against Sojo, a fan of his father who worships a much different version of the man than Chihiro knew. And now the Rakuzaichi arc has definitively shown us that Chihiro isn't as collected as he seems. One of his father's killers easily cracks the mask and shows us Chihiro is really just a desperate kid with a heaping helping of trauma, then Tenri's pointless sacrifice shakes him to his core. But despite it all he's still doing determinator things in the most badass way possible. Chihiro has layers, man. A lot of them. And the best way to understand our protagonist right now is through his foil: Hakuri Sazanami.

Who is Hakuri? A 17 year old boy with a special lineage, but he's a loser who needs to be saved from common thugs. A pathetic guy who latches on to Chihiro and doesn't take the hint when Chihiro literally runs away to ditch him. An utter failure to his family. A lost puppy looking for a samurai.

Hakuri Sazanami is one of the best goddamn foils I've seen in shounen manga yet.

Let me tell you all the ways I love the writing around this kid and Chihiro because MAN I can't even contain all these feels.

What's Going On? From the start, Hakuri looks like he's just another person for Chihiro to bail out. He witnesses Chihiro's awesomeness fighting Sojo in the streets and decides to imitate it by standing up for a little girl being kidnapped. Instead of winning out, though, he's captured and kicked around. Once he's coincidentally rescued by Chihiro he's immediately all-in on tagging along and keeping Chihiro in his life. Look at this pitiful guy:

Chihiro decides to hear him out due to his connection to the Sazanamis, the Big Bads of the arc. He's initially put off by Hakuri's intensity but brings him along anyway, as Hakuri's insider information regarding the Sazanami family makes him useful. Then, as Chihiro wavers under Hiyuki's assault, Hakuri is truly useful for the first time:

And it only gets better from here. We see Hakuri hanging off Chihiro's every word trying to be as useful as possible for his samurai, striving to do anything he can, though it ends up with him forcing Chihiro to give up his precious sword Enten in exchange for his life. (Yes, Chihiro "buys" Hakuri from Hakuri's own family.)

Later on during the invasion of the auction is where things go into overdrive though. We see their character arcs start to invert and shape each other's as the action unfolds and Hakuri's own tragic past comes to light, eventually awakening him to his special abilities. Chihiro's bravery and strength help him pull this off and finally defeat the older brother that tortured him in the name of "love". Hakuri ascends to being the strongest Sazanami since the progenitor that started their line centuries ago. He's the Special Boy!

All this to say that Hakuri Sazanami isn't just a deuteragonist or a foil…

He's the goddamn heroine.

Kagurabachi's Built Different What makes a shounen series heroine? Firstly, they support the main character without getting involved in most of the heavy fighting. A shounen heroine will usually at most have a fight against another girl while the Big Event is happening nearby, making sure the main character has the spotlight. Second, most of the value they bring to the protagonist's story is emotional. They encourage him, validate him, provide a bit of a refuge for him to safely let his guard down. They can get him to express softer emotions that he wouldn't normally show around others. Third… they're the love interest. Hinata, Orihime, Chichi, and now… Hakuri? Really?

We know the third one will not happen for HakuHiro in canon. But what about the first two? Well, let's recap what Hakuri has done for Chihiro so far.

Hakuri can defend himself now, but his most useful ability is access to an interdimensional storehouse. Given the way that his magic works -he needs to prioritize maintaining the storehouse or using Isou- he'll likely be the means of keeping the enchanted blades safe rather than a front-line fighter. Support-centric character that will still get some combat time against lesser opponents: check.

Hakuri's given Chihiro some much-needed direct emotional validation that he hasn't gotten from anyone else yet. ("You saved me." … "That katana suits you.") Hakuri's words fortify his resolve and Chihiro later pays it back by trading Enten, an incalculably precious sword and memento of his father, for Hakuri's life. He even uses the same phrase when asked why he'd do that for someone as worthless as Hakuri ("That guy… saved me."). He later reaffirms that Hakuri's encouragement gave him the courage to let go of Enten in the first place:

This is AFTER we see Chihiro open up to him for the first time just minutes after they met:

Chihiro's been a stoic good guy with buried trauma up until this point. But somehow Hakuri is the first person he outright admits his fears to- not Shiba, not Hinao, but the freaky kid he just rescued. Emotional support pillar: check.

"Well that's not enough!" you say. "That's just taking some moments and doing that thing you said you didn't do- smushing boys together just because they're close!" OK but look at how Hakuri thinks about Chihiro:

Chihiro has been his inspiration from the first time he saw him. It can be read as admiration and hero worship, but doesn't that feel like selling Hakuri's feelings short when remembering how devoted he's been since they first met?

And just look at Hakuri's face here, he's beaming when Chihiro busts in to save him just like he believed he would:

Mostly, though, Chihiro is the one who gives Hakuri strength in the moment. The Ice Woman broke him free of his family's mentality, and now Chihiro gives Hakuri what he needs most: hope. Something he never had before, which doomed his relationship to the Ice Woman; he couldn't prove to her that there was more to life than despair because that was all he knew… but that completely changed once he met his samurai.

And that's been their thing through this arc. Each one is giving the other the vital thing they needed to grow and keep going. When Hakuri was struggling at the start, Chihiro was his guiding light towards a better future. And when Chihiro struggled in the aftermath of Tenri's cruel death, Hakuri pulled him along so they could finish the job. They're in perfect sync now as they take down the Rakuzaichi. Don't just take my word for it, check out Hokazono-sensei's color page for the most recent chapter (38): https://twitter.com/KaguraShiba/status/1804898273859445181 From Hella (KaguraShiba): >Kagurabachi Ch 38 JP Color Page 「阿吽の呼吸で薙ぎ払え」 "Two people dancing to the same beat, mowing down enemies" >阿吽の呼吸/"Aun no Kokyuu" Synchronized breathing >Or when people are the most in tune with each other >阿吽の呼吸/"Aun no Kokyuu" Is a Buddhist expression in Japanese meaning something close to "harmonizing in sync together" >"Aun" is also used to indicate an "Aun relationship", indicating an inherently harmonious relationship or nonverbal communication Yeesh. But holy shit it's paying off. In chapter 38 these boys are already in harmony- Hakuri registers Chihiro into his storehouse (yes they both "own" each other now) and sends him in to fight his father. During the fight, Chihiro trusts Hakuri to interpret his intent and it works. Chihiro wordlessly tags a bunch of grenades with his spirit energy and Hakuri pulls them out into the real world to bomb the shit out of the Rakuzaichi audience. They didn't plan this beforehand- they had no idea Kyoura had fucking grenades laying around in there. But they're close enough to understand each other's thoughts already. Peak soulmate material right there!

What's got me most interested now, though, is how they will pull/push each other after this arc. Chihiro's going to be focused more than ever on tracking down his father's killer and the swords. But Hakuri, well… I think it would be very interesting if he starts to become a despair monster. A reflection of Chihiro's state at the very start of the manga where nothing mattered to him except exacting revenge. We're seeing shades of this in the most recent chapter (38) where he's slumped over and obviously depressed about how all this is turning out. He's going to end his family's cruel trade but at what cost to himself? Will Chihiro see some of himself in Hakuri and be able to help him out, or at least promise to find relief from the pain together? Obviously a Bad End where Hakuri takes himself out is in the cards given Hokazono-sensei's previous works but… on a meta level, I think his storehouse ability will keep him relevant. I mean yeah he could be used to slap Chihiro across the face by showing what a bad end for his revenge story could look like but I think (hope) that won't happen. [Note to future self: I give you permission to go batshit insane if Chihiro stops Hakuri from committing sudoku.]

And this is where my brain worms are coming from. In just under 20 chapters we have an extremely strong set up between them- so much room for them to teach each other; push to grow and pull back from the brink when tragedy strikes again.

But where's the real meat, you ask? The actual literary analysis in this gushing rant about how much I love these boys I barely know? Well, fine. Buckle up because it's time for some…

Daddy Issues The Rakuzaichi arc really digs into comparing Chihiro's affection for his dad to the Sazanami family structure. And I gotta talk about this because it's the key aspect that makes Hakuri such a brilliant foil.

First off, the similarities. Chihiro and the Sazanami kids are all intensely devoted to their fathers. All of them were raised with love while learning the intricacies of their family trade. We see the Sazanami kids getting praised for doing well, just like Chihiro. Hakuri and Tenri were even told they were special. During the arc, the Sazanami kids put their lives on the line to defend their dad and family legacy with zeal matched by Chihiro's intensity to avenge his dad. When he falls, Tenri's final words are apologizing to his father.

It's truly heartbreaking that Kyora never really loved them back.

You see, the Sazanamis are one of those families that put their lineage and craft over everything else. Every member of the family lives for ensuring the Rakuzaichi auction goes off without a hitch. One of the clan is chosen to inherit the storehouse, and the rest are trained to defend it to the death. Kyoura, the current patriarch, has no compunctions about letting his son Tenri die just to delay Chihiro and the gang for a few more minutes. He had his kids put their lives on the line to defend a storehouse door that he had already broken in secret- making it completely useless. And he's equally cold when it comes to children who can't perform to standards like Hakuri. Once Hakuri (apparently) fails to manifest an ability for sorcery, Kyoura turns a willfully blind eye to the abuse his kid starts to suffer. He knowingly lets Hakuri be tortured by his older brother for years and does nothing, then disowns him once some "merchandise" kills herself in front of him. There's no love for children who can't be useful to the family's traditions. And yet any love that does exist between father and child is manipulated as seen here:

What the fuck man.

So Hakuri is going into this arc firm in his conviction to end his family's evil ways. He's been abused physically and emotionally for at least five years straight; he knows his father doesn't love him. But even now when he's about to bring the whole place down with Chihiro, he's still yearning for his dad's praise. Hakuri's family is fucked up bad and he needs a hell of a lot of healing after all is said and done.

Meanwhile, every flashback with Chihiro shows us that he was truly loved and cared for like every kid deserves. His dad wasn't perfect but he was exactly what a parent should be- kind, understanding, and supportive. His goofy advice helps Chihiro to this day. Chihiro and his dad had a genuine father-son bond that was broken by tragedy and thus Chihiro's desire to do right by his father's memory is driven by grief, first and foremost. So when we see his expression after Tenri's death, we know why he's so badly shaken. They clashed out of love and duty for their fathers, supposedly prepared to pay the ultimate price. The Sazanami version of "love" is a very different, much less wholesome version than the kind Chihiro knows… yet no less effective in terms of motivation.

You can practically hear his heart breaking for Tenri. And his inner thoughts in the next chapter say it all: he was naive to think he could enact revenge while holding fast to the kindness he grew up with. Chihiro's kindness that he learned from his father is a liability to him in this situation. In contrast, Hakuri knew from the start that he had to finally give up the last of his familial affection. He hardened his heart and steeled his resolve to do whatever it took.

Both Chihiro and Hakuri knew what it was like to be loved. Hakuri's version might have been twisted, but it was still painful to have that bond suddenly broken. And now we've seen Edgy Revenge Man's inner softness hold him back while Silly Soft Guy has a heart colder than the arctic. I go absolutely feral comparing and contrasting their situation and how their positions have reversed. Yeah, Chihiro's going to be the action guy who saves the day but Hakuri's the reason he can do it. Hakuri's surprisingly strong core has pushed Chihiro to put his feelings aside to get things done. I can't fucking wait to see how this arc ends and where these boys end up. What will the the most important thing Chihiro takes away from Hakuri here? I hope it leads him to be a bit more openly compassionate and soft around his allies- Hakuri's situation being a lesson in not letting your family's bonds overtake everything else. For Hakuri, well… I think being around Chihiro, Char, and the rest will help him heal. But I hope it's Chihiro that keeps him stable as the person that can relate to him best.

Meta Ramblings Whew. Now then… Yo dumbass writing this, we're not even 40 chapters in yet. Don't you think it's a bit too soon to start getting hyped for a character that could be shelved as soon as the arc is done?

It's interesting to see the themes and characters Hokazono-sensei's reused in Kagurabachi. From the four one-shots available to read, it seems like he's is interested in writing about characters encountering tragedy through various kinds of love. I think it's intriguing that three out of the four end in despair, and the one that doesn't still involves a fair bit of sadness. It's a bit early to say about Hakuri's circumstances since this is only the second proper arc in the series, but given Hokazono-sensei's past works, I think Hakuri is here to stay. For one, Hokazono-sensei seems to love his color-coded foils (Chain, Enten, Roku no Meiyaku). Farewell! Cherry Boy also explores the circumstances of a blindly loyal boy who feels useless being given his first chance to prove himself… I think this is a theme that Hokazono-sensei is revisiting in a more in-depth fashion with Hakuri, so there's a good chance there's more planned.

And just for fun, if we want to look at his romance stories… Madogiwa de Amu is all about one person being the other's greatest hope, their reason to persevere in the face of hardship and seeing that reciprocated in turn. Complete with the weaker person becoming strong enough to protect the person who inspired them first. Hmm. (Hopefully it doesn't end the same way though 'cause man, I can see Hakuri doing something similar right now…) It's also not impossible for Kagurabachi to touch on love given we see Farewell! Cherry Boy incorporating love as the crux of the narrative, despite starting as a gangster story. The true MC is quite like Chihiro as well in terms of motivation and action plan.

I also think it's impossible to overstate how important it is for Chihiro to have a friendly peer to compare to, narratively speaking. Char is a woobie, Shiba's an uncle figure, and Hiyuki is set up to be the aggro rival/frenemy. Hinao could become more than a side character but it seems unlikely at this time. Chihiro needs someone his own age to just be himself with. And that, I am 99% sure, will be Hakuri. A guy who's suffered just as much as he has. Someone who knows what it's like to have a famous last name and lineage to protect. An equal who's unquestionably on his side, who will lift him up when he's down, yet will still need some protection and care. So yes I think Hakuri will be sticking around to be Chihiro's foil. He might take a back seat at times as heroines do, but he'll still be there to support our sad boi through thick and thin.

Anyway that's why I'm ready to jump feet-first into this ship. It's got all the hallmarks of a wonderfully strong bond and I hope we get to see these boys comforting each other for years to come. If you read all this… thank you? Maybe get yourself checked for brain worms? And tell everyone you know to read this amazing action-packed tragedy laced with BL crack cocaine.

[aurora-313]

I never understood why there had to be such a massive conspiracy around Masaki. It detracts from the tragedy of Memories In The Rain and Ichigo's character as a whole that she was a Quincy.

Look at that flashback objectively if Masaki were a powerless human:

It's bucketing down rain, a deluge in the middle of monsoon season. You're eager to get your son home from his karate practice. Conditions are dreadful but as long as you're on concrete, you're both okay. Then your son suddenly stops. Something only he claims he can see catches his attention. You've indulged his talk about ghosts because he's a boy, he's allowed to have an imaginary friend and its never harmed anyone. But suddenly, your son's shouting. Launching into a full sprint down that steep slippery hill, at the base of which is a dangerous rushing river. Or potentially slip on a loose bit of stone or root, and break his neck. You can't see what he sees. As far as you're aware, your son's taken absolute leave of his senses and is charging headlong into a certainly fatal situation. Naturally, your response would be to freak out and throw yourself after your son, hoping to catch him before he could jump into the water, very probably drowning. Then CHOMP. Hollow chow.

Revealing Masaki was a Quincy is irreparably cheapening her death.

Let's pretend for a second Grand Fisher wasn't there. And the same thought process outlined above occurs.

In an attempt to stop Ichigo running down the hill, Masaki could've slipped, fallen and broke her neck instead. Or took a bad tumble, ending with a fatal blow to the head. The effect on Ichigo would've been the same. He would've developed a massive guilt complex because his tragedy of impulse caused his mother's death.

That is the whole crux of Ichigo's guilt. His actions caused this outcome. And it was the hardest lesson he had to learn.

Grand Fisher or no, if Ichigo hadn't acted the way he did, if he hadn't tried to save the 'girl' from falling into the river, then his mother wouldn't have died in the first place.

Revealing Masaki as a Quincy, and that her powers were """conveniently""" stolen at exactly the time she needed them most, completely invalidates the human randomness, tragedy and relatability of that death.

It invalidates the guilt that drives 99% of Ichigo's character and actions. That same guilt, now predicated on false pretenses, fueled his desire to protect, to suffer through hell if it meant he could protect the people he cared about (at times to their detriments). Especially since that desire can rage dangerously out of control, and at one point literally got Ichigo killed and reanimated as a monstrous hollow hellbent on destroying everything around it, muttering 'protect, protect, protect' like a zombie.

It's a flaw Ichigo had to overcome by coming to terms with it and using it to as motivation in a healthier manner. Not be absolved of.

A prime example of a character carrying their guilt and growing past it done well is Edward Elric from Full Metal Alchemist/Brotherhood.

Edward and Alphonse never got over Nina and Alexander. They were never absolved of their guilt. Its a mark permanently etched in their collective psyches and reconciling with the fact alchemy could be used in such vile ways drove a huge part of their early characters.

What they did was learn to grieve and cope and move on with it as motivation. They vowed never to allow that kind of monstrosity to happen again. Even when Ed's about to give up his alchemy forever, he declares 'I'm just a simple human who couldn't save a little girl. Not even with alchemy.'

Rather than have Ichigo go through a journey like this, EBTR removes the burden of guilt from Ichigo's shoulders completely when Isshin tells him "No, it wasn't your iconic recklessness that got your mother killed. It was an ancient prophecy and you never should've felt guilty in the first place."

Isshin may as well have said "Everything you believed about yourself since the moment you were born is a lie. The foundation of your personality since you were 9 is a lie. Have fun finding a therapist to deal with the crippling psychological ramifications of that bombshell, but do it after you win another war for us."

It irreparably damages Masaki, and by extension Ichigo's and Isshin's, characters that she had powers.

If Masaki was a Quincy from the jump. Cool, why didn't she teach Ichigo basic control of his reiryoku? Or how to tell the living from the dead - something Ichigo canonically struggled with for as long as he could remember? Basic safety measures that would've avoided those kinds of situations in the first place.

You don't wait until a toddler get splattered by cars before telling them not to play in a busy road, or not to stick a fork in a power point after they've been electrocuted and rushed to the hospital. You teach them rules and install safety measures to prevent those situations in the first place.

There's four main interpretations I take from Masaki's decision to willfully neglect Ichigo's education in the spirit arts:

Well-meaning but naïve and frankly reckless desire to preserve Ichigo's innocence for as long as possible. Fair and the most benign explanation.

Threatened into maintaining her silence by either Kisuke or Isshin (or both depending how generous I feel), lest the seal on her hollowfication "mysteriously" weaken.

Realizing she was a dead woman walking since been bitten by White, Masaki partook in the conspiracy to turn Ichigo into a living weapon and purposefully martyred herself to make it happen.

Masaki having powers is the cosmic retcon of retcons and Kubo didn't think about the implications of his own writing...

If Masaki absolutely HAD to be a Quincy for the sake of turning Ichigo into Aizen's gary stu project, then fine.Yhwach's influence should've been kept far FAR away from it.

Maybe Masaki couldn't use her powers because if she tried, it would've destroyed the seal keeping the hollowfication in check. When Grand Fisher emerged, she baited it to kill her instead.

"Oh, but we need to explain why Ichigo's so powerful."

Ichigo's sperm donor is an ex-Captain and member of one of the royal families, who are noted to have above average base stats. His powers took a hollow aspect thanks to the encroachment temporarily transforming him into a hollow at the base of shattered shaft. Hollowfied Shinigami are naturally stronger (on paper) than their non-hybrid counterparts.

"Why does he two spirits?" The awakening of his power was so fractious it literally splintered into its component pieces. The hollow is the repressed parts of Ichigo's, so its a psychopathic reflection of himself. The old man is the other half of his soul realising the best way to get through to Ichigo is by giving him actual fucking parent.

Sometimes Occam's Razor is the best solution.

[kismet-cat]

Something I’ve been thinking about a lot is how Jowd and Yomiel are parallel to each other. They’re both so stuck in worldviews that are blatantly wrong- Jowd thinking everything is his fault, and Yomiel thinking everything is the fault of everyone BUT him. To an outside observer, both these views are totally stupid, but the two of them feel like they HAVE to believe it or else everything they’re doing will be for nothing. If jowd is wrong, that means kamila did it, and he can’t let himself believe his kid could do that, it would destroy him. He’s so willing to take on the guilt because he feels responsible for not stopping the tragedy- even when it was literally impossible for him to foresee or stop. If Yomiel is wrong, then it means that literally everything he’s been doing since dying is useless and he’s the one responsible for the deaths of both Sissels, and he can’t believe that or he’ll sink even further down. So the two of them both push on, warping the truth until it suits their narratives, both of which are steeped in self-hatred. It’s a good thing they never met up before their respective character developments- like Yomiel said, Jowd would have loved to be executed by his own daughter. Sorry for talking so much I just think they’re fascinating!!! I love ghost trick!!!

No need to apologize, I love hearing other people's Ghost Trick takes/analysis! Especially along these lines!

This specific parallel is def one I've thought about too, and you put it very well! For me, it all comes back to the set of questions I posed in this post as being at the core of Ghost Trick's story:

1. When something terrible happens to you, what do you do with that trauma? 2. When you do something terrible, when you make a terrible mistake, what do you do with that guilt?

Like you said, Jowd is a person who, in response to both questions, internalizes all the blame; whereas Yomiel, in response to both (pre Chapter 17), externalizes all his hatred. And yes, from an outside perspective they're kind of ridiculous — just look at how many chatters in the secret sleepover society streams (and other lps I've watched) have been reacting to Jowd as a character.

But one of the things fiction arguably exists for is to present characters that take such ideas to such extremes for the sake of exploring those questions and making a greater point; it's the premise "What if there was guy who ___? Wouldn't that be fucked up or what?". And for me (and a lot of people, clearly) Ghost Trick succeeds in getting you to take those characters seriously, because they and the people around them take their own stakes seriously, while ultimately making it clear that their responses were irrational.

...And hey, while I'm here:

Cabanela's answer to the second question is to bury all evidence of it, to Not Think About It, to become (or at least project the image of) a person who would never make that kind of mistake. Meanwhile, his answer to the first question, if we say the terrible thing in question is his best friend confessing to killing his wife and asking to be executed, is to dedicate himself to trying to undo it, to set things right, everything else in his life be damned.

These answers are "better" than Jowd's and Yomiel's — they certainly cause less extreme collateral damage — but they still aren't ideal. After all, Ghost Trick is a game that highly values the forging/maintaining of bonds with others and being honest/open with them as the key to both parties' success. It's what saves the day in the end. Without Sissel, all Cabanela's efforts to save Jowd and protect Lynne would have amounted to nothing.

No, the person with the "correct" answer is Lynne. She doesn't really have to grapple with the second question (which is maybe my personal biggest disappointment with her character), but her answer to the first question is clear: Become the kind of person who prevents such things from happening to others, or who can be the one to help them when it does. Always believe in people, and in the ability of things to turn out right.

Now, it must be said: the reason she comes to this answer is not because she was born a perfect idealist. It's because, in that worst moment of her life, someone was there to save and then reassure her; to inspire her. Jowd.

It's her truth, but it's not, say, Yomiel's.

But. It's a truth that inspires the rest of the cast (Sissel and Jowd primarily). And, because of her insistence in it, they're able to go back, defy fate, and make it The Truth of the narrative.

(Sissel similarly only has to really deal with the first question because Reasons, and his answer evolves over the course of the game, from "focus on the wrong that was done to you and what you can do to make yourself feel better about it above everything and everyone else" (doesn't that sound familiar?) to be more aligned with Lynne: "use what you learned/gained from that unfortunate occurrence to help others". And Missile is basically on the "right" wavelength the whole time, which is why everyone agrees he's the Bestest Boy.)

[sleepingdeath-light]

home again ; yandere!wally darling

requested by ; anonymous (09/05/23)

word count ; 2031

content ; platonic yanderes, memory loss (the puppets all had their memories forcibly wiped), references to child/teen reader, obsessive protectiveness, author’s first time writing something platonic so… yeah

note ; i haven’t written anything like this before (sfw yandere stuff) so apologies if it seems a tad off. similarly i’m still adjusting to writing wally’s character in terms of dialogue and such, so that may also seem a smidge ooc.

fandom ; welcome home

pairing ; platonic wally darling x gender neutral!reader

read also on ; ao3

It was a beautifully melancholy evening: the stars and moon were obscured with thick, grey clouds that loomed overhead like ragged old curtains; the air was thick with dust and pollen that clung to your skin and clothes like a man hanging onto the edge of a steep cliff, digging their claws in and holding on with all the relentless might you’d come to hate; your room was only dimly illuminated by the pale blue light emanating from your monitor, the low hum of the vents the only sound to compliment the clicking of keys and the tapping of the mouse. Quiet, drab and dull; how very typical of spring.

But at the very least it gave you all the excuse you needed to sit behind a screen and doomscroll. Tired eyes skimming over articles and activists decrying the latest tragedy, thousands of crabs in the metaphorical bucket of social media all fighting for the attention of bystanders — only taking pause when you came across something all too familiar, yet at the same time entirely new.

‘Does anyone else remember Welcome Home? It was pretty popular when it aired back in the 70s and my friends and I are trying to create a complete archive for it’ — the caption read. Below it was a highlighted link and a picture that had been burned into your brain since childhood: bright swatches of paint adorning every surface, all seeing eyes as big as can be, and in front of it, that permanent smile carved into yellow felt. Wally Darling and Home, you remembered them both clearly enough — clearer than you’d have liked, even.

It had been decades since you’d actively thought back on Welcome Home, on your brief stint in stardom, and frankly you’d have rather it’d been kept that way. You still held a bit of a grudge over getting axed: ‘too mature’, yeah right! Every kid loves astrology and nobody is too old to talk about their feelings… you were only 14 for crying out loud! Too mature, your ass.

But perhaps, you reasoned, it wouldn’t be too bad to take a quick trip down memory lane. Sure you’d loved the show when it aired, but you stopped watching after your section was cut, so maybe it would be cool to see what changed in the interim — and, either way, your experiences would probably be helpful to the archivists. So no harm, no foul.

————

The site was easy enough to navigate but man you didn’t expect to get so emotional when you went looking through the recovered art. They looked exactly the same as you remembered, all of them — which is kind of silly to think about since puppets and tv show characters in general tend not to change since, well, they were meant to stay consistent. Frank was always going to look terribly stern, and Julie was always going to come onto scene with a new fabulous hairdo, and Eddie was always going to trip over his own feet on his rounds, and Wally was always going to open and close each episode with a nod to the audience. These things were staples of the characters and the show’s structure so of course they’d be the same.

But, still, you somehow felt like they should have changed in your absence. A small part of your mind, an irrational part surely, crying out that they were alive and that living things were made to change — which was silly. And, frankly, a little embarrassing that you’d even had that thought at all.

So you pushed that idea to the very back of your mind where it belonged and continued to scroll through the various pages of the website. Art from official books (you were sure you even owned the ‘ask Wally’ type book and that it was still at your parents’ place), merchandise like pop up figures (the sort that were found only in cereal boxes and magazines), promotional posters and even one piece from your short tenure on the show. You remembered posing for that photograph, being told to smile and to wrap your arms around Eddie and Wally — but for some reason you couldn’t quite recall what their puppeteers were called.

Or if they even had any puppeteers in the first place.

No. That can’t be right. They were puppets, characters, they had to have someone controlling and voicing them — but none of the promotional art nor your memories supported that basic truth. It didn’t make sense.

None of it made sense. This was why you’d tried to forget that show so desperately after you left. It messed with your head far too much to be worth the effort so why bother burning out over questions that could be explained by a faulty memory.

A memory that could, in picture perfect detail, recall the route from Howdy’s store to Home as clear as crystal — as if it were your own route to-and-from primary school. A memory that could replay patchy conversations between Wally and Julie, bittersweet bickering over hairspray and hairpins that you could only recall in pieces, but that still rang clearly as if you were thinking of childhood friends. A memory that was imprinted with the feeling of warm felt embraces and puffs of warm air from stencil cut mouths that would have been impossible if they weren’t alive. Moving eyes, small bodies, freely walking, freely talking — alive and well and clear as day in your mind as normally as recalling your parents arguing over a cup of freshly brewed coffee on the mornings of each shoot.

The distinctly strong smell of the synthetic hairspray Wally used that would hang around him and mixed with the scent of oil paint like a cologne — that burned your nose if you hung around too close to him in the early morning. The sheer joy of Howdy picking you up and tossing you in the air as a congratulations for your first scene done well — caterpillar fuzz that stuck to your clothes for days, as strong as velcro. The way you and Julie squealed when Barnaby shook back and forth and sent droplets of muddy water raining down on you and on her freshly done up hair — and the joke that followed her exasperated tirade as you, through giggles, explained frustration to the audience through a camera they seemed to not be able to see.

Memories that kept unearthing themselves the deeper you went into the site, eventually culminating with you tearing up at the sight of old friends you’d been forced to leave behind. Silly, perhaps, but you recall telling the audience that it was healthy to cry and to let it all go — so at least your teenage self would be proud of your emotional vulnerability.

After a good hour of this, and more than in need of a break, you finally clicked on the attached message board and typed up a simple few sentences. A greeting and a farewell all in one before you closed down your computer and went to bed.

‘I used to have a segment on Welcome Home when I was a kid. I was meant to do astrology and emotions, before I got cut for being too old lol. This brought back so many memories. Thank you, all.’

————

Wally hadn’t meant to linger — really, he hadn’t — but there had been something oddly familiar about his latest visitor that he couldn’t quite place. Even from behind the screen he was trapped within, even as he watched their message load in, he could tell that they were different. It was their eyes, those tearful knowing eyes — he was sure he’d seen them before in that somewhere different, somewhere brighter, that came before the end he and his neighbours were trapped in.

When he saw their eyes he saw himself, a twisted altered reflection of himself that was filled to bursting with the warmth and awareness that he was created to hold within himself. A child’s eyes in the form of someone who he didn’t know yet he knew he must have once. A lingering, niggling feeling in the back of his skull, like fingertips brushing and scratching and digging into his fabric brain — rearranging and scouring and destroying and reaching for something that he couldn’t quite find.

He winced and squinted and stared through the screen to no avail, tilting his head and watching them as they flicked from screen to screen to screen desperate for a sign that he could use to place this familiar stranger. Unable to do so until finally — finally — their note came through and he was able to read the short greeting they’d left behind.

Then, and only then, did those forbidden memories come flooding back. A formidable tidal wave, a whirling rapid, of bright lights and experiences and conversations that had been torn from him and shredded in the writer’s room of their long gone creators.

He knew you, he’d always known you; the child too old for their youth that visited their neighbourhood in the beginning. Who always wore a beaming smile and treated them all with a grace beyond their years, spreading kindness and joy to his friends and to the audience only the two of you knew about. Who was far taller than his measly 12 apples of verticality but who never made him feel small. Who spoke eagerly of the constellations and painted the most wonderful pictures of stars and moons and planets far beyond their reach that he did his best to capture in his paintings. Who was only 14 but felt more like an adult than he did sometimes — he, who was crafted and sewn without a childhood — but who wasn’t above play and foley.

The child who was the absolute most; his favourite transient neighbour. All of their’s, actually.

How could he possibly have forgotten you?

You with your broad toothy grins, and your warm eyes that shone brighter than the stars you loved, and your arms that were big enough to carry even more apples than he could have ever dreamed of. You, who he promised to protect and keep away from the horrors of the world, theirs and your own. You, who never turned down a favour or plea from his neighbours.

You. Just you.

Wonderful, lovable, unforgettable you. His child of flesh, not felt, but he loved you all the same.

And he didn’t get to see you grow up, because his creators deemed you unbefitting of their world and cut you from their memories as ruthlessly as they’d cut your segments from their show. Welcome Home didn’t feel very much like a home after that — even if they didn’t quite recall what was missing.

Wally didn’t even want to think about all of the horrors and harms you’d faced throughout the years you’d been apart — he could see the wear hanging heavily in the downwards quirk of your lips and the dampened glint in your eye. He knew he’d sooner kill someone than let them hurt you, he’d threatened it plenty alongside Howdy and Eddie and Frank — they all loved you as dearly as him, once.

But in his current predicament he couldn’t do much to protect you. Couldn’t coddle you, couldn’t warm you, couldn’t sooth you with those sweets you used to love (if you even loved them anymore, it had clearly been quite some time), couldn’t do anything to help. He couldn’t even communicate with you, to apologise, to tell you he still loved you and that you were still welcome in their neighbourhood.

So he did the only thing he could; he drew you a picture. A silly little simplistic drawing, scratchy and crude, depicting a strong memory he had of you. The two of you, hand in hand, with your arms overflowing with apples you’d managed to steal from Howdy (oh how he missed such trivial things) — he hoped you remembered these moments as fondly as he did. Then, to the illustration, he attached a small message, a plea just for you, before settling back down behind the screen and hoping — praying — that you’d come back.

‘I’m sorry for forgetting you, friend, please come home’

[ariestarfairy]

Did Mystra Groom Gale?

My answer to that is, it's complicated, or perhaps not in the conventional way that people tend to think grooming happens. When I see posts about Gale being groomed it's accompanied by the assertion that Mystra found Gale when he was a child and was his mentor first. From a timeline perspective this doesn't make sense, we would have to throw out so much lore. Mystra was murdered by Cyric in 1385 initiating the Spellplague, she didn't come back until the events of the Sundering, so around 1479. Baldur's Gate 3 takes place in 1492. The earliest she could have met Gale would have been 1479/1480 which gives us a time frame of their relationship possibly being around 11-12 years. If we conclude that Gale is ~30 years old then the youngest Gale could have been is 17. If we conclude that Gale is ~35 years old then the youngest Gale could have been is 22. This lines up with Gale referring to himself as a very young man, not a child, when the events of their relationship took place. Also Gale makes another comment that suggests that he likely wasn't a child during his relationship with Mystra. If you romance Gale, he remarks that he had lovers before Mystra, but not after. If we assume that Gale met Mystra as a child then Gale would have to be much younger than we think he is. Now onto the subject of Mystra and Gale's relationship, adult grooming is a thing and the power imbalance is very real. A teacher getting into a relationship with a student is also problematic in any relationship where there is a teacher and student dynamic. Mystra has a history of changing and removing abilities from her servants and chosen, often times without their consent. This clearly illustrates an exploitative relationship. Also Gale, in all of his naivety of youth, perceived his relationship with Mystra way differently than Mystra did. Mystra has many chosen and most of them do not know one another. He thought she loved him, but he was amusement for her for a time until he messed up and she denounced him. Not only that but in order to maybe, possibly, earn her "forgiveness" Gale has to kill himself and even then forgiveness isn't assured. That's a steep price to pay. If you think Mystra is a good soul and Gale is a horrible person who stomped all over her boundaries, then you you need to learn more about Mystra's gross meddling with mortals. She is by no means innocent and has not only stomped on boundaries, she has done things that cross way over into non-consensual. The Gods are gross, Mystra is not an exception because she's a Goddess and presents as a woman, she's not vulnerable nor is she helpless. She is in the position to exploit and demand and she does it frequently. What also really gets me is how Gale gets labeled as being manipulative and abusive and Astarion is a beacon of perfection. He's not, he targets your character just to manipulate them, and that is his MO for a huge chunk of the game. His tragedy and changing over the course of the game doesn't reverse that, but it's somehow overlooked? Of course you have to view a person in terms of a snapshot. Looking at Gale based on a snapshot within his relationship with Mystra does not make him toxic and it does not mean that he was the abuser. Of course because Astarion was abused by a man, it's a different story, but Gale is a male character stepping on a woman's (Goddess) boundary, so he's necessarily toxic. It doesn't occur to people who play BG3, who have very little knowledge when it comes to the Gods in Faerun that Mystra is truly toxic and that a man can be abused and manipulated by a woman (Goddess) . Don't misunderstand, I love Astarion just as much as I love Gale, but I think it's a double standard to vilify Gale (who WAS mistreated by Mystra) and lionize Astarion while ignoring his machinations towards you in the beginning. Astarion is a classic case of hurt people hurt people, it explains his behavior but it shouldn't be ignored in criticisms of other characters. He's not perfect, if he were he would be boring and not nearly as interesting.

[uh-ohspaghettio]

in honor of graduating here's an actual essay I wrote for class

An Identity Shaped Around Grief: An Exploration of the Character Dynamics in Supernatural and Frankenstein

The scene pans to a man as he stares in horror as someone he loves burns in the flames before him. He cannot save them, nor would that person let them as they sacrificed themselves to protect their child. In grief, the man chooses to shut out those around him in anger in response to the haunting trauma. This is played out in the first episode of Supernatural and with a haunting twist of irony this fate is doomed to repeat itself.

Supernatural (2005-2020) is a longstanding show centered around two brothers named Sam and Dean Winchester as they travel across the United States fighting monsters. They are forced into a life of hunting when at a young their mother is killed by a creature and their father, unable to cope with the loss of his wife, spirals into a man obsessed and hellbent on revenge despite the clear detriment and neglect of his two sons. Along the way, angels and demons are introduced— including the biblical apocalypse, and Sam and Dean can convince an angel, Castiel, to fall from grace and go against their family’s intent on an armageddon.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley follows the story of a man Victor Frankenstein, who after the loss of his mother throws himself into his scientific studies, ignoring his grief, and creates another human from the body parts of multiple dead people.

At the forefront of the plot of Frankenstein and Supernatural is grief. In Supernatural the main character’s father John Winchester is unable to cope with the grief of losing his wife in such a traumatic way, John’s life becomes physically surrounded by monsters as he seeks to find the creature that took away his wife that is not only puts himself in harm's way but his sons, too, who are left unable to properly cope the loss of their mother. John chases after the monsters in hopes of finding closure for his lost love but all he does is isolate himself and his family from their emotions and set them on a path of physical and mental destruction.

The show is steeped with death and tragedy, which is not unlike the real world, however, with the show’s inclusion of monsters, the creators give us physical manifestations of the damage of grief not properly dealt with and how in shapes those close to us not unlike how the dynamic between Victor and his creature evolves in Frankenstein and expands upon it generationally.

In the “Strangers, Gods and Monsters” class lecture on the novel Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, the creature created by Victor Frankenstein is described as a ‘grief monster.’ Victor loses his mother, someone very dear to him, and instead of giving himself the time and space to grieve properly with his family, he flings himself into school. From this, he creates his famed creature. Victor cannot cope with death so he creates a creature that can only be born in the death of many. This creature causes havoc in Victor’s world and harms those around him.

Just as the creature is born out of the result of crazed grief, the never-ending grief of his father fundamentally shapes Dean Winchester and his own identity. All he knows of his father is a man who cannot move on from his wife’s passing and because of that Dean is not allowed to move on either and his identity is shaped around being a tool for his father’s revenge. In Season 3 Episode 10, titled “Dream a Little Dream of Me,”  Dean is forced to confront his worst nightmare—which is ultimately revealed to be himself. He is forced to confront the side of himself that acknowledges the abuse from his father and how that manifests in the way he views himself as “daddy’s blunt instrument,” and sees himself become a demon because all he is, is the path his father set out for him.  Dean sees himself as a monster because all he was made to be by his father was an instrument of revenge. Dean is conscious that his father is an “obsessed bastard,”  however, the way his grief manifests despite their mother being gone for nearly thirty years still clings. The creature in Frankenstein is fundamentally shaped by how Victor sees him. "Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust?" (170 Shelley). The creature sees himself as hideous and disgusting because that’s how Victor sees him and although he resents Victor for creating him to be the way he is he cannot escape it.  Dean’s admission to his father being cruel and his ‘other self’ showing him to be a monster is reflective of how much John’s upbringing of Dean focused on revenge shaped his identity.

Dean learns through the seasons of the show to be someone separate from his father, as someone separate from a soldier, however, his father’s method of coping with great loss lingers. It is most apparent when in a later season the angel Castiel promises to protect a nephil, the half-human and half-angel offspring of Lucifer, Castiel believes that if raised under the right conditions the child could bring peace to the world and not death and destruction like everyone assumes. Castiel is killed in his mission to protect but the child is born, Jack, and as the mother dies in childbirth Sam and Dean are left to take care of him. Dean is unable to cope with the grief and takes it out on Jack.

 Dean is going through immense grief and is unable to cope with it, which leads him to engage in destructive behaviors. However, his grief is most prominently reflected in the way he treats Jack; blaming Jack for Castiel’s death and making it very clear to Jack in Season 13 Episode 2 “The Rising Son” that he believes Jack is a monster and inherently evil, ergo if Jack should ever ‘turn’ to that side, Dean will be the one to kill him. This exchange leaves a deep impact on Jack, making him unsure if he is truly good or evil and doubtful that he can even be good.

Dean deals with his grief just like John, only dealing with his emotions of losing someone he loves as directing it towards blame and revenge. The blame is on Jack, despite the irrationality of it. John’s anger shaped how Dean viewed his place in the world. The father-son dynamics of John and Dean, Dean and Jack, and Victor and the Creature, all reflect the pattern of the fathers’ undealt with trauma and emotions surrounding loss bleeding in the identity of the son.

The creature Victor Frankenstein makes is one of the direct products of his grief as he throws himself into his work instead of surrounding himself with healthy ways of coping. The grief is manifested in the creature he creates, it's his child born of death and he only nurtures the child in rage which reflects in how the creature understands its place in the world.

In both Frankenstein and Supernatural the immense grief of their ‘fathers’ serves to be detrimental to their sense of self. Dean’s sense of identity is fundamentally changed because of his father’s inability to grieve properly over his wife and he is made to believe he can only be an instrument of revenge. Jack’s sense of identity is fundamentally changed because of Dean’s inability to grieve properly over Castiel, and he is made to believe he can only be an instrument of evil and destruction.

The show begins with the destructive flames, symbolic in how its consequential grief leads down a destructive path of anger, that not only eats away at your sanity but is only fated to pass through the bloodline as it grows to burn those around you. however metaphorical that bloodline is. Dean, Jack, and the creature are raised in grief and the writers paint how detrimental that is to their development as individuals and see themselves as monsters. All of their fathers created monsters whether literal or not and it's not something that just disappears until the damage is already done.

[wario-speedwagon]

The Blackjack Essay I thought up at like 3am because Blackjack is a great character if you really think about it hard enough

I had some Blackjack Thoughts yesterday night (cuz I woke up in the middle of the night and I always soothe myself back to sleep by brainrotting over characters or made up scenarios). Cuz yknow, okay:

So Blackjack is the soul, and he's a soul that was blackened by regret yeah? And not just that, but he takes the form of a his childhood dog rather than of himself (which is interesting, more on that later). I think we can agree that, while we never get to know in meaningful detail what the living Jack Kennedy was TRULY like, soulless Corpse!Jack is probably closer to his original living self in personality than the Blackjack we saw at the end of DSAF 3 True Ending, or rather, in most of what we see of Blackjack's coded/capitalized lines (more on that later too). Corpse!Jack is more chill (in a feral way of course) in that he moves on from things like grudges or regrets, which in the good routes manifests in him being able to keep going despite how emotionally hard it should be to e.g. leave his family once and for all, or to forgive his sister's murderer in favor of seeing the good in him. It's not a perfectly moral aspect, as there are things he probably should be hung up on (cough cough Dave), and Blackjack sure is. (We love some moral greyness in this household.) And then of course, in the evil route, it manifests in Corpse!Jack having a very easy time befriending and emulating his siblings' murderers and even killing his siblings himself. Obviously Blackjack could never conceive of acting in any of these ways, and he definitely lets evil Jack know.

So. I am of the headcanon that, all the trauma of Jack's death and the events leading up to it, all of his regrets from it, Blackjack took it all with him, leaving Corpse!Jack with little to none of it left. For better or for worse, Corpse!Jack does not carry the same emotional baggage from his personal tragedy that Blackjack is completely lost in. And then my point about Blackjack taking on the form of a dog instead of himself... and him not really acting like his old self compared to at least TrueRoute!Jack. At least most of the time, as we'll see soon. Because in the True Routes, Dee and eventually Peter are able to recognize True!Jack as their old brother pretty easily even despite the circumstances, but Blackjack? He's unrecognizable to all of them except eventually Corpse!Jack himself. According to her, Blackjack warned Dee about Evil!Jack's true nature in DSAF 2 (when you're doing a route with her as Legacy!Jack), and she didn't realize who he was, she only saw a Shadow Doggo; and of course at the end of DSAF 3, even after revealing who Blackjack is, Peter and Dee sure don't treat Blackjack like their dear old brother the way they regard Corpse!Jack. He's just a stranger to them now, and of course he is, because he's little like how he used to be in life, how Corpse!Jack still is in life. And after a faux eternity of being a Shadow Doggo operating behind the scenes with every opportunity to reveal himself, I'm of the opinion that he wants it to be this way, that he be forgotten in his failures while someone else takes his old role for him and does it well.

And it's because he is so steeped in his hatred born from his regret, that it completely warped his way of thinking to focus on revenge against Henry, or also his hyperfocus on Evil!Jack's wrongdoings. But while that's what most people see him for in his entirety (in both canon and fandom), as it's the front he nearly always puts on, people often forget one really important scene from him that may be the only glimpse of his more authentic self, one that isn't steeped in regret or any emotions stemming from it based on it. Do you remember the little speech Blackjack gives to Corpse!Jack after the True ending in DSAF 2 after the Happiest Day? He talks about him being "proud of us" (hinting at his and Corpse!Jack's link), but then ponders the possibility of redemption and decides, if it is possible, then he is glad that Corpse!Jack has been redeemed. So still excluding himself from that redemption despite just prior finding solace in what Corpse!Jack has done on both their behalf. It's like he sees Corpse!Jack more as himself than, yknow, himself (and you can imagine that this same truth probably also leads to why he despises Evil!Jack so much). And all of this must be very good for his self-esteem /s

Very notably, this one scene is the only dialogue of his that is not Caps locked or coded, and a recurring theme among souls is that caps locked dialogue is always steeped in more powerful (often but not exclusively negative) emotions, while regular lowercase text seems to show much more human authenticity. We see it in Jacob before vs. after he calms down and comes to terms with his death, we see it in Dee always being lowercase, as she seems to always be her honest self, we even see it in Fredbear, as he is always grandly talking in all caps as the powerful entity he is except in his promise with Jack's corpse where he is entirely lowercase and talks much more sincerely like a real person to him out of honest humility. So anyway, this one scene with Blackjack in my opinion is the only scene we really get to see Jack's real personality shine through in him, a personality we see much more readily in Corpse!Jack.

And now to finally return to my point about Blackjack taking on the form of a dog instead of as himself. So lets combine all these previous points: 1) He is blackened by Regret; 2) He is in a nearly constant state of negative/powerful emotions stemming from his regret as indicated by all his his caps/code text; 3) he is still capable, if rarely, of showing his more human personality; 4) Dee and Peter seem to much more readily recognize Corpse!Jack as their brother than Blackjack; 5) Blackjack is proud of True!Jack's good actions in DSAF 2 and implies that only he (but not himself) is deserving of redemption; (and heck, let's also throw in) 6) the fact that he chooses not to hide in an unrecognizable form and seems to estrange himself from his siblings to let Corpse!Jack fulfill his role as Jack for them in his place

What I'm getting at (finally) is that I think Trauma Fucked Him Up™; I think it completely fucked up his self-esteem replacing it with deep-rooted self-hatred and shame. It might be that he simply cannot bear to resemble himself, not after all he's done (leaving his sister's party to bury their dog and drink away his sorrows, which left her to die, lowkey (highkey?) betraying both of his siblings' trust, and then failing in his attempt to right his mistakes by dying instead and making things worse, at least from Blackjack's POV who didn't have any sort of promise to turn his death into a chance at redemption).

Except, he can hopefully make his death into some sort of chance for redemption thanks to his powers born from sheer regret-fuelled hatred by trapping and seemingly torturing Henry. At least, this is how he chooses to cope with all of his feelings in a way that feels productive. But of course, they don't solve the root of his regret, or the root of his low self-worth, as he is really just indulging in and marinating in his negative emotions for a theoretical eternity. And during all this, he is also watching over Corpse!Jack in all of his parallel timelines, seeing both the best and worst versions of himself (literally). He sees his neutral/evil route selves indulging in the worst vices imaginable without care, and he must see himself in them anyway, because Corpse!Jack did inherit his vices after all, naturally including his drinking problem for a start, except now he's actually acting on them much more freely without a soul to restrain him either. He is forced to see the worst of himself played out in reality, and he's the one who feels shame for them. (Now Corpse!Jack also experiences things like self-hate and regret for his actions, but again, he seems to move on from these feelings fairly easily, coping with them instead with a "no fucks left to give" attitude, the kind of attitude someone who knows he doesn't have a future would have. A soul does not have that luxury.)

Meanwhile, though, Blackjack is also forced to see the best of himself in True!Jack; the Jack that actually worked his ass off to right his, or rather their mistakes. And also the Jack to actually be present in their siblings' lives as their brother Jack, the one that actually acts like their brother Jack, like his old self, while Blackjack seems to have either forgotten how or lost interest in doing so. It's easy to forget because DSAF is fiction, but experiencing something like what Jack has experienced is gonna leave severe trauma, and severe trauma is gonna change you pretty fundamentally whether you like it or not. Except being soulless, based on his actions and reactions, Corpse!Jack seems to have escaped much of this trauma while Blackjack is practically characterized by it. I wouldn't say Corpse!Jack is entirely unaffected by any trauma by any means (even Evil!Jack loses his shit when seeing Dee's scarf), but again, he sure seems to move on from it by shoving his negative feelings aside for later or even outright ignoring them, while Blackjack copes by feeling them and acting on them all the time. They both cope with the same issues in completely opposite unhealthy extremes.

So while Corpse!Jack is seemingly not affected enough by what happened, Blackjack is unrecognizable to himself, to anyone who could recognize him (including even Corpse!Jack himself, as Corpse!Jack doesn't realize who Blackjack is till the very end), so Blackjack takes more comfort taking on a form that isn't himself. (Instead, he takes on the form of the only family he got to send off with closure, the only family member whose death doesn't inspire some sort of Regret, hm?) He even doesn't take on his own name, preferring Blackjack over just Jack. Despite holding some contempt toward him, he still allows Corpse!Jack to keep their original name.

And he clearly does have mixed feelings toward Corpse!Jack, even toward True!Jack, as he is "proud" of him at the end of True DSAF 2, but then also spiteful toward him in True DSAF 3, and honestly that's pretty understandable, as True!Jack has done the work and reaped the rewards for redeeming himself and getting to be family with Dee and Peter again, essentially living as Jack for him, but Blackjack, despite his uninvolvement in reality or the Flipside where his family are, he is the one who faces the trauma and emotional burden of what happened to him, and it's not like Blackjack hasn't done anything either (even if what he did was misguided and ultimately harmful). It would be hard not to hold some contempt for a version of you that can move on so easily from your worst regrets and who can get to live your life where you left off for you in your name. And he's happy, and he deserves to be happy, and you aren't, and you don't deserve to be. You don't even deserve to be yourself, you've decided without realizing, because he's doing it much better than you ever could anymore anyway. He's the one who can actually save them all, he's the one who's worthy of redemption, but you? You're the only one who can make Henry face what he deserves, and by god you're gonna do it even if it costs your entire self, it's not like it's worth much anymore.

All of this is to say, yeah, Blackjack's character is perhaps a little disappointing in DSAF 3 due to lack of time to explore it after the reveal, but combined with his character in DSAF 2, he is a much more interesting and 3-dimensional character to explore than people realize. And also I think I might have ADHD. Might.