I think of her now—my granddaughter, my greatest pride, and my greatest sorrow. She will be a Daemudang one day, just as I was. The blood that runs through her veins is strong, and she carries the weight of all the sacrifices I made to protect this lineage. But Haeseol does not see the world The way I did at her age. She is kind where I was cold, forgiving where I was ruthless. And I wonder—will that kindness be her undoing? Or will it make her stronger than I could ever hope to be?
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄
the reluctant hero, a heart of gold, the resilient survivor, haunted by past traumas, an outsider in every world, a keeper of secrets, the tragic protector, the cursed soul, an empathic seer of dreams, quiet but unbreakable, a beacon of hope, and a protector weighed down by fate.
an independent, semi-selective & non-exclusive roleplay blog featuring an original crossover character set within the universe of blood+ and the marvel cinematic universe / avengers assembled.
Please read the rules before interacting.
︙ 🌸 THE SHAMAN'S GREETING 🌸 ︙
001. WELCOME! Hi! I'm Moe. I use she / her pronouns and I'm twenty-five years old. Not that my ethnicity really matters here but a fun fact I'm black and Cherokee Indian.
001. KEEP IN MIND. I have a learning disability ( and in all fairness, it's likely undiagnosed ADHD / Autism ) and I'm not someone that's good at reading in between the lines ( especially if you decide to be passive aggressive with me ) so please, communicate with me so we can address the issue as adults -- if not, then please soft block me and move on.
NOTE: I am a person that has permanent brain damage due to prolonged brain hemrogging of three months as a severely underdeveloped infant (being at one ounce and one pound, the hemrogging started shortly after I was born) of only 21 weeks. Please keep that in mind in regards when interacting with me and reading the content on my blog and my character.
002. MIND YOUR MANNERS. vague blogging isn't allowed here and if I see it, it's an immediate block whether it was directed at me or not. I have RSD ( rejection sensory disorder ) and that has caused an unnecessary amount of crippling anxiety for me - vaguing in particular being a rather serious trigger for me in the past because I saw it was directed at me and didn't understand why the person wouldn't just talk to me about it. I'm not that mean and irrational of a person that I can't sit down and talk things through.
003. SHAMAN PROTOCOL. This is not a safe space for Trump supporters. [ extends to: racists, transphobia, sexists, ableists, etc ] no form of hate,bullying, witch hunting [ unless the person is a serious harm to the RPC or others here on tumblr ] will be tolerated here and I will not hesitate to block it on sight.
SIDE NOTE: minors / ageless / personal blogs will be blocked on site. This space caters to and only allows mature adult audiences.
004. WELLBEING OVER DUTY. I prioritize my well being over all of my blogs first and foremost. Writing is a hobby not a job. I genuinely don't care how long you take with replies and would rather you take care of yourself too.
005. FUN FACTS. I'm a romance lover. Haeseol is bisexual. When I say I love romance in all its forms, I include the dark and fucked up relationships where romance is possible too. I'm still open to other platonic stuff but like romance is my favorite. Wanna ship your muse with me? Go for it. 9/10 I'm usually already down for it. I'm very open to smut plots.
︙ 🌸 WARNING : DANGER ! 🌸 ︙
DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT a warning or tag used to indicate that a fanwork contains tropes or elements that may be deemed morally reprehensible without explicitly condemning the sensitive aspects.
KEEP IN MIND. just because I write and talk about these things in regards to the story or my characters DOES NOT mean that I condone them in real life or think any of this should be normalized in real life -- I am capable of separating fiction from reality & will write what I want and how I want.
DO NOT. come in my inbox harassing me over the content that I write. You will be blocked.
ੈ𑁍༘ ABOUT THE MUSE
BACKGROUND INFO: [ PART 1 l | PART 3 | PART 4 (marvel rp blogs please read! ]
EXTRA NOTES: PART 6.1 | PART 6.2 | PART 5 |
CULTURE & HISTORY: Part 1 |
Haeseol Kim is the biological daughter of STEVEN GRANT ROGERS & SAYA OTONASHI that was created by small group of RED SHIELD members without either person's consent or knowledge - a lab grown experiment that is a unique hybrid of human & chiropteran ( vampire breed ) genetics with particular buffs from the super soldier serum. Neither Haeseol or her parents have been aware of one another's existence up until a few weeks ago after the death of her grandmother.
ੈ𑁍༘ EXTRA STUFF
( important: these scenes and usually paired with journal entry posts & they are a better look at my muse, her thoughts, family, information, lore etc especially if you aren't sure how to approach her -- I'll do my best to keep them organized. )
muse centric:
[ 1 ] character study "the shaman goddess"
an unwelcome guest | journal one / journal two
[ 2 ] a different kind of strength
[ 3 ] in the name of love
[ 4 ] Haeseol x Taejun | part one | part two | part three
headcanons: strength through compassion | a shaman between life & death |.
Haeseol’s Thoughts on Marriage – A Headcanon Study
I. Traditional vs. Modern Marriage: A Tense Duality
Haeseol lives in a split world—one foot in the modern world of buses, coffee shops, and buzzing neon signs, and the other foot rooted deeply in the ancestral soil of Korea's spiritual traditions. She feels this tension every day, particularly when it comes to the subject of marriage. On the surface, her peers are pairing off, going on casual dates, posting couple photos online, or discussing wedding halls and honeymoon destinations. But for Haeseol, none of this is simple.
She knows what marriage has meant for women like her—mudang, shamans, spirit workers. Traditionally, many female shamans, especially those in the hereditary line (sesŭp-mu) or those who became initiated through spirit sickness (gangsinmu), were discouraged or outright forbidden from marrying. Their lives were to be dedicated to their gods or spirits, and earthly attachments—husbands, children, romantic entanglements—could be seen as a threat to spiritual purity or devotion. Some shamans, particularly in more conservative or rural communities, even divorced their spouses after receiving their spiritual calling. Marriage was seen not only as impractical, but dangerous: a husband could interfere with ritual practice, become jealous of divine attention, or worse, fall ill under spiritual backlash.
Yet Haeseol also lives in the present, where women are reclaiming autonomy and redefining relationships. She's watched other shamans marry, have children, build lives outside the gods’ shadows. She's even officiated ceremonies for friends who wanted traditional blessings combined with their spiritual identities. She sees that it’s possible now—but she remains hesitant.
Privately, she sometimes dreams of the small domestic things: mismatched socks on the floor, someone else's mug in her sink, hands touching hers across a table, a shared silence at night that isn't haunted by ritual bells or spirit screams. She doesn’t crave romance as fantasy. She craves peace. Presence. Not being alone after every battle. Not having to lie in a bath trying to piece herself back together without anyone who sees the bruises behind the rituals.
Still, she wonders if anyone could truly see her. Not the robes. Not the fearsome shamaness. Just her. Haeseol.
II. Would She Marry? Could She?
The short answer is yes—but it would take something rare.
Haeseol could see herself marrying, but only if the relationship existed in a very specific kind of space. The person would have to be someone who didn’t flinch at the smell of incense or the sight of her bloodstained hands after a possession. Someone who could hold her during the comedown of a ritual where her body convulsed and her spirit split. Someone who wouldn’t try to "fix" her or make her "choose" between love and spiritual duty. Someone who wouldn’t mistake her strength for emotional unavailability. Someone who didn’t ask her to explain the unexplainable every time something supernatural happened.
More than that, they'd have to live in the margins with her. Understand that her life is a liminal one, always teetering between this world and another. That sometimes she goes quiet not because she’s distant, but because something is listening. And that being with her means dealing with both the sacred and the monstrous—often in the same day.
She doesn't care about their wealth, class, race, or religion. She cares about stability, empathy, and emotional courage. It would be a slow fall—like someone carefully approaching a haunted house that might, finally, be empty. Trust doesn’t come easily to her. But when it does, she clings to it like thread tying her to the real world.
If she ever falls in love, it will be with someone who can weather her storms—not try to shield her from them.
III. Marriage in Shaman Culture – A Complicated Contract
Marriage, in Korean shamanic culture, is not straightforward.
For many mudang, the calling of the gods takes precedence over personal desire. The gods, once invited or bound to a shaman, become possessive. Some spirits tolerate marriage. Others do not. Some require their shamans to remain celibate or loyal only to them. Others get jealous of romantic partners, lashing out with illness, dreams, or ritual sabotage. There are tales of husbands falling mysteriously sick after their wives became shamans, or of marriages falling apart because the rituals consumed too much time, energy, or devotion.
Haeseol's case is far more volatile. She isn’t just a shaman—she is a magnet, a spiritual anomaly. Her body isn't just a vessel for the divine. It’s a battleground. A prize. And that makes any romantic entanglement not just emotionally risky, but spiritually dangerous.
Any partner she might take would need protection, rituals, spiritual shielding—and most of all, the courage to stand beside someone constantly watched by gods, monsters, and ghosts who believe they have some claim to her.
IV. The Shaman Bride – Divine Obsession
Haeseol long ago lost track of how many spirits, gods, gwishin, and beasts have declared their intention to make her their bride.
Sometimes it’s benign—a spirit offering her jewelry made of stardust, or a quiet god who sends her dreams of a life together in a palace beyond the veil. Other times, it’s violent. Possessive. Entitled.
The reasons vary. Some admire her strength. Others see her status as a mudang and believe her body would make a perfect vessel for rebirth or rulership. Others simply want to own something rare. And some—perhaps the worst—are drawn to her compassion and mistake it for an invitation.
She’s had gods promise her kingdoms. Ghosts build shrines in her name. Some demand her in marriage like she’s a contract to be signed, not a person with autonomy.
One of the most egregious attempts came from a Chinese boar god—gluttonous and golden, with tusks wrapped in silk and a voice that reeked of entitlement. He believed himself charming. He thought she would be grateful. When she refused, he didn’t take her seriously. Not until she poisoned his ceremonial fruit with a soul-cleansing charm, collapsed his dream palace with a shattered seal, and escaped through a spirit gateway he’d forgotten she knew how to manipulate.
Haeseol has never feared love. But she fears the idea of being owned. And she has learned to meet obsession with cunning. She is not a prize. She is not a trophy. And she will destroy anyone—mortal or divine—who tries to claim her without consent.
V. On Interfaith and Intercultural Marriage
Despite her weariness, Haeseol is open-hearted when it comes to different cultures and religions. While deeply anchored in her Korean identity and spiritual legacy, she possesses a curiosity and humility when it comes to learning from others. She’s held interfaith rituals for grieving families, participated in Buddhist chanting sessions, learned protective sigils from a Japanese onmyōji, and once worked alongside a Catholic nun to exorcise a spirit from a client’s home.
She doesn't believe in spiritual supremacy. She believes that all paths have power, and that the divine manifests differently depending on culture, language, and need.
If she were to fall in love with someone from a different faith or background, she would approach it with respect and eagerness to learn. She’d want to understand their customs, pray with them if they asked, and fold her life around theirs gently—never compromising her own path, but making room for theirs as well.
She once said:
“No faith should devour another. The divine is too vast for just one song.”
VI. Final Thoughts: “Love, Yes. But I Will Never Belong to Anyone.”
There’s a quiet loneliness that lives inside Haeseol. It isn’t bitter. It isn’t even painful, most of the time. It’s simply there. A constant companion.
She doesn’t expect love to come easily. She doesn’t long for fairy tales or epic romance. She doesn’t wait for someone to save her. But sometimes—just sometimes—she wonders what it would feel like to be with someone who doesn’t flinch when she wakes up screaming. Someone who doesn’t worship her or run from her. Someone who just… stays.
If she ever finds that person—if they are kind, resilient, and wise enough to walk beside her without trying to lead or follow—she might choose them. Not out of loneliness. But out of recognition.
And if not?
She will keep walking. Keep fighting. Keep healing.
Because she knows what she is. She is not a bride for the gods. She is not a possession.
𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒,ㅤ𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆:ㅤ𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘎𝘓𝘖𝘞ㅤ— FANDOMLESS ORIGINAL CHARACTER,ㅤwished by Echo.ㅤHe grants the hopes, the dreams, the pleas, yet fades away on whispered breeze, for those who call him will forget; the star that helped them through their debt & still, through the void he gently strides,
He was taken back by her beauty, his usual bravado faltering for a moment. Her eyes, the color of the river’s soul, searched his own, and he found himself at a loss for words. Her beauty was not something that could be easily described—it was something that had to be experienced.
Her skin was a warm olive, kissed by the moon and blessed by the earth. Her smile was like the gentle curve of the river, welcoming yet with an underlying strength that could carve mountains. Her words, soothing and sincere, had a power to them that made him feel as if he could trust her with his very existence.
“You are perfection in human flesh.”
He had never felt this way before, not even towards his precious wives. This was something different—pure, unblemished, and utterly terrifying. The realization of his own vulnerability in the face of her kindness made him feel naked and exposed. But instead of anger or fear, he felt a strange sense of comfort. It was as if all the coldness of his heart was slowly melting away, revealing something he had long forgotten—his humanity.
“I have never in my life, seen someone quite like you!”
Her words resonated within him, echoing through the caverns of his greed-tainted soul. The idea that she saw him, not as the powerful Sin Archbishop but as a person, filled him with a warmth that was as unfamiliar as it was intoxicating. His chest tightened, his breath hitched, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and brushed a stray lock of her hair away from her cheek. The touch was feather-light, a stark contrast to the iron grip he had held over his life and his countless battles. He felt the warmth of her skin, the gentle pulse of life beneath his fingertips, and something within him stirred.
Her beauty wasn’t just a visual spectacle, it was a siren’s call to his soul. The way she spoke of her simple joys, the way she saw the world with such clarity, it all pierced through the layers of greed and pride that had shrouded his heart for so long.
He didn’t feel the urge to hide or manipulate. He just wanted to be seen, truly seen, by this girl who smelled faintly of the sacred and the mundane.
“You cannot go …”
His hand hovered near her cheek, and for a moment, he contemplated the unthinkable—touching her, really touching her. It was a strange and alien sensation, one that both thrilled and terrified him. The urge to claim her, to make her one of his wives, was still there, a whisper in the back of his mind, but it was drowned out by something much more profound.
A desire to be worthy of her.
To be someone she could love without the taint of his sins.
“You have to stay with me, how can I go on without you in my life.”
Haeseol felt the brush of his fingers against her cheek—a light touch, barely there, but enough to send a jolt through her spine. Her breath caught, not from the contact itself, but from the weight of it. The reverence behind it. The need.
And then came the shift.
The river's edge rippled without wind. The incense smoke curled backward instead of up. And under her bare feet, the very soil exhaled a tremor.
Eun-yeong.
He wasn’t pleased.
Of course he wasn’t.
She didn’t need to look toward the river to know. The god’s presence pulsed through the water like a heartbeat—agitated, watching. His displeasure clawed up her spine, cold and unrelenting. The candle flames nearest the water flared once, then died with a hiss, their smoke dragging low across the stones like wary animals.
“Regulus.” Her voice came softer than she expected. She had heard his name in passing, maybe once or twice. It's not particularly hard for a shaman of her status to put names to faces, especially for a foreigner. The shaman gently reached up and took his hand in both of hers—not to return the affection, but to remove it. Slowly, carefully, she lowered his hand away from her face. Her palms were still damp with river water and cooled incense ash.
He touched me, she thought, with a flutter of nerves.
He touched me and you're going to throw a fit about it, aren’t you?
She could feel Eun-yeong’s awareness press up against her thoughts—bristling, possessive, silent in that eerie, judging way he always got when he thought someone was overstepping.
“I—" she tried again, breath catching awkwardly. She looked down, trying to gather herself. Her braid, heavy with river mist, slid over her shoulder. "I really… didn’t expect something like this after a ritual.”
Her cheeks were still burning. Even her ears still felt warm. Of course this would happen the one day I forgot to check my reflection after an exorcism, she thought, bitterly amused. Probably had ash on her forehead, riverweed clinging to her sleeves. And still he says stuff like that. Of course.
She smiled, wry and kind, but didn't let go of his hand just yet. “You don’t know what you’re asking for, you know that?” She laughed under her breath, nervous. “You think it’s love—and maybe it is, in the way things hit you hard and fast—but it’s also something else. You’re just… captivated.”
The river stirred again. No wind. Just the god’s voice moving through the water like a warning. The skin on her arms broke into goosebumps.
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the river, not in fear, but in shared understanding. Calm down. I'm handling it, she thought deliberately, letting the words hang between her and Eun-yeong like a breath in prayer.
Then, softer: You're not the only one who's protective.
She looked back at Regulus, sighing gently as she finally released his hand. “I’ve had spirits try to steal me away before. Spirits that thought because they wanted me, they were entitled to me. That because they felt something strong, it meant I had to belong to them. That love meant claiming.”
Her tone wasn’t bitter—just honest. Tired in the way old souls are tired, even if her face was young. She folded her hands behind her back, fingers fidgeting with the damp edges of her sleeves.
“I know this probably feels different to you. And maybe it is. But what I’m trying to say is… I’ve seen love used like a chain before. A beautiful chain, sure. But a chain all the same.” She shrugged slightly, the movement tugging at the beads still clinging to her sleeves. “I can’t be someone’s whole world, Regulus. That’s too much to carry. And I definitely can’t be someone’s belonging.”
She stepped back—not coldly, but to create space, to let the air settle. The river’s tension eased slightly, like a held breath released.
“I’m honored,” she said with a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes but still tried. “And flattered. Honestly? Kind of stunned. But I can’t return those feelings right now. It wouldn’t be fair to you. Or to me.”
Then, softer: “Especially not with him listening.”
She didn’t have to say Eun-yeong’s name. The god’s presence had already wound its way back into the roots beneath the river, for now placated—but always there. Always watching.
She took one last look at Regulus—really looked. Past the trembling, past the boldness, past the desperation. There was something real in his eyes, something raw. And it was because he saw her—not the holy robes, not the rituals, not the title.
Just… her.
A girl, still damp with river water, still tired from channeling spirits, still human beneath all that divinity.
And that is why this makes the decision to reject him, much harder.
“Thank you, for seeing me,” she said quietly. “But I must go.”
Then, with a little bow—not stiff, not ceremonial, just quietly resolute—she turned back toward the shrine steps.
Please, she whispered in her thoughts to the river god, her unseen shadow. Let him go without scaring him off like all the others.
"All I know is that life feels brighter, warmer, and more alive whenever I’m with you. I think I’m in love with you."
It happens after one of her river rituals.
The candles still flicker in the dusk light, smoke curling gently from the incense bowls. Her robes are still damp at the hem, her braid loose and heavy with river mist. Haeseol had just finished purifying a small boy who’d been followed by a water-bound spirit, and her body was only now starting to ache from the strain—the usual dull throb in her ribs and the ghost of heat behind her eyes.
She didn’t expect anyone else to still be here.
But then she hears it: footsteps crunching over the gravel path behind the shrine, hesitant but steady. Her shoulders stiffen. A spirit wouldn’t bother making a sound.
She turns, brushing her palms together to clear off bits of rice ash and soot, only to come face-to-face with a young man around her age. It takes her a second to place him. She’s seen him around—someone’s nephew, maybe. Came to a few open blessings. Always polite.
But his eyes—
His eyes are locked on her.
She blinks, confused but already smiling softly. “Ah. You stayed after the ritual?” Her voice is the same calm cadence she uses for children and troubled spirits, but her guard’s half-lowered. He doesn’t feel cursed or followed. “You shouldn’t linger by the river too long. It’s not always… kind.”
The river god, Eun-yeong, is quite prone to harassing strangers on the estate grounds. Taking a great delight in scaring people away.
Seeing that the young man clearly has something to say, She tilts her head, curiosity piqued. Her fingers flex inside her sleeves. “You can speak freely. The river’s already full tonight.”
Then the following words practically hit her like a brick wall:
"All I know is that life feels brighter, warmer, and more alive whenever I’m with you. I think I’m in love with you."
Haeseol freezes on the spot.
She’s been proposed to before—by grandmothers trying to marry her off to their well-meaning sons, by fussy strangers who believed touching her would bring them luck, even by spirits convinced she was their long-lost bride.
But this… This hits differently.
Her eyes go wide. The mist from the river seems to halt, suspended in the air between them. Her ears are burning. She’s aware of it now—her damp sleeves clinging to her arms, the slight tangle in her braid, the barest smudge of ash at her temple she forgot to wipe away. She’s not the holy, untouchable shaman in this moment. She’s just… a girl.
A very, very flustered one.
“I—” Her voice stumbles, and she immediately covers her mouth with her sleeve. “Goodness,” she laughs nervously, voice muffled. “You can’t just—say things like that after a ritual. My soul’s still half-floating somewhere and now it’s doing cartwheels.”
Gods, that sounded stupid. Really Haeseol?
“No—wait,” she says quickly, reaching out before she realizes it. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just… unexpected.”
Her voice softens. She glances down, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “I’ve heard a lot of confessions before. Marriage offers, love letters. Most are made out of awe. Because people don’t see me. They see just see the shaman in the fancy robes.”
She finally looks back at him, and her smile this time is smaller, but real. “But I think… you see me." She said. "The girl who still drinks Yakult when she’s too tired to eat." She continued with a small chuckle. "Who passes out after rituals and forgets to text back. Who probably smells like scented smoke and rice vinegar right now.”
“Thank you but...” she says gently, cheeks still tinged pink. “I don’t know if I can return those feelings right now." There's a pause. "Though, one day, I’d like to get to know you. Slowly. As myself.”
She folds her hands over her heart and bows her head just slightly, more out of sincerity than formality. “And… thank you again for being honest with your feelings about me. I know that wasn't easy to say and I know it came from the heart. I’ll carry those words with me for a long time."
When he's gone, Haeseol remains standing by the river, watching the water. She presses a hand to her forehead, softly shaking her head.
“Cartwheels,” she mutters to herself, grin ing sheepishly. “What a way to confess…”
HAESEOL'S WORK AS A SHAMAN | POSSESSION, PAIN & POWER.
this information reinforces and builds off of these previous posts: journal 1 | scene | journal 2
I. THE SPECTRUM OF POSSESSION: CONSENT, FORCE & VULNERABILITY.
For Haeseol, spiritual possession is not a singular experience—it exists on a volatile, unpredictable spectrum. When she consents to possession, it is part of ritual: a deliberate act of trust between herself and the spirits she communes with. These spirits are usually benign ancestral entities, guardian kami, or lost souls seeking resolution. In these moments, Haeseol prepares extensively—fasting, praying, burning specific incense, invoking protective rites passed down by her grandmother, Ming-Ji.
When possession is consensual, she still suffers disorientation and exhaustion, but there is structure, rhythm, and intention. Her consciousness might recede into the background, what she often likens to “sitting in the backseat of a moving car,” able to observe but not act, a silent witness in her own skin.
But when the possession is not consensual—when something ancient, furious, or cruel forces its way into her—everything changes. These invasions come with an almost primal violence. She often describes them as “feeling your soul snag on barbed wire as it’s yanked from the front seat of your body.” Her entire system goes into revolt. Her back arches violently, joints twist unnaturally, and her eyes often fill with blood from burst vessels. Her voice warps. Her flesh contorts. Sometimes she seizes. The more powerful the entity, the more damage she sustains—bones shatter, skin splits, organs rupture. One infamous incident with a “kisaeng” ghost—furious at men—left Haeseol vomiting blood for hours as the spirit thrashed her insides out of spite.
Worse still is when spirits try to trap her consciousness. While the body is overtaken, the soul does not rest. Haeseol has recounted being trapped in hyper-real illusions conjured by these spirits to keep her passive—some beautiful, some nightmarish. Sometimes she’s in a field of flowers, holding hands with her foster mother. Other times, she’s forced to relive a death that isn’t hers—drowning in the Han River, burning alive in a temple, being buried under salt in the mountains. These experiences feel real to her: the smells, the textures, the sensations of suffocating or choking. These illusions are not mere hallucinations. They are tactical attacks—meant to splinter her soul, weaken her grip on the body, and leave her vulnerable for full takeover.
II. THE COST OF HEALING: BLOOD, POWER & UNKNOWING REBIRTH
Haeseol’s body heals faster than it should—far faster. What would cripple someone else permanently, she recovers from within weeks. This is not just due to ritual care from her Halmeoni or the cleansing waters of Eun-yeong, the river god she’s bound to. It’s also due to her latent Chiropteran physiology—a truth that remains hidden from her. She’s never questioned why her injuries seem to “knit” together faster with regular blood transfusions. She simply assumes it’s because she’s “special,” that her soul’s density or power somehow mandates this. The truth, of course, is far stranger.
Twice a week, she receives transfusions—usually under the care of her attendants or healers. She doesn’t know that her O blood type, being a universal recipient, means she can absorb almost any blood given to her. Nor does she understand that this blood isn't just aiding her recovery—it's feeding something ancient and dormant in her biology. Haeseol doesn’t drink blood, not consciously—but her body metabolizes it with Chiropteran efficiency. It strengthens her bones, mends torn muscles, and repairs ruptured organs. Still, there’s a price. Too many violent possessions in a short span—and not enough blood—leave her skeletal, coughing up black ichor, eyes sunken, joints trembling. In these states, even her grandmother grows fearful.
Despite all this, Haeseol never sees herself as invincible. In fact, she leans hard into the sacrificial identity. “I can take more than others,” she tells herself. “That must mean I’m supposed to.” This belief only deepens her tendency to throw herself between others and danger, to volunteer for rituals others wouldn’t survive. She views her pain tolerance and regenerative ability not as a gift but a burden she must bear for others. If the gods made her strong, it was to suffer in their name.
III. THE ISOLATION OF POWER & THE UNSEEN TOLL
The emotional and spiritual toll of this work is immense. After each violent possession, Haeseol is left drained, bruised, sometimes comatose. Her attendants bathe her, dress her wounds, and her grandmother rarely leaves her bedside. Still, the silence that follows is haunting. No one else can understand what it’s like to be used by something ancient, to feel your soul dislodged from your body. It isolates her. Even her classmates at school, who revere her as a living divine, don’t see her. They see the shaman, not the girl who dreams of eating tteokbokki by the river or getting her nails done with friends. Her healing powers only deepen this alienation—no one sees how close to death she comes because the evidence disappears.
She also does not scar the way others do. The damage lingers for days or weeks, but there are no permanent marks. This has made her oddly disbelieved by some skeptics—if it was that bad, where’s the evidence? But her body remembers. In sleep, she often curls up protectively around phantom wounds. Her muscles twitch as if re-experiencing the trauma. And sometimes, in the quiet, she cries—but only when no one’s watching. There is shame in being strong but still hurting.
IV. THE WEIGHT OF DIVINE EXPECTATION
Despite all of this, Haeseol continues her work. There’s no choice. From infancy, the world told her she was chosen. Her grandmother’s lineage, the spirits, the people of Korea—they all expect her to rise and serve. To banish evil, to house the gods, to shoulder suffering. And she does. With grace. With humility. But under that grace is a young woman scarred by spiritual warfare and unaware that her biology may not be entirely human. She believes it’s all spiritual, that she was “made for this.” And perhaps, in some ways, she was.
But what happens when she learns the truth of her body? Of her healing? Of her Chiropteran blood?
And will she still call herself human when that truth surfaces?
CONCLUSION: A VESSEL. A VICTIM. A VICTOR.
Haeseol’s work as a shaman is multifaceted and perilous. It is beautiful in its tradition and terrifying in its violence. She is both revered and used, venerated and isolated. Her body is a battlefield where spirits fight and settle old scores, and yet, it is also her only home. Her healing is miraculous but misunderstood—even by her. And through it all, she endures. Bleeding. Burning. Healing. Again and again.
Not because she’s invincible.
But because she refuses to break.
JOURNAL ENTRY | HAESEOL KIM
LOCATION: My Room, after another ritual.
My fingers are still trembling. I tried to hold the brush to write this in my calligraphy journal but my hands cramped up again, so I’m sticking with this instead. The pain hasn’t left yet, not fully—not even after soaking in the river’s water and letting Halmeoni press warm salt packs against my joints. There’s a strange ache left in the bones, like a memory the body won’t let go of.
It was a forced possession tonight. Again. I don’t know how it slipped through the wards. I was only supposed to guide the spirit of a young girl—she’d drowned during monsoon season—but something else came through first. Something wrong. It moved faster than I could react. Before I could open my mouth to call for Halmeoni, it was already in me.
It’s hard to explain what that feels like. Everyone always asks me afterward, like it’s some mystical trance or godly moment of ascension. I think they want to hear something poetic. But there’s nothing poetic about your spine bending so far you can hear your vertebrae pop, or your tongue being pulled back so hard into your throat that you can’t breathe for whole seconds. I was trapped. Again. Forced into the backseat of my own body. No control. Just watching.
The spirit didn’t show me a nightmare this time—not at first. It showed me my mother.
She looked like me. She wore white. Her face was gentle and warm and so real. I ran to her, I hugged her, and she whispered, “It's alright. You're safe here.” And I almost believed her. Almost. But then I felt my ribs cracking. My fingernails digging into my own cheeks. The illusion split like a mirror being shattered, and I woke up with blood in my mouth and my head slammed into the floor. The pain brought me back, and I think that's what saved me.
I always wake up before they fully take me. That’s the rule. Haeseol must wake up. No matter what they show her.
The attendants rushed in when the candles all blew out. I could hear Halmeoni shouting from the next room—her voice sharp with fear, but steady. She’s always steady when I fall apart. She helped me out of my clothes. My whole body was red and raw, like I’d been scalded. They rubbed Eun-yeong’s water along my spine and temples, but I still feel like something is hanging on. I don’t know if it’s the spirit… or just the memory of it.
I drank the rest of the O negative liquid she’d stored in the freezer. I’m not supposed to down the whole bag, but the pain was so sharp I couldn’t stop shaking. My body was cold, and I knew I needed it. It’s strange how I never question that. Everyone else freaks out over blood. But for me, it’s like… breathing. Warmth in my veins. A quiet strength. It’s the only thing that lets me move after a night like this.
Halmeoni keeps telling me I’m strong. That this is what I was born for. But being a vessel—chosen or not—still hurts. It tears and it takes. Every single time.
And no matter how fast I heal, the ache doesn’t leave right away.
They say I’m a miracle. They see me in my white robes and think I’m holy. But I wonder if they’d still call me sacred if they saw how I scream when something ancient takes hold of my lungs… or how many nights I wake up gasping, clawing at my own chest, still smelling sulfur and blood.
I’m tired. I’m tired, and I don’t want to sound weak—but some nights, I wonder if these spirits even see me as a person.
Or just a door.
I don’t want to be just a door.
—Haeseol
JOURNAL ANALYSIS | A MODERN DAY SHAMAN'S BURDEN
Haeseol’s journal entry offers a vivid and haunting glimpse into the deeply complex, visceral, and often isolating life of a mudang—a Korean shaman—whose role straddles the ancient and the modern. Her words do not merely describe her pain and ritual experiences; they echo centuries of shamanic tradition contextualized through the lens of a modern, vulnerable young woman trying to survive forces far older and more brutal than most could imagine.
SHAMANISM AS INHERITANCE & IDENTITY
In Korean tradition, shamanism is often inherited, passed matrilineally or awakened through traumatic spiritual awakenings called shinbyeong (신병), a type of spiritual illness. Haeseol is no different—raised by her grandmother, ming-ji, a 400-year-old matriarch who guides and protects her, she represents a contemporary vessel for ancestral knowledge. The entry reveals how Haeseol navigates her role as a spiritual intermediary with reverence but also dread. Her experience is not sanitized by folklore or mysticism. Instead, we see the raw physicality of spiritual warfare. Her ribs crack, her eyes burst blood vessels, and her lungs collapse beneath the strain of being possessed—this is no metaphor. It is real. She does not simply “channel” spirits—she suffers for them.
This isn’t just a stylistic narrative—it speaks to the Korean cultural reverence for ancestral spirits and the heavy responsibility a mudang bears. Haeseol’s pain is spiritual currency, exchanged for protection, healing, and insight for others. In traditional Korean culture, the shaman is revered but kept at a social distance, often perceived as necessary but “othered.” Haeseol’s loneliness underscores this duality: the public sees the shaman, not the girl.
SPIRITUAL POSSESSION & BODILY VIOLENCE
What distinguishes Haeseol from many fictional portrayals of mystics or healers is the emphasis on consent. Her entry makes a clear distinction between possessions she welcomes versus those that violently enter her. This bifurcation is vital—not just in terms of narrative, but culturally and spiritually. In Korean shamanism, trance possession is voluntary and highly ritualized; a shaman prepares themselves, invites a spirit with offerings and chants. But in Haeseol’s case, these rites don’t always prevent malevolent entities from breaching the threshold. Her agency is violated.
The metaphor of being a “passenger” in her own body draws a painful parallel to the way women—especially young women—are often expected to endure suffering quietly. Haeseol’s experiences align with cultural archetypes of sacrificial femininity and purity, magnified through her youth, her modesty, and her blood-letting rituals. Yet, she endures. She doesn’t pity herself. Instead, she compartmentalizes, writes, and returns to the rituals. She bleeds in service of harmony, balance—a modern-day mudang who texts in emojis but also speaks to ancient beings with reverence.
THE LONELINESS OF DIVINITY
Haeseol’s remark—“They see me in my white robes and think I’m holy. But I wonder if they’d still call me sacred if they saw how I scream”—is the most haunting line in the journal. It points to the deep spiritual loneliness baked into her role. In traditional Korean thought, purity and pollution are often linked to physical suffering and sacrifice. Haeseol is pure because she suffers. But as a teenage girl, she does not romanticize it. She wants to be seen. To be comforted. To be treated as human, not just divine.
Her isolation is compounded by her body’s strange ability to heal unnaturally quickly—a result of her chiropteran heritage, which she doesn’t understand. This unknown biology functions as an unseen layer to her identity: she attributes her resilience to spiritual specialness, not to literal physiology. This misunderstanding echoes the mystification that often surrounds female pain—how it’s normalized, mythologized, and rarely investigated in practical terms.
MODERN YET ANCIENT: A WALKING PARADOX.
What makes Haeseol so compelling is her position as a contradiction. She is a modern Korean teenager who writes in journals, drinks transfusion bags like tea, and wants to live normally. Yet she is steeped in a 5,000-year-old tradition that demands she bleed for others, house spirits that do not ask permission, and survive trauma that feels ancient in origin but present in consequence.
Even her relationship with blood—normally taboo and sacred in Korean tradition—is transformed. Blood, to her, is not unclean but medicinal. Holy. Necessary. This inversion of cultural norm speaks to how she redefines purity—not as untouched, but as wounded and still here.
CONCLUSION
Haeseol embodies a modern mudang: but misunderstood, divine but deeply human, ancient in knowledge yet youthful in desire. Her journal doesn’t just chronicle pain—it reveals the unseen costs of spiritual labor in a world that romanticizes mystics while neglecting their humanity. In this way, she is not just a shaman. She is Korea’s spiritual wound-bearer: holy, haunted, and heartbreakingly alive.
HEADCANON: HAESEOL'S PERCEPTION OF HER BODY & NUDITY
“This body is mine, but it is not always my own.”
I. THE VESSEL BEFORE THE GIRL
Haeseol’s earliest understanding of her body wasn’t as a girl, or even a person, but as a vessel—an instrument through which spirits pass, scream, and sometimes heal. Taught by her 400-year-old Halmeoni from infancy, her first lessons about flesh were not wrapped in shame or modesty but in responsibility.
Her body wasn’t taboo—it was a medium, a tool of sacred labor. Nudity, in this context, was simply a state of readiness. A state of vulnerability that, paradoxically, made her powerful.
You cannot channel when you're clothed in ego.
You cannot negotiate with the dead when you're afraid of your own skin.
Her Halmeoni made sure she knew: shame has no place in sacred work. Reverence, yes. Cleanliness, yes. But shame? Never.
II. NUDITY AS PRACTICALLY: HEALING & READINESS
Years of exorcisms, possessions, and violent encounters with malevolent spirits have left Haeseol with a broken-in understanding of her own anatomy. Dislocated shoulders, cracked ribs, claw marks around the neck, and burst blood vessels are not metaphors—they’re Tuesday. When your body is in a constant state of trauma, modesty becomes secondary to efficiency.
She often sleeps nude, not out of sensuality, but because layers of fabric only get in the way of her grandmother or attendants treating her fevered skin, compressing burns, or draining her blood for the river god’s urn. In such moments, her nudity is almost clinical—necessary.
It allows fast access to wounds that reopen in the night. It allows water spirits to enter through her pores unimpeded when she bathes with river stones to purify herself. And most importantly, it allows her to feel what is hers—after so many hours spent possessed by something that wasn't.
III. MODESTY AS AWARENESS, NOT SHAME.
Though Haeseol is unbothered by her own nudity in private or ritualistic contexts, she is not careless with it. She understands the discomfort it can evoke in others. Her modesty is considerate, not self-deprecating.
She dresses modestly in public and at school not because she fears judgment, but because she’s already burdened with other forms of attention. The last thing she wants is to draw more eyes. She's revered like a minor deity, but seen as untouchable. Divine. And that alienation runs deep.
Her body is something others whisper about—how pale she looks, how thin, how exhausted. They never ask why. They assume it’s the cost of power. She wears long sleeves to hide bruises and binding to compress aching ribs. Her modesty becomes armor: not against judgment, but against curiosity.
VI. THE HAUNTING MEMORY OF PAIN
Every possession leaves behind a trace—not just spiritual, but physical. And Haeseol remembers all of it. Her mind is sharp, her body sharper still, etched with the pain of hundreds of spirits. The Slit-Mouthed Woman fractured her ribs and left claw marks so deep they bruised her windpipe. Haeseol did not cry, did not scream. She stood, calm, and spoke to the woman gently until she faded. But her body paid the price. Her body always pays the price.
And because of this, Haeseol does not idealize her flesh. She does not see her body as beautiful, not in the way society might praise a girl’s figure. She sees it as functional.
Familiar.
A battlefield and a shrine. There is a strange intimacy in knowing where each scar came from. Nudity allows her to trace those memories with her fingertips and remember what she survived.
V. SACRED, NOT SEXUALIZED
For Haeseol, nudity has never been sexual. It's hard to think of it that way when you’ve bled into river water and let an old spirit collapse your lungs from the inside. Her connection to her body is deeply spiritual, almost monastic in its detachment. She loves her body in the way a warrior loves a weathered sword—grateful, but practical. There is little space for vanity.
However, in her private moments—especially during pregnancy—she finds herself wondering. Her partner’s touch, her swollen form, the stretch of skin around her hips…these things bring her back into her humanness. And that terrifies her.
Because to be loved in this body, to be desired, feels…vulnerable in a different way. It’s one thing to open yourself to spirits. It’s another thing entirely to open yourself to affection, to intimacy, to the fear that someone might see you as more than a tool or shrine.
VI. PREGNANCY: THE SACRED MADE FLESH
Pregnancy complicates everything. Her body, once a tool of others—spirits, gods, ancestors—now becomes the home of her own. These twins are not guests. They are hers.
And as they stretch her skin and kick her lungs and steal her sleep, she feels something unexpected: ownership. Not in a controlling way. But in the sense that, for the first time, her body is doing something for her. Not for the dead. Not for her family. For her. And for them.
She still allows the hot towels and healing baths, still needs the bloodletting and cleansing. But at night, when she lies nude in bed, belly round and rising, she places her hand there and whispers—not chants, not prayers. Just…words. Mother words. Human words. Words not meant for gods or ghosts. Just for the babies.
Just for herself.
VII. CONCLUSION: HER BODY IS THE THRESHOLD.
Haeseol does not see her body as a temple. She sees it as a threshold—between life and death, pain and peace, human and divine. Her relationship with nudity is born not from rebellion or sensuality, but from survival.
From duty.
From the sacred demand of service and the private ache of wanting to be seen as more than a vessel.
Her body has been taken, used, broken, and healed again and again. And yet, it remains hers. Still soft. Still warm. Still willing. That’s not just resilience—it’s a miracle.
And whether dressed in ceremonial robes or nothing at all, Haeseol carries herself with the quiet certainty of someone who has lived ten thousand lives in one, and still chooses to live this one fully.
JOURNAL ENTRY | HAESEOL KIM
Date Unknown – Too Tired to Check. Babies are kicking again.
I’m trying not to cry while writing this. Not from sadness, not exactly. Just… it’s late. My whole body aches. I’m swollen from head to toe. The river water helped today—thank the gods—and Halmeoni’s attendants were kind enough to rub down my stomach with warm towels afterward. I think I scared one of them when I winced too hard. Poor girl looked ready to call for Halmeoni. I told her I was fine.
I always say I’m fine.
---
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my body more. Not in the "ugh I’m gaining weight" kind of way. That’d be silly—obviously I’m gaining weight. I’ve got two little monsters doing somersaults in my belly like it’s their personal gym. I mean… my body hurts. And yet, it feels more mine now than it ever has. For most of my life, this body hasn’t really belonged to me. It’s been a doorway. A host. A canvas for things older and more cruel than anything a teenager should ever have to touch.
I remember the Slit-Mouthed Woman.
She appeared during the rainy season. I was fifteen. There’d been whispers around Seoul—women seeing something with a long coat and scissors near alleyways. The night I met her, she was angry. Not the screeching kind, though. No… the quiet, tight-jawed kind of anger. The kind that simmers. She looked at me like I’d stolen something from her. I guess, in a way, I had.
“You’re pretty,” she said. “He must love you very much.”
I knew better than to answer. Spirits like that don’t want truth—they want confirmation. Pain.
Still, I spoke gently. Offered her my tea. Told her she didn’t have to stay long.
That’s when the ribs cracked. Just crack—like someone kicked me. And the claw marks came next, cold and searing all at once. I remember grabbing the table with one hand, trying not to lose consciousness. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just asked if she wanted to sit.
Eventually, she did. And then she left.
---
My body was a disaster afterward. I remember Halmeoni silently pressing ice to the welts around my throat. She didn’t speak. She didn’t scold. She just… did what needed doing. She’s always like that. Practical. Unshakeable. Sometimes I think I inherited her spine. I wonder if she had to learn to survive her own body, too.
But back then, I was so angry. So angry that I had to let these things in. Angry that I remembered every second of the pain. No one else did. Not the spirit. Not the townspeople who left me offerings afterward. Just me. Just my broken bones and my bruises and my memory.
---
That’s why I don’t think much about being naked. I sleep nude now, especially with the pregnancy. It makes it easier for the attendants to treat the swell in my ankles, or the fever blisters on my back. Halmeoni says it's good to let the skin breathe. I agree. I’ve had worse things inside me than a breeze.
But I’m modest around others. Not because I’m ashamed. I just… know it makes people uncomfortable. I already make people uncomfortable. Might as well keep a few layers on. Besides, it helps me feel more normal.
Even now, when my body’s stretching and twisting in strange, beautiful ways to carry these babies, I don’t feel embarrassed. I feel aware. Hyperaware. And not just because of the discomfort. It’s like—for the first time—my body is doing something for me. Not for the gods. Not for the ghosts. Not for the people praying at the gate. For me. For us.
---
Still, I won’t pretend it’s easy. Some nights I wake up and feel like I’m floating outside myself, like I’ve slipped out of my skin again. I have to look in the mirror just to remember I’m here. That this is mine. That I’m alive.
Then I place both hands on my belly. The babies kick. One’s always stronger than the other—definitely a troublemaker. I remember that I'm not alone. I never have been. Not really.
And somehow… that helps.
END OF ENTRY
Haeseol closes the journal, presses her palm to the spot just below her ribs where the skin is the warmest, and breathes. She’ll be okay. She has to be.
JOURNAL ANALYSIS | A BODY THAT REMEMBERS
1. HER BODY IS BATTLEGROUND
Haeseol's perception of her body is deeply complex. Through the journal, we see a young woman whose body has been a conduit for spirits—some malevolent, some desperate, all unforgettable. Her recounting of the violent encounter by the Slit-Mouthed Woman illustrates how her flesh has become both battleground and sacrifice. Her body bears bruises, fractured ribs, broken bones, and spiritual trauma—but in her eyes, these are not just scars. They are testimonies. Evidence that she endured.
And yet, what’s most striking is that Haeseol does not show hatred for her body. There’s no rejection of the vessel that has suffered so much. Instead, there’s a growing sense of ownership, especially in her pregnancy. She calls her body “more mine now than it ever has been.” It’s a quietly radical act of reclamation for a girl who has long been used by others—gods, ghosts, even society. In this journal, we see a shift from body as tool, to body as hers.
2. THE NORMALCY SHE YEARNS FOR
Despite her incredible power and responsibility, Haeseol longs to be a normal teenager. Her modesty around others is a key insight into this desire. She doesn’t avoid nudity because she’s ashamed of herself, but because she’s aware of how she’s perceived. She’s already different. She already makes people uncomfortable. Choosing to dress modestly is not an act of shame—it’s an act of consideration. A way of softening the spiritual weight she carries for the sake of others.
This emotional restraint is emblematic of someone deeply self-aware but also incredibly lonely. There’s a yearning in her words—a desire not to be revered, but seen. Not as the shaman, not as the spiritual girl, but simply as Haeseol. That yearning humanizes her in an otherwise mystical, violent, and spiritual life.
3. RESILIENCE & ENDURANCE
Haeseol is defined by her resilience, though she never calls it that herself. She writes about her trauma and pain without seeking pity. Her calm during the Slit-Mouthed Woman encounter, her lack of bitterness, and her ability to see these violent possessions as something to endure and survive rather than be broken by—this is the quiet heroism of her character.
When she says, “I always say I’m fine,” it’s more than deflection. It’s the survival mantra of someone who has had to convince herself of it so often that it’s become instinct. Yet, there is also vulnerability—she admits she almost cried while writing. That contrast between stoicism and emotional honesty adds great depth to her character.
4. CONNECTION & INHERITANCE
Haeseol’s relationship with her Halmeoni, Ming-Ji, is threaded throughout the journal. Her grandmother is her anchor—silent, unyielding, ever-present. The moment where her Halmeoni tends to her wounds without a word is one of the most emotionally resonant parts of the journal. It tells us everything we need to know about how Haeseol learned to carry her pain: with silence, grace, and a kind of cultural pride rooted in generational strength.
Her mention of Ming-Ji’s possible own past struggles—“I wonder if she had to survive her own body too”—reflects Haeseol’s growing maturity. She’s beginning to see her grandmother not just as a protector, but as a woman who once walked the same path. This inheritance of strength through suffering, especially in a Korean shamanic context, is foundational to Haeseol’s identity.
5. MATERNAL TRANSFORMATION
There’s a notable shift in the way Haeseol views her body since becoming pregnant. For the first time, her body is doing something for her—not the spirits, not the country, not the ancestral gods. She is growing life, and while it’s exhausting and painful, she sees it as hers. This ownership is empowering. Even the way she calls her twins “little monsters” is affectionate, not resentful.
Pregnancy becomes a moment of reclamation—Haeseol is no longer just the vessel of gods or the haunted girl. She is a mother. And that transformation grounds her. Even amid spiritual discord and physical pain, the babies are a reminder that her life is not only about suffering.
It’s about the future. Her future.
CONCLUSION
This journal entry presents Haeseol as an incredibly layered young woman—a spiritual warrior, a reluctant divine figure, and a deeply human teenager craving normalcy. Her body has been used, hurt, and nearly broken, yet her relationship with it is one of acceptance rather than rejection. Through her modesty, her resilience, and her quiet acts of rebellion (like sleeping nude to aid healing), we see someone who has made peace with her reality, even as it hurts.
HAESEOL KIM — PREGNANCY HEADCANON | ft. two analysis' and two journals
I. CULINARY EXPERIMENTS GONE ROGUE
Haeseol’s pregnancy cravings are as unpredictable as they are wildly inventive. Having grown up steeped in traditional Korean recipes—many of which she once avoided during her years as a daemudang, when her diet had to remain strictly purified of strong flavors to accommodate spirits of all kinds possessing her body—she now treats her cravings like a laboratory project. Bulgogi pizza with mango chutney? Sure. Soondae dipped in whipped cream? Absolutely. If it exists, Haeseol will find a way to pair it with pickles, sweet red bean, or fish cakes.
Before she became pregnant, she’d adhered to a nearly monastic regimen: plain barley tea, simple rice gruel, and the occasional boiled greens. Strong spices risked angering benevolent spirits or drawing the attention of jealous ones—spirits capable of leaving bruises, scratches, or fractured bones without ever laying a hand on her. Now, with twins growing inside her, Haeseol refuses to be bound by that old fear.
She defends her combinations with logic. “It’s not weird,” she says, layering strawberry jam on kimchi fried rice. “Vitamin C from the berries, iron from the kimchi, the dairy’s good for calcium—perfect synergy.”
Her attendants wince. Her partner blinks. She just takes another bite.
Yet for all her experiments, her deepest craving is sweets—soft, warm ones. Sweet rice cake dusted in soybean powder, gooey lava brownies, milk tea lattes. They calm her when the world feels too loud. That is, until her stomach decides nope, and suddenly she’s green-faced and dramatically sprawled on a futon with her arm over her eyes, muttering, “Betrayed by mochi. Again.”
II. DOUBLE TROUBLE, DOUBLE JOY.
She’s barely in her second trimester when the media frenzy begins: "Daemudang Kim Pregnant with Twins!” Headlines spread fast. She hadn’t planned to announce it—she just went in for a routine check-up (her diet carefully monitored after years of spiritual work) and the hospital staff leaked the news before she could even call her grandmother’s old friends.
The public has opinions. The aunties in her neighborhood definitely have opinions. But Haeseol doesn’t mind the attention half as much as she thought she would. She’s too preoccupied wondering whether the babies will share a room or need separate cribs.
“They fight,” she says, hand over her belly. “I can tell already. One likes my left side, the other kicks the right every time I lie down.”
Twins weren’t the plan. But now? She wouldn’t have it any other way.
III. SMALL FRAME, BIG FIGHT
Even heavily pregnant, Haeseol doesn’t slow down. She’s short—her round belly seems to take up her entire torso—and yet she’s still going up and down steps, checking herbs in the greenhouse, folding baby clothes like she’s preparing for war.
The greenhouse is humid, the floor creaky with age, but she’s in there every morning, sleeves rolled, thumb brushing over each leaf like she’s greeting an old friend. The baby clothes are folded with the precision of temple cloths—creases aligned, tags trimmed, arranged by color and season.
When someone gently tries to carry a box for her, she just gives them a look. “I’ve delivered six babies and purified angry spirits before I turned sixteen. I can carry *one* box.”
The silence that follows is always the same: sheepish apologies, nervous laughter, maybe a quick retreat. Haeseol doesn’t raise her voice, but her tone carries the weight—firm, measured, unwavering.
It’s not that she’s stubborn. She just likes knowing her body’s still hers. Still capable. Still strong. It comforts her. Reminds her she’s more than a headline, more than a bump.
In a life where spirits once entered and left her body without permission, where rituals left her bruised and breathless, this—her body growing new life—feels like something sacred. Something she owns. She won’t give that up for anyone.
IV. CLINGY QUEEN OF AFFECTION
With her partner, Haeseol becomes something softer than even her own quilts. She becomes attached—physically and emotionally—wanting them close all the time. She holds hands without thinking, her fingers always seeking theirs like a magnet. She leans into their shoulder mid-sentence, unconsciously gravitating toward their warmth. She instinctively reaches for them when she gets sleepy, tugging at their sleeve or wrapping her arms around their waist with a sleepy whimper if they try to move away.
Cuddles are no longer optional. They’re mandatory. “I’m growing two people. You can handle being the big spoon,” she mumbles into their collar, muffled by fabric and a smug little smile. “Or we can just glue ourselves together. That also works.”
She kisses their face constantly—temples, cheeks, jawline. In the middle of conversations, during quiet meals, while brushing her teeth and remembering something funny. She says it’s to feel connected. She also says they’re warm and smell like home. Sometimes she falls asleep mid-kiss, her lips barely grazing their cheek, peaceful and trusting in a way that says you’re my safe place.
And if they’re gone for too long? She sends half-coherent voice messages like:
“Hey. Are you thinking about me? Because your kids are. They kicked when I looked at your picture.”
“I just folded your shirt and it smelled like you and now I’m crying so come home.”
“I don’t need attention, but the babies and I conducted a vote and…it’s unanimous.”
She doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. She’s clingy. And proud. Because she knows love like this is rare—and she’s not letting it slip by unnoticed.
V. GIFT GIVER MODE: ACTIVATED
Pregnancy awakens her inner fairy godmother. She starts gifting her partner with handmade teas—some infused with safe, soothing herbs she once used in purification rites—each blend carefully balanced for flavor and calm. She weaves silk scarves in pastel hues on old looms, their threads humming with her good wishes. She fills pocket journals with tiny watercolors of flowers and notes like “You’ll be a good parent. I know it.”
Even if she’s tired, even if her feet are sore from hours on temple floors or pacing her home at night, she still thinks of them first. “You looked a little down yesterday,” she says, slipping a small box into their hands. Inside, there’s a hand-wrapped rice cake and a handwritten playlist of songs that remind her of their laughter together. “So I made you a playlist. And this rice cake. Eat it before it gets hard.”
She’s always been thoughtful—but now it’s tender. Everything she gives them carries the weight of a future she’s choosing with them, not just for herself. Each gift is a promise: of shared mornings, of hands held through sleepless nights, of two little ones who will know a lifetime of love.
VI. MASTER OF THE POUT
Haeseol Kim pouts like it’s her full-time job. She pouts when her slippers are too far to reach. She pouts when her partner eats the last dumpling. She pouts when she’s too sleepy to finish her book but refuses to admit it.
And she’s good at it. The kind of pout that makes you feel like you’ve personally wronged a baby deer. Her lip wobbles. Her eyes get watery. She even sniffs dramatically for effect—just once, timed perfectly like a k-drama actress in the final scene of a tearjerker.
She doesn’t even do it consciously half the time. She just leans back on the couch, eyes full of betrayal, and suddenly it’s like the air itself bends to her will. Her partner can’t take it. They fold instantly.
Of course, her partner caves every time. She knows. She milks it.
Sometimes she rewards them with a smug little hum, a satisfied kiss on the cheek, or a triumphant “Knew you loved me most.” Other times, she plays innocent, blinking up at them like, What? I didn’t even say anything.
It’s ridiculous. It’s manipulative. It’s a little bit theatrical.
But it’s also deeply Haeseol—sweet, sharp, emotionally fluent, and just a little bit spoiled in a way that only comes when you know you’re safe and adored.
VII. THE PREGNANCY GLOW.
There’s a kind of glow that comes from being in love, in trust, in full bloom—and Haeseol has all three. Her skin clears up (no more bruised arms or streaked cheeks from past spiritual battles). Her eyes brighten, sparkling with a warmth that didn’t come from candlelight or rituals—but from something deeper. Her hair falls in soft, glossy waves around her cheeks, catching the sunlight in gentle highlights.
People stop her in the street, not because she’s famous, but because she looks soft. Not fragile—but warm. Like someone who’s finally letting herself be loved. Mothers with children smile and nod; shopkeepers offer her an extra helping of rice cakes without charge. Strangers whisper, “She must be very happy,” as she passes by.
She’s always carried herself with pride—head held high, shoulders squared, every gesture confident. Now, there’s something gentler there too. Her hands move slower, lingering over railings or the edge of a table as if she’s savoring every moment. Her laughter lingers—an unhurried, melodic sound that draws others in. She hums more often, softly, a tune born from contentment rather than ritual.
She’s not just having your average pregnancy glow. She’s settling into a long life of joy and true happiness.
VIII. HER THOUGHTS ON MOTHERHOOD
Becoming a mother wasn’t an accident, nor was it something thrust upon her. Haeseol made the choice. Despite being young. Despite the world’s eyes on her.
She read books on child psychology, remembered every lesson and experience about childcare and birth from her grandmother, and listened intently to attendants who had watched her guide spirits safely away. She kept notes. She asked questions. She built her confidence one piece at a time.
Now, she rests her hands on her belly and speaks softly:
“I chose you. Before you were real, before you were known—I chose you. And I’ll keep choosing you.”
To her, motherhood is not the end of who she was—it’s the expansion of it. She is still a caretaker. Still a healer. Still herself. But now, there are two tiny futures growing under her heart, and she wants to meet them more than anything.
She’s scared sometimes. Who wouldn’t be? But in between the fear is a steady kind of love. A deliberate kind. The kind she was taught. The kind she’s giving forward.
And she knows—no matter what people say, or how public her life becomes—this is her family. Her joy. Her choice.
***************
JOURNAL ENTRY — 32 WEEKS & EVERYTHING IS SWOLLEN
Okay. So.
One month left.
One.
Month.
Left.
(Deep breath. Exhale. Drink some barley tea. Immediately regret drinking the barley tea because now I have to use the bathroom again and I just sat down.)
The babies are basically doing taekwondo in my ribs right now. I don’t know what I ate—wait, no, yes I do, it was the red bean ice cream on top of hotteok filled with more red bean, don't judge me—but they are active. I swear one of them just headbutted my spleen.
And my partner? Keeps giving me this smile. You know the one. That tight-lipped, I-am-definitely-not-hiding-something-but-also-I-just-googled-how-many-diapers-a-newborn-uses-in-a-day kind of smile. It’s… suspicious.
When I asked what was going on, they just rubbed my back and said, “You’re glowing.”
Which, thank you, but what does that mean? Glowing like a healthy candle or glowing like a dying lightbulb about to pop? I’m too tired to interpret metaphors right now.
Still… their massages are the only reason I haven’t combusted. Seriously. They get this one spot between my shoulders that makes me exhale like I’ve seen heaven. And the hot towels from the attendants? Literal angels in human form. They place them so gently over my belly and swollen ankles like I’m royalty—and I won’t lie, I am milking that energy.
Bath time has become absolute necessity. The towels, the lavender oil, the warm water—chef’s kiss. I swear the babies calm down the minute they feel steam. Like little steamed buns just relaxing in their little belly sauna.
Anyway. These kids?
Absolutely going to be a handful.
One of them keeps doing what I swear is a full-body spin whenever I lie on my side. The other kicks on purpose whenever my partner talks too loud. It’s giving chaos. It’s giving payback. It’s giving: “You thought being a daemudang was hard? Ha! Try parenting twins.”
But if there’s one thing Halmeoni taught me, it’s this:
You don’t have to know everything to be a good mother. You just have to keep showing up with love, some nourishing food, and the ability to make a room quiet with your eyes.
So I’m showing up. Puffy ankles, back pain, emotional outbursts over dropped chopsticks and all.
I’m so excited I could scream.
I’m so nervous I did scream yesterday (but it was because I sneezed and pulled a muscle).
I keep picturing it: two tiny people, wrapped up like little rice balls, blinking up at me with my nose and maybe my partner's eyes. Will I cry? Will I faint? Will I just go totally blank and start reciting a lullaby like a robot? Probably yes to all three.
But we’ll figure it out. Together.
Because this family? We’re scrappy, full of love, and very well-fed.
We’ve got this.
— Haeseol Kim (officially 90% baby, 10% snack cravings)
***************
HEADCANON: THE PAIN OF A SOULMATE
“What I carry in my body, they carry in their heart.”
I. THE BOND THAT DEFIES FLESH
Haeseol and her partner are soulmates in the truest, deepest sense. Not in the romanticized way people toss the word around, but in the visceral, spiritual tether that binds two people beyond logic, beyond time. When Haeseol chose to become a parent, it wasn’t just her body that would be carrying the weight. Her partner—gentle, patient, and ever present—would carry it too.
It started subtly. The day Haeseol woke up bloated and sore, her partner was pale, eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue. When her back ached, they rubbed theirs absentmindedly. Neither of them said it aloud at first. It was easier to pretend it was coincidence. But the truth was simple, undeniable: they felt what she felt. Not identically, not with the same intensity—but with enough to know that her pain was never hers alone.
II. THE BODY AS A BATTLEFIELD
Pregnancy changed Haeseol’s body more drastically than she expected. Her frame was always small, but now her belly stretched high and forward, heavier than most, unmistakably round with twins. Her hands and feet swelled often—sometimes painfully so. It hurt to walk. It hurt to sleep. And while the people around her whispered in concern, she dismissed it with a tired smile, saying, “I’m fine.”
But her attendants knew. And so did her partner.
Haeseol, ever the caregiver, struggled with the idea of being seen in discomfort—especially by the one person she loved most. She couldn't bring herself to expose her raw, unflattering moments: the stretch marks she quietly applied oil to, the swollen ankles she hid under long dresses, the way her face would bloat and flush after a hot bath.
Though she craved their touch, she recoiled from it. Though she wanted intimacy, she dodged even a kiss.
III. THE SILENT KINDNESS OF A SOULMATE
Her partner never said a word about her distance. No accusations. No frustration. Just gentle smiles and small gestures—hands that brushed her hair out of her face, a lap offered when she grew too dizzy to stand, lips that pressed against her shoulder in quiet reassurance.
They massaged her aching feet while she slept. They knelt beside her with compresses for her wrists. And when she couldn't bring herself to speak, they left handwritten notes—short, affirming, and unbearably kind.
“You’re beautiful, even now.”
“It’s okay to let me carry you.”
“You are not alone in this.”
When her emotions swelled up and spilled over one night, she finally asked them:
“How long have you been suffering like this?”
And their answer, whispered against her knuckles with a kiss, broke her open:
“Since the day you told me we were going to be parents.”
IV. EMOTIONAL ECHOES: THE WEIGHT OF EMPATHY.
Because they’re soulmates, their connection extends beyond touch—it bleeds into feeling. When Haeseol cries, her partner grows quiet and introspective. When she wakes up anxious, they shift in their sleep beside her, heart racing. When she dreams of her grandmother—both fond and aching—they wake with the ghost of her lullabies in their ears.
She never asked for them to carry her pain. But they chose to. Not out of duty, but out of love.
And that’s what finally undoes her: the realization that while she was busy shielding her body in shame, they were quietly bruising with her—never demanding space, only waiting for her to let them back in.
V. HEALING THROUGH ACCEPTANCE
After her breakdown, something changes. Haeseol begins letting them in again.
It starts slowly: a hand held for longer than usual. A forehead leaned into their chest. A whispered apology in the middle of the night.
They respond with nothing but love, because there is no grudge to be held—only a life they’ve built together, one that is still growing.
And in time, her kisses return. Her affection spills back in waves. They lie beside her at night, their hand splayed over her stomach, feeling the flutter of movement beneath her skin.
“You don’t have to hide anymore,” they murmur.
And for once, she doesn’t.
VI. WHAT THE WORLD DOESN'T SEE
To outsiders, their love seems quiet, understated. The public watches the daemudang with awe, reverence, even wariness. But behind closed doors, in the privacy of their little sanctuary, Haeseol is just a girl in love—nervous, deeply vulnerable, and still learning how to let herself be cared for.
And her partner? They are her constant. Her mirror. Her shelter.
Because for all the weight she carries in her body, her partner carries her. In every way that matters.
FINAL NOTE
When their twins are born—red-faced, wailing, alive—Haeseol will look at her partner through tear-filled eyes, exhausted but whole. She’ll reach for them, because she knows:
They didn’t just give her strength.
They shared it.
And somehow, that makes all the difference.
***************
JOURNAL ENTRY | Late Spring
I knew pregnancy would change me—physically, emotionally, spiritually—but I don’t think anything could have prepared me for what I realized tonight.
My attendants whispered about how swollen my hands have become. How difficult it must be for me to walk now. I laughed. Brushed it off. Told them I was fine. I’ve said it so many times now I almost believe it.
But then Sayaka said something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about:
“I believe it hurt them to see you in pain.”
Not me. Them. My partner. The one who’s been with me every step of the way.
I didn’t want them to see me like this. Bloated, sluggish, round as the moon and twice as sore. I thought I was sparing them. Protecting them. I stopped reaching for their hand. I avoided their kisses. I convinced myself it was better that way. That they would understand.
And they did. Too well.
They never asked why. Never complained. Just smiled. Just… waited.
And now I know why my feet felt less tight in the morning.
Why my back didn’t ache quite as much after a restless night.
They’ve been staying up late, giving me massages while I slept. Carrying my discomfort in silence. Smiling when I pulled away, even though they must’ve wondered if I didn’t want them anymore.
How could I not have seen it?
How could I forget that love doesn’t mean hiding your pain—it means sharing it?
I thought I was protecting them by keeping my distance. But really, I was just afraid. Afraid of being seen differently. Afraid they’d touch the parts of me I’ve grown ashamed of—my thickened belly, my swollen ankles, the darkened stretch along my hips—and realize I wasn’t the woman they first kissed in that old courtyard.
But they still look at me like I’m the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen.
And I—I’ve been avoiding their eyes.
I don’t know if this is what it means to be selfish, or just scared.
But I do know this: I don’t want to be distant anymore. I don’t want them to carry my pain in secret. I want to hold their hand again. I want to kiss them in the middle of the day just because I can. I want to let them see me, all of me, even when I feel like a stranger in my own skin.
We made a promise.
To walk this life together.
And I’ve been walking ahead without realizing they’ve been limping beside me.
No more.
Tonight, I’m going to hold them close.
Not as a healer. Not as a daemudang.
Just as Haeseol.
Their Haeseol.
I hope that’s still enough.
And I know—deep down—it always will be.
JOURNAL ANALYSIS: WHY THIS
REVELATION BROKE HAESEOL
I. A HEALER WHO FORGOT TO BE HELD
Haeseol’s entire identity has long been rooted in her ability to care for others. She is the village’s daemudang, the one people look to in times of crisis, the one who absorbs pain so others don’t have to. This creates an invisible but deeply ingrained standard for herself: I am the one who endures. I am the one who supports.
But pregnancy shifts that balance. For the first time in her life, Haeseol finds herself physically vulnerable, emotionally overwhelmed, and not in control. Her swollen limbs, her changing body, her uncharacteristic exhaustion—none of it aligns with the version of herself she has cultivated and depended on for so long.
So she does what she always does when she feels fragile: she hides it. Not out of vanity, but out of fear. Fear of being seen differently. Fear of burdening the one person she loves most. Fear of being perceived as less capable—less strong, less beautiful, less worthy.
II. THE QUIET DEVOTION
SHE OVERLOOKED.
Haeseol didn’t see it coming. She didn’t notice—and that’s the part that cuts her deepest.
Her partner never confronted her. Never asked for acknowledgment. They simply stayed beside her, offering the quiet kind of love that doesn’t need applause. They gave, and gave, and gave—massaging her feet while she slept, staying awake to tend to her swelling hands, silently enduring the pain of her pregnancy. They absorbed her discomfort because they loved her, not because they expected anything in return.
And she missed it. Not just missed it—but dismissed it. She had been so focused on shielding them from her discomfort that she didn’t realize they were already shouldering it with her. She thought she was protecting them… but in truth, she had unintentionally shut them out.
That realization isn’t just humbling—it’s devastating.
III. SHAME IN THE FACE OF
UNCONVENTIONAL LOVE.
What makes this revelation especially painful is how undeserving Haeseol feels in the face of her partner’s unwavering patience. She pulled away. She avoided their touch. She neglected intimacy. And through it all, they never made her feel guilty, never asked her to explain.
They simply loved her.
And when she finally sees the extent of their quiet sacrifice, it shatters her—not because she was ever unloved, but because she realizes she wasn’t as present as she thought. That despite being the one physically pregnant, her partner had been walking the emotional path right beside her, barefoot on the same thorns—and she hadn’t even held their hand.
That disconnect, to someone as emotionally intuitive and empathetic as Haeseol, feels like a betrayal of everything she believes in. Her calling is to protect, to connect, to care—and she missed the pain of the person who matters most to her.
It is the kind of regret that nests deep in the soul.
IV. THE GUILT OF BEING LOVED
Haeseol’s partner didn’t express their pain—because they didn’t want to add to hers. They endured it in silence, believing that was what she needed. And this, perhaps, is the most painful part of all:
She was loved gently while she loved from a distance.
And they never made her feel wrong for it.
There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that comes from realizing someone has been quietly breaking for your sake, and never once asked you to notice.
That’s what Haeseol feels. And that’s why she breaks down—not because she was unloved, but because she was loved so well, so selflessly, that it left no space for pride or defense.
V. HEALING AFTER THE HURT
But what makes this moment transformative isn’t the pain—it’s what follows. Once she realizes the truth, Haeseol doesn’t retreat. She opens. She reaches back. She begins sharing again.
And in doing so, she begins to accept that love isn’t just about protecting others. It’s about letting them protect her too.
CONCLUSION
This moment is painful because it confronts Haeseol with the reality that even the strongest need to be vulnerable. That love, real love, is not one-sided endurance—it is shared weakness and shared strength. And while she may have faltered in her fear, she is still loved. Fully, deeply, and without condition.
The guilt may linger, but so does the grace. And that’s where healing begins.
would anyone be interested in some shippy angst with haeseol? Your character is her soulmate and she's just now realized that you've been feeling her pain.
💗 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 . . . ( cupid's bow! ) Use this generator to send me a prompt! *Rating: Platonic / Romantic / NSFW. With over 95 prompts to choose from. preview under cut
→ ∗ ⁽ ! ⁾ Sender [ sends the prompt ] & Receiver [ receives the prompt ]
send in an a prompt ( or multiple ) and i’ll write a valentine’s starter for our muses! 💌💕
fluff & romance
❤️ "secret admirer" – muse a keeps receiving anonymous love letters, only to discover muse b has been sending them all along.
❤️ "cliché but cute" – muse a and muse b get stuck in an elevator on valentine’s day, leading to an unexpected confession.
❤️ "first valentine’s" – it’s muse a and muse b’s first valentine’s together, and they’re both nervous about making it special.
❤️ "homemade love" – instead of going out, muse a and muse b decide to cook dinner together, leading to food fights and laughter.
❤️ "just friends?" – muse a asks muse b to be their “fake date” for valentine’s, but things start to feel a little too real.
❤️ "rainy day romance" – a valentine’s picnic gets ruined by rain, but muse a and muse b make the best of it.
❤️ "midnight confession" – muse a and muse b end up alone together on valentine’s night, and one of them finally confesses their feelings.
drama & angst
💔 "forgotten valentine" – muse a thinks muse b forgot about valentine’s day, but muse b actually had a huge surprise planned.
💔 "unrequited?" – muse a gathers the courage to confess on valentine’s, only to misinterpret muse b’s reaction.
💔 "ghosted" – muse a and muse b were supposed to go on a valentine’s date, but muse b never shows up.
💔 "last valentine’s" – muse a and muse b are breaking up, but they promised to spend one last valentine’s together.
💔 "love triangle" – muse a is torn between confessing to muse b or accepting a valentine’s date from someone else.
💔 "second chances" – muse a and muse b used to be together, but valentine’s brings up old feelings neither can ignore.
teasing & anticipation
🔥 "dinner & a show" – muse a and muse b go on a fancy valentine’s dinner date, but the real fun begins when one of them starts teasing the other under the table.
🔥 "not so innocent gift" – muse a surprises muse b with a valentine’s gift… but it’s not safe for work.
🔥 "the bet" – muse a and muse b make a bet: whoever gives in to temptation first loses. but neither of them is making it easy.
🔥 "forbidden touches" – muse a and muse b are at a crowded valentine’s event, but that doesn’t stop them from sneaking touches when no one’s looking.
🔥 "say my name" – muse a and muse b exchange valentine’s gifts, but muse b’s gift comes with a challenge: muse a has to say their name exactly the way they like it.
seduction & play
💋 "be mine" – muse a decides to leave little love notes all over muse b’s body—written in red lipstick.
💋 "lingerie surprise" – muse b wasn’t expecting much for valentine’s… until muse a shows up wearing something special just for them.
💋 "love and leather" – muse a lets muse b pick out their valentine’s outfit, but muse b takes full advantage of the opportunity.
💋 "stay the night" – muse a invites muse b over for a valentine’s date, but the way they’re looking at each other… there’s no way muse b is going home tonight.
💋 "taste test" – muse a and muse b feed each other chocolate-covered strawberries, but things quickly escalate.
control & power play
⛓️ "tied up in love" – muse a thought they were just getting a cute valentine’s surprise… until they found themselves restrained to the bed.
⛓️ "patience, darling" – muse b is eager to unwrap their valentine’s gift (muse a), but muse a makes them wait.
⛓️ "red is your color" – muse a picks out a very specific valentine’s outfit for muse b—one that makes it clear exactly who they belong to.
⛓️ "at my mercy" – muse a tells muse b they can have their valentine’s reward only if they behave.
⛓️ "sweet torture" – muse a blindfolds muse b and teases them with soft, slow touches until they’re practically begging.
