#like it does not matter if the perpetrator WOULD back off if corrected and go ''oh sorry i didnt mean you''

[beemovieerotica]

tbh y'all get too caught up in the idea of like. whether someone is ""genuinely"" experiencing a certain -ism or -phobia aimed at them if they are not genuinely part of that group. as if it matters. as if a guy getting attacked for holding another man's hand has actually ever had sex with another man or if he actually is married to a woman like it literally does not make a difference. he is a victim of homophobia in actual reality in the actual world. stop being pedantic and drawing little circles around words and realize that people are getting fucked over regardless.

[meanbossart]

What are your thoughts/takes on Astarion's relationship with sex? How does that reflect on his relationship with Drow?

(Obvious disclaimer: this is just my opinion, and my goal is always to entertain myself - never to argue or be the most correct about canon interpretations or themes.)

Hm. So, something that I find very unique (and frankly, overlooked!) about Astarion's previews experiences, is that when speaking specifically about his M.O for luring marks for Cazador the majority of the encounters he seems to have had were not, primarily, "negative".

They weren't positive either, of course. There is no way around it: having sex against your will is rape. But in his case, the perpetrator was never inside the room. From the way he speaks of the people he slept with, he seems to hold a mixture of contempt and pity; but never anger; from the way he speaks of and with Sebastian, it even seems like, sometimes, perhaps in the early days of those 200 years he might have even allowed himself to indulge in small, brief attachments and hopes. Then, as fatigue settled in and the permanence of the situation hit him, I'm sure the motions became mechanized at best and agonizing at worst.

But I think whatever harm the experience has done to his sexuality or self-value, it's damage struck him tenfold in the concept of object permanence. Imagine it: throughout the course of two centuries, you are not allowed to form a connection with a single person who isn't damned to die later the same day. You never see the same face twice. You are never allowed to progress past impersonal first encounters. Astarion says he wants to be seen and known, but a reality that hurts almost more than being invisible is that there were probably thousands of people who would have loved to do that. But you ruined them as much as they ruined you.

I wholeheartedly believe that he was sick of sex, and that for decades to come there will be times when he still turns the lights off during the act, or, ideally, just says No Thank You and moves on, but the hypothetical that really haunts me is that other thing: the almost pavlovian association between sex and looming demise. That people are going to be taken away from you, so why bother being present?

This is a feeling he struggles with sorting through and vocalizing. And in turn, DU Drow often is under the assumption that this is all about sex, and about whether he truly wants it or not. This is yet another small theme in A Novel Experience but, in summary, for a while he still doubts Astarion's own agency to initiate or participate in it - this reduction of the issue as a matter of physical touch, while the big picture is much more complex.

And this does not always externalize in the far more palatably tragic "woe is me, everyone I love leaves" way. Sometimes Astarion still catches himself thinking of the ones he loves as disposable, and acting with due disregard for their lives like it's second nature.

But back on subject: he can have, does have, and likes sex. By finally being allowed to form a friendship and rapport with a sexual partner for whom he does not feel the need to perform to, he can finally enjoy the silly, the awkward, the gross and even the subpar aspects of sex with true intimacy; the anxiety sets after the fact, as he wonders about what comes next once you're out of his sight.

[wareagleofthemountain]

Was inspired by the lovely @thedragonkween and her amazing Nuada HCs which I’ll link here to spread some more love for this elf boi! Hope you enjoy!

Nuada x fem elf reader

In public, you can expect the Prince to be very well mannered and courtly. Walking with you on his arm, opening the door for you, pulling out your chair, kissing your hand etc. He also really enjoys slow dancing with you, and will insist on you letting him teach you even when you’re self conscious about your abilities. He’ll correct your stance with gentle touches until you relax into him and trust him to lead. All his centuries of stealth training left Nuada extremely light on his feet, and you feel like you’re flying as you two glide across the floor, safely wrapped in the arms of your love. Nuada can’t help but stare into your beautiful eyes the whole time, and runs his hand up your side as you move in rhythm with the music. You quickly become the envy of the king’s court as other elves vying for the prince’s affection know they have missed their chance the moment they see how attentive Nuada is with you.

You and Nuala quickly become like sisters and she often invites you to spend the day with her while Nuada is working. She loves to braid golden flowers into your hair and has taken it upon herself to be your personal stylist; always having an eye for the clothes and jewelry that would look best on you.

And if Nuada’s star struck expression and him nearly falling to his knees after seeing you in a gown she’d chosen is anything to go by, I’d say she does a pretty good job.

Nuala can feel the warm waves of love that roll off of your soul, and cherishes the joy your presence brings. She can also sense a change in Nuada’s heart since you’ve been in his life. Your light has begun to chip away at the darkness that threatens to consume his being and she is grateful to you for bringing her brother back to his old self.

Nuada has more than once walked in on you and Nuala laughing at some childhood story where he’s done something foolish. Nuala’s favorite jokes are the ones at her brother’s expense.

Nuada’s favorite quality about you is your kind heart, so he protects your emotional well-being as much as your physical. The moment he senses your distress, he’s at your side in a matter of seconds ready to shield you anyway he needs to. He can actually use his spiritual energy to put up a temporary protective wall around your mind. No matter what gets thrown at you from the perpetrator, it will not be able to touch you mentally or emotionally so long as Nuada is around.

Seriously though, no one had better threaten you in any capacity. They won’t live. Period. They can run. But they can’t hide.

Nuada will never curtail your freedom; he believes that you deserve to revel in all the splendors this earth has to offer. However, he will be accompanying you. He’s a legendary warrior with centuries of experience. Let him use his skills to keep the most precious one in his life safe. If he is unable to go with you somewhere, he will appoint his trusted affiliate Mr. Wink to assure your safety.

When you and Nuada are alone, you’ve flipped a switch in him. The Prince who, five minutes ago, was tearing through enemies in bloody armor, is now cradling you to his chest and placing soft kisses on your temples as soon as your chamber door is closed. After he’s cleaned up of course. Nuada refuses to touch your precious skin with hands stained with the blood of foul creatures.

As you both love and honor your elvish culture, you use your native tongue as the primary means of communicating when alone. He loves to call you “my light” “my soul” and “my everything” in elvish.

You two spend a lot of time in the library, you cradled in his lap while he reads to you.

This was a lot of fun! Would anyone be interested in a part 2? Possibly some NSFW HCs next?

[anteroom-of-death]

Yayo

Synopsis: Gideon Shepherd wastes a life or two over a girl.

A/N: thanks to @lex144 for inspiring me to not give up. Will be a 2 parter/prequel. Dark fic time. Sorry for no publishing of all .... burn out. Listen to the unreleased version of Lana del Rey while reading.

How many times must he repeat the same life, the same lie, over and over again? How many times could he go through the exact same suffering and the exact same thwarting of evils in this world?

Gideon, in his sixties, again, having a cup of tea in an inconspicuous tea shop, mused. He’d just stopped a plane crash he had stopped dozens, if not hundreds of times. He was losing count. Losing control.

He knew it was only a matter of time before he was locked back up, dressed in red with those detectives again. Bargaining with the girl, Lucy. Trying to make her understand her son and him. Each time it seemed a tad more futile.

He tied the bag’s string around his finger like he’d done with that red one in that room. Repetitive and simple as always. Perhaps even a nervous tic.

He’d always die, just before total lucidity. It was annoying. And it just added more into his already over-crammed skull. He felt bursting at the seams. Almost like he had multiple brains.

Preposterous!

He admitted that in this particular cycle he’d been a little more neglectful of his needs. More rash. Less calculated…It was getting worse each time. More world-saving. Less keeping himself intact to save it.

He had to change all of this. Maybe take a breather. He’d still stick to his schedule from thousand lives past. This time, it would be difficult, just infinitesimal.

He even had been to this little tea shop every single time. Exactly the same day, the same time. He had observed people casually. Not much to do with anything…

Everyone was safe by his calculations.

The slouched-over nervous girl was going to accidentally water board herself with her drink in a few seconds.

On cue, her little iced coffee spilled. She sighed, seemingly looked up, as if beckoning a favor from God. She grabbed a napkin and went to wipe herself and the ground up.

In an echo of so many times previously, “Nothing comes easy, does it?” She muttered and slouched into her knees. She started to scrub a particular big stain in the making on her floral skirt with her spit.

It was probably incoherent to anyone who didn’t hear it or know to hear it time and time again.

She eventually pulled herself off the ground, her hip cracked. The slit in the side rode up, accidentally flashing the grey panties she wore…

Suddenly he felt like focusing in on her.

Maybe next cycle he’d offer to help her.

For now he got up and offered her his napkin. A small smile spread on his face.

“I have a spare coat in my boot…you can cover it up, keep it.” He offered another shiny object.

He didn’t know what exactly started coming over him. It was carnal, primal. Effervescent even. She obviously suffered from some self-confidence issues. Despite her bold outfit choices. Her large earrings clanked against her necklaces. Skittish. Unsure.

It made him incredibly hard.

He hadn’t allowed himself any pleasure, just the continuous pursuit of justice. In his own way. The only way that was dramaturgically correct he felt. He had to be the one to make it happen. The cops were as much as complicit as sometimes perpetrators.

“Go to the toilets and freshen up, yeah?” He instructed her plainly. The pit of the toll of all his dark deeds starting fray him like the trim of her denim jacket that seemed slightly too small.

He forced himself out to the car and popped the boot. He grabbed the aforementioned coat.

He walked back into the shop just she exited the loo.

She sniffled and saw the coat. It was black, utilitarian. Nothing special.

“Thanks.” The smile was weak, she still was obviously reeling from her previous remark of nothing coming easy. However, it was genuine. She was thankful and seemed placated by the action.

“I’ll…get another coffee.” She remarked as she tied the thing around her waist.

He couldn’t help but notice it hung sensually around her hips. Accented the torso and her tits in a weird way. How would it be to bite them? Mar them with his teeth?

“Why don’t you join me?” He offered.

“I can’t.” She frowned, a line developing in her still somewhat-young forehead that didn’t go away when her face relaxed moments earlier. It was fully etched in.

How lovely was it that such a nervous wreck had somehow made it this far in life? To see such a line. Pity it was there in the first place.

Such a contradiction…

She got her new coffee.

He still felt incredibly urged to take her and hide her away. Stop her from herself and her own nervous nature.

The proverbial butterfly was stepped on, who knew what was in store now…

Next cycle, he remarked to himself as he got into his car and drove off. He had to complete this. Make the Lucy woman understand. Die, come back. Same shot, different day…

His cock still remained at attention. The depraved thoughts still rung in his thoughts.

×××××

Here he was, back at the tea shop. She was walking in. Here was his chance!

He’d fantasized about this chance for decades now. Ever since the first rush of teenage hormones rushed into his body. Again.

She walked in, her tote bag swinging.

Only one chance. He could blow it, hypothetically. But this opportunity was literally once in a lifetime. No matter how many he’d been allowed. (Or cursed with depending on current emotions and outlook…)

He knew the pitfalls of approaching a woman and making oneself known. It came off predatory. Not that he wasn’t predating her, in more than one sense of rationale, or definition. Was there any good, wholesome way to approach her and her grey panties? He’d killed enough rapists to merit knowing what they liked.

And yet, here he was entering his era of perversion.

He firmly believed he had to liberate her from herself. Somehow.

Never one for true romance, even in the first time he seemingly entered the cycle, he lingered unsure.

He got up and made a show of asking for extra napkins.

One word, one small line would disrupt this. She’d not spill her drink, and he’d garner an actual chance with her.

“Those are some lovely necklaces.” He tried for a bit off a soft entrance.

She touched the tangled mass of gold on her neck, “Oh! Thanks!” Her left hand went to fiddle with some of the pendants on a few of them. The free thumb rested on one of those comically-large hoops.

She placed her order and went down to fight for her life to find her pocketbook.

“No worries,” Gideon assured, “I’ve got it.” The fiver, easily produced from his jacket pocket.

“Oh?” She flashed a befuddled, nervous half-grin at him. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

She shook her head. “Thanks so much!”

He felt moved to go back to his seat. He didn’t know exactly what to do to go from here.

Something told him to just toss her in the boot and drive off. Or perhaps, to lure in promising safe travels to wherever she was headed.

The darkness rubbed off so easily.

The toll of a billion lifetimes.

He remembered some parable of a little bird and a rock. Something about a boy saying something about it being ‘One hell of a bird…’

He sucked on the options. They all weighed heavy on his heart and his conscience.

He ultimately chose the less devious of them all.

Just asking.

He saw her go to pick up her drink. Would she spill it? He half-wished to see. See of the actions interrupted the truth of time. Such a small gesture maybe would provide her a sense of calm? Could it? Would it?

He started to rise yet again from his seat, and she spilled it anyways.

A flash of grey panties, a mutter again about nothing being easy for her, her spine twisting into a serpentine knot. Her lovely skirt and top stained.

He offered her a clutch of napkins. Then repeated last life’s offers.

“Are you my guardian angel? Or something?” She asked. “First paying for my latte, now this?”

Fate must have been sick to give her him if she thought he was an angel. Even in a semi-facetious manner. Sure, he was on the side of angels, in a sense. However he was far from celestial. Mortal, frequently.

He went out, produce the jacket. Came back. She tied it.

He offered to pay for her replacement- “On caveat you join me, an old man for a bit of a chat on a slow day.” He went for the genteel route.

She involuntarily shook herself, her eyes blinking rapidly.

She looked at her phone’s clock.

“Sure. Why not? Only five minutes, yeah?”

She sat at his table and they chatted. Her name was (y/n), she was (insert your age, reader) and she was between jobs. The drink went much easier down now that she was sat. Gravity and natural klutziness weren’t fighting her here.

The way she placed her elbows on the table further accentuated her heaving chest. Despite her current state, she seemed to breathe a little harder than Gideon suspected someone should.

Maybe her baseline anxiety messed around with her rhythms.

Gideon gave her the most basic and innocent of responses. Just enough information to tantalize. Keep it light, keep it friendly, he chided himself over and over again…

She glanced over at her phone and saw the time…she excused herself and left. Thanking him for everything.

She even brushed both of his cheeks with a small, friendly, definitely foreign kiss on each.

The door bashed her on her way out and she tripped on her way over the bus stop across the street. She put in her headphones and leaned against the pole marking it.

He felt them burn in response. His cock stayed as hard as rosewood.

He regretted not getting her number.

Or he could follow her discreetly. Put in what he learned from men worse than him by a thousand-fold into practice. Keep her somewhere safe, where she couldn’t be harmed by anyone, let alone herself.

Yes, that would be fine. He would just be looking after her best interests? Correct?

Correct.

He waited a moment and trailed his way to his car.

The bus pulled up, she went in. He turned his car on. A simple game of cat and mouse. If the cat were ever so interested in the mouse’s uninterrupted survival…

Or perhaps, did he not want her to meet a darker end at anyone else’s hand but his? His thoughts kept delving deeper. Were these dark, frankly barbarous images his fantasies regarding this (Y/N)? Or just fears?

He did notice from their brief conversation that she did have some scar tissue around her wrists. So even if he did very into these mental images, it would probably be for her betterment. They were obviously self-inflicted.

He felt himself grow more and more irrational. There was something burning in his chest. An itch that maybe he’d scratch just this life. Then the next, go about, offer her the basic kindness of the jacket and go.

If he was doomed to repeat every sinful day of every sinful life, what was one slip up? He’d done so well before.

He was trying so hard.

Yes, why not?

[therealslimshakespeare]

What even is good person? Really tho, can any of them be categorised as such? All of them signed up (not drafted!) to drop bombs on often innocent people. And yeah, patriotism and propaganda is one thing but they knew very well where those bombs end up. There is even one very good episode of the series dedicated to drilling into audiences skulls how bad it was. So yeah, I find it very curious that only Maureen get’s a label of „bad person” when other and notably male characters did just as shitty things -let’s not forget how Bucky would provoke fights just to let of steam regardless of consequences on the others, or how Gale tried to kill a kid. And in purely historic sense -american soldiers were responsible for great deal of rapes and suffering of the civilian population. That does not diminish their bravery and their own suffering but just as any other army they did fuck ton of bad stuff (maybe not as much as germans and russians but the point stands). I don’t believe that there could be such a thing as truly good person during war (if such a thing as only good person exists) . And regards of things that she did before the war and her lack of communication and respect to Gale boundaries -yeah that’s a bad thing to do. I’ll freely admit that. But she clearly has so much potential and verve to life that I’m willing to let her grow in the way that you planned to. So fuck others loyalty, she has mine. She’s so interesting as a character that I honestly find it degrading that the only thing that people focus on is one shitty line she said to Ida (while both of them where under enormous pressure) and her past which honestly isn’t really clear to us. That is no dig at you btw, you are amazing. I want to know more about what makes her tick and would kill for a discourse about her inner life (since we already know so much about other characters). I love how you bring your characters to life and I just honestly want people to lay off Maureen for one day 😭 let her grow for fucks sake!

Ngl my authors brain just soared reading this because. Like. That’s everything I have in my mind. I do believe in good but i also love war because it makes good people do horrible things and that’s a character study that’s bound to divide.

But I respect the hell out of everyone’s opinion to not agree even with my final satisfaction of Maureen’s growth. That’s perfectly fine. Expected even. I just do view this whole world to have so much in it, including outright evil, horrifying actions that are ennobled by “service” and many other gray things.

Consent is understandably a sore topic. One I’ve personally suffered the ignoring of. It’s one that’s been rightfully raised to a correct level of dire by this current generation after being relegated as minor by others.

It’s not, however, some special area of absolute evil. Or rather, it can be, but just like many of things, there are degrees of it. Now some people do not wanna give room to that, but there is. What was perpetrated against Smith is not the same as Maureen laying her hand in grown adult superior officer Gale Cleven’s lap repeatedly. Both wrong, both a matter of degrees. The same would go for the employees with an extra side of coercion due to abuse of power, but I honestly am not sure what folks think she did with the employees at this point because that was never even specified. I said back then she wouldn’t think much of getting what she wanted no matter what. In my mind her actions with Gale were far more than anything with them. And we still have never even seen exactly what his reception of them/encouragement of them were.

Sometimes it feels like a lot going off a little bit of reference in a far larger story. My responsibility as a writer so I roll with it, respect it, sometimes agree even, which I feel strongly about

[blog-name-idk]

Umm hello! This is very embarrassing, but someone found a racist slur I used in one of my fics. I'm now going to take some time to re-read and and evaluate my wording on my other works, but if anyone has found anything similar or concerning that they feel comfortable telling me about, please feel free to do so! I'll explain more under the cut.

TW: Derogatory slur for Inuit people. (Which, am I basically saying "The People people"? Like saying chai tea?) And other problematic names for other cultures/ethnicities still widely used in commercial culture today (as examples).

I used the term "esk*mo kiss" in Chapter 14 of Everything Falls, which in itself is generally used to describe nose kisses.

The term esk*mo itself is unacceptable/offensive to many, very understandably so because it was a colonial name imposed on them by non-Indigenous people. Here is an NPR article (from 2016 but I think it still holds up) that goes into more detail.

The currently accepted word to describe people native to Alaska/Arctic regions is Inuit (singular: Inuk), and the actual word for their nose kiss (which is a way of showing affection) is kunik.

What's even more embarrassing than being ignorant is that I wasn't even ignorant. Like I know not to use the term esk*mo by itself, that Inuit/Inuk is the correct verbage, and yet when writing the term "e. kiss" my brain just glazed over because it was such a "normal" phrase for me growing up. Even now thinking the term doesn't ring any bells or make me feel uncomfortable, which shows just how much social conditioning affects our "gut instincts".

I think it's a good lesson to always try to be mindful and really think about the things we say because no matter how educated and informed we believe we are, we're only human and thus constantly in a state of growth and learning. We are responsible when our actions hurt others, but often we're ignorant of our own ignorance (lol) until it's pointed out to us. It shouldn't be the hurt party's responsibility to do so, but sometimes that's the only way the perpetrator (me) can get a dose of reality.

I feel like this kind of thing happens all the time (just look at all the problematic "traditional" names for house plants) and our brains just skate over it because we're used to it.

Anyway I'm not trying to be preachy or overly dramatic or holier-than-thou. It's easy to look at people who get cancelled (on Tumblr or in regular pop culture) and write them off as idiots because I would never do or say the thing they did. I've definitely looked down my nose at people from my high horse because I thought I was a "better person" than them.

It was a good wake-up call to not get complacent and remember that just because I think I'm a good person/don't have bad intentions, that doesn't absolve me from responsibility. Yes, I will be going back through my old fics and current WIPs because it shouldn't be someone else's responsibility to find issues and point them out to me. However, I'm sure there are still things I'm inherently ignorant to and might miss.

No one should feel obligated to let me know if they see anything (definitely don't want to force anyone to relive trauma or bad experiences), but I will definitely appreciate anyone who does! Thank you to the anon who reached out to me and let me know about this instance.

[yoonpobs]

bad boy good thing | drabble i. | m

WARNINGS. jealous jk, jk's gf is hot and he's not the only one who thinks that, jimin and tae as instigators, i swear jimin and jk love each other, fucking in public spaces aka a car in a parking lot, jk luvs his gf, appearance of perpetrator jin!

NOTE. i missed this couple 🥺oc is living her hot girl summer life and jk does nawt know how to deal with it Lol. hope u enjoy loves!!!!

WORDS. 3k+

“I’m okay,” Jungkook murmurs, eyes fluttering shut as he repeats his own personal mantra. “I’m good. I’m fine—I’m chill. Chillest person ever. I’m good—”

“He’s not okay,” Taehyung snickers.

Jungkook blocks the negativity out, purposefully and intentionally. Nothing could ruin his day—not on his watch, especially as the sun shines over bodies across the beach while the waves break into beautiful fragments that he’s yearning to dip his feet into.

Personal affirmations came first.

“I’m good, I’m fine, I’m okay,” he chants like a crazy person, definitely earning some form of side-eye from the people next to him but he can’t be bothered. Another person thinking that he was insane wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him—not when—

“You should open your eyes,” Jimin says, “How are you going to fight them if you don’t know thy enemy?”

Immediately, Jungkook’s peace is disturbed by the mouth of Park Jimin, who painfully reminds him of why he’s got into the entire personal mantra and affirmation thing. He used to think it was redundant, unnecessary. How could the universe return your wishes just as you’ve uttered them into the atmosphere? It didn’t seem logical to him.

But right now, that didn’t matter—not when he had bigger things to be worried about.

“Don’t disturb my peace,” Jungkook snaps.

“They did it first,” Jimin retorts, cocking his head towards the flock of people at a certain part of the beach, specifically towards where the water meets the shore.

Jungkook’s eye twitches. His peace is disrupted, his happiness is compromised and it’s all Park Jimin’s fault. He spent a good amount of time getting into his zone, reaffirming himself that he was in fact, fine, good—he was okay! But now, he feels all his resolve dissolve when he realises he can’t even see the main thing that was responsible for his dilemmas.

“You’d think a celebrity was on this beach,” Taehyung snorts.

“Not helping,” Jungkook says dryly.

“So isn’t your crazy person chanting,” Jimin points out, “but yet, here we are—listening to you reciting your own version of a biblical verse.”

“I’m fine,” Jungkook grits for the umpteenth time, and no less is his assertions any more convincing than it was a moment ago. The flicker of his irises towards to crowd is enough to prove that fact. “I’m just enjoying my day at the beach with my friends and my girlfriend.”

“See, there are two false statements in that,” Taehyung tilts his head downwards, offering a smug smirk that Jungkook wishes he could shove into the sand beneath him. “You’re definitely not enjoying this because I can see the veins protruding out of your neck at how hard you’re clenching your jaw, and”—the older boy makes the effort to taunt Jungkook further by letting out a low whistle the moment the crowd seems to grow slightly bigger—“you’re partially right about the friend part. Your girlfriend though … where is she?”

I’m good. I’m okay. I’m cool—

“Oblivious, as usual,” Jimin sighs, plopping back onto the beach towel beneath him while shooting Jungkook a pointed stare. “It’d be sad if you only called her your girlfriend for six months when you’ve been in love with her for seven years.”

“Okay that’s it. I’m going there,” Jungkook declares, huffing as he pushes himself off the ground while Jimin makes an effort to grab at his ankle, halting the younger boy from causing any damage and potentially getting them banned from ever returning.

“Not with that temper you aren’t,” Jimin snaps, “Sit your ass down. God. Can’t you take a joke?”

“A joke?” Jungkook splutters, abhorred. “You literally just said she’s going to break up with me!”

“I said that it’d be sad if—”

“Same fucking difference,” he hisses, rubbing a hand across his face before he kicks Jimin’s petty grip off his ankle while levelling him with a menacing glare. Jungkook’s eyes slowly drift to the side where you finally enter his vision, still smiling like the soft and sweet person you were as you help Namjoon with whatever crab hunting mission he had.

See, Jungkook’s mature enough to know that you and Namjoon were good friends, great ones, even. The two of you were smart and clicked well, and if anything, Jungkook was more envious of the fact that the two of you shared such a wholesome and meaningful friendship than anything else.

The fact that Namjoon used to have feelings for you didn’t bother Jungkook anymore, not when he knew where your heart truly laid. He also trusted Namjoon with his entire life and his firstborns (not that he’d ever tell you that, and God—did he hope that day would eventually come when it came to you). But still, Jungkook was mature—he did some growing up, and he was proud of that.

But Jungkook’s human, a flawed, ever-learning and constantly improving human. A human who’s crazy in love with his pretty girlfriend that he’s longed for years—and a human who isn’t blind. A human who can’t ignore the fact that, apparently, he wasn’t the only person that was trying to keep himself in check at how stunning you were. Every day—and especially today, with how your dainty yellow bikini drapes over the curves of your body.

Jungkook nearly cries. Yellow was his favourite colour. You wore it for him.

Not for—

“Maybe you should head over,” Taehyung murmurs, snapping Jungkook out of his love-filled mind as his eyes clear, immediately catching what his friend was referring to.

Some dude. Talking to you. Smiling at you like you carried all the answers to all the world problems as you giggle a tune comparable to birds chirping. Maybe Jungkook was exaggerating but it always sounded like you were singing his favourite song even if you were just explaining economical concepts to him like a soothing e-book.

“God, why couldn’t she have been ugly,” Jungkook groans.

“You wouldn’t have dated her otherwise,” Jimin retorts.

Jungkook gawks, affronted as he gives his two friends a scandalised expression as he places his hands over his chest to indicate the offence he took to that statement.

“I’m not superficial,” he huffs, “I fell in love with her because of her—”

“Personality, yada yada,” Jimin mocks him in a lower tune that has Jungkook glaring at him. “Yeah, okay. But don’t tell me that her being pretty doesn’t help you bust a nut every once in a while.”

Jungkook flushes.

“Well, yeah, but I’m her boyfriend—”

“Thank you for reminding me that you are in fact, still a boy,” Jimin rolls his eyes, “Men. Mansplaining everything, really.”

Jungkook’s jaw slackens as his eyes briefly land on Taehyung’s figure who doesn’t look too bothered with how the conversation turned out as he shrugs in response.

“How about you do the typical manly thing of being a jealous prick and go over there and stomp over all her fan club members,” Jimin says sarcastically, resting his arm over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

There’s a brief rustle from where the sand meets the towel, and a relatively long period of silence while the only thing that permeates the air is the sound of waves with laughter coming from a family a distance away.

“He did exactly that, didn’t he.”

“You need to stop giving him ideas,” Taehyung sighs, plopping a grape into his mouth before occupying the space next to his friend. “Should we find another beach to frequent?”

“Really?” you laugh, “That’s so cool! I’m actually planning on landing an apprenticeship there over the summer.”

“Oh?” The man is leaning way too close to you for comfort, but you’re unfazed. Jungkook doesn’t even want to know where the hell Namjoon had gone, leaving you with this broad-shouldered, terrifyingly handsome man. “I could definitely put a good word in for you if you’d like.”

You beam, appreciative rather than brazen. But Jungkook thinks the man doesn’t know that.

“I don’t think I can accept that, Seokjin.”

And of course, you knew his name.

“Why not?” Seokjin smirks, and Jungkook knows that it’s definitely done him justice in other situations. “For a beautiful—”

“____,” he interjects, smoothly (or not quite) sliding next to you as his arms wrap around your waist before his glare rests on the man before him, who looks both shocked and unbothered at his appearance. “Who’s this?”

You jump slightly at Jungkook’s arrival but relax when you realise that it was just him and not some other beach weirdo.

“Jungkook, this is Seokjin! He actually attended our university—”

“Really,” he says dryly, “That’s nice.”

“Is this your …?” Seokjin looks Jungkook up and down before settling with a rather unimpressed look. “Do seniors usually bring their shadows out for playdates?”

Your eyes widen at his patronising tone, and before can even think to correct him with a tilted frown, Jungkook’s fingers dig into your waist, a precursor to his jaw that clenches while he engages in his own version of a staredown with the man before you.

“Boyfriend.”

Seokjin raises a brow.

“Me,” Jungkook blinks, unnerved and quite frankly, tired. He’s crossed this bridge enough times, and it’s always the same. Some older dude who thought that you were doing charity work by having Jungkook tag along with like some puny little brother. “I’m her boyfriend.”

“Jungkook—” you start, softly reaching to grip his arm.

“Interesting,” Seokjin says offhandedly and Jungkook knows it’s anything but. “Well, my offer still stands.”

He’s directing it to you as you peer up at him with your notoriously innocent eyes. Jungkook hates that this douche is still unaffected by his blatant declaration of the fact that you were—taken.

“I—that’s fine, Seokjin,” you say softly, lips curling into a thankful smile before he nods.

The look he sends Jungkook is nothing short of unimpressed, and Jungkook’s thinking of clamming the dude into the sand and quite literally, bury the hatchet with him. Sure, he was handsome and broad, and undoubtedly ripped—but Jungkook trained to benchpress twice his weight so he could beat up assholes who tried to hit on his girlfriend.

Right before he leaves, Jungkook calls for his name—intentionally calling him Seokmin—noting the way his face drops into a scowl.

“You’re not her type.”

He scoffs.

“And you are?” he throws back, brows raised as a challenge.

“That’s why I get to hold her and you’re walking away.”

With that, Seokjin doesn’t bother responding to Jungkook, especially in the way that you gawk at your boyfriend’s blatant warning to the older man.

He titters off, and it’s effectively just you and Jungkook standing by the shore while you briefly see the way Namjoon stutters before deciding to return to where Jimin and Taehyung lays.

Jungkook’s still seething in his rage, clenching and unclenching his fists even though he got the last word. It wasn’t that he thought you’d elope with Seokjin and leave him—he trusted you wholeheartedly and vice versa. He knew you loved him and so did he.

It had more to do with the fact that Seokjin saw you, and eventually, him—and thought that Jungkook wasn’t fit to be your boyfriend. That he saw a gorgeous girl on the beach and expected her to be single, and if not—to be with a boyfriend that had his shit together and not … not Jungkook.

“Jungkook?” you say quietly, tugging at his elbow while you peer up at him with wide and apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry.”

It’s no good, the fact that you’re apologising. As if you were responsible for his insecurities when you’ve done nothing but shower him with love and support ever since the two of you started officially dating.

“Don’t apologise,” he says stiffly, though his heart isn’t angry—he can’t help the way his words get out. “It’s not your fault.”

“But—”

“If you apologise then you’re gonna piss me off, baby,” he says lightly, peering you down with a small smirk as your eyes widen.

“I—okay,” you say weakly, and before he knows it, you’re intertwining your fingers with his, eyes suddenly twinkling in a way he’s grown all too familiar with.

“You have the keys?” he murmurs softly.

You nod, blind and in love as you sigh.

“Take care of me?” you ask sweetly, and Jungkook forgets all about Seokjin when he has you right in front of him.

“O-Oh, fuck—Jungkook—ngh—”

Maybe Jungkook really was a crazy person, but he’d argue that you were equally as crazy to oblige to indulge in his lewd fantasies. He was crazy, for you and your cunt that was like nirvana, and it’s proven further when he fucks into you at a brutal pace, uncaring whether or not the car shakes with the exertion of the activities that were taking place in it.

It could be the fact that he had a decade worth of fantasies to play out, but he knows that he plays a huge part in opening your sexual nature and he couldn’t be happier about it, especially when you unabashedly throw your head onto your chest, whimpering with the dirty squelches of his thrusts that echo in the vehicle.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he growls, hand wrapping around the back of your neck to force your glassy eyes to look at him.

The look on your face is enough to get Jungkook even more riled up, your flushed cheeks and swollen lips while you nod your head manically, crazy—and his.

“Y-Yours,” you whimper, and just about then, Jungkook brings your hips down with his free hand and meets you with a sharp thrust that has your mouth dropping open and your face scrunched up in pleasure. “F-Fuck, J-Jungkook.”

“No one gets to fuck you like this,” he hisses, pressing a hot kiss to your neck as you whine, hips involuntarily swivelling to meet his fast pace. The car is shaking and it’s all too risky, Jungkook knows that—but his rationale is clouded with the antagonising face of Seokjin. “No one gets to see you like this. Only I do.”

“Y-Yes!” you sob, clutching onto him as he feels your pussy tighten viciously around him, the walls of your inner linings spasming as Jungkook hisses at the feeling. “Only you K-Kook. Only ever want you.”

Jungkook believes you, especially when you desperately hold onto him as he feels himself slowly reach the edge. He knows you are too, especially when your whines get higher in pitch, and your tugs against his shoulders get tighter. He knows because he’s learnt about your body as your boyfriend—and he’s the only person that will ever get to have you like this.

The thought, paired along with the risk of your situation only fuels his determination to get you off, his strong arms immediately wrapping around you to root you into place as he shoves his cock deeper into you.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he croons as you mewl in pleasure, breathless whines turning more desperate as your eyes flutter shut. “You wanna show me how much you want me?”

You nod manically, your pussy fluttering around his length as he grunts in exertion.

“G-Gonna—pleasedon’tstop—fuck, I-I’m cumming—!” you cry, tugging your face into the crook of his neck as Jungkook bites his lips in focus, all ready to accept your hot pleasure and his own.

“Come for me,” he encourages, lips hovering over your earlobe as you obey his orders, head thrown back as he watches your mouth drop wider and your eyes roll to the back of your head, pussy tightening around his length.

Jungkook thinks you’re beautiful. On days where you don’t feel like you do, but he may be biased to say that he thinks you look absolutely stunning for him like this. When he knows that he’s the one responsible for your reddened cheeks, the way you so desperately cling onto him whenever you’d orgasm (the only person that would ever know this fact about you), and the way that you’re left breathless, satiated and with that hazed expression after his resolute efforts.

Jungkook cums shortly after, with those exact thoughts plaguing his mind. He was so whipped. He really only had to think of you and he would get hard, and having you right above him, soft and warm with your arms draped loosely over his form made his heart all mushy and soft despite the way his cock stands erect.

You mewl in oversensitivity although you don’t complain. You never do, whenever Jungkook cums after you. Even now, when Jungkook comes down from his high with pants of his own, his own mind-clearing while his cock softens in you—you remain patient. Patient like the ever-loving, wonderful girlfriend that you were—one that Jungkook wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Wow,” you giggle, forehead resting against his as you return from your own post-orgasmic bliss. “I can’t believe I let you fuck me in a parking lot.”

Jungkook flushes, reality sinking in when he realised that the two of you weren’t hidden from plain sight. While the idea of being caught was definitely arousing, Jungkook knew he wasn’t too keen on having anyone see you delirious, even if it was all for him. He was lucky enough that your bikini top remained on the entire time, but both your sweaty bodies were enough of a dead giveaway.

“I just,” Jungkook tries to explain, words slurring in embarrassment as you raise a brow at him. “You look really pretty today.”

You stare at his forlorn expression as if admitting that pained him. Jungkook feels slightly embarrassed at how he reacted, and if you notice this, you don’t point it out—yet.

“Wore this for you,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the mole under his lip. Jungkook’s heart soars at your admission even if he knew that. “You know it’s only for you, right?”

Your question is purposeful and Jungkook shamefully looks to his lap, and even then—you’re still connected. He slowly pulls out, wincing when his cum threatens to pool out of your pussy, but before he can pretend to clean you up, you’re putting your bikini bottoms back in place and clamping your hands over his cheeks so that he’d look at you.

“Jungkook,” you say sternly.

He sighs.

“Yes,” he groans, feeling a lot like a child who’s being berated. “I just—God. He was such a prick.”

“I know,” you say gently, fingers combing through his hair while he melts into your touch. “There are a lot of pricks out there, but you know that I only love you, right?”

Your confession is the same as the one you’ve made six months ago, and just last night before the two of you fell asleep—but it’s a confession that Jungkook never grows tired of.

“I know,” he mumbles as you giggle at him. “It’s just that … he really thought he had a chance with you, and when he saw me it was like—”

You frown, finger pressed against his lips to stop his rambling as he peers up at you with doe-eyes.

“None of that,” you chide lightly, “I don’t care what people think. The only person I care about is you, and no one will change that, okay?”

Jungkook feels himself relax into your touch, especially when you lean forward to capture his lips in a soft kiss that isn’t set to lead anywhere. He remembers. He remembers the times where you were unsure and all too worried of the words of others—and here you were, with him and with your gentle and loving soul, the embodiment of comfort as you tell him the words he’s always known but needs to be reminded of.

“I love you,” he says quietly as you grin widely at him, “Sorry for—you know.”

You roll your eyes, lifting your leg to get off his lap as you wince at the cum that threatens to escape your lips.

“I mean, it was kind of hot,” you shrug with a small smirk.

“God, I’ve created a monster,” Jungkook snorts, looking over at you when you shoot him a devious grin.

“You love it,” you throw back cheekily, leaning into his shoulder as he wraps an arm around you with a sigh.

He does. And he knows that he’s the only one that you’ll love back.

[itsthestutterforme]

Shuriken (Jang Hanseok)

Summary: Y/N is a mercenary with a particular knack for knives and torture. Hanseok hired her as his new body guard against Vincenzo, little did he know that her and Vincenzo have a history. A dark history.

Characters: Jang Hanseok x mercenary!reader (implied sex), Vincenzo x mercenary!reader (past lovers), Jang Hanseo x reader (platonic), Ms. Choi x reader (platonic)

--

You hated jet lang with a passion. You would think that since you're a mercenary, that you're fine with traveling but you really hated it. You pull up your turtle neck to cover your maliscous scar across your neck. It's not that it bothers you to show it, you just didn't feel like explaining to others that someone tried to kill you and failed.

You take a taxi from the Incheon International Airport to the location your employer asked you to meet him. He was explicit with making sure that you get all the luxuries plus the 500k and that you never leave his side. He's definitely paranoid. But this isn't the first time you've had a paranoid employer.

Hopefully, he's not a crazy one. You'vs had enough with the crazy employers. The taxi drops you off at a fairly large, modern-looking house. But from the looks of it, it does not take much to break in here. You'll suggest installing some deadlocks and bullet proof cameras.

You pay the driver before hopping out of the car with your luggage. He drives away and just as you approach the gate, the door buzzes open. You walk in and are instantly greeted by four people, three men and a women. Two of the men looked young, they're probably brothers. The other man and woman looked older.

"I'm Jang Hanseok, this is my brother, Jang Hanseo and my lawyers, Ms. Choi and Mr. Hanchul. This is Y/N, the Slicer." "I see you did your research," "A little. Had to know who I was dealing with." "Yeah, and that nickname did not give me any justice. That's one of my least favorite names given to me."

"There's multiple?" "Yeah, there's Ninja, SheWolf, Shredder, Grim Reaper, Death, Queen of Hell, and my favorite, Shuriken." "Shuriken? How did you get that name?" "A talented magician never tells their secrets," you say. "Now, where's my room?" You add.

Over the passed few days, there is not much action to be on high alert. Which leaves random conversations about favorite foods and TV shows.

He doesn't seem like a terrible guy, he has a messed sense of humor though. He even asked a if you've ever been in love before. You answered by pointing to your scar and saying, "Once, unfortunately,"

You were walking through the parking garage to get the car after having dinner with Hanseok and the rest of his crew when you hear tires screeching. There was a black van next to you and the doors flew open Instinctively, you push Jang Hanseok behind you.

A dozen of guys with masks pile out of the car with their own weapons. They rush towards you and you take out a few thin shurikens from your sleeves and flick your wrists forwards. They hit two men in their throats and you duck under the arm of a man with a wrench.

You grab his arm and throw him to the ground and just when another man headed towards you, you take out your ninjato sword. Clicking the button, it springs into it's full length and you slice across the man's chest.

His blood sprays across your face before he falls to the ground and the man you threw to the ground is starting to get up.

You cut his throat and knee him in the face before ducking and weaving through their blows, cutting their backs and faces along the way. One managed to take your ninajto sword from your hands so you took out your daggers.

Stabbing his heart, you take out the blade before drop kicking him towards his remaining four comrades. They all fall to the ground and before they could get up, you threw a dagger through one of their eye sockets.

The three of them rush towards you and you swing your leg under one of them, tripping him. Then you one with a roundhouse kick and the other with a jumping back kick.

"Now, which of you wants to run back to you boss and say that Shuriken is in town?" You ask breathlessly. They look to each other and one of them hops into the van and drives away. "Well.." you state and before they could run away, you use two more shurikeins that cuts through their throats.

You turn around to see Hanseo, Ms. Choi and Mr. Hanchul looking at you with both fear and shock. You tried to wipe away the blood from your face as you look at Hanseok. He smiles at you with a dark look in his eyes. "Let's go," you suggest.

**

Since you fought those amateurs in the parking garage, Jang Hanseok has been more around you a lot more than usual. It's almost like he was attracted to the fact that you killed people without blinking. He buys you everything from food to jewlery.

He doesn't mention who I'm protecting him from. He doesn't even allow his comrades to say his name. They just call him Mafia Bastard. They were celebrating a victory over said Mafia Bastard. It wasn't until he admitted to killing his mother that you realized just how similar you guys were.

Sitting at the table, you read your book and leave your glass of champagne untouched. You started to zone out after they continue to ramble about the Mafia Bastard.

You felt some tensesness in the room when Ms. Choi said, "Did you really think that you would betray the Chairman and I wouldn't find out about it?"

You still don't look up from your book until you heard a silenced gun shot and Ms. Choi's screams. You reach into your belt and aim your gun towards the perpetrator.

His expression matched yours when you realized that it was him.. Vincenzo. The man you loved and betrayed you. The one that gave you that hideous scar.

Without a second thought, you shot his arm and chest. He kneels on the ground and drops his weapon. "Thats impossible, you're dead." He groans. "There were times when I wished I was." He spits out some blood and says, "Y/N, I.. I'm sorry."

You raise the gun again to kill him but you remember Hanseok saying he didn't wabf the Mafia Bastard dead, not yet. "Get the hell out of here," you say, setting your gun on the counter. He stands up from the floor and staggers a little before opening his mouth to talk to you. You raise your hand for him to stop and he complies.

He holds onto his chest and walks slowly out of the building. That's when you notice the dead man on the floor. From the looks of it, he's was tortured to death. He must have been the one who killed his mom. "Why didn't you kill him! We didn't hire you to let people live! We hired you to kill!" Ms. Choi yells.

You look to Hanseok and ask, "You said to keep him alive, is that correct?" "Yes, I did. And we didn't hire anybody, I did, so watch your tone."

You approach her and take out a dagger from your ankle holster. You press the dagger against her throat and said, "Question my intentions like that again, and I'll slit your throat."

With that, you walk out of the lounge room and went into Hanseok's room where the balcony was. "So he's the reason why you have that scar," Hanseok says, stepping on to the balcony with you.

"I don't want to talk about it," you say flatly. "He's the one that's trying to kill me, so you better talk about it."

"Look at me," he adds, turning you around and pressing your back against the railing. "Why do you care? What matters now is that I'm willing to kill him. No, I'm more than willing. I want to kill him." You say as you throw him to the ground and apply pressure to his chest with your knee. Taking out your blade, you press it against his throat.

"I'm not your brother. Put your hands on me again and I will kill you, do you understand?" You add. He nods and you release the pressure from his lungs. You tuck your dagger away in your ankle. When you try to stand up, he pulls you back down and flips you onto your back.

He pins your arms above your head. "What are you doing?" You ask. "I'm trying something," he says before capturing your lips in a burningly slow kiss.

Oddly enough your body eases under his touch and he lets go of your arm. You sit up to pull off your shirt and he pulls off your jeans, slowly kissing up your stomach.

Meanwhile Cha young walks Vincenzo out of the hospital and to his chair. The bullets were through and through, so it didn't take that long to clean and stitch him up. "Who did this to you?" Cha young asks. "I deserved it," "No one deserves to be shot... except Hanseok."

"I.. I don't know how, but I'm going to make it up to her." "Her? A woman shot you?" "A very special woman that I once loved," "Wait, now I'm even more confused. If she was so special then why did she try to kill you?" "Because I tried to kill her."

[itsclydebitches]

I'm sorry, but as someone who can't stand how Yang acted for 80% of Atlas, saying "her feeling like she had to help raise Ruby is demeaning and unempathetic to Tai" is a HORRIBLE take. If Yang held it against Tai that'd be one thing, but she doesn't, least not as far as we've seen.

And "she decided he's an unfit parent"? That's literally just headcanon. Where is this stated or supported in any way? Literally everything, from the show to the comics to the manga, shows she absolutely values her father and his guidance. Her providing similar guidance to Ruby at some point doesn't change that, she's stated to be Ruby's mother figure, a woman in her life she could seek advice on in regards to things as well.

Like anon I get you're frustrated by how empathy and morality are handled in this show, I am too, but this just ain't it.

I have simillar feelings on the Weiss scene too but that's another story, you already kind of covered it.

Agreed, though I don't want to rag on the other anon. As said, I can very easily see how someone would come to that conclusion, especially given how often we discuss parts of the show without actually re-watching those scenes, leading to iffy interpretations down the line. A fandom pretty heavily focused on a "Tai is a bad dad" reading + Yang's unfair criticisms of others from Volumes 5-8 (notably her most recent characterization. The one fresh in everyone's mind) = an easy opportunity to mistakenly slam the two together. It happens. That's why I try, whenever possible, to re-watch moments, or at the very least re-read transcripts. I'm well aware of how easy it is to get sucked into how the fandom discusses scenes and take that interpretation at face value, when in fact what's canonical has gotten pretty warped across, in this case, six years of content and discussions.

But let's talk about Weiss a bit more! I think it's worth re-emphasizing that, yes, I'm well aware that she was the victim of that dinner party. My own criticism lies less in that specific moment and more the conceptualizing of our heroes as a whole, which leads to some missed opportunities in that moment, some quite important. For example, most classically heroic characters would be horrified at nearly hurting/killing someone, regardless of whether that was intentional or not. That's a crucial part of what makes them heroic: cherishing life and shouldering responsibility for others' safety, even when it's clear from the audience's more objective perspective that they weren't at fault. There's a happy middle ground here between acknowledging Weiss' horrific panic attack and acknowledging Weiss' responsibility moving forward to ensure that her trauma doesn't endanger others—given that her trauma is drawing on literal, combat techniques—highlighting her desire to do right by the people of Remnant, even when they're snobbish, rich assholes. Any reading that boils things down simply to "Weiss is the only victim in this situation and besides, why do we care if a racist Atlesian bites the dust 😒?" is a small representation of the much larger writing problems of Volumes 7 and 8: acting like Mantle is full of only good victims, Atlas only evil perpetrators, and a defense of the latter isn't worth anyone's time—certainly not the heroes who never, ever make mistakes with massive consequences. Weiss' near attack also carries with it the beginnings of a lot of themes that RWBY never capitalized on, but pretended were an important part of the story by the end of that Atlas arc, like Ironwood's supposed propaganda, or Whitley's question of whether power should be solely in the hands of a few, individual huntsmen. Weiss' situation might have been reframed into something that looks intentional: Here's not just a girl, but a Schnee girl, attacking a poor, defenseless civilian with her scary powers. Are we really going to leave the safety of our kingdom—the world—in the hands of people like her? You should be backing the army, people who have your real interests in mind, led by the man who saved that woman's life—General Ironwood! And the audience would rightly be going, Hey now wait a fucking minute. That's not what happened! It was an accident born of trauma and abuse. How can you manipulate the people into thinking otherwise? Into thinking Weiss is the enemy here? Like, if you're going to write Ironwood/Atlas as the awful, propaganda spewing antagonists... actually write that story.

So the party scene could have been the launching point for a lot of important work, both in terms of Weiss' characterization (a hero learning to balance flaws with her people's safety; taking responsibility for her mistakes, no matter the initial intention) and the world building (what does it mean for a Schnee to (mistakenly) attack a civilian when tensions are this high and faith in huntsmen is beginning to fail?) But for the purposes of what we actually got, that lack of reflection on Weiss' part, as said, reads badly when pit against her actions in Volumes 6-8. Because my brain is super focused on Star Wars atm, I think Anakin is a decent comparison to all this. Meaning, we know where he ends up—super scary Sith Lord who is going to do All The Bad Things Ever—and that will, naturally, color our reading of everything that happens in prequal material. When Anakin gets pissed and cuts the limbs off a Separatist, it produces a "Yikes" reaction in the audience because we know that anger, grief, frustration, and fear are going to lead him down an awful path. In contrast, when Obi-Wan is challenged about his no killing unarmed men policy and cheekily looks to Rex to kill him instead, we don't really go "Yikes" because we know Obi-Wan remains true to the Light for his entire run. All their actions have the primary reading of "They were justified that time/they made a mistake/they're allowed to be human/etc." But only Anakin has the secondary reading of, "That action is REALLY BAD—more bad than Obi-Wan's—because we know where it leads. It reads as setup for his inevitable fall." That's basically where the RWBY group is at the moment, provided you're unhappy with their lack of empathy in the later volumes. If the group had remained more compassionate then yeah, we'd continue to shrug off past moments that sorta imply otherwise because we know that's not who they really are. Weiss never grappled with nearly hurting someone only because, hell, RWBY doesn't let her grapple with anything! She didn't even get to respond to getting speared through the gut. But knowing where they end up—knowing that Weiss will be party to Ozpin's treatment, will help betray Ironwood, will accuse Marrow of abandoning her city only to do nothing for it in turn, will threaten her brother, will give the wish to destroy her entire kingdom and displace all its people, etc.—creates that "Yikes" response whenever we see something earlier that even somewhat aligns with her current characterization. It doesn't erase the 100% correct reading that Weiss was the victim and made a totally unintentional mistake in that moment. It doesn't erase the knowledge that RWBY rarely capitalizes on the implications of scenes like this anyway. It only adds another reading in the form of, "Well, knowing where she ends up... I can kinda see that future version in her here too."

[sooibian]

Twist of Fate

image credits: @/exoxoxoid (twitter)

Pairing: Criminal Psychologist Kyungsoo x Crime Reporter OC (Miss Jung) ft. Minseok, Jongin

Description: Much against your wishes, you are back in your hometown to write about the murders of two young women - your only ticket out is the criminal psychologist who has been assisting Superintendent Kim Minseok with offender profiling.

Inspired by: Sharp Objects, The Fall and this moodboard by @is-that-baekhyuns-shirt​ 

Tags/Warnings: Serial killer AU - angst, grief, loss, murders, descriptions of anxiety, reactive and attentive immobility, asphyxiation, indicative of humiliation, explicit and graphic situations. Please do not read onward if any of this triggers or upsets you!!!!

Word count: +3.7k

A/N: ...i need to stop watching crime dramas. 

@leewalberg​ @his-mochi-cheeks​ @changshapatrol​ 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

When you left Cheongsong, you’d left for good. Or so you’d thought.

Ten years later what brought you back was not your family, for you had none left, but the murders of two young women that had left the quaint little town, surrounded by hills artistically contoured by apple orchards, shaken and distraught.

Everyone knew each other in Cheongsong which should have made Superintendent Kim Minseok’s job easier, but he was caught in an ugly snare of emotions which seemed to have clouded his critical thinking faculties. These were people he knew closely, people he’d grown up with. For him, pointing fingers at any of them meant carving permanent cracks in relationships that were stronger than most familial ties.

“Off the record, then”, you shoved your scratchpad back into your purse, turned off the recorder with a click and looked at Minseok square in the eyes, only to find the amiable, portly, catlike footballer you went to school with hidden in their farthest, darkest depths - reduced to a mere whimsy. The memories of the man who sat before you, now seemed abysmally distorted by the colossal burden of the unknown.

“It never is.” He chuckled darkly, took a measured sip of his bourbon and rolled it around his tongue before swallowing. “Never thought I’d see you here again.”

“That makes two of us. Write about killings in your hometown...it makes an impact because it’s personal, my boss says. We’re to...exploit the fact that nobody substantial is covering this.” You recited, eyes trained on the sliver of grime on the coaster.

Minseok clicked his tongue in disapproval and enquired, “Where have you been staying?” 

“A guest house by the Country Club.”

“So, not the Mansion”, he remarked callously.

Wounds that had barely healed came undone at the mention of your family home. Your throat tightened and you felt as if you had been shanked with a broken bottle in the stomach. The ill fated house reeked of misfortune, grief and loss. Its inhabitants had fallen one by one like lined up dominoes. This curse had forced you out to start a new life in Seoul.

“It’s still quite well kept, you know.” Minseok stated matter-of-factly.

Taking a deep swig of your bourbon, you explained earnestly as the burn of the liquid blazed down your throat, “Minseok, I want nothing more than to get out of here. So, please, give me something. A nugget.” 

“I don’t want to be quoted on this. Or misquoted. This is all new to me as well. Two bodies in three months? Can you imagine?” Overcome with emotion, he ran a hand through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut.

You put a comforting hand on his and offered in a voice laced with empathy, “Listen, from where I stand, all you need is a new line of inquiry and linking these two murders would give you one. I’ve seen the pictures.” 

You swiped through images of two dark haired women on your phone - Park Soojin and Seo Jinri. Both of them were in their late twenties. They lay in their own beds as if soundly asleep, modesty protected only by sheer white blankets, crimson tinted lips parted ever so slightly, freshly painted nails shining in dim lighting. And roses. There were a couple of red roses placed by their side as if in condolence. The blood curdling strangulation marks around their necks made them look like dreadfully divine paintings. 

“They could be sisters”, you observed with moist eyes, voice hushed to a whisper.

Contemplating on the images with pursed lips, Minseok responded with a tight nod and waved a 50,000 bill in the waitress’ general direction.

“Where’d you find these?” He asked in a threateningly calm voice, averting his eyes from your apparently disagreeable gaze.

“You know that’s confidential”, you replied, half-shrugging, nonchalant.

“I’ll drop you home”, he muttered, and shoved his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. 

With a defeated sigh you grabbed your purse and phone and proceeded to follow Minseok out of the only bar in Cheongsong, “No, it’s fine. I could use a walk.”

Suddenly, he turned around, searched your eyes for a fleeting second before admitting begrudgingly, “Kim Jongin. He’s the prime suspect in the first case. The murder of Park Soojin.”  

Your legs froze. “What?! Why?”

You knew Kim Jongin, like you knew everyone else in this town. His family owned one of the biggest apple orchards in Cheongsong but Kim Jongin never manifested that in his behaviour. He was known to be friendly, kind, sensitive. Almost too sensitive some would say.

“That’s it. That’s your nugget. Here.” He handed you a business card bearing the name ‘Dr. Doh Kyungsoo’. “He’s been informally assisting with offender profiling. He’ll talk to you. Seems like he’ll talk to anyone, really. Now get in the car, it’s freezing out here.” 

.

.

.

“Dr. Doh, thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

Dr. Doh Kyungsoo’s home office was a detached unit with a separate entrance, distanced from his main residence. It was exactly the way you’d imagined a psychologist’s office to be - light coloured walls, comfortable chairs, soft pillows, insipid artwork. Neat and clean, fostering a sense of comfort for visitors. 

The Doh family had moved into Cheongsong shortly after you’d left for Seoul. Coming from old money in search of some peace and quiet, they invested in agricultural distribution, Cheongyang Pepper farms and assumed one of the more significant estates to live in while their only son, Doh Kyungsoo, was sent abroad to pursue higher education.   

“Please, call me Kyungsoo.” He took your hand in his, gave it a good, firm shake and gestured you to take the chair opposite his.

“I think ‘Dr. Doh’ should be fine”, you stated plainly and he acknowledged with a curt nod.

“What brings you here?” Asked Kyungsoo, holding your gaze, hands folded in his lap as he leaned back into his chair with a soft sigh. 

Grimacing, you waved your recorder at him, “They say you’re my ticket out of this godforsaken place.”

Minseok had helped you set up the meeting so you thought it proper to waive cumbersome introductions and niceties and Kyungsoo seemed very much in sync with your line of thought. 

He smiled, “I’m merely a bystander, Miss Jung, with slightly more informed opinions, maybe.”

“Informed opinions are what I’m here for, Dr. Doh.” You smiled back, “Superintendent Kim Minseok doesn’t seem to like you very much.”

“He’s a man shackled by bureaucracy and I’m a constant reminder of his team’s staggering incompetence, If I were him, I wouldn’t like me very much either.”

“Do you think there’s a link between the two murders?” 

He nods. “I’m fairly certain there is.” 

“But the police won’t look into it? Why is that?”

“Nobody likes a serial, Miss Jung. Besides, there’s no way the team could cope with the increased workload of linked inquiries. There are over a hundred statements, documents, officers’ reports waiting to be read and actioned. And the case of Park Soojin is a peculiar one.”

“Kim Jongin’s girlfriend? How so?”

“She was the ex-wife of a member of the parliament. This case does absolutely no favours to his image so he needs it solved immediately.” 

The word solved was treated to air quotes.

“So, they’ve ruled him out as a suspect?”

“His alibi checks out. They suspect Kim Jongin.”

“Why? Just because Kim Jongin fled immediately after her body was found? How did the police react to that?”

“Because Jongin fled, his brother was asked to provide DNA which turned out to be a familial match to the DNA gathered at the crime scene. But that does not necessarily mean it’s the killer’s DNA. Miss Park was in a relationship with him. There’s no surprise his semen was found in her esophagus.”

“Do you rule him out as a suspect then?”

“I prefer to reserve my comment.”

“Why do you think he fled?”

“Grief drives us to do irrational things, Miss Jung. Maybe he just needed a breather from everything that was going on here. Can’t say for sure.”

“You’re certain the perpetrator is male?”

“Yes, I am. The perpetrator is male and an athletic one at that. Probably in his late twenties or early thirties. While the strangulation marks may be different, the pathologists reports suggest petechial haemorrhage in both cases which means he strangled and released and then strangled again, over and over. He’s either a sadist, or his hand lacks strength. You try it, grab my wrist.”

He extended his arm towards you and you politely declined. So he wrapped his right hand over his left wrist and held firmly for a few moments. 

“Forty seconds. It’s amazing how quickly the hand tires!” He exclaimed as if awestruck. It was the maximum emotion the inscrutable Dr. Doh had displayed during the course of this interview.

“Victims of strangulation are known to make a mess of themselves. They defecate and / or urinate..”

“That is correct. The bodies were both found posed and clean. Which means he spent hours after, washing them and cleaning the sheets, even. There could be a religious angle to this. Washing away their sins...maybe his own, considering he probably gets into the bath with them.”

He pushed a cup of long gone cold tea towards you, but you shook your head. As a crime reporter, you thought you’d seen it all but the possibility of this being the work of a serial killer was a first for you. Also the fact that it was happening in the place you grew up in was starting to gnaw at you a little more aggressively than you’d liked. 

“I’m not going to lie, Dr. Doh, this gives me pause for concern. Do you think there is a sexual angle to these killings? As far as I know, the victims have shown no signs of any such abuse.”

Kyungsoo sipped on his tea and worried at his lower lip briefly before responding. “I believe he’s the kind to take pictures, momentos from the scene. They sustain him between killings.”

“And the roses? There were..”

“Three next to Park Soojin’s corpse and two next to Seo Jinri’s.”

“Does it indicate -”

“- a countdown? Perhaps.” He studied your face intently and offered you tea again. This time you complied and then proceeded with the interview.

“There was no sign of forced entry in either cases. The police think the perpetrator was known to the victims.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You see, Miss Jung, the problem is that these cases were treated as self solvers from the get go and that’s where it all went wrong.”

His smile at the end of that sentence was one of finality, somehow indicative that you’d overstayed your welcome. To be able to milk him for all he was worth, you were going to let him loose for the time being.

Clicking your recorder off, you tilted your head to the side, smiled politely, “Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Doh.”

“It’s been a pleasure.” 

While he was walking you to the front door, you couldn’t help but ask, “Dr. Doh, if I may, were the victims known to each other? Were they friends? Acquaintances?”

“That’s for the police to investigate. They were both in their late twenties, highly qualified -  one was a solicitor the other a botanist, both tan with double eyelids, a little over 5 feet”, He took a step closer to you, instinctively you took an uncomfortable step back but found yourself trapped between him and the front door. His burgundy turtleneck smelt like warm, sweet gingerbread mixed with the contrastive redolence of something woody. He put his hand on the clip that held your hair in a bun, an elusive smile dancing on his lips as he allowed your hair to freely ripple down to your waist. “...and they both had dark, waist length hair”, he whispered into your ear, sending a frisson of fear down your spine.

You looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights as he slowly retracted. Eyes locked with yours and face contorted in a fierce frown, he concluded grimly, “You fit his profile.”

.

.

.

Unable to sleep well that night, you went for an early morning run the next day and took a detour to Minseok’s residence. After discussing your findings with him, he offered you a close protection officer who’d moonlight to provide you security just until they’d made an arrest. Which meant you’d have one uniformed officer standing guard outside your guest house all day. You knew that they wouldn’t have done this for you if your family name wasn’t Jung.

“Kim Jongin’s back in town.” Relief seemed to have smoothened the lines on Minseok’s forehead and there was a boost of confidence in his voice when he broke the news to you.

“Are you planning to take him in?” you asked, sipping on coffee in Minseok’s kitchen while he made you some eggs.

He looked victorious and his brows shot up to his hairline as he explained animatedly, “We have enough evidence to put him on trial. I’ll get the warrant in two days.” 

“Hand to your heart, do you think he did it?”

“Yah, I’d never be able to make an arrest like that. If you promise not to quote me, I will say that -” 

He peered at you questioningly and you eased him with a reassuring nod, “Go on.”

“This looks like the work of an outsider.”

.

.

.

Later that evening, you found Jongin seated alone at a table in the bar. Beaten, as if overcome with exhaustion he was crouched over a glass of scotch, a silent tear sliding down his cheek. You sat next to him and ordered him another drink.

“I killed her.” He stated simply, eyes trained on the empty glass in front of him. To see a man whose taste buds didn’t even agree with coffee back in the day downing hard liquor effortlessly, broke your heart.

“What?” you enquired, sparing no effort to lay the edge off of your voice.

“That evening, we’d had a huge argument. She- she’d been wanting to move out of here for the longest time and I never agreed. It was as if she knew!” Burying his face in his hands, he broke into full blown sobs. It was a while before he composed himself and spoke again, “Here, you have your story. Following a trivial spat, a small town chaebol kills his girlfriend.”

Shaking your head furiously in disagreement, you held him tightly by his shoulders, “This is your chance, Jongin. Speak your truth. Tell them that you didn’t do it. They’ll need to hear it from you!”

Jongin looked you in the eyes, his own brimming with tears, “I was twelve when my puppy died and I couldn’t seem to get over it. My mother gave me this book which said the only way men can get over grief is by showing indifference, I tried that with Soojin.”

Brows furrowed, you asked, “And?”

“It worked for an hour.” He chuckled darkly, “I loved her and I always will. At this point I just don’t care. I should’ve listened to her. Maybe I even deserve this. I see the way people look at me, I- I feel written off, ostracized. A goddamn parliamentarian wants me in. My truth won’t survive their might.” 

Letting out an exasperated sigh, you started to talk him out of potential suicide, “Jongin -” 

But he raised his forefinger to silence you. Trembling, he asked, “I just find myself wondering, can you die from a broken heart?”

.

.

.

Kim Jongin had turned himself in.

Acquiescent to the slow wheels of justice, moderately satisfied with the first draft of your article, and concerned about your safety, your boss agreed to call you back to the Seoul office, at least until there were further developments in the case.

During the course of your stay in Cheongsong, you drove past the little street leading up to the Mansion several times but not once did you glance in its direction. Before your flight the next morning, you decided to pay the house a little visit to say a final goodbye. The first snow had laid a fleecy white blanket on the ceramic roof that gleamed from the light of the astral light of the night sky. You were flooded with memories of chasing butterflies in spring, climbing the only mango tree in town which still stood proud in your backyard, the stories of monsters and ghosts your parents would read to you in the blanket forts you’d build together… blissfully unaware that in a not so far future this was all your life would entail - monsters and ghosts.

The great oakwood front door turned on its hinges and a familiar aroma of caramel apple hotteok invited you in. They say every house has a peculiar smell and yours smelt of caramel apple hotteok, even after all this time. Your lips curled upward at the strangeness of your sentiments. The demons you tried so hard to escape all your life seemed like bad dreams and what was left of this place within you was just the good. The pure, unadulterated joy that was once your childhood. 

You proceeded to the kitchen to fetch yourself a cup of hot water, and that’s when you heard a knock on the front door. You ignored it at first thinking it was just the wind but the knock came again. Louder, this time. You left the kitchen to answer the door.

“Dr. Doh!” you exclaimed, utterly surprised to see him here at this hour.

“Miss Jung”, he smiled sheepishly, “I went by the guest house but the guard said you were at the Mansion. I just wanted to say goodbye, I’m leaving for Gyeonggi in the a.m.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Uh - I’m sorry, please, come in.” 

He followed you to the kitchen and said apologetically, “I hope I’m not imposing.”

“No, not at all! Never quite realised just how massive this house actually is - It was starting to eat me up. Gyeonggi, you say?”

“Oh, it’s a cursed life as an independent consultant, Miss Jung. I’m mostly living out of a suitcase..”

“I wish I could say differently. So your presence here was requested by Minseok’s team?” You asked as he took a seat at the kitchen table.

“No, I arrived just about a month before the first murder. My parents passed in a car crash three years ago. So I decided to sell the estate and the pepper farms.” He explained, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“Would you like some tea? I brought some tea bags with me. I don’t know which tea it is, though.” You offered, mindlessly pouring hot water into two cups. 

“Sure” , he nodded.

“So did you?”

“What?”

“Manage to sell everything? And I’m sorry - uh about your parents.” 

You didn’t feel sorry. What you felt was an inexplicable weight in your chest rendering you breathless. Your heart started pounding erratically and your mind clouded over with a sense of impending doom as you went about the mundane task of making tea. 

“You seem a little out of it, Miss Jung. Is something bothering you?” He got off his chair and guided you to yours as your legs threatened to give away.

You sipped on some warm tea to steady yourself and said to Kyungsoo, “Oh, no it’s … It’s just this house. Maybe you were right, Dr. Doh. This isn’t a good time. I’m sorry but I might have to ask you to leave.”

Kyungsoo didn’t react. At all. He stood still, eyes fixed on your trembling frame.

“Park Soojin wasn’t his first kill”, he whispered.

“What?” you asked feebly, still trying to get a hold of yourself.

Kyungsoo sauntered over to the kitchen counter and brought you a glass of water. “Pay attention, Miss Jung. Park Soojin wasn’t his first kill. He was sloppy with the first one and it was only by a stroke of luck that he managed to get away. So he planned better with Soojin. Got even better with Jinri.”

Startled, you looked him in the eyes and he gave you a smile that raised goosebumps on your skin. 

Unperturbed Kyungsoo continued, pacing leisurely in the kitchen, a spine-chilling hint of exhilaration in his voice. “His criminal sophistication indicates that he understands criminology and knows police work. Unfortunately, Miss Jung,”, his voice dropped and you suddenly felt shackled to your seat. Squirming, but unable to make any big movement like reaching out for something that was heavy or sharp or both, “The tragedy is that he’s always believed he’s inferior to these women. But -” 

Kyungsoo levelled his face with yours and grinned with a glimmer of victory in his eyes, “for every tragedy, there is a happy ending.”

It took all you could muster to hold it together and dash for your purse to retrieve your cell phone. But you didn’t find it in there. 

“Is this what you’re looking for?” asked Kyungsoo, teasing as he pulled your phone from the inside pocket of his overcoat and handed it to you. 

You tried to turn it on to no avail. Voice as steady as could be, you said to him, “Please, please just leave!”

He took two easy steps towards you and you found yourself encased between his body and the wall. “Well then you shouldn’t have let me in! Tell me something, how could the close protection officer have given me your whereabouts if you dismissed him immediately after Jongin’s arrest? Haven’t you learnt since you were a little girl - always keep your guard up. Think before you speak. Did you think you were invincible?”

He took your hand in his and guided you back to the kitchen table. Eyes brimming tears, body trembling, and mind overcome with dread you followed him as if he were the pied piper. The familiar scent of gingerbread wafted up your nostrils making you nauseous.

As soon as you took a seat at the table, he put on his gloves, and lay a bottle of red nail polish and a red rose before you.

“Just think about how you can be with them again, Miss Jung. And don’t worry...I’ll be gentle.”

***

A/N: YES! you’re absolutely right! i just wanted to write turtleneck murderer Soo -_-

[winchesterwords]

“You and I” John Winchester x F!Reader

Summary:  Set before the boys raid the vampire nest to get the colt, John visits you to get insight on which vamps have it. Owning a bar, you are a highway of information for the supernatural and an “old friend” of johns. How will he react around you while his sons meet you for the first time?

Word Count: 3753

Warning: Swearing, Alcohol, lil steamy moment

Song I Wrote To: “You and I” by Lady Gaga

Note: This is a bit canon divergence but I liked the concept. I’ve mentioned before that I don’t write smut, but I hope this lil steamy moment was okay. I don’t see enough John fics on here or ao3 so I wanted to do something. I wish we would have gotten more of his character. Tho i think that’s just cause I love JDM so much. 

-------

In the dark of a lone American road, a 67’ Impala rolled along the rain-slicked street. 

“You have that look on your face again,” Dean Winchester said, looking over at his brother. Sam turned to him, confused. 

“What look?” he asked. 

“The look that says you want to either punch Dad or punch him twice,” Dean said with a knowing glance. 

“I just don’t get why he won’t tell us where we’re going,” Sam said with a deep sigh as he stared at the taillights of their father’s truck ahead of them. “He just has to make everything so damn mysterious.” Dean laughed as his thumbs drummed on the steering wheel. 

“You’re just realizing that now, Sammy? Dad has always been like this, but he knows what he’s doing. Always does.” 

“I’m not so sure about that,” Sam grumbled and Dean rolled his eyes. In their search for the colt, they had gotten word that the break-in was perpetrated by a nest of vampires. The problem was, they weren’t sure where to start when it came to the bloodsuckers. Then, John had mentioned he knew someone who could give them a hand. That was all he said before jumping in his truck and telling his boys to follow him. Sam and Dean had done what they were told and revved the Impala’s engine, but now, Sam was getting restless. 

----

John Winchester drove with an eagerness.

He knew where he was going.  He had the route memorized no matter which direction he was coming from. You were the kind of woman that he couldn’t forget even if he tried. There was something about the way you didn’t take any bullshit when it came to anyone. Then there was the fact that you handled a sawed-off shotgun as well as any hunter he had ever met. John always liked keeping you to himself, his own personal getaway when things were getting a bit too dark for his tastes. 

However, unfortunately, this visit would not be a social one. He needed your help and he was running out of options to find the colt. If anyone knew where to find a vamp nest with a desire for a mystical gun, it would be you.

John hit the gas and sped down the road, keeping Sam and Dean in his rearview mirror. He was actually nervous for once. There was so much of his life that he kept private from his sons. Dean knew a bit more than Sam, but they didn’t know about you. They didn’t know about how you had saved his life twice or that you had asked him to stay with you on multiple occasions, but he couldn’t. You always understood that he had a mission to complete. Not just for Mary, but for his boys as well and you respected that even when all you wanted was a bit more time with the man, just as he did with you. 

Turning off the highway, John rolled into a town that seemed like coming home. Dean followed him through the winding streets as John drove straight for your bar. You had owned “The Iron Outpost” since before you had met the eldest Winchester. The entire building was lined with pure iron to keep unwanted spirits at bay. Not to mention the devil’s traps at both entrances and holy water you added to all the drinks.

You were pretty lenient with most supernaturals such as wolves, witches, even the odd vampire on occasion, but demons was where you drew the line. They never got past the door and if they tried, they would be met by you or your business partner, Dawn, who was also a hunter. The two of you had become an information highway for everything going on in the supernatural world and that was why the Winchesters were now at your doorstep. 

Parking in front of the Outpost, John got out of his truck just as his sons pulled in. Sam still looked annoyed as he got out of the Impala, but Dean just looked confused. “Alright, Dad,” Dean said, “what’s going on? Who is this secret contact of yours.”

“Never said she was a secret, Dean,” John said, “I just said you had never met her.” 

“She?” Sam asked. 

“She’s a hunter,” John said, nodding towards the front door. “Sort of.” 

Sam and Dean exchanged a look before following John into the bar. It was pretty crowded for a Tuesday night. The low hum of conversation rolled throughout the room as drinks were poured and food was served. Dean immediately spotted the odd charms that hung around the main entrance, as well as the warding symbols carved into the door frame.

There were two levels in the place and people milled about on both floors, smiling and drinking their fill. It was a typical place to find hunters and Dean immediately loved it. Sam was still a bit skeptical but remained optimistic that this place would offer answers. 

John searched the floor for you, but could only spot Dawn as she worked behind the bar, smiling at patrons. Moving further into the bar, John kept his eyes peeled for you. “Is she meeting us here?” Sam asked. 

“She owns the bar,” John said, turning to his youngest. “She should be around here somewhere…”

“Closer than you think, Winchester,” a voice came from above and John visibly relaxed as your voice reached him. Looking up at the balcony on the second floor, he finally spotted you. Grinning, you turned and jogged down the stairs. John’s eyes followed you as you approached him and the boys. 

“(Y/N),” he greeted with a smile. 

“Heya, Handsome,” you said as you walked up to him. “I’ve missed you,” you whispered as you leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. John smiled down at you, taking in your face as if he was trying to memorize it. “And I see you’ve brought guests,” you said, peering over his shoulder. Though, it didn’t take long for the pieces to fit together in your mind. “Or should I say, family.”

“(Y/N),” John said, “these are my boys, Sam and Dean,” he introduced, gesturing to each of his sons. You shook both of their hands, smiling. 

“Wow, John, you never mentioned how tall they were,” you said, looking at Sam with amusement in your eyes. The youngest Winchester chewed on the inside of his lip, awkwardly. Turning back to John, you sat into a single hip, crossing your arms. “What are you doin’ back in my neck of the woods?” you asked. 

“Need your help on something, (Y/N),” he said and you recognized his tone of voice immediately. This wasn’t going to be one of your more...entertaining visits. 

“What’s wrong?” you asked, giving him your full attention. 

“We may need a bit more privacy for this conversation,” he said, glancing around and you instantly understood. 

“That kind of ‘something’, huh?” John nodded, “Alright, boys. Why don’t you grab a seat and I’ll start closin’ up early. I’ll send Dawn over with a bottle,” you said. John reached out and squeezed your arm. 

“Thanks,” he said. You sent him a wink and then disappeared to start clearing out customers. John led his sons over to the table he always sat at when he came to visit. Shrugging out of his coat, he leaned back and watched as you spoke to Dawn across the bar, gesturing to the three men in the corner. 

“Dad?” Dean said, gaining John’s attention. “How exactly do you know her?” John sighed, running a hand over his face.

“I met her a few years ago,” John began, “I was on a hunt not too far from here. Some large-scale haunting and I hadn’t realized there was more than one ghost. These were nasty spirits. Salt slowed them down, but every time I turned around, three more would show up. I was being cornered by at least four of them and I was out of rounds when (Y/N) showed up and showered them in salt,” John chuckled slightly at the memory. “Woman was like Rambo with a salt grenade and then she hauled my ass out of there.” 

“So you got your ass handed to you by a chick?” Dean asked, amused. John shrugged. 

“Twice actually,” he continued. “She came with me to salt and burn the bones when a vamp came out of nowhere. Freshly turned one too. I’ve never seen anyone move that fast with a machete.”

“But I thought you said she wasn’t a hunter,” Sam said. 

“I said she was sort of a hunter,” John corrected. “(Y/N) hunts when she can. Mostly local things to keep her town safe, but she has other...talents. (Y/N) is connected in the world of the supernatural. She always knows what is going on within the monster world.”

“What? Like having Wolfman on speed dial?” Dean asked and Sam kicked him under the table. Dean threw a glare at his little brother, annoyed. 

“Kind of,” John said, “it’s complicated.” Dean pursed his lips but didn’t press the issue as Dawn arrived with a bottle of bourbon and four glasses. She dropped them on the table. “Thanks, Dawn,” John said. Dawn grinned at him. 

“Good to see you, John,” she said. “Things have been a bit boring around here since you left.” 

“You know me, D, gotta keep moving,” he said and she rolled her eyes. 

“Right,” she said with a knowing look. “Alright, you guys have a good night, I’m heading out.” Dawn nodded to the boys and then gripped John’s shoulder as she headed for the back, ready to have an early night. Dean poured the drinks and handed them out, pouring an extra one for you as you finished up sending people home. 

John sipped from his glass as he watched as you dragged a very drunk psychic from the bar. “It helps me see better!” the woman complained, trying to stay on her feet. 

“Then go buy a bottle at the liquor store, Shay,” you said, hauling her to the door. “I got shit to do!”

“You are going to have a hard life, (Y/N),” Shay said, pointing her finger at your face. Then, the psychic fell over, trying to reach the door. 

“Bet you didn’t see that coming,” you quipped as she stumbled out the door. With a final dismissal of the staff, the Outpost was finally quiet. After locking up, you joined the Winchesters, gratefully accepting the drink John handed you. “Alright, fill me in.”

“Wait,” Sam said before John could begin, “how do we know we can trust her?” Dean rolled his eyes and John narrowed his at his youngest. You, however, had expected this. 

“Something tells me you have questions, Sam Winchester,” you said, downing the bourbon. “Ask away.”

“How do you get your information about the supernaturals?” Sam asked. You reached for the bottle again and poured yourself another drink as you spoke. 

“I have my sources,” you explained. “Not all ‘monsters’ are bad, boys. There are wolves that eat cow hearts from the butcher and vamps that drink blood-bags instead of people. If you know which ones are the less horrible ones, you can make deals with them. Offer them protection from other hunters in exchange for information. I don’t deal in demons though,” you assured them. “However, I do know how to summon one if the situation is that dire. Which it rarely is in these parts. Psychics and witches are also easy to find and very easy to bribe once you get to know them.”

“So you run a black market for information?” Dean asked. 

“That’s one way to put it, sure,” you said with a shrug. “I find that monsters are more willing to speak to you than other hunters. I offer them a deal and they usually take it.”

“What deal?” asked Sam. 

“If they prove to me that they don’t kill people and offer good information, I keep them protected and keep their secret.” 

“And if they break the deal?” 

“Then I kill them,” you said simply. 

“Just like that?” asked Dean. 

“Just like that, Dean,” you said. “Satisfied?” Dean hesitated before nodding. You looked at Sam and he did the same. 

“She’s good, boys,” John said and you smiled at him, gripping his shoulder. 

“So,” you began, “tell me what you need.” John turned fully towards you and you could see that he was exhausted. You weren’t sure when the last time he slept was. Then again, you hadn’t seen the man for months. A hundred different things could have happened since then. 

“We’re looking for the colt,” John said and your brows shot up. 

“As in Samuel Colt?” you asked.

“You know it?” he asked. 

“I do, but nobody knows where it is.”

“We did,” Dean interjected. “Another hunter, Daniel Elkins, had it, but it was stolen.” 

“By vamps, (Y/N),” John said. 

“What would vampires want with a gun like that?” you asked, confused. Everyone that knew about the supernatural was aware of the gun. It was legendary, but most people thought it was just a fable, a myth to tell monsters so they would be scared. You never imagined that someone you knew would be after it.

“We don’t know,” John said, “but we need it.” You sighed, placing your drink down. 

“I can ask some of my contacts, but I can’t make any promises. And as soon as I do, people, monsters, spirits, you name it, they’re all gonna know the Winchesters are after it.”

“We’re out of options, (Y/N),” he said. 

“I’ll do my best,” you said. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask why we need it?” Dean asked. 

“Not my business,” you said. “When you’re in the business in making deals and keeping secrets, you tend to learn to not ask questions. Excuse me,” you said as you got up and headed for your office upstairs. The three men watched after you. 

As soon as the door to your office shut, John turned to his sons. “Really? Did you have to interview her like a suspect?” He didn’t wait for them to answer as he got up and followed after you. 

“How well do you think they actually know each other?” Sam asked, watching after his father. 

“You don’t think…?” said Dean and then he cringed. “Not an image I needed, Sammy. Not at all.”

-------

Slipping into your office, John shut the door softly behind him. 

“Your boys are a lot like you,” you said from your desk as you texted away on your cell phone. John walked around the room as he looked at all the memorabilia you had from various hunts and adventures. Some he had even joined you on. When his eyes fell on the leather couch in the corner, he couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. 

“Sam is like me,” John eventually said, “but Dean is more like his mother.” John turned and walked back to you as you set your phone down and walked around to lean against the desk. John met you there. You reached out and ran your hands up his chest and then over his shoulders. 

“You look tired,” you said softly, looking into his hazel eyes that stared back at you through thick lashes.

“So do you,” he pointed out. You shrugged. 

“It can be hard in my line of work. Never know when someone is going to need me up at three in the morning.” John nodded as his hands slid around your waist under your shirt, his large hands gripping you tighter. His thumbs rubbed along your skin. “I was hoping you’d visit soon,” you said quietly. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he said, stepping closer between your legs. 

“I heard you mention the haunting we first worked,” you said as your hands crept up his neck and into his hair. 

“It was a tough one,” John said. “I should have done my research and of course, listened to the local bartender who told me the history of the place.”

“Yeah, probably would have helped,” you said with a grin. 

“You know,” John said, leaning forward to trail his lips along your jaw ever so slightly. “I never did thank you for saving me that night.” Your eyes fluttered closed as he nipped at your ear, your hands tightening in his hair.

“I remember you did,” you breathed out. 

“Oh?” John asked, innocently. Pulling back, he looked down at you with lustful eyes. “Would you mind reminding me?” With a hard tug, your lips met his and he grabbed your hips, placing you on the desk. 

John kissed you hard as he tried to make up for all the time lost between the two of you. You gripped him tightly, letting him take control. His hands moved from your waist to your hips and then your thighs as he took charge of your body. 

Sliding your hands from his hair to his waist, you ran them up his stomach beneath his shirt, feeling his hard chest beneath your fingers. John pressed in closer, gripping the back of your neck to tilt your head back for better access. When he parted your lips, a small groan echoed from your throat which only made him more eager.

There was nothing better than kissing John Winchester. He was the only man to ever make you feel like this and the second he walked out of your bar, you craved him until he returned. 

Your nails raked down his back as he let go of your lips and moved to your jaw and then down to your throat. Leaning back on the desk, you let him mark you, feeling electricity flow through your veins. You gasped as he bit down just above your collarbone. Keeping one hand on your neck, he used the other to grip your thigh. Your leg came up and between his legs. John pressed his body against yours harder at the movement. 

You were flush against him, feeling his body fit perfectly against your own. He dragged his teeth along your throat, eliciting another moan from your mouth. “You’re gonna cause trouble if you keep doing that,” he whispered against your skin. “Not that I’m complaining,” he said as he lay you back on the desk, running his hands along your body as he leaned over you. 

“Don’t be a tease,” you warned as he grinned, wrapping your leg around his waist. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said with a smirk as he trailed a finger across your chest.

 “John,” you breathed out as he moved back to your lips, swallowing your whispers. 

Just as his hand began to move towards the waistband of your jeans, your phone rang. 

“Fuck,” you groaned as he paused. Detangling yourself from his body, you slid off the desk and grabbed your phone. John stood back, trying to control his breathing as he smoothed down his shirt. You fussed with your own clothes as you picked up the call. 

John didn’t listen as you spoke to whatever contact you had reached out to. Instead, he tried to come down from the high he had just experienced in that small moment with you. He had almost forgotten what it had felt like to have you in his arms, to feel you respond to his touch. His heart jumped in anticipation at the thought of having the opportunity again, he knew it was unlikely. They still had a job to do. 

“You’re in luck,” you said, grabbing his attention as you pocketed your phone. John turned to you. You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand and smoothed your hair. “I have the location.”

-----

Once the two of you had made sure you didn’t look like horny teenagers, you rejoined Sam and Dean. 

“I got it,” John said, raising a piece of paper in his hand. Your vampire contact, a nomad who you had crossed paths with occasionally had heard about two humans who had been taken by a nest. A nest that was gloating about getting the jump on some guy named Elkins.

“Just like that?” Dean asked. 

“I told you,” John said, “she’s good.” Sam still looked skeptical, but Dean seemed to be alright with how things turned out. 

“Do you guys need anything else?” you asked, trying not to let the sadness on your face show. You knew he had to leave now and you weren’t sure when you would see him again.

“We’re good,” John said softly and you nodded, crossing your arms. 

“Well, don’t any of you be a stranger, okay?” you said. “And for god’s sake be careful so I don’t have to hunt you down cause you got turned.” 

“We’ll do our best,” John said with a longing look that Dean caught immediately. 

“We’ll meet you outside, Dad,” Dean said as he grabbed his brother’s jacket. “It was nice meeting you, (Y/N),” he said and you nodded back to the both of them. As soon as the door closed behind them, you grabbed John’s arm. 

“You’re going after it, aren’t you?” you asked. “The demon. That’s what the colt’s for.” John grimaced and you sighed. He had told you about the yellow-eyed demon the second time he had come to see you. To most people, a conversation like that would seem like bad pillow talk, but it was normal for the two of you. 

“You know I have to,” he said, reaching for you. His hand came up to hold the side of your face. 

“I know,” you said. “He’s not gonna know what hit him when John Winchester shows up with Samuel Colt’s gun on his hip,” you said as you pulled him closer, your hand resting on the place his gun normally sat. You pulled his lips to yours and you kissed him fiercely. He melted into the kiss and you felt as if this was finally goodbye. You didn’t know why, but something about the way you held each other spoke volumes. 

Pulling back, you looked right in his eyes and tried to memorize those beautiful hazel irises. “(Y/N), you are...it’s been you for so long,” he whispered and you fought back tears. You kissed him once more, letting your lips linger for just a few seconds before letting go again. 

“Go get the bastard,” you said. John smiled at you. 

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

[jimlingss]

The Devil’s Advocate

➜ Words: 11.8k

➜ Genres: 98% Fluff, 2% Smut, Devil!AU

➜ Summary: The devil is a lazy. selfish. bastard. He never shows up for work and forces you to take his place at the gates of Hell. But when he follows you on your vacation — you have an inkling of his intentions. After all, you are his advocate.

➜ Warnings: Implied smut, violence, killing, etc.

There’s a proverb out there that says: talk of the devil and he is sure to appear.   But no matter how much you talk, curse, and wish for him to show up to his damned job — he never does. So because of him, every single day in this burning inferno eternity, you're always running.   "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"   The guards step swiftly away as you sprint past with fire on your heels — they're not unfamiliar with this sort of sight. After all, the same thing happens day in and day out.   Yoongi is seated at his desk, feet propped up on the surface of said desk. He’s casually leaning back on his chair, elbow propped up on the armrest, fingers playing with a few strands of his hair. “You're late.”   “I know.” You’re heaving for air while balancing the pile of file folders and paperwork that goes over your head. You drop it on your desk with a massive thump that teeters the desk’s legs from the sheer force and has the people wincing.   He would make another snarky comment but your deep eye bags and trembling hands are pitiful enough.   “Alright.” The angel stands onto his feet again. “First person, please.”   One of Yoongi's assistance in her white robes looks down at the clipboard and calls the next dead soul that's been in line. “Kim Namjoon.”   Immediately, you shuffle your files to find the right one, struggling in the mess of yet another late night. In the meanwhile, the man steps up with a nervous posture, reverent with his hands folded in front of him and Yoongi reads from his own papers.   “Alright. Looks like you were an academic most of your life. A very quiet existence, huh? Never married or any kids. Let's see here. Oh. You dedicated your life to research of koala birth control. A very good contribution to society. You volunteered at soup kitchens a lot too — even on the day of your death.”   “I like to help people,” the man pipes up in a timid mutter.   Yoongi's cat-like eyes flicker to the top of his paper, having never asked him to speak. And the glare from the angel has the man tight-lipped again. “Your history shows you were very altruistic. Looks like you can head to heaven.”   “Wait!” You stand up once you finally find the right file, stopping the soul before it can take a step closer towards the glowy gates.    At your rebuttal, Yoongi rolls his eyes and plops back down into his swivel chair.   “Here we go again....”   You hold the file up. “Kim Namjoon, you were at Imlings Street on October twenty fifth, twenty nineteen, correct?”   “Y-Yes?” The deceased human swallows hard, not sure where you're going with this. But he’s undoubtedly nervous that you're speaking, after all you’re the woman in bright carmine. Namjoon looks at the angel for help but Yoongi doesn't even blink. “I worked near there.”   “And you were there that night at ten?”   “I-I don't remember.”   “Well, you were celebrating your friend's birthday that night, right?”   “Oh yeah…” His brows furrow as it slowly comes back to him.   “And at some point, you were standing near the corner street near Fifth avenue, correct?”   “Yes...? I suppose.”   “Is it true you could see down the alleyway the restaurant called Dog World?”   Namjoon pales. “Umm....”   The deceased human obviously recalls why this night was significant in particular — and it seems to be a memory that he’s attempted to suppress through his entire lifetime.   “Answer the question, human,” Yoongi sighs, fiddling with a pen in his cup holder.   “Yes.”   “And you witnessed a woman being murdered, correct?”   The man nearly starts sobbing. He whimpers, and manages a slight nod.   “We need you to speak, Mr. Kim.”   “Yes!” he shouts, distressed.    “You did nothing to stop it, right?”   “I...I couldn’t!”   “Well, you didn't call the police?”   “I didn't.”   “You just left while the woman was being murdered.” As you speak, the man starts wailing hysterically, aware of where this is going. He attempts to beg for forgiveness, but neither you nor Yoongi pay any mind. It’s always the last moments that humans are filled with regret — the moments when it matters, not the moments when it didn’t. “Are you aware that the omission to act when you have a moral duty to is a grave sin?”   He hiccups, sobbing.   “It is equally as bad to be a bystander as a perpetrator,” you continue. “You could've saved her.”   Yoongi waves his hand. “Alright, alright. You've convinced us.” The angel spares the man from being berated and grilled, granting him at least a bit of mercy. “You're going to hell.”   “No! No!”    He howls at the top of his lungs, but the two guards grab each side of him and begin dragging him past you. The barbed, black gates open wide to welcome him in, creaking on their hinges, and his scream is heard echoing as he’s thrown down the red-glowing, inferno pit.   You don’t know why they’re always crying — it’s kind of insulting to your home.   Hell’s not that bad.   “Next person!” Yoongi calls.   When humans die, most of their souls rise to purgatory — an empty void of nothingness — where they stand in a single-file line waiting to get to the gates. There, the devil and an angel representative come to judge where the soul shall reside as each come up one by one.    But the devil never shows up to do his job, to serve judgment to human souls.   You’re his substitute.    You’re the devil’s advocate.   “Am I going to see you tomorrow?”   It’s been a long day and you feel your eyeballs burning as you pack up the mess of your files. You’ll have to sort them again, but for now, you stuff whatever you can back into your briefcase.   “No, it's my day off. Jimin'll probably be here instead.” Yoongi sips the glittering golden liquid in his chalice. Angels — always so pretentious. “Let me guess, you’ll still be here.”   “Hopefully not.” There’s a small smile gracing your lips, but it’s futile. Everyone knows you’ll have to show up. The lazy devil never shows up and does his own bidding.   “You’re overworking yourself, Y/N,” Yoongi mumbles in disgust as he watches you try to pile your stack of papers that’s practically teetering from side to side. “Haven’t you thought about going on vacation or something?”   “Vacation?” you exhale, arms straining under the weight.   His eyes light up as he remembers something. “Have you ever heard about that famous cruise? What was it again?” Yoongi looks over at his assistant and her eyes flicker up.   “Sins Cruise Line,” she deadpans.   He snaps his fingers. “Right. I heard it was amazing. Each day is dedicated to a deadly sin or something. Too bad they only have it in hell — makes me want to visit some time. But does the publicity live up to the name?”   “How am I supposed to know?”   Yoongi’s eyes dim. His excitement dies on the spot. “Of course you wouldn’t.” The angel grabs his briefcase. “Well see you some time, Y/N. I’m going to my vacation home over the long weekend.”   “Goodbye, Yoongi.”   He enters the gates of Heaven and disappears from sight. You go on your own way, bringing your tall files back. But his words stick to you. They’re devilishly tempting.   //   You’re writing away on parchment with your quill dipped with black ink, preparing more documents and affidavits. But you stop momentarily to roll your neck and ease your tense muscles. You lean back in your chair, staring around at the red room you’re in, and the tiny desk that you occupy. Across the room is the devil’s desk, large and imposing, with an uncomfortable chair across his velvet one. Though the surface has collected a thick layer of dust on the surface.   “Debra!” you shout her name and the sluggish secretary comes in. She has gray hair, kitten heels clicking on the scarlet carpet, skirt past her knees. The demon woman reminds you of church-goer humans who often shout profanities at you as if they’re attempting to exorcise you while you’re just trying to make a legal case — they frequently run into Yoongi’s arms too, impressing neither you nor him.   “Yes?”   You set your quill down. “Have you ever heard of Sins Cruise Line?”   She exhales in exhaustion. “Can’t say I have…”   “Well...then. Umm, can you find me a pamphlet of theirs?”   She stares and then slowly turns away from the room without acknowledgment.   But the secretary eventually comes back half an hour later and slaps the rectangular papers to your desk. She turns away, returning to her front desk, and while you try to focus on your work until the next break, the temptation of the pamphlet sitting at the corner becomes too strong.   You put down your quill to open it.   At once, your pupils dilate. There’s a picture of the glorious red sea, the colour of crimson and a white pristine ship on it. Your indulgence is ours. How fancy. It looks like there’s a variety of facilities and lots of activities to do. It looks fantastic and your muscles are already relaxing as you look at the pictures.   But you can’t….   You can’t just leave your job….   Can you?

Turns out you can — that it is in fact possible.   It’s so surreal, you can’t believe that you’ve somehow managed to actually get time off, that the infamously lazy devil actually agreed to it and will come back to work so you can take a break.   Now you’re standing on the harbour with your suitcase in hand, staring at the white ship in front of you. Yoongi would be proud.   “Cocktail?”   The worker hands one to you on his platter, and you hesitate. “Can I really?”   “Of course.” He grins. “Your indulgence is our pleasure.”   You hold the cool glass while stepping onto the incline to get on the ship’s deck. The chilling wind entwines into your hair and you sip the liquid, your feet afloat already. “Welcome aboard to Sins Cruise Line! Your indulgence is our pleasure!”   The workers wave, giving a warm welcome with perfect smiles. You might be in Heaven.   “We can show you the way to your room. What is your name?”   “Y/N L/N.” One of the demon women takes a look at your ticket and smiles. “Right this way.”   After a millennium of working, this is what you deserve.   You’re given a short, brief tour of the massive cruise ship. “—week-long, each day to indulge in a deadly sin—” And not long after are you brought to your modest-sized ocean view room. “—canal surrounds hell. It’s quite lovely during the night when the water glows red. Have you ever seen it before?”   “No, I can’t say that I have,” your voice trails off and you look at towels shaped into animals on your bed as well as the edible arrangement on your coffee table. “Wow….”   “I’m glad you like it. It’s all complimentary,” the girl giggles. “I should also tell you that today is dedicated to greed. We’ll be having a gambling night down at the casino floor starting in the evening. Other than that, feel free to ask anything whatsoever. We’ll always be around.”   “Thank you.”   And you’re sincere about your gratitude. You’ve never experienced something like this before.   You flop down onto the soft bed before getting up after a moment. There’s too much to explore, too much to see than to stay in a small space between four walls. You’ve done that enough and you find yourself quickly slipping away from your room.   As you pace the area, you muse that you could potentially spend the rest of your existence on this ship, indulging like you should be, giving into temptation, living in a daze, high on bliss—   “Where’s my refill?! I’ve been waiting for five minutes!”   Your smile falls. Goosebumps raise all over your body. The barking voice is so familiar that it sends chills down your spine. It’s an automatic response, like a dog made on alert, and your head swivels over.   Instantaneously, your eyes connect to darker ones. They’re pools of deep brown nearing black. And the corner of their plump lip tugs into a sly smirk.   What the hell was the devil doing here?   “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.” He abandons his drink on the tray of the server that just rushed over and ignores him in favour of you. The devil makes long strides across the deck towards you and when you stumble back, his smile widens into a friendlier one. Had you blinked, you would’ve missed the sparkle of dangerous mischief in his eyes. “What a coincidence.”   “A coincidence?!”   You’re unintentionally cowering lower than him, posture bending to his imposing aura. He looms over you with his tall height, covering you with his shadows that seems to snicker.   “Course it would be. What? You think I followed you here?”   That’s exactly it — you put in a note requesting time off, and when he asked where you were going via letter, you wrote it down. There’s no way that this was a mere coincidence.   But you don’t dare say it out loud.   “Who’s….who’s working?”   He grins. Of course the first question you would ask him is about work.   “I put Taehyung in charge.”   “He’s not trained!” you hiss in distress, just considering the wrong things he’ll do, the trouble he’ll cause and mess he’ll make for you to clean up.   But the devil man shrugs. “He’ll be fine. So what are you doing now? This is one hell of a ship, huh?”   You’re in hell.    You’re stuck in the middle of a canal, on a cruise ship, with no escape from Kim Seokjin.   //   What was supposed to be an easy vacation has turned into a nightmare.    Every corner you turn, you peek from it. You slink behind pillars to scan the premise. You crawl in the shadows to—   “Are you lost?”   You jump from your spot, turning to find a short worker, an attendant wearing the cruise uniform while adorning a warm smile.    “You scared the living daylights out of me!” you harshly whisper, holding your hand over your unbeating heart.   “My apologies, ma’am. I was just asking if you’re lost. Or are you looking for the way to the casino for our gambling night?”   That’s right. You’ve lost sight as to why you came here.   It’s supposed to be a break, a break from your job, from your stress, from your intimidating boss that never appears at work anyways. You shouldn’t have lost focus on it. You paid a lot of gold coins to be here.   “Where is it again?”   “Oh, turn to your left, walk down the hall and just take the elevator to the third floor. You’ll be right there! Hard to miss.”   “Thanks…”   You shouldn’t waste such a good trip.   Once you arrive at the floor, the intoxicating air overwhelms your senses. It’s hard to think, and the many lights blind your vision, a mosaic of colours that makes the surroundings a whirlwind. There’s the crisp sound of cards divided up, tables and roulette boards spinning, machines being pulled and coins falling out the slots.   Someone hands you a drink and you grasp onto it to stay grounded. But sipping the liquid only intensifies the experience.   You stand back to watch the demons play, gambling the lives of humans souls indebted to them.   “I was looking for you.” A voice pipes up beside you, and you’re genuinely scared this time.   The entity manifested beside you, looking straight ahead. You wonder why you even tried to run today. There’s no point. He’s the devil.   “Why?”   “Just cause.” Seokjin grins, turning his head to stare at you. He’s dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbow, black trousers tight around his thighs — he’s missing the traditional, black cape that calls attention whenever he steps into the room. “You’re my favourite little worker. So it’s nice to see you in a different setting.”   You aren’t particularly amused. “Where have you been?”   Seokjin shrugs. “Around.”   You thought because he’d be busy with other affairs which would be understandable considering his status in this realm. But to hear such a nonchalant answer brings forth more questions to your mind. “Why haven’t you been to work?”   “I don’t like work much, but you already knew that.” His eyes twinkle with playfulness and plump lips pull into yet another sly smirk. Jin’s voice moves down a pitch into a rumbling timbre. “Plus, how could I ever replace you? You’re the best at my job.”   You don’t know what to say to that, so you take a sip of your drink. There’s too many questions still left unanswered, but you don’t bother asking.   This is all a game to him anyways. He followed you here to pester you on your break, to ruin your chances of rest.   Seokjin is truly the devil.   “Let’s play a game, Y/N,” he sing-songs. “Should we bet?”   “Bet what?” you ask, hesitating. It was never good to make deals with the devil.   He leans in closer, overwhelming you with his aroma and blocking out the intoxicating air manufactured to create a greedy atmosphere. “If I win, I get to kiss you.”   Seokjin laughs at your disgusted expression. He’s a sadist through and through. The damned devil loves seeing pain on your face.   “And if you win, I’ll come back to work. How about that?”   You don’t get a chance to answer before you’re brought over to the poker table. The two of you play a long game, lifting your cards for only your eyes, pupils flickering up to meet his and trying to read his expression. But you should’ve known. He’s too good at bluffing. He’s the devil after all.   And he always wins.   “A deal’s a deal and you made a deal with the devil.”   Seokjin wolfishly smiles when the pair of you join together again and he taps his pink, plush lips with a single finger. Everything about him is made to tempt others — from his clear skin to his eyes shining with endless greed. There’s a gravitational pull that comes from his perfect exterior. He’s a marble sculpture made from the gods’ temptations.   But you don’t feel seduced as you do feel burdened.   “I never agreed to it, did I?”   The devil’s brow quirks and he bursts out laughing. “Now that’s not fair.”   “No, but it is true.”   You walk away before he can put his mouth on you and above the coins clicking, the machines being pulled, you hear the smirk in his voice. “What a sore loser.”   Seokjin is good at reminding you that you’re in hell.   //   The next morning, there’s a loud knock at your door.   “Room service! Good morning, Miss Y/N.” The worker wheels the whole cart in, and your eyes are wide with what he presents you. There’s more edible arrangements, platter of fruits and vegetables and a whole stack of pancakes. “I hope I didn’t awake you from any sleep.”   “Oh no, it’s fine.”   The girl beside him clasps her hands together and presents you with a paper package, including advertisements, directory maps, and all the things you need for the day. “Today is wrath day. There will be an anger room where you can beat and smash things until you’re content. Also at noon, there will be human souls up on the top deck that you can freely torture. We collected the scum of the pit and don’t worry, they’ll be disposed there as well.”   “There’s also a complimentary hate letter you can write to the person you most despise,” the demon boy exclaims with a happy grin.   “We won’t send them,” the girl clarifies. “Don’t worry. We burn them in a pit of fire, but hopefully it can ease some of your anger.”   You thank them for their services and they bow their heads, taking their leave. For the first little while, you chew on some breakfast and go through the package. None of the activities seem particularly appealing to you, but you keep an open mind, deciding to head up to the main deck afterwards.   And of course, Seokjin is taking full advantage of the activities.   There’s a blood-curdling scream.   “Arrow, please.” His palm is out and the worker places another arrow in the devil’s hands. Seokjin positions and fires again, piercing the human in the shoulder, pinning him against the wooden wall. There’s another scream that makes you wince from the sheer volume.    It’s like he’s playing darts.   There are screeches everywhere, pain felt but the humans unable to die.   Seokjin catches sight of you as you’re looking around.   “Y/N!” He waves over with an enormous grin. “Come join me.”   “Thank you, but I’d rather not,” you politely decline.   He shakes his head in feigned disapproval, yet continues to draw his bow when another arrow is handed to him. “You’re too uptight. You’re always dealing with souls, don’t you want to play with one?”   “I work with so many souls, I’d rather not have to deal with them on my down time.”   “You always have rebuttals, don’t you?” Seokjin muses, mostly to himself, and then smiles. “But fair enough.”   You step by his side, watching him fire yet another arrow to the human that’s already died.   You must admit, the screams are kind of delightful.    You turn to watch a demon rip apart someone’s limbs and dangle it in front of them, another throwing someone off the ship into the red canal. And you overlook one of the humans in their pen glaring right at you.    He recognizes you.    You’re the one who dragged him here, who judged his soul and deemed him evil enough for hell. He screams and jumps from his pen, escaping the railings with the vigour of a vengeance boiling for an eternity. He swipes a knife from the table of weapons.   There are gasps of workers. Demons that turn. Seokjin’s eyes harden. His arm drops, bow by his side. You look down. The blade of the knife is poking through your abdomen, the tip of it exposed on the other side and shining from the little light of the overcasted red sky.    “You brought me here! Demon! Witch! You—”   “You know I can’t die, right?” you interrupt with half a glare, more annoyed than anything.   You pull the blade out of you and the metal clangs on the wooden deck. The workers rush over and five of them apprehend the screaming human to chuck him overboard. There’s a loud splash in the canal and others rush to your side, fussing about and apologizing.   “Were you not watching them?!” Seokjin shouts with the true wrath of the devil.   “We are so sorry, we sincerely apologize for any inconvenience.”   “I’ve never seen such an unprofessional group in my entire existence!” he barks back at them.   You watch him and sigh.   Seokjin is baffled beyond belief, berating the workers for not being careful enough, for not securing the pen. He yells at them to clean up the mess, making an absolute ruckus. When his anger simmers down, he turns around, about to ask if you’re alright.   But unfortunately you’re gone. You’ve escaped, vanished out of thin air.   //   Angry?   You used to be angry a lot but then the futile emotion became crushed by the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. After a millennium, you’re too stressed and tired to be angry. Being angry took too much energy.   You retire to your room early, just before dinner, and while you’re wondering if you should rest, your eyes catch the open letter on the vanity. You contemplate for a while before you finally decide to sit down. You grab the quill and dip the tip into the pot of ink. Never has it been easier to write a letter. A letter of hatred towards the devil, Kim Seokjin.   It’s been known that the lazy devil makes your life harder than need be. He draws attention in ways you don’t want it to be drawn. He’s never there when you need him and there when you don’t.   He’s a lazy bastard who never gets work done. Who always pours endless tasks on your shoulders for you to bear. Who never shows up to work. Who never appreciates anything you have to do. He’s sick and sadistic, ego bigger than his own head.   Seokjin is a pathetic leader.   It feels good to write it out, to put your thoughts onto paper. The ink stains the parchment quickly, curves and loops of your letters smooth. You breathe a sigh of relief as you finish and lick the envelope closed, wrapping it up.   He’ll never see it, but it was pleasant to put your anger on tangible material. It’s liberating. And for a brief period, you feel less stressed.   You toss the hate letter aside for pickup.

The worker hums to himself, sack in hand that’s heavy and filled with letters ready to be tossed and burned. He’s had a long day of working and this was his last job before he can rest. But once he exits your room, he’s suddenly stopped in the hallway.   “Mr. Kim.” He recognizes him like everyone else. Once they heard the devil was arriving, they made sure to iron their dark blue uniforms and ensure things were in tip-top shape.   The devil beckons him over once with his hand. “I’d like to see Miss Y/N’s letter.”   “I...I’m sorry, I can’t do that. That’s against policy. We assured all guests that they are entitled to their own privacy and, uh, that would be going against the rules.”   “Rules?” His gaze darkens, becoming cold. Seokjin reminds him, “I’m the devil.”

When you open the door to your room, shivers crawl up your skin, traveling down your spine. You flicker on the light to discover someone seated in the armchair in the corner of the room. Their broad backside faces you.   “I wish you would know how much you stress me out.” He pauses and exhales thoughtfully. “When you’re around me, you stress me out. When you’re not around, you stress me out. I think you truly make hell hell, so congratulations for at least doing one job correctly.”   Mortified is an understatement.   You’re frozen in your spot. The door closes behind you from the momentum. You’re trapped in a room with him, and the devil turns his head to greet you with a smile. Your letter is open in his hand. “I’m surprised, Y/N. I knew you didn’t like me, but I didn’t know you hated me so much.”   He puts it down, slowly rises to his feet and closes the distance between your physical bodies within three strides. “But if you felt so strongly about me, you should’ve said something.”   Seokjin corners you in your small room until your back is pressed against the surface of the door.    “If I felt strongly or not, why should I tell you?” you ask, voice unintentionally shaking.   Even in such a moment, you’re still playing devil’s advocate. It makes him smirk. “Because I’d like to know.”   He’s close to you, aura heavy and imposing. Seokjin doesn’t touch you but you can feel him.   And strangely enough, he doesn’t punish you in the way you think he would for thinking such ill thoughts of him.   “You still owe me that kiss. You can kiss me hard if you want — to try to relent your anger and what was it again? Oh yeah, tell me what a pathetic leader I am.”   Your eyes meet his — yours stern, but his softened. Despite Seokjin’s greased words, he steps back and you move out of the way. He reaches for the door knob.   “You weren’t supposed to read it,” you mutter before he can leave. “Are you…”   “Angry?” There’s a ghost of a tender smile on his features. He doesn’t look at you. He simply sighs. “No, I’m not.”   The male opens the door, but lingers. He decides to grace you with the profile of his beautiful visage. “Earlier. When you stabbed. Are you okay?”   “I, uh, I’m fine.”   “Good.”   //   The following day is dedicated to gluttony. All over the cruise ship are demons feasting, eating, drinking, consumption galore. The banquet hall is vast with a table stretching across the space — every inch of the surface covered in luxurious dishes. The floor is also soaked with wine, the liquid that haphazardly splashed over the rim of demons’ glasses.   It’s hard to resist eating and drinking copious amounts when the gravity quite literally pulls you in. And Seokjin finds you there, leaning on the wall, hand glued to your glass, intoxicated enough not to jump when you see him.   “I never took you for a drinker.” He wears an amused smile as he takes your sloppy form in.   “On the contrary.” You wave a finger in the air. “Why didn't you take me as a drinker?”   “That doesn't make any sense.”   You eye him with a slight pout. “Why aren't you drinking?”   Seokjin shrugs and looks around. “These childish spells don't affect me.”   “Psh. Don't act like you're better 'cause you're the devil.”   “But I am better because I'm the devil.” He smirks. “Stronger. Resistant. Handsomer.”   “Handsomer's not a word. ‘t's more handsome.”   “You're fun at parties.”   “Hey, it's my job.” You sigh, trying to reason with him. “My job that you gave me. I just gotta play the devil's advocate.”   Seokjin smiles, a puff of air leaving his nose. He leans on the wall beside you, looking out and you take the chance to blatantly stare at him, openly ogling. You muse that he almost looks...normal like this. Well, as normal as demons can get. He’s not so imposing.   “Are you sad?”   “What?”   “I wanted to ask if you were sad, not mad. Over my letter.”   “Pft. Sad? I don't get sad. I'm the devil,” he declares as if you need to be reminded.   “Doesn’t mean you can’t be sad,” you huff, “Then you're not hurt?”   “Not really.” The devil lolls his head to the side, peeking at you when you keep staring at him. “I'm already hated by many in every realm. I thrive off the hatred.”   His eyes glimmer with mischief and he leans down to connect his eyes with you at the same level. His breath is on your skin, so close that you can see his lashes one by one. But you don’t move away or lean back as you usually would. Your interest is piqued.   The corners of Seokjin’s plump lips pull.   In the chaos of the masses eating and devouring food like monsters, there’s a private, intimate moment tucked away in the corner of the banquet hall where it’s just you and him. “It's not like I don't deserve it anyways. I'm not a 'good' entity. Since when did the devil help anyone?”   “Since when did the devil need to help anyone?” you ask on impulse. It’s become your pure instincts to doubt everything told to you. “Since when did anyone need help?”   “You're right.” Seokjin grins wolfishly. “But the alternative of hatred is love anyways, and that's sickening.”   There’s a second of silence.   And then you burst out laughing.   Seokjin whips his head over, watching the sound leaving your lips.    “I should bring you love then, just to make you suffer then,” your words slur as you poke his shoulder. “But knowing you, you'd probably enjoy suffering too because you're that sick and twisted.”   The corners of his mouth tugs into yet another smile as a light scoff leaves his throat. The devil can’t love, but what he feels towards you is what he thinks is pretty damn close to it.   //   The day that follows if focused on envy.   The workers greet you with another package of activities to do and a promise that they can get you one thing you’ve always wanted, if it’s within their abilities. But you don’t know what to tell them.   You end up loitering around for most of the day, checking facilities and eating, walking around until night falls where you head down to the luxurious bar, drawn in by the blue lights and entrancing music.    Halfway through nursing a drink at the counter, someone slides up on the stool next to you. It’s not the person you were anticipating unfortunately. Wait.   Unfortunately?   You wonder why you automatically thought it was unfortunate. You momentarily ponder why you were filled with a brief emotion of disappointment when it wasn’t the person you expected.   “Hi, I was just sitting across the bar, but I couldn’t help coming over and telling you that you look stunning in that dress.”   It’s a demon with doe eyes and a boyish smile. He makes you look down at yourself to inspect the rather simple number — compared to the layered robes you often have to show up in for the judgment process, this was just a floor length dress, black and sleek with one sleeve and the other side off the shoulder.   “Thanks.”   “I’m Jeon Jungkook.”   He puts out his hand and you shake it after a short pause. “L/N Y/N.”   “Sounds familiar,” he hums, red eyes piercing through yours. The demon plasters on a grin. “Do I know you from somewhere?”   “Probably not.”   “You’re right. I would’ve remembered someone so beautiful.” The grease reminds you of that someone you thought would have appeared by now, but the stranger isn’t as smooth when he says the one-liners. It doesn’t sound as pleasant to the ears. “Can I buy you a drink, Y/N?”   “Um…”   “Sorry, I’m already buying her one.”   Another voice pipes up — the person you were unknowingly waiting for finally manifested himself.    Kim Seokjin appears with his hair pushed back, forehead on full display, dressed in another one of his dress shirts with sleeves rolled up and casual trousers deliciously tight around the thighs. His pink, plump lips quirk into a smile as he looks at you. Meanwhile, Jungkook visibly pales.   “Oh. Sorry, I, I didn’t know she was, uh, um…” The stranger recognizes you now. With you beside the devil, he recalls where he’s seen you before.   You’re the devil’s advocate. “Yeah, why don’t you get lost?” Seokjin moves his head to the side and Jungkook slides off the stool so quickly, he almost loses footing and falls flat on his face. Luckily, he catches himself and you watch him sprint away practically with his tail caught between his legs.   What a shame. “He was nice.”   “I bet he was,” he mutters, glaring at the fleeting demon’s backside with a force that could light the entire place aflame.   “Kind of cute too.” You turn your head to look back at Seokjin. You’re not sure why it’s so fun to aggravate him at the moment. Maybe you realized it’s a way to get under his skin. “You didn’t have to scare him off.”   “Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten scared so easily,” he refutes and it’s a rather good point. Jin orders a drink, getting served immediately. He sips on it and peeks at you through the rim of his glass. “Were you going to reject him or were you planning on getting his room key?”   “Does it matter?” Your elbow is to the counter, chin casually rested in your palm. You’re discreetly challenging him and it’s a dangerous game, but one you feel like playing tonight. “Shouldn’t I be enjoying myself to the fullest extent, Seokjin?”   His brow quirks at how you call him by his name directly. “I don’t like people associated with me playing with sub-par trash. It makes me look bad.”   “Or it makes you look inclusive.”   The devil scoffs. “You always have a way to argue, don’t you?”   “It’s my job.”   He hums a low note and redirects his gaze at you. “Want to go outside for a breather?”   “I don’t think hell’s air is very fresh, but sure.”   The two of you try to exit the noisy bar. You struggle to weave through the crowd of sweaty demons dancing and grinding on one another. But then Seokjin grasps your shoulder tenderly and shifts you to walk behind him. You realize that the mass of demons splits when he walks through. Even in their inebriated state, they know to cower down and move out the way.   Once it’s clear, you open the west-side door and enter a quiet area absent from any other entity. It’s easier to breathe out here, silent, and you lean against the ship’s railing to watch how the canal’s water glows a deep crimson hue. The ship moves through it, and you listen to the noise of the water sloshing against the side of the ship.   When your head tilts up, you stare at the mahogany sky nearing black.   “I heard the human realm was really beautiful. Apparently they have something called stars and it appears at night. They’re tiny but they twinkle. Have you heard of them?”   He doesn’t respond, but he lifts his hand and waves his palm up. Suddenly, the sky is blanketed in complete black. The shade bleeds throughout, sweeping across the horizon, and you furrow your brows unable to understand what he’s doing. But as you stare, tiny sparkles become apparent.   “They’re only an illusion, but it’s the best I can do,” he breathes out.   Your eyes are wide and you glance at him. “I….I love it….”   “Good.”   Seokjin grins when a smile expands across your face. The stars gleam like jewels spilled across the canvas — what you’ve heard and read about for so long finally in front of you. They sparkle from the distance, glittering, and the longer you stare, more appear. The entire horizon soon becomes filled with them, and you’re breathless.   It’s a shame only you and Seokjin can view them.   “Are you seeing this?” You hold your hand out, trying to gesture. The more you stare, the more it sinks in just how spectacular this feat is. You’ve only ever seen the sky black, red, and maybe a shade of azure when you reach the in-between of the gates of Heaven and Hell. You’re seeing stars for the first time and it’s more amazing than you thought was possible. “Holy hell!”   “Not sure how hell could be holy,” Seokjin laughs and stares at you with a smile. “Do you really like it this much? You’re so simple. I could’ve done this ages ago.”   “I didn’t know…..”   “You could’ve asked.”   “Yeah, but you never answer me anyways when I call,” you murmur without thinking twice, unaware of how his gaze on you softens. Your hands against the railing tighten and you exhale. But eventually, you focus again when it occurs to you such a long stretch of silence has passed in comfortable silence. “What did you request today? Did they fulfill any of your wishes?”   Seokjin leans against the railing and tilts his head to stare at you. “I asked for something they can’t give me.” You meet his intense eyes, wondering what he means. The corner of his plump lips pulls and he blinks, easing. “What did you ask for?”   “It’s also something they can’t give to me.”   “What is it?”   “Your job.”   The devil chuckles, head lolling up to look at you. “Why would you want that? Don’t you hate working for me?”   “Exactly. I hate working for you. I’d rather take over. I would restructure the entire system, I’d delegate more duties, lessen my own workload, I’d be able to prepare better instead of working so last minute.”   “Sounds like you have a whole plan.”   “I may or may not have spent a lot of time thinking about it,” you hum in slight pride.   Seokjin grins and shakes his head. “Too bad the position at the gates is a traditional, symbolic role. The only way you’d be able to acquire it officially through proper tradition is becoming the devil’s lady.”   You know it too. Thought about it after a millennium and damned the rules that restricted your abilities so many times. The only way to claim his position completely was to wed to him and be named the devil’s lady. But it’s an absurd idea, one you never even thought twice about. Although, for some reason, the way the devil says it isn’t like he’s stating a plain, boring fact.   It’s almost as if he’s….considering it.   Seokjin leans in close. His eyes are not unlike the stars, twinkling with mischief. “Don’t tempt me.”   //   The next day that comes is your absolute favourite.   It’s what you’ve been prepared for.   When the workers knock on your door with the usual room service and daily package, you’re ecstatically tearing papers apart and reading all the descriptions, ready to take full advantage of all the activities included. After all, it’s a day of sloth — a day of guaranteed relaxation.   You start off by laying in bed the entire morning, lazing around until you head to the spa. There you get a head to toe scrub, hair and nails done, and you nap in the steam room. The masseuse is also surprised at the number of knots in your muscles and three demons end up working on you, slapping and massaging your tense muscles.   Once you’re finished, you feel like you’re floating on air. For the first time in a thousand years, you’re stress-free. Nothing could ruin your mood. Not even Kim Seokjin.   You head up to the deck for another nap, claiming a lounge chair in the corner, and being as quiet as possible to not disturb other demons sleeping away. But before you can drift off, the warm light on your skin ceases. You feel a shadow overtop of you. And you slide your sunglasses down the slope of your nose.   The devil looms over your body with a smirk.    “Looks like someone’s been enjoying themselves.”   You sit up and instantly pull him down to sit beside you. Jin’s brows are lifted in surprise from the affectionate invitation. You grin at him. “Have you been down to the spa yet?”   “No.”   “Hell, you need to go down there right now then. It’s. Amazing. Jin.” From your sheer excitement, he grins and you giggle. Giggle. Now that’s a sound he hasn’t heard from you before. Seokjin can’t help but wonder what other sounds you can make. “You need to go to try it and get the Swedish massage. Can’t say the Shiatsu massage is as good. But try out the deep tissue one. That was good too.”   “How many massages did you have today?”   “I tried all of them,” you sing-song and sit back in your lounge chair, humming to yourself. You inspect your clean nails, the french tips done, holding your hand out in front of you.   Seokjin smiles as he looks at you. You’re so much happier and relaxed. You in your little swimsuit and your translucent, silky cover up.   “What else did you do?”   “Got my hair washed. Got my nails done. Got two kinds of facials. You should just check it out for yourself, seriously, it would be a waste if you didn’t.” Suddenly, your eyes light up over the rim of your dark sunglasses. “Should we go together?”   His plump lip pulls. “You want to go to the spa...with me?”   He’s the entity you hate the most. To be given such an invitation from you is no less shocking. But you don’t seem to care. You even laugh and swat at his arm playfully. “We can go together after I take my nap. It’s all day and I really want to get the hot stone massage again.”   “Okay.” He laughs. The devil’s not a very spa-kind of man, but he’ll go with you.   “We can head down in an hour.” You lay back again, eyes fluttering for a shut-eye, but you keep them open to look at him for a second longer. “Do you want to sleep with me?”   “Careful how you ask that question.” He smirks slyly, making you scoff.   “You know what I mean.”   Seokjin hums a low note, considering something else. “Do you want to watch a show tonight? They’re putting on something in the theater.”   “Really? Sure!” You joyfully agree, so easily at it too, cheeks inflated with your smile. He snorts at how fast you answered. It’s such a difference from your tense self. Not to mention, you’re unbothered with him sitting there at the end of your lounge chair as you drift off and he observes how you’re snoring a minute later.   You don’t realize that an idle mind is the devil’s workshop, and he’s ready to have some fun with you.   //   There’s a permanent skip in your step.    You’ve learnt to navigate the entire area of the spa and you don’t notice how everyone is intimidated with Seokjin here. Even when he’s comedically dressed in a white robe, white towels wrapped up on his head, and feet decked out with white slippers — white from top to bottom as if he’s wearing the skin of an angel. Each demon moves out of the way when they realize the devil is here. But he pays no mind to them, following after you. You, who looks like a true angel with how you smile and how radiant you shine in pure white…..   Although the exterior is a bit ruined when you bark at the masseuses to dig into your muscles harder.   You’re even more giddy after you take your third nap in the steam room and he enjoys dinner with you. It’s hard not to when you’re such great company, and you don’t seem to bat a lash when you glue yourself by his side, joining him to watch the evening show.    It’s a game show of some sort, couples on honeymoons together and answering trivia questions about one another. Seokjin sits beside you, a bit bored as he rests his chin in his hand, elbow on the arm rest. His mind wanders before he finds himself glancing over at you.   You seem to be enjoying yourself and that’s enough for him to sit through it.   He wonders what it takes to make you happy like this all the time.   But eventually his train of thought is interrupted when he catches your eye, when he notices you peeking at him at the corner of your vision, trying to glance at him. His lip tugs into another smirk.   Seokjin leans in close. “Y/N.”   He whispers your name into your ear, hot breath skimming on your skin, and he watches the way goosebumps raise over the back of your arms. He pauses for added suspense.   And then he exhales. “You can kiss me if you want. I wouldn’t stop you.”   An immediate frown forms, your lips lopsided, your entire body stiff again. That’s all that’s needed to make you tense again — it’s so easy that it’s amusing. He laughs quietly at your glare.   One of these days, he knows you’ll give into his outlandish idea. Seokjin just can’t help planting the seed there.   //   Right after your favourite day is your least favourite. Lust.    You’re shaken awake in the morning by a sudden bang. It comes from the room next over despite the walls supposedly being soundproof. You would think someone was being tortured or punching the wall over and over again, but what follows the noises that are loud enough to leak through are moans and whines of ‘harder’.   You are sorely not impressed.   “There’s an orgy party tonight,” Seokjin tells you, crowding beside you at the breakfast buffet. It’s hard to ignore the smacking sound of kissing occurring behind the food bar and it makes the food unappetizing.   “I heard.”   “Are you coming?”   “I don’t know.”   “You should.”   “Why?” you question his insistence.   “I would explain to you what I’ve heard about it, but it would be a...mouthful.” Seokjin fully intends the pun, irises sparkling with mischief.    You feign a glare at him, and he follows you to a table, sitting across from you. The devil digs into his sweet stack of waffles, and tears his teeth into a medium rare steak.   “You’re gross.”   “It’s not gross if you feel the same way.”   “Who said I do?”   “Who says you don’t?” he challenges, bringing your lips into a smirk.   The two of you banter back and forth, and you don’t realize that you’re having breakfast with him willingly. That you’re tucked into the corner of the restaurant serving leftovers from the feast from the day of gluttony. You’ve both fallen into a natural course, fallen in line with one another unconsciously. It’s too easy to be in each other’s presence.   But eventually you part ways, and it’s difficult to weave your way out of the bodies pressed together. Guests are practically dry humping one another and the workers are actively encouraging the lust. You guess this is what they mean by indulging in the sins.   You retire to your room early to escape the scandalous sights.   But your sanctuary is interrupted with a knock on the door.   “Good afternoon, Miss Y/N.” The worker greets you, holding onto a clipboard like a door to door salesman.   “Is there something I can help you with?”   “We were just wondering if you were going to attend tonight’s event. We’d like to know about how many people are coming so we can accommodate them properly.”   “Oh.”   "If you are to attend, we have complementary masks to wear." The worker smiles, cheeks rosy.   A masquerade orgy isn't appealing to you. But your thoughts stray to a certain someone who asked you if you were coming this very morning. Someone with dark hair and dark eyes staring into yours. Someone whose plump lips always pulls into that sly smirk and makes you feel a certain kind of way.   "Sure."   Why not. You came here for new experiences after all.    "Fantastic!" The worker exclaims and gestures down the hall. You hear wheels rolling against the carpet and a girl appears with a cart showing a selection of masks. "Feel free to choose whatever is appealing. We also have a catalogue you can order from for free if none of these are to your satisfaction."   You look over them, from the intricate designs in gold and red, to those decorated with jewels and ribbons, and ones delicately painted. But one in particular catches your attention.   "This one’s fine."   You pick the black lace mask, one that's simple but sufficient.   The night arrives sooner than expected. The sky turns a shade of deep mahogany without a moon or sparkle in sight, clouding the horizon over in uncertainty, while the canal glows a hue of rose.   You enter the ballroom on the fourth floor in a black floor length dress, a slit on your left side to top of your thigh. Others seemed to be dressed even more luxuriously, while some of them are already nude and their clothing littered on the ground.   The room is a circular space, ceiling high with paintings of angels on it — ironically to overlook the sinning. The columns spiral high, decorated with gold and made from shiny porcelain like the floor tiles. Slow music plays in the background, accompanying the soft smacking noise of mouths colliding. There are also chaise lounge chairs off to the side, curtains drawn to cover the private areas. But the shadows and silhouettes show they’re doing something less than decent.   There are three or four people participating behind the curtains, those participating, those watching, those that like to be watched. You even catch moans and whimpers as you pass by.   By oddly enough, instead of disgusted, you feel entranced.   Suddenly someone’s warm arm slinks across your abdomen, rough hands that find purchase on your waist. You gasp as your ass is shoved against their hardening groin. Their other hand palms the meat of your ass. And you find yourself giving in, leaning closer to the body heat that feels like cozy flames.    You turn around, meeting brown, doe eyes behind a white mask. You swallow your mouthful of saliva. Their lips look so soft, irresistible. You surrender without an ounce of self-control, this time to the temptation. The man leans in as well—   But then you’re suddenly yanked away by another.   The spell breaks.    “Buzz of. This is mine.” It’s a familiar voice, a sonorous tone but rumbling timbre. The doe-eyed man nods wordlessly and stumbles back into the crowd.   “Jin?”   Where he’s encircled your wrist, you can feel how his skin is warmer than the stranger’s, like a fire is burning underneath his flesh. Behind the black mask, with tiny sparkles that remind you of the stars, are eyes you recognize — dark pools like chocolate, full of indulgence.    Instantly, he lets you go.   “I’m sorry…”   You’re bewitched by him. And you cave into the magnetizing pull. You latch onto him before he can leave. “You shouldn’t have any reason to be sorry.”   The devil meets your gaze.    Everything about him is to lure and entice you, meant for you to indulge in. From the pinkness and plumpness of his lips, to his eyes that are shaped soft and sheepish. His sculpted face, his scent, the sound of his voice...   The devil would never come to such an event to get himself dirty with lowly demons. His hubris is much too high to be touched by strangers. He’s here for a specific purpose — and you think you know what it might be, or rather, for who.   “There’s a reason you’re here, right?”   Seokjin knows you well too, knows that you don’t like to be touched by strangers. His mouth pulls into a smile. “Do you have the same reason as I do?”   You grasp onto the collar of his fitted suit, lust overwhelming you. He stares at your mouth through half-lidded eyes, his own parted.    “I...don’t want this to affect my job,” you murmur, breath already on his.   “It’s going to affect it either way. You’ve stopped being just my advocate long ago.” His large hands hold your hips. “Why do you think I always skip out on my duties? I have to make sure not to come and replace you. I need a reason to keep you around.”   “You bastard.”   The puzzles you had finally click into place. The dots connect. It makes sense, more than it ever has.   “I know.”   “You’re a selfish prick. But one I still owe a kiss to.”   Finally after a millennium, you relinquish your dignity and fully indulge in Kim Seokjin.   You dance with the devil, mouth pushing against his. Immediately, he deepens it, slipping his hot tongue in to claim you as his. Seokjin makes your lips swell as he kisses you hungrily. Sinfully.   He savours your muffled groan as you feel yourself wrapping in the heat that emanates off his body, drowning in his scent. The devil’s lips are of velvet, addicting, and you can’t stop. You’re too frantic to notice that his eyes are still half-lidded, drinking in your pleasured expression.   But in the middle of the kiss, you sense someone else’s presence. Your eyes peel back to see a female stroking her hands over his broad shoulders. You break apart with a forceful smack, thin string of saliva breaking.    “Fuck off,” you spit at her.   The female demon doesn’t hear you. Her hands slowly trail downwards to the thick lump forming in his tight trousers. But Seokjin catches her wandering palms before she can actually touch him. He throws her arms off him. “You heard her. You’re not invited.”   She openly scoffs, and rolls her eyes before walking away.   You won’t let third parties in. You won’t let anyone else touch him. You’re too selfish and greedy to do so.   “Let’s get out of here.”   Seokjin locks his hands in yours, and you’re finally able to revel in how he looks in his fitted suit, how broad his shoulders are, the thickness of his thighs.    Even when you leave the ballroom, the lustful atmosphere never lessens. Instead, the suspense builds. The tension becomes overwhelming. It’s awkward to stand in the elevator and listen to the boring jazz, suffocating in the small space. The heat is tangible.   You end up tackling Seokjin against the wall. You kiss away his laugh by shoving your tongue down his throat. It’s obscene but you don’t care much for your pride at the moment.   “I won’t be seen fornicating in the elevator,” the devil scolds in a low tone, peeling you away after another ravenous make out session, his grip having been tight on your thigh. “Come on.”   Seokjin leads you to his floor, and the door automatically opens when he steps in front of it. The lust is instantly exchanged for amazement.   His suite room is breathtaking, private windows allowing a wide view of the red canal and the horizon. It’s an open space with many rooms, a luxurious bathroom and enormous bed. Like his own personal home.   “This….this….h-how much does this even cost?!”   “Does it matter?” Seokjin loosens his tie. He chuckles watching you run around, checking all the rooms and inspecting the furniture. “I would’ve invited you sooner, but I didn’t want to get slapped.”   You scoff in the other room, and he follows after you. “You know I can’t slap you.”    “Yeah, but you always look like you want to.”   “Just cause I want to, doesn’t mean I can or will do it.”   “Alright, enough of this chit chat.”   Seokjin picks you up from where you’re marveling at his closet. He heaves you up and over his shoulder, carrying you across his suite and he lightly tosses you onto his soft mattress. The devil corners you. He grabs your ankle when you playfully try to escape and he climbs on top of you, straddling your waist to trap you in place.   “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this,” he whispers as he relishes the way you’re pinned beneath him.   You cock your head to the side. “Really? I think if you were waiting for that long, you would’ve done something about a century ago.”   Seokjin sighs at how you’re trying to pick an argument with him even in such a situation. “Love, if you don’t stop trying to pick fights with me, I’m going to gag you with your own underwear.”   You would nod and be obedient. But it’s intrinsic for you to doubt.    Instinctively, the words spill out of your mouth before you can stop it. “Why are you assuming I have underwear on?”   A muscle in his cheek twitches. Seokjin flips you over, and instantaneously delivers a slap to the meat of your ass. You moan, arching into him, but you quickly turn your head with a frown.   “What was that for?!”   “You know what it’s for,” Jin barks. “It’s going to be a long night if you don’t listen to me, Y/N.”   The devil follows through with his word. It indeed becomes a long, long night.   It’s too delicious to see his irritation. How his ears can turn into a shade of scarlet that matches the colour rising from his neck to his forehead. But you bend to his will after a while, giving into his command.    It’s the most sinning you’ve done. The most indulgent you’ve ever been. Seokjin’s sweat drips on top of you before it’s your sweat on him when you get on top. He’s merciless, leaving bruises along your thighs from his tight grip and where he kept your legs spread. He leaves blue, purple, red marks along the column of your neck. You sink down on his cock enough times that your cunt stretches out to match his girth and length into a perfect, snug fit. And you get to know the flavour of each other’s spit and cum until it’s all you can taste.   You’re glad no one shares Seokjin’s walls or else they’d hear the way your voice grows hoarse over the course of the night. They’d hear the creak of the bed, the slamming of the headboard. Anyone on the same floor would hear your name groaned through those beautiful lips licking into you.   You’re sure if there was another level to hell or damnation — you and Seokjin will be arriving there in each other’s arms.   //   The last day of the cruise finally arrives and you’re devastated.   Tomorrow, you’ll return to work and continue the cycle of late nights preparing documents and affidavits and judging human souls in line at purgatory only for them to scream obscenities at you no matter what gate they end up entering.   Your train of thought is interrupted by a knock on the door.   “G-Good morning, Miss. Y/N!” The male worker jumps, surprised to discover you answering the door. “I didn’t think you’d be in your room.”   “Where else would I be?” you deadpan.   The female demon worker smiles and steps forward. “We have room service for you!”   You widen the door and they wheel the cart in. “We just wanted to ask about your stay here and if there were any concerns whatsoever.”   “Oh no.” You bat your hand. “It was absolutely lovely. Thank you for the past seven days. It couldn’t have gone better.”   “That’s great to hear.” They grin and gesture to the pamphlet placed with your meal.   “We’d also like to mention that there’s a honeymoon package and an express cruise that travels to all three realms, hell, heaven, and human. It’s just a promotion. I thought I’d mention it.”   You laugh, nodding. “Okay, thank you.”   “There’s one event left. A farewell party for tonight for all guests on this trip.”    You receive the invitation. Today’s a day of pride and in its celebration, the cruise has a farewell ceremony where they read each guests’ accomplishments. It’s a sweet gesture, perfect to top off the trip.   But you can’t fully look forward to it when you’re plagued by your thoughts. You still haven’t decided if last night was a mistake, if it was just the lust in the air.    Seokjin was insatiable, that much was clear, and you swear you feel permanently hot in your face. The in between of your legs still ache whenever you move. It’s impossible to try to forget or disregard what occurred. And when you’re unable to cover up his marks all over your neck, you find yourself deciding to wear it with pride.   You wonder how he feels about last night too. If the devil simply likes to spoil his advocates.   But your questions are answered when you see him again at the party.   “Evening.”   “Good evening.”   You raise your wine glasses up at one another in mutual acknowledgment before turning to watch the room. The pair of you are tucked in the corner again as if you were the hosts and everyone else were guests in your domain.   The silence broken by him. “It was...regrettable that you ran out so soon this morning.”   You agree. “It was regrettable, but it’s the right thing to do.”   “You think with your head too much sometimes,” Seokjin muses.   “Jeon Jungkook,” the worker on stage announces into the staticy mic. “He has tricked twenty four humans into giving their soul to him.” There’s a collective ‘ooh’ from other workers and a loud applause. “He works in marketing and coworkers call him proactive!”   They allow every guest to indulge in their own pride and you don’t expect much as you watch, but then your name is called. “The devil’s advocate, L/N Y/N.”   “Persuasive and diligent. In her existence thus far, she’s captured two hundred forty three souls before working for the devil where she’s passed judgment for eighty six hundred thousand sixty six human souls,” they continue to read your long list of accomplishments and it’s seemingly never ending. The worker runs out of breath and has to take a drink of water to keep going.   The devil is in the details after all.   But you didn’t realize you had done so much.   “Impressive.” Seokjin nudges you with a quirked brow and an amused smile.   Suddenly, you’re called on again. “L/N Y/N, will you please come onto the stage to receive a special award.”   “What?”   “Don’t just stand there, idiot.” Seokjin mischievously bumps you forward and your steps stagger. With half a mind, you pass the tables and demons watching you, up the stairs to the modest stage. The spotlight is absolutely blinding.   The worker shakes your hand and gives you a golden frame. Inside is a certificate of accomplishment. It’s stamped with the crest of hell, the official insignia of honour.    “It was signed by the devil, himself,” the worker tells you privately. “He insisted that it would be given to you. Congratulations, Miss Y/N.”   There’s a roar of applause. Your eyes stray off the side to see him, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, a proud smile placed on his features. Something blooms inside your chest.   Finally, you’ve received recognition for what you’ve done, for all your hard work.   You step off stage, cutting through the crowd to get to him. But then you’re stopped by yet another worker. “Miss. Y/N, thank you for being a part of Sins Cruise Line. We’d like to gift you this photo album compiling your best moments of this trip.”   “Oh, t-thank you.”   You move off and out of the way to open the leather album. What you find are photographs you didn’t know the workers took. There’s a picture of you stepping on this ship for the first time and looking out at the horizon with your drink in hand and the wind blowing through your hair. There’s another with you sitting across the poker table and Seokjin on the other side, the dim lights shining on your heads and illuminating your faces.   You continue to flip through, and you discover countless pictures of you and Seokjin together.   Him shooting at a human with you standing beside him. Laughing with Seokjin while you’re both in the corner of the feasting room. Out on the lounge chairs together. At the spa. Watching a show in the theater room. Looking into each other’s eyes in the ballroom before your shared kiss.   They’re beautiful photographs — precious moments captured in time. You didn’t realize you looked at him in such a way, or that he looked at you so tenderly.   You find Seokjin in the crowd again, as you’re grasping the album and the certificate to your chest.   “Congratulations, Miss. Devil’s Advocate.”   “I can’t believe you did all this.” You’re still breathless, unable to comprehend why he would go to such lengths for you.   “You deserve it.” Seokjin matches your softened smile. “Are you sad about leaving?”   “Can’t say I’m excited to go,” you admit. “But I have to go back. There’s probably a lot that’s piled up. Taehyung doesn’t know how to work on cases properly.”   “Well, take it easy,” the devil says with a grin and stares at you for a moment. It’s silent, the two of you gazing at one another, but then he catches himself and inhales a breath. “Actually, I’m planning on restructuring some things. I want to delegate more duties and lessen workloads so others can better prepare instead of working so last minute.”   His eyes twinkle with mischief. He literally took the words right out of your mouth, quoting you exactly. “I’m going to need some advice and personal help for the next while.”   “Personal help?” Your brows raise with a giggle.   “Personal help.” Seokjin nods. “Hey, you’re free right now, right? Do you want to talk it over during dinner?”   Laughter bubbles out of you and your gaze becomes tender. “I’d love to.”

It was undoubtedly hard to walk off that cruise ship.   A part of you wishes it could last forever. But alas, all good things must come to an eventual end.   Yoongi is seated at his desk, feet propped up on the surface of said desk. He’s casually leaning back on his chair, elbow propped up on the armrest, fingers playing with a few strands of his hair. He’s humming to himself, but then he sees the demon guard move aside, and his brows raise.   He’s pleasantly surprised. “You’re early.”   “Only a little.” You smile at the angel.   “Welcome back.” He takes his feet off his desk and deadpans, “I missed you. Too many people have been getting through Heaven lately, it’s been disastrous.”   “I’m sure Taehyung wasn’t that bad,” you murmur in the demon’s defense, but it’s weak and half-hearted. You both know he’s pretty terrible — Taehyung’s impatience and lack of meticulousness isn’t exactly great for this job.   “What was worse was that he was so annoying. I’d never thought I’d say it, but I’d much prefer you. Did you enjoy your vacation?” he asks. “I heard you went on that cruise.”   You smile to yourself. “Yeah, it was good.”   “Did it live up to its name?”   You contemplate it for a moment before you find yourself nodding. “I have to say that it does.”   “Wow, just rub in your good time, bitch,” Yoongi mutters passively aggressively, glaring through the slits of his eyes. Then he relents and sighs. “I’m glad you finally took a break. You look better. Healthier.”   “Thanks. Actually, it’s really thanks to—”   “You forgot this file, Y/N.”   A voice pipes up and the guards move aside. A man appears with his cape billowing behind him, dark robes decorated with gold, official and intimidating. Yoongi’s eyeballs nearly fall out of his socket. The angel’s mouth draws open, his nostrils flared.   Seokjin is behind you and hands you the file before taking a seat beside you.    He pushes his round spectacles up the bridge of his nose, focusing downwards to the paperwork. “I have to sign where?”   “Here.”   He’s helping you, has been since you’ve gotten back.    Yoongi doesn’t try to hide his shock. You smile at the angel with a look that equally shares his pleasant surprise and shows how impressed you are.   “You two are close,” Yoongi says when he finds his power of speech again.   Seokjin lifts his chin, glances at the angel and then at you. The pair of you share a warm smile together. “I’d say we’re a bit more than close at this point.”   You already know Seokjin’s intentions — you’re his advocate after all.

[leutik]

Literature between Political Correctness and Cancel Culture

(Analyzed through Walter Siti, Natalie Wynn and Rick DuFer.)

(buckle up, because if you're gonna read this, it's gonna be long)

«Today is much easier to mistake an author’s personal stances with the content of their works, and then make the author pay for the work’s sins.

Today I look around and I have the sensation that literature is no longer taken seriously: that the way to interpret literature the way I knew it, depth-focused, focused on the power of words to reveal truths otherwise concealed to their own author, is disappearing — substituted by a conception of literature that has to serve a list of good causes.

When some writers of the “neo-effort” (Siti’s neologism) insist on the fact that words are decisive, and that it’d be urgent to change the words in order to change reality, I’m suddenly reminded of those old Marxist authors: they explained that the structure, which is what lays under society, determines what lays upon it, that is words and ideology. Thus, changing the name of something doesn’t change the thing the word stands for at all.

Literature has been considered throughout time the most indicated form to make resurface the part of ourselves — often, the least pleasant — that we’ve exiled in the shadows of our subconscious: a process that often happens without the author’s acknowledgement of it.

The authors of the neo-effort believe they have the duty to spread their ideas to the largest possible number of people and that, in order to do so, they have to simplify as much as they can what they write, sacrificing on the altar of efficiency the style, considered useless. The aim is to do good, namely gain an effect, what does it matter if it’s good or bad literature? Literature used to “take root”, to influence; put at the service of pre-established ideas, and not to venture into the discovery of something we don’t know yet. This way, it gains an ancillary role. And it’s a humiliation of literature — which can truly be useful, instead, only then it hurts.

Sartre’s “Nausea” doesn’t align with his political stances. For Sartre, the effort was the individual reflection of a society in perennial revolution, substantially a school of liberty, whilst for neo-effort the role of literature is to reassure.

Their attitude, their rejection of style, their low consideration of literature, tends to isolate the good writers out there, marginalizing them in a niche that looks like a convention of obsessed aesthetes in the public’s eyes.

I see it in the writing courses I teach: more and more young people whose main interest isn’t to write to learn something about themselves or society, but it’s to write to gain the title of writer and place themselves on the market, detecting the most profitable sector at the moment, which might be fantasy, crime, or effort-centred writing: it doesn’t matter, what matters is for it to be trending and to be reassuring to the reader, in a more and more therapeutic conception of writing.

Literature isn’t immediately therapeutic, this is the difference. When “The Sorrows of Young Werther” was published, copies of this book were burnt, because of the suicides it inspired. Today we read it at school. How much time has passed? I don’t refuse knowledge’s benefit, I refuse that knowledge can benefit instantly, painlessly. When I went to a psychoanalyst to face my neurosis, the psychoanalyst made me suffer for months, and only after I took benefit from it. What would have happened if they had welcomed me with a pat on the back and said “Don’t worry, stop thinking and go help African children”. Probably I would have had an immediate benefit, but all my neurosis would have stayed there, intact.

The Literature I talked to you about is depth-centred, and literature hasn’t always existed: thus it can disappear, sink for many years. Who said that it’ll survive, despite everything?

In Pasolini’s trial he was acquitted because Ungaretti was called to testify. He wrote a letter where he wrote that the formal value of Pasolini’s work turned into literature even those scenes that the prosecution deemed obscene. Law couldn’t do anything but recognize the critical judgement and welcome it. Web’s tribunal, today, would have burned Pasolini at the stake, and Ungaretti with him.» (via Walter Siti’s interview with the Huffingtonpost)

In other words, we can summarize Siti’s view with the sentence «novels aren’t the cure to the world’s evils.» They aren’t, because they don’t have the power to be, and more so they aren’t even supposed to be: writing is a form of art, and art has primarily an end in itself. Literature isn’t a political marketplace, even if it can be used to be — it’s not a crime to turn it into one, but by doing so, one loses Literature’s nature. By doing so, the harm could be mistake literature’s primary aim (that is being a form of art, that is style, that is the pursuit of the truth) with what they turned literature into: a marketplace to defend the author’s ideology.

Siti’s powerful image of the Web’s tribunal, the Web’s court finds an echo in Natalie Wynn video Canceling: in a sense, what Siti calls “neo-effort writers” fall under the same line of thoughts of Cancel Culture perpetrators.

«Like the guillotine, [cancelling] can become a sadistic entertainment spectacle.

Now there's a version of this conversation that's already been had to death, and it goes like this: On the one side are a bunch of male comedians who constantly bitch about how Cancel Culture is out of control, you can't joke about anything anymore without these Millennial jackals trying to get you in trouble.

And the other side is mostly progressive think-piece authors who argue that there's no such thing as cancel culture, it's just that powerful people are finally being held accountable for their actions and they can't fucking handle it, so they go around bitching about cancel culture.

Now unfortunately, neither of those viewpoints is quite as correct as some people might hope.

What Cancel Culture does, [is to] take one story and transform it into a significantly different story.

Presumption of Guilt

There's a traditional understanding of justice according to which, before you condemn or punish a person, you hear the accuser's side of the story and the accused's side of the story. You allow both sides to present evidence and only after everyone involved has had a chance to make their case do you pass judgment and punish the convict.

But cancelling does not abide by the law. Cancelling is a form of vigilante mob justice. And a lot of times, an accusation is proof enough.

Abstraction

Abstraction replaces the specific, concrete details of a claim with a more generic statement.

Essentialism

Essentialism is when we go from criticizing a person's actions to criticizing the person themselves. We're not just saying they did bad things. We’re saying they’re a bad person.

Pseudo-Moralism or Pseudo-Intellectualism

Moralism or intellectualism provide a phony pretext for the call-out. You can pretend you just want an apology; you can pretend you're just a “concerned citizen” who wants the person to improve. You can pretend you're simply offering up criticism, when what you're really doing is attacking a person's career and reputation out of spite, envy, revenge.

No Forgiveness

Cancelers will often dismiss an apology as insincere, no matter how convincingly written or delivered. And of course, an insincere apology is further proof of what a Machiavellian psychopath you really are.

Now sometimes, a good apology will calm things down for a while. But the next time there's a scandal, the original accusation will be raised again as if you never apologized.

The Transitive Property of Cancellation

Cancellation is infectious. If you associate with a cancelled person, the cancellation rubs off. It's like gonorrhoea, except doxycycline won't save you this time sweetie.» (via Natalie Wynn's Canceling video transcript)

Natalie Wynn describes and formalizes the phenomenon of Cancel Culture in those steps:

I only listen to the presumed victim,

I abstract the context to a vague idea,

I equate the action to the actor’s very essence (as if such thing even existed),

I say I’m acting in favour of morals or truth,

I accuse every person the presumed abuser ever came in contact with to be an abuser as well,

and I either reject every form of apology at the moment, or bring up the issue as if no apology was ever made at their first misstep.

Now, in this post I’m not trying to perpetrate any concept of charity, not only because it’s an attitude that takes a lot of work to inherit, but also because the negative aspects that might bring one to be a neo-effort writer or a Cancel Culture perpetrator are part of the very human nature (or, very stupidly, they wouldn’t be humans.)

The self-evidence rises here: those negative parts of human nature can be channelled everywhere, and literature or any other form of art is the healthiest way to do so: you’re not going to get rid of your anger, or your sadness — the best thing you can do is learn to control it and suppress it, but how is it going to work in the long run? It’s going to act past your good judgement, or even cloud your good judgement, clouding it into thinking you’re defending some pseudo-moralism or pseudo-intellectualism, when what you’ll be doing is just venting on someone else.

This is one way to see it: when one forgets what proper thinking is and falls into those quick and gut-feeling “thoughts”. Or one could even take advantage of this Cancel Culture, of this ground of poor thinking to instrumentalize this lack of critical judgement to attack someone else.

On instrumentalization and its dangers, Rick DuFer says:

«Political correctness works when its aim is to protect the weak from abusers, but when it favours every little susceptible sensitivity it turns dangerous.» (via Rick DuFer’s podcast DailyCogito)

Rick DuFer talks about a shared responsibility that happens during offence: shared between the offender and the offended. The problem with offence, as opposed to harm, is that it isn’t quantifiable, so the offender is guilty in regard to their intentions, and the offended is guilty in regard to the instrumentalization they can enact with the situation.

And again we find “instrumentalization”: if one destroys my property, I can quantify the damage, but if one insults me, how can I quantify how offended I truly am? This is when I can twist one person’s words and turn them into an offender, this is when sensitivity becomes a mask and no longer a virtue (or, for the toxic masculinity’s thought, a vice.)

Now, to wrap things up:

These people take the (s)word of this school of thought (which some other dichotomists may, generalizing it, call it “Strong Thought” or “Unique Thought”), perhaps without even knowing there’s an alternative, while there are multiple, actually: as many as the human beings right now populating Earth.

They may do it out of a dualistic and very childish view of society — divided into good and bad people. And if that’s your view of life, you’re not gonna want to be associated with who others deem as bad, following a gut feeling and nothing more. (And I say “gut feeling” to avoid saying “very poor thinking”, because that’s what absolutization, essentialism, and the rest is.)

Your thoughts aren’t really yours, and you become a vessel for something that belongs to someone else, someone who crafted those thoughts in a very different context, or with instrumentalization in mind. You don’t want to risk criticizing those thoughts because you don’t want to be isolated, or because you’re a sane person who deems it important to act rightfully (even if you’re letting others tell you what “right” is.)

And for how problematic moral relativism is, it surely is better than any form of absolutization: better than rejecting your status as “sapiens” and stopping thinking altogether, passively accepting what others taught you to be right and wrong, maybe even out of fear, or a stupid rush for glory and sympathy.

So I wouldn’t call this moral relativism, strictly, but rather moral subjectivism, or context-centred morality. A morality in which people still have a brain to separate a piece of work from an author’s ideology (against essentialism) and to still take into account the context in which an action was performed (against abstraction). A morality in which “good” and “wrong” aren’t seen in black and whites, but rather into lighter and darker greys; a morality which systematic use can slowly dress into the habit of charity towards one another, into kind teaching rather than cruel instrumentalization.

And is it really utopistic, is it really unfeasible, if we’re not falsely annihilating the suffering and the negative parts of the Human Experience?

This whole discourse could be turned into a political marketplace of rights and lefts, of conservatives and progressivists — but my aim here is much smaller (or bigger, if one is a humanist): to make the reader question their critical thinking, and just that.

(We love some self-doubt.)

I believe moral acts aren’t supposed to be a badge to share on one’s vest — to renew your status as “approachable person” (as if saying “don’t worry, you can talk to me, you’re not going to be deemed as bad for it”) or to be praised for. Moral acts are the only acts that raise humans from other species, the acts where the “sapiens” shows its evolution, the acts where our negative aspects aren’t hidden but channelled into arts, without the fear that someone might call us bad for it. (Immoral, even, whilst acting in the most moral way possible, exorcising those negative parts of us in the least harmful way possible.)

So, at the end of this unnecessary rant, my question is: is it better to be a minion in a culture where you have to watch your mouth, as if it wasn’t yours, or to be a person who’s engaged in researching how right and wrong truly manifest?

[heyheydidjaknow]

I’m uploading this Friday at 12:10 am. Or, at least, that’s when I finished writing this. Yes, we’re still on the angst thing. It won’t last forever, but still.

Chapter 9

“How is she?”

Donatello sits down next to his brother on the couch. “Same as yesterday,” he sighs. “Comatose.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Raphael smirks. “That stupid bitch decided to total the fuckin—"

“Raphael,” he promises coolly, “I will personally make it my life’s goal to make sure you can never open your mouth again if you don’t shut up.”

He puts his hands up. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Will you two be quiet for a minute? I’m trying to listen.” Leonardo kneels in front of the television.

There is a new news story.

“They can’t arrest her, can they?” The tallest brother glances at the others.

“Nah.” Michelangelo is sprawled out on his portion of the couch, eyes dully focused on the screen. “They’ll side with her before someone from a street gang, ‘specially with those…” He trails off. “’ Sides,” he clears his throat, “any good public defense lawyer would call it self-defense, and there’s no way the police would convict a teenage girl of any degree of murder with the injuries she has; bad press.”

“Mikey,” Leo asks, “how come you know that and not how to multiply numbers by seven?”

“Because seven is a stupid number that was created just to make us all feel stupid.”

“Leo—”

“He’s right,” Raph agrees. “They won’t put her away for something like that.” He chuckles darkly. “Besides, there’s no more evidence.”

“After what happened with the neurologist?”

“Donnie,” Leo turns to look at him. “She’s going to be fine.”

He opens his mouth to argue, closes it.

” The perpetrator,” the news anchor reads, ” was found this morning after a panicked nine-one-one caller had seen the hand of the assailant hanging over a ledge. The corpse had, presumably, been flung away from the scene of the incident as a consequence of the explosion, miraculously landing on the roof of a nearby restaurant. The body has been identified as Fong Zhao, who was arrested on multiple charges of armed battery earlier this year. The police have refrained from offering Channel Six detailed information, but we have an anonymous source who claims that he and the gang he is supposedly involved in, locally referred to as the Purple Dragons, was also involved in the hijacking of a truck carrying a substance believed to be tear gas. The driver of the truck testified in favor of this statement earlier this evening. An investigation is currently ongoing regarding the involvement of the men in question, and we at Channel Six implore our viewers to come forward with any information you may have on the case or the supposed ringleader, the recently escaped Xever Montes. More on that later tonight. Up next, a local—”

Leonardo shuts off the television. “Well, there you go.” He stands up. “See? Didn’t even mention her name.”

Donatello breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he nods after a moment. “That’s... good.” He cradles his head in his hand, his concerns hardly pacified by the report.

This, he cannot excuse. This is entirely a matter of his own negligence.

‘I should’ve noticed sooner, insisted to come with.’ He zones out, his brother starting a conversation about something he cannot bring himself to pay attention to. ‘How could she be that reckless? It’s Shredder for fuck’s sake; I should’ve at least noticed the body or something, anything.’ His fingers lace together as he stares a hole into the ground. ‘Even if I couldn’t have stopped her, I should’ve been there, if only after the fact.’ He runs his tongue along his teeth absentmindedly. ‘Some ninja I am. Some friend. Some—’

“So, I broke Y/N’s arms, right?”

His head snaps up. “You what?”

“There he is,” Raph chuckles. “Knew that’d get his attention.”

“Don’t make me go over there,” he glares. His face flushes in embarrassment.

Leonardo rolls his eyes at his brother’s antics. “As I was saying, it’s been pretty quiet, hasn’t it? Since the incident?”

“Now that you mention it,” Raph points out, “since the whole Leatherhead fiasco, I don’t think anything’s really happened. Ya know, besides the Kraang thing.” He crosses his arms behind his head, leaning back into the couch. “It’s been getting’ kinda boring If I’m bein’ honest.”

“It’s that desire to fight that’s going to get you killed,” Donatello informs him, staring at the television screen. “Saw what happened to her, right? Weren’t you just saying how stupid she was being?”

“Yeah, but that’s different.” He smiles sharply. “She’s got exactly no training. As much as you guys seem to have a thing for humility all of a sudden,” he waves his hand contemptuously, “the only reason she got hurt is that she was being stupid, so we’re pretty much undefeated, no thanks to Leo.”

He stands up, deciding against fighting him. “If you need me,” he says curtly, “I’ll be in my lab.”

“Watch it, Raph,” the eldest brother snaps.

“Why should I?” He throws his hands up. “Am I wrong?”

Mikey quietly grabs his comic off the floor, retreating to his room, presumably.

Donatello slides the door in between him and his brothers as he sits down at his desk.

You have been stuck in the hospital for about two weeks now.

‘Technically,’ he corrects himself as he pulls his laptop open, ‘it’s been three hundred fifty-seven hours, meaning it’s closer to fifteen days than two weeks. Why do I know that?’ He pulls up an image, uncapping a permanent marker and working on one of the more mindless parts of his latest project: reviving an incredibly battered map. He already has a frame for it once he is finished, but, knowing his brothers, the fading colors would likely be a point of contention if he did not at least make an effort to make it easier to read. Fortunately for him, it is not laminated. Unfortunately—depending on how you look at it— a lot of the finer details—the integral streets names in particular—are all irreparably smudged and, therefore, will have to be all rewritten by hand, turning a once twenty-minute job into at least a two-hour investment.

He tries to tune out the incessant arguing of his two older brothers as he focuses on making his minute handwriting legible despite the infuriatingly fat marker nib.

“You should have taken her offer for a pen when you had the chance,” he mumbles to himself.

His hand stops.

‘Would it be weird to go check on her again? Just to make sure she’s still alright? I mean,’ he goes back to work, ‘even if it were, how would she know?’

He shakes his head to clear it. ‘Stop that. You’re being a creep again.’

Over those two weeks, his distractedness has become more of a problem than it has in the past in reference to his work. He is hardly a stranger to having a thousand thoughts bouncing around his head at once, but where once a rapid stream of information was there is now an aggravatingly slow sludge. The origin of said mind sludge is not at all a mystery to him, which makes the whole thing infinitely more frustrating. ‘Frustrating? Depressing? Does it even matter?’

He rubs his eye absentmindedly with the heel of his palm as he strains to see what he is doing. The smell of the marker is corrosive in his nostrils. His hand shakes. He sets it down, wringing his hands as if to force them back into submission as he stares holes into the map. ‘This is not supposed to be challenging.’ He closes his eyes, the image of you lying on the ground, a bloody, skeletal figure shaking and begging for your life carved into the backs of his eyelids, a hideous scar.

He can not stop thinking about what you said the night before the incident. Something about being able to care for yourself.

What would you say to him now? He imagines that it would be something to remind him of how the accident is your fault, how he should not beat himself up over it, but all that does is convince him that he should have been faster to act or to respond or something. There had to have been something he, in his infinite wisdom, could have done. What else can he reason? That he is powerless? That he had no say in what happened that night of nights?

‘How come I can plan and build a combat vehicle out of alien technology and an old subway car and I can’t—’

He jumps at a loud banging at the door.

“Donnie!” He can hear Raphael’s wicked grin from behind the door. “Bank robbery! Let’s go!”

He sighs, capping the marker. His breakdown will have to wait.

“Comin’!”

--

The ringing in your ears is already annoying.

You have been awake for about five minutes. You have elected against moving for a plethora of reasons, but the ringing is a relatively large determining factor in your decision. You are, admittedly, not sure where you are until you hear the tell-tale incessant beeping you remember from your childhood. You do not open your eyes yet. You are incredibly drowsy for some reason.

‘Hospital?’

You sit up carefully, wincing as a numb pain permeates through your arms. You run your fingers over your face curiously, feeling for any perceived disfigurement as your eyes scan your surroundings. The small room you have been placed in seems standard; there are a couple of chairs under a window that makes up half of the wall, a television screen in a corner of the room, an inoffensive painting, and a small vase filled with some sort of white flowers.

You feel a protruding scar on the right side of your face. It traces from the bridge of your nose to about halfway across your cheekbone. As you bring your hands down to pull the hospital gown away from your body, you catch sight of your hands. Long, jagged cuts run vertically along the front of your hands, and as your eyes travel up your arms, you notice fewer, shorter scars along the insides of your forearms. You swallow, pulling the cloth away from your body to see long scratches running from your thighs to under your ribcage. You pull the blanket off to find that one of your legs is encased in a white cast.

You blink. ‘What stupid thing did I do?’

You lay back down, fingers absentmindedly tracing the scars. ‘I must have been out for a bit.’ You push the hair out of your face, noting how oddly shaky your hands are as you try to focus on what had happened. ‘Why wouldn’t my folks be here? They wouldn’t ditch me in a hospital, would they?’ You hold them out in front of you, palms to the ceiling. ‘I don’t look old or anything. My nails aren’t much longer than they were before, so I can’t have been out for that long.’

Your eyebrows furrow. ‘Parents…’ You swallow. ‘Oh, right. The fire.’ Your eyes go out of focus. ‘Dead. I was, too, until recently.’ You put your arms down. ‘I’m hungry. Where am I?’ You close your eyes. ‘New York. East coast. How far is the East Coast from the West Coast? I should call her so she knows I’m—no, she’s dead.’

“All dead and gone,” you mumble the tune to yourself.

You cover your face. ‘Focus. What happened?’ You recall what you think is a church. ‘Turtles. Turtle. Oh, TMNT. Where are people? Focus.’ You yank at a piece of your hair, mumbling to yourself as you try to run through the memory again.

The image of that man’s body takes your breath away.

You shut your eyes tighter. ‘Right. Car. Glass. Glass would be a good candy. Could you make glass out of sugar? Isn’t that what a lollipop is?’ You hug yourself tightly, careful of the IV as you roll onto your side towards it. ‘I killed someone. Someones. That’s not a word. Gasoline smells bad.’ You feel tears prick at your eyes. ‘I deserve to die for that. There has to have been an easier way to do that. I deserve to burn again. That explosion was so prettily animated in that episode. I can’t breathe.’

You curl your legs up towards you, using the arm not connected to the IV to hook behind your knees. You bury your head in your shoulder as you force your breathing to slow. ‘I miss her. Where is he? They’re dead and you killed them, you heartless bitch.’

You feel a sob rise in your throat. You swallow it back. ‘Stop being a pussy.’ You hear yourself start to count softly. ‘They’re all dead and gone. You’re on your own here, so get a grip.’ You grip the blanket. ‘After all, who are you going to turn to? The guys who already risk their lives every day? Or maybe Splinter, who will probably tell you some bullshit about letting your pain go?’

‘That’s not fair,’ you argue with yourself. ‘You can turn to Murakami. Casey might be willing to help.’

‘Because Casey’s known for his reliability and Murakami would want to deal with your stupid emotional problems.’

“Twenty-three,” you whisper, keeping your voice even. “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…’

You pull yourself back up, bringing your knee to your chest as you wipe any tears that may have leaked out with the back of your hand.

You do not have to wait long until someone comes in to check on you, a taller gentleman with sharp features and sunken eyes behind curly black hair. He introduces himself as Nurse McGrath, gives you a run down of the dizzying number of injuries you had suffered in the accident, what they had done to fix the problem, and starts to discuss what would become of you now.

“The doctor predicts that you’ll be able to remove your cast in approximately six weeks, and that you will regain your fine-motor skills fully in eight.” He is obviously half asleep, but you can hardly blame him; the clock on the wall reads that it is about three in the morning. “The symptoms from the whiplash should completely fade in about three months. If you would be open, there are medications we can prescribe to help with the pain.”

You smile. “Thank you, sir, but I’d rather not.” You are sincerely concerned what might happen if you start taking any sort of medication right now, considering your mental health.

“I should probably warn you in advance that the police might ask you to come in to identify the guys who kidnapped you.”

You blink, confused. “How do they know I was kidnapped?”

“Anonymous tip, according to the news.” He scratches something into some form or another. “I dunno the specifics, but nobody thinks they’re gonna charge you with anything, ‘specially since the driver was from that street gang.”

You nod. “Gotcha.” You purse your lips. “What day is it?”

“Twenty-fourth, now.”

You sigh. “Well,” you shrug, ignoring the pain it causes, “at least I’m not dead.”

“At least.” He caps his pen. “Technically, you’re free to leave, but the doc thinks it’s a good idea to stay overnight. Your insurance provider has your medical bills covered, so you’re good for it.”

“Honestly? I’m surprised I don’t feel weaker.” You smile. “I’m more than happy to head home tonight, if that makes most sense.”

“Personally, I wouldn’t stay.” He starts heading out of your room. “Your cellphone is locked up. I’m guessing you want it?”

You nod eagerly, realizing quickly that makes the ringing worse.

“I’ll bring it right back, then.”

You refrain from touching it until he leaves.

It looks as if it was put in a blender, but you find it does still turn on. A problem quickly arises: your hands cannot hold the phone. You set it down on the mattress, each movement taking a ridiculous amount of time to coordinate as you type like someone who has never used a phone before. ‘Fine motor skills. Right.’ You type out a message after approximately too long that tells Donnie that you are out of the hospital and heading home.

You check out of the hospital at approximately four-thirteen. The trip home is a straight line of a walk that takes you approximately twenty minutes. Getting in through the door with a walker is a bit of a challenge, but it works out well enough.

You lock the door and windows when you get home, shutting your phone off as you crawl into bed.

You let out a low groan as your head punishes you for your heinous crime of moving. You had realized ten minutes into your walk that you were not at all physically strong enough to walk that long, and you already hate yourself for it, among other reasons. As you crawl into bed, ignoring your body’s protest, you still stand by your decision to not take any medication, especially now.

You feel as though you are being suffocated as you cling onto your pillow, pressing your face into it as you cry silently, the ringing in your ears only getting louder in the silence of your apartment.

‘I feel sick.’

You remember your first night here. You remember the feeling it had caused you, the numb ache of loss as you submitted to the situation you had found yourself in. It feels like an eternity ago, now. You know, logically, it cannot have been more than two months since you got here.

You had decided against taking a cab back home. You had the cash, and you still do, in your bloodstained pocket. You saw many as you walked home, and you had turned a blind eye to them all.

You feel yourself trembling again. You remember the first night you had slept on your own here, the nightmares you swore were the product of a mind much more sadistic than yours ever was. You remember, too, the nightmares you had after Bradford, the way that, for the first time in your life since you were five years old you woke up drenched in sweat and crying for your mother.

What possible dream could come from this?

You reach a hand to the nightstand, hovering over your cellphone as you consider your next action.

Slowly, you retract it, letting it rest next to you. ‘It’s four. He’s not awake.’ You do not have the energy to get up to grab the bottle of sleeping pills from your bathroom.

‘I don’t want to sleep. I can’t take another nightmare.’ You rest your cheek on the pillow, forcing your eyes shut. ‘Mare. Why is it called a nightmare? Are mares truly that terrifying?’

“One,” you whisper. “Two. Three.”

Table of Contents

Chapter 8

Chapter 10

[shiekah-marine-embassy]

How Did We Get Here?

A summary of an upcoming tale about my character Anderson, inspired by my own recent struggles.

Anderson spends several days comatose. Wakes up in an unfamiliar place, bound tightly to chair. Is unable to speak. Minutes later, attacker walks in. Attacker commentates on how Anderson was found on the coastline (attacker’s territory) in Yiga Attire. This was received as a threat and Anderson is now subject to imprisonment, torture for information, and Master Kohga will be contacted for ransom arrangements.

Anderson displays elevated levels of distress, which continually continues to increase as the attacker gets closer to establishing contact. The operation is temporarily forfeited when his screaming and begging is so loud that the gag may as well not have been there. Attacker displays frustration and confusion at Anderson’s distress, which is extreme even given the situation he is in.

Attacker removes the gag, and Anderson takes some time to compose himself before explaining that he was actually on the run from the Yiga, after a demon god accused him of treason and sabotage, turning his former lover, several of his friends, and the clan leaders against him. In the ensuing fight he managed to slaughter his ex-lover, incapacitate the right-hand man, severely wound the leader and demon god, and just as quickly made an escape.

He expresses fear and concern that if the leaders were to be made aware of his whereabouts, they would most definitely want him back for the sole purpose of subjecting him to what he describes as a “fate worse than death”, and that traitors and killers like him are not killed, but instead brutally and slowly tormented for the rest of their lives. Anderson undergoes extreme emotional distress and remorse upon recalling the events and is no longer able to compose himself to form words.

Attacker is skeptical, and comments on how the story sounds quite unbelievable. However, despite their skepticism, attacker agrees to not contact Master Kohga right away, and instead will bring the matter up with their boss. As collateral, though, it will be necessary that he is kept heavily restrained until it can be proven that he is not here on a sabotage mission. Several interrogations will follow for the next few days, sedatives will be administered as necessary, and any noncompliance will be met with unrelenting punishment.

Anderson reluctantly agrees, deciding that a few days of hell would be better than a lifetime and maybe more of unbearable agony. The attacker acknowledges, re-gags him twice over, blindfolds the man, and plugs his ears. They then shut off the light to the cell and secure the door, leaving to presumably report this new development to the boss. Anderson then experiences a full mental breakdown, crying and thrashing against his restraints until he passes out.

An approximate 16 hours pass before someone enters the cell, and removes the captive’s earplugs- but leaves all other forms of restraints in. This person is presumed to be the boss- and their footsteps can be heard pacing the cell as they begin to mark on the preposterousness of the captive’s story. Anderson cannot shake hearing a certain familiarity in the boss’s voice, but nonetheless is terrified of what is to come of the situation.

Very shortly after, boss slowly removes the blindfold. Is revealed to be the Captain Sonii of the Shiekah Marine Embassy, and she remarks on how this wouldn’t be the first time that the Yiga try to break in by pretending a part of the clan was betrayed by the others. However, she does admit that there is a certain sadness, fear, and fury in his eyes that she has not seen before.

Captain Sonii continues on by saying that she does know what there is a demon god that stands by the Yiga, and that Anderson must have done something drastic to anger the entity so much- to which the captive responds by squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head away. It seems that the Shiekah Captain is able to infer the source of his distress.

She goes on to remark that, if her intuition is correct, she could draw the fact that Anderson was falsely accused of treason, to which the captive replies with surprise and looks back at her. Captain Sonii chuckled and begins to explain that the whole reason the Shiekah Marine Embassy was founded was to give those who have been framed, misinterpreted, and accused a second chance. And she herself was one of those victims and built this army so no one would have to suffer the way she did, having no one to fall back on.

She concludes that, if there are no rescue attempts by any Yiga within the next three months, she will offer him a high-ranking position on the crew. However, until then, he is not to be left unrestrained, and under constant remote surveillance. Other stipulations follow, along with warning him that in the meanwhile he will be interrogated regarding both the Yiga Clan, and the events that conspired up until his capture.

She appears to snicker to herself, before producing a small knife, and explains how misinformation and fabrication are not tolerated. She begins to draw the knife very slowly up his throat, merely slitting the skin open and deliberately avoiding airways and major arteries, all the while making delicate yet terrifying threats about the consequences if he truly is lying and plans on sabotaging them.

He withholds his pain and terror- yet still in agreement with himself that as bad as things were now, they at least have an ending in sight. The captain notes his resilience, and reminds him of the stipulations one more time, before dismissing herself. Anderson seems relieved that she is gone, and several nightmares within the following few days about what would happen should he be captured by the Yiga confirm his confidence that this is the better option.

Over the following few months, his restrictions are gradually loosened, from a few weeks of full body restraints to a few weeks of wrist and ankle shackles and the allowance of basic entertainment, to simple handcuffs and special requests of food, to complete freedom to move about his cell and partake in recreations under supervision.

After a period of a little over three months, he is called in to be formally interviewed by the boss. He explains that his specialties lie in the operation of, hijacking, and repair of hardware is his specialty, along with an innate knowledge of robotics and machinery. He goes on to admit that he is the owner of a divine beast and use that divine beast in any missions they may need it for.

Under the agreement that she is allowed to connect the divine beast to the Embassy’s centralized army database, to which Anderson shows no opposition to, she hires him and as promised is given the title of leader of the tech division, more specifically the hardware sector, while he will be working aside another leader, August Staghorn, who oversees the software sector. He is given his own room and is now allotted all the freedoms and benefits of a level 3 crew member.

August and Anderson were initially very hesitant about one another, Anderson being intimidated by the software leader’s large stature and reluctance to speak, and August being intimidated by the hardware leader’s very apparent stoicism and distrust. However, as time goes on, they learn more about one another- Anderson learns that August is mute and communicates completely nonverbally (although he can hear and comprehend things perfectly fine), and August learns that Anderson suffers from a small case of Autism Spectrum Disorder and sometimes has trouble handling himself.

Both, in secret, study for months on end about the other’s problems; Anderson teaches himself to both use and interpret sign language, and August teaches himself how to effectively communicate with, comfort, and understand people with neurological disorders. They gradually become more compatible with one another, but neither seem to really notice any large change until they are put on a collaborative project together.

The two and their teams are instructed to begin work on a new semi-terrestrial divine beast construct. The ease at which they have communicating with one another seems to surprise them both, as each admits that they spent a long time studying how to communicate with the other more effectively. Upon realizing, both are overwhelmed with a feeling of rejoice and instantly embrace, getting emotional over one another.

August then goes onto admit that he had admired Anderson ever since he joined the tech division and heard about what happened to him beforehand. August expresses his empathy and admits that while his stature may be big, he considers himself to be rather meek. He reveals a bit more about himself, and states that the reason he was hired here was due to five or six years back, he was subject to a series of tests against his consent and ultimately had his vocal cords completely dissolved which led to him not being able to speak, and complications eating.

Due to these complications and receiving no compensation for the damage done, and the perpetrators never caught, he ended up losing the job he had and not being able to pay rent. He couldn’t find any new jobs either due to any hirer’s lack of understanding of his condition and refusing to change their policies. Ultimately he came down to Lurelin where he intended to spend what he presumed were his last days, alone.

However, at that time, the Shiekah Marine Embassy was surveying the area and they pulled August aside for questioning about his apparent loitering around the area. When he could not answer the soldier, he was asked to attend an interview with an interpreter and the boss, where he explained his story. The captain immediately could tell he had exceptional potential that others couldn’t see, and he was offered a position.

The two go on to discuss how the captain is quite the powerful woman; she clearly went through a lot of effort to found this army and is quite ruthless- but at the same time seems to have an innate understanding and compassion for those who have been wronged, just hidden behind a cold, yet ambitious exterior. Anderson admitted that he wasn’t so sure about her first, but soon came to realize that regardless of how tough she is, what was most important to him was her understanding.

August commentates that he knows about Anderson’s distrust of having a significant other and expressing affection and did not know how long it would take him to heal from that traumatic event. Regardless he confesses that he has feelings for Anderson, however, to the other’s surprise, reciprocates those same feelings, stating that he was truly taken back by how much August put into being able to communicate and understand him better, something that no one in the past had done before.

August humbly dismisses it as nothing more than something he was passionate about and should not be praised so highly for. Anderson intervenes, however, by mentioning that he knows that the two of them would not have studied each other’s issues without their knowledge if they were not meant for this. August cannot supply an argument against this, and thus, their relationship is made official.

 And so, life continues on, there are ups and downs, but one thing is certain- there’s definitely room for a whole series here.

[piyoduki]

Hinata and Kamukura

(wow what a creative title)

Just a place for me to dump my thoughts on these two, and why they are so important to each other... This is another really long essay analysis thingy.

Spoiler warning for... everything. :p

1. Reserve Course

Hinata is an ordinary guy who loved and admired Hope’s Peak Academy. He loves talent, and wishes he could attain a talent and become someone recognised by society.

Hinata always calls himself normal, and says there’s nothing noteworthy about him. But unlike Naegi, Hinata was not satisfied with being normal. Hinata was obsessed with talent, because he believed he needed one to become someone he could be proud of, to be acknowledged by others. That was why he wanted to enter Hope’s Peak Academy so much.

(Horror game protagonist?)

DR’s society is one that puts talented individuals, the best of the best, above everyone else. SDR2 and DR3 give us a look at just how the other people in this world, the ones who were not chosen by Hope’s Peak Academy, feel. Hinata is the one who represents the hopes and despairs of the common people.

Hinata’s hopes about the school were quickly dashed when he realises just how they were treated in comparison to the Main Course students, aka the Ultimates. It’s also interesting that despite claiming to love the school, Hinata doesn’t actually know how the Reserve Course differs from the Main Course. It appears that Hinata believed that he would be able to get a talent and become an Ultimate even if he entered through the Reserve Course. Either the school hid the dark reality of the Reserve Course (which wouldn’t be surprising), or Hinata didn’t actually dig deeper in his research. Especially considering he did not even try to apply for the position of Ultimate Luck (he did not even know about that, actually), I believe that Hinata is someone who doesn’t like to confront his greatest fears or worries, and by choosing to remain ignorant, he can hold on to his rosy image of a school that can make his dreams come true. 

Of course, he can’t be ignorant of the truth once he’s actually in the school. Already, he can see a clear difference in how they were treated. The Main Course students are allowed to move between schools easily, but he (and the other Reserve Course students) get beaten up just for trying to enter the building? When his friend and classmate gets murdered by another Reserve Course student, that student then gets murdered by a Main Course student... who never got any sort of punishment? Two Reserve Course students lost their lives and the Main Course student who committed the same grave crime got their crime covered up? (Off-topic but isn’t it weird that Komaeda gets expelled for property damage but Fuyuhiko gets no punishment for MURDER... are the yakuza that powerful? Or more like why does DR3 want to make fun of Komaeda so much?)

And those are just what we see on screen. There is clearly some animosity between Main and Reserve Course students given Hinata’s class seemed very annoyed and hostile towards Koizumi when she went to visit Sato. The whole atmosphere of the Reserve Course is gloomy and depressing, compared to the Main Course where they were skipping class, throwing parties and playing games... We can infer what other micro-aggressions and unfair treatment the Reserve Course students felt when compared to the Main Course.

I have seen some people say that Hinata went through with the Kamukura Project because he wanted to impress Nanami... which I strongly disagree with. If anything it looked like he wanted to avoid her because he knew she would try to stop him. Hinata was fed up with being treated like second-rate trash. Not to mention he already has the pressure of his parents having to pay high school fees (that the Main Course most likely didn’t need to, given there are a few students in debt), so dropping out would disappoint them (and Hinata is stubborn and doesn’t give up easily once he’s decided to stick to something). Natsumi dying was simply the last straw. When he’s given the chance to become the person he’s always dreamed of becoming, a person full of talent, at this point where Hinata was at his lowest, there isn’t anything holding him back anymore. He is no longer afraid of something going wrong, because he’d already seen his classmates DIE, and the perpetrator with an Ultimate talent got to walk away scot-free. If he doesn’t take this chance now, he might end up the same way.

And he most likely would have, given all 2375 Reserve Course students committed a mass suicide. 2357 people who were not even named, or treated as individuals, who were just lumped into one number without any identity beyond having no talent.

By deciding to take part in the Kamukura Project, Hinata was able to live.

2. Kamukura Izuru Project

Or not really, because Hinata got his memories and consciousness erased. Can walking around as an emotionless shell really be called ‘living’? Junko implied that some messed up stuff happened to Hinata during the process, and I don’t know much about brain surgery... but we can imagine it was very painful and not ethical. Like Junko said, in order to completely rewrite Hinata’s personality, the researchers would have to go through drastic measure to accomplish something like that.

When did Hinata stopped being Hinata and when did he become Kamukura? We don’t know. But Hinata could feel everything when he was still Hinata. The fear, anger, regrets, pain, isolation... the feeling when he starts to realise he’s becoming numb. The feeling when he realises he can’t remember certain things. Soon the time will come when he can’t even remember anything. And he doesn’t even care anymore, because his emotions had been repressed to such an extent. (Does he even need anaesthesia to be operated on if he doesn’t feel pain? Hmm.)

He is now called Kamukura Izuru by the scientists who created him. Just like the other Reserve Course students, Hinata’s identity was erased and discarded. 

In V3′s UTDP, Kamukura introduces himself in this way, basically showing he doesn’t really feel like he has a sense of identity either.

Kamukura is the proud product of the scientists’ hard work. Yet he is a secret who cannot be shown to the world, not just yet. The school claims it is to protect such rare talent, that he would somehow be mankind’s saviour. But it would surely tarnish Hope’s Peak Academy’s reputation, if the rest of the world knew what kind of lengths they went through to create such artificial hope anyway. And who knows just how much more they could push Kamukura’s talents? If Junko didn’t take over the school and call out to him, who knows what would happen to Kamukura? Would they dispose of him once their success was recorded and it might be too dangerous to keep a human experiment around? Would they fear the very being that they had created, that could easily overpower them if he wanted to? Would Kamukura, who had no motivation or reason to live, even care if he were to get killed...?

Kamukura was locked up in a dark room with just a bed. We can assume he was only let out to undergo tests and such. He was given the bare minimum for survival, and because Kamukura had no motivations, he did not want or need anything else... but he was extremely bored. Kamukura’s whole life was confined to his empty room and the lab. He could definitely escape if he wanted to, but what point was there in leaving? He could predict everything that would happen. To him, the outside world was probably as boring as the world inside the lab, or at least not worth the effort of sneaking out or escaping. (Although he did sneak out once in the DR3 anthology... and as you might have guessed, he found it boring.) 

Junko is the one who gave Kamukura a motivation. She promised him the thrills and excitement of a world filled with despair. Kamukura had nothing to lose by going along with her plans, and in the best case scenario she would be correct and perhaps he might just feel something through despair. 

Despite being apathetic and having all the talents... Kamukura does want to feel something. Because nothing surprises him, because he can predict everything, because he doesn’t feel challenged by anything, because he finds everything boring, Kamukura wants to find that something that can make him feel. And Junko promised he could find it through despair.

So she puts him into the Student Council Killing Game where he just... stands around and watch them. It isn’t until the very end when a bullet grazes his cheek where he gets somewhat surprised, and kills the student in self defence.

Junko uses him as a scapegoat to blame the killing of the student council on, and Kamukura starts to show signs of annoyance at being used. Eventually Junko kills Nanami, and Hinata’s subconscious reacts to the death of yet another of his friends, causing Kamukura to tear up. Although he is confused by the reaction, he holds on to her hairpin as a reminder. Hinata was still not truly gone, and he caused Kamukura to feel the most emotion he had felt in his short years of existence. 

In UDG, Kamukura aggressively rips out Junko’s AI in annoyance, showing that he isn’t truly emotionless and he does dislike being used in such a matter. It’s also possible he was disappointed as despair did not really make him feel much. Still he goes along with her plan to infect the NWP and turn it into a killing game, but mostly to use it as a final showdown between hope and despair.

I say ‘final’, because the two options would both lead to Kamukura being erased and replaced by a different person.

3. Neo World Program and the Virtual Killing Game

Kamukura knew that he would not be able to take part in SDR2′s killing game, and told Komaeda that in Chapter 0. He knew that his previous self (Hinata) would be used as the avatar, so once again he could only watch from afar (was he even conscious?).

Kamukura went in knowing that if the rehabilitation of the Remnants of Despair was a success, then Hinata would live on as Hinata, and his memories and identity of Kamukura Izuru might be suppressed and erased (sound familiar?). If Junko’s plan succeeded, then she would upload her AI into all of the Remnant’s bodies and continue spreading despair. 

Kamukura, before that point, had barely found a reason to live. But it still wasn’t strong enough to convince him. So if he were going to die, then at the very least he wanted to see if hope or despair could really excite him. If not, then at that point, would there be anything that could make him feel anything? Perhaps nothing would change even if he were to disappear. If he were to just keep being used by others to achieve such a boring, predictable hope or despair, then maybe he didn’t mind just dying. Perhaps, since death is what made him able to feel something, by putting himself in such a situation, he might even feel the fear of death itself?

And so Kamukura Izuru hijacked the NWP and Hinata Hajime was pulled out from the deepest recesses of his mind, and was able to live in the NWP.

But this Hinata isn’t the Hinata that is all too aware of the reality of being a talentless person in a world loved by talent. This Hinata is a fellow student in a class full of Ultimates. SDR2′s Hinata wanted to believe that he has a talent. When he sees the rest of the students, how they act, how some of them got to the school of his dreams through something like luck? Helped by Komaeda’s supportive words, Hinata believes that he must have just forgotten his talent due to the shock of suddenly waking up on a deserted island. Not to mention his memory of entering the school felt fuzzy in the first place, so it must be true. Since he was surrounded by Ultimates, he had to have one too. 

That’s why, in SDR2, Hinata presents himself as a person who is more confident in himself. He sees himself as an equal to all the Ultimates, compared to Komaeda who clearly views himself as beneath the others. Hinata is able to feel comfortable making sarcastic remarks and comments about the others, because he believes he is just like them. But as the game progresses, Hinata starts to doubt himself. In Chapter 3, he starts to have some hazy memories that he tried to suppress.

It’s possible that he might have contracted the Despair Disease from Tsumiki and was starting to remember his past, before he entered Hope’s Peak Academy. Either way, as usual, Hinata continues to ignore his problems and negative thoughts.

When he hears about the traitor, while he did not want to believe it, he started to think it might be him. After all, he was the only one here who did not remember their talent. If he forgot something so important, perhaps it’s possible that he forgot he was the traitor as well. Despite his attempts to fit in with everyone, Hinata still felt left out from the others. 

But Hinata continued to believe he was not the traitor, that his talent would come to him eventually, because he didn’t want to face what would happen IF he were the traitor. In Chapter 4, he reacts negatively to Komaeda and Souda suspecting him of being the traitor. He started acting more depressed and impulsive, not helped by the fact he had gone without food and being trapped in the Funhouse for a few days. Not to mention, he was the one who pushed everyone to go to the Funhouse so they could find the truth of their missing memories, in other words his talent. 

Hinata became desperate, when he heard that there was a chance he might find out the truth through the Final Dead Room, he was ready to risk his life and go inside, but Nanami stopped him just in time. It’s very possible Nanami knew about his past to be better equipped to help him in his recovery. Or at the very least, it’s likely she knew he did not have a talent, and did not want him to get hurt if he found out the truth. 

Unfortunately for them, Komaeda does get access to the secret files by playing roulette at Komaeda-level difficulty. Besides the details about them being Ultimate Despair, Komaeda also finds out the true talents of the Imposter and Hinata, which he promptly rubs in Hinata’s face probably in an attempt to make himself feel better about being the very embodiment of what he hates. 

Hinata is shocked and in denial about it for a short while, because it came so suddenly, and from Komaeda, no less. But he could not run away from the truth forever. He should have expected it, being the only one who did not know his talent was just too suspicious. He should know better than anyone, how much he wanted a talent, how much importance he placed on talent. Forgetting was just a convenient excuse to make himself feel better. But that did not make it hurt any less. He was a fraud, a nobody, and this reality crushed Hinata’s fake confidence. The act he put up around the class crumbled. Komaeda constantly bringing up his lack of talent, mocking and insulting him did not help. But he had a murder to solve, and a genocidal Komaeda to deal with the next chapter. Hinata had no time to mope about and take it all in, he had to keep fighting for his survival.

Hinata had already lost hope when he found out about his lack of talent, but Komaeda starts tp be more aggressive in trying to expose the traitor’s identity. And once again Hinata starts to wonder if he were actually the traitor.

Komaeda gave them no time to rest and immediately told the remaining students about his plan to blow up the island. So they worked together to stop him, and found his gruesome dead body, and worked to find the murderer.

In the middle of the investigation, we once again see how pained Hinata felt when he confirms that he was in fact a talentless Reserve Course student.

“Why... why am I here with the other Ultimates?” 

Eventually, they find out Komaeda’s death was not just a simple suicide, and they found out Komaeda’s true plan was to expose the traitor and execute them (which they later found was the exact opposite of what he wanted). Because Hinata knew Komaeda’s true personality, he knew that Komaeda wouldn’t die in such a meaningless way, so Hinata suspected there had to be something more to his death. Hinata was forced to expose Nanami as the traitor, through Monomi’s diary that included that moment that only Nanami should know about... Nanami, who noticed he was feeling anxious and being suspected of being the traitor, who left her group to find him because she was worried for him, who convinced him not to take the risk and leave the Final Dead Room, who told him not to listen to Komaeda mocking him. 

Also, when Hinata saw that scene in the diary, he pretended not to acknowledge it and thought he shouldn’t bring it up to Nanami, because he wanted to avoid a potential problem once again, until he was forced to confront it in the trial. 

With both Komaeda and Nanami gone, Hinata and the others are left exhausted and empty. But the time was up, and they could finally leave...? Even if Hinata wanted to completely give up now, the doors to freedom were (supposedly) finally open and it would be a waste not to at least give it a look. 

A tired Hinata enters the mysterious Future Foundation building, and slowly pieces together the truth behind this killing game. In the final trial, we finally learn about Hinata’s backstory through Junko happily telling him that he is not merely a talentless Reserve Course student, but also a human experiment and his real self is no longer the same person standing in the class trial. The Future Foundation members are also shocked that Hinata and Kamukura were apparently the same person. Hinata’s first reaction is understandably denial, who would believe that they would go through something so messed up for the sake of hope and talent? Especially after Junko adds that Kamukura was the one who killed the student council members and kickstarted the tragedy.

But the seeds of doubt were already planted into Hinata. Junko easily uses Hinata’s fears to deter him from going along with the Forced Shutdown sequence. After all, by going through with it, he and the others would lose their memories of the virtual killing game, meaning he would go back to being Kamukura Izuru. For Hinata, this means that he would cease to exist. Again. 

Junko brings up the fact that the Future Foundation want them to do the Forced Shutdown for their own desires, wanting to stop her from taking over the world, but is it really worth the cost of sacrificing their own lives and memories? 

Hinata has a breakdown because how is he supposed to choose? Between sacrificing himself or saving the world, just because some people say so? He is afraid. He doesn’t want to disappear. He suddenly got put into this spot where the only choices are to die or destroy the world. Both Junko and the Future Foundation are only thinking of their own goals. The Future Foundation might give false reassurance that everything will be fine even if they go back to being Ultimate Despair, but will it really? They conveniently don’t bring up the fact that Hinata won’t even exist anymore in an attempt to convince them to go along with their plan to defeat Junko. As Junko mentioned, do these people even care about him and the others?

Hinata refuses to choose, because he cannot handle it anymore. The burden is too great, and Hinata would rather just give up. Once again, he is unable to face his issues head on and chooses to avoid them. 

Hinata imagines an ending where the class is happy and back on Jabberwock Island. But Nanami snaps him out of it and confronts him. Hinata tells him his worries, tells him that he wants to give up, and adds that if they go through with the Forced Shutdown, everyone would forget about her too. Nanami tells him that no matter what, the future she and everyone fought for would still remain, and that Hinata should believe in himself and stop being so indecisive. Nanami tells him that they are the only ones who can decide their own future, and if they can’t choose one of the two options, to create their own future. 

Hinata confronts his impression of Kamukura, or rather, his own negative feelings projected onto Kamukura’s avatar. His feelings of being talentless, being useless, being unable to change anything, being betrayed, his denial of being Kamukura Izuru. Hinata finally faces his own feelings head on and realises how uncool he is to act like that and keep moping about.

Thanks to Nanami’s encouragement, Hinata was able to overcome his feelings and awaken. Finally, Hinata has stopped running away and has decided to fight for a new future. He says that he is not Kamukura Izuru, but Hinata Hajime, and argues that they don’t have to stick to the two choices presented to them, that they can and will create their own future that they can be proud of. Hinata convinces the other survivors to do the same, and they go through with the Forced Shutdown sequence. Usami appears and defeats Junko, and the survivors wake up from the NWP.

3.5. World Destroyer

This technically happened before DR3, so I’ll put this here. With Kamukura’s talents, Hinata was able to create the AI of World Destroyer, who was given Kamukura’s personality to be as efficient and ruthless in his job as possible. And he was modelled after Hinata’s avatar because... well there are a lot of theories, but personally I think it’s because Kamukura’s hair physics would be a bigger pain to work with then Hinata’s short hair.

Okay that was a joke, but my interpretation the reason is that they wanted to pick someone who is distant from the other students, so that they wouldn’t get too attached or get emotionally hurt when WD shoots them and wakes them up. So they went with Hinata since the students won’t have any memories of him before the killing game (which seems to be where their minds are trapped within). 

It’s possible that Hinata might sometimes feel as if he were not truly a part of the class, as everyone except him shared some memories of their time in Hope’s Peak Academy or being Remnants of Despair (that they may or may not have regained). We already know he thinks that he is different from everyone else. Not to mention, he might have also felt responsible for causing them to die in the NWP since it was Kamukura who injected Junko’s AI into it, so he tried to wake them from their coma. 

Hinata (and Kamukura) had to shoulder the huge burden of saving these people, with the hopes of all the other survivors resting on him. Did he think, he was the only one who could do something like that? With all these talents, he could finally be of use to his friends? Despite people like Nanami constantly telling him that it’s okay not to have a talent, it’s only because he became Kamukura, that he obtained all this talent, that he was able to bring everyone back to life.

Having to deal with the pressure that you will be responsible for all these people’s lives, knowing that it’s your fault but not really that they ended up like this, having to deal with living the rest of your life with another person in your mind, knowing that you finally got what you always wanted but you caused so many people and yourself so much pain... That is something only Hinata Hajime would feel.

4. Kamukura, Hinata and the Future

(This section will contain a lot of rambling headcanons based on how they get along after the events of SDR2/DR3. Also me being confused by DR3′s writing.)

When Hinata wakes up from the simulation, it is heavily implied that Kamukura’s personality is still present within him, as he occasionally mentions being bored (like when the Future Foundation members come after them). Even though he cut his hair, and continues to mainly present himself as Hinata, he retains Kamukura’s talents and shares a body and mind with him.

There are a few confusing things about SDR2 and DR3, such as the fact Naegi and friends don’t know Kamukura and Hinata were the same person, even though Naegi would have likely needed to meet Kamukura to ‘capture’ him, and in the visions Kamukura retained his appearance when talking to Komaeda on the boat to the real Jabberwock Island. It would be kind of suspicious to see that Kamukura was not present in the simulation but instead a completely different person, yet the Future Foundation talk as if they did not know Kamukura even existed...? Why would a random Reserve Course student be in the simulation instead? You would think they would know the identities of who they were going to upload into a rehabilitation programme... or at least put two-and-two together and do some research into this Hinata Hajime person? Anyway I digressed.

I believe that Kamukura was able to also get what he wanted. While he might also have known about the Forced Shutdown sequence, I feel like he might still see it as a non-answer (it may be the Future Foundation’s hope, but he and the other Remnants would go back to being despair anyway). But I don’t think he would have expected Hinata to retain his personality (and possibly memories of the killing game) as well. (Or is it just Kamukura acting as Hinata? We will never know why it seems like the SDR2 cast reverted to their in-game personalities despite the Forced Shutdown being unable to retain those memories...) Either way, I think Kamukura would not have predicted such a thing, because it... defies logic. Seriously how did they even fuse? Why does Hinata have heterochromia?? Did the program malfunction and a miracle happen?? I guess so.

Hinata can still feel emotions, but probably a lot less than he would before, because his brain has been messed with to suppress emotions. But for Kamukura, who had felt nothing his entire life, to be able to feel what it is like to ‘feel’, even just a little, is exactly the kind of stimulus he had been looking for. 

And for Hinata, to go from being a talentless nobody, to becoming possibly the only survivor of the Reserve Course, to be suddenly equipped with all these skills and talents... I imagine it must have overloaded him, to suddenly wake up and feel so foreign in your own body. To suddenly realise there is someone else besides him, in his own brain, and that someone be an emotionless, apathetic, harsh, judgemental person... but still a person.

As I mentioned before, I think Hinata felt responsible for putting the class through the killing game. Even if it wasn’t technically him, because it was him that became Kamukura, he caused them to suffer to such an extent... But at the same time, because it was him, because it was Kamukura, he was able to use his foreign talents for something he wanted to do - to save his friends. For once, his identity as the Ultimate Hope was not being taken advantage of by someone else, but he was able to use it for his own wishes. For once, Hinata was able to regain control of his, of Kamukura’s, talents. Because of Kamukura, Hinata was able to live, face his regrets and save his friends.

For Kamukura, I think that he has finally found a meaning to his life. To be able to feel Hinata’s conviction in wanting to rescue his comatose friends. To want to use his talents that he previously would find boring. To want to live and keep existing. Hinata has shown him that things that he can’t predict do exist. Because of Hinata, Kamukura was able to find his purpose. 

Hinata, who had always doubted himself, his identity, had to suddenly wake up as two people in the same body. He had to come to terms with the fact that he was different from everyone else, that he had gone through some things people would never be able to understand. He had to learn how accept this was how he would be for the rest of his life, to accept Kamukura as a part of himself. And similarly, Kamukura would also have to accept Hinata as a part of him, rather than just his past that did not matter, Hinata exists and is here right now. 

Also, since Kamukura technically only existed for a few years, despite having so much knowledge, he is still lacking in experience. So Hinata would still have things to show and teach him. I also think that Kamukura has low energy due to his lack of motivation, which was why he barely moves about, only sees the value in ‘efficient’ actions, prefers to stand back and observe others, and that is why Hinata is the one that takes the lead in their body after SDR2. 

(Stealthy edit but I totally missed this part in the OVA, but Hinata confirms they are both him, meaning they’ve both come to terms with each other and has accepted the other as a part of themselves. :D)

Hinata needs Kamukura, and Kamukura needs Hinata. Without one of them, the other would not exist, and they make up for what the other lacks. 

Bonus: Cute Stuff

To end this off, here are some miscellaneous cute facts about these two!

Kamukura talks in a more polite way than Hinata

They have two colours of underwear, blue and red/pink with white sakura patterns

Kodaka made a tweet that suggested Hinata Hajime’s name could be read similarly to Kamukura [Hi (ka) -nata (muku) Hajime (kura)]

Kamukura’s hair follows a similar pattern to Hinata’s hair (ahoge, the one pointy middle strand)

Hinata’s stop/cancel sign in his eyes transforms to a target sign when he becomes Kamukura (two prongs) and awakened Hinata (three prongs!!)

Hinata’s official watch has black and red clock hands... :]

Anyway, thanks for reading if you somehow made it this far! This ended up being.... extremely long and rambly... and I might have repeated my points a few times... but I hope you still enjoyed it! :’D