#warrants this much scrutiny

[yumeurl]

sometimes i read drarry posts and i actually think people would enjoy tomarry much more than drarry MFKSMFMFK like i feel like dracos sins get conflated sm like...les just go to tomarry my bro im sure toms there w actual grave sins right there😭

[yanderenightmare]

tomura with hero reader whose quirk he's stolen, rendering them defenseless

Shigaraki Tomura

TW: slight nsfw, implied prev noncon, captive reader, Stockholm syndrome, implied mental break, mental deterioration, disassociation, manipulation, angsty, but also weirdly fluffy? reader is super fragile

gn reader

The chub of your inner thighs is still wet with the act. You rub them together for no other reason than that it feels pleasant. You trace the awful scars on his arm, using his warm chest as a pillow—the sound beating of his heart thumping rhythmically at your ear, a soothing presence.

 He balances a red book atop your crown.

He doesn’t seem very interested in reading it—only regarding it with jaded eyes, a meager scoff then and there before turning the page. But still, even though the book didn’t excite him, it bothered you that his attention was elsewhere. It sowed the seeds of doubt and gave root to way too many intrusive thoughts, sprouting out and spreading like weeds throughout your mind, making your chest curl at the possibilities.

“Do you think I'm ugly?” you have to ask. You have to know, why isn’t he looking at you.

He pans away from the page, beady garnet eyes softening from scrutiny to nonplus.

Your question stunted him—nearly made him believe he’d heard you wrong. Why someone like you would ever ask someone like him something like that seemed beyond all reason. It would be the same if a flower asked gravel.

But then again, you’d become a little ditzy as of late. Or maybe you’d been so for a little while already. It’s hard to say—you don’t talk as much as you used to. You no longer scream either, though that had ceased even longer ago.

You continue to delicately run your finger over the tear where his tough skin meets the even tougher purple tissue as though mapping the damage. There’s a frown on your face. No, not a frown—a pout. 

He thought for a moment to use it against you like he’d done everything else so far. Lie and say yes, tell you you’re about as ugly as he is—gravel—make you fall even further apart than what you were already. But something compelled him to choose differently.

“I think you're the prettiest thing in the world.”

Your pout is sucked between your teeth as you pick yourself up to peer down at him—eyes round and misty and something more, something strange—dare he say joyed?

You're scaring him.

“Really?” you choke out as if you’d been holding back a lump.

He hasn’t known how to treat you lately. You’ve become too soft to handle poorly—too frail to harass and too willing for him to feel the need to. Earlier, you'd even begged him to fuck harder and deeper—even cum inside. Actually, you hadn't veered away from his touch in a while. More like you've been embracing it.

He'd brushed it off as mere compliance at first, a state of meekness, weakened by being touch-starved, something that perhaps developed into a minor case of Stockholm syndrome.

But the way you're acting now—seems more concerning.

“Yeah,” is all he warrants as an answer. Though, he was curious as to yours as he begs the same question, “What about me?”

A smile graces your face then—there’s a comfort to it, a mild and affectionate one, unexaggerated, honest, as you smoothly swing your leg over his lap.

A look like that has no place on your face, especially when regarding him, and yet he finds himself hoping for more. He lays his book aside as you lean forward and doesn't stop you when you cup his face in both your palms.

“As far as I'm concerned, you’re not just the prettiest boy in the world—you're the only boy in the world.” You say it with a kiss, lips just as soft as the words leaving them. It shocks him, though he accepts and gives it back.

You close your eyes, laying your chest against his—he keeps his open to look at you. Observing and assessing.

You’ve truly become a whole other person altogether. A far cry from the tough hero you once were—the one who’d beat him within an inch of his life and leave him to choke on the blood.

“Will you stay with me today?” you ask against his lips—playing with his hair, looping the curly tresses around your fingers.

There’s a neediness to your voice, a certain desperation, a sadness—something lonely and something that reminds him all too much of himself. He feels both a strong urge to reject and soothe it all at the same time.

“No, I gotta go,” he says despite it. He had business.

You hide your face in his neck and continue with your tracing, now on the scrapes striping his throat where he’s raked his nails time and time again. “When will you come back?” Your tone comes out even sweeter, only a murmur mushed against his skin.

It nearly makes his heart twist. “It’s better I don’t answer that.”

It’s funny. Though the thought had struck him, he didn’t gauge any ill intentions. You could be asking, acting, plotting some escape based on the hours of his absence—yet somehow, with the way you nuzzle into him like that, as though you’re pouring your all-too-candid grief into him, he can't sense any other ulterior motive.

“Last time you left at this hour, you came back all beaten and bruised,” you mutter, now with a hint of bitterness—as if you’re cursing whoever hurt him under your breath.

It’s ironic. He sneers lazily, almost fondly, at the old memory. “You’re the one who used to beat and bruise me, remember?”

He’s truly curious if you do. Or if something’s spirited your past life away and left you like this—no longer an aspiring young hero, but something whose only value is warming his bed at night.

You arise, an appalled look of affront upon your face.

“No, that can’t be right,” you very nearly cry, as if the very thought was killing you. “I would never hurt you—I love you too much.”

Apparently, you don’t remember who you were at all.

“Love me?” he all but croaks. It’s a laughable prospect, and yet he doesn’t even smile. There’s something awful in his gut that prevents him. “Don't be stupid. You can't love me.”

Your face doesn’t drop its grimace, only further tears with forlorn outrage. “Of course, I love you!" you insist. "You’re my whole reason for living...”

You look so despaired—wrecked from his dismissal. The tears well quickly then slip down your face just as fast—and yet it isn’t the same crying as you used to. This time, it’s quiet—in wait or in dread as you beg the question, 

“Don't you love me?”

It’s an unexpected one, and it quickly proves to be an existential one—even more so than your unnerving confession. Despite not wanting to, it leaves him to dig through the muck in his head he’d long ignored, down in the dark where he’d tried burying the truth he'd felt oncoming. He'd wanted to deny it, reject it, amend it, simply because it confused him too much to acknowledge—complicated things—changed things he didn’t want or need changing.

He wonders if it’s somehow proof of fate—even though he despises such a concept. That, no matter how much you practice free will, no matter how many knots you make upon the red string, the world will pull and straighten it out, and you’re left to realize you’d brought it all on yourself.

First, he took your quirk, then he took your body—your mind shortly followed—and now it seems he’s managed to take your heart, too. 

There’s nothing left of you that isn’t his. 

There was a time he’d frolic at the thought of having reduced you to such a pathetic ghost in a shell—back then, he’d do anything to destroy you—he’d surely shatter you into a million little scattered pieces if presented with the chance, make sure you were broken for good. 

But that was the old him. Or rather, that was his dream for the old you—the hero he loathed down to his rotten core.

But the pretty misty-eyed thing looking down at him now, aching for his answer, wasn’t that person anymore.

And the truth is, the person you are now scares him more than that hero ever did. 

You were… well, you were the person who warms his bed at night, the person who traces his scars and plays with his hair—the person who wraps themselves around him and keeps him from falling apart when he stumbles through the door into the tiny little room he keeps you a prisoner in. You're his.

This time, his heart does twist. He’s never before spoken the words that dance on his tongue, or if he has, they’ve been long forgotten and come out as dust balls as he affirms them now, 

“Yes. I love you.”

There’s a flash of hope in your eyes, though it just as quickly diminishes—as if you don’t believe him.

Your lip warbles as you confirm it, “No, you don’t.”

More tears run silently down the tracks on your cheeks, gathering at the tip of your chin before dripping upon his chest—each one like a gunshot through something hollow.

“If you did, you wouldn’t go. You wouldn’t leave me here in this room, all alone.” Your nails curl into your palms where they rest atop him. You bow your head as though you can’t bear to look at him, as if it hurts. The next words come out beneath your breath, “How am I supposed to compete with the whole world?”

You’re making him feel like dying. The continuous twists of his heart feel as if you’re about to tear it right out of his chest.

He sits up and lifts your face. It’s strange, even with his two-finger gloves on. He doesn’t think he’s ever held you like this. Though, suppose it’s been a night of many firsts already. And here comes another,

“As far as I’m concerned, you are my world.”

There you are, the one thing he doesn’t wish to destroy.

Your sore eyes become round, then swell with different tears. There’s a hitch in your breath as you sigh through a shuddering sob, throwing your arms around his neck and clinging to him tightly—your body jostling while you rub your wet face into his neck, holding him close for comfort as if you're scared to ever let go.

He returns the gesture, though somewhat hesitantly, wrapping his arms around you and laying his head to rest against your shoulder.

And then, as he holds you—for the first time ever, fear of actually losing the fight ahead strikes him.

He hadn’t much cared about the outcome before. Either he’d destroy or be destroyed.

This wasn’t as simple. As said earlier, this complicated things.

But then again, it was even more of a reason to go.

“But I still have to leave.” 

You part from him—the betrayal in your tone demanding his justification, “Why?”

Suppose, in some ways, this actually made things simpler—as that was a question he had no problem answering.

“‘Cause there are monsters outside…” He rests his forehead upon yours, gazing back into those terribly glassy eyes looking back at him as he speaks to you about your dear old colleagues. “Monsters who want nothing but to take you away from me.”

If only they could see you now, they’d know… you no longer want to leave him.

“So I have to go out there and make sure they have no chance,” he explains, almost like a vow, “You’re mine, and I’ll destroy anyone who says otherwise to keep you that way.”

The way your eyes melt makes him feel all fuzzy. It’s a special type of glee, a victory before the battle even begins—to see you root for him—so deep in love with him that you’ve forgotten you’re celebrating the onset of death to all of your former friends.

They probably wouldn’t be able to take you away from him even if they somehow managed to invade this very room. You’d sooner die than betray him.

And that makes him feel all the more ready for the war ahead.

“So kiss me good luck, and I’ll come right back to you soon.”

♡ SHIGARAKI TOMURA ♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[shadamyheadcanons]

Headcanon #299

Shadow spent most of his early life on the receiving end of glares, being seen as suspicious and dangerous from the start, even on the ARK. He was practically numb to disapproval, and he knew what to do with it. Scowl back. Stand his ground. They’d look away eventually, and if they tried to push him about the threat they felt he posed, he was perfectly capable of proving them right.

Glares were predictable. Consistent. Safe.

That’s why he was so thrown off during his first date with Amy. He would’ve been nervous enough just from the event itself, but every time he looked around, he was met with smiles.

Worse yet: laughter.

And he had no idea what to do about it.

Every time he spoke to Amy or took her hand, Shadow felt himself wilt more under the confusing, smiling scrutiny from all corners of the restaurant where they sat, as if everyone else in the room were hiding something from him. All he wanted to do was enjoy the meal with Amy, but he found himself keeping an eye on the exit. His heart pounded faster and faster as the date went on, and not just from Amy. Whenever he tried his glare strategy, the stranger would snicker under their breath and look away...but the grin would remain.

Amy returned from a bathroom trip, practically skipping toward Shadow while wearing the only bright smile he trusted. As much as he hated to ruin her fun, he leaned in and muttered to her about his suspicions, how their date must have been compromised in some way, that the other patrons–and even the waitstaff–seemed to be hiding something, and he had an emerald with him if they needed to warp out of there.

Amy responded with none of the seriousness he felt the situation warranted, instead cocking her head with a cute frown. She scanned the restaurant, bravely meeting the eyes Shadow was avoiding. Gradually, her own smile grew...and she failed to hold back the light, joyous laughter he loved.

When Shadow responded with defensiveness, Amy reassured him, letting him know that she’d run into one of the waitresses on the way back from the bathroom and the waitress had gushed about how cute of a couple she and Shadow were. Amy gestured subtly around the room, explaining that this kind of thing happens when you and your partner are cute together. Those smiles had nothing to hide.

Shadow’s eyes bugged out. Him, cute?! Amy was as cute as a person could be, but him?

His eyes flicked around the restaurant, though, and he couldn’t deny it. He told Rouge about the incident later, and she burst out laughing as well, confirming Amy’s theory and telling him he’d just have to get used to it.

It took Shadow a while to grow comfortable under the deluge of smiles they got, but so long as Amy was by his side, he decided it wasn’t so bad.

[mariacallous]

The US supreme court heard one of the most consequential LGBTQ+ rights cases in its history on Wednesday, with arguments that laid bare the conservative supermajority’s broad threats to civil rights, bodily autonomy and decades of legal precedent.

In US v Skrmetti, the court is weighing Tennessee’s ban on gender-affirming healthcare for transgender youth, one of 24 state laws across the US prohibiting treatments that are part of the standards of care endorsed by every major medical association in the country.

The case originated with three trans youth and their parents who sued Tennessee, arguing the care – puberty blockers and hormone therapy – was medically necessary and “life-saving”. The Biden administration joined the case, asserting Tennessee’s law was unconstitutional.

The case hinges on the legal question of whether Tennessee’s healthcare ban constitutes a form of sex discrimination that merits “heightened scrutiny”, which would mean the case be returned to lower courts for a more rigorous review. But the oral arguments made clear that a ruling against the trans plaintiffs could have far-reaching implications for trans rights and anti-discrimination protections more broadly.’

The US and the ACLU argued that the law is discriminatory and bans treatments based on sex classifications; under Tennessee’s ban, cisgender boys with delayed puberty can be prescribed testosterone, but transgender boys are barred from accessing the same treatments for gender-affirming care. Tennessee argued that the law is an “across the board rule” to “protect minors” from “risky” medical interventions.

Elizabeth Prelogar, the US solicitor general, noted that the court would “turn its back on 50 years of precedent” if it sided with Tennessee’s arguments that the law does not constitute sex discrimination warranting closer scrutiny.

Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson, a liberal, repeatedly compared Tennessee’s ban with the prohibition on interracial marriage, overturned by the landmark Loving v Virginia decision in 1967: “Some of these questions … sound very familiar to me, [such as] the arguments made back in the day, the 50s and 60s, with respect to racial classifications.” Jackson later added: “I’m worried that we’re undermining the foundations of some of our bedrock equal protection cases.”

“I share your concerns,” responded the ACLU’s Chase Strangio, the first out trans lawyer to appear before the court. “If Tennessee can have an end-run around heightened scrutiny … that would undermine decades of this court’s precedent.”

Kate Redburn, co-director of Columbia Law School’s Center for Gender and Sexuality Law, explained after the arguments that there was the potential for an outcome that “would authorize a much broader range of sex discrimination, which has been previously found unconstitutional.

“There could be situations where the government could distinguish between people by sex, and courts would not intervene,” they continued, saying a ruling in favor of Tennessee could make it easier for states to pass policies that discriminate on the basis of pregnancy or other reproductive choices, for example: “Regulations that we now would say are based on stereotypes – especially stereotypes about what women’s proper role is – depending on how expansive this opinion is, those stereotypes could be authorized.”

Justice Sonia Sotomayor, another liberal, also noted that a decision declaring that the ban on care is not discriminatory could open the door to bans on gender-affirming healthcare for all trans people, not just youth: “You’re licensing states to deprive grown adults of the choice of which sex to adopt.”

Matthew Rice, Tennessee’s solicitor general, responded that the “democratic process” was the “best check on potentially misguided laws”. Sotomayor interjected: “When you’re 1% of the population, or less, it’s very hard to see how the democratic process is going to protect you. Blacks were a much larger part of the population and it didn’t protect them. It didn’t protect women for whole centuries.”

“That was a chilling moment,” said Sydney Duncan, senior counsel at Advocates for Trans Equality, who sat in the courtroom. “Is the next step to ban adult healthcare? The state didn’t have a great answer there.” She noted that Tennessee’s law is rooted in “bad science” and misinformation. Doctors cited as expert witnesses for the state have repeatedly been discounted and rebuked by US judges for their lack of credentials and anti-trans bias, the Guardian recently reported.

Justice Brett Kavanaugh, a conservative, asked Prelogar about bans on trans people in athletics: “If you prevail here … would transgender athletes have a constitutional right to play in women’s and girls’ sports?” Prelogar responded that the sports issue – which has become a focus of Republicans’ culture war – was related to a different legal question. Kavanaugh’s questions raised some concerns from advocates that the outcome could have broader impacts for LGBTQ+ rights beyond youth healthcare.

“The justices likely see this case as a potential harbinger of future litigation and constitutional questions about trans people’s equal protection,” Redburn said.

Rice also claimed that trans plaintiffs were seeking a “right to engage in nonconforming behavior”. Redburn said the remark was noteworthy and raised broader concerns about people’s rights to self-expression:

“You can see the motivation is not, as the state has suggested, to protect the health of children, which is something that states have a right to regulate, but instead is based on not only particular animus towards transgender individuals, but also a broader social vision that upholds a certain gender hierarchy.”

The conservative justices appeared reluctant to intervene and block Tennessee’s ban, which means the outcome next year could deliver a dramatic blow to trans rights at a time of escalating attacks on LGBTQ+ equality across the US.

“It’s so important that we understand this case as deeply connected to … laws on race and sex discrimination more broadly,” said Kimberly Inez McGuire, executive director of United for Reproductive and Gender Equity (Urge), an advocacy group. “These questions of what is privacy, what is autonomy, can we control our bodies and our families – these are all intertwined.”

The questions from Jackson and Sotomayor, she said, made clear that “the struggle for the recognition of trans people’s humanity cannot be separated from questions of race and gender equality that have long been cornerstones of this nation’s jurisprudence”, McGuire said.

She noted that anti-abortion and anti-trans activism were closely linked and that this case would probably be followed by efforts to ban adult gender-affirming care, birth control, IVF and other healthcare: “We have seen the right use marginalized people as the tip of the spear for a much larger attack … This voracious desire to be involved in our most personal, private decisions has no end.”

Imara Jones, a podcaster and CEO of the news organization TransLash, who sat in the room, noted that the healthcare under threat was long established: “If you eliminate gender-affirming care, you’re going to be shortening people’s lives and diminishing the quality of their lives. It’s a very real impact. This is not a constitutional or esoteric consideration for trans people. It’s as personal as it gets.”

Bamby Salcedo, a longtime activist and president of the TransLatin@ Coalition, said she and other advocates were bracing for a harmful ruling, but added: “For many of us as a community, hope is the last thing that will die. Regardless of the outcome, we as people are resilient … and we are going to continue to exist despite the oppression we may experience because of this decision. We are going to continue to fight like hell for all of us to be protected.”

[magicalbats]

Kinktober 2024 Day 24: Moze x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 4045

Warnings: Afab!reader, cnc, to be clear that is consensual nonconsent, knife play, piv, a bit of breath play

A/N: Alright, now I'm a FEW days behind but that's okay, we'll get there. 👏😤

⭐

You’re not quite sure what wakes you, only that you have indeed been awakened by something. 

Half asleep and not entirely aware of your surroundings yet, you pry your head up off the pillow to squint through the darkness of your room. Everything is completely silent and still, just as it should be. But that does not change the fact that you’d been roused from a very deep slumber and you could only assume whatever it was must have been attention grabbing enough to warrant your scrutiny if it had managed to accomplish that much. 

The longer you lie there listening to the quiet sounds of the night, the heavier your eyelids start to feel though. You wanted to drift off again, return to whatever dream you’d been meandering through even if you couldn’t fully recall it now and revisit this mysterious happening in the morning. It probably wasn’t anything to get excited about anyway. 

Groaning a tired sound, you relax back down into the bed and tug the pillow closer to you, rolling over to sprawl out half on top of it. You’ve just closed your eyes to get settled in again when a purposeful, heavy creak sounds just behind you to accompany the abrupt dip of the mattress. 

You’re suddenly wide awake and your eyes fly open with a startled, rattling gasp. 

Instinctively you try to shove yourself upright so you can flee. But you only make it halfway through the motion before an arm comes over your shoulder to press a rather sharp blade across your throat, and you freeze. The ice cold panic grips you in such an immediate, debilitating chokehold that for a long stretch of seconds you can’t make any sense of what’s happening. 

And then whoever is kneeling behind you leans close to put their mouth next to your ear. “Don’t even think about screaming for help.” 

Recognition clicks somewhere in the back of your mind in a blind rush of understanding. It was Moze. He was — 

Nudging the knife further under your chin to force your neck back at a vulnerable angle. You uncontrollably quake against him even as you comply, the numb rush of relief that slams into you deliciously intermingled with a potent surge of hot, squirming arousal. 

Yes, now you remembered. You’d asked for this. 

“As long as you cooperate you won’t get hurt.” He rumbles, speaking right against the side of your head to make his gruff baritone echo on an endless vibration through your subconscious. “I’ve just come to take what’s mine and then I’ll be on my way. Do not make this difficult.” 

You let out a slow, shuddering breath to ground yourself and calm your buzzing nerves, fingers numbly clenching into the sheets, but that’s as much as he allows you to react. 

His other hand comes up to palm the back of your head, the blade slipping away so he can shove you face down into the pillow. You squawk a surprised sound, completely muffled by the soft cotton now blocking your nose and mouth, and you come alive underneath him to struggle against his hold. It’s utterly useless though. He was much too big, much too strong and he had you pinned in such a prone position that escape was wholly impossible. 

Everything was happening much too fast for you to fully quell the initial panic still searing through your veins, and your limbs feel like rubbery noodles as you mindlessly thrash in place. Even knowing it was Moze, even recalling that you’d invited him to come take you by force whenever the mood so struck him, the animal part of your brain still registers the danger of the situation and you can’t quite get a solid grip on it. 

It’s at complete and total odds with the tight, eager clench of your cunt which only further exacerbates your disoriented state of mind. That was likely his goal in not giving you enough time to relax, keeping up the pretense of this being not only a casual encounter but an unwanted one as well. It really feels like you’re being attacked by an unknown man in the dead of night, your fear so real and palpable that you very nearly choke on it when he shifts to kneel directly behind you. 

Catching one of your flailing legs under his own, he leans his weight more to that side to stop your frantic kicking. Your other foot jerks through the air in an attempt to catch him and shove him off you, but he’s much too solid for you to budge like this. All you can manage to do is awkwardly twist yourself up into a bent, stiffly trembling position that leaves your spine bowed. 

And Moze takes advantage of that to shove your nightgown across your back, the cling of gauzy silk pooling around your heaving ribcage. You let out another muffled shriek when you feel him reach for your underwear next only to go stock still again when the sharp point of his knife just touches your bare skin. 

Over the dip of your waist, your hip, skirting right over the elastic band to reach lower and tease a light line across your defenslessly upturned ass. The sensation as much as the inherent danger of this kind of game makes goosebumps erupt all over your body and you shake for him, noising a plaintive mewl when he directs the blade inward to touch your cunt with it. The subtle scrape of incomprehensibly sharp metal catching at the woven fibers along the gusset has your skin crawling as reflexive tears spring up in your eyes to wet the pillow in a sudden rush. 

Just as you’d expected. He was good at this kind of thing, almost exceptionally so. If anyone knew how to intimidate and scare a victim it was certainly him, and you can’t quite decide if you were more excited or terrified by what was happening. 

It must be some deadly combination of the two, you think, as he carefully catches the tip of the knife into one side of your panties so he can slip it underneath the fabric. You shake so hard in response that the bed rattles faintly but you don’t dare move any more than that when the flat side of his blade is right against your labia. All it would take was one careless movement from either of you and you’d be nicked in a place you really did not want to be nicked. 

But Moze is in full control of his hand and the blade by extension. With one, firm twist of his wrist he catches the seat of your underwear and shreds right through it with a deafeningly loud rip. The abrupt rush of air against your pussy when the delicate silk falls away leaves you reeling, and you sway unsteadily at the potent surge of relief you feel as he takes the knife away. 

You’re given a brief moment to actually process the situation a little bit more while he fumbles with what you can only assume is the front of his pants, working to free himself with only one hand. The other is still pressing down on the back of your head to keep you in place and the subsequent lack of oxygen makes you feel incredibly dizzy. All you can do is lie there and listen to the rattling click of his belt, the rustle of clothes sliding off and the eventual zrrrt of his zipper being yanked down. 

He’s leaning over you then, pressing himself flush across your back, and you squeal a frantic sound when the fleshy head of his cock immediately presses into your cunt from behind without any pause or preamble. All at once he’s bullying his way inside you and the friction of his skin against yours registers as painful when you weren’t nearly wet enough yet to facilitate penetration. What meager bit of arousal had started to gather at your entrance wasn’t enough to make for a smooth, easy glide and the sheer girth of him wasn’t helping matters either. 

You mindlessly jerk and twist in an attempt to escape the demanding push of his hips, wailing into the damp pillow. But he persists and just settles more of his weight on top of you to keep you relatively still so he can continue to demand your body take him. Your unpinned leg desperately kicks at him again, managing to get one good, solid hit in on his side but Moze is quick to hook his foot under your knee and spread his thighs out, forcing you into a prone sprawl underneath him. 

Completely helpless like this, all you can do is seethe and squeal a series of muffled sounds while he nudges his cock further into your constricting passage until he at last settles against you an eternity later with nowhere else to go. It’s only then that he adjusts the hand on the back of your head to take a biting fistful of your hair and roughly pull your face up, leaving you wildly gasping for air while he lays himself out across your back. 

It feels like he’s crushing you under his sturdy weight but he’s got you so thoroughly immobilized that you can’t even think to fight it when he slides the knife around to lightly touch your cheek with it. Letting out a pitiful little sob, you screw your eyes shut and try to turn your neck but he holds you fast. 

“You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you? Let me take what I want and deserve.” He murmurs, warm breath ghosting over your face when he speaks from this close up. “I’ve been thinking about this moment for a long time now. Couldn’t wait to sink myself into this tight little pussy and make it mine.” 

The heavy weight of him just sitting wedged inside your body is so distracting that it takes you a moment to rouse yourself enough to comprehend what he’s saying. 

Right. That was the game. A stranger taking what he wants by force. In this moment he was not Moze anymore, nor was he your sort-of-not-quite-significant-other but rather a complete unknown. 

“You’ll p - pay for this.” You warble with no shortage of effort when you were still struggling just to draw enough oxygen into your lungs. “Just wait until — until my lover finds out about this. He’s going to make you regret - -“

“Oh, but bǎobèi. Don’t you realize he won’t be able to do anything at all if he’s already dead?” 

A sharp inhale accompanies the jolt you give at that. You hadn’t expected him to say that or take this in that particular direction, but you don’t get the chance to say anything else on the matter. 

He’s leaning even closer then to truly box you in and trap you underneath him, crowding his face so close to yours that you can’t make out anything beyond him anymore. Just the sharp glint of the blade directly in your peripheral, and you whimper a helpless little sound when he angles his mouth to just touch your lips. 

“Forget about him. I should be the one you want. You’re much better suited to being my cock sleeve, aren’t you?” 

Your inner walls tightly clench at that, squeezing down around him and making Moze feel twice as big inside you. The hard weight of him is just as unrelenting and merciless as every other part of him is, and you seethe a wounded sound in response. 

He nudges the flat of his blade against your cheek then as if to ensure you’re paying attention, keeping you in place physically as much as by way of threat as he closes his mouth over yours to kiss you. Stubbornly keeping your lips pressed into a firm line, you don’t make a move to reciprocate the gesture but that doesn’t bother him one bit. He just becomes more demanding and forceful with his ministrations, giving you no choice but to whimper a plaintive sound when he angles his hips back only enough for you to feel the drag of him inside your cunt. 

Then he’s pushing back in, pushing, pushing, pushing until he seems to reach the end of you and a starburst of discomfort flashes through your punchdrunk mind. 

Involuntarily gasping, you realize your mistake a second too late when Moze shoves his tongue into your mouth to possessively swipe it across yours. Your squeals effectively muffled now, he starts up a steady rhythm that sends his cock pistoning in and out of you. His range of motion is limited like this but it’s more than enough to have you drunkenly jolting underneath him, unbearably hot and suffocating under his solid muscle mass. 

And he just keeps kissing you, clearly taking care to make sure you were perfectly claimed and violated from both ends at the same time. The sharp, meaty slap of his pelvis driving into your ass again and again sounds utterly deafening in the otherwise silent room, so much so that you almost miss the soft click of your own pussy when it becomes increasingly damp for him. You can clearly feel your excitement rapidly mounting though, every single inch of your body shuddering with each and every one of his quick paced thrusts. 

It’s a delirious experience being taken like this, hard and fast under the pretense of having a strange man force himself on you this way. Your resounding helplessness only serves to add extra fuel to the fire, as does the constant pressure of him drilling you down into the mattress. It felt like you were already teetering dangerously close to a nauseatingly powerful orgasm and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to stop it. 

Even when he slides the hand on your head down to wrap it around your throat, pulling back just enough to breathe a terse, masculine grunt into the scant space, you just happily let him do it. This was in many ways exactly what you’d wanted when you first suggested it to him. And of course Moze had looked at you like you were crazy and he was only just starting to realize that. He’d said he would think about it at the time, after you’d explained your thoughts on the matter and the fantasies you sometimes had. 

There’d been a very real part of you that thought he’d never come around to the idea — not because he was too soft for such rough treatment, though he certainly did have his fleetingly brief moments at times. It was more so because he typically only drew his blade against people he actually intended to slay, which as far as you knew did not apply to you in the here and now. Or at least you certainly hoped it didn’t, anyway. 

But given that he was here now, vigorously slamming his rigid cock in and out of your softly squelching cunt, you can only imagine he must have needed this too. Perhaps something to take off the edge from his recent trip to the Luofu or maybe it was just because he’d missed you too much to hold himself back now. It also could have been that he was simply far more prone to degeneracy than his usual neat freak behavior suggested, but either way, regardless of the reason, you’re incredibly glad for it all the same. 

Because Moze wasn’t always the best lover in the sense that his moody disposition and his obsessive compulsive tendencies occasionally meant he’d pull away or become distracted in the middle of doing something. He also wasn’t always the easiest to read and he was keenly averse to prescribing anything beyond a strictly superficial label onto what was going on between you and him. It’s like he’s let some of his walls come down though in coming to you like this, as a nameless stranger rather than someone you were intimately familiar with, and he appears to be fully locked into the fantasy as well. 

His relentless thrusts show no sign of stopping anytime soon, and his stamina seems endless. He openly lets himself grunt and moan against your face instead of trying to hold it back. And, perhaps more importantly of all, he’s not handling you like a fragile piece of glass that was likely to shatter at a moment's notice in his monstrous hands. 

All the usual pretense and consideration for you is gone, and in its place is a deep seated need to take, take, take and bury himself in you as far as he can go. To claim you and to have you, to bend you to his will. That feels like the only driving force behind his powerful thrusts, and he just keeps fucking into you until you finally cum with a strangled gasp. 

And he continues to fuck into you even after that, dragging your orgasm out well past the point of mere pleasure until it starts to bleed into high strung, sensitive distress. 

It’s only when your half choked moans start to take on a truly dire tinge does he finally push himself off of you, cock slipping out with an obscenely wet slurp when he shifts back onto his knees. You’re still wildly trembling with the last lingering spasms of your release, dizzily wheezing into the mattress. So caught up in the dreamy, intoxicating rush that you don’t have the wherewithal to fight it as he grabs around your waist to drag you down a little lower and then flip you onto your back in one smooth motion. 

Suddenly finding yourself looking up at him, you stiffly arch your spine to push your tits out, and he happily obliges you by shoving your nightgown up in the front. Your nipples are already standing up in stiff, attention seeking points and they drag against his rough palms when he gropes at you, indelicately kneading and squeezing the swell of your chest to make your toes curl.

He’s not gentle about it though, and you seethe when he pinches around the meat of your breasts in a too tight hold to make the tips of them push out and up. Folding himself over top of you, Moze takes one puffy teat into his mouth so he can hungrily suck it towards the back of his throat with a stunning amount of sharply applied suction. It registers as being just short of painful and you writhe underneath him, blindly reaching down to shove at his broad shoulders. But he’s just as unbudgeable like this as he was before, suckling at your breast so insistently that when he lifts his head the weight of it lifts with him. 

A tender little sound slips out of you at the sight of your own tit pulled taut between his mouth and your chest, fiercely shuddering in time with the deep, pulsing throb that starts up in your cunt. You wanted him to fuck you again, you realize in a numbly distant sort of way, not yet sated by just the one orgasm. 

Your shoving at his shoulders quickly morphs into needy grabbing and tugging, hoping to get his attention so he’ll sink himself inside you again. And Moze does stir after a moment, slackening his lips to allow your swollen nipple to slide out with a weighty bounce of your breast when it settles back into place. But to your groaning frustration he just redirects his attention to the other where he takes a moment to just flick it back and forth with his wet tongue before finally sealing his mouth around that one too. 

“Please,” You outright sob even as you toss your head back against the rumpled sheets, needily squirming under him. “Want your cock again, want your cock …”

Rumbling a low sound of warning into your chest, Moze works your stiff nipple around in his mouth until he can bring his teeth down on either side of the puffed up bud. He worries it briefly before slowly leaning back to tug on it and stretch the pliable flesh just enough to make you squeal, letting it go to watch this breast jiggle back into place again as well. 

“Victims don’t get to make demands.” He reminds you in that low, masculine tone, making you shudder again for him. 

“Am I, nnghn … really a victim if I’m enjoying it?” 

He scoffs a quiet sound at that as he sits back on his haunches to look down at you, and you take that moment to shoot a hungry glance between his legs. His cock is still achingly hard and rigid, standing straight up out of the front of his pants, and even in the low quality lighting of your darkened room you can make out the wet glisten of your arousal coating his skin. 

The visual alone is enough to make you bite at your lower lip, eager and not yet satisfied. You momentarily consider climbing on top of him and taking his stiff length into your body of your own volition, but he must see the thought cross your mind because he reaches out to take your ankles in hand before you can act on it. 

Yanking you further down the bed to slot your hips between his knees, Moze uses his hold on your legs to bend them up towards your chest and leave you once again vulnerable to the nudge of his cock. You start to reach up for him, thinking you wanted to run your hands through that surprisingly soft nest of hair on his head, but he’s quick to grab at your wrists and shove them above your head so he can pin you there against the bed. 

You issue a breathy little moan at the feeling of helplessness as much as the demanding nudge of him against your cunt as you wrap your freed legs around his waist. There would be no escaping you either way and he huffs a quiet breath in response. 

“You’re insatiable as always.” 

“And you still haven’t cum yet so I’d think you would be more keen to keep going instead of stalling like this.” 

“It’s called pacing myself. You should try it some time.” 

Giggling softly at that, you dig your heels into his lower back to encourage him forward and he grudgingly acquiesces with a stilted thrust of his narrow hips that sends his length skirting through your labia. You were more than sufficiently wet now and he just harmlessly glides right through your lips to give a fleshy nudge against your clit and make you twitch. 

“Oohn … I don’t think now is the time for pacing, Moze. I want you inside me again.”

He blinks at you through the gloomy shadows of night, the violets in his eyes reflecting the faintest glint of streetlights through your window on the adjacent wall. “What happened to the anonymous encounter you wanted?” 

“I’m afraid you ruined that when you flipped me over and I could clearly make out your face. It’s hard to imagine I don’t know you when I’m looking right at you.” 

“What? Are you telling me I should have kept you on your stomach the entire time?” He demands, sounding more than just mildly affronted by this information, and that makes you giggle too. 

“Don’t worry. It was still a good try. Maybe next time you could wear a mask?” 

“Who’s to say there’s even going to be a next time?” He grumpily intones, keeping his voice pitched low and dangerous. It was his usual shtick though and you were more than used to it by now, so you just give his waist an encouraging squeeze with your legs. 

“Just call it a hunch.” You murmur, grinning up at him now. “Something tells me you’ve enjoyed this game more than you’ll ever admit so I’m sure it won’t be the last. But until then I’m glad you’re home, Moze. I missed you.” 

Grunting a rumbled sound of agreement, he leans down to catch your mouth in a slow, savory kiss that speaks volumes louder than his words could ever hope to. Welcome home indeed.

⭐

Crossposted: here

[ruinaimagines]

OMG I THOUGHT THIS ACC WAS DEAD GLAD TO SEE U BACK THO!!!!!

anywho could u write some outis x reader hcs pls

Project Moon is a chronic ailment to my brain so I am always here, lingering. I will be back. Can’t promise when I’ll be back but it will be eventually.

Outis x Reader Headcanons:

This is a woman who has been through a lot, done a lot too. Not all things she may see as warranting forgiveness. She is saddled with a personal sense of responsibility to see things to the end even if it takes sacrifice. 

But she is loyal, deeply so, fiercely so. And should she place trust in you then so too will she abide by your will. She has an undeniable sense of faith for those who she believes even if some of their suggestions or ideas.. Are not the ones she would find herself making.

Outis is used with working in high-caliber strictly professional settings where everything is meticulously planned out. This makes for her sociability to be a bit difficult with those she considers inept.

She aims to impress and this no doubt extends to you. High-strung in public everything must be perfect, whatever outings you have she has organized and outlined them so you can’t even fathom a moment of concern.

She wants everything to be up to par for you which often means that people aren’t free from her scrutiny. While this might work well in a work setting, it can extend outside and to times when it’s not necessary. 

What she does comes from the genuine hope of making things more enjoyable for you but it can be a bit much. It can end up making things more stressful when she is so focused on managing the menial things and holding others to absurd standards –not even for herself, but for you.

However she will listen when you tell her to stand down. Once again it isn’t malicious just misguided. 

There is an incredibly homely and domestic quality to her that comes more naturally when it is just you two. A refuge where after the long day’s work, after all is said and done, she can return to the hearth that you offer.

You’ll find that her cooking is better than what you can find at restaurants anyway. We know from the Hell’s Chicken event that she prepares food from the heart, and there is nothing as cozy as a homecooked meal. It allows her to be more relaxed and whatnot when away from the buzz of people.

Not to say that her confrontational nature is always a bad thing. If people are treating you rudely, or you are off-put or uncomfortable by something there is not a universe where she’d sit by idly. 

If you are adverse to conflict yourself it can be incredibly difficult to speak up and let people down easily. This is not even a thought that crosses her mind. Someone is heckling you? Damn right it might lead to conflict, but there is no justification in her mind for you to be treated poorly like this. People are often dissuaded or give up once they see how undeterred she is.

She doesn’t experience anxiety when she is stepping in for you because she sees it as a reasonable action. That said, you might be a bit anxious and fear escalation. If you communicate this to her, even if she doesn’t fully understand why, she will tone it down a notch.

That doesn’t mean she will do nothing, but you can rest knowing that perhaps with a derisive comment towards them sprinkled in here or there that she will acquiesce and leave with you. 

I do believe that there is little that you could do that would stop making her love you. It is unconditional because she has done many awful things, and yet you love her still. She doesn’t believe herself to be entirely worthy of the love you give, but she will vow to return it. 

I do not think Outis would be overly affectionate in the traditional sense when it comes to in public or in front of those she knows. It’s not a case of being embarrassed by it, but more of an act of safety. A woman with a history like hers means one who has been in many situations where loved ones can be held at a point of ransom. Wouldn’t be surprised if she had quite a few enemies.

The sinners would probably think you were more of a superior than her partner, funny enough. But seeing how much more relaxed you are with her, and even physically affectionate it sort of clues them in.

Might become a point of teasing for some of the more devious sinners, but they would quickly learn not to. It’s one thing to face a lecture on their inadequacy from her, it’s entirely another to bring up her personal life. There’s a sense of immediate wrongdoing and foreboding that most would rather not experience again.

There is an unmistakable tenderness in her regard to you. Every action she does is another pledge to you. For as much as she would do for you, she greatly enjoys acts of service in return. Take her coat off her shoulders, brew her some tea, maybe even draw a relaxing bath, do what work you can for her so that she doesn’t have to worry.

Outis’ time spent with you is one she can unwind in, a seldom opportunity otherwise. To say she would be appreciative when you try to support this is an understatement. 

I’m sorry I just thought about her coming home with flowers for you and a tear came to my eye. I can see it. After trudging through the day and poor weather at last she returns with a bouquet. It’s nothing super extravagant, perhaps an assortment of hydrangea or whatever your favorite flower is.

Speaking of which, on her journey, I can see her returning to you with keepsakes that remind her of you. Most of these are picked up when she’s trailing behind the others and are stored safely in her room until she sees you next.

You can not tell me this woman doesn’t have a little locket with your picture in it. She’s viewing that thing periodically and it helps remind her why she is doing what she is doing.

Anything you give her that she can smuggle onto Mephistopheles or herself she will hold tight. Not the superstitious type, but finds your gifts to bring some kind of prosperity even if it’s logically because of a shift of mindframe.

I can’t help but think her hands would be very nice to hold, they are worn and weathered, but she has a firm grip, a grounding one. 

Overall a very devoted person though her actions might be more prominent than words. You help defuse what irritation she might have from the day and instead sink into a sense of security, and she commits to giving you that same security.

[blood-starved-beast]

NEMESIS!!!!!

Jokes aside people focus a lot on how mean Nem is and yeah!! She's mean and clearly covets Mel's job but also if you look at her life philosophy it all makes sense.

Cause as Retribution Incarnate, Nemesis's whole deal is that you reap what you sow. If you experienced consequences, you did something to invoke them. Hence why she argues with Moros over the Fates and their influence vs. one's autonomy in that one conversation. It's also why she resents Mel having the job to save the House of Hades so much.

Mel never did anything to deserve this job. She's going out there, with the weight of everyone's expectations, worked up af, dying a billion times cause she was told she ought to. She didn't fail like Hecate did, it's not her official reason to exist like Nemesis herself. The only "crime" Mel did to deserve such a "fate" was being born to Persephone and Hades. Which is why Nem says the job isn't "personal" for Mel - Mel has done nothing (for good or bad) that warrants such a punishment - the scrutiny, the bloodshed, the agony etc.

It contextualizes the animosity between her and Hecate so much. We know Hecate failed as handmaiden to warn Nyx (or so Nemesis accuses her of) and we know Hecate couldn't save the House other than take Mel, Hypnos, and the unfinished family portrait (her own admission). From Nem's perspective, Hecate's the one who deserves punishment more, yet she's fostering the responsibility onto Mel.

It also contextualizes why Nem is so self-loathing about the whole arrangement too. If by her admission, one reaps what they sought re: consequences, what does it mean then, that she herself is stuck in the Crossroads on guard duty? What has she done to reap this? It's probably why she accepts the job even though she hates it. Sidenote: after the Nem + Hecate fight, Mel would have a conversation with Nemesis about it. She asks what did she get for her "insubordination" and Nem's like "heh. more guard duty." but not particularly mad about it. She knew what she did, what the consequences would be. Cause of course she knows.

Anyways, this whole thing is a long ramble to say - Nemesis has a lot of hidden depths besides her asshole-ishness. I do think all her insults and jabs at Mel are thinly veiled concern for her situation (I mean, she's constantly pointing out where Mel is lacking - scrawny, not personal, not deserving of it, etc. and being like "does anyone else think this is fucked up??") while also thinking it should be her responsibility instead. I mean, does Nemesis carry guilt about not being there to stop Chronos I wonder?

[chaninfused]

Roseborn: Part One | Hwang Hyunjin

◤“The ravenous fire that crackled in your souls was one and the same, stoked by repressed fear and the overwhelming desire to survive in a world that only valued material power.”

A human soldier and a magic-less heir find an unlikely connection in their desperate battle to survive House Amaranthine. 

◤Disclaimers: Female reader insert. This is the backstory of Hyunjin’s character in my ‘Gilded Kingdom’ wip. Can be read as a standalone. An enemies to lovers, forbidden love, fantasy debacle. Slow burn. Includes lots of angst but also some good fluff. Abusive mother. Descriptions of heavy violence and fighting, as well as blood and injury. Sparse use of vulgar language. Several made up terms are used in this story but are explained throughout. Have a quick read through the Gilded Kingdom World Guide to avoid confusion. 

◤Word count: 16.5K

◤Note: This idea is a 100% mine and any case of similarity with someone else’s is purely coincidental. Events are pure fiction. Please do not take my content without my consent. masterlist.

◤Dedicated to the lovely @missinghan​! I’ll spare you the excessive sappiness, but just know that our friendship means the world to me, and you deserve nothing short of the world itself. You’re one of the most talented people I know, and I’m constantly in awe of your wonderful ideas and even more wonderful writing. This took criminally long and it’s not yet done, but I can only hope that you enjoy it nonetheless. Happy reading, and I love you so much! ♡

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

She was trying to humiliate him again, and Hyunjin knew it damn well.

He stepped into the flat square of pearly sand, schooling his features into rigid stone as he drew his Kizāri from its sheath on his back. The weapon’s trident-like head trailed in the sand, drawing a perfect half-moon around him until it met the tip of his opponent’s weapon on the ground, wielded in the same fashion.

“Y/n,” his mother had introduced her. “The best human Azārāhi we have.”

It was an insult, glaring and plain. She was mocking his Nilfyn roots by pairing him with a human—mocking the Tilt in him she deemed useless and pitiful.

Hyunjin caught the silver of her hair in his peripheral, piled on her head elegantly like strung starlight. His mother was watching him from where she stood poised as a knife in the shadows. Every blink, every breath of his was under her unrelenting scrutiny. This was a test like many before, and Hyunjin was going to cleave mountains with his bare hands if it warranted his mother’s approval.

He lifted his free hand, curling it into a fist and holding it against his right shoulder in salute. His new training partner mirrored him, her moves practiced to an unnatural degree of precision. Her black Azāri uniform was sharply tailored to her figure, the high collar brushing against her jaw as the ends of her overcoat waved in the slight breeze. Her hair was styled clear of her face, letting her hardened features be illuminated by the morning sun.

Azāri was a delicate fighting art developed by the Nilfyn centuries past, mimicking the fluidity of water in its grace and precision. It required a level of agility unnatural to humans, but stood there, his opponent was every bit the part. Her mortality was only given away by her ears, bare and unadorned. Unlike Hyunjin’s, which were extensively hooped with deep purplish-red Channeling Cores.

Channeling Cores that served little to no purpose.

The air settled around him as though the forbidding pillars surrounding them were holding their breaths, anticipating the lethal whistle of swinging Kizāris. This was a game to his mother, and if Hyunjin wanted to prove himself, then he’d have to kill that human.

As soon as that thought materialized in his mind, her still Kizāri lifted off the ground in a magnificent arc, nearly sweeping him off his feet and spurring him into action. Leaping over the silver head, he swung his own weapon down in a clean diagonal line as his muscles tensed with welcome familiarity.

Kizāris were made to be nearly the height of their users, with long and thin handles, supporting broad, double-edged iron heads that spread like butterfly wings. The weapons moved like pendulums, making dips in the sand that resembled overlapping circles. It was an art, albeit deadly.

Hyunjin fell into the familiar flow of the fight, the faint scream of air as his weapon cut through it was a welcome song to his attentive ears. His blood thrummed, dancing to the steady beat of his heart as his mind whirled with his movements, calculating, strategizing. His eyes followed the blur of her weapon arcing toward him unceasingly, one bold plunge after the other.

She fought impeccably, Hyunjin had to admit. If she were intimidated by him, her stance told nothing of it. His new partner didn’t hesitate to strike first and strike hard, but he was soon able to identify the pattern in her attacks.

Ducking to avoid the silvered weapon swiveling toward his neck, he raised his Kizāri as though to swing it upward. When he saw her eyes follow the movement, her Kizāri turning to clash with his, he reversed his aim and swung it toward her feet, successfully disrupting her balance. In the gasp of her confusion, he lunged, hurling her at the ground with his Kizāri pressed against her chest.

White sand clouded the air after the impact and Hyunjin inhaled. He would drive the weapon into her chest and watch as her mortal blood tainted the sand—show his mother that he refused to accept the insult.

But as he applied more pressure on his Kizāri, he felt the human slacken under him. The prospect of death loomed over him, a destiny and a threat. He expected her to fight back, but she was giving up, her Kizāri a whisper away from her fingertips. Her eyes were fixed on him, stern and unsettling, as if daring him to proceed, glaring at the face of undisputable doom.

It made him pause. But it was too late.

“Pathetic,” she breathed the word as her legs hugged the handle of Hyunjin’s Kizāri and pulled it downward. The weapon flew out of his grasp before he could react, and she was on her feet again, Kizāri in hand. She pushed him to the ground in one swift motion and briefly touched the sharp edge of the iron to his neck.

In one moment’s difference, Hyunjin had proven the weakness he’d been so close to destroying.

The Azārāhi retracted her weapon before turning to where Hyunjin’s mother stood watching. She bowed then stepped out of the square of sand. Its even surface now exhibited the circular indentations of the Kizāris.

Hyunjin couldn’t pull himself up quick enough before his mother’s scathing words lashed at him. There was sand in his hair, dusting his cheeks and muddling the inky black of his attire. His Kizāri was discarded shamefully on the ground. And he was just bested by a human.

The head of House Amaranthine had aimed to humiliate him, and she succeeded.

“How Shameful.”

Those two words landed like a slap to his face.

She was never discrete at expressing her disappointment in him. It was the only emotion she seemed to know how to express. Never pride. Never compassion.

All because he was simply born.

Hyunjin lifted his gaze, willing himself to meet her eyes despite the oppressive urge building up in him to curl into himself and vanish without a trace.

He would allow himself no further humiliation.

“I expect you to train every waking and sleeping hour of the day.” she stepped out into the light, and instantly, the space of the court seemed to shrivel. His mother was carved out of quartz and ivory, her sharp eyes pools of onyx that saw everything. She demanded attention, and a cower from the people who knew her.

Her fairness told nothing of the disdain dripping from her words. “Paint these sands red for all I care.”

Hyunjin was foolish to think he could challenge her gaze with his own. He stared at the disrupted sand beneath him when he forced out an answer.

“Yes, mother.”

•❃•

Life in the Kingdom of Greria was many things, but it wasn’t easy. Not for your kind.

Your villages were small and few, riddled with illness and poverty. Children were forced away from their families for better lives as servants or soldiers, while the elderly were left to rot alone under tattered roofs. Their loneliness was common, expected, even, since most families were prematurely broken by the aristocracy or by death.

The Nilfyn didn’t burn down your homes, but their indifference to your suffering might’ve as well. Their biases killed and tortured and ripped little children from their mothers’ desperate arms. Ruled by an uncaring king and a heartless aristocracy, being born human was condemnation in Greria.

Some might say that you were one of the lucky few. Donated to the Ērmār of House Amaranthine when you were six, you hadn’t set foot in a human village ever since. You were fed and sheltered, and that was a luxury more than most could afford.

The Ērmār was an austere lady. It was rumored amongst the palace servants that her heart was made of an iron so cold it never warmed up.

House Amaranthine operated on that coldness.

The life you led was governed by countless, unchanging rules. You had to watch your every word and action in order to keep your neck intact. And as one of the human Azārāhis, trained to be sacrificed on the first line of defense, you were under the Ērmār’s direct examination. She could deem you unfitting or insolent at any moment, and your life would be tipped over with a wave of her hand.

You were given the merest respect for being an Azārāhi when strolling through town, but you were still a human girl in a warrior’s uniform. A sacrificial lamb. That Azārāhi title was hollow.

And you were reminded of its emptiness when the Ērmār summoned you to train with her son.

Sōrsānt Hyunjin was a presence whispered in the shadows and not uttered aloud in the palace. Very few of you had laid eyes on the House’s only heir, but you all heard about his mother’s contempt for him. The Ērmār was harsh, but she was the harshest on him.

No one understood her reasons, neither did any pity the Sōrsānt. He was a Nilfyn aristocrat after all, with enough privilege to distribute amongst a village and still have an abundance to spare. If anything, you found him pathetic.

And your notion of him was fortified when you first dueled with him. You recognized the insult of your new role as his training partner, and you had expected him to plunge his Kizāri into your chest when he had the chance. You had expected him to show the Ērmār that he wouldn’t let her humiliate him. You had expected him to kill you because that was how things worked in House Amaranthine.

But he hesitated. And he damned the two of you in that fraction of a second.

Weakness was unforgivable. It was a sin. You couldn’t think of a single valid reason for his reluctance, and you didn’t want to know. The Sōrsānt had no business sparing a random human, and if you wanted to keep your place in the palace, then such an incident could not reoccur.

That was what you woke up to ensure.

Just like the previous day, you waited in the Sōrsānt’s training court after finishing your drills. The sun was barely awake, its gradual light painting the slumbering sky in golden hues. It was better that way. If the Ērmār wanted you to train during every waking hour, then you had to be up before the sun itself.

You didn’t wait long before Hyunjin appeared, striding out of the lacquered doors with an ease that could only be found in those carrying aristocratic blood. Something akin to anger twitched in his jaw when his gaze settled on you for the briefest moment. It was as though he were upset by the fact that you arrived before him.

The Sōrsānt was a sight to behold. A presence to be revered. His towering stature was accentuated by attire excellently tailored to his figure, drawing attention to the breadth of his proud shoulders. Half of his long hair was tied up to clear his face, but a few dark strands escaped to frame his countenance regardless. Purplish-red stones encrusted his ears—instruments of summoning magic, marking him as a Nilfyn and specifically symbolizing his relation to House Amaranthine.

In many ways, he was a mirror of the Ērmār. But the ruthlessness that lined her eyes was missing in his, replaced by solemn guardedness. He was a hostile fortress, yet his staggering features demanded lingering gazes.

It was said that their magic made them ethereal like that. Nature’s last favored children. Hyunjin’s eyes seemed to be made of the purest obsidian, wrung from the bleeding heart of the earth itself and shielded by the generous brush of his brows. His full lips were pressed in a line of permanent scorn, as though he couldn’t smile even if he tried to.

Sculpted by iron and starlight, he was beautiful, like all the Nilfyn were. He was also a conceited fool, like they all were.

“Good morning, Sōrsānt.” you kept your tone even, greeting him only for the sake of formalities than actual concern for the quality of his morning.

Haughty as they were, Hyunjin spared your greeting no acknowledgment as he walked past you to the rack of polished Azāri equipment nailed to the wall. You ignored the urge to roll your eyes, fixing them instead on the identical pillars surrounding the court like soldiers on duty. The sand in the center was flattened again, erasing all evidence of the humiliating duel of the previous day.

When the Sōrsānt moved toward the training square, you followed him, situating yourself on one side while he took its opposite. He didn’t bother to lay out the plan for the day’s training. Perhaps he didn’t care, or perhaps he only wanted to spar until one of you fell dead. Whichever it was, you didn’t dwell on it for too long. For all you knew, he expected you to simply know what he wanted and follow along.

You tugged at the leather straps wrapped around your hands, making sure they were secured properly. Reinforced with iron cuffs, the brace was designed to protect an Azārāhi’s wrists from fracturing or dislocating when handling the weight and force of a Kizāri. The weapon was difficult to master and similarly dangerous without the necessary precautions.

Once you were satisfied with the fit of the leather straps, you fixed your footing and inhaled, letting air pass through your lips slowly before letting it out through your nose. Your mind had to be an empty slate before a fight. You couldn’t afford distractions unless you wanted your arm chopped off.

You detached your Kizāri when Hyunjin wordlessly reached for his, letting the head touch the ground and dragging it across the sand in a perfect half-circle. The two blades met halfway, connecting your trails like an incomplete infinity. That was the routine way of drawing the Kizāri during professional duels, one you practiced over and over until it became as natural as breathing.

You raised your free fist to your shoulder, slightly jutting your elbow out in salute. Hyunjin mirrored you, allowing the greeting to settle for a moment before he swung his Kizāri.

Every emotion you painstakingly forced into hiding unfurled at once, fueling your muscles as you countered his attack.

Your Kizāri was an extension of your arm, moving alongside your body as though the two were instinctively aware of one another. You’d long since tamed the weapon, understanding the way it moved not out of necessity, but because you loved the art of Azāri.

You should’ve hated an art developed by the Nilfyn, for the Nilfyn, but you were entranced by its splendor from the moment you first saw the Azārāhis of House Amaranthine thirteen years ago. Their bodies were mere vessels for the fluid movement of the fight, one with the blur of Kizāris. It was enchanting. It was deadly.

An Azārāhi master herself, the Ērmār had been recruiting human students to join her legion of soldiers. So when you showed potential, you were thrust into the tough life of an Azārāhi, never to look back.

You leaped over Hyunjin’s Kizāri when it came arcing toward you, lashing yours in a slanted line he narrowly missed. You had never fought a Nilfyn Azārāhi before the day you were summoned to train with Hyunjin, and you noticed the difference immediately. The Sōrsānt was incredibly lithe, and that agility seemed instinctual, easy. Unlike the overly practiced movements of your fellow human Azārāhis. In another lifetime, you might’ve sat and admired his motion for hours, like a stream of crystal water. A sly breeze. A graceful shadow. A delicate destroyer.

But you weren’t a dreamy girl in that impossible timeline, and you had a warning to deliver to the foolish Hwang Hyunjin.

Anger at him set your blood ablaze, mangled with your silent fear from the previous day. You hadn’t built a life in House Amaranthine for the Sōrsānt to take it away by being cowardly. You refused to let that be the direction of your fate.

Your Kizāris clashed and the curved ends hooked into each other. Seeing the opportunity, you flicked your wrist sideways. Hyunjin’s weapon jerked as a result, distracting him before you swiveled to dislodge your Kizāri and swing it past his neck.

Your heartbeat rang in your ears, deafening.

It all happened in the slight space between a breath and another.

Your Kizāri whooshed behind him before you pulled it back, making its blunt underside catch his neck and drive him toward you until you had your hand fisted in his coat. You were aware of the Kizāri still in his grasp, idle due to the smear of shock that contorted his face, so your words came rushing out. He could snap back into his senses at any moment and cut through you with ease. “I don’t know what made you leave me unscathed yesterday, and I don’t care to know.

“Do not disgrace me before the Ērmār like that again,” you bit out before releasing him and swiftly backing away.

He could kill you for your insolence. He could call for the guards and they wouldn’t question him while dragging you away. But something told you that he wouldn’t. As you trailed a new half-moon in the pearly sand, you knew that his colossal ego wouldn’t allow him to quit the fight so early.

Hyunjin stared at you, his Kizāri limp in his hand, his formidable fortress down. You saw the gall of your actions flit over his features as it sunk into his mind. Your words were clear, the intentions behind them plain, and the set of his eyes darkened with realization soon enough.

You had done it.

He had barely completed his half-circle in the sand before his Kizāri went flying through the air, aimed at you with no space for mistake.

You caught the steel in his eyes, and you wanted to laugh. This was what it felt like to fight a Nilfyn Azārāhi. Brute force and swings aimed to kill. It wasn’t the harmless flow of water, but the slither of a serpent. A dance of venom.

This was Azāri. Relentless and deathly.

Adrenaline surged in your veins as you evaded his blow, swinging your weapon with newfound force. Sand rose in clouds around the two of you. Sunlight pooled into the open court. Your Kizāris never faltered. Your feet never stayed at the same spot for a moment too long. The minutes blurred into each other, and as your muscles screamed against the strain, Hyunjin seemed unaffected. The anger in his focused gaze only seemed to grow, festering into an ugly mess of lethal, unforgiving swings.

The blade of his Kizāri landed on your upper arm in a hazy moment of vulnerability, and before you could register what was happening, it was cutting through the thick sleeve of your overcoat.

He retracted his weapon, and you swallowed a low hiss as the new cut on your arm burned in the dusty air. The only thought that broke through your pained daze was a grim ‘fucking finally’.

This way, they would see that the Sōrsānt injured you during training. They would know that he didn’t value a meager human life and you would be safe from the Ērmār’s retribution. After all, you didn’t want to break the first rule in House Amaranthine.

You were still gripping your Kizāri when you straightened your back, holding Hyunjin’s gaze and ignoring the tingling pain in your arm. He looked at you with his chin in the air as if daring you to wince. Daring you to cry out.

You only dragged your Kizāri through the disrupted sand. A half-moon.

And you drew it again and again until your limbs were no more than floating muscle. Until your mind was no more than a muddle of consciousness. Until you drove your body to the limits of blood loss.

It was better that way.

•❃•

When Hyunjin saw you again, it was as though you hadn’t trailed blood as you left his training court the day before.

You stepped through the door with your head up, shoulders firm, and your Kizāri strapped to your back, only pausing mid-stride for a hesitant moment when you noticed that he had arrived before you.

He watched as confusion, curiosity, and then concern painted themselves on your features respectively. All appropriate reactions, he supposed. It would be deemed highly disrespectful if you kept him waiting, but likewise, he didn’t want you to best him in attendance as well.

It was silly, he was vaguely aware, but this was a competition. Such was life in House Amaranthine. Even the most trivial things mattered.

You cleared your throat shortly after, speaking in the same monotone voice, “Good morning, Sōrsānt.”

Hyunjin didn’t reply, and you both knew that he didn’t have to. Neither of you actually cared about mornings and whether they were pleasant or not.

Taking your positions across the flat square of sand, Hyunjin pretended not to see the way your eyes clenched when you reached for your Kizāri. It was the first sign of pain you showed, and he suspected it would be the last.

He was aware of what you were doing. By making him injure you, you ensured that the palace wouldn’t pay attention to the way he hesitated to kill you first. It was grim, but it helped mask his earlier humiliation.

Though, Hyunjin knew you didn’t do it for him. You did it to protect yourself from him. If his mother grew suspicious, then there was no way to avoid the punishment she would give the both of you. Humans and Nilfyn were not supposed to be friends, and his little slip-up could’ve condemned the two of you.

You drew your half-moons in the sand and began what would become a daily routine—sparring wordlessly until the sun centered the sky.

Hyunjin allowed the faint voice in his head to begrudgingly admire your strength. You were still in pain, he noticed it, but your aim didn’t waver, your swings didn’t weaken. When his mother introduced you as her best human Azārāhi, she had truly meant it. You were an untiring weapon in her mortal arsenal.

Perhaps, in another lifetime, he would’ve been horrified by your endurance. But he wasn’t an innocent boy in that impossible timeline, and those were the cruel instruments to surviving a world that didn’t value you.

The two of you were sparring in rounds each a few minutes long. Hyunjin didn’t miss the looks you were giving him by the end of each one, staring at him like he was a riddle you couldn’t solve while trailing your Kizāri in the sand again. He could guess a hundred reasons behind those looks, and he found that he didn’t care to know which was specifically circling your mind.

But as the day progressed, he began noticing the strange new pattern in your strategy. You were trying to corner him, push him to an edge as though to see how he would react. When he swung his Kizāri at you, you only ducked and arced your weapon to trap his. Then, to his bewilderment, you waited, narrowing your eyes at him as though anticipating his response. When he frowned and twisted his Kizāri free, your unnerving intrigue only increased. It sparkled in your eyes gloriously.

He didn’t like it.

Or more precisely, he didn’t like being the object of your mysterious scrutiny.

Hyunjin stifled a snarl as he swiveled his Kizāri at your feet, raising the pale sand. Goodness, you were really getting on his nerves.

•❃•

It had been a week since you began training with Hyunjin, and although you hated every moment of it, it was a routine you eased into quickly.

Maybe a bit too quickly than you’d like to admit.

The Sōrsānt was an insufferable bastard, but you appreciated the challenge he presented to you. All your previous duels paled when compared to those with him. It was as if you’d finally found a worthy opponent.

That morning started like the rest. You stood in the sand square and dragged your Kizāri through as Hyunjin mimicked you. The soft clink of metal sounded when the two weapons met, and you raised your fist to your shoulder.

Just then, the doors groaned open, and you heard her approach before you turned to see her.

Shrouded in the finest black, the Ērmār’s presence in the training court made the air quiver. You caught the glint of a Kizāri behind the silver glow of her hair and your eyes widened unwisely.

There could only be one reason for that Kizāri.

Immediately, you retracted your weapon and bowed to her, beginning to retrace your steps toward the door at the opposite end of the court when her voice boomed behind you, “Stay.”

You froze at her command, trying to calm the panic rising in your throat as you stood still near the door. Your thoughts pounded against your sanity. She suspects you. This is it. She’s here to end it all.

You were a fool to think your plan would ever work.

Hyunjin glared at his mother as she stepped into the square of sand, undoubtedly displeased by her order for you to stay. She stopped at the spot where you stood moments ago and pulled out her Kizāri, letting it meet his on the ground. Her tone was gravelly demand, unaffected by the irritation in his gaze. “I want to see your progress.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer her, and you could see the clench of his jaw as he bit back any protest he had. A breath too long later, he relented, touching his fist to his shoulder briefly before he swept his Kizāri across the sand in front of him.

You observed them from the side, not bothering to mask your expressions anymore. You didn’t know whether to be afraid, excited, or baffled by the dangerous duel before you.

A visit from the Ērmār never had pleasant results, and your fear was all-encompassing. The last time you’d seen her, she was watching as her son spared your life when he shouldn’t have. She wouldn’t forget, you knew. Eventually, she would decide to finish what Hyunjin couldn’t.

At the same time, you couldn’t drown the thrill pumping in your blood. You’d heard much about the Ērmār’s mastery of Azāri, but you’d never seen her fight. Not until that moment. And you could easily see where Hyunjin earned his fighting style.

The Ērmār was him, except quicker and deadlier. She moved as if she had mapped all his steps beforehand and expected them. He was a puppet in her hands, forced to counter, counter, counter, and never given a second chance to attack.

The Ērmār’s age didn’t seem to give Hyunjin an advantage either. She was a dagger that always landed true, an ancient willow swaying with the wind of the fight.

Then, there was your faint surprise to see the way Hyunjin bent to his mother’s will without so little as an objection. Somehow, you knew what the Ērmār was doing. By letting you watch, she was pushing his humiliation further. It was a twisted play of power that you unfortunately understood. Weakness was a sin, after all.

The duel didn’t last long. Hyunjin held up against the Ērmār’s unfaltering blows impeccably, but one could only defend for so long before an opening showed itself.

And the Ērmār was a keenly perceptive lady.

In a blink, her Kizāri swung skillfully, disarming him successfully and hurtling toward his side. She turned the weapon and its flat side slammed into him, throwing him off balance and sending him to the ground. A puff of dust floated around Hyunjin’s fallen figure, and you grimaced before you could think any better of it.

The Ērmār stood over her son’s body, pristine and undisturbed after their abrupt duel. Her tone was enough to make flowers wilt. “And I didn’t even need my magic to best you.”

Hyunjin was still sprawled on his side, and you found yourself urging him silently. Get up. Get up, you absolute buffoon.

As if he could hear you, he pushed himself to his feet, fighting back a wince as he met his mother’s withering gaze. Sand was powdering the side of his face and chalking his dark hair, but that didn’t seem to bother him. The words left his lips quietly, seething, “You say this, but my father bested you without—”

“Your father was too incompetent to keep himself alive. Do you wish to compare yourself to him?” she snapped, suffocating whatever flame of courage he had kindled for himself at that moment.

He lowered his eyes, squeezing his fists and dropping his shoulders, truly defeated. “No, mother.”

The Ērmār didn’t grace him with a response, simply looking him over with a disappointed click of her tongue before she turned and left. Only when the doors echoed shut behind her did Hyunjin lift his gaze, letting it crash on you instantly. A maelstrom of anger and humiliation.

He picked up his Kizāri and stalked in your direction. You opened your mouth to speak, but he only shoved past you, wordlessly pushing the door open and disappearing into the palace.

You had sworn to never feel sorry for the Sōrsānt. But at that moment, standing alone in his training court, your heart broke the vow of your better judgement.

•❃•

You could tell that Hyunjin’s mind was elsewhere when his Kizāri flew out of his grasp upon clashing with yours.

It was a mistake only a beginner would make.

You heaved an exasperated breath and stabbed the ground with your Kizāri, glaring at a confused Hyunjin while he stared blankly at his disgraced weapon. With a shake of his head, he crouched down and grabbed the handle, dragging the Kizāri with him to his side of the sand square.

He drew a new half-moon then looked up at you, surprised to find you unmoving at the center of the court. He lifted a brow in mute question, and you frowned, unable to keep the frustration to yourself anymore.

“Why didn’t you say no?”

He didn’t owe you conversation. He didn’t need to talk to you unless he had an order to give. The Nilfyn were above engaging with simple humans.

That didn’t stop you from pressing further, hefting your Kizāri with two hands as you stepped toward him. “I didn’t have to see that, and you could’ve objected.”

Silence.

You let out a sizable sigh. Of course your attempts wouldn’t make him budge.

Returning to your spot, you shaped your half-circle and fell back into the rhythm of the fight. But the unanswered questions and his curious behavior seemed to bubble over in your mind. If the Ērmār was using you against him, for whatever reason, then you were in immense danger. You weren’t willing to let Hyunjin go until you had your answers.

Seemingly distracted as he was, Hyunjin let his Kizāri swoop lazily and you took that opportunity to arc your weapon toward the ground, successfully trapping his in the sand. You swiftly set a foot on the blunt underside of his Kizāri, its head now buried in the sand, and threw your best glare at the Sōrsānt. He’d have to counter the full weight of your body and the fix of your Kizāri if he wanted to free his weapon.

“I need answers.”

At your shameless demand, a scowl distorted Hyunjin’s handsome features. He tugged on his Kizāri, and you pressed your foot harder in response. It was his fault for allowing you to trap him so easily anyway.

“Why didn’t you object?”

His grip on the Kizāri’s handle tightened, but he remained silent. Your frustration only multiplied. He was more stubborn than a traitor in interrogation.

“Why did you let the Ērmār humiliate you like that?”

He turned his face away in a show of disinterest, but you saw the tick in his jaw. He was getting irritated.

“You’re the Sōrsānt, for goodness’ sake! Why do you feign weakness?”

That seemed to do it. He snapped his head toward you, eyes thundering with turbulent anger and another emotion you couldn’t quite place. The steely edge of his words could break stone. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh? I think I’ve seen enough to know what I need to know. You’re conceited, callous, and careless, and you’re weak. Why am I training with you?”

Hyunjin kept his lips pressed together, his frown deepening. You were the one being careless with your words, but you couldn’t stop. Once they slipped past your lips, all your thoughts came tumbling out.

“You don’t use your magic.” your statement sounded more like a question. You had been observing him during your training hours, and he never resorted to an Elemental Tilt to turn the tides of your fights. Hyunjin relied on his skills solely, and although it made the match between the two of you a notch fairer, it was suspicious. The Nilfyn prided themselves on their magic.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice skeptically, “Unless…you don’t have magic.”

He flinched at that—flinched—and you didn’t pretend to overlook it, murmuring, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

You retracted your Kizāri from the ground and lifted your foot from his weapon, raising your chin in challenge as you stepped away. Almost immediately, Hyunjin’s Kizāri swung at you, frantic yet precise. Metal clashed on metal, and you were pivoting away, fighting the crazed laugh threatening to erupt in your chest.

It was almost too easy to rile Hyunjin up.

If the Sōrsānt had no magic, then that meant that he was an illegitimate child. That would explain his avoidance of using it and might be the reason behind the Ērmār’s harshness with him.

If he had no magic, then that meant that he was a human like you. You only needed to prove it.

You lowered your guard, purposely giving Hyunjin the chance to disarm you. His swings, whereas still strong, were erratic, as though he was desperately fighting for his life. His dark eyes were glazed over with that same desperation.

Reminiscent of your first duel, he pushed you to the ground, pressing his Kizāri against your chest. Your weapon slipped out of your grasp.

You inhaled sand, looking up at him with a satisfied smirk. “See? No magic.”

Before giving him time to react, you raised your legs to hook them around his and toppled him over. In the breath of his surprise, you snatched his Kizāri, rolling and pinning him under you easily. You clutched the weapon like a spear as you aimed it at his neck, barely hearing your voice over the wild beating of your heart. “You’re powerless. You’re a liar.”

His beautiful face was marred with distress and fury, and with a sharp pang of realization, you recognized the emotion that filled his eyes moments earlier. Fear.

Hyunjin’s hand gripped your wrist to divert the Kizāri. A growl rumbled in his throat as he tried to wrestle you off and regain the upper hand. He didn’t acknowledge your accusations while the two of you tumbled across the court.

Your back hit the soft sand again as Hyunjin held you down, his hand slamming into the ground beside your head. His Kizāri was discarded. The strands of hair that framed his face whispered against your skin when he leaned in, seething, yet so incredibly vulnerable. He rasped, the smoothness of his voice hardening into ice despite the warmth of his presence. “You don’t know me, human.”

Then, as if struck by lightning, his eyes enlarged, and he scrambled off you suddenly. You furrowed your eyebrows at his bizarre change of behavior, noticing a moment too late that you had been holding your breath.

With a grunt, you pushed yourself to your feet. Blood was rushing through your system too quickly, but you weren’t going to let Hyunjin flee just yet. You needed answers, and this fight wasn’t going to end until you had them.

You turned to find your Kizāri and paused, eyes landing on a single flower resting on the pearly sand.

Right where Hyunjin’s hand had hit the ground.

A flower, where there was nothing but sand before.

•❃•

Hyunjin wanted the ground to swallow him.

Horror streaked his face as he stared at the flower that sprung amid the bleak sand.

He knew he made it bloom. In a surge of fear, he lost control of his idle magic. He felt it gush through his body, cold yet soothing, felt the lingering tingle on the tips of his fingers—the kiss of the flower’s petals on his palm before he scrambled away, panicked.

You crouched down and pulled the stray bloom out of the sand. The small tangle of roots let up easily. Cupping it gently, you snapped your head up at Hyunjin, meeting his terrified gaze with wonder.

Some part of him faltered.

It screamed and shook with a violence so tremendous it snatched his breath away—a part that longed for acceptance and approval. He hated the way your simple expression seemed to rip him apart, hitting every brick he painstakingly stacked to build the fortress around his heart.

Your awe was sweetly revolting, your whisper too loud for his liking. “This is your magic.”

The flower in your hands had unfurled like a rose, its wide petals curling outward in a shy blush. A single leaf padded the blossom, brilliant in its green sheen. It seemed to smile at the two of you, urging you to caress its soft petals.

It was beautifully horrible, Hyunjin thought. He had to discard it before his mother learned of his slip up.

But before that, there was the problem of you.

Deciding he could no longer look at his mistake lying prettily in your cupped palms, he diverted his gaze elsewhere. Only then did he find his voice. “You were not supposed to see that.”

“Why?”

He’d asked himself the same question every day of his nineteen years. Why did he have to hide his Tilt? Why wasn’t he allowed to practice his magic? His mother’s voice sounded in his head, her words slipping out of his lips unthinkingly, “A Flowering Tilt is of no use to an Azārāhi.”

“You have magic, and you’re deeming it useless?”

Hyunjin fought back a sigh. He had already said too much. He shouldn’t have been entertaining you in the first place, but you seemed to have a knack for making him act against his better judgment.

“It is useless to me.”

Silence stretched between the two of you until you finally said, “You don’t believe that.”

What a feeble, feisty human soul.

He turned to face you again, avoiding looking at the glaring blossom in your hands. “When will you stop thinking that you know me?”

“I can identify a lie when I hear one,” you only shrugged, and he almost admired your boldness. Surely, you understood the danger of speaking to him so freely.

Yet, you demanded answers and it was clear that you weren’t leaving him alone until you acquired them.

Hyunjin huffed, the truth tasting sour on his tongue, “It doesn’t matter what I believe. If the Ērmār thinks that my Tilt is useless, then it is.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but he beat you to it, wanting to end this conversation before he did something he regretted. He’d give you the answers you wanted, and nothing more. “This House obeys her word, not mine.

“I couldn’t object yesterday because I don’t have the power to. I don’t use my magic because I don’t need to. And I didn’t choose to be paired with you. I don’t want to do this any more than you do. This was the Ērmār’s decision alone.” he crossed his arms, raising a brow. “There are your answers. Satisfied?”

You clamped your mouth shut then, and Hyunjin knew that that would be the end of it.

His heart was beating with a desire to indulge itself in the now distant memory of your fascination, but he ignored it. Picking up his Kizāri, he strode toward you and extended his hand. “Give me the flower.”

You handed it to him wordlessly, and with an unreasonable pang, he realized it was for the better. Your silence was better for the both of you.

Hyunjin crushed the blossom in his fist, snapping its stem and forcing his emotional ramparts up. He had messed up enough for a thousand lifetimes. This mistake could not happen again.

He made his way to the double doors then halted with his free hand on one of the handles. “Oh, and, Y/n?”

He turned to find you looking at him, waiting with your expressionless mask back on. His warning was whispered, but the faint breeze carried its weight to your ears before buckling under. It settled bitter in the disrupted sand. “If word of my magic spreads around the palace, I’ll finish what we started on our first duel.”

Hyunjin didn’t know if he truly believed those words, but you had claimed to be able to discern a lie upon hearing one. He hoped you would be able to tell him in due time.

•❃•

Silver plates clinked softly as servants set the first course on the table, a mouthwatering display of the House’s best: Pine-Stuffed Eggs arranged like bursting stars. Fresh spinach leaves tossed with vibrant berries in a unique concoction of lemon cider and sesame oil. Roasted Pillow-Top Mushrooms bronzed by cinnamon and freckled with salt flakes. Pale blades of fermented Bone Grass accompanied by a mound of floral Moon Cheese.

It was food fit for the start of a feast, but only four people sat at the long ivory table.

Hyunjin’s gaze traveled politely over his mother’s guests, the Sōrmār and Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine. They sat proud, squaring their shoulders and flaunting their adorned ears. Their grayish-blue Channeling Cores were cut into smooth round shapes, pierced in decreasing size from the earlobe to the helix. The blue of their attire was stark against the grim palette of House Amaranthine.

But that was as far as they stood out. Those Nilfyn were just like Hyunjin and his mother, aristocrats who were always scheming, devising, and calculating. Life was nothing but a mere game of power to them, and tonight’s feast was an opulent performance of such.

The Sōrmār of House Sapphirine was stern-looking, with cheeks that hollowed in despite his wealth and eyes that never exposed his true emotions. His late wife bore him one heir, whom he paraded around like a prize.

Sōrsānt Juyeon was everything Hyunjin’s mother wished her son had been. He was haughty, cruel, and powerful. All the things Hyunjin couldn’t feign strongly enough.

They were both born with Hybrid Tilts, but while Hyunjin’s was useless, Juyeon’s was dangerous.

His Corrosive Tilt allowed him to create chemicals that ate away at human flesh and dissolved stone. He could bring down entire villages if he wanted, torture them until nothing remained but ghastly bones.

He saw it once, and while his mother clapped for the performance, Hyunjin couldn’t silence the echo of those tortured screams as the human’s skin melted off.

It was a wicked kind of pleasure he never understood.

Once the servants stepped away from the table, the dining began. Hyunjin kept one ear on the conversation happening between his mother and the Sōrmār while he scooped some of the salad onto his plate.

“Morileus’ soldiers were spotted near the border earlier this week,” the man had said, and his mother entertained him, “So I hear. They must be scouting for those rebels of theirs. They wouldn’t dare cross over.”

“It’s unbelievable how the Ambellium continues to evade him after all these years.”

“It is incompetency on the King’s behalf, nothing more.”

Hyunjin tuned out the rest of their conversation in disinterest. The bizarre political state of their neighboring Kingdom, Morynna, was a recurring subject in aristocratic dinners. Their seemingly immortal king had been ruling long before Hyunjin was born, and as far as anyone could recall.

Anyone but the citizens of his Kingdom.

To them, King Morileus was the Eternal King, his throne and power unquestioned. They found no fault in his endless rule.

Hyunjin visited Morynna once during a diplomatic trip with his mother. He remembered Moryns greeting them with glazed over eyes and tireless cheer. Unnatural, like sentient puppets. Royal soldiers permanently swarmed their streets, but they didn’t seem to mind. All the people did was sing Morileus’ praises, for he had saved them from the savage Silfyn.

The Nilfyn weren’t always nature’s favored children. Four centuries past, the old Morynna was ruled by humans alongside the powerful Silfyn, enchanting creatures that were said to have raised the Kingdom’s imposing capital from desolate earth.

Their magic knew no bounds, transcending the barriers of one’s soul and reaching for the seams of existence itself. If Hyunjin could make a flower bloom, then they could awaken gardens across deserts. If Hyunjin’s mother could manipulate water, then they could split the mighty sea. If Juyeon could destroy a village, then they could bring entire kingdoms to their knees. It was even said that some could raise the dead from their rest.

Yet, all that power didn’t save them from slaughter. Perhaps that was where the Nilfyn earned their abundant arrogance. Despite being restricted by their magic, they were the only remaining magical race.

“Is Hyunjin still Unclaimed?”

Hyunjin’s fork froze on his plate, and he looked at the Sōrmār with masked nervousness. The memory of the blushing blossom in your hands flickered in his mind, fresh and frightening. Tender.

“Unfortunately. His Tilt is yet to show,” his mother lied, to which the Sōrmār nodded sympathetically. His true condescending intent was obvious in his tone. “His case is a peculiar one, but a Nilfyn is a Nilfyn. His magic will appear eventually.”

Hyunjin felt Juyeon’s smug gaze on him, and he suppressed the urge to glare in response. In this game of power, he must’ve thought himself Hyunjin’s better simply because he had magic.

Their patronizing didn’t go unnoticed by the Ērmār, who responded curtly, “We are anticipating signs of his Tilt, but we are in no rush. Hyunjin’s mastery of Azāri is unmatched and unaffected by his lack of magic.”

Hyunjin wanted to feel the prickle of pride, to sit straighter and match Juyeon’s smugness, but the sweet tanginess of his food turned bitter in his mouth.

Unmatched mastery? He scoffed inwardly. That was not what she had said when she stood over him in the training court.

“Ah, do tell! I’ve been eager to see your famed Azārāhis,” the Sōrmār barked a resonant laugh, to which Hyunjin’s mother smiled. Charming, but anyone who bothered to look would see the icicles behind her expression. “Of course. They are waiting for us.”

•❃•

Hyunjin had only seen his mother’s miniature army twice before, and each time, it grew impossibly.

The court they stood in was ten, or maybe twenty times the size of his personal training court, packed with grim-faced Azārāhis. Their black overcoats were a void night sky, their Kizāris a shimmering sea of silver.

One thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven Nilfyn Azārāhis, Hyunjin had the number memorized, more than double any of the other Houses’. They stood in orderly clusters in accordance with their respective Tilts. Their hair was pulled back or sheared to display their ears, encrusted by a pattern of black and purplish-red rings. Soldiers of House Amaranthine.

Hyunjin stole a glance at Juyeon and his father, drinking in the astonishment they failed to conceal.

His mother’s success with Azārāhis was rightfully enviable. A startling majority of aspiring warriors had pledged allegiance to her House over the other six, aiming to be part of its illustrious history. It made her an ever-growing force to be reckoned with.

“Before you are the best of our Azārāhis, those who have completed extensive levels of training and continue on the path toward mastery,” Hyunjin’s mother declared, her voice filled with self-centered pride. She considered each of the Azārāhis her achievement alone. “Allow them to perform for you.”

On cue, the first group of Azārāhis stepped forward while the rest backtracked. Their leader introduced them as the Hydro Contingent, soldiers with the same Tilt as the Ērmār.

Hyunjin watched as their Kizāris swung in magnificent curves, creating arcs of crystal water as the weapons clashed mercilessly. A spectacle of both magic and skill. Their Kizāris weren’t just blades, but magic wielding instruments.

The Pyro Contingent was next, setting their Kizāris and their bodies ablaze, followed by the Aeros who created mighty whirlwinds with the swoops of their weapons and flew after their opponents. The group of Terrestrial Tilts was the last of the Old Disciplines, raising the pearly sand in forbidding shapes and transforming the terrain as they sparred.

Then, the Hybrid Types began their performances: Mirroring Tilts who split into a hundred duplicates. Fuming Tilts who blanketed the court in dense smoke. Grounding Tilts who sparred upturned in the air. Corrosive Tilts who liquified solid training dummies. Bestial Tilts who commanded vicious wolves. Metallic Tilts who turned their bodies into impenetrable steel. Photo Tilts who manipulated light to appear invisible. Sound-bending Tilts who deafened their opponents. And finally, Metamorphic Tilts who slithered as snakes in the sand.

Every known Hybrid Type had been present except one.

There was no Flowering Contingent.

Your earlier words rang in Hyunjin’s mind, chastising, you have magic, and you’re deeming it useless?

He found himself wondering what Flowering Tilts would do in such a presentation, but the only answer he could think of was utterly frivolous. Turning the square of sand into an exquisite garden would impress no one, and likewise endanger nobody.

The Sōrmār of House Sapphirine’s hollow praises drowned in the background as Hyunjin trailed behind them, leaving the court, mind elsewhere.

No matter how hard he tried to accept the bar on his magic, it never felt right. Regardless of his Tilt’s so-called uselessness, it was still part of his soul.

Watching the Nilfyn Azārāhis made him feel as though he’d been robbed of something he never had in the first place. An emptiness that could never be satiated.

The four of them stepped into a significantly smaller court, where an array of Azārāhis stood rigidly. Their number was many times lesser than the previous soldiers’, but the feat of their achievement was equally impressive.

“Our young troop of Human Azārāhis,” the Ērmār announced with a flourish. “A hundred and eighty-one.”

As if by some mysterious force, Hyunjin’s gaze was drawn to you at the front of the group. You stood alone in the first row, an amaranthine band on your arm differentiating you as their leader. The sand that covered you earlier that day was washed away, your uniform crisp and clean, your Kizāri strapped comfortably to your back.

You kept your gaze forward, impassive, and Hyunjin felt the mystifying weight of your silence again.

Your fist met your shoulder roughly as your voice carried out across the court. “Heed!”

The following sound of fists was like rain on stone. All the Azārāhis bowed in eerie unison, their Kizāris glinting in the bright light of the lanterns surrounding them.

“As you know, teaching Azāri to humans has always been difficult due to their flimsy nature,” Hyunjin’s mother told the Sōrmār, “But I have found an effective training method with this group, and their numbers will only increase from here onwards.”

She gave you a slight nod and you turned on your heel, gesturing toward an Azārāhi on your right while the rest stepped away to clear the square of sand. The two of you moved to opposing sides of the court, pulling out your Kizāris and trailing them across the sand in symmetrical half-moons.

The Azārāhi you chose had a massive build, his bulky shoulders and muscled arms straining against the sleeves of his uniform. Years of training were visible on his physique. A scar ran faint against his olive complexion, cutting across the hard edge of his cheekbones. When you finished your salute, he raised his Kizāri first.

You leaped out of his range with ease, and Hyunjin allowed himself a moment of pride. Your performance didn’t burst with splendor and magic, your Kizāris didn’t catch flame or summon lightning, but it filled Hyunjin with the soothing warmth of familiarity.

This was the Azāri he knew. A waltz of iron and sand. The pure mastery of the Kizāri.

No magic was involved. It was only a battle of skill.

Hyunjin had sparred with you enough to familiarize himself with your fighting style but watching you from the sidelines was a wholly different experience. He could appreciate your evident talent without simultaneously fearing for his life.

Your Kizāris clashed, and it wasn’t long before you skillfully disarmed your opponent and briefly touched the sharp edge of your weapon to his neck.

Your short performance for the Ērmār and her guests was over, and Hyunjin forced his attention back to his companions, reprimanding himself silently. He shouldn’t feel so connected to a group of frail humans.

Oh, but you weren’t frail, and Hyunjin knew it very well.

“Impressive,” the Sōrmār remarked, and his son stepped forward, strangely eager as he addressed you, “What is your name?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Y/n, sir.” You didn’t use his Sōrsānt title since you were pledged to House Amaranthine, and as such, the only Sōrsānt you recognized was Hyunjin.

Juyeon raised his chin in abundant arrogance. “I would like to see her skill personally.”

Hyunjin stiffened, and he caught you doing the same. He was sure his mother did too, but she hid it better than any of you.

Juyeon’s intentions were obvious. It was clear that you were a valuable asset to the Ērmār’s arsenal, and a duel with him would end with your definite death.

Hyunjin’s mother wouldn’t let a member of a rival House kill her soldiers. But if she refused his request, she would be showing concern over a lowly group of humans. The Ērmār couldn’t let that tarnish her reputation either.

After an uncomfortable moment of consideration, she waved her hand dismissively. “Go ahead.”

Juyeon smiled as though humbled by her approval and walked into the square of sand. His bronzed Kizāri winked wickedly from where it was fixed at his back as he situated himself opposite to you. He drew it in a half-circle, and you mimicked him without protest.

Hyunjin didn’t understand the game his mother was playing, but he hoped she knew what she was doing. The uneasy voice in his head depended on it.

If Juyeon ended the fight the way Hyunjin couldn’t, then his weakness would be forever solidified.

You let Juyeon have the first swing, leaping over the head of his weapon as you brought your Kizāri down diagonally in response. Your weapon swiveled expertly in your grip, deadly in its perfect aim. It was the one thing that remained constant in a fight that soon became messy.

Hyunjin was aware of Juyeon’s abilities, and without the threat of his magic, the Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine was average at best. If he kept things fair, you could easily claim a win over him.

But this fight was never fair.

Hyunjin didn’t know why, but it angered him to see you hold back. You were giving Juyeon the illusion of a fight, allowing him to strike at you and parrying endlessly, calculating your attacks such that they narrowly missed him every time. Even though Hyunjin was sure you could’ve disarmed him after a couple of tries.

You were only delaying impending slaughter by a less than competent opponent. Simply because you couldn’t overstep your manners, all while trying to prove your capabilities to the Ērmār.

Juyeon was beginning to tire of your resistance, it was clear in the agitated energy that wobbled his aim. You swiftly adjusted to accommodate his wearing out. It only annoyed him further.

The Ērmār was watching grimly, her lips pressed into a stern line. Hyunjin knew that her mind was whirling with schemes, ploys to set her foot down again and put Sapphirine back in line. Their game of power was constantly shifting, its winds eternally changing.

Hyunjin couldn’t stop to try at guessing his mother’s plans, for he saw Juyeon raise his Kizāri, eyes blazing with maliciousness. He felt you slacken against the press of his blade again, the memory unwelcome. A moment too late, and your tormented screams would fill the court.

Without much thought, Hyunjin found himself blurting, “Juyeon!”

The mentioned Nilfyn paused, turning curiously as Hyunjin made his way to the two of you. He could feel his mother’s blistering gaze on his back, but he disregarded it, steadying his breathing. He would either make his place known in this tug of power or doom himself.

“Enough wasting time with insignificant humans,” Hyunjin said, willing all the authority he could muster into his voice. He grimaced inwardly at his hollow flattering. “You should spar with someone of your caliber.”

That seemed to amuse Juyeon, who settled his Kizāri on the ground with a quirk of his dark brow. He wouldn’t back down from such an invitation. “You are right.”

Hyunjin assumed the spot where you had been standing, barely catching your faint murmur of ‘Sōrsānt’ as you bowed to him and stepped away. The soft padding of your shoes against the sand faded away. His intervention caused no uproar, though he vaguely remembered your angry warning. Do not disgrace me before the Ērmār.

He unsheathed his Kizāri, trailing its familiar weight across the sand to meet his opponent’s. The two weapons clanged, silver against bronze. Hyunjin saluted, and Juyeon followed him, wearing an expression he could only liken to a vulture’s. He thought their duel would be a victory handed to him graciously.

Hyunjin wanted to laugh. Someone had to humble the Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine before his own ego devoured him, and he would gladly take the job. With a swing of his Kizāri, they plunged into the haze of sand.

His opponent would not withhold his magic, Hyunjin knew. But he had spent his years training with Claimed Nilfyn. He knew how to work around their magic when he had none. It was a skill not many cared for, but he was his mother’s son after all. He could fight blind if he had to.

He pivoted away, making Juyeon’s clumsy Kizāri sink into the ground. The sand sizzled, dissolving.

That was all it took. Mere contact.

Hyunjin’s Kizāri might’ve been made with enchanted and reinforced iron, but his skin wasn’t immune to magic. He would suffer the same fate as that unfortunate helping of sand.

He swung his weapon low, slamming it into the bronzed Kizāri still planted in the ground and causing it to rip out of Juyeon’s grip. His magic disconnected instantly.

Too bad Hyunjin wasn’t planning to dissolve any time soon.

His Kizāri flew again, rushing towards a disoriented Juyeon. Hyunjin twisted his wrist such that the impact didn’t kill him, and the flat side of the weapon collided with his middle. With a choked noise, Juyeon lost his footing, surrendering to gravity ungracefully.

His ribs would bruise, maybe crack slightly, but that was the message Hyunjin wanted to deliver. The Azārāhis of House Amaranthine were not to be challenged, magicless or not.

He brushed the blade of his weapon against Juyeon’s neck, not drawing blood but making his victory clear. Securing his Kizāri back in its sheathe, Hyunjin turned and held his mother’s cold gaze. He didn’t shy away. He didn’t shrink into himself when she narrowed her eyes at him as though he were a piece of a puzzle she had overlooked.

It would take more than one spar to earn her praise, but this was enough. She didn’t scathe him with her disappointment, and it was more than Hyunjin could’ve ever asked for.

The Sōrmār’s disappointment, on the other hand, was darker than the night sky canopying the court. “You are right. Hyunjin is a remarkable Azārāhi despite being Unclaimed.”

“Of course I am,” the Ērmār huffed, drawing her shoulders back and heading towards the lacquered doors. “We must move along. We’ve spent far too much time idling in this court.”

As Hyunjin followed his mother and her guests out, he tried to convince himself that his intervention was solely for his own reputation.

That it had nothing to do with you—the only person who looked at his magic with something other than horror and mortification.

•❃•

Your Kizāri caught Hyunjin’s in the air, and you pulled the two of them toward the ground. Your muscles sang with the strain as you swiftly dislodged and touched the edge of the Kizāri against the soft skin of his neck.

One round, over.

The steady rhythm of your inhales and exhales filled your ears, sonorous, as you jogged back to your place, readying to start anew. When you looked up again, you found Hyunjin unmoving in his place.

His stare was curious, almost like a child’s. He parted his lips as though to say something, but no sound left him. He pressed them shut again.

Perhaps he thought better of it, you reasoned, watching as he treaded gracefully to the other side of the square.

You decided to shrug off his strange behavior, beginning to draw a new half-moon instead. Hyunjin started to mimic you, his Kizāri cutting through the sand toward yours before it halted suddenly.

“Are you not mad at me?”

Hyunjin’s voice was rich velvet, smooth unlike the confusion that wrangled your mind. You matched his narrowed eyes with a plain frown. What has gotten into him?

He had made it clear that he didn’t want anything to do with you. Your last interaction in his training court said as much. Yet, there he was, initiating conversation when there was none to be had.

Was this some sort of test? You maintained your silence until you couldn’t bear the heaviness of his gaze anymore, tightening your grip around your waiting Kizāri. “Why would I be?”

He hesitated as if he didn’t know how to phrase it. “I intervened in your duel with Juyeon last night.”

Right. That.

You diverted your eyes, recalling the dread that overcame your mind when the Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine requested to spar with you. You weren’t stupid. His intentions were unmistakable. Your tone was frayed with anger and shameful helplessness. “He was going to kill me.”

“I know.”

You scoffed. “Don’t think that I would believe, even for a moment, that you did it to spare me.”

“Oh?” he tilted his head, raising a brow, to which you reminded him pointedly, “You had threatened to do the same only hours prior.”

“Ah,” he mused drily. “Clever, human.”

You made no effort to hide the roll of your eyes. Exasperated, you tapped the ground with your Kizāri to remind him of the purpose you were there for.

Hyunjin didn’t budge. His Kizāri didn’t move. He was waiting for something, though you couldn’t quite place a finger on it. Standing there and watching you, that child-like curiosity resurfaced again.

You sighed quietly. “Sōrsānt, if you wish to end today’s training session, then I will take my leave.”

“But we’ve only begun,” he glanced at the young azure of the morning sky, and you nodded. “Indeed.”

But that didn’t spur him on. His face remained a blank slate, save for the strange twinkle in his beautiful eyes.

You prayed for patience, placing both hands on the handle of your Kizāri and leaning forward. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Sōrsānt?”

His mouth formed a ‘No’, but he hesitated, and it never sounded.

You muttered a curse under your breath. Fine! the thought rang in your head. Since you had wasted so much time already, you didn’t see why you couldn’t feed your curiosity about the previous night’s events.

You lifted your Kizāri, jutting it at Hyunjin inquiringly. “He called you Unclaimed.”

That snapped him back into his senses, it seemed, for he made a disgruntled noise and began mindlessly twirling his Kizāri in the pale sand. “That is the term they use for Nilfyn whose Tilts haven’t shown yet.”

“But you…” you trailed away as the pieces lined up for you. Hyunjin’s Tilt had shown, but no one knew about it because he hid it. You remembered his bitter words. A Flowering Tilt is of no use to an Azārāhi.

“Does the Ērmār know about this?” you whispered, regretting your reckless curiosity.

“Of course she does,” it was Hyunjin’s turn to scoff. Then, he added in a lower voice, “She’s the one who wants it hidden.”

Your blood ran cold. If the Ērmār knew, and she wanted his Tilt hidden, then why were you in this mess? Why did Hyunjin let you see his magic?

Dragging your Kizāri with you, you marched up to him and demanded in an irate whisper, “If this is such an important secret then why did you show me yesterday?”

“I didn’t want to show you.” Hyunjin’s taut features broke into a scowl, and he pulled his Kizāri closer.

“What, then?”

He didn’t answer you at first. Then, so softly you almost missed it, he spoke while avoiding your gaze, “I can’t control it.”

As soon as those words slipped out of his lips, he brandished his Kizāri, locking his mask of indifference back in place as he ordered, “Enough idling. Return to your position, Azārāhi.”

You broke your promise to never feel sorry for the Sōrsānt before, yet there was your unwise heart, foolishly mourning over the meaning behind his words.

•❃•

This is a terrible idea, the small voice inside your head repeated as you strode past humble shops and zealous vendors. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.

Yet, as terrible as you acknowledged it was, you couldn’t help it. Every morning you spent training with the Sōrsānt swelled your oh-so-human sympathy. You didn’t understand Nilfyn magic, but that didn’t lessen the silent horror of the Ērmār’s cruelty.

Though, you still found Hyunjin to be an impossible oaf.

Pulling your hood lower over your face, you sidestepped a group of Nilfyn kids who played with the color of the dull pavement. Their little ears carried gemstones of a light violet hue—the common folk’s color.

“Come one, come all! Hurry and try the best Jade-Fire Cakes in the Kingdom!” a woman called out from her stall while setting down a fresh batch of the dessert, steaming and glistening with sugar. She grabbed a handful of crushed almonds, sprinkling them atop the golden cakes that earned their name from the Jade-Fire fruit filling in their molten centers.

You soldiered forward, maneuvering around strolling families and curious buyers. Your legs didn’t stop until you reached a crooked alleyway between abandoned fronts.

There was a faint light at the end of the night-cloaked alley, and you made your way toward it while gripping the long blade fixed at your hip. You preferred your Kizāri, but it was too conspicuous to carry around town and impractical in trivial street fights. A knife would do for a quick trip.

You came to stand before a featureless oak door, illuminated by a lone lantern that hung above it. No sign carried a memorable name in winding calligraphy, no windows invited you in with lavish displays. This was a shop only meant for those who sought it.

You pushed the door open. Its resonant creak heightened your guard as you walked in.

Orange light washed over the cramped space. Shelves upon shelves were stacked with all the oddities you could envision, frightening figurines and dainty trinkets, rare herbs and mythical gemstones, bizarre contraptions and cursed jewelry. You even spotted a Kizāri that looked like it was forged from the starry night sky itself. Twisting purple, blue, and black crystals made its body, dotted with swimming pearls that seemed to shift every time you blinked.

A portly man stepped out from behind a moss-green curtain at the back of the shop. He was dressed in a smart orange suit, his grayed hair swept back to expose proudly bare ears. His thin mustache twitched as he spoke. “Good evening. Has the weather been kind to you today?”

“Generous. It didn’t rain boars on our house.”

Your ridiculous response was a whispered code that the humans of the capital used to identify one another in hiding. Each town had a slightly different variation of it. It hailed teeth on the stable. It shone dragon fire on our crops.

In this shop, it was code for something more.

The shopkeeper gave you a slight nod, your message received, before disappearing behind the curtain. When he appeared again, he was carrying a large wooden chest that he then set on the narrow counter with a heavy thud. A key blinked out of his sleeve. The movement was so momentary you could’ve mistaken it for a trick of light, but the sure click of the lock assured you otherwise.

He turned the chest around and lifted its lid open before he stepped away to give you a semblance of privacy. It was an illusion, for you knew that he was watching your every move with the sheer attentiveness of a hawk.

He would be a fool not to. That unremarkable wooden chest was full of stolen Nilfyn artifacts.

Your eyes raked over a kaleidoscope of glowing Channeling Cores. Smooth-cut, mellow turquoise ear cuffs and bulbous studs of a garish orange. Elegant swirls of a bewitching purple and crescent shaped gems mottled with gray. Most of them were soft violet and inky black gems that had once belonged to common Nilfyn or unfortunate soldiers. You spotted a handful of jagged, purplish-red gemstones that eerily reminded you of those that encrusted Hyunjin’s ears. There were some gold-plated pendants and rusted brooches as well—what the Nilfyn used before opting for ear piercings.

But you weren’t looking to buy misplaced Channeling Cores, and your eyes settled on a stash of leather-bound books tied with pale twine. You reached into the heart of the chest and grabbed the knot that secured the books, pulling them out and onto the counter carefully. Another bundle of books lay underneath them, and you decided to keep it inside the chest until you finished checking the first stack.

The Nilfyn took pride in their magic. They boasted by flaunting their gem-covered ears and displaying their powers at any given opportunity. But most importantly, they wrote about their magic, detailing every aspect of it to relay the information to future generations. Those books were distributed amongst aristocratic households to be preserved. Or to be stolen like the ones you had in your hands.

You knew that their covers were modified to appear unimportant and identical, but under the dark leather were pages upon pages of invaluable knowledge pertaining to different disciplines of magic. That was what you sought of this shop.

Tugging the loose ends of the bowknot at the top, you freed the first book and lifted the bottom-right edge of the cover. A hastily drawn sun symbol peeked back at you and you shut the book, picking another one and repeating the process.

A ripple of waves. You reached for the third book and found a snarling wolf.

You drowned out your disappointment. There were still many books left.

In the fourth, you found a whirling wind. An empty flask was in the next book. Dejection was beginning to trickle into your veins as you deftly turned edges.

An unblinking eye.

A lone flame.

You hid your frustration and sudden dread as you reached for the other stack. What if someone had already bought the book?

You flipped the first edge.

A blotched mountain.

The shopkeeper’s sly attention grew heavier on your shoulders. You needed to find the book fast before you raised his suspicions beyond bribery.

The unmarked leather of the covers seemed to mock you as your fingers brushed over the next book. You turned its edge, ready to be let down and move on when you saw it.

A rose in full bloom.

A wave of giddy triumph washed over you, but you made sure to keep your tone steady as you spoke to the shopkeeper. “How much for this one?”

A calloused hand rose to stroke his chin as his brows furrowed, seemingly deep in consideration. A long moment later, he declared gruffly, “Six Greda.”

You grimaced internally. That was three months’ worth of your allowance, but you couldn’t risk rejecting the offer and trying to find the same book somewhere else.

Begrudgingly, you pulled out your pouch, counting six silver coins which the shopkeeper whisked away greedily once you placed them on the table. He stuffed the coins into his copper-colored suit then fixed his lapels with an air of confidence, eyes shining dangerously. “Good making business with you.”

But you weren’t finished yet.

You fished out another six coins, ignoring the immediate stab of regret in your chest. They clinked enticingly as you pressed them on the polished counter. For his silence.

“You never did business with me,” you told him, your underlying warning clear despite your calm tone. His eyes widened before he nodded once, and you watched as half a year’s worth of money vanished into his jacket.

It’s fine, you tried to convince yourself, hiding the leather-bound book under your cloak. You never buy anything anyway.

You left the uncanny shop behind, striding through the ominous alleyway and plunging into the bustling night market quickly.

If you dared to look back, you would find the flickering light of the lone lantern, taunting, leering, reminding you of how terrible of an idea that was.

But you never looked back.

•❃•

You squinted at the blazing orb of fire centering the sky like a throne, crowned by wisps of feathery cloud.

It was noon, signaling that your training time with Hyunjin was over for the day. You hauled your Kizāri up, securing it in its sheath before dusting sand off your sleeves. It was a futile effort, for the chalky grains latched onto the fabric, nevertheless.

From the corner of your vision, you saw the shape of the pouch you brought with you earlier slumped against the wall. Dull, but its contents lit your heart with anxiousness. Your terrible idea was still half-executed.

Hyunjin had drifted toward the rack of Azāri equipment, unfastening the leather braces wrapped around his wrists, and you grasped the opportunity with feigned courage. All you had to do was give him the book and leave his training court.

The rest would be up to fate.

You maintained an easy gait as you walked up to the handspun pouch, containing your growing dread. You crouched to unravel the string that pinched the pouch shut, reaching in and meeting the rough skin of the leather-bound book. It felt pounds heavier than it actually was when you pulled it out.

You drew in a slow breath, closing your eyes to collect your thoughts. Why were you even following along with this silly idea? For all you could predict, the Sōrsānt would report you to the Ērmār and it would be your fault entirely.

Truthfully, you were annoyed. You didn’t want to sympathize with Hyunjin. Someone like him didn’t deserve an ounce of your pity.

But perhaps this was what it meant to be human, weak and turbulent. Ever since you saw the humiliation in his eyes on that unfortunate morning with his mother, you couldn’t discipline your heart back in place. Back to apathy and passiveness.

You thought that maybe this would quell the strange sorrow you felt for him. It was dangerous to delve deeper and let such emotions fester. The sooner you rid of them, the better.

With one last exhale, you gathered your bravado and marched up to where Hyunjin busied himself, clutching the book so tightly as if it were anchoring you to the ground.

His head turned in your direction when he heard you approach, brows twisted in a subtle intrigue that turned into fully-fledged confusion when you shoved the book into his arms. You stumbled over your words, “Take this.”

There. Done.

“What’s this?” Hyunjin arched a brow, regarding you as one would regard a pup behaving oddly. His voice came breathy with the exertion of training.

You only shrugged in response and took your leave before he could press further, nodding lightly. “Good day, Sōrsānt.”

It was fate’s turn to mess with your terrible idea.

•❃•

Hyunjin lay sleepless in his bed.

His limbs were weary from hours of unforgiving Azāri practice, begging him to shut his eyes and rest, but those pleas went unheard by his mind. Void of thought, yet utterly restless.

It was another typical night for the Sōrsānt.

The world slept around him. Not a squawking bird outside interrupted the palace’s numbing quiet. Hyunjin turned to his side with a sigh, tired of hearing his lonely heartbeat in the silence. He blinked in the dark, gaze landing on a book washed over by shy moonlight.

There, on his empty desk, sat the item you hurriedly shoved into his hands once your training finished. He should’ve ignored you and left it at the court. He should’ve thrown the book aside and reported you to the Ērmār.

Instead, he carried it with him and tossed the book onto his desk when he entered his room. Going about the rest of his monotonous day, he forgot about your sudden gift.

Only now did he remember it.

With nothing to do except toss and turn, Hyunjin’s curiosity got the better of him and he found himself slipping out from under the bulky covers toward the desk.

The book was heavier than he recalled, its leather unblemished and in perfect condition. No imprint hinted at its contents, and perhaps it was his exhaustion or boredom, but Hyunjin thought nothing of it when he flipped the thick cover.

A blank page stared back at him.

Curious, he turned the page. The velvety parchment whispered against his fingers. You wouldn’t give him an empty book, would you?

Ink lined the following page, the careful script too small for him to discern from afar, save for the few words brushed with gold at the top.

The Art of Flowering: Cultivating and Practicing Flowering Magic.

Hyunjin dropped the book with a shrill gasp, clamping his burning hands over his mouth a moment too late as his gaze flickered across the room in horror. Was this an ill joke of some sort?

The walls seemed to bristle around him, grey and looming and suddenly too close. His lungs refused to relax, holding in air as though the faintest sound from him would alert the entirety of the palace. Not a sigh of breath. Not a murmur of silk.

The petrifying silence of the palace continued, unperturbed and unaware of the intense clamor that erupted in Hyunjin’s mind. A hundred invisible eyes were set on him, prickling, making him want to crawl out of his skin and hide from no one.

He was sure that if he left the book on his desk a second longer, his mother would barge in and unleash her unfading scorn on him.

With trembling hands, Hyunjin reached for the book again, shutting it and tucking it under his arm with frantic haste. He refused to ponder upon its contents any further. He had to hide it before those simple words festered into a beast in his thoughts, hunting him down, ravaging his sanity until it unraveled.

He stumbled toward his bed, throwing the heavy blanket over and thrusting the book under the dense mattress. He pushed it as far as his arm could go, uncaring for the weight crushing his bones. He needed that book forgotten until he figured out a way to rid of it completely.

His shoulder was close to popping when he pulled his arm out recklessly, but his consciousness was too muddled to notice. He left the book pressed somewhere under the enormous mattress, and only then did he dare to exhale, albeit weakly.

Fatigue wracked his body, fiercer and more intense than it was some minutes ago. He scrambled onto his bed, lying limply as his internal clamor continued.

Was this your way of taunting him? Reminding him of his fatal, irredeemable flaw?

You were mad. You had to be. Or maybe you had a death wish, Hyunjin didn’t want to know which of the two it was. You were treading perilous land, and he wanted nothing to do with your foolish adventures.

Even though the broken desire in him whispered otherwise.

•❃•

It seemed that fate took many twisted liberties with your terrible plan.

“Where did you get that book?” Hyunjin’s voice boomed like thunder in the space of the training court. He had his Kizāri drawn, and he stood in the center of the sand square as though ready to plunge into a fight. A real fight.

The air around him seemed to buzz and fizz, seething with an anger you should’ve expected. He wouldn’t accept a so-called gift from a human, especially not one pertaining to his hidden magic. You had to choose your next words carefully.

Ah, but if he had expected you to give away your secrets, he was dreadfully wrong.

“Does it matter?” you shrugged as you stepped closer, fingers flexing with the crazed urge to grab your Kizāri and cross it with his. A lazy smirk drew itself on your lips. “If you don’t want the book, you can give it back.”

The Sōrsānt glowered. Your answer wasn’t the one he was seeking, but you weren’t trying to please him anyway. Tension twisted around the two of you, deafening in its silence. The yawning moments before the tempest.

You set foot in the square of pale sand, basking in the young morning sun as you dared Hyunjin’s gaze with yours. If he wanted a fight, then you would gladly appease that wish. “It was quite costly, after all.”

Snap! went the thin cord of tension, and Hyunjin’s Kizāri glinted in the light as he raised it in a deadly arc. The air screamed. The first wind in the storm.

Your Kizāri was drawn in a flash, meeting his with a force that rattled your bones. Blood roared in your ears, fueled after days of dull practice.

You leaped away, swiveling alongside your Kizāri as you brought it down. Sand rose upon impact, a benevolent wave of pearly dust.

Hyunjin ran through it, swinging his weapon at you with familiar precision. Your Kizāris waltzed in the air, a blur of silver and black, clashing and separating and spinning to the macabre rhythm of the spar.

Oh, how you craved the thrill of a proper fight.

Hyunjin’s Kizāri hooked around yours, and he pushed it against you, snarling, “Are you trying to get us killed?”

You propelled your weapon forward, freeing it from his trap and swinging it at his legs unsparingly. “Us?”

A laugh threatened to bubble up your chest, roused by the adrenaline pumping in your veins. “Don’t assume that I did this for you, Sōrsānt. I gave you the book for the peace of my own mind.”

Iron screeched against iron. Hyunjin was close enough that you saw shock flicker over his features before it melted into something darker. His Kizāri was in the air again. “I don’t need your pity.”

“No, you don’t,” you agreed, breathless as you evaded his blow and redirected your weapon. “What is it that you always say about us humans?”

You weren’t waiting for an answer. “We are weak. Subject to the volatile tides of the heart.”

Your Kizāris interlocked again, and with a pull from Hyunjin and a pivot from you, the spar came to a stop. Your Kizāri clattered against the floor outside the square. Hyunjin’s was impaled in the sand some feet away. The two of you were left standing there, face to face, chests heaving and gazes burning.

Neither of you moved, and it felt as though the world came to a halt alongside that fight.

Hyunjin held your stare, and you held his. In a breath that seemed to encompass the two of you, you were almost equals in an impossible timeline. The ravenous fire that crackled in your souls was one and the same, stoked by repressed fear and the overwhelming desire to survive in a world that only valued material power. The very differences that separated him from you made you alike.

Yet, you refused to acknowledge that harrowing revelation. Hyunjin was nothing like you, and he would never be.

“Do with the book what you will,” you spoke through gritted teeth, breaking the trance you were captured in. “This is not a favor.”

After a moment that felt like an eternity, you turned away, knowing that the both of you reached a wordless, mutual understanding. You picked your Kizāri off the dark marble, tossing it over in your grip once, twice, before assuming your regular place at the square of sand.

You still had a tedious morning of training to go through now that your fit of violence had been quelled.

•❃•

The night was silent again.

Hyunjin stood before the small flames of the stone burner in his room. The leather-bound book was tightly clutched in his hands as he watched the blazes rise, swaying like dancers in a joyous ball. Their flickering light created eerie shadows that cackled against the bleakness of walls, taunting.

You told him to do with the book what he willed, and he was doing the best thing he could think of. Burn it. Lose it. Forget it.

It was the only way to kill the voices that reemerged after years of lurking mutely in his head. Voices which murmured and spoke and screamed at him to indulge in his magic. To disobey his mother. Unknowingly, you had incited them by giving him the book.

He had to destroy it before it destroyed him.

Hyunjin held the book over the fire, readying to drop it in as his hand shook unreasonably. He had burnt many things before, many magical blunders in the form of innocent flowers. This was no different. It shouldn’t have been.

Yet, the voices in his head grew increasingly shrill when a rogue flame licked the edge of the book, darkening the leather slightly. All he had to do was let go, but his fingers were stiff.

Hyunjin wanted to fight them, peel them off one by one until the book dropped, but he couldn’t. The heat on his skin was merciless, unbearable. Soon enough, gruesome blisters would mar the smooth surface.

He pulled his hand away with a hiss.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t burn the book.

Like an ever-resonating bell, the voices in his head rejoiced, pounding against the desolate chamber of his thoughts. This was the closest he had ever been to his magic, and he had overestimated his strength to turn his back on it.

Eying the burnt corner of the book, Hyunjin tried to convince himself, if not tonight, then tomorrow.

Maybe then, the voices would quieten.

•❃•

Hyunjin told himself the same lie every following night after he pulled the book away from the burner in a moment of panic.

For three nights, his grip would turn into rigid wood. For three nights, he would be paralyzed before the eager flames. For three nights, the blistering air of the fire would torture his hand until he gave up.

He couldn’t burn the book, that was what the voices told him, but he refused to succumb to them.

The skin on the back of his hand was reddened and pulsing with a pain so great as though lit by an invisible fire. He knew he couldn’t keep at his lousy attempts without gravely harming himself. If burning the book wasn’t a viable option, then he had to figure out another method of destroying it. Fast. 

His fingers touched his earrings subconsciously before he realized what he was doing and pulled his hand away. It was a bad habit that the Ērmār hated. 

Shredding it? Hyunjin frowned with the thought. It would be pointless. He would still need to burn the remains.

His fingers brushed over the fine leather of the cover, having grown familiar with the rough texture of its minuscule patterns. The top of the book had browned due to being exposed to fire, but it was still in a useable condition.

Would it be so bad?

Yes! he wanted to yell back at the stupid desire, but every time he tried to, he heard his mother’s voice instead of his.

Would it be so bad? the voices repeated, for the question was meant for him, not the Ērmār. Would it?

Hyunjin found himself voiceless.

He knew the answer. Why couldn’t he say it? Why couldn’t he think it without imagining his mother?

Frustrated, he flung the book at the wall as a pathetic scream threatened to rip its way out of his mouth. The book thudded against the floor somewhere in his room, and his head fell into his hands heavily. Why was it so difficult?

Hyunjin wanted to rip his hair out. This was your doing. If you hadn’t given him that damned book, then he wouldn’t be entertaining the moon with his ridiculous dilemma. He wouldn’t be teetering on the edge of catastrophe with his wandering thoughts.

Perhaps, he should order you to burn the book instead. Like a sun peeking through stormy clouds, his mental chaos cleared up at the idea. He might’ve been unable to destroy the book, but you would have no reason to hold back.

Dragging his hand down his face, Hyunjin sighed. The solution made perfect sense to him. And you would keep your silence about his order if you wanted to keep your life.

Soon enough, he would forget that such a book ever existed.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Hyunjin stood, and his gaze darted across the expanse of the room to find the book lying facedown beside his desk. He crouched to pick it up, accidentally catching sight of the colorful page it had fallen open to. Quickly looking away, he slammed the book shut before he thought more of it.

Too late.

Would it be so bad? he heard that whisper again, like a devil speaking forbidden desires into his ears. You’re returning the book tomorrow. A quick look would do no harm…

Hyunjin knew better. Just as he knew that he should’ve killed you the moment you stepped into his training court.

He knew better, yet just like your first encounter, he was too weak to act on that knowledge.

He would always be.

The book met the smooth surface of Hyunjin’s desk with a slap. His palm settled atop it. Hesitant. Stubborn.

Just a harmless page…

His hand went to the side of the book, brushing the edge of the leather. Once he returned the book to you, he wouldn’t be able to ask for it again. And all he’d read of it was the mere title, which sent a flurry of mismatched feelings to his heart.

It wasn’t curiosity that clouded his judgement, but a blinding, smoldering want that was as old as he was. Being barred from his magic for so long, being ridiculed and insulted for his magic ever since it emerged, this book was something a younger Hyunjin could only dream about having.

Even though he had spent years silencing those intrusive voices, he recalled his childish jealousy when his friends began showing their various Tilts. The memories he had of his childhood were a dismal canvas of depthless sorrow, helplessness, and fear, but he kept them alive as a reminder of his mother’s wrongs toward him.

If he were to read a page from the book, then it was for the little boy whose spirit was stolen years ago. A frightened Hyunjin with a bleeding shoulder, too young to understand the dark disappointment that filled his mother’s eyes and made her a stranger before him.

He took in a shaky breath and flicked the book open.

The page was just as he remembered, crammed with words and headed by that gold-brushed title.

The Art of Flowering: Cultivating and Practicing Flowering Magic.

The voices spurred him on. Rather than panic, a strange relief paired with excitement washed over him. His dread was still present, and so was the urge to stuff the book back under the mattress, but he dared himself to read a few lines, squinting in the dark.

Foremost, let it be known that the blessing of a Flowering Tilt is a tremendous gift, and an honor to those it is bestowed upon. Flowering is the fourth of the ten Hybrid Types to be discovered, and as the name indicates, wielders of this magic can create and control flowers.

It was easy to read those words on a parchment that was going to be burnt in mere hours. They were empty like a drunkard’s promises. Perhaps that was why Hyunjin let himself be immersed in the book further than he intended.

The Flowering Tilt is a Hybrid Type discovered nearly two hundred years ago. Studies have shown that centuries of marriages between Hydro and Terrestrial Tilts resulted in the formation of this new magic.

He turned the page.

Chapter One: Cultivation. 

Cultivating Flowering Magic is similar to cultivating other magics. Without adequate training, spurts of magic may occur at random or upon emotional uproar. Thus, young Claimed Nilfyn are encouraged to begin training immediately, as these uncontrolled spurts increase with age.

To better understand magic, let us envision a water reserve tank in an odd village. At the beginning of every week, the villagers pour buckets of water into the tank, but none of the villagers use the water throughout the week. Soon, the tank begins to overflow as more water is added but left unconsumed. Such is magic. It is an ever-growing source that overflows when left unused.

To cultivate, the wielder must begin by finding their Heart of Magic. This skill may be learned easier during childhood, as the Heart is bare and unbarred by the tribulations of life, but it is not unfeasible amongst adult Nilfyn.

There are no teachings regarding the intricacies of finding one’s Heart of Magic. It is a slow process that requires patience and strong will. However, aspiring wielders are advised to practice in tranquil spaces that inspire a meditative state.

Once reaching the Heart of Magic, one must set their palm against an empty surface and focus on drawing magic toward the tips of their fingers to manifest an object of their Tilt. This is to familiarize the wielder with the process of directing magic in a useful manner. Flowering Tilts may use the following while training to quicken results: a flower posy, a cut of wood, a handful of soil, or any natural piece of the earth.

Hyunjin tried to imagine that Heart of Magic. He closed his eyes and searched for something magical, something bright, something beautiful. He wanted to remember the way his magic felt when it surged through his body to manifest in a single blossom in the sand.

There was nothing.

He was hollow, his soul long crushed, his heart long dead. The polished surface of his desk felt cold against his fingertips, unkind proof that whatever the Heart of Magic was, it wasn’t something he had. At least, not anymore.

The foolish hope in him withered, and he closed the book with a scowl. Empty words for an empty boy.

But when Hyunjin left his room the following morning, he didn’t take the leather-bound book with him.

•❃•

The prying moon was a witness to the many lies Hyunjin told himself as he flipped through the pages of the book night after night.

Deep in a cranny of his heart, he knew that he couldn’t return it much like how he couldn’t burn it. But he thought that if he said it enough times, he would convince himself otherwise. As he poured stolen sand on his desk and closed his eyes, trying to revive his Heart of Magic, he repeated that crooked lie. Just one more day, one more page…

But a day wasn’t enough to stir his magic, nor were two. The voices—no, he wanted more. For all his heartbreak and misery, he deserved more than a few measly attempts at his magic.

A chilling thought ran through his mind. Why should he be obeying a mother that cared little for him, anyway?

The fifth night was similar to the rest. Hyunjin sat still at his desk, right hand settled on a small bed of sand as the world fell silent around him. He searched the remnants of his soul, scouring for the faintest trace of magic with timid hope. He couldn’t permit himself more than that inkling of confidence, for he had failed countless times before.

Only on this night, he finally found something.

Folded away. Forgotten.

A flicker of light.

A whisper of power.

A pulse of another life.

He clawed at it, overwhelmed by sudden desperation. There it was. There was his Heart of Magic. Bleeding and dim, but there.

He caught a wisp of the fleeting light and pulled. At once, he saw color in otherworldly hues, erupting around him and through him, shaking his core like a tremor from the heavens above. That soothing cold washed over him again, a glorious stampede, and he dared to loosen a trapped breath.

The magic slipped out of his grasp.

No, no, no, no! Hyunjin scrambled back, grabbing at anything he could and dragging it with all the force he was able to muster. His focus had faltered for the barest moment, and that made him lose sight of his Heart of Magic. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not after all the work he had done.

A chill spread to his fingers as he pulled the magic forward and outward. It was taxing, and he felt his heart beat as though it were in the heat of a duel.

Then, a sensation akin to the puncture of a thousand needles swarmed his body. Something in him locked into place with a resonant toll, and he opened his eyes with a gasp.

There, on the chalky mound of sand, was a single smiling blossom. Dull white petals fanned around its yellow center, and it embraced itself with two grey leaves.

Hyunjin’s breath stilled, defying the rampant palpitations in his chest.

He had done it.

Not through an emotional outburst. Not by mistake.

He created a flower in coarse, lifeless sand on his own.

His magic, finally.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Mini Glossary:

Azārāhi: a skilled practitioner of Azāri.

Azāri: a fighting art developed by the magical Nilfyn.

Ērmār: high master (feminine).

Ērmārvi: minor high master (feminine).

Ērsānt: lower master (feminine).

Ērsānvi: minor lower master (feminine).

Kizāri: the long-handled weapon with an trident-like head used in Azāri.

Sōrmār: high master (masculine).

Sōrmārvi: minor high master (masculine).

Sōrsānt: lower master (masculine).

Sōrsānvi: minor lower master (masculine).

Hey there! Thank you for reading this far! This fic is very special to me and it would mean a lot if you could give it a reblog and tell me your thoughts. Part two will be posted in September, so keep an eye out for it! Thank you once more for reading, and I hope you have a lovely day! ♡

[hollyhomburg]

Prey Animals (11)

—  Pairing: Yoongi x reader, Bts x reader

—  Genre: Omegaverse, Mafia au, Polyamory au, Found family, Suspense, Eventual Smut, enemies to friends to lovers, Healing & Themes of trauma,

—  Summary: In a world where Beta's are rare, valuable, and often have more than one pack; Beta Min Yoongi does everything he can to keep his mafia heritage a secret from his primary pack. Little does he know he's not the only one who's living a double life.

—  Words: 8.6k

—  Warnings: Physical abuse, sexual abuse, psychological abuse, trauma, violence, abduction, blood, hurt/comfort, tenderness, patching up wounds.

—  Check in at the end for my notes on this chapter! — 

(92 days before, Yoongi)

Yoongi can’t see you as much as he’d like.

There are just too many things to do, family factions to check up on, disputes to settle that almost devolve into blows or burials. Headache after headache and bruised knuckles that Yoongi tries to hide from you.

He doesn’t want you to think he’s like them.

He wonders when what you think of him started to matter. Unable to place the exact moment or thing that makes him even care. He imagines Seokjin tapping the space over his heart, ‘not empty yet?’ A dizzying daydream and a sweet one.

The only sweet reprieve he finds these days are either his dreams or the afternoons he slips away to you. Only when Geumjae’s not there, only when you won’t be seen together, and his presence won’t be suspicious. Yoongi is allowed to move about as he wants, you on the other hand are not. Kept under lock and key.

“Geumjae doesn’t let me leave. He’s worried that I’ll- he’s just protective- and-”

“And possessive?”

“And possessive.” You agree, tipping your head to Yoongi in deference. “You know how alpha’s get.”

Yoongi doesn’t mind coming to you.

Monday and Wednesday afternoons are reserved solely for you. Mostly because those are the days that Geumjae regularly steps out to handle the family business. The Min’s have always been in charge of guns, ghost and stollen, distribution and protection, everything else is just background noise, though occasionally Yoongi knows Geumjae trades in bodies and blunts. Nothing he can’t move quickly, nothing that sticks around.

Wednesdays are the day that Geumjae checks in with his men, checks who’s paid their ‘rent’ this month and who hasn’t. Yoongi knows Geumjae checks over the shipments personally and those come in on Monday.

Usually, you have a good block of time to spend with Yoongi. And he can reassure himself you’re not hurt. Even if that double checking starts to feel more complacent as the weeks drag on.

Smuggling and secrets, hidden hurts and bruises. Yoongi doesn’t know when he started to sort of plan it in his head, all the way’s he might be able to convince Geumjae to let you go and the ways he could get you out.

He doesn’t brotch the topic with you, that’s too risky. But when he’s not with you Yoongi’s planning. It’s one of a dozen goals he has at this point to disrupt the movements of the family and dismantling the empire.

But that’s a pipe dream, they’re too well organized, you could never take it down from the top or the bottom, it would have to be unilateral. Yoongi has thought about how he’d do it time and time again and every time he tries to think through it he runs into the same road blocks.

There is too much loyalty, too much mutually assured destruction. One house falls and another would take its place and absorb their business. You couldn’t go house by house without the others becoming too strong.

And no one can second guess Yoongi’s motives. To cause even the slightest suspicion would be a death warrant, it has to look like he’s helpful and incompetent even if he aims to be anything but.

Helping a head’s wife escape her husband would certainly be cause for suspicion. Not enough to kill Yoongi outright, but probably enough that all of his actions, including returning to the pack would gain further scrutiny. Yoongi doesn’t want to think about what would happen if the family took a closer look. The pack must stay uncontacted. Yoongi will not drag them into this.

One life does not equal six. But Yoongi has to try.

Faking your death is an easy option. Yoongi could easily say you couldn’t be trusted and procure a body that looks like yours and plant it. Fire could take care of DNA and dental records. No one would question it if Yoongi was at the helm of the operation. No one would question if Yoongi made it look like it was him who killed you.

That way- you might be able to slip away unscathed.

He’s got a fair bit of money set aside that he could give you. Not enough to buy you a new life but certainly enough to start. He could make sure you disappear into the hazy backdrop of the world. To some faraway seaside cottage that he could come and visit. He could fix it up maybe. Live in it possibly. If the pack doesn’t take him back.

There are a lot of ‘ifs’ in all this.

The rest of the houses jostling for power gets worse as the days count down, and they grow restless. The Callender trudges closer to the 120-day mark. The gala planned at end of the season is for the lunar new year but also for the new Don. It will be the last official family gathering and once the clock strikes midnight, Yoongi will make his choice on who will rule. It has more than one grandma in a tizzy- there’s a lot of planning that goes into it.

“It’s the year of the rabbit,” someone whispers,

“Not a good year, a year for prey animals.”

“Surely it’s bad luck.”

Yoongi grows antsy too. Too often the business of the family drags him away from you.

He helps the Ahn's carry out a deal that almost goes south and misses two meetings with you in a row. You do send some pastries to the cottage, chocolate ginger cookies with powdered sugar tops- but they’re cold and a little mushy by the time Yoongi gets to them. The cinnamon still reminds him of Tae. It seems like you’re trying to make one pastry for each of them, if the coffee cake and vanilla bean scones are anything to go by.

When he can’t get to you, your text messages are his constant companion.

Mrs.Min (1:26am): if you have a sweet tooth like me, I don’t know why you’ve never learned to bake.

--- (1:31am): Seokjin bakes bread sometimes but anything with a filling he kind of fails at.

--- (1:31am): We tried to make hot pockets once.

Yoongi swears he can year you stifle a laugh over the phone. Across the city sitting downstairs because you didn’t want to fall asleep next to Geumjae upstairs. Happy to have a rare evening where he doesn’t…require you.  

You feel like you sort of know his pack already. It’s nice to talk about them. You’re the only person who Yoongi can talk to about them. The only person who doesn’t make talking feel scary.

Yoongi changes your contact in his phone.

--- (1:32am): could you teach me how to cook shit like this?

Her (1:32am): Don’t call my cookies shit

Yoongi sends a selfie of himself eating one, face dotted with powdered sugar like snow.

 --- (1:32am): they sort of look like shit.

Her (1:33am): they’re double chocolate caramel!!!!

Her (1:33am): …

Her (1:33am): Alright fine, I’ll admit they’re not visually appealing.

Yoongi laughs curling over the plate of cookies. It’s the first time he’s laughed in weeks, the first laugh that he’s had here that wasn’t fake. Yoongi looks at his phone and feels such a pang in his chest it winds him. Tae's voice whispers in his ear.

You’re going to miss her, aren’t you? If this goes south, you’d miss her.

Yoongi’s heart is in his throat when he reads your text message.

Her (1:34am): We might not have a lot of time until new years, but I can probably teach you a few recipes before then.

~-~

(87 days before, Yoongi)

More and more of the families want to have Yoongi supervise, want him to see how each of their candidates behave in hopes of swaying him in their direction. But a good portion of them are either too young, too stupid, or too disinterested in actually leading. Guided to Yoongi’s quiver by their parents and heads of house.  

The Ahn’s are in charge of weed and meth, the Miyazato’s cocaine and heroin, the Jijon’s prescription drugs and organs (kidneys mostly, but there is the rare lung transplant and the even rarer hearts), the Lucchese’s for smuggling and laundering, the Moon’s diamonds, the Camorra’s prostitution, Another for cybercrimes and counterfeiting, on and on again until Yoongi’s mind is dizzy with keeping track of who works for who.

12 families in total. A few of them have intermingled enough that there are blood relations on both sides. Yoongi’s mother was a Moon before she married his father. The title of ‘cousin’ for Moonbyul’s isn’t just that. The blood mixing is kept track of carefully, with no need for unintended incest, it’s a hobby of the auntie and uncle omega’s. There is a dating pool of eligible young omegas and alphas. The more they intermarry the stronger the bond between houses grow.

Yoongi doesn’t know what he’d rather do, play kingpin or matchmaker.

There are a few arranged marriages each year. One gets announced at a family dinner almost halfway through Yoongi’s stay. The Ahn head of house and the Luchese head of house shake hands, the perfect picture of a business deal. Both of them wishing for more grandchildren.

Which is probably why most of the grannies don’t like you.

Yoongi see’s you sneered at and tripped, notes when the houses switch to their native tongues, more often than not Korean, when you come close to hide their words from you. You’ve squashed their plans of having their third or fourth in line omega grandchild marry a head of house. Yoongi doesn’t have to ask himself why Geumjae chose you. It’s clear.

You’re as beautiful as you are easy to get along with, more than one man has been tempted to possessive anger by a countenance as graceful as yours. When Yoongi comes to check on you you’ve always got something prepared.

You need too, because that’s the only sure-fire way you’ve ever found that made Geumjae’s anger immediately subside. A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach (and between his legs) and it’s your only way to safety.

Geumjae doesn’t eat your sweets anymore. He hasn’t since the Don and Beta died. But Yoongi eats them and that’s enough to encourage your shy smile.

You learned after the first day you don’t have something prepared, that Yoongi doesn’t mind if you don’t have the food ready when he walks in. “I-I’m sorry- they’re taking too long to cook- they don’t look pretty, and I haven’t even made the ganache yet- I don’t know what went wrong and-”

Yoongi’s presence is so soothing, like a fresh breath of air as he swoops into your kitchen, opening the oven and checking it while you watch anxiously. Ready to be scolded.

“It looks like it needs a minute, do you want to teach me how to make frosting? It can’t be that hard to make ganache.” His casual tone leaves you spluttering.

“Gnash and frosting are like so not the same thing.”  

It’s the first time anyone cooked with you in years, and Yoongi dons your apron so easily. There are little strawberries embroidered along the hem, and it contrasts with the dark silk of his button-down. He lets you tie it behind his back. He always wears the scarf when he comes to see you, it’s like your little secret. Sometimes, at the family dinners on the weekend you see it tied to his wrist, the hint of red peeking out from his suit jacket.

Some days Yoongi doesn’t take it off.  

“Is there anything you don’t like? Any desert I shouldn’t make?”

Yoongi thinks for a moment, humming, turning away to tap at his phone, sitting on the countertop. Someone is calling him, but he taps away the contact the second it appears. “I guess the only thing I don’t really like is pumpkin pie.��

You lift your lip, nodding in agreement, “so mushy.”  You show him how to chop the chocolate, putting it in the double boiler, watching him while he stirs it, giving him instructions that he follows obediently.

A man, obedient for you. How strange.

He’s got nice shoulders, you realize. They’re wider than you first thought. A warm vision pops into your head; more of a string of images than a daydream. Your arms around his waist, a hug from behind. Your front pressed to his warm back, burying your face in his shoulders and rubbing your nose along his spine.

It’s brief even if it is sweet, you shake it off before it has the power to make your scent sweet. Narrowly stopping the chocolate from burning with a hand on his wrist. His scent sweetens. Like the chocolate on the air. You avoid touching Yoongi for the rest of the day. When Yoongi’s not looking you press your cold hands to your cheeks to try and calm down.

~-~  

(70 days before, Yoongi)

It’s the 6th Wednesday that Yoongi has gone over to your house, and when he checks his phone for a text from you, he finds nothing.

It's not all that abnormal. Two Mondays ago Yoongi hadn't gotten a text at all until nearly 4 o'clock. You'd apologized and told him that he should just come over if it happened again. So he heads over, hood up in disguise and to protect his face from the wind. A gnawing feeling in his chest that feels an awful lot like worry. 

There are no staff here today, none. Not a single car in your modest wrap-around driveway or 3-car garage. Yoongi knows Geumjae has a collection of supercars somewhere across the city, but knows better than to suspect he’s home. He always parks out front and leaves either the red Lamborghini or the black Spider where anyone can see and envy it. Geumjae never misses an opportunity to show off. 

Yoongi lingers outside, the windows are dark, but he can see a light just on, not in the entranceway but further inside. He sends you a text, tries to call you, and even knocks on the front door, only for it to go unanswered. He hesitates just briefly before he lets himself in. 

He doesn't have to go far to find you. You are in the powder room just off the foyer. The only lit-up space in the whole house, you are slumped over the sink, hardly able to hold yourself up. You look up in the mirror the second you hear someone behind you.

You flinch, face turning, bloody cheek catching the light. 

“Holy shit.”  

He hasn’t taken off his jacket or his shoes, he hasn’t even bothered to make sure you’re not being watched as he crosses the short distance. You flinch back again, backing up against the door.

 Your face is...a mess, a bruised cheek, the corner of your lip split, and the top of your cupid's bow swollen. There is blood on your lips, the inside of your mouth when you open it. Your chin is speckled with it as is the side of your face.

Your shoulders go down, and you speak, words muffled from the blood in your mouth. The sink is soaked in it from wall to wall. A bit drips out.

“I thought you were Geumjae.” 

Yoongi bristles, but rage makes him quiet. You pause, spitting blood into the sink. “Bit my cheek when he slapped me. It’s alright, it's fine, I'm-” you sway, teeter there and Yoongi stops you from falling over. Woozy from blood loss? From a minor concussion?

It’s anything but alright, and it’s anything but fine. Yoongi knows. Feels it in his hands, shaking with rage. He lifts his hands, hesitating before he touches you. He lowers his hand and settles for grabbing yours, tugging you through the house to the kitchen.

Yoongi does not like touching you when he's angry. It doesn't feel good. It doesn't feel right, even if it's not you he's angry at.

Face wounds have a habit of bleeding a lot, and mouth wounds even more so. There is a trail of blood from the bathroom to the kitchen speckling the black and white checked floor. 

It’s no better there. In the kitchen, there’s a small pool of blood on the floor. Smudged like something- your cheek maybe- had been pressed into it and dragged or pushed through it. Dried and dark.

A bowl of flour sits upturned, dotting the counter like snow and turning everything dusty. Yoongi wonders what you’d been making, what you’d almost tried to bake before your interruption.

It had been for him; you'd been baking for him and Geumjae had been there and he'd- 

Yoongi picks you up at your waist and sits you on the countertop. So angry he can hardly speak. The touch is brief, only a few seconds on your waist. But you make a small noise in surprise. “Sit.” He commands, and you follow, perfectly obedient. 

Blood dribbles out of your lips. Onto your lap. You're in your pajamas, matching blue and grey silk toile. There's blood on your collar too.

He wets a cloth underneath the faucet and dabs it against your cheek, round and swollen, ever so gently to wipe at the blood on your cheek, holding his hand under your chin to catch the blood. Your split lip. Until your skin is mostly clear. You wince and Yoongi gently cajoles you. “There you go- I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Yoongi leaves you with the cloth and goes to get cotton rounds and raid the bathroom. There is hydrogen peroxide and Vaseline, it’s not ideal, and it's not a trip to urgent care or a call from a family doctor but it’s all Yoongi can do.

"I'm going to fix your mouth, but I have to put my fingers in there. Is that okay? Is that alright?" you nod, mouth too full of blood to speak.

Yoongi washes his hands before he grabs the Vaseline. He hooks his finger into it grabbing a glob on his index before he holds his other hand out for the cloth. "Spit" You spit into the cloth. "Open" you open your mouth.

Yoongi finds the interior gash warm, Warm and wet and hot to the touch. He swipes the Vaseline over it as gently as he can but you still wince. Breath hot around his knuckles. Yoongi does not keep his fingers in your mouth longer than necessary. Taking it out and whipping the blood and Vaseline on another cloth. "There you go, good, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Try to speak with your lips more, I know it hurts, but this will help it clot and stop bleeding. Leave it in for an hour and then you'll be good." 

The Vaseline tastes gross. Leaves oil on your tongue, but your mouth immediately stops filling with blood. Yoongi's fingers are out of your mouth as quick as he puts them in. You nod, eyes downturned. 

Yoongi takes the cloth from you and continues to clean. It's the softest anyone's touched you in a long time. You're selfish enough to let him do it. Is it affection or selfishness? Wanting or guilt? You can't read Yoongi's expression. Can’t read his eyes at all.

You’re wearing makeup to cover other bruises, this close, standing between your legs, he can see the spots where your skin turns gummy. He continues to wipe it away. Going farther than the blood. Down to your chin, your shoulder. Your neck, Your fingers. Your wrists. More and more horrified the more he uncovers. 

You don't stop him. You could stop him. You should. But being touched like this. The cold cloth feels so pleasant against your bruised skin. It feels a bit too good to be safe.

You have fingerprints, hand marks, whatever you want to call them. Around your neck. Big finger-shaped bruises. More around your wrists like someone has been holding you down. Your eyes are screwed shut tight like you can’t bear to keep your eyes open. Yoongi’s rag is a mess of makeup and blood. 

An uncharacteristic growl builds in his chest because- because- 

He can tell that the bruises aren’t fresh. You have to have been hiding them for days or maybe weeks because they’re already yellowing. Yoongi didn't notice them. Geumjae had tried to strangle you. To kill you. He could have, he could have done it, with his hands around your throat.  

Yoongi wonders If the abuse started before or after your marriage. Knowing Geumjae- he probably waited to show you his true colors. Married, locked in, and trapped. He must have waited until you knew too much, until you didn’t have a hope of leaving without losing your life.

The family doesn’t allow divorces. 

You immediately go into damage control. Yoongi doesn’t even have to ask where you got them before you’re defending your husband. “There are worse things. He wasn’t trying to kill me this time. He was just so angry.” Looking at them all Yoongi can think is that Namjoon would sooner cut off his own hands than lay one finger on Jin in anger. “-and you know how alpha’s are, it’s my fault, I make him angry.”

You keep saying that and Yoongi’s starting to hate it.

Yoongi can barely hear you over the roar of his own heartbeat in his ears. He knows he probably smells like the ocean right now. That he should be putting more effort into smelling gentler so that he doesn’t spook you but-

“This time?”

If he smells like the ocean when he’s sad or upset, then you smell like rain. Together you are a typhoon, a hurricane. Wind whipping, cold and fridged. The type of storm that melts cities and peels off warmth like nothing. The kitchen is full of that smell, rain, salt, and bloody brine.

You shake your head at him, looking away. You take the cold cloth from him. All but wrench it from his fingers. “Don’t, just don’t alright.”

Yoongi pushes back from the countertop and Yoongi raises his hand to run a hand over his face, realizing what he’s done wrong seconds later. His words of ‘don’t defend him’ die in his throat when he sees you prepare to be hit. Flinching and closing your eyes again.

If you’re getting abused by your husband, it stands to reason that his brother will do the same. No matter the kindness that you’ve come to expect from Yoongi, no matter the gentleness you’ve seen. He could always change. People can always change. No good will is guaranteed and no safety is forever.

His touch on your chin is gentle but you still recoil from it. Opening your eyes looking up at him. Eyes wide in surprise.

You’re beginning to realize that Yoongi is nothing like his brother. You feel like you’re always expecting him to do one thing, only for him to say and do the opposite. You wait for him to shame you when he teases you, wait for him to lie to you when he tells you the truth. He’s a man of contradictions.

You’ve never known a beta before. 

You’ve seen the way he acts around the others in the family, watching, always ready to offer an encouraging touch to the young pups or a helpful hand to the old grannies. He might complain and bitch and moan, but behind closed doors, Yoongi is as intense of a man as he is kind.

You think that out of all of them, he’s the only member of the family that you could ever learn to genuinely like.

Not love, because love isn’t something you’d ever get. Not without paying for it. 

Geumjae is always careful to remind you of an omega’s place in society, especially one like you who came from nothing and is worth comparatively little. How many times has he reminded you that you’re not worth the money it takes to house and clothe you? That you are more of a bother than you’re worth.

You need to fit the part assigned to you. The wife, pretty and young and doting. 

Your husband likes it when you’re dressed to impress, in Burberry and Balenciaga. It sends a pointed message to the other families, even if it makes you feel like an accessory. 

Feeling like an accessory is better than feeling like a nuisance, like the dirt under his shoes- like earlier, your nose shoved into your blood like a pet would be shown a mess. Geumjae's boot on the side of your face, pressing you into the floor so hard you felt your jaw creek. You take what you can get. You have been trained to accept violence where there should be love. It’s your job to look and act a certain way. It's your job to take it. 

But it’s harder with Yoongi, harder when he doesn’t seem to expect anything from you at all beyond the conversation. But maybe you’re just naive.

He’s still a man after all. 

You know best what men are truly like. How many times has Geumjae told you your only value is between your legs? The other slight comforts you provide are simply nominal.  You’re as much for decoration as the fancy designer couch or the crystal chandelier. You complete the picture of the perfect life. Powerful men like Geumjae should have pretty young wives, demure and obedient. 

You don’t know when you started to believe the horse shit that Geumjae shoves down your throat. That you were lucky he didn’t treat you worse. That his job is stressful enough to make the abuse justified.

That you deserve it. 

But Yoongi makes it hard to believe Geumjae’s lies. Especially when he talks about his pack, especially when he reacts to your bruises. You bruise easily, it’s not Geumjae’s fault he leaves marks on you. 

Yoongi cradles your face in his hand, thumb on your bruised chin. So, light it doesn’t hurt. It’s dangerous. If Geumjae saw the two of you right now, standing closer like this, Yoongi standing between your parted thighs he might-

“I will never hurt you; you don’t have to be afraid of me.” You stare at him, keenly aware that no matter the empty this house is there could always be eyes.

You could never call the brownstone home. No matter that you sleep and eat and shit here. This house is not a home, that you are sure of. It is never truly safe and there could always be someone watching. Someone who could tell Geumjae that Yoongi had put his hands on you. However gently. it doesn’t matter when it comes to your husband.

His promise tastes rotten. It's not safe for him to be around you. And yet, he holds your face so gently, that you cannot help but lean into his touch.

His hair brushes your brow, long, in your face. “I’m never going to hurt you. I promise.”

Your skin belongs to Geumjae; your body belongs to Geumjae. Every molecule in you promised from the ring on your finger and the bracelets on your wrist. When you find time to feel something other than fear- you hate it. That he’s made you into this thing. This object. You hate the man you once said you loved. No matter what your family and friends had told you about your boyfriend, then fiancé, and now your demon.

Your family and friends have long stopped asking after you. They don't come around anymore; you haven’t spoken to them in years. Whenever they call, Geumjae gets a notification on his phone. You know he has it tracked as well to keep an eye on you. And it’s easier to just not pick up than have him question you and demand you turn over your phone. Even if nothing is telling in your text messages, he’ll find something to be mad about.

Why are you downloading Instagram again? I told you I wasn’t comfortable with you downloading it, people only use it to cheat and look at pictures of other alpha’s. Why did you delete this photo from your camera roll? Did you send this selfie to someone else? See this is why I can’t trust you- you’re so fucking Nieve it blows my mind sometimes. Why would anyone be interested in you if they weren’t going to fuck you? You think she really just wants to be your friend? You’re so fucking boring baby. She’s an alpha. You know alpha’s only want one thing.

Your husband is as possessive of you as he is violent. The first time another man had touched you- just a hand on the small of your back- Geumjae had carved the skin away and cut off the other man’s hand. One finger for every second spent touching something that was his.

That is what we do with filth. We cut it out. He’d said, trailing the knife up the inseam of your tights. You should be careful you don’t dirty yourself. He’s done a lot to you over the years, made you stand under cold water until your lips where purple and the water felt like fire, made you kneel, kept you awake until you were worried about passing out, forced you to crawl, forced you to be sick. Forced you to do a lot of things you’re not proud of, that make you feel dirty.

Yoongi cradles your face so delicately, like he’s not worried about getting his hands dirty.

The scars would have stuck if you hadn’t used scar cream, and really- it wasn’t that deep or that bad, you hadn’t even needed stitches. If he’d been truly angry, he would have cut you deeper. Even in your own mind, you make it out as less bad than it is. 

There are other things that are worse than the scars. You hate the way that your husband watches you, the way that his eyes roam. You feel like he's cutting your skin off, fileting you alive with every spot his eyes touch. You would cut it out if you could- whatever makes him stare so long.  You’d cut your hair and scar your face; you’d smash all your makeup if only he would stop looking at you.  

But beauty is currency. Would Yoongi be helping you right now if you weren't beautiful? You’re not sure you want to know the answer to that question.

(Yes…he would.)

You’ll get nowhere with that line of questioning. As much for your safety as for Yoongi’s- He can’t get close to you or else risk Geumjae’s wrath. You step away from him and his touch. Returning to the floor and stepping out of his grasp. Yoongi has his blood on your fingers when he takes them away, rusty and diluted from water.

It won’t be the last time he has your blood on his hands.

“Yoongi,” you say his name chiding, like you’re scolding a small child. “Don’t you know better than to make promises you can’t keep?”

~-~

(68 days before, Yoongi)

Group dinners are routine, and while Yoongi could find an excuse to see you during the day, he’s also often pulled in 50 different directions by the expectations of his family.

He finds himself readying for dinner in a hurry most nights, eager or maybe a little panicked to check in with you. The family dinners are tense between the two of you. You maintain none of the easy friendships you've cultivated in private. You avoid him like the plague and his eyes never hover on you even once.

Both of you are good at pretending.

Geumjae sticks to your side like glue too. A hand that probably looks protective to anyone else but looks possessive to Yoongi slung around your waist constantly. Yoongi sees the harshness and pain in your body when Geumjae’s hand tightens digging into the swell of your hip. You're plush in the way that all omega's are plush, as pretty as it is distracting.

Yoongi does not let himself look distracted. Not yet. There are too many maneuvers to make, too many decisions and plays, and each of you is like a piece of a chess board.

Yoongi eats his food and quietly begins to plan Geumjae’s murder.

Knight to A1, Rook to A3, (Queen to E4, Pawn to D5).

Sometimes when you stand close Yoongi lets his fingers brush yours. Sometimes you even brush back.

~-~

(64 days before, Yoongi)

Checking up on everyone in the family during mourning times and making sure they’re all obeying the rules is one of his responsibilities as beta but fuck if it’s not annoying.

Yoongi is a different person when he's around them. He has to be.

He doesn’t know how many more aunties or grannies or omegan uncles he can handle crying into his shoulder about how the last Don was so and so, did such and such great thing, or was remarkable in this way. Only to have them compare the late Don to their grandchild or husband, conveniently eligible for the throne.

Everything is a tool. Even mourning. Even misery.

Yoongi's glad you don't try anything, not that he thinks you would, not that you'd ever defend Geumjae. Regardless of where you stand with your husband. His presence in your house will always be easy to excuse an account of how suspicious the others are of you.

He just wants to make sure the newest member of the family isn’t a mole. That excuse satisfies everyone.

Even Geumjae.

None of them suspect what he’s planning, Yoongi isn’t just a good manipulator, he’s the best.

He makes a show of it, and it has the double purpose of undermining Geumjae’s position in the family when they have a meeting. Only the heads of house and him. 13 people sat around the big table. Moonbyul has her Chelsea boots propped up on the edge of the table. Yoongi standing at the head. He infuses his words with more venom than a rattlesnake.  

“I cannot believe you’re foolish enough to bring in someone as incompetent and as stupid as you did brother,” Yoongi lies. They’re all lies lies lies- “You clearly haven’t been making decisions with the family's best interest in mind, I expected better from you.”

5 out of the 12 heads nod at Yoongi’s words. Moonbyul levels him with a cool look. Calculating. "It would have been safer for a head of household to pursue someone from within the family, let alone an outsider who had a clear lack of money or relevant connections." That much is true. “She has no use to us. It’s clear that this matter requires my personal involvement.” Geumjae won’t contradict Yoongi in front of the other heads of household. He merely nods at Yoongi somberly, accepting his criticism.

It’s not the last criticism that Yoongi has for them. Not by far. Yoongi was taught to do this job and damn it if he's not fucking good at spotting their weaknesses from a mile away.

“The sector by the docks is so leaky it couldn’t hold a fucking cup of water. You cannot be moving products in the light of day. I get that you're fucking ancient Mr. Choi and that you're grieving but switch your schedules over before you get all of us fucking caught. You won't last in jail, and that’s a promise."  

“Are you thinking with your dick or your brain Meimei? Or do you just scoop anyone off the street these days without bothering to check if they’re the cousin of the fucking mayor? It’s a good thing your son realized who she was, or else that might have made a mess that not even I can clean up. How is the donation to his next campaign coming? Is there anything else we know that we can use against him? If he asks for more than a million it's coming out of your coiffeurs not the rest of ours. I don't care if you have to sell your house in Aspen or your own fucking omega, get it done.”

He tosses insults like they're change, and the sneer on his face is not fake. “Bury your bodies, don’t prop them up at your dinner table and make them a plate. Get rid of this or I swear to God you’ll be next on my chopping block.”

And if someone dares to ask him if he's made his choice yet, he all but bites their head off. "In the last 70 days, I've witnessed nothing but profound mediocrity from you and everyone else in your line. If you have any more stupid questions, I'll gladly replace you as head of house, maybe the next one won't make me feel like I'm blowing my fucking brains out while I'm holding their goddamn hand."

Yoongi is a good actor, he wonders what they think he’s going to do with you, maybe interrogate, maybe torture, whatever it is- it’s a far cry from his twice-weekly visits to you. Knocking on the door before he lets himself in. Wiping his hands through his hair. Making himself presentable before there’s that pitter patter of socked feet towards the door. His heart beating in time with the quick steps.

You’re already pink-cheeked and smiling shyly, ready to take his coat. “I’ve got it- I’ve got it” he tries to insist. But he suspects it has more to do with your trained countenance than any real want to take care of him. He lets you hang up his coat.

The scarf on his wrist remains tied. Your fingers skim it when you help him take off his gloves.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner- grannie was a little distraught” In truth- the old woman had cried into Yoongi’s arms for a good two hours; it had eaten up most of his morning. You never fail to smile at Yoongi when he appears in your kitchen. Practically bouncing on your heels.

Maybe he can give you this, just this.

Your house always smells sweet. With vanilla, with melted sugar, with milk. Scents that make Yoongi ache. You bake every day, unaware of the fact that the scents you conjure with your hobby make Yoongi think of people he loves and misses daily.

He doesn’t know what his family thinks he’s doing with you, but letting you chide him gently over the way he's folding the egg whites probably isn't it. "They're so fluffy, are you sure they're not like whipped cream." Yoongi slides his finger through them.

"Don't. Trust me, egg whites are yucky." 

He spends his afternoons with you munching on the sweets you’ve created and tea and coffee, once you learn that’s what Yoongi likes- you always have a pot ready when he comes knocking. Warm and thick on the air like Namjoon's scent. Imported beans from Taiwan, Thailand, and everywhere until you find the one that Yoongi likes best.

And on the days where it doesn’t hurt as much- when you don't feel prone to jealousy or worry or when you need a bit of hope, you ask Yoongi about his pack.

It's always small questions. Idle and not too deep. It’s not exactly a safe topic and you try not to get into scary territory.  Tip-toeing here and there around things that you really want to say, really want to know, filling up on lemon tarts and custard-filled pastries, on cranberry orange biscuits and jammy cookies.

You know them by name and by scent. And Yoongi only brings them up when he feels like he can handle the pain. Or when you bake things that smell particularly like home, like the den, like them.

It helps that with every day away he makes them safer. With every day gone he brings more distance between them and him and the possibility of the pack getting wrapped up in this gets slimmer and slimmer. The odds are never non-existent, but they are better. He’s a dangerous man to love and Yoongi knows that. He was always on borrowed time. He knows they probably don’t see it that way, but it makes Yoongi feel better about leaving them.

He’s going to have a lot to explain to them if he ever makes it back. Yoongi puts his odds at 20- Maybe 10%.

“The one who smells like honey?” You clarify, “Your honey? Jimin.”

“Jungkook," he corrects easily, Yoongi tips his head good-naturedly. "Jimin smells like vanilla, Jungkook's honey.” The sweetness coats his tongue, almost conjuring Jungkook in thin air by how much Yoongi yearns.

"Your honey?"

"Yes, my honey." Your fingers are sticky, your smile too. Yoongi reaches up to wipe your cheek. “He would love stuff like this, he’s a total muscle pig but he only really works out so that he can eat as much food as he wants,” Yoongi says the words hushed. Like they’re a secret. He doesn’t mention anything about Jungkook’s seizures.

You hide your smile in the lip of a teacup. “I’ll have to make it for him one day then.”

It’s a soft sentiment even if it’s another impossibility. The promises are just another way that you and Yoongi play pretend.

~-~

(57 days before, Yoongi)

Regardless of the Don’s position remaining unfilled and the rules imposed, bloodshed can’t always be avoided. It's always something, a gun that accidentally goes off at the wrong moment, some bad product that finds its way onto the streets and sends the media into a tizzy. Today it's a dock worker who doesn't want to pay the usual fee, who foolishly thinks that things will change now that there isn’t a sole person in control.

But he's wrong, Yoongi is in control.

He's called in to help, and he’d had to leave the man in a bloody heap, barely breathing. He'd heard more screams while he was leaving. Yoongi doesn’t want to think about how painful it must have been. Walking away with heavy footsteps.

He’d made sure to wash the blood off of his hands and change his clothes before coming over, but he’d forgotten about the bottoms of his shoes, walking all over your rug and tracking blood into the house. You don’t level it or him with any distaste, no matter how much he apologizes. He can tell you don’t really mind.

He wonders how many times you’ve had to clean up blood in this house and how many times that blood has been your own. You have the cleaning ladies who move through the house like wraiths’. But they're in your husband's pocket. You clean it up before they have a chance too.

Yoongi gets on his hands and knees with you, no matter that you tell him he shouldn't.

"I'm your equal when it's just the two of us, you don't have to act like that- subservient," he says, "I'm not Geumjae."

Oh, if only Yoongi knew how painfully aware you are of that.

Both of you scrub the floor in companionable silence. Not too worried about leaving evidence that anyone with more than a wandering eye would find. The quiet seeps in until you ask him.

“Did you kill him?” Yoongi can’t breathe around the tension in his chest. You touch his hands, and somehow- you don’t expect them to be as warm as they are.

Warm monsters cannot survive the coldness of hell.

“No. But I could have.” He closes his eyes, admitting it after a moment. “I left that for someone else but I probably shouldn't have, they-”  he breaks off, hums, “I doubt they made it quick."

You trace along with one of the bruised knuckles delicately, making a small noise in the back of your throat.

It feels too close to forgiveness, but Yoongi cannot move his hand away.

~-~

(49 days before, Yoongi)

It’s an uncommonly warm day for December, uncommonly sunny outside too, as the light cuts through the barren trees. He can’t help by notice the way that you look towards the open windows, cracked to let some of the stale air out by the cleaning ladies who left before Yoongi arrived. Letting in the distant sounds of the city.

A car horn blares and slips over the stone wall like a tantalizing promise, the sound of people on the sidewalk talking is gentle and sweet. Your house is big, but there’s no real distance that separates you from them here. Maybe 10 feet of driveway and another 10 feet of garden.

Yoongi wonders, not for the first time, if the walls are to keep the world out or to keep you in.

He sees you lean your cheek against the side of the couch and stare over the edge of it, a empty teacup abandoned in your lap. Eyes closed against the tantalizing breeze that slips through the open window.

“We should get out of the house, go somewhere.”

Your eyes open, and you blink, sleepy. You must have a nest upstairs, Yoongi is struck all of a sudden, by how he’s never seen it. Omega’s nest to feel comfort. Collect blankets and soft things and pillows. He imagines you must need a great deal of that- comfort and rest. He’d like to see it, if you’d let him. But it’s an intimate thing to ask, an even more intimate thing to see. If Yoongi where an alpha, the question would be akin to asking for nudes.

But Yoongi isn’t an alpha. He puts his coffee cup down.

“Geumjae doesn’t like it when I leave the house without him, he’ll be angry.”

Yoongi stands up from the settee and holds out his hand for you.

“If he finds out, we can tell I made you.”

You hesitate, staring at his open palm before you take it and let him pull you to your feet.

The two of you raid the coat closet for mittens and scarves and dash out onto the city streets with a breathless giggle. Dodging passersby and pressing close in your own little bubble. Your hand isn’t in his yet, but it brushes his often.

It feels stolen, savored, like a penny that you find on the sidewalk, round and coppery golden.

He drags you through the narrow city streets, treating you to gelato at Venchi. He gets pistachio and you get strawberry. Even though it’s winter, the hot cocoa he gets you warms you up enough that you hardly even feel it. Yoongi’s smile makes you feel like it's summer. You sit at the back of the shop and talk about everything. You talk about the wedding he missed, about the family, about anything but your husband.

You rarely meet eye contact but you’re both good at steering the conversation into safe territory. You like a lot of the same music- and once Yoongi gets started talking about it, he really can’t shut up. You’re a fan of the same drama that Tae and Seokjin like to watch. That’s the first time Yoongi sees your face light up.

You don’t have great proprioception. You’re always reaching for something, always hitting your hip on the table as you walk by. You almost step into the street at one point, teetering off the edge of the sidewalk so close that he has to grab you back from the edge.

You lean into his space a little, blinking at the sudden loud noise, the car speeding past and honking at you to get out of the way. His hand is a vice around your upper arm pulls you in closer than should be proper. You whisper a small thank you with wide eyes that look up at him like you’re surprised that he thought to make sure you weren’t in harm’s way. Yoongi doesn’t know how you almost walked out into traffic, how you didn’t see the car coming. 

“Are you dizzy or something?”

“A little,” You confess.

You remind Yoongi of a clumsy baby kitten or maybe like an alley cat that hasn’t yet committed to a life of kibble and wet food. Like you want to trust him but can’t. You look at Yoongi like you’re half scared of him and half hopeful. He remembers feeling that way, so desperate for something good to hold onto but so conscious of the fact that to hope means to invite disappointment. That to trust is to be betrayed. That anything good, cannot possibly stay for long.

He understands it. Yoongi is a patient man.

(He thinks of trying to make up for the bloodshed he’s caused. Life by life. Yoongi is not absent of blame. Yoongi is still a cog in this machine that helps it run. He’s at least partially responsible for all the carnage the family has caused. At the end of the day, he only tries so hard to limit their destruction. 

But if he was going to make amends in some small way, you'd be a good place to start.)

Yoongi actually does manage to find a small gift for Seokjin. Delicate gold rings that should fit the omega's hands. At a little shop that you find tucked between the eyes of a bougie bakery and a store that sells designer lampshades (if you can believe that there is a market for such a thing).

“You know his ring size?” You tease, Yoongi nods. Blushing. Yoongi has known Seokjin’s ring size since the second month he knew him. Has kept that information in his back pocket. Somewhere in his things back home there is a wedding ring that he’d never given Seokjin, a cheap diamond, small, just a singular star in the center of a thin band. It's all that Yoongi could afford at the time.

He'd always had it in the back of his mind, Proposing. Marrying Seokjin. But then Seokjin met Namjoon and then Yoongi fell in love with him and really, alpha's and Omegas belong together. Mating isn't the same as marriage.

Maybe, when he gets back- if he gets to go back, they can talk about it. If Seokjin even wants him anymore.

“Must be one lucky omega then.” Yoongi blushes and you smile. Yoongi pulls you closer under the guise of staying warm. It's a cold night, the sky is bright and clear.

"You'd like him, I think he'd really really like you too."

“Tell me about Seokjin again.” Yoongi happily obliges.

The two of you walk home, the nighttime darkening and sweetening as you stand close. Yoongi holds the bag to his chest. Neither of you looks up, but above you in the night sky, there are twice as many stars as usual.

~-~

Yoongi walks you home and then heads back to the cottage, a pip in his step. A lighter feeling than any he’s had in months fills his heart till it swells too full. Halfway to happy. He walks up to the front of the cottage, thinking of what to text you.

What’s your favorite song? Do you have a favorite food I could teach you how to make? How about tomorrow? What are you doing tomorrow? Can I steal you away again? Can I steal you away for good maybe? Would you let me?

Yoongi texts you, and you text back. He's got his keys in his hand. Fingering the scarf tied to his wrist. Smiling softly to himself. Completely unaware of the danger that lurks just beyond the edge of the shadows.

Yoongi is just getting his keys out when he feels the gun press to the back of his head.

Yoongi turns, training kicking in, but before he can see who it is the person hits him in the back of the head. A pistol whip. Brutal but effective. He hits the concrete, and a sweet-smelling rag gets pressed over his mouth. Knees pressed to either side of his hips to keep him down.

Everything goes dark.

~-~

(Read the first Version of this story Here)

Notes:

-The part where Yoongi’s talking about how he’d take down the family if he could reminds me that in the version of the story where the m/c stayed with Moonbyul- she’d have managed to take everything down on her own. She would have managed to do what Yoongi couldn’t.

- I am very very heavily considering renaming the first arc of bily when it does get put into print. I think the story (chapters 1-11 in the og version) would be called ‘prey animals’ but idk yet. Let me know what you think of this name.

- Yoongi calling the m/c ‘her’ is like…ugh I kind of love it. It’s so simple but so like- romantic. Like if you asked him “do you love her” at this point he’d be like no, but he’d know exactly who you were asking about. It’s just an itty-bitty crush at this point. I don’t think he truly realizes he has feelings for her until after two chapters from now.

- The red Lamborghini that Yoongi mentions is actually the same car that the m/c gives Hobi later in the story just fyi,

- Okay so I know that like- mma fighters seal up wounds with Vaseline and I’ve had to do it on occasion too, but I’m not exactly sure if they can be used on interior mout wounds. Honestly in the office where I work, we just pack it with gauze so! Maybe this is a big fanciful but it is indulgent to me and I like the scene so I’m not changing it.

- Ah reading these parts where the m/c talks about herself and thinking of how the pack and Tae in particular start to love her is so <3 I’m so sad for her I just want her to be there already.

- (trigger warning; sexual abuse.) tbh, I think that the m/c’s ed started when Geumjae used to make her vomit on his dick after she at too much. He’d purposefully wait until just after she’d eaten. And he started to shame her for eating a lot and not being able to put out. So, she’d stop eating so that he wouldn’t make her vomit and then maybe a few times- he’d praise her for getting smaller and it was a vicious cycle. I also think that occasionally he probably fucked her very very gently, almost lovingly and normally, just to fuck with her head. It was still rape, she still wouldn’t have consented to it if she’d had a choice. But Geumjae was really one fucked up motherfucker, he really did her in. I could go into further detail about all of it, because a lot of what the m/c went through is also what I went through, but I think I can leave it at that. You should know I’m doing okay, that no one’s touched me in 6 years and that is so good! Other people view celibacy as a bad thing but tbh, I’m so happy that my body has been mine for so long. I’m so happy that when I want pleasure it’s my choice and my choice only. Wow this note turned into more of a diary entry lol but what else is new.

- OH I TOTALLY FORGOT ABOUT IT BUT- meimei is actually my older brothers nickname. It’s relevant to this that you understand that my whole family speaks Chinese but me, like- both my siblings and my mom are fluent but I never learned. And meimei or 妹妹 means ‘little sister’ in mandarin- ie what my older brother would call me. And ofc I didn’t know it meant little sister so I called him that back, like I still call him that more than his real name. And it wasn’t until years later when he moved to China and I went to visit and called him that in public and at a very fancy meeting with all his bosses and coworkers and they absolutely died laughing. From what I understand that was his nickname for the rest of his time working for that company. it was a very funny ‘Li is not bilingual’ moment in my life, he’ll always be Meimei to me though. I wrote it in as a little tidbit here. My brother might be a bit of an asshole sometimes, But he’s never corrected me and has never asked me to stop calling him that.

- The line ‘twice as many stars as usual’ is a reference to the poem the two headed calf- If you haven’t read it already I very much encourage you to seek it out. It makes its rounds on the internet every few months but sometimes I feel like a two headed calf. I may not be around for long, I may be a freak of nature, but that which makes me different makes me see the world in a fantastic way. There are twice as many stars for me. Twice as many reasons to hope. I know love exists because I can write about it.

- Ooh did you like the new plot twist? This wasn’t in the first version of the story.

[sophie-frm-mars]

Liberal Dissociative Amnesia

The Cass Review is the most discussed political topic among trans people in the UK right now. The 388 page report by Dr Hillary Cass examines the gender services available to young people in the UK and concludes that young people are being let down, gender services need to be taken out of reach for trans people under 25 and a new system which urges avoiding transition at every turn needs to be created which will refer people at age 25.

I just watched Michael Walker on Novara Media say "I think there are some very difficult questions here that I really don't know the answer to", and I find myself baffled by statements like this. I did actually understand in watching what specific questions he thought were "difficult", and I think someone could probably answer them pretty effectively to a standard he was happy with if he had a well informed trans person who he trusted in his life. The problem is, the whole segment was presented with as much equivocation and both-sidesing as possible, this constant air of "what if"

I feel like I'm observing a dissociative amnesia that people like this run into when discussing something that people they can easily see are bigots have declared to be scientific and complicated and requiring serious scrutiny. The Novara team understand the broad wave of anti-trans attacks happening across much of the world, particularly America and Britain, right now, even if they won't necessarily call it genocide - so why does this story exist completely devoid of context? Why is it suddenly time to ask "difficult questions"?

Walker wonders out loud about people on a spectrum where at one end people would have always been cis under all circumstances and on the other they would have always been trans, and in the middle of course are people who might transition if it's easier and there's less stigma. His point as far as I can tell is that somewhere in there it could get TOO easy to transition and then people will do it and regret it. Do I need to bother saying this is why we have informed consent?

It's like the people trying to wipe us out are playing Simon Says with the most progressive of our liberal media. The progressives can see bigotry for what it is most of the time and then somehow suddenly it becomes ✨special science bigotry ✨ and, perhaps because there's an institutional weight behind it, perhaps because it claims to be a serious study, or perhaps just because of the aesthetics of intellectualism the progressive journalists mysteriously forget about the whole wider context of transphobia around the world and have to apply rigorous journalistic standards to it.

"There's social contagion!" "No that's bigotry"

"They're just undiagnosed autistic people!" "No they're trans AND autistic"

"They're coming after the kids!" "No, that's age old queerphobia"

"✨Simon Says ✨ there's social contagion!" "oh well this warrants very careful discussion, I need to think very hard about this before taking a side here, it's a toxic culture war debate and we must remain ✨rational✨ when discussing issues like this..."

[ptn-imagines]

Can I request hcs for Garofano with a F!Chief who has very soft spot for her? Normally Chief is pretty strict and don't really bend the rules but she developed deep feelings for her and it shows as she sometimes pretends not to see her breaking the rules. Thank you!!!

Ah, Garofano. Like all the adult members of the Garden, I'm besotted with her -- and I also happen to think she looks really good with her hair down and covered in blood. Needless to say, I liked her interrogation. Enjoy your headcanons!

Strict F!Chief who has a soft spot for Garofano

While Chief is still known for her kindness, she is also known for her strictness. She’s far from cruel, but she doesn’t really tolerate breaches of the rules or pointless messing about.

It doesn’t matter who you are – B-Ranks and S-Ranks are treated the same. There is no difference between a Sinner who has been at the Bureau for years versus one who was detained yesterday, save for some official lifting of sanctions the former might have acquired through being on their best behavior.

Even someone like Hella has to be very careful with what boundaries she pushes. Chief isn’t afraid to discipline her Sinners, though not in an unkind or disproportionate way. She’s just… stern. Some of the Sinners find it endearing.

Of course, this strictness just makes it more obvious when the Chief allows one particular Sinner to bend the rules – Garofano.

Though her interactions with the assassin seem quite ordinary, closer scrutiny will reveal that it’s not what she does, but what she doesn’t do. Garofano seems to be able to break the rules with impunity (as long as it concerns Chief; Nightingale still has no problems with disciplining her).

The tailor isn’t a particularly disorderly sort, which probably helps the Chief with overlooking her transgressions. For Garofano, “rule-breaking” mostly consists of being in out-of-bounds areas, or lingering out past curfew on a dispatch mission.

Not so long ago, a simple dispatch mission that Garofano, Coquelic and Sumire had been sent on due to their relevant skills had lasted until well after midnight. Such an incident should’ve warranted thorough questioning about their whereabouts if not stricter punishment, and indeed, when she looked at Sumire and Coquelic, the Chief was frowning. Then, her eyes fell upon Garofano, and her stern expression melted. She didn’t question them at all, simply muttering that it was late and they should get to bed right away with no detours if they weren’t hurt.

Garofano herself doesn’t have much of a proclivity for mischief, but she’s able to bargain for some protection for the more troublemaking members of her family – mostly Coquelic and Gekkabijin. It’s common custom for a Garden member to recruit Garofano into their hijinks if they’re planning on getting into trouble, since even if all she does is smile and sweet talk the Chief a little, it can protect them from all but the most serious of transgressions.

A lot of Sinners are envious of Garofano, and a lot of staff are exasperated by how soft the Chief is on her. However, pretty much everyone who isn’t aggressively territorial over the Chief agrees that they hope something comes of the likely-mutual feelings between Garofano and the Chief. The latter is always so tense all the time; surely having a girlfriend would be good for her to relax. And as far as Sinners go, Garofano was one of the less out-there choices, as long as you were willing to overlook her profession… and Chief clearly was.

[esta-elavaris]

Part Nineteen [2,416 words] ~ James Norrington/OC

An AU of my completed, 400k+ word fanfic Catch the Wind [AO3], in which Elizabeth, not James, is the one to discover Theodora Byrne after she crash-lands into the world of Pirates of the Caribbean.

Page breaks by cafekitsune.

Also now on AO3 and FF.net.

Masterlist of all chapters.

Tag list [let me know if you want to be added!]: @teawithshakespeare @missfronkensteen @dancerinthestorm

A/N: I did not intend to take such a long break from this – but I’m so grateful for how patient you all were!

When Theo received her own personal invite to Amelia Simmonds’ garden party a week after the incident, she had no idea if it was because of the incident and the boundless gossip opportunities it presented, or because Port Royal couldn’t keep a secret for shit and it was now common knowledge that she was being courted by Captain Norrington.

Back home, a garden party would be a boombox in the garden with a cooler full of beers, and a few different choices of Dorito flavours artfully bowled across a white plastic table. It was a bit of a different affair here. The patio doors were flung open and a string quartet was on standby to greet the guests as they filtered out into the hot Caribbean sun under blindingly bright dresses with matching parasols, where canapes and fine crystal glasses of indistinguishable beverages awaited them.

It wasn’t surprising to Theo – and it was probably less surprising to everybody else – that she had no idea how to act. Oh, in settings such as these she had long since learned to follow Elizabeth’s lead, but there was no lead to follow when it came to her new status as far as Port Royal’s most beloved captain was concerned. And not knowing how to act while also being under such heavy scrutiny? That was yet another source of pressure.

Yes, she could follow James’ lead, as well as guessing based on how they’d conducted their visits – for he had visited at least once every day while she ‘recovered’, even if his schedule meant that visit was a mere ten minutes between other things. And she’d found she’d begun to actively look forward to those visits, and was disappointed when they were over.

Oh, she was completely doomed.

Still, that doom came to her dressed dashingly as usual in his full formal get-up the moment she was alone, wielding a glass with some indiscernible liquid in each hand.

“For you,” he handed her one of the tiny glasses.

Theo peered at the glass, barely bigger than her thumb, her brow furrowed.

“It’s Bénédictine,” he said.

“Oh, I know, I just…I don’t know if I can manage all of this,” she said.

James sighed his impatience – fondly, at that – and she continued.

“I mean, look at that. You could drown in there. No, it’s just far too much. I get bored of all drinks after the first mouthful, and this? This has two. Maybe even three. I’ll never manage it.”

“I see you’re feeling better,” he said, a note of humour breaking up his rueful tone. “You must be, if you’re back to teasing me.”

She did feel better. Whatever she’d been plied with for the sake of her ‘nerves’ had, at the time, left her feeling a little foggy, and with a sense of contentment too blankets like and hazy to be real...and once it’d worn off, she’d paid the price for that. Something to do with burning through too much dopamine in too short a time, she suspected, leaving her to do without after the fact. That had been rough. But it hadn’t lasted long, no more than a day, considering she hadn’t been on the stuff long enough to warrant proper withdrawals. Mostly she’d been tired.

...And a little scared. All right, more than a ‘little’ scared. Of what was yet to come. Of the mess she’d gotten herself into. Of the choices she was still making, to be ‘courted’ by a man from the eighteenth century, who should not exist, who was doomed to die, who would hate her if he knew all she kept from him...and who she couldn’t possibly actually have any future with, even if she did manage to circumvent his fate. Right? Staying with him would mean...staying altogether.

And worse still, she wasn’t standing here wishing that she’d done anything differently. Was it any wonder she hadn’t had the heart to needle him?

“Did you miss it?” she asked. “The teasing?”

“More than I should admit.”

All those in attendance at the garden party – all of the eyes who sought to discern just how Port Royal’s newest courting couple would behave around one another – would have no difficulty seeing how she blushed then.

Clearing her throat, she did her best to ignore that blush and spoke. “No regrets on not choosing team shark, then?”

“None thus far. Ask me again in a week or two,” he said drily, a small smile playing on his lips.

“A week?” she gasped. “You think it’ll take that long? You absolute saint, you.”

That earned her a full-blown smile. At least until he made the mistake of casting a glance about those gathered – all of the eyes flickering to them from beneath parasols, over fans, and across drinks. It was enough to dampen his joy, a little, for he straightened, but the smile didn’t fully disappear. Discomfort, it seemed, more than embarrassment. That was a relief. An Irish castaway with no social standing, save for Governor Swann’s daughter having taken a fondness for her, was an unconventional choice, and James Norrington was nothing if not conventional. Or, well, that was how it was supposed to be for now.

“I do hope I’m the only one between us who has the feeling of being an exhibit at a zoo,” he remarked.

“You get used to it,” she offered quietly.

“I...yes. I suppose it’s been that way for you here since the beginning. And my saintly behaviour did not help.”

“Eh, it was a welcome distraction. Passed the time.”

“You’re too generous.”

Feeling bold, she disguised her next words behind a sip of the drink he’d brought her. “You’re too handsome.”

A shocked laugh sprang forth from him, followed by a good deal of spluttering before he finally cleared his throat and shook his head, pretending to find the nearest patch of grass incredibly fascinating. Her smugness lasted about as long as it took her to actually taste the contents of her glass, though, after which her nose wrinkled and she went back to nursing the glass, wondering how exactly she could get rid of it without looking like even more of a wildly uncultured swine.

“There was a matter I wanted to raise with you, while you’re here. I didn’t want to trouble you with it before, nor ruin our visits together...but...well...”

Now she was standing in the garden of the House of Simmonds, there wasn’t much to ruin. She didn’t voice that fact, but the knowing look she cast about the setting seemed to show him that she understood well enough.

“Your father,” he said finally.

“My father?” she echoed weakly.

“I know there are things you have yet to share with me,” a note of sourness threatened to seep into his voice, but he fought it valiantly. “And I shall not rush you. But...you were trying to reach him, yes? And he is...he is a military man? Those are parts of your tale that I never doubted.”

“Yeah- yes. Yes.”

“Would you allow me to begin the process of attempting to find him?”

Theodora stared. And he apparently took that as an answer, continuing quickly but firmly.

“I will not rush you, I spoke truthfully when I said that, I swear it. Not in this, nor in...nor in this,” he motioned, barely, in a way that indicated between the two of them. “But I am keenly aware, as I’m sure you are, that this is a process that may take some time. A long, long time. By the time letters fall into the wrong hands, then reach the right ones, and then receive responses. Is it not better to begin it now? And then the rest of the timing will be at our leisure. At your leisure.”

Pragmatic to a fault. And still too, too fucking good. Whatever he saw in her face, he apparently disliked, for he adjusted where he stood so that his back would block her face from the view of all others in attendance.

“The last thing I wish to do is make you uncomfortable. I’ve done enough of that. And I do not ask this for my own sake, so that we might- I wish to reunite you. Only that. And what else it may or may not bring can be discussed at a later date.”

“Can I think on it?” she asked quietly, finding herself completely unable to look at him.

The correct thing to do, from a standpoint of cold hard logic, would be to agree. To let this already impossibly busy and dutiful man take on extra work, chasing down someone who had not yet been born, for a woman he likely would no longer regard with any affection once he knew the truth. Because what reason could she have to disagree? His patience, on this matter, was a finite thing, and sooner or later he would need an explanation. Telling him no would shorten that span of time, but telling him yes would only have her deserving his hatred twofold, should the truth come out and he realises it was a pointless venture from the very beginning.

“Of course you can.”

Sighing, she almost brought the glass to her lips for another sip, just for something to do with her hands, before she remembered how foul it tasted and dropped it again. “He’d really like you, you know.”

“Only if you mask some of the finer details of these last few months,” he mused, though his eyes remained trained on her features, seeking out any hint of what she really wanted to say.

“I may be open to bribes.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

A few beats of silence passed, and then Theo straightened, hesitated, and sighed.

“James...”

“Hello, you two!” Elizabeth was on them then, lowering her voice after her initial sunny greeting. “I am here in a glowing display of proof that I am neither spurned nor offended. How am I faring?”

James coughed, his current resolution towards candour challenged by Elizabeth’s bluntness, but when his eyes found Theo’s face again, she met his gaze and found he was doing his utmost to show through eye contact alone that he was not angry with her. Frustrated, perhaps, but not angry. 

“Valiantly. You haven’t slapped me or anything,” she answered Elizabeth, spirits bolstered enough by that reassurance to joke a little.

“Miss Swann must be too frightened to do so, after your victory against your last foe.”

“The shark? That was your victory,” Theo pointed out.

“I shan’t claim it. Consider that my first of many bribes,” he replied drily. “And this the second.”

As he spoke, he plucked the glass from her hand and, after making sure the view of the others was fully shielded, emptied its contents into the grass. It was criminal for a grown man to be that adorable. Especially when his face softened at how his actions had her fighting back a smile.

“I’ll leave you two in peace. Miss Swann. Th- Miss Byrne.”

“You know, I never thought I’d see the day when anybody could make him forget formalities so easily. Perhaps you really are a witch,” Elizabeth murmured conspiratorially – mercifully, once he was out of earshot.

Theo didn’t respond.

“The two of you really are so precious, you know,” she prodded again.

“He wants to track down my dad.”

“What?”

“My father. He was asking permission to get the ball rolling to track him down, and reunite us.”

“Oh that’s so romantic!”

“Elizabeth.”

Never before had she felt such a keen need to monitor herself so closely – her tone, her expressions, her body language. For not only were all gathered here watching, but she knew James would be too, trying to get a sense of her reaction when she mightn’t feel the need to filter it for his sake. For he knew that Elizabeth knew everything. And she could therefore be more forthcoming with her. If she freaked out now, if she spoke in anything other than a casual tone, with anything but a smile on her face, he’d grow more suspicious. He’d demand answers sooner.

And if he did that? She’d have a mind to just tell him the bloody truth and be done with it. But that wasn’t possible. Was it?

“What? It is! I’d never say it in front of him, I know how easily he embarrasses, but even you can’t deny it’s terribly sweet-”

“Elizabeth.”

“What, Theo?” Elizabeth laughed impatiently, evidently frustrated that she was equally thrilled alongside her.

“What am I supposed to say?” she said through a smile that was more just like gritted teeth. “What am I supposed to tell him?!”

“The only thing you can tell him. Yes. It’ll be a grave insult otherwise,” Elizabeth replied as though it were obvious. 

“So I’m supposed to just let him chase after someone who doesn’t exist?”

“It’ll make him happy!”

“And then when he finds out the truth?”

“...If he finds out the truth, you can handle it when it comes.”

There were times, when she spent time with Elizabeth, where she marvelled at how all of the divides between them made little difference. Those of the times, lifestyles, wealth, and even age. This was not one of those times.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is!” Elizabeth insisted, appearing irked at her now. “Enough of this, for now. We can’t be seen to be bickering now, they’ll assume the worst. We can discuss this later, Theo, but really you do have to tell him yes. He’ll think you’re not serious about him, otherwise! And then all of this heartache will have been for nothing! When you’re both so happy!”

We can discuss this later sounded a whole lot like I can explain why I’m right later, but Theo shoved down her annoyance, and her panic, and mostly just wished she’d suffered the damn Bénédictine after all. Maybe it would’ve been strong enough to chill her out.

That wish doubled in on itself when she noticed Groves weaving his way through the crowd, and Elizabeth murmured.

“I suppose I’m not the only one who needs to put on a show of not feeling spurned. Although mine may have been rather more truthful.”

Theo said nothing. At this rate, she’d be checking to see if Amelia was stocking vodka.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Alex Byrne

Published: Mar 14, 2024

“Computing is not binary” would be a silly slogan—binary computer code underpins almost every aspect of modern life. But other kinds of binaries are decidedly out of fashion, particularly where sex is concerned. “Biology is not binary” declares the title of an essay in the March/April issue of American Scientist, a magazine published by Sigma Xi, the science and engineering honor society. Sigma Xi has a storied history, with numerous Nobel-prize-winning members, including the DNA-unravellers Francis Crick and James Watson, and more recently Jennifer Doudna, for her work on CRISPR/Cas9 genome editing. The essay is well-worth critical examination, not least because it efficiently packs so much confusion into such a short space.

Another reason for examining it is the pedigree of the authors—Kate Clancy, Agustín Fuentes, Caroline VanSickle, and Catherine Clune-Taylor. Clancy is a professor of anthropology at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign; Fuentes is a professor of anthropology at Princeton, and Clune-Taylor is an assistant professor of gender and sexuality studies at that university; VanSickle is an associate professor of anatomy at Des Moines. Clancy’s Ph.D. is from Yale, Fuentes’ is from UC Berkeley, and VanSickles’ is from Michigan. Clune-Taylor is the sole humanist: she has a Ph.D. in philosophy from Alberta, with Judith Butler as her external examiner. In short, the authors are not ill-educated crackpots or dogmatic activists, but top-drawer scholars. Their opinions matter.

Let’s talk about sex, baby

Before wading into the essay’s arguments, let’s look at the context, as noted in the second paragraph. “Last fall,” the authors write, “the American Anthropological Association made headlines after removing a session on sex and gender from its November 2023 annual conference.” The session’s cancellation was covered by the New York Times as well as international newspapers, and it eventually took place under the auspices of Heterodox Academy. (You can watch the entire event here.) Scheduled for the Sunday afternoon “dead zone” of the five-day conference, when many attendees leave for the airport, the title was “Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby: Why biological sex remains a necessary analytic category in anthropology.” The lineup was all-female, and included the anthropologists Kathleen Lowrey and Elizabeth Weiss. According to the session description, “With research foci from hominin evolution to contemporary artificial intelligence, from the anthropology of education to the debates within contemporary feminism about surrogacy, panelists make the case that while not all anthropologists need to talk about sex, baby, some absolutely do.”

Nothing evidently objectionable here, so why was it cancelled? The official letter announcing that the session had been removed from the program, signed by the presidents of the AAA and CASCA (the Canadian Anthropology Society), explained:

The reason the session deserved further scrutiny was that the ideas were advanced in such a way as to cause harm to members represented by the Trans and LGBTQI of the anthropological community as well as the community at large.

Why “the Trans” were double-counted (the T in LGBTQI) was not clear. And although ideas can harm, a handful of academics speaking in the Toronto Convention Centre are unlikely to cause much. In any event, the authors of “Biology is not binary” seem to think that the panelists’ errors about sex warranted the cancellation, not the trauma their words would bring to vulnerable anthropologists. “We were glad,” they say, “to see the American Anthropological Association course-correct given the inaccuracy of the panelists’ arguments.”

Never mind that no-one had heard the panelists’ arguments—what were these “inaccuracies”? The panelists, Clancy and her co-authors report, had claimed that “sex is binary,” and that “male and female represent an inflexible and infallible pair of categories describing all humans.”

“Biology is not binary” is not off to a promising start. Only one of the cancelled panelists, Weiss, has said anything about sex being binary in her talk abstract, and even that was nuanced: “skeletons are binary; people may not be.” No one had claimed that the two sex categories were “inflexible” or “infallible,” which anyway doesn’t make sense. (This is one example of the essay’s frequent unclarity of expression.) Neither had anyone claimed that every single human falls into one sex category or the other.

Probably the real reason the proposed panel caused such a stir was that it was perceived (in Clancy et al.’s own words) as “part of an intentional gender-critical agenda.” And, to be fair, some of the talks were “gender-critical,” for instance Silvia Carrasco’s. (Carrasco’s views have made her a target of activists at her university in Barcelona.) Still, academics can’t credibly cancel a conference session simply because a speaker defends ideas that bother some people, hence the trumped-up charges of harm and scientific error.

Although Clancy et al. misleadingly characterize the content of the cancelled AAA session, their essay might yet get something important right. They argue for four main claims. First, “sex is not binary.” Second, “sex is culturally constructed.” Third, “defining sex is difficult.” And, fourth, there is no one all-purpose definition of sex—it depends “on what organism is being studied and what question is being asked.”

Let’s go through these in order.

“Sex is not binary”

When people say that sex is binary, they sometimes mean that there are exactly two sexes, male and female. Sometimes they mean something else: the male/female division cuts humanity into two non-overlapping groups. That is, every human is either male (and not female), or female (and not male). These two interpretations of “Sex is binary” are different. Perhaps there are exactly two sexes, but there are some humans who are neither male nor female, or who are both sexes simultaneously. In that scenario, sex is binary according to the first interpretation, but not binary according to the second. Which of the two interpretations do Clancy et al. have in mind?

At least the essay is clear on this point. The “Quick Take” box on the first page tells us that the (false) binary thesis is that “male and female [are] the only two possible sex categories.” And in the text the authors say that “plenty of evidence has emerged to reject” the hypothesis that “there are only two sexes.” (Here they mystifyingly add “…and that they are discrete and different.” Obviously if there are two sexes then they are different.)

If there are not exactly two sexes, then the number of sexes is either zero, one, or greater than two. Since Clancy et al. admit that “categories such as ‘male’ and ‘female’…can be useful,” they must go for the third option: there are more than two sexes. But how many? Three? 97? In a striking absence of curiosity, the authors never say.

In any case, what reason do Clancy et al. give for thinking that the number of sexes is at least three? The argument is in this passage:

[D]ifferent [“sex-defining”] traits also do not always line up in a person’s body. For example, a human can be born with XY chromosomes and a vagina, or have ovaries while producing lots of testosterone. These variations, collectively known as intersex, may be less common, but they remain a consistent and expected part of human biology. So the idea that there are only two sexes…[has] plenty of evidence [against it].

However, this reasoning is fallacious. The premise is that some (“intersex”) people do not have enough of the “sex-defining” traits to be either male or female. The conclusion is that there are more than two sexes. The conclusion only follows if we add an extra premise, that these intersex people are not just neither male nor female, but another sex. And Clancy et al. do nothing to show that intersex people are another sex.

What’s more, it is quite implausible that any of them are another sex. Whatever the sexes are, they are reproductive categories. People with the variations noted by Clancy et al. are either infertile, for example those with Complete Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (CAIS) (“XY chromosomes and a vagina”), or else fertile in the usual manner, for example many with Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia (CAH) and XX chromosomes (“ovaries while producing lots of testosterone,” as Clancy et al. imprecisely put it). One study reported normal pregnancy rates among XX CAH individuals. Unsurprisingly, the medical literature classifies these people as female. Unlike those with CAIS and CAH, people who belonged to a genuine “third sex” would make their own special contribution to reproduction.

“Sex is culturally constructed”

“Biology is not binary” fails to establish that there are more than two sexes. Still, the news that sex is “culturally constructed” sounds pretty exciting. How do Clancy et al. argue for that?

There is a prior problem. Nowhere do Clancy et al. say what “Sex is culturally constructed” means. What’s more, the essay thoroughly conflates the issue of the number of sexes with the issue about cultural construction. Whatever “cultural construction” means, presumably culture could “construct” two sexes. (The Buddhas of Bamiyan in Afghanistan were literally constructed, and there were exactly two of them.) Conversely, the discovery of an extra sex would not show that sex was culturally constructed, any more than the discovery of an extra flavor of quark would show that fundamental particles are culturally constructed.

Clancy et al. drop a hint at the start of the section titled “Sex is Culturally Constructed.” “Definitions and signifiers of gender,” they say, “differ across cultures… but sex is often viewed as a static, universal truth.” (If you want to know what they mean by “gender,” you’re out of luck.) That suggests that the cultural construction of sex amounts to the “definitions and signifiers” of sex differing between times and places. This is confirmed by the following passage: “[T]here is another way we can see that sex is culturally constructed: The ways collections of traits are interpreted as sex can and have differed across time and cultures.” What’s more, in an article called “Is sex socially constructed?”, Clune-Taylor says that this (or something close to it) is one sense in which sex is socially constructed (i.e. culturally constructed).

The problem here is that “Sex is culturally constructed” (as Clancy et al. apparently understand “cultural construction”) is almost trivially true, and not denied by anyone. If “X is culturally constructed” means something like “Ideas of X and theories of X change between times and places,” then almost anything which has preoccupied humans will be culturally constructed. Mars, Jupiter and Saturn are culturally constructed: the ancients thought they revolved around the Earth and represented different gods. Dinosaurs are culturally constructed: our ideas of them are constantly changing, and are influenced by politics as well as new scientific discoveries. Likewise, sex is culturally constructed: Aristotle thought that in reproduction male semen produces a new embryo from female menstrual blood, as “a bed comes into being from the carpenter and the wood.” We now have a different theory.

Naturally one must distinguish the claim that dinosaurs are changing (they used to be covered only in scales, now they have feathers) from the claim that our ideas of dinosaurs are changing (we used to think that dinosaurs only have scales, now we think they have feathers). It would be fallacious to move from the premise that dinosaurs are culturally constructed (in Clancy et al.’s sense) to the conclusion that dinosaurs themselves have changed, or that there are no “static, universal truths” about dinosaurs. It would be equally fallacious to move from the premise that sex is culturally constructed to the claim that there are no “static, universal truths” about sex. (One such truth, for example, is that there are two sexes.) Nonetheless, Clancy et al. seem to commit exactly this fallacy, in denying (as they put it) that “sex is…a static, universal truth.”

To pile falsity on top of fallacy, when Clancy et al. give an example of how our ideas about sex have changed, their choice could hardly be more misleading. According to them:

The prevailing theory from classical times into the 19th century was that there is only one sex. According to this model, the only true sex is male, and females are inverted, imperfect distortions of males.

This historical account was famously defended in a 1990 book, Making Sex, by the UC Berkeley historian Thomas Laqueur. What Clancy et al. don’t tell us is that Laqueur’s history has come under heavy criticism; in particular, it is politely eviscerated at length in The One-Sex Body on Trial, by the classicist Helen King. It is apparent from Clune-Taylor’s other work that she knows of King’s book, which makes Clancy et al.’s unqualified assertion of Laqueur’s account even more puzzling.

“Defining sex is difficult”

Aristotle knew there were two sexes without having a satisfactory definition of what it is to be male or female. The question of how to define sex (equivalently, what sex is) should be separated from the question of whether sex is binary. So even if Clancy et al. are wrong about the number of sexes, they might yet be right that sex is difficult to define.

Why do they think it is difficult to define? Here’s their reason:

There are many factors that define sex, including chromosomes, hormones, gonads, genitalia, and gametes (reproductive cells). But with so many variables, and so much variation within each variable, it is difficult to pin down one definition of sex.

Readers of Reality’s Last Stand will be familiar with the fact that chromosomes and hormones (for example) do not define sex. The sex-changing Asian sheepshead wrasse does not change its chromosomes. Interestingly, the sex hormones (androgens and estrogens) are found in plants, although they do not appear to function as hormones. How could the over-educated authors have written that “there are many factors that define sex,” without a single one of them objecting?

That question is particularly salient because the textbook account of sex is in Clancy et al.’s very own bibliography. In the biologist Joan Roughgarden’s Evolution’s Rainbow there’s a section called “Male and Female Defined.” If you crack the book open, you can’t miss it.

Roughgarden writes:

To a biologist, “male” means making small gametes, and “female” means making large gametes. Period! By definition, the smaller of the two gametes is called a sperm, and the larger an egg. Beyond gamete size, biologists don’t recognize any other universal difference between male and female.

“Making” does not mean currently producing, but (something like) has the function to make. Surely one of Clancy et al. must have read Roughgarden’s book! (Again from her other work we know that Clune-Taylor has.) To avoid going round and round this depressing mulberry bush again, let’s leave it here.

“Sex is defined in a lot of ways in science”

Perhaps sex is not a single thing, and there are different definitions for the different kinds of sex. The standard gamete-definition of sex is useful for some purposes; other researchers will find one of the alternative definitions more productive. Clancy et al. might endorse this conciliatory position. They certainly think that a multiplicity of definitions is good scientific practice: “In science, how sex is defined for a particular study is based on what organism is being studied and what question is being asked.”

Leaving aside whether this fits actual practice, as a recommendation it is wrong-headed. Research needs to be readily compared and combined. A review paper on sexual selection might draw on studies of very different species, each asking different questions. If the definition of sex (male and female) changes between studies, then synthesizing the data would be fraught with complications and potential errors, because one study is about males/females-in-sense-1, another is about males/females-in-sense-2, and so on.

Indeed, “Biology is not binary” itself shows that the authors don’t really believe that “male” and “female” are used in science with multiple senses. They freely use “sex,” “male,” and “female” without pausing to disambiguate, or explain just which of the many alleged senses of these words they have in mind. If “sex is defined a lot of ways in science” then the reader should wonder what Clancy et al. are talking about.

In an especially odd passage, they write that the “criteria for defining sex will differ in studies of mushrooms, orangutans, and humans.” That is sort-of-true for mushrooms, which mate using mating types, not sperm and eggs. (Mating types are sometimes called “sexes,” but sometimes not.) However, it’s patently untrue for orangutans and humans, as the biologist Jerry Coyne points out.

Orangutans had featured earlier in the saga of the AAA cancellation, when Clancy and Fuentes had bizarrely suggested that the “three forms of the adult orangutan” present a challenge to the “sex binary,” seemingly forgetting that these three forms comprise females and two kinds of males. Kathleen Lowrey had some fun at their expense.

As if this tissue of confusion isn’t enough, Clancy et al. take one final plunge off the deep end. After mentioning osteoporosis in postmenopausal women, they write:

[P]eople experiencing similar sex-related conditions may not always fit in the same sex category. Consider polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), a common metabolic condition affecting about 8 to 13 percent of those with ovaries, which often causes them to produce more androgens than those without this condition. There are increasing numbers of people with PCOS who self-define as intersex, whereas others identify as female.

They seem to believe that two people with PCOS might not “fit in the same sex category.” That is, one person could be female while the other isn’t, with this alchemy accomplished by “self-definition.” PCOS, in case you were wondering, is a condition that only affects females or, in the approved lingo of the Cleveland Clinic, “people assigned female at birth.”

How could four accomplished and qualified professors produce such—not to mince words—unadulterated rubbish?

There are many social incentives these days for denouncing the sex binary, and academics—even those at the finest universities—are no more resistant to their pressure than anyone else. However, unlike those outside the ivory tower, academics have a powerful arsenal of carefully curated sources and learned jargon, as well as credentials and authority. They may deploy their weapons in the service of—as they see it—equity and inclusion for all.

It would be “bad science,” Clancy et al. write at the end, to “ignore and exclude” “individuals who are part of nature.” In this case, though, Clancy et al.’s firepower is directed at established facts, and the collateral damage may well include those people they most want to help.

--

About the Author

Alex Byrne is a Professor of Philosophy at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in the Department of Linguistics and Philosophy. His main interests are philosophy of mind (especially perception), metaphysics (especially color) and epistemology (especially self-knowledge). A few years ago, Byrne started working on philosophical issues relating to sex and gender. His book on these topics, Trouble with Gender: Sex Facts, Gender Fictions, is now available in the US and UK.

==

The whole "social construction," "cultural construction" thing is idiotic.

Not only does it mean you would be a different sex in a different society/culture, but it becomes necessary that cross-cultural/cross-societal reproduction is fraught with complications.

[stewieinnit]

Like a Halo In Reverse

Ch2 part A

Parings: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier

Nothing too big that warrants a content warning in this chapter.

Previous part

Chapter 1 is up on AO3 now!

Charles grunts awake to the feeling of multiple minds everywhere, their thoughts like an overbearing beacon waking him up. One of the minds stands at the foot of his bed, a calming storm that he recognizes as his sister, Raven.

“Raven what are you…” He rasps opening his eyes only to be bombarded with morning light and a duffle bag being thrown at him.

“Come on, it's time to wake up, we have to talk.”

He can tell that she’s been awake for a while, her mind sharp and calculating as she watches him sit up and look at the duffle bag that now rests in his lap.

“Raven, what on Earth is this for?” He asks, finally eyeing the very full duffle bag.

“I found him.”

Charles' eyes widen, he knows who she’s talking about and when he meets her gaze he knows she’s certain of it.

“What?” He still asks dumbly, there’s no way his sister found him. He tried to find Dr. Schmidt himself, dug through all the files and news articles that he could get his hands on and never got a lead. He honestly thought they both had given up, moved on. I mean why else would she have forced him to go to college, to live a normal life?

“Charles, I know what you're thinking, but I wanted you to be more mentally prepared. I’ve waited to tell you about what I’ve been doing until I knew for certain where he’s at, and he does not go by Schmidt anymore.” She finally sits down on the bed resting a hand over where his foot is under the covers.

“I don’t know what to say, I thought you wanted to leave it behind us.” Charles starts and then continues, “Though, I know you know more than anyone else that I hated what happened to us there. That I think about it nearly everyday, that what they did to us haunts me at night, that it haunts us. I would do anything in my power for those people, for Schmidt to face legal repercussions.”

Raven holds his gaze and gently squeezes his foot. “You know that we won’t ever get that kind of justice though.”

“I know Raven, I just-” his hands fist at the sheets as his gaze wanders to the window “I don’t know if I can do it Raven. I’ve never been able to. At least consciously”

She knows what he’s talking about, to harm someone, by choice. Charles has always believed that no one deserves to die. He’s always been that way ever since they were children. Even after all the pain they endured he still would stare down his perpetrators and believe that they should live. Even when rage and resentment burns deep in his heart, even when the intrusive thoughts of digging deep in their brains and causing them physical and mental harm sounds so sweet. He just can’t.

“I know Charles, I just need you to be there with me.” She stands and drifts towards the door. “Get ready and meet me out here, I have some more explaining to do.” And like that she’s gone.

Charles huffs in frustration but gets up, quickly throwing on a button up and some dress pants. He hesitates as he stares at the pullover sweater he pulled out but quickly puts that on too. It is still chilly out.

He gives one last look at the duffle bag on his bed and decides to leave it there for now before walking out into the main part of their shared apartment. It’s not much, a two bedroom apartment with a small living area and kitchen. It’s seen worse for wear and hasn't been properly updated in 10 years.

Raven is lounging on her designated chair picking at the rugged upholstery. She looks up at him and quietly gestures for him to sit down in his own chair.

“So, all those nights when you came back a little more scruffed up than when you left, you weren't actually going to bars and clubs were you?” He eyes her with scrutiny as she shakes her head.

“Not all the time.” She answers honestly. “Though sometimes I did go, but only to find what I needed.”

“And to think that I was convinced my sister was just living the nightlife.” He states incredulously and she giggles at that.

“Charles, I did what I had to do to find him, but I found him. Actually found him.” She leans forward “He doesn’t go by Dr. Klaus Schmidt anymore, or rather his real name is Sebastian Shaw.”

Charles sucks in a breath, of course he was under a fake name. No wonder why all that research and digging went nowhere.

“So… where is he?” He asks finally, determination settling in his eyes.

Raven smirks, “Florida.”

“Raven, that's an awfully long way, there’s no way we’re going to make it in time.”

“I bought us plane tickets, I have some extra money stowed in that duffle bag as well. We should be set for however long it’ll take us.”

He gapes at her, “How did you get that kind of money?!”

“I have my ways.” And she leaves it at that, getting up and walking straight towards Charles’ room.

He watches her enter his room and walk back out with the duffle bag in hand. “I have everything we need in this bag. So don’t worry about packing anything, I’ve already done it.”

“You were going to drag me along with you even if I disagreed with your plan.” He snickers but stands to slide his shoes on at the door.

“Oh so you agree with it?” She pokes a finger into his side playfully as she makes her way to the door.

He jolts and chides her with a small telepathic nudge before speaking out loud “Not entirely, but we both know how much we’ve been craving to get relief from what he did to us.”

She nods in agreement and opens the door for both of them to make their way down to the bottom floor of the apartment. Once they were outside Charles hailed for a taxi, using just a little bit of telepathic influence. Raven just smiles knowingly to herself as they clamber into the taxi car.

They get to the airport and make their way through the crowd and onto their plane with relative ease. Raven had scored them a pair of window seats. She claimed the actual window seat once they got to their row, forcing Charles to take up the middle seat. They had a four hour flight ahead of themselves, so Charles relaxed back into his seat listening to his sister chatter about how reckless their taxi driver was and how Charles should have picked a better one.

[qulizalfos]

[runs in after abandoning my blog all week and throws this on the table] HAPPY BIRTHDAY WAYLI @wayward-sherlock PLEASE ACCEPT THIS FICLET AS A SYMBOL OF MY GRATITUDE TOWARDS HOW FUCKINF AWESOME U ARE ALWAYS <3 I AM IN LOVE WITH YOU BTW!!! anyways i hope u enjoy 2k of college byler shenanigans :) mwah

home (is wherever you are tonight)

“Oh, my God,” Will says, sitting forward, face alight in ways that terrify Mike. “There’s another reason, there’s a huge reason you're here, you—” “It’s Valentine’s Day, right?” The shift in Will’s expression is instantaneous. It might’ve qualified as comical, too, if Mike’s heart wasn’t about to explode.

You’d think Mike would have scrounged together a better sense of how to backpedal when he’s about to do something incredibly stupid. 

He’s trying not to think too hard about how quickly they rattle off in his head, the world’s most inconvenient list of reminders. What is wrong with you? We’re just… not in the mood right now. You’ve been on the bench all year. Not for the first time he’s gritting his teeth and wondering if it would have been entirely too much to ask for him to have acquired, by now, some intricate sixth sense for recklessness. He’s well aware that there’s no cosmic cure against the potency of his own mistakes, but he’d take anything to help him generally steer clear of these specific situations.

Encounters with murderous, eldritch entities ought to do that to a person. In his —for the record, totally impartial— opinion.

No goddamn dice, he thinks as he raises a fist to knock.

Maybe it is different, he supposes, because he’s less consumed by a wave of defensive volatility and less likely to bury the truth at the first sign of scrutiny, recoil at any chance of being left behind, and more willing to stop before he gains too dangerous an amount of momentum. It still happens, obviously— (case in point: now, loitering in an empty corridor, bland wallpaper finding a way to make it look like it’s laughing down at him, shifting his weight as he waits) he’d just convinced himself he had it more under control.

It’s ridiculous anyway. This whole thing is clearly careening towards a setup for a copious amount of slip ups on his part. But, it’s whatever.

Will’s probably out, anyway, he considers, belatedly.

It’s Valentine’s Day, —granted, a Wednesday evening dragging by with a sluggish, hazy quality— but a significant date all the same. Will is, Mike hedges, almost definitely out, maybe with the mystery guy in their joint history lecture, whose name Mike neglected to wheedle out of him last week. Maybe they’re both walking home from some fucking café, and Will would be getting cold like he does when the threat of snow looms at every waking moment, and to make matters worse, the other guy might do something sickeningly romantic like wind his scarf around Will’s neck, all while Mike’s standing at his dorm door like an idiot.

It’s possible he’s not very committed to the whole “breathe” thing El suggested, the day before the sky turned blue again, the day he was most convinced it never would again.

He threads a nervous hand through the disaster-prone section of his hair, hoping to smoothen it out, as he lifts his clenched hand, setting his face in concentration and aiming to knock one more time, and—

He has to flinch back to avoid accidentally punching Will in the face with his knock. Needless to say, that would be pretty counterproductive.

Will. Standing in front of him, soft furrow between his brows, loose sweater, lips parted.

He’s beautiful.

He shoves the thought to the side. It’s not the safest one to have when Will is less than two feet in front of him.

“Mike?”

It hits him about an hour too late: Maybe it’s ironic, how this holiday, composed entirely of spontaneous lovesick bullshit and cordiform chocolate boxes, doesn’t warrant him showing up at someone’s door unannounced. Not when it’s already 7pm.

It isn’t that he hadn’t brought that into consideration, just that now it’s not just an inkling in the back of his mind he has to ignore if he has any hope of getting ready with minimal distraction, but a real, pressing concern, and—

Will’s face splits into a grin, and the thought vanishes as quick as it came.

“Hey,” Mike tries, too hastily. The longer Will stands, just blinking at him, the further Mike burrows his hands into the pockets of his jackets.

He snaps out of it fairly quickly, and the expression has melted into something pleasantly surprised. Mike can work with that. He’s done much more with much less. “Uh— hi.”

“Are you busy?” Mike cranes a neck to peer around Will’s shoulder, unsure of what he’s looking for but appreciating the lack of anything all the same. “If you’re busy, I’ll totally come back, to— fuck, maybe not tomorrow, you have that—”

“Mike.”

“Yep.”

“I’m not busy,” he says with bright eyes, stepping back from the door to accommodate him. “I— don’t just stand there, come in, of course I’m not busy. Why, what’s up?”

“Thought maybe you were off at a candlelit dinner,” Mike remarks, because it’s easier to get out than the other thing, kicking off his shoes and trying not to think too hard about Will, the same Will in the same shadowy alcove as him, whose expression is tinged with fondness, at dinner; with warm lighting and a muted hum of chatter and someone else sitting across from him. “With the fancy napkins.”

“I think I would’ve mentioned the horrors of scraping together enough money for anything like that,” he says, and Mike’s efforts at miming cradling the aforementioned, hypothetical napkin receive a raised eyebrow. “Seriously, is something going on? If Max—”

“Nothing’s happening,” Mike tells him, passing him out and swiveling around to keep walking backwards, reversing into the couch and pretending he didn’t whack his knee as he drops onto it, picking at the edge of the nearest cushion, sprawling out as much as he can manage to. “Which is precisely why I’m here. Well, one of the reasons.”

Will hums, folding his arms and leaning on the back of the couch, contemplative. It has no right to be as endearing as it is. “Are there a lot of reasons?”

“I’m not allowed to visit you anymore?” Mike jokes. “Should I have called and given you a week’s notice?” He sits up, relishing the back and forth. “Should I—”

“No, you’re just… I dunno.” Will pokes his shoulder and skirts the couch, settling in the space Mike makes for him. “You seem nervous. Like there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Shit.

Mike lets out what may be considered as the fakest laugh he’s ever mustered, darting his eyes away and plastering on a frown. He gives a half-hearted attempt at an unconvinced, hopefully somewhat assuring scoff, tugging free the crease that’s formed at the ankle of his jeans. “What makes you say that?” he asks. He’d like to describe it as nonchalant. Maybe he’s not as good at hiding as the boy in front of him, but he’s been sidestepping the obvious for what feels like his whole life. He’s had more than enough practice.

“Oh, my God,” Will says, sitting forward, face alight in ways that terrify Mike. “There’s another reason, there’s a huge reason you’re here, you—”

“It’s Valentine’s Day, right?”

The shift in Will’s expression is instantaneous. It might’ve qualified as comical, too, if Mike’s heart wasn’t trying its damndest not to explode. Again, counterproductive.

Will’s mouth drops open a little, the line of his body stock still, and just hovers there, close enough that the warmth of his breath brushes Mike’s face, and the room slips into little more than a backdrop. Mike searches his eyes for a sign that’s not there. He lifts a hand from where it’s resting on a dark green cushion, weighing the implications and consequences of reaching out against the part of him that doesn’t want to consider technicalities until far, far later. The moment stretches, engraving itself into Mike’s memory. 

And then it shatters.

Will slumps back, clearing his throat twice in rapid succession, and the corners of his mouth quirk up in diplomacy. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

Mike’s throat feels unreasonably dry. “Nope,” he says, omitting any mention of the crisis he’d had marching down the hall, questioning whether he’d gotten the date wrong and everything would blow up in his face tenfold, and just drumming his fingers against his thigh.

“So—” Will frowns, “what are you trying to say?”

This was all going much smoother during the numerous rehearsals in his head. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” he parrots, trying not to think about Will’s sharp inhale too much, “and I haven’t done something on Valentine’s Day for years, and you’re free, and I’m free, and…” he trails off, searching for the right words. “I don’t know, I thought we could hang out.” 

Silence.

It’s about to backfire, he can sense it, so he rushes to add: “In solidarity.”

“Right,” Will says, faraway. Mike sort of needs to run outside and scream for an untold amount of time.

“Doesn’t have to be super special,” he says, sensing the need for a prompt change in subject. “Unless you want it to be special, but I just figured— like, what were you gonna do before I came?”

Will glances at him once, quizzical, but drops it. 

—

It’s a short walk from the dorm to the closest Circle K, and one spent wrapped up in pleasant, amicable conversation, catching up on the various aspects of each other’s lives that aren’t entwined already, and about halfway there Will stoops to tie his shoelace. As Mike waits he considers how scary it could be if he dwells too long on how noteworthy the most mundane tasks become in Will Byers’ company.

They wander inside, Mike leaning on the door to open it for Will in what he hopes is a courteous manner, and trails down an aisle beside Will, the faint beat of a trashy pop song barely covering the echo of their footsteps on the tiles.

“Just the sodas?” Mike checks, swerving to avoid a display stacked high.

“Yeah,” Will says, nabbing a coke and gesturing to the fridge. “Take your pick.”

Mike reaches for a 7Up.

“Knew it,” Will says, something indecipherable in his tone. And then he’s extending a hand, covering Mike’s for a split second — long enough for an odd sensation to bloom in his ribs, but short enough for him to want to say, fuck it, and tangle their fingers, but Will teases the can out of his grip, leaving Mike with a cool smear of condensation on his palm.

“We can pool our resources,” Mike quips as Will deposits the cans on the counter. The cashier flicks a lazy glance at them and tells them the price. “I have a quarter.”

“Generous of you,” Will observes, producing a crumpled dollar note from his back pocket.

They settle on a wall outside, and Mike kicks the solid stone intermittently with his dangling heels, sipping away as Will starts to talk. The sky runs like spilled ink above them, perforated with only a smattering of stars and a few dark clouds, but Will is bathed in the gold ring of a streetlamp. There’s a lull in conversation, but it’s fine. Mike’s content to stay here all night.

“This was nice,” he says, in lieu of everything else.

Will bumps against his shoulder. “Yeah?”

A tiny droplet of rain lands on Mike’s nose, and three more freckle more of his exposed skin. A low fizz kicks up, drilling into the gray landscape surrounding them, and more dots pepper on the wall.

“Yeah.”  Will turns away. Mike scans the area around them, but they’re alone save for a few empty chip packets strewn across the concrete. Will’s gorgeous. Mike can’t explain it, but he knows when warmth floods your veins it’s a sign that merits extra morosis, and his intentions are in the right place, and it’s so hard to steer himself in any direction other than pitching forward and propping up a hand on the other side of Will’s jaw. Mike doesn’t let himself think too much of it as he presses a kiss to Will’s cheek.

It’s as short-lived as it is sweet: Will’s answering gasp, all wide eyes and questions in every line of his face, the beads of rain on his skin, near lucent in the orange lighting, the tickle of his bangs getting in Mike’s eyes a little when he turns.

And then Will’s breaking away to set down his Coke, and closing the gap between them.

Truthfully, Mike didn’t know that kissing could feel like this. It seems like something so untouchable, so far from what’s in his own comprehension of the world, that finding this kind of warmth could happen, but Will’s slinging an arm around his back and all coherent thoughts promptly dissolve in the now steadily falling rain. 

[limeade-l3sbian]

Idk how to explain this n you can shit on me if you want but

I just wanna exist as a woman why do I have to be Dworkin 2.0 because I was born as female. It's not fukcing fair how come the men who are the worst perpetrators of misogyny don't receive the same treatment and scrutiny.

I have to unlearn stuff and analyze how I dress and how I talk and how I behave and all that shit because oh my god I could be influencing young girls to repeat that stuff. Like I'm not even allowed to be an individual. If I fuck up in a science class "you're making us look bad" men can carry on with their bs behavior and no one gives a shit not even feminists are that harsh with them. If there was a way out of womanhood I'd take it I didn't ask to be a woman I didn't ask for misogyny to exist why is it on me to get rid of it you go and get rid of the cage ill just try to make mine comfortable and I don't mind I wanna travel I wanna work I wanna do things why do I have to dedicate my life to female liberation bc I Was born a woman.

I'm not going to shit on you because that is 100% valid thing to feel. Your anger is warranted. WHY is your life being spoken about like it's political? How COULDN'T you be mad about that? And you have expressed in one valid, heartfelt post why so many women seek any means to opt out of it. Why it is more important to them to pass completely while others could go either way.

I think your feelings are a generally avoided part of feminism. The anger that it must even exist. That from birth, you are being gauged on a predetermined list of things that you should and should not do. I cannot condone black pill feminists, but I am not ignorant as to how they got to that point.

You don't have to dedicate your life to anything you don't want to. No one has a say in how you spend your temporary years on this planet. If you want to shut everything out and live, then do that. But I think you know too much now. And the unfortunate part of misogyny is that it is omnipresent. It will exist in spaces you never thought possible and you will hear it so casually that you'll feel like you're going crazy.

I am not going to attack you for deciding to just make your cage comfortable. But I don't think it will be as easy as you think it is to forget that you are in a cage. And for that, I'm sorry.