#the game is also very... blurred like the bloom is blooming on things that it shouldnt be blooming on

[iamquiantrelle]

SO INTO YOU (part 2) ───── iamquaintrelle

# pairings: aurelien tchouameni x black reader (✨💕)

# tags: @sucredreamer @snowseasonmademe @jessnotwiththemess @rougereds @judectrl @mufasathatniggatho @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @ayeshami @greyishbach @haartemis @goldenngt @solidbriii @sailurmewn @bbgkoo @mauvecherie-writes @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

# summary: you’re a multiple grammy winning artist with a record breaking single based on an embarrassing crush on a footballer & when that single demands visuals who else do you ask to be your video vixen besides said footballer crush? but is he also willing to blow your back out too? ♡ masterlist

The next few days passed in a blur — Madrid, the match, the rush of it all. Of course, someone caught you at the match — there was no way that wasn’t happening. You were you, after all, a Grammy-winning artist sitting in VIP seats at the Bernabéu, very much in the camera’s line of sight. The picture had already made its rounds on social media: you, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees, watching the game with full concentration. Another showed you mid-cheer after Aurélien’s assist, your excitement unmistakable.

The comments on The Shade Room were a mess.

"Why is [Your Name] at the Bernabéu??" "She watching soccer now? 👀" "Ain’t no way she just ‘watching’ — look at that smile." "She’s a Madridista now? Elite taste." "I know she was there for Tchouaméni. Be serious."

You scrolled through the discourse with a grin, but the real entertainment was happening on Tumblr. Unlike the rest of the internet, your little tchouamenithoughts page was an anonymous safe haven, a place where you could be as shamelessly down bad as you wanted. And the girlies were going through it.

moot1: she’s cute. good for him i guess moot2: the way he’s been playing lately... yeah he’s in love moot3: it’s giving soft launch. moot4: imagine being the muse for that one song she wrote... bc I KNOW it’s about him.

You had to stifle a laugh reading that one. It was already too weird, and you knew — God forbid — if Aurélien ever found out about this little corner of the internet, you’d have to disappear into the abyss.

You then reblogged a gifset of Aurélien’s highlights from the match, tagged "captain of my heart" before clicking into the inbox.

Anonymous asked: "Bro tell me you saw [Your Name] at the match? She was going feral for our man Tchouaméni just like us. Respect."

You snorted and reblogged it with a simple: "As she should."

Your phone buzzed in your hand, pulling you away from the mess you’d been consuming like your own personal reality show.

Auré: Did you make it home safe?

You smiled, a warmth blooming in your chest.

You: I did. Tired though.

Auré: You should rest. You’ll need your energy for when I see you again.

You bit your lip, shaking your head at the audacity.

You: Oh? And when’s that?

Auré: Soon. I told you, I’m doing the chasing now.

Your stomach flipped. God help you.

You locked your phone and sighed, leaning back against your pillows, your laptop still open to the mess of your moots spiraling in real-time. Yeah, this Tumblr was going to have to go soon.

But for now? You had a little more time to kiki.

***************************************************

Aurélien meant it when he said he wanted to do the rest and chase you.

The next morning, a delivery arrived at your apartment in LA. A massive bouquet — white and blush pink roses, accented with baby’s breath. It smelled incredible, and the little card tucked inside made your stomach flip.

"Since I didn’t get to be the first one in your DMs, let me be the first to send you flowers. –AT"

You bit your lip, rereading the message at least three times before setting the card down. The man was serious.

And the thing was — he wasn’t doing too much. You’d been courted before, had men try to win you over with grand gestures that felt more about them than you. But this? This was just Aurélien being him. Smooth, intentional. Never overstepping, just reminding you that he was right there.

His texts came consistently, never letting a day pass without checking in. Some were sweet. Some were very much not sweet.

Auré: Did you sleep well?

You: Mhm. You?

Auré: Not really. Kept thinking about how you looked in my bed.

Whew.

Other times, he was just ridiculous.

Auré: Hypothetically, if someone wanted to know your coffee order…

You: Hypothetically, they should just ask.

Auré: I am asking. But I wanted to see if you'd be difficult first.

You: Vanilla oat milk latte, extra shot. Now tell me why you’re asking like you’re sending a gift card.

Auré: I might be.

You: Aurélien.

And sure enough, an hour later, an email from Starbucks: [Your Name], you’ve received a gift from Aurélien Tchouaméni.

You couldn’t even be mad.

Then came the FaceTimes. Usually at night, when he knew you were home. It started casual — just him, shirtless (because of course), leaning back against his headboard while you sat on your couch, notebook open, laptop playing beats softly in the background.

"What are you working on?" he asked one night, eyes flicking to your scribbled lyrics.

"Music."

"No shit," he teased, smirking. "But what kind?"

You tapped your pen against your notebook. "Just some ideas."

His brows lifted. "For me?"

You snorted. "No. Not everything is about you."

"Shame." He stretched, flexing way too much for someone who was supposedly relaxing. "But you’ll write another one about me eventually."

"You think?"

"I know."

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, focusing back on your lyrics. Until—

"You work too much," he murmured.

You glanced up. "And you run too much. What’s your point?"

His smirk deepened. "That I’m gonna fix that. When are you coming back to Madrid?"

You blinked. “Oh, you’re just assuming I’m coming?”

"Yeah." He looked so sure, so smug, you wanted to reach through the screen and wipe that smirk off his face.

"I have work."

"I have work too,” he countered easily. "But I make time for what I want."

That shut you up for a second. You clicked your tongue. "That’s a cute line."

He grinned. "It’s not a line, bébé. It’s a fact."

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, the next morning, another email delivery. This time? A plane ticket. First class, LAX to Madrid, one week from now.

No note. Just that.

And the man had the audacity to text: See you soon.

******************************************************

You told yourself you weren’t really considering it.

You weren’t impulsive like this. You had rules. Checklists. Boundaries.

But when Carmen barely batted an eye after you double-checked your schedule and when your best friend damn near screamed in your ear after you mentioned Madrid again?

"Are you insane? You just got back!"

You winced, pulling the phone away from your ear. "First of all, lower your voice—"

"No! Because this man has already had you in a chokehold, and now you’re just willingly running back?"

You sighed, switching the phone to your other ear. "It’s not like that.”

"What’s it like then?"

Silence.

Exactly.

Because what were you really gonna say? That you were working backwards? That the whole 'I have standards thing' was already a joke because you’d skipped about fifteen steps when you slept with him and now you were just here like some lovestruck fool?

Because you were.

"Yeah," your best friend scoffed when you stayed quiet. "That’s what I thought."

Still, none of that stopped you from breezing through TSA a few days later, sunglasses on, hoodie pulled low, boarding a first-class flight back to Madrid. Because somehow, in less than two weeks, you had gone from watching him on your screen to meeting him in person for your video shoot, and now you were sipping champagne, heading straight back to him.

You were supposed to be working — laptop open, beats playing, lyrics scattered across your notebook — but all you could do was stare at your phone, rereading his last message.

Auré: See you soon, bébé.

A slow exhale left your lips.

You weren’t even there yet, and he already had you spiraling.

The moment you exited arrivals, he was waiting.

Leaning up against his car, hands in his pockets, looking stupidly good in a fitted tee, Rhude shorts that made everything look right, snapback cap, and another Cuban link around his neck. His eyes locked on you like he’d been counting the seconds.

Your stomach flipped.

This man…

"You’re early," you said, trying to keep your voice even.

He smirked. "So are you."

Fair.

"C’mere."

You barely had time to react before his arms were around you, pulling you into him. His scent wrapped around you — warm, familiar, distracting — and suddenly, everything about this felt like a terrible idea.

If he was this good just holding you, how the hell were you supposed to handle anything else? Especially at the rate he was going?

"You miss me?" he murmured, lips at your ear.

You pulled back, schooling your face. "Did you?"

No hesitation. "Yeah."

Your heart betrayed you, but you kept your expression neutral.

"Hmm," you teased. "Was it the inside jokes? The deep conversations?"

He chuckled, dark and knowing. "The way you sound when I—"

"Aurélien."

His grin widened as he stepped back, opening the passenger door. "Get in, bébé."

And just like that, you were gone all over again.

The drive to his place was quiet.

Not the awkward kind — never that with him.

It was the kind of silence that buzzed, thick with anticipation. The kind where every glance, every shift in your seat, said more than words could. Aurélien drove one-handed, his other hand resting on your thigh like it belonged there, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin.

Like he was reminding you exactly why you were here.

The low hum of Afrobeats filled the car, blending with the occasional ping of a text on his phone. You ignored it, focusing instead on the way his fingers tightened slightly when you moved, the barely-there smirk on his lips.

"You good?" His voice was smooth, teasing.

You exhaled. "Fine."

A low chuckle. "Lying already?"

You shot him a look, but it was useless. He knew. He always knew.

By the time you reached his house, you were already on edge.

And then there was Ocho.

The massive Belgian Malinois greeted you at the door with an excited bark, nearly knocking you over in his eagerness.

"Damn, you remember me?" You laughed, scratching behind his ears as he licked at your wrist.

Aurélien chuckled behind you, setting your bag down near the stairs. "He doesn’t forget people he likes."

You glanced up, finding him watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

The air between you shifted.

You swallowed, turning away to take in the space — the same high ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows, the same sleek yet lived-in warmth from the last time you were here. But this time, there was something different.

This time, you knew what it felt like to be pressed against that couch, to have his mouth on your skin, to hear your own voice echoing against these walls.

And, of course, there were the flowers.

You huffed a laugh, finally spotting the massive bouquet of white lilies and soft pink roses in a crystal vase on the marble countertop.

"You really do this, huh?" you murmured, fingers ghosting over the petals of the bouquet before turning to face him.

Aurélien leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that slow, knowing smirk that made your stomach tighten. "Do what?"

"This whole…" You gestured vaguely at the flowers, the way he had you standing in his kitchen, feeling like you’d stepped into something inevitable. "Seduction thing."

"I told you," he said, pushing off the counter to come to you, voice low as his fingers found your waist. "I wanted the chase."

Your breath caught as his chain moved gently against his collarbone.

"And now that I have you here?" His lips hovered over yours, his hands already moving, already claiming. "I’m not letting up."

Your breath hitched as his hand splayed against your lower back, pulling you flush against him. You were already in too deep, already fighting a losing battle against the warmth curling in your stomach, against the way he smelled — clean, like cedarwood and something distinctly him.

"Aurélien—"

He kissed you before you could finish, tilting your chin up, his lips moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, like he was savoring you, mapping you out. The hand at your waist gripped tighter, and he made a sound in the back of his throat when your fingers found the nape of his neck, threading into the soft curls there.

You felt him smile against your mouth.

"What?" you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. "You taste smug," he muttered.

You arched a brow. "And what does smug taste like?"

His lips twitched. "Like someone who knew she was coming back to me."

Your stomach flipped.

You weren’t going to entertain that — not right now, not when his voice was doing that and his hands were still tracing over your body like he was committing every inch of you to memory.

So you deflected. "Ocho knew too, apparently."

Aurélien huffed a quiet laugh. "Ocho is a good judge of character."

You snorted, shaking your head, but the moment you tried to step back, his grip on your waist tightened.

"You’re not going anywhere, bébé," he murmured.

You swallowed hard.

Because he wasn’t just talking about right now.

And he knew you knew it.

The moment stretched between you, heavy with promise. His thumb was still tracing patterns on your skin, each touch deliberate, like he was writing his intentions into your flesh. The kitchen's warm lighting caught the angles of his face just right, making his dark skin glow golden, and that fade you'd written countless posts about was perfect for running your fingers through.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmured, ducking his head to press his lips to your neck. His chain brushed cold against you, making you shiver.

"Hard not to," you managed, trying to keep your voice steady as his teeth grazed that spot below your ear. "When you're being all…" you gestured vaguely at him, at this whole situation.

He huffed a laugh against your skin. "All what?"

"You know what."

"Mm," his hands slid lower, grip tightening just enough to make your breath catch. "Tell me anyway."

The command in his voice - that same tone he used directing the midfield - had your knees weak. But two could play this game.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, watching them darken as your fingers traced the chain around his neck. "All confident," you said softly.

His responding smile was dangerous. "Didn't you write a whole song about it?"

"That's not—"

"About how I control the game?" His lips brushed your ear, voice dropping lower. "About how I read the field?"

Your heart was absolutely betraying you, hammering against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

"You really memorized those lyrics, huh?" you tried to tease, but your voice came out breathier than intended.

He pulled back to look at you properly, and the intensity in his gaze had you forgetting how to breathe. The same focus you'd watched him apply to matches, to training, to everything he did - all of it was directed at you now.

"I memorized everything about you," he said simply, like he wasn't completely ruining your ability to think straight. "The way you bite your lip when you're nervous. How your eyes follow me during matches."

Ocho's tags jingled as he trotted past, heading for his bed in the corner, completely unbothered by the way his owner was systematically dismantling your composure.

"You're impossible," you muttered, even as your hands traveled up his arms, feeling the muscles shift under your touch.

"You like impossible," he countered, and before you could argue, his mouth was on yours again, more urgent this time. Less controlled. Like maybe you weren't the only one affected here.

Your back hit the counter, and his hands gripped your hips to lift you onto it. The marble was cold through your clothes but he was burning hot, all solid muscle and sure touches as he stepped between your legs.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured against your lips, but his hands were already sliding under your shirt, already knew your answer.

You tangled your fingers in his chain instead, using it to pull him closer. "No."

His answering laugh was all satisfaction, all victory. "Good girl."

*******************************************************

You woke up to Madrid sunlight filtering through his expensive blackout curtains that clearly weren't doing their job. His bed was still unfairly comfortable, sheets soft against your skin, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest under your cheek was threatening to lull you back to sleep.

Jetlag had hit you hard after... activities, leading to what was supposed to be a quick power nap but wasn’t. That kitchen counter definitely needed disinfecting though.

Multiple times.

Now the afternoon light was painting patterns on his dark skin, and you were finding it hard to care about time zones at all. When he woke up to slip away to the bathroom, you grabbed your phone, checking the damage.

Surprisingly, your Tumblr mutuals hadn't caught wind of your return to Madrid yet. But you knew better - it would only take one fan with a good camera angle to set everything off again. You heard the sink running, and then Aurélien padded back to bed, all sleep-warm skin and low-slung sweats. He lay beside you for a moment before that hand found your waist, tugging you closer.

"C'mere," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. You went willingly, settling against his chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat. That same dopey ass smile from last time spread across your face as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back. "How long are you staying?" he asked, playing with your hair.

You tilted your head up to look at him. "How long do you want me?"

His answering smirk was knowing as he bit his lip, considering. "A long time."

"Can't do that," you laughed softly. "But... two weeks?"

"Two weeks is good," he hummed, fingers still moving against your skin. "We can have fun, go on proper dates... maybe take a trip somewhere."

You propped yourself up on his chest. "Trips? Already planning baecations?"

"Mm," his hand slid lower on your back. "Gotta pull out all the stops. Could do Mallorca, Ibiza..." his smile turned dangerous. "Or maybe Paris?"

"Paris?" You tried to keep your voice steady, but the way his fingers were still tracing patterns on your skin was distracting. "That's a lot for someone who just wanted to be in my music video a few weeks ago."

His laugh rumbled through his chest. "Is it? When I've been catching you like those highlights at 3 AM?"

You pushed up to look at him properly. "Still can't believe that you noticed that. "

"Bébé," his hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek, "You should know that I notice everything. Why did you think I said yes to the video?"

Your heart did that stupid flutter thing again. "Because I'm a three-time Grammy winner and it'd be good PR?"

The look he gave you was almost pitying. "You really think that's why? Still?"

Before you could answer, he moved - that athletic grace you'd watched on the field now used to flip you onto your back, hovering over you with that dangerous smile.

"I said yes," he murmured, chain dangling between you, "because I wanted to see if you were as beautiful up close as you were in those award show pictures I kept saving."

Your breath caught. "You what?"

"Mm." His lips found your neck. "Want to see my camera roll? All those screenshots of you performing? The ones where you're wearing that dress at the VMAs?"

"Aurélien—"

"The way you move on stage," he continued, voice dropping lower, "the way you command attention…"

You couldn't process this - him admitting to essentially doing the same thing you'd been doing, collecting pieces of each other from afar.

"So this," he said, pulling back to look at you with those eyes that saw too much, "is just the beginning. I told you - I'm the lion." His hand slid down your side, grip possessive. "And I chase what I want."

"And what do you want?" Your voice came out embarrassingly breathy.

That smile should be illegal. "Right now?" His lips brushed yours. "For you to stop thinking so much and let me show you exactly why I memorized every word of that song you wrote about me."

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was kissing you again, all intensity and purpose, and yeah - two weeks definitely wasn't going to be enough.

***************************************************

The Madrid morning light painted his bedroom in honey-gold streaks, warming the spaces he'd left cold when he left for training. His kiss goodbye still lingered on your forehead, along with his casual "take the other car if you want to go out" - like lending you a hundred-thousand euro vehicle was as simple as sharing coffee.

But after last night (and the night before that, and the increasingly blurred hours in between), you were content to exist in the aftermath of him. Every room held echoes - the way he'd pressed you against that wall, how his chain had caught the light as he'd lifted you onto that counter, the sound of his laugh when you'd almost knocked over that probably-expensive vase.

He'd been attentive in a way that made your chest ache, all careful questions and watching eyes. The same precision you'd analyzed in countless match footage translated to how he touched you - deliberate, focused, like every response was data to be cataloged. His perfectionist tendencies apparently extended far beyond the pitch, and you had the marks to prove it.

Speaking of Tumblr... you scrolled through your dash one last time. The theories were still flying, the thirst posts still abundant, but it felt really wrong now. Here was Aurélien making actual time for you, being intentional about pursuing you, and you had a whole account dedicated to thirsting over him? The cognitive dissonance was too much.

You wrote a quick post about "digital wellness" and noted taking a break then deleted the app. You'd properly nuke the account later - right now, you had a house to explore.

Ocho followed you through the house, his tags jingling as he padded along faithfully. The home gym where he'd filmed all those workout videos that had sent your mutuals into chaos was impressive, but seeing that motivational quote wall in the flesh? You clutched your imaginary pearls. And the mural of what looked like the 1960s Real Madrid team in the hallway? Yeah, if this was heading where you thought it was heading, you were definitely calling an interior decorator.

The media room spoke more to his age - all premium gaming setups and theater-quality everything. But the real winner was the backyard. The pool area was something out of a luxury resort catalog, and the Madrid sun hit just right on the loungers.

You settled into one, Ocho flopping at your feet, and tried to process everything. Two boyfriends in your entire life, and now here was Aurélien Tchouaméni - six feet two inches of pure "god took his time" - sliding into position to be number three? The universe was really out here making dreams come true.

Your phone lit up:

Auré: Missing you already. Dinner tonight? Unless you're too tired…

Your cheeks heated, remembering exactly why you might be tired. The way he'd switched between languages when he was too far gone to think straight, how that chain had felt cold against your heated skin, the sound he'd made when—

Another message:

Auré: I can feel you thinking about last night from here 😏

The smile that spread across your face was embarrassing. Those Tumblr manifestations had worked almost too well - your mutual followers had no idea they were manifesting their own thirsting out of existence.

******************************************************

"Aurélien," you warned, trying to keep your hand steady as you applied eyeliner, "I swear to god—"

"Mm?" His voice was all fake innocence, but his hands on your hips were anything but, squeezing your ass appreciatively as he pressed against your back. "I'm not doing anything."

The bathroom counter was cool under your palms as you leaned forward, attempting to focus on your reflection instead of how his chain was brushing against your shoulder, how his fingers were tracing the curve of your—

"I'm trying to get ready," you protested, but it came out embarrassingly breathy. "We have dinner reservations."

"We do," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your neck that definitely threatened your carefully applied foundation. "In an hour."

"Which means I need to finish my face and—" you inhaled sharply as his hands slid lower, gripping more firmly. "Aurélien."

You caught his reflection in the mirror - that dangerous smile playing at his lips as he watched you try to maintain composure. The fresh fade and fitted shirt were doing criminal things for his already unfair looks.

"You look perfect already," he murmured, and the sincerity in his voice almost distracted you from how his thumbs were now tracing maddening circles.

"You're impossible," you managed, but you were already leaning back against him, makeup brush forgotten.

His laugh rumbled through his chest. "You like impossible."

"Get out," you laughed, pushing at his chest. "Let me finish getting ready in peace."

His pout was criminally effective, but he retreated to the bedroom. Through the mirror, you watched him settle on the edge of the bed, scrolling through TikTok with casual grace. The moment you spritzed your setting spray though, he stood up like it was Pavlov's bell.

Interesting.

You filed that reaction away for later research.

It was becoming clear that Aurélien had downloaded the Complete Boyfriend Experience somewhere between your time apart. His manners were even more impeccable, his timing perfect, his attention to detail almost suspicious.

He took your hand as you descended the stairs together - another discovery about the man your mutuals had analyzed endlessly. Physical touch was definitely high on his love language list, contrary to Maha's whole dissertation about him being an acts of service guy. (The smugness of proving a mutual wrong? Unmatched.)

The stilettos made you grateful for his steady presence, his hand warm and secure in yours. At the door, he turned to Ocho, voice dropping into that French that still did things to you both in and out of the bedroom.

"Sois sage, protège la maison," he murmured, scratching behind the dog's ears. The simple command shouldn't sound that good, but here you were swooning.

He led you to the car, opening the passenger door with that fluid grace that made everything look choreographed. But there, sitting in your seat, was a red gift bag.

"Aurélien…" you breathed, picking it up before sliding in.

That smile played on his lips as he made his way to the driver's side, starting the car with practiced ease. The dopey ass grin was back on your face before you could stop it as he pulled out of the driveway.

"Are you going to open it?" he asked, one hand on the wheel while the other found its usual spot on your thigh. The Cartier and Van Cleef & Arpels bracelets on his wrist caught the streetlights, and you couldn't help staring at how right his large hand looked there, fingers splayed possessively across your skin.

The gift bag sat in your lap, full of promise. Whatever was inside - expensive or not - didn't really matter. The fact that he'd thought to get you anything at all had your heart doing that stupid flutter thing again.

You pulled out the tissue paper slowly, dragging out the moment. Aurélien's thumb traced circles on your thigh as he navigated through Madrid's evening traffic, but you could feel his attention split between the road and your reaction.

Inside was a small velvet box that made your heart stop for a second before common sense kicked in. Too soon for that kind of box. Still, your fingers trembled slightly as you opened it.

"I saw you looking at it the other day," he said softly, as you lifted out the delicate Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet - a match to one of his. "Thought we could coordinate."

The way he said it so casually, like matching thousand euro jewelry was just something you did now. Like this wasn't him essentially marking his territory in the most expensive way possible.

"You're ridiculous," you managed, but you were already holding out your wrist for him to fasten it at the next red light.

His fingers lingered on your pulse point. "You like ridiculous."

"Maybe," you admitted, watching the bracelet catch the streetlights. It looked right next to his hand on your thigh, like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

His answering smile was knowing. "Only maybe?"

You were saved from responding by his phone lighting up with a call from Jude. He answered through the car's Bluetooth, and you settled back to listen to him switch effortlessly between English and French, discussing tactics for their next match. The way authority wrapped around his words, how naturally he took command of the conversation - yeah, you were definitely going to need to write another song.

His hand never left your thigh during the entire call, thumb still tracing those maddening patterns that made focusing on anything else impossible. The bracelet glinted with each movement, a constant reminder of how quickly this was all moving.

Two weeks suddenly felt like both forever and not nearly enough time at all.

The restaurant was exactly the kind of place you'd expect Aurélien to know about — tucked away in a historic part of Madrid, all warm lighting and exposed brick walls. Private enough that phones stayed in pockets, exclusive enough that no one batted an eye when he led you to a corner table with his hand on your lower back.

"You're staring," he murmured as you settled into your seat, that knowing smirk playing at his lips.

"You clean up nice," you shrugged, trying for casual like you hadn't been watching him all evening. The black button-down was doing criminal things for his shoulders, and the way he'd rolled up the sleeves to show off those bracelets felt deliberately calculated to drive you crazy.

"Just nice?" His eyes glinted as he reached for his water glass, chain catching the light with the movement.

"Your ego doesn't need any more feeding."

His laugh was low, private. "No? After the way you were liking my training videos? Or maybe my posts?"

The waiter's arrival saved you from having to form a coherent response to that. Aurélien ordered for both of you in perfect Spanish - another language that had no business sounding that good rolling off his tongue. You were starting to think he could read a grocery list and make it sound sexy.

"So," he said once the waiter left, his fingers finding yours across the table, "about Paris..."

Your heart did that stupid flutter thing again. "What about it?"

"I was thinking," his thumb traced your new bracelet, "maybe we start there. Then Côte d'Azur, maybe Monaco..."

"That's a lot of planning for someone who just wanted to be in my music video a few weeks ago," you echoed your words from the other day, but this time they carried a different weight.

His eyes met yours, all intensity and promise. "I told you - I'm chasing. Properly."

The way he said it, like it was just that simple. Like planning European getaways and matching jewelry and looking at you like that was the most natural progression in the world.

"You're good," you said softly, watching his bracelets catch the light as he played with your fingers.

"At what?"

"This whole..." you gestured vaguely between you. "Boyfriend thing."

His smile turned dangerous. "Is that what this is?"

You tried to pull your hand back but he held firm, that grin widening. "I mean- I didn't mean to assume-"

"No?" He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "After I've been marking my territory so obviously?"

Your breath caught. "The bracelet–"

"The bracelet," he agreed, then his eyes got that glint that usually meant trouble. "Maybe next time we'll talk about a key. Make it easier than me having to come home from training to let you in."

His phone lit up with another call - Camavinga this time - but he declined it, attention still focused entirely on you.

"You can take it," you offered, but he was already shaking his head.

"They can wait." His thumb traced your pulse point again, right below the new bracelet. "I'm busy chasing."

The waiter came back with a bottle wine and poured some in both of your glasses. You took a sip quickly, trying to calm your nerves.

"You know," he said after taking his own sip of wine, eyes never leaving yours, "I'm going to ask you properly. To be my girlfriend."

Your heart did a backflip. "Oh yeah?"

"Mm." That dangerous smile was back. "Not yet though. Want to do it right."

You couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. "You're really out here making men look bad, you know that?"

"How so?"

"All this," you gestured between you, at the bracelet, at everything. "The chasing, the dating, the whole... intentional thing. In 2024? In this economy?"

His thumb was still tracing patterns on your wrist, just below where the Van Cleef caught the light. "You think I'd do any less? After watching you for months?"

He made it seem like putting in effort was the most natural thing in the world (and it was). Like taking time to court properly, to build something real, wasn't a dying art. Here you were, living through dating horror stories from friends about situationships and breadcrumbing and 50/50 and men who couldn't even send proper texts, and Aurélien Tchouaméni was out here planning European trips and buying matching jewelry and talking about asking you to be his girlfriend "properly."

"You're kind of unreal, you know that?"

That smile should really be illegal. "Good unreal?"

"Don't fish for compliments," you said, but you were grinning. "Your ego is big enough."

"My ego?" He leaned forward slightly, chain catching the light. "Says the one who wrote a whole song about me?"

Your cheeks heated. "That's different."

"Is it?" His voice dropped lower, more private. "Because I have some thoughts about those lyrics..."

The look in his eyes promised you'd be hearing those thoughts in detail later.

The meal passed in a haze of excellent food and better company, but dessert? That was when Aurélien decided to be truly unfair.

He moved your chair closer to his, the scraping noise against the floor making you wince - but he didn't seem to care, too focused on closing the distance between you. The chocolate something-or-other looked incredible, but the way he picked up the spoon, eyes locked on yours? That was what had your pulse jumping.

Every movement was deliberate as he gathered a perfect bite, holding it up with the kind of precision he usually reserved for perfectly weighted passes. His eyes never left yours as you leaned forward, and the intensity in his gaze as he watched you take the bite had heat crawling up your neck.

You dabbed at your mouth with your napkin, hyper-aware of how he tracked the movement.

"Is it good?" His voice had dropped to that register that did dangerous things to your composure.

"Very–" was all you managed before his mouth was on yours, tongue sweeping in to taste the chocolate himself. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, and maybe you should've been embarrassed about kissing like this in public, but with Aurélien? All bets were off.

Those full lips of his really were criminal, and the way his stupidly handsome face looked when he finally pulled back, pupils blown and that satisfied smirk playing at his mouth? Yeah, public decency was overrated.

"Let's go back to my place," he murmured against your lips, and something in his tone had your stomach doing somersaults.

The waiter appeared almost instantly at his gesture, and you watched Aurélien handle everything with that easy command he carried on the field — getting the dessert boxed, settling the bill, all while keeping one hand on the small of your back like he couldn't bear to break contact.

The night air hit cool against your heated skin as he guided you out, his touch steady and possessive. The valet had his car waiting in minutes, perks of being Madrid royalty, you supposed. He opened your door first, naturally, and the way his eyes tracked down your body as you slid in had you feeling like prey in the best way.

The moment he settled into the driver's seat, Brent Faiyaz's voice filled the car — something about one night, about pleasure, about giving in. The universe really was testing you tonight.

You pressed your thighs together, trying to ebb off your arousal, but then his hand found your leg again. Those fingers splayed possessively across your skin, squeezing just enough to let you know he noticed your movement. Every few seconds his eyes would flick over to you, dark with promise, and the way he bit his lip when you shifted under his touch had you counting the minutes until you reached his place.

"You good?" he asked, voice rough, and the smirk playing at his lips said he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Yeah."

The fact that he could still drive this well while systematically dismantling your self-control was honestly impressive.

The drive felt endless but somehow too quick at the same time. Aurélien's hand never left your thigh, and by the time he pulled into his driveway, the tension in the car was thick enough to cut.

He moved with that controlled grace of his as he came around to open your door, but there was something darker in his eyes now, something that had your pulse racing. His chain caught the security lights as he helped you out, and the way he pulled you close — enough to feel how his chest rose and fell a bit faster than normal — had you forgetting basic motor functions.

You barely registered Ocho's excited greeting at the door, too focused on how Aurélien's hand had slid from your back to your waist, how he was looking at you like he was planning exactly how to ruin your carefully applied makeup.

"Va te coucher, Ocho," he commanded softly to the dog, and honestly? French really should not sound that good. The way the words rolled off his tongue, all authority and promise...

The door clicked shut behind you.

His hands found your hips, turning you to face him. The "AT" pendant glinted in the dim light as he leaned down, stopping just shy of your lips.

"Now," he murmured, "where were we?"

Your breath caught, heart hammering as Aurélien’s fingers dug just a little deeper into your waist. His touch was steady, deliberate — like he was taking his time, savoring the way you melted into him.

"Right about here," you murmured, tilting your chin up, letting your lips brush his just slightly. Just enough to tease.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

His grip tightened, yanking you that last inch forward until there was nothing between you but heat. His mouth found yours in a kiss that was all possession — slow, deep, unapologetically hungry.

Ocho let out a soft chuff before trotting off, uninterested in whatever was unfolding. You, however? You were done for.

How you made it up the stairs, you didn’t know. You were only aware of the way he guided you with ease, like he owned every move you made together. By the time you reached his bedroom, your back met the closed door the moment the door clicked shut behind you. His breath warm against your skin, his hands dragging up your sides, over the fabric of your dress.

"You knew how tonight was ending," he murmured, lips grazing your jaw, fingers already working the zipper down.

You swallowed hard, exhaling shakily as the dress slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. "Maybe," you admitted, voice breathy.

He smirked, the expression dark and knowing.

Then he stepped back just enough to unbutton his shirt, revealing the broad stretch of his shoulders, the sharp cut of his abs — skin warm, golden, flawless. Your breath hitched at the sight, because God, you’d seen him like this before, but it never stopped stealing the air from your lungs.

You never got tired of seeing him naked.

He was too beautiful.

Aurélien knew it too, the way he watched you watching him, his smirk deepening as he worked the belt from his pants.

Your own breathing was uneven by the time you were both bare, and then he was leading you to the bed, his hands firm on your hips, guiding you onto the mattress with a touch that felt reverent despite the heat simmering beneath it.

He leaned back against the headboard, toned thighs spread slightly as he reached over to the bedside table, retrieving a condom with an ease that sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed as he tore it open, sliding it on with practiced efficiency.

Then he looked at you.

His gaze was heavy, filled with promise.

"Come here," he murmured.

You crawled over to him, straddling his lap as his hands found your waist, steadying you as you settled over him. His skin was warm beneath your touch, muscles tense under your fingertips as you traced up his chest.

Aurélien pulled you closer, lips capturing yours in a kiss that was deep and unhurried, his tongue teasing against yours as his hands roamed your back. You could feel him hard against you, the sensation making your breath hitch.

His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then lower, trailing heat down your neck until he reached your chest. He took his time, lips and tongue tracing over the swell of your breasts before wrapping around a nipple. The sensation sent a shudder through you, a soft moan slipping past your lips as he sucked, his other hand palming your other breast, thumb circling the hardened peak.

"Aurélien," you breathed, threading your fingers through his curls.

He hummed against your skin, the vibration sending another wave of heat pooling low in your stomach. He switched to the other nipple, flicking his tongue before sucking again, his hands gripping your hips as he ground you down against him.

You whimpered at the friction, the growing ache between your thighs making you restless.

He looked up at you then, dark eyes heavy with want, lips glistening as he murmured, "Ride me."

A shiver ran down your spine at his words, at the low rasp of his voice.

You reached between you, aligning him with your entrance before sinking down slowly, gasping at the stretch, at how perfectly he filled you. Aurélien groaned, hands tightening on your waist as you took him inch by inch.

"Fucking hell," he muttered, head tilting back slightly, his grip firm as he helped guide you down. "Always so tight, bébé."

You moaned at the praise, at the delicious burn of him inside you.

He gave you a moment, fingers kneading your hips before urging you to move. You rolled your hips experimentally, exhaling sharply at the friction, at the way he stretched you just right.

"That’s it," he murmured, watching you through hooded eyes. "Take me just like that."

You set a rhythm, lifting and sinking down onto him, each roll of your hips making you both unravel a little more. His hands roamed your body, one gripping your waist, the other sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple as he thrust up to meet your movements.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with breathy moans and curses in both English and French.

Aurélien’s eyes stayed on you, dark and hungry as he murmured, "Look at you… made for me, yeah?"

You whimpered, leaning forward to kiss him, the movement messy and desperate, all tongue. It reminded you of the first night you were together, when you had barely been able to keep your hands off each other, drowning in the sheer intensity of it all.

He groaned into your mouth, hands gripping your ass as he helped you move faster, deeper.

"Fuck, bébé," he rasped, voice wrecked. "You feel so good."

Your nails dug into his shoulders, chasing that high, loving how perfectly your bodies fit together — his deep brown skin against yours, slightly darker but complementing you like a missing puzzle piece.

You moaned his name, head tilting back as the pleasure built, and Aurélien took the opportunity to kiss your throat, teeth grazing your pulse.

His grip on your hips tightened before he lifted you effortlessly, his strength making your breath hitch. He shifted positions, pressing you into the mattress as he settled between your thighs, the heat of his body making you shiver in anticipation.

Aurélien’s hands slid down your legs, spreading them wider, and you hissed at the stretch. He paused, eyes flickering up to yours.

"I got you," he murmured, his lips brushing against your knee before he lifted one of your legs to rest over his shoulder. "Relax for me, bébé."

You exhaled, forcing yourself to melt into the mattress just as he rolled his hips forward, burying himself deep in one smooth thrust.

Your gasp was swallowed by his groan, the new angle sending pleasure spiking through your veins like electricity.

"Aurélien—"

He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours with a force that had you clutching at the sheets, at his arms, at anything that could anchor you. The bedframe creaked beneath you, the headboard tapping lightly against the wall with each deep stroke.

"You take me so well," he gritted out, watching where your bodies met, mesmerized by the way you stretched around him. His free hand slid down to press against your lower stomach, applying just enough pressure to make you keen. "Feel that? How deep I am?"

You could only nod, your voice caught in your throat as pleasure wracked through you.

"That’s my girl," he praised, leaning forward just enough to kiss your ankle before snapping his hips even harder, making you cry out.

The sensations were overwhelming, your body trembling beneath him as that familiar ache coiled tight in your core. Your nails raked down his back, desperate for something to hold onto as you teetered on the edge.

Aurélien’s breathing was ragged, his hands gripping your thighs as he pounded into you mercilessly. "Come for me," he urged, voice rough and commanding. "Let me feel you."

His words pushed you over the edge, pleasure crashing over you in waves as your body clenched around him, your cry of release muffled by his mouth as he kissed you through it.

"Fuck," he groaned, his rhythm stuttering as he followed right after, burying himself deep one last time before stilling, his body shuddering above you.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your heavy breaths, your bodies still tangled together as you both came down from the high.

Aurélien kissed you once, slow and languid, before pulling out carefully. He slid off the bed, disposing of the condom before returning, the mattress dipping under his weight as he pulled you into his chest.

You let him, curling against his warmth as his fingers traced lazy circles on your back.

And in that moment, as his lips pressed against your forehead and his arm tightened around your waist, you realized something.

Whatever this man wanted, whatever he needed —you were going to give it to him.

No questions asked.

……………tbd

[lelianaslefthand]

ended up going dwarf over elf. here's amalia thorne!!! (they/them)

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Hello, hope you're doing alright. I have a pretty twisted one shot request concerning our amazing Shadowsinger. I was looking at the super natural dark dialogue prompts list and I feel like the #24 and #36 would fit perfectly for my request.

So basically: I was thinking about Azriel capturing the reader. She's a spy from the Spring Court and she was on a mission wandering at the border of the Night Court. When the reader wakes up, she's tied up in Azriel torture room. She also realizes how Azriel seems to be drawn to her. As she tries to find a way to make him untie her, she remembers something about Illyrians obssesion with bargains and deals. She offers to make a deal with him that the first one to make the other cum earn a favor. If she wins he spares her life, and if not he can kill her. And like as they conclude the pack, a tattoo appears on both of them and bla bla bla... and she ends up winning this challenge maybe?

Can't wait to see if you'll be willing to write this! I think it would have a lot of potential if written by you. Anyways, keep up your good work. I love your writing.

Okay, I know I said my next release would be the POM bonus bits, and then I’d be working on my other pieces, but I got this request and had immediate inspiration for it, so here it is!

Thank you to whoever sent this in! I hope I did it justice. It was very fun to write! I hope you enjoy 🫶🏻

The prompts you requested to be included in this will be written in bold.

Note: I haven’t tagged anyone in this because I desperately need to sort out my tag lists and haven’t had the chance. I’ll add them later if I get the time. Sorry!

Warnings: Smut! 18+, minors dni. NSFW. Some details of aggressive behaviour. Azriel being a sore ass LOSER.

Lust is a Losing Game — Azriel x Reader.

You can feel the caress of Night before your eyes open.

Every single court you have trespassed and traversed has its own distinct feel. The Autumn Court feels perpetually — and unsurprisingly — like a stroll through a forest, touched by brisk air and hues of oranges, yellows, reds. Your home court — Spring — has a feeling of renewed hope; like the first rays of sun after a long, harsh winter.

The Night Court is blood-drenched, rippling darkness, and the allure of scandal, of want, of lust.

Night time is for secrets and exploration. It’s for burning the bridge between who you are in the daylight and becoming something…else. It’s exciting, and it’s coaxing, and—

Cold, sharp metal prods beneath your chin. Its point is lethal. Any wrong move, and you’re bleeding.

Perhaps even more lethal is the quiet voice that commands, “Eyes open.”

Slowly, you comply — because you are both intrigued and wise. Intrigued by where you went wrong and where you ended up. Wise, because you know that cold, granite voice.

It doesn’t surprise you in the least to open your eyes and find Azriel the shadowsinger stood in front of you, his blade at your throat.

You know of him, of course — spymaster of the Night Court, a rare species of fae, far more powerful than many realise. You’ve sat across from him during terse meetings between courts and been the target of those guarded, icy stares. You’ve never heard him utter more than a few words at a time; he is spoken for by reputation, by violence and threat and battle.

But you’d know that voice anywhere.

You peer up at him through eyes blurred by some sort of power. And when your lips tilt up into a smile, a subtle tick of his jaw tells you it incenses him.

“Hello, Azriel.” You rasp.

The blade presses into your skin as he asks, “What were you doing at the border of our court?”

“Picking wildflowers. Foraging berries. Making a daisy chain. All the things a lady loves to do.”

A quiet noise sounds in his throat. “Is that what you are? A lady?”

“I’m whatever you want me to be, shadowsinger.”

His answering smile is cruel. A harsher press, and his blade nicks your throat. A drop of warm blood blooms on your skin.

Your eyes, rapidly clearing, take quick stock of your surroundings. The room is dark and damp and cold, empty save for the chair on which you sit — to which you are constrained. You can scent the blood of a thousand previous victims of the shadowsinger, and you imagine the vacancy of the space must have been more intimidating to them, somehow, than if the room were filled to the brim with torture instruments. The lack thereof tells anyone who finds themselves here that the Night Court’s spymaster does not need such things to do his work.

You try to shift in the chair, and find yourself well and truly stuck in place. Your gaze drops to your feet, where shadows act as manacles, as firm and strong and steel. Though your hands are restrained around the back of the chair, the cool touch tells you that a shadow binds them, too.

Azriel follows your gaze. A smug smile graces his mouth as he watches you try and fail to move.

“An impressive little trick.” You offer, nodding to the shadows around your ankles. “Now be a gentleman and untie me.”

“Tell me what you were doing at our border, and maybe I will.”

“Tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine.”

“You’re not really in the position to barter, right now, are you?”

“And yet, here I am.” You smile. “Bartering.”

He stares down at you, shrouded in shadows, in night. His aloofness has been perfected over centuries, but you somehow know where to look in order to tell — you’re getting on his nerves.

A slight angling of his head. Shifting on his feet. He drags the tip of that blade up, not pressing quite hard enough to draw more blood, but to make a twisted heat enter your veins. The blade stops at your cheek.

“I don’t know how you do things in the Spring Court.” His breath caresses your face. “But I can’t imagine it’s part of your job description to be a smartass who can’t keep her mouth shut.”

Your eyes flick down to that blade. Back up to his gaze. “I can’t imagine it’s part of yours to lust over me so tirelessly.”

The shadowsinger actually falters.

Something tells you he would never do that in front of somebody else.

His teeth grit. He bites out, “Tell me why the fuck you were at the border—”

“I’ve seen you, you know.” A satisfied smirk curls your lips. You will not give away that your arms and legs are beginning to ache. “I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at me for years.”

A clatter bounces off the walls as he tosses his dagger to the floor. Can’t be one that means much to him, then. You almost laugh, but a scarred hand is gripping your chin to the point of pain. He tilts — yanks — your chin up. “Pray, tell, how do I look at you?”

“With hunger.”

“Hatred.”

“Lust.”

“Loathing.”

“Like you want to touch me.”

“I am going,” he snarls, “to wrap my hands around your throat and—”

“Fuck me?”

“Kill you.”

A mocking pout puckers your lips. “Less sexy.”

"You must be a fool," his fingers bite into your skin, "to laugh in the face of such danger."

"What danger would that be? You've handed me your threats. What are you waiting for, Azriel? Kill me."

He could easily retrieve his blade and gut you then and there. You know it. He knows it.

And yet he doesn't do it.

He clenches his jaw so hard that you hear his teeth clash. He squeezes your chin, calluses and scars grazing you. It feels...good.

But then a growl is ripping from deep within his chest, and he's tearing his hand away and pivoting on the spot. He's confident enough in the shadow bindings to turn his back to you, clearly.

You just smile. He can't do it. Can't kill you.

"I'll do you the courtesy of asking one last time." His voice is strained. "Why were you snooping around our border."

"Perhaps I was hoping you'd find me and tie me to a chair. I'm into that kind of stuff, you know. We could make this fun."

"You think this room is intended for fun?"

"I think you and I could have fun anywhere, shadowsinger."

He says nothing. You watch as he sucks in a deep breath, steels himself. By his command, a shadow dances out and retrieves his blade from the floor. His fist flexes at his side.

Perhaps you can irritate him enough that he'll either kill you or let you leave out of pure exasperation. Or turn on the tears and plead innocence, that you're just a foolish, foolish girl doing her High Lord's bidding.

Or perhaps you can have fun.

You scan your brain for what you know about this court. How you can use it to your advantage — use Azriel to your advantage. An idea knits itself in the twisted avenues of your mind.

"This court has a thing for bargains, does it not?" You watch Azriel's shoulders tense at the sound of your voice. "How about making a bargain with me?"

He chokes on a scoff. "Why would I want to make a bargain with you?"

"Because you want me."

Slowly, he turns. His eyes are narrowed, mouth pinched. He looks two seconds away from using that blade to wipe your head clean from your neck.

But then he smiles, cruelly and coldly. "How very sure of yourself you sound."

You mimic that smile. "I am." Damn right you are. "So here is my deal: you toy with that lust however you like. We tease each other. Coax reactions from each other."

"Where is the bargain in that?" No outright refusal.

"If I make you cum first, shadowsinger," your eyes fall to his breeches. You could swear you glimpse the outline of a bulge. "If I make you cum first, I get to walk out of here with my head still attached to my body. But if you make me cum first...well. You get to know why I was snooping around the Night Court border, and you can send my head back to my High Lord in a pretty little box."

He stares at you for what feels like so, so long. Head to toe, his eyes rake over you. His shadows whisper in his ears, things you don't need nor care to hear.

Because you might not have his shadows, but you are a spy, just as he is. And you know his mind is already made up.

Shadowsinger, spymaster, feared member of the infamous Night Court — but still, a male weakened by lust. Lust for you that has driven him mad for a long, long time.

Still, he tries to keep up a front. He sneers at you, "You'd so willingly barter away your life?"

You smile. Simply, prettily. "It turns me on."

Oh, he's lost to his need. There's a newer scent that has joined the present ones of cedar and night-chilled mist and bloodstains. This one is deeper, smokier. Spicier.

He points his blade at you, the tip glimmering. And the shadow binds fall away as he demands, "Undress."

Your hands fall back to your sides. "Are you saying you agree to my terms?"

"Yes. Now take. Your fucking. Clothes off."

"What way is that to talk to a lady?"

"You are no lady—" His words fall short as, with a snap of your fingers, your clothes disappear. Leave you in nothing but your undergarments. His eyes drink in the brassiere, the silky little fabric that hangs from your hips. He swallows. "And I am no gentleman."

A spy you may be — someone who throws themself into danger and risk and dirt and blood, time and time again. But you never see a reason not to wear pretty underwear while doing so. And gods, in this moment, you're very glad of that choice.

It's the same colour as the siphons that adorn the male before you. The coldness in Azriel's eyes is replaced by intense, raw heat. He takes a step towards you, but you kick out a leg.

"Your turn." You say.

He pauses. Chucks his dagger aside again.

And then his clothes are gone.

He doesn't seem the slightest bit fazed by the fact that he stands utterly naked before you. So much golden, sculpted skin on show. All over, white scars tell the stories of previous injuries. His body is a novel written over time.

That silky underwear of yours is already soaked as you take your fill of him. For a moment, you think you might stumble in your bravado. He's huge and hard and standing to attention. Utterly perfect.

But you sit up straight in the chair and plant your hands on the arms. Your legs part, and Azriel hungrily tracks the movement.

"There is only one rule." You tell him. "We don't want to make this too easy, after all."

His jaw flexes. Eyes don't stray from the growing damp patch between your thighs. "What's the rule."

"You can touch me. You can lick me. You can put your cock in my mouth and my hand and rub it against my skin. But you can't fuck me."

He starts, pupils blowing wide. "But—"

"Not today." Your lips curl up. "But if I win, and I walk out of here? Some other time, Azriel, you can fuck me."

"You are wicked."

"Do you accept my rule?"

"Yes."

You are wicked, indeed. You widen that gap between your legs until you're hooking them over the arms of the chair. Baring your silk-covered cunt to him. His eyes damn near roll into the back of his head at the sight.

"Do you think you can stand to touch me without fucking me?" You hum, your fingers dancing down to that, sweet, sweet spot. You run them over the dampness, biting your lip. "I don't think you can."

"You underestimate me." Azriel growls. "And you're going to cum first."

There is no opportunity for you to volley a response. Not as Azriel surges forward and yanks you out of the chair, his arms securing you. His firm, velvety cock presses against your stomach. His lips slide over yours in a harsh, bruising kiss.

A male of natural elegance and grace, he doesn't even falter in the kiss or his steps as he marches you back, back, until you're pressed up against a cold wall. You nip his bottom lip and reach between your bodies, wanting to feel the pulsing weight of his cock in your palm, but his hands are grabbing your wrists and holding them above your head.

"No hands." He snarls onto your lips. "Just my cock and your cunt. Whoever cums first is the loser."

You almost want to laugh. So, so easy this will be.

But then he's letting go of your hands and pinning you with a knee. And out of fucking nowhere, a slim bottle appears between his fingers. You watch, leaning against the cold surface of the wall, as he pulls the stopper out of the bottle and tilts it towards you.

Oil drips onto your chest. Rolls down your breasts, your stomach. Azriel watches with predatory focus as it floods to where he wants it — soaking your underwear.

The blue silk darkens, sticks to your skin. Showcases everything that Azriel so desperately wants, but everything he will not get — today.

And then so quickly, he's hoisting your leg at his hip. So quickly, his cock is pressing into your soaking undergarments.

He positions his length between your thighs and guides it through your clothed folds. Both of you let out an immediate gasp at the taunting sensation — that a mere bit of fabric separates you from what you both want.

"Is this how you're going to play it?" Your head falls back, teeth digging into your lower lip. "You think thrusting through my clothes is going to stop you from cumming?"

"No." He makes a small noise, slowly rolling his hips. Watches his glistening cock rubbing against the silk. "But I think I'm going to make you cum fast from it."

"And then you get to kill me."

"And then," the head of his cock nudges your clit, "I get to kill you."

The sensation is divine, you can’t deny it. A coiled, aching pleasure that sits tightly in your lower belly. Azriel hears your intake of breath, and he smiles like this will be easy for him. You’re having none of that.

You’re thankful for your refined stealth and balance as you clamp your leg tighter around him, pull him harder against you. His hands press flat against the wall either side of your head, and you both gasp as his cock rubs so torturously against you, up and down and up and down.

“Gods,” He grunts, dipping down to brush his lips against yours. “This is torture.”

You smile. “Does it feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to remove my underwear? You still can’t fuck me, though.”

A suffering groan chokes out of him, and he throws his head back. Because yes, he fucking wants you to remove your underwear. Yes, he wants to feel his bare skin rubbing against your bare skin.

But gods, the temptation to slide his cock into you is going to be unbearable.

But even though he knows that, and you know that, he smiles like this is nothing. He bites out, pleasure wavering his voice, “Why not? It’ll only make you lose.”

“I think you’re giving yourself a little too much credit.” You say, and then your underwear is gone, leaving you naked and dripping with nothing to shield you.

Not expecting it so fast, Azriel’s cock slides easily through your folds — and the head nudges your entrance. Very nearly slips in. He growls and halts the roll of his hips.

“Oops.” You smirk. “Careful, shadowsinger.”

“You’re fucking insufferable.” He bites back, and then he’s kissing you.

The kiss robs you of breath and of words. All you can do is twine your arms around his neck and welcome the sensation of him fucking through your folds, your wetness his pleasure. You’re lost to the feeling of him bumping against your clit, rubbing against it. Your legs are beginning to tremble.

“I want to fuck you.” Azriel moans, dropping his head to take in the sight of his cock against your pussy, never entering, never going deeper.

“I know.” Your fingernails dig into his shoulders. “And you have wanted to for a very long time.”

“Yes.” He can’t even deny it. “Yes.”

“You think about me.”

“Yes.”

“You wonder what it’s like to be inside me.”

“Yes.”

“But not today.” Your hands stroke down his muscled arms, and you moan as he grinds his cock against your clit. “Not today.”

“Nor any other day.” His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head up. “Because I will have your head. Cum for me, lady.”

He kisses you again, and gods, you want to cum. Every single inch of you begs and trembles for it. You’re clenching around nothing, desperate to feel him inside you, fucking into you, spilling into you—

But through your pleasured haze, you remember: you will be victorious. Azriel cannot win.

And so when he’s kissing you and kissing you, moans catching in his throat and landing in your mouth, hips faltering with every thrust, you pull your lips from his and sink your teeth into his neck with a harsh bite. You’ve always imagined he’d like that.

And simultaneously, you lock him between your thighs and roll your hips torturously slow, dragging every last sensation from him.

Azriel’s cock, nestled snugly between the folds of your cunt, spasms and twitches. He slams his hands against the wall and goes still. Tries to pull back the control.

But it’s too late for that.

“Fuck!” He shouts, and then ropes of cum are spurting out of him and landing on your stomach, your breasts, your arms. Beads of it roll down his cock. He trembles hard, panting, groaning, growling.

And you suck harshly at his neck. Suck until it leaves a mark. And then pull away with a smile.

Breathing so, so heavily, Azriel’s gaze drops down to his cock like the damn thing has betrayed him. He’s wide-eyed and outraged. He’s not sure what’s just happened.

A horrid longing still aches between your legs and makes you want to continue until you’re exploding, too. But the triumph of a win is pleasure in itself.

“Well, well, well.” You glance down at the cum now coating your skin. “I do believe I was right.”

“What—” Azriel breathes, shaking out of his lust. “What kind of witchcraft was that?” He touches his neck, where you bit him. As though the answer lies there.”

You shrug. “No witchcraft, though I’m flattered you think so. You simply lost the game.”

“I. Don’t. Lose.”

“You just did.” You pat his shoulder. “There, there.”

He rips away, so fast that you almost fall. “Get the fuck away from me.”

“Gladly.” With a snap of your fingers, you’re squeaky clean and clothed once more. Azriel’s clothes return, too. “And I’ll do so with my pretty head still on my shoulders—

“Get out.”

“Because I won the game—”

“Get. Out.”

“A bargain’s a bargain, after all—”

“I will not tell you again.” His hand grabs the back of your neck, hard enough to bruise, and he marches you to the door, yanking it open. “Out.”

You’re thrown into a dim-lit hallway, your body colliding with a cold brick wall. You throw Azriel a smile over your shoulder, despite your teeth singing at the impact.

“Try not to wank over me too much!” You call, as he slams the door shut behind him. “See you around!”

It’s only once you’ve winnowed back to your own court, and you’re bathing the day from your skin, that you notice the small black band inked into your upper arm. You scrub at it until it’s red raw. It doesn’t budge.

The mark of a bargain. But you had always believed that the tattoos of bargains disappeared once the terms were fulfilled…

But if I win, and I walk out of here? Some other time, Azriel, you can fuck me…

It had all been bravado. And yet…it had unwittingly been woven into the bargain.

Some other time, Azriel, you can fuck me.

That’s the only way you’re getting that mark off your skin.

[vampiriiiia]

Waiting. Seething. Blooming

(Ch.2)

Summary: An orphaned bastard of House Tyrell is welcomed in Kings Landing as Princess Healanas lady in waiting. In her attempts to navigate the ways of court and gain the favour of powerful men she manages to involve herself with the web of the royal family’s affairs.

word count: 3.8k

Since the day where you shared with the princess your knowledge of flowers,

and in extension, insects and such, your walks in the garden became a daily occurrence. Everyday, a bit before midday, and during the evenings as well, you and Princess Helaena would stroll around the gardens, deep in conversation. On some days, such as this, hers and Prince Aegon’s children, Prince Jaegerys and sweet Princess Jaehera would come with you. On such evenings, you sit in a marble bench that was adorned with ivys.

In front of you lied a moss covered path, amidst the enchanting whispers of the Keeps garden, where the gnarled limbs of towering oaks twist and turn like vigilant sentinels. This path, gently beckons you towards the heart of the grove. Here, in this secluded haven, stands a statue carved in alabaster. For a moment, it seemed to glow with a light all its own. The statue is poised gracefully upon a pedestal entwined with ivy. Surrounding this spectral guardian are blooms of purple and pink hydrangeas, their petals nodding in the breeze like petals like the paintings for a book your mother had showed you, a time long ago. Shadows of children dance under the enchanting boughs, where light seldom intrudes, adding to the mystique of this sanctuary. It is a place where the divide between past and present blurs, and where the whispers of history seem louder than the songs of birds around you and your unusually quiet company.

You carefully watched the children for a while, before turning your attention to the Princess, who despite her earlier excitement to visit the gardens, now stood silent and stoic, like the elegant statue in front of you, examining a dark creature perched upon her hand. Its eight legs, sharp and angled like blades, moved with a dreadful grace. Its body, a shadowy armour of intricate patterns. It’s eyes almost looked a bit sinister as they seemed to pierce through the very essence of your facade, as though the spider itself held dominion over fear and shadows. You had no problem with insects and such, even holding some of them when the Princesses hands had been too full, but you dreaded spiders. You dreaded them more than anything. As you watched her handle the creature with grace, a sense of numbing terror spread across your chest, and despite being seated, you felt your legs crumble also. It wasn’t the spiders appearance that frightened you per se, more the fact that they could be anywhere, and you wouldn’t know. They seemed to know every whisper that had been whispered in the Keep, maybe even the realm, maybe even Highgarden. Most likely Highgarden. They knew too many things, they could weave the most appropriate net for you, trapping you for as long as they pleased, and you wouldn't even see it. Thankfully, your size did not allow that but unfortunately, you were not as big as you’d like, for you were far smaller than the nets life sized spiders created.

Eventually you turned your attention back to the children running around each other, seemingly playing a game of tag. You sat there, quietly with the Princess for a while, till a sudden appearance had the both of you jolting.

Queen Alicent Hightower has always been a politely imposing figure. She had lengthy copper curls and big brown eyes that seemed to be aware of your every move. She had been wearing an emerald green dress, perched with the symbol of the seven on her waist, creating a belt like necklace around her lower waist. Other than the softness of the fabric with a few golden details, she had been dressed simply for the day, as the Princess had told you, no court meeting for the day was to be held. She inspected you closely, carefully, the way you sat and how straight your back was, where you put your hands, and when she was seemingly satisfied, she turned her attention to her daughter. Her eyes softened as she said “ Helaena, would you happen to know where your grandsire would be?” “No mother, I do not. (Y/N) and I have been here for some time, he has not appeared around these parts of the garden”. The Princess had gained a habit of referring to you by your first name as of late, she never corrected herself, but you never took the liberty of using her first name as well.

The Queen looked perplexed at that, “He had told me he’d be with you today.” “Well, he is not”. She sighted, letting out a long batted breath, obviously not very pleased with the outcome of her search. She seemed to be searching for him quite often these days, surely the castle couldn’t be so big. Besides, Lord Otto Hightower was of old age, he couldn’t be running around the castle, avoiding his daughter of all people. That thought seemed amusing, but it was certainly untrue, since most days Queen Alicent was the one doing the running. She rigidly sat down, in the middle of you and Helaena on the bench, “I suppose I’ll wait here then. Your grandsire is most likely to appear at these parts of the garden”. That was not true, this wing of the garden has always been quiet, so quiet you could hear the rose petals flowing under the evening breeze. You highly doubted the Hand had been one for romantic adventures through quiet parts of the castle such as this.

Queen Alicents presence stiffened the atmosphere. While before her arrival there was a silent air of understanding surrounding you and Princess Helaena, now it was filled with awkward small conversation about court matters such as the starvation of smallfolk in the southern part of Kings Landing. That was the one thing that stuck to you the most “And what is the next move to solve that matter? Have you reached a conclusion yet?” you surprised yourself by speaking but the Queen’s response is what truly caught you off guard “It’s truly unfortunate but we have not yet began to attend to that matter, in the city of Braavos, the Iron Bank, not half a year ago had lended a large amount of money to the throne to built that large well down in Rivers Row and unfortunately it has not been finished and they’re demanding that number of money back” did a well really take so much money to be built? why couldn’t they use the saving of the throne itself? “We of course will tend as soon as we can to the starving smallfolk but there’s other matters to be tended to first. You see Lady Flower, the throne is always busy and filled with responsibilities” the Queen added hastily, sensing your scepticism about her response, diverting the conversation to other matters the throne had to quickly attend to. You tried your best to keep your back straight, never slouching and your hands never leaving your lap.

——

“They want to make my brother king” the Princess abruptly broke the silence after arriving to her chambers. The uncomfortable conversation with Queen Alicent had thankfully ended as it began to darken outside. Now at the comfort of her quarters, soundly rocking Jaeherys crib while you did the same for Jaehera, her commnet caught you by suprise. “Why would you think that Helaena?” you knew exactly why. Since the moment you arrived in the castle you quickly understood what opinions Queen Alicents side of the family held for Princess Rhaenyra. Prince Aegon made jokes about the legitimacy of her sons, The hand liked to act like she did not exist but was in fact a distant family member at best, and not the actual heir to the throne. Princess Helaena never spoke of her, but also never participated in debates about her with the rest of her family. You were not sure if the latter one was a direct request from the Queen. You only heard Prince Aemond speak of her once, and the causality which he spoke so hatefully about her had you momentarily freeze in your place.

On the other hand, you heard Queen Alicent speak so often about her step-daughter that you were not sure if it sounded more like envy or like something else. Or both.

Queen Alicent spoke of Rhaenyra in public with a veneer of civility and disdain. She would often criticize the Princesses rebellions and lack of propriety. The Queen made a show of disapproving of her behaviour, playing up the role of a concerned stepmother trying to rein in a wayward daughter.

"She is willful and defiant," Alicent would say, her voice laced with irritation. "Ignoring her duties and causing trouble at every turn. It’s a shame, really. She could be so much more if she would just learn to act like a proper princess." the Queen would continue in a frenzy. It took you by suprise how often you’d catch her in such position, speaking in such way, to Ser Criston Cole, of all people. Although, he never once opened his mouth to agree or disagree with her, displaying a serious and nonchalant stance to what the Queen was saying. It was a smart move on his part, but at the same time it made it look like it happened more often than not.

Queen Alicent reminded you of how you spoke of the gods when you were younger, innocent and more hopeful. When your mother was still alive, albeit sick, and you still belivied. You’d speak in an irritated manner about them, when despite your prayers, they didn’t bend to your will. You’d never stop believing and praying though, always secretly hoping that they’d see your devotion and finally grand you one wish. In your case, you asked for your mothers health. You did not know, not truly, what Queen Alicent wanted from Princess Rhaenyra. You weren’t sure if she quite knew herself.

Your inner turmoil was put at pause when Princess Jaehera whined a little, then went back to her sleep. You looked at the Princess, who had now placed her son in his crib, rocking him gently, with a faraway look in her lavender blue eyes. Princess Helena’s wasn’t much older than you, yet she had her twins at the same age you lost your mother. You knew that at that age, you weren’t mentally or physically prepared to host another person inside you, much less twins. The Princess helped feed them, bath them, made sure they went to their high Valyrian lessons, rocked them to sleep every night and was always with them, day and night, overlooking their other activities with your help. But as you watched her tend to them, you weren’t really sure if she quite realised they were hers. You once heard some maids comment about the Princesses standoffishness, which increased after she got married to her brother and had children.

You reached the conclusion that despite those day dreams always being a part of the Princess, their increase is both a form of escapism. Deep down, she knew that the children were hers. But the weight of motherhood, its duties, it must be very overwhelming. In her mind, they were not her children, they were her siblings. It must be more comfortable pretending she was their older sister, which wasn’t a stretch considering how young the queen was when she had Prince Aegon. Retreating into her mind was easier than truly grasping the fact that she birthed those children when she was one herself.

The Princess didn’t reply to your question, she tucked her son in, as you did for her daughter, and asked for your help with undoing her hair and gown. When she got in her night wear, you started unbraiding her hair. “Has Prince Aegon yet to return?” you asked “As usual he has not. I don't except him to. He himself must prefer where his currently sleeping, or rather who” you learned quickly enough that the Princess preferred much more as well that he did not return to their shared chambers. Her relationship with her brother, despite being married and having twins, never really changed, no romantic love blossomed between them as it had for their great-grandsire and his sister wife, the good Queen Alyssane.

——

Sleep for once had come easy last night, which was unusual. You quickly dressed yourself in a light blue dress with puffy sleeves and fixed your hair accordingly. You walked to the sept, not too fast and not too slow, as you smiled carefully and politely greeted other members of court. The sept was cold, filled with the chilly air of the morning, but the candles as you lit them quickly warmed you up. One for your mother, your father, your grandparents. You sat on your knees and silently moved your lips as you recited the correct prayers. You felt a heavy presence move next to you and start praying as well. You did not feel particularly happy about that, knowing you couldn’t sit in the sept as long as you usually do with another observing you. You prayed for a few more minutes, then started to recite all the other prayers you knew, eager to wait out the presences departure. It did not come, you felt the person move and stand up, giving you a brief moment of hope, till you realised they weren’t leaving, seemingly waiting for you to finish. You finished your last known prayer and blowed out the candles you previously lit, carefully standing up and dusting off nonexistent filth. You turned around to be met face to face with Prince Aemond. It was for the best really, you reasoned, Prince Aemond was unmarried still, you could attempt to secure a match for yourself with a second son, bastard or not, you were still the oldest and one of the only surviving members of House Tyrell. Although, Prince Aemond never wanted you to forget your illegitimacy, “Lady Flower” he started, always putting an emphasis on your last name. “I was beginning to wonder you were avoiding me with how much you were praying” he continued. He was easily dislikable. You smiled politely “Of course not, my Prince, House Tyrell sadly has lots of deceased members” a half truth. The l Prince examined you with his icy gaze, it was clear he did not like you at all, nor made an attempt to hide his disdain for bastards, even if their standing was in Highgarden, the same House his mothers family had sworn to.

“I have a personal request for you” he spoke after a beat of silence.

You held your breath, hoping it was something that was easily completed and would not question your honour, more than it already was since your birth. “Ser Criston, my mothers and your Queens, royal guard has been sent for business on my grandfathers command down in Kings Landing, the western part. I was ought to come with him but my duties do not allow me time to do so. I was hoping you’d be of help.” “But the Princess—” “The Princess has already been informed that you have matters to attend to for today. You post will be filled with some other lady.” He has already planned this out. His words gave you little room to think of anything else. “Of course my Prince” he did not smile or thank you, just started to walk. You took that as your cue to follow him.

After a few, albeit long and nerve filled minutes, you found yourself in the company of Ser Criston and Prince Aemond. Ser Criston was not wearing his usual armour, but instead he wore a dark grey cloak and a hat to match it, trying to cover his appearance. He handed you a dark blue and dusty cloak and despite your initial disgust, you wore it with not one complain and put on the attached hood. They spoke quietly amongst themselves, then looked back at you, then back at each other. You smiled politely, but not for two long, so they wouldn’t deem you as stupid. You were pretty sure the Prince would think so anyway, despite your best efforts.

After a few minutes of exchanging quiet conversation and a few hissed whispers at each other, Ser Criston started to walk outside, nodding for you to follow him. Prince Aemond send you a warning glance before you left. You quickly followed Ser Criston outside, it had been your first time outside the walls of the castle, so you didn’t know how dangerous it could be. But it must have been dangerous enough, for he still kept his sword on him, gripping it as you walked side by side. After a while, you found the courage to ask “Is there a specific reason why I was asked to join you today?” Ser Criston replied without looking at you, with a stern expression staring ahead “You will see for yourself soon enough.” It was unfair to drag you out of your daily responsibilities and to not even inform you why, withholding information from the quest they sent you to, you thought in bitter annoyance.

“Whatever you see today, I do not want you to inform the Queen.”

What. “What?”

“I have been given stern instructions not to inform her by the Hand himself. You will follow them as well. Is that understood?”

You spoke after a moment, unable to move from your suprise at his words “….Yes.”

You walked in silence for some time, passing men, women and children alike most of them skinny, thin, bony actually. So thin you could reach and touch them and you’d feel their bones more than their skin. They looked as if the only thing separating their bones from the outside world was a thin dirty sheet, that hugged their body tightly. A few were laying on the cold dirt ground, most likely dead, judging by the smell. You hoped you’d leave that smell in the past. The stench of death hung heavy in the air. Rotting flesh mingled with the acrid smoke of burning bodies, creating a nauseating odor that clawed at the senses. The sickly sweet smell of decay was like a miasma, shrouding everything in a pall of despair. The back gate of the castle had been at the southeast part of the city, which meant you were seeing first hand the consequences of starvation. There were so many dead bodies, rotting unattended to, that the risk of a disease breaking out pretty soon seemed the only logical outcome. They weren’t burning fast enough, there were more dead laying on the ground than healthy men that were able to stand on their feet to continue this task.

Some were cussing King Viserys, who having been so many years bedridden had cast his curse on the city, to have everyone slowly die like he was. Others cussed Princess Rhaenyra for leaving and not taking the throne to protect the realm. Others cussed Queen Alicent and her court of men, who chose to cut the food supply from Highgarden for whatever reason. To you horror, as you walked to the western part of the city, you realised the wave of starvation had affected not only the south, but the east and a part of the west as well. You speculated the north was also highly affected too. As you thought some more, you finally began to l piece a few things together. The amount of money the Iron Bank lended to the throne had not been just for that damn well, as you were pretty sure the court wouldn’t sacrifice the entire population of Kings Landing just for that. Who would pay taxes in that case? You also knew that the castle had more than enough money to never need a loan from the Iron Bank, but they didn’t want to use the money from there for whatever they were truly using the loan for. If they used the thrones savings for anything, they always had to keep it in account and they didn’t want any physical evidence. The well was being used as a means to launder off money in a way. Your father had explained you long ago what that meant. You didn't want to think of him now.

Instead, you wondered if the Queen actually knew. You weren’t sure if she knew truly what the loan was used for, or the true state Kings Landing was in, judging at least from the instructions Ser Criston was given from the Hand. Oh. The Hand. You should’ve realised so sooner. It seems the Queen was kept in the dark for some time regarding matters such as this. As the Queen you weren’t sure how much she knew and how much she chose to believe certain things were true. How she believed her fathers word on a scale. It must be a combination of trust and of wanting her consciousness at peace. What you knew became your responsibility as well, after all. You couldn’t judge the Hand for doing so, after all the reason you were here was because you acted in a similar manner towards your younger brother. Although you’d never put at risk so many innocent people to keep a lie believable. You liked to think a certain amount of the self-sacrifice they taught ladies like you was still left, or at least some morality.

You looked at Ser Criston, his eyes betrayed no disgust, sadness or anger at the image in front of him. His brows were slightly forrowed but that could be from the smell. Out of all the people in court, except a few middle born ladies, you shared the most similarities with Ser Criston. You both came from low-born mothers after all and knew the struggles that came with. He seemed to forget his roots, though. You walked and walked till you stopped in front of a whore house, deep in the centre of Kings Landing, far away from sickness, pain and grief, here the people still danced and drank despite it only being mid-day. Ser Criston turned to you “I’ll need to you to go inside, and fetch Prince Aegon in the calmest manner you can master. Don’t attract much attention. Quickly.” Before you could answer, Ser Criston knocked on the door and a woman in frizzy blonde curls and pink underwear opened the door and looked at both of you expectingly. She seemed annoyed you noted. Ser Criston looked at you, motioning for you to speak.

“We have direct orders from the castle to bring Prince Aegon back. There are urgent matters he needs to attend to.” You looked at yo it partner for a moment, wanting to see if your words were up to his expectations. He nodded at you silently and you looked back at the woman you with a grunt showed you the way inside. Ser Criston stayed outside and the door close with a loud thud. You were glad for once that the cloak that had been given to you had a hood and that the whore house had colourful curtains covering the windows.

[weaselandfriends]

Death and Identity in Post-postmodern Mystery

This essay contains spoilers for the entirety of Umineko When They Cry and spoilers for up to Chapter 140 of The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere.

Near the end of the first half of Umineko When They Cry, a bizarre curveball is tossed into the logic duel between Battler and Beatrice. Beatrice claims that Battler is somehow not actually Battler, but rather an imposter, a body double brought to the island as part of a plot to seize the inheritance. Thus, Battler is unqualified to be her opponent, meaning he must be expelled from the metafictional realm where the game takes place, and the game itself must be cancelled.

Battler, stumped by her logic, cannot form a rebuttal. He disappears, his very existence denied. "Without the one pillar that established his soul," the story reads, "he had fallen into the very depths of darkness, and had been drifting about all this time."

In The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere, a parallel moment occurs at the climax of the story's first half. The protagonist, Utsushikome of Fusai, confronts the person she believes to be the murderer, someone she knew when she was young. Cornered, he attempts to appeal to their childhood friendship, indicating he had even been in love with her. Utsushikome of Fusai cuts him off coldly, saying:

"I'm not Utsushikome of Fusai."

She then bludgeons him to death with a blunt instrument, committing a murder for which the reader immediately and unambiguously knows the culprit.

Identity is the fundamental question of even the most basic mystery novel. What is the identity of the culprit? Which character, seemingly a functional member of society, is actually a murderous villain?

As the genre has developed in complexity, this question has only become more prominent. Red herrings designed to throw off genre-savvy readers necessitate many non-culprits to also lead double lives or conceal key components of their identities. Inverted mysteries, where the culprit is revealed to the reader right away, emphasize the duality of the culprit's public persona and their murderous secret: Columbo's villains are exclusively elite, wealthy, and cultured, and Light Yagami is the seeming portrait of a model Japanese youth. Even House MD, a mystery story where "diseases are the suspects," predicates its drama on the fact that the diseased victim is concealing a double identity; in House's words, "Everyone lies."

Meanwhile, the mystery genre blurs the line between art and game. A proper mystery, as genre purists will tell you, must be solvable, must be fair, must follow certain "rules." If the culprit turns out to be a character who had not appeared in the story prior to their reveal, then the parameters of the game were broken, the reader had no chance. Ditto for the implementation of fanciful poisons or contraptions, secret twins, hidden passages, and so forth. These rules are in service of preserving the phenomenological experience of reading a mystery; like a game, the value of the work is expressed through the reader's attempts to interpret it, rather than its existence as a static artistic monument.

Yet, the genre has long been entangled with literary art. Mystery's foundation lies with authors like Edgar Allan Poe and Wilkie Collins, placing it as an outgrowth of the romantic and realist literary epochs. But between 1880 and 1930—the peak of literature as mass market entertainment, before film slowly usurped it—from when Sherlock Holmes popularized the genre until the so-called Golden Age of Detective Fiction, mystery became its "own thing," and in being its "own thing" suddenly resisted the artistic spirit of its time, whatever that time might be. The Golden Age coincides temporally with the height of modernist fiction, and yet none of the stream of consciousness or abstraction that defines the latter seeps into the former whatsoever. In the post-WWII postmodern era, when literature increasingly rejected the concept of objective truth altogether, detective fiction (both in literature and in new, televised forms) continued to doggedly assert the objective truth of the culprit's identity, the objective solvability of the crime.

A lot of this discrepancy has to do with the general schism between "art" and "entertainment" that arose in literature between the late 1800s and early 1900s. As the modernists ventured in more experimental directions, a newly literate and growing middle class continued to clamor for works that were more relatable to their pragmatic, dollars-and-cents sensibilities. (I often talk about "modernism" and "postmodernism" as these all-encompassing artistic zeitgeists, but the truth is that literary realism has never fallen out of vogue with mass audiences, and even in the 1920s a realist social satirist like Sinclair Lewis—not to mention twenty names you've never heard of writing at a similar bent—sold more than Hemingway and Faulkner combined.)

By entrenching itself within the "entertainment" sphere, and by continually defining itself against itself (the process by which "genre" is created), mystery fiction was able to develop independently of the overall artistic milieu and maintain a faith in objective reality even as that became an increasingly untenable position elsewhere. And it's what makes post-postmodern mystery fiction like Umineko and The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere so fascinating to me.

Umineko didn't emerge in a vacuum. It extends from Japan's dedicated mystery subculture, and I've heard that it shares many similarities with The Decagon House Murders, a 1987 novel by Yukito Ayatsuji. Japan has its own unique relationship with postmodernism as a literary movement, with it being more of a clearly-defined artistic fad that reached prominence in the 1980s specifically, compared to the West where postmodernism seems to be the nightmare of a post-WWII world from which we cannot awaken. I wish I had more familiarity with the Japanese mystery subculture to more authoritatively speak on this subject, but I do know that it, like the West, still believes strongly in the solvability of its mysteries. I described Japan as having a "postmodern" mystery scene, but that's not what Japan calls it. In Japan, the term for a solvable, "fair play" mystery is honkaku, meaning "orthodox"—or, roughly equivalent, "classical." And beginning with The Decagon House Murders, Japanese mystery entered a new era, shin-honkaku—neoclassical.

These terms are a perfect fit. In the West, the classical is associated with the Renaissance, and indicates a focus on mathematical precision in service of the objective truth associated with God. (The golden ratio, after all, is called divina proportione in Italian—divine proportion.) The precise, solvable logic of a classical murder mystery fits within this framework, and the neoclassical mystery retains its core beliefs, much as how Napoleon Bonaparte wielded neoclassicism to lend divine legitimacy to his rule. Despite the increased complexity and metatextuality of shin-honkaku mysteries, there remains that belief in objective truth.

Umineko does not believe in objective truth.

Umineko, as a mystery, is fucking bullshit. Solving it relies on so many unspoken metafictional conceits, and even if you do "solve" it, it turns out that the culprit of the first half of the story isn't even the """real""" culprit, because the first half of the story was actually just in-universe murdersona fanfic and the actual """""truth""""" of what happened on the island is completely irrelevant to most of the mysteries with which the reader is presented.

And that's under the assumption that Umineko actually tells you who the """""""real""""""" culprit is, because it doesn't, unless you read the manga, where it was thrown in as a bone to an absolutely incensed fanbase. Umineko was not popular with the Japanese mystery crowd, which makes sense, because they get pretty directly and brutally lampooned. This is a story where a detective quoting Hercule Poirot gets introduced halfway into the story and is an unequivocal villain (she calls herself an "intellectual rapist"), with the heroes fighting to conceal the truth from her.

No, Umineko does not believe in objective truth. It might believe it exists, in some abstract way, but it does not believe it matters, compared to the magic of subjective reality. About 90 percent of Umineko (honestly a lowball estimate) depicts stuff that didn't really happen. Sometimes it depicts stuff that didn't really happen within the subjective reality of a fanfic that itself didn't really happen. Even most flashbacks set before the mystery or flash forwards set after are mired in unreality.

No, what Umineko believes in is emotional truth, subjective truth. The story's key phrase is "Without love it cannot be seen," referring to how biases (love) influence one's understanding of reality. The "Red Truth," objectively correct statements, are depicted as painful and punishing, or spiderwebs that ensnare helpless victims. It is in the space between what is known objectively where magic is allowed to exist, where interpretation can supersede fact, and where true emotional catharsis can be reached.

As such, it is the antithesis to the mystery genre.

It's also the antithesis of postmodernism. Not rejecting it, in an impossible attempt to return to some pre-modern understanding of the world; no, Umineko agrees with postmodern thought on the subjectivity of our reality. Where it diverges is in the interpretation of that subjectivity, seeing in it not the cynical nihilism postmodernism quickly (perhaps from the onset) devolved into, but a new method of reaching emotional and intellectual fulfillment.

This, to me, is what the post-postmodern artistic zeitgeist has increasingly turned toward. Works that recognize the information-dense, ungraspable reality of the post-internet age, but seek and ultimately find emotional catharsis within it. Everything Everywhere All at Once, Spider-verse and unlimited lesser multiverse stories, Homestuck, even the origin point of the literary mode Infinite Jest all operate within this theme.

Where Umineko seeks its catharsis is in identity. While the central "game" of the mystery, sometimes literalized as a chess match between Battler and Beatrice, initially appears to be Battler's attempt to discern the true culprit in classical mystery fashion, from Beatrice's perspective the game is an attempt to assert and confirm the existence of her identity altogether.

In "reality," Beatrice the Golden Witch "does not exist." There is no magical being haunting the island. Beatrice is an identity invented by another character in an attempt to generate meaning for their life. And that meaning is, fundamentally, important, perhaps more important than the objective facts that deny her existence. Which is why, as the story continues, Battler switches to Beatrice's side and defends her existence from a slate of cackling ghouls dredged out of the annals of classical mystery, who sling the "rules" of classical mystery about like weapons to maim and kill. Objectivity is the enemy, the Red Truth is a prison, but it cannot cover everything and in the mercy of subjective reality, a different sort of "truth" can be allowed to live. As the story goes on, it becomes increasingly clear that this "truth" is everything. Umineko never explicitly reveals the true killer on Rokkenjima, though mostly only through technicality. That's fine. Even by technicality, subjectivity can be allowed to live. Beatrice's identity remains.

Return to that moment I described at the start of this essay, where Beatrice briefly denies Battler's identity. In the overall narrative of Umineko, it winds up being an almost entirely inconsequential scene. Shortly after Battler disappears, his sister Ange asserts that even if Battler was not born to Asumu, he is still Kinzo's grandson, meaning he is a true heir to the Ushiromiya family and thus qualified to be Beatrice's opponent. Battler returns and the status quo is swiftly reestablished.

What is the purpose of this scene, then? In character, it makes sense as a play for Beatrice to make. Her own identity has been constantly under assault from Battler, most recently—and most painfully, for her—when Battler forgot an important promise he once made to her. She is giving him his own medicine as revenge. But it's a very dramatic and extreme turn for something so petty. The scene does establish that Battler was not actually born to the woman he believed to be his mother (Asumu), but what does this mean for the story itself?

Beatrice's claim stems from a convoluted baby swapping plot that is revealed much later in Umineko. It turns out that Rudolf had a child with both Asumu and his mistress Kyrie at the same time, and Asumu's child, the "real" Battler, died immediately, so Kyrie's child was renamed Battler and substituted for the real thing. Both children were Rudolf's son, and thus Kinzo's grandson, and all of this really has nothing to do with anything else going on in Umineko's mystery, and is kind of pointless. (It does suggest Battler as a red herring identity for the mysterious baby Kinzo tries to foist onto Natsuhi in Umineko's fifth episode, but as far as red herrings go, it's a lot of legwork for not much deception.)

I've always been fascinated, though, by what it would mean if Beatrice's claim were true. Not just that Battler wasn't Asumu's son, but that he was not related to the Ushiromiya family at all. There's some fairly compelling evidence in its favor. It's stated early on that Battler, at age 12, became angry when his father married Kyrie shortly after Asumu's death, and estranged himself from the family for six years. His appearance at the family conference where most of Umineko takes place is the first time anyone in the family has seen him since, and almost everyone is surprised by the physical transformation Battler has undergone, particularly remarking on how incredibly tall he is. Near the end of Umineko, when it is suggested that Rudolf and Kyrie are the mystery's "true" culprits, the idea that they brought in some yakuza thug to pose as Battler and help them murder everyone becomes compelling.

But that's just the practical aspect of the mystery. What about the story itself? What would it mean for the ultimate moment of emotional catharsis at the end of the narrative, when Ange—dying of cancer—finally reunites with her long lost brother, only to discover he isn't actually her brother at all?

Well, that's actually what happens at the end of Umineko. Not because Battler is a yakuza thug, though. It's because of yet another oddly-inserted plot element where Battler receives brain damage escaping the island and develops a dissociative identity disorder that causes him to view himself as Tohya Hachijo, an amnesiac author.

Though somewhat farfetched, this last-second development makes sense within Umineko's thematic framework, where identity—and the capacity for people to inhabit multiple identities at once, either literally or through the subjective interpretations of the people around them—is one of the key drivers of the story's emotional core. For Ange, her brother is lost, and yet meeting Tohya is a moment of intense catharsis, because she is willing to believe in the redemptive magic of love and "see" a subjective truth more powerful than objective reality. After all, this meeting occurs in the "Treat" ending, and is placed in contrast to the "Trick" ending, where Ange instead embraces objective rationalism and deals with uncertainty by gunning down anyone who might possibly be a threat to her. (Which turns out to be every character in her immediate vicinity.)

I wonder how that Treat ending catharsis would read, though, if instead of the author Tohya Hachijo, who deals with his identity disorder by writing fictional accounts of the Rokkenjima massacre that, while not the literal truth, reach for a subjective or emotional truth, the version of her brother Ange met was Battler the yakuza thug, who was never her brother but a cheap imposter. It would probably undermine Umineko's entire message. It would at the very least make the Treat ending seem like a nasty trick in its own right. Or would Ange still be able to "see" an emotional truth even in this? Where does the line between subjective reality and pathetic delusion lie? What, exactly, would be the identity of the brain-damaged man she reunites with? What is the identity of the story's protagonist?

That's where The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere comes in. When its central mystery starts, a metafictional interlude occurs in which rules for solving the murder(s) are established. The first rule reads:

1. THE PERSPECTIVE OF THE PROTAGONIST IS ALWAYS TRUTHFUL

This rule, like many of the subsequent rules, is highly questionable. The story has already thrown into doubt who exactly the "protagonist" is. That seems like an odd thing to say, because the very first chapter, numbered 000, appears to make it explicitly clear:

"Understand this: Your role in the scenario has been elevated from that of bystander to that of the heroine, and your victory condition is thus," she continued. "You must ascertain the identity of your opponent, the cause of the bloodshed to follow, and prevent it before it comes to pass. In order to accomplish this goal, you must pay close heed to all which transpires, and use deduction, alongside your skills and past experience of the events to follow. Do you understand your role?" "Yes," I said, muted.

The issue is that whoever the perspective character is in 000, they are not the same person as the perspective character for the rest of the story. It eventually becomes clear that they share the same body, that they are both called Utsushikome of Fusai. Nonetheless, they are distinct identities. They have different memories, different motives, and different personalities. Much later, they even hold a conversation with one another in the same metafictional realm where the mystery's rules were outlined, a metafictional realm that turns out to not be metafictional at all.

Of course, neither of these Utsushikome of Fusais are actually Utsushikome of Fusai. They are gestalt personalities that combine the memories and personality of an original Utsushikome of Fusai with the memories and personality of an entirely different girl named Kuroka, and then after the two Utsushikome of Fusais diverged from one another for reasons that are, as of writing, not fully clear but potentially due to the accumulation of memory over a centuries-long time loop. This labyrinth of identity defines the story as much as its core mystery. As said mystery hurtles toward its climax, scenes in the present are intercut with flashbacks detailing how the current identity of Utsushikome of Fusai came to be. In the present mystery, there is no ultimate reveal of the culprit (one is proposed, but in fairly faulty fashion). In the past, though, the reveal of the truth of Utsushikome's identity is laid bare, brutally and explicitly, to the point that it consumes the main narrative, and culminates in the scene I described at the beginning of this essay, where the gestalt entity inhabiting Utsushikome's body discards her identity as Utsushikome and performs a brutal on-screen murder.

In doing so, the traditional climax of the mystery novel—the unmasking of the culprit—is reframed. It is the protagonist, not the culprit, who is "unmasked." Flower is, ostensibly, a time loop murder mystery (though only one loop is shown), and shortly after committing this murder, Utsushikome meets another character, who tells her that in 90 percent of loops, Utsushikome herself is the murderer. It's a claim that seems unbelievable, despite what just happened, based on the reader's knowledge of Utsushikome as a bumbling and indecisive girl who needed the most extreme circumstances to rouse herself to violence (an "anxious waif," as the author, Lurina, described her to me). It's a claim even Utsushikome meets with doubt. At the same time, how much does the reader really know about this character? How much does she know about herself? Throughout the story, her name is split into various nicknames: Utsu, Su, Shiko, each tied to a different part of her existence. The fragmentation of her name symbolizes the fragmentation of her psyche, and the version of her the reader follows—the ostensible "protagonist"—is Su, the smallest and most fragmentary scrap of her, the one most divorced from knowledge and understanding.

If Umineko exhibited faith in the magic of subjective interpretation, Flower provides a cynical counterpoint. Forget comprehending other people, or the confusion of your increasingly complex world. What if you cannot even comprehend yourself? What if, rather than the redemptive turn of Umineko's Treat ending, one looked inward and saw only greater incomprehensibility? In Beatrice, Umineko has its own character whose psyche fragmented into various constituent personalities, each with their own name and appearance. Yet Umineko posits a beauty in these personalities, and its protagonists fight for their right to exist in the face of crushing objective reality. For Utsushikome, her fragmented selves are base, ominous, potentially murderers, or indeed actually murderers—as even Su considers herself the murderer of the original Utsushikome. Her primary goal, more important to her than solving the mystery, is finding a way to undo the gestalt fusion that underlies her personality and restoring the original Utsushikome. Beatrice fights to justify her existence; Su fights to destroy it.

Postmodernism's focus on the subjectivity of individual experience quickly turned it toward cynicism, even nihilism, and the all-pervading "irony" that David Foster Wallace made his personal bugbear. One can only know their own experience of the world, not anyone else's, and the outside world is becoming increasingly complex, increasingly unfathomable, increasingly disorderly. Post-postmodernism was, from its inception, a deliberate turn away from that cynicism. A way of finding emotional catharsis even after logic dissolved. Umineko operates within this framework, while Flower goes in the opposite direction. The postmodernists were too optimistic. They at least believed in subjective truth. In the world of The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere, even that strip of reality is shredded.

Entropy features big in the postmodern landscape, brought to literary prominence by Thomas Pynchon, who studied engineering physics and often used mathematical motifs as analogies for social concepts. Flower, too, engages with the concept of entropy, or rather revolves around it. The central murder mystery is set at the sanctuary of an order of scientists dedicated to curing death, and the way they have sought to do so involves stealing a piece of an entropic god-entity and incarnating it in human form.

As such, Flower strongly ties the concept of death to the concept of entropy. I said before that identity is the fundamental question of even the most basic mystery novel, but the same could be said for death; you'd have to go back to The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins, or maybe mystery stories made for children, to find a mystery without murder. Van Dine's rules for mystery put it emphatically:

There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel, and the deader the corpse the better. No lesser crime than murder will suffice. Three hundred pages is far too much pother for a crime other than murder. After all, the reader's trouble and expenditure of energy must be rewarded.

I love this because it's such a cavalier treatment of death in narrative, as though death, rather than a tragedy, was simply a way to kickstart a plot—or a "reward" for the "expenditure of energy" (as though a reader's energy is finite, and always being entropically lost). Indeed, many of the Golden Age detectives who found themselves amid a new murder a month seemed to take a similarly detached tack toward the whole affair. Umineko lampoons this as well; its Hercule Poirot parody, when faced with a group of people playing dead, goes on a six-man mass decapitation spree just to ensure there really is a mystery to solve.

Flower philosophically confronts the question of death as early as Chapter 002, when fan favorite smarmy bitch Kamrusepa goads Su into an argument over the moral implications of curing death. Kamrusepa takes a rationalist, "anti-deathist" perspective, stating that not only is curing death a fundamentally good thing to do, but the most good thing that can be done; that curing death would not only be valuable in and of itself, but would also lead to the alleviation of every other social ill. Su is less sure. Certainly, a deathless world wouldn't be free of social strife. But there's also another argument she flirts with: Perhaps people, like Van Dine's readership, somehow need death to orient the meaning of their lives around.

Her thought process mirrors that of the mystery genre. If the genre has absolute faith in objective truth, it also has absolute faith in utter destruction. Crimes less than the complete annihilation of a thinking being will not suffice. In such a way, even the most orthodox or classical mysteries themselves have a drop of the postmodern in them, a faith in the incontrovertible necessity of entropic dissolution, though in the form of the human body rather than society or information. It's notable to me that, in contrast, Umineko posits a sort of immortality for its victims, alive in the "Golden Land" within the Treat ending despite the objective reality of their tragic deaths, or even alive within the metafictional conceit of the Rokkenjima game board, where if the players desire they can always open up the box, set the pieces aright, a play with these characters once more. Through its use of the time loop, Flower rejects this proposal; its characters are trapped in a game without end, and ultimately conspire to escape this hellish immortality they've wrought for themselves. (Remember also that Utsushikome's role as protagonist, explicated in 000, was not to solve a murder, but to prevent it, which she fails at utterly and quickly.)

The Flower That Blooms Nowhere is still ongoing, and many of its mysteries remain unresolved simply due to that fact. I've spoken extensively to the author, Lurina, and she assures me she is committed to the solvability of the mystery, which suggests that she intends to ultimately reveal the truths behind the murders and everything else. This essay isn't intended to be predictive of the story's future (which, as of the latest updates, is heading into some of the most exciting territory yet, with many meditations on death and identity that I would love to talk about in this essay but withheld because I know many readers aren't caught up), but rather an assessment of what currently stands. What I find most fascinating about Flower is how it rejects so many of the redemptive post-postmodern precepts that imbue Umineko, despite borrowing so much of its metatextual complexity, and without retreating into the classical or even postmodern, as would seem to be the only alternative. Instead, Flower's vivisection of identity and death within post-postmodern concepts strike me as a wholly new and unique artistic direction, and once more makes me excited for the growing avant garde to be found within web fiction.

[onesunofagun]

I will now yell about Fi and Ghirahim as symbols of their respective creators, please stand by:

So, the biggest slap addition the lore that Skyward Sword gave us was (Her Grace) Hylia and (the Bringer of) Demise. Entities who, regardless of confusing localisation choices, exist as two sides of the same coin and are locked into a mutual karmic cycle.

They reflect each other like a mirror, and also represent an antithesis of each other, seemingly existing as consequence to one other. They were presented as the penultimate deities of the physical and metaphysical realms of their world since the advent of its creation by the departed Golden Goddesses; twinned yet opposite, and each both inevitable and necessary.

Shadow; Light. Chaos; Order. Indulgence; Restraint. Upheaval; Stability. Primordial; Designed. Spite; Grace. Hidden; Seen.

Ghirahim; Fi.

It goes right down to the blades that Demise and Hylia would level at one another. The spirits of each are a representative of the principles and philosophy championed by their creators.

Now, the closer you get to the works and relics of the Gods/Gods Tribe in Zelda, the more you see divine constructs that blur the line of spiritual magic and advanced technology, and are ostensibly both. This was a direction that really bloomed in Skyward Sword, taking a running start on it that games hereafter have followed. The caveat is that only certain special people chosen by Gods or otherwise given permission to use this kind of Magitech can interact with it or produce things like it (either at all, or without punishment).

Even the Sheikah, who have closely served the intentions of the Gods/Spirits of Light (Hylia and her aligned) all throughout history, make the mistake of getting too comfortable in their inspiration and cross the line into imitations. Despite the successful utilisation of, and later recovery of, certain Sheikah Tech such as the Divine Beasts to positive effect, the tragedy of both the Sheikah's Divide and the Calamity's hijacking of Hyrulean defence systems is still played as a cautionary tale of hubris and knowing one's place in the natural order of things.

The Sheikah were effectively making unauthorised knockoffs of Divine Magitech and it bit them on the arse.

Can't have shit in Hyrule.

Pretty much every significantly advanced tribe in Zelda has a stated closeness to 'the Gods'. Either by being adjacent to or descended from deities and spirits collectively known as the Gods (specifically the Gods Tribe in JP), they are still distinctly subordinate to and separated from entities such as Hylia and the three Golden Goddesses.

Confirmed to be included in this special grouping are the Zonai and the Oocca, for instance. Speculatively, the Wind Tribe are an example of people who ascended (with permission or worthiness) from the surface-- they are an arguably Gerudo adjacent tribe who may even be precursors to the Zonai or related to the Twili.

The Picori, at the very least those in their native realm, also certainly count as part of this grouping. Though it could be argued whether those descent Minish living on the surface still do.

The Sheikah, it should be noted, have never gained entry to this Gods club. Despite their proximity in worship and service to Hylia, historically, they've also done some pretty shady things-- like the Shadow Temple and the general murder and espionage stuff -- that may have otherwise excluded them from ascending like the Wind Tribe did. They walk a grey line, and they have a duty in the eyes of the Powers That Be that apparently prefer they stay put.

Not Turtle-y enough for the Turtle Club.

Another example of this Icarus flying too close to the Sun type cautionary tale, and a far more egregious offender in the eyes of the Gods Tribe, are the 'Interlopers' who would eventually become the Twili. They were a tribe of people that, while squabbling with others, tried to take dominion of Hyrule (referred to itself as the Sacred Realm/Holy Land in TP) with powerful magic that more or less gave them a winning advantage. Specifically, the Crystal Stone of Shadow (the Fused Shadow) which greatly amplified their magical power.

Banished by the Spirits of the Light whole cloth into an underworld (lit. A Realm of the Dead) that we also know as the Twilight Realm, they have been shunned from the land they tried to conquer and transformed by shadow so much, they're now allergic to the light (without sufficient mystical power to bolster themselves).

Basically, the intended message is this: any earthly people who have advanced themselves without approval by the Gods Tribe-- especially by using Divine Constructs as inspiration or means-- have therefore disrupted the order of things, and stacked the deck too much in their own favour. Even if the intent was primarily a fixation on preserving Hylia's bloodline, and by extension her sacred land, it is still possible to elevate oneself above your contemporaries (especially the capacities of the Royal Family line in Hyrule) in such a way that you impose too much independent influence upon the the natural world.

No longer following 'the way of the Gods' (the Gods Tribe law) or respecting the order of things (ala Shintoist inspiration), you are labelled a disruption to harmony and peace, and therefore seen as corrupted and pollutive, and generally negative in your impact. You will then be chased off, at the very least, unless you renege-- for fear that you will bring in demonic influences or be used by them. This has canonically happened to both the Gerudo and the Sheikah, now.

But you know who Magic Constructs on par with the Gods Tribe, except it's more eldritch and organic-looking and primordial in form? It's the other club, the one that the disenfranchised Sheikah went and banged on the door of, hoping to be let in if they started wearing cool red and black outfits and changed their name and stopped worshipping Hylia.

Yeah. It's the Demon Tribe-- who are pretty much just the inverse reflection of the Gods Tribe and its set up. Their Magitech equivalents, and what they can do, only serve to further cement this.

Specifically, if you could suggest that the Gods Tribe's main objective is maintaining a status quo of shared prosperity that provides an ordered and peaceful existence through conformity and tradition, the Demon tribe is an ever churning well of opportunity where winner takes all. It is a hierarchy built on brutal meritocracy, honed by constant challenges and hard won continuation-- survival and status fought for and maintained by individualistic influence and innovation.

Many various little bastards exist in the Demon Tribe. Bosses in charge of sub-tribes of monsters are commonly seen, but they have their minor Deities ad Spirits, too. The head honchos are called Demon Kings (plural, because it doesn't describe a single position, but rather just very powerful Demons who have clout). Demise is both a Demon King, namely the most powerful one, and also the 'Chief' of the Demon Tribe; just as, in this case, Hylia could be considered the 'Chief' of the Gods Tribe. So, Demon God-King, really.

While Demise is incapacitated by Hylia's seal, his role as the Chief of the Demon Tribe is actually the position that Ghirahim fills in for as his (literal) right hand man-- the very extension of his arm, as his blade.

Both the Master Sword (Fi) and Ghirahim himself are, perhaps, some of the most advanced forms of this sort of Magitech we've actually ever seen.

Ghirahim goes above and beyond in his role, even going so far as to cultivate his full persona as a Demon in his own right in order to maintain his authority as the effective Regent while the big boy is incapacitated. He disguises his true form and nature, and with a surprising level of autonomy and self-transformation for what he is, sets about attending his duties with great devotion.

He seems to have an incredibly intuitive and flexible mode of operation. His sentience is full of creativity, emotionality, and genuine potential that he has the capacity to explore and shape with great freedom, for the construct that he is.

He is flamboyant and attention grabbing, highly expressive. He entertains great personal indulgence, even going so far as to toy with Link in a manner that borders on vicious training for a while. Though in part due to his undeniable sadism, Ghirahim almost can't help himself but to continue to test and push against the potential as a swordsman that the Hero has, inadvertently cultivating its growth.

This depth of identity and adaption he's capable of was either an intentional part of his design, or specifically not prevented by it-- both of which stand to represent something of Demise and Demonkind. The lengths to which Ghirahim is allowed to wield himself when not in his creator's hand is remarkable and, though he is shown to be unable to override actual commands from his master, it stands in an interesting contrast to Fi.

Where Ghirahim is able to radically redefine his own presentation and function to best suit his Master's needs in a way that mimics the organic, Fi's evolution is far more linear and streamlined, never really deviating from systematic updates. Though the sword itself is subject to physical restorations, Fi's personal appearance is unchanged and reflective of her true shape, indicating that her tempering in the Sacred Flames is either a slow return to previous form or a pre-programmed and permanent upgrade set into motion by Hylia. It is also an evolution that is entirely dependant upon the actions of others, largely lacking the individual agency and flexibility that Ghirahim possesses.

Not to suggest that Fi is any less devoted to her purpose, however.

She is, quite unlike Ghirahim's aspect of individual advancement, wholly geared toward a model of mutual enhancement with a partner. She is built with a singular and clear objective in mind, perfectly designed to suit the needs of the one wielding her as a supplement to their ability, rather than an autonomous servant. She defers entirely to her Master's decisions at all times, though does make informed suggestions, and does not appear to be able to relocate the physical sword on her own. Many of her abilities are things that must be directly requested of her.

Even when she is given to performance, such as her singing or her ballet, these are seemingly dispassionate affairs that are precisely executed, preprogramed displays for Link's benefit. Absolutely nothing, not even particular inflections of emotionality, must risk the distortion of her relayed messages and guidance to Link-- these displays may also be something analogous to morale boosting rewards or a really weird form of reverence to the musically inclined Hylia. Either way, Fi is highly logical and presents herself foremost as an instrument and a tool. She does not indulge in a persona or otherwise engage in anything not directly tied to her assigned mission-- she does not get distracted or indulge personal whims as Ghirahim does. But critically, a large part of her design is geared towards an awareness of her surroundings. Fi has a visible consciousness for the living things around her at all times, contrasting to Ghirahim's seeming negligence of them and open disdain.

Fi's orderly efficiency and lack of cultivated personality to detract from her purpose make the fact of her construction obvious. Unlike Ghirahim, her true nature and her task is almost painfully undisguised. She exists in a simple sincerity, almost austere, seemingly unwilling or unable to seek function beyond her designation without being updated by another. However, her concentrated application seems to achieve concentrated results, strengthening both herself and her wielder in a near impenetrable mutual reinforcement.

It is perhaps of no coincidence that, despite Fi's seeming inflexibility and clinical pragmatism, she also expresses something of a fondness for Link at the end-- in many ways, mirroring her Divine creator. She does this very robotically, by correlating her collected data time spent together and their completed task with what she's observed of human happiness.

Skyward Sword seems to argue that Ghirahim's main flaw is spreading himself too thin, or trying to be so many other things, that he falls short as a sword in the end. It suggests that his sin, like others in the franchise, is getting too big for his boots scabbard and letting his pride become his downfall. His individualism gets presented with a great cost, as he has only enhanced himself in ways that seemingly do not apply when he returns to his primary function as a sword. The emotionality he has, such as the frustration and cockiness and bloodlust he indulges, are also shown to lower his successes-- reducing the sense of his efficiency and precision beside the ever level, measured Fi.

When he returns to Demise's hand, Ghirahim is already weakened and spent. Despite all he's done for his Master's revival, Demise is left to fight with a paling version of the blade that once fatally wounded Hylia-- not unlike a Master Sword in need of restoration to its full power.

There's a legend regarding Gorō Nyūdō Masamune, widely regarded as the greatest swordsmith in Japanese history, and Sengo Muramasa, who is famously known for creating unique and terrifically sharp blades that are considered cursed.

It starts when Muramasa challenges Masamune to see who can make a finer sword. When the work is done, they go down to a river, and place the blades in the water with the cutting edge towards the current.

Muramasa's sword, which he named Ten Thousand Winter Nights, cuts everything that floats its way-- leaves, fish, even the wind that happened across it. It is so sharp that nothing escapes unscathed.

Masamune's sword, named Tender Hands, is placed in the river and cuts the leaves that go by so seamlessly, they reform on the other side. Fish swim up to it and seem to be repelled by its aura, avoiding death. The wind kisses the blade gently with a pleasant whistle.

Muramasa isn't impressed by this. He thinks the blade is useless, barely cutting anything at all, and starts to remark on the lack of skill. Masamune smiles at the criticism, but merely compliments that Muramasa's sword is indeed quite sharp.

A monk who had watched all this from nearby approaches at that point, bows, and interjects with his own observations.

Though he too observes that Muramasa's sword is technically very finely made, he notes that it's a bloodthirsty, wicked blade. It cuts anything in its path indiscriminately, he says, and would just as soon cut a butterfly in half as remove somebody's head.

Masamune's sword, however, was the clear winner in the monk's opinion-- a gentle blade that did not needlessly cut that which was innocent or undeserving, tempered by grace. It is a benevolent sword, and so far finer made.

In popular culture, Muramasa's blades have held onto their violent reputation. There's a superstition that they can compel their wielder to murder. It has even been said that, once drawn, they can't be sheathed again until their thirst for blood is sated-- even if it has to drink from its own wielder.

They also had a weirdly consistent habit of maiming or killing members of the Tokugawa Shogunate, and so became an anti-Tokugawa symbol synonymous with the rebellion. So that's fun.

But Masamune was considered to be a very calm man, who was controlled and reserved and quite spiritual. Muramasa, though, was depicted as an aggressive man, who was a bit wild and kinda unpredictable. As far as the folk stories go, Muramasa is depicted as having been quite envious of Masamune. Unlike Masamune, who approached his craft as the art of achieving clean death, they say Muramasa needed to transfer his unhinged energy into his blades to keep from being overwhelmed by it himself.

Because their natures bled into the swords they created, it was believed that Masamune and Muramasa imbued them with purifying and demonic power, respectively.

Just as with Demise and Hylia and the swords that they created-- as inspired by such a legend-- the spirits inside of them represent their natures, as well.

[tenderhooked]

Hit me with more about the sun is only a God if you learn to starve!

for the wip fic ask game!

ABSOLUTELY MY LOVE!!! this is also colloquially known as the Jamie Gets Hugged Six Ways To Sunday fic, and i adore it so deeply. i'm currently working on chapter 2 so! i hope! it'll be out! soon!!!

here's a little jamie and isaac from much further down the road, because i love them so dearly and they make me insane and i need isaac to also Give and Get hugs because he deserves them and SO DOES JAMIE!!! i put some of it below the cut simply bc it got a bit long jsldfjaklj

“Oi,” Isaac ventures, scooting down the bench a bit until he’s close enough that he can speak softly, afraid of spooking the lad. His fingers curl around the metal, the cold shock of it enough to ground him. “Oi, Jamie. What’s going on?” Jamie shakes his head mutely. He’s rocking back and forth slowly, in small, minute movements. His knuckles are white to the bone. He’d been vibrant out on the pitch earlier, almost dizzying with it, his legs a blur and his face alight with a ferocious determination, but now he’s turned in on himself so that Isaac can glimpse only the tender, soft belly. He’d vanished during cool-down, and Isaac had wandered through the facility on purpose after everybody else had gone home, hoping that Jamie’d stuck around only to find him collapsed here on the floor, shaking like he was about to break apart. The shaking hasn’t gotten any better; it rattles the bones of him, the very skeleton. Isaac aches to watch. “M’fine,” Jamie finally mumbles, into the peaks of his knees. “Y’can go home.” Isaac rolls out his neck. “Nah. I’m good, bruv.” Jamie sniffles, fingers grappling more fiercely at his shirt sleeves. He hasn’t changed out of his kit or boots yet and his legs are grass-stained, and, horribly, Isaac is thinking of a different locker room in a different city but the wallowing emptiness of his chest is still the same. Nothing ever changes, does it. Nothing ever fucking changes. “S’stupid anyways,” says Jamie. His voice is dull, flat, so completely unlike Jamie that Isaac nearly can’t recognize him. “Just being stupid.”

There are many responses Isaac could give to that, but he pauses before he says any of them. They’ve talked and talked and talked it into circles, the lot of them, huddling in Dani’s living room trying to figure out how best to coax Jamie out of his ghost, back to the living world. Isaac, offer him your dino. Colin, take him out to dinner. Sam and Dani… keep it up, lads. None of it has worked. None of it has done anything, because Jamie hasn’t been there. But Jamie’s here now. He’s here, and so is Isaac. It’s easy, almost, to slip from the bench and onto the floor at Jamie’s side. A little harder, to wrap a careful arm around Jamie’s shoulders and draw him close. Isaac can feel the tense of Jamie’s muscles, the coiling of them, and he’s about to let go when Jamie relaxes into the embrace. This is all the encouragement that Isaac needs to pull him ever closer, tucking the lad into the curve of his side and allowing Jamie to decide where he wants his head to go. On Isaac’s chest, is the answer, and neither of them are small people but sitting here like this, Jamie is something delicate, something fragile, something that Isaac must handle with care because he doesn’t think Jamie’s ever been handled with care before in his whole life. Still, there’s a ferocity to the wrap of his arm around Jamie. A promise that this time things will be different. A sob rends its way from Jamie’s chest, a torn-wide wound, and he buries his face deeper into Isaac’s chest even as he simultaneously tries to pull away. “M’sorry,” he says, like he’s fighting with himself to accept what he’s being given. “M’sorry, I—” “You’re all right,” says Isaac. Instinctively, the fingers of his free hand card through Jamie’s hair in a gentle ruffle. It’s a light pressure, and yet there’s a warmth that blooms in it that spills over the boundaries of their bodies. Jamie freezes against it, but not as though he’s afraid of it; as though he’s afraid of it being taken away. Isaac keeps doing it, to prove that it’s not going anywhere, and says again, for good measure, “You’re all right, lad. You’re all right.”

[boo-moved]

I dunno man. At the risk of sounding stuck up and spoiled, I think writers shouldn't interact heavily with the fanbase. Everything they say will be taken as gospel, even if they didn't write that part. Same with the actors, but especially the writers

There should be boundaries set by the individuals themselves and the fandom at whole. A specific tag that the writers/actors can blacklist, the knowledge that not everything said is canon, etc. It's a huge issues- especially in recent with bg3, that fans will overstep common things to interact uncomfortably with the writers and actors.

I understand they are people too, and likely could be fans, but they also must understand that they will be held differently. For example, the thing with ascended Astarion and the writer- it's completely unfair to put that as a blanket statement. Not to mention the fact it was in A NSFW DISCORD SERVER, it is not gospel, it is their opinion.

Ascended Astarion- Astarion himself, is a character. He was written and acted for, if we are considering the ascended ending a fetish, then his entire arc and existence is one. You have sex with him, to even do the full romance you have to fuck him, even if you know of his issue with it. He was written to be sexy, that ending was a reflection of him giving into the cycle. It's not a good ending, but it's well written in regards for his character.

Not to mention the fact not everyone is romancing Astarion with that ending. It can't be a fetish because of this fact. The writer can have their opinions, thoughts on how they wrote it, but it's putting a very general blanket over what should be nuanced. This is simply one example of boundaries needing to be set with individuals in the writing and acting team interacting with fans.

Not to mention the sexual content seen and reviewed on twitter and all these other places. There may be some artists that are uncomfortable with this, having such a large view on their art that isn't sfw in nature. The line between artist and viewer is increasingly becoming blurred, which when it comes to this- isn't a good thing.

When developers take into account fan opionions and change their story fundamentally before it even had a chance to bloom? When they look at the pits for this? When they add a character to fuck in game just because the amount of thirst written about him? It's not a good decision, when they focus so much on the 'face' of the game and leave other characters in the dust in comparing the amount of dedication and time spent. It isn't good writing, it's giving in.

Say what you will, but you shouldn't bend dev's ears and demand or cry for more content for these minimal things, when a large part of the game is unfinished. There's a reasons huge communities have bloomed around fanfiction, it's fun to imagine, fun to think about what *could* happen.

[loosiap]

People You'd Like to Get to Know Better

Thank you for tagging me @paluding and @megamassikalove ⁄(⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄ ♡♡♡

Last song: Doja Cat - Paint the Town Red (that song just randomly started playing in my head, now I have to listen it on loop so it leaves my brain alone)

Favorite color: black and indigo

Currently watching: I try to watch classic Doctor Who but it's boring as a lot of those episodes are basically powerpoint presentation... But also I'm watching with my roommate this new One Piece 😬 surprisingly fun. With my sis we're watching very slowly The Boulet Brothers' Dragula.

Last movie: soon 👀

Last reading: Currently reading 3rd book of The Witcher series Sword of Destiny. I blasted through first two books in two weeks but now I'm kinda stuck in the middle of this one for the past month as I lost the ability to focus on reading

Sweet/Spicy/Savory: I'd say I have a sweet tooth

Last thing I googled: "wiedźmin miecz przeznaczenia in english" lol

Current obsession: Sleep!

Currently working on: Trying to survive this depression flare up haha ✌️

Tagging: You 👉👈 and

@spell-bloom @irueone @itsyuna @burnedspaghettidrama @xwhitepolar @krabbysims @analog-mothman @frottana-sims @profesionalpartyguest @letomills

Not tagging those who I remember got tagged already but... my memory's bad so sorry if you already got tagged or did this game, you know days and things blur into one and those games are kinda similar

[emcapi-gaming]

Kodhi'ra having some fun with his homecoming to Sharlayan :)

(fun facts, lore, & technical details under cut!)

Fun facts and lore!

G'raha is definitely taking the photo, and the pose was possibly his idea. (they are having so much fun running around their old stomping grounds being Menaces and also In Love :D)

I'm really happy with his outfit!! One of the coolest things about it is that it kind of wound up as a more elegant/refined version of the outfit he wore for a significant portion of Shadowbringers, which I refer to as "Slutty Spite Mode":

Context for Slutty Spite Mode: he immediately knew that the Exarch was G'raha, who was his roommate for several years (of mutual oblivious pining) in Sharlayan + boyfriend for several weeks after they met up again on the Crystal Tower expedition (shortly followed by The Incident). He was also very, very pissed about Raha now basically ignoring him and playing dumb. So he found this outfit in Eulmore and basically went "alright. let's see him ignore THIS."

(Also, the crowning achievement of Slutty Spite Mode was hooking up with Emet-Selch in Rak'tika, after he retrieved Y'shtola. ...Yeah, basically all of Shadowbringers, for him, was just "unfathomable levels of gay drama.")

Anyways. Character development via skimpy outfits!!! He's now far more secure in his relationship with G'raha and he can wear skimpy outfits because he likes them and they agree with his sensory issues (any pants thicker than leggings are The Actual Worst) instead of trying to torment the Exarch.

As it happens, the top is "Thaliak's Chestwrap of Healing" which is also significant! He's feeling a lot more comfortable with/embracing his Sharlayan heritage, which he was previously a lot more conflicted about: he originally wound up in Limsa at the start of ARR because he got expelled from the Studium for getting in a fight.

This is also, by far, the most technical gpose I've ever done for several reasons!

In-game lighting effects: I put a plain backlight behind him, and a teal one right about where the aetheryte "would" be if he was, in fact, using it as a star globe.

For the dual focal points: I had to take 2 screenshots - one focused on the aetheryte (with invisible catboy), and one focused on my boy with a chromakey - and merge them with GIMP to get the dual focus effect.

Despite my absolute best efforts I could NOT get the transparent background to work with chromakey. It drove me completely bonkers. I had to resort to a flat color, and then I realized the reason that the color replacement kept leaving an outline was because there was another shader in there blurring the edges and blending in some of the neon green (one of the anti-aliasing ones - which, now I know what anti-aliasing does!)

Extra post-processing: While I was already in GIMP, I decided to experiment with some extra editing/effects! I added some extra copies of the Kodhi layer behind him with blur and a drop shadow to make him look less sharp-edged and stand out more. Also added a little extra bloom on the aetheryte, sharpening on both the aetheryte and the catboy, and slightly darkened the sidewalk right under him. I haven't done any post-processing on my other screenshots, so this is new territory for me, but for the most part I'm very happy with how it turned out!

Shader used: Arkana Strength.

[violettssims]

Hi! I love your photos of the game, simply stunning. Can I ask what reshade/gshade you use? Or, if it is custom can you give some advice to noobs like myself on how to go about customising our own or resources that helped you do so?

Hello! Ahhh thank you so much, that really means a lot! I use reshade and yes it is a custom preset, but I'm more than happy to share advice and resources. When I first started getting into reshade I read a lotttt lot of advice and tutorials from pictureamoebae - their blog is so helpful and their knowledge of reshade is really good, so I highly recommend checking out their posts. In terms of personal advice, I recommend first going and downloading a bunch of presets that you like from others in the community, and then going in game to see which shaders they use and checking/unchecking to understand what effect they have (and determine which ones you like the look and feel of). Now, each shader has a lot of numbers to fiddle around with so I'd go and play around with those digits to each extreme and seeing what happens. Shader technicalities aside, I usually think about these two things first when making a new preset:

What type of mood do I want? Cool or warm? Dark and moody or bright and vibrant? This will effect which MultiLUT you use and/or what colour tint or tonemap you wanna apply

What type of blur do I want? Do I want a busy bokeh blur, or a smoother gaussian blur? I find busier ones more stylistic/maxis match and smoother ones more realistic/cinematic. There are a lot of depth of field shaders available and each behave very differently

Then I will add all the other shaders that will enhance the visuals in general - MXAO for shadows, clarity, vibrance, levels (esp if you want a deeper look), ambient light, bloom (you can do coloured or just white) then fancy stuff over it if you want like Chromatic Abberation or lens flares. Also as a basis for every preset I'll put some sort of sharpening and anti-aliasing (FXAA or SMAA). With Reshade it's really a whole rabbit hole so of course there's much more than just this, but I hope this helps you to start making your own!

[potatoesandsunshine]

snippet saturday!

@afaramir tagged me to share a some of a wip thank u abby!! i've really gotten Star Wars Brained™️again so here's a snippet from the perpetually-unfinished 'what if this side character was force sensitive but it didn't actually change anything?' AU :p

   Kleya is walking out of the Imperial Navy Recruitment Centre, calm and efficient and invisible, as hurrying on Coruscant gets you nowhere but dead. She’s left the package on the desk without any trouble, the receptionist bored and the security officers lazy, when suddenly the thing in her head yawns and snaps at her, animal teeth grazing her heels.    Kleya starts to run.    She skids into the turbolift right before the door closes and smiles blandly at the man inside. “Late for my next delivery,” she laughs, self-deprecating, and lets him lecture her on the importance of punctuality until there’s a violent shrieking of metal and the turbolift lurches to a halt, caught between two floors. They both stumble, barely keeping their footing.    The emergency lights come on.    The officer turns to look at her, something suspicious blooming on his face, and she puts two blaster bolts into his chest before he can say a word.

this fic is very... i don't like writing much about andor because the show is so, so good so it kinda doesn't feel like there's anything for me to add? but i am FASCINATED by the spymaster-who-needs-handling/agent-who-occasionally-handles-him dynamic that luthen and kleya have. he has such 'secret jedi' vibes that i'm so glad we didn't get confirmed but i think it would actually be more fun if SHE was connected to the web of energy that binds all living things, and it didn't matter in the grander scheme at all.

also bonus kotor 2 fic snippet because i just. cannot stop rotating the game in my mind. what if you had a crush/wartime hookup and she either fell to the dark side while you were together or was always there from the start. you know how it goes.

   Her memories of Revan have... blurred, somewhat. The aftermath of Malachor V and her violent severing from the Force were greatly disorienting, scrambling things around, and ten years of piecing herself back together wasn’t nearly enough time to make peace with what passed between them.    When she tries, Leida can almost summon her up; she had been a sun in the Force, burning and vast and greater than anyone had the right to be, like a deity, a war-goddess. Alek was the recruiter, coming to the Temple and promising justice, but in truth they all fought under Revan’s banner, in Revan’s name.     It was all for Lady Revan, sad-eyed with something terse in her expression, who had met Leida after a skirmish wiped out the rest of her unit and said, “Yes, you’ll do.”

kotor 2 my beloved kotor 2................................ anyway.

[rainstormcolors]

Tell me what you like about Jounouchi and Anzu and Honda <3

You gave me triple characters but that’s okay. Thank you for the ask; ILY.

Katsuya Jonouchi:

He begins the story at a low point of self-loathing and passive aggression and outright aggression but he tries to move forward with the help of the friends he makes. His friendship with Yugi blooms sweetly as Jonouchi claws more out of loneliness, and his friendship with Anzu develops more subtly in the background, and I like how his friendships with Yugi and Atem and Anzu and Honda take different forms. Jonouchi was affection-starved and he throws himself headfirst into things and throws himself into acts for the benefits of others because he needs to be useful. He can be impulsive and selfish but he wants to be good for the people he cares about. And he’s trying so hard. And he can be over-blunt and he’s headstrong and he tries to tackle his struggles himself without asking for help even though help is nearer now. And his emotional empathy betrays him at times --- he wants to seem like a tough guy but he tears up when he sees the Kaiba brothers reunite in spite of everything.

Anzu Mazaki:

I enjoy how she’s spunky and spirited but can also be reflective and kind. Her kindness to Mokuba is so very sweet and meaningful to me in the manga. Her fail-date with Atem is charming but Anzu is also very patient and understanding and just wants to help her friend in the end. I like her moments of reflections scattered through the manga -- on Atem, on Atem’s and Seto’s drive to duel. I like how the “love triangle” is never really a fully-formed plot that goes anywhere. Anzu's starry-eyed crush transforms into something more giving and tangible and blurred. The triangle is affection between teenagers still learning their places in the world and it’s clumsy and aimless, and love is just an emotion felt for them rather than being an endgame point. And I like how Little Anzu smashed the pocket game Yugi gave to her when they were children because she became too frustrated with it.

Hiroto Honda:

He’s grounded and he wants to be good. Honda asked Atem to save the Kaiba brothers at Duelist Kingdom, and he tried to rescue Mokuba himself (though he may have overestimated his capabilities). His dopey clumsy crush on Miho in an early chapter of the manga is cute, and he was so clumsy he had Yugi write the love note which wasn’t even a particularly good or thoughtful love note. I like how he has a phobia of snakes, and I like his dog Blankey of course. I like how in the manga, Honda had wanted to sincerely just bring Shizuka to Domino so that she and her brother could be reunited (I do think that was within the anime in a form as well but it’s very clear in the manga). And he tries to be loyal. He was probably part of Jonouchi gaining independence from Hirutani.

[starlost-lix]

SKZ 5 STAR COMEBACK THOUGHTS

first, a review of the songs and then my overall thoughts!!

song review

Hall of Fame: from the get go, it establishes the space vibe with the opening tune! a great opening love the galileo and armstrong references etc, although the 'one small step' quote from armstrong, while it does fit the theme, kinda breaks up the song for me so it's not my favourite part. the build up in the prechorus is SO GOOD! the chorus is really punchy and i'm so in love with felix's little rap verse he really does make it iconic.

S-Class: so so so COOL!! the whistling part is so awesome and it starts with guns blazing with changbin's rap. HYUNJIN SLAYED THAT VERSE!! i really love it. all the raps are so good and the serpent road melody is so good?? THIS CHORUS IS HIGHLY ADDICTIVE!! the switch to a slower beat and the hip hop vibe was very unexpected but very welcome :) the buildup to the second chorus is so great omg i love how its the same but different! seungmin was really good in the we're special part ughhhh the dance break slayed so much as well i just have positive things to say about this song except maybe the ending i don't hate but also don't love how it ends

ITEM: GAMER ERA!! it's 'funnily annoying' just like they said in the intro video really does give video game vibes! super addictive and i love the diction as changbin focused on it really levels up the song. ITEM ITEM I ATE THEM PAC MAN!!! han's rap >>> i also like felix's celebrate we gonna elevate line that was so good i ate that shit up. EVERYTHING IS AMAZING NO WORDS!!! the bridge isn't my best but i really like the buildup to the final chorus and it overall slayed so hard. mv maybe?

Super Bowl: omg. literally. i can see how it was meant to be the original gods menu but im glad they saved it for five star because it honestly just fits so much better with this album and it feels a lot more cohesive. ENGLISH SONG KINGS!! every line is just pure mastery ugh i'm so hooked onto this song and the way chan says ruULes like >>>> changbin's rap ughhhhh and then jeongin saying the everything you're craving its all me like TOAST?? BABY BREAD WHO? and then the stunner HELL OF A LINE I KNOW ITS HELLA FINE HELLS KITCHEN TASTING DIVINE!! the backing instrumental is quite simple which works well because the singing isn't overshadowed. never thought i'd live to see the day hanji said 'bussin' but WHO ELSE?? such a killer like omg and then the chorus UGH I DIED the whispering the word play the seductive vibe with the urge to shake my ass off and ugh i can't compute. heyday reference by changbin!!! lee know's prechorus was so good ugh i really would like a mv or smth for this as well. the bridge was really good imo!!! and the transition from the 'bring the rain' to 'cooking up a storm' and having the same semantic field UGHHHH the ending with felix was so fine as well 🤤

TOPLINE (feat.Tiger JK): love love love the instrumental!!! braggadocios as they should be 😤 THE PRECHORUS IS MY LOVE I ADORE IT AN UNGODLY AMOUNT!!! SEUNGMIN'S VOICE!!!!! lmaoooo chan dropping in the 'we don't give a f***' i see now why he was so surprised with the Xdinary Heroes and their supposed uncensored swearing whereas he had to blur it out haha. the chorus DELIVERS! BOM DIGI DIGI BOM BOM BOM BOM! tiger jk is a rlly great rapper and i'm so happy that han gets his dream to rap with him bcs his rap slayed! and then the 'ain't nobody can do it like us' reference to circus!! >>> lee know slayed the second chorus ^^ great song :D the ending was so great <3

DLC: THIS IS SO GREAT!! the instrumental is so nice, a lot lighter than the previous songs and a nice break from the heaviness hehe. the tune is so addictive and i love the SUNRISE part <3. even if the lyrics are a bit sad, as @oh-the-aster-blooms put it, 'sometimes when you are sad, dancing all night sounds better', and i totally agree :) everything just kinda flows so well and their voices work really well together. i really adore i.n's 'run away run away' part my baby has such an angelic voice. the bridge is also cool :)

GET LIT: idk is it just me but for some reason get lit just brings worth it by 5th harmony to mind with the jazzy vibes at the start, but like...better (no offence to 5th harmony) this is such a swag brag song! the raps are so great to start off omg and then the sudden transition to seungmin's beautiful voice ugh THE CHORUS!!!! i love how felix does his line and it drops into the vibe. the next verse is so like subtle brag idk how to explain it but the swerve swerve part> i do feel imo that the bridge is bit disconnected at the beginning but when changbin does his 'speaker' part it flows really well. i like the dance break! it is a bit repetitive but oh well it slays anyways.

Collision: i saw someone somewhere say it was like chill on steroids (idk who u are sorry for not giving credit 🙇‍♀️) and its so true. it really has the same vibe like sad but also like vibey idk i think the instruments help a lot with establishing that mood. vocalracha slayed in this >>> so did hyunjinnie and lee know <;3 babe i loved you that line is so good felix >>> and BANG CHAN IN THE VERSE AFTER THE FIRST CHORUS?? so good ugh its like a rainy day kinda song when u just feel a bit sentimental. also felix and...was it lee know? in the second pre chorus? that sounded so amazing ughhhh i really like that metaphor of crashing its very bittersweet <3 han slayed again

FNF: such a strong start with chan!!! changbin and han's raps were so great and the prechorus was really like heart rending idk thats jsut the power of vocalracha ig and again as @oh-the-aster-blooms and i were discussing the chorus does have a great pace which does give the impression of trying to catch up! it gives off movie soundtrack vibes imo. the way they blended their voices with felix was so cool!! hyunjinnie slayed that rap damn. the bridge was so good as well. the meaning behind this song >>

Youtiful: such a sweet song showing their love for stay! chan's explanation was so TT i love my boys so much the instrumental is so soft and soothing and the lyrics >>> listening to this just made my heart warm. its the audio version of chan's big hug <3 this was a very good song for chan. also seungmin, lee know and i.n as well!! i could listen to my babe jeongin saying 'you are a miracle' for ever. the chorus slaps.

i don't really count these two as part of the album as they were already released/just a translated ver so its a lot briefer

THE SOUND (Korean Ver.): the Japanese version slayed, so does this. i liked how they changed the chorus, and everything just fits well idk sometimes i find the translated versions a bit jarring after being used to the og one but this is really good!

Mixtape: Time Out: so great i just love it sm <333

overall!

such a great album omg. i love all the songs!!! the line count has improved quite a bit (although lino is lacking in some parts) but overall its pretty fair imo factoring the roles different members play. they've definitely shown us a different facet of their music which is so cool and innovative! love love love

ranking

this was so hard omg its going to keep changing but as of right now it is:

ITEM

S CLASS/Super Bowl

TOPLINE/Get Lit

DLC/FNF/Hall of Fame

Collision

Youtiful

as always, every song is amazing and these are my opinions so please respect them! 3RACHA production kings 👑 stream 5 STAR and s-class! yet another amazing comeback <3

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

[quarantinehomies]

John: Patient Zero

     September 30th, 2022. I’ve been feeling sick for a little while, so I decided to take a COVID test outside. I’m chatting with a friend at a table while I take my COVID test since I don’t really believe I have it. As soon as I deposited a drop into the antibody test, the two lines instantly appeared. Panic. I call everyone that I’ve been in contact with for the past couple of days, I contact my teachers telling them about my situation, and I contact the school to get instructions on what to do next. Zeltzin comes out and tests with me and she tests positive while I test a second time, still positive. Valerie, Richard, and Lily test next, however only Richard tests positive. So, Richard, Zeltzin, and I quarantine in Richard's room while Valerie and Lily play it safe and quarantine in Zeltzin/Valerie’s room. Though soon Valerie was in Richard's room too. 

     I had never gotten COVID before, so all of the symptoms were new to me and also I had never had to quarantine in place. I felt really guilty for getting all of my friends sick, and making them have to quarantine with me. I felt even worse after I realized that we could no longer go to the Kid Bloom concert that we had all bought tickets for a couple days before. 

     The only things I really remember from being in Richard's room were watching insane amounts of serial killer documentaries on Richards TV, taking care of a friend's dog for a day, and Zeltzin dying in the corner of the room. Everything else during that time was a complete blur. Zeltzin, Richard, Valerie, and I spent most of the many hours in the room watching the Dahmer documentary series and other various serial killers. I made many jokes about the serial killers, many of which did not land so well. I was very silly over the entire course of the quarantine experience. One of the days we were quarantining, a friend (not infected) wanted us to watch over her dog while she went to a theme park. This was a very interesting and fun experience because it taught me how much I would not want a dog. Coco, a white mixed breed dog, was fine to spend time with all morning, but once we wanted to eat some lunch, he would not stop barking. It was incessant and the only way I could get him to stop was supplexing him. 

     I only brought a few worldly possessions to the room: my camping mat, a blanket, a pillow, and a camping chair. I used these items to their absolute limits during the few days that I stayed in Richard's room. There was nothing more rewarding in the mornings when I would pack up my sleeping stuffs, throw them on the dresser, set up the camping chair, and then sit there for the rest of the day. I would sit there. Just sit there. All day long. In my chair I would sit. My throne. My safe space. Mon amour.

     When Lily finally also tested positive, we all moved over to Zeltzin and Valerie’s room. Richard, Lily, and I slept on the floor while Zeltzin and Valerie slept on their beds. We never really moved around a lot from each of our positions, so time was also a blur in this room too. This time, I had brought my bass with me to the room to play and keep myself busy and Richard used my acoustic guitar. The time we spent together in this room wasn’t boring since we could all keep each other company. Richard and Lily spent almost a little too much time together… couldn’t tell you why.

     The time I spent in Zeltzin’s room was actually quite fun. We would play games, like scribbl.io, and talk with each other almost all day. The one caveat to this time, however, was that I was the designated food orderer. Any time that we wanted lunch or dinner, I was the person that had to ask someone who was not sick to get us food. This was a bit of a pain when people were busy when we were hungry. The main people I want to shout out is Cynthia, who got our food for us 

     During the last 3 or 4 days of being in quarantine, I felt completely fine and not sick, however, 2 faint lines persisted each day and I had to keep telling myself that tomorrow would be the day I could finally leave. It was when Zeltzin and Valerie tested negative first that started my biggest descent into madness. This proceeded all the way until October 8th, when I finally tested negative for COVID. I was ecstatic. The day after I tested negative, I went to a quinceanera to celebrate.

[sometimes-i-write-good]

Abs Sans Brain

Top Gun: Maverick - Jake “Hangman” Seresin x f!pilotreader [no use of y/n]

2.6k || Your date with Jake at the Hard Deck is crashed by the rest of the squad.

==== Genre: Fluffy, flirty, and funky

CW: Swearing, drinking

Author’s Note: I’m writing this before I start writing the fic itself. I’m shooting for 600 - 800 words. Please laugh at me when we see how wrong I end up being. Oh, and the reader is best friends with Bob because I said so. || cross-posted on ao3

===

===

There were very few things you had asked for in life. Good health, good people, and the entire sky at your disposal. A small list, if a bit demanding. One thing you hadn’t been expecting when you’d asked for the Heavens was all those who came with it. In particular, Jake Seresin, who slid into the booth across from you. Beers in hand, grin in place.

“Come here often, doll?”

You roll your eyes at him. A movement that does little to hide the smile blooming across your lips. “I can’t believe I ever let that line work on me.”

“In your defense,” he said, taking a long swig of his beer. “The first time I used that line, we were thousands of feet in the sky. It’s where I’m at my most irresistible.”

“Ah, yes. That must have been it. Everywhere else you’re just insufferable.” You laughed and took a significantly smaller sip of your beer. It’s your second one in ten minutes. “If I didn’t know you any better, Seresin, I’d say you’re trying to get me drunk here.”

“Tryin’?” he scoffed, “and you say you know me.”

The unfortunate thing about this whole situation was that you did know Jake. You knew him well, better than Coyote. You knew his favorite color was yellow. That’s why it had been put in his helmet. (He’d also left off the ‘a’ in his helmet because the idea of filling it in to say ‘Hungman’ fit his sixth grade sense of humor). You knew he over-exaggerated his southern drawl whenever you walked into a room because you’d once drunkenly admitted to him that hearing him talk flooded your mind with dirty thoughts. You knew Jake’s mind was fifty percent dirty thoughts, twenty-five percent sky, twenty percent you, five percent ways to school you at cards and five percent cheeky comebacks he was sitting on to annoy the rest of the squad with. And, most disheartening of all, you knew Jake was not a romantic.

It didn’t bother him that date night was a few beers, fried food, and a game of pool. It didn’t bother you either. Not entirely, but you were hoping for one night where you could dress up nice and go out somewhere fancy. Somewhere along the lines of joining the military and ending up at TOPGUN the line of being feminine had been blurred. Commanders couldn’t understand why you’d want to put on a bit of mascara to fly a plane. In the same stretch of imagination, Hangman seemingly couldn’t put it together that you’d like a bit of romance in your life beyond the cheesy pickup lines and pet names.

If you could add anything to your list of ‘good health, good people, and the entire sky’ it would be a few nice dates. You’d say nothing fancy, but you wouldn’t mean it. You wanted fancy. Even if it was just to realize that fancy is actually not what you wanted at all. Something to change up the pace of playing pool with Jake and being hit on by him like you were his latest conquest and not his girlfriend of six months.

Part of you felt like you were being slightly unfair.

“Your turn, doll,” Jake said, but when you went to pass in front of him he grabbed you by your belt loop. He pulled you back towards him, matching your laugh, and captured your lips with his.

Moments like these almost had you convinced that maybe you could push those selfish date ideas off to the side. Jake liked showing off. He liked being able to flirt with you in a place where you could laugh loudly and no one would look at you weird. He liked being able to slip out the back door to walk down the beach with you under the stars.

“If it’s my turn,” you said between kisses, “then let me shoot the ball.”

Reluctantly, he let go of your waist and you positioned yourself to sink yet another ball into the pocket. You planned to kick his ass in an embarrassingly short amount of time to get the pettiness out of your system, then enjoy your night together.

Except for the fact that the front bell chimed, and familiar shouts filled the bar. Familiar because you’d heard them less than an hour ago. You considered altering your list once more. ‘Good people who knew when not to come get a drink.’

“Hangman!” Payback shouted across the bar. “Rack ‘em up. Rooster was just telling me how the two of you ended in a tie game last week.”

Jake’s laughter filled your ears. He still had a hand on the small of your back, but his attention was entirely on your group of friends trailing through the door. “Chicken doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about. I smoked his ass.”

“I’d like to see you put your money where your mouth is, Seresin. Unless you’re still broke from the last time I kicked your ass.”

Rooster headed over to the pool table followed closely by Fanboy and Coyote. Payback, scribbling in a notebook, hung back for a moment. Then opened his mouth to edge the tension on a bit more. You knew your date night had been pushed aside, so you took it upon yourself to step off to the side yourself.

Phoenix smiled at you, waving, and tilted her head. “I thought you guys were on a date?” She asked. You shot her a look that said ‘We’ll talk later.’ Natasha let out a laugh. “Sorry. Look, I’ll get you something strong to drink.”

“Make it a double!” You called out after her as she made her way over to the bar where she’d be trapped by millions of questions from Penny. The sound of your name, your government name, being called by a certain southern drawl caught your attention. “Yes, love?” You asked, hoping that your boyfriend was about to make an unexpected promise that the two of you could leave after one game.

“What’s the matter, darlin’?” Jake nudged you softly with his shoulder then threw his head over in Bradley’s direction. “We can always just ask the peanut squad to leave. The small man will only get so much smaller when I whoop his ass for the hundredth time”

Rooster stiffens, almost to attention. He holds the pool cue next to him. Straight and tall. “I’m taller than you are, Bagman.”

It had become a trend of sorts to refer to Jake with various insults that fell so effortlessly from Bob’s mouth. You had tried your hardest to resist, out of solidarity for your boyfriend, some of the nicknames were too creative to avoid… and it gave you an excuse to make Jake try and draw his true name from your lips.

“I wasn’t referring to that kind of height, Chick.”

“C’mon, Jake,” you whine, “can you please just be the polite Jake I know you to be?”

“Oxymoron!” Rooster calls from across the pool table to which Jake whirls around and says, “What the fuck did you just call me?”

You shoot a glare in Bradley’s direction. “Seriously?” Out of the corner of your eye you see Payback pulling that same little notebook out of his pocket to make a mark. You turn on him. “And what the hell are you doing?”

He turns the page towards you. On it in crude, unintelligible handwriting is what you can only assume to be two columns labeled “Hangman” and “Rooster” with a series of ticks beneath them. Jake in the lead by a long shot. “I like to keep track.”

In the corner, you noticed when you squinted to read the handwriting, was a third little box. Completely full of ticks. “Who is that?”

“Bob,” Payback said at the same time Bob said, “Mine.”

You rolled your eyes and turned your attention back to Jake. “Can I talk to you?”

Your tone is enough to etch worry on his face. He set his pool cue against the table, grabbed you by the waist, and pulled you off to the side. “What’s wrong, doll?”

“This isn’t a date.” The whiny lit to your voice didn’t make you feel the most sexy, but you’d tried seducing Jake to go to a movie so the two of you could make out in the dark instead and that hadn’t worked. Pouting was your last resort. “Every time we go on a date, they show up. They’re like fleas!”

“At least fleas can do tricks.” Jake turned to look over his shoulder. “Rooster can’t even hit a ball straight.”

“Jake, I’m being serious. Why won’t you just take me on a date? A real one.”

“Look, pretty girl, I’ll make a deal with you.”

You side-eyed him, unconvinced, and sighed. “Lucky me.”

“Play me in darts. I win, we stay and hang out with everyone. Lord knows Rooster and Phoenix need to be humbled in pool. Plus, you’re the only one here who can get Bob to do enough shots to start doing karaoke.” He rests his forehead against yours. “I know how much you love his drunk renditions of ‘Sweet Caroline.’”

Jake had a point. There had been one night - shockingly, another date night at the Hard Deck turned into a group activity - where you went to sulk in a booth while your schmooze of a boyfriend fueled his bromance with Coyote, Rooster, and Payback. Bob, still not the biggest partier, had grown tired of the swapping insults over darts and was worn out from dodging Phoenix and Fanboy’s attempts to get him to dance with them. So he’d ended up in the booth across from you.

You’d been pounding back shots of tequila like they were water. “He’s stupid,” you had slurred to Bob, “but you’re not stupid. You’re fun. Here, do a shot with me. Let’s be fun.”

He would tell you the next day that he had only intended to do one shot but one turned into two which turned into four which turned into Bob unplugging the jukebox to sing a melody of songs from your Grandma’s playlist with impressive range. After each one he would make sure to point you out of the gathering crowd of dazzled patrons. “This one’s for her!” He’d shout in dedication and start up singing again.

It hadn’t been a bad night then, and, even though you’d never admit it to Jake, you had a lot of fun. Tonight would be the same if you could let yourself stop moping long enough to enjoy it. But there was still the matter of:

“What if I win?” You ask. Competition was the reason you were here on the West Coast to begin with. You were the best of the best because you refused to let anyone else get the upper hand on you. “What do I get then, Seresin?”

“If you win,” Jake said, slowly kneading your hips with his hands. “I will take you out on another date - a fancy one. With roses and the opening of doors and the biggest bottle of wine this nice restaurant downtown has to offer. I’ll dress up and give you the most romantic night of your life. But tonight we’ll stay here and do everything we’d do anyway if I had win.”

“If I win.”

“If you win… but you won’t.”

He didn’t have to say it for you to know it was true. He threw darts the same way he flew planes: with deadly precision. There was a reason Hangman was the only one out of everyone in their generation with two confirmed kills. He could land a shot with his eyes closed. In the air and with two feet planted firmly on the hardwood floors of the Hard Deck.

“That’s not fair at all.”

“I don’t make the rules, sweet thing.” That stupid smirk was back on his face. The two of you hadn’t made it back to your booth yet for appetizers, otherwise there’d surely be a toothpick rolling between those lips of his too.  “C’mon, we’ll make it easy. Three darts each. Most points win.”

“That’s not how you play darts, Jake. Even I know that.”

“Bagman,” Payback called out, “what are you doing, the balls are racked?”

You went to grab the darts from the board as Jake said, “Kicking my girl’s ass in darts as a warm up for kicking your sorry asses in every game after.”

“Ladies first,” you gestured, mimicking his smug smirk. He glared playfully at you but stepped up to throw the first dart in a movement almost too quick for you to see. A perfect bullseye. “Show off.”

“Got to put some skin in the game.” Jake moved you in front of him. His hands gripping your waist to hold you in place as he pressed kisses to your neck. “I like your skin better, darlin’.”

You shooed him away. The dart felt heavy in your hand. Screwing this up would essentially be throwing away your only sure shot at the date of your dreams. You lifted your arm and threw the dart. It flew, fitting itself snugly into the single bull.

Jake’s turn. He moved just as quickly as the first time, but the angle he shot at landed the dart in a single scoring 18. Winning was still well within your grasp. A decent date was inching closer and closer.

Your turn. A deep steady breath. This dart felt weightless. An extension of yourself. You throw the dart in a less fluid motion than Jake, but manage to stick it in the bullseye right next to his.

“Look at that!” You shouted, pointing and jumping. Joy overwhelmed you not just because you were currently winning, but because this had been the first bullseye you’d made without Jake helping you in the slightest. He’d likely still claim this victory as his. It was his silly deal that made you so determined in the first place.

Jake’s final turn. He still had the chance to put you in the dust. Your eyes were glued to the board, but the dart never came. When you turned to look at him, Jake threw the dart at the ground. “You win,” he said, but you shook your head. Eyes back to the board. You won even without throwing this last dart.

You snapped your head in his direction, ready to call him out for cheating, but you were cut off by Jake’s lips crashing onto yours. He pulled away quickly, muttered a small, “You really think I’d deny you anything, doll?” then rushed off to join the restless group at the pool table. Leaving you to glance from the stray dart stuck in the floor and the man you were beginning to fall for at the pool table.

Phoenix saddled up next to you, drink in hand, and passed one over to you. “What did he promise you if you won?”

“A real date.”

“The fancy one with all that inspiration you’ve been sending me on Pintrest.”

“That’s the one.”

She let out a low whistle. “Wow, and I thought he loved you just by the way he looked at you, but this is something else. He’s smitten.”

“I guess I have that effect on some people,” you said and hid your giddy grin with a sip of your drink. “Did you ask Penny to get the tequila shots ready?”

“The real question is if we’re ready to hear Bob signing.”

This might just be one of your favorite dates yet.

===

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