#the trumpets would be too much for him

[edwinisms]

it’s kinda funny to me that charles seems like this classic brit punk rocker and looking at him makes you think of like. the clash. sex pistols. etc. but really according to his pins and the time period he died in he was probably most frequently listening to fucking. ska

[docterzerocare]

had more thoughts on the Qsmp Au i came up with last night:

- Juanaflippa shooting Cucurucho with her gun. it's just a funny mental image to me.

- i had this. idea about Tilin witnessing q!Quackity getting kidnapped. Tilin seeing ElQuackity, who's pretending to be Quackity, and going "You're not my dad. Where is my dad? What did you do to him?"

- Tilin, just in general, refusing to go along with ElQuackity's BS because That's not my father. Stop trying to pretend you're him you're not why did you take my dad away why why why bring him back Please-

- listen. from what i've heard, Maxo is Going Through It, so he deserves to still have a living child. just in general, no more grieving parents. everyone is at least somewhat happier because they've still got their children.

- i have absolutely zero fucking clue how Gegg comes into existence, but here we are.

- the other misc. eggs (A1, the other egg that got found too late) get homes and parents too. for whatever reason, i'm getting the names Arin and Bluebell respectively.

- Arin's accessory would either be a little bandaid on the side of their face or a little yellow flower on their head (a dandelion :]), maybe both, and Bluebell gets a flower crown of forget-me-nots.

- Arin, Tilin, and Juanaflippa (because of Tilin mostly) have formed the "FUCK ElQuackity, All My Homies HATE ElQuackity" Club. good for them <3

- also like. what if the Federation just erased Q's memories anyway, so he comes back and doesn't recognize Tilin anymore. so just. Tilin being so happy that he's finally back only to realize that he doesn't remember them. This Severely Fucks Them Up For Several Reasons.

- i also realized that Tilin is receiving so much angst. i didn't intend for this to happen i swear.

- i've decided that the times that the eggs Would Have died canonically were just really close calls in this au. example, Maxo got to Trump in time, Flippa and Tilin got medical attention in time and were only physically (and mentally) scarred, Arin managed to run away, Bluebell was discovered by Cellbit in time, etc.

- upon realizing that Tilin had no other parent besides Quackity, Slime and Mariana decided that they would also help. Tilin and Flippa were already hanging out so much that they were practically like siblings (and. also pretty much were, but shh), so why not just help with Tilin too?

...well, Slime and Mariana were pretty dysfunctional, but uh. as far as Quackity's concerned, it's the thought that counts, right?

Doc i'm not even entirely into the qsmp but i've gotten attached to these lil eggs help

Oughhigh i love this

Arin and bluebell omg <3

[hairmetal666]

"Is this always how they act?" Jonathan asks. He has to lean close and yell a little for Robin to hear him over the noise of the house party.

"Yup," she says.

She, Jonathan, and Argyle continue to stare at Eddie, sitting in an easy chair, Steve perched happily on his lap. Eddie has a whole bowl of bbq Lay's, and Steve will lean back for a chip, which Eddie feeds him with a smile.

"And they're definitely not dating?" Argyle asks when Steve leans back to whisper in Eddie's ear, mouth pressed close. It's deeply gratifying that they just got in from California and already they see it.

"Steve says no."

"You think he's lying?" Jonathan asks.

"I think he doesn't realize he likes Eddie yet."

Eddie tugs at Steve's hair, and Steve turns back, gives him a smile that's so intimate Robin can't stare directly at it. Instead, she turns to her friends, but Argyle is still watching Eddie and Steve. He's drumming his fingers against his chin, expression what Robin could only call mischievous.

"What are you planning?" Jonathan asks.

"Just helping some bros find true love."

Jonathan looks mildly concerned but before he can say anything, Nancy makes her appearance. And they're something, becoming something, and she cares about Eddie and Steve getting their shit together, but Nancy is smiling and she's so, so pretty. It's easy to get lost in the blue of her eyes and the sweep of her hair and forget about everything else.

---

A few hours later and they're all sitting around a coffee table in the basement, just the six of them. It's sort of funny, she thinks, how it always ends up being the six of them.

They're crossfaded already, but that hasn't stopped Eddie and Argyle from lighting another joint. Her thoughts have gone light and floaty, all that's holding her to earth the press Steve's leg and Nancy's hand against hers.

Argyle is sort of monologuing and she doesn't think any of them are paying much mind, but then he stops mid-sentence, grips Jonathan's shoulder tight enough that his knuckles go white. "Dudes. What if we played Truth or Dare?"

Nancy snorts. "Not on your life."

"I don't think I can move?" She says. She leans into Steve, sighing with contentment.

"I, for one, would love to see Buckley complete a dare," Eddie says.

She sticks her tongue out at him. "I've done plenty. Band kid, remember?"

"Ugh, curse the horny trumpeters." Eddie slumps on the coffee table in defeat.

"I'll have you know, they were very wholesome games."

Steve squints at her. "Wasn't there an orgy in someone's pool?"

She sniffs, looks away instead of answering, which makes everyone laugh.

"Speaking of sex," Argyle says. "No one catch your eye tonight, Harrington?"

"Wasn't really looking."

"That's new," Jonathan says.

Steve laughs. "I'm tired of hooking up."

He's told her that too, countless times. She thinks the real reason he hasn't dated in months is sitting right next to him, drumming his fingers on the coffee table.

"Maybe you've just lost your touch," Argyle says.

"I have not!" Steve clutches a hand over his heart. "If I wanted to, I could pull any girl upstairs."

"C'mon, my dude, no way you're that good."

"I was!" He looks to Robin, Nancy, Jonathan. "I was, back me up!"

"I don't know, Scoops wasn't your best work," she says.

"No, no, we said Scoops doesn't count! It was the hat. The outfit! I did fine after!"

"I happened to think the sailor costume was very cute," Eddie says.

"Thank you," Steve preens. He shifts away from her to lean into Eddie, who grins.

"I don't think we can trust Eddie's judgement here," Nancy says.

Steve points at her. "Yes, and I remember you being totally uninterested."

She squeaks in indignation, Robin smothering her own giggles behind her hand. "It was--it was hormones!"

"Yeah, very uninterested in me." Jonathan chimes in. There's a little second where no one reacts--the fact that Nancy was technically still with Steve when that happened ringing unspoken between them--before Nancy and Steve start to giggle.

"I've hooked up with everyone I've ever tried to," Argyle chimes in, nonchalant.

"No way," the whole group says.

"I've got the touch."

"C'mon, that literally can't be true just by like...stats," Steve says.

"Don't know what to tell you, my dude." Argyle's smile is smug. "I'm really good."

"You're just jealous," she tells him. She nudges his shoulder so he knows she's joking.

"No! Jealousy has nothing to do with it."

They erupt at that, calling out the obvious lie.

"I'm not upset!" Steve shouts over them. "I'm just saying, it didn't happen. Sorry, Argyle. You have bizzaro charm, but there's no way it has a 100% success rate."

"Sounds like jealousy to me, Stevie." Eddie cocks his head with a smirk.

"Harrington, you're so cute when you're competitive," Argyle says. "Anyway, it worked on--"

"Don't say Jonathan," Nancy, Steve, and Robin all say.

"Hey! Why not me?'

"Well, it's just--" Nancy waves her hand in the air. "You're. I mean. It's not hard."

Jonathan groans, hides his face in his hands as they laugh.

"I'll prove it to you," Argyle says to Steve. "100% success rate."

"What?"

"I'm going to seduce you."

"Oh, shit," she says.

She knows what's going to happen even before Steve puts his hands on his hips, awkwardly cause they're sitting, cocks an eyebrow, and says, "Okay."

Eddie grumbles something she can't make out, but Steve shakes his head, laughs. "Nah, it's just for fun, right?"

"Until it works." Argyle tosses his hair.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Gimme your best shot."

They rearrange around the table, Eddie and Argyle swapping places.

Everyone is quiet for a second, Steve reaches for his drink. "You got great hands, Harrington," Argyle says.

"I--oh, what?" Steve splutters. He goes a little pink, and Robin thinks it's the first time she's seen him this flustered by a compliment.

"Yeah." Argyle takes his hand, traces along his palm and knuckles. "Big. Strong. Like you could really take care of someone."

Eddie kicks the table, sending it rocking, scattering empty cups and chip bags. Steve is crimson, totally oblivious to Eddie's flailing.

"Thanks," he mumbles. He doesn't pull his hand away. Robin, everyone, is riveted.

"No one's ever told you that?"

"No. No one."

"That's too bad. It's probably all about your hair and your eyes and your body."

Steve smiles and it's one she recognizes, flirty and a little wicked. "You noticed my body?"

Argyle laughs. "Oh, c'mon, you know everyone notices that."

"Would you believe it if I told you I don't get enough compliments?"

"Not on your life."

Steve leans into him, giggles. "Well, worth a shot, right?"

"Always. You wanna know the first thing I noticed about you?"

"Ass, right?"

"It was how much you love your friends but you hide it behind a facade of disapproval. Made me think maybe you weren't used to the love you want to give being reciprocated."

They're all locked in on Argyle and Steve, but she notices Eddie flinch, move like he's about to stand, Nancy reaching out to stop him. She thinks, then, for the first time, that maybe this is mean to him. He doesn't know it's not real.

"Oh," Steve says. His voice breaks, a little, and her heart breaks for him. "I--oh."

"Your ass was the second thing I noticed," Argyle quips and the tension around the table breaks, Steve giggling.

With smooth confidence she never would have expected him to possess, Argyle cards his fingers through Steve's hair. "Just had to touch it for myself." His voice is soft.

"That all you want to touch?"

Argyle grins. "Not even a little bit."

She watches, stunned, as Steve leans in, face almost touching Argyle's. Eddie makes a noise, a pained cough, and Steve leaps to his feet.

"I can't kiss you!" He half-yells, stumbling.

"And why not?" Argyle asks. He's got a wild smile on his face.

"I'm in love with Eddie!" Steve's eyes are wide, panicked.

"I'm sorry," Steve says to him. "Eddie, I--"

But before he can get the words out, Eddie's climbing over the coffee table, sending drinks and snacks flying, the calls for him to get down ignored as he trips into Steve's arms.

"You love me?" Eddie asks.

"I'm sorry I couldn't say it before. I--got in my head about it and I--I hoped it didn't seem like I was leading you on because my words kept getting stuck, and--"

"Sweetheart." Eddie stops him. "I--" He breaks off, notices that the rest of them are raptly listening to the confession. "Do you want to go somewhere we can talk?"

They disappear upstairs, and she turns to Argyle in awe. "I can't believe that actually worked."

"What can I say, I'm a miracle worker. Are there more Doritos?"

---

Early in the morning, they're piled in Nancy's station wagon, Jonathan driving them home. She and Nancy are in the middle seat, Steve and Eddie in the back. Steve's curled against him, face pressed to his neck, hidden by a cloud of hair. She wants to ask what happened, how their conversation went, if they're official and how long Steve's known he's in love, but Nancy moves closer, head dropping to Robin's shoulder. Their fingers entwine and Robin closes her eyes, smiles.

"Tomorrow?" Nancy asks.

She nods. "Tomorrow."

[qqueenofhades]

been seeing some responses to the many many lawsuits and other actions taken against trumpet and munkfruit that fall along the lines of "this isn't enough, it's already too late, you can't fight fascism with the law, we're all gonna die." i understand the fear, truly, but i'm curious as to your thoughts on it, as to me it seems like this sort of behavior/posting doesn't do much beyond embolden the narrative that everyone actually likes these bastards and they're too powerful to be stopped.

Welp. This is the kind of question that requires me to write a long and complex sociopolitical/critical/historical/Discourse-esque analysis that will take a while and which I am trying to do only selectively, but I'm at home on Saturday morning, I don't have anything else to do right now, and it does present me an opportunity to address some things I've been thinking about. So. We'll give it a shot.

The first thing that has struck me is that in a few short weeks, we're getting a sharp empirical disproving of two common online-leftist fallacies: one, the old "both parties are exactly the same" chestnut, and two, "the only resistance that matters is Violent Glorious Revolution" (which somehow and conveniently never happens). We had months and months of "Biden is just as bad as Trump!!!" being spread as gospel truth in online-leftist circles, and then when Harris took over, it switched just as seamlessly into "Harris is just as bad as [or even worse than] Trump!" Now, as I have said before, there were plenty of legitimate criticisms to make of Biden, particularly the Gaza policy (upon which Harris notably differed). But it's quite telling that the keyboard warriors who spent all of last year howling for The Righteous Punishment of Biden-Harris (regardless that the obvious ancillary consequence was letting Trump come to power) have either disappeared completely when it comes to dealing with the results of that rhetoric, or have switched to "everything is doomed so I guess we shouldn't bother anyway." Like. Trump is now proposing to fully ethnically cleanse Gaza and either blithely hand it over to Israel or build Jared Kushner Beachfront Resort Disneyworld, and what do we hear in protest? For the most part, crickets. These are not serious people. Their opposition is not morally consistent, and it only depends on how they can make themselves look good. I thought that Trump was somehow supposed to be magically better than Biden particularly on the Gaza issue, and that was why it was worth letting him get elected? Or something? Something!?!

I'm curious as to whether those people still legitimately think that Harris would have spent her first few weeks in office dismantling USAID, signing weekly anti-trans executive orders, unleashing ICE across the country and terrorizing immigrant communities, putting the Project 2025 guy in charge of the Office of Management and Budget, letting Elon Musk run rampant with Treasury data, nominating the likes of RFK Jr. and Tulsi Gabbard to Cabinet posts, trying to freeze all federal funding, stripping DEI initiatives, dismantle the Department of Education -- etc. etc. The thing is, as ghoulish as it is, none of this is a surprise, because it is literally what Trump and his people spent the entire presidential campaign loudly, openly, and repeatedly promising to do. However awful they were and are, they were not remotely secret about their intentions. That information was out in the open every time they opened their mouths. But too many people didn't pay attention, rationalized it away, decided that "he won't actually do that" (despite the fact that he launched a literal violent coup attempt on the Capitol the last time he was in office), or just made up their minds that Trump Will Reduce Grocery Prices and refused to listen to any information that countered that view. What do we get now? Trump laughing off the grocery-prices issue and insisting that it's "not a priority" and Musk managing to claim that the real problem is government spending, not corporate greed. Again, this was completely predictable, because y'all got willingly suckered. It was not hard to see it coming.

That said: if the Glorious Online Leftist Revolution is still coming, and by some lights we might now legitimately need it, where the fuck is it? Are they still out there banging the drum against Trump and his "let's ethnically cleanse Gaza" policy and anything else that they insisted, they swore up and down, was functionally equivalent or possibly even marginally better than Biden-Harris getting another term? No. They're either dead silent, offering weak excuses, or completely giving into "we're doomed there's no point fighting back through weak shitlib institutions that are obviously terrible and will fail" blubbering that makes no fucking sense. One, because they move the goalposts so constantly that there's not even any attempt to reckon with the last effects of their damaging bullshit, and two? As I said, where's the fucking Revolution magically coming to save us and install a perfect leftist utopia (which is never how revolutions have ever worked) and sweep away Government Tyranny? Is that only for when a Democrat is in office and you can have confidence that the government is not going to come after you in the middle of the night for talking about it? Now that there's an actual fascist in power, it's somehow too hard to resist at all, even in small, institutional, and everyday ways that are often far more effective at practically confounding the bad stuff instead of empty and useless online echo chambers, so guess we should all just give up??!

Fuck. That.

This is also why we have to talk about the catastrophic lack of information literacy and critical thinking skills in young leftist spaces. A good example is the recent migration of TikTok users to the Chinese app RedNote. It was sweet for a little while as there was cultural exchange and friendship and memes. But then, predictably, it dove hard into "ah, once again The Evil US Government Has Lied To Us and there are no problems at all in China!" I have seen posts float by on my dash that unironically claim this is the case and China is truly great and Americans should want to move there and clearly all that business about authoritarian control and mass repression was just a ruse by, again, The Evil US Government. If you are so utterly devoid of basic information literacy and research abilities that your standard of proof for "is the Chinese government repressively authoritarian and totalitarian" is "a random Chinese person on an app in a country where the Internet is viciously controlled and voicing the slightest criticism can make you disappear told me that it isn't," then for Christ's fucking sake, you need help. For one, it wasn't just the US government saying this. It was, y'know, Chinese dissidents, the entire nation of Taiwan, historians, academics, researchers, the Uyghur Muslims of Xinjiang, etc etc. If your only standard for believing or supporting anything is "the opposite of what the US government thinks," then you are perfect targets for authoritarianism. Hey, a person living under an authoritarian regime who will punish them if they speak out against it told me everything was fine! Clearly there's nothing to worry about and we should want it here in America!

Come on. Come on.

This is also the case because uneducated young leftists like to unironically label themselves "communists" or "Marxist-Leninists" as if it's cool and hip and has never been involved in anything problematic in all of history, so anything that calls itself that must be supported. Shoutout to the idiot in my notes recently who reblogged a several-year-old post just to shout at me about how historical communists NEVER worked with or collaborated with fascists, because something something The Communists Were The Pure Shining Good Guys! (Uh, nobody tell them about the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact.) Clearly, the Chinese Communist Party is good and beneficial, end of story, no more criticism or caution needed! Obviously, yes, official American policy toward China has often been driven by basic Sinophobia, and the determination that nobody can change American hegemony or unipolarity or its ability to call the shots how it pleases. But if that is the literally only criteria you're using, then yeah. If you're so unaware that "the Chinese people are ordinary human beings" and "the Chinese government is repressive and authoritarian" are statements that can and in fact do coexist, then apparently you've missed the situation you're in right now, where "the American people are ordinary human beings" and "the American government is repressive and authoritarian" is also the case. Because online leftism is essentially devoid of a consistent moral principle and will just blithely switch up to support Bad Things as long as they're being done by governments with the correct ideological label, here we are.

Anyway. This is getting long, but the main takeaway is that the "all resistance against Trump is doomed and I guess we just gotta die :(" line is now, somehow, often coming from the same people who were constantly yelling that the only hope was a Glorious Revolution against Biden-Harris, and it is somehow even stupider. So you'll trumpet about Gloriously Overthrowing The Government all the day long as long as a Democrat is in office, but the instant a Republican gets in there instead and starts acting like an actual fascist, welp, time to just shut up and accept our doom and not even bother to struggle? Please tell me how any of that makes sense. Especially when actively confounding the Trump/Musk Axis of Evil is already working. There is also the fact that the establishment-media types are supporting this narrative for reasons of their own; witness the fact that the entire US corporate media is owned by oligarchs who hastened to bend the knee and pledge fealty to Trump 2.0. They obviously also have a reason for inculcating hopelessness in you, and that the only recourse is to shut up, accept it, and let them continue to rob you blind. Because American democracy will never matter as much as money, power, and control for the Billionaire Bros.

The point is: this is a bad-faith narrative on all sides. Whether it's coming from the online leftists in their latest head-spinningly hypocritical volte-face, the oligarch-owned corporate media that wants to feed you constant Bad News to keep you clicking and worried and distracted and unable to resist, the Trumpist power that wants people to quit making this pesky stink about all their authoritarian fascist adventures, or anyone else. There is nobody who has your best interests at heart if they are telling you that everything is doomed and the only thing to do is lie down and take it. There is no logical reason you should listen to them. Go forth and keep resisting, in whatever way presents itself. Those cumulative small actions are far more effective than any Splendid Revolution that never, ever materializes, while the people who preach it just sit back and whine about how things are so bad now so clearly they couldn't. Shut up.

It is always important. It always matters. It will make a difference.

Courage, etc.

[n0tamused]

Hi hello and congrats on 1.5k!!

Looking at the event I'm low-key feeling greedy like I want to read every single prompt with Mydei lol. But maybe action prompt 3? With Fem!Reader kissing his red markings? I think this man deserves some soft moments.

Also side note your dragon designs are peak and I'm still obsessing over them.

Congrats again!

˖ ࣪⊹Mydei x Reader

Prompt: Action 3.A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking

A/n: Hello! Thank you so much and feel as greedy as you'd like lol I hope this is what you had in mind when sending this request in, just let bro go to sleep with someone he loves <3 And ps.. I am making a Mydei dragon design slowly if you haven't seen hehe.. I'm so happy you're enjoying those designs as well! <3

Contents: Mydei x Reader, fluff, maybe a tiny bit suggestive if you squint really hard

Words: 856

Ko-fi |  1.5K followers event

His torso was bare before you as he slumped on the edge of the bed, a sigh heavier than the world leaving his lips while he took a moment to simply linger on the border of the waking world and going to sleep next to you. Mydei always took some time to relish in the quiet, such a stark contrast to all the screams he had borne, the battle cries, the trumpeting of the horn and the clash of weapons. It was a distant memory, still looming in his shadow, but a memory all the same.Instead, they had taken on a strange, familiar quality, as if they were old companions who had returned for a visit - it helped him remember, why he was here, who he was doing all of this for.

Your arms were suddenly snaking their way underneath his arms, hands sliding up his chest while you pressed yourself against his back, your skin warm and soft from the bed. You do not speak, but he senses your thoughts and grasps one of the hands that are at his chest, giving it a small squeeze. 

“Come to bed, lay down..” you whisper, nosing at his shoulder for his warm scent. It was too late and both of you were too tired to speak in too lengthy words; you did not intend to question him either, he already knew what you meant to ask, and he’d answer when the time was better.  Mydei did not like to be pushed for a response. 

He picked up the hand he was holding and kissed the inside of it, his throat vibrating with a low hum. Feeling just a little daring through your sleepy muscles you curled your fingers as if to grab his face, it made him huff a laugh while he grasped your wrist to pull your grabbing hand back.

“Always so eager to have me close, aren’t you? You’re lucky I don’t mind..” he told you as he turned to the side, head turning as well so he could take a look at you. You loosened your hold but did not let go, smiling up at him as you found his gaze. 

“I would have hoped you’d say it is because you love me instead, or do you let anyone be melting up to you for attention?”You leaned into his shoulder with a contented sigh, your words playful but your affection clear. Yet he huffed all the same as if your words were meant to slight him. Suddenly you found yourself sliding into his lap as he hooked an arm around you and brought you in front of him, sitting sideways on his lap, the bed sheet trailing behind you and falling off your legs. 

“I’d say it’s because I love you, but you are asking for trouble with comments like that” You tilted your head and gave a little playful sneer, arms already having found their purchase around his neck. 

“Trouble..” you scoff but lean into him. “As if..”

“As if I’d let just any person ‘melt into’ me. You are the only one that can” he finished off for you, his fingers tracing up and down your spine, his smirk growing watching you shudder.

You hummed and leaned in, ducking out of sigh and resting your forehead on his shoulders. Mydeimos held you, his head resting against yours in a silent moment of mutual comfort. 

Your lips found the red mark running over his shoulder, kissing it tenderly. The light of the room was enough to allow you to see them, dark red lines painted on a long time ago. You heard him sigh softly as you kissed another spot, another red trail. 

His arms fell around your waist, your kisses melting the tension of his body away until he began to crave to lay down more than to remain sitting. As you were about to grace his skin with another kiss, his hold on you tightened and he let himself fall back onto the bed, pulling you down along with him. 

Your hair fell before your eyes and you puffed, trying to get it from your eyes as you squirmed to find comfort in the new position. Mydei’s hand extended forth and moved your hair aside, tucking it behind your ear, and as your eyes were revealed to him once more he held your gaze. Wordlessly. His eyes, soft pools of molten gold carried the image of you like a treasured memory. 

Holding his gaze you dipped down again and kissed the pointed mark on his chest, chuckling softly when you heard his breath hitch. You continued with your languid kiss shower across his skin, trailing up and down before Mydei had too much and hugged you onto him, bringing an end to your affections for tonight.

His hand found the forgotten bed sheets and pulled them over you. He kissed the top of your head and sank his head into the pillows, but you wouldn’t be yourself if you didn’t land a good night kiss to the mark running over his shoulders once more, knowing he was growing red in the face.

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[anthotneystark]

Well, if you're rough and ready for love (Honey, I'm tougher than the rest)

(edit: now on ao3!)

Eddie is suffering.

It’s hardly the first time, but it’s self-inflicted this time. At least it’s not going to physically almost kill him like the bats did.

Emotionally, sure, but not physically. That has to be some kind of win.

“Did you get Vecna’d? Do I have to get my trumpet? I don’t know if you can play Metallica on a horn, but I’ll try if you need me to.”

“Buckley, I would pay money to see you attempt it,” he says absently, his gaze never moving.

“Good, I could use the bonus.”

“Probably a good time to say I’ve only got Monopoly money.”

“Damn, there goes that plan.”

He hums an agreement, startling a moment later when a hand is suddenly blocking his view.

“Stop drooling, it’s not attractive.”

“Nothing about me is attractive to you.”

“Fair, but still. Ew,” she snorts.

“It’s not my fault, I can’t help it. He’s just so….” He doesn’t even have a word for it, so he just sighs.

“Who would have thought. Mr. Anti-Conformity drooling over Jock Extraordinaire. He’s wearing pastels. What have you become?”

“Shut up, he’s your platonic soulmate.”

“He is. And I love him. I just also know that he’s all sporty and preppy.”

“He can be as sporty as he wants as long as he keeps wearing those shorts he had on the other day.”

“Gross.”

“Even you can admit he looked good.”

“Sure, but you’re drooling again.”

He should be allowed a little drool. Steve had looked so biteable.

“He’s not even wearing shorts today, it’s too cold for that, doofus.” It was. Summer had well and truly turned into fall. Shorts had been replaced by jeans (except on the days Steve and Lucas played basketball, then the shorts came back out), polos more often than not were exchanged for sweaters, and by god, it was kissing him even more than the shorts and tank tops of summer had.

(This is without even considering the extreme number of shirts that Steve had sacrificed to become half shirts “for more air flow, because I can’t just walk around shirtless, obviously.” Because it was obvious. Showing his chest was too much, but the soft skin of his stomach, interrupted by the trail of dark hair vanishing under his waist band, wasn’t too much. Obviously.)

It made no sense. It shouldn’t have been worse with less skin showing. But it was because somehow, knowing that the soft knit of those sweaters was covering slowly paling skin, strong muscles and that beautiful, amazing layer of softness that rounded out hard edges…well, it completely ruined his train of thought until he couldn’t remember where he’d been going originally.

Worth it, just getting to imagine how Steve looked under his clothes.

“He’s worn this stuff before, why does it have you in a coma today?” Robin sighs, put upon even though it was her decision to sit with him.

“His hair.” Because that was the kicker today. Because Steve Harrington had never walked outside looking less than completely perfect.

Because Steve somehow managed to look amazing even roughed up and dirty.

Because Stevie was comfortable with himself and picked the clothes he liked and didn’t bother hiding scars that only proved how far he’d be willing to go to protect his loved ones and didn’t care about if he didn’t look perfect.

“He didn’t style it.”

“I can see how you’d get that impression, but I assure you he did.”

“What?!” That makes Eddie finally look at her, nearly falling over where he’s sat.

“Yeah. It’s just not hairspray. He’s trying something new.”

“It works for him.” The response is automatic. Because it’s true. Because poofed up and closer to god could only work on someone as pretty as Steve, and gunked up and water-logged could only work on someone as pretty as Steve, and bedhead could only look that good on someone as pretty as Steve.

Steve is just. So pretty.

But today, today it’s not firmly in place, soft even if it’s not going to move from it’s position. Today it’s not slicked back with water as he pops up from under it to splash one of the kids. Today it’s not half flat from where he slept on it, the same side he’ll leave pressed into Eddie’s shoulder if he’s not quite ready to start the day.

Today, it’s soft, curling around his ears, over his forehead, fluttering in the wind. It’s not the same kind of curly that his own hair is, the chaotic kind that if he tried to brush it, it’d eat the brush. It’s gentler, and he desperately wants to touch it.

“Seriously, I’m worried about your brain right now.”

“My brain is fine.”

“Close your mouth then.” Well, that’s embarrassing. He tosses a glare at her, and it’s just enough time to miss Steve heading their way. He does fall over where he’s sitting this time, but it’s so worth it because it makes Steve laugh.

He’d do an embarrassing amount of things to hear that laugh.

“You okay?” Steve asks, looking so fond and amused at Eddie’s antics that it makes his heart skip a beat.

It’s still surprising, having that look aimed at him, getting it from Steve.

“Fear not, Sir Stevington, I will survive,” he says, pushing himself up dramatically. Steve’s eyes crinkle as he snorts another laugh, and they both ignore Robin quietly bleching.

“Yeah? Good. I’d hate to see you get through everything just to get taken out by your own theatrics,” Steve says. Eddie doesn’t even have time to react – Steve’s smiling and that always slows him down – when his gorgeous, beautiful friend pulls off that pale green sweater and presses it into Eddie’s hands.

“Don’t get cold on me, alright? I saw you shivering,” he says, like he hasn’t just ruffled his own hair once more and completely distracted all of Eddie’s thoughts in the blink of an eye.

And then he’s gone, off to give another attempt at skateboarding (trying to follow Max’s instructions and letting her laugh at him when she hears him fall before she does whatever trick it is perfectly even without her sight), and Eddie is left standing there, watching that perfect, broad back covered by a too tight tee shirt.

“This is a whole new level of pathetic, I think.”

“Shup it,” Eddie says, then freezes, feels her shit-eating grin growing. “Shut up!” He groans.

She can laugh all she wants, he decides, pulling Steve’s sweater over his head. It’s warm with his body heat, smells like his soap and his cologne and him.

She can laugh, he’s got a beautiful boy to watch, one who looks at him with a promise of what’s to come, when the time is right.

[harrysfolklore]

hi bestie,, idk if u take requests buttt have u seen kieran culkin speech after he won his emmy & then him asking his wife for another baby on stage ����🤭🤭 idk i thought that would a cute h blurb

that kieran speech was SO CUTE i just had to take this request !!! happy one year of grammy winner Harry for those who celebrate! i hope you like this as much as I do

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

The night had been one for the books.

Harry became a Grammy winner for the second time within the first 30 minutes of the ceremony, getting the award for Best Pop Vocal Album, and your heart bursted with joy and pride and you watched him collect it.

He also delivered an amazing performance even though he had a stage malfunction that was out of his control, and after a few minutes of pep talk backstage, you convinced him that he should be proud of what he did no matter what.

Nights like tonight made you look back at your journey with Harry, from getting frustrated each year when the Grammys refused to give One Direction a nomination, to consoling him when his debut single Sign of the Times got overlooked and celebrating when they finally ave him his long overdue nomination for Fine Line. And now, being one of the most nominated artists of the night and a winner already.

Harry was not an artist that let awards or numbers define his career at all, but you knew that deep down he appreciated getting a nod and recognition for the hard work he puts into his music.

"What's on your mind, honey?" Harry asked and he noticed that you had been quiet for a few minutes, the show was on a commercial break so you could talk freely.

"Just thinking about how am I getting a picture with Beyoncé before the night ends," you joked, making him laugh along, "I'm also thinking about the bub, do you think she's okay?"

Harry couldn't help but smile at the mention of your daughter. Little baby Styles had been welcomed into the world a year and a half ago, looking like an exact carbon copy of Harry with curls, dimples and charming green eyes.

It's safe to say that she became Harry's entire world from the moment he saw her for the first time.

"I bet she's fast asleep by now after snuggling with mum for hours," you smiled at the thought, "You know she's obsessed with mum."

"She just loves her nana," you almost cooed, "And her Grammy winner daddy, even tho she doesn't have any idea what that means."

"You know," Harry began, and by the look on his face you knew he was up to no good, "She could become obsessed with her bay brother or sister too, if we decided to give her one."

The smirk on Harry's face after his statement was almost devilish, making you look him with wide eyes and a grin on your own.

"Are you asking me for another baby in the middle of the Grammys?" Harry shrugged, the smirk not leaving his face, "You're a menace. But, maybe if you win, I'll think about it."

Before Harry could reply, the lights dimmed signaling that commercial break was over and it was time for more awards, more specifically, the most important award of the night: Album of the Year.

Trevor Noah, the host, talked about the importance and meaning of the award, the fans the production had invited to support the nominees stood beside him in a line.

You could barely focus on what was being said because your eyes were fixed on Harry's hand gripping yours tightly, and you felt like throwing up from nerves if you looked at the stage.

And the Grammy goes to…” Trevor spoke into the mic, making a dramatic pause that felt way too long and made you finally look up no the stage, noticing that he was standing in front of Reina, Harry's fan.

And that was the moment you knew, the Album of the Year was Harry's House.

“It’s you!” both you ans Jeff whisper-yelled in unison, looking at each other with shocked faces and making Harry give you a confused look.

“What do you-” and before he could even finish his sentence his name was being called out and the trumpets from Music for a Sushi Restaurant filled the place.

Harry immediately covered his face in disbelief, shaking his head and taking in in the moment. You couldn't help but stand up and jump in your place, adrenaline and excitement, but mostly pride, running through your veins.

"My love, you won! Harry's House won!" you said into his ear when he finally wrapped his arms around you, pecking the side of yiur head repeatedly before kissing your lips quickly.

"I love you," was all he said before getting rushed into the stage along with his collaborators and friends.

"Shit!" was the first thing that came out of his mouth once he had his Grammy in hand, making everyone laugh, “I mean,shit! I’ve been so, so inspired by every artist in this category with me. At a lot of different times in my life I listen to everyone in this category when I’m alone,” he took a breath,"I think on nights like tonight, it’s obviously so important for us to remember that there is no such thing as best in music. I don’t think any of us sit in the studio thinking, making decisions based on what is gonna get us one of these.”

You stood with your hands clutched to your chest, your eyes filled with happy tears and nothing but love and admiration for him.

"I'd like to thank my mom and my sister for being my biggest supporters and giving me a great childhood, I would be nowhere without you," he paused to look directly at you from the stage, his eyes immediately watering again, "And of course my beautiful wife, YN. Thank you for sharing your beautiful life with me and giving me an amazing daughter who is the reason I do what I do everyday,"

You were unaware of the camera focusing on your and catching the moment you mouthed an 'I love you' to him from your place.

"I love you both so much, you mean the world to me. And YN," he paused, the devilish look from earlier making his way to his face again, along with a teasing raised eyebrow that told you that he was about to do something major, "I want another one."

The entire arena erupted into laughs and cheers, Jeff clapped and whistled from beside you and you couldn't help but cover your face in shock and embarrassment, astonished by Harry's anctics.

"You said, maybe if I won, and I did!" the crowd laughed even more, "I love you, so much. Thank you for this, I'll never forget it."

Harry got off the stage and you met him backstage to congratulate him properly, after a final performance the night came to an end and everyone headed outside the arena to celebrate.

"Do you feel like partying tonight? The label is throwing a celebration but if you feel tired we can skip it," Harry said as you both sat on the back of his Range Rover.

"Honestly, I just want to go home, kiss our baby goodnight and celebrate with my Grammy winner husband in private," you smiled at him teasingly, "Maybe get started on that second baby making."

The smile that appeared on Harry's face after hearing your words was bigger than the one from winning a Grammy.

"Home it is, then."

[sun-snatcher]

Elrond has a conch shell.

Not one of the prettier ones you would imagine, with the spikes and spots— No, this is a weathered and lumpy one; Sandy coloured and boring, for lack of a better word, only offset by the fact there’s a weird star-shaped hole you can peek through.

He brings it everywhere he travels.

Theory goes that it’s a magical trumpet gifted to him. Or, that he keeps secret messages in it for safekeeping. And his favourite: that he’s bound to the shell by oath, and if he steps a mere pace away from it, Ulmo would transform him into foam like a cursed sea-nymph. (You can imagine that one was debunked quite easily.)

No matter; the most important thing the Elves have come to learn about its peculiar existence is that above all: You do not touch it. (One of the younger elven recruits of a party learns this the hard way mid-travel, when he’d— bless him— grabbed the shell and suggested the idea to cast it aside, in exchange for more space to fit a spare skin of water.

It’s the first they’d ever seen Elrond snap like a whip.

Nobody dares question it since.)

That is, until young Estel had found it.

They can hardly blame the little child. Idle hands and curious trinkets never mix well, after all, much less with that of a 6-year-old who’s come to learn his bright-eyes and daisy-face lent him the ability to get away with almost anything.

“Look, Atya!” He’s skipped his way up to one of the open galleries of Imladris, hefting the coveted conch over his head as he peers at the night sky. “I can see the Evening Star through this hole!”

The Elves pale. They wait for the tongue-lashing, but the storm never comes.

“Not like that, Estel,” corrects Elrond patiently, bending to lower the child’s arms. “Put it to your ear, and close your eyes. Yes, now tell me, what do you hear?”

“…The sea!” he exclaims, after a focused minute. Then Estel lights up, and so Elrond lights up, and suddenly there’s a laughter in the air akin to a musical ring of bells, so high and sunny it dispels the witnessing Elves’ tension from the air.

“But how? We’re too far from the shores, and I can’t hear as well as you. Do you hear it too? Listen, Atya, listen!”

“Yes, yes,” Elrond laughs, and holds his hand over his son’s to bring the shell to his ears. And yes, indeed, if he closes his eyes, he could almost see it: The great rushing shores of Sirion, the pitter patter of Elros’ feet splashing at the rolling tides, the salt-winds carrying Maglor’s distant singing and Maedhros’ disgruntlement over grains of sand in his hair.

Elros had had a Conch of his own. His was bright and ivory-coloured, long since laid to rest alongside him in Númenor. When they were younger, they used to believe they could communicate with each other through the shells no matter their space apart— some imaginary fancy planted by Maedhros (“You two are twins. That’s a magic no force nor distance in the world can unmake.”) which was inevitably nurtured by their child-like wonder.

Years after Númenor had sunken, Celebrían caught Elrond once or twice, speaking to the old conch, and bringing it up to his ear in hopes of a reply.

“What do you hear, Atya?”

“My brother,” he says. “Amidst the heart of the sea.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hello miss Raven! This is just a "for fun" question. We've all seen the idol outfits for the 5th anni, yea? Imagine if they were actually idols in their own groups and everything! What would you call each group?

*SLAMS HANDS ON DESK*

I’m so glad you asked so I have an excuse to sprinkle in details from my idol AU—

HEART5

The /s/ in HEART5 is replaced by the number 5 to represent the 5 members. The HEART can be interpreted as coming from Heartslabyul, or it can be read as the 5 united hearts of Riddle, Trey, Cater, Ace, and Deuce.

They can form card suits with their hands as part of their collective branding, haha. Or maybe they all have different ways of forming hearts with their hands? Fans can mimic the hand signals of whoever they stan.

Riddle’s probably very strict with his members and inspects their outfits + fixes them before they march onto the stage. (Trumpet accompaniment!!) In my idol AU, I like to think that he, Trey, and Chenya had their own little indie group (WoИd3rs) before Mrs. Rosehearts found out and made them disband 😭 (because she wants her son taking a more traditional route in the idol industry, ie signing with a major label). Everyone else followed to support him.

K\\\ngdom

K\\\ngdom is a play on the word "kingdom" because... well, assuming YOU-KNOW-WHO is the leader, he wants to assert that he's the one in charge. The three slashes in place of the /i/ are meant to resemble the claw marks typically associated with Savanaclaw. (Diasomnia’s group uses the slash mark too, which Leona is bitter about.)

bcjswbjwnzlss Just imagine them at a concert… “We are K\\\ngdom, hear us ROAR!!!” Rebellious vibe, drums to emulate stomping or a stampede? Maybe they even call their fans herbivores (even though that’s more of a Leona thing than a Ruggie and Jack thing), lmao 😂 Ruggie might call’m kittens? Jack thinks it’s embarrassing… Not Leona entering the entertainment industry to give the royal family the finger though/j 💀 Ruggie’s shameless; anything for the money.

I see Cheka being super excited to hear that ojitan is an idol. He bothers Kifaji to take him to concerts and then sneaks off backstage to surprise his uncle. Poor Kifaji has a heart attack seeing his second prince with his chest out all the time. (Leona casually tells him he’s just “making use” of his best assets + “this is how the industry works”.)

s!ren*z

s!ren*z is a fanciful version of "sirens", as in, the mythological figures (sometimes depicted as bird people, but in this case, it refers to the fish people variant) who sing to lure and drown sailors. The ! is supposed to look like a pen and nib, and the *z is meant to look like the flourish at the end of a signature.

I like to imagine that the twins used to be a jazzy duo (2weels) and Azul was their manager. They eventually bullied him so much that Azul joined as their third member to show how “easily” he can outdo them! Jade and Floyd thought this was really funny, so they formally rebranded and have been s!ren*z ever since.

dbjsvskskw. THEY CAN CALL FANS ANEMONES (lol reference to book 3)!! Azul likes to keep track of their stats and merch sales after every major event, I think he gets an adrenaline high from seeing those big numbers. His ego swells significantly from all the attention and approval he gets from the public. Unfortunately, Azul and Jade constantly have to cover for Floyd going off-script mid-show.

OASI2

OASI2 has its roots in the word "oasis"; Kalim wanted the group name to sound refreshing and fun, like hitting a source of water in the middle of the desert! It's also a callback to his UM. The 2 refers to the number of members. When paired with the /s/, it kind of forms a heart (though Jamil insists the /s/ is meant to be a snake, not the other half of a heart). The /s/ being the snake in the center is also symbolic of how it's really Jamil keeping the performances together.

I picture Kalim’s entire family coming out with light sticks to support him. Najma is more tsundere with her support. She’ll wrinkle her nose and insist it’s weird to hear people thirsting for her brother (but secretly she’s happy for his success).

I think they’d have very extravagant performances www Smoke, fireworks, bombastic music, fancy dancing, even the magic carpet can cameo. Kalim can toss gold and jewels into the crowd! Jamil struggles to keep him from going overboard. Both of them are great at dancing; Jamil’s the rapper.

{fair}est

The {} on either side of the word "fair" is meant to resemble the intricate frame of a mirror; "fair" within that frame is a reference to how the Beautiful Queen asked her mirror who was fairest of them all. The -est outside of the {} mirror is symbolic of their drive to be the best. The entire group name being in lowercase is deceptive; they may seem demure, but don't underestimate the power of their beauty!

A group with very strong visuals. It helps that they have THE Vil Schoenheit as its leader and center. Does modeling work on the side. Their collective sura is so strong, they sometimes seem untouchable. In strong rivalry with Neige and the Seven Dwarves’ group, EtSno yes, I stole his in-universe fan club’s name and just smushed it together/j, whose tagline is “Someday, my princess will come.”

It would be neat if they incorporated other languages into their songs, since Rook has his French and Epel has his hometown’s dialect. They could truly go global!

Ch∀r0N

Ch∀r0N is a reference to Charon, the figure in Greek mythology that ferries the souls of the dead to the Underworld, Hades' domain. The inverted A is an emoticon's mouth, which the /o/ is a 0 (zero) and N is ironic. Together, 0N looks like "on", but in binary, 0 means "off" or "false". Incorporates tech and coding into the name, basically!

Very unique-sounding. They can incorporate electronic bleeps and boops + synthesized voices. Their shows are amazing displays of light and sound, carefully manipulated by tech. Jcvsjwjowwk Idia being too socially anxious to actually show up in-person to perform 💀 so he just projects a 3D model of himself up there with Ortho…

Parents are their biggest fans. Mrs. Shroud shows up and screeches “OR-KUN!! IDY-KUN!!! IT’S MAMA!!”

D + KN/GHTS

The D in D + KN/GHTS stands for Draconia, so the name is the one dragon plus his three knights. (Ironically, this works on a meta level because Malleus is often a "standout" or lone figure.) The slash in KN/GHTS is to invoke the image of a sword cutting down those who threaten their leader and liege. Their fans can probably be called Draconians, the same as what the hardcore Malleus fans in canon are called.

In an idol AU… Malleus definitely has to rank #1. (Leona is always hounding him and trying to knock him down from that spot 💦) People are just drawn to his mysterious aura, but he’s always surrounded and guarded by his group members. Perhaps Malleus went into music because that’s how his mother showed his love to him—through her lullaby. He wants to share the magic of music with the world. So haunting and somber, he captivates with his voice alone.

Sebek is still Malleus’s biggest fan. Buys all the merch. Hypes his liege up by encouraging their crowd to scream as loud as they can. If Silver falls asleep mid-performance, they still gotta keep it going without him. Lilia puts the boys through hellish practice routines.

[zivazivc]

Not exactly a character sheet but something akin to it... an all around sound reveal/analysis for my punk funk guy

yapping on top of yapping under the cut:

Les's musical style is a wide range that typically leans heavily into funk metal or punk rock, or both!, although he is quick to get inspired by other genres too. In general he likes music that sounds at least a little droll and unexpected. I hope the selection of albums I compiled can paint you a good idea of it (because I sure as hell don't know what I'm doing!).

He is, first and foremost, a bass player and he's very good at it. Heavy funky slapping and popping is prominent in his music as is usual in funk music in general. He's got an old (ugly) second-hand bass guitar, that he cherishes like it's his baby. He could probably save an get a cooler-looking one for the stage but that in itself is uncool in his book.

He's also not so bad with the trumpet too, doesn't own one though, so he only plays it when he gets a chance. He learned to play it from his uncle Adewale.

Singing on the other hand is not his forte; he doesn't have super impressive vocals plus he's holding himself back. His singing style sounds droll and kind of jaded (often even deadpan and monotone although thought out and not lazy in any way), and closer to speak-singing. Big reason for that is that genuine honest singing makes him feel vulnerable in an uncomfortable way he's not willing to face, and it hints at a possibility for emotional release he very much prefers to not see happen. Y'know, singing is therapeutic and he doesn't want the therapy. 🥲

He typically balances out his singing with sarcastic/dramatic lyrics or unusual storytelling that keep his true thoughts and feelings well encrypted under layers of metaphors and allegories (subconsciously or intentionally) — which funnily enough makes him a very clever lyricist. But he doesn't put any of it down and has no interest in joining Hed and Floyd with writing songs for the band.

His singing VA is John McCrea from Cake, and when I say this I mean from the sound of his singing voice, all the way down to how he delivers his lines and the lyrics themselves. ':) More examples: 1, 2, 3. (I put only two of their albums on the drawing but honestly Cake has so many good Les songs.)

NoMeansNo is a close second when it comes to lyrics, but they're more like vent songs for Les, when you catch him in a weird angry/depressed mood. I also really like that band's prominent use of the bass, it's not very funky but it scratches my Les itch very much.

Butthole Surfers' songs have good Les lyrics too, although those are more "him singing about weird hallucinations while high out of his mind" or when he wants to be shocking for the sake of being shocking. That band is just weird overall, I like the singers southern drawl though. I'm still on board the idea of Les and Hed having a bit of a southern US accent.

Incubus is an amazing band overall but their first two albums are such a good flavor of funk metal and early band experimentality. Their singer is really good in regards to the word intonation I imagine Les having, he's too skilled for Les to keep up with in some parts though. 😅

I think the perfect Les sound would be some kind of chimera of these four bands... or maybe not, maybe that would sound terrible. XD

But still, to get a feel for Les's sound overall you have to give all of the examples below a listen, or at least the ones I put in bold.

- The albums featured in the drawing ↴

Incubus - S.C.I.E.N.C.E.

NoMeansNo - 0 + 2 = 1

Cake - Comfort Eagle

Incubus - Fungus Amongus

Beck - Odelay

The Damage Manual - The Damage Manual

Primus - Sailing the Seas of Cheese

Cake - Motorcade of Generosity

Fungo Mungo - Humungous

NoMeansNo - Wrong

Butthole Surfers - Electriclarryland

L.A.P.D. - L.A.P.D.

Bonus "Lena" album:

13. Jack Off Jill - Clear Hearts Grey Flowers

[seungkw1]

better late than never — kmg

♡ pairing: kim mingyu x afab!reader ♡ theme: smut [18+ mdni], best friends to lovers, non-idol au ♡ wc: 2.7k ♡ warnings: size kink, oral (f. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), riding, unprotected piv sex (stay safe y’all), creampie, mingyu is a boob guy, praise kink if u squint ♡ a/n: written for my bestie <3 and posting just in time for his birthday - happy mingyu day!!

knock-knock-knock-knock

“come on! let me in!!” 

you approach your front door, but you don’t unlock it yet. 

“what happened to the copy of my key i gave you?” you inquire to the voice on the other side. 

“i forgot it!” 

you turn the deadbolt, opening the door to reveal the man standing outside - the look on his face is sheepish as he stands there, arms full of grocery bags. 

“kim mingyu i asked you to get me three things, not the entire store,” you say incredulously. 

“i saw your fridge the other day. you literally only had cheese, beer, and a jar of pickles in there,” he retorts, shooting you a judgemental look. 

“the three main food groups.”

mingyu rolls his eyes as he enters your apartment. “whatever, i'm cooking you dinner. a real dinner.”

“aye aye captain,” you say as you jokingly salute him. 

you met mingyu freshman year of college, when he burst through the door of your dorm room - thinking it was his own (he was on the wrong floor). his eyes turned wide as saucers as he realized his mistake. 

“SORRY,” he blurted out before fleeing out of the room. he was gone before you had even processed what happened. 

the next day he returned - this time knocking first. you opened the door to see the tall man, holding two packs of ramen. 

“sorry about yesterday,” he apologized, still a bit embarrassed. “i'm an idiot and thought i was on the sixth floor.”

“you're not an idiot, mistakes happen. it's okay,” you assured him amiably. 

“thanks, i’m glad you’re not mad at me or anything,” he replied with a smile. he extended the ramen to you. “it’s not much but i just… felt like i should bring a gift for some reason?” he told you, looking like he was second guessing himself as the words came out of his mouth. 

“ooo it’s the good kind too,” you replied eagerly as you took the ramen from him. “you wanna have one right now?”

he looked surprised, but delighted at your suggestion. 

“actually that would be awesome, those were my last two,” he admits with a laugh. you grin back at him. 

“well, come on in. again.”

–

and so mingyu inadvertently became your best friend. if not for the dorm incident, you probably never would have even crossed paths with him - he was your typical business bro, while you were majoring in psychology and literature. but, something just clicked between you two. 

a handful of years later now, he’s still your closest friend. and here he is, in your kitchen, grabbing the appropriate pots, pans, and utensils to get started on his spaghetti carbonara. as independent of a person as you are, you're not particularly the best chef - so you're grateful for his culinary expertise and willingness to make food for you. 

over dinner, mingyu is his usual chatty self. he tells you about his day, about how his neighbor has picked up the irritating hobby of learning to play the trumpet, about the dog he met yesterday while at the park, about his new coworker who seems to like him a little too much. 

“well, is she cute?” you ask nonchalantly, swirling the wine in your glass.  

“huh?” your question seems to catch him off guard. “i don't know. i mean, i've never thought about it.”

“bullshit,” you tell him, taking a big sip. 

“it's true!”

“right. well think about it, is she?”

“she's conventionally attractive i guess. i don't know why it matters though,” he says sincerely. 

“well if she likes you and she’s cute, you should ask her out.”

“that would be extremely unprofessional,” he scoffs, appalled at your suggestion. “besides, she's not my type.”

“what, is she weird or something?”

“no. and besides, i like weird. but i definitely don't see her like that.”

“what do you mean, you like weird?” you ask, raising your eyebrow. 

“i mean, you’re weird. and i like you.” he says it matter-of-factly, as if he was telling you the grass is green. 

“okay well obviously you don't want to date me,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “but come on, you haven't dated anyone in years. i'm trying to help to you here.”

the expression on his face changes, but you can't quite decipher what he’s thinking. 

“i don't need help.”

you give him a weird look. 

“not like that!” he quickly insists. “i just mean, don't worry about me, i’m fine.”

“ooookay, whatever you say gyu.”

his face remains calm, but you notice the corners of his mouth twitch upward slightly. normally, he’s not a fan of the nickname, but you know you're the only one who's allowed to call him that. he’s told you before. 

“well, what about you?” he asks suddenly. 

you look at him while chewing a big bite of pasta, confused. “what about me what?”

“are you, like… seeing anybody these days?” 

he speaks timidly, as if treading on eggshells. 

“why? are you asking me out?”

“ha ha, very funny,” he says sarcastically. he then shrugs. “i was just curious.”

“i actually did go on a date last week,” you admit. he looks up, surprised. 

“really? how'd it go?”

“surprisingly, really good,” you tell him.

“that's good. you have a long history of terrible first dates.”

“it was a second date, actually.”

mingyu pauses. “and you didn't tell me about the first one? fake as hell.”

“oh shut the fuck up,” you tease back, grinning at him. 

he picks up the bottle of wine sitting on the table. “should we finish this?” he asks. 

“duh.”

he removes the cork, pouring you another glass before refilling his own. 

after the delicious meal, you begin to clean up the kitchen, but mingyu quickly gets up and takes the dishes from your hands. 

“i got it.”

“you did all the cooking, let me do it,” you tell him. 

“nope,” he insists, already scrubbing plates. 

you help anyway, but mingyu is fast. the kitchen is sparkling within ten minutes. 

“damn, this looks better that it did before you got here,” you remark as you start the dishwasher. 

“don't go on a third date.”

you freeze. you look back at mingyu - he's reclining against the kitchen counter. his face, sincere. 

“what?” you ask hesitantly. 

“i said, don't go on a third date.”

he rises, walking toward you. he stops inches away from you, extending his arms, leaning his palms on the counter on either side of you. his face hovers above yours, his warm eyes locked onto yours. 

“gyu, are you drunk?” you ask, knowing full well he's not. your heart is suddenly pounding. 

“i'm not.” he brings his hand up to your chin, tilting your face upwards. “can i kiss you?”

you’re stunned, standing motionless, breathing deeply as he strokes your jawline softly with his thumb. sure, you’d thought about the possibility of dating mingyu before. more than once, even. and you figured he’d probably thought about dating you before. but truly, you never thought he had serious feelings for you. 

but here you are, pinned against your kitchen counter by your best friend. your best friend, who happens to be incredibly attractive. and the way your heart is racing - you really do want to kiss him right now. 

you try to think logically, rationalizing whether this is a good decision, but the emotional part of your brain takes control. you kiss him. you kiss him - and he kisses you, and you stand there, in your best friend’s arms, kissing each other, as if you'd both been waiting for this moment for years. and deep down, you know you have been. 

mingyu grabs hold of you, pulling you up onto the counter. you wrap your arms around his waist, running your hands slowly up and down his torso, feeling his toned body through his soft shirt. he caresses you gently, kissing you still - you're suspended in time, just the two of you, bodies connected like never before. you suddenly cannot believe you've spent years with this man and never once made out with him - but better late than never. 

he softly brings his hands to your sides. your lips finally part - you instantly miss the sensation. he slides his hands under your shirt, pausing right before he reaches your breasts.  

“can i touch them?” he asks, his voice breathy. you nod fervously. he caresses your over your bra, kissing you again as he squeezes your tits in his large hands. you inadvertently let out a soft moan. mingyu grabs the hem of your shirt and pulls it off of you. he looks at you in awe. 

“you're so perfect.” 

he is utterly gushing and swooning over you right now. you feel your heart skip a beat. 

you slip your hands under his shirt, running your hands over his abs and chest. he pulls his shirt off too, standing there before you. you've seen mingyu shirtless before, but not like this. his muscles are striking, perfectly sculpted - his golden, sunkissed skin glows beautifully. you feel a sudden, strong carnal urge to lick him, kiss him, bite him all over. 

you look up at him - the look in his eyes reciprocating your desire. you hop off the counter, taking his hands in yours. you pull his arms, tugging him in the direction of your room. his cheeks turns flush as he realizes your intent - a roguish grin spreads across his face, revealing his pointy canines you’ve always loved.

mingyu wastes no time taking your pants off as you throw yourself onto the bed, reclining against the soft pillows. he gazes at you lustfully as you lay there in your lingerie, unzipping his pants and pulling them off as fast as humanly possible. you feel throbbing in your core at the sight of him standing there - his light gray underwear doing absolutely nothing to disguise the prominent erection underneath. 

he crawls into bed, his body hovering above yours. you wrap your arms around his broad torso, pulling his large frame into yours as you begin to move your hips, grinding against his cock - the wet spot on your panties grows as you rub your cunt against him. it was clear from the moment he took his pants off that he is big, but feeling its length, its thickness, against your clothed pussy is making you clench around nothing - making you wish you were clenching around him instead. 

mingyu gently grabs your arms, pinning them next to your head as he interlocks his fingers with yours. his lips lightly graze against yours. 

“are you sure you want to do this?” he asks softly. you nod immediately. 

“yeah.”

he buries his head into the crook of your neck, kissing you repeatedly. he gradually makes his way down your body, his hands moving to take your bra off, but he pauses.

“can i-”

“you can do whatever you want to me,” you interject.

you feel his cock twitch. “oh god, don't tell me that.”

he unclasps the hook, letting out a moan at the sight of your bare tits. immediately he takes your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened bud before taking it between his lips. he sucks on your tit like his life depends on it - his hand squeezing and pinching the other as his cock grinds against your core. you're gone already - a moaning mess, putty in his hands. he eventually switches sides, cool air hitting the wetness remaining on your nipple. you get the feeling mingyu could suck your tits forever. 

he eventually moves on, planting kisses down your stomach as he situates himself between your legs. he kisses your inner thighs - slowly approaching your core, but not touching you just yet. you whimper as he finally touches his lips to your clit over your thoroughly wet underwear. he licks you slowly, his tongue running over the thin fabric several times before he slips his finger underneath, pulling your underwear aside, exposing your soaked core. he groans at the sight of it. 

“fuck, just as pretty as i imagined.”

you part your lips to say something, but your words become lost - instantly replaced with cries of pleasure as he begins eating you out. you run your fingers through his hair, grasping onto it as he sucks repeatedly on your clit. he places a large hand on your belly, applying pressure, as he takes two fingers to your pussy, slipping them in with ease. you moan as he begins to fuck you, your hips beginning to buck. 

“more,” you beg. 

you cry out as he adds a third finger - your cunt has never felt so full, but you know this is nothing compared to how his cock would feel in you. he continues sucking your clit, heat rising in your lower stomach as you feel yourself nearing orgasm. you writhe in pleasure, screaming mingyu’s name as he makes you cum - and he makes you cum hard. 

your head spins as you come down from your powerful high. as you catch your breath mingyu crawls back up, laying against you, his radiant body heat making your skin turn hot. he strokes your cheek, pressing his lips hungrily against yours once more. 

“can you… will you ride me?”

your pussy throbs at the mere thought. wordlessly you nod. mingyu reaches down, sliding your panties off before discarding his own underwear. you gasp softly as his cock springs free. you reach down, taking hold of it - its size making your hand appear tiny in comparison. he leans his head back, sighing as you stroke his length, your palm becoming wet with his precum.

you give him a push, rolling over on top of him. his tip grazes your wet cunt as you straddle him, his eyes locked onto yours intensely. you sit up, taking his cock in your hand, rubbing it against your folds a few times, before finally slipping it inside. you slowly lower yourself onto it, whining softly as its thickness stretches you. mingyu groans as you bottom out, sitting entirely on his cock. you haven’t even moved yet, but his breathing is heavy, inhaling deeply as he reaches up to grab onto your breasts. you begin to ride him, slowly moving your hips up and down, his cock filling you up beyond anything you could’ve imagined. you gradually increase your pace, both of you moaning at the overwhelming sensation, until you are fully bouncing on his cock, your palms resting against his muscular chest to steady yourself as you unravel over him. 

mingyu begins to whimper. “you’re so fucking hot,” he utters between heavy breaths. “you’re gonna make me cum.” 

you ride him relentlessly, crying out at how good he feels inside you. his eyes close as he releases, thrusting his hips powerfully as he cums in your pussy - the warmth of his cum filling you up. your pace slows, riding him gently as he finishes, his moans tapering off as he begins to come down. you settle onto his cock, laying on him as you kiss him. he kisses you back lovingly, one hand running through your hair, the other caressing the small of your back. you lay there for a while, his chest rising up and down as he breathes deeply. your heartbeat slows, pounding heavily in your chest as you recover.

slowly, he finally pulls out. you roll to his side, wrapping your arms around him in a warm embrace, squeezing him with all your might. he giggles. 

“mingyu?” you ask softly after several moments of silence.

“hm?”

“you should’ve told me sooner.”

he sighs. “i wanted to - many times. but i didn’t want to risk our friendship. i didn’t think you felt the same way.”

“i think… i think i’ve always loved you. i just never realized it.”

mingyu smiles. he gives you a kiss on the forehead.

“so… what does this mean? for us,” he asks you.

you look up - his warm eyes are fixated on you, optimistic, awaiting your answer.

“well, i really don’t think anything is going to change.” a nervous look washes over his face - you quickly add, “except that we fuck now and also i want you to be my boyfriend.”

he closes his eyes, letting out a laugh. he pulls you closer into his embrace.

“i like the sound of that.”

–

[lynnuvo]

Puppy Love ( ૮ ˶ˆ ﻌ ˆ˶ ა )

Characters: Monoma Neito x Female (Y/N)

How you managed to grow attracted to the loud, arrogant mascot of Class 1B is a mystery to your peers. This is so to even yourself, though you chalked it up to a "curiosity killed the cat" scenario. Over the course of your first three weeks of being in UA’s Class 1B, you decided to be the annoying cat poking at his side. It was hard to not pay attention to him, so why not make it fun?

He was a bit irritated at first. You were pretty sure he had some underlying insecurity because every time you mentioned him being scared of being outshone by Class 1A, he'd get into a hissy fit. You stopped talking about this as much when Kendo Itsuka indirectly hinted it'd be best to, but that didn't stop your other antics. You'd leave sticky notes of hilarious drawings about him on his desk, in his backpack, and in his shoe locker. You'd follow him around like a lost puppy in the building--sometimes to the bathroom door on accident. You'd pester him with questions too. There's been several occasions you asked about his favorite snacks or other items and got just as much the opposite as possible.

A few classmates joked that you were bullying him, but it wouldn't really be bullying if Monoma Neito eventually learned to save a seat for you in the cafeteria or keep the gifts you gave him despite not liking them, right? Would he have hated you if he'd ask to walk you home back before the dorms were built, chiding that someone as weak as you needed someone as strong as him? Did he really want you to stop pestering him if he sought out for you in the girl's section of the dorm watching TV in the living room for two hours? It was unusual you weren’t already a trumpet in his ear by that time, after all.

"What are you doing here?" Tokage Setsuna questioned when she exited her room to see Monoma walking down the hall in her direction. "You know the boys' section is on the other side, right?"

Monoma startled but settled his composure quick. "Yes, I know. I'm just looking for something. I seem to have lost it."

"So you're looking for it here?"

"Well, I haven't found it anywhere else yet. Perhaps someone picked it up and dropped it."

"What are you looking for?"

"Uh—a decorated blue hair pin. It's small but fits well with one of my polos."

"You wear hair pins?"

He scoffed. "Hair pins are an accessory not just for girls. It could be that someone on this side picked it up, thought it was cute, and kept it."

"Sure...." Tokage leaned her back against her door and crossed her arms. A smirk crept onto her face. "You sure you didn't lose anything else? Maybe someone with (your hair color) hair?"

"I'm sure."

"Well then, I'll help you look for this pin."

"Oh! No need!" Monoma replied, waving his hands in front of his chest. "I think I can find it on my own. Even if I don't find it, I can easily buy another one later."

Tokage's smirk grew into a wide grin. "Come on, it's better to search with two pairs of eyes instead of one!"

"Really, thank you, but—!”

"Monoma-kun?"

The two turned to a door further down the hall that just opened. Out came you in your pajamas, hair a bit of an entangled mess. A yawn escaped your lips. "Do we have class today?"

"No, we don't. And what are you doing just now getting out of bed?!" He hurried over to you and brushed some hairs from your face. "It's 3 in the afternoon, for goodness' sake!"

You furrowed your brows. "'m sorry. I slept in."

Tokage watched him chide you for wasting the morning away. It was comical how both of you denied romantic feelings for each other, and yet here you two were acting like a relationship was in progress. Her stomach suddenly growled. She pushed herself off her door. "I'm gonna get some lunch. Good luck. (Y/N)-chan, Monoma said he lost a blue hairpin. Why don't you help him find it? See you guys!"

After bidding Tokage goodbye, you looked up at the blond boy. "You wear hair pins?"

"Well—sometimes! Not recently, just—uh—on occasion. But no matter! I can buy another one some other time!" Monoma bumped your shoulder, urging you forward. "Hurry and get ready for the day. I'm so awfully bored."

You chuckled. "Aww, you missed me?"

"As if!"

You and Monoma's dynamic was fun and rather straightforward at first—an enemies to friends type of dynamic. Most of the class could see through the teasing that you two cared about each other and enjoyed each other's company. Overtime, however, you found yourself growing frustrated with the boy. Weeks of being by his side made your heart grow fond of him, but he didn't state anything of the same effect your companionship had on him. When you teased that he loved you or missed you, he shut it down fast. Although not out of character, it began to hurt you.

After an in-depth confession to Kendo in her room (and a small moment of you crying on her shoulder), she messaged you the next day to go on hangouts with her after school every other day with Hiryu Rin. She mentioned in the text conversation that she believes some time away from Monoma might help. You agreed.

You and Rin were good friends, but you two never hung out or talked outside of classes and when you both happened to be in the same vicinity. The first day all three of you hung out started a little awkward, but it became an entertaining pasttime quick. You three hung out at an arcade, at coffee shops, in the gym training, and even on runs to the grocery store. When you three didn't feel like going outside, you guys would sit on the floor in front of the TV and parallel play.

When the dorms were established, Monoma walked by your side with the rest of class to the dorms. With you on hangouts immediately after school now, he bid you, Kendo, and Rin a simple farewell and continued chatting with the rest of your classmates. A pang hit your heart upon his nonchalant goodbye, but you shoved it down. Once the three of you returned, you'd hangout with him and a few others in the dorm after settling down.

So imagine your surprise when a knock sounded on your door two hours after you returned from another fun hangout with Kendo and Rin. You hadn't been expecting anyone since you planned on resting in that day, so you were especially not expecting Monoma to be standing there when you popped the door open a tad.

He looked at you sternly. "Can we talk?"

"Oh—uh—sure," you replied, caught off guard by his unusual facial expression. You welcomed him inside and gestured for him to sit on your desk's chair, which he did so as you shut the door and sat on your bed. Your fingers fiddled with the blanket beneath you. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Do you like Rin?"

Your shrimp posture was no longer as you shot up. "What?! No! I mean, he's a great friend, but I haven't thought about...like...dating him yet."

"Yet?"

"I mean it like I didn't consider it!"

He pulled out his phone, opened a text message thread, clicked on an image to expand it, and showed it to you. "What's this?"

It was a selfie Kendo took of you, Rin, and her on a grocery store run. The angle was pointed down at the group, with only Kendo's eyes coming into frame while she held the phone up. Not realizing she was taking a selfie until the picture was taken, you and Rin stood side by side picking avocados. You had to admit the side profile of you and Rin's laugh was kind of adorable, but you were pulled from reminiscing that day by Monoma clearing his throat.

You backed away from the phone. "This happened last week. Why are you bringing it up?"

"You and Rin look awfully close." He put his phone away and crossed his arms. Contrary to the indication of his body language, his face softened as well as his tone. "You know, if you like Rin, you can tell me. I just want to know."

"Why?"

"Well, since we both hangout a lot, I wouldn't want to interfere with your time with him. Maybe you two could—I don't know—I could offer him my seat in class from now on so you two can get to talk more."

You shook your head. "It's fine, really! Me and Rin can talk after class."

He got up from your chair and laughed, rolling his eyes. "Then you two can talk during class as well. A desk is just a desk, after all. I'll tell him to switch seats with me after dinner."

Once he started heading for the door, you jumped from your bed and snatched his wrist, trying to pull him back. "Monoma, stop! It's okay, really! I don't mind!"

He wretched his wrist free only for you to grab it again. "And I don't mind playing matchmaker for my dear friends, believe me."

"Stop! Please don't!"

"I like sitting with you! Trust me, it's okay!"

"Yes, but it'd be a good idea to help you with your love ordeal."

Escaping your grasp once more, his hand fell on the door handle and his shoulder touched the door. In a last ditch effort, you threw your arms around his shoulders and pulled him back in. "I LIKE YOU! STOP!"

And that he did.

Time skipped a beat before he backed away from the door, turning wide-eyed to look at you. Tears rested on your waterline. After darting his eyes around the room, Monoma hurriedly guided you to your bed again. "I'm so sorry, please don't cry."

"I like you! I've been liking you!" you whined as you clung onto Monoma's shirt despite him trying to lay you down. He gave up and embraced your body in one hand while patting your back with the other. You buried your face in his neck. "I told you I like you!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you liked me so much." He shushed you for a while before adding, "I shouldn't have questioned you this way. I'm so sorry. Please don't cry, (Y/N)-chan."

"I already am..."

"Oh. Right."

Needless to say, Monoma was not the best source of comfort. But he did his best. Once your breathing calmed down, he sat behind you and rested you against his body. You couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing you cry, so you were grateful when he passed you a tissue. After wiping your face and tossing the tissue in the trash can, you leaned your head against his chest. His heart raced; you could feel it.

Monoma’s hands wrapped around both of yours. “I’m so sorry.”

Heat rushed to your face at the sight of your hands. A headache began to form in the back of your head. “It’s okay. I know you want to help me, but I really do like you. I have for a while.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you didn’t look like you liked me back.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Um. You don’t really do anything romantic. Sure, we hang out a lot, but it just feels like hangouts as friends. Well, it did to me until I caught feelings, but you know what I mean. I just—I didn’t know what to do about these feelings.”

You raised your head and finally looked at guilty expression on his face. The question of whether he liked you back caught in your throat, but the twitches in his lips as he struggled to find the words to speak left a sinking feeling in your gut.

At last, he let out a sigh and squeezed you in an embrace. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. Thank you for—uh—for thinking of me so, but I need to figure out how to go about this. Can you give me some time to respond properly?”

You squeezed him back. “Yes, of course.”

After sitting in your room for a good five minutes doing nothing but holding each other, Monoma exclaimed he needed to help prepare dinner downstairs and excused himself. You cursed yourself in your head for confessing in such a way. But there was no turning back now.

At dinner, you both sat next to each other as normal, but conversation was awkward, to say the least. Neither of you could properly look the other in the eye despite briefly talking about subjects unrelated to the incident. For most of the meal, you both opted to talk to other peers. Things were not so different in class. Despite sitting beside each other, you two spoke little. You couldn’t bring yourself to tease him after the fool you made of yourself, and it felt like Monoma was distancing himself despite the fact that he still sat next to you at lunch and walked beside you on the way to the dorms.

Kendo Itsuka messaged you only three days later, questioning what on earth happened. You told her about the incident, and the next thing you knew, Kendo barged into your room professing apology after apology. She explained that although she did want to give you space from Monoma, another purpose of the hangouts with her, you, and Rin was to make Monoma jealous. She’d gotten the idea from movies but hadn't expected this outcome. You forgave her and thanked her for her efforts. After all, you could see the potential. It was unfortunate Monoma was not like the guys in her movies.

A week passed. The awkward silence was getting unbearable. You really wished you’d demanded a deadline for his consideration.

For once, your bedroom felt suffocating, so while other students opted for the privacy of their rooms, you sat on the couch watching a drama on a very casual day. You were pretty bored until footsteps sounded behind you. You turned your head to see Monoma. You moved your legs off the couch and watched as he sat beside you.

He nodded. “Hey.”

“Uh—hi.”

You both faced the TV. After a week of this, all you two could muster was a simple greeting? You internally cringed. It was enough to suffer through silence with others around. Why would he come down just for this?

You soon found out why as you felt something on your hand—that something turning out to be Monoma’s hand. Your heart pounded faster. “What are you doing?”

He turned to you and sputtered, “I—um—nothing.”

Before he could remove his hand, you snatched it and held it firmly. His admittedly cute, nervous face fueled your nearly dead desire to tease him. “Monoma-kun, there’s no way you could have accidentally done that.”

“Well—I—!” He pursed his lips then shook his head. “I’m not used to this.”

“We’ve never held hands before.”

“I mean romance, stupid!” He scowled, lifting your conjoined hands and shaking it as if it was an obvious clue in a murder mystery. “I tell you I need to think it over. Then, I am holding your hand! What do you think that means?!”

Your eyes widened. “You…like me?”

“Come on! I’m leaving.”

Before he could get up, you lurched forward and took a hold of his arm. “Monoma-kun, no! You have to say it! Tell me if it’s a yes or no. Please?”

After a moment of continuing to look away, he finally turned to face you again with furrowed brows. “I like you. I have also been for a while now.”

“AWW, YOU LOVEEE ME?”

“I’M LEAVING!”

“NO! I’M JUST KIDDING!”

Joy couldn’t even begin to describe how you felt. Apparently so didn’t it describe Monoma’s feelings because despite numerous statements of saying he’d leave, he buried himself further into your company until he ended up lying with his head in your lap, still holding your hand.

You still needed to figure out whether you two were going to officially date right after this, but that can wait. Only this time, you were going to make sure he compensated for the overthinking your situation has caused.

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

⋆ ˚ 🦋 ｡ ICHOR ────── Yandere! Prince ⋆˚

⊹ ٬  Headcanon. Yandere! Prince x Knight! Fem! Reader

In a world marked by betrayal and the struggle for power, two souls find themselves caught between loyalty and desire. As the shadows of tragedy loom, a shared destiny binds them, though the cost of that love may be higher than either is willing to pay.

⊹ ٬  Word Count. 6.5k

⊹ ٬  Content. MDNI. Dark themes, violence/death, age gap, blood, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping, Angst, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, emotional manipulation, stalking, cultural exchange, war, dehumanization, loss of loved ones, family conflict, moral dilemmas, betrayal, race conflicts, colonialism.

「 the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods 」

You must be a lady.

That’s what your mother told you when, panting and with dusty knees, she found you wielding a wooden sword alongside your older brother. Her lips would tighten into a thin line, the same one she traced with the needle while embroidering war banners for men who would never return home.

Ladies don’t wear pants.

Your dress had to be long, puffy, of a red so deep it matched the blood that cemented the glory of Vexoria. It didn’t matter that the annals of the continent recorded the name of your nation with equal respect and fear, nor that its military exploits were narrated in the voice of victory and the echo of silenced laments. Women were not warriors but banners waving over the battlefields, prizes for those strong enough to claim them.

Having a daughter was securing alliances, perpetuating dynasties of tough men and well-tempered steel. Having a son was birthing war flesh, blood spilled too soon over distant lands.

Never fight.

Women do not throw the first punch, but they are the ones who end wars. A scratch on a man’s skin was a battle wound; on a woman’s body, it was a portent that war had found its way home.

If they tell you to kneel, you obey and remain silent.

That’s what they taught you from the cradle, whispered among the cold walls of the fortress and repeated by the wet nurses as they wove tales of submissive queens and devoted wives. But that morning, when your father found you among the sons of lords, your feet planted firmly in the training ground sand, you did not obey. You did not remain silent.

You screamed like the bronze of a trumpet in the cornucopia, your voice tearing through the heavy morning air.

—I want to be a knight!

Your trembling fingers gripped the fabric of your dress and tore it in one pull, shedding the cage they had sewn for you. Your father turned red, anger surging like a torrent up his neck. It was the color of shame, of humiliation, of the certainty that his daughter had been born with the tongue of a warrior and not with the smile of a wife.

It was not him who struck you. It was your mother.

Her delicate, cared-for hand cut through the air before crashing against your cheek. There was no fury in her eyes, but something worse: a resigned sadness, a frustration contained in years of drowned dreams. Her face, once smooth and hopeful, was now marked by the invisible scars of obedience.

—You will be a lady —she told you, her voice firm, though her tears betrayed her strength—. You will marry one of the sons of the great lords. You will have children. And that is final.

But you did not yield.

—I will follow my dreams —your voice replied, ignited with the conviction of an oath.

It was too much. Your father could not allow it. He could not bear the thought that his firstborn, his pride, had sown in you the seed of disobedience. So he sent your brother to war. Not because it was his duty, but because he could not conceive that his own son had contaminated his little daughter with ideas of freedom.

No one in Vexoria was free from their fate.

The word fate was spoken in whispers, like a distant echo resonating through the castle halls, but no one dared to defy it. It was not an ethereal concept but an unquestionable truth, an invisible rope binding each person to the role they were to play in the play that their nation was writing with fire and blood. You were eight springs old when the kingdom of Castamar, the ancestral enemy, revealed itself as a shadow that devoured the light.

That night, your skin still bore the softness of childhood, and your dreams were woven with the golden threads of a carefree world. You slept peacefully, under the silk and goose feather sheets that wrapped you in a false sense of security, when the sound of screams shattered the air, tearing it apart with an intensity so harrowing it seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth.

Fire consumed everything. Flames engulfed the city, wrapping buildings in a dance of destruction that lit the sky like a hellish signal. Blood flowed in torrents, red and hot, watering the streets that had once been the pride of your family, of your nation. Vexoria, the unstoppable, the invincible, had finally succumbed. For the first time, the kingdom that had always dictated war, that instilled fear and glory, was the one losing.

You were the daughter of a great lord, a noble born under the seal of strength and supremacy of your lineage. Your family had been named for the Golden Bull, that macabre prize awarded to those whose lineage was so prestigious that their fall would serve as a warning to others. It was the most feared death penalty in all of Vexoria, a brutal fate in which the nominees were placed in the golden belly of an iron bull, a searing cauldron, and roasted alive as sacrifices to an ancient power.

You knew what it meant to be part of that list. You knew that, sooner or later, the blade of the scythe would fall upon you, but at that moment, your entire being crumbled before the certainty of condemnation. You were going to die. And there was nothing you could do. It didn’t matter that your mother, with her trembling hands and face marked by years of dutiful submission, embraced you desperately, crying inconsolably as she prayed to your gods. There was no prayer that could save you from that fate.

But something changed in that moment. Something that, though fleeting, altered the course of your existence forever.

He appeared, a man in worn armor and a face aged by the years, but still with the steely gaze of those who have lived to witness death, like a shadow slipping through the flames. Sir Orion Casterly, an elderly knight from the enemy kingdom of Castamar, took pity on you. He did not think, he did not hesitate. He took you from your mother’s arms, who was already undone by helplessness, and pulled you away from her embrace, as if he knew there was no time for tears or empty promises.

She looked at you with the anguish of one who knows she is delivering you to hell. With eyes filled with despair, she told you not to part from him, that this man, this knight, would be your protector, the last vestige of hope in a crumbling world. The uncertainty of that farewell, the coldness of death lurking in every corner, made you feel as if everything you knew was fading into darkness. The weight of your mother’s sacrifice settled in your heart, a weight you would carry for the rest of your days.

You left with him, unable to understand the magnitude of what had just occurred, not realizing that the decision your mother was making would perhaps be the last thing she would give you in her life.

────── 🦋 ──────

Your face was that of millions of battles won, but none satisfying. A face forged in the iron of war, bearing the marks of victories that never filled the void within you. It wasn't trophies or crowns you sought; wars, in all their forms, were merely an endless succession of losses, even if hymns were sung in your honor. You left your horse in the stable, and as you stripped off the reins, a long, heavy sigh escaped your lips, as if it were the last vestige of the fatigue accumulated during the long journey.

It had been two months, two endless months of riding without rest, escorting the king to the kingdom of Valdracia, to negotiate a marriage alliance. You didn’t know if it would be the elder prince, the one with the cold gaze, or the second, whose warm smile did not hide the dark intentions visible in his eyes. Perhaps it was the third, the youngest and least experienced, still carrying his untainted hopes. Which of the three? You didn’t know, and you cared even less. At that moment, the political intrigues, the marriages, and the pacts between kingdoms were just distant echoes that failed to penetrate the wall of exhaustion that enveloped you.

All you desired, all your soul needed, was stillness, rest, even if only for a few minutes. A place where the noise of war, the demands of the kingdom, and despair could finally be silenced. You walked to the palace garden, where the fountain of the seven awaited. The water fell in a hypnotic dance, striking the stones and trickling between them with the serenity of something that needed nothing more than to exist. You sat on a marble bench, allowing the sound of the water to drown out the voices still resonating in your head. It allowed you the luxury of not thinking of anything, for once.

You looked at Vixen, grazing in the nearby grass. The horse had been your only faithful companion for so many years. It was a gift from your father on your ninth spring, twenty winters ago. Back then, Vixen was just an inexperienced colt, with spindly legs and tangled manes, but you loved him with the intensity of a young heart, eager to seal a pact that would never be broken. Now, Vixen was strong and old, with fur hardened by years of battles, yet he remained your refuge. As you stroked his mane, you remembered those moments of youth when the world seemed simpler, when your dreams were not stained by the sweat of war or the thirst for power.

You and that horse had lived through it all: the relentless cold of winters, the scorching sun of summers, the ground soaked with blood and sweat, and the contained rage of a life that, though lived in the shadows of war, never ceased to burn. Stroking his mane was like returning to a time when the purity of loyalty and friendship was not corrupted by politics or duty. The memories you shared with Vixen were, in their simplicity, the only truth that remained. The water continued to fall gently from the fountain, and for a moment, you forgot everything else.

It was just you, the horse, and the stillness of the world.

And then that disgusting laugh of the charming prince echoed like an unpleasant reminder in your eardrum, bouncing in every corner of your mind with the persistence of a plague.

—Lady Casterly! What a pleasant surprise to see you here. I was so worried when I saw you step away from the group as soon as the king arrived in Valdracia.

George of Castamar's voice was like a deafening whisper, smooth and exasperating, the kind of voice that seemed designed to enchant any foolish lady crossing his path, yet for you, it was a constant hammering. It was one of those voices that crawled on your skin, one that seemed to envelop everything, even though there was nothing in him that warranted such attention.

George, bearer of the unicorn shield, second in line to the throne of Castamar, with his prince charming attitude, as unreachable as the reflection of a vain dream, represented everything you disliked about the nobility. He was the headache that never went away, the fly buzzing around your face just when you thought you might finally find some peace. He, with his well-fed boyish face and eyes shining with such crude arrogance that left you speechless, seemed to not understand that not everyone fell at his charming façade.

You were twenty-one springs into the cavalry, but you had seen enough of that world not to be fooled by the facade of youth he so proudly displayed. You had served for years in the Royal Guard, fought and sweated under the blue insignia, in the trenches where loyalty was tested in blood and sweat, not in empty smiles. Yet this young man, who had barely seen twenty winters, followed you everywhere like an unruly dog, always surprised that a woman held a position of power, that a woman was the sub-captain of the blue division, the one tasked with protecting the king.

The same George who, despite having been in the royal cavalry for six months, barely knew how to wield a sword without someone having to put his hands on the hilt, the one who needed a squire to do what a true knight did by instinct. The irony of his existence bit you like a slow and constant poison. You didn’t know whether to be more exasperated by his lack of skill or his tireless insistence on proving to himself that nobility and lineage were all that mattered.

The sun reflected off his armor with the same brilliance as his ignorance, and there he was, in front of you, as if his title and position at court could erase his uselessness.

"Our captain, in his unusual gesture of generosity, granted me a few hours of solitary peace to compensate for the fatigue accumulated from my hard work protecting the king," you said firmly, not even looking at him, lost in the stillness of your own thoughts. Your cold hands, from the spring water, slowly dipped into the fountain, seeking a small comfort in its coolness. The sound of the water falling over the stones was a silent reminder of how fleeting tranquility is in this world that never ceases to revolve around war and politics.

The young man from Castamar approached, his presence as imposing as it was unnecessary. "Lady Casterly," he began with that tone you found so unbearable, filled with forced courtesy, "it is an honor for me to have the opportunity to speak with you at such solemn moments. Your devotion to the king is admirable, as always."

You sighed, looking up at the sky for a moment, seeking some peace in the vastness of blue. Then, without turning completely, you were direct in your response, your voice calm but laden with an authority that needed no backing from titles. "And as I have already mentioned before, young Castamar," you replied, your words sharp as a well-honed sword, "it is Sir Y/n Casterly for you. And if you must address me, I would appreciate it if you did so accordingly."

The young prince, seemingly taken aback by your frankness, hesitated for a moment. His eyes shone with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, as if he truly did not understand why someone of your standing would not be swept away by courtly conventions. "My apologies, Sir Casterly," he said finally, his tone lowering slightly, though still retaining the glow of his unmistakable arrogance. "It is not my intention to offend you."

"I know," you replied with a slight smile on your lips, though devoid of warmth. "It is not my intention to offend you either, but formality is reserved for those who truly deserve it, young Castamar. And at this moment, it seems there is no space for it between us."

A silent tension settled between the two of you. George of Castamar's eyes sparkled with the typical discomfort nobles felt when confronted with something they could not control. There was something in your demeanor he could not decipher, something that bewildered him, as if your position and rank did not hold the same importance as they did for others.

You focused again on the water, letting the gentle movements of the spring allow you a breath. You knew you would gain nothing by arguing with him, that his words would be empty, as they always were. The court's ego war, with its constant push and pull, was no longer something that interested you. Loyalty, true loyalty, did not come from titles or empty smiles; it came from sacrifice, from spilled blood, and from decisions made under the stars, not in palace halls.

Silence stretched between you, dense and palpable, as if words had gotten trapped in the air, fearful of being spoken. George's eyes watched you with that expression that, though masked in feigned curiosity, betrayed the palpable tension between you. He awaited a response, though he was merely a child playing at being an adult in a battlefield where he did not understand the rules.

"I heard about the altercation the king had when we passed through the kingdom of Eldorath," he said, finally breaking the silence, his voice somewhat lower, as if the weight of the question frightened him a bit. "Is it true what Sir Caspian said? That some assassins with a Valdraco accent tried to take the king's life?"

His words collided against your ears like a contained explosion, awakening dark and murky memories of that night, a night when danger lurked in the shadows of the Eldorian kingdom. You took a deep breath, letting the air fill your lungs, while your eyes fixed on the horizon, as if there you could find an answer you had yet to formulate.

You finally looked at him, and for an instant, your gazes met with the intensity of unspoken truth. This young prince, with his pristine face and arrogant smile, did not comprehend the magnitude of what had really happened. For him, it was merely court gossip, a story to tell at the next dinner. But you knew that the king's life had been in danger, and that danger did not retreat; it lurked, waiting for the curtain to fall.

"Yes..." you said, your voice calm, but with a coldness that cut like steel. "The king was very frightened throughout the night after that. His men were not enough to protect him at that moment, and despair was reflected on his face."

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, as if the mere act of recalling what had happened drained you of energy. That night, the king had been vulnerable, his body tired and frail, already too old to bear the blows of a fate that did not forgive the weak. You, however, stayed with him, while the other knights, including men like George, distanced themselves to seek solace in the brothels of Eldorath, forgetting their duty.

The contrast between duty and indulgence was more evident than ever. While they lost themselves in vice, you kept vigil over a man who could no longer hold himself up. But that was not a choice. Not when the king was under your protection, and even less when the echoes of betrayal whispered in every corner of the kingdom.

"But Queen Selenia..." you continued, your voice taking on a darker, more somber tone. "She explicitly asked me not to tell anyone else. To keep silent about what happened." A slight sigh escaped your lips, filled with resignation, as if the queen's decisions were just another burden on your shoulders. "Unfortunately for Queen Selenia, I only serve the king. My loyalty is not divided."

The young prince seemed momentarily disoriented, as if the words could not fit into his mind, but in the end, he nodded with a mix of discomfort and disdain. He knew that this was not a matter he could meddle in, but he also perceived the weight of the loyalty that bound you to the king, something he would never fully comprehend. Loyalty was not something that was negotiated, something that could be asked for in a whisper over cups of wine and empty laughter. Loyalty was proven, and you had proven more than enough during your years in service to the king.

"Really, the Valdracos disagree with my brother's betrothal to the princess, don’t they?" George's voice slid between the shadows of the hall, laden with a rather empty curiosity, as if the intrigues of the kingdom were just a pastime for him. His gaze fixed on you awaited a response, but you already knew he was not seeking understanding, but merely a small glimmer of confirmation for his own conjectures.

The question hung in the air for a moment as you carefully considered your words. "All the kingdoms and noble houses are opposed," you said with a tense calmness, your eyes reflecting a shadow of disdain. "After... the fall of Vexoria, no kingdom has felt comfortable with King Alistair's decisions. Distrust has sown deeply, and few dare to look forward without remembering what happened."

A slight sigh escaped your lips, as if the words themselves weighed down on you. The disaster of Vexoria had left scars, not just physical but deep in the souls of all who witnessed the fall of an empire that was once great. But the consequences of that fall did not limit themselves to a single kingdom. They had reached all, even Castamar, though many insisted on denying it.

George, however, seemed not to grasp the gravity of the matter. His arrogance still failed to see beyond the surface, as always. "That invasion was my grandfather's decision," he said with a shrug, as if the responsibility for what had happened held no more weight than a forgotten story. "I don’t understand why everything keeps coming back to this. What matters now is the future, right?"

"What does it matter what king it would have been?" you retorted, your voice lower, colder, but equally sharp. "Castamar will bear the cross on its back for its disloyalty to its family, for its betrayal of those who once trusted them." Your words cut through the air with the hardness of a well-honed sword, the truth striking with the force of a hammer on the anvil. "The weight of that betrayal cannot be erased with kind gestures or empty promises."

George fell silent, as if the weight of your words began to seep into his mind, if only a little. You knew comprehension would not come easily, not now, not ever. For him, the concept of loyalty was something that shifted with the wind, something that changed according to the convenience of his position. He did not understand the value of spilled blood nor the difficult decisions that marked the lives of those who truly served their kingdom.

"It’s easy to forget what is lost when everything surrounding you remains intact," you continued, looking to the horizon as if the future were there, waiting to be claimed. "But the damage is already done, and alliances, promises, are not easily forgotten."

The young prince, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what true loyalty entailed, remained silent. His face, still marked by youth and ignorance of political complexities, reflected the frustration of not finding the answers he sought. But you already knew there were no easy answers in this game. The fate of nations, the decisions of kings, the betrayals of houses, all that wove into a net so complex it was impossible to unravel with simple words.

You looked at Vixen for a few seconds, his dark coat and robust body, feeling how the stillness of the moment contrasted with the storm of thoughts crowding your mind. Then, your eyes returned to George, who seemed lost in his own thoughts, staring off into the distance without seeing anything in particular. You had no patience for his games, but he, it seemed, did not understand what it meant to be a knight in truth, what that life full of sacrifices represented. He did not understand that the price of loyalty was not always paid with pretty words, nor with comfortable alliances.

"Don’t you think about marrying, like your brother Rodrigo?" you asked, letting the question linger in the air, giving it an ironic and biting tone. "You know, to favor your shield, as many do to maintain power in the wrong hands."

George shook his head, as if the idea of marriage were an abomination in his eyes. "No, I swear loyalty to the royal guard," he said with a firmness that seemed no more than an attempt to evade what it truly meant to belong to that order.

"And what of it?" you replied without hesitation, your words falling like a dry blow. "Knight Banneret Orion Casterly is married to Lady Mikaela, and several knights have bastards out there. You wouldn’t be the first or the last knight in this world to fall in love and follow a path not filled solely with duty. Everyone, even those who swear devotion, have their lives, their desires... Why be different?"

The look George returned was one of discomfort, but the conversation was far from over. He seemed to think that with the simple oath of loyalty he had finished his responsibility, as if a mere vow could erase the desires and internal struggles that defined him as a man. But you knew better than that.

"And you, Sir Casterly, don’t you think about marrying?" he asked, attempting to steer the conversation toward your own commitment, or the lack thereof. His tone, a mix of curiosity and disdain, sent a pang of contempt through you. The young man did not know what it meant to be a true knight, what it meant to live a life of sacrifices. He did not understand that the price of loyalty was not always paid with pretty words, nor with comfortable alliances.

You looked at him with a hatred as cold as steel, a hatred that needed no words to express, but nonetheless, you decided to articulate it. "The only man I kneel to," you continued, letting your words land as a final blow, "is the king." The silence that followed your declaration was profound, like an abyss that separated you even further, though you needed nothing more than your own duty to feel complete in this world of false promises.

George smiled at that.

────── 🦋 ──────

"I swear by Cica and the king's hand that we did it behind the stable," shouted Sir Dorik, his voice resonating powerfully in the air. He slammed the table with such fury that the echo seemed to thrum against the walls, his frustration palpable. "She may be old, but by the gods, she has a technique that even the youngest courtesan cannot match. The damned woman knows what she's doing!"

The room fell silent for a moment before Sir Clemond, no stranger to fits of rage, let out a bitter laugh. "Don't lie, Doo! Queen Selenia is so arrogant and pretentious that she would never do something so... vulgar. Remember what that old witch told us all, huh? 'You are just worms looking for rain.' Well, if I'm a worm, she’s a cockroach, a damn cockroach who crawls to get what she wants."

Tension grew like a storm about to burst. Clemond, as impetuous as ever, threw his flowery beer to the ground with such anger that the liquid almost spilled across the table. The sound of shattering glass barely calmed the heat that erupted from his words. "How dare she treat us like this? I'm fed up with her poison!"

The annoyance was evident, but you remained seated, calm, your face impassive as you slowly drank from your own beer. Your gaze fixed on the foam in your cup, you took a moment before speaking. The resentment and fatigue of hearing the same old rant often reflected in your eyes, but the discipline and professionalism you had learned over the years kept you steady.

"Please," you finally said, your tone soft but laden with a latent tension. "Even if Sir Dorik speaks the truth, we cannot simply speak ill of Queen Selenia. It’s not our style, no matter how justified our anger may be." You set your cup on the table with a slow gesture, looking at the men present. "It’s not about what we believe or what that woman has done. Queen Selenia has her place, and although we all know what she thinks of us, we must maintain our composure. Loyalty to our king and the realm must be greater than our personal frustrations."

However, you couldn't help but let your words carry a slight bitterness. "And if we ever say what we really think, tremble, for the very Queen you despise is capable of swallowing whole those who dare to contradict her. Don’t forget what we are up against."

Sir Clemond, visibly irritated but still holding a hint of respect, clenched his teeth tightly, biting his lower lip as his eyes burned with contained anger. He knew you were right, though admitting it felt like swallowing ash. Castamar had never distinguished itself for its wisdom in dealing with its subjects, nor for its courtesy towards those who served it. No, the realm was ruled by the edge of swords and the weight of coins, and those who had neither were at the mercy of their lords' whims.

Around you, the tavern vibrated with coarse laughter and words slurred by wine. The knights of the Blue Division, battle-hardened yet fragile before the temptation of a well-served mug, drank with the carefree attitude of those who know war too well and understand that death can come at any corner. The sun had barely reached its zenith, and already the stench of liquor filled the air. They spoke unabashedly, ranting about the highborn nobility, the hypocrisy of great names, about Queen Selenia and her disdain for those who fought for the realm while she paraded in her silks and perfumes.

Such was your group. A handful of men with no loyalty but to their steel and to the king. Rugged men, loyal to each other, yet broken by the reality of serving a crown that rarely showed them gratitude.

It was then that George appeared.

You saw him enter with his carefree stride, that air of nobility contrasting with the roughness of the surroundings. It was not unusual for him to show up at knights' meetings, though he was never truly welcome. He invited himself, as if his lineage entitled him to share the table with soldiers who had spilled more blood than he would ever see. There was a brief silence upon noticing his presence, not of respect, but of resignation.

You, without averting your gaze from your cup, remembered the first time you met him. You recalled his impeccable manners, his easy smile, his exasperating naivety. And you remembered the words you told him then, with the edge of one who has no patience for princes playing soldier:

"This is no place for a prince."

George seemed unfazed by the hostility in the air. He walked between the tables with the same confidence with which a noble walks through his own hall, though everyone present knew this was not his territory. Here, in the dim light of a tavern filled with soldiers hardened by war, his lineage meant nothing. His name could not stop a thrust, nor did his royal blood grant him respect among men who had killed and bled for a king who barely spared them a glance.

And yet, he smiled.

"Sir Casterly," he greeted with that affected voice that so many ladies in Castamar found charming, but which only provoked annoyance in you. His tone, perfectly measured, his posture impeccable... As if he felt no tension in the air, as if he did not notice the wary glances fixed on his back.

"May I sit?"

You did not respond immediately. Instead, you took another sip of your beer, letting the silence weigh heavily. Sir Clemond snorted softly, and some of the knights exchanged mocking glances. They all knew George would stay regardless. He always did.

"Does it matter if I say no, Your Highness?" you finally replied, not bothering to conceal the fatigue in your tone.

George let out a brief laugh, as if he had expected exactly that response.

"It flatters me that you know me so well, Sir Casterly."

With an almost insulting nonchalance, he took a seat across from you, resting an elbow on the table as he scanned the room with his gaze. He examined the men around him, soldiers seasoned by a thousand battles, men who owed him neither loyalty nor sympathy. And yet, he looked at them with that arrogant curiosity that only someone like him could afford.

"Shouldn't you be training?" he asked with feigned innocence, his eyes dancing with barely contained mischief. "Don’t get me wrong, I know a good beer can warm the spirit, but I doubt it does the same for the sword."

Sir Dorik let out a hoarse laugh, slamming his mug against the table with a noise that made the furniture vibrate.

"Bah! We don’t need training to deal with brats like you, prince. Give us a sword and we’ll beat you blindfolded."

"I don’t doubt that," George admitted with an easy smile, as if the comment amused him rather than offended him. "But my duty is to learn from the best, right?"

The tavern erupted in rough laughter and sarcastic murmurs. Men who had known war since childhood mocked the idea that a spoiled prince could understand what duty truly meant.

You, however, did not laugh.

You looked at him intently, searching for the purpose behind his relaxed demeanor. George could be many things: a clumsy noble, an inexperienced soldier, a courtly brat. But he was not stupid. He knew perfectly well what he was doing by mingling with the guard, by sharing drinks with the men his own family considered expendable. He knew what his mere presence provoked, how his words ignited a fire that could be both entertainment and distraction.

"What do you want, George?" you asked, cutting into the conversation like a dagger to the neck.

The prince tilted his head slightly, his smile barely wavering.

"To converse," he replied at last, with a lightness that contrasted with the intensity of his gaze. "To enjoy good company. Yours, specifically."

You said nothing immediately. You let the weight of his words hang in the air, like the smoke from the candles around you. Because you knew, as well as he did, that George of Castamar never did anything without a motive.

The murmur of the tavern continued to resonate around you: the sound of mugs clinking, coarse laughter, and conversations peppered with curses. However, at the table where you sat, a bubble of barely concealed tension had formed.

George of Castamar tilted his head slightly, with that damned smile of his, the one he wore when he thought he had control of the situation.

"I didn't know I had the capacity to leave the legendary Sir Casterly speechless," he murmured with feigned surprise. "I feel honored."

You did not respond. You simply took another sip of your beer, as if his presence were nothing more than an annoying shadow in your peripheral vision. George, however, did not give up.

"I must say it's impressive. Not every knight can drink with such grace after weeks of hard work protecting my father. Although, of course, I imagine for someone with your temperament, that’s just another ordinary day."

You knew what he was trying to do. The flattery disguised as jest, the casual tone with which he wove each word. A clumsy attempt to stroke your pride to gain your attention.

He was failing miserably.

"The next time you flatter me, Your Highness, make sure it doesn’t sound like you’re speaking to a courtesan at a court party," you said without looking up from your mug.

Sir Clemond stifled a laugh in his drink. George, for his part, tilted his head with an even broader smile, as if he found every snub you dealt him amusing.

"Touché," he admitted. "But I'm afraid I don’t have the habit of flattering in vain. If I say it’s impressive, it’s because it is. There aren’t many knights who could do what you do. And certainly no lady in this realm who can match you."

"Because there is no lady in this realm foolish enough to waste her life in the royal guard," you replied indifferently, leaning slightly forward to place the empty mug on the table.

"I wouldn’t say that," he countered, with a look that grew sharper. "I would say there is no lady in this realm who has your courage."

This time you did look at him. Not because the words had caused the effect he expected, but because you wanted to ensure he understood something very clear.

"Courage is a luxury, prince. What I did wasn’t a choice."

The glint in George's eyes intensified, as if your response had intrigued him rather than repelled him.

"Everything in life is a choice, Sir Casterly," he murmured, and for the first time his voice sounded lower, more serious. "Including this conversation."

You stood up without answering, taking your mug and walking away from the table with the same indifference you had received his presence. You could feel his gaze following you, expectant, as if he were waiting for you to stop, to turn back to him.

You did not.

George of Castamar could be charming, persistent, and, deep down, more astute than people gave him credit for. But if he thought he could court you like a lady of nobility, he was wasting his time.

────── 🦋 ──────

The light of the lamp flickered faintly in the barrack, casting elongated shadows on the bare stone walls. The place was devoid of any luxury, as befit a knight of the royal guard, yet it was still your refuge. A place where you could exist without the burden of armor or inquisitive gazes.

And now, he was there.

George of Castamar stood at the entrance, wearing the same arrogant smile as always, but this time accompanied by an unexpectedly soft gesture: a bouquet of Razina flowers rested in his hands. Their fragrance filled the room as he raised them toward you, an intoxicating aroma, a blend of roses and something stronger, almost ethereal.

You recognized them instantly.

Your expression hardened.

“I don’t want them,” you said, your voice sharp as the edge of a well-tempered sword.

The prince tilted his head, unfazed by the disdain in your tone.

“Don’t you even want to know how I got them?” he asked, using that lazy tone he adopted when trying to draw you into a conversation.

Your eyes fell back to the flowers. Beautiful, delicate... and born from destruction. The Razinas only grew in lands that had known ash and blood, where death had fertilized the soil better than any peasant could. They were the flowers that the women of your nation wore in their hair as a symbol of resilience, of mourning, of belonging to a home that no longer existed.

That George would bring you those flowers, here, in the dimness of your barrack, dressed only in a nightgown, on a night he had no right to invade...

It was grotesque.

“Do you know what these flowers symbolize?” you asked, not bothering to hide the contempt in your voice.

“Of course,” he replied, with the confidence of someone who does not truly understand the weight of his words. “They are the flowers of Vexoria, right? A tribute. A gesture of goodwill.”

A tribute.

A humorless laugh escaped your lips as you crossed your arms over your chest, holding his gaze.

“A tribute?” you repeated, with a biting incredulity. “Is that how you see it? As an exotic gift to woo a knight?”

George let out a sigh, but his smile did not fade.

“Not everything I do has a hidden intention, Ser Casterly,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Maybe I just wanted to remind you that, despite everything, you are still more than just a sword in the service of Castamar.”

Silence stretched between you, laden with unspoken meanings.

The flames of the lamp danced in his eyes, reflecting a mix of stubbornness and something deeper, something you were not willing to unravel.

Slowly, you approached him, but not to take the flowers. Instead, you raised your hand and gently pushed them against his chest, forcing him to hold them more firmly.

“If you really want to prove something to me, George,” you said, your voice low, firm, unyielding, “stop treating me like a damned damsel.”

George’s smile faded for just a moment before reappearing on his face, yet it no longer held the same lightness as before. Something in his gaze had changed, as if the mask of the charming noble had cracked just enough to reveal another facet, one less naïve, more aware.

“I’m not trying to see you as a damsel, Casterly,” he said softly, but with a latent edge. “I just wanted to have a simple gesture with you.”

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of Razinas, as if the warmth of the flowers could soften the ice in your gaze.

“King Alistair advised me to give you this,” he continued, “and perhaps... to invite you for a walk.”

The air in the barrack seemed to grow denser, trapped between the stone walls and the flickering dimness of the lamp. You wondered if it was mere courtesy or if the old monarch had a more sinister purpose in mind.

“I don’t want to go with you.”

Your words fell like lead, with no intention of softening the rejection.

George sighed, as if he had expected that response, but that didn’t mean he would accept it.

“Well, then I order you, as the Second Prince of Castamar, to accompany me for a walk through the beautiful gardens of Valdracia Castle.”

His tone remained light, almost playful, but the command seeped into his words like poison in sweet wine.

Your lips curved into a bitter smile.

“Someone like me cannot walk in those places.”

“And who says that?”

“Society.”

George tilted his head slightly, studying you with renewed interest, as if he had just discovered a new piece on a board he thought he knew by heart.

“Maybe,” he murmured, “but the gardens of Valdracia are used to beautiful things born from tragedy. After all, Razinas grow there too.”

His gaze fell back to the bouquet in his hands, and for the first time in the entire conversation, you didn’t know what expression crossed his face.

You looked at him for a long moment, and although your body tensed, you didn’t say a word. Finally, with disdain and a barely audible sigh, you took the flowers and set them on the bed, in a gesture that made your disinterest clear. His presence was unwelcome, but what bothered you even more was that slight smile on his lips, as if he enjoyed your resistance.

“Shall we go, Sir Casterly?” he asked, his voice warm but with a palpable tension that he could barely hide.

His gaze continued to roam the room, though he knew he wasn’t looking for details on the walls. He was watching you, waiting for the silence to force you to respond.

“I’m still in my nightgown.”

George’s laugh was low, almost mocking, but there was something in his tone that threw you off.

“It doesn’t matter, much better,” he said with that unshakeable confidence that usually irritated you.

A slight flush crept up your neck, and you couldn’t help but look at him sternly, though George’s face remained impassive, clearly enjoying the discomfort he had caused.

“Much better?” you asked, with a tone that bordered on acidic, but you couldn’t deny that the idea of going out in your nightgown, under his gaze, made you feel a strange mix of anger and something harder to identify.

George didn’t seem bothered by your response. On the contrary, his smile grew a little wider, as if what he had said had achieved its goal.

He stepped closer to you, his eyes shining under the dim light of the hallway lamps. Without a word, he took your hands gently, as if they were glass, and that gesture was enough for a shiver to run down your spine. There was an obvious contrast between his hands and yours. Yours, hardened by years of combat and sacrifice, were calloused, marked by the scars of the battles you had fought. Each finger was adorned with bruises, each line of your skin told stories of struggle. His, on the other hand, were soft, fine, without marks of pain or effort. They had been shielded from the same fate as yours.

Yet George didn’t seem to notice the difference. He looked at your hands with a smile full of something you couldn’t identify, before gently leaning down to kiss them, with a softness that was almost inaudible, as if he didn’t want to break the magic of the moment. "They're perfect," he whispered, a statement that made you feel uncomfortable, yet something in your chest tightened at the same time.

He gently tugged you along, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And although your mind screamed that this was a mistake, that you shouldn't let yourself be swept away, your steps led you outside the barrack, right beside him. The warm darkness of the night enveloped the castle, and the echo of your boots resonated against the cobblestones.

The city of Valdracia seemed to be asleep, but the air in the garden brought with it a light breeze that rustled the leaves of the trees. As you walked together along the lantern-lit pathways, your eyes were drawn to the portraits of the Seven, the imposing statues that adorned the castle grounds. They were the figures of gods, but you saw something more in them. Those stone-carved figures, those faces you had once revered fervently, now appeared colder than ever. It was as if the promises of the gods could no longer save you from your fate.

The night breeze caressed the garden softly, wrapping both of you in its chilly embrace. You moved toward the center of the garden, where, on a stone pedestal, stood the imposing Statue of the Seven. The sculpture, carved with an inhuman perfection, depicted the monarchs of each of the Seven Kingdoms, their eternal forms and fixed gazes looking toward the horizon, as if they could foresee the fate of those who passed before them. The figures, despite their great beauty, showed the wear of time, with cracks beginning to mar the stone, as if the years had left their mark, yet their power remained unyielding.

George stopped in front of the statue, observing it with an expression that could not conceal his bewilderment. The figure of an elderly monarch, with a crown that seemed more a burden than a symbol of power, dominated the center. "I don’t understand," he began, his tone contemplative, almost mocking. "Why do so many people hold these kings in such devotion? They are just... very old people, some almost dead, others already buried in their graves, aren't they?"

The question escaped his lips with a lack of understanding that bordered on insensitivity, and the way he posed it, casual and devoid of any reverence, ignited a fire in your chest. The Statue of the Seven was more than just a monument to you; it was a symbol of rebirth, of unity, of what had been made possible after the wars, the struggles, and the losses that the Kingdoms had endured. What you saw in those figures was not merely the passage of time, but the hope that even in decay and death, the land could rise again, that the people could rebuild.

Your gaze hardened, and for a moment, your fingers clenched against the edges of your cloak as if trying to contain the anger that surged within you.

"What you don’t understand," you began, your voice low but firm, "is that those kings, those men and women you see here, represent something greater than just their years of life. They are symbols of what the Seven Kingdoms were able to build after devastation. Yes, some died in their old age, but their vision, their sacrifice, their struggle, has not vanished. They are the pillars upon which we stand now. Their devotion is not merely a matter of revering their bodies, but honoring the legacy they left behind."

George looked at the statue, puzzled by the intensity of your words, not fully grasping the fervor behind them. His face showed a mix of interest and a hint of amusement, as if he were trying to understand the blind loyalty people felt for those kings of bygone eras.

"So, you believe that devotion to the dead is... necessary?" he asked with a slight smile, as if testing your limits.

"Yes," you replied with a vehemence you hadn’t anticipated from yourself. "It is necessary. What you see as 'the dead' are the foundations of our destinies. They forged the unity of the kingdoms, created the peace that allows us to live in these castles, fight our battles, and sit in these gardens. Without them, there would be no rebirth. There would be no hope of moving forward."

Silence filled the space between you, but you did not step away from the statue. Its empty eyes seemed to look at you, not at George. It felt as if, in its silence, it understood you better than any spoken word ever could.

"Perhaps what you don’t understand," you continued, your eyes fixed on the stone, "is that not everything in this world can be measured by a person's age or their physical presence. People like the Seven Kingdoms... they are ideals, dreams of what we can become when we stop fighting among ourselves and unite our strengths. And although those kings are no longer alive, their influence does not die. It never does."

George watched you for a moment longer, and although his smile remained light, there seemed to be something in his gaze that, for the first time, was not mocking. Instead of responding immediately, he took a step closer, his eyes tracing the lines and details of the statue as if he were trying, in some way, to understand what you had just expressed.

With surprising delicacy, George guided you to a stone bench located right in front of the Statue of the Seven. The night air felt cool, and the crunch of leaves beneath your boots resonated softly in the stillness of the garden as you sat down. He followed suit, taking a seat beside you, and for a moment, the silence between you was only interrupted by the whisper of the wind.

Even with the gentleness with which he had touched your hands, there was something in the tension of his posture that made it clear he was not willing to remain silent for long. Finally, his voice, soft yet inquisitive, broke the calm.

"Why do you hate me so much, Ser Casterly?" he asked with a slight smile, but his eyes, fixed on you, reflected genuine curiosity.

You turned to him, your face still marked by the discomfort his words provoked. His questions always seemed to carry an irreverence that you couldn't overlook. However, you decided not to evade the answer this time. You were too tired of doing so.

"Why do I hate you?" you repeated, almost with a sigh, as if uttering it aloud gave the answer more weight. "It’s complicated, George. I have my reasons. But there are so many that it would be a waste of time to list them all."

George leaned back slightly, not breaking eye contact. His laughter, soft yet sincere, emerged with a teasing tone. "I suppose you have many reasons then," he said, with a spark of amusement in his eyes. "But I, for my part, do not hate you, Ser Casterly."

You turned slightly, surprised by the serenity of his declaration. "Really?" you asked, with a mix of skepticism and a hint of disdain. "Do you not hate the woman who has ignored and rejected you at every turn?"

George shrugged, his smile widening, almost a challenge. "No, in fact... I admire you." His tone was firm, as if he spoke with certainty. "There’s something about you that captivates me, Ser Casterly. That determination, that strength you always carry with you. You have impressed me since the moment we met."

For a brief instant, your lips parted as if you were about to say something, but the surprise held you back. "Admire me, huh?" you murmured with a tone of disbelief, but without irritation. "It’s curious... because that doesn’t change anything."

"What do you mean?" George leaned his head, observing you with attention. "Do you think that my admiration changes who I am or what I do? I wouldn’t, but the truth is, I see no reason why someone like me shouldn’t court someone like you."

You shook your head, your eyes fixed on the garden before you, but no longer looking at the statue. Your thoughts seemed darker, as if the shadows surrounding the Statue of the Seven reflected the reality you saw in the world.

"It doesn’t matter how much you admire me, George," you said with a coldness that left no room for doubt. "It’s not wise for a prince to court a mere knight, even if you don’t see it that way. You are a prince, of royal blood, the future of Castamar. And I... I am just a guardian, destined to protect the king until the day I become cannon fodder. The moment the king dies or Castamar is defeated, I will be nothing more than that, flesh for the sacrifice of some other kingdom, or of our own allies. The life of someone like me holds no value when war and death loom."

Your voice cracked only slightly at the end, but your gaze remained firm, as if resisting the idea that anyone could see you as vulnerable. The wind blew gently, rustling some branches around, as if nature itself were a witness to what you had just said.

George did not respond immediately. The silence between you extended, heavy, dense. He seemed to be processing what you had said, perhaps for the first time looking beyond the nobility that surrounded him, understanding, albeit belatedly, the lives of those who served, sacrificing themselves without receiving glory or recognition.

Finally, in a low, almost whispered voice, he said, "I don’t want you to become cannon fodder. I want you to know that, although I don’t share your view of life, I believe there is something you could achieve beyond this war. You are not just a knight... You are a woman with courage, and perhaps, just perhaps, you could see beyond what you are meant to be."

Your eyes met his for a long moment, and for the first time that night, perhaps for a fleeting second, you wondered if he, deep down, could understand something of what you had just told him. But reality returned swiftly, like a sharp blow. The difference between his world and yours could not vanish with a simple exchange of words.

"It doesn’t matter what you say, George," you replied, turning back to face forward, "you have no idea what that means."

The sky was clear, and the stars, like distant beacons, twinkled softly above them. The night air seemed suspended in time, while the garden of Valdracia, with its long, silent shadows, stretched around. The stillness of the night made even the whispers of the trees sound muted, as if the whole world were watching the two lonely figures beneath the starry mantle.

George remained by your side, and although at first he seemed uncomfortable with the silence, gradually, his presence became more reassuring, like a familiar shadow. Finally, without warning, his hand gently rested on yours. It was an unexpected gesture, yet at the same time, it felt like a natural extension of what had begun between you that night. Without saying a word, joining in that contact seemed the only possible path in that moment.

Your heart raced for a moment, and your mind wanted to rebel, but something in his touch made you pause. George, without taking his gaze off the sky, slowly leaned his head until it rested softly on your shoulder, as if he were seeking comfort or understanding from you in some way.

"For me," he said softly, filled with a sincerity that sought neither applause nor boastfulness, "you are not just a knight."

You tensed for a second, but he continued without withdrawing.

"You are not just the guardian of the king, nor the soldier who faces battles with a strong heart," he continued. "To me, Ser Casterly, you are the most beautiful and courageous knight I have ever known in my life. I truly believe that. My parents... your parents should feel incredibly proud to have you as their daughter."

His words were slow, yet laden with a warmth that you could not ignore. His closeness, his whisper made the air thick, almost suffocating, but not from discomfort, rather from something deeper that seemed to bloom between you, a feeling neither he nor you dared to name.

A tear, treacherous, slipped slowly down your cheek, barely perceptible but enough for him to notice. You did not wipe it away, as somehow you felt it deserved to fall. The weight of his words, so unexpected and so different from everything you had heard before, stirred something in you that you thought had long been buried.

"Thank you," you murmured, unable to help it, your voice trembling, almost choked. "I hope that is true."

The shadow of the Statue of the Seven watched over you in silence, as immutable as ever, while the stars continued their dance in the sky. George did not speak further. In that moment, all that remained in the air was the softness of his presence, the warmth of his words, and the gentle brush of his face against your shoulder.

And for an instant, the outside world faded away. There were no kingdoms, no struggles, no bloodshed. There were just the two of you, beneath the stars, sharing a silence that spoke more than any words could.

The prince, though so distant in his lineage, seemed suddenly so close, so real, so... human, in comparison to the coldness of his position. And you, despite the scars of war, despite your life marked by sword and duty, were not merely what the world thought you were. Not in that moment. In that instant, you were just two souls in the vastness of the night, searching for something that lay beyond everyone else's expectations.

────── 🦋 ──────

The sun, which had once seemed warm and promising, now fell upon the scene with an unrelenting harshness. The murmurs around you seemed to resonate like distant echoes, distorted by the fog of anguish that had taken hold of you. Silent tears fell, heavy but without sound, rolling down your cheeks as though the pain accompanying them was too deep to express aloud. You couldn’t stop staring at the bodies—those who had once been close friends, comrades in battle, and now were nothing but cold corpses, their humanity ripped away by the cruelty of fate.

George, seeing you there, unable to hold back, approached and enveloped you in his arms with a strength only someone who cares deeply can have. He held you with such intensity that, for a brief moment, it seemed like he could stop the pain that consumed you. His hands moved gently across your back, trying to offer comfort, but all he could do was hold you as he felt his heart break with every stifled sob you tried to suppress.

"You’re not alone, Casterly," he whispered in your ear, his voice deep and gentle at the same time. Then, with tenderness, he kissed your cheek, leaving a warm kiss on the skin that pulsed from the tension. A gesture of affection that didn’t ease the weight of the tragedy, but in that moment, it was all he could offer.

You trembled, not just from the morning cold, but from the emotional blow that had shaken you to your core. Your mind struggled to process what had happened. It was as if everything were happening in slow motion, like the pieces of the puzzle were crumbling before you and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

With a broken voice, you murmured, almost without realizing it:

"I’ve never failed... I was always alert... how could this happen?"

The words hung in the air, empty of hope. You couldn’t understand how the tragedy had reached you. In all those years of struggle, sacrifice, and preparation, you had never imagined an end like this. You had always believed that constant vigilance, the strength of your spirit, and your loyalty to your kingdom would protect you from any misfortune. But in this moment, you were being shattered by the weight of the truth: none of that had saved you.

George held you tighter, as if his body could offer you some comfort in the midst of the storm. His face was close to yours, his warm breath against your neck. Despite the pain he felt, he knew his words had to be as firm as possible.

"What happened isn’t your fault," he said, with a deep sincerity. Though he couldn’t erase what had happened, he wanted you to know that you didn’t have to carry the blame. It wasn’t fair, nor realistic, to bear that weight.

You didn’t respond, but your body relaxed slightly, as if his words were a rope to hold onto, even if you couldn’t fully understand them.

In that moment, he gently pulled away from the embrace, guiding you through the garden. Every step you took felt heavier than the last, but George never let you go. He looked at you with an expression full of compassion, but also with a quiet determination.

"Come on, Casterly," he said, almost gently. "You can’t stay here. There’s a future we still have to face, and no matter how hard it is now, you’re still the knight you’ve always been. Don’t let this destroy you."

You didn’t say anything, but you kept walking, your mind still trapped in the horror of what you had seen, of the loss you felt deep within you. However, the fact that George was by your side, in some way, gave you a small breath of relief. At least, for a moment, you weren’t alone.

As you both walked through the garden, the first rays of sunlight illuminated the figures of the trees, making the shadows stretch toward you like spectral fingers. The air felt heavy, filled with palpable pain, as if nature itself mourned what had just occurred. But you didn’t want to look back. You couldn’t. The only option was to keep moving forward, even though you didn’t know where this uncertain future would take you.

"Will you stay with me?" you suddenly asked, your voice broken but determined, as you walked together, your steps resonating on the ground covered with dry leaves.

George looked at you and, with a faint smile that didn’t hide the pain in his eyes, replied:

"Always."

The embrace between you lasted longer than either of you had expected, a silent comfort that seemed to stop time for a moment. George held you with a soft but persistent strength, as if he wanted to protect you from everything that had happened, even though he knew he couldn’t. The air was thick with anguish, and the weight of the pain on your shoulders was palpable. You, with your head resting on his chest, could feel his heart beating fast and hard, as if, in that embrace, you could find some semblance of calm, even if it was momentary. Your breathing, initially erratic, slowly softened.

Yet, the sadness still weighed on you, a cruel reminder of the tragedy that had unfolded. It was he who broke the silence, his voice deep and firm, but also laced with a strange concern that you hadn’t expected to hear.

"There must be an assassin among us... or maybe someone from another kingdom is sending assassins to eliminate the royal family," he said, the tension clear in his words. His gaze was fixed on some distant point, as if he were searching for an answer in the air. Though he didn’t have any concrete suspicions about who might be responsible, the certainty that something was happening left no room for doubt in his mind.

"It’s likely we’re being attacked by other kingdoms... Maybe this isn’t an isolated incident."

You looked up at him, your face marked with concern, but also with a determination that hadn’t been there before. Your eyes, red from crying, still held that spark of fire that had always been yours. You weren’t going to give up, no matter what happened.

"I'll be more vigilant from now on," you reply, your voice firm, though still trembling. You've learned over time to be alert, to detect any sign of danger, but things are never that simple when the enemy hides in the shadows, within your own home. George looks at you with a mix of sadness and gratitude, but his expression is serious, as if he understands that the situation has changed irrevocably.

"It won't be enough, Casterly," he says in a soft, almost desolate tone. "You can't do it all alone. This is bigger than you think. We need to act, and not just you. The whole kingdom is in danger."

You watch him for a moment, feeling the weight of his words sink in. There’s something in his tone that leaves no room for doubt. It’s not just an assassin, nor even an isolated betrayal; it’s something much bigger, a conspiracy stretching across every corner of the kingdom and beyond. Enemy kingdoms could be conspiring together to bring down the royal family, and in the process, you would be the first to be dragged down. The thought chills you, but also makes you more resolute. No matter how many enemies are lurking in the shadows, you won’t let your people fall without a fight.

"So, what are we going to do?" you ask, your voice now harder, more determined.

George looks you directly in the eyes, not breaking his gaze for a second. His words are a promise, a plea, but also a warning.

"Whatever it takes. And we’ll do it together."

The silence that follows is heavy, as if the universe itself is waiting for the decision you just made. There’s no turning back. Both of you know that the path ahead will be long and dangerous, but you also know that the fight for the kingdom, for your family, and for your very life, is about to begin.

You nod slowly, your heart beating fast. Though the shadow of tragedy still follows you, you feel a spark of determination growing within you. The battle for your kingdom has just begun.

The silence that follows your words grows even heavier. George, as if aware of the tension that has grown between you, lets out an enigmatic smile, one that contrasts with the weight of what he just said. The smile is neither comforting nor sorrowful, but one that reflects deep, almost malicious interest.

"Now I’m the heir to the throne," he says with unsettling calm, as if the words are just a simple fact of life. His gaze rests on you, almost challenging you.

"And most likely, they’ll let me court you now, don’t you think?"

You stare at him, as if you've just woken up from a horrendous nightmare. His words make you feel a deep rage, a burn that spreads throughout your entire being. How can he be talking about courting you in the midst of such tragedy? Your brother has brutally died, and he, the man who just lost his greatest rival for the throne, seems to find comfort in the possibility of courting you. You can’t believe what you're hearing.

"Are you serious, George? Are you thinking about that now?" your voice breaks, but the fury you feel is evident. "Your brother just died. He was literally just murdered. And here you are, the only thing you can think about is what they’ve allowed you to do."

George watches you without losing his smile, as if your words are nothing more than a step in the inevitable power game he's trapped in.

"It’s true, his brother has died. But, who was dictating the law until now?" His tone softens, as if explaining a fundamental truth of life. "The king, and now, thanks to his departure, I’m the one in control. So, as the heir to the throne, I have the right to decide who can be by my side. And honestly, I’d like it to be you."

The blood in your veins boils at hearing those words, but you can’t help but feel a strange revulsion, a mixture of disgust and pity. It’s as if your brother’s death had been nothing more than just another piece in a game he has already won. A piece that opens the door to what he truly wants: to have you, as if you were a trophy, another step toward his ambition.

"Don’t forget that I’m still a knight, George. And you... you’re just a prince," you reply with a voice full of disdain, trying to regain control over your own emotions. But the truth is, you feel like you’re fighting against a tide that drags you along, a power play where it no longer matters who has died and who has survived.

George doesn’t respond immediately. He just moves closer to you, his face reflecting an unwavering satisfaction, as if nothing could change his fate. With one hand, he gently lifts your face, his fingers touching the soft curve of your cheek.

"Now, dear Casterly," he whispers, his warm breath brushing against your skin, "I’m the heir to the throne. And my word is law."

You fall silent, a mix of disbelief and fury building in your chest. There’s no doubt in George’s gaze, nor in his voice. He believes that, as the heir to the throne, everything he wants will be within his reach. And you... you can do nothing but listen as your fate, now in the hands of that man, turns into a nightmare.

He smiles again, this time with no trace of doubt.

"So, I ask that you consider what I’m offering you. Power is at my feet now. Don’t you think what binds us is greater than anything else?"

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to suppress the wave of emotions that overwhelm you. How did it all get this far? How could the death of one man have become another’s opportunity to take what he wanted? The reality was clear. Your brother’s death, and George’s rise to power, meant that you, as always, were nothing more than a pawn in the kings and princes' chess game. And worst of all, your life, your future, now also depended on the will of the man who looked at you with a smile on his lips, seeing you not as an honorable knight, but as just an opportunity to further solidify his power.

You take a step back, the sharp pain in your chest reflected in every movement you make.

"And if my loyalty isn’t in your hands, George... what will you do?" you ask, your voice dark, almost defiant.

George looks at you intently, the smile never leaving his face. He knows that everything now depends on him, that the final word is his. And he doesn’t plan to let you go so easily.

"You can ask those three"

Note ───── There was a moment when euphoria hit me so intensely that, in less than three hours, I had already created an entire universe. It was a burst of creativity that, while satisfying, I feel ended up being a bit shorter than what I usually do. As always, I tend to expand ideas much more, but this time I kept it more concise. However, even though the result was a bit brief, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this first original piece from me.

As for the character of George, I have to say that my friend was really fond of him. I'm glad to know he made a good impression, although personally, I feel like his interactions were too limited. Maybe I didn’t delve enough into his development or his dynamics with other characters. I’m not sure if you felt the same way, but it’s something I’d like to know. Despite my own doubts, I hope the overall idea was still enjoyable.

As always, any feedback or suggestions are more than welcome. Don’t hesitate to message me whenever you want to share your thoughts or discuss any aspect.

[clawsmiic]

"I had to talk to you."

Repost from other account

2.4k words

CW: Heavy flirtation, canon divergence (S4 end events didn't happen), College Student!Steve, Steve has shit eyesight

October 13th, 1989

Steve sighs, leaning back on the drivers side of his 1983 BMW. Burgundy paint starting to chip on the hood, the car becoming less appealing day by day. Girls passing by not even looking in his direction anymore. He was old news in Hawkins after people found out he had finally started at a college half an hour away in Fort Wayne. Just starting his life like everyone else did 4 years ago just wasn't appealing to most girls.

At least not Hawkins girls.

But at this point he didn't care. He was proud of himself for pulling his life together after all the bullshit he had been put through. With saving an entire town too many god damn times. Cutting his dad off when his parents divorced. Moving out to get a rented house with his best friend Robin. Just what he learned he needed over time.

Getting into a good school by himself with no help was just a cherry on top of the fuck you sundae he graciously served his past problems.

He was satisfied with what he had right now.

Dustin walks out of the new game shop in the newest strip mall to grace Hawkins. Steve looks up, pushing his Ray-Ban sunglasses onto his head.

"You made it out before, Robin. I'm surprised." Dustin glanced at the instrument shop a few doors down, then back to Steve. "You get what Eddie needed?"

"Mostly yeah. She's still getting her trumpet fixed?" Steve shrugs at Dustin's question and slides his sunglasses down in place again.

"She probably got distracted looking at something shiny and new. You know Robins crow brain sometimes." Dustin laughs, looking into his bag, shuffling a few things around inside.

Steve looked over at the liquor store at the end of the strip mall. Looking back at Dustin, he taps the top of the car. His head snapped up, eyes a bit surprised at the sudden noise.

"You want anything?" Steve asks, tilting his head back towards the store.

"Coke? If they got it." Dustin simply replied before getting in the back seat. Steve nods and walks to the liquor store.

The bell chimes over his head as he walks through the door. He takes in the warmth of the store and the radio playing over the speakers on the ceiling. Such a nice contrast to the crisp Autumn air outside.

He turns heading down an isle of assorted liquor bottles and bar accessories before finally stopping at the fridge. Humming along to the song over the radio, mumbling the lyrics to 'I wanna know what love is' absentmindedly.

Sliding his glasses down his nose, he squints at the selection. All the labels are blurry the farther he is, he steps forward rubbing his eyes and sure doesn't help with the florescent lighting blinding him from above.

God I need to get my eyes checked.

Opening the fridge, he grabs the 3 soft drinks and a 6-pack for later when he hears a metal scrapping and whoosh next to him. Followed by a muffled but panicked "Shit!"

Looking over, he sees the back of a squatting woman struggling with a metal shelf slipping out of one of the fridges.

Walking over, he quickly puts his things down and pushes the shelf back in. The metal shelf, cold against his warm skin as he reaches into the fridge, fixing the fasteners back into place.

An issue he's all too familiar with working at Family Video. The fridge racks always got loose and every time it happened he was always made to clean them up. He could only imagine the mess a bunch of glasses and beer would have made.

"Thank you so much!" The woman speaks as Steve stands up, slowly closing the door. Looking back, he finally sees your face. His lips slightly part as you continue talking, he can't hear a word you're saying right now.

All he can hear is the very oddly convenient Foreigner song playing over the store radio as he takes in every detail of your gorgeous face. From your shiny hair to your bright smile. The vibrant colored nail polish on your fingers you're waving as you talk. You're unfamiliar, he's never seen you before, but you're an absolute stunner of a woman.

Steve never thought of himself as a love at first sight kind of guy. But right now he was undoubtedly being proven wrong by the spark he was feeling, not to mention the nervous knot in his stomach.

"But really you're a life saver... Thank you." You stop talking, looking at him. Your face falls as he perks up, realizing he's just been staring like a complete idiot this entire time.

"You're welcome!" He spoke, choking almost over how inappropriately loud he was for a second. Feeling the effect of not talking to women for a while really hit him. You look down at his soon-to-be purchases.

"Full Sail Amber. Good beer." You comment, making him look at the floor and nod.

Crouching down, he grabs his things and stands cracking his head on one of the fridge door handles. His sunglasses fell off his face and onto the floor. He stands up wedging his soft drink between his side and arm. Rubbing his head with a hiss.

"You okay?" You ask with a slight chuckle. Bending down, you grab the sunglasses, Steve moves his hand, grabbing the bottom of the door handle to shield your head from injury.

"Yeah, thanks." Before he gets to put his hand out to take his Ray-Bans back, you slide them on his head with a soft smile.

God she's so fucking pretty.

"You're welcome. And thanks again for... Saving me from paying for a full shelf of beer." She turned down the isle to another part of the store.

Part of Steve wants to follow you and try chatting you up, but the slight embarrassment of hurting his head just keeps him from doing so.

He turns, goes to the front of the store and makes his purchases. Heading outside, he walks to his car, finally seeing Robin in her usual spot, the passenger seat. Opening the driver's door, he slips in.

"There you are!" Robin looked at him, her trumpet case in-between her legs on the floor of the car.

"What's with the face?" Dustin asks, Steve looking at him in the rearview, glaring.

"Shut up Henderson." He hands them their sodas, moving to close his car door when he hears the bell from the liquor store chime.

Out you walk, starting across the parking lot to a top-down red 86' Volkswagen Cabriolet. Steve freezes, staring again. He really can't help but stare.

"Oooh." Robin and Dustin both taunt him, making him sigh. He needs more friends, fewer annoying friends.

"She's pretty." Robin says looking at Dustin.

"Too pretty to talk to, apparently." Dustin adds, laughing as he looks back at Steve.

"I talked to her in the store." Dustin raised his eyebrows, pushing his baseball cap up a bit.

"You asked her out?"

"No." Steve watches you load your bag into the back seat and start pulling the top up on your car.

"Not too late!" Robin smiled, taking a sip of her drink. Dustin looked at her.

"He's not gonna do it."

"No, he's gonna do it."

Steve feels like he has a devil and an angel bickering on his shoulders right now. His foot meets the new asphalt of the parking lot as you open your driver's door.

He's quickly out of the driver's seat.

"Holy shit he's doing it." Dustin comments as he shuts the door on them.

He stops at the bumper of his car, hearing your car engine click over. Music pours out of your open windows before you turn it down quickly.

The universe is screaming at him to talk to you when he starts hearing that familiar Tears for Fears song, 'Head Over Heels'.

Please don't pull away, please don't pull away.

He nearly sprints across the parking lot out of fear of missing his chance. Upon reaching the car, he knocks on the back window, pulling you from looking for something in the console.

"Hi..." He says awkwardly, approaching the window. Leaning on the door, he smiles as you smile back.

"Hi. You need something?" He gets so agitated that you smirk up at him.

'Why'd you have to be so God damn pretty?'

"Sorry if this is weird, but I had to talk to you." He started, finally being able to say something. Your eyes go half shut with a soft nod.

"Talk to me?" He nods, clenching the door frame for a second. "Go ahead then. Talk."

His eyes go wide in surprise at your sudden confidence. Steve stammered for a second.

"Uh... At the risk of sounding crazy or desperate... You're probably the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life." You can feel your body warm up as he gives the most genuine smile you've seen on a man in a while.

"Mmhm, go on."

"Are you by chance single? Or like... Are you even attracted to men at all?" He asks, sheepishly smiling.

"Yes, and yes." Your smirk slowly turns into a grin as he squats to eye level now, feeling a bit more confident after your answer.

"I'm Steve, by the way. Steve Harrington." He smiles again hearing you reply with your name. "Are you new to Hawkins?"

"I am actually. I just moved here from the city and needed to stay nearby for school."

"Where are you going?"

"Trine University." His eyes go wide, the same school he goes to. What are the odds?

"Really? I actually go there too. Education major." You look him up and down. You never pegged him for the teacher type.

"Software Engineering major."

"So you're smart and gorgeous. Good to know." He smirks, finally feeling like himself when talking as your flush finally becomes noticeable. "You like movies?"

"What kind of psychopath doesn't like movies?" He laughs at your response, leaning in closer to the window.

"Lemme be more specific. The new Halloween 5 movie came out today. You interested in seeing it? Maybe with me tonight at the drive-in theater in Lafayette. We can have dinner after. All my treat, of course." He can see the sparkle in your eyes, that spark he felt looking at you before is still lingering around him.

"What's in it for me?" You playfully ask. He cocks his head to the side, leaning it on his arm for a second.

"A fun night out with a gentleman, I promise I'm fun." You chuckle, rolling your eyes, he knows you want to say yes. "Please?"

He'd never said please before when asking a girl out. It didn't feel embarrassing like he thought it would. You turn your attention back to the console looking for something.

Pulling out a napkin and pen, you quickly write down your number and address. Turning back, you hold it out to him as he takes it.

"I'm free at 8. And dress nicely. You're taking me somewhere decent after the movie."

"I'll take you to the most expensive restaurant I can find if that's what you want. I don't care. As long as I get to see you again." You laugh at his bluntness, it's like music to his ears.

"That won't be necessary. I don't need to be spoiled."

"What if I want to spoil you?" That caught you off guard as you didn't respond right away. He let a soft breath escape his mouth. "You like roses?"

"White roses." You reply, he nods, standing up again and folding the napkin, storing it in his back jean pocket for safe keeping.

"I'll be sure to remember that." You two just stare at each other in silence for a minute. No man's ever looked at you like Steve has right now, it makes your heart race from nervousness.

"I'll see you at 8 o'clock then." You look past him for a moment and back to him. "Tell your friends I said hello since they like to stare so much."

Raising an eyebrow, Steve turned his head. He sees Robin poking her head over the roof of the car and Dustin sitting on the rolled down window frame. They quickly hurry back into the car, noticing they've been caught. He should be embarrassed, but he fully expects their behavior from being friends for so long.

"Ignore them." Steve says, sighing as he looks back at you. "I'll see you at 8."

He turned away towards his car, trying to stay as confident as he was before turning his back. Reaching his car, he pops the door open, clutching it for dear life as he silently collects himself. Robin poked her head across the driver's seat to look up at him.

"You good dude?" She asks, concerned but also excited as he just nods.

You pull out of your parking spot, stopping behind his car and honk once to get his attention. Dustin pops his head out the back window as Robin looks out her open door. Steves head snaps up at you as you lean on your window frame, chin on fist with the most shit eating grin on your face.

"See you at 8 sexy~" You called to him. And then you have the balls to blow him a kiss before peeling out of the parking lot.

Steve silently gets in the car. Robin shuts her door as Steve does his. Dustin sits forward looking at Steve, who's just gripping his steering wheel, the adrenaline starting to wear off.

"Dude, she's so into you, into you!" Dustin breaks the silence as Robin nods.

"And I'd say it's the same for Harrington here." Robin grins as a massive smile spreads across Steve's face.

He starts excitedly thrashing frontwards and backwards. Enough to shake the car and look like he's about to rip the steering wheel from it's column. He lets out an excited yell, causing his two friends to laugh at him.

He let out a long breath, looking at them.

"She says hi by the way."

[fraugwinska]

Hello, wait are your requests open? 😅

If yes - i have an idea? :)

Per Charlie's decision everyone goes out for a night out in the town. You stay at the hotel as you weren't feeling well. Thinking the hotel is empty you carelssly leave your room and head to the bar and lounge area. To your surprise it's already occupied - Alastor is drinking whisky and listening to jazz on his old radio. He is already tipsy as he starts slowly dancing with himself. You don't want to interrupt but before you can go back he calls to you and asks if you want to join him. I just really need some tipsy and more relaxed Alastor thay slowly openes up to the reader. Bonus scene: you two fall asleep on the couch and wake up to the whole group staring at you two with the wildests reactions lol

This was such a cute prompt - Thank you for suggesting this, dear Anon! It's a little shorter, but I really like it - hope you do too! :>

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

More than words

Thirsty. You are thirsty.

That's the first thought you had when you woke up from your nap. Hell really had eternal suffering, with migraines being just as annoying and painful in hell as they were on earth. You had woken up with pain behind your eyes, and you knew in that exact moment you had to tell Charlie you wouldn't be able to go out tonight, because knowing yourself it would last the whole day and leave you exhausted by the evening.

You peeled yourself out of bed, realizing with relief that the pain and the dull pressure were gone almost completely. One or two glasses of water and a strong espresso, and maybe you were even able to get a good night's sleep. So you threw a cozy, fuzzy cardigan over you and headed to the kitchen. You had expected creepy silence, since it didn't happen often that everyone went out all at once, so you were surprised to hear the faint sounds of pianos, trumpets and drums when you were halfway down the staircase. Maybe Charlie or Husk had left the radio on? Without real reason to you tiptoed the last steps down, peeking around the corner of the corridor leading to the bar. What you saw made you both speech- and breathless.

Alastor, with a glass of whiskey in hand, humming along to Boogie Man by Sid Phillips, eyes closed and dancing just for himself – tipsy, slightly uncoordinated swing steps that might've looked impressive if he wasn't... drunk? At least a bit buzzed, that was for sure.

You watched him in fascination, tapping and twirling, while you contemplated what to do. The only way to the kitchen was through the foyer, which meant you had to pass the bar, ergo Alastor. But you weren't sure how much he would appreciate you catching him in this... state. Yes, you were on good terms, you would even go as far to say you were friends, but that stage of relationship was far too fresh to risk changing it by angering him. You decided that your bathroom sink had to provide the much needed water and fuck the espresso, you turned around to sneak back to your room.

„Oh, I didn't know there was an audience for my show!“

Fuck.

You glanced over your shoulder – Alastor looked you straight in the eye, swaying a bit, grin loose and eyes a little clouded. He sounded more amused than angry, something you didn't expect, but were fucking grateful for.

„Sorry, Al... I didn't think you were home, I just wanted to get some water and head back to my room.“ „Ah,“ Alastor took a sip of his drink, golden brown liquid leaking from the corners of his mouth down to his chin. With careless fingers he wipes it away. „So eager to leave little ol' me hanging...“ He pouted. Alastor, the radio demon pouted. You asked yourself if you might have migraine-incited hallucinations.

„Alastor, are you... okay?“, you ask, carefully turning to him.

„Fantastic dear, just fantastic.“, he muttered, eyeing his now empty glass, „Although drinking in company would certainly be more pleasurable than drinking alone.“

He walked back behind the bar, steps still a little wobbly, and poured himself another, giving you an opportunity. It was the deers crude way of handing you the choice - You could leave now, if you wanted.

Instead, you wrapped the cardigan tighter around yourself, suddenly very aware of your lack of decorum, and with a few steps, you were in front of him, sliding onto one of the stools. Alastor tilted his head at you as you leaned on the counter, both elbows on the slightly sticky surface and face in your hands, sighing.

„Alright tapper, as long as you don't bring my headache back, pour it away.“

----------------------------***----------------------------

„... and wouldn't you believe it, the next time this idiot saw me he just ripped off his whole arm and threw it at me!“

Alastor laughed, loudly and boastfully, slapping his thighs. You joined in with your own laughter, more like a cackle, tongue and restraint loosened by his choice of drink for you – mint julep, apparently one of the only cocktails he knew how to mix, being a favourite from his time in the 1920's. The fresh and cooling drink went easily down your tongue, and both of you had been chatting away for the last hour, mostly Alastor telling you funny anecdotes and you laughing at his stories till your mouth went dry.

While you drank slowly, Alastor rushed every drink down his throat like a parched man. With wonder you watched him, amazed by how much he could take, word unslurred and speech still crisp and transatlantic. The only indicator of his drunkenness: his choice of words became more and more crass. It made you giggle uncontrollably whenever he used profanities that were so unlike him. 

“Can you blame him? That poor man probably didn’t want you to rip it off again - might just do it himself and save the trouble!” “I didn’t even get to the best part, darling - He owned a fucking second hand shop! Ha Ha HA!” He bellowed with laughter,looking more like a mischievous school-boy than a terrifying overlord and you slapped his arm. “Alastor, stop, you’re making this up!” “Absolutely not, it’s the irony that makes the story even more comical.”

You shook your head, stirring the mint leaves in your glass.He was much more easy-going than normal, his cheeks tinted in a pretty shade of red. The biggest difference was his everlasting smile. Tight and wide normally, it had become a loose, content one, playful without the malice it usually carried. He looked even more handsome that way.

“A penny for your thought, cherie.”, he chuckled, arms crossed on the countertop and leaning in closely. The proximity brought the smell of bourbon, warm wood and nutmeg with hints of vetiver. The stronger version of his natural scent. Tasty. The thought shuddered through your mind and you swallowed it quickly with the rest of your own drink. “I just thought about a Chaplin quote that came to mind.” He leaned on his hand, blinking in curiosity, half-lidded eyes telling you to continue - you and him had a thing for his movies, you've watched City Lights together multiple times. “A man's true character comes out when he's drunk.” You mirrored his gesture with a smile of your own, bringing your face even closer to his, which seemed to startle him. “And I gotta say it’s a shame you’re not drunk more often.”

Alastor pulled back, grasping for the whiskey bottle as he avoided your gaze. You were confused - had you offended him? You sat yourself upright, ready to apologize, when he cut you off.

“Better not to reveal this kind of secret to just everyone, my dear. It’s only the ghost of a man long gone, anyways.” He sighed at the bottle in his hands, realizing it was empty. You scoffed, rolling your eyes at him. “Please, you may tell that yourself but I’m not a medium. That man isn’t gone. He's only hiding, deep down in there.”

Foolishly your brain didn’t remind you that Alastor didn’t like to be touched. You reached out, putting your hand flat at his chest, right where his heart would be. As for Alastor, his alcohol-dazed mind couldn’t catch up with what you were doing fast enough. Your palm pressed down, receiving the soothing, soft warmth he always radiated through your sensitive skin, like an old radio that had been left on for too long. His eyes widened, you felt him inhale sharply, yet it took another few seconds for him to react, flinching back.

His barstool wobbled, swinging dangerously, and like in slow-motion he fell backwards, only letting out a small, ulfiltered “Shit!” before he disappeared behind the bar. You jumped up, stuttering “Sorry, sorry, oh fuck, I’m so sorry!” while you hurried behind the bar to help him up. He was sprawled out on the floor, almost like a starfish, his chest shaking and an arm thrown over his face. “Alastor, I’m so sorry, are you hurt? Did you hit your head? Fuck, I’m so….”, you stopped abruptly when he burst out laughing. He wheezed, shaking with laughter, and you fell to your knees beside him, relieved and at the same time unnerved. He sat up, still holding his chest with one hand and patting your head with the other.

“Moments like these remind me why I like you so much, darling. Such a blue-eyed, air-headed doe you are.” You met his gaze, ready to banter, but the sad tint in his expression made you decide against that. Instead you shuffled nearer to him, slowly sitting up on your knees, to give him the option to push you away. He didn’t, only watching you closely. You wrapped your arms around his head, pulling him close, his cheek resting on your chest, tight enough he had to hear your heartbeat.

You held him like this until you felt his hands on your back, returning the embrace. HIs breath was warm and heavy on your skin. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was holding back tears. Maybe he was. You just stayed like this, holding him in your arms. Words were unnecessary, unwanted even. Him and you weren’t close enough yet to bring everything he should share into words. But you would be there, whenever that moment came, and for now, this was the right way to express what couldn’t be said. Much more even.

When he pulled away, he did it gently, a soft and thankful smile on his lips. “I think the bar has run dry, my dear.” He stood up, offering you his hand to help you up. You took it, and he left your hand in his as you stood face to face. “How about a warm nightcap to end our day?” ----------------------------***----------------------------

“... You are seeing this too, right? I’m not trippin’?!” “Shhhh! Don’t wake them up.” Charlie hissed at Angel, her eyes round like saucers, staring over the backrest, as did the others. “How can this creep still smile even when he’s sleeping?!”, Vaggie whispered loudly. Angel gave her a sly smile. “You’d smile too if a hot girl slept in your lap like that.” Husk groaned, pulling a paw over his face. “It’s too late and I’m too sober for this shit.” “SSSSSSSHHHHHH! Leave them alone, go! Go to bed, quietly, all of you!”, Charlie shushed them again, shooing them away from the sofa.

She quickly ran to the nearest cabinet, pulling out a thick blanket which she carefully draped over your and Alastors body. She took a few heartbeats to internalize what she everyone saw when they came home.

You looked like a couple. Of course Charlie knew you weren’t. Alastor - half-laying, half-sitting asleep on the sofa - had his arm around you, his head resting on the top of your head. You were serenely slumbering while nuzzled against his chest, legs pulled up and looking like you were mended to his side. You, too, were smiling. On the cofffee table in front of the sofa were two cups of what looked and smelled like hot milk with honey, the porcelain still faintly warm to the touch and the liquid barely touched. She suppressed the squeal she wanted to squeal.

After she was done, she quietly took a few steps back, scanning that you were both still fast asleep, then she took Vaggie’s hand and together they headed to their own room. Charlie knew you weren’t a couple. But she also knew that was only a matter of when you would become one, not if.

[sulfursmells]

Biker Boom

Biker, gym bro, influencer he was the whole package. 6’1” ripped and with an ass only comparable to two basketballs dribbling with each step. You dreamed of a chance to see him in person. Who’d guess it would happen outside my local bar. A fun night on the twin is exactly what you needed after a stressful week at work. Thou you weren’t expecting your friends to ditch you. Having no idea how to get home you stood on the sidewalk trying to gather your thoughts until someone calls to you.

“Hey cutie! You okay?”

A biker, stopped next to you engine still roaring. You recognize the bike it’s one of your fav tiktokers, Diba.

He flips up his visor and asks,

“Do you need a lift?”

You nodded blushing as he handed you an extra bike helmet. As you get on the bike you see his very plump ass as it takes up almost the entire seat and angle yourself to sit conformably.

As he revs the engine you then hear a loud bassy trumpet sound.

BBBBBRRRRPPPTPTPTPTPTTTT

You gag as a vile smell enters your nostrils.

“Don’t mind the exhaust” he says as the bike begins to soar down the road. You grip tightly as you don’t want to fall off feeling his abs. The ride wasn’t very long as you didn’t live too far away. The entire time the smell of the exhaust constantly wafting into your nose making your nose hairs burn. The same him of the engine constant even when not in motion.

After the 10 min ride the bike stopped in front of your apartment complex. You get off and thanking him for the ride. Diba gets off the bike you thinking it’s to take off your helmet, but instead he grabs the back of your head pushing it downwards into his ass. His very voluptuous cheeks filling the space between my head and the visor of the helmet.

A rush of hot smelly air filling the helmet pushing your hair back.

BBBBBRRRPPTTTT

You gag trying to release yourself from this biker man’s grip. Unable to ass the one fart that felt it was going on forever made your world go black your senses overwhelmed from the constant smelly gas filling the cramped space.

You wake up in the lobby the disgusting smell soaked into your hair and clothes, checking the time about an hour later with a card in your pocket. His number with a radioactive symbol at the end. You sweat realizing that the constant sound and smell was him constantly ripping ass. You can’t help but be both scared and turned on thinking about how much this biker had left.