#always a joy to draw my wonderful boy

[artofloof]

YOUR BURGER. IT'S HIS.

[fayes-fics]

Eden

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...

I couldn't resist using a Season 3 gif cos hello.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, breeding kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, creampie, ie filthy babymaking. Also, the smut is bookended by fluff; yeah, that probably needs a warning, lol.

Word Count: 4.2k

Authors Note: This is a very belated request fill for @victoriaholland (HERE) and Anon (HERE) about Benedict with a touch of baby fever. I decided to combine the asks as I saw a way to weave them together. Sorry for the delay, but well at least babymaking seems appropriate for spring hehe. Thank you to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta, as always. Err, Enjoy! <3

Daphne’s latest child is beautiful; you delight in his joy as he bounces on your lap, learning the strength of his sweetly chubby legs, little fists wrapped tight around your fingers. 

Looking up, you catch your husband's eye from afar, his stare intense across the gardens of Bridgerton House as you sit under a tented shelter upon a picnic blanket. The rest of the family are scattered around, playing games or chatting, but you are quite content minding the little one while his nanny takes a few moments to eat lunch.

“Is everything alright, my love?” You inquire as Benedict draws closer. 

“Yes… I….” He seems a little flustered. 

“Are you sure?” 

You pull a funny face for the infant, who breaks out into the most adorable infectious giggles that has you grinning from ear to ear and hugging him into your body, swaying with him. 

“Are you alright? Minding the child?” He checks, his voice a touch odd.

“Oh yes. We are more than happy, are we not, my little prince?” You talk in a vaguely silly baby-talk voice, addressing the child in your arms as much as Benedict. 

Again, the child peals with delighted noises and spit bubbles enthusiastically, looking up at Benedict eagerly as much as you do.

“Well, that is wonderful news,” he blusters, and you could swear he is out of sorts, breathless almost. “I shall… leave you to it,” he adds, giving you a bow and then withdrawing as the little one wiggles out of your arms.

“Ignore your Uncle Benedict; he is being a silly billy,” you whisper conspiratorially once the man in question is out of earshot.

The response is babbled nonsense as the child bashes one wooden brick against another.

“I quite agree,” you state sagely before breaking into a goofy grin.

——

“Please?” Hyacinth wheedles.

“No, Hy,” you sigh without even looking up.

“Ugh, you are no fun!” she scowls, crossing her arms defiantly.

“What is all this?” Anthony clips as he strides into the drawing room, Benedict on his heels, as Hyacinth flounces dramatically across the room. 

“Your little sister is angry at me because I will not allow her to drink the punch; it has brandy in it,” you explain cooly.

“Quite right, too!” Anthony chimes as Hyacinth rolls her eyes.

“Listen to y/n, Hyacinth, and do as she says,” Anthony lectures, and you feel grateful for his support, effectively neutering her rebellion. “Despite a temporary lapse of judgment when choosing a spouse, she is otherwise one of the most sensible people in this family.”

“Hey…!” Benedict protests.

“Please…” Anthony withers, twisting towards him. “Brother, if there is one thing us Bridgerton men know how to do, ‘tis to marry a woman entirely too good for us. And well done on that, by the way.”

You smirk at Anthony’s hilarious way of putting his brother - your husband - in his place, catching Kate’s eye with a wink as she enters the room carrying her baby. 

“Y/n, come and meet the future Viscount; he’s awake at last,” she calls to you. 

You are immediately on your feet and grinning, taking the tiny bundle from her arms and cooing at the sweet little boy. The baby opens his enormous brown eyes and observes you for a second before breaking into a one-toothed grin and happily waving his fists at you.

“Oh, he really likes you!” Kate enthuses, delighted.

“As I do you, little one,” you smile, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

You look up to see Benedict with that same look on his face as earlier. A tempest, almost an energy over his being. It’s almost as if he is… aroused?! Which is most odd.

As you hand the baby back to Kate, giving him one final kiss, Benedict is suddenly by your side. Announcing to the family that there has been a change of plan and, regrettably, you will not be able to stay for dinner, his arm an insistent tug around your waist.

——

“Why did we not stay for family dinner as originally planned, my love?” 

Your question is soft, only just audible over the noise of the carriage as you trundle over the cobbled streets of Mayfair a few minutes later. 

“I decided that we should perhaps dine at ours this evening…” his voice adopting that deeper edge which always causes butterflies in your tummy. His hand lands on your knee, a heavy weight that feels portentous. He slides closer on the bench seat.

“Why might that be?” your ask turns breathy, entirely without you meaning it to.

“I want to be alone with you,” he murmurs, unmistakably pitched to arouse. 

The carriage seems to notch up a few degrees as the rocking motion presses your side rhythmically into his. The sound of the wheels and hooves is so loud. He twists to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pulls your back against his flank. 

“All day today, I have watched you,” he rumbles, hand warming the skin around your clavicle, fingertip brushing in circles. “You are so very good with children, darling. Seeing you so naturally with the babies and how you handled Hyacinth… you would be the perfect mother.”

You blush a little at his praise. “Thank you, my love. I would like children one day. Your children. Imagine a child with your eyes. They would be quite the most beautiful,” you sigh wistfully, leaning back into him, his hand feeling heavier on your skin.

Benedict chuckles modestly. “And what of your beauty? Would a child version of you not be the most fetching?”

You giggle and turn your head sideways to nuzzle against his jaw. “I think we would indeed make beautiful babies together, Benedict.”

“I agree,” his voice a tempting lilt, fingers skating downwards over the swell of your breast now, slipping inside the fabric and making you gasp as he tweaks your nipple. “And I think we should start as soon as we get home.”

“Did seeing me with babies suddenly make you want your own, Mr Bridgerton?” Your hand flexes on his knee as he toys with your breast.

“Oh yes darling, it made me want to take you right there…” he asserts, finally admitting those looks he gave you were indeed pure arousal.

You reach up and run your hand into his hair, fingers flexing on his warm scalp as you pull his face to yours.  “And suddenly, it appears I am no longer hungry for dinner…” you whisper flirtatiously, your cupid's bow brushing his stubbled upper lip.

He groans, and his passionate kiss is plundering, a tingle running over your limbs, just as your carriage comes to a shuddering stop outside your townhome. 

Uncaring of the neighbourhood or any prying eyes, Benedict sweeps you out of the carriage in his arms, carrying you bridal style over the pavement and through your front door.

“My wife and I are not to be disturbed,” he announces crisply and loudly to the staff as you enter the hallway.

Leaving no room for doubt about his plans by pulling you into a searing kiss for all to see before ascending the stairs rapidly. He practically growls as he kicks open the door to your master bedroom door and slams it shut again with his foot. 

“Benedict…” you stammer, heart pounding at how overwrought he is. 

You have never seen him like this. Commanding, crackling with an energy that has your body simmering. He is usually so sweet, affable, and kind. Every time you have been intimate since your wedding night a few weeks ago, he has been a complete gentleman: loving and so very tender. The grip he has had on you tonight feels different. This is something primal—like a switch has been flipped at a basal level in his being.

He places you down onto your feet before the roaring fire, his face intense.

“Wife…” The way he says it makes you feel a flush creep over your skin.

“Husband…” you respond in kind, belly fluttering with excitement.

“Take off your dress,” he orders, his dilated pupils shining in the firelight.

This is new. Usually, he is the one to remove it slowly and softly from your body. 

“I cannot, the buttons…” you confess, signalling behind you. You would need your ladies' maid to unhook them from between your shoulder blades.  

He moves closer, seeming so much taller; his ragged breaths dance in the tendrils of your hair as he reaches around behind your shoulders. With a rough tug that makes you startle, he tears the fabric asunder, the sound of tiny pearl buttons skittering across the polished wooden floor behind you as you gasp in surprise.

“There…” he smirks dangerously, “problem resolved.”

You are speechless as he withdraws a pace, looking at you expectantly. You follow his order, a slight quake in your hands as you push the frayed dress down your body, still a little shocked by his strength. Then you reach for the crisscross lacing of your stays, feeling the weight of his stare as each loop relents, his eyes hungry, his body heaving with deep breaths his fitted jacket taut with each inhale. You peel the item away, leaving just your thin white cotton chemise.

“Rip it too,” you plead before you realise it, enthralled by this assertive demeanour.

With a noise in the back of his throat, he takes a pace forward again, and you stare up at him, enchanted. He grasps the fabric above your breasts and then rips it loudly from your chest all the way to your ankles, the sound echoing up the walls. Again, his strength has your knees weak. As the torn pieces flutter from your body, you want to bathe in the hungry sound he makes as he realises you are clad only in white knee-high silk stockings, no underwear to be seen, the warmth from the fireplace swirling around your intimate area. 

As you stand almost naked before your imposing husband, him still fully dressed, there is a knot low in your gut. But it’s not fear; it’s something else entirely—desire. Trembling, breathless and wanting. An elemental wish to be thoroughly taken.

He steps forward, eyes glittering, and his fingers plough roughly between your legs, making you gasp.

“Eden,” he proclaims, his fingers snagging over your swollen pearl of a clit with almost rough strokes, the callous where he holds his paintbrush abrading your folds. “A wonderful, lush, wet garden. Just waiting to be planted.”  His words are hypnotic and low, questing fingers being coated with a dewiness that is entirely of his making.

“Please…” you whimper, squirming on his touch, captivated by this version of your husband, wanting to submit to him, a burning need low in your belly. His fingers slide faster, making a lewd, wet noise. 

“Are you going to let me?” Benedict croons. “Plant my seed inside you?”

Until now, he has always been careful to complete outside your body. A slightly bereft feeling every time - the wonderful moment cut short as he leaves you suddenly empty, a warm splash upon your thighs, tummy or spine. The idea he will stay inside you is alluring in a way you don’t fully comprehend.

“Yes, please, husband,” your nipples puckering almost painfully against the wool of his lapels as he crowds into you. 

“Good. Get on that bed right now,” Benedict orders roughly, pointing at your four-poster bed as he tugs off his jacket.

You scramble to obey. Feeling under a spell. Being naked save your stockings feels illicit as you lay back into the soft pillows and watch as he undresses, staring you down the whole time. 

You slide a hand between your legs instinctively as more of his toned body is revealed. He growls at the sight, you biting your lip and watching him, his torso bare, his trousers clinging to his shapely legs, to his swollen cock. He bends to remove his shoes, and the sight of his broad shoulders flexing is enough to make you moan. As he stands back up and hooks his elegant fingers around the trouser buttons, a smug look on his handsome face that he is doing this to you.

“Husband…” you call out to him, writhing on your fingers shamelessly now, one hand shooting up to brace your movements against the headboard, flushing warm down to your toes.

With a few dextrous flicks, the buttons relent, and his trousers drop to the floor. His naked body is always a delicious sight, but tonight feels more, every sense heightened, moaning again as he takes a step towards you, thigh muscles flexing, his cock standing proud to attention.

Again, a soft plea falls from your lips, your eyes raking every plain of his tempting form, feeling yourself swell under your fingertips.

“Not yet,” he clucks, the arrogance somehow more beguiling as you bite your lip. “I think I want to watch you come, my darling. All by yourself. I hear female pleasure can aid with conception after all.”

“Will you not touch me?” you petition, reaching your other hand imploringly towards him.

“No darling, I shall watch,” his lopsided grin deadly. 

He wraps a strong fist around his own cock, pumping slowly, a bead of moisture gathering at his tip, glistening in the candlelight as he does. 

“Now, use both hands, please. Place your fingers inside yourself,” Benedict instructs as you blindly follow, a languid buzz in your brain—you would do anything he told you to right now.

Planting your feet squarely on the bed, you drag your ankles up higher towards your bottom, letting your legs fall open wider to give him a better view as your other hand slides down. You plunge two fingers into yourself, your hips canting off the mattress with a staccato breath at the sensation of yourself, so hot and tight.

“That's right,” he endorses, a leisurely movement of his hand up and down his cock as he watches you from a few feet away. “‘Feel yourself, darling. Tis paradise, is it not?” that trademark rumbling voice skittering over your skin, goosebumps raising down your arms just at the tone. 

“Come closer,” you appeal breathily, wanting to smell him, feel his heat, his flesh—anything.

He shakes his head, smirking wider as his refusal spurs you on, desperate to come. Mewling as your fingers speed up, one circling your clit, the others buried as far as you can, wishing instead it were his long, graceful fingers reaching places you are unable. Watching him squeeze his own cock hurtles you fast, already aroused from the moment he slid a hand into your dress in the carriage. 

Unable to fight the tide in your body, you screw your eyes shut and call out his name as your pussy starts to convulse around your own fingers, toes curling into the sheet, your muscles all going stiff, your hips again raised as you feel the tide break. A gush of wetness runs down your palm and your bottom cheeks as your mind floats away. Distantly, you can hear him speaking, but it’s fuzzy as you flop back down, sated, your legs going flat, too shaky to balance.

You startle as a warm hand circles the wrist of your fingers still inside yourself, bringing you abruptly back into the room. Benedict looms over you, his chest heaving, that power still there.

“What was that?” your query drowsy, lips dry.

He chuckles richly. “I said that was spectacular,” he repeats, bemused. “But also that I want you to paint your nipples with your arousal, my love, for me,” he commands, tugging your hand so your fingers slide out of yourself.

You do as bidden, still floating down from the high, smearing your own warm juices onto your puffed areolas.

“Perfect..” he intones.

In one swift, athletic move, he mounts the bed. You cry out as his warm mouth encloses your left nipple, groaning lewdly as he licks you clean of your arousal, his tongue a heavy, warm, wet weight curling around your sensitive bud, his lips tugging gently, reawakening those synapses only just recovering from your orgasm. 

“Why do you always taste like heaven?” his dusky question is rhetorical, his breath gusting over your sternum as he swaps to your other breast to meter out the same treatment. He has you moving under him again as he settles his body over you more firmly, your hips tilting up to feel his hard cock graze your inner thigh. “I wonder if you will still taste like heaven when you are heavy with my child?” he hums thoughtfully as he teases your nipple with the tip of his nose, one hand cupping your empty belly. “I dare say even moreso, ripe like a vine, bearing fruit…” That sonorous voice teases over your skin as he moves slowly upwards to nuzzle your neck. “My fruit….” he adds, possessive as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, so loud now right by your ear.

His hands wind around your thighs as he shuffles position so he is kneeling between your legs, his ropey thighs spread wide under yours…

“Are you ready for that, my love?” he pauses until you nod almost imperceptibly; you squeak as he suddenly hauls you down the bed, hips onto his lap, your pelvis now higher than your head upon the sheets. Your stockings unfurling down your legs where he quickly plucks at the ribbons holding them aloft.

“Good, because I am more than ready for you,” it almost sounds like a warning.

Then, with a solid thrust, he spears into your body, the invasion toe-curling, your fingers grasping his muscular forearms that are clamped around your waist. It is a primal position, and he begins to thrust with no mercy, his cock feeling huge and heavy, a strong weight that drags heavily over your walls as your pussy clings to him. Your eyes flutter closed as you whimper his name, powerless to do anything but take his thrusts, draped across his lap as you are.

“Look at me,” he demands raggedly. And you do, his handsome face contorted with effort as he slams into you, a little bead of sweat forming on his brow. “Look at me while I fuck a baby into you, wife.”

He’s never spoken to you like this before, clipped, harsh. It seems appropriate that he would be almost desperate in an act so elemental, so of the earth—to create life. Stoking a fire deep in your core that is a clarion call for him, a frisson running over your skin at the idea you are being impregnated. Bred.

You know neither of you will last long with this almost frenzied coupling, the tendrils of your arousal already swirling so soon after your last, his near-brutish handling precisely what you need, your swollen pearl slammed into his flat abdomen with every stroke he takes. The sheets roll under your shoulder blades as he keeps the same position, your hips high, a mounting that you cannot and do not want to escape, knowing he is leaving fingertip bruises around the dip of your waist, marks you will carry secretly with pride just for him.

You moan his name, so close again to that ephemeral bliss, thrashing your head from side to side as if willing the pleasure to break and wash over you.

“Come on, come for me, milk me, darling. Take what you need, take my seed,” his voice a deep wrecked purr, the lines of his body tense, craving release as much as you.

That command is what breaks the dam for you, an almost violent ricochet fanning out from where you clench around him, his cries muffled behind the rushing noise in your ears, every part of you convulsing in a pleasurable wave. And then, in a floating haze, for the very first time, you feel your husband come inside you, a warm bloom that coats your walls. It's an intoxicating feeling; you never want him to come anywhere else ever again.

“That's it, well done, my love,” he croons, eyes still shut as he shudders with little aftershocks, not leaving your body—as if he wants to stay inside you always.

——

As the embers in the fireplace glow white, you lay in post-coital bliss, bodies dewy from exertion. Benedict rests his head upon your stomach as you card your fingers leisurely through his hair.

“Do you believe we may have made a baby, darling?” he hums, pressing his ear to your belly button as if listening for a heartbeat.

“I am certain of it, husband; you were so very thorough with your attentions,” you assure as he takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “I hope our baby has your face,” you opine.

“Even if it is a girl?!”

“Thou art as pretty as thou art handsome, Mr Bridgerton,” you quip.

He laughs, carefree, crawling behind you and pulling you into a spooned embrace. “Be careful with such provocation, wife; I may not be done with you after all,” he jests idly. “I, on the other hand, hope our child looks like you, even if it is a boy.” he posits, crowding into your back, his lips warm on the shell of your ear.

“Why?” you laugh, frowning, twisting to look back at him.

“So that I may love them as much as I do you,” he breezes nonchalantly as if what he says is not the sweetest thing you can imagine, causing a tart, sudden spike of want through your body, even as you lay sated.

“Be careful, husband,” you volley back, coquettish. “Or I may not yet be done with you.”

There is a sharp, approving intake of breath, and his hand slides low from your belly into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.

“Is that a promise” he rumbles, your gasp loud as his fingers expertly drag against your clit.

“It is whatever you want. Just do not stop,” you rush out, your hand curling around his bicep, feeling a rigid mass slide hot against your bottom. “Again, husband,” you appeal breathily. “Impregnate me again.”

“With pleasure, wife,” he growls, surging into your body with a force that again steals the very breath from your lungs.

The pinkish light dawn is streaking over the ceiling above when you both finally succumb to sleep after many more vigorous attempts at babymaking. The last one, perhaps the most desperate, you pinned against the headboard, him fucking into you so hard from behind that a jagged crack appears, spidering up the wall from where the bedframe slammed into it. A flaw which he steadfastly refuses to get fixed, claiming it to be the most profound art—a souvenir and ode to a momentous night.

——

9 months later

Benedict’s lips mash against your sweaty brow as he keeps lauding you with praise, excitement and pride evident in his every word. You flop back onto the bed, exhaustion deep in your bones, your body turned inside out, hurting in a way you have never known.

But it was all worth it.

What feels like only moments later, in your shattered, addled state, the doctor and nurses depart. Your husband perches on the bed next to you, his face a picture of wonderment. Holding not just one but two bundles of joy in the crooks of his arms. One girl, one boy—fraternal twins.

“My love, we have created the most beautiful creatures on all of this earth,” he attests partisanly, his voice profound with emotion, his eyes pinging from one swaddled face to the other as they sleep soundly.

You shoot him a watery but ironic smile. “I suppose, dear husband, that is what happens when you spend a whole night impregnating me. You succeed twice over.”

His brow raises pointedly, his tongue shooting out to pass over his bottom lip. “Are you suggesting next time around, wife, we keep going for three days straight? So that I may have a brood of eight by the time we are done?” Deploying his bedroom voice that he knows full well makes your knees weak.

“Do not say such things in front of the children!” you chide, swatting his knee where it touches your thigh. “And no, I am not carrying six of your progeny at once; that is simply preposterous!”

“Four?” he petitions with a wink.

You roll your eyes affectionately, settling back into the mound of pillows. “A maximum of two at a time is my final offer, Benedict Bridgerton,” you respond drolly.

“Entirely reasonable,” he chuckles contentedly, dropping a kiss onto each of their foreheads before handing both to you so delicately, as if they are the most precious bundles in the world. 

Which to you both, they are.

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[the-ancient-dragons]

EXTRA OVERCOMPLICATED ICEWIIIIINGS

You know how it goes, Joy Ang is cool and I'm not yadda yadda move on.

Details and explanation below!

Otherwise, next week is the last Pyrrhian tribe: NightWings!!!! See you then!

More overcomplicated dragons.

If the RainWings are the design that destroys Joy's work the least, this one takes the original IceWings and tosses them out the window. Going into this design I knew it would be hard, but boy was I unprepared to get art block for 2 months because of it.

I eventually found my inspiration in the girdled, spiny, and horned lizards, They. Are. So. Freaking cool. If you think a crocodile skink is awesome, look up girdled lizards. Not as fancy with the eyeliner but they are SPIKY!

I fell in love in particular with the giant girdled lizard. I knew I wanted the scales of the IceWing to look rough and like they were made of actual ice or diamonds - or covered in frozen sleet and snow - and this lizard was basically perfect inspo for that. Also, blue spiny lizards. They are basically real life IceWings, full stop.

But even though I had perfect references to draw from, I still struggled with the head shape. I wanted them to feel like a reptilian polar bear, which is why I slightly blunted it, but I think I should have gone with a more angular shape instead. I can always change it later when I do their full-body.

I did have a very fun time with the horns, however. I wanted them to be a mix of narwhal teeth and icicles (yes, narwhal 'horns' are actually overgrown teeth. One tooth, usually, but sometimes they can have two!!). Before I get distracted I should explain how they grow: the scales at the base of the horn are constantly growing and essentially create the horn. That's what gives them their narwhal-like spirals.

I chose a similar approach to the neck spikes (untangling that mess was fun, let me tell you. Grids are very useful when doing many scales/spikes). At the base of each one you'll notice a scale forming it. On the back, I wanted to give a good side profile of the spikes. Technically, they are ever-growing, and need to be trimmed or sharpened constantly.

Now, as I was drawing them, I asked myself: why do IceWings need a mane of spikes?

A stupid question, you might wonder, but to me it's very important. Animals look the way they do for survival. So, while it's important visually for the ice theme, how could they be explained scientifically?

And then, when thinking of polar bears, I got my answer.

How the hell does a giant sparkly dragon hunt in the north? Seals would probably be part of their diet, but it's hard to sneak up on them if you're a ten ton reptilian flying creature, so I imagine they would tackle the problem like a polar bear would by waiting by a breathing hole and pouncing at the right moment. They already look like a frozen snowbank, so that part is easy.

But any hungry polar bear would be doing the same thing, and like a giant dragon, they would be waiting downwind of the breathing hole too. They wouldn't pose a threat to adult dragons or dragonets larger than them, but in real life polar bears are dangerous hunters and prey on humans. Why wouldn't it prey on a dragonet it thinks it can take on? Things in the WOF universe seem to be extra big (or scavengers/humans are tiny) so I think it would be a feasible for a desperate bear to hunt a dragon. They cannibalize, anyway, so going after another apex predator isn't out of the question. In this case, the horns and neck spikes would be a dragonet's saving grace, discouraging attacks from behind and especially on their necks. A bear's teeth could never get through their scales, but they could still crush their airways and choke them, and the spikes would keep them away from their necks and protect them from that fate. As they grow up, the neck spikes' length and strength could be used to determine a dragon's health and help them select good partners.

Finally, continuing with the bear theme: for the scales, I took inspiration from polar bear fur (which is actually hollow) to help design how IceWings preserve their body heat. In polar bears, its used to make them look white by reflecting the light of the sun, but in IceWings it could keep the cold out. Air pockets would create a barrier between them and the outside elements, and whatever gets in would meet their thick layer of fat that does the real warming. Yes, IceWings would be squishy, but you'd probably poke your eye out or stick permanently to their side a la tongue to cold metal pole.

Don't hug IceWings; they're very cold.

[novaursa]

The Flames We Hide

- Summary: You were returning from Dragonpit with your sister, Rhaenyra, when you saw Harwin. And you both have a silent agreement: to size another moment together, no matter how brief or fleeting.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger twin sister of Rhaenyra, is bonded to a dragon and has strong resemblance to her grandmother Alyssa. These events happen right after The Secret Flame. Visit my blog for more works like this. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 4 622

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The sky burns in shades of amber and rose as the sun dips toward the horizon, casting a warm, golden light over the world beneath you. The winds tug at your silver-gold hair, whipping it back in wild tangles as you soar high above the lands on the broad wings of Silixia. The she-dragon’s powerful muscles ripple beneath you, every beat of her wings a steady rhythm that reverberates through your entire body. You lean forward, your hands gripping the familiar curve of Silixia’s neck, feeling the warmth of her scales beneath your gloves.

Beside you, your sister Rhaenyra rides atop Syrax, her golden dragon a flash of lightning against the fading daylight. The two of you are a matched pair, always in tandem, even in flight. The court speaks of your bond with wonder and envy—twins in blood, daughters of the king, yet so very different. Rhaenyra’s laughter echoes through the air, mingling with the shriek of Syrax, a sound full of reckless joy and the heady thrill of freedom. Your own smile curves across your lips, a rare expression these days, as you push Silixia to fly faster, challenging Rhaenyra in your unspoken competition.

For a moment, you’re not Y/N Targaryen, princess of the realm, but simply a girl with her sister, free of the burdens and expectations that weigh on you daily. Up here, in the skies, you are boundless.

But it’s a fleeting escape, as you both know.

The winds whistle in your ears as you descend toward the Dragonpit, the ancient stone structure looming in the distance. Even from here, you see the specks of the Dragonkeepers, rushing to prepare for your arrival. The world below draws closer with each passing second, and with it, the return to the pressures of the court—pressures neither you nor Rhaenyra wish to face. You steal a glance at your sister, noticing the tightness around her eyes, the way her jaw clenches as she too begins the descent.

Marriage proposals. The word alone feels like a chain around your neck, heavy and unyielding. They’ve plagued you both since you were of age—foolish lords and ambitious knights seeking to claim your hand, thinking they might wield the power of the Iron Throne through you. Your father, King Viserys, listens to the lords’ suggestions with increasing frequency, entertaining every potential match, though none ever seem to stick.

Rhaenyra once joked that the king might have betrothed you to half the realm by now if he could make up his mind. The most recent farce was a suggestion of a Blackwood heir, a boy barely out of his swaddling clothes. It had made you laugh, a rare and bitter sound, but the truth was, these discussions grated on you both.

As your dragons land in unison with an earth-shaking thud before the Dragonpit, the ground trembles beneath their weight. Silixia growls low in her throat, molten-gold eyes flashing as she looks toward the Dragonkeepers with wary interest. You run a gloved hand down her brass scales, murmuring soft words of reassurance as she snorts, sending a gust of warm breath that rustles your skirts.

“Sometimes I wish we could stay up there forever,” Rhaenyra says, her voice edged with the same melancholy that grips your heart. She dismounts Syrax with fluid grace, her gaze drifting skyward as if she could will the sun to stand still and delay the inevitable return to the Red Keep. You understand her sentiment all too well; in the skies, the concerns of land-bound mortals feel distant, insignificant.

You slide down from Silixia’s side, boots crunching against the gravel. “At least up there, no one’s shoving marriage contracts in our faces,” you reply, your tone carrying more bite than you intend. Silixia’s tail flicks, brushing against your side in a gesture of comfort, and you smile at her affectionately. “Father may claim he’s thinking of what’s best for us, but it feels more like he’s trying to sell us off.”

Rhaenyra’s expression darkens, her violet eyes narrowing. “He doesn’t see it that way,” she mutters, her voice laced with frustration. “To him, it’s our duty—marrying to secure alliances, continuing the Targaryen line. But it’s never about us, is it?”

The Dragonkeepers approach cautiously, guiding Silixia and Syrax toward their lairs. The great doors creak open, and the smell of straw, smoke, and dragon flesh fills the air. Silixia reluctantly allows herself to be led, casting one last, longing glance at you before disappearing into the darkness. You feel a pang in your chest as she’s taken away, though you know she’ll be safe.

“No, it isn’t,” you agree softly, turning to face Rhaenyra as the last rays of the sun cast your shadows long against the stone. “But Father isn’t the only one who decides our fate, Rhaenyra. If we let them all dictate our lives, we’ll never have a say in our own stories.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see the same fire in them that burns within you—a desire to break free, to carve your own path. “We’ll have to make our own way then, won’t we?” she says, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You and I, together.”

“Together,” you echo, determination strengthening your voice. Whatever the realm or the lords conspire, you and Rhaenyra would not be mere pawns. The blood of the dragon flows through your veins, and dragons do not bend to the whims of others.

As the sun passes fully beneath the horizon, the golden light fading into twilight, you know that this brief escape is over. The court awaits, and with it, the endless schemes and proposals, but you’ll face them with your sister by your side. And perhaps, if the gods are kind, there might be a way to chart your own destiny, one that doesn’t leave you chained by the expectations of others.

With one last glance at the sky, you turn toward the path leading back to the Red Keep, your sister falling into step beside you. The night is full of uncertainties, but as long as you have each other, you’ll find a way to burn bright and free.

The council chamber is filled with the low murmur of voices and the sound of parchment being unrolled as the small council convenes. The sun filters through the high windows, casting shadows across the dark wood of the table where the lords of Westeros sit, advising the king. At the head of the table, King Viserys I sits with an air of distracted authority, his mind clearly elsewhere, but nonetheless prepared to endure another round of discussions on the matters of the realm.

Lord Lyonel Strong, seated at his place on the council, finds it difficult to focus. His thoughts are a tangled web, caught between duty to his house and the growing concern for his eldest son, Harwin. For weeks now, Harwin’s unexpected confession has haunted Lyonel. Harwin’s words replay in his mind over and over: “Father, I am in love with her.” 

Lyonel had always known Harwin to be a man of quiet strength, with a loyalty that ran as deep as any river, but he had not expected this. It was not the confession of love itself that troubled Lyonel—though it was a complicated and dangerous emotion where a Targaryen princess was concerned—but the implications. If word reached the king that Harwin had grown too close to Y/N, it could spell disaster for House Strong, and worse, for the princess herself. The realm would not take kindly to whispers of such intimacy, especially in the shadow of Rhaenyra’s own contentious situation.

He suppresses a sigh as the discussion turns, the lords now speaking of the princess Y/N and her betrothal. Viserys’ brow furrows slightly as Lord Otto Hightower speaks up, his voice as oily and insidious as ever.

“The matter of Princess Y/N’s marriage cannot be delayed much longer, Your Grace. The Blackwood heir remains a favorable option—an ancient and noble house, strong ties in the Riverlands…” Otto’s voice trails off as he glances around the table, his eyes sharp and calculating.

Viserys looks tired, the mention of yet another marriage proposal clearly grating on him. “The Blackwood boy is still a child,” the king mutters, almost to himself. “Barely a year old. I do not see how a match like that benefits Y/N.”

Lyonel’s grip tightens on the arms of his chair. Harwin had been crushed when the proposal first came to light, unable to mask his anger at the idea of Y/N being married off to someone so unsuitable. Lyonel had known better than to comment on it then, but now, as the subject resurfaces, a plan begins to form in his mind. It is a risky maneuver, one that could backfire spectacularly, but it is the only chance he sees to protect both his son and the princess.

The discussion drags on, but Lyonel barely hears it, his thoughts focused on what he will say to the king when the others leave. When the meeting finally concludes, and the lords begin to gather their things, Lyonel remains seated, waiting for the others to clear out. Viserys notices and raises an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Lord Lyonel,” Viserys says, his voice expectant. “It seems you have something on your mind.”

“Your Grace, if I might have a word in private,” Lyonel replies carefully, rising from his chair with a slight bow. Viserys gestures for the guards to leave the chamber, and soon the room is quiet, save for the crackling of the hearth.

“What troubles you?” Viserys asks, leaning back in his seat with a weary expression. “It is rare for you to seek private counsel with me.”

Lyonel’s heart pounds in his chest, but he keeps his face composed, as he has always done. “It is a matter regarding Princess Y/N, Your Grace. And her marriage.”

Viserys sits up a little straighter, his weariness giving way to curiosity. “Go on.”

“I understand that there has been much discussion of potential matches, including the recent talk of a Blackwood heir. I would not presume to question the wisdom of your council, but I believe there is another path that has not yet been fully considered—one that could ensure both the stability of the realm and the happiness of your daughter.”

Viserys frowns slightly, his eyes narrowing. “And what match might that be, Lord Lyonel?”

Lyonel chooses his words with the utmost care. “My son, Ser Harwin, has always been loyal to the crown, a man of proven strength and honor. I believe he could be a fitting match for Princess Y/N.”

Viserys’ surprise is evident in the way his eyebrows shoot up. “Harwin Strong?” The king’s tone is one of genuine shock. “I had not considered such a proposal from you, Lyonel. You’ve never once sought advancement for your house in this manner. Why now?”

Lyonel forces himself to hold the king’s gaze. “Because I believe this match would benefit not only my house but your daughter as well. Harwin’s affection for her is sincere, Your Grace. He would be devoted to her in both heart and duty. And the crown would gain a staunch ally in the Riverlands through House Strong.”

Viserys leans back in his chair, his eyes distant as he considers the proposal. “It is unexpected,” he admits. “But sincere affection, as you say, is not often found in such matters. Still, I must consider the optics. The princess… she is a Targaryen, and such a match would raise eyebrows. Harwin is a good man, but he does not hold the power or prestige of some of the other houses being proposed.”

Lyonel nods, expecting this reaction. “True, Your Grace. But there is strength in loyalty and love. Harwin would never see the princess used or diminished by court politics. He would protect her fiercely, as he has always protected those he cares for. Surely, a match built on genuine regard would lead to a more harmonious union than one based solely on titles.”

Viserys remains silent for a long moment, his fingers drumming on the table as he contemplates the idea. “You make a compelling case, Lyonel,” he says at last, his tone softer now, as if genuinely pondering the possibility. “But this is not a decision I will take lightly. I will consider it, but there are other matters to weigh as well.”

Lyonel bows his head in acknowledgment, sensing that he has planted the seed he needed to. “Of course, Your Grace. I only ask that you weigh it with care. The princess’s happiness—and the stability of the realm—must be our highest priority.”

Viserys nods, though his expression remains conflicted. “You are dismissed, Lyonel. I will think on what you’ve said.”

As Lyonel takes his leave, he feels the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. He knows he has taken a bold risk, one that could either secure a brighter future for his son and the princess—or doom them both if it fails. But for now, all he can do is wait and hope that Viserys’s heart leans toward the idea of love and loyalty over ambition and politics.

The door closes softly behind him, and the chamber is left in silence, with only the faint crackle of the fire echoing in the room.

The streets of King’s Landing are alive with the usual noise and bustle of the city as dusk settles over the capital. The gold cloaks of the City Watch patrol every corner, their eyes sharp for trouble. Ser Harwin Strong rides at the head of a small detachment, his gaze roving over the streets with practiced vigilance. His armor gleams in the fading light, and his presence alone is enough to command respect from the men under his command. 

Yet, beneath the exterior of duty, Harwin’s thoughts are elsewhere. He cannot shake the weight of his father’s concerns, the quiet warnings Lyonel had shared after Harwin’s confession. There are dangers in being so close to the princess, but the heart is a stubborn thing, and his heart belongs wholly to Y/N. Her laughter, her fierce spirit, the fire in her violet eyes—they haunt him in moments when he should be focused. 

As his patrol rounds the corner near the Dragonpit, his attention sharpens when he sees a group approaching. The distinctive white cloaks of the Kingsguard stand out against the shadowy backdrop of the city. Harwin immediately recognizes the figures being escorted—Princess Rhaenyra and her twin sister, Y/N, mounted on fine steeds and surrounded by the armored knights sworn to protect them. The sight of Y/N sends a jolt through him, a mix of yearning and concern. 

Their eyes meet, and in that brief moment, a silent understanding passes between them. There’s no need for words; they know each other too well. Y/N gives the faintest nod, and Harwin feels his pulse quicken. Whatever it is she’s planning, he’s already committed to playing his part. 

Suddenly, Y/N sways in her saddle, her hand fluttering to her forehead as if struck by a sudden dizziness. The Kingsguard immediately take notice, and Ser Harrold Westerling, ever vigilant, urges his horse closer. “Princess, are you unwell?” he asks, his voice laced with concern. 

Y/N’s voice is faint, but convincing. “I feel… light-headed. Perhaps the strain of the flight has caught up with me.” She sways again for emphasis, and Harwin spurs his horse forward, concern etched into his features. 

“Ser Harrold, allow me to assist the princess,” Harwin says, his tone urgent yet respectful. He moves his horse beside Y/N’s, ready to catch her should she falter further. “I’ll take her to the Red Keep myself, where she can be seen to immediately.”

Ser Harrold’s eyes narrow, suspicion flickering in their depths. “That will not be necessary, Ser Harwin. The princess will be escorted by me and my men directly to the Keep. We are under strict orders from the king.”

Harwin’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his expression neutral. “I understand, Ser Harrold, but I’ve known the princess since she was a child. Let me ensure her safety, as I would see to my own kin. I can bring her swiftly and with care.”

Before Ser Harrold can respond, Rhaenyra rides forward, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed mischief as she catches on to her sister’s ploy. “Ser Harrold, it is clear that Y/N is in distress, and she would be more comfortable with someone familiar. Ser Harwin has always been a trusted protector of our family.” She tilts her head slightly, letting a hint of command slip into her tone. “Surely, you would not deny my sister the comfort she needs when it is readily available?”

Ser Harrold glances between the two princesses, clearly torn. On one hand, his duty is unwavering; on the other, Rhaenyra’s argument is persuasive, and there’s little cause to suspect foul play. He knows better than to openly contradict a royal daughter, especially one as willful as Rhaenyra. After a long, tense moment, he relents, though his reluctance is obvious.

“Very well, Ser Harwin,” Ser Harrold says, his voice tinged with resignation. “But know that I’ll hold you to your word that the princess reaches the Keep unharmed and without delay. The king will hear of this if she does not.”

“On my honor,” Harwin replies, dipping his head with a solemn expression, though a flicker of relief and triumph gleams in his eyes. 

With that, Rhaenyra flashes a sly grin at her sister and spurs her horse onward, leaving Y/N and Harwin behind. “I’ll see you at the Keep, sister,” she says, her voice lilting with amusement. “Do take care on your way.” She gives Ser Harrold and the other Kingsguard a pointed look, leading them on toward the Keep as they follow her.

Once they’re out of earshot, Y/N lets out a small breath of relief, her feigned dizziness evaporating as she steadies herself in the saddle. Harwin watches her closely, a hint of admiration in his gaze.

“Quite the performance,” he murmurs, guiding his horse closer to hers as they begin to ride slowly, side by side, through the quieter streets. “I almost believed you were truly unwell.”

Y/N’s lips curve into a playful smile. “I thought it convincing enough. It’s not every day a princess needs rescuing, after all.” But the teasing lilt in her voice is softened by the warmth in her eyes as she meets his gaze. “Thank you for playing along, Harwin.”

“For you? Always,” Harwin replies, his voice low and sincere. He reaches out, his fingers briefly brushing against hers in a gesture that is both subtle and intimate, hidden from prying eyes in the fading light. “But tell me, what is it you needed from me that required such theatrics?”

Y/N’s expression turns more serious as she considers her words. “I needed a moment away from all the expectations, away from the endless talks of marriage and duty. And more importantly… I needed a moment with you.” The weight of her admission hangs between them, unspoken but understood.

Harwin’s breath hitches slightly, his heart tightening at her words. He has always known this dance between them is a dangerous one, but it is one he cannot resist. “Every time I see you surrounded by those guards, by the chains of duty that bind you, it makes me wish things were different,” he says softly, his voice full of yearning. “I wish I could be more than just a protector.”

Y/N turns in her saddle, her gaze locking onto his. “You are more, Harwin. You know you are.”

For a moment, the world shrinks to just the two of them—the city, the court, all of it fades away. But reality cannot be ignored forever, and the path to the Red Keep looms ahead. They both know this brief interlude is all they can afford, but the unspoken promises between them are enough for now.

As they approach the gates, Harwin reluctantly pulls his hand away and straightens in his saddle, resuming the role of dutiful knight. “I’ll see you safely back to your chambers, Princess,” he says formally, though the glint in his eyes tells her everything he cannot say aloud.

“Until the next escape, Ser Harwin,” she replies with a soft smile, a hidden message beneath the words. 

With that, they continue toward the Keep, knowing that while their paths may be dictated by duty and expectation, there are still moments they can carve out for themselves—stolen glances, hidden touches, and unspoken vows that bind them closer than any formal oath could.

The vast halls of the Red Keep are quieter than usual as the day gives way to the cool embrace of evening. The golden light from the torches flickers on the stone walls, casting long shadows that dance and twist in the dim corridors. As Harwin escorts you back to your chambers, you can feel the weight of the day slowly lifting, replaced by the familiar tension that simmers between you and him. It’s a tension that has grown with each stolen glance, each brief touch hidden from prying eyes.

As you approach the throne room, Ser Harrold Westerling stands at the entrance, his white cloak billowing slightly as he catches sight of you. His eyes shift briefly to Harwin, a silent acknowledgment in his expression. Though his face remains stern, there’s a flicker of understanding—a silent nod that tells Harwin he has done his duty and that the princess has been safely returned. 

“Ser Harwin,” Harrold says in a gruff voice as the two pass by him. He doesn’t need to say more. The message is clear: this is where their paths diverge, but he’ll trust Harwin to see the princess the rest of the way. Harwin dips his head respectfully in return, but his focus remains on you as you make your way deeper into the Keep.

The royal quarters are just ahead, but Harwin notices something in your expression—a spark in your eyes and the faintest curve of a smile on your lips. He knows that look all too well, the one that signals you’re about to do something reckless, something entirely unplanned. Before he can even ask what you’re plotting, you move with a sudden swiftness, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward a shadowed alcove. Your fingers grip his with a sense of urgency and mischief.

“Y/N, what—” he starts, but you silence him with a playful look, your eyes gleaming with a secretive promise. 

You drag him behind a heavy tapestry, revealing a hidden doorway that he hadn’t noticed before. The stone creaks as you push it open, leading into a small, dimly lit chamber tucked away from the prying eyes of the court. The air inside is thick with dust, as if it hasn’t been disturbed in years. Harwin’s breath catches in his throat as he realizes where you’ve brought him—a place so private that it feels as if it belongs only to the two of you.

The moment the door closes behind you, the pretense falls away, leaving only the truth of your feelings. The tension that has been building throughout the day snaps, and you close the distance between you in an instant. Your lips crash against his, the kiss fierce and full of the passion that you both have been forced to suppress. Harwin responds without hesitation, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer until there is nothing between you but the heat of your bodies. 

It’s a dance you both know well by now—his lips mapping the familiar curve of your neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging as his kisses trail down to your collarbone. There’s a hunger in his touch, tempered by a tenderness that only you bring out in him. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin as he kisses you again, slower this time, savoring every second. You press closer, your hands slipping beneath the leather of his armor, finding the hard planes of his chest beneath. The feel of his heartbeat, strong and steady, thrums beneath your palm, grounding you in this moment.

“Every time I think of you marrying another,” Harwin murmurs against your lips, his voice a low, desperate whisper, “it drives me mad. The thought of losing you… I don’t know how I’d bear it.”

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes searching his as you trace a line down the side of his face. “You won’t lose me,” you breathe, your words laced with quiet determination. “Not now. Not ever. I belong to no one but myself—and to you, if the gods are kind.”

Harwin’s grip tightens on your waist, a flash of fierce emotion in his eyes. “I want more than stolen moments, more than secret chambers and whispers in the dark,” he confesses, his voice thick with longing. “I want to be with you openly, without fear or restraint.”

“I want that too,” you reply, your voice trembling with sincerity. “But until then, until we find a way… we have this.” Your hand trails down to his chest, your fingers pressing against the rhythm of his heartbeat, as if to mark it as your own.

His lips find yours again, softer this time, a kiss that speaks of unspoken vows and promises that only the two of you understand. His hand slides down your back, memorizing every curve, every dip, as if committing it to memory for the nights when you can’t be together. Your own touch mirrors his, tracing the line of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, and the warmth that radiates from his skin. Every touch, every kiss is laced with the knowledge that this cannot last—at least not now. 

As much as it pains you both, there’s no time to linger. The world beyond this hidden chamber is waiting, and you both know that others will soon seek you out. Harwin pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you catching your breath, hearts racing as you savor the closeness one last time.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” you whisper, your fingers brushing against his lips.

“So do I,” Harwin murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss to your brow. “But we’ll find more moments like this. I promise you.”

You smile softly, the sadness in your eyes giving way to a glimmer of hope. “Until then… we’ll make the most of what we have.”

Reluctantly, you both disentangle, fixing your clothes and smoothing out your appearances to mask any signs of your secret rendezvous. Harwin’s hand lingers on yours as you step back into the corridor, the hidden door sliding closed behind you. The tapestry falls back into place, and it’s as if nothing ever happened—just another cold stone wall in the labyrinth of the Red Keep.

But as you make your way back to your chambers, Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on you, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat longer. There’s a silent agreement between you, one that needs no words—this isn’t the end, just another chapter in a story that’s far from over.

With one last glance over your shoulder, you offer him a small, secret smile—the same one you gave him earlier, full of the promise of more unpredictable escapes, more stolen kisses, and the hope that one day, these moments won’t have to be stolen at all. Harwin watches you disappear into the shadows of the royal quarters, the ache in his chest both a comfort and a torment as he turns away, returning to his duties, but with the warmth of your touch still lingering on his skin.

[miviaceleste]

A Blackrock Story: A Boy with Turquoise Eyes

Happy 12th Anniversary to Blackrock Chronicle!

This comic ended up being 47 pages long (when I first sketched it, it was only 20 pages long). Since I can only upload 30 images in a post, I had to combine 2 pages into 1 image so hopefully it's still visually fine and not annoying to scroll through!

I wrote this mini-story more than 10 years ago, so I figured it was time to finally make it into a comic (after editing the writing a lot because I became a much better writer since lol).

Be aware of the TWs, and I hope you enjoy this comic!

TW: Violence || Blood || Injuries/Scars/Burn Marks || Kidnapping || (Temporary) Death || Loss of Limb / Amputation

Thank you all for reading one of my most insane projects ever!

Now, here’s another long story:

About 8 years ago, my life became so busy that to stay on top of my studies and activities, I stopped watching a lot of YouTubers, including the Yogscast.

I’ve grown up throughout the years. I had to stop acting like a kid to figure out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I’m still an artist today, but I haven’t drawn in this way for about 3 years to pursue my real passion. I love to draw, but I didn’t have the time or inspiration to make something grand.

About 3 months ago, I suddenly got curious about how all those YouTubers I stopped watching were doing, so I checked out their channels and watched a video or two before moving on. When I got to the Yogscast channel, on the other hand, I quickly fell in love with the new content and with everyone again.

It was insane to see how immediately my love for them came back. In 3 months, I’ve watched so many videos and streams/VODs. It’s all so comforting, funny, and uplifting. Clearly, I missed so much content in the past 8 years, but at least I don’t have to worry about running out of things to watch for a while.

What made me most happy was that despite changing a lot, I never stopped being that kid who laughed at the Yogscast’s shenanigans. It just goes to show that no matter how much the world tries to push you around, you never lose that sense of joy you had as a child.

Now, about Rythian:

Since I started watching the Yogscast in 2011, Rythian has always been my favorite. I loved his series so much, especially with how he got into character to give us an immersive experience. It was an escape for me as a kid. When difficult moments were thrown at me, I watched Rythian’s series to find a sense of comfort.

So when I started watching his and Zoey’s Blackrock series, my mind was blown. The storytelling, acting, humor, and drama of the series were so immersive and touching that my creativity exploded.

I mainly use art to express myself and my interests because I struggle to talk about it. But funny enough, Blackrock was the only interest of mine that got me to not draw, but to write. I wrote a lot of short stories about the series—even how I envisioned the series would end. I was so inspired to create all the time from this series.

And what’s crazy is that at the beginning of this summer, I found all of those written drafts and notes from when I was a kid. I kept them all for 10+ years and found a very loose (and not that good) draft of this comic and I felt really inspired to finish it.

It was roughly when I was first watching Blackrock too when I realized that I can be creative in the future. The Yogscast helped me understand that I can do whatever I want for the rest of my life. If they could do it, then why can’t I?

What’s also wonderful is that even after so many years, Rythian never stopped being my favorite. When I started watching the main channel again a few months ago, I immediately found myself rooting for him whenever he was in the group videos. I just remembered how much happiness he brought me when I was younger and it makes me so happy that I still get so much joy whenever I hear his voice.

While working on this comic, I watched all of Kirbycraft and caught up on Kirby Farm. I can’t help but smile the whole time Rythian, Briony, and Kirsty interact with one another. The dynamic of these three brings me so much laughter and comfort. A part of me is upset that I didn’t get back to watching everyone when Kirbycraft was still live, but better late than never, right?

I also originally started this comic without the intention of posting it. But then I figured, Hey, it’d be great to share it with everyone who’s also been impacted by this series and the Yogscast in general, so I made this blog to post it here. Honestly, I’m not sure when the next time I’ll be able to draw is (who knew building a career takes away a lot of your energy and time?). But I think that’s what’s so wonderful about my love for Yogscast and particularly Blackrock: I didn’t make this comic for the likes or views. It was just because I wanted to, and I’m so happy to see there are so many people on here who feel the same love for them as I do.

This series and the people who made it, along with the people who supported it and loved it and continued to love it, impacted me for the better. I learned so many years ago that I can be creative for a living, and have been working hard towards doing that since.

Happy 12th Anniversary to the Blackrock Chronicle. To Rythian and Zoey who put a smile on this kid’s face even during the toughest of times.

And to the Yogscast, thank you for being there for me when I needed you all the most and for still being here when I came back. Your ability to inspire me and make me laugh never disappeared throughout the years I was gone, and I’m ready to laugh some more.

[imthebadguyyy]

i can fix him, no really i can.

Pairing : charles leclerc x reader

Fandom : formula 1

Series : the tortured poets department

Synopsis : they tell say God help her when I tell em he's my man...

warnings : angst.

the jokes that he told across the bar were revolting and far too loud...

The Monaco Grand Prix had been spectacular. Charles Leclerc, the golden boy of Formula 1, had won in his home country, and the celebrations were grand. The streets of Monte Carlo were alive with excitement, and the night was still young when you found yourself at a cozy bar with Charles and your friends, including Alex and Lily.

Charles was in high spirits, the euphoria of his victory coursing through him. You couldn't help but feel proud of him, but a knot of anxiety had formed in your stomach. You brushed it off, attributing it to the intensity of the day. The bar was crowded, the laughter loud, and the drinks flowing.

You sat beside Charles, trying to engage in the celebratory mood, but the jokes he told across the bar were revolting and far too loud. You could see the discomfort in Lily’s eyes, and Alex’s attempt to diffuse the tension with his own humor only partially succeeded.

“And then there was my ex, remember her?” Charles roared with laughter, slapping the table. “She was always so organized, never made a fuss about anything. I swear, sometimes I think she had everything more together than anyone else I’ve ever known.”

The laughter that followed was forced, a thin veneer over the awkwardness. Your heart sank. Charles had a few too many drinks, and his filter was gone. The way he talked about his exes, and sometimes even you, made you feel small and insignificant. Tonight, it stung more than usual.

Lily gave you a sympathetic look, and you tried to muster a smile. Alex changed the subject to racing, trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous waters. But Charles was on a roll.

“And you, love, you’ve got your quirks too,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. His voice was louder than necessary, drawing the attention of those around you. “Remember that time you tried to cook us dinner and nearly burned the kitchen down? Classic.”

The laughter was scattered, and you felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You wanted to disappear, but you stayed, for Charles. The night dragged on, each joke more painful than the last, until finally, it was time to leave.

Back at the hotel, the atmosphere was heavy with the unspoken words that lingered in the air. Charles, still basking in his victory, seemed oblivious to your discomfort. He collapsed onto the bed, eyes half-closed, a contented smile on his face.

You changed into your pajamas quietly, the tension building within you. Charles didn’t notice. He didn’t kiss you goodnight or tell you he loved you. He just lay there, lost in his own world.

As you slipped into bed beside him, tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. The silence was deafening. You turned away, facing the wall, the weight of your doubts pressing down on you. Was this what love felt like? Was this the future you had envisioned with him?

Sleep was elusive, your mind racing with questions and insecurities. You felt a chasm growing between you, one that his victory and the night’s revelry couldn’t bridge. Charles had won a race, but you felt like you had lost something precious.

In the quiet darkness of the hotel room, you lay awake, wondering if Charles would ever see the pain behind your forced smiles, the hurt beneath your laughter. The night that had started with joy ended in silent despair, leaving you unsure about the road ahead.

they shake their heads, saying god help her, when i, tell em he's my man...

The living room buzzed with nostalgia and laughter as you mingled with Charles' childhood friends. Marta, Riccardo, and a few others caught up animatedly near the fireplace, while Lily and your closest girlfriends gathered near the kitchen, sharing stories and memories.

Charles slipped his arm around your waist, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady your nerves. "Hey everyone," you announced, your voice trembling slightly. "There's something we want to share."

The room quieted, and curious eyes turned towards you. You felt Charles' supportive presence beside you, which gave you a measure of reassurance.

"We're dating," Charles declared with a bright smile, his eyes searching for signs of approval or happiness.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, Marta and Riccardo exchanged concerned glances. Lily's expression softened with worry, but she quickly composed herself.

Without saying a word, Lily motioned for the other girls to follow her. You gathered in a nearby room, and they enveloped you in a supportive hug.

"We just want you to be careful," Lily whispered, her voice filled with concern. "You know how Charles can be sometimes."

The other girls nodded in agreement, their expressions a mixture of sympathy and caution. "We're here for you no matter what," one of them added, squeezing your hand gently.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you felt their unconditional support. These were the friends who had always been by your side, through thick and thin. Their concern was palpable, a reflection of your deep bond and shared history.

"I appreciate your concern," you managed to say, your voice trembling with emotion. "But I really care about Charles. I hope you can see that."

They nodded understandingly, their embrace tightening around you. "Just promise us you'll look out for yourself," Lily said softly.

You nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. Despite the doubts lingering in the back of your mind, you knew you had their support. With them standing beside you, you felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out alright.

Back in the living room, Charles was chatting animatedly with his friends, oblivious to the heartfelt conversation happening just a few rooms away. You took a deep breath, wiping away your tears. Whatever happened next, you knew you weren't alone.

his hand so calloused from his pistol, softly traces hearts on my face...

The day had been a disaster. Charles had been so sure of his win, so confident in his abilities. But the race had ended in bitter disappointment. You could see the frustration radiating off him as he stormed out of the pit, his face a mask of barely contained rage.

You followed him quietly, giving him space as he retreated to the trailer. He slammed the door behind him, and you hesitated before opening it slowly and stepping inside. The tension in the small space was palpable.

"Charles," you said softly, hoping to calm him down. "It's just one race. There will be more."

He whirled around, his eyes blazing. "You don’t get it!" he shouted, the force of his anger making you flinch. "I needed this win. Everything was riding on this."

You took a step back, feeling a mix of fear and sorrow. "I'm sorry," you whispered, unsure of what else to say.

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated, and then turned away from you. "Just...leave me alone," he muttered, his voice still edged with anger.

Your heart ached at the distance between you. You wanted to reach out, to comfort him, but his fury made you hesitant. You stood there, torn between giving him the space he demanded and wanting to bridge the gap his disappointment had created.

Minutes passed in tense silence. Eventually, his shoulders sagged, and he turned back to you, the anger in his eyes replaced by regret. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now, though it still carried the weight of his frustration.

You nodded, but the hurt lingered. "I know," you replied quietly, not sure if you believed it yet.

He stepped closer, his calloused hands reaching for you. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the harshness of his words earlier. He softly traced hearts on your face, the roughness of his fingers a reminder of the man he was — strong, yet capable of such tenderness.

You closed your eyes, trying to reconcile the conflicting emotions swirling within you. His anger had scared you, but his apology and the softness of his touch made you question your feelings. Could you forgive him so easily? Did his regret outweigh the sting of his outburst?

He continued to caress your face, his fingers moving in soothing patterns. "I hate that I took it out on you," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. There was genuine remorse there, but also a desperation for your forgiveness. You wanted to trust him, to believe that this was just a moment of weakness, not a glimpse into a darker side of him.

"I don't know what to feel," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "You scared me, Charles."

His face crumpled with guilt, and he pulled you into a tight embrace. "I know," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry. Please, just give me a chance to make it right."

You stayed in his arms, your heart heavy with uncertainty. His touch was soothing, but the memory of his anger lingered. You wanted to forgive him, to move past this moment, but a part of you wondered if this was a sign of things to come.

As he traced another heart on your cheek, you closed your eyes again, trying to find clarity in the midst of the chaos. You loved him, but love alone couldn't erase the hurt. Only time would tell if his actions matched his words, if his tenderness could outweigh his anger.

For now, you held onto the hope that he could change, that the man who traced hearts on your face was the real Charles, not the one who lashed out in anger. And as you stood there, wrapped in his embrace, you silently prayed that your hope wasn't misplaced.

i can fix him, no really i can..

The evening had started off so well. Charles had invited you to a family dinner at his mother's house. Pascale, Arthur, Lorenzo, their girlfriends, and a few of the drivers were all there. The atmosphere was lively, filled with laughter and warmth. You felt a sense of belonging, surrounded by the people Charles loved most.

But as the night wore on, a seemingly innocuous comment about a minor mistake Charles made during a recent race triggered something in him. What began as light-hearted teasing quickly escalated into a heated argument. Charles' temper flared, his frustration from the season bubbling to the surface.

"You don't understand the pressure I'm under!" Charles shouted, his face flushed with anger. "It's not just a game to me!"

You tried to calm him down, to remind him that everyone was just joking, but he was too far gone. "Charles, it's just a silly mistake. Everyone makes them," you said gently, hoping to diffuse the situation.

But your words only seemed to fuel his rage. "You always take their side!" he snapped. "You never support me!"

The room fell silent. Pascale and the others exchanged uneasy glances, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the evening had taken. Arthur stepped forward, trying to intervene. "Come on, Charles, she’s just trying to help."

Charles whirled around to face his brother, his eyes blazing. "Stay out of it, Arthur. This is between me and her."

You felt a pang of hurt at his words, but also a rising determination to stand your ground. "I'm on your side, Charles. I always am," you said, your voice trembling with emotion.

He shook his head, his expression a mix of anger and frustration. "No, you're not. You never are."

With that, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The silence that followed was deafening. Pascale sighed deeply, her face etched with worry. "Let him go, dear. He needs time to cool down."

Arthur put a comforting hand on your shoulder. "He’s being unreasonable. It's not your fault."

But you shook your head, tears welling up in your eyes. "I can fix him. No, really, I can," you insisted, your voice breaking. "He’s just under so much pressure. He doesn't mean it."

Lorenzo's girlfriend, Charlotte, gave you a sympathetic look. "We know he doesn't mean it, but you can't keep taking the brunt of his frustration. It's not fair to you."

You looked around the room, seeing the concern in everyone's eyes. They cared for you, and they cared for Charles, but they didn't understand. They didn't see the Charles you saw — the one who was vulnerable and scared, hiding behind his anger.

"I love him," you said quietly, more to yourself than anyone else. "And I know he loves me. I just have to be patient."

Pascale walked over and took your hands in hers, her eyes filled with motherly compassion. "Love is important, but it shouldn't hurt this much. Sometimes, it's okay to step back and let him come to terms with his own issues."

You nodded, but your heart was heavy with resolve. You knew they were right, but you couldn't give up on him. You had seen glimpses of the man he could be, the man he was when he wasn't weighed down by his own demons.

"I have to try," you whispered, more determined than ever. "I have to."

You slipped away from the group and found Charles outside, pacing back and forth, his hands clenched into fists. He looked up as you approached, his expression softening slightly. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice raw with regret. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

You stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm. "I know you're under a lot of pressure, Charles. But you can't keep taking it out on me. We need to find a way to handle this together."

He nodded, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I know. I’m sorry," he repeated, his voice breaking. "I just...I feel like I'm drowning sometimes."

You held him close, your heart aching for him. "We'll figure it out," you promised. "But you have to let me in. You have to trust that I'm on your side."

He nodded against your shoulder, his grip tightening. "I do. I will."

As you stood there in the darkness, holding each other, you knew the road ahead would be difficult. But you were determined to help him, to fix what was broken. Because despite everything, you loved him. And you believed that love was worth fighting for, even when it hurt

trust me, i can handle a dangerous man..

The car ride home was supposed to be peaceful. The two of you had spent a pleasant evening with friends, but as you drove back, a comment about his racing performance earlier in the week had sparked an argument. The tension between you and Charles had been simmering for days, and now it was boiling over.

"You're always criticizing me," Charles snapped, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "You think it's easy out there? You have no idea what it's like!"

You took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "I'm not criticizing you, Charles. I'm just saying you need to be more careful. It's not just about you—there are other drivers, the team, and me."

His jaw clenched, and he pressed harder on the gas pedal. The car surged forward, the speedometer climbing rapidly. "You don't get to tell me how to drive," he growled.

Your heart started pounding, but you kept your voice steady. "Charles, slow down. This isn't the track."

He ignored you, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his knuckles white against the wheel. The car continued to pick up speed, the scenery outside blurring into a streak of lights and shadows. Fear tightened your chest, but you refused to let it show.

"Charles, this is dangerous," you said firmly. "You're not thinking straight."

He shot you a fierce glare. "Stop trying to control me!"

You met his gaze, refusing to back down. "I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to keep us safe. You're being reckless."

He let out a bitter laugh, his anger palpable. "You think you can handle everything, don't you? That you know better than me?"

Your patience snapped. "I can handle a dangerous man," you shot back, your voice rising. "But I'm not going to sit here and let you put our lives at risk because you're too stubborn to listen!"

Charles flinched as if you'd struck him. For a moment, the car seemed to hover on the edge of something catastrophic. Then, slowly, he eased off the gas, the car's speed gradually decreasing until you were traveling at a more reasonable pace. The silence that followed was thick with unresolved tension and unspoken words.

You both stared ahead, the only sound the hum of the engine and the faint whir of the tires against the asphalt. The anger and fear churned inside you, but you kept your composure, refusing to give in to the chaos.

Finally, you reached home. Charles parked the car and turned off the engine, but neither of you moved to get out. The weight of the argument hung heavy in the air.

"I don't want to fight," he said quietly, his voice breaking the silence.

You turned to look at him, your expression softening just a fraction. "Neither do I. But you need to understand that your actions have consequences. It's not just about you anymore."

He nodded, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and exhaustion. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You sighed, the tension slowly ebbing away. "We need to communicate better, Charles. We can't keep having these explosive arguments."

He reached for your hand, his touch tentative. "I'll try," he promised. "I don't want to lose you."

You squeezed his hand, offering a small, tentative smile. "I don't want to lose you either. But we have to work on this together."

With that, you both stepped out of the car and walked into the house in silence, the echoes of your argument lingering in the night air. The road ahead would be challenging, but you were determined to face it together, one step at a time.

Come close I'll show you heaven, if you'll be an angel all night.. 

The argument had been intense, but now the storm had seemingly passed. You and Charles found yourselves in the dimly lit living room, the atmosphere heavy with unresolved tension. He reached for you, his touch tentative at first, but quickly growing more insistent as he pulled you closer.

"I'm sorry," he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with regret. "I don't want to fight anymore."

You responded to his kiss, your anger melting away into a fervent need to reconnect. Your hands roamed over each other, the intensity of the make-out session escalating quickly. Lips met with a desperate passion, tongues intertwined, and the world outside ceased to exist.

"Come close," you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "I'll show you heaven if you'll be an angel all night."

He paused for a moment, his eyes searching yours, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, really?" he teased, his voice low and husky.

His lips trailed to your neck, kissing the delicate skin there, taking it between his teeth and sucking it to leave a mark, making you gasp and moan at the sting, letting your head roll back.

You nodded, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Yes, but you have to promise not to bring up the argument again. Let's just enjoy the night."

He chuckled, the sound dark and sardonic. "And if I don't behave? What happens then?"

You pulled back slightly, studying his face. "Then the deal's off. No more fighting, Charles. I mean it."

His expression hardened, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by a familiar edge of defiance. "You think you can control everything, don't you?" he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Always trying to manage me, like I'm some child."

Your heart sank, the heat of the moment dissipating in an instant. "That's not what I meant," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "I just want us to have a good night together."

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Sure, whatever you say. As long as I'm your perfect little angel, right?"

The insult stung, cutting through the fragile peace you'd managed to build. Without another word, you pushed away from him, the anger and hurt flooding back. "You know what, Charles? Forget it. I thought we could move past this, but clearly, you're not interested."

You turned on your heel, heading for the door. Behind you, Charles called out, his voice tinged with frustration and regret. "Wait, don't go. I didn't mean it like that."

But you didn't stop. You couldnt. The promise of a passionate night had been shattered by his careless words, and you needed space to cool down and collect your thoughts.

As you walked away, you heard him sigh deeply, the sound filled with the weight of unspoken apologies and missed opportunities. The night that could have been spent in each other's arms was now tainted by lingering resentment and unresolved tension.

In the quiet of your room, you let the tears fall, mourning not just the lost night, but the growing distance between you. It would take more than apologies and promises to mend the rift, but for now, you needed to be alone.

The future was uncertain, but one thing was clear: you couldn't keep going on like this. Something had to change, and it had to start with him.

but your, good lord didn't need to lift a finger, i can fix him, no really i can....

The vacation had been a welcome escape from the relentless pressure of the racing season. You and Charles had joined a few of the drivers, including Lewis and Pierre, at a luxurious beachfront villa. The days were spent basking in the sun, enjoying the ocean, and indulging in rare moments of relaxation.

But even here, away from the track, the shadow of Charles' recent bad streak loomed large. It was a warm evening, the group gathered around a bonfire, laughter and conversation filling the air. Charles, however, seemed distant, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames.

"I feel like I need to pray," Charles said suddenly, breaking the jovial mood. "I need something to break this bad streak."

You squeezed his hand, trying to offer some comfort. "You know, you've always said I'm your good luck charm," you joked lightly. "You’ve got pole, fastest lap, and wins when I’m around. Maybe I’m the one you should be praying to."

There was a moment of silence. You expected a laugh, or at least a smile, but instead, Charles' expression darkened. He pulled his hand away, his eyes narrowing. "You think you're like God? That’s incredibly arrogant."

The words hit you like a slap. The laughter around the fire died instantly, replaced by stunned silence. You blinked, trying to process the sudden shift. "Charles, I was just joking," you said quietly, feeling the weight of everyone's eyes on you.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden deck. "You don't get it," he snapped. "You think everything revolves around you."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you fought them back. "I was just trying to lighten the mood," you said, your voice trembling. "I’m always here for you, trying to support you."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Maybe I don’t need your kind of support."

The tension was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words. Lewis and Pierre exchanged concerned glances, clearly uncomfortable with the unfolding drama.

"Charles, that’s enough," Lewis said gently, stepping in to diffuse the situation. "We’re all friends here."

But Charles ignored him, turning on his heel and walking away, disappearing into the darkness. You stood there, feeling the sting of his words, the hurt cutting deep.

Pierre got up and walked over to you, his expression filled with empathy. "Hey," he said softly, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

You nodded, but the tears finally spilled over. "I can fix him," you insisted, your voice breaking. "No, really, I can."

Pierre sighed, his eyes sad. "You can't fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed."

Lewis stepped closer, his gaze steady and compassionate. "You're better off without him if he keeps treating you like this. You deserve someone who appreciates you, not someone who lashes out."

You shook your head, the conviction in your voice wavering. "He’s just under so much pressure. He doesn’t mean it."

Lewis and Pierre exchanged another look. "Pressure or not, there’s no excuse for treating you this way," Lewis said firmly. "You need to think about yourself, too."

You wiped your tears, the reality of their words sinking in. But despite everything, you still loved Charles, still believed in the man you knew he could be. "I just need to talk to him," you said, more to yourself than to them.

Pierre gave you a small, sad smile. "Just be careful, okay? We’re here for you."

You nodded, taking a deep breath. The night that had started with so much promise was now marred by tension and hurt. As you walked away from the fire, your heart heavy, you knew you needed to find Charles, to try and reach him one more time.

You found him by the shoreline, the sound of the waves crashing against the sand echoing your turbulent emotions. He stood with his back to you, his posture rigid.

"Charles," you called softly, stepping closer.

He turned, his face illuminated by the moonlight, and for a moment, you saw the vulnerability beneath his anger. "I’m sorry," he said, his voice raw. "I didn’t mean to snap at you."

You reached out, taking his hand. "I know," you whispered. "But we can’t keep going on like this. We need to find a way to deal with this pressure without hurting each other."

He nodded, pulling you into an embrace. "I don’t want to lose you," he murmured into your hair.

You held him tightly, hoping that this time, things would be different. But a part of you couldn’t shake the fear that this cycle would continue, that the man you loved would keep lashing out in his moments of weakness.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the waves crashing at your feet, you silently prayed for strength—for both of you. Because love was worth fighting for, but you couldn’t do it alone. Charles needed to fight too, for himself and for you.

WOAH- maybe, i can't... 

The villa was supposed to be a retreat, a place where you and Charles could escape the relentless pressure of the racing season and find some peace. But the calm had been shattered by yet another argument. The drivers who had joined you—Lewis, Pierre, and a few others—had made themselves scarce, sensing the brewing storm.

You were in the kitchen, the words flying between you and Charles like daggers. "You’re always on my back, always criticizing me," he shouted, his face red with anger. "Do you think I don’t feel the pressure already?"

"I’m not criticizing you, Charles," you replied, your voice shaking with frustration. "I’m trying to help you, to support you. But you keep pushing me away."

He scoffed, turning away from you. "Support me? By constantly nagging? That’s not support, that’s control."

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your composure. "I’m not trying to control you. I just want you to be your best, and that means sometimes you need to listen."

He whirled back around, his eyes blazing. "Listen to you? You think you know better than me? That you can fix all my problems?"

The words hit you hard. You had spent so much time believing that you could help him, that your love and support could make a difference. But now, standing there, the reality crashed down on you. He didn’t want to be fixed, didn’t want to change. He wanted to wallow in his frustration and drag you down with him.

"I thought I could fix you," you said, your voice breaking. "No, really, I did. I thought if I loved you enough, supported you enough, you’d see that you don’t have to go through this alone."

He rolled his eyes, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "That’s your problem. You think you’re some sort of savior."

The anger flared inside you, hot and fierce. "And you think you can treat me like this and I’ll just keep coming back? You’re the one with the problem, Charles. You’re so caught up in your own misery that you can’t see what’s right in front of you."

He opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off, your voice rising. "You know what? I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending that I can fix you when you’re not willing to fix yourself. I’m done."

Charles looked taken aback, his bravado faltering. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying that I’m leaving," you said, the words steady and resolute. "I deserve better than this. Better than you."

You saw the shock in his eyes, the realization that you were serious. "You’re not serious," he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"I am," you replied, turning to grab your bag. "I’m done being your punching bag. I’m done trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved."

You walked past him, heading for the door. As you reached for the handle, you felt a sense of clarity, of strength. "I can fix him, no, really, I can," you muttered to yourself, then shook your head. "Woah, maybe I can’t."

You opened the door and stepped outside, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. As you walked down the path, away from the villa and from Charles, you heard the door slam behind you. He didn’t follow, didn’t call out to you.

The drivers who had been waiting outside looked up, concern in their eyes. Pierre stepped forward, his expression gentle. "Are you okay?"

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "I will be."

Lewis came over, his hand resting on your shoulder. "You did the right thing. You deserve someone who values you."

You felt the tears well up, but they were tears of relief, of release. "Thank you," you said, your voice steady. "I needed to hear that."

As you walked away with your friends, leaving Charles and his toxicity behind, you felt a newfound sense of freedom. You had tried to fix him, but in the end, you had fixed yourself by walking away. And that was the greatest victory of all.

a/n : it appears I've given allll the angsty ttpd songs to charles 🥲 this one was painful to write. as always, comments likes reblogs feedback etc is always appreciated 🤍

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[ssaeri]

for your eyes only

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, elliott and farmer are married, he writes love poems for his spouse and is told to monetize them, oh boy is he not happy about that ☆

You pat your pig's backside encouragingly and coo as it digs its snout into the ground, unearthing yet another truffle that you add to your basket. Can't believe you were worried about this one being the runt of its litter—it's quickly proving to be one of the fastest learners, taking to truffle hunting like a duck to water. It'll do just fine with the rest of the adult pigs.

Taking care of the farm by yourself has always been a gargantuan task, but as the years go by, everything grows bigger—the coops, the barns, the ponds, the crops, the expectations—and exhaustion wears you down to the bone. You sigh and push to your feet, ready to head into the nearest coop to collect more eggs. Collect animal products, drop them into churning machines, harvest and sell. It feels like the cycle never ends. Against your neck, the small mermaid's pendant slides on its chain, another reminder of your absent husband. An extra pair of helping hands made the daily work light; you wonder if it's selfish to ask him to stay home more often.

"I know, I know," you say to your angry chickens once you open the door. You miss your husband, but these girls like to remind you that they miss him more. "He'll be home soon. Bear with me, okay?"

After giving each of them pats on the head, a motion they accept with reluctance, you dig around the hay for eggs. The large chicken and dinosaur eggs are easy to spot, but for the delicate duck eggs, you prod every corner with your fingers until you come across something warm and smooth. You push away your hens as they peck at your hands. The ducks are fine with you. The chickens, however...how in the world did Elliott win them over?

Outside, your dog barks. A single warning to the intruder before the tone shifts into excitement. Someone familiar, then. Maybe Marnie is stopping by to give you some hay like she mentioned last night. With winter approaching, any addition to your reserves is appreciated, and you're already wiping your hands on your overalls to greet her.

"Hey, Marnie! I'm just in here—"

You stop in your tracks when the visitor raises his head, though he's not exactly a visitor. Elliott smiles as you draw close, ignoring the horde of chickens now lining the fence for his attention. Their wings flap, clucking loudly as they hit each other.

"Good morning, my love," he says over the noise, as if it really is the start to a normal day. His thumb reaches out to rub at a dirt smudge on your cheek. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Just some leftovers and coffee," you reply, dazed. Your husband tends to have that effect, and after two weeks apart, you feel it more than ever. You lean into his touch, comforting against your wind-blown skin. "I thought you were coming home tomorrow?"

"I decided to come back early. The office didn't need me today, anyway."

"You should've messaged me! I would've picked you up at the train station," you say. Behind him sits his traveling suitcase, the wheels speckled with mud from being dragged through the road. He steps in front of it. "Why don't you go get unpacked? I'll be done soon."

He leans his elbows onto the fence, tilting his head until his fiery hair spills over one shoulder. "You're rather quick to dismiss my presence. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're unhappy to see me," he says, though his words hold no accusation. It's merely a way to boost his ego when you reassure him. After all, you practically radiate by his side. "Would you like me to help?"

You glance at the dress shoes, the slacks, the spotless cardigan that he's already shrugging off to reveal a clean pressed button-down. Not exactly farm-friendly attire. "No, I'll be alright by myself."

"I could go change really quickly," he offers in a suspicious rush.

You search his expression then, and underneath the joy of being back, there's...something. You squint, unable to make it out. Sure, he must've missed you, but this feels like it runs deeper than that. When you give him a nod, he hurries towards the house, your dog chasing and barking at his heels. True to his word, he's back in minutes.

The chickens are much more cooperative now, and you roll your eyes at how they parade around your husband. They even hop around the coop, showing him where they've hidden their eggs from your intrusive searching.

"Thank you, dearies," he says to the hens. You swear they swoon.

"A real heart breaker," you deadpan. "Have you told them you're married?"

He chuckles, taking your hand as you move into the barns next door. While you lay out new hay on the feeding bench, he unhooks the stools and milk pails and sets them on either side of the door. It's hard to believe that just a few months ago he barely knew how to approach your animals, let alone help you with the chores.

He whistles lowly, and the first cow trudges to his station, ready to be milked. You get settled at your own station. One of the newer goats skids to the front of the line, eager to be let outside. It's not quiet in the barn—it never is, not with twelve grown animals waiting for their turn—but when you call Elliott's name, he looks at you. His ponytail needs to be retied.

"So why'd you come home early?" The young adult goats don't have much milk, just enough for a small container. You pat its hind leg, and it runs into the crisp autumn air with an excited bleat.

"I missed the atmosphere of our farm. The fresh air of the valley is good for my creative soul, unlike the bustle of Zuzu City."

You only raise your eyebrows, and he sighs from your all-knowing gaze.

"You read me a little too well, my love."

"I sure hope so, after all this time together. Did something happen at the office?"

Since the release of his last collection of short stories, he's been invited to the city more often for author-related events. This latest stint, running a series of writing workshops in partnership with Zuzu University and the local community, was organized by his agent in hopes of bigger opportunities. Maybe even a guest lecturer contract, they've said on more than one occasion, though Elliott refuses to be apart from you for too long.

Elliott gives another sigh. "Something like that. I just...it was admittedly negligence on my part. I was in the middle of writing you another letter when someone required my presence down the hall. I thought that it'd be a quick matter, so I didn't clear my desk. But apparently one of the secretaries came looking for me while I was out."

"Did they read...?" You wrinkle your nose, knowing how private Elliott is about his unpolished work. He's even more private about what he writes for your eyes only. "I'm sure they were embarrassed."

"That's what bothers me the most! She had the audacity to bring it up in front of everyone when we had a meeting, even quoted a few lines—"

The cow groans as he moves particularly rough. He gives it an apologetic scratch under the chin.

"So for the past two days, everyone has been trying to talk me into releasing a collection of love poems, which I would have no issues with if it didn't stem from such a personal...I mean, the poems were addressed to my muse, and when I explained that it was you, they said that was even better. Something about how the romance will really sell." He frowns. "I like being able to support myself—contribute to our funds, you know—with my writing, but it's not...a commodity. I'm allowed to make art for the sake of making art."

His forehead is furrowed, and you would reach out to ease the frustration if your hands weren't busy.

"What's your plan now?"

He scoffs. "There's no plan regarding that. I completely refuse. It's quite insulting, in fact, the idea that I'd put my love on display for a paycheck."

It's relieving, you have to admit. Even after getting a taste of success, your husband remains the same person you said your vows to. The same romantic who holds you in such high esteem. There's so many emotions—namely affection—swirling in your chest, but you're not the writer so all you manage is a simple Okay.

"Okay," you say again for good measure, but he must understand you because his expression smooths. "So what do you want for lunch?"

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Good To Be (Like You)

Nyx Archeron - Feysand - Slice of life - Fluff

Nyx really wants to be like his dad. His dad loves him just as he is.

“Maybe I'm not some chosen one but I'm my father's son and that's something I'm pretty proud to be.”

He happily sat at his art table concentrating on the paper beneath his fingers. He’d awoken this morning to the welcoming aroma of pancakes and bacon flowing into his room from the kitchen, received a warm hug and kiss from papa on the way out the door, and mama held his hand as they walked the streets of Velaris on the way to kindergarten.

Nyx’s bright eyes took in the morning bustle on the streets, noticing a smiling male and female stepping into a bakery along the Sidra that had a three-tiered cake in the window with colorful icing. His little wings rustled with excitement as he wondered if it was chocolate or vanilla and what his birthday cake this year would be. Last year it was strawberry.

Mama squeezed his hand and he looked up to see her pretty face smiling softly at him. “Did something at the bakery catch your eye, Nyxie?”

An adorable grin spread across his face. “Everything!

Feyre giggled, knowing just how much her little one loved sweets.

A black cat ran across the street ahead and Nyx exclaimed “Mama!” He tugged on her hand to hurry over to the little cat that didn’t scurry away from him, but instead brushed its head against his legs as it weaved between them, rubbing against him in friendly greeting. The cat’s wiry fur tickled his palms as he stroked its back.

“Good kitty” he cooed.

Feyre smiled as her boy with a heart for animals - even the scraggly strays, took his time gently petting the cat.

“You ready little one? We’ll be late if we hang around for too long.”

“Just another moment, mama.”

Feyre couldn’t say no, not when her sweet boy’s heart was so full of love to share.

“Alright, little one.”

A minute later, Nyx reminded himself that his father was never late. If he was to be a proper High Lord someday, he needed to be timely. So he stood, signaling letting his mother know that he was ready to continued walking.

They arrived to the school right on time. Mama bent down to kiss each of his cheeks and his forehead, eliciting a giggle. She was the prettiest lady in the whole world and loved him very much.

Not quite ready to say goodbye, Nyx raised his arms and flapped his wings, a silent plea for her to pick him up.

As his mother scooped him into her arms, he pressed his chubby cheek against her shoulder and reveled in the warmth and love that her embrace always brought him. “Love you mama.”

—————

“Nyx Archeron” a not unkind voice broke through his thoughts of the morning. “Sorry, Ms. Westfall!”

While daydreaming, he’d managed to draw a rainbow arching over Velaris, buildings of varying hues mirroring it as the Sidra ran alongside the city and refracting the vibrant colors off its rippling waters. “See Ms. Westfall! It’s a rainbow over The Rainbow.”

Ms. Westfall smiled at the art. “That’s lovely Nyx! You have quite the talent.”

As the children were led to their extra curricular classes, Ms. Westfall stopped Nyx for a moment.

“Little one, I am very impressed with your artistic vision.”

Nyx’s wings shifted of their own accord in response to the praise.

“I know your powers haven’t started coming in yet and you’ve really, really been hoping for them to.”

As she said this, Nyx crossed his fingers as he always did. He wanted to be like his papa so badly, to grow up to be the most powerful High Lord just like him, and do good for the world.

Ms. Westfall looked to Nyx with warm eyes, sensing where his thoughts were drifting.

“There are other ways to create joy and bring good to the world even without powers, little one. Like art, for instance, which you have quite a talent for.”

Nyx looked to her quietly but felt a bit of excitement fluttering in his chest at the thought of making a difference through art.

“We are working on a mural for the new cafeteria and I’d love to have your help, Nyx. One of the older art classes will be helping too. Perhaps while other kiddos in your grade go to their “emerging powers” class, you could work with me and the fifth graders on the mural.

Nyx nearly squealed with excitement. “Do you really mean it Ms. Westfall?” His body couldn’t contain the excitement as he bounced in place.

He spent the rest of the day giddy over the idea of learning from the older kids and painting with them.

—————-

Nyx ran out to greet his father at the end of the school day, nearly tripping over his own feet. “Papa!”

His father squatted down and stretched out his arms with a smile. “Stand daddy!” Nyx yelled as he ran to him. Rhys braced himself as fifty-five pounds of gleeful kindergartener made lift-off and whooshed into him at full force.

Rhys stumbled back a step as he laughed and hugged his boy. “Look at you go kiddo!”

They began their walk home and Nyx couldn’t help but look up to his dad, trying to emulate him in all his mannerisms though he couldn’t quite master the powerful swagger that naturally rolled off of him.

Nyx let out a disheartened sigh that caught his father’s attention. “What’s wrong buddy?”

“Nothing.” Nyx shrugged, unsure how to even describe what he was feeling.

Rhys could tell whatever it was bothering Nyx wasn’t something he was ready to discuss. He noticed a bakery nearby, the same one that caught Nyx’s eye every time he walked him home from school. “You know what sounds good? A pastry.”

Nyx perked up as he saw the bakery ahead. “Yes!” He squealed, running toward it, careful not to let go of his father’s hand. An old, grumpy looking man stood ahead of them and Nyx hid behind his father’s leg out of his sight as the male gruffly ordered a coffee and pastry.

Instead, Nyx focused on the bakery itself, inhaling the warm aroma of honeyed sweetness and the potent air of coffee within. His papa had let him try coffee once and he quickly realized the smell was much better than the taste.

Nyx saw a powdered pastry with raspberry filling and eagerly pointed at it. The nice pixie-winged female behind the counter handed it to him with a smile and Nyx made sure to give her a big “thank you!”

When he turned to head for the table, he saw the grumpy man bump into the counter and drop his pastry. Instead of angry, the male just looked sad. Nyx thought he’d be sad too if he dropped his pastry. Maybe the male only looked so grumpy because he was having a bad day.

Nyx considered how he’d had a really good day himself. Perhaps the older fae just needed cheering up, so before he could second guess he ran to the old male who was still frowning at his pastry that had fallen.

“Here you go!” Nyx raised his hand placing the paper bag his pastry was in on the counter next to the sad male. The male appeared shocked and before he could thank him, Nyx was skipping back to his father who’d watched the whole encounter intently.

Rhys didn’t miss the way the old man’s disheartened face turned to one of warmth and tenderness at the kind gesture from the little boy.

Rhys only gave the male a nod, a silent plea for him to just accept the kindness.

The male gave a grateful nod of his own in return and discarded the pastry that had fallen, leaving the bakery with the pastry Nyx had given him and a smile.

They went through the line again so Nyx could order another pastry and Rhys couldn’t help the way his heart swelled at the kindness of his little boy.

———————

As Nyx sat down for dinner with his mama and papa that evening, he told them of the art project Ms. Westfall had invited him to participate in and he recounted to his mother about the older male at the bakery.

Rhys grinned at his little artist who aimed to make the world a better place, one act of kindness at a time.

“Just like your mother.” Rhys mused.

—————

The next morning Feyre walked Nyx to school as usual. The little Illyrian studied the way she gave smiles to those she passed on the street and the way she moved with such grace and confidence in her stride. Nyx couldn’t help but admire her with joy in his heart as he thought to himself,

“It’s good to be like mama.”

“Maybe I'm not some chosen one but I'm my mother’s son and that's something I'm pretty proud to be.”

—————————————

A/N: this was one of those drabbles that I just started writing and ran with wherever my mind wandered. Thanks for reading!

ACOTAR gener taglist: @lilah-asteria @thecollegecowgirl @mochibabycakes @nickishadow139

[littlestpersimmon]

hello! i love your art so much, especially as a trans boy who likes to wear pretty things and have long hair haha. the way you draw top surgery scars is so lovely and unique, but i was wondering if any of your transmasc ocs are non-op! just cause im always on the lookout for art that reflects how i feel about my own trans body : ) thank you for sharing your gorgeous art with so much trans joy!!

Thank you!

This ask is also really surprising to see, bc nearly all of my trans guy ocs are non op! I guess it's because I never draw them not wearing shirts you can't really tell. Renya, the main character of my wip, is non op! Look at him please 🥺

[sugar-coat-it]

hi belle! what do you think body piercer is like as a bf 👉👈

also would you do an alphabet or something for him? lowkey dying for more content for him

Hiii!! <3 

Omgggg wait wait let me tell you some details

He’s very much into punk rock (Fugazi, Rage Against The Machine, etc.) and lives in his band tees. Much like the back room of the parlor, a lot of his stuff is covered in stickers for his fav bands. So I think he’d really like to introduce his girl to his music if she’s willing to try it out, it would mean a lot to him!

Whenever he picks her up, he’s always blasting music LOUD so she knows when he arrives 

Big fan of CDs. You can bet your ass that he’s burning CDs for her for all sorts of things. Songs that remind him of her, songs he wants to fuck her to. Some of them are stupid too, like “Good Shit” scrawled in black Sharpie on a disc. Sometimes he’ll scribble little drawings on there too. His handwriting is shit and she loves it.

Also music related, he's an amazing concert bf, always making sure she can see and no one is getting too close to her. He'd be SO PROUD if she went to a punk rock show with him

Now… if she ever did say she was interested in getting another piercing of any kind, he is begging her to let him do it for her (for free, with princess treatment). He’s very much like “fuck yeah, do it” whenever she brings up a tatt or piercing of any kind

Quietly cuddling, he’s tracing her features with his finger, he comes to the bridge of her nose and he’s suddenly like “You have a good nose for a septum piercing” and she’s like “???”

He remembers everything about her, and he makes a point to, even if he has to write sticky note reminders to himself sometimes (ADHD brain as hell)

This man SMOKES. My god his marijuana tolerance level is ungodly. If his girlie is into it too, it would be the joy of his life to roll spliffs for her.

Big fan of getting baked with her, putting on music, and then going off about the album’s impact on the music world because he knows she likes listening to him talk, and none of his boys let him ramble on nearly as much

The late-night diner visits after hotboxing his car go CRAZY (side note, don’t ask me why, but I feel like he has a rubber duck on his dashboard)

One time after a smoke session they built a fort in his room and made out for close to an hour, all giggly and hazy

I think he’d like to let his girl paint his nails. He prefers black, but he wouldn’t mind painting his nails the same shade as girlie’s so they can match

He also let her braid his mohawk once… lol

Tea had sent me an idea about this, but he’d absolutely buy her engraved jewelry. Like… barbells with hearts that have little M’s engraved on them??? Holy shit 

Also, from a discussion with B, HE GOES SO FERAL WHEN SHE GOES BRALESS AND HE CAN SEE HER PIERCINGS THROUGH HER TOP

He keeps a Polaroid picture of her both in his wallet and at the desk in the shop 

If anyone asks about it he’s like “THAT’S THE LIGHT OF MY FUCKING LIFE”

Veeery possessive. Not to a toxic point, but she is his, and he makes sure that everyone is aware in his own little ways 

He likes to be touching her almost all the time. Whether it’s an arm lazily slung around her shoulders or lacing their pinkie fingers together

Really likes love bites. One time he left hickeys in the shape of a heart on her collarbone 

Y’all remember that hip pouch thing he wore during the 2020 era? That but it’s filled with his girl’s things like her lipstick or her wallet so she doesn’t have to carry them

Teenage boy humor. Hella “that’s what she said” jokes

He forgets stuff at her place constantly. She’s starting to wonder if it’s on purpose at this point. Maybe it’s his own way of feeling like a more permanent part of her life

Finding his jewelry on her dresser, his lighter on her coffee table, a hoodie hung by the door

Sometimes he’ll leave his keys and come running back into her place just to end up messily kissing her against the wall

Overall, I think he probably looks a little intimidating to people because he has a mohawk and wears chains and platform boots but he’s such a sweetheart oh my god anon. He just loves her so so so much, and he’s so gentle with her. I love him. So much. That’s my baby.

And as for an alphabet, maybe! I’d be happy to if that’s something you guys would want to see

[silkval]

trans aether... with questions I, IV, VIII, X, and XII. please be gentle, i adore soft sex

♠】 find out what goes on behind the scenes with the darling of your choice!

send an ask with the name of your darling and the question numbers you would like answered, and you will get your request!☆

》 content desc/warnings

aether is hinted to be smaller than reader, nipple play (aether receiving), very very fluffy sex and so so many kisses, reader can be interpreted with any genitalia, aether cries the first time, use of the nickname ‘sweetheart’, reader is an absolute gentleman, aether is a pretty boy canon

★fujoshis, wlm and minors please fuck off- you will be blocked★

Ⅰ 》 what act of affection do they perform the most?

aether just loves it when he gets to cling to your side- whether it is simply just letting his fingers entwine with yours as you two rested in bed, or snuggling into your side on a cold winters day- which would always be made better when you looped an arm around his narrow shoulders with a content hum. your presence just made him feel safe- completely and utterly at peace with your warm frame to sidle up to.

Ⅳ 》 what is the one kink they have they will never admit they have?

…well, the poor thing didn't exactly do a good job of hiding it- but, nipple play. my god, it was so, so obvious that it was just adorable when your deft fingers grazed over aethers flushed chest whilst tangled in your sheets, drawing out the prettiest, high whine from the smaller male beneath you that you just could not ignore- eliciting a quiet chuckle in adoration at the sight of his flustered face, yet only pressing a reassuring kiss against the tip of his nose as your hand smoothed over the soft plains of his chest, the pads of your fingers rubbing and pinching gently at the pinked skin- which soon became a common occurrence each time you two made love.

Ⅷ 》 what is aftercare with them like?

honestly, aftercare with aether is just the best. even if it was a quick round before bed, or when hours had passed by from how much you just got lost in each other- aftercare with aether would last days. it would start with just holding each other- sweaty bodies collapsed and panting, still entwined and breathless yet unable to muffle the quiet, lovestruck laugh reverberating from both of you as you met eyes, still hazy as you met with soft kisses just to calm down and eventually falling asleep, his smaller body splayed atop yours or curled snug into your side as your arms encircled his bare figure still draped in the slightly damp, silken sheets. with the following morning, you would aid him in getting up- greeting him with a quick peck to the forehead, fetching him a glass of water and something small to eat before making sure he was alright and already going to run a bath for both of you to clean up in. and oh, aether just adored how you handled aftercare- ever the gentleman, as the days that followed consisted in touches even more gentle than usual and the occasional “you alright, love?” just to make sure he was all happy and healthy- which he always was, with you.

Ⅹ 》 were they a virgin before they met you

surprisingly, yes. with such a pretty face and the absolute joy of a soul that he is, he certainly got a lot of attention- that's for sure, but he never… clicked with anyone- until you, of course. he always had this subtle urge, this hidden desire for the act of lovemaking- even thinking about how intimate it would be, how wonderful it would be to come together with absolute trust and enjoyment of each others bodies just makes him all heart-eyed and blushy- oh, and he absolutely let a few tears slip when you first had sex; he had never felt anything like it before, just pure, pure absolution with you- and he couldn't want anything more.

Ⅻ 》 what pet names do they enjoy hearing?

loves loves loves being called sweetheart- absolutely drives the poor boy mad with how flustered and smiley he gets. even if it's just a mere “c’mere, sweetheart,” as you're guiding him through a busy street with a hand on the small of his back, or a breathy utterance of praise against the shell of his ear as your bodies combined in utter bliss- you damn bet you'll see his pretty, pinked lips curve upward into his signature smile.

ahh thank you sm for this ask!!! this was an absolute pleasure to write as its my first writing of aether and my god. i get the hype💙

[bakuhatsufallinlove]

Have you seen the latest MHA S7 OP ? The visual are so pretty, bkg has such a soft look! These days hori is drawing Katsuki with such smiling expressions so i wonder if bkg is going to have a change in personality like not being angry 24/7 etc what do you think ? His relation with izuku is definitely going to change but will deku accept this new soft side of kacchan?

Listen, my friend, and hear the gospel: Katsuki has always been soft.

Katsuki is known for bolstering his tough guy, shit-talking side, yes, absolutely. But his tough side and his soft side do not contradict each other, they complement each other. He is not suddenly not the guy who explosively roars or tells people off just because he's more comfortable showing himself to be thoughtful, reliable, considerate, compassionate, loyal, and selfless. He is still ferocious, ambitious, self-confident, and smug--a sore winner if there ever was one.

Hell, you see this on clear display in his fight against AFO. He's mocking that guy. Just utterly shitting on him. And it's fantastic.

Katsuki hasn't been "angry 24/7" since before Deku vs. Kacchan 2. I could quibble about how we're reading his character even earlier, but this point inarguably marks a change for him. We're now on chapter 421; the series is not over, but just those 301 chapters since DvK2 represent over 70% of its length. Even cutting the 40some chapters he was down for the count still allots us at least 60% of the story featuring some softer, more introspective, less combative flavor of Kacchan than what we began with.

I'm not trying to criticize you, anon -- but I do want to point these things out, because I think people underestimate and misread this kid sometimes. Don't buy into his bluster wholesale!

We're seeing Katsuki at his most comfortable, right now. We're seeing his truest self. He is allowing people to see the softness he has always had inside him, and I love it.

But Katsuki has always been and will always be feisty, snarky, and a little contrarian. He's always gonna roast the people he cares about for being thick-headed or careless or making his life hard. And then he's gonna be there for them anyway, which is what he's done for Izuku all this time.

As for how Izuku is gonna receive him, I have no doubt whatsoever that Izuku will beam at him with joy, satisfaction, and the occasional awe. He has accepted Katsuki as he is ever since DvK2, happy to be by his side to watch him better himself and then chase after him. They have been getting more and more comfortable with each other, working together, planning together, talking casually together.

I don't think their relationship is going to change much, other than the ways they are going to let each other in more. And gosh, what a joy that would be to see, huh?

It's all gravy from here on out, man.

Also the opening fucking rocked, and I absolutely yelled when I saw explody boy doing his fourth-wall-breaking gentle gaze at the camera. Izuku is very lucky to be the one those eyes land on more often than not, and he's superfan enough to be grateful even if he's not particularly self-aware!!!

[silenzahra]

Regarding that reblog about sending you asks…well…I just want to say that I am proud of how far you’ve come both as a person and as a writer (and artist). I’m so honoured to have you as a dear darling friend as you’re among the first to welcome me on Tumblr when I felt lost and wanting to broaden my horizons to seek a meaningful connection…

My dear darling, you are a stellar writer and you are such a gem in the SMB community. Those who have chosen to overlook you and your content are none the wiser and have missed out.

Thank you for enriching my life especially since we live in vastly different countries but I’m so glad that we found each other on Instagram as well. I wish nothing but fortune to come your way and my online presence to give you strength when you feel overwhelmed (I still can’t get over how you called me your Mario to your Luigi…I wasn’t joking when I said that I teared up at that, my dear darling. I honestly don’t see myself that way but if you say that it is, I believe you…)

To end this, please enjoy more brotherly love with Mario and Luigi…

And a bonus:

My dear @vulpixfairy1985, this ask was such a lovely surprise! AW I’m truly so moved and warm inside right now 🥹 Thank you so much for your kind and sweet words 🫂🫂🫂 You always make me feel so validated, and not only as a person but also as a writer AND an artist??? 🥺🥺🥺 You’re making me blush 😭🫂💖💖💖

I feel so elated and honored that you enjoy my content so much 🥹 I honestly don’t consider myself an artist as I don’t draw too often and I believe my style is so poor, but I deeply appreciate your support and you acknowledging me as one, as well as supporting the art I posted a while back of Luigi playing his guitar 💖💖💖

I truly am so happy and thankful that we met and that we’ve formed such a deep and strong connection, as I really feel that you are the Mario to my Luigi 🥰 Your presence is truly a source of strength and warmth and, just, good vibes! You sincerely enrich my life, dear friend, and I'm so moved that you consider that I do the same for you 🥹 I'm so glad I could make you feel welcome to this wonderful site! You've become one of the most important people in my life, and I'm truly so blessed to call you my friend 🫂🫂🫂💖💖💖

AWEEEE IT'S THE BOYS!!! 😄😄😄 Thank you so much for sending such wonderful gifs! Gosh, I can never have enough of how absolutely CUTE they look in the movie and how they protrayed their brotherly bond 🥹🥹🥹 Also, just as a curiosity: the moment at the beginning when Mario clears a path for Luigi was the very first thing that made me see that Nintendo had truly made an effort to show them as the loving and caring brothers we all know they are 🥹 So I'm truly so happy that you've included this gif here! As well as the reunion one of course, as I can never have enough of that moment 🥹❤️💚 (And the others too, I just, I love them all!)

And the last one with Luigi and Polty 😭😭😭 THEY'RE SO ADORABLE. I have a soft spot for Polty as he's truly the cutest doggy ever, and he always reminds me of my own dogs Baloo and Mauri as they're also so playful and affectionate 🥹 I truly LOVE Polterpup's bond with Luigi and how absolutely CUTE they look together 🥹 Thank you soooo much for such a lovely bonus gif! 🫂💚🤍

And of course, thank you for this wonderful ask that has filled my heart with so much joy and warmth 🥹 I love and adore you so so much, my dear friend! 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

[c0la-queen]

Heya, I just sort of stumbled across your blog and I’m genuinely so impressed by how good your writing is! I ended up binge reading a bunch of your works lol. I was wondering if I could request something for Eddsworld? Honestly, your last Tord piece has been stuck in my mind so I was thinking of a situation where the reader is either uncomfortable because of some other guy or even something more dangerous like being followed and Tord ends up being involved. I know it’s really cliche but I’m interested in how he would handle it and what he would prioritise first. Obviously, I know you’re gonna be busy for a while so don’t feel pressured to get this done soon or at all if you don’t feel up to it. Hope you have a wonderful day/night ❤️

HIII OMG reading this made me so giddy!! I had free time this weekend and your request got my neurons firing so I HAD to write a piece for this right away!!! Thank you so much for your sweet words, and I hope you enjoy it! Mwah mwah!

Scary Dog Privilege | Tord x Reader

Warnings: Creepy incel guy, heavy misogyny, homophobia if you squint, I cringed writing this guy, Tord makes a threat

Words: ~1.9k

----

The windows were down on Tord's car, letting the breeze in. It whipped your hair around, sometimes blowing a few strands into your face. It only made you giggle. A huff to your right drew your attention to the driver's side. Tord had one hand on the wheel, his other arm rested on the windowsill. His vape was in his hand.

"What are you laughing about over there?"

He blew a cloud out of the window before answering you.

"You're being silly. It's cute."

You settled back in your seat as you came to a stop at a red light. Without the rumble of the engine, the music playing from the speaker floated out into the town around you. You glanced at the display screen on the radio. fuK u lol by CORPSE. Your head bobbed as you took in the sights of the town. There was an older couple in the lane beside you. The woman seemed to be eyeing you suspiciously. It didn't bother you, though. You looked down, smoothing down the fabric of your outfit. White skirt, black tights, strawberry cardigan, and pink converse. Heart shaped earrings danged from your ears, and a matching heart shaped purse was at your feet. You felt cute and happy. Tord had, at least, put on a different outfit for your date, rather than wearing his usual red hoodie combo. It was still red themed, but you didn't expect any less. If your boys were anything, they were consistent.

You and Tord had always been opposites in most things. He was all doom and gloom, ice cold glares, vapes and cigarettes, black clothes and heavy rock music. He was blunt, he seemed apathetic, and often was rude. You were energetic and sweet. You loved bright colors and cutesy things. Cake and frappes with lots of whipped cream. You loved to share compliments with others, had a big heart, and cared deeply for others. That's not to say that you and Tord were incompatible - your relationship had been going strong for a couple of years now. Your opposite traits seemed to balance each other out. When you got too overwhelmed or worked up, he was there to douse you with a healthy round of realism, grounding you back to the present and calming you down. You were there when he started to feel like he wasn't himself, when he started to slip back into the person he was forced to be in the cold winters of Norway, you reminded him of the warmth of home.

And, over time, you developed similarities. Before you met him, you had dipped your toes into anime, but he let you watch them with him and soon it became a tradition of yours to binge-watch shows together. Tord had stopped drawing since high school, but watching you mindlessly doodle on blank paper while he tinkered away at his work desk reminded him of the joy it had brought him as a teen - so he started again. Plus, he had a brand new muse this time. Or if there was things that one of you enjoyed doing that wasn't quite the other's thing, that was okay too. Tord would sit at the kitchen table while you baked, scrolling away on his phone and occasionally showing you Tik Toks that you'd like. You would sit on his lap while he played PC games, either playing calmer games on your Switch or watching his gameplay until you fell asleep.

It looked strange to others, but for you and Tord, it worked.

You zoned back in as the car pulled into a parking space. Tord turned to you as he parked.

"Where'd you go, hm?"

"Nowhere. Just thinking of you."

Tord gave you a scrutinizing look, attempting to see if you were lying to him or not. (He always said you had a knack for downplaying your feelings. You insisted you had no idea what he was talking about.) Seemingly satisfied with what he found, he hummed and shut off the engine. You climbed out of the car, stretching out your legs.

The manga store that you and Tord liked to frequent was only a 20 minute ride into town from your neighborhood. It wasn't a little hole-in-the-wall, five sets of aisles in a tiny room type of place. This store was actually fairly popular, seeing an average flow of customers throughout the day. It helped that the owners had implemented a café area, where you could order anime character themed drinks.

The girl working the café counter waved at the two of you as you walked in. You smiled and waved as you walked over. She was familiar with you, since she worked on a lot of the days that you came in. You and her got along really well.

"Hi, Ruby! You dyed your hair a new color! The lavender looks really good on you."

"Thank you! I did love the red, but it was starting to get a little boring for me. Thought I'd spice it up."

She set down the equipment she was cleaning and walked over to the register.

"You guys gonna have your usual or do you wanna try something new?"

Tord was likely going to just have his usual drink, but you decided to give a new drink a chance. You looked up at Tord.

"I wanna try the Squirtle Sour Candy Boba."

He nodded, then ushered you off to the aisles. That's how things usually went during your outings here. He'd order your drinks while you went wandering off into the aisles, and he'd find you after the drinks were ready. It had taken a bit of argument between the two of you for you to give up trying to pay for your own drinks - he was just as stubborn as you were sometimes. You came to a compromise, though, when he let you buy your own manga and merch.

As usual, your first pit stop was to the romance manga. There weren't too many other customers - an older alt couple looking at the Jojo manga, a teenage boy at the BL section, and a small group of teenage girls giggling softly in the isekai aisle. You hummed softly as you looked over the covers, seeing if anything new caught your eye. You stopped once you reached the section you were looking for. Komi Can't Communicate.

You crouched down so you were level with the more recent volumes. Most of the time, you bought three volumes at a time. You huffed softly when you realized that this time, they were missing one of the ones you needed. Volumes 12, 13, and 15 were there - but no volume 14. With an exasperated sigh, you reached out and picked up volume 12, only to nearly drop it when a voice startled you.

"You know, there are more tasteful series that you'd probably enjoy more than that one."

You looked to your right. Someone had walked into the aisle with you when you weren't paying attention. It was a man, looking to be in around his 30s or so. You could feel yourself fight back a physical reaction to his appearance, and not in a good way. He had on what you could recognize as a Deadpool shirt on underneath a black zip-up hoodie that looked like it hadn't been washed in far too long. The ensemble was topped off perfectly with a leather necklace cord and a metal pendant that you would've guessed was a Naruto symbol of some kind (admittedly, you had never watched Naruto, and Tord mentioned that it wasn't really worth it in his opinion.)

Alarm bells were going off in your head at the sight of him.

"Oh. Is that so?"

As you stood up straight, you gave him a smile that you hoped wasn't too obviously forced. If he noticed, he didn't care.

"Since you're here by yourself, clearly you're a female of sense. You should start off with Dragon Ball. It is the very zenith of anime culture, and anyone who hasn't experienced it doesn't deserve to call themselves an anime fan."

Your alarm bells got louder.

"Actually, um, I know what Dragon Ball is. I've watched it since I was little - my older sibling showed it to me."

You hated the way an excited glint flashed across the man's eyes. He stepped a little closer to you.

"It seems I was right about you. You do have taste. It's not every day I meet a female who is familiar with real anime. Usually its only females who have been brainwashed by social media to think that they're bisexual, who come in here to read trash like Haikyu."

He stepped closer again. You tried to subtly shift backwards.

"Shows like that shouldn't even be categorized as anime. Its all woke propaganda that makes females change their dating standards for submissive men. But I can tell that you're different. You-"

"There you are."

Something solid and warm pressed against your back. You felt yourself immediately relax in Tord's presence. Turning to him, you gratefully took your drink from his hand.

His eyes weren't on you.

Tord was staring down the man in front of you, eyes the color of cold steel. He was easily taller than the other man, and definitely stronger. The man seemed to cower slightly.

"I was, uh, just talking to the lovely girl here-"

Tord cut him off by saying your name. Only when you tilted your head back to him did he finally glance at you.

"Get your other two volumes."

He didn't need to tell you twice. Ignoring the now blubbering man, who was once again the focus of Tord's piercing gaze, you dipped down and grabbed volumes 13 and 15. You could look for 14 some other time.

"Go to the plushie aisle. I'll meet you there."

You only spared one last glance at the man before slipping past Tord, heading around to the aisle filled with plushies and other merch. You couldn't see or hear Tord and the man, and you weren't sure you wanted to.

Standing in front of the bin of plushies, you slid your phone out of your purse and pulled up your private messages with Edd. You typed out a quick message to him.

'Tord might beat a guy to death.'

Edd, who was working on some commissions today, replied fast.

'Nothing new. What was it this time?'

'Creepy guy wouldn't leave me alone. Gave off incel vibes.'

'Yikes. I'm on Tord's side. Hope he kicks the guy's ass.'

Before you could continue the chat, you felt arms wrap around your waist. Tord rested his chin against your shoulder.

"You shouldn't tattle on me to Edd."

"Edd doesn't care, as long as you don't get yourself hurt. What did you do to the dude?"

Tord huffed. He was grumpy.

"Told him that if he was ever a creep to you again, I'd saw his balls off with a rusty scalpel and shove them down his throat. It was effective. He ran away, like a little bitch."

Despite it all, you couldn't help but giggle. You turned, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

"My hero. Let's go look at the Jujutsu Kaisen section."

[fountainpenguin]

Riddle watches New Wish - Post #8

"The Wellsington Hotellsington"

I'm glad Hazel's parents seem chill. They're not strict about "No sleepovers" or anything. They seem more involved than Timmy's (and holy cow, they're better at interactions with their daughter than Chloe's were with her).

Yeah, it's not like I ever doubted (because I loved Chloe's mental breakdown drama), but this and the dino episode are really cementing just how bad Clark and Connie were with parenting, sdkfj.

If Chloe tried to play with her parents at the museum, they'd totally shut down her giddiness and drag her into a lesson on naming or drawing dinosaurs. She'd seem hyped, but... Timmy would know. Timmy always knew.

I miss Timmy "will stay with you for an hour while you have a total breakdown" Turner... I miss the fairy step-siblings. Where's my boy?

... That is actually really interesting that I can't give Hazel a 50-years-of-frozen-time backstory. With Chloe, she blatantly raised herself on Fair Bears and I had a lot of other characters who got their lives screwed up by failing to emotionally mature or physically progress... but Hazel missed all that, so she's got Regular Childhood. And barring what I just said, I'm usually writing Fae in 'fics that span hundreds of thousands of years. Having such a limited timeframe to work with is... a new experience for me here.

Whyyyyy did Hazel and Jasmine not know who Wynn (sp?) is if they've been in the same class for weeks? (Hazel's over 100 wishes and mentioned weeks had passed during "Teacher's Pal"). Does this kid not talk to them? I thought they sat near Hazel, by the door? I'm pretty sure if I go back and look, this kid is 1 or 2 desks to her right.

Dev, don't you have better things to do than stalk Hazel and eavesdrop? This kid has issues. Tell me more.

I'm really glad we have a Dimmadome bully and not a Buxaplenty bully. Fingers crossed that Remy broke the abuse cycle, and also... the Dimmadomes are 100% known for butting into everything. I complained that he shouldn't stalk, but... he's a Dimmadome. Of course he's wandering around waiting for his chance to jump in for a line and brag about stuff.

"Hazard" is a very funny nickname for Hazel. Dev should keep calling her that.

This kid has insecurity issues about... his house? And/or being outclassed, but it's the house that seems to ruffle his feathers. The one thing Dimmadomes are known for is their big buildings. Hmm. Something's going on here...

I was going to make a joke about how Jasmine apparently didn't come over to Hazel's house despite their plans to play together, but Jasmine made it for me. Apparently she HAS been over and is sus. sdflkj.

Wynn is super nice. Hazel is being a creep sdkf.

Whoops, so much for the roof garden. Also, I like how the founder picture for the hotel is just Hazel in disguise.

His parents aren't at his party, huh? I see where this is going...

Either this kid's got a fairy - but he doesn't have brightly colored items or pets we've seen - or something is keeping him riding the border without tipping into miserable. We never got a canon reason why Tootie didn't have a fairy, though it's implied she can't keep her mouth shut and would endanger Fairy World. I wonder if those recording devices following him around are getting in the way, although that's probably not likely.

OR he's lost a fairy (similar to Remy gambling Juandissimo away), which would be hilarious. Imagine him getting a fairy and he's like "I don't want this. I have money."

I'm thinking he's got enough of his heart set in his pride and his things that he's finding enough joy to keep afloat, but I'm keeping an eye on him. Now that I'm thinking about it, Kevin Crocker with a fairy would've been funny. Then again, I kind of gave him Foop as a buddy... and even though he's the deadest kid inside, he was still pretty cheery.

Dev, however, does NOT give me cheery vibes. I'm sus.

Actually, I do not trust Fairy World to be functioning the same way it did in the old days, considering that enough time has passed for Cosmo and Wanda to retire and Jorgen to notably age. There WAS a fairy shortage in Season 10 - and so few Fairies left by Season 7 that they couldn't even fill the stadium when Timmy summoned them - so... hmm. Is he getting Cookie, who was actively looking for a godkid a few episodes ago?

If Fairy World's still under the same protocol it used to be, Jorgen's the only Temporary Fairy on-call, and we HAVE seen him introduced. Hmm...

I'm wondering if this is gonna be a Juandissimo comeback? He's got experience with rich kids, he IS a notable fairy from the early seasons (all the seasons), and he even loves bratty kids who don't listen to him to the point that he couldn't hold a job after losing Remy (because he was crying too much) and ended up defying Da Rules to return Remy's memories. Now that Wanda and Cosmo are so friendly in this portrayal, it could be really interesting to throw him in the mix again.

I liked when Cosmo showed him the "guest room" in "Jerk of All Trades" and then threw him in the freezer. Give me more of that.

This would be very unlikely since it's literally a deleted part of an early script, but... do I dare dream we see the return of "Juandissimo is terrified of only one person and it's Cosmo, whom he refers to as Wanda's cunning and calculating warrior husband?" That would be great! My dream. :)

I like how Cosmo in the OG series tolerated Juandissimo, claiming that he would tell him to stop flirting with Wanda, but he won't because he likes eating Juandissimo's food too much. 10/10 dynamic. It's so underrated; Cosmo's hilarious.

I'm loving early-vibe Cosmo and Wanda... do I DARE dream of a return with early-vibe Juandissimo? My super kind and polite boy who gets invited to at least 4 parties at Timmy's house, makes a point of letting Wanda talk to Cosmo before she makes decisions involving them alone in a room, and runs away at top speed when he clocks Wanda as not being able to consent to hanging out with him (because Cupid's love arrow?) Seasons 1-7 Juandissimo, my beloved... :')

I miss him.

My vague understanding is that this show is ongoing, probably multiple seasons if it does well, so I don't think they're wrapping it up at the end of Season 1... but if they did, I could definitely see a "Hazel gives her blessing for Cosmo and Wanda to go to Dev" plot, which would be an interesting direction (since we never got that kind of closure with Timmy and I doubt they'd do a share program plot twice).

It's kind of a shame we didn't get a separate reboot with the share program- That might've been better received than Season 10. Sparky could've been a shared fairy. Alas.

Okay, the chandelier in the helicopter being an inconvenience is a nice touch.

I'm dead (So are the animals).

Mmmm, the classmates are dunking on Dev for being "not cool." He's not even liked? Seriously, someone call Juandissimo- This kid is catnip for him.

[dracoqueen22]

For Melly: Aerith/Tifa - against all odds

Tifa is exhausted. 

She’s covered in cuts and bruises. Her body aches. Her head’s spinning, and worst of all, her heart has taken a beating. She doesn’t understand Cloud. She doesn’t know Cloud. She wonders if she ever did. 

And she definitely isn’t sure what happened five years ago. Not anymore. 

Tifa’s exhausted, but she can’t sleep. Energy runs through her veins, adrenaline certain another battle might come bursting through that door. She can’t seem to calm down. 

It doesn’t seem like Aerith can sleep either. She’s been staring at the ceiling and fiddling with the buttons on her dress for as long as Tifa’s been fruitlessly counting chocobos. She’s up to 963. 

Tifa rolls on her side, facing Aerith, arm tucked under her cheek. “Can’t sleep either, huh?” 

“You’d think I’d be exhausted,” Aerith says. She turns to face Tifa, their bodies a pair of parentheses on opposite beds. Her shoulders are bare, but Tifa isn’t sure why she’s focusing on that fact. “I mean, I’m definitely tired, but I guess that’s not enough.” 

“Worried?” Tifa asks. “About your mom?” 

Aerith smiles, gentle and sweet all the way to her willowy bones. “No. She can take care of herself.” 

“Do you think we made the wrong choice?” Tifa blurts out, almost before Aerith can finish answering. It’s something Tifa’s gnawed on, over and over, especially after Cloud’s recitation of an event he can’t have seen. 

Is he wrong because he’s lying on purpose? Or is he actually remembering something he experienced because the choice they made, there on that highway, has fundamentally altered the course of their universe? Is he even her Cloud? Or is Tifa the one misremembering? 

Tifa doesn’t know. 

“It’s too soon to say.” Aerith draws nonsense on the mattress in front of her. That soft smile lingers. “It’s terrifying, but it’s also kind of exhilarating.” 

Tifa would chalk Aerith’s optimism up to naivete, but that’s far from the truth. Aerith’s life hasn’t been a picnic and that she can still be sweet is a testament to her strength. 

Tifa envies her for it. That strength that allows her to be weak. 

“How so?” she asks. 

“Well, I’ve never had a sleepover before,” Aerith says with the frankness that makes Tifa’s heart ache. “Or a girlfriend.” She pauses, cheeks going pink. “I mean, a woman who is a friend. Woman-friend? No, that just doesn’t have the same ring to it.” 

Tifa laughs quietly as Aerith’s face scrunches with genuine confusion. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a girlfriend,” Tifa says. “Most of the kids my age were boys.” 

“Like Cloud?” 

Tifa’s too slow to stop the flinch. It’s hard to say if Aerith noticed. “Yeah,” she says quietly, but then the memory hits her, easing the sting. “Though he’s always been pretty enough.” 

“He sure is.” Aerith giggles and turns on her back, stretching her arms over her head with a hum. “But that’s what I mean. We made a choice and decided to fight, and now here I am, against all odds, on my first sleepover.” 

Tifa doesn’t tell her all the ways this doesn’t count. It’s a simple wish. A simple joy. She wants Aerith to have it. 

“Do you think we should have a pillow fight?” Aerith asks, but before Tifa can answer, she laughs and says, “Hmm. Maybe not. I think you’d win in one hit.” 

“I’d be gentle,” Tifa says. 

“I know you would.” Aerith’s grin makes Tifa’s heart go thump-thump-thump in a way it hasn’t before. 

Aerith abruptly sits up and looks around as if an idea has popped into her mind. “Hmm,” she says. “There’s not enough furniture to make a fort, and I don’t think that vending machine had any candy. I’m stumped on ideas.” 

“Aren’t we a little old for sleepovers anyway?” 

“Probably.” Aerith sighs, and there’s a wealth of disappointment in the small sound. “I guess we should be sleeping. We have a lot more walking ahead of us.” 

Aerith flops back, pulls the blanket up to her chin, and stares at the ceiling. She dutifully closes her eyes, and Tifa feels a bit like she’s kicked a bucket. Could it really hurt to entertain such an innocent joy? 

Tifa rolls off the bed, bringing her blanket with her, and flops down next to Aerith. “Tell me a secret,” she says as she squirms down to get comfortable. 

Aerith blinks at her. “What?” 

“It’s what you do at a sleepover.” At least, in Tifa’s experience, that what she thinks most young girls do. “You tell each other secrets.” 

“Oh.” Aerith’s cheeks turn a pretty pink. “I don’t think I have any that you don’t already know.” She presses her lips together, face scrunched in serious thought. 

“Nothing?” Tifa prompts as she tucks her arm under her head. “Not even an embarrassing story you don’t want anyone to know?” 

Aerith laughs and turns to face her, voice going softer like they are two young woman sharing a secret with no one else. “I have plenty of those stories. But what about you? Do you have any secrets?” 

“Too many,” Tifa sighs, and her thoughts wander again, to home, to Nibelheim, to five long, confusing years, and one stubborn, confusing blond the next room over. Maybe this is a bad idea after all. 

She shouldn’t spill all the troubles on her shoulders. Aerith shouldn’t have to help bear that load. She has enough problems without Tifa adding to her stress. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. 

Tifa shifts, intending to go back to her own bed, and back to chocobo number 964. But Aerith touches her arm, and that’s enough for Tifa to freeze. Surprised. 

“We don’t have to share secrets,” Aerith says, her resting hand curling into a gentle hold, “But we can share the bed. If you want, I mean.” 

Tifa’s heart throbs so loud, it thumps in her ears. Slowly, she settles back into place, arm tingling under the barely noticeable weight of Aerith’s hand. 

“That is one of the rules of sleepovers,” Tifa says, even though they’re both too old and bruised for such a thing. But they are also a lot alike. Tifa’s never had a “girlfriend” either. 

Aerith giggles and winks at her. “I won’t tell if you don’t. It can be our secret.” She holds out a hand, pinky crooked. “Promise?” 

Tifa’s face heats, almost like she’s blushing, but that would be ridiculous. No less ridiculous than hooking her finger with Aerith’s and saying, “Promise.” 

Lying there next to Aerith, Tifa doesn’t even get to chocobo number 965 before she’s fast asleep. 

***