#afterthestorm

They said the holidays were about warmth.

Ezan took that personally, and upgraded it into gold leaf, chandeliers, and a full team-wide celebration that felt like a royal campaign.

Because when the Golden Emir throws a winter holiday… It's not a party. It's a court session. And everyone leaves feeling richer, louder, and slightly more loyal than they planned.

Golden Holiday Banquet

The hall glowed like a treasure chest cracked open.

A long table ran the length of the room, candles, poinsettias, cinnamon sticks, and gold-trimmed red napkins like someone had dressed dinner in ceremonial robes. Overhead, ornaments shimmered and swayed.

At the head sat Ezan, lounging back in his golden kit with his sleeves rolled, the "1" on his chest catching the light every time he smirked. A steaming tagine sat before him like tribute.

Around him, the bros raised glasses, laughing, shouting, toasting over the feast.

Ezan didn't even lift his cup at first, he just watched them like a king watching a happy kingdom.

Then, finally, he raised his glass.

Not a speech. Not a prayer. Just one slow, satisfied nod.

The table erupted like it had been waiting for permission to exist.

Camel Bells at Sunset

Twilight painted the desert in violet and ember, and the caravan moved like a legend.

Gold tassels. Wind. Distant city lights flickering like a promise.

Ezan rode a massive camel at the front, upright and calm in a gold-and-emerald thobe with an open collar, golden cleats still on like he'd never truly clocked out of being #1. The sash at his waist carried the woven number like a seal.

Garlands of golden stars wrapped the bridle. Tinsel trailed behind like comet tails. The bells rang softly, holiday music for the dunes.

He looked ahead, eyes glowing under the setting sun, and the bros behind him followed without question.

Because it didn't feel like a ride.

It felt like a procession.

Arabian Winter Lounge

The tent was pure indulgence: heavy golden drapes, satin pillows, fairy lights blinking like sleepy constellations.

Smoke curled from a gold hookah. Ginger-scented incense turned the air into something you could almost taste.

Ezan reclined shirtless in golden trousers, muscles oiled to a soft shine, a fur-lined cloak tossed over one shoulder like he'd just stepped out of a myth and decided to stay for dessert. His golden eyes were half-lidded, playful, dangerous, cosy.

The bros clustered close, laughing and passing dates, trading stories and hot drinks.

In the corner, a tiny golden tree glimmered with white and emerald decorations.

Ezan didn't host like a normal person. He hosted like a man whose presence was the fireplace.

Snowy Holiday Patrol

The mountains were quiet in a way that made the world feel small.

Pines stood heavy with snow. Tiny star-shaped golden lights twinkled in branches like the forest itself had joined the theme.

Ezan marched through it all in a white-and-gold reflective parka over his kit, fur hood framing his face, the bold "1" still visible like a warning to winter. A rifle rested on his shoulder, not frantic, not aggressive, just casually competent, like he was the entire security system.

Every step crunched. Every breath fogged.

Behind him, his bootprints curved into something unmistakable: a crescent moon trail carved into the snow.

He didn't look back.

Because the point wasn't to prove he could survive the cold, it was to prove the cold survived only because he allowed it.

If your winter doesn't include gold, brotherhood, and at least one cinematic entrance, are you even celebrating?

Reblog to pledge your loyalty to the Golden Emir's winter court. 👑💛