#from relocated. btw

[robotleech]

i was just going to post the clip of grif saying "im gonna spit on you simmons" but actually this entire scene is pretty fucking golden, so you get the whole thing, my treat.

[innanzituttoticalmi]

i wish all "ferrari should move to the UK" a very die

[bobur-the-berry-guy]

Random horny thoughts abt my fav blue lock men!

ᯓ★୭˚

•written in the trenches of the end of my period the power of sleep deprivation stress and my clit, enjoy

•made the banner myself too hihi (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

••requests are open btw

ft. Isagi, Hiori, Nanase, Bachira, Rin, Karasu, Yukimiya

Cw : 18+ obvi, afab!reader, biting, hickeys, oral (f/m receiving), fingering, jerking off, lowk sadism, rough, hand restriction, edging, overstimulation, sub/dom/switch dynamics kinda???, size difference kink, degradation and praise, being fucked in someone else's clothes, they're all kinda freaky in some way shape or form, generally just a horny post

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆.˚✮•𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂•✮˚.⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

ᯓ★୭˚ To preface this, i must say i want Isagi BAD. Anyway, everyone and their mama knows he has a thing for thighs. Yours especially. It's just the way they jiggle a bit when you walk, the way they shift when you move your hips and how they practically melt when you sit. In his eyes they're the most delicious thing he can lay his eyes upon. And the perfect earmuffs. He can spend hours between them, licking up your juices and playing you with his tongue. He keep you mostly clean, but that doesn't stop him from eating messy. By the time he's done pretty much his whole lower half of the face is soaked and dripping, sometimes he gets a but of it on his fringe too somehow. He gets off on just getting you off - the visual of you shaking and your teary face paired with your cute moans is more than enough for him.

more under the cut!

He likes it best when you're on your back or sitting on his face - he lives for the moments you squish his head with your thighs, drowing out any other sound and lowkey choking him like that. He doesn't care if he can't breathe or if it feels like he's gonna have his jaw relocated - do it! Squeeze his face, tug on his hair, put him in a headlock, squirm and trash around. To him that's only a sign he's doing his job well. And don't get me started on what a sucker he is for eye contact. When you look down at him with these wet eyes and you're doing your damnest not to roll them back in your head he might just cum in his pants.

"No, no— not yet. Let me keep going. Please."

Next morning you wake up and your legs still feel funny and you've got hickeys and little bites all over the insides of your thighs, and he's clinging onto you like a koala. Isagi really liked his meal.

He doesn't expect you to return the favour, but he won't stop you if you want to. He gets all shy and red, and he whimpers!! He's all twitchy and he can't keep his voice down, and his doing his hardest to look you in the eyes but it's so hard - he's too embarrassed about just how easily you have him like that yet he's too captivated by the sight in front of him to look away. He will hold your hair out of your face if he thinks it could be making it harder for you even in the slightest. Though he has to psychically stop himself from gripping your hair too hard or squishing your face with his thighs. Lowkey, I'd like him to squish my face with his thighs. #needthat

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧☄. *. ⋆✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

ᯓ★୭˚ I know lately everyone's been talking about the Hiori ultra-sadist thing, and you're here to listen to me talk about it too. Now, just let me speak. He's so cute and he's so gentle and careful with you outside of.. activities, but the second he's gotten you in bed it's like a switch flips. I don't think the fact that he's 6 fucking ft tall really registers until you're under him and he's caging you between him and the mattress. You've got nowhere to go and the look on his face tells you that you'll be staying there for a while.

Whatever you let him do, he will. His deal isn't pushing your bounderies but trying to see how far he can push you. And let me tell you he is skilled with his hands. He's making you almost cum over and over again until you're basically sobbing and begging him to just do it. Other thing he does every time is holding your wrists. He won't tie them, no - he wants to hold them together himself, making sure you can't touch neither him nor yourself. Might pinch your nipples if you let him. When he finally decides to let you finish he's not giving you more than a minute to catch a breath before he's sliding his dick in you. And he's not gonna go soft now either. The hand that he was getting you off with will be gripping your hips with enough force that you'll see faint bruises the next day, and when he's close to cumming himself he's gonna move it back down to play with your clit. He switches biting and sucking on your neck and kissing you until both of you need to break the kiss so you can breathe. Won't stop you if you bite him back though. With the way he's fucking you, you'd think he's on a mission to break the bed again. Your neighbours hate you.

"Ya like it that much, huh? Don't even try to keep quiet, or I'm gonna keep going till ya beg me to stop."

HIS ACCENT UGH. He won't shut up. He keeps talking and cooing even when he's pretty sure you can't even process a word anymore. It's like his goal is to fuck you senseless. It is actually

After it's over he's taking real good care of you. He's wiping you clean, bringing food n water, running a bath - the works. Whatever you say you want it's yours. What kind of a man is he if he pounds your brain out and doesn't treat you like a princess after? Though, he may press on the bruises and bites a bit to see you squirm before he gently kisses you again.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧☄. *. ⋆✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

ᯓ★୭˚ Nanase is a simple man that knows what he wants - someone who can lead him. That counts in the bedroom too. Tell him what you want and you have it - he lives to make you happy. If it's your first time or you don't have an exact idea of what you want he's going gentle and sensual on you - he takes his time with everything. He's undressing you slowly, peeling each layer, kissing and caressing you all over. He holds your hand while he fingers you with the other, murmuring softly into your ear. And even when he finally slips his dick in you he still holds your hand, groaning and moaning into your mouth as he kisses you. All in all, he treats you like delicate china porcelain.

If you want him to rock your world he's more than ready. He's holding you by the hips and he's pouding into you like he hasn't touched you in a decade, leaving little crescent nail marks and biting your shoulder. He's going fast and hard, but if you want him too keep going for too long he's gonna get overstimulated himself and he's gonna be all jittery. He's real sensetive. The only thing he won't do is hitting you or degrading you - he can't bring himself to do that. Now, if you want to rock his world, he's more than happy and willing to sit back and let you do whatever you want with him. Bite him, scratch him, have fun - he likes it when you take the lead. And I'm gonna remind you he gets overstimulated easily. You could be denying his orgasm once or twice in a row an he's gonna be almost in tears, but it hurts so good. All he's gonna do is squeeze the bedsheets, or preferably, your hand and give you more room to work with. Likes it best when you're riding him and hes sitting with his back leaned to the pillows and headboard - he can feel your body pressed into his while you're boucing on him into oblivion, holding his hand and scratching him with the other while he's holding yours and squeezing your hips, foreheads pressed into each other as you try to kiss but you're both too out of it for it to be anything more that sloppy and uncoherent try that will end with a string of salive between the two of you.

"Ah— keep going— mh- ngh— just like that!"

He keeps babbling on, his accent making him sound even cuter. AGAIN THE ACCENT UGH. He begs you for something, and he's not even sure what exactly he's begging and sobbing over. He's whimpering and twitching and whining, and he's having the time of his life.

By the time you guys are done you're practically melting onto the matress, huffing and puffing and you're coming down from your high. Aftercare comes after a small window for you both to come back to your senses. You'd really need it.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧☄. *. ⋆✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

ᯓ★୭˚ Bachira is a fucking pervert, and he's proud of himself for that too. He can't keep his grabby hands to himself - he's constantly holding and pinching your waist, feeling up your tits and ass, playing with the waistband of your pants. He's shameless. And that's while you're out in public too. Sometimes you'd have to drag him back home to do him so he can stop acting like that.. for today and maybe tomorrow.

You know the saying "great minds think alike"? Because, just like Isagi, this man could die suffocated between your legs and he'd die the happiest man on earth. And he's not quiet about it either. He's slurping and gasping and talking trough your juices as if he isnt tongue deep in you, bumping his nose into your clit and pinching it every now and than. He treats how many times he can many you cum like a game - the more, the higher the score. He's keeping track too. At some point he'd have to hold your legs apart so he can keep going at it, before you basically become like jelly anyway. If he decided he doesn't wanna eat you out anymore and finally wants to actually fuck you instead, he's having you in any position he can think of. And he's trying each at least twice too, just to be sure if you both really like it or if you did it correctly the first time.

"Ah— yeah, you like that! No, no, i wanna keep going—! You look so cute like that-, ngh—!

As i said, this man is NOT keeping it quiet. He doesn't see the point in it - if you're making him feel good why wouldn't he show it? Keeps the same mentality about you too. If you even try to quiet yourself down he's gonna go harder just to make you question if it's really worth trying to keep the volume down.

Next morning you wake up and see him as snug as a bug, staring at you all soft and innocent as if he didn't rearrange your guts in at least three different ways a few hours ago.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧☄. *. ⋆✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

ᯓ★୭˚ For someone as intense as Rin, you'd think he'd be rough, but in reality he's probably the most sensual and caring lover you could have. He'd be really unsure in the beginning, but it's not like he would show it anyway. He's never really been that close with anyone, definitely not nearly close or trusting enough to be so open and vulnerable. So if you've got him in bed, expect the intensity to be to the max. He's not gonna be nasty, but he's not holding himself back either.

He'd like it best when he can see your face well. None of that stuff where he can't see how glossy your eyes are or how good he's making you feel. He's already drooling from just that. He's holding your hand too. If you're under him, you're basically caged between him and the matress. One arm thrown over his neck and your legs over his waist, his face switching between being all up in ypur neck and inhaling your scent to kissing you sloppily, too pussy-drunk to really even kiss you well. You're clawing at his back from how deep he's going, and he's trying not to bust right then and there from just how good you sound moaning and whimpering in his ear. If you're on top of him, he'd have to be still at least to some extend sitting up so he can feel your torso brushing against his as you're bouncing on him. He's all about that skin to skin contact, as he is for the eye contact. He'd have to try real hard not to let his eyes roll into the back of his skull so he can still look at how good you look like that. If he notices you getting tired, he's taking the job in his own hand and will have you hold onto him and grab your hips to bounce you on his dick himself.

"Nhg— ah— yeah, just like that, keep your eyes on me— mmh!"

I don't think he'd really be loud, but he's noisy, you know? He can't keep himself silent. He's constantly letting out little sighs and groaning, along with the jolting and and the occasional trembling. And if you're treating him real good, he'd whimper too. I mean, imagine you're pretty much laying on top of him, kissing all over his face and neck, whispering softly as you're jerking him off with one hand and he's just.. whimpering. Whimperig and jolting. Join my whimpery Rin agenda.

And when you're finally done with it there's nothing on the planet that would make Rin move in the next few minutes. He's just holding you, trying to catch his breath. After that he'd have you both shower quickly, maybe grab some water and snack and back to bed you go. He's gonna be real cuddly after. He won't say much, but he'll hold you close and caress you lovingly every now and then until he falls asleep.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧☄. *. ⋆✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

ᯓ★୭˚ International backbender Karasu awakens something in me. Him and his bigass attitude n that bigass nose💕

He's gonna talk up a big game and that confidence is definitely rooted in something. I mean, this man is ginormous even if we're not talking about what's going on in his pants. Just seeing you looking up at him gets him going. Seeing how big he looks compared to you does something to him. All that is to say he's taking his sweet time with prepping you. You both know that if that doesn't happen and you guys just try to force his dick in with no prep, it would not be a good experience. That, and he just really likes teasing you. He'd start out with eating you out first, making sure you're nice and wet before slipping his fingers in. He's scissoring and circling against your cervix with his fingers while he switches between licking your clit and pressing his nose against it. To be honest, he doesn't even really need to use his fingers for all that long. When his hand gets tired he just eats you out until you cum against his mouth and nose.

Now, when he's finally sure he can fuck you without hurting you, he'll go slow at first. He's having you sandwiched between his body and the bed and he's slowly pumping in and out of you, making sure he's not going too fast too soon. And despite how gentle he wants to be, it's flaking off the more you moan and the more he looks at you going stupid over barely anything. And honestly, seeing how much he fills you you doesn't help him at all either. He's steadily pumping up the speed into a quick rhythm that makes your eyes roll, and along with that he keeps that same rhythm with his fingers on your clit. Only when he's just so close to cumming does the rhythm go unsteady and jerky.. but he's so cute like that it only makes it better.

"Tryin' to force it in yourself, huh? That's kinda hot. Don't ya think you'd need a little help first?"

He won't shut up. There isn't a power on this earth to make him shut up. He's gonna be talking and groaning and moaning the entire time, and honestly he wants you to be vocal too. He's got a thing for voices, so hearing you sass him back or try to babble something back through whimpers gets him going even more.

With all that energy he's got he could go a few rounds, but when it's all done he's so damn clingy. You're not going anywhere without him doting and leaning on you lovingly. After you're fresh and showered and back to bed he's acting like a koala. Head in your chest, arms around you, practically purring. And even then he's still talking. He's gonna talk, talk and talk.. talk into sleeping like a log. But just so you know, he snores a bit.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧☄. *. ⋆✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

ᯓ★୭˚ Your resident dreamboat Yukimiya is here. He's always so gentle and so sweet you can feel your teeth ache at just the sight of him. He's doting on you and always looking for a way to make you happy.. sigh, the things I'd do to that man. Anyway, regardless of just how charming he is, that doesn't mean he doesn't have his own crazy side. I mean, he is in the blue lock program after all. Have you seen anyone normal in there?

Said crazy side is his unmatched possessiveness. He won't act like some crazy jealous boyfriend but he's gonna make sure you and everyone else knows that you're with him, and he's gonna satisfy that possessive side too. He's proud to have you, so is it really so shameful to want everyone else to know that? Even with all that, he's gonna be sensual. He'll make sure you're all good and comfortable while he's balls deep in you, holding you close and breathing you in and whispering into the shell of your ear. Doesn't matter if you're under him or on top, you're chest to chest with him, clawing at his back and moaning into his ear while he's meticulously rearranging your guts. He makes sure to leave you breathless with kisses throughout the whole thing, only letting you get a few breaths in so he can leave a hickey or two somewhere.. he also has a thing for fucking you while you're wearing his clothes. If you're wearing his shirt he's tearing everything expect it right off and he's lifting it up just enough to see himself entering in and out of you. He he likes it a bit too much, but he can't help himself. He might cum a bit earlier than he'd like, but thankfully he has enough stamina for more than one round.

Also! If we're talking about the egoist bible and the canon fetishes, i wanna talk about my take on the ephemeral things. Honestly, my mind goes to a specific time of day, or specific ambience. I can see him liking to fuck you in certain light - he likes how play of light and shadow look on you. He likes it when the sun sets and the golden hour shines on you just right while he's bringing you to tears with just his fingers. He likes it when the dusk makes your bluish afterglow look even softer while you're recharging for the next round. He likes it when it's the dead of night and only the moon let's him see your gorgeous face changing expressions because of him, he likes the calm gentleness of it. He likes it right before the sun enters the horizon and it's just cool enough to keep you even closer so you can be warm while taking another orgasm out of you. I also think he's particular about the sound atmosphere - it's either a calm quiet, a playlist he's made or the sounds of the sea.

"You like that, love? Yeah, feels good— mmmh—!"

Oh he's not keeping his mouth shut. He's got a good voice and he knows it. He's murmuring right in your ear, either talking you trough it and what to do now or whimpering about how good you make him feel and how gorgeous you look fucked out like that. If he's not talking he's moaning and whimpering softly, but he's still loud enough to make you soaked with just noises.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆.˚✮•𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂•✮˚.⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

When you're all done and finished he's holding you like you're the dearest thing to walk on this earth. He's talking in your ear all soft and gooey about how gorgeous you are and good you made him feel, and after a while of holding and sweetness he's bringing you to the bathroom to freshen up before returning to the bedroom again.

ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ★｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+° as always, requests are open!

•made yukimiyas part just a but longer bc it was his bday recently so have a treat :P

[paper-starz]

EHEHEHEHE ESILLY EXTRA DESIGNSSSS

Apparently catbee and PJ pugapillar are both in the same Swapimal toy line so I made these guys!! All of their parts can detach and reattach to each other, which is why I gave pugapillar a lil collar and catbee some extra fluff (like bee fluff!) Btw Catbee and Pugapillar are bffs cuz I said so <3

As for Bron I thought it would be so cute to make him a lil’ rocking horse (a rocking dinosaur lol) since his OG design doesnt really tell what kinda toy he was supposed to be, especially a toy from the 60s!

He's also a 'dinosaur' in a literal sense cause bro thinks that the past was better and that the company should work on 'getting back to the good ol' days' whatever that means.

He was also decommissioned from working at Playtime Park cause he kept flinging kids that he didn't like, either "they were too rude!" or "Dang kids know nothin' about hard work! If you wanna sit on MY saddle ya gotta earn it!" And such. Multiple parents have complained so the company just decided to remove him from the area and relocated him elsewhere.

[asclexe]

this is “Everybody Meows” ur so right silly

look at my doctors dawg im going to die

[lchufflepuffcorn]

Okay silly idea, since Jace/Vermax likes to hoard jewels, I feel like Vermax would have his own cave on Dragonstone full of his trinkets. When he finally sees his mate, he takes them there and just showers them in jewels. All in dragon form.

Omg, YES!! 

Also, hi Anon💎!! 🤭 Btw this is not the same as when Jewel came back from her family for some wedding and a baby shower. It’s another time either before or after. 

Masterlist

🐉!hybrid masterlist

Taglist form

Jace had retreated into himself, as the two months you’d gone back to your family extended to three, then four, and now nearly five months. Leaving Vermax in charge of their overall survival. 

And Vermax had grown too big for Jacaerys’ room. He’d relocated to his favourite little grotto on the island, his magnificent and shiny cave full of magnificent and shiny little baubles and trinkets. And while Vermax couldn’t fill the empty space your absence had left in their chest, he could fill his cave with more jewels in the meantime. Especially now that he’d found a(n abandoned) ship some way away from Dragonstone, still filled with shinies. 

How was he to resist, truly?

But today, Vermax was lazily flying in wide circles over the Dragonstone’s castle, wondering what to do with himself. He had no interest in laying about in-between two emerald filled walls, glancing up at glittering baubles made out of rich metals and pretty stones. He'd grown tired of counting and recounting all his historical (or so said the little one in his head) shiny pieces, and decorating the cave a new time was all but discouraging at the moment.

Vermax was about to shot up to leave for the high sea when he spotted a tinie-tiny spot moving on the sea’s horizon. And whilst dragon’s do not have interest in timetables or any other list of the kind, this dragon thought curiously if it could be possible your ship would’ve been scheduled for today.

He didn’t care enough to let the little one know. Not yet. Vermax had neither the patience, nor strength to deal with a saddened Jacaerys, as it would only add to his morose attitude. But he still flew toward the little ship that grew larger with each flaps of his wings. 

Beneath him, the waves of the sea parted with the blow of air Vermax pushed down to fly above the water, creating waves of his own, battling against the natural ones fending towards shore. And the further he flew, the further Vermax could make out the sigil of your house floating above, a stark contrast against the cloud-filled sky. 

A screech, between the wail of a whale and the song of a very large bird, left Vermax’s throat. A sound that echoed against the wall of the sea and the one of the heavy clouded sky. The dragon fended the sky, height to let himself drop with an acrobatic when spotted your little form standing on the deck, waving furiously in his direction. Vermax screeched again. 

Once he reached your boat, Vermax dropped himself low enough to reach for you catching you between his back paws. His awkward grip on you made Vermax reconsider flying toward the dock, and he veered toward the rocky part of the island, the closest part now. 

‘What are you doing??’ The little one’s voice boomed through Vermax’s consciousness, and his wings faltered a bit and he tipped dangerously closer to the waters. 

‘Hush.’ He growled, the sound rumbling through the air, and he Vermax felt you grasp at his legs thighet, and he dropped his head momentarily to look at you from one eye before looking inward again. 

You were there. He had you. You were safe. And like the crown upon the head of a mighty ruler, you were enduring the challenge. His perfect jewel, a true diamond in the rock. Having soothed the little one, Vermax continued flying toward his secret not so secret cave, where he knew you’d be left alone for a while. The sea breeze felt cold against its scales, and Vermax practically heard his heart, their heart, break when he thought of how cold you must be, clutched awkwardly between his hind legs, probably from the little one. Which was a nonsense he promptly shut down. 

The opening of his cave grew closer, and Vermax’s started to decelerate. Taking on the opening in full swing alone was one thing, but with his little Jewel hanging from him, the dragon would not chance it.  

Vermax’s cave was a sight worthy of dragon’s legends. The, albeit rare today, sun shone through it’s opening and thousand of diamonds and golden objects reflected it’s light. The dragon had taken care to dispose his cave in a manner that would be pleasing to all. You’d been brought there before, and Vermax had always been proud to show you where (to him) you truly belonged: at the very top of his hoard. The preciousest of all his shiny trinkets. 

Hitting the ground, Vermax made sure to not squash you. He felt your hand run against his abdomen belly, the highest you could reach, all the way until you stood in front of him. Clothes crumpled by the wind, lacking the riches Vermax was so used to see you in habitually, and it displeased him greatly. A soft growl, deep and so unlike him echoed against the walls, making the numerous suspended baubles ornamenting the cave began to shake with the sound. His nose brushed against your belly, and he sighed harshly against the fabric covering you, trying to convey his displeasure. 

“Hush. You big baby. You caught me before I could make myself presentable to you.”

Vermax heard how you hesitated to name him, still unsure about whom was piloting the body, still under trained to recognized Jace from himself. It was but a small matter to him. Your hand on the front of his head brought him comfort nonetheless. The void in his chest quietly filling with your scent at every breath Vermax took, and another little sound escaped him, between a sigh and a purr. 

Something was bothering him, still. Your stature, your worth was not shining through with the plain sailing clothes that you wore, and with a second rumble, Vermax parted with you. Using his nose to search around the multiple piles of his hoard to find something that would translate your importance. He threw pieces of clothing and multiple accessories for you to take from, picking carefully each gifts to offer you. You cold only have the best of the best. And Vermax was proudly the owner of everything that was best. 

“Isn’t this a piece of armor?” Your laughter reverbated against the emerald covered walls of the cave, making the dragon’s head perked up, turning in your direction again as you raised and old, bronze made shoulder piece from a long decimated and now forgotten civilization. The dragon’s gaze eyed you up and down, as if to say : ’That’s what you stop yourself on?’ before he went back to foraging into his hoard. 

taglist: @lady-dragon-rider

current anon: 👑😵‍💫🥰🧑‍🍼😣🧑‍⚕️☄️(💎)

[nausicaaandhermouth]

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived. 

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

[bialbovi]

I might not be your friendly neighbourhood blog today but I do not have the privilege to just ignore what's being done to the country that made me who I am. Without Ukraine there would be no me, there would be no fanarts from me, no original art, I wouldn't BE. I cannot look away. And Ukraine has support. Ukraine is being supported. But NOT ENOUGH to stop the invasion right now. God, I wish.

rUSSIANS MUST BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE

Ukrainians NEED YOUR SUPPORT, rUSSIANS STEAL AND KILL UKRAINIAN CHILDREN, rUSSIANS MURDER UKRAINIANS DAILY, rUSSIANS EXECUTE UKRAINIAN PRISONERS OF WAR, rUSSIANS BOMB HOSPITALS AND MATERNITY WARDS, rUSSIA ALWAYS LIES, rUSSIANS MURDER AND TORTURE UKRAINIANS ON OCCUPIED TERRITORIES, rUSSIANS RAPE UKRAINIAN WOMEN, MEN, CHILDREN, AND ANIMALS, rUSSIA DELIBERATELY ERASES UKRAINIAN IDENTITY, rUSSIANS STEAL UKRAINIAN CULTURE, rUSSIANS LEVEL CITIES TO THE GROUND AND DESTROY NOT ONLY LIVELIHOODS BUT NATURE, rUSSIANS HAVE COMMITTED A FLOODING ECOCIDE, rUSSIANS TERRORIZE AND ATTEMPT TO EXHAUST UKRAINIAN PEOPLE WITH AS MANY AIR RAID ALERTS DAILY AS POSSIBLE, rUSSIANS AIM TO VIOLATE AS MANY CONVENTIONS, RULES, AND TREATIES AS POSSIBLE, rUSSIA IS IMPOSSIBLE TO NEGOTIATE WITH, rUSSIANS WILL NOT STOP AT UKRAINE IF WE DO NOT GET OUR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER AND HELP UKRAINE NOW. rUSSIA . COMMITS . GENOCIDE

I am asking you to share Ukrainian links and btw, while we are here, to prioritize Ukrainian queer people because I have seen people defend a gay russian soldier before, while russians murder many queer Ukrainians every single day

LGBT Battalion

Come Back Alive

Prytula Foundation

Starenki (elderly support)

Everybody Can (more elderly and hospitals support, disabled children)

UAnimals

Hospitallers

World Central Kitchen (the only international org that has proved itself ❤️‍🩹)

Shouldn't be a surprise to anyone opening my blog that I am in fact Ukrainian and not only do I have Ukrainian roots but I also lived 17 years of my life there, my family moved at the end of 2020, so I dodged a deadly russian roulette, unlike all of my Ukrainian friends who have to endure daily drone air raids and bombs. I used to live in Kyiv, so I wasn't anywhere close to the frontlines when the war actually started in 2014, and in 2022 it exploded into a full-scale invasion. However, there was a change in the way everything felt, because the war was constantly on TV, the military topic was practically everywhere, there were consequences to it, children that were forced to relocate came to our school even, I think one of them was a classmate of mine.

The Revolution of Dignity did happen in my city, my parents were afraid for my wellbeing, I went to school. You never realize how historical the event is until it has passed and you have grown up.

My russian friends at the time never understood me. They argued with me about Holodomor (of course they would), they told me that I'M wrong in the way I ask them to not use certain words or pronounciations, when in actuality it's THEIR language that was ALWAYS historically threatening to erase Ukrainian. My russian friends never understood why I don't want to come to russia, they never understood why I'm so worried about some random "fightings in the east", even though I didn't understand the full picture back then, everything felt off. I was dumbfounded. I was too kind back then, though. I thought "wow aren't you at least worried about YOUR people if not MINE?". Before the full-scale invasion the person I considered to be my best friend from russia told me not to worry about the sheer amount of russian vehicles and weapons on the fucking border because they're doing their routine training or WHATEVER. Then my russian friend couldn't understand why I was suddenly angry that she was not going to even do anything. She told me I was too emotional during the first week of the invasion. Then I suddenly realized that everything made sense - we were so different. Yes she may be a civilian but her being in the war machine that is russian federation means her funds also go to bomb my people. I just couldn't keep talking to my russian friends. They always cracked up on any of the crucial questions that form your worldview, either about Crimea, about Holodomor, about culture or language, about Donetsk and Luhansk. Even if they were "good" or "your average russian" I understood that they would associate themselves with the country anyways, we would start arguing, and I do not owe them explanations or attempting to rid their brains of propaganda! They have full internet access, but they choose to believe what they believe and their so-called riots were not enough! Because if they would none of this would keep happening! but now we live in two different worlds and that's just how it was supposed to happen. The separation was destined in a way because russians have tried so many times to influence Ukraine, to change the language, assimilate people. It just keeps repeating.

Ukrainians were always too kind to russians, I was too kind, and now I'm broken because it was not my fault that I tried to reason with these people. It's not my fault that I want to scream at them to do at least something so that it could have an impact. I am not going to beg on my knees in front of the people being cogs in the war machine, and I'm shocked if you still prioritize civilian russians over Ukrainian civilians. russian citizens keep living their lives because they have just gotten used to it IN WHAT WORLD IS IT NORMAL. Someone they know probably launches missiles from THEIR city right into some Ukrainian neighbourhood that sets ablaze and the family can just be buried alive under the rubble with no warning prior, if the missile was faster than the air raid alert.

FUCKING GOD.

I wish the world understood. They must feel the consequences of the 11 year war (even though our history of enduring russian bloody actions go waaaay back), of all these invasions their country has waged, not only in Ukraine, but Sakartvelo (Georgia), Chechnya, the terror in Syria, OTHER COUNTRIES. I AM FUCKING TIRED! I'M TIRED OF RANDOM INTERNET USERS TRYING TO TELL UKRAINIANS THAT THEY SHOULDN'T BE ANGRY AT rUSSIANS AND THAT UKRAINIANS SHOULD BE MORE EMPATHETIC! SORRY WE HAVE SO MUCH ON OUR FUCKING PLATE BUT rUSSIANS SHOULD JUST DEAL WITH THEIR STUFF IN THEIR OWN WAY WITHOUT US. WE WANT THEM TO LEAVE US ALONE. WE WERE FORCED to be in one internet space with them we KNOW HOW THEY ARE 10 TIMES BETTER THAN ANY OF YOU WILL BECAUSE we felt their thinking firsthand, in chats, in videocalls, online, in person.

I'm tired of internet users telling Ukrainians how to react, what to do, to be KINDER. WE DID THAT FUCKING ALREADY IT DIDN'T WORK AS YOU CAN SEE. I'll take a look at how each and every one of you will try and survive an existential war and then I'm going to police your every move. KINDNESS DOESN'T UNDO THE MASS GRAVES AND DOESN'T UNDO THE TORTURE, IT DOESN'T FREE UKRAINIAN PRISONERS AND DOESN'T BRING CHILDREN HOME. KINDNESS DOESN'T UNDO THE RAPE TRAUMA AND DOESN'T BRING YOU YOUR TORN LIMB BACK. KINDNESS DOESN'T BRING YOUR MURDERED CHILD BACK TO LIFE, NOR FRIENDS, NOR SPOUSES, NOR LOVED ONES. TEACHERS, BROTHERS, FAMILY MEMBERS, ACQUAINTANCES. So many lives just. BRUTALLY CUT OFF. THEY'RE ALL DEAD.

And nothing will bring many Ukrainians back to life again. But you can help us prevent further attacks, Ukraine needs weapons because it is impossible to fight a murderer with kind words

Make of it what you desire

The consequences below minimum you are going to suffer as a russian account from my presence on tumblr is getting blocked by me because I am not making my content for you and I do not wish to educate you because it is not my responsibility

If this post harmed you then I'm not sorry to bother your thinking filled to the brim with imperialism, my words are NOTHING compared to what your people are doing TO MINE. Get out of my blog, do not interact with me, make an effort so that your people stop killing mine. BARE MINIMUM.

I do not believe in good russians because whether you believe in it or not they all contribute to the invasion willingly and unwillingly and they MUST do something with their fucking country it's in THEIR HANDS. They must feel the consequences from all the pain they are dealing to other people worldwide, even though I do not expect them to change anything. They are living behind a big black wall in my mind and I want to not think of them. I wish people understood how much it means when Ukrainian artists are being prioritized instead of russian artists, because the second ones will likely be FINE. OH DON'T WORRY ABOUT THEM. Donating to both is USELESS because one cancels out the other. Part of that money will eventually end up going to russia's murderous actions against Ukrainians. Sometimes I feel like you forget that day to day russians BOMB UKRAINIANS. THEY SEND HUGE SHAHED DRONES. AND FAST MISSILES.

(NOT) sorry for being political

[daisywords]

some misc worldbuilding questions to get your gears turning:

Do they have germ theory or some equivalent? How do they conceptualize the spread of disease and infection?

Is the everyday economy based more on trade/barter or currency? Is the currency valuable in its own right, or is it just something agreed upon to have value (eg. salt or gold vs. paper money)

What is their main method of lighting? What resources does this use?

Primary mode of transportation? How much does this vary based on things like purpose of travel, social class, etc.?

How much of a knowledge/education gap is there between social classes? Is there a baseline of education that everyone gets/is expected to have?

What are the most popular modes of storytelling? Is everyone telling campfire stories? Are they going to plays? puppet shows? are they going to the cinema? are they reading novels or epic poetry? Are there any folk characters or pop culture things that most people are familiar with?

Where does most people's moral framework primarily come from? Religion? Philosophy? Are there different schools of thought? How much do they vary?

Is there anything considered scandalous/improper/taboo that's normal in your own culture? and vice versa

Do most people live and die where they are born, or is it common to relocate and travel widely? how much does this vary by class/profession/region?

What do they do with criminals? Do they have an extensive prison system? If so, who funds/runs it? If not, how is crime discouraged/managed? Are there specific punishments for specific crimes?

How rigid are their class boundaries? How possible/common is it for someone to change social classes?

Is there anything that people get dangerously addicted to in your world? How accessible is it?

How easy is it for someone to do research/look up information they don't know? What is the primary method of doing this?

What holidays do they have? Any weird traditions? Fun traditions? Are they universally celebrated, or only by specific groups of people?

How do they dispose of their dead? How do they honor their dead?

How much exchange is there between cultures? Do people of different groups intermingle, or do they mostly stick with their own people?

How common is it to speak more than one language, and who is most likely to be multilingual?

How much do regional dialects/accents vary within the same language? Are there any dialects/accents that are stigmatized? Do different accents have different associated stereotypes?

This isn't meant to be taken as a checklist that you have to completely fill out btw. Just things that might help add flavor to your world and characters. (Also mostly things I end up thinking about logistically anyway as they become relevant to the plot or a character's frame of reference.) Enjoy!

[advantage-artrick]

would loveeee more bsfs w repressed feelings art and patrick stanford era

btw this is my fav blog rn ilysm

wow thanks so much, ilyt!! 💕

ugh as frustrating as they are, i have a special place in my heart for these two. they're just so convinced that everything they do together is totally platonic and super casual. honestly, it's a bit depressing to watch, but it gets more bearable if you make it horny, so here we go! 😭

CW: nsfw content, oral (m!recieving), super gay but they don't know it yet. mdni!!

okie dokie, have fun y'all!

XOXO 🎟✨️

"are you sure tashi would be okay with this?" art asked nervously, pausing with his hand on the waistband of patrick's shorts.

they had just gotten done practicing and grabbing a meal from the dining hall, and now patrick was back in art's empty dorm for the night because tashi had kicked him out of hers to study. not that either of them were complaining, of course. they liked spending time together.

the only issue was that patrick's dick seemed to have been expecting a little something special from his girlfriend that night. something it very much did not end up getting.

and somehow, one thing led to another, and now patrick was sitting on art's bed with his legs hanging off the side, and art was kneeling on the floor in front of him. if art's roommate had walked in on them in that moment, they probably would have scrambled to assure him it wasn't what it looked like, though truthfully, it one-hundred-percent was.

"i don't fucking know," patrick groaned. this was probably the fourth or fifth time art had stalled to ask a stupid, unimportant question like that. patrick was starting to feel dizzy from how much blood was being relocated from his brain to his erection, and he was getting very fed up with his best friend's hesitancy.

"what, do you want me to call her and ask?"

"no, please don't!" art whined, but patrick was already reaching over to grab his phone from the bedside table. "pat, i'm serious! it's fine, i'll do it. just hang on a second."

patrick sighed, ignoring his pleas as he found tashi's contact and pressed the dial button. art groaned, his head falling shamefully to rest on patrick's knee.

"relax, art," patrick huffed. "if knowing she's cool with this would make you feel better, i'm gonna ask. it's no big deal."

before art could protest, or maybe grab the phone and hang up, he heard tashi's voice coming quietly through the speaker.

"what the fuck do you want, patrick?"

patrick grinned, putting the phone up to his ear so art couldn't hear what she was saying. art glared at him, but patrick wasn't looking. he probably wanted to pretend he didn't see the murderous glint in art's eyes. not because he was scared of it or anything. he was just an annoying dickwad.

"hey, tash. quick question: would you be pissed if art sucked me off right now?" he asked casually, as if he were just wondering if she needed anything from the grocery store.

art choked, picking his head up and pressing his palms into his eyes dramatically. he already knew he was never going to be able to look her in the eyes again, no matter what her answer was.

there was a long pause while tashi considered her response, but all art could make out when she did finally speak was a bunch of mumbled nonsense. thankfully, (or maybe unfortunately), it was pretty easy to follow their conversation just from patrick's side of things.

"relax, we're in his dorm. . . yes, he's sober. tash, you know i wouldn't d-. . . uhuh."

patrick smirked, bringing a hand down between his legs to fidget with art's curls. art pouted, putting his head back down on the mattress between patrick's thighs.

"this was a stupid idea," art mumbled, relaxing under the attention despite himself.

"shhh," patrick hushed, glancing down at him briefly before returning to his negotiation.

"tashi, it's fine. i'll take care of him, promise. . . no, that's not what happened, god. . . i was just complaining to him that my boner wouldn't go away, and i said 'i would probably kill a man for a blowjob right about now,' and he mentioned off-handedly that he's always thought he'd be pretty good at sucking cock. . . yeah, i asked him if he wanted to find out. i was mostly joking, but-. . . . well duh, he said yes. that's why he's on his knees right now."

art groaned in embarrassment, hiding his face in patrick's thigh until their conversation was over.

"what? no, he's just helping me out. . . well, i'm helping him test his theory so i'd say it's pretty fair. . . yeah, sure tash, we can talk about it later."

then she said something that made patrick let out a startled laugh, and all of a sudden, he was hanging up and tossing the phone on the bed beside him.

"what'd she say?" art asked, grimacing.

but from patrick's eager grin, he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

"she said it's fine as long as we let her watch next time."

"next time?" art repeated, his eyes going wide. of all the ways she could've said yes, that was not the one he'd been expecting.

"we'll cross that bridge when we get to it," patrick shrugged off, using his hand on art's head to pull the blonde in closer to his crotch. "but right now, i'm kinda gettin' blue balls here, man."

art rolled his eyes, reaching into patrick's boxers and wrapping a calloused hand around his erection like it was something they did every day.

"if you push my head like that when i'm doing this, i swear to god, i will bite your dick off," art warned, finally pulling him out of his shorts and into the open air.

he'd been so confident for a minute there, but now, seeing the full length of it in front of him, he could feel that self-assuredness draining from every hole in his body.

"sure, whatever you say, your highness. will you just fucking blow me already?" patrick challenged, tightening his grip on art's hair in anticipation.

art swallowed thickly, falling uncharacteristically silent, even for him. he was completely mesmerized by patrick's flushed, dripping cock, sure it must've been the most beautiful and the most intimidating thing he had ever seen. he'd always known patrick was big from how much time they'd spent changing in locker rooms and jacking off together. he'd just never imagined he would find out how big he was by trying to stuff the entire thing in his mouth.

"holy shit," art breathed. it was so close to his face, he had to go practically cross-eyed to watch the tiny pearls of precum bead up at the tip and slide gracefully down the side. he almost didn't want to put it in his mouth just so he wouldn't have to stop looking at it.

"art, you know i'm not making you do this, right?" patrick asked quietly, very rudely interrupting his moment of admiration. "if you want me to go rub one out in the bathroom, i-"

before he could finish that god-forsaken sentence, art leaned in the rest of the way, wrapping his soft, pink lips around the head and immediately erasing all of patrick's concerns.

"oh, fuck. okay," patrick breathed, using all his willpower to keep from thrusting into the wet heat. "nevermind. jesus."

art hummed contentedly, warming up very quickly to the idea of having a dick in his mouth. slowly, he took more of him onto his tongue, stroking what he couldn't quite reach with the help of how fucking wet patrick apparently got.

patrick sighed in relief when art started bobbing his head, tugging gratefully at his curls. he fell back onto his elbow when art moaned in response, groaning and cursing like his soul was being sucked out through his dick.

and art, well, he was in heaven. every single thing about it, from the weight to the taste to the stretch, was driving him half out if his mind. it certainly wasn't helping that patrick would not stop pulling his hair, or worse, running his fucking mouth.

"yeah, just like that. so fucking good, art, fuck," he gasped, rolling his hips upwards in tiny, uncontrollable motions. "you were so right, baby, oh my god."

art moaned around him again, using his free hand to palm himself desperately through his shorts. he was so hard it was almost painful, and he was pretty sure he was gonna come before patrick did at the rate they were going at.

eager to make his best friend feel good, art pushed himself to take him all the way into his throat. but, as soon as the swollen head touched the back of his tongue, he was choking and quickly pulling off.

"fuck," he pouted, taking a second to catch his breath.

"you gotta relax, man," patrick advised, both of them watching art stroke him up and down as if they were in a trance. "if you wanna- fuck- get more of it."

"has anyone gotten all of it before?" art asked, thumbing over the slit before following the motion with his tongue.

patrick shook his head, biting his lip so hard, art was surprised it wasn't bleeding.

"patrick?" he mumbled, taking a moment to play around with his shiny, pink tip.

patrick responded with a dazed hum, watching him experiment with hooded eyes.

"i'm not gonna do it," art conceded.

"i know."

". . . you're so fucking big, patrick."

"i know," patrick laughed, grabbing art's jaw firmly and guiding him forward to lick up the sides of his shaft. "jus' get it real wet, it'll be easier to take another- fuck, yeah- another inch or two."

art whined, squeezing himself hard through his boxers to stave off his impending orgasm. if he'd been less focused on the matter at hand, he might've been more surprised by how much he apparently loved sucking cock.

he'd offered to do this to prove to himself and patrick that it was another one of his natural-born talents. why he'd always thought he would be good at it, he wasn't entirely sure. but he certainly wasn't opposed to the idea, so when patrick had mentioned wanting a blowjob, he'd figured there would be no harm in trying it out. you know, just to see if he'd been right.

but now. . . he was starting to think there may have been another reason he'd always been so curious about it. and he was starting to think it might not be a one time thing after all.

taking a deep breath, he got back to the challenge at hand, doing his best to relax as he took patrick back into his mouth inch by inch. when it inevitably hit the back of his throat again, he swallowed against his gag reflex, pushing forwards until he'd gone as far as his body would allow.

right when he was about to pull off to breathe, patrick's hand moved down to the back of his neck, forcing him to stay right where he was.

"take it, baby. just like that, fuck," patrick hissed, thrusting shallowly upwards into his throat. "good boy. oh, you're so fucking good, oh my god."

art let out a whine from deep in his chest, melting in patrick's dominant grasp despite the noticeable lack of oxygen he was taking in. he certainly didn't bite his best friend's dick off like he had promised to just moments before.

instead, he promptly came in his shorts, proving that he didn't mind a little head pushing nearly as much as he'd thought he would.

art moaned wantonly, shaking and swallowing through his orgasm while patrick continued to fuck his mouth carefully. somehow, he didn't seem to have noticed art's total loss of control, but after one more particularly hard thrust, he did finally let him come up for air.

art gasped, damn near hyperventilating as he drooled all over himself and the floor. patrick's dick was bobbing impatiently in front of his face, all purple and leaking and completely covered in his spit. patrick replaced art's hand around the base so he could stroke himself a few times, giving art a chance to make sure he wasn't about to pass out.

"i've gotta admit, donaldson, i'm impressed," patrick teased, tapping art's cheek with his obnoxiously wet cock just to be an asshole. "so, are you givin' up, or. . .?"

art sighed, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and taking back custody of patrick's length. he shook his head, leaning in to lap at the slit tiredly. he let his hand do most of the work from that point on, only sucking and licking at the first few inches.

patrick hummed, petting him gratefully as he worked. he didn't seem to mind the change of pace, thankfully, and before too long he was tugging at art's hair to warn him that he was getting close.

art made no move to pull away, and a few seconds later, patrick was coming hard on his tongue with a loud, drawn-out groan while art stroked him happily through it.

there was quite a lot to swallow, but art took it like a champ, giggling like a crazy person when he realized what he'd just done.

"dude, you didn't spit it out?" patrick asked incredulously, but he was laughing too. "that's fucking nasty."

"i don't know, man, it was just a reflex, i guess," art explained, standing up on shaky legs so he could plop down next to him on the bed. "i didn't really think about it."

"bet you liked it, you fucking slut," patrick teased, laying down on the mattress before pulling art down with him.

art hummed, curling into his side and hiding his face in patrick's neck so he could inhale his familiar scent. he was still feeling very dopey and light-headed, but he wasn't exactly sure why. he just wanted to be close to him, maybe cuddle for an hour or so. he was very happy when patrick didn't try to pull away.

"do you want me to-. . . oh. i guess not."

patrick had apparently just noticed the pitiful state of his favorite practice shorts. art opened his eyes to see his former roommate staring at his crotch with a look of awe and. . . hunger?

"so, you did like it," he deduced, leaning onto his side so he could tease art more effectively. "i'll tell tashi she can watch tomorrow, if you think you can wait that long."

"shut up," art grumbled, wrapping an arm around patrick's waist and burying his face in his burning-hot chest. "but i'm okay with that. . . if you want."

a long silence passed between them, but surprisingly, it really wasn't awkward at all. art felt so safe and comforted and normal in patrick's arms, he had a hard time believing anything had happened at all that could change things between them.

"you are literally the best friend ever, dude," patrick whispered after a while, laughing quietly.

so apparently, nothing had.

art scoffed, picking his heavy head up to glare at him playfully.

"are you saying i wasn't a good friend before i sucked your dick?" he asked.

"no," patrick answered, smirking. "but you're definitely a better one now."

"why, does tashi not like doing that?" art asked, settling back down against his side.

"it's definitely not her favorite thing, so i bet she'll be pretty glad that you like it."

art blushed, the reminder drawing his attention back to the sticky mess quickly drying in his shorts. he would have to take care of that eventually, but he was just so comfortable right where he was.

"just cuz' i like it doesn't mean i'm gonna be your personal cock-sucker," he mumbled defensively.

patrick just laughed, rolling them over until art was pinned beneath him.

"why, you gonna find some other asshole to do this shit with?" he teased, grinning.

"i don't know, maybe," art pouted.

something changed in patrick's eyes then. art didn't quite know how to describe it, but it was something that thrilled him and terrified him more than words could explain.

"don't," patrick whispered.

and that was all he had to say to get exactly what he wanted.

". . . okay, pat."

these two are the no-homo final boss 😭

i took some creative liberties with this one so i hope it was at least close to what you expected! thanks so much for the idea, this one was cute! 💕

asks are open, as always! peace out <3

XOXO 💖✨️

[grecoromanyaoi]

what do you think would be the percentage of israelis of european descent that would like to immigrate to their families originary country if housing and integration was offered? like Germany if your grandfathers german. i dont specify to keep the ask short. i say europe because idont imagine many considering MENA. no hate i just like to understand people

ok so first of all i cant attest to ALL israelis bc im a v specific individual in v niche social circles n quite disconnected from the general Society™. its kinda complicated bc i mean. a. a lot of ppl try n get a european/american citizenship bc its a stronger passport + in case of Emergencies (not just european jews btw, a lot of mizrahim r eligible to different citizenships bc of like. colonialism. n also the spanish/portugese expulsion), n rarely do they actually use it to immigrate outside the country. b. a lot of ppl, mainly wealthier ppl, have been fleeing the country recently (n many more threatening to or planning to). like ive seen a bunch of like. tiktokers who relocated n my mom has a lot of patients who moved to zoom bc of relocation. but c. i doubt it? bc like thats still relocating ur entire life, n i assume u mean permanently immigrating. thats still a new language, new n foreign bureaucracy (i cant believe i spelled that right on the first try), uprooting ur entire life n support system, usually involves not having job security, etc. would most americans leave if they had the chance?

[eveningspirit]

The actress, who plays Dr. Mel's sister, Becca -- Tal Anderson -- is actually autistic. :)

From her IMDB page:

Tal Anderson is a storyteller and an advocate for change, using her voice and platform as an actor to support inclusion and authentic representation in Hollywood. [...] As an autistic artist, she uses her unique position to advocate for disability rights in the workplace and inclusivity in front of and behind the camera in Hollywood. [...] When she's not acting, Tal flexes her creative muscles with editing and writing. She has edited exhibit videos for the Smithsonian Institute, and has completed post-production for many independent short and feature length narrative and documentary films. She's an avid horror movie fan, lover of rock music, and is a true crime enthusiast. When it comes to her presence in the public eye, she wants people to see her as a real person who's doing their job authentically and doing their best to advocate for equality and disability. She has permanently relocated to Los Angeles, where she lives with her cat Winifred.

I'm sure her presence in the cast of the show has an influence on how Mel is portrayed, perhaps on how she's written and how Taylor Dearden plays her. This is good. :) And Taylor is rather convincing in the role. Now I'm curious if Taylor was chosen for her physical similarity to Tal, rather than the other way around. :)

The conversation between Mel and Becca was very sweet, btw.

[saintjosie]

say what you will about tiktok but there isn’t a single american news outlet talking about palestine that isn’t just pro-israeli propoganda and tiktok is one of the few places where you can actually get information about what’s happening there.

do trends and shitposts get annoying sometimes? yeah absolutely. but it’s still an incredibly important and powerful platform for information dissemination when you are able to filter through bullshit with a modicum of media literacy and find content creators you can trust. and doubly so in the wake of twitter falling to pieces.

what if elon musk isn’t as big of an idiot as he seems? what if he’s playing a long con, willing to lose 20 billion dollars (which is not even 10% of his estimated net worth btw) in order to further his political agenda? and why is there suddenly bipartisan support for a tiktok ban via KOSA (kids online safety act), supposedly in the name of protecting children?

both parties know that the american propoganda machine falls apart when the power of information lies with the people.

remember when conservatives initially wanted to ban tiktok? they were willing to allow tiktok to continue to operate if they either sold to an american company or relocated their servers to american soil. and now after tiktok managed to avoid doing either one while also managing to avoid giving any legal reason for a tiktok ban, suddenly there is bipartisan support for a bill that essentially allows for unrestricted censorship of the internet in america?

another thing to consider - where did this vitriol for tiktok come from? did it come from someone you know? and where did that person pick up that opinion? can that opinion be traced back to an actual person or were many of these opinions seeded by faceless accounts, the same way that faceless accounts spread nazi shit, terf shit, and shitty lgbtqia rhetoric, to start the unsuspecting down radicalizing pipelines?

every major political power in the world is constantly running psyops to erode our ability to trust what we see online, to sow misinformation and distrust, because the uninformed masses are vulnerable to manipulation.

think about the media you consume. double check it. get a second opinion. learn how to engage in GOOD FAITH discourse. learn how to be kind. learn when to block and move on.

protect yourself and in doing so, protect those around you. because without the communities that we have online, without the ability to organize and share, we lose.

[fishhawish]

Can request some genshin men(your choice)with a s/o who can't cry. Like even when they are sad and wants to cry they can't. If you don't write for multiple characters you can choose anyone you want to. Thanks.

Yeah totes! Hope you enjoy🤍

Sorry for late response btw I got caught up in ROTC

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Genshin men x reader who can't cry

Angst / comfort

Warnings: none

Gender neutral reader

★

(spun on a wheel contains: Nuevillete, Lyney, Kaeya, Tighnari, Xiao and Thoma)

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊

!!not proof read!!

Scenario: Reader had a bad day but can't let out the pent up frustration.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚Nuevillette

He cries for You.

Although it may not look like it, Nuviluette is truly an emotional man. Especially when his significant other is upset. You both lay on the bed, You curled up against him while he holds you tightly in attempt to comfort you. You want to cry but tears won't spill, leaving you in absolutely agony. Your lover can't help but get emotional at the sight, his eyes watery as he cuddles you. He apologizes but he still can't help it. All he wishes of is for You to be happy again. He's really trying his best. He ordered snacks and little gifts in attempt to cheer you up. When the maid delivers them he is the one to answer. Presenting you with the little gift he tried his best to make you happy, smiling at you and speaking in his gentle tone "My dear, I have gotten You a gift. "Please allow me to treat You during this unfortunate time."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚Lyney

He understands You.

Lyney, who grew up in the House of Hearth. Also experienced the inability to cry. Growing up under 'Father' really caused tension for Him as a child. As of currently You now sit with your Magician lover, in his lap on the sofa of his home. Tears waiting to spill but they don't. He sighs and rubs your back gently in little circles. "Ma chérie, please take your time." His loving voice rang in your ears. He looks over to grab the blanket to the side of him and wraps it over both of your bodies. "We have all the time in the world, do not fear " He whispers. Laying back and taking you with him to lay on top of him. He kisses the top of your head and soothes you to sleep with a lullaby that his 'Father' taught him.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚Kaeya

He drops everything for You.

Kaeya who noticed that You haven't visited him all day, began to worry. He needed to make sure. He speed walked to your home just to check on You, who also didn't answer the door. Kaeya unlocking the door with the key under the door mat entered the cozy home to see a depressing state. Him dashing towards you to, embracing you instantly. He begged you to tell him what happened, but after he himself calmed down he decided to give you some time. He loves you dearly more than anything. Kaeya gently kisses your temple before picking you up and relocating you back to your bedroom. When You mentioned to him that you want to cry but you can't, he says back a almost silent "me too".

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚Tighnari

He who tried his best.

Tighnari seems to over prioritize work, often not even noticing his own needs. And even if he says breaks are good sometimes, how often does he truly do so? Tighnari isn't as good with comforting, but he knows enough to try to help due to him taking care of Collei. So now here You are, sitting in Tighnari's lap at his desk. Face tucked into his shoulder hiding from the world as his tail wraps around you along with his arm, his other arm finding it's way to intertwine both of your hands together. His thumb rubs against the back of your hand, comforting you. He looks at you, pain filling his heart. He doesn't know what to say, he's afraid that he'll say the wrong thing. Especially without you being able to cry at the moment. But after a while he gathers courage and whispers "It's okay I'm here now."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚Xiao

He fights just for You.

Xiao's daily life consist of fighting the demons that intend to harm liyue. However when he hears your sweet voice call his name, the demons he fends off fate was sealed you opened your mouth. It takes him mere seconds to finish and teleport to You, and seconds to see your gloomy expression. This leaves Xiao in a panic because he doesn't know what to do. Xiao doesn't know much about humans, but he tries his best for you. He gently reaches out to touch your hand, embracing your hand with his. "Are you okay? What's wrong?" He says, worry sinking in his stomach. You suddenly embrace him, trying your best to let your emotions out but its not working. Although Xiao is stiff, he still complies with your action. Gently wrapping his arms around you as well. "I'll always protect You until the end." He says.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚Thoma

He takes the best care of You.

Thoma, who is amazing with caring for others. He loves you more than anything, you're practically his sunshine. So when You walked up to him and ask him for comfort, he's immediately there for you. By the time you asked he's already prepared everything. He takes your hand in his and helps you drink the tea he prepared for you. "Let me spoil you until you feel better, is that alright?" He says worried, you just nod. When you mentioned you want to cry but can't, he feels horrible. He hugs you, pampering your face in little kissing, giving you encouraging words. He always knows how to make you feel even slightly better. He smiles at You. "Here, I'll make your favorite foods tonight. It's all about you sweetheart."

.

.

.

Finished!

Requests open as usual<3

[allthemeniveloved]

It Will Come Back - Part 8

Summary: Arthur and the others return from Guarma worn and weary, prompting you to call on Arthur for help with rescuing John.

wc: 4.9k

ao3 link

Tags: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader, fluff, angst, hurt comfort, reminding myself that this is a love triangle story, did you miss Arthur?

a/n: EEEEK! This might not be everyone's favorite chapter but this is for sure one of mine. Btw, this'll be the last chapter that clings heavily to the canon storyline for any of you hoping to avoid real spoilers.

And the day that we'll watch the death of the sun That the cloud and the cold and those jeans you have on Then you'll gaze unafraid as they sob from the city roofs

Wasteland, baby I'm in love I'm in love with you

The swamp was alive with a suffocating tension as the remnants of the gang scrambled to leave Shady Belle. The failed Saint Denis bank robbery had sent shockwaves through everyone, and with the Pinkertons closing in and the law hot on their trail, there was no time to mourn, rest, or even think. Sadie, sharp-eyed and determined, had stepped in to take charge amidst the chaos, her voice calm yet firm as she directed the others. “We can’t stay here,” she said, helping Abigail bundle Jack onto a horse, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Lakay’s far enough out to give us time to breathe, but we’ve gotta move now.” The gang, rattled but desperate, followed her lead, pulling together what little they could carry from the crumbling mansion as the clock seemed to tick down.

You worked alongside the others, your hands trembling as you stuffed supplies into saddlebags, your mind reeling with the thought of those still missing. Arthur, Dutch, Micah, Javier, and Bill had disappeared after the bank job, and no one had heard from them since. Abigail’s distraught cries were a constant reminder of the others you had already lost: Hosea and Lenny, gone forever. The weight of it all sat heavy on your chest, but there was no time to grieve. The law could arrive at any moment, and Sadie’s steady leadership was the only thing keeping the group moving forward.

The journey to Lakay was grueling, the horses trudging through thick mud and water as the humid air clung to your skin. The swamp seemed to close in around you, the dense trees and hanging moss creating an oppressive atmosphere that matched the mood of the gang. Dahlia’s steps were careful but unsteady as you followed the caravan of riders, your eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit. Sadie and Miss Grimshaw led the way, all eyes fixed ahead, while Pearson’s wagon groaned under the weight of the camp’s salvaged supplies.

When Lakay finally came into view, it was a dismal sight—ramshackle huts barely standing on the edge of stagnant, murky water. The air smelled of decay and mildew, and the buzzing of mosquitoes filled the humid night. It was far from a home, but Sadie called it safe, and that was all that mattered. “Get settled,” she barked as the gang began to dismount. “We’ll rebuild here. It’s not forever, but it’ll do for now.”

The camp quickly descended into controlled chaos as everyone worked to unpack. Miss Grimshaw and Pearson began setting up stations, muttering under their breath about the lack of space. Sadie helped the rest of the women while you lingered near the outskirts, your eyes darting back toward the swamp trail. The longer you waited, the harder it was to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach. Where were they?

-

Twenty-six long days had passed since the gang had relocated to Lakay, and the tension in the swampy camp had only grown heavier with each sunrise. The shacks were barely holding together, the air thick with mosquitoes and the stink of stagnant water, and the days stretched endlessly as everyone tried to scrape by. You’d nearly given up hope of ever seeing the missing men again. Every night, as you lay awake on your makeshift cot, you couldn’t stop wondering if they were alive, or if they’d met the same grim fate as Hosea and Lenny. 

After Saint Denis, the weight of everything made the idea of leaving feel impossible. You told yourself it was practical to stay, that you needed their resources and protection, but deep down, you feared you didn’t have the strength to survive alone out in the unforgiving wilderness. As much as you hated the chaos, abandoning the gang felt like stepping into an even darker unknown, and you weren’t sure you had it in you to face that kind of uncertainty alone. 

The thought of John in prison was a weight that never left your chest, pressing down harder with each passing day. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering to dark places, imagining him locked away in some cold, damp cell, surrounded by unforgiving walls and cruel guards. Was he being fed? Was he hurt? The unanswered questions gnawed at you constantly, leaving you restless and sleepless most nights.

Worst of all was the fear that you might never know the truth. The uncertainty tore at you like a jagged edge—what if the law had decided he wasn’t worth keeping alive? What if they’d already executed him, leaving you here, clinging to the hope of a man who was gone? You tried to push the thoughts away, tried to focus on the slim possibility of rescue or escape, but the gnawing doubt refused to be silenced. The idea of him out there, suffering or worse, while you were helpless to do anything, felt like it was breaking you piece by piece.

Then, one humid evening as the sun dipped below the swamp, the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats shattered the quiet. You bolted upright, your heart leaping into your throat as you ran to the edge of camp. The sight of five riders emerging from the mist left you breathless—Arthur, Dutch, Micah, Javier, and Bill, their figures gaunt and weary, their clothes tattered and caked in dirt. They looked like they’d been through hell, their faces hollowed with exhaustion and their eyes haunted.

Arthur dismounted first, his movements slow and deliberate as he scanned the camp, his gaze finally landing on you. You didn’t hesitate; your feet moved before you even realized, and you ran straight to him, your chest tight with emotion. “Arthur!” you cried, your voice trembling as you threw your arms around him, holding him tightly like he might vanish if you let go.

He stiffened at first, clearly caught off guard, but then his hands came up to rest on your back, his touch grounding and steady despite the weight he carried. “Easy now,” he murmured, his voice rough and hoarse, but there was a flicker of warmth in it that made tears spring to your eyes. “I’m here. I made it back.”

You pulled back just enough to search his face, your hands gripping his arms as your gaze swept over his tired features. “I - we thought you were gone,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Twenty-six days, Arthur. Twenty-six days, and we heard nothing!”

His brow furrowed, guilt and weariness mingling in his eyes as he glanced toward Dutch, who was dismounting nearby with a grim expression. “It wasn’t easy,” Arthur said quietly, his voice laced with exhaustion. “We got stuck… in more ways than one. But we’re here now.” Only then did you notice that Arthur’s face was uncharacteristically red, the skin across his nose and cheeks raw and peeling as if he’d spent days under an unrelenting sun. You frowned as you looked at him, curiosity stirring in your chest. 

He didn’t offer details, and you didn’t press him. The relief of seeing him alive and back at camp was enough, for now. As the others dismounted and the camp stirred with murmurs and questions, you clung to Arthur a moment longer, your heart still racing. Whatever hell they’d been through, you could tell it wasn’t over—and neither was the fight to keep the gang together. 

You grabbed a bowl of stew from the pot Pearson had set up, the steam rising in swirls as you carried it over to Arthur, who looked like he could barely stand. “Here,” you said softly, nudging him toward a crate to sit on. He hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing as he watched you, but he finally sank down with a heavy sigh. Sitting across from him, you studied his sunburnt face, the peeling skin and exhaustion in his eyes, and an unexpected wave of relief washed over you. You didn’t think you’d ever see him again, and the fact that he was here—alive, even if worse for wear—tugged at something deep in your chest. “You okay?” you asked quietly, your voice softer than you intended. 

Arthur glanced at you, his brow furrowed, and muttered, “Didn’t figure you’d lose sleep over what happens to the likes of me.” Though his tone lacked its usual edge, as if he wasn’t sure he believed his own words. You hesitated, the mix of guilt and gratitude swirling in your chest, leaving you unsure how to respond. “Of course I do,” you finally said, your voice barely audible as you looked away, unable to face the question lingering in his tired gaze.

Your fingers began to fiddle with the edge of your sleeve. “I was worried. I didn’t know if you’d come back, and… I didn’t want to lose you too.”

Arthur’s expression softened, though he still looked uncertain, his fingers idly turning the spoon in the bowl of stew. 

“Guess I didn’t think you still gave a damn about me,” he admitted, his voice low and gruff, like he wasn’t quite sure how to say the words. He leaned back slightly, his tired eyes meeting yours with a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place. “But I appreciate it. More’n you know.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the sounds of the camp distant as the weight of the past weeks hung between you. Despite everything, Arthur’s presence grounded you, his steady strength a reminder that you weren’t as alone as you feared. “Well,” you said quietly, offering a small, tentative smile, “you’ll have to get used to it, Arthur. Like it or not, some of us do give a damn.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, and he nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I reckon I’ll try to remember that,” he said, his voice lighter now, though his weariness lingered. He picked up the bowl of stew and began to eat, his movements slow but steady, and you stayed beside him and studied the worn features on his face.

Arthur’s beard had grown wild and uneven, the sun catching on the lighter strands that peppered the thicker growth along his jaw. It framed his face in a way you weren’t used to, making him seem even more rugged, almost untamed after the time he’d been gone. Your eyes lingered, tracing the curve of his jawline beneath the sunburnt skin, down to the faint hollow of his throat just visible beneath his open collar, the worn fabric clinging to his sweat-dampened skin. You’d thought you might never see him again, and the realization hit you all over again, making your chest tighten. He shifted slightly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he finished his food, and you couldn’t help but study him further—the sharp lines of his features softened by exhaustion, the way his collarbone rose and fell with each steady breath, grounding you in the moment. Despite the grime and wear, there was something reassuringly familiar about him, something that made you feel, if only for a moment, like everything might still be okay.

The silence between you was heavy, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. “I owe you an apology,” he began, not meeting your gaze. “For what I said when I found out about you and John. I was angry, and… I shouldn’t’ve said half the things I did.”

You swallowed hard, the memory of that confrontation still fresh in your mind, the sting of his words lingering even now. “Arthur,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly.

He nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “I know,” he said quietly, his tone laced with guilt. Tears stung your eyes as you leaned forward, your hands clasping together in your lap. “I never stopped caring about you, Arthur,” you sighed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I still care about you. And when you said those things, it… it felt like I lost a part of you that I’d always counted on.”

His shoulders sagged, and he let out a long sigh, finally looking at you fully. “You didn’t lose me,” he said, his voice softer now, filled with a quiet sincerity. “I was hurt, sure, but that ain’t an excuse for the way I acted.”

You nodded, a small, tentative smile tugging at your lips despite the tears threatening to spill. “I just want us to be okay again.” you said softly.

Arthur’s expression softened, and he gave a small, weary smile. “We’ll be alright,” he said, his voice steady.

Arthur glanced up from his stew, his tired eyes narrowing slightly as he caught your lingering gaze, and a faint, wry smirk tugged at the edge of his lips despite the exhaustion weighing on him. “Careful, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, “John might not take too kindly to you lookin’ at me like that.” His words jolted you, and your face flushed as you quickly looked away.

You shifted uncomfortably under Arthur’s gaze, your cheeks still warm from his teasing, but the weight of everything left unsaid between you pressed down too heavily to ignore. Clearing your throat, you quickly changed the subject. “Arthur,” you began quietly, your voice trembling slightly, “John was arrested after the bank job in Saint Denis.”

Arthur froze, the spoon in his hand hovering mid-air as his tired eyes widened slightly. “Arrested?” he repeated, his voice rough and low, his brows furrowing. “What’re you talkin’ about? I thought he and Abigail had both gotten away.”

You blinked, taken aback. “She did,” you explained quickly, guilt tightening in your chest. “But when she got back to Shady Belle, she told us she saw him being taken away. Pinkertons caught him right after everything started.”

You blinked, your heart sinking as the realization hit. “I thought you knew,” you said softly, your voice almost breaking. “We’ve all been waiting—hoping for news. But it’s been weeks, Arthur. Abigail hasn’t heard a word since she saw them take him.”

Arthur exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he set the bowl aside, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Damn it,” he muttered, his voice laced with frustration and worry.

Arthur’s gaze hardened, the exhaustion in his eyes giving way to a sharp focus as he leaned toward you. “Where’s he bein’ held?” he asked, his voice low but urgent.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head slightly as you admitted, “We don’t know… Abigail saw them take him, but she couldn’t follow—no one’s been able to find out.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stared at the ground, the weight of everything hanging heavy in the air. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed deeply and said, “I’ll talk to Dutch in the morning… see if we can come up with somethin’.” The words barely left his mouth before you collapsed to your knees in front of him, the desperation you’d been holding back spilling over as you wrapped your arms around his torso, clutching him tightly.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your cheek pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt. For a moment, Arthur froze, his arms hovering awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Then, with a quiet sigh, he rested a hand gently on the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your shoulders as he held you close. “It’s gonna be alright,” he murmured, though his voice was rough, and the words seemed meant as much for himself as for you. As he sat there, comforting you despite the lingering ache in his chest, he realized that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from caring for you—no matter the cost.

Arthur let out a quiet sigh, his strong arms wrapping around you as he pulled you closer, letting your weight rest against him as the dam finally broke. You sobbed into his chest, your fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly, releasing everything you’d bottled up for the past month—the fear, the guilt, the sleepless nights wondering if John was still alive, and the unbearable tension of holding it all in. Arthur didn’t say anything at first, his hands moving in slow, comforting strokes along your back as he held you like he had all the time in the world. His warmth and steady presence grounded you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself collapse fully into your grief, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek in a rhythm that soothed your racing heart.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered between sobs, your voice cracking as you tried to pull yourself together. “I shouldn’t… you’ve been through so much, and here I am falling apart on you.” You made to pull back, but Arthur’s arms only tightened around you, keeping you close. “Don’t do that,” he said gruffly, his voice softer than usual but carrying an undeniable firmness. “You’ve been holdin’ all this in, and it ain’t good for you. Hell, I’d feel worse if you didn’t let it out.” His words broke through your reluctance, and you buried your face against him again, tears streaming freely as he rested his chin lightly on the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, the roughness of it oddly soothing. “You ain’t gotta carry all this by yourself anymore, alright?” For a brief moment, the weight of your burdens felt just a little lighter, shared in the quiet strength of his embrace.

Arthur shifted slightly, his arms still wrapped securely around you, and murmured, “C’mon, darlin’, let’s get you off this cold ground.” Before you could protest, he lifted you effortlessly, his strong arms cradling you as he stood, holding you close against his chest. You blinked up at him through tear-soaked lashes, feeling a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. “Arthur, you don’t have to—”

“Hush,” he interrupted, his voice soft but firm, his eyes meeting yours with a steady warmth. “You’re worn out, and you’ve been carryin’ too much for too long. Just let me do this, alright?”

He carried you into one of the small, rickety shacks at Lakay, the floorboards creaking faintly under his boots as he stepped inside. He laid you down gently on the small cot in the corner, adjusting the blanket to cover you before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. You reached out instinctively, your hand brushing against his, not wanting him to go. “Arthur… don’t leave,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the dim light.

He hesitated for a moment, the faint flicker of something unspoken crossing his face, before he nodded. “Alright,” he murmured, pulling off his hat and setting it on the floor beside him. He eased down beside you, his large frame careful not to take up too much space as he leaned back against the wall.

As you settled into the thin mattress, the tension in your chest began to ease, replaced by the quiet comfort of having him near. His hand rested lightly on yours, a grounding presence that kept the dark thoughts at bay. “Get some sleep,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, the exhaustion in it betraying his own need for rest. You nodded, your eyes drifting closed as his steady breathing filled the room, and for the first time in weeks, you felt a fragile sense of safety begin to take hold.

-

The soft light of morning filtered through the gaps in the shack’s weathered boards, painting faint golden lines across the floor. As you stirred, the faint ache of exhaustion still lingered in your body, but the overwhelming heaviness of the previous night had begun to lift. Turning your head, you spotted Arthur slouched in a wooden chair near the bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. His head was tilted slightly to the side, and despite the awkward position, he seemed to be fast asleep, his face relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in weeks.

A warmth bloomed in your chest as you watched him, the sight of him staying by your side all night melting away the residual anxiety that had haunted you. He hadn’t left, even though he had every reason to. The slight rise and fall of his chest, the soft sound of his breathing—it all grounded you in a quiet, fragile peace you hadn’t felt in what felt like forever. You sat up slowly, not wanting to disturb him, but the creak of the cot under your weight made his eyes flutter open. Blinking groggily, he shifted slightly and looked at you, his voice rough with sleep as he murmured, “Mornin’, darlin’.”

You nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you met his tired gaze. “You didn’t have to stay,” you said softly, your voice still hushed from the morning quiet, though there was a warmth in your tone you couldn’t quite hide.

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as he sat up straighter in the chair. “Figured you might need someone around,” he muttered, his voice gravelly but carrying a hint of that familiar gruff affection. “Didn’t seem right, leavin’ you after all that.”

Your smile grew a little, and you tilted your head, watching him as he stretched, his muscles stiff from the awkward position he’d slept in. “Still, you’ve been through hell. You didn’t owe me that,” you replied gently.

Arthur shrugged, his eyes meeting yours again, softer now. “Didn’t feel like I owed it,” he said simply, a faint, tired smirk tugging at his lips. “Just felt like the right thing to do.”

You looked away briefly, heat rising to your cheeks as his words lingered in the space between you. “Well,” you murmured, glancing back at him, “thank you… for everything.”

He gave a small nod, his gaze steady but warm. “Anytime,” he said quietly, leaning forward as he rested his forearms on his knees, the moment settling between you like a fragile truce.

Arthur let out a long sigh as he ran a hand through his too-long hair, his tired eyes fixed on the floor. “Let me go talk to Dutch, see if I can get him to focus on somethin’ that actually matters for once. John’s done too much for this damn gang to be left rottin’ in a cell.” He glanced up at you then, his expression softening despite the weight in his voice. “It ain’t gonna be easy, though. You know how Dutch is—he’ll want it to fit into some grand plan of his own.” His tone carried the quiet determination of a man who had seen too much but still refused to let go of what little hope remained. 

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but Arthur seemed different now. The man who once spoke about the gang’s loyalty and Dutch’s vision as if they were gospel now carried an air of quiet skepticism. His shoulders, though broad and strong as ever, seemed weighed down by something heavier than exhaustion—a kind of disillusionment you hadn’t seen in him before. There was a tiredness in his eyes, not just from lack of sleep but from seeing too much, knowing too much. And yet, that same sense of strength and resolve remained, a spark of who he was, but tempered now by an understanding that things had to change.

You grabbed his hand tightly, your grip firm as if to anchor yourself in the moment, and your voice trembled with gratitude. “Thank you, Arthur—thank you for not giving up on him,” you said, the words spilling out in a rush.

Arthur gave a small nod, his gaze steady but distant, before rising from his seat and heading for the door. As the shack’s wooden door creaked shut behind him, a faint glimmer of hope stirred in your chest, fragile but undeniable, as you clung to the thought that maybe, just maybe, things could turn around. 

-

The chaos at Lakay had been nothing short of a nightmare. The Pinkertons had descended on the swamp like a storm, gunfire echoing through the murky night as the gang fought to hold them off. By the time it was over, the once-crumbling camp had been completely abandoned, supplies scattered and spirits broken. The gang moved north in a frantic retreat, the chill of the approaching mountains biting at their heels as they set up a rough, makeshift camp at Beaver Hollow. The air at the new hideout was thick with tension, the gang fractured and on edge, their collective grief and frustration palpable in every hushed conversation and distant glare. You had barely settled before slipping away, the weight of everything driving you into the woods to hunt, the repetitive task the only thing keeping your racing thoughts at bay. The cold morning air bit at your cheeks, and each breath escaped your lips in soft, misty plumes that hung briefly before disappearing into the gray dawn.

It was there, among the trees and damp leaves, that Arthur found you, his broad figure cutting a familiar silhouette against the faint sunlight filtering through the canopy. His approach was slow, his boots crunching softly on the forest floor, and you didn’t look up until he was standing a few paces away. “Dutch doesn’t want anyone goin’ after John,” he said flatly, his voice carrying a weight that made your stomach twist. He paused, his hands resting on his belt as his gaze lingered on you. “Says it’s too risky, that we’ve got bigger problems right now.” There was frustration in his tone, but also a thread of resignation, as if he’d already fought this battle and lost.

You turned to face him fully, your bow slipping from your grasp as his words hit you like a blow. “Arthur, no,” you said softly, shaking your head, your voice trembling as desperation clawed its way to the surface. “We can’t just leave him there—Dutch can’t just decide that.” You took a step closer, your hands clenched into fists at your sides as tears threatened to spill. “Please, Arthur, you’ve got to help me. You and Sadie—you know where he is. We can get him out.” 

His jaw tightened as he averted his gaze, clearly torn, but the conflict in his expression only made you press harder. “I can’t do this without you,” you added, your voice softer now, pleading. “John doesn’t deserve to be left to rot while Dutch spins his schemes. Please.”

Arthur sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping slightly as he shifted his weight. His hand lifted to rub the back of his neck, his tired eyes finally meeting yours. “It ain’t that simple,” he said quietly, though his voice lacked conviction, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as you. “Dutch… he’s diggin’ in his heels, and things are already fallin’ apart. If I go against him—if we go against him—it’ll only make things worse.” His words were heavy, but you could see the cracks in his resolve, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides as if grasping for a solution he couldn’t quite reach.

You stepped closer, your voice firm and trembling with frustration. “If you won’t go, I will,” you said, the words rushing out before you could stop them. Arthur’s head snapped up, his jaw tightening as his tired eyes bore into yours. “Don’t,” he said sharply, his voice low but carrying a weight that made your breath hitch. He took a step toward you, his broad figure looming as he softened his tone, though it remained firm. “You know I can’t have you goin’. You’ll get yourself killed before you even get close to that damn place.” His voice broke slightly, the faintest edge of worry cutting through his words. “And I… I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

The intensity in his gaze left you momentarily speechless, your hands curling into fists at your sides as his words hung between you. “Then what, Arthur?” you finally asked, your voice trembling. “What do we do? Because I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Arthur let out another sigh, his shoulders sagging as he looked away, clearly conflicted. “I’ll help you,” he said finally, his voice quieter but laced with determination. “But we’re gonna do this smart, not reckless. I ain’t about to lose you over this, y’hear?” His words carried a weight that settled deep in your chest, but there was a flicker of relief, of hope, as he added, “We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice breaking as you whispered, “Thank you, Arthur. Please… bring him back to me.”

Arthur looked at you for a long moment, his tired eyes softening, though the hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you, girl,” he muttered, his voice low but laced with that familiar gruff affection.

The words hit you like a quiet storm, leaving your chest tight as you stepped closer. Without thinking, you leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, the rough stubble brushing against your lips. “Thank you,” you murmured again, your voice filled with gratitude, as his smirk faded into something more tender.

A faint blush crept up Arthur’s face, his usual composure faltering as he glanced away, the stubble on his cheek still warm where your lips had touched. You watched as Arthur disappeared into the woods, his broad shoulders framed by the stark trees, each step carrying him further into the misty morning. A tangle of emotions swirled in your chest—gratitude for his willingness to help, guilt for asking so much of him, and a quiet, confusing ache that lingered from the soft blush on his face when you kissed his cheek.

꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰

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