#ehehehehehehe

[hyukalyptus]

THIS KILLED ME

just the tip! txt

nsfw mdni, listen to love language :)

to yeonjun, it’s a challenge, who’s gonna break first? you or him, who will beg for more, give in to raw desperation, the glint in his foxy eyes ‘cause even if you feel so good, he’s competitive, teasing you in a rasping voice, admit it, you want me to fuck you good, the type to draw out your begging, see how long you last before you break as he’s biting pretty hickeys into your neck, barely giving you 1% of the stimulation when you know he can fuck you senseless, gonna beg yet, baby? make you all teary cause you need it so bad, pussy drooling all over the sheets and sucking in the flushed tip of his cock with a lewd squelch,, hands restrained over your head so you can’t cheat by playing with yourself, it’s torture, isn’t it?

soobin’s obsessed with a slow morning fuck, he gets morning wood so easily and honestly, he might be the only one who really enjoys it, all sleepy and a bit turned on, burying his face in your hair and not wanting to leave the warm sheets, tip of his cock pushed into your pussy, he could sleep like this ‘cause it just feels so heavenly. the type to be so sensitive, though,, if you move a little he moans easily, caging you in with his arms so you’ll stay still, can’t leave at all… probably cockwarms with just the tip to make sure all his cum stays inside you from the night before. wake him up by riding him, god, soobin’s so obsessed with that, watching you sink down on his massive cock, so cute with a pout as you try to take all of him at once, hmm?

beomgyu’s a brat, he doesn’t even try. he’ll say it, ‘just the tip,’ but never means it, balls deep and full you the brim with his dick ‘cause he’s so impatient, sucker for quickies and sloppy fucks. come on, honey, just the tip, beomgyu groans, his head tilted to the side, hands already tugging at your shorts, what, you’re gonna interrupt his league game, get him all hard by humping his dick, and not let him fuck around a little? cock drooling precum when he pulls down his sweats, manspreading in his gaming chair, his chocolate brown eyes giving you that bratty stare. playfully thrusting up, dick rubbing against your pussy as you hover over him, just barely sinking down on the tip and beomgyu’s hands grab at your hips, pushing you down roughly, the sudden stretch making you whine. bulge in your tummy, barely a second before beomgyu’s dragging you over his cock like a warm n soft fleshlight, impatient as ever. think you can keep up?

taehyun thinks you could learn a lesson about patience, hmm? you told him you could handle it, needed his cock so badly, pleasepleaseplease just the tip? and now you’re whining and begging for more, trying to fuck yourself on his dick ‘cause he won’t give you more, thought you could make this quick, didn’t you beg for just the tip? soaked pussy wrapped ‘round the tip of his veiny cock and he won’t move, taehyun revels in watching you make a desperate mess of yourself, your fingernails digging into his forearms, giving him frustrated, needy eyes because you’re just dying to be fucked properly… learned the lesson yet?

huening kai’s the worst, lasts like 2 seconds ans he’s whining. please, just the tip, his broad chest pressed to your back and his heavy bulge pushing into the back of your thighs and ass, please, poor boy just gets so hard every time you cuddle he can’t help it. wants to “cockwarm,” but the second he pushes the tip in, kai’s so needy for more, big hands accidentally manhandling you to and thrusting in all the way, whimpering sorry ‘cause he couldn’t help himself, such a clumsy, big, sweet boy who’s obsessed with your pussy n the way it feels, but you love it, don’t you? sloppy, messy thrusts that fill you up so full, the heavy drag of his cock stretching your folds open, oh, kai’s gonna cum so quickly, isn’t he?

[sinnabee]

hey hey hey! i wanted to show y'all some of the details of the acrylic standee that's one of the tier rewards for the Glitches & Glitterglue DCA fanzine! i got permission from our lovely mods to share this!

the standee is double sided with correctly flipped face plates on both sides. sun takes the forefront on one side, and moon is up front on the other! the wire wrapping around them also matches with whichever attendant is in front, so that it makes sense flipping from one side to the other. and if you look really closely at the base, it almost looks like someone wrote something on it with some markers…. :3c

i'm really really proud of how this turned out, and i'm so pumped and AMAZED at this fandom for hitting not only the main goal, but all of the stretch goals so quickly!!! YALL ARE INCREDIBLE

it has been an AMAZING experience getting to work with so many fantastic artists and creators - and our wonderful mods! they put everything together and really made this dream come to life!!!

drop by the kickstarter to check out the pledge tiers and other incredible merch, plus some previews of the page art! and head on over to @dcafanzine for updates and the answers to questions from other dca-lovers in the community!

again: y'all are amazing!!!! i can still hardly believe that we hit our goals, and it's all thanks to you guys!!! everyone who particpated, and everyone backing the project! <3

[amethyst-halo]

a veev revamp! i think the putt putts would put stuff like tinsel and string and confetti in their hair for funsies :]

[thehelltingvilleclub]

What if THEY SWAP CLOTHEESS 🙏

HI GUYS IM BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! have some giggles while Im here teehee Im so sick but Ive been GRINDING I may draw the rest of them later this was a funny doodle to do

Funnily enough, Pete's pants loosely fit on May's hips because of how wide they are, and by proxy, her pants fit him. He hates this. She has jokingly held up a skirt to him before while at spencers.

Thank you all for your patience! Happy to be back vuv

[celestinesky]

WHAT!!!!!! WHAT‼️ W HATTT!!! !!

[gomzdrawfr]

Rejoice we’re getting my (and Raven’s) fav tonight, wo tip

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for —(and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: chapter twoooo i hope you guys enjoy!! and i take this as pure reason to knuckle down and finish chapter three tehe <3 let me know what u think!! a million mwahs to @strangerstilinski for being my beta too, even tho i yelled at u sorry :/

word count: 3.5k

synopsis: Azriel trains you and is particularly unforgivable about it. Together, you tackle tonics. Azriel ponders the unmistakable pull he feels and you try your best to keep your secret under wraps. fem!reader, mulan-esque au

— CHAPTER TWO :: ALLIES

The storm had calmed come morning. The Mother's Kiss slowed, quietened to only a whisper between the trees.

With it, the ache in your forearm too. The torn skin knitted up in the night, the heat from the fire like a balm on the wound.

But right now, the ache was threatening to make a reappearance.

You glare across the clearing at Azriel from your place in the mud, where he's just knocked you down. Your lungs burn. Your chest heaves as you try to catch you breath. The last hour has been spent on the same infuriating exercise.

The sludgy dirt, still sloppy from the melted snow of last night, drips off your arms as you scramble to get to your feet. Your wings shudder, flicking off the cold dirt with a shake.

"Try again." Azriel says, his voice calm.

He has no weapons on him today with the exception of one knife, strapped high on his thigh. Its obsidian hilt glimmers under the winter sun, rays catching the decorative jewel on the end. The rest of his weapons won't be far you're willing to bet. No Illyrian warrior lets themself be so unprepared.

Or perhaps he truly only needs one blade to hold his own in a fight.

A flicker of envy. You suppose you should feel little more gratuitous of his offer to train, especially considering he's such a mighty warrior.

But between the built-in wariness that comes with having a secret such as yours and the way he keeps throwing you in the mud... it's hard to dredge up some gratitude. You must have been at this for hours now.

Besides, a little part of you can't help but be skeptical of his offer. What exactly did he stand to gain from helping you?

"Why are you helping me again?"

You're panting lightly, bent over with your hands on your knees. Your bound chest twinges in pain. You weren't out of shape by any means — you were an Illyrian warrior after all. But getting knocked down endlessly was beginning to wear you down.

"And," You huff, waving a hand behind at the mud pile he keeps dumping you in. "How does this help?"

Azriel crosses his arms across his broad chest. In the daylight, his shadows shimmer and wisp about. You had been unsurprised to find he's even more devastatingly handsome in the light of daytime.

After his final words the evening before, Azriel had disappeared out into the storm without further explanation, his shadows swirling around him like falling snow.

Come morning, you rose before the sun and stepped outside, prepared to head to training—and there he was. Posed up against a tree, the obsidian-hilt blade his hands, sharpening it in long, precise strokes.

"Lord Mylind has been spoken to regarding your training." Azriel had said, in place of a greeting. "He knows of your expected absence whilst you train under me."

You hadn't said anything; half convinced there had been something coated on Brudam's knife that made you hallucinate the whole thing.

"Though," The male before you continued, finally sheathing his dagger away into the holster on his thigh with casual precision. "He tells me that your absences during training have come to be somewhat expected."

He raises his eyebrows slightly.

"Why do you think they hate me so much?" You asked, a bitter edge to your voice. It's a non-answer.

"Because you neglect your duties as a warrior?"

"Ha. Did Lord Mylind use that word?"

"It's true, one is not considered a warrior until one passes The Blood Rite." Azriel commented, his head tilting to the side just an inch. "You're a warrior-in-training. Provided you go to training, that is."

The combined mention of The Blood Rite and your missing time during training had you tensing up. Azriel had noticed, his eyes shifting to your stiff posture. He hadn’t commented — just stalked off into the snow, wings held high and proud, not checking to see if you bothered to follow.

Now, muscles aching and skin coated in mud-slick, you briefly wonder if you were regretting following him.

"You're smaller than usual Illyrians.” Azriel says. “They rely on brute strength but someone your size is better to rely on your agility— a skill they've been neglecting. No doubt to try to discourage you."

A flush of nervousness rushes through your system at his comment on your size. There's a good reason you don't size up against Illyrian males—being that you aren't one at all.

For good measure, you wipe your face haphazardly with a muddy hand. Any pesky scents that might give you away get smothered beneath it.

"And I believe in what you're doing," Azriel continues, his hazel eyes watching you closely. "It's honourable, no matter what Brudam and his brood say."

Something akin to pride blooms deep in your chest at his approval, at his belief in your mission. Having fought on your own for so many years had taken its toll— one you weren't aware of until it eased. Just a touch.

"Could've sworn you just enjoyed knocking me on my ass."

That glimmer of amusement is back in his hazel eyes. You swear his lips twitch as if holding back a smile.

"Try again." He says, in lieu of an answer. Not a denial.

He gestures to his neck again. Tan skin that hides beneath dark, scaly armor. This has been your task for the last hour — get your hand on his throat, through hand-to-hand combat.

Considering how you'd managed to stick him with a fork just yesterday, you had assumed it was easy territory.

You had been sorely, sorely wrong.

Straightening yourself up properly, you roll your shoulders back and flare your wings out a bit. Your boots sink into the mud an inch. You assess the distance between you and Azriel, eyes narrowed, and try to put together each piece of advice he's given you in the last hours.

Plant your feet when you're striking.

Stay on your toes if you're advancing.

Use your environment to your advantage.

Punch through, not just at.

Your height is as much an advantage as it is a disadvantage.

Some of it was nothing more than a reiteration of your training in camp. And yet, when delivered from Azriel, under his focused gaze, it seems easier to absorb. It holds a different meaning.

This time as you survey your approach a thousand other details whisper in your ear.

The rustle of the trees, the whirl of the wind, the stance he sinks into like second nature.

If you can't overpower him, how can you get a hand on his neck?

Your boots sink deeper into the mud and you tense, your wings held taut and high behind you as you ready yourself to pounce.

The wind picks up, a whistle in the air, and you can see, even from afar, how the swirling of his shadows perk up — as if listening for any whispers in it.

Time to strike.

You burst forward and stay low this time, letting your knees take the brunt of your weight. Instead of trying to get past him, you need to bring his neck down to your level. A half-baked plan scrambles together.

Feigning moves against a proficient warrior like him is nearly laughable and his thick forearm moves to parry your punch as quickly as you form it. Good. It's what you're relying on.

You pivot your energy and focus it on kicking out his bent knee— and you catch him enough by surprise that he stumbles back a step. He doesn’t fall though.

You grit your teeth and know you have about half a second before he’s going to have you dodging punches and landing back in the mud. You keep pressing forward.

Skin meets leather as you land a sharp snap against his shoulder, your knuckles stinging deliciously but he deftly blocks your next blow. And the next, and the next.

Then you’re hitting more of his hands than you are anywhere else.

Frustrated, you snarl, increasing your speed and letting him focus on your incoming punches so he doesn’t see it when you send a kick into his groin.

His defense drops razor fast— both his scarred hands wrapping around your calf and capturing it between his legs, stopping it 2 inches from making contact.

Your eyes dart up to his face, nearly grinning at the incredulous look he gives you.

It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for — and something gleeful in you sings when you shoot your hand up faster than both his can move. The palm of your hand connects with the skin of his neck.

“Aha!” You shout, unable to help yourself.

You’re panting, out of breath from the fast combat and yet, still savouring the victory. A foreign glimmer of admiration and approval flashes deep in your chest. It's gone as quick as it appears.

Azriel doesn’t waste a second to sweep your feet out from beneath you.

Unprepared, you crumple and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. A groan rumbles in your chest. Mud squishes up against your cheek, sullying it.

For a moment, you just lay there and groan in pain.

You're pretty sure every single muscle in your body aches as you gather your strength and push yourself up from the mud, elbows quivering. If you thought regular training was rigorous, this has been brutal.

True, there's less hitting you while you're down which you were more than accustomed to — only once have you thought Azriel might give you a kick while you were defenseless and too tired to cover your face.

But instead, he had surprised you and offered a hand. You had hesitated before taking it.

And as you're finding out, when you're spending less time worrying about Illyrians unfairly targeting you due to your size, you're a hell of a lot better fighter.

With a much better opponent though.

You win some, you lose some.

"Anyone ever call you a prick before?" You seethe quietly; because you had done the task he wanted you to do and he'd still sent you back on your ass. You spit into the mud and wipe your mouth.

"Definitely." Azriel answers. Again, there's that hint of amusement in his voice.

You huff and push up to rest back on your heels, planting your hands on your knees and glaring up at him. The muck on your wings makes you shiver, sludgy trails of mud sliding off them unpleasantly. You're well used to the cold.

"Good." You huff. "Prick."

Azriel smiles at that, not bothering to hide it. You find yourself smiling back at him, an out-of-breath laugh making your shoulders shake and your head bow. The muscles in your stomach hurt as they move.

When you look back up at him, he's offering his hand again.

You take it, this time without hesitation.

—

The day is for training. Azriel, the mentor. You, the student.

The night is for learning. You're both students here.

The second part of his offer that you clearly hadn't expected, given your wide-eyed look when he turned up at your door on that first evening, bringing all manners of plants needed to make healing tonics. Things you hadn't been able to find or afford on your own.

It had been then, he thinks, that you realised how serious he was about helping you. That his offer extended beyond training you physically.

"Is there really a difference between cutting and slicing?" Azriel asks as he peers down at the table beneath him.

In his marred hands is a root vegetable, something that flowered prettily— nice purple skin with a golden centre. He frowns down at it, his gaze shifting slowly from the vegetable to the knife in his hand.

It’s strange, he thinks. Strange to hold a knife and have it not be for violence.

"There is a difference," Your reply floats across from the other side of the room.

Nearly a week he's been here. Azriel had been pushing you more each day he was here, brutal one-on-one training to hone your skills.

It’s working; already he can see the certainty of your stance, your increased agility, the hunter's glint in your eyes. The clumsiness of the first day of training has already been worn away. Beneath it, the Illyrian warrior emerges.

He's exhausting you, he knows. Working you twice as hard to try to fill every gap in your training that seems to be missed. Finding every weak point left by the Lords of this camp, to disadvantage you no doubt, and training it up.

But if you’re tired from it, you don’t complain.

Azriel lifts his head to look at you properly, his eyes watching your hands as you strip leaves off one of the plants he had brought with him today.

Hands, weathered and much smaller than most males, that work diligently at your task. Your focus remains strong, even as you talk over your shoulder.

"Well, slicing is cutting but a more precise form." You shift your wing back, tucking it in, as you finally turn your head back to look at him.

You're a very peculiar male.

Azriel can't say he's ever met a warrior, or even an Illyrian, like yourself before. You're small. It's the first thing he had noticed when he had slipped into your tiny home those nights ago, a sturdy shelter against the harsh wind of the mountains.

You're small but your wings are still large and beautiful, tucked up neatly behind your back. Most warriors in camp must have at least a head of height on you.

The armor you wear looks old. It's been worn down, softened against your body but even still, it sits a little too low on your hips. The shoulders hang out an extra inch.

You're small and you're hardened at every edge.

It's the way anyone who grows up here has to be. And for you to have made the cut to become a warrior, even with the impairment of your height... Azriel knows you're made of tougher stuff than most.

Within that, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to you.

Azriel hates the Illyrian mountains. Loathes the culture he comes from that festers here, their swift brutality and preferred cruelty against even their own. Invisible standards that made one Fae better than another.

The lives they taught him to take so easily.

So the last thing he had expected to find coming back here, to a place haunted with wretched memories, was... an ally.

But staring across the space to you, he can't think of any other word to describe the stirring in his chest. The drag on his heart, as if it's lurching forward.

"Look, let me show you."

You drop what's in your hands and take a couple steps to cross the space. The shelter is like you, small, just shy of cramped. The ceiling could stand to gain a few inches and the inside is as bare as Azriel would expect of a home in a war-camp.

One rickety table. A bed tucked into a corner. A fireplace with slanted, mismatched soot-covered bricks. There's the general rustle about the place that indicates someone sleeps here. Things hang off nails, bedded into the wall.

Hovering beside the table, you gesture for the knife in Azriel's hand. There's tenseness in your shoulders. You're still wary of him— or perhaps so used to your own company. He wonders which it is as he hands over the knife wordlessly.

"You just gotta—" The vegetable gets re-positioned on the board and when you bring down the knife, it's with an elegance that Azriel had been severely lacking.

You slice a long strip off, lengths-wise, and then pause, looking up at him to make sure he understands. "Slice?"

Azriel smiles despite himself.

That's the other thing.

You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful Fae he's ever seen in his life— not to mention, by far the most beautiful male he’s ever laid his eyes on.

It had taken him by surprise initially, even his shadows rearing back in shock when you had turned and sprung at him, cutlery in hand. Azriel had fumbled one of his blocks and it led to you sinking the fork into his shoulder— all because his mind had been whispering beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

It's the reason you had managed to land a hit at all— or Azriel tells himself that. Because otherwise, he had a serious reason to brush up on his own training.

He also tells himself it had nothing to do with his offer.

It hadn't swayed his reasoning in the slightest; not the way he can't take his eyes off you for some peculiar, unbidden reason. Training you and learning how to make tonics alongside you was entirely due to his belief in your mission.

Liar, one of his shadows seems to whisper in response.

Azriel was over five hundred years old — tangling with a male was not entirely foreign to him. And yet, Azriel had found it was not as to his taste as females were.

Another glance at you has him, once again, second-guessing that.

As quickly as it enters his mind, he snuffs it, his wings giving a minuscule twitch, right as you offer him back the knife.

He opts for a question instead. "How did you come to live here?"

It's one of the other unusual parts of your intriguing survival out here. Not only did you make the cut to train to become a warrior against the odds, but you also live alone. Azriel lets himself survey the shelter once more.

It's far better than some of the conditions he's been subjected to before and yet... it's not quite homey. As though you've never relaxed here, even when it's just you.

"I built it."

Azriel blinks. Then he turns his head down to look at you, perplexed.

"You...?"

You've walked back to the plant you were handling, starting to strip off the leaves again. You hum in response to his words, sparing a glance up at the ceiling.

That certainly explained why it was on the smaller side, made to your stature. Azriel can't fathom how you managed it in the blizzardly conditions of the mountains, entirely on your own.

"As I'm sure you're familiar, bastards don't get anything in these camps."

Your voice tightens with the pain of an unhealed wound.

Azriel doesn't say anything, just presses his lips together thinly. He nods.

"It was already a ruin, the fireplace and floorboards were about the only thing left." This time as you tug the leaves off the plant in your hand, it's a little meaner. "It took me years to properly finish it because the males in camp kept coming by to see if they could knock it back down."

Something roars in Azriel's ears, a familiar icy fury at the injustice that roamed so freely in these mountains. A plague amongst these people. So many Fae, so eager to kick those who are already down.

Looking up from your hands, your motions slow, and a distant look dawns on your face as though you've been whisked away into an old memory. A cold smile graces your mouth.

"So eventually when one of them came around, I showed them why they shouldn't fuck with my stuff. Or with me."

How you gained your solitary fortress out here.

It had piqued his interest on the very first evening, the sole shelter out from the cluster of cabins in the camp. That even though the drunken warriors were first to point it out when Azriel came asking who was causing trouble, none of them would go near it.

He can guess a multitude of things you did to protect it and yourself. Something akin to admiration blooms in his chest. Something heavier, deeper, lurks beneath it.

As your hands go back to work, Azriel can't help but watch you silently for a moment. His shadows pour over his shoulders, seeping down his arms the longer he looks; as though they, too, want to figure out the enigma in front of them.

You're a very peculiar male, Azriel thinks for the second time that evening.

The runt of the litter and a bastard just as him.

A natural born fighter and an Illyrian warrior against all the odds.

A Fae with long hair like Cassian's, chopped at the shoulder and scraped back — and a voice softer than most. A Fae with eyes that burn with a promise for retribution, with icy fury like his own.

Azriel picks up the knife and slices the vegetable as you had, slow and long. He steals one more glance at you — to find you're doing the same, chancing a split-second glimpse to look at him.

Azriel averts his eyes back to the table.

He feels the treacherous glow of his cheeks and is thankful you can't see his face clearly in the dim light. He slices again.

And as he mulls his thoughts, the pair of you working in tandem as the fire crackles loudly in the corner, Azriel makes a point to ignore the thundering feeling that seems to sing right out of his heart.

No matter if he's half-sure he knows just what word it's singing.

(Mate. Mate. Mate).

[NEXT PART: COMPANIONS]

—

tags below!

@janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover @waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco @iamjimintrash @maeandering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka

(if i tagged u and u would like to opt out, no hard feelings! send me an ask and i’ll leave u off :D)

[amoremagnificentbastard]

me, about the character i created with my own mind and adore so very much: what if i gave diana really bad seasonal affective disorder that only makes itself apparent once she settles in baldur's gate with astarion

[ninawolv3rina]

More character design work for a DIFFERENT side project. This one is going to come out sooner, probably. More info to come soon :3 tried to go for a Cartoon Saloon style for this one! I want to do a full piece with the two of them in that style at some point.

OCs: Philippe (He/him), Fairy (they/he/it)

[sad-emo-dip-dye]

Let’s be honest this was the original cunty little outfit

[creatortools]

BvZ OC 2/4!

Hello! I have now finished my second BvZ OC out of four! This is OC #2 from THIS POST (Go see my FIRST OC as well :D), Big cocky asshole! More info is most likely going to be introduced when I draw him more along with the other BvZ OCs I have. But if you are curious about this guy, Wyvern, or any other of characters or listener characters I have drawn, don’t be afraid to ask! It can be about anything really (nothing too NSFW please, I’m a minor), like favourite colour, book, powers, etc.

So, here is Mammon (not his real name ofc, code name)!

First image is him with his goofy ahh mask, and the second is unmasked! Click the image and zoom in to see the text better!

Here is a couple songs that I think fits him:

And ofc I found a song that fits Wyvern better after I post Wyvern’s song D:

Dw, the other 2 Ocs will be drawn in a later date! I apologize for making you guys wait!

[disastermanagement]

running around my bestie ESPIO

[blmpff]

23.09.23

[penumbra-mayhem]

In Search of the Answer

JayVik fic // 1.4k

——————————

They'd been at it for hours. This one fucking equation. It stared at them—no—taunted them with its illusory simplicity. Viktor slouched in his seat, his glazed eyes scanning it over once more, as if the 41st time would make a difference. As if, suddenly, the answer would spring out from the board before his very eyes. Infuriating.

A piece of chalk whizzed past his ear and hit the board, breaking on impact and crumbling to the floor. Viktor swung his head around, blinking hard at the immediate dizziness as he joked, "That wasn't very dignified of you, Golden Boy."

Jayce pretended to gag as he walked up to the left of Viktor and leaned back against one of their worktables. He chuckled, "Ew, no, don't call me that, please."

"Pfft, why not? It is your title, is it not?" Viktor teased.

"Yeaah," Jayce said, crossing his arms as he stared back at the board, "but it's weird when you say it. It's weird when anyone says it, honestly, but especially you."

"Well then, what would you rather I call you?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Jayce? Anything other than Golden Boy, really."

Viktor could have let it go. He could have called him any benign, clever insult, something to just provoke a bark of laughter and maybe a quick quip in return. But the day had been so monotonous and he was so tired; his third cup of coffee had barely done anything. He was tired, they were bored, and the goddamn equation was not going to be solved anytime soon.

So he decided to play. Viktor slung an arm over the back of his chair, fixing his gaze on Jayce with a tilt of his head and a smirk.

"Okay....pretty boy."

That got his attention. Jayce's eyes widened and his head swiveled back and forth between the equation and Viktor. Gaping, he struggled to find his voice, "Wh-what?"

Viktor shrugged. "What?"

Jayce tugged at the hair on the back of his head as he stammered, "Why-uh, um, why would you call me that?"

"It's an accurate descriptor, is it not? You are pretty," he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He couldn't help but take delight in Jayce's flustered appearance.

"What? N-No, I'm not."

"Yes. You are. With your hair and your skin and your eyelashes—"

"My eyelashes?"

Viktor nodded. "Yes, your eyelashes."

"My eyelashes."

"Have I suddenly switched into another language?" Viktor was just being an ass at this point.

Jayce tried to fight back. "How in Piltover are my eyelashes pretty?"

He failed.

"They're long and luscious," Viktor answered, a smug grin fixed on his face. Jayce cackled, shaking his head in disbelief. "And you bat them. Often," he added.

"I do not!"

Viktor waved his hand, clearing the air of Jayce's protest. "Yes you do, whenever you want to get your way—which is often—you bat your eyelashes."

"You..." Jayce growled in mock irritation, "you asshole, you're messing with me."

"I'm not messing with you!...pretty boy."

Jayce stammered through a series of frustrated sounds before declaring, "You can't say that!"

Now things were getting good. Viktor lifted his head off his arm, intrigued. "And why not?"

"Because...because between the two of us, you're the pretty boy!" Jayce shot back, as if he'd won. As if he hadn't played right into Viktor's hand.

"Aw, you think I'm pretty?" Viktor teased, tousling his own hair.

Jayce kept fighting, aware he was losing ground quickly but unwilling to give up. "Well-I-uh, it-it's a fact! Everyone knows that!"

Viktor mocked astonishment. "Really?"

"Y-Yes! Really! It's uh one of your top qualities."

"My top qualities? And what would those be?"

"You know...uh...smart, yeah, very smart. Um, ingenious. Uh...witty...compassionate, persistent...funny...dedicated...."

Jayce slowed down, caught in Viktor's gaze.

Viktor's grin softened. "And...pretty?"

"...y-yeah...it's...among those."

"Hm. Interesting," Viktor murmured.

Jayce squirmed, stammering, "W-Well now your top quality is just being creepy, stop...stop staring at me."

Viktor shrugged. "Okay." Grabbing his cane, he stood and walked up to the board. He dropped the game and engrossed himself back into the equation, chalk in hand.

Losing Viktor's gaze, however, was like losing the air in his lungs; Jayce was left breathless.

He stared after him, observing the way Viktor's hand hovered over the board, as if that stance would somehow cause the equation's answer to come to him faster. Jayce found it far too endearing. He scrubbed a hand over his face before hanging his head and calling out weakly, "ahh fuck...Hey Vik. Since I'm already saying a bunch of weird stuff.....you can keep staring at me.....if you want."

Viktor stayed facing the board for a moment, just long enough for surprise to flash across his face. He fixed his countenance into something more coy before turning around and walking up to Jayce. What he couldn't hide, however, was the pink tinge ghosting his cheeks.

"I do want," he cooed, "Like I said, you have pretty eyelashes."

The air had shifted, they both felt it. Jayce let him approach. His eyes dropped and he gripped the table behind him. Viktor didn't get too close, allowing them breathing room as he noticed the change in Jayce. When he spoke again, his words were low and tender:

"Am I making you nervous, Jayce?"

He let out a breathy laugh, still unable to look at Viktor. "Nervous? What? P-Please, you're my partner..."

"You didn't answer my question," he murmured.

"What do I have to be nervous about?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"I...um..." He swallowed his words. How could he tell Viktor that he was like the night's constellations, guiding Jayce through the dark. That his face was what Jayce saw every time he looked into the hexcore. What string of words could he put together to explain what he himself barely knew but felt blazing through his body every moment of every day.

"It's okay, Jayce," Viktor spoke, soft as starlight, "Whatever it is."

"I can't," he blurted, "I don't want to uh..."

Viktor leaned back. His skin prickled. Maybe he'd gone too far. "Don't want to what?"

Jayce crossed his arms tight against his chest as he mumbled, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Ah, there it was. Viktor smiled and assured him, "Jayce you don't need to worry about that. I'm made of tough stuff."

“Yeah,” Jayce agreed, Viktor’s smile tugging one out of him as well, "Yeah, you really are."

“So?”

"So…so sometimes I wonder...what it would feel like...to hold your hand,” he admitted.

"Well,” Viktor said as he leaned in a bit, “you are a man of science. You want to know something, what do you do?" He held out his left hand towards Jayce, palm up. "Run an experiment."

Jayce stared at the offering. He uncrossed his arms and took Viktor’s hand in his with the delicacy he usually reserved for fine tuning their hextech. He found himself entranced by their joined hands, unable to look away.

The cold of Viktor’s hand sent chills running through Jayce. He could feel the soft silk of chalk dust that always coated Viktor’s fingers, causing him to leave white fingerprints wherever he went. Jayce wondered, if he let go, would he find chalk prints left on his skin?

"Jayce.”

He lifted his eyes. Viktor was much closer now. When had he moved? How long had Jayce been staring at their hands, mesmerized by the latticework of veins under Viktor’s pale skin?

“What is your analysis?” Viktor murmured.

He took in a shaky breath, his voice small, “I um…I like it. This, I-I like this. Your hand is…soft.”

Jayce was so warm—his eyes, his voice, his hands. He was slowly melting Viktor, and he didn’t even know it.

“I like this too,” Viktor admitted in a whisper.

“Vik?”

“Yes, Jayce?”

Finally, things started to click, the numbers adding up, the pieces coming together. Of course. The answer had been there the whole time.

“I um…I think that I—”

“Eighty-five!” Viktor exclaimed, squeezing Jayce’s hand.

“Wh-what?” Jayce stammered, watching as Viktor suddenly let him go and raced back to the board.

“It’s fucking eighty-five!” Viktor shouted. He scrawled the answer in chalk before turning to goggle at Jayce.

Jayce’s face dropped. “But if that’s eighty-five, that means…”

“…that all of section B needs to be reworked,” Viktor groaned, “Ugh, I’ll get more coffee.”

He walked out of their workplace, leaving Jayce alone with the chalkboard. He looked down at his hand. Five smudges of chalk dust decorated his palm, like meteors streaking across the sky.

[solmesia]

i bought it ∠(ÒωÓ๑ゝ∠)_

[snurtsnurtcreations]

I want a scene where the Ghosts think they’ve got Fed Logan in the bag, they’re ready to take him in, you’ve just finished a mission to get to this point all secretive and covert-like, sneaking your way past patrols and enemies, and now you’ve finally zeroed in on the target, Logan.

The anticipation of it, the tension, the relief as they find him exactly where they expected him to be, he’s right there in their binocular sights. And then he turns right towards them. And gives em a lil obnoxious wave. And they realize its an ambush