#sardartem

Sardar stretches out his legs. They're spread so wide. He's used to making sure Artem can fit between them. So now they just open that wide on their own—good boy—but no, they're even wider. They're so strong, and there are his thighs, the main attraction, thick and powerful and scraped and bruised. 'Easy game,' the picture says. He'd scored twice in Iran's classy white kit and cute striped socks and there he sits, the king of the fucking world, the king of Artem's whole fucking heart. Strong and cocky. 'Easy game.' Everything is an easy game to his Sardar.

And when Sardar's like this—all cocky and bratty cause he deserves to be—Artem can't be strong and tough and why the fuck would he want to be? He doesn't need any of that. He knows his place. His place is by his baby's side—or—actually—not quite by his side but—

i nominate my other two favs for the “were up all night eating each other’s asses instead of getting sleep like the good lord sergey semak commanded” award look at this nonsense