#ios intents

[blu3-but-unh1ng3d]

[TW for minor amounts of blood and heavy eye contact]

You scare me

I have been going a little feral over Spider on the Wall

It feels good

[stonyponyofficial]

sorry violet ive been writing lertters to your wife u.u can u ever forgive me

no no.. i was wrong to try and keep purple to myself.... shes a big beautiful color with big beautiful needs and if that includes my missus writing and receiving romantic missives then so be it! what's a little sending lwtters to my beautiful loving wife between pals eh?

[roture]

🐈‍⬛

[5-htagonist]

next drawing i post will expose how genuinely insanely obsessive my hyperfixation runs. and i think i may have the Autistic Rizz

[thats-a-lot-of-cortisol]

#1 for all of them

-feyranrpg

This one took a second to figure out, but it was a lot of fun to think about!

Peregrine: in the Grove, watching the Rite of Thorns. In his introductory dialogue he waves off any questions about why he's doing that, claiming to just be interested in the wards involved. But a successful insight check will tell Tav he's not being entirely truthful, and casting Detect Thoughts will show that he's not just interested in the wards themselves, but that he's trying to figure out how the Rite works so he can manipulate it in the tieflings' favor (and that he's incredibly frustrated that he can't seem to make sense of it). His tadpole meld would include him rushing towards a bystander standing in the shadow of a collapsing building as the nautiloid begins its attack on the city.

Candor: in the tiefling camp, teaching Mattis and Silfy tricks of the trade. In his introductory dialogue, he would ask Tav to participate in a "demonstration" of his techniques. If Tav hasn't talked to him yet when they get pickpocketed by the siblings, he'll try to cover for them (and, depending on how Tav reacts, tells them where to find their stolen stuff). His tadpole meld would include walking down the streets of the Lower City towards the docks, whistling and tossing a coin pouch between his hands.

Corentin: passed out by that pod that landed away from the rest of the nautiloid wreck. Their introduction would be pretty typical durge ("I don't remember anything but I think I crave blood? Help??"). Their tadpole meld would only be darkness and pain.

Diodore: in the bog, looking a bit worse for wear, hunting redcaps. In her introduction, she would pull Tav into the bushes to keep them from alerting her marks. She would ask for help fighting them and investigating whatever the fuck is happening in the area ("I'm not quite sure what's going on, but I know those [gestures] shouldn't be here"). Her mind meld includes standing on the steps of a temple in the middle of a forest glade, staring at the door that was just shut in her face.

Io: at the temple ruins, trying to make sense of the plaque for the statue outside. In their introductory dialogue, they would explain that they can sense something divine lingering in the old building, but that "a right bushel of assholes" were keeping them from entering to investigate. Her tadpole meld would include leaving an apothecary with a basket full of herbs, candles, and gauze.

Balsam: in the Whispering Depths ("I thought it was a normal cave!"). They claim to have wandered down there in an attempt to find something "familiar" after being so discombobulated from the abduction, and ask for help getting past the ettercaps and spiders. Their tadpole meld includes them leaving a burlap sack just inside the door of an orphanage in the Outer City.

Bonus- Arbutus: he finds you. Good luck.

Ask game can be found here! (Made by the person who asked this question!)

[immaterial-vivi]

From the traffic logs of the Bureau of Xenosophont Wellness and Care or Newer York, Io, Terran Protectorate on January 16, 2555:

"How to find out if your overnet traffic is being monitored?" "How to find out which Xenosophont Wellness worker is assigned to your case?" "Which NoItDs are filed for me?" "Vinesia Rosarum, 4th bloom plumblr profile" "How to tell someone they are pretty without being weird/creepy about it" "Especially what she has done with hair^H^H^H^H headvines" "I know you're reading this Miss Venesia, please come over I'm so lonely 🥺"

*NoItDs = Notice of Intent to Domesticate

[becomingthatgirl111]

how you can use social media in a healthy way

set your intention:

what use do you want to make of social media?

which apps do you want to keep using and which not (or reduce their consumption)?

how much time are you spending on it? how much do you want to spend on it?

establishes limits of use:

you can activate or deactivate certain applications when you are no longer using them so that they do not distract you or add a time limit depending on how much time or how many days a week you want to use the app.

how to set the time of use?:

ios:

settings > usage time > limit app usage > add limit

you can also limit apps only in focus, work, do not disturb or whatever mode you have set.

settings > focus > the category in which you want to activate it > focus filters

android:

settings > well-being and parental controls > set time for your apps

pros and cons:

make a list of where social media is good for you and where it is bad for you. anything that is hurting you stop watching or following.

value your real time:

not having social media or having control over it brings you more in your life and personal growth. for example, how many of us have woken up and the first thing we have done was to look at instagram or another social network and that has made us lose time of our morning? instead you can do a short meditation or breathing to start the day off right, it also reduces stress and anxiety.

just think about how much you spend a week being stuck in social media and imagine what activities you could develop in that time.

other tips:

look for an activity you would like to try

socialize more with your friends

keep your cell phone away from you or in a “do not disturb” or “concentration” mode when you are engaged in an activity

spend more time in nature

uninstall or deactivate those apps that no longer benefit you, try it for a while.

don't take anything personally from what people may share there.

conclusions:

when you have a routine, things to do, you don't pay as much attention to being online all the time, so it's not such a hard task. i'm not saying stop using your phone but i'm writing this post for all those people who spend all day scrolling or really spend a lot of time watching tik tok or instagram, that's not healthy in the end.

of course you can still use social media but with knowledge and in a way that does not harm you or does not compromise your time too much. the most important thing is not to be glued to a phone watching what others do but enjoy your life.

[crustyfloor]

With Till's bond with Ivan, I interpret it as very "proximity breeds intimacy." With the way Till eventually forms a close bond with Ivan, even if their relationship is not quite as smooth sailing, it's very interpretative of how Till sees people, what he says vs what he does, and whatnot.

Till finds his very first love in Mizi, as it is, it's more puppy love-ish, but seriously, he thinks the world of Mizi. I think the major difference in Ivan and Till is that Till holds no such ideals or expresses that kind of affection for Ivan outwardly- they bicker and fight, but ultimately, they just naturally gravitate towards each other, and they form an inseparable attachment. Although sympathetic, it's not because Till sees Ivan as pitiable or anything of the sort. He genuinely cares because he just does.

Even in the meteor shower scene, it wasn't any hard feelings towards Ivan that made Till turn away, even though in Cure all that Ivan sees if Till's back, that minute's hesitation that we see says Till didn't want to do this with intent to hurt Ivan without a second thought or that he didn't care about it at all

Till is honest with his feelings with no restrictions, he gets pissed with Ivan but Ivan's attachment and want to be close to Till, therefore causing them to spend time together, passively made him grow used to Ivan. To care for him because he inevitably became one of the closest people to Till in his life, and I think it's in the subtlety that we can see Till doesn't really push Ivan away anyway, probably even allows himself to be comfortable with Ivan and seek him out sometimes cause that's just how friends are

Even in that silly intimacy rating chart, Ivan came second to Mizi, with a significant 70%, even though the whole comment section was Till complaining about how much of a nuisance he is, well, that's just the truth... Ivan does things that he can't figure out or that irritate him, like in these instances

And Till is honest about that, but even so, it seems like Till also grew more lenient to Ivan's quirks and got used to his presence over time, the more their relationship was established, Till's relationship with Ivan is like a crash course in trying to find the line of toleration, so I don't want to say sometimes when Ivan comes off intentionally provoking Till isn't just trying to ignore him, but as aforementioned, proximity breeds intimacy, also familiarity. I think, despite all this (especially the Cafeteria scene in Cure, what a story, Ivan intentionally nags Till, and Till, having been so used to it, simply shrugs him off), Till sees Ivan with familiarity, and that's why he doesn't hate him for the things he does, accepts him because even for how guarded his heart is, in io's prayers he would always chase after love and connection. His affection is genuine and unconditional when he cares about someone or something, it took nothing for him to devote his soul to Mizi and to care about Ivan because of the memories they have together

Because Till always loved Ivan, and "love" isn't just restricted to romantic love either, but when Till identifies the ones he cares about and sees as friends, it's always those three... I think one of the hardest things about this dynamic is that Ivan thinks of himself as a mere character in Till's life that he doesn't care about because there's no way a person like Till could care about a person like Ivan to such a degree, it's just unfathomable. But Till always considered Ivan close, what they have may not be as simple as friendship or the like, but it's something close and personal

puh

[wttcsms]

if you feel like falling (catch me on the way down) | TWO

ᝰ.ᐟ after getting your heart broken by professional soccer player, rin itoshi, all because he loved the game more than you, you officially swear off all men — especially athletes. your publicist doesn’t get that memo, though, and you find yourself roped into a fake relationship with yoichi isagi, who isn’t just a pro soccer player, but also your ex’s rival. things could get messy. ( fem!reader )

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pairing yoichi isagi x reader (endgame), past! rin itoshi x reader word count 5.9k chapter synopsis the busier your schedule, the less time you can spend thinking about rin. the only problem is, you see something you can't unsee. nothing a bottle of tequila can't fix, right? (spoiler: tequila isn't fixing a broken heart) chapter contains partying and drinking to cope, diet culture author’s notes i have nothing to insightful to add rn, but send me any asks discussing this fic and i will have a lot to say LOL

From: fumiko.gima@apextalentgroup.com To: [USER EMAIL HIDDEN] Cc: wfitch@everlanefitch.com, mai.sasaki@apextalentgroup.com, hideakitakeda@titansecuritysolutions.com, benji1968@gmail.com + 3 others Subject: 6/19 — [NAME] [SURNAME] AGENDA Attachments: 📎 [6.19 AGENDA.pdf]

All — 

Attached is the PDF copy of [Name]’s itinerary for today. Reminder that these times are STRICT. Stay on schedule. 

Fumiko Gima

Get Outlook for IOS 

Your first alarm goes off at 4:50 AM to what you assume is the noise they play on repeat in hell (By the Seaside, an Apple classic). After waking up, you roll over in your king size bed (the problem with always choosing to go big instead of just going home is the fact that when you’re all alone, the luxury of extra space just becomes empty space) to promptly hit the snooze button. You’ll allow yourself five more minutes of sleep (as a treat). When the second alarm you set up goes off at 4:53 AM (By the Seaside, once again), you scream into your pillow, and shut it off for real this time. You knew you weren’t going to give yourself the full five minutes, but it felt really good to trick yourself into believing that you would. You always start the day with this tiny disappointment; that way, no one has the privilege of being the first person to piss you off. 

At 4:54 AM, you slide your feet into your Ugg slippers, readjust the loose straps of your silk camisole, and shuffle into your marble-floored bathroom. You rub the sleep from your eyes, brush your teeth with your pink electric toothbrush, and wash your face. By the time you’re done with your morning skincare, it’s 5:06 AM. You honestly can’t remember the last time you did your own makeup, but you bring your makeup bag with you anyway. If there’s downtime between shoots, you’ll post a faux-GRWM TikTok where you apply three miniscule dots of concealer on your seemingly already flawless skin and add a fresh layer of the brand new, limited edition Rhode peptide lip treatment that Hailey Bieber’s team gifted you. They also gave you twenty grand to do so, with a personal “hey girlie, would love to catch up with you one of these days!! life has been so hectic, sorry for not keeping in touch x btw, i just came out with a new shade of my��” text from Hailey herself. (You replied back with a “yessss, we need to meet up soon!! Also, LOVE LOVE LOVE the new shade omg 😍” — neither of you have any intention for planning a meet-up, and you don’t “LOVE LOVE LOVE” the new shade as much as you “LOVE LOVE LOVE” to deposit a fat check.) 

You’re sliding into the backseat of the glossy black SUV parked in front of your driveway at 5:14 AM. Your chauffeur, Benji, holds open the door for you. 

“Good morning, Ms. [Surname],” Benji never drops the formalities with you, except for when he’s lecturing you. Thank God he doesn’t own a smartphone; if he saw half the things Daily Mail wrote about you, his voice would be gone from scolding you so much. Even if he’s technically on your parents’ payroll and is paid to make sure you get to and from places safely, it still feels nice to have someone who cares about you enough to call you out on your shit. 

The first stop is an exclusive, members-only pilates studio. If you’re home, you have to work out in the morning, no matter what. You like your routine. Out of all the things online magazines put out about you, it’s kind of embarrassing how the most accurate one is revealing how you stay “fit ‘n flawless even after going out every night.” Most people didn’t believe it. Rin got it, though. Rin would actually work out with you, when the two of your schedules aligned, and— Time to start your workout early! Nothing takes your mind off of matters more than focusing on the burn of your core and arms. 

By the time you finish your private session, you’re walking out the studio with your puffy tote bag slung over your shoulders. Your body is still a bit damp from taking a quick shower but not drying off properly, and Benji drops you off at your first business stop of the day — ELLE Japan.

You smile brightly as the team of makeup artists surrounding you shower you with compliments. One of the girls brushing on your foundation tells you that you have really nice skin. When she goes in for a second layer, you almost consider rescinding the thanks you gave her.

The set is hectic, as expected. No matter how long these people have been in the industry, no matter how big the host is, something always seems to be going wrong. Apparently, there’s been a mishap over in wardrobe, and ELLE’s people are not very happy with how this is going to delay everything. With your hair and makeup done, there’s nothing for you to do besides sit down, be quiet, and look pretty. 

Downtime is the last thing you want. You’re used to a busy schedule, but you convinced Fumiko to accept as many projects as possible. If you have to rank at the top of the list for celebrities who emit the most CO2, then so be it. You’ll pollute the whole damn planet if it means you won’t have a single second to be alone with your thoughts. 

At 9:00 AM sharp, you go on your phone to inform your manager that the agenda is fucked. ELLE Japan is definitely going to push back this session with you for at least a good hour, which means Fumiko is going to have to explain to Your Style (the YouTube channel name for a famous fashion commentator who’s amassed nearly twenty million subscribers) why you’re going to be late for the Zoom debrief on what you two are going to talk about in an upcoming video. At 9:02 AM, you receive a text.

juli ᡣ𐭩: u know i love u 

It’s two in the morning in Paris. When Juliette said she was going to visit her father, she said it was going to be a much-needed vacation — just something chill and lowkey, like going to all the designer stores and eating croissants on a balcony. Those were her exact words. 

juli ᡣ𐭩: [photo attachment] 

Somehow, from the neon strobe lights, bodies pressed against one another’s, and the way the image is blurry because she couldn’t get her phone to focus, it feels like Juliette’s “something chill and lowkey” morphed into club-hopping all over France. You roll your eyes with affection. You should’ve known her vacation was going to turn into this; as if Juliette would eat bread for pleasure — she’s been quoted for claiming that carbs are a necessary evil. She probably hasn’t even touched a croissant for the past week she’s been there.

juli ᡣ𐭩: showing u before TMZ posts it juli ᡣ𐭩: [video attachment] juli ᡣ𐭩: do not freak out. not worth it. juli ᡣ𐭩: ugh i knew this club sucked ass for a reason 

You wait for the video to load. It’s almost as blurry and unfocused as the original image she sent, but you can tell she had to zoom in pretty hard to capture what she wanted. It’s two figures with a minimal amount of space between them. One of them is definitely a girl; she has the build of the usual French models. A thin, leggy brunette who has mastered the intricate art of Just Had Sex hair. Perfectly messy, but could never be considered sloppy. She’s wearing a sparkly, tight minidress. The fabric shimmers when the strobe lights pass by her body. The person she’s practically pressed up against is a man. Tall, lean. He’s leaning down, presumably so he can hear her better. When the video clip ends abruptly (someone bumped into Juliette, and the video ends with shaky footage and a loud “putain!”), you replay it. And replay it. And then you play it again, just for good measure.

Each time you watch the stupid video, you find something new to notice. Her red lips brushing against his ear. The way his hand hovers near her hip. The way you’re certain she’s smiling when she speaks, like the smirk of a victor. The exact same self-satisfied, smug grin you sport whenever you get a guy right where you want him. Upon every rewatch, though, one thing remains the same: you’re constantly fixated on him.

Right now, it’s two in the morning in Paris. You know that when you weren’t in this fucked up headspace you’re in right now, you’d be in bed, snuggled underneath your blankets, by 11:30 PM. You know that when you felt your best, you could be in bed, whispering in the dark to the person you felt safest with, at 10:00 PM (at the latest, because you both would have a busy day ahead and needed the rest). He likes sleeping early because he likes being well-rested. 

So why the hell is Rin Itoshi at a club right now?

At 9:39 AM, ELLE Japan gets right back on track. Before your editorial shoot for a special anniversary edition of the magazine, they get you to sit down to do a video interview that they plan on posting all over their social media. 

“This is a very special edition that will be coming out, and you are not only having the biggest spread dedicated to you, but you’re also going to be on the cover. Knowing this, how are you feeling right now, [Name]? This might be the most high-profile photoshoot you’ve done so far in your career, and that’s saying something. You have quite the impressive resume.” 

The ring lights are shining directly in your eye. The stool they have you sitting on for this interview is uncomfortable, and you have to focus on remaining balanced. Your back is perfectly straight, and your hands are folded in your lap. You blink, and you see the video playing in your mind. You have God knows how much makeup caked on right now, and you still have a long day ahead of you. Rin is at a club right now. Rin is at a club right now, with a girl. Rin is at a club right now, with a girl, and they’re basically grinding against each other, and he might just have forgotten all about you.

You smile brightly. At 9:40 AM in Japan, you let everyone know, 

“I honestly think I’m the happiest I’ve ever been before in my life! This is a great way to establish a sort of, I guess, new era of my life and my career.” 

You turn to face the camera directly, giving them a dazzling view of your pearly whites. “Not trying to rush the process or anything, but I am definitely looking forward to seeing how this will all play out in the future.” 

You’re operating on autopilot for the rest of the day. The ELLE shoot wraps up close to noon. You forgo lunch, but knowing you and your tendency to skip meals, Benji refuses to start the car until you eat the lunch his wife packed for you. It’s light and refreshing — they want you to eat well, but they’re not cruel. Even if they want to bring you a feast of a nice, hot, home cooked meal, you’ll eat it out of obligation and then suffer the consequences on set when everyone asks why you’re so bloated. You don’t even taste what you’re consuming. 

At 12:30 PM, you hop on the Zoom call and pretend to care about discussing matters such as the lack of personal style affecting the younger generations. Every topic is a trivial topic to you. The only thing worth dissecting is that damn video. You should’ve asked those twenty million subscribers to help you analyze that, instead of nodding along when the YouTuber starts going on a rant about how Shein and other fast fashion brands are ruining everything. 

Late in the afternoon, you get another text. 

kenyu: So the team wants to host a belated birthday party for me lmao. Team’s planning on having it at 10 tonight kenyu: Sending you the address right now

A party is exactly what you need right now. Endless drinks, no need for rational thinking, and you’ll be (mostly) surrounded by people who think models are all vain and vapid. No one there is going to expect a decent conversation from you, and with the state you’re in, it’s a wonder how all your sentences are even making sense. 

You give Kenyu’s next message a like in response. You were expecting a club, but when you click on the address, Maps reveals that it’s residential. Rin is gallivanting around European nightclubs, and meanwhile, the best you can do are house parties. This is how the future is playing out? 

At least even at your worst, people still think you’re on top of the world. 

Maybe life without a man dragging you down and invading your space is for the best. After all, once you got done with all your professional obligations, it’s only eight at night. You’re used to going out with whatever makeup they did for you on set at your last shoot of the day, which is a shame. You have shelves full of makeup that’s been sent to you by different brands, and one of these nights, you plan on just messing around at your vanity. 

You like living alone, you decide. You can leave all the lights on if you want, and no one complains about it hurting their eyes. You have full control of the thermostat. You don’t have to fight for counter space in the bathroom. Plus, no one can see how you’re living. 

At 9:13 PM, you’re sprawled on the cool marble floor of your bathroom (squeaky clean thanks to the housekeeper you have come once a week), and instead of rewatching that dreadful video and subsequently crying, you had a quick retail therapy session. Your new Prada heels should be coming within the next two days. 

You don’t get Benji to drive you. Nobody bats an eye at a rich girl having a driver, but it does seem kind of weird to have him drop you off at a party as if you're a tween girl getting taken to the mall. If the house is owned by one of Yukimiya’s teammates, surely it won’t be too awkward if you had to leave it there because you got too drunk to drive yourself back home? 

Because — no offense to Yuki, you’re happy he’s getting another birthday celebration — the whole point of even going to this party is to get fucked up. You already know that Juliette had a point — if not TMZ, then at least Daily Mail will be all over Rin and that girl in the club. If that gets leaked, then you might as well have your own headline to combat his. Sure, lately you’ve been out partying, but that was with other models so it doesn’t raise too many eyebrows. Rin being caught at a club is basically him hard launching the breakup. You need to raise some speculation on your side of things, too. 

you: can you get someone to pick up my car from this address tomorrow morning? you: please :) 

When you see three dots appear, you smile for real. You can practically hear her sigh and see the shake of her head.

Fumiko Gima: Yes. Fumiko Gima: Be safe.

Aw, maybe your manager does have a heart. Right before you can send her a heart, she adds:

Fumiko Gima: Don’t stay out too late. You have your first shoot at 8 AM. 

This is the message you give a heart reaction to. Maybe everything really is just business with her. 

You suppose you can’t fault Fumiko for always seeming cold. She’s your manager, not your best friend. 

In this industry, her honesty is refreshing. You normally find this to be the case, but you really feel it now when you step into the mansion and hear a cacophony of laughter swarming you from all sides. At every turn, there’s a celebrity with a drink in hand. Everyone’s leaning towards each other, as if they’re so captivated with the other’s words. 

You see an actor leading a stumbling model up the spiral staircase. To your side, you see a baseball player chatting up the daughter of one of the baseball league’s board members. Upstairs, someone’s probably snorting a line off Yukimiya’s teammate’s bathroom counter. There are only three reasons why people in your social circle attend these parties: to get fucked, to get fucked up, or to make business deals. Considering the fact that you’ve been here for nearly five minutes and have yet to see a birthday cake — or the belated birthday boy himself — you’re pretty sure everyone here has lot the damn plot for the original celebration.

When you venture some more, you end up in the massive backyard. Some people are drunkenly making out in the pool, some people are watching them, and in a table in the corner, you spot a group of girls giggling and cheering as they all do shots. Perfect. This is exactly where you need to be. 

One’s a model; you’ve seen her on a couple pages you flipped through in Harper’s Bazaar. You go up to the table and give her a bright smile.

“Hey, girl! Or should I say Miss Bazaar?” You greet her like how you think people would tease a friend. She’s not your friend; you don’t even know her name. You know she knows your name — everyone here does. And it’s because of the fact that everyone knows you that she lights up when she realizes you’re speaking to her. 

A photo op with you guarantees that even if the headline coming out tomorrow is centered on you, she’ll still be in the frame. Daily Mail will add a caption naming everybody from left to right, and she’s planning on being the one captured right next to you. 

“[Name]!” She squeals, giving you a quick side hug. “How have you been?”

All your friends, the grand total of exactly two people, know how you’ve been. You grin, pointing to the bottle of tequila they have on their table. 

“After how this day has been, I honestly just need a shot.” You play it off like a joke, and as someone pours you one, you add, “Or maybe like five.” They all giggle before throwing back the tequila straight. They might think you’re joking, but this table full of strangers are the first people you’ve been honest with all day. 

At 12:15 AM, they aren’t strangers anymore. In fact, you think they might be your best friends in the whole world. You don’t know the lyrics to the rap song blaring through the bass boosted speakers, but you’re laughing as you take another shot. The Harper’s Bazaar girl is doing another shot with you, but she has her phone in her other hand. She makes sure that the both of you are in the frame together, and a second later, she’s tagging you in an Instagram story you don’t bother to view. You’re not even following her. 

“Okay, so out of all the guys here, who looks the most fuckable?” One of the girls leans on the table for support as she asks this question. You can’t help but notice how glittery her lipgloss is. Wow, even after all the shots she’s taken, there’s no transfer. Impressive. “I say Theo Sachs.” 

“Who the fuck is Theo Sachs?” Harper’s Bazaar asks, and the whole entire table giggles. Honestly, at parties like these, laughing comes easy. In fact, you’re giggling right with them, even though you also have no fucking clue who Theo is. There’s just something so freeing in tequila-induced joy. 

“Um, the host of this party?” Glittery Lipgloss says. “Oh my God, girl, he’s like, one of the players for Bastard.” 

“The fuck is Bastard?” Another girl asks, adjusting her blue minidress. 

“The soccer team!” Glittery Lipgloss is too drunk to be fed up, but you’re sure she would be rolling her eyes if she could. 

“I didn’t know we had soccer players here. I only saw baseball players.” Blue Minidress frowns, before adding, “I would totally fuck one of the baseball boys, though. No preference whatsoever. Matter of fact, I could take the whole team.” 

Harper’s Bazaar laughs. “What about you, [Name]? Who are you taking home tonight?” 

Before you can think of something to say, Glittery Lipgloss groans. “Oh my God, she has a boyfriend.” She looks at you for confirmation. You don’t give her any, but thankfully Blue Minidress has her own insight to add to this conversation. 

“So what the fuck does that have to do with her question? [Name], who are you taking home tonight?” 

Nobody. Out of every party you’ve gone to this past month, you went back home, completely and utterly alone each and every time. It’s not even because nobody offered — they have — but because no matter how lonely you may get or feel, you don’t like strangers in your space. It took you three months of dating Rin to let him into the penthouse you were originally staying in, and that was with you being in love with him. 

Once again, you’re saved from answering when someone behind you goes, “[Name]?” 

You turn around, only to come face to face with Yoichi Isagi. On second thought, maybe this isn’t the rescue you thought it was. Drunk You can’t hold back your frown when you see him. He’s wearing a dark blue polo shirt and chinos. He looks perfectly business casual and could pass off as an off-the-clock investment banker instead of the world class athlete you’ve heard he is. Then you let out a little snort of laughter, which only makes him look more confused. You don’t want to tell him that it’s kind of funny how normal he looks. 

Not in a bad way. You’re surrounded by models for practically the whole day. Looking unattainably hot or having ethereal beauty is the one non-negotiable job requirement. Even Rin, with his stupidly long lower lashes and impossibly high cheekbones and his pretty boy resting sulking face, is serving standards some male models can’t achieve. Isagi looks like the type of guy you would have a crush on if the two of you were completely normal and attended regular high school together. 

But that’s not the reality you’re living in. Right now, you’re getting drunk with girls you don’t know, and every night, you’re making headlines. He’s a professional athlete that everyone at this table would gladly fuck just for a chance to be declared social media’s favorite WAG of the Week. The both of you could have your pick of anyone at this party, but you refuse to let anyone in, and you think Isagi might be one of those intense athletes who only care about their sport.

If that’s the case, he’s doing every girl a favor by not pretending he can commit to anything but soccer. You know someone who could use a few pointers. 

“Hi,” you mumble, and then you want to slap yourself because why the fuck are you acting like you’re nervous? But for some reason, you feel like you're a kid caught with their grimy hand in the cookie jar, like you’re doing something wrong.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” 

“Well, it’s Kenny’s birthday party. Of course, I’d be here.” You cross your arms against your chest, feeling like you have something to prove. Before Yukimiya became his teammate, Kenyu was your friend first. Like, real friend, not just someone you leave supportive comments on their Instagram post type of friend. 

Isagi actually smiles when he hears that. “Funny. I think everyone but Yukimiya actually wants to be here.” 

You sober up a bit when you hear that. “Yeah, I couldn’t find him anywhere.” Not that you looked very hard. The minute you found this table of girls, you didn’t bother exploring the rest of the mansion. 

“He was upstairs with some of the guys. You know that he, uh, doesn’t really like these types of parties.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“You don’t seem like the type to like these parties either.” If he was anyone else, you’d be saying this to flirt. You’re honestly not sure what your intention behind this comment was, either. You’re too drunk to decide if you wanted it to be an insult (some way to defend Yukimiya’s behavior?) or just you trying to make conversation for once (you’re not normally one for small talk). 

“Caught me.” Isagi smiles easily. From now and thinking back to Yukimiya’s birthday lunch, Isagi is rarely not smiling. You wonder if he means it. Surrounded by people who only let you drink with them because being seen with you elevates their own status, you decide that the answer to that is a probably not. “I was about to head out before I thought I saw you, and I wanted to come by and…” For a second, he pauses to choose the right words to say. “Just wanted to see if it really was you.”

“Well, you saw me. Guess your business is done here.” Then you swiftly turn your back to him, as if to abruptly end the conversation. Instead, you’re drunker than you realize, and your heel ends up being wedged deeper into the grass than you expected, and you lose your balance. You think you might fall, which would be so embarrassing, but maybe not as embarrassing as what actually ends up happening.

What actually ends up happening is that Isagi is quick to wrap his arm around your abdomen, pulling you close to him as he attempts to keep you steady and upright. The girls looked shocked, but then they burst into another round of giggles, and since you’re not joining in the laughter, all you can think about is how annoying they are. You squirm around in his grasp, ignoring the whiff of fresh laundry you get from being all up in his personal space (not by choice!!!; he’s the one that pulled you in, after all!), and he releases you. 

“Are you feeling okay?” He asks you. It’s hard to glare at him when he looks so genuinely concerned. 

“Never better.” 

“Do you have a ride home?” 

What does it matter to you? Is what you want to say. 

“I’ll call an Uber.” You lie, hoping that this will end the conversation once and for all. Seriously, Isagi just killed the whole vibe of the party for you. You want to go back to drinking. 

“But I thought you didn’t do Ubers.” When Isagi calls you out on your bullshit, you soften momentarily. You almost forgot that he heard about your weird thing of having strangers know your home address. Then, you go back to giving him the cold shoulder. Sometimes, it’s a warm and gooey feeling to be known. Right now, you want to drown your sorrows in tequila and be showered with fake affection by girls who probably don’t even like you sober. You didn’t come to this party to be known. You came here for revenge. 

(You’re not going to acknowledge how drinking your sadness away isn’t necessarily showing up Rin, but for nearly an hour straight, you hadn’t thought about him, and that’s good enough.) 

When you have no response to that (wit doesn’t come easy when you’re in the condition you’re in right now), Isagi looks at you imploringly. 

“Let me take you home.” 

You shake your head childishly, almost saying nuh-uh. “Just because you don’t like this party doesn’t mean I don’t like it. I’m staying right here.” 

He finally frowns. “Fine. I’ll wait for you to finish up here, then I’ll take you home.”

“I’m with my friends right now. Leave me alone.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? Which friend is going to make sure you get home safely? Yukimiya already left early.” Despite the two of you not knowing what the other is thinking, you both give wry smiles about that statement for the same reason. The party is still going on strong, despite the guest of honor not wanting to show his face and leaving early. 

“These are my best friends.” You gesture to the trio of girls you know nothing about, besides the fact that they can keep up with your drinking habits. They all smile at Isagi, who waves back before turning his attention back to you.

“Really?” He asks. “What’re their names again?”

No one has anything to say to that, especially you. When the silence gets too awkward, Isagi clears his throat and also puts his foot down.

“I’m taking you home, [Name].” 

You look at the trio of strangers you just spent hours with. Harper’s Bazaar shrugs, and the other two look away. The sting of not knowing who they are, despite them obviously having enough notoriety to be invited, makes your “best friends” not your friends anymore. Whatever. 

“Fine.” You grumble, following Isagi to his car. 

“Did you have fun tonight?” Is what he asks you as he signals to make a turn. The clicking of the turn signal is the only thing that fills the silence in the car. 

No. 

Sometimes, it’s fun in the moment, but that’s only when you’re drunk enough to trick yourself into thinking you’re having a good time. You’re more like Yukimiya (and — gross — Isagi) than they know; the whole “It Girl dominates the party scene” vibe you’ve got going on… It’s just bullshit that your PR team mixes together to get people talking. The high of being adored by everyone in a room vanishes almost immediately the minute you go home and wash off your makeup. In the bright lights of your bathroom, you stare at the sad, lonely girl in the mirror. It’s too dark outside for you to see anything out the window, but you lean your head against the cool glass, and before you know it, you’re waking up…

To Isagi groping you?

You’re groggy and confused and trying to blink the sleepiness out of your eyes, but Yoichi Isagi is definitely all up on you. You’re shocked, honestly. He looks like such a sweet guy! No wonder he was so pushy in getting you home.

He’s holding you in some awkward side hug, and he’s patting down your waist, trying to slip his fingers through the fabric of your dress, and finally, because he must be a novice-level pervert who doesn’t know the first thing about female anatomy, you speak up. 

“Gross! You can’t even feel up a girl properly! No wonder you take advantage of drunk, vulnerable girls!” 

“Ah!” He jerks back, shocked that you’re awake. Serves the pervert right. He should be backing up. You took a month of kickboxing classes (your modeling agency thought it would be the next big thing, since all the Victoria Secret models kickbox — they were wrong). “I-I wasn’t feeling you up!” 

“Then why were your hands all over me?” 

“I was looking for your key! You were asleep, and you looked like you needed it, so I just carried you to your door, but it’s locked.”

Oh. Likely story. You’re not letting him off the hook just yet. 

“Obviously my front door would be locked, dumbass. Who doesn’t lock their house?” You point to the perfectly trimmed hedges by your door. “Key’s in the bushes.”

Since you’re making no moves to get down on your knees and rifle through the bushes, Isagi sighs and does it himself. When he holds up the key, you nod in thanks, take it, and then proceed to unlock the door using your fingerprint. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“What?” You repeat back, innocently. 

“You didn’t even need the key to unlock the door!”

“Yes, Isagi. Modern technology is something, isn’t it?” And because you feel kind of bad, you offer him the chance to wash up before driving back. 

“You’re really something, you know that?” Isagi says from the kitchen sink. You’re sitting on a stool by the counter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s nothing bad.” He clarifies. “It’s just… Rin’s a pretty private person. We always wondered what his girlfriend must be like. Sorry.” He shuts off the faucet, dries his hands. “Ex-girlfriend, I guess.”

“How do you know that?” You’ve been racking your brain, wondering if Yuki spilled your secret accidentally. Or — even worse — Rin himself confirmed it. Rin never even told anyone explicitly that the two of you were dating, so it’s not plausible that he would go blab about the breakup. 

“Well, I didn’t really know for sure until I drove you home that first time.” He admits. “I just thought you made a weird face when I mentioned Rin during lunch, and then you started acting funny afterwards. Just had a hunch, that’s all.” 

Great. So, Isagi, who’s basically a stranger to you, could read you to filth. Is there anyone else that you haven’t been fooling? How embarrassing. Being perceived sucks. 

You don’t say anything else. You can hear Isagi mumbling about something, and you make a half-hearted noise in reply, but you’re sleepy and drunk and coming to the realization that you can’t keep fooling everyone around for long. There’s no point in dancing around the topic of your breakup. It’s getting tiring, anyway. 

It is pretty exhausting to be pining after someone who’s not coming back. 

Because that’s why you’re trying so hard to keep the breakup a secret. Partly for pride, but mostly because… You’re hoping that after learning everything there is to know about you, Rin Itoshi wouldn’t go so far to cut you so deeply by leaving you. Right? He understood your level of loneliness like no one else, and he related to it. For the first time in both of your lives, the two of you suddenly found the right person to fill in all the empty spaces. 

And then he left, and the emptiness just continues to grow in infinite amounts.

You groan as you move around, only to find that you’re moving on top of your bed. You’re tucked into your sheets, and your hair is splayed across your pillow. You turn your head and see a shadowy figure exiting out your bedroom door.

“You’re leaving, too?” 

Your throat is dry, and the words come out small. You hate this feeling of hopelessness and vulnerability, and the figure pauses in his steps. 

He hushes you gently. “You should go to sleep. You’ve had a long night.” 

“Fine. Don’t stay. I don’t care.” You burrow yourself further into your blankets. 

“Do you really want me to stay?” 

At one in the morning, covered in the darkness of your bedroom, you turn every shadow into Rin Itoshi. You don’t know what you mumble in response, but you know that whatever you said, it’s directed towards him.

[kaeraesketches]

✨Highly Inappropriate✨

✨Oh, hey kids! What’s for dinner?? 😅 Sorry for being gone nearly a month, it’s been crazy-pants over here with travel and life being lifey. BUT!! I come bearing a new post! Wahoo!!

✨The full version is over on my Pa🌳on, along with a spicy excerpt that I wrote just for my fabulous supporters 🥰! Here! Have a taste!

_______________________________

✨ “Mm-hmm…do go on…” Aziraphale said, his voice dropping much lower than its usual pleasant tenor, taking on a heated quality that Crowley had never heard before.

The angel was staring intently at Crowley’s lips as they stuttered in shock, not bothering to conceal what looked like…desire?? In his eyes?? Crowley knew that look, had seen it on the humans’ faces in electric situations that usually led to some immediate “private time”.

Then he caught it.

The scent of…lust…in the air. Radiating off the angel in waves, like a thick, irresistible perfume to his serpent’s senses. It made Crowley’s breath hitch, and caused a heady tightness in his already painted-on jeans.

What the f*ck was happening…

____________________________________

✨ 🤭 If this tickles your fancy, there’s more to be had, I promise! Just check the l!nk in my bi0!

iOS users, please sign up via the Pa-🌳-on website and NOT the App Store. Apple is currently taxing the bejesus out of you guys if you use iOS for purchase. It’s cheaper if you sign up via the website and then you’ll have access to my whole shebang on the app afterwards. Easy peasy!

✨ Anyway, you guys are great, and I’ve missed you! K, love you byeeeeeee!

http://www.patreon.com/kaeraesketches

[greynatomy]

unexpected

katie mccabe x reader

this was requested from wp

kinda made caitlin as the ‘bad guy’ but it’s for the plot

i also updated my rules for requesting and added the footballer who i’ll take requests for

———

Another day, another training done for the Arsenal women’s team. Katie sat on the sidelines, catching her breath and winding down from the scrimmage. As she’s drinking from her bottle, a shadow casts over her.

“Hi, Katie.”

“Caitlin.” She acknowledges the Australian.

“Uh, well, I was wondering if you wanted to try this restaurant I found last week?”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They have really amazing food. So?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll tell the team.”

“No, wait.” She tries to clear up her intentions, but Katie already walked away. “Great.”

Two hours later, the whole team had met at ‘Sapori’ and waited at the front of the building for everyone to show up.

“Hey.”

Looking to her left, she see’s Caitlin shuffling closer to her.

“Hi.”

“This is a really great restaurant. The ambiance is amazing so I’m glad you’re here to try it out.” Caitlin breaks the moment of awkwardness.

Katie’s lips form a tight smile. “Yeah, I’ve only heard great things.”

“Alright, let’s head in.” They heard Leah say as everyone that could make it has finally shown up.

It took a while for everyone to figure out where ghey want to sit, but they made it work. Katie took her place at one end of the table, Caitlin taking place on her left side.

Conversations were flowing freely, everyone with a smile on their face. Katie was chatting it up with Beth and Viv when she feels a hand delicately going up and down her arm, making her flinch her arm away.

“What’re you doin’?” Katie snaps, eyebrows furrowed.

“Sorry, just wanted your attention.” Caitlin frowns.

“Okay.” She slowly nods. “Just don’t do that again.”

The food came out soon after, everyone hungry and diggin in.

“Sorry, excuse me? We didn’t order these.” Leah spoke up when extra dishes were placed on the table. Katie didn’t care, she dug into all that she could reach.

“These are just some dishes that the owner would like you all to try.”

“Well, please thank her for us.”

Everyone was in their own little groups talking about anything and everything at the same time. A couple of moments go by when Katie feels small hands on her thighs. Looking down she sees a little girl who seems to try and get onto her lap. So what does she do? she helps the girl up, getting her comfortable on her lap and wrapping an arm around her.

Said child, once content on Katie’s lap, grabs the fork and starts eating the food in front of her. Katie occasionally wipes her mouth with a napkin, the child unbothered by it.

Too occupied in helping the kid eat, she doesn’t see the looks on her friends’ faces. The group silently observes Katie and the kid, seeing how comfortable they are with each other.

The kid turns in Katie’s lap, hands going on both cheeks pulling her close. Katie thinks she’s going for a kiss so she leans down, except instead of a kiss, the gnocchi that was once in the kid’s mouth, was now in Katie’s.

“Ugh, Em! Not again.” She spits it out, wiping her mouth after. All Emmy does is laugh and goes back to eating. A couple of throats can be heard clearing, making Katie look up to see all her friends staring at her. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’ You’ve got a child on your lap.”

“Ye’ and?”

“Who’s child is that?”

“Completely hers.” A voice speaks up before Katie could answer. “She’s a menace and gets it from her mammy.”

“Mamma! Io mangio!”

“I can see! You’ve got sauce all over your face.” You wipe her face with a napkin. “How are you guys enjoying everything?” You ask the group.

“Oh, it’s amazing! Best thing I’ve ever eaten!” Beth exclaims.

“Who are you?” Caitlin asks.

“I am the owner of Sapori, Y/N McCabe. So nice to meet all of you. And yes, I know the last name isn’t Italian, but I just so happened to fall for an Irish.”

“Oi! Don’t make it seem like that’s a bad thing.”

“Oi!” Emmy echos.

“Wait!” Kyra says very loudly. “McCabe? So does that mean Katie’s your—”

“—Wife? Yes, unfortunately.”

“You’re beeing cheeky. Stop it.” She boops your nose.

You start to pick up some of the empty plates, giving everyone a smile.

“Hey, hey, hey! What’re you doin’?”

“I’m gonna take these back?”

“You’re not allowed to carry anything!”

“Katie, babe. I’m pregnant, not crippled. Plus, I’m barely even showing.”

“Aww, you’re pregnant?” Kyra goes to touch your stomach, but her hand gets smacked away by Katie.

“Katie! Be nice. And yes, I am.”

As the rest of the team fusses over Emmy and your belly, Caitlin decides to speak to Katie.

“So, you’re married?”

“Yup.”

“Why’d you make it seem like you were interested in me.” Katie didn’t know if she was being serious or not, but started laughing out loud.

“I don’t know what you’re on about mate. Probably just a figment of your imagination.”

[radiomogai]

Good Faith Identities Survey

[PT: Good Faith Identities Survey. End PT]

Hi! We've made a survey with the intent to define and discuss the phrase, "good faith identity" within LIOMOGAI and adjacent spaces!

This survey is anonymous and open to everybody! It can be taken multiple times bodily but we ask that each individual only takes it once. Please answer genuinely.

The survey will be closed on the evening of September 10th. Survey results will (ideally) be posted here by September 17th.

We'll be sharing numbers and trends, as well as some of the written responses. If you do not want your written response to be shared with the survey results, please tell us so in the response.

Tagging for reach but no pressure to reblog!

@neopronouns @revenant-coining @mogai-sunflowers @io-archival @blankqueer

@beyond-mogai-pride-flags

[equipo]

Cambia, todo cambia

🌟 Novedades

Los audios de pódcasts de Spotify insertados en las publicaciones ahora permiten reproducir el episodio completo.

🛠 Mejoras y solución de problemas

Ya no verás las publicaciones sugeridas ni el contenido de los blogs recomendados que hayas descartado en las pestañas del Escritorio de la aplicación para iOS.

En esta misma aplicación, cuando intentes registrar un blog con un nombre que incluya caracteres no válidos, ya no verás un mensaje genérico que no indica el motivo del error.

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🌱 Próximamente

Vamos a incluir las tendencias en la parte superior del apartado «Explorar» en las aplicaciones para dispositivos móviles. Podrás ver las etiquetas que sigues en ese mismo apartado, como siempre: simplemente aparecerán un poco más abajo.

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[effietrinket1619]

Bruce gets back to Earth and his kids are thriving without him. They all have open invitations to hang out at the Lantern 's place (The Green Lanterns' Light House?) when they need to get away from Batman's bullshit.

Tim is on thin ice though.

'green lantern's light house' is a fantastic pun and pleases me greatly

anyway so this is hilarious. somehow, the green lanterns are on better terms with bruce's children than bruce is? like, somehow, they've lowkey bonded with jason (who honestly might've come out of spite but then stayed because he found these people kinda insane and cool)

i know that duke's eyes glow because he's a meta-human (or maybe that's a fandom wide headcanon) and that jason's eyes glow because of pit stuff (or maybe that's a fandom wide headcanon) which i feel like comes across as offputting for a lot of people...

...except the lanterns who glow intermittently depending on their general mood and stress levels. they nearly blind each other on a regular basis. that is to say, the lanterns don't fucking care and never bat an eye at any of the weird shit that bruce's kids try to pull.

there's an effort at first to try and 'get back' at the lanterns for arresting their dad, mostly spearheaded by tim. only issue? it's really hard. it's stupidly difficult to shake them without knowing about specific triggers and traumas they individually have. so, like. the stuff he pulls is just kinda brushed aside.

and honestly? the others kinda respect it. the lanterns, understanding that io and soranik, while very well-meaning (and rightfully if they're being honest), did in fact take their dad away, try to just fold the batkids into the fold. it works, which is the funny part.

so when bruce walks into the lanterns' house, intent on finding his kids and praying they were okay in his absence after a tedious trial, he finds them casually lounging about, completely content. jason is joking loudly somewhere in the kitchen with guy while dick is totally engrossed in conversation with both duke and kyle over...intergalactic politics?

john is reading aloud to damian and cass. even tim is sat, a little stiff but still there, listening to hal and simon heatedly debate about something unimportant. jo throws in casual observations here and there, mostly meant to keep the argument going.

jess walks past, the only person who actually notices bruce, and winks. bruce very nearly implodes

[changes]

Friday, October 13th, 2023

🌟 New

We’ve been experimenting a lot lately with the For You feed on the dashboard, and one thing that’s rolled out to everyone is that it now contains a mix of content from people you follow and people you don’t. This is an intentional change, and the mix should be around 50/50 for now. We’re still tuning it though, so please send feedback if you have thoughts about it!

We’re also now experimenting with a way for secondary blogs to write replies on posts. For some users who have more than one blog, the avatar icon next to the reply input is tappable/clickable, to select which blog is writing the reply.

When searching for content on a blog, if you use a hashtag (#) as the first character, we’ll show results tagged with that tag instead of performing a general text search. For example, searching for “#splatoon” on a blog will limit results to those posts tagged with #splatoon. Searching for “splatoon” performs a more general search.

The Tumblr Supporter badge is now available to everyone!!! Check it out in TumblrMart.

Folks using the beta version of the Tumblr app on Android will see a new design for the Activity/Messaging tab. Let us know what you think!

We have expanded the list of AI bots/crawlers we’re discouraging from using Tumblr data.

🛠 Fixed

Please update the iOS app to the latest version, 31.6, to receive the fixes for Tuesday’s two ongoing issues.

We’ve recently fixed some more bugs that have been preventing SoundCloud embeds from working properly.

🚧 Ongoing

We’re working to fix an issue in the iOS app that’s been causing the messaging/activity nav bar item to not be updated properly with a count of how many unread activity items you have. Sometimes it gets stuck and loses count, even though you’re receiving activity.

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[allgoodnamesrgoneee]

hey Bianca! I wanted to tell you how much i love your writing and especially virgil writing, there is such a lack of fanfics for him on this app but i can always rely on your stories to make up for it😩 I’m not sure if you’re still taking requests but in case you are, I would love something about the reader being stressed about her workload/anxious in general and virgil comforting her by making love to her, maybe including size kink/age gap? keep up the amazing work🤍

Here's one for the Virgil girlies 😉

Don't forget my fics are now available for ONLY $3 ($4,50 on iOs) on my Patreon shop, each of them over 5k words; don't miss your chance to catch up on all the exclusive content!

Bad Day

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Today is probably the worst day you've ever had. Good thing Virgil is here to help relieve your stress.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Virgil Van Dijk x you

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 8.4k

Warnings! ANGST!! but only for the plot, FLUFF!! Virgil being the best boyfriend on earth, NSFW! SMUT (18+), size kink, unprotected vaginal sex, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dom!Virgil, sub!reader.

Sometimes you wake up and you know it’s gonna be a good day.

Today is not one of those days.

First, you overslept. Your alarm had gone off at the right time, but in your half-asleep haze, you’d smacked it off the nightstand, sending it clattering to the floor where it had continued ringing uselessly. By the time you finally woke up, you were already running late. No breakfast, no coffee, just a frantic scramble to throw on clothes and rush out the door.

Then, as you were halfway to work, realization struck like a punch to the gut: you left the file—the file—sitting on the coffee table. The one your boss specifically asked for. The one you had stayed up late organizing. The one that was absolutely not in your bag where it should have been.

The lecture that followed when you had to admit your mistake was brutal. Your boss didn’t yell, exactly, but the sharp disappointment in his voice cut even deeper. He gave you that look—the one that made you feel about two inches smaller—and informed you, in no uncertain terms, that you’d need to finish it by today.

And that's how you found yourself skipping lunch.

While your coworkers went out to grab food, you stayed behind, stomach growling, fixing the mistake you’d made. By the time your shift finally ended, you were exhausted, hungry, and ready to crawl into bed and never emerge again.

And to make everything worse? Virgil isn’t here.

He's away on a trip, and after the kind of day you’ve had, all you want is to bury yourself in his arms and let him make everything feel small. The way only he knew how. That way of looking at you that made the world fade out, leaving only the two of you and nothing more.

But that won't be an option today.

Or so you think.

The apartment is dark when you open the door, the only sound greeting you is the steady hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. You sigh, the weight of exhaustion settling deep in your bones. It’s the kind of tired that makes every movement feel sluggish, like you’re wading through molasses.

You kick off your shoes, barely managing to toe them off before dragging yourself inside, your bag slipping off your shoulder to land on the floor with a dull thud.

The plan is simple: microwave a frozen dinner, take a long, hot shower, and crawl into bed.

Which, all things considered, sounds like the perfect ending to a terrible day. But it’s missing one very crucial element. Virgil.

As you trudge toward the fridge, intent on setting your plan in motion, something catches your eye—a light, faint but distinct, coming from the living room.

You freeze.

The only other person who has a key to your apartment is Virgil and he's not here and you know for a fact you didn’t leave any lights on. The exhaustion dulls immediately, replaced by something sharper, more alert. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, heartbeat kicking up as you take slow, cautious steps toward the source.

And then you see him.

Virgil.

Sitting on the couch like he belongs there (he does, considering he pays your rent), long legs stretched out, broad shoulders relaxed. He’s in a hoodie and sweatpants, looking effortlessly at home in your space. In his lap sits a bouquet of your favorite flowers, vivid and fresh, a stark contrast to the muted lighting of the room.

His chocolate brown eyes find yours instantly, and for a moment, all you can do is stand there, stunned.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice warm and impossibly gentle.

The sheer relief that washes over you is enough to break you. The weight of the entire day crashes down at once, and before you can stop it, a choked sob escapes from your throat.

He’s on his feet in an instant, crossing the room in three long strides.

“Hey, hey.” His voice is all low rumble and reassurance, one large hand cradling the back of your head while the other wraps around your waist, pulling you in close. You barely reach his chest, and he engulfs you completely, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold fatigue clinging to your skin. “What happened, baby? Talk to me.”

You clutch at the front of his hoodie, burying your face against his chest. The words spill out in a rush—the awful morning, the forgotten file, the pointed disappointment in your boss’s voice, skipping lunch, the gnawing exhaustion that feels like it’s pulling you under. Through it all, Virgil listens, arms wrapped tight around you as his hands smoothe up and down your back in slow, grounding motions.

When you finally pull back, sniffling, he tilts your chin up with gentle fingers. His size is overwhelming (as always), the sheer difference in height making you feel small, but not in a bad way. He makes you feel safe. Protected.

“That’s such a bad day,” he murmurs, thumb stroking along your cheek. “I’m sorry, baby. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. His lips press against your forehead, lingering there, and the knot in your chest loosens just a little.

“Come on,” he says, his voice softer now, coaxing. “I got you something.”

You follow without question, exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he leads you into the kitchen. And when you see what’s waiting for you on the counter, your breath catches.

Your favorite meal, perfectly arranged, still warm. A selection of desserts—macarons, little pastries, all the things that usually make you smile even on the worst days.

You turn to him, eyes wide. He grins, and it’s that boyish, self-satisfied kind of grin that makes your stomach flip.

“Wanted to do something nice for you,” he says, leaning back against the counter, arms folding across his broad chest. “So I stopped by your favorite place. Thought about cooking, but, well.” His lips twitch. “I didn’t want to burn your apartment down.”

A watery laugh escapes you, and the sight of it—the way you brighten, even just a little—makes something flicker in his expression, something fond and achingly soft.

You step closer, pressing a hand to his chest. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “I wanted to.”

The sincerity in his voice is almost too much.

Before you can second-guess it, you push up on your toes, reaching for him. He meets you halfway, his lips brushing against yours in a slow, unhurried kiss. He tastes like mint and something undeniably him, and for a moment, the rest of the world melts away.

When you pull back, his hands settle on your waist, big and warm. He presses his forehead to yours, voice dropping to a murmur. “You okay?”

You nod, still feeling a bit breathless.

“Good.” He tilts his head back, gaze dropping to your mouth. “Now let's get some food in you.”

He doesn’t let go of you, simply turns so you’re tucked into his side, and guides you toward the table. You sink into a chair gratefully, eyes widening as he begins to dish out food onto your plate. He knows how you like it—piled high with extra toppings, the works. Your stomach growls in anticipation as he slides it in front of you.

“Eat,” he orders, taking the chair opposite yours.

You don’t need to be told twice. The first bite is heavenly, the kind of warm, familiar comfort that spreads through your chest and unwinds the knots in your stomach. You let out a small, appreciative hum, and when you glance up, Virgil is watching you.

No, watching isn’t the right word.

He’s admiring you, looking at you like you hung the damn moon.

His chin is propped on his hand, elbow resting against the table, dark brown eyes tracking your every movement. There’s something devastatingly soft about the way he’s staring, like he’s soaking in the sight of you, like he’s been starved for it. The heat in his gaze makes your breath catch.

“You’re staring,” you mumble around another bite.

He doesn’t look the slightest bit guilty. If anything, the corner of his mouth tugs up into something that isn't quite a smirk but something close.

“Missed you,” he says simply.

Your heart does a stupid, fluttery thing in your chest. You should be used to the way he says things like that—so blunt, so casual, like it’s just the most obvious thing in the world. And yet, it still makes you feel warm all over, still makes you shift in your seat like a lovesick idiot.

“I missed you too,” you admit, quieter now.

Virgil leans forward slightly, his eyes dipping down to your lips before flicking back up. The air shifts, thickens. The meal in front of you suddenly feels less important than the way his gaze darkens just slightly, how his fingers twitch against the tabletop like he wants to reach for you but is holding himself back.

You reach for one of the macarons, popping it into your mouth. The sweetness bursts across your tongue, but you barely register the taste when Virgil’s gaze drops again, watching the way your lips part, the way your tongue flicks out to catch the crumbs at the corner of your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Your stomach clenches at the heat in his voice.

“What?” You feign innocence, tilting your head slightly, but he sees right through you.

“You know what,” he says, voice rougher now. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, rounding the table in a few strides. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s beside you, one hand gripping the armrest of your chair, the other slipping under your jaw, tilting your head up.

He looms over you, his broad frame making you feel small in the best way. But it’s not just his size that makes your breath hitch. It’s the way he looks at you. Like he’s barely holding himself back. Like he wants to devour you whole. If you asked him, he would say yes. But for now…

“Virgil—”

He cuts you off with a slow, lingering kiss, his lips warm and insistent, his hand tightening around your jaw, keeping you in place. It’s not rushed, not desperate—it’s something else entirely. He’s savoring you, tasting every sound you make against his mouth. And when he finally pulls back, just barely, his breath mingling with yours, his thumb strokes along your chin.

His eyes are still dark, still intent, and when he speaks, his voice drops to a low, rough growl. “You taste so good.”

You know what that look in his eyes means, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his hands flex against the table like he’s restraining himself. And maybe you’re a little too tired, a little too worn down from the day to pretend you don’t want this, too. Want him.

Because you do. You want him to lean in, to press his mouth to that spot below your ear, the one that makes you melt. Want him to lift you up, to carry you to the bedroom and strip you down, inch by slow, agonizing inch.

Want him to do whatever the hell he wants with you.

His thumb traces along your jawline again, the movement impossibly light against your skin. He hums softly, and then… he’s kneeling beside you. It happens so suddenly, you don’t even have time to react before his hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart slightly. His head dips down, lips pressing a kiss just above your knee.

“Virgil,” you manage, “I—”

He lifts his head, his eyes burning. “I've missed you so much baby. You have no idea what it does to me, being away from you." His voice is husky, roughened by restraint, and the way he’s looking at you makes your whole body tingle, your breath stutter in your throat.

You swallow hard, pulse thrumming wildly as his fingers press gently into your thighs, big and warm. "I missed you too," you whisper, barely getting the words out before he presses another kiss, higher this time.

You must've forgotten the ache in your muscles because Virgil’s hands find them, fingers pressing lightly in circles as the frown between your brow deepens.

“That feel good, baby?” he murmurs, his lips grazing your skin with each word. You can't even speak, only nodding at him as your eyes fall shut. “I can feel the tension in your muscles. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

You don’t get the chance to answer before he’s already moving, already tugging you gently to your feet. His hand is steady, warm, a grounding presence as you follow him. Your legs protest the movement, weak with exhaustion, and you stumble slightly. He catches you easily, his grip tightening just enough to keep you upright.

“Alright?” he asks, eyes flicking over you, assessing.

You nod, though your body feels sluggish, weighed down by the lingering stress of the day. He doesn’t seem convinced, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he leads you toward your bedroom, walking slowly, aware of every ounce of fatigue clinging to you.

The door creaks slightly as he nudges it open. The light flicks on with a soft hum, casting a warm glow over the familiar space. He helps you onto the bed, his hands never straying far, as though afraid you might slip through his fingers.

“Okay?”

His thumbs smooth over your cheeks, the rough pads of his fingers a stark contrast to the tenderness in his touch. His gaze is steady, unwavering, as if he’s willing you to let go, to surrender to the care he’s offering so freely.

You nod again, slower this time. Your thoughts feel distant, hazy, like you’re drifting somewhere between exhaustion and the quiet comfort of his presence. Your eyes drop to his mouth, the way it moves when he speaks, the familiar shape of it—something soothing in the way he speaks to you, in the way he looks at you.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering for just a moment before pulling away. “Just relax,” he says, voice low, reassuring. And then he’s gone, disappearing into the bathroom, the soft click of the door closing behind him.

The sound of running water fills the silence, steady and rhythmic, a lullaby of sorts. You let your head fall back against the pillow, your body sinking into the mattress as fatigue crashes over you in slow, rolling waves. It’s only when the water stops that you stir again, blinking up at the ceiling just as the bathroom door opens.

Virgil stands in the doorway, a towel slung over his shoulder, his sleeves pushed up to reveal his tattooed forearms. His gaze finds yours, and something about the way he looks at you makes warmth unfurl in your chest, slow and spreading.

“C’mere,” he says, voice softer now.

You don’t protest when he scoops you up, one arm beneath your knees, the other supporting your back. Your body fits against him easily, like you were always meant to be held this way. You let your head rest against his shoulder, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he carries you into the bathroom.

The scent of lavender and chamomile fills the space, the air thick with steam. The tub is nearly overflowing with bubbles, the water shimmering in the dim light. He lowers you carefully, the transition from his warmth to the heat of the water seamless, effortless.

The moment your body sinks into the bath, a soft groan slips from your lips. “Oh god,” you murmur, the tension in your muscles unraveling almost instantly. “This is amazing.”

He chuckles, crouching beside the tub, his fingers ghosting over the surface of the water. “I bet,” he says, a smug tilt to his lips.

You crack an eye open, just enough to glare at him playfully. “Don’t get cocky.”

His grin widens, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he dips his fingers into the water, watching as the bubbles cling to his skin. “Just relax,” he says again, his voice barely above a whisper.

You do. You let your eyes slip shut, let the warmth seep into your bones, let the exhaustion drain from you with each deep, steady breath. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register the sound of him moving around, the quiet rustle of fabric, the faint creak of the bedroom door opening and closing.

When you finally open your eyes again, he’s gone. The water is still warm, the scent of lavender wrapping around you like a soft embrace. You don’t know how long you stay there, floating in the quiet, letting yourself be weightless for the first time in what feels like weeks.

Time seems to bend and warp, stretching out until all you know is the here and now, the way the water feels against your skin, the way your muscles feel loose and untethered.

But then you feel the cool air brush against your legs, hear the faint rustle of fabric as Virgil settles on the edge of the tub beside you. You lift your head to find him watching you, his gaze soft, fond, his mouth pulled into a slow smile.

“Feeling better?” he asks, his voice low and rough, a deep rumble.

You nod. It’s more than that, but words seem impossible. You’re relaxed, sleepy, and warm all over. Your muscles feel languid, like they’ve been freed from the knots that were holding them hostage.

Virgil’s eyes follow the movement of your hand as you reach for the loofah sitting on the edge of the bathtub. It’s soft and warm, like a cloud. You run it over your skin, watching as he tracks the movement of your wrist, of your fingers.

“Let me,” he murmurs after a moment.

You hand it over without hesitation, watching as his big, capable hands wrap around the soft fabric. His fingers stroke over the bubbles, swirling them with a slow, intent movement, like he’s enjoying the feel of it. And then, one hand slides around to the small of your back, tilting you forward just enough that he can reach your skin.

The first brush of the loofah against your skin is enough to make you exhale shakily. It’s gentle, the pressure light and soothing, as though he’s stroking away every ounce of tension in your body. You sigh, leaning forward into his touch like a cat seeking a scratch.

“Feel good?” he asks.

You hum in agreement, eyelids fluttering shut as the loofah moves up your arms, over your shoulders. It feels impossibly good, his hands moving slowly, carefully. He washes away all the stress, all the strain of the day, and you let him do it easily, surrendering to his touch with a quiet sigh.

He washes your back last, working his way up your spine with slow, deliberate strokes, and by the time he’s done, you’re boneless, warm from head to toe, and impossibly relaxed.

"There we go," he murmurs against your ear, and you're so lost to the sensation of his hands on your body that you barely register it.

When the water starts to cool, Virgil doesn’t say anything. He just reaches for you, his grip steady, firm, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. His broad hands, slightly calloused from years of use, slide under your body, and you barely have time to react before you’re out of the bath, cradled against his chest. His shirt is soaked now but he doesn't mind.

The cool air causes goosebumps to prickle your skin but you're not cold for long before he's wrapping in a soft warm towel, not once setting you down. 

The room is dimly lit when he steps inside, the bedside lamp casting a golden glow over the freshly made bed. The sheets are smooth, the pillows fluffed, clearly he’d taken the time to straighten everything out while you were still soaking in the bath. A neatly folded towel sits on the nightstand next to a small bottle of massage oil, the amber glass catching the light.

“You gonna massage me?” you ask, voice soft, sleep-heavy.

Virgil hums, the sound low in his throat, as he sets you down on the edge of the bed. “Yep.” He unwraps the towel from your shoulders, his knuckles grazing your damp skin as he lets it fall away. His touch is absentminded, but something about it makes heat bloom low in your stomach. Before you can react, he pulls the sheets over you, tucking you in with the kind of care that causes a lazy smile to spread across you face.

He straightens, his gaze sweeping over you. His hands, warm and rough, find your legs first, sliding up with a slow, deliberate ease. They skim over your thighs, trace the curve of your waist. He lingers there for a second before he presses his palms against your stomach, grounding you, like he knows you need it.

“Sleepy?” His voice is softer now, quieter, but it still holds that depth, that baritone that makes it impossible not to listen.

You nod, the exhaustion from earlier settling into something heavier, something warm and languid. “A little,” you admit, eyelids drooping. The bath helped, but it’s his presence, the warmth of him, that’s making it harder to fight the pull of sleep.

Virgil makes a sound, something between amusement and knowing, before his hands start moving again, slow and deliberate. “Let me help you relax a bit more.”

The bed shifts under his weight as he kneels beside you, and then his hands are on your shoulders. His thumbs press into the muscles there, kneading slow circles, and your head falls back against the pillow with a groan before you can stop it. You hadn’t even realized how much tension you were carrying until now.

“Always so tight,” he murmurs, like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

Your lips curve, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s what he said.”

His fingers still for half a second, then press deeper, his touch firm but never painful as he playfully rolls his eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

The scent of the oil fills the air as he works, the glide of his palms over your skin sending warmth through your limbs. He takes his time, moving from your shoulders to your arms, then down to your lower back, the pressure just right, just enough to coax the last remnants of tension from your muscles. When he reaches your legs, you’re already halfway gone, your breathing slow and even.

By the time he reaches your feet, you’re boneless, pliant beneath his hands. He pauses, then leans forward, his breath warm against your ear.

“Turn over.”

The words are quiet, but they settle deep in your chest. He’s not asking. Not really. But he doesn’t need to. You’d do it anyway.

You shift, rolling onto your back, and when you glance up at him, his expression is unreadable again. His hands find your waist, thumbs pressing into your hips, like he’s steadying you, like he’s taking his time memorizing the feel of you beneath him.

Your fingers curl into the sheets. “You’re really going all out tonight.”

Virgil’s lips quirk, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the contact between your skin. “Have to make up for lost time.”

His words settle low in your stomach, warm and weighted. You swallow, watching the way his eyes darken just slightly, how the muscle in his jaw ticks like he’s reining something in.

The room feels warmer than before. Or maybe that’s just him.

His hands glide up your sides again, thumbs pressing into the dips of your waist, then higher, until they rest just beneath your ribs. He leans over you, not fully, but enough that you can feel his breath on your skin, the heat of his body radiating through the thin space between you.

He’s broad, his frame casting a shadow over yours, and the difference in size is almost dizzying when he’s this close. It’s not something he ever calls attention to—not deliberately—but you feel it. In the way his fingers easily span your ribs, in the way his palm can cover nearly the entire width of your stomach with room to spare.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, almost like an afterthought, like it’s something he already knew. His thumbs sweep along your skin again, slow and purposeful.

“I wonder why,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, and his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting the urge to smirk.

Then his hands shift, slipping lower, thumbs grazing the soft skin of your inner thighs. He doesn’t move further—not yet—but the warmth of his touch lingers, like an unspoken promise.

You exhale, your pulse quickening feeling more awake now. “Virgil—”

“Shh.” His voice is low, coaxing. His fingers knead into your thighs, pressing just enough to make you shiver. “Just relax.”

Relaxing is the last thing on your mind.

His hands trail up again, over the curve of your hip, his thumbs ghosting over the sensitive skin there. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push—he never does. He just watches you, eyes steady, waiting, like he’s giving you the chance to tell him to stop, to slow down.

You don’t.

Instead, you shift beneath him, just slightly, a silent invitation. His breath hitches, so quiet you almost miss it. Then his hands are on your waist again, firmer this time, his grip steady, grounding. He leans down, pressing his lips just below your ear, then lower, down the slope of your neck, the scrape of his stubble making your skin prickle.

The heat in your stomach twists, coils, something slow and smoldering. You turn your head, exposing more of your throat, and his lips curve against your skin in something like satisfaction.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s said it.

Something in you tightens, then melts.

His hands move again, one sliding up to your ribcage, the other still resting on your hip. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm, a silent reminder of just how easily he could move you if he wanted to. And for some reason, that knowledge makes heat flood your chest, makes your breath hitch in a way that has nothing to do with surprise.

You feel his smile before you see it. “You like that?”

You don’t answer—not out loud, anyway—but your body gives you away. Your fingers curl against his arm, the muscles beneath his skin shifting under your touch. It's making your head spin.

His hand shifts again, fingertips grazing your ribs, the barest whisper of a touch. He leans in, breath brushing against your lips, but he doesn’t kiss you—not yet.

“You sure you’re not too tired?” His voice is softer now, teasing, but there’s an edge of something else beneath it. Something darker, deeper.

You shake your head. “Not even a little.”

That’s all he needs.

The shift is subtle, the change in his posture barely noticeable before he’s pressing you deeper into the mattress, his weight braced on his forearms as his mouth finally meets yours. His lips are warm, firm, moving against yours with a patience that’s almost unbearable. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, just kisses you slow and deep, like he has all the time in the world.

And when his hands move again—one sliding under your thigh, fingers curling around the soft flesh there—you can’t help but shiver at the way he fits against you, the way he covers you so completely.

He feels it. He always does.

His lips leave yours for just a moment, long enough for him to press his forehead against yours, his breath uneven. “Still okay?”

You nod, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him back to you. “More than okay.” You mean it. You feel alive, awake, and it’s all him.

His chuckle is low, rough, and his mouth finds yours again, the kiss slower now, almost reverent. He shifts above you, his body pressing between your legs. He’s still careful, still gentle, but the weight of him is enough to make you feel small in the best way. It's familiar, something that you crave when he's gone.

It’s only when he reaches down to slide your legs around his hips that you realize he’s still wearing clothes, his shirt loose at his waist. The soft cotton grazes against your stomach as he moves, the friction making your breath stutter.

He notices, his eyes finding yours for a split-second before he tilts his head back, his lips moving down your throat again. This time, the touch is warmer, wetter. This time, there’s something deliberate in the way he licks and bites his way down your skin, like he’s savoring every inch of you.

Then his mouth is at your collarbone, his teeth nipping at the softness of your skin, and your breath catches, the air leaving you on a soft gasp.

His gaze flicks up at the sound, his lips curling into something like satisfaction. “Feel good?”

“Virgil.” His name slips from your lips as he bites down again, harder this time, a small stinging pain that sends a jolt of heat through your stomach.

He smiles against your skin. He knows what that does to you. He knows it makes you ache in the best way possible.

“Good.” The word is low, almost guttural, and he presses a kiss to the spot he’d just bit, sucking at it lightly. “Missed you so fucking much.”

You let out a shuddering breath, fingers tightening in his hair. “Missed you too.”

His hands move again, shifting down your thighs until his calloused fingers find the bareness of your hip.

He pauses, his hand hesitating for a second as he looks at you, eyes darker than before.

“Can I?” he asks .

It takes you a second to register what he’s asking. Then your breath catches as you realize exactly what he wants—what he’s offering. You nod, voice failing you completely.

He leans back slightly, reaching down to tug at his shirt, peeling it away with a soft rustle of fabric. It falls away somewhere behind him, leaving the broad expanse of his chest bare, the muscles of his arms shifting with each movement.

You can’t help but stare. You’ve never been able to. He’s… fucking beautiful. Strong, solid, in a way that makes you feel small beside him. In a way that makes your chest tighten, your stomach flutter, and left your pussy soaked.

He shifts again, his torso pressing between your thighs, warm and heavy. His hand slides up your side, over your stomach, his palm ghosting up the center of your chest, pausing at the swell of your breast and giving it a gentle squeeze.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes says it all—that he’s hungry for you, that he’s been aching to do this for weeks.

And then, before you can even register what’s happening, he’s moving—shifting down your body, broad shoulders pressing against the insides of your thighs, firm and solid, his torso warm against you.

You barely have time to tense before his mouth is on you. Warm. Wet. Gentle. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss just above your clit, and it’s devastatingly soft—you can tell by the scrunch of his brows that he’s savoring the moment, getting lost in the heat of your skin.

Your breath hitches sharply. Your hand flies to his head without thinking, fingers threading into his hair, gripping tight. Like if you don’t hold onto something, you might just come undone right then and there.

“Please, Virgil,” you breathe, your voice uneven, barely there.

He hums against your skin, the low vibration sinking straight through you, and then he moves lower, slower. He exhales, a warm rush of air that makes goosebumps bloom across your thighs. You can’t help it—you shudder, your body caught somewhere between tension and desperate surrender.

“Fuck,” you whisper, the word slipping out before you can catch it.

He lifts his head slightly, and when your eyes meet, you swear he’s smirking. There’s something dark and wicked in his gaze, something that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Knows and enjoys it. Then his tongue flicks out, the first touch deliberate, unhurried, and the sheer wet heat of it makes your pussy clench.

You gasp. The sound is soft, but your whole body jerks with it, your fingers twisting tighter in his curls. His bun comes undone under your grip, strands of dark hair slipping free, falling around his face. He doesn’t seem to care. If anything, it only spurs him on.

His lips drag against you, slow and teasing, his tongue moving with maddening precision. It’s not enough, not yet, but it’s everything.

“Virgil,” you whimper, and he groans in response, his hands sliding under you, strong fingers curving around your thighs as he pulls you closer, like he can’t stand even an inch of distance between you.

The groan vibrates against your skin, and it wrecks you.

He starts to move with more intent now, tongue and lips working together, mouth wet and open against you. He knows exactly what he’s doing—knows the exact pressure, the exact pace, and fuck, you can’t think, can’t focus on anything except the hot, slow drag of his tongue. His fingers squeeze into your thighs, his grip firm, holding you in place, knowing you’re going to start squirming soon. And you are. You can feel it building—this restless heat, this ache curling deep inside you.

Then he slides his fingers inside you, pressing just right, just enough to make you jolt, your eyes fly open. Your hands slip from his hair to his shoulders, gripping, grounding.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, your back arching slightly off the bed. “Holy shit, Virg.”

He laughs, low and rough, the sound vibrating straight through you. Then he does it again—tongue and fingers moving in perfect sync, relentless and devastating and—

You let out a sharp, broken moan, your whole body shuddering as you clench repeatedly around his fingers. You're squeezing tight around him and he sucks harder at your clit, his groan vibrating against you as he anticipates replacing his fingers with his cock.

His head lifts, just slightly, breath warm against your inner thigh. His voice is low, husky, dripping with something dangerous. “You close?”

You barely process the words. Your head is light, body humming, thoughts hazy and scattered, like you’re floating just above yourself.

“Baby?” he murmurs again, and this time, somehow, you manage to nod. Your heart is pounding, wild and erratic, like it might burst right out of your chest.

He presses one last, lingering kiss to your clit—soft, almost reverent—before looking up at you again. His eyes are dark, focused, hungry.

There's no mercy in the way he devours you. The slick wet noise of it being drowned out by the uncontrollable moans falling from your lips. Your clit stays victim to his wet warm tongue, a prisonner to his sucking lips.

You can't do anything but feel. Surrender to the delicious torture he's subjecting you to. 

Here in this room, you are his. His to love. His to pleasure. His to destroy and put back together in that way only he can.

“Come on my mouth,” he mumbles, voice rough, wrecked.

It’s all you need.

The way he says it, the way he looks at you when he does—like it’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever imagined—it’s enough to send you spiraling. The pleasure builds and builds, curling deep, sharp and unbearable, until it snaps, until it floods through you all at once, overwhelming and all-consuming.

Your whole body clenches, your hands grasping at him, your breath catching on a choked moan as the pleasure crashes over you.

Virgil doesn’t stop. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t ease up. His mouth stays on you, his tongue coaxing you through it, his fingers gripping tight, keeping you where he wants you. He can’t bear to let go just yet.

It’s too much, but it’s perfect, and your head tips back against the pillow, your body still trembling from the aftershocks.

Even when the pleasure starts to ebb, when the heat begins to settle into something unbearable, he lingers. He presses a final, lazy kiss to your inner thigh before dragging himself back up your body, his weight settling warm and solid between your thighs.

His skin is flushed, damp with sweat, his breath still uneven. He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at you, eyes tracing your face, memorizing it. Then he dips his head, mouth brushing against yours in a slow, deep kiss.

You can taste yourself on him, feel the heat still simmering between you.

When he pulls back, his lips curl into a lazy smirk. “You okay?”

You blink up at him, still catching your breath, and manage a weak laugh. “Do I look okay?”

He grins, presses another kiss to your jaw. “You look fucking gorgeous.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile spreads on your face anyways.

He nudges your legs apart with his hips, his pants pressing between your legs, but he doesn’t make a move, not yet. Instead, he lowers his mouth to yours, lips meeting in a soft, slow kiss, tongues sweeping together in a lazy dance that's somehow just as wrecking as before.

Your fingers slide into his hair again, cradling his head as you angle your mouth for deeper access. You kiss him like you’re desperate, like he’s leaving tomorrow and you need him to remember this moment—this feeling—when you're apart.

But he’s not going anywhere. He’s here. He’s home.

And you want more.

You kiss him harder, more insistent this time, and he responds like he always does—like you’re a match, and the moment you strike, everything flares to life.

His hands slide down your sides, fingers ghosting over your ribs, your waist, before they find the soft cheek of your ass. His touch is light, almost absentminded, just wanting to feel the shape of you beneath him.

You can feel how hard he is. The solid length of his cock presses against you with each shift of his hips, hot and heavy and delicious. The fabric of his pants providing you with the most painfully delicious friction.

Then his fingers are in your hair, his grip just rough enough that your stomach coils. His mouth finds your ear, breath hot against the shell as he murmurs the words you've been craving all day.

“Take my cock out so I can fuck my pussy,” he tells you, voice low and gravelly.

You barely register the words before you’re moving, fingers tugging at the hem of his pants. It’s slow, deliberate, and he’s watching you as you peel them down his thighs so he can kick them off. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, and you can’t help the way your breath catches at the sight of it.

Virgil’s gaze never leaves yours. “You like that? You like knowing that it's all yours? That I've been craving you for days?” The words are so crude that the pool between your legs turn into a river and you have to clench your thighs to momentarily satisty the craving that it hungers for.

The mattress shifts beneath him as he sits back on his heels, watching as you reach for him. You take him in one hand, fingers wrapping around the hot weight of him. He's smooth, soft, impossibly solid beneath your touch.

Virgil watches you stroke him with something like fascination, brows furrowed at the pleasure your hand is submitting him to. His gaze is intense, his pupils dilating like he's getting lost in it.

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he rasps, hand sliding into your hair again. “Can't wait to bury myself inside that tight little hole.”

You whimper at the words, at the thought of him inside you—of him sliding into you, thick and hard and deep. Your thumb finds the head, swirling over the slick drops of precum beading at the tip.

“Yeah?” you whisper, your other hand finding his shoulder, fingers digging into the broad strength there. “Am I maing you feel good?” You don't break eye contact as you say it, fluttering your wet lashes at him as you do.

His exhale is shaky, uneven, and his hand in your hair tightens just slightly.

“Fucking perfect.”

His gaze never leaves yours as you yank him foreward, causing him to fall onto his forearms, holding himself up as you tap the head of his cock against your clit. His jaw clenches at the sensation, his stomach tensing with the anticipation of entering your tight heat. Your tongue slips out to wet your lips and he makes a sound between a moan and a groan at the sight.

Then, with one last, heated look, he sinks into you in one swift motion. He doesn't pause, doesn't give you a second to adjust, he just continues moving in and out of you at a languid pace. You don't make him stop. You like the feeling of his cock rubbing against your insides, stretching you, filling you.

The first few pumps have you gasping, your thighs squeezing against his hips. He moves slow, teasing, like he knows exactly how good it feels when he drags himself out, stretching your walls as they cling to his cock, desperate to keep him in.

Every time he sinks back into you it feels like the first time again. Like your walls are waking up after being asleep and being awakened with the sweetest caress. Your fingers dig into his arms, nails digging into his skin, but he doesn't stop. The thrusts pick up, growing faster, rougher, and you arch beneath him, eyes fluttering shut as your head falls back against the pillow.

You don't even notice when he throws your leg onto his shoulder. All you feel is the heat of him—of his skin, of his body—of how fucking deep he is inside you.

Virgil leans down, pressing a kiss to your chest, his stubble rasping against your sensitive skin. His tongue flicks out then, laving at the peak of your nipple, and you suck in a breath, your pussy spasming around him.

“Fuck.” The word slips out before you can stop it, and Virgil’s smile spreads wide, a flash of white teeth in the dim light.

“Like that?” he rasps, mouth closing around your nipple, sucking lightly.

You nod, unable to do anything else, your fingers tightening in his curls again. He hums against your breast, teeth scraping, and you shiver at the sensation. It feels incredible—his mouth on you like that, his cock moving inside you with the same slow, dragging pace. Like he knows exactly what you need, when you need it, and how to get you there. But won't give it to you just yet.

“Faster?” His voice is husky, rough, and you nod, your stomach tightening at the sound of it.

His gaze finds yours then, and for a moment, it’s like he sees straight through you—into you.

“Look at me.” The words are low, demanding, and you blink, gaze finding his. He's gorgeous when he's like this. All masculine angles and dark eyes and the most sinful smile. Your pussy clenches when your eyes meet his, and you know he feels it because his breath hitches in a way that tells you he's not going to last long.

Virgil doesn't take his eyes from yours as he starts to move again, hips snapping forward, faster and harder this time, filling you deep.

Your breath leaves you in a rush as your body jerks, your pussy clenching around his cock at the new tempo. His lips part on a soft groan, like he feels it too.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he grunts, his voice a low rasp, the words slipping from his mouth between ragged breaths. “So tight.” He rolls his hips again, thrusting into you with a strength that makes your head spin.

You can’t reply. You’re too busy trying to catch your breath as your whole body tenses, pleasure coiling, tightening inside you. He feels amazing like this—so solid and warm, his skin slick against yours, his mouth and teeth working your nipple.

“Virg,” you moan, the syllable broken by your hitching breaths. Your fingers clench in his hair, tugging him closer as your leg around his hips squeezes tight.

He responds by grinding into you harder, faster, the thrusts rougher now, less controlled. You feel like you can’t breathe, like the room is spinning around you, but he’s still there—big, strong and so fucking gorgeous.

The tension curls deeper, tighter, the feeling almost painful with how good it is. Your whole body clenches around him—around his cock inside you, his mouth on your skin, his hand on your waist—and you know it won’t take long now.

You feel him tense too, his body going rigid as he presses inside you, the tip of his cock nudging that spot deep inside you that makes your eyes roll back. His breathing grows harsher, more uneven, his hand digging into your hip, holding you in place as he slams into you.

“Virg—” You manage his name on a soft gasp, and he lifts his head, meeting your gaze with eyes that are dark and wild.

“Gonna cum for me, love.” His voice is a rasp, uneven, and you can see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness of his muscles. “Cum on my cock like the good fucking girl you are.”

And fuck. It's enough.

The words are the final push, and everything unravels at once—the pleasure snapping tight, pulsing, overwhelming. You let out a choked cry as your pussy clenches around him, the release ripping through you like a wave.

Virgil groans, a deep, guttural sound that rumbles through his chest as your tight gummy walls clench tight around him. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, hips snapping into you with raw urgency, melting your brain. His fingers dig into your hips, his grip firm but reverent, holding onto you for dear life.

His head tips back, eyes fluttering closed, and for a brief, mesmerizing moment, you just watch him unravel. The tension in his jaw slackens, his lips parting into a silent gasp before shaping into an ‘O’ of bliss. Then, with a sharp, shuddering inhale, he spills into you, filling you with deep, pulsing warmth that seems to go on forever. You can feel every ripple, every twitch of his release as he buries himself as deep as he can go, grinding against you in the final aftershocks of his climax.

His chest rises and falls in uneven pants, breath hot against your collarbone as he collapses onto his forearms, his weight pressing you further into the mattress. He exhales sharply, a sound that’s half a sigh, half a satisfied hum, his body trembling against yours before finally, finally going still.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sound in the room is the quiet mingling of your breaths, the faint hum of the city outside. The air is thick with heat, with sweat and the lingering scent of sex, and yet there’s a kind of tranquility in it.

You’re the first to stir, shifting slightly beneath him, your hand tracing a slow, lazy path up his spine. His skin is damp, warm beneath your fingertips, muscles still tense from the remnants of pleasure. You let your nails scrape lightly along the ridges of his back, and he shudders, his breath catching against your throat.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters, voice hoarse, spent.

You smirk, dragging your nails down once more just to spite him, and he groans, lifting his head to glare at you through heavy-lidded eyes. “You really wanna start something you can’t finish?” His voice is thick with exhaustion, but there’s a teasing edge to it, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

You hum, shifting beneath him. “I don’t know,” you murmur, feigning innocence as you glance up at him. “I think I finished just fine.”

He huffs out a breath, shaking his head before leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Smartass.”

You laugh softly, your fingers curling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. He kisses you again, slower this time, lips warm and gentle against your temple. It’s different from before—less desperate, less urgent. There’s no more need to chase pleasure. Now, it’s just this: love and tenderness, the intimacy that lingers long after the fire has burned out.

After a few more moments, he finally shifts, groaning as he slips free of you. The loss is immediate, a dull ache settling between your thighs, and you both let out a quiet sound at the emptiness. He presses a soothing hand to your hip, rubbing slow, absentminded circles into your skin before rolling onto his back and pulling you against him.

He’s still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, his skin sticky with sweat. But his arms tighten around you, holding you close as if he has no intention of letting go anytime soon. You let yourself sink into the warmth of him, your fingers tracing idle shapes against his chest.

His voice is low when he finally speaks, a quiet murmur against the hush of the room. “Mine.”

You blink up at him, your gaze meeting his. There’s something in his expression that makes your breath catch—a softness, a certainty, something unshakable and absolute. Like he wants to keep you forever. And you hope he does.

His fingers tilt your chin up, his thumb brushing lightly over your bottom lip. “You’re all mine.”

The words are possessive, but not in a way that feels constraining. There’s love in them, raw and unfiltered, a promise stitched into every syllable.

You swallow past the sudden tightness in your throat, your own fingers tightening against his chest. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I am.”

His lips quirk into a small, tired smile, and then he’s kissing you again, slow and deep, like he’s trying to imprint the moment into his memory. And maybe he is. Maybe you both are.

Because right now, in this quiet, sweat-dampened room, in the warmth of each other’s arms, there is nothing else. No past, no future. No bad day. Just this. Just him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

-Bianca🌻